28 Apr 2009

This weekend I...

  • Tried to go to Martin's house and sort things out but he had gone to Centre Parks without moi! Being most distressed I travelled down to Richmond to toss my distraught frame into the murkey serpentine waters. Another beautiful young lady writer, pushed over the edge by patriarchy! But what goes? I did take spirit of empowerment within my meek heart and remembered my feisty poem to my mother Mary Wollstonecraft (see below). So I got back in my panda and went home to make fairy cakes and listen to Beyonce (see below).
  • Tried to self harm my ankle.
  • Bought a jumbo pack of pink bic razors and several large bottles of Martini Rosso, but was spied by Melody on the way home, who proceeded to remove them from my person.
  • Had a party for Mary Wollstonecraft! Made vagina cakes - but, alas, Melody's camera broke! We did manage to get one shot though: Emmeline Pankhurst's friend Samantha in fancy dress. Unfortunately the silly animal didn't realise Wollstonecraft lived in the 18th not the 19th century. What a waste of film!

27 Apr 2009

Is it okay to like Beyonce?

Okay, so Martin and I are over. Is it okay that I've now taken to Beyonce? I know it's wrong, but do you think it's wrong? Melody thinks that anyone cashing in on a woman's insecurities about being single is morally reprehensible, even if she is black.

I am insecure, I'm actually rather suicidal (no change there then). I think if it makes me feel better that's okay. I always have my work, like Scarlet O'H had her land - we shall survive. We shall not go quietly into the night, but shall rise, like the Phoenix!

Plus he had a tiny penis.

26 Apr 2009

I've been contributing to the fab Daily Filth Poetry Blog set up by a fellow Lady Poet in honour of National Poetry Writing Month. With other fellow creative poets, I've written a poem a day, which is perfectly normal for a writer like me of course. Here's an extra special poem I've written in honour of Mary Wollstonecraft who's 250th TODAY!

Mary Wollstonecraft tried to kill herself after her useless lover Gilbert Imlay started boffing actresses - as usual, brilliant women are rejected by stupid men in favour of mindless actresses. My poem draws from her experiences in these, the depression, years.

My poem is written after In Honour of that High and Mighty Princess Queen Elizabeth by poor little Ann Bradstreet, America's First Lady Poet

The Proeme.
By Poesie Rider (sic!)

Witness hap thou to fetid waters flyeee
Yet thy loud Herald splash bringeth yon oar tillers
Hence & ventilation prime relieve thy plight
& thy wondrous worth proclaim in every Clime,
If I, rude maid, had heard your Tweets
The sound thereof rapts every humane sence,
Mine ear would hear mine lippies thus proclaim
That Gilbert is a massive wanker, so that though
Might write something instead of being a total flid
Bodged suicides tire, yo sista, don't be sad
What hopes for woman is't to hope, to pray
When our fine mistress is so much distress't
At the false roving heart of a disloyal cox
As if't were cause to start when Jack cums out his box
Thou never didst nor wouldst or canst thou now disdain
A word of warning from a fellow maid
So thence, set store not my man's fleshly vows
But pass thy days in literary solitude
'Mongst hundred Hecatombs of roaring verse,
Thy companions be not cads but gals like I
& a lunch time ticket to the BFI
Glory lyes not in sugared lyres
Nor honeyed bowers which are the nub of Man
But in an unwrit treatise on a woman's right
And bookshopping with little Posie R!
Which makes me deem my rudeness is no wrong,
To slap thy face, yet honourest thy song.

This is also part of my 1600 Sonnet Cycle - sixteen thousand sonnets based on the 1600s. They'll be appearing on the blog soon as part of my Poesie Rider: Sonnet's of the Self Season - grab your diazepam and get ready to get cracking, it's going to take literally months to get through this stuff!

When I'm feeling down, I just read Mae West

Mae West

(My GOD she was a woman).

25 Apr 2009

How cruel is man?

You know things haven't been going too well with me and Martin recently? Well I found this awesome blog post from a feminist mum justifying raising boys. No I'm all pro-abortion of course but I do think the idea of flushing yourself out just because it has a phallus is a little excessive. However, that doesn't mean you can't try your best to loose the little scallywag when it pops out.

Feminist Mums on Raising Male Children

So I sent the link to Martin and look at the email he sent me:


I really can't take this anymore. Please, leave me and my son alone.


Can you believe it? He's basically trying to side step the issue, big time. We spoke about it last night and he got rather angry again, in fact he threw a glass on the floor and ran out. I spoke to Melody and she thinks I'm pushing him over the edge, like last time.

I love this man; I have to save him from the ugly beast named chauvinism!

24 Apr 2009

A very thin model DOESN'T get an award!

One of final 30 contestants for Australia's Miss Universe, apparently. Eeep!

The Guardian, as usual, has something to say about it.

As does the Daily Male: " 'She's Macedonian,' said one official. "

On Model Mayhem, her agency's profile, her friends have rallied to her support. Ella B says:

"Hey Stephanie, you are absolutely beautiful - ignore the media; they are corrupt in so many ways. (What's the bet the story was started by a very jealous female journalist/reporter?) The media are the ones who look bad in all this; the public and
yourself know that you are healthy, fabulous and stunning."

Hmmm, jealous journalist? Ella, per-lease. I'm basically a journalist and I spent a morning waiting for a friend while she got rejected from various modeling agencies. One thing I noticed was the models I did encounter were frankly funny looking. I don't understand why being a model is supposed to be a desirable trade, or is seen as some kind of skill. I frequently get 'talent scouted' when out in Covent Garden, and am met with appalled looks when I walk away disinterested. As far as I can see, the only thing you need to do to be a model is to stay awake. And we all know how difficult that is!

I digress. What I really think about this issue is - poor duck! Can't we feminists bring ourselves to humanise the super skinny too? I mean, she is so thin! This media outcry is like shooting an eel in a bucket. I am desperately in favour of girls not being pushed into cycles of self-loathing due to exposure to unobtainable body shapes and their normalisation, nay, valorisation. But Stephanie Naumoska surely is the exception, not the rule? And it's not like she won the competition...

Oh sod it, what did we expect from an all-female beauty contest? There's no way these forums can be used to promote positive role models of any size, and no body shape is 'normal' - we're all different sisters!

23 Apr 2009

Anyone say Merkin?

I guess this wouldn't do for Wollstonecraft's vagina cakes? he he he. Me and Melody Wittengstien had so much fun that summer x

22 Apr 2009

Martin and Me

Hey gals!

So excited about the party this weekend, the wigs for my Vagina cakes (aka merkins) are coming on a treat, but I'm still experimenting: the candyfloss keeps dissolving. Does anyone have any ideas?

Also to put another dampener on the occasion, remember my boyfriend Martin? Well I have been incredibly busy recently researching for my latest historical endeavour, Put that Woman Down: The Amazing Adventures of Meredith Lynchfield (about the founding of the militant suffrage movement at Girly College, Cambridge) so we've been a little distant these last few months. Don't get me wrong we have a GREAT relationship. He's a record producer and I'm a freelance writer, he drives an Audi TT and I have a little Panda. We both flout gender stereotypes on a daily basis and have buckets of fun cuddling up to watch repeats of QI on a Saturday night.

But then there's Josh, or maybe his name's Jake, I can never quite remember. Either way it begins with a 'J' for 'Just naff off and leave me alone you little shit!' He's Martin's son, aged eight or something there abouts.

Now, I have nothing against children, expect the fact that they are the plague of woman. Can females ever be free with the chains of maternity wrapped round their neck and clogging up their fallopian tubes? Mary Wollstonecraft died in childbirth, if it wasn't for childbirth she might have gone on to write far better books than Adam Smith, even Karl Marx.

So Martin wanted us all to go on a little trip to Centre Parks this weekend to bond, but "no" said I, "Tis Mary's birthday, I cannot leave!" Also, why would I, Posie bloody Rider want go to Centre Parks?

An argument ensued and Martin stormed out to the pub (I think he has a drinking problem - also because I once found a litre of Armagnac secreted in his suit pocket). What am I to do? I cannot tolerate Josh, he just poos all the time, and I'm rather petrified of him. He once tried to sexually molest me, I'm sure of it. No one believes me but he's incredibly misogynistic and often asks me to accompany him to the loo.

I shall stay in London, but now Martin won't answer any of my calls, and inane texts messages saying things like "Why won't you answer my calls?" The other night I found him crying on his own in the gutter outside Pret a Manger by Angel tube station, he said he was just popping out to buy a wrap, but I know he had been drinking. He also had strange nightmares in which he cries "Please, I want to be good!" I don;t know why he's panicking, his mission of self-improvement is coming on a treat! He's making cracking progress on George Eliot: I bought him all her books for Easter! We also go to Yoga togther and he just loves coming to my all-gender group for feminists. Sure he puts up a fuss when I make him wear his This is What a Feminist Looks Like t-shirt, but I know he loves it really. Like I said we have a GREAT relationship...

20 Apr 2009

Vagina Cakes!

In honour of my new friend Roberta, I am posting these pictures of Posie's Vagina Cakes!
These were some crazy ones I made (Melody Wittgenstein had a roller skating party a few weeks ago and I made some funky ones). They were delicious! Guess what the hundreds and thousands are for? And this time a clitoris!
Will keep you posted on on my Mary Wollstonecraft ones... Toodles x


18 Apr 2009

Mary Wollstonecraft's Birthday!

Hi gals!

It's Mary Wollstonecraft's 250th birthday coming up gals and there's LOADS of events happening. I personally am holding a Mary Wollstonecraft fancy dress tea party. I am Wollstonecraft, Emmeline is Shelly, Melody Wittgenstein is Elizabeth Candy Stanton.


I am making vagina cakes, with wigs on.

17 Apr 2009

Science - I don't understand you!

This morning I went over to the fab F-Word to check out what's going down and up for Feminists at the moment, and found a great article about Old Men Impregnating Young Ladies. It turns out a science blog, called Science Blog, thinks (oh no, Science doesn't think...Science knows) that these kinds of goings on are a good thing for the species. I read the FWord featured article by the articulate yet enraged author, Erwin Jane-Pierrot and thoroughly agreed with her complaints, chiefly that so called facts like this just fuel disgusting male fantasies of picking up a nubile teenage lover in later life by waving one's fatted wallet and one's shrivelled little stick at her, whilst claiming the kind of biological prerogatives that haven't been heard of since the good old days of Mao.

I then followed the link over to the feted Science Blog, expecting to be offended. But it was worse than that. I was absolutely baffled. Apart from being appalling written, it's also completely senseless. Check this out:

But the fatherhood of a small number of older men is enough to postpone the date with death because natural selection fights life-shortening mutations until the species is finished reproducing.

What? What does that even mean? I didn't study biology at school (I was home-schooled, and had pretty much phased everything out apart from Elizabeth Gaskell by the age of 15) but I know some hypocritical mumbo-jumbo when I see it. Life-shortening mutations held off because a couple of old guys get lucky? Is this because of Rod Stewart? Surely not. Oh right, it is. Great.

The article barely covers its major counter-argument, which is why women don't die as soon as they hit the menopause. It's author uses the Grandmother Hypothesis to contend that the species does better if we have Grannies to peel our grapes and what not. Fine. But why men? Well, while Nana is knitting a smock for baby and opening that tin of corned beef for tea, Grandad's off perpetuating the race by boffing the 18 year old from number 47. Hurrah! Well done society.

Guys, seriously, why don't you start out with a problem and come up with a solution next time, rather than starting with an opinion and giving us all a massive headache? And since when was population growth a certifiable good thing? Global warming, dwindling world resources and the terrible queues in Selfridges over the Easter period are all compelling reasons to acknowledge that knocking out a couple of SUVs full of sprogs during one's life time is bordering on the irresponsible, as well as being slightly tacky.

Ms Erwin says it all when she asks us to scroll down and have a look at the reader's comments, which basically read 'Pwoar, crikey' x 70000000. How depressing! It's alright though, because even though older man can now claim to have eugenics on their side, it doesn't mean that young women are going to be anymore interested in them than before. In fact, I have confidence that to the majority of women under the age of 25, the idea of being pursued by some creepy old geriatric whose sole purpose is to fill you with his sons is enough to encourage one to get one's tubes tied at once. And if you don't? The fate of the species is in your hands, sister.
Patriarchal power masking as pseudo-science and moral imperative to dominate the processes of the female body? Just say "Oh my god, no no no way uh-uh!!"

14 Apr 2009

Sindy - The doll you love to oppress

Does anyone remember Sindy? As a young lass, I used to play with dolls, it's true. This is something that has haunted me for years - as a feminist, obviously I find Barbie's infinitesimal waist, 8 foot legs and size 3 feet as absurd as her inflated boobs. It has often worried me that, as a young gal, I played with these dolls, and I have looked long and hard into myself to try to unhinge any assumptions or expectations about the female body that may have been forced upon me from exposure to these patriarchal playmates. Thankfully, I am very intelligent, so I wasn't too confused when I didn't miraculously morph into an 8 inch high plastic doll on my 16th birthday. Some women have been less fortunate.

But last night, I had a revelation! I wasn't brainwashed by Barbie as a child because I didn't play with Barbie as a child - I played with Sindy! Now, Sindy was an entirely different kind of a gal! From her flat feet clad in chunky trainers to her reduced bust and chubby, freckled cheeks, Sindy really was the poor woman's Barbie. Check out her gorgeously low budget website - and here's a picture of Pop Star Sindy (she looks like Karen O!) Space Travel Sindy and Beach Fun Sindy - how cool is she!

Mothers, if your daughter loves dolls, you could do a lot worse than letting her play with a vintage Sindy. I say vintage because, to keep up with the times, Sindy now looks like a total Hoe-bag. She's now obsessed with shopping, the colour pink and her hair. But at least she's still flat-footed and cheap.

10 Apr 2009

Sally, A Fiction: part 5

When she finally arrived at book group she had ruffled feathers and stepping into Maria’s giant house on Eaton Place, Chelsea didn’t make her feel any better. It was huge, with massive ceilings and art everywhere, expensive art, not just crappy prints.

In the white hallway there was a huge glass staircase that curved round, with statues of monkeys crawling through the railings. It smelt of lavender and peach. She looked up to see a giant chandelier twinkling above her head. It was the one she had wanted to buy but Dominic wouldn’t let her; he said pink crystal was naff.

“But it’s just so sparkly,” Sally thought to herself.

Rows of porcelain cheetahs and eagles lined the marble corridor leading to the drawing room that was home to a life-sized porcelain elephant eating some leaves.

“My husband has a passion for Africa” Maria explained as she threw herself on a gold chaise lounges. Above her were mounted an array of ancient agricultural tools which book grouper regulars Tilly Woods and Jessica Rilling-Bonds were admiring from afar. She rested her head upon the most beautiful cushion Sally had ever seen.

“Great cushion where did you get it?” she asked.


“I don’t think I’ve been there, is that on the King’s Road?”

Before Maira had time to correct her Venetia stormed through the door clutching a pile of Browns Focus shopping bags. “Hi everyone!” she said, making her usual fresh faced entrance. “Sorry I’m late, awful traffic. Isn’t your house just wonderful Maria?”

Sally suddenly noticed a Swarovski crystal telephone twinkling in the corner like a shooting star.

“It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen!” she blurted out.

Venetia sat down and poured herself a cup of tea. She was wearing brown slacks, a lime green jumper decorated with little cherries and some really cool Todds loafers. Sally looked on in admiration but in her opinion it didn’t even compare to Maria’s red cat suit.

Sally and Venetia were old friends. They first met in the Hairdressers years ago when Sally was having her highlights done but they had messed up the dye, turning her silky locks a strange shade of green. Venetia was sitting next door and had some tissues in her pocket: the rest is history.

Venetia opened up her handbag and a Jo Malone candle fell out, followed by a bottle of Chanel nail varnish. Sally couldn’t help but notice the striking shade of red. “Great colour! What’s it called?”

“Blood Red”

“They should have called it Really Red!”

Venetia erupted into laughter. “Gosh poo face you are too funny!” She started handing out some of her delicious home made biscuits. Venetia was an incredible cook and Sally set about eating as many as she could.

“Venetia I’ve had the most awful day” Sally explained munching her fourth. “Pilates was cancelled, Fran embarrassed me, my patient was late and someone told me that Dominic’s having an affair.”

Venetia put down the biscuit tin and took Sally by the hand. “Why Sally that can’t be true. Dominic is like the nicest guy ever.”

“I know.” Sally took another biscuit. "Of course my husband isn’t having an affair.”

“Exactly. Isn’t it your anniversary today? You've probably just got the jitters.”

“You are so right.”

She got up and felt much better, she was just making herself worry about nothing. Her life was perfect. Okay sure, there had been a few hic-cups but nobody’s perfect. Besides how could her nightmare be coming true when she wasn’t having her period?

She positioned herself next to Maria to try to make small talk. “So is your husband African then?”

Maria didn’t reply but shrugged her shoulders and started stroking her cushion. She evidently did not want to talk about her husband, but Sally was insistent.

“What does your husband do?”

“He works in M & A”

“Don’t you mean M & S?”

“No M & A” she snapped. “It means mergers and acquisitions, he’s a banker.”

There was a little giggle from across the room. Sally frowned.

“Right girls, before we begin I just want to say a big well done to Sally whose having her 13 year anniversary today!” Venetia cooed.

Sally thanked her friend, smiled graciously and made a little speech, but underneath it all the jealousy was mounting. Why didn’t Dominc get a job at Marks and Spensers? Could a younger, better-looking version of Sally Pooper even exist, and if she did, was she sleeping with Dominic in Hollywood? She suddenly remembered that she wasn’t that rich. Her life wasn’t looking so good: a powerless woman trapped in a marriage of lies, deprived of nice things!

“Today’s book is Madam Bovary.”

Everyone fished out their copies. Most editions were published by My Little Slack Brain. The cover showed a picture of Emma Bovary wearing a beautiful satin ball gown holding up a diamond necklace and smiling, surrounded by scarves, but this imagined scene was encircled with a thought bubble and one could trace the little puffs of clouds back to the head of the real Emma who was dressed in rags and crying.

“So what did everyone think?” Venetia asked.

There was some general mumbling. Tilly thought it was as shame the heroine had to kill herself and Jessica found it quite boring but liked it when they went to Paris because it reminded her of when she went to Paris. Venetia really liked the imagery but had to confess she’d only read the first chapter. Sally loved the story but didn’t find Madam Bovary very convincing.

“That’s interesting why do you use the word ‘convincing’?” Venetia asked.

“Oh sorry I forgot to say I didn’t have time to read the book so I watched the film instead.” Sally was nervous her eyes kept glancing at the Swarovski telephone.

Maria stepped in. “Well I just think that if the husband hadn’t been so lazy and given her what she wanted then she wouldn’t have topped herself. The poor girl thought she was going to be rich.”

“Well it’s strange that you mention that because I stumbled across a word the other day and it made me think of this book,” Venetia said. “It’s called patriarchy.”

The girl on the sofa finally spoke. “I disagree with you,” she said. “The book’s not just about her desire to change her life, it’s about her inability to change it for herself. Don’t you think?”

No one replied. What was she talking about? Show off.

“Do you seriously expect me to answer that?” Sally asked in the bitchiest tone she could muster.

“Well, yes.”


“Emma is an oppressed woman lost in a patriarchal society,” she continued. “No one can buy their way out of that. I mean look at today, all these ghastly women thinking that if they only had the right pair of shoes everything will be fine. It’s ridiculous!”

Book group stopped andlooked up at the new girl, and then from the new girl to the new pair of shoes that Sally had just taken out for show and tell. The ladies awkwardly sipped their tea, giving each other knowing looks. The atmosphere was so tense you could slice it up and serve it on bread. The poor girl on the sofa looked embarrassed, she was just about to leave when Maria rejoined.

“But all those lies,” she said. “I mean she literally couldn’t go to the shop to buy some loo roll without telling a lie.”

“I think that was kind of the point Maria,” Venetia pointed out. “They didn’t have any money.”

“Oh how annoying. Okay so the rich man she sleeps with, Rudolph?”

“You mean Rondolpe?”

“Yes him. She does not know how to keep a man. You must give a man what he needs and play hard to get at the same time. She knows nothing of flirtation. If that had been me I would have got myself to Paris a long time ago.”

Sally was becoming extremely jealous of Maria. This was a woman who had it all, big house, pink chandelier and a Swarovski telephone. Sally had to pull herself out of this incredible ‘green ey’d monster’ knawing at her heart.

She walked into the exotic hallway where she hit speed dial for Dominic’s office, Systems’ Businesses Business, a business for business systems. Hearing his voice would make the world right again, thank god for Dominic.

“Hello Systems Businesses Business. Dominic speaking.”

“It’s me.”

“Hi darling how are you? Happy anniversary.”

“Honey it’s so good to hear your voice!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing: I just called…to say…I love you!”

They both giggled.

“Happy anniversary honey. Honey you haven’t been on any business trips recently have you?”

“Business trips? No why?”

“I knew it! I love you baby poos!”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh I just bumped into that stupid Sylvia Bloomingdale and she mentioned something. It’s not important.”

“Sylvia? What Old Salmon Bags?” he chuckled.

“Yes,” she laughed. “Well the stupid bitch is lied to me saying she met you in Universal Studios. She was just stirring things up so I told her to fuck off-” Sally paused, the line was silent. “Dominic?”

“Yes, I’m still here. Listen darling I’ve really got to go there’s an important call. Don’t forget about your special surprise now, I think you’re going to like it.”

“My special surprise? Oh I haven’t forgotten, see you at seven.”

“At seven. Oh and darling,” he drew the receiver close to his mouth; close enough to hear his breath. “You know how much I love you don’t you?”

“Yes I know. I love you too.”

“Goodbye then darling.”

“Goodbye.” Sally hung up and squeaked when she closed her flip phone. But her happiness was soon quashed when she turned round to see the new girl standing in front of her. She had her coat on and was holding a backpack.

“I’m just off” she said clutching her backpack.

“Goodbye then.” Sally’s eyes followed her across the hall to the door. She decided to blackball her from book group. “I never got your name?”

“It’s Shirley.”

Her nightmare! First the famine, then Finnegan and now this strange ‘Shirley’ girl. Was this a sign for Sally to save her? She did seem pretty mental. Everything about her was so…wrong.

“Shirley?” she called.

Shirley, who was opening the door paused and turned round. “Yes?”

“Are you having your period?”

There was an awkward pause and the door closed. Shirley had departed. All those hours, days, years and that poor girl could have been saved, but now it was too late. Poor Shirley.

Sally felt sad when she walked back into the drawing room but was instantly thrust back into a sense of reality when Venetia started screaming, “No Sally! Get back!”

She looked up to see a huge pitchfork coming down over her head. Venetia, who had been doing an impression of a farmer, had been holding the ancient Kenyan artifact high in the air, but lost her balance the moment Sally entered the room.

Sally screeched and threw herself in front of the coffee table where Tilly Woods, who was painting her fingernails, accidentally spilt the entire bottle of Chanel ‘Blood Red’ all over her bottom. Luckily the pitchfork missed her, landing just a few inches from her feet. Sally rolled over. “NO NOT MY CARPET!” Maria yelled.

But it was too late; nail polish the colour of blood was everywhere. What was once a well put together, glamorous book group had descended into a team of gaggling maniacs. Then, as if from nowhere, a small crucifix appeared from the sky and plopped onto Sally’s head.

“Where did that come from?” she asked.

“Witch! Witch!” Maria started running around the room throwing her arms all over the place.

“Did you see that? The crucifix; it came from the air! Jesus wants to kill you!”

Sally was ordered out of the house. It had literally been the worst book group ever. It later materialised that the crucifix belonged to Tilly Woods, well I say crucifix but it was actually a Vivienne Westwood earring that fell off in the midst of the confusion as Tilly made a quick dash for the loo.: she often wet herself in stressful situations.

8 Apr 2009

Police brutality all too familiar?

Over the last week, we have seen two instances of shocking police brutality. Against both the G20 protestors and the Tamils, horrified at the violence in their ancestral home, police have used force and violence against peaceful protesters, utterly disregarding the safety of the public and their rights to gather and demonstrate, all in the name of maintaining the status quo. Am I disgusted? Yes. Am I surprised? No. It looks all too familiar to me. Remember, all yea who take the vote for granted, the Suffragettes were considered radical and subversive once too.

Spot the odd one out...

It's this one.

7 Apr 2009

Sally, A Fiction: part 4

Sally Pooper was agasp. Never before had she been confronted with so many problems on one day! Bumping into Sylvia was the final straw.

“All this on my special anniversary day!” Sally sobbed. The skies opened up as if they knew, and it started to rain. Luckily she had an umbrella but it didn’t open and she stumbled into her top colour psychologist's surgery in a flap. Her receptionist, Annabelle, barely raised an eyebrow at this performance, and handed her her appointments for the day: she only had one.

She sat in her perfect office waiting for her patient, staring at a framed photograph of Dominic and Jenson holding up a salmon they had caught on a fishing trip in the country, only rather than using a rod Jenson used his BB gun so there was quite a lot of blood. She kept staring at her beautiful husband, and was transported back to when they first all those years ago, at a shitty members club in Soho called Wanker House.

She had been having some cocktails in the upstairs reading area all dressed up for Fran’s 24th birthday. She scoped him out at once, and he too had spied her across the room and offered to buy her a drink. Dominic was gorgeous, dark, tall(ish), his eyes were quite far apart but that wasn’t a problem. He was confident and smooth, not particularly intelligent, but as you’ve probably guessed by now, neither was Sally.

The two talked all night about their hopes and dreams, their fears for, and of, the future. Dominic was one of the few people who really understood the importance of cushions, after all they were the original sofas and in China people still used them as sofas. Within half an hour Sally knew this was the real thing, that this was love.

They went on a few dates, one thing led to another and suddenly they were off to Bermuda where Dominic proposed. They had been together for two months.

Of course Fran couldn’t help but cast doubt on the whole thing. She thought it was suspicious to get married so soon, but that was because she hadn’t met that cheating snake David yet. Fran could be so selfish sometimes.

Dominic’s favourite film was Braveheart so they were married in a little Scottish church in the highlands. Sally wore daisies in her hair and they rode away on a white horse!

A knock at the door pulled Sally back to the present. It was just Annabelle telling her her the client was going to be delayed. Sally got out her copy of Marie Claire and started flicking through the adverts, then she read Vogue and Grazia. The clock was ticking and still no sign of the mysterious Mr Miner.

Finally Sally marched into the reception and insisted that the receptionist phone this “Mr Miner” Sally said reading his name off the list. But when the receptionist put down the phone she didn’t look happy. “He told me to fuck off” she said, on the verge of tears.

Sally was shocked. In all her years of colour psychology she had never heard anyone be so rude. She comforted poor Annabelle and insisted that Mr Miner be blackballed from their books.

“What’s his first name?” Sally asked.

“Finnegan, Finnegan Miner.”

Sally’s jaw dropped. Unbelievable! First the dream about the Irish potato famine and now she was late for her book group! She was becoming increasingly convinced that the nightmare about Shirley, her pre-incarnation as an Irish peasant, had put a curse on her day. Things like embarrassment, lateness, suspicion of extra marital affairs and the like just didn’t happen to Sally Pooper. Her life was perfect, just like a film.

6 Apr 2009

I spy with my little eye... A Vagina!

In Chocolate Shops...
I found this fabulous vagina chocolate today and bought a whole box for Aunt Lilly! They are delicious!

You can purchase the beauties at Sweet Rage, or moulds to make your own at Confectionary House!

Not a 'snatch' on my trademark vagina cupcakes though!

3 Apr 2009

Feminism and anarchism is femarchism, not manarchism!

And I must say, I WAS on those streets to protest against G20 on Wednesday! I took a long lunch from writing (1hr & 10mins, how cheeky!) and popped down to Climate Camp with a Pret (they do Charity Runs so I didn't feel too guilty). It was lovely! Healing sessions with flapjacks and such beautiful youths, someone gave me a daffodil! Not quite the same scenes later when I returned having changed out of my writing gear into a black bowler hat (irony!) stripy tights from Hallowe'en and a raunchy red coat! The poor dears had been kettled and though I tried to get in by flashing my LadiesAlone business card and claiming freedom of the press, the swine wouldn't let me! I tried to scale a wooden fence connected to a building site but was confronted by a hefty builder, which was frankly a relief as I wasn't doing very well anyway and had laddered my tights.

I sipped whisky with some Fourierists in a side alley, fascinating! Then I got into a confrontation with a policeman over a tent (You have the guy (ropes) but we have the numbers!) and bought a quick cheese sandwich before following some new comrades over to Earl Street Convergence Centre, the anarchist HQ! (It was raided at lunchtime the following day, by which time I was still safely tucked up in bed!)

It was rather dull in there as they were holding a meeting to decide how to protect the building from 'pigs'. I offered my services as a helicopter look out on the roof but they didn't seem convinced. They did give me a nice bit of flapjack though to follow on from earlier's, which was Vegan! I had no idea!

All was going fine until I left and was immediately swept upon by pigs, who used a spotlight to frighten me. I, of course was not shocked, in fact it reminded me of my youthful interventions on the stage. I was being detained under Section 44, as a TERRORIST! I told them I had merely entered the squat because I thought it might be like that scene in the Baader Meinhof Complex where they all get naked in the bath, but really it was rather dull and they should leave them alone (sticking up for comrades!) All I can say is that they found nothing but dirty tissues and Public Man, Private Woman in my handbag, and that they ticked the box on the Suspect Description Form that said I was 'Thin'. Hurrah!

Here's a picture of Ulrike Meinhoff (Feminist Icon!) from The Baader Meinhoff Complex becoming radicalised at a demonstration! She's just about to throw a brick - that's how I felt!!

THEN all hell broke loose on the way to Liverpool Street! I was innocently heading to the Tube to meet my friend Lara, who'd just been released from Climate Camp and get the Northern Line back to N1 (I had no idea, of course, but the station was full of Alsatians, which are only just worse than commuters) when I was hit full frontal by a line of battering riot police charging at a few bedraggled teenagers, including a girl so drunk her boyfriend actually had to drag her to avoid being attacked by the advancing police line!

I, of course, walked straight up to them, like a surfer stepping up to a Tsunami, and tried to explain that I just needed to get past, and the bloody swine started battering me too! My poor tights did nothing to cushion the blows. I was so cross, I might have started a *little* fire outside Pizza Express. But the nerve! Here's a picture of the scene.
Remember girls, Police Brutality + Climate Change + Power + Capitalism = Patriarchy. Fight it!

Thanks to all my fans!

Some of you may have seen my article Pity in Pink on the FWord about my hideous experiences buying a laptop that wasn't pink (impossible for a woman, apparently). I've just seen all these great comments from my fans on the FWord and thought I'd post them for the benefit of my readers, and to say thanks for everyone who thought the article was great!

From Louise Whittle
I too am looking for a laptop (Mac as opposed to PC)....and it doesn't bode well. Hideous pink colours as well. Oh well, I can't wait for some bloke to patronise me about 'girly friendly' technology.

From Helen
I *love* that research. Most hilarious evolutionary psych idea ever. Wimmins like pink because it's totally like berries. Teh mens don't like pink because they don't gather, they hunt. And animal flesh isn't cissy pink.... Except when it is...
Plus I've been told that pink used to be considered a manly colour in the UK (don't have sources so not certain) and that's why it's popular on scarfs/crests for old public schools and colleges.

From Hannah
The same thing happened to me when I was upgrading my phone last month. The sales assistant brought up a huge list of phones I was eligible to upgrade to but then 'helpfully' pointed out two pink phones and told me how popular they are with 'the ladies' at the moment. Like you said I don't object to pink phones being produced but I do object to being steered towards them as if they're the ideal option for me because I'm female. The look on my face probably said it all to be honest because he then said 'Or maybe you'd prefer a black or silver phone?'...

From Bob
"in order to distinguish between ripe and non-ripe fruit such as berries then women developed an innate preference for reddish tones."
Surely, then, men would also be attracted to pink, as it resembles the blood of the animals he was hunting?

Posie Rider, author of the bloody article, replies:
Exactly, Bob! Apparently, men like blue because, er, they were out in the wide world 'looking at the sky'. Women like dark, cavernous spaces (beds, cupboards, the vagina) while men like spears, tigers, stones etc. Maybe men like silver and grey laptops because they remind them of stones or the sheen on the skin of a freshly caught fish? It's absolutely baffling.
And did women never see the sky? Did they just "not like that sort of thing"? If you cut me, do I not bleed?

I have only one word to say to these quacks. BLACKBERRIES.

From Eleanor T
In response to Posie Rider's recent article, I wish to say this: "YES!!" I fight battles every single day with both men and women who think all girls like pink and all boys like blue. If this were really the case, why aren't all the proper, "sensible" laptops coloured blue? Why don't we see more items in blue? It's because people think men have the capacity to think about product specifics... and women don't. I grow ever more frustrated by this the more of the world I explore. Posie, your article was brilliant and couldn't have come at a better time. Question though: did you end up buying a laptop from that store or did you turn your nose up at the wall of pink and stalk out in a huff?

From Christina crease
Just read your 'pink laptop' blog, it made me smile, I'm a 32 year old computer programmer and when I went to PCWorld for a new laptop they tried to sell me a pink laptop, I pointed out that it was really only children who might like them and how silly I would look turning up to a business meeting with a barbie laptop! I opted instead for a sony viao, its very powerful and comes in a sleek shiny midnight blue case. very elegant, and much more grown up than pink! anyway, a very entertaining read :-D

From heather harvey
just wanted to say great article and I assume we all know about the new web campaign "Pink Stinks", http://www.pinkstinks.co.uk/

From Caroline Armstrong
I loved your article about the pink laptops. I too am aghast at the amount of regular items coloured pink just so that girls will buy them. Also that it appears to WORK because people DO actually buy the stuff. I want to pounce on them in the street and shake them into sense. My local pound shop has a whole range of DIY tools and accessories, coloured pink, with the phrase 'just for girls' printed on. Am I incapable of using black pliars? Wouldn't I understand what a black screwdriver is? Loved the article, keep up the good work!

From Lara
I have a shiny new laptop. It's pink and I'm very excited. Oops...

Jess McCabe, editor of The F-Word, replies
I think the point Posie was trying to make wasn't that women shouldn't want or buy pink laptops, but that it's insulting when shops assume that the best, easiest, automatic way to get women to buy stuff is to make it in pink. It's all kinds of patronising for companies to assume that they can just make a product pink and women will buy it.

1 Apr 2009

More trendy pictures from Ulrike Ottinger's films: Cross dressing in her version of A Picture of Dorian Gray and Ticket of No Return.

Ulrike Ottinger: Feminist Film Director!

Hello lady readers! Last night Melody Wittgenstein and I made the unfortunate mistake of attending a film directed by the prolific feminist (lesbian) film maker, ze Berliner, Ulrike Ottinger.

Now don't get me wrong, I am all pro expressionism in film, but too much is sometimes too much. Melody had been enjoying the sunshine that day landscaping Nigella Lawson's new patio terrace in Holland Park, so I'm sure you can imagine, being crammed into a cinema with a pile of queer theorists for two and a half hours was quite a shock. To me on the other hand the whole experience was like water to a fish, or so I had thought. For if I were a little salmon I would certainly not swim into those seas occupied by Madame X, the title role of the film' s protagonist pirate.

Apparently according to the site Women Make Movies:

Ottinger achieves her enthralling visual effects through innovative and expressionistic use of costuming, composition, and unusual settings. A versatile talent, she assumes many of the creative and administrative functions on her own films; beyond directing, her credits include that of screenwriter, producer, cinematographer, and set designer. She has also worked as a theatre director and ethnographer; her photographs have been exhibited in numerous venues, and she has published several books.

Okay yes it's all very impressive. One woman decides to subvert the didactic norms of feminist film, to complicated notions of beauty and to continue Mulvey's project of disseminating the male gaze. True, the outfits were fab (see below/above etc.) HOWEVER, the plot leaves somewhat to the imagination. Let me set the scene: seven women board a boat and sail away. They are wearing nice dresses on. The end.

I am sorry, but when are feminists going to realise that deconstructing cinema CANNOT GO ON FOR THREE HOURS without a f*****g plot? Needless to say Melody and I had to leave when the cast started reenacting the Freudian exploration of the female subconscience using a large sea bream. I really resent films that force me to leave and make me feel like a philistine. I am very intelligent: how would very thick people cope?

Fine: go and make your arty movies. I on the other hand have far too many important things to do than to indulge your whims on a Tuesday evening. I could have read Middlemarch cover to cover AND The Tenant of Wildfell Hall in that time (the first book ever to tackle the problem of domestic violence in herstory).

Anyway here are some pretty/cool/weird pictures from her films.

She is rather good though. More of her stuff is playing at the BFI, this week.
Bring a strong bottle of scotch and you might get through it and it will make you look rather cool.