When I Am Prime Minister

I will...

1. Be able to spell Prime Minister on the first attempt
2. Be able to answer a question directly
3. Think if stuff that’s going on outside London
4. Only go to war if I really, really need to and not just because I'm bored
5. Stop letting America boss us about
6. Stop pissing about with ‘cigarette tax’ and just ban them (might be unpopular)

I will not…

1. Fiddle expenses
2. Use tax money to throw big parties
3. Build a big train from London to Birmingham un less I have made Birmingham much nicer
4. I will not make Birmingham much nicer
5. Give any extra money to other MPs just because we’re BFFs
6. Spill soup on any important documents, even if they’re bad (or leave them on trains)

Laws I shall make:

1. Any MP heard making an offensive remark shall get an egg thrown at them to show the physical manifestation of the metaphorical egg on their face.
2. Dress down Friday
3. If MPs must have a second home, they are regulated to a very small flat in Croydon
4. Crimes to be rated on a ‘naughtiness scale’ to decide punishment (not believing that I’m going to be Prime Minister is a 3)
5.  The mayor of London is not allowed to be better than me

Please vote for me

A Story

I went to the doctors last week. My ear was being funny, and there was this weird spot on my neck, and I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. He fiddled about with my head in general for about twenty minutes, while I thought about what cake would be available at work the next day, then booked me in for a blood test and sent me off. He prodded the lump on my neck one last time. "I think it's a blocked lymph node," he said. "Of course, worst case scenario it could be cancer. Right, bye!"

That's not a nice thing to hear. Naturally when I had found the lump in my neck, the word cancer crossed my mind, but never seriously. I thought about how cool I would be, so chill and relaxed. The cool cancer patient. Then a medical professional said the word, and then then I was crying on my mums shoulder while a nurse handed me some ear drops and tried not to look worried. 

I had the blood test done, and after they didn't ring me after two days, started to relax. Eventually, I rang them, and they said I was anemic but could I come back and give them some more blood please. I did, and it was fine, and I wined at the lovely new doctor until she said that my white blood cell count was fine and that I should probably chill out now. 

I knew cancer was very unlikely. It's at the end of a very long list of things that the lump might be - I'm still not actually sure. Even if it was cancer, it would almost certainly be curable. Even so, when he said cancer, there was a space of roughly six hours where I genuinely thought I was going to die. In hindsight this was dumb, but it's kind of inexplicable when someone throws that word at you.

It was surprisingly telling. Not once did I think of the wedding I would never have, or the children I'd never know. I thought about how I would never be prime minister, I'd never break Hollywood, I'd never have anything ever published by the Guardian. Which was awful. And also very good. Sometimes I worry that I'll grow out of the "I don't want kids" phase, and now I know I won't. I know that's not for me. I want adventure and ambition, and I'm proud of that. Thank you mister doctor man for not mincing your words. 

Sorry this isn't written very well. It's nearly 1am, and I stopped making my bed because I had some words in my head that I wanted to put out before I went to sleep. I'm not going to spell check anything, I just wanted to tell you the story.
Funny posts soon, about waitress and growing up. All the best to you, whoever reads this x

How I Plan My Blog Posts

I thought I'd show you how I plan my blog posts today. I wish I could say that it's a time consuming process, that I put a lot of effort into. Here's a picture of the plans I've written in the last six months;

That's it. That is literally it.

It's not even spelled right.

I Love Science, But Sometimes It Makes Me Sad

Science is great. Before I went to secondary school and found out the science teachers were awful and the English teachers were divine, I always thought I would go into some branch of science when I grew up. When I was four I wanted to be an archaeologist. By the time I was nine I wanted to do forensics. When I was about ten I briefly looked at physics, and then quickly shut the door again. I still do like science a lot, just not in an academic sense. It's no secret that I have a bottomless pit of love for Brian Cox. Indeed, when the trailer for his Science Of Doctor Who lecture came up on my telly box, I squealed so loudly that my mother left the room.

But sometimes science does bad things, and that makes me sad. This afternoon while out adventuring in the Welsh countryside with my dad, we came across a fish farm. We didn't think it was a fish farm at first, because it looks like a front for a shady James-Bond-villain type operation. We googled it, and it turns out it is in fact, a fish farm. Which is fine, it itself. It is in fact the only producer of sea bass in the UK, so there we go. They're very proud of themselves because they use fancy, fishy technology, which means that the fish grow faster. They also keep them very densely stocked, so the fish hardly have any room to move freely. Under normal circumstances the fish would suffer very high stress level from these conditions, so to compensate they put extra oxygen in the water to calm them down. 
I kind of think the fish would be better off with just a bit more space. Although the company website claims they're happy, I'm not entirely sold. They were very cramped. It's like a massive fish shopping center near Christmas when people are running out of time do do the shopping, only instead of getting some new shoes, you get eaten in the end. 

The other thing, which I think is a little bit worse, is the 'cockroach backpack app' which the BBC reported on today. I know the BBC has to maintain an even view and stay on the middle ground, but luckily, I don't. I can be as biased and annoyed as I like. And I am very, of both.
It's a horrible idea. In an attempt to 'encourage children to take an interest in neuroscience', an app has been developed which links a mobile phone to a chipboard glued to a cockroaches back, after it's antennae have been removed, and part of it's shell sandpapered off. Two little needles are pushed into it's head, which allow whoever has the app to control in which direction the insect moves. There's a small plethora of issues with this. For one, no, I don't care that it's only a cockroach. The idea that humans should be placed in a position of importance over all other creatures is both mean, and creepy. Just because it's  gross, does not mean we should be permitted to go around wildly torturing it. If someone did the same operation on a human, a horse, a dog or a hamster there would be outcry, and the RSPCA would be sent in lickedy split, on the double. So be nice to cockroaches, yeah? They're ew, but they've never shoved a mind-controlling circuit into your brain. Another point is is the reasons the manufacturers have for making it.   They say that it encouraged kids to develop in interest in neuroscience. No it doesn't. It says to kids "here, you like hurting small things, hurt this one WITH AN IPHONE, BECAUSE THOSE ARE COOL AS WELL!" No child will be piloting a cockroach thinking "This is great, I'm going to try and cure depression when I grow up." Not any child that I know, anyway.

Finally, I'll end on a slightly petty note, because I do that quite well. According to the creators the backpacks "allow students to do graduate level research early in life". THAT'S NOT A GOOD THING. GET GRADUATE STUDENTS TO DO GRADUATE RESEARCH. STOP TRYING TO SHIFT IT ONTO KIDS SO YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH BULLYING TINY INSECTS, YOU NASTY, INSUFFERABLE, MISPLACED ELECTRICIANS. I hope the kids pilot the cockroaches into your soup.


PS, I'm doing a re-haul of my blogroll. If you have a blog you want me to promote then leave a comment with a link and I'll have a look. Triple chances if I know you. 

My Vagina Is Not Your Income

Disclaimer: If you formally employ me, or are a relative, it’s probably best if you don’t read this. It would just embarrass both of us.

People spend quite a lot of time talking about vaginas these days. Lord knows I do. I tried to think about something else to blog about for a change, realised I only know about feminism and lesbians, and gave up. So vaginas it is.

I find it quite alarming how they seem to have developed monetary value within the last twenty years or so. To have a vagina worthy of modern, media standards it has become necessary for women to effectively pay rent. At minimum women are now expected to at least ‘spruce up’ their downstairs, whatever the hell that actually means, and while the cost of razors totted up over a life time may not exactly purchase a house, it could probably buy you quite a few more fancy dinners and tickets to see Westside Story than you would have had otherwise. For the slightly more hardcore who fancy waxing, it becomes vital to fork out roughly once a month to employ someone to hot glue strips of fabric to the single most sensitive area of your body, and then violently rip them off again. Which is painful both physically and financially. For the ones who have signed a contract to the Fancy Genital overlord, vajazzling comes into play. The singular and ancient art of paying someone to stick rhinestones and bits of glitter to a place where there should be fluff thankfully seems to be losing the sudden burst of popularity it had, and personally I think we’re better off for it leaving. If I remember rightly, there were about two weeks in 2011 where everyone turned round and shouted ‘pejazzle’ (vajazzling's male equivalent) at each other, screamed and never, ever mentioned it again.

I still don’t really know what the point is in the ripping and the hot glue and the glitter. Some people seem to think it’s nice for someone you’re having sex with, but if your partner won’t sleep with you unless you have diamonds stuck to your foof, I think you might be sleeping with the wrong people. Frankly they should be grateful that they get to sleep with you at all, without kicking up a fuss about whether or not a grumpy beautician has tidied up for them first.

Speaking of Lady Ga-gardens, Lady Gaga apparently stripped off in London’s G-A-Y club last week. Some gay men witnessed her bottom. It was big news. Just like the time every female celebrity ever got into a car at a funny angle while wearing a skirt, or wore something chiffon based under bad lighting. Do you know when I last read an article about a bloke accidently showing a bit too much skin? Never, that’s when. No one gets paid for writing about men having a touch too much champagne before getting into a cab badly. No man has ever thought “Jesus, I possess pubic hair, something both men and women have had since the dawn of time. I should probably RIP IT OUT ON THE OFF CHANCE SOMEONE UNEXPECTEDLY TRIES TO HAVE SEX WITH ME IN A VERY BRIGHTLY LIT ROOM.” We have developed a culture where we pay people make sure our vaginas look good enough, on the off chance someone else is being paid to write about it. You might as well keep a small till in your knickers, just in case.

Unless you like doing all that, which is fine. If you want to, please be my guest. But just ask yourself first if you’re doing it because you like having genitalia that doubles up as a handy disco ball, or because you’ve just been told you should like it by someone else. If it’s the latter, I suggest you either ignore them or have a very lengthy chat. If it’s the former, please come to parties with me. At the end of the day, vaginas were meant to push out screaming humans, and give birth (ooh, satire). Do whatever you like with yours but make sure you do it for you and not to attract sexual partners with the brains of magpies.

Cheers. 

Talking Mostly To Myself (No, Really)

I just watched Easy A. It was pretty good, I recommend it if you haven't seen it. No, just so we're clear I'm not here to confess all the people I haven't slept with. This isn't so much a public blog as a personal one. I know it's been quite quiet lately. I have some ideas that I want to work on, but I've got a bit of a mental block. I don't know why. I had a bot of a lull over summer where everything got really quiet, and I sort of faded slightly. It was weirdly static. I thought things would be better now, and it's improving but slowly. I have a job. I signed my first employment contact, which was fun bus also, y'know, mind numbingly terrifying. I like my job. The people are nice and they taught me how to use a coffee machine. A proper one. With fancy buttons and levers and stuff. I feel a little bit like a scientist. I carried a tray of champagne glasses and didn't drop any. I'm still having driving lessons. I'm still awful, but the clutch has stopped making funny noises, and I remember to indicate so I think I'm improving. I'm still doing English lessons, which are still amazing and I may or may not be writing this as an attempt warm up for the last leg of an essay. I spend a lot of time on busses.

I realize that blogging total nonsense from my life is probably really annoying to most people, but it's quite cathartic. Having spent the last three hours reliving the last episode of The Wrong Mans in my pajamas, it's nice to remind myself that I'm not still stuck in the blank phase and I do have stuff to get on with. Quick note to NT - sorry you had to stay in my house during that. It was grim, and I was quietly miserable. I think. I don't really know, every time I'm sad I always assume I'm either PMSy, bored or hungry and have since forgotten what strong emotions really are. I bought some fairy lights for my bed, because I wanted to be a cliche. I rewatched the first series of The Mighty Boosh and remembered what I'd missed. I remembered being being fourteen and dancing with my Dad in a room full of people dressed as Noel Fielding's imagination while Bob Fossil mucked about on stage. It was nice, in an embarrassing, fourteen year old sort of way. Sometimes I forget I was fourteen once, but so does everyone else. Remember you used to be dumb. Remember you're a womble. 

Christ I hope no one reads this. Go watch Easy A, I beg of you.
Sorry I talk about TV so much. I have a media A level. 

What Not To Say In A Driving Lesson

I'm trying to get in the habit of writing a little bit more regularly, so here's a dumb list blog, because I haven't done one in a while. I'm also not bothering to type it up on Word first, so it's back to the good, old fashioned, Az-can't-spell-type-or-use-grammar days. I should also point out that I'm drinking a combo of 'glitter juice' (pomegranate juice with gold glitter, thanks M&S), and vodka. It's a cracking combo, but I am worried that I'm going to turn into liquid music. Or Robots In Disguise. I don't mind which. 

Most of you probably know that I'm learning to drive at the moment. It's going well, although I have put my foot in it a few times. Here's some stuff you shouldn't say in a driving lesson. Not all of them are me; I'll let you guess which ones are direct quotes.

1. "I'm really worried that I'm just going to run someone over. Possibly on purpose." 
2. "Have you ever rolled a car? Do you want to try?" 
3. "What would you do if I drove into that wall?"  
4. "Have you ever done 80mph in  hearse? I have." 
5. "Why's it making that noise? Have I changed gear? Which gear am I in? Oh God, the noise is getting worse. The car hates me, WHY DOES THE CAR HATE ME?!"
6. "What colour was that traffic light?"
7. "The brake is that little lever behind the steering wheel, I would assume."
8. "Well, I've driven a lorry before, but I was drunk that time, so I don't think it counts."
9. "Can you just grab the wheel for me? I need to re-do my eyeliner."
10. "OH SHIT, IT'S THE FUZZ."

Pointed reminder: I did NOT say all of these. I know the brake is that little button on the ceiling.

Joining The Debate Of The Genders

Ah, there’s nothing to beat the promise of a newly opened, blank Work document. Yeah, so it’s been a while, but I was busy. Also lazy. Mostly lazy.  I did get a job though. I haven’t actually started it yet, but I did get one. So that’s something.

For a while, I’ve wanted to take on the age-old question: which hurts more, period pains, or getting kicked in the balls. I will tell you here and now, it is period pains. The question used to be a kick to the balls, or childbirth. Ahahahaha, nice one, patriarchy. I’d like to see a man be kicked in the balls and end up screaming in agony for twelve hours, with a cocktail of drugs and the possibility of having to be cut open while still wide awake. We once asked our old English teacher what it was like to have a caesarean. “Horrible,” She said. “It feels like someone’s opened you up, and scooped out all of your organs, because all of the weight leaves so quickly. I felt empty. And in pain. There was a lot of blood.”

But we know how rubbish giving birth is. We can rant, and yell about it for hours. There have been books written about it, and it gets pretty decent coverage, media wise. We all know the image of a woman propped up in a hospital bed, dripping with sweat, screaming, with her BFF and her mother holding her legs in the air. We don’t talk about period pains. There’s no woman on telly, lying on the floor punching whatever’s nearby, while crying and swearing I the same breath. No book character has ever been forced to not go and punch the baddy because their legs age too much. And I’m pretty sure this is why men idiots people who have never experienced PMS think that it isn’t so bad, and white it off as women being hysterical. As was the case for any woman with a mental illness, until about sixty years ago.* No one ever talks about PMS, because we know that since it will simply happen again in two to three weeks time, we may as well just pop some pain killers and get on with it. However being kicked in the balls happened rarely, and only if you’re acting like an idiot, and therefore deserve it. Or if you play rugby, I suppose. I wouldn’t know, organised sport give me hives.

I was lucky enough to get a group of friends who do talk about period pain. This turned out to be amazingly useful:  one friend tends to throw up and faint around her time of the month. When it came to half seven in the morning, and I was just waking up on the kitchen floor so I could vomit again, I knew it was probably just PMS and there was no need to call an ambulance. When I opened my eyes, I could see the cat sitting next to my face, licking his paws. This is how I will die, I thought. With my cat waiting to eat my flesh. It was a cheerful day, all told.

There was a woman on twitter a few days ago, talking about the fact that she used to get nosebleeds at the same time as cramps. As well as smacking of poor biological wiring, it’s also not something generally caused by being kicked in the balls. Count yourselves lucky, dammit.

I think recently, however, we have got better at talking about the sheer, driving agony of PMS. And I hope we carry on. It may be a sore subject, but as with the state of the economy and Miley Cyrus’s career, it’s better if we talk about it. Last year while on holiday, I found myself face down on the sofa, physically unable to move from the pain. And my step brother made the noble decision to remain in the same room and talk to me. Which was nice, and also surprising. Which is why my little nugget of advice for now is to all those with a uterus: talk about it, have a cry but ultimately don’t let it stop you from being fierce. To all those without a uterus: be sympathetic without being patronising, and don’t act in a way that results in foot to genital contact. Idiots.

Sorry for the over-zealous use of italics. That’s a lie; I’m not sorry at all.

*Fun story – my great-great-Grandmother had eight children and an abusive husband. This led to her having mild depression, something that could be treated with bed rest and a divorce. Instead, she was locking in an asylum and accused of being mad, simply because she was unhappy with her home life. In the end, from what we know from her medical records, she died of influenza after she’d been there for several years, time which she spent crying and begging to go home, until she did eventually go mad. Moral of the story: women know when shit’s going down, and accusing them of lying/being hysterical/attention seeking LEADS TO BAD THINGS.

I’ll see ya’ll soon. I’ve got a lot of stuff left to shout about.

                                                                                                                                                     

Chancellor Of The Exchequer? I Hardly Know Her!

I think it’s very, very important to make fun of politicians. Very important. In the age of the career politician, they seem to have become this slightly inhuman creature, wriggling their fingers and cackling together in corners.  They come either at Mr Burns, from The Simpsons, or kids in the playground, having a squabble.  “Yes, I know the economy has gone to shit, BUT LABOR STARTED IT.” And when you look at it that way, it’s really hard to not make fun of them. I don’t think we really acknowledge just how much power these men (yes, men. In the UK the ratio of male to female politicians is alarming, but that’s another story for another time) is utterly terrifying. They can have power over our jobs, our houses, who we can marry, if we’re allowed to leave or re-enter the country. I recently finished reading ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’, by Margret Atwood. I had to hide under my bed for most of it. If you haven’t read it, I suggest you do, and then I suggest you cry.

I like making fun of politicians. It briefly brings some of the power back to us. George Osborne may take benefits away from the disabled, but ahahahaha, he looks like a confused six year old. I want to do that thing where you pinch his cheeks and wibble his face. I have nick-named him Puppy, much to the annoyance of my family – who like watching the news in the evening.

Recently the news came out that Nick Clegg would like to carry on the coalition after the next election. Of course he would, he’d miss cuddle time with David Cameron. 

I’m not even going to start on Ed Balls. I’ll let you fill in your own jokes there.

Receiving A Level Results

As you may or may not know, today was A Level results day. Most people who I know are very happy with their results - and congratulations to them. And to you, if everything's gone wonderfully to plan and you're  a happy bunny.

However, please remember that exam results DO NOT PROVE YOUR WORTH AS A HUMAN BEING. At the end of the day it's a small black letter on a piece of paper, allowing you access to universities and Tory leadership. Not everything that is good or useful is measured at exams - and anyone who tells you otherwise is either a conservative dictator or not very good in bed. 

If you didn't get what you wanted, please remember it's not the end of the world. You have time to redo any exams you want, or take new ones entirely  Or you might get a job and find that you actually really like it a lot, and decide not to go to uni and experiment vaguely with your sexuality,  but instead open a dog grooming parlor and marry a Shirley Bassey  look-a-like.

You are worth more than some letters on a piece of paper. Unless you did have your eye on Tory leadership, in which case you may have to rethink a few things. 

100th Post and Delving Into New Media

THIS IS MY 100TH BLOG POST.
Well done me, pat on the back, champagne all round. 

I've spent quite a while wondering what I should actually write for my 100th post, and then I decided not to write anything, and instead took a leaf out of Lauren's book and took up video blogging.

Don't worry, there will be an actual post up soon. But for now, enjoy.

Everything I Touch Is Homoerotic Subtext - Even Top Gear

I am not ashamed to say that I have always loved Top Gear. My family will very happily settle in front of the telly whenever it's on, slowly falling asleep during any bits that are actually about cars, and then instantly perking up whenever an adventure is started. I'm pretty sure we're not the only one's like this. I don't know a single person who watches Top Gear for the cars. I know about three people who know what the words 'traction', 'horsepower' and 'torque' mean in context, and I'm not one of them. However, I know about a million billion people (roughly) who can cheerfully jump start a conversation with "Remember when Clarkson crossed the channel in a flat bed truck? Ahh, I thought they were gonners that time."

Despite the general Top Gear-y love most people in England seem to share, almost every conversation about the show goes one of two ways. A) "I liked the time they raced a train through France." or B) "Clarkson's a prick, and they're just a group of offensive old men dicking* about." The second one seems to come up rather a lot these days, usually on Radio 4 - or more accurately The News Quiz, a show so daringly middle class it makes me laugh and wince at the same time. And fair enough, there's a possibility that James May and Richard Hammond do actually know what it's like living in the actual world, but the majority of the time anything either of them may have to say is drowned out by the dulcet tones of Clarkson, spouting rubbish about anyone who has a vagina, a copy of the Guardian, a different skin tone, appearance or opinion to him. 

However, after a while, and a fair bit of squinting, it does slowly become apparent that Clarkson may be a troll - spouting total and utter nonsense just to get a rise out of anyone and anything he can. But once you've squinted at him for that long, it becomes quite hard to stop. And then you squint some more, and it suddenly becomes remarkably clear that Top Gear is possibly the most remarkably homoerotic program that can be put on in front of a UKIP supporter without them noticing.  

At the end of the day, it boils down to being a show about three grown men giggling together in sheds. The go on holiday together, and buy each other presents. They drive around lovely scenery together, and if placed in one car  they usually end up in each others laps. Most of the show is seeing how many times they can say the word 'penis' without getting told off by the BBC, and if The Stig (a man not allowed to talk, move of his own accord or take off his dark mask) isn't a little but kinky, I don't know what is. 

When the show first started, it was an actual car show. Viewers wanted to know about motoring, how good the new VW was, and how quickly can that chap from Mock The Week go around a race track. Not so much any more. Where the three boys used to bicker about anything going, and be needlessly cruel, the majority of the joy from Top Gear now comes from watching them cheekily grin at each other when they make silly little jokes, or nudge each other when they get something wrong, and over react to the full extent of the script. 

So you go Top Gear. I'm proud of you. Over the years you've managed to tone down Clarkson, make James May cool, and slowly drip feed the gayest friendship after Holmes and Watson to some of the most hardcore right-wingers in the UK. I'm proud.

Point made.

*According to my spell check, 'dicking' isn't a word. I don't care spell check, it's three am and I just had to silently make a sandwich in  dark room. I'll improvise with my swearing if I want to.

How To Politics.

Fun fact: I can vote. This is both excellent and also alarming. Excellent because it means I live in a democratic society (cool) and that I have a (small) say in how my country is run (also cool). It's alarming because until about two years ago I had less than no idea about what a politic was (not a typo for once). But then I decided to try and understand whatever the hell is going on, and now I can make a half decent joke about Vince Cable, and know when to make sad sounding noises when someone's talking about NHS reform. Here is a handy guide:

1. Get a newspaper. I don't care which one, also the Daily Mail isn't doing you any favors. The Guardian, Independent and Telegraph all work well. Now read it. Read all the bits that have long words and percentage symbols in. Read all the bits next to photos of nervous cabinet members and angry nurses/teachers/builders. Then read it again. Read it until you can accurately guess the meanings of the long words from the context. 
2. Watch BBC news. Get some cake and a cup of tea, put the news on and watch it until you're so cross you have to get more cake. Repeat until there is no cake left, or your waistline is three times that size it was when you stared.
3. Open two browser tabs. In one, pull up a photo of a politician. I recommend starting with Boris Johnson because he's easiest. In the second tab, pull up a photo of your worst fear. It could be a spider, or a big height, or your grandmothers idea of lunch. Whatever works best for you. Now look at Boris for ten seconds. Now look at your worst fear for ten seconds. Repeat until the sight of Boris strikes a cold, icy blade of fear into your heart. Do the same for David Cameron, Nick Clegg, ect. ect. When you run out of politicians, google some more.
4. Realize the key to understanding politics is repetition. Remember you're lazy, and give up. However by this point at least some of it should have sunk in a little bit. 

Best of luck.

No.

Who was the vainest person in all history?

Catherine of Arrogant.

You're welcome.

Henry To Etta: Guest Blog

This is a guest blog, written by my super good friend Lauren (I've posted a couple of her videos before). Enjoy - Az x

An actual conversation with someone on the school bus…
“Well I’m really open minded; I don’t have a problem with gays at all I mean you can’t help who you love. It’s just Transgender people; I don’t like them at all”
Me: “Well, why not?”
“It’s just abnormal, you know.”
Since my younger sibling is transgender I explained (calmly and clearly, without losing it) what transgender is.
“Oh well, that doesn't seem that bad. I just don’t like it when they do it randomly”

My little sister Etta is transgender, she is 9.
A lot of people seemed either shocked or confused when I tell them this. I’d show them a picture and they look at me and say… 
“That’s your little brother though, why? Aww, must be a phase”
Nope, this is not a phase. I know that for a fact. Since she was 2 or 3 she played with my toys rather than my brother’s. She preferred pink and she started nicking my long tops and wearing them as dresses. Etta is also autistic so at first we thought it was something to do with the autism, but after some researching we found out that she was Transgender. The older she got the stronger this desire to be a girl became. So no, this is definitely not just a “phase”
The best way to explain Transgender to you is that Etta is a girl trapped in a boy’s body. 
Girl’s brain, Boy’s Body.
She refused to have her hair cut; she now has longer hair than me. She prefers all the female characters in her favourite TV shows to the male characters and now everything she owns is pink. We have a running joke that she is more girlish than me, my sister and my mum put together. (She’s also much prettier) 

And If you haven’t already noticed, I call her ‘she’ rather than ‘he’.
Today is a big day for Etta, from today Etta is now known as a girl at her school (and in September it will be on the records that she is “Female”). She can wear the girl’s uniform, she can use the girl’s bathroom and she will now be known as a girl to the teachers. This is fantastic! She is now being acknowledged for who she is and her class mates are fine with it (which is an added bonus really) 
Yesterday a transgender expert went into Etta’s school and had an extended assembly with the school to explain Transgender. 
As an example she asked a boy to stand with her. She asked him “If I said you weren’t allowed to wear boy’s clothes, you had to wear dresses. That you’re not allowed to play with your toys, because they’re boy’s toys how would you feel?”
“Well, I wouldn’t like it. Because I’m a boy”
“That’s how transgender people feel”
It’s a good point actually. Because Etta knows that she is a girl.

Some of the adults/parents are not so supportive. My family do get some rather hateful stares thrown at us when walking Etta to school. There was one example of a parent holding the large metal gates for some children, the parent saw us and closed the gate on Etta. Thankfully Mum was fast enough to catch the gate before it hit Etta in the head, but still. 
It’s quite upsetting when people think that my mum has forced this on Etta, because it’s “Cute”.
And this is usually when I start to get angry. 
Why the hell would we force this on Etta? 
When researching the topic I have heard of suicide attempts and self-harming incidents by Transgender children as young as 6 … 6 year old! Not just because of bullying but because they feel so uncomfortable with their bodies and they’re hurt that people don’t see who they are and accept it.
Here’s an example of a Transgender 6 year-old’s shocking suicide attempt from the Huffington Post.

“Was there a tipping point?

Well, one day we had a blow-up in Target. It was Halloween, and up until then we'd allowed Danann to pick costumes, like a witch or vampire-princess, which were female but not particularly feminine, more gender-neutral. But this particular Halloween, Danann saw a very frilly Southern Belle dress and just had to have it. I said no, as I knew Bill wouldn't approve. Danann began kicking, screaming, trying to hurt me. I got the kids into the car, when Danann went ballistic, scratching herself to the point of bleeding, hitting her head on the car, trying to break the window.  I locked the car doors, drove straight home, and the minute I unlocked the car Danann bolted from the car and ran straight into traffic. She was almost hit. The driver stopped the car and ran over to Danann, asking if she was OK, and Danann said, "Why didn't you hit me? I just want to die. I just want to die and have all of this be over." That's when I knew we needed to change things, because what we were doing clearly wasn't working.”

So yeah, forcing this on Etta is the best idea we’ve ever had!

I’m going to be very truthful to you now; it’s taken a while for me to get to grips with it. I had a dream about two years ago, I dreamt that Etta was a toddler again, she was Henry, Etta looked like a boy and when I woke up again I got upset because I missed my little brother. But then I realized that Etta was never really my little brother, she was just too young to say no to all the boy-ish clothes. I feel awful, awful that I wasn’t the best sister in the world. I’m bad at coping with change and this was quite a big shock. It took me a while to finally call her ‘her’, I have had many thoughts such as “Why can’t he be normal”-“This isn’t fair”-“I want Henry back” But then I did some thinking (and shouting at myself) and I’ve finally seen that I was being insensitive and stupid. Etta is Etta, she is an amazing little girl and I love her. I will never forgive myself for how I thought and how I behaved.
Because Etta is also autistic it’s very hard to hear how she feels. When talking to her you have to be very patient because she sometimes talks through quotes from films and books, it’s confusing but you get the hang of it quite easily. But last night I watched a documentary called “I am Jazz” which was about a transgender child.
All I could do was cry, when Jazz was explaining how she felt I just broke down. For the first time in 7 years I heard what Etta was trying to tell me through another child who was Transgender. 
If you have time, do go watch it, it may change your mind about Transgender people/children. 
I’m writing this because it needs to be explained, I was scared of explaining this because I was afraid that people would take Etta the wrong way, manipulate what I say and tell a wrong grotesque story which puts her in a bad light.
I love my little sister and I am terrified of that happening. I hope that we have left this manipulative nature behind us.

Thank you so much to Lou for writing that, she emailed it to my this morning and I immediately emailed her back saying "Can I blog this?" I hope it helps make everyone think, and makes people happy. Thanks all.
PS I reviewed a play this week, if you want to read it.

Decaf Hazel Nut Low Fat Amerilatte With A Shot Of Mint And A Flake

I had a conversation with Mum this evening about coffee shops. Well, not really a conversation. We're both knackered, so we made noises at each other until it turned into a coherent argument. 

Anyway anyway anyway. I don't understand how people go into a coffee shop, look at the menu and take one word from it, then add a lot of other TOTALLY RANDOM words around it, and someone just MAKES THAT INTO A DRINK. I have no idea what a half skinny strawberry mochachino caramel latte is, and frankly I don't want to find out. Even if it does have cream on it. I don't trust people who ask for complicated drinks in coffee shops. Where I come from you ask for a cup of coffee, a mug of tea, or your out on your arse. You're not asking for a drink. You're just giving the barista a list of all the things you weren't allowed to eat when you were six, and and then that list is just blended together into something that you willingly ingest. Not only willingly, but you also give them your train fare in exchange for the magic drink, which will DEFINITELY add at least three centimeters to your thighs, even if you put the word 'skinny' in there.

I've ranted on about the prices in coffee shop before. It's no wonder that hipsters have to buy everything second hand, if they're regularly showing face in a Starbucks. I can only assume that for office workers, where it is seemingly normal to make daily coffee shop trips for your co-workers, they actually live at the office. Seeing as how the only way they can buy all that coffee is by selling their houses to the shop in question. 

Sleep Is For The Weak (And Classic FM Listeners)

It is currently nearly half two in the morning, and I cannot get to sleep. Instead I am sat awake and binging on Radio 4. I was going to listen to the Glastonbury special of Monkey Cage, but decided to wait until I was more awake, so that I'll stand a slight (slight) chance of understanding some of it. I might listen to a podcast of Woman's Hour, but they've been talking about domestic violence a lot recently, and  I'd like to sleep peacefully. Still, I've got a long car journey tomorrow, plenty of time for radio then. For now I think Just A Minute will suffice.
Oh the woes of being middle class.

A Slightly Delayed Prom Post

“Right then,” Said the photographer. “Girls sand side on, hand on hips. Oh, right, yes. That’s it. Boys, arms folded and stand at an angle good. Okay?”

I raised my hand. “Um, excuse me. Not to be a bother, but what do I do?”

He looked at the suit/high heels combo. “You do whatever you like, love.”

“Oh. Can I pull ninja moves then?”

“If you like.”

So I did. That roughly set the tone for the LMS Year 13 Prom night, at least from where I was standing. After the first glass of wine, I’d for gotten which gender I’m attracted to, and by the second I’d forgotten which gender I am. By the time I’d won Best Dressed Female (possibly the highlight of my life so far, and still did nothing to remind me that I am a woman), everything had got out of hand, and no one was safe. I have to say, I’m still slightly surprised. I’ve never heard of a cross dressing lesbian winning anything at a prom before. And I’m really glad that I did. Not so much for my sake (who am I kidding) but more because it shows what a wonderful place my school can be. We have a bad reputation for how middle class we are. We may be posh as hell, but at least we’re open minded.

I know a lot of people who were at prom read this blog; so thank you. Thank you so much for voting for me, since so many people there genuinely looked stunning. I loved seeing how many people had taken inspiration from The Great Gatsby for their dressed; the amount of sequins was divine.

Thank you to the boy who I’ve never spoken to before, who did a double take, and said “Nice suit. Respect.” Sorry I hugged you. You were not expecting it. And thank you to the girl who told me she’d nearly come with hairy pits, but then decided she didn’t have enough stubble to make it worthwhile. You’re now my best friend. In my head.  I’m very glad (and surprised) that people actually pay attention to the things I write here.

So thank you again, and sorry to anyone who I hit on. I hope you all have a lovely summer. x

The Infamous Ninja Moves

The hell do I work this chainsaw?

Thoughts From Places: Home

I got home this afternoon, not for the first time, while having a fit of hay fever because I'd forgotten to take any allergy medicine, and I have to walk to my house from work. I've slowly been coming to the realization recently that I've been doing the thing which we like to commonly refer to as 'growing up', and I like to see my horrifically violent allergies as a reminder that, even though I buy nice plates to organize my jewellery, I'm still a forgetful little shit with little to no responsibility. 

My new (incredibly trashy) necklace had arrived in the post, and I immediately wasted a lot of my time put it on the cats and taking photographs, because it annoys them. It's slowly dawned on me over the years that I express affection by being as annoying as possible, and I think that I act  this way as a trick to see if people stick around; if they love me back. Either that, or I'm trying to compensate for being really short. In a second compensation for being short, I went upstairs and played Sims for a while, because I dislike any computer games where I'm not effectively God. It says a lot about my personality that I feel the need to control others to the extent where I drug a new born baby because I'm annoyed that they were born a vampire, and not a witch. As a side note - that happened on the Sims. I didn't drug an actual baby. At least not today. 

I felt guilty for wasting a perfectly lovely day by sitting inside on my computer, so I took my book and went to sit in the sun and read for a while. The cats came to join me, and this made me think how all creatures on some level yearn for companionship, something that I discovered myself when I was smacked with a heartbreaking feeling of isolation yesterday, when I'd been alone for far too long. Also it made me think about how cats are really needy and kind of annoying when you're trying to read and they want to be fed. 

Finally, Mum came home. She's booked me a driving lesson for next month, which is both terrifying and exciting. I decided I need to buy a new key chain, since mine is way too long and way too gay for something as serious as driving.

This blog post has been lovingly ripped off from the Vlogbrothers on YouTube. You should probably go watch them now before I feel even more guilty.

It also was mostly just an excuse to use the macro setting on my camera, because sometimes I like to pretend that I have a good camera, and then my dumbass photographer brother turns up.

Hello Summer

I have now totally, and utterly, finished school. Done. Forever. I had my last exam yesterday, and them promptly shipped out to Hobbycraft to stock up of yarn (the next post may or may not be a yarn haul). I now have a few weeks of total and utter freedom, before I get a job and start working.
And I am so bored. It's been a day, and I've taken up two new hobbies, ordered a new video game, and finished two books. But I miss having an actual thing to work for. I don't function well without work. I'm a little like Sherlock Holmes in that manner. I need work to function. 
But two weeks off won't kill me. I can knit, and read, and roller skate, which I haven't done for months. There's prom to look forward to.
And now, I'm going to make a cup of tea, and go outside to watch the bats flying around, catching their dinner. 
These are the things I've learnt do do, recently.

Replying To A Comment About Lady Fluff

I got this comment on my last post, and I thought I should address a couple of things in it. For one; how every time I get a comment on Anon, I sit there for about half an hour trying to figure out WHO YOU ARE.

So, a few things;

1. Thank you, you cutie. I'm glad at least one person finds me funny.
2. One criticism; my sexuality has nothing to do with whether I shave or not. If I was straight, I'd still have hairy legs. Sexuality and appearance have no correlation, outside of girls are probably a bit less likely to say "You have hair there?" There is, in fact, a spectacularly funny quote from my life which slightly applies to this situation and it is; "You have glitter there?" I'm still at a loss as to how this situation arose. 
3. This comment actually comes at a surprisingly useful time, as I've been wanting to make a blog post for a while about the whole not shaving thing. Which should please my demographic, as apparently nearly everyone who finds me via a Google search, is looking for something related to armpit hair. Th most recent one was "she had too much armpit stubble". I have to say, if that's what you're worried about, then you're probably not in the right place, baby. 

So I've just finished school, and that means that I finally feel comfortable enough so say: I don't shave my armpits. Same goes for my legs. I stopped shaving a couple of weeks before school finished, and I would have done sooner, but I genuinely didn't feel safe going all natural while I was still in that environment. Even though my uniform stopped anyone from seeing my pits/bare legs. I don't know if that reflects more about me, or those who I went to school with. I stopped shaving partly because I didn't like doing it, and partly because I just really wanted to say a big "screw you" to all those who think that women need to shave. Caitlin Moran has a theory that if men aren't worrying about it, then neither should women, so I don't see why I need to get rid of my body hair to please anyone who isn't me. We're told from the minute we're born that it's disgusting to go without shaving; when I left primary school aged eleven, two girls from the year bellow drew hairy pits on my shirt as a prank. They were ten; they didn't even have any body hair to remove, but the idea of letting it grow out was disgusting, and unnatural. 

Let me get one very important thing straight: if you decide to shave then I AM FINE WITH THAT. The thing I am not fine with, is that women feel the need to shave to please society. Not even an actual person; just society as a huge, pulsating, glowy whole. (In my head society looks a bit like the Living Plastic from the first episode of Doctor Who with Christopher Eccleston.) That's not cool. However, if you want to shave because you feel cleaner, or enjoy, go for it. Knock yourself out. Don't shave to please people, but at the same time, don't not shave to please crazy hippies on the internet. Make your own decisions, and be damn proud of them.

I still get freaked out when I go outside and I think people can actually see my body hair. I've got it into my head that at some point, somebody will beat me up for it. Which is pretty much how I felt when I came out; just waiting for someone to start being downright vicious to me, about something that doesn't involve them. I go swimming sometimes, which is scary as all hell. I wore a shirt the other day that I thought covered my armpits, but later found out that when I waved my arms around (which I do a lot) there was a flash of fluff. I deflated a lot. 

So to summarize; please don't beat me up, I like comments, and either shave or don't shave idk whatever suits you, dude. 

Rock that armpit stubble.

Now let's never talk of this again.

Sorry For My Personal Beliefs

As unlikely as this may seem, I’ve finally realized just how annoying I actually am. I’m a stereotype-y sort of way. I’ve always know I was vaguely annoying, but the other night, when I was lying awake in bed, it finally hit me. I’m a liberal, political, vegetarian, Guardian-reading, lesbian English student. That’s… wow. You do not want me at your dinner party. Plus, I don’t believe in the beauty standard, which means that I don’t shave my legs. The fact that I don’t wear tie dye is honestly beyond me. But that’s probably just because most of my innards are glitter and gin.

In my defense, I make an active effort not to try and convince meat eaters that they need to turn vegetarian.  I think that would be very hypocritical of my considering how shouty I get when anyone tries to make me believe in god.

I’m more or less a walking demographic for Radio 4. I imagine in twenty years or so, they will start using me in advertising campaigns. That’s if I carry on being a lefty stereotype. It might turn out to be just a ‘phase’ and when I’m old I’ll sit and make jokes about how I was always ‘that kid’. What am I saying, it’s happening now and I’m making those jokes. I’ve also started dressing in clothes that are worryingly close to the Dyke Uniform. I am a dyke, which means that I get to use words like that, and no one shouts at me. It’s like a gay bonus. Other gay bonuses include; not having to pay loads of money to get my nails done, being allowed to wear jeans in summer, not having to spend ages on my straight-girl hair, and it being socially acceptable for me to sit in the corner at parties with a lot of wine. Straight people bonuses include things like; not being socially and politically persecuted throughout global history.

I wrote that joke at 1am last week, and now it makes me sad. Someone go tell the House of Lords to hurry up and legalise gay marriage already.

Dressing For A Stereotype

So for my 18^th I went out with some of my lady friends, and my brother, so a gay club. We booked a hotel, and set up camp there a few hours before we went out so we could get ready. We did each other’s hair and makeup. We chose what we wanted to wear and got dressed. We did our nails. We drank wine. It was fun, and we looked lovely. Heels on. We were good to go. (My brother is excluded from this paragraph. And most of the post actually – I just thought I should get the context accurate.)

When we actually got the club, however, it became apparent within about thirty seconds that we had come in fancy dress as drag queens; compared to pretty much every other girl there. We were not gay club material; not for woman any way. We looked good, but we looked like straight girls. Which, I suppose, was totally fine for the rest of them. They’re all straight as knitting needles. Although not my knitting needles, they’re all old, knackered and bent. Which is a horrible reflection on my life.

I was unprepared for the gay club. I was not Dyke. I didn’t have the uniform. It was like I’d rocked up in fancy dress of the wrong sexuality. Although going back through the photos, I look like a rather fey Noel Fielding; not all queerness was lost.

From what I can gather, the Dyke Uniform isn’t all that hard to achieve; checked shirt and (ironically) boyfriend jeans. High tops or converse. No makeup, short nails, a lot of piercings and a leather jacket. Probably what you’d go to Tesco in, but with everything from All Saints.

It’s good to know that lesbians dress as a stereotype; it leaves less room for error. However, it is nigh on impossible to say which stereotype they’re aiming for; lesbian or Canadian.

It was a good night. Of course it was. We got this photograph out of it.

Disclaimer: At the end of this post I feel I should probably apologize so A) lesbians, B) drag queens and C) Canadians. 

I'm Not Shy...

…I’m just an introvert. Whenever I tell people this, the first thing they tend to is assume that ‘introverted’ means ‘shy’, and  say “No, you’re not! You’re really loud!” The two most obvious points to bring up with this is that for one, I am an introvert. I like to think I know what I am, and the reasons for why I do things. Two, introversion has nothing to do with volume. I think this is the trigger reaction because many of the people who I tell, I know very well. Because I know them well, I act ‘normally’ around them, and tend to let go a little more, unlike how I am around people I don’t know. If I’m being loud around people I don’t know, I’m probably just trying to scare them off. This is quite easy to do; you only have to pick a word at random and shout it with gusto. My favorite at the moment is “hegemony”, mostly because it sounds like a noise a banker would make when falling out of a conifer. 

The problems that come with being introverted is that being around large groups of people tends to exhaust me. Physically, my brain processes more information to a deeper level than an extroverted brain (for once that isn’t me trying to show off how clever I am; it’s a fact. Science, man.) This is why I’m ‘not very good at parties’. That’s a lie; I’m awesome at parties. I just have to leave a little bit earlier than most people would/have a little lie down somewhere quiet for a while. Unfortunately, clubs and bars don’t tend to have places to ‘have a little lie down’, which is why if you come out with me, you’ll probably find me hiding in the toilets a lot. I just need time to focus, and process information on my own. Being around people makes me feel very crowded, and after a while I get scared, and have to leave before I start shouting, or crying, and either way I will start looking for somewhere to hide like a fat kid trying to find cake. 

I’m not telling you any of this to make you feel sorry for me; I just need you to understand. If I end up at a party, and I vanish, it’s fine. If anyone says, “Hey, where’s Az?” The best thing you can do is very loudly say “OH, Az you say? She had to leave. There was a thing. Top secret thing. Government top secret thing. She’ll be back in half an hour.” And leave it at that. 

I don’t mind being introverted. I actually quite like it. It gives me time to sit on my own and read things like this; an essay on gay sex in ancient Egypt. Or play with my cats, or write stupid stories about Brian Cox pining for Boris Johnson. But sometimes I just get tired, or feel guilty for not spending as much time with my friends as I should. At least I’ve finally got used to the cold shock of fear that comes with being told to work in groups at school. I’m a lot better at dealing with new people than I used to be, and I’m sorry if I ever made you upset by how I acted when at a party. I’m like a toddler; I get grouchy when I’m tired.

I’m sat in the garden writing this, and its evening. It’s a lovely night, but my youngest cat is currently chasing flies. Which is partly extremely funny, and partly he just launched himself onto my laptop, so what do you think?


I was walking past a greasy spoon café earlier, and saw a handwritten sign in the window that said “Hamsters for sale”. I turned to the woman next to me and asked “Do you think they come with chips, or mushy peas?”*

*Confession: there was no woman. I was on my own. I just wanted to sound cool.

PS Final update on the Below The Line Challenge; I've now sent in all the money we raised, and together we managed £216! Which i awesome, thank you so much for all your support.

Shouting At Cosmopolitan. Again.

It's that time of the month again; when I finally get around to reading the Cosmo magazine I bought three weeks ago. And yes, you're right. I am procrastinating from English revision. I usually don't really have an issue with any of the articles Cosmo prints - although there are always flaws depending on your opinion. How ever one page in this months issue really ticked me of, and it is called "Expert Toning Tips For...", sub-headed 'We've got the best exercises for your body shape." This then followed by a series of photos of slightly 'deformed' Barbies and notes on their body type, and how to change it. 
There's a rather large myriad of issues here. For one, the use of Barbies, a brand known for showing an even more unachievable female body image than Disney. Then there's the fact that they've been photoshopped to appear wrong, when they actually appear to just look like normal women (or as normal as a photoshopped Barbie can get). This seems to present the idea that none of these body types; apple, boyish, busty, pear or hourglass are acceptable and need to be changed. Fast, before any men look at you. It's almost like we need to have the body of a plastic doll to be allowed. The only one which seems to get away with existing is the hourglass, but even then the article suggests that you need to put more work in to stay "firm". I've still never worked out why 'firm' is desirable. It sounds like if you gave them a hug, they'd be hard as a board. (Get your mind out of the gutter, there's only room for one and I got here first.)
Oh Cosmo. You've been doing so well recently. Maybe not so much in this issue. I didn't take to the list of examples why females bosses are all bitches too well either, however excited you are for the Revenge Wears Prada film. 

I was wondering weather or not I should enter Cosmo's blog competition. Maybe not, after this. I don't think I'd win.

This Is Procrastination

I am currently a gremlin in a reversal of evolution. My room looks like a highly poetic hermit has moved into it. The floor is now entirely made up of mugs, biros and post it notes. Revision is setting in, hard. Over the last few weeks, I've watched teachers stop begging for essay to be handed in, and start drowning under small mountains of them. I've gone from being the student who often forgets homework (and usually does it badly) to the student who follows teachers around going "HAVE YOU MARKED THAT MOCK YET?! HAVE YOU?! DO IT NOW. LET ME WATCH."
I've found a website called Coffitivity which plays the noise of a coffee shop while you work, which is making me a little bit saner. My caffeine intake has gone down by half since the ladies who work the snack bar refused to sell me tea due to how wrecked my dinner card is. I quite like coffee shops, but tend to avoid them as much as possible due to how bloody expensive the tea is. In the 1920's, a cup of tea would usually cost you around 5d, which converts to around 45p in modern money. I realize that inflation rates are much different now, but I'm an English student, and I find counting hard. Even so, this is a drastic difference, when last time I was in Costa, a pot of tea (two small cups) cost £1.70. Even in Berlin where the tea was slightly wank, the it only cost around 80p. Hum hum hum. I would be grateful if the Government stopped coming up with silly new taxes for five minutes and instead capped the price of tea. I am poor and cannot afford it (unless I make a flask of it to carry around, but as if I'd ever be that organised.) 
I think my favorite change in school routine over the last few weeks, is how much the teachers are coping with our, frankly, awful language. In English today, it became acceptable to yell "This child is a goddamn bag of dicks" very early on. With the announcement of a timed mock, it is now fine to just scream "NO" for several minutes straight. I'm not sure if it's a mark that the teachers are just as frustrated as we are, or if they could, actually, possibly, be sad at us leaving. I like to think it''s a little bit of both. I know I'll miss them. The last week has been a series of "Right, how much cake do we want in our last lesson?" and plans for who's going to bring in Articulate. I've had the lady who helps me run LGBT society run across the front of school to give me a hug and tell me I have to come in after exams for "A real party. With biscuits."
It's all just getting very... end-y.

Moving Swiftly On

So I've finished the challenge and I didn't starve to death. My uncle owes me a fiver. I fully admit that I stayed up till midnight on Friday just so I could eat some cake. And yes, I realize that many people my age stay up much later than midnight on a Friday, but bugger them, I'll have good skin when I'm old. We raised £130 overall, which is so great. Feel free to keep donating, everything closes on the 30th of June, so there's a little way to go.
It's great to be able to eat normally again, although it's taking a little getting used to. Mum handed me a piece of chocolate earlier, and for a while I didn't know what to do with it. I had a very strong need to save it, and squirrel it away in case I needed it later. 

It's been a blissfully nice day, and I've spent most of it lounging in various garden, appreciating some real sunshine. For a while I attempted to revise outside, which didn't go too well.

Books do not make good pillows. The cats, at least, have been enjoying themselves, and spent most of the day treading on me in bid to find some nice shade.

I also got to go and see the lovely Henning Wehn tonight, a rather fab German stand up comedian  He is part of my effort to see everyone who has ever appeared on a BBC, left wing, news based, comedy panel show. He was very good. Although I found it interesting that the audience roared with laughter through joked about holocaust denial and racism  but as soon as he pretended to cry, everyone got a bit awkward. I think this proves that the British can cope with offensiveness quite well, but we shut down at the first sign of emotion.