Facebook, stop picking on me.

Consider this an open letter to you, Facebook. You smug cow.

At this point, we are all shockingly aware that nothing matters until it is posted on some form of social media. Twitter exists so we can tell thousands of people whom we do not know intimate details about the mundanity of our lives, #Iameatingabanana. Instagram is the Twitter of the illiterate. Look, I am eating a banana. Vine is for 6 second clips of you eating your banana. Social media is in fact fueling the frivolous. Many people, myself very much included, are fooled into believing that something as everyday as eating a banana is news worthy. Newsflash, unless the said banana has the ability to jump from the cracked screen of your iPhone and make me a sandwich, it probably is not. BANANA.

Don't get me wrong, I tweet utter shite. Last week I tweeted that I was 'wide awake', hashtag did you need to know? Did I make an urgent and blistering impact on your life? Did the Daily Mail write a piece on it? Probably, but also on rotation was 'Woman eats yoghurt', 'Woman wears T-Shirt' and 'Woman has a nose'.

But Facebook, you are on my shit list. And here is why. Facebook is a lie. A complete and utter misrepresentation of our ACTUAL lives. Everything (and I do mean everything) you have ever snogged, married, or avoided is documented on Facebook. After all, it is not official until it is Facebook official.

Our 'friends' list is a who's who of people you haven't gotten around to un-friending. There are the girls in high school that you hung out with for a summer and now have new-borns and new-builds. There are the people we had a cheeky fumble with in the back of a pergeot 106, they are the people that you stay "friends" with so you don't have to admit that they meant absolutely NOTHING to you. Zilch. Zipper. Then, there are the mean, the meaner and the meanest. Those who the mere action of un-friending would create more drama than Kim Kardashian shaving her head in favor of a toupee. I have 599 "friends" on Facebook, but in the past 23 years of my existence no more than 100 people (tops) have attended any one of my 23 birthdays.

My social media representation is in fact a lot popular, a lot funnier and let's face it...a lot fitter than the real deal.

But that is not where my beef ends. My falling out with Facebook stems way back, back when the we saw our 'wall' change it's name by deed poll to our 'timeline'.

Who do you think you are Facebook? Micheal Parkinson? When I reach the end of my days, will you present me with an over-sized red photo album and whisper those intolerable words 'This, this is your life'...sponsored by Facebook. Mark Zuck-it-berg. When was the precise moment that Facebook became the virtual equivalent of our autobiography, our Wikipedia page, the sole source employed to document our every move. Is Facebook really that high in the pecking order?

Facebook is like the cat that got the cream. It has no problem showing you endless photos of your ex boyfriend scuba diving with your replacement. But, whilst the status on that sepia photo of the newlyweds reads 'It was a Vera Wang and Tiffany's kinda day', it really translates to; 'I am willing to over look that my hubby thinks my special place is around six inches south of where it really is because his bank account is just beeeeyond'.

Look, a little self-promotion is not a bad thing. We all do it. Go forth and toot that horn. But for the sake of our down-in-the-dumps days, our lonely days, our my-makeup-went-wrong-days, let us remember that it is far easier to carve perfection in the vortex known as Facebook than it is in real life.

For now, the battle against social media is over. We lost, we are robots, robots living online.

P.S I feel as if I am cheating on my boyfriend, but like all boyfriends...there are days when they just piss you off a little.

Happy tweetings,
B xx

My truly impressive ability to stick at absolutely nothing.

The new year is here, and I have made a resolution make absolutely no resolutions. Or lists, no lists...unless it's a to-do list as the only listing on that list is 'Ryan Gosling'.

Another January con which I am in no way subscribing my derriere to is the January detox, the dry January or the "fools guide to the galaxy" as it is more appropriately known. Why, in the most miserable month of the year, you would actively choose to make yourself even more miserable is beyond me. Instead, in the words of our formerly full figured friend Miss Jones; 'I choose Chaka Khan and vodka.' Mainly vodka.

Whilst I am in no way encouraging the consumption of alcohol, I am in no way condemning it. And here's why. The essential part of any detox is not rocket science. It is state school, bunsen burning, GCSE at it's best. Many expensive pills, potions and powders promise to rid you of those pesky toxins that have taken up residence in your lady area. Now, being a proud owner of both a lady area and a B in GCSE Science (double award huh hummm), I shall translate. They make you pee. Well, so does beer. More so. So Siri, I shall take my fruit in a martini please as no pleasure quite so sweet is worth giving up for the extra two years spent in a geriatric home in sunny Southend.

As for diets, where do I begin. I like to view the world plainly. In all it's glory. Do not try and convince me that the fast diet will make feel like Gywneth Paltrow floating on a river of liquid gold whilst Kodaline serenade me about smashing bottles and fizzy willies. It was Paltrow herself who said 'Beauty fades! I just turned 29...so I probably don't have that many good years left in me.' Well, if my maths is correct that equates to six years left of my "beautiful life" to do with what I choose. I have two options, do I munch on a celery stick and complain my protruding hip bones or do I live a little and create stories my grandchildren will want to listen to. PG 13'd of course. As far as I see it, life is about finding the balance between cigarettes and tofu.

A balance I am yet to find.

I am aware that, Houston, I have a problem. I have a truly impressive ability to stick at absolutely nothing. Haircuts, diet plants, relationships, Starbucks orders...blogs. I am a free agent with a dodgy success record, a marathon runner never to see the finish line, I am the coupon which promises you a free lippy...as long as you spend twice the cost of the promise first. But only the worst kinds of people are ever done of evolving. I do not look in the mirror and think 'hold the phone, call off the search party this, this is the absolute definition of perfection.' I am forever enrolled in the school of me.

So calm down my wee chums, Rome was not built in day. We do not need to usher in the new year with grand declarations of what we will do differently whilst tweeting 'New Year, New Me' and other vomit inducing sentiments. Instead, and in light of recent realizations to do with my temperament, I propose that we make small but significant changes. I for one will stop sponsoring my days by Cadburys, and convincing myself that cake if eaten after 4 o'clock is simply 'tea'...a socially acceptable and highly recognized meal time.

But for now, that is quite enough. Pass the wine.

B xx

All by my selfie.

Once again I have become delinquent with my writing. I would like to blame a hectic schedule, the loss of my fingers and thus my ability to type but, I can't. Maybe it is a good thing, I have had less to moan about, lesser to get on my nerves. Miley is still twerking but I have come to terms with it and even given it a trial run in my bathroom mirror. I'll stick to skankin'. Skankin' I can do.

This week (haha, said like I update weekly) I shall lay to rest the debate of the selfie. If you are unfamiliar with the said 'selfie', I am talking pout perfect, fabulously filtered, completely and unequivocally delusive photographs of your mush (and I should know, I am guilty as charged...check my Instagram).

The selfie is your friend. Not only your friend but your best friend. It promises to serve it's queen and it's country and to keep the Guide Law. It promises to flatter you, bring out your best side and lift your spirits when they have fallen flatter than your hair. Vain? Of course. We are taking pictures of ourselves, by ourselves. If this is not the very definition of vanity then slap me and call me Janet. But do we give a teeny tiny rats arse? No. There are enough people sat impatiently behind the security of their computer screens just waiting for an opportunity to compare our noses to that of a gherkin, and our legs to that of a chunky chip rather than a french fry...so selfie your self silly. If it makes you feel good, then let your freak flag fly.

There are a few golden rules when it comes to the selfie. Number one, selfie few and far between. As much as I love your face Rihanna, I don't need to see it for breakfast lunch and dinner. Treat your selfie like that chap you've been flirting with over Twitter, treat them mean to keep them keen.

Number two, a selfie with a friend is like a free pass to Thorpe Park, just as thrilling but minus the guilt.

Number three, a 'lickin-lips' selfie is never okay. It does not matter whether your background is full of pastel posies or giant raffle won teddies, if you wouldn't put it in a frame DO NOT put it online. The internet is a breeding ground for all things news worthy, it is not a vault, a vast space of nothingness in which nothing truly exists. It is the real world with real problems and real dangers, tread with care and caution. Oh, and avoid the 'belfie' (the bottom selfie). Making sure your InstaFANs recognize you when stood behind you in a queue is not necessary really...is it?

According to a new Study on the DailyMail (hardcore stuff), the selfie holds the ability to leave you on your selfies. With every picture we post we drop a facebook friend, a follower...a like. The title reads: 'Does your selfie spell social suicide?', well does it? Do we really care if our housemate posts a picture of themselves when we know full well that they are sat in their room alone, passing the time with a fuchsia pout? Does it deem them socially inept or deserve a barrage of abuse? No, no it does not. Instead of letting your green eyed monster get the better of you, why not press like? Or better yet make a POSITIVE comment. It won't hurt I swear, in fact it is probably the easiest way of doing that 'one nice thing a day' shizzle you promised yourself at New Years.

Over and POUT.

xx

Frosty Jack's Girl.

Once again I have become slack with my blog. For this I apologize. If it makes you feel any better, which I am sure it will not, I have become as equally slack with my nails. I am currently fobbing off a chipped electric blue as an intentional ombre, a nod  to the blue skies we so desperately seek. A subtle hint, a push in the right direction, a silenced scream of 'GET YOUR ARSE OUT OF BED SUMMER AND MAKE ME LOOK ALIVE AGAIN'. Like fake fur and penciled-in brows, subtlety is key...

A wee while ago I passed over the reigns to you and asked: 'What in heavens name shall I bang on about this week?' You came back in your millions all guns blazing* (*two dedicated blog lurvers came back, qwerty keen).  You asked me to write about the reality of my life in comparison to my immature impressions of what would be.

Well, let me see. I envisaged myself an add on to the Spice Girls, a stand in for Sporty or Scary. I wasn't fussy, all I knew is that I liked leopard print and could kick a ball (the same is true now, just a different kinda balls and a less trashy kinda leopard) thus ('thus' - English graduate problems) I had all the qualities and credentials required to be Team Spice. I could not hold a note but who are we kidding, could Ginger?

All in all, life is exactly as I envisaged. See you next week.

NOT.

I shall not sit here and bore you with endless details about how my life compares to VB and the gang. I hold no comparison. I do not own a fifteen storey house, nor a driver, nor a scantily clad, boxer or briefs hubby with golden balls.

Instead, I shall tell you something I wish someone had once told to me at a pivotal point in my life - going to university. Oooosh, how current of me.

I have no problem in telling you that when I went to University I was inexperienced in many more ways than one. Playing a game of 'I Have Never' was a course in sobriety for me as vodka failed to pass my lips, round after bullshit round. Such in-experiences did not define me but they did, in some twisted manner, embarrass me. I warn you now, I feel as if I am opening a bit of a chapter here, going forward it may be best to read with Kleenex in tow and wine at an arms length away. Just kiddin', 'I'm a strong, independent woman...' etc, etc.

There is one thing I have learnt from endless games of 'I Have Never' however, as time has passed and I have grown up. That is, that people talk a lot of shit. A lot of it. In a Frosty Jack and Squash haze (yes, I was a that girl) I was somewhat impressed by all manner of places people had supposedly done the dirty. In a McDonalds toilet just off the M25, the back seat of a cinema, your parents en suite shower and a red Micra with only one wing mirror - and of course each time was like flying through a lilac sky sprinkled with rainbows on talking unicorns. Magical. Well, I'm calling it. I'm calling it BULLSHIT.

Why do we feel the need to boast about such supposed antics when we are teens? Tell me, because it is not big and it is NOT CLEVER - hash tag, not an innuendo. As far as I was concerned there were parts of me that I refused to loose with a side portion of regret, and if that meant fifty five THOUSAND rounds of 'I Have Never' before diving for a jelly shot then...so be it.

If you have been following my Twitter feed this week you will know what has been getting up in my grrilllll...all twerking, all smirking Miley Cyrus:

19h

Miley Cyrus's new video makes me want to have a bath, join a nunnery and read Jane Austen in buttoned up shirts and lace-up loafers. #ew

I mean, I don't see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind. But, when it is on a public platform in white leggings the probability is that I am going to get the hump. After watching the video three times, I am no wiser as to whether she is selling a track or herself? It is a mash up of giant teddies, gyrating and spanx with an underlying commentary of 'look at me, I may not be Rihanna but this country music gal can get norti, fancy a roll in the hay?'. You may well disagree but, tell me this; When was the precise moment smoke bellowing from your never-regions became attractive?

All in all...take your time y'all, when it all boils down to it it really is not as important as it may seem this solitary second. Instead be young, make mistakes because they are the only way your are ever going to learn. Just remember, sometimes it is okay to stand on your chair and scream "I have never...and I could not give a teeny tiny rats arse'.

Over and out. xx

Pugs Not Drugs.

Two things have happened recently that have, for lack of a better phrase, really gotten up in my grill. Yes, I did just say that.

One, I have been ill. I am no good at being ill. I am a workaholic and the idea of not being physically able to work fills me with dread. I spend my days in bed watching commissioned crap otherwise known as “Daytime TV”. The most stable relationship present in my little life goes off balance; my relationship with food hits a Kim K sized bump in the road as I live off white bread, jam and kiwi fruits for days on end. For some this may sound like heaven but, I assure you, it is not. It is my idea of hell, it is my equivalent of having a dinner party with Madonna, Perez Hilton and Paris Hilton – a platter of bony bodies, blank expressions and irritations at all angles.

The second is Cara Delevigne.

Now, I whole heartedly believe that you cannot hate nor dislike a “celebrity” figure whom you do not know. You can dislike what they stand for, yes. But, you cannot dislike them.

My beef with Cara stems predominantly from the world she derives. Cara’s world is a world that revolves around a core of all things skinny, "beautiful", chiselled and leggy. Cara's world is one I have worked in myself. No, no, I have not graced the cover of Vogue or strutted my stuff along the catwalk at Chanel and Burberry - quite obviously, I have not. I was indeed one of the many minions that sat behind an office desk playing Pictionary and letting the words "on trend" dribble from my mouth more regularly than my own name. "Oh my, your skirt, you are sooooo ON TREND". "What did you have for breakfast?" "Muesli with greek yogurt" "Oh my, how ON TREND". Even the words in written form leave me all of a quiver.

I would rather appreciate fashion on my own terms than work within in it on someone else's.

I for one, could no longer be a part of an industry that pretends to support women whilst bombarding them with impossible images of so-called “perfection”. Whilst I am not an expert, nor can I lay claim to years upon years of experience within the fashion industry, I am a girl, and I have eyes. Eyes which have seen what goes on both in front of, and behind, the camera.

It may not come as a surprise to you but, the images you see in magazines are ENTIRELY IMPOSSIBLE. In life, we do not have an entourage of professionals priming and primping every hair that happens to fall across our heavily made-up face. I kid you not, during a photo shoot for a fashion magazine, you would be lucky to get six shots before a stylist, hairdresser or makeup artist leaps in to paint, spray, comb and pin every miniscule of a models minute frame. After the “production”, and never has the word been used more appropriately, closes its curtains, room is made for the “make-believers” to erase very possible imperfection  imaginable – a poxy spot, a crinkled hand, a solitary hair or, if you are Sienna Miller, a crooked grin (Sienna's Vogue US 2007 cover sees her smile made 'less toothy' via the infamous airbrush and her neck and shoulders switched in from a previous and unrelated shot).

If you need further convincing, watch The September Issue, everything I hate about the fashion industry is crammed into 140mins with not a laugh to mention. Ah, this is a whole other blog post.

My issue with the fashion industry this week stems from their failure to acknowledge and further, take action on, an incident which hit the papers early last week: Cara's little habbit.

By ignoring the incident in question, Cara has quite simply gotten away with the possession (and use - she ain't dusting no cupcakes) of DRUGS. Which makes me wonder, is ignorance really that blissful?

  

What message does this send to teens decorating their walls with pictures of Cara, those with eyebrows unruly and untamed in homage to Cara's big, bushy brow? If you are young, rich and beautiful, you can get away with anything…even substance abuse?

So why, in a world so insistant of capturing every waking moment of their fashionistas, have they skipped capturing this? Well, quite obviously, it shows imperfection. Something the fashion world has no liking for and further, no willingness to promote. Imperfection is a dirty word in the world of fashion, it is like trying to squeeze a heard of buffalo into a Mini Cooper...it just doesn't fit. But by ignoring the problem entirely, they have sent out a message that is deeply troubling. A message that is far from healthy for our teens to be digesting. It implies that Cara's behaviour is normal and not worthy of a mention. Fashion has shrugged it's shoulders and uttered "meeeehhh" to DRUGS.

What else is okay? The subjection of women?

It is about time the fashion world admitted it's faults, banished all ideas of perfection and gave us something real. A reaction that is not as bland as a celery stick would be a good place to start.

And, if the package in question does appear to be a clear bag full of Cara’s fave sweetner, I shall eat my words…and the sweetner for that matter. Until that moment, I shall remain confussed, short of compassion and somewhat disappointed.

X

Don't hate the player, hate the game.

Last night over an earl grey and left over Easter eggs, my pal uttered the following thought provoking or in my case, blog provoking, words: "all girls are crazy, we give a boy previews of our crazy in the "seeing" stages of a relationship and offer tickets for the full show when the girlfriend/boyfriend label is slapped on".

In a state of confusion I nodded. Yes I agree, I am crazy. However, over a similar earl grey affair hindsight came knocking. Am I crazy? Crazy in comparison to who? Kate Middleton? Well okay, yes. Although, she married a prince, sun bathes topless and wears a kitten heel so, you do the maths. Amanda Bynes? Hell no, the day I get facial piercings and dye my hair a colour only describable as "shit" is the day I shall throw my hands up and confess to crazyhood.

I am, in fact, rather dull. My idea of a date is a takeaway and a film, I know which wine is my wine (pause for those shouting "urm, all wine is your wine alccy"), I only drink one cup of tea a day due to the fear fear of staining my teeth and I have been known to go to a car booty donning a bum bag. I do not attend underground raves on the reg, nor do I find the idea of parading my pins in a dress made of meat even slightly appealing. Although, if there is a George Foreman clutch included in the stylists wardrobe then I could be convinced. Convenience innit.

Wow, painted myself as some kinda picture there.

What was my point? Ah, crazy. Cray cray.

Every girl has contemplated what she did to make a relationship slide down the shitter. Ew. As the dumpee we convince ourselves that we have lost the loves of our lives, disregarding the claims we made at the start of the relationship which go a little like this: "he's not my type", "I can't see it going anywhere" and my personal fave "I'm just not looking for a relationship".

Then it hits us. We were the problem. We turned crazy. It was probably that pesky pill, yes, that's it, that pesky pill is to blame. Well, unsurprisingly to you, I am calling bullshit on it. Bullshit on the whole thing.

Girls are simple. If we like a guy (or another lady friend) we tell them. We flirt, we twirl our fingers through our hair and on the odd occasion we experiment with a new eyeshadow in the hope that it will make our eyes sparkle a la Kim K. If we want to see the object of our affection, we ask. If we do not like a guy (or another lady friend) we don't tell them we do. We do not flirt, we do not twirl our finger through our hair and we spend money on bar after bar of chocolate because, that too, can make our eyes sparkle. Now don't get me wrong, guys can be simple too. But, and here comes the scientific part of my monologue, girls are made according to a different recipe, sugar and spice and all things nice, you know the one.

According to certain scientists we as women create a chemical whilst, and how should I put this, exercising with a personal trainer. Humm, 'trainer' may be the wrong choice of word, let's change it to 'workout buddy'. That chemical, otherwise known as the cray cray chemmy, sparks involuntarily questions to pop into our minds, questions like 'where is this going?', ''does he like me?' and 'how long have I got before the bugger scarpers?'. When it comes to the apple of our eye, even when we try to keep it light, we inevitably end up in the dark.

Whilst these questions may appear crazy, they in fact migrate to the minds of all girls. Each and every one. So when you think about it, crazy becomes the new normal and Taylor Swift becomes a marketing genius.

Think about it, or don't. Life is too short to sweat the small stuff. Instead, understand that every thought that has passed through your mind, has taken up a residency in anothers.

B x

 *Declaration time, all circumstances are different, in some cases all of the above is utter rubbish and for that I apologise. Some flirt without intent, of course. Some play the game. And some are so god damn terrified of being rejected that they back off, or read their situation entirely incorrectly and act (never has this verb been more appropriate) out of character and do things we would never normally do. Guilty as charged on the last humdinger.*

"It's just a part of the job"

First off, I must apologise. My life has become frantic recently and my blog has, somewhat reluctantly, taken a back seat. Whilst that is no excuse, it is mine. Although, even that doesn't shift the wave of guilt sweeping over my Batiste barnet.

When thinking about what to ramble on about this week, the familiar ole topics came knocking. Twitter - nope, already bored you to tears on there (why else would you be seeking other means). Facebook - hell no, if it wasn't for the fear of loosing each and every puzzle piece of my social life, I would have deleted that long ago. Bieber - well, obviously. Bieber's new haircut - even the mention of it leaves me blinking through salted water.

Then it hit me...this morning's tweet (blast, Twitter creeped it's way in).

"There is far more dishonest journalism available to youths than there is honest. We're smart, we can take it, give us something juicy."

Instead of falling into some bullshit, misinformed, argument about politics and Paris, I shall focus on THE excuse that comes before the dishonesty,  that which leaves me hot under the collar, and not in a good way. The excuse I talk (ramble) of is this: "well, it's a part of the job".

Now, that excuse would be acceptable if we were Lindsey Lohan's chauffeur taking weekend trips to the correctional facility over the spa facilities - because let's face it, it is part of the job. But when it comes to the manner in which the media treat celebrity folk, this excuse does NOT apply. After all, I do not recall the last time I heard of a star signing away all their rights to a human reaction.

A few weeks ago I, along with fellow Beliebers, squirmed at the way Bieber (a human - if you were wondering) was treated by a photographer after a "troubled" tour in the UK (proof, the weather dampens spirits).

Biebs, my floppy haired guilty pleasure, reacted. *PAUSE* for those who fainted due to the shock of what they have just read. Yes, you read right, he reacted. Now, I don't know about you but, the moment a bald headed hooligan with a camera shouts words only deemed acceptable after the watershed in my direction, is the moment people will look back on and say in hushed tones, "ah, that was the moment she lost it". If they haven't whispered that already.

In our society there is an unwritten rule, otherwise known as "bollocks the jealous make up to allow themselves to get up in the morning". We appear to believe that those who have dared to have dreams, pushed towards what they want to do, worked day and night tirelessly to make a name for themselves, had the audacity to be noticed and the sheer abruptness to step into the spot light deserve to be punished. Not only do they deserve to be punished but, they deserve to be told they are *insert series of expletives here* and then told so again by a mass of media mobs, and again by a rampage of the Twitterati and then again, by those outside the scrutiny of the public eye.

The "public eye" has become a dirty word. The meaning of the word has become tainted by those outside of it, more specifically those who have a brain the size of a walnut or a penis the size of a jelly bean.

If that photographer had spoken in the same way to the owner of a pet store, he would make the front pages along with a name for himself as a spiteful, nasty, low life bastard with an aversion to goldfish and hamsters. However, if the person on the other end of his tongue is a celebrity we brush it of with a huff a puff and those fatal words, "well, it's a part of the job". Well, I am calling bullshit on it, I am calling bullshit on the whole thing. The word "celebrity" is a mask, a persona. Underneath the mask, the lobster head piece and the perfect pout is a person, a real life being who (and this is not for the faint hearted) has real human emotions. They curse, they pee and on the odd occasion outside of award ceremonies they have a good ole cry. I just hope you aren't the ones making those tears fall.

Talk next week,
B x

P.S If I have sounded somewhat Carrie Bradshaw-esque, moaning, groaning and making every word a sentiment that in some way can be related to shoes, then I am sorry. I am on the third DVD in the series 6 box set and it's starting to take it's toll.

P.P.S In my life, I do more than watch reruns of Sex and the City...I watch Breaking Bad too.