‘But he’s a…’ ‘No.’


Tell you what gets firmly on my non-gender specific wick, society’s knack of forever ramming gender roles into everyone’s faces. And therefore what you should or should not like based on what set of genital components you may or may not have. Or choose to identify with for that matter.

A few weeks ago I was shopping for yellow face paint so that I could colour myself in and pretend to be a big blob of uranium, you know, as you do. As would be expected, I was roaming around lots of different kids shops in hot pursuit of said yellowness and was appalled at what I found. Most explicitly in The Entertainer, an independent toy and games shop. The shop floor was literally cut in half with nice little signs; one hanging over the predominantly pink side saying ‘For Girls’, another sporting ‘For Boys’ over the, if I may, far more exciting side. It had dinosaurs.

Who the fuck thinks they have to right to tell children, with tiny minds like massive sponges, that they are not allowed to play with something? “Chht. There is a small boy in aisle five. I REPEAT THERE IS A SMALL BOY LOOKING AT THE MINNI-MOUSE BOWTIQUE FLIPPIN’ FUN KITCHEN.” The Masculinity Squad dash into the aisle, rugby tackle Tommy to the floor whilst shouting at his Father about inciting homosexuality.

Seriously. It’s no wonder kids bully their peers when in school. They are growing up in a society that tells them liking certain things is wrong and shouldn’t be the norm. Maybe we wouldn’t be having such a shocking time with Equality in later life if our younger selves were able to play Barbies one minute and Lego Star Wars the next. With a mixed gender group of friends.

Yes, I fully appreciate it is getting better. Slowly and surely wins the race and all that. But honestly, if you want to do something, wear something or play with someone, nobody should be telling you you can’t. Oh I’m sorry did I not make it clear enough with my mad use of the underlining tool, YOU. It is your choice. If it makes you happy (and you’re not physically hurting anyone, obviously), fucking do it.

Sorry but if my ten year old self wants to fucking play dinosaurs, she’s going to play dinosaurs. Cor blimey, it makes me so cross.

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Oh Look! I’m Still Alive!

Well, I’ve most certainly neglected my duties as a Blogger for nigh on TWO years.

My word. Has it really been that long since I was rocking myself along to audio tapes of Alan Ginsberg, cradling a bottle of Gin and smoking my way into oblivion in a darkened room? Ah, the picture of a true, tortured artiste.

How much has changed! Discounting one thing of course, my role as a serious Gin enthusiast seems to be a lifelong leisure pursuit. I now, however, spend my days frolicking in the midst of other equally bizarre human beings all in the name of theatre. Deciding to audition for a two year repertory course with Fourth Monkey Theatre Company was quite possibly one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Ever. Meeting a hearty selection of like-minded individuals who enjoy being silly just as much as I do has done wonders for my sanity, believe it or not! I couldn’t be happier…


We are currently parading around the East of London with our very own show, a new adaptation of John Milton’s Paradise Lost. Double cast and full of physical madness, I play both the character of ‘Satan’ and on off days, ‘Ensemble’ (which basically means being awesome and creating awesome atmosphere of awesomeness.) A brilliant amount of fun is had by all in our interestingly site-specific performance in the worlds of Heaven and Hell, at Trinity Buoy Warf. We’re running until the 22nd of June, so you should definitely find some time for a good giggle and come see us! (Shameless plug agogo.)

Aside from that, I have really missed writing and word vomiting my thoughts of the moment into the internetsphere for strangers’ perusal (the words of a true Gemini. SPOTLIGHT YOU SAY?!) Other than theatre reviews, writing as taken a bit of a hit. I feel as though my purchase on the English language has run slightly awry… A lengthy sitting with the good ol’ dictionary/thesaurus is in dire need methinks!

In other news, I’m still alone. Crying into a dry bowl of Cheerios has become a standard evening occurrence. All I need now is a cat. Or something. I don’t know why I said Cheerios there, I don’t even own any cereal type constituents. This is what loneliness does to you kids.

Anywho, keep a weather eye on the horizon for my meanderings and thoughts on life. Y’know, if ya want.

Peace out x

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‘So do you see what you can be, baby?’

Isn’t life so much more befuddling when you are unable to fathom what it is you’re actually feeling at any given time, let alone differentiate between emotion. Clarity seems to be off making daisy chains with Security and Rigidity in the calm, dappled sunlight. How selfish of them… Meanwhile, my little metaphorical self is running round and round this oval room of abandon, getting increasingly confused. It is not that there are no doors for me to escape through, away from the silly room of roundness. No, the walls are -covered- in doors. So many opposing shapes, sizes, colours and textures. Though, as soon as I think I have decided on a door to open it will suddenly, inexplicably decide to morph into a different colour. A different shape.

I can’t seem to find where I fit without it being a farce.

It’s mostly my own ridiculous fault. I have so many opportunities that I can leap into and grab by the horn of their big promising bullish faces… But instead of properly sussing the doors out as to where best my talent lies, I seem to be pushing the decisions from my mind and running. Just running, round and round. Anything to take my mind off actually making a decision. Delving deeper into the long winded rut of eating and drinking without thinking. So no proper thinking occurs, really. It’s shoddy and lazy and hindering me from being all that I can.

I know.

Yes, this is a bit of a self-indulgent post (‘When is it not!’ I hear you scoff). However, I’m doing it for a purpose – I don’t want to be like this any more. I don’t want to be talking about mind-numbing bullshit into the dead of night to people who don’t know me. I don’t want to be boring people with my own inadequacy, self loathing and sense of doubt about everything. I don’t know what to do, but I’m going to make damn sure I find out.

I want to be sensible. I want to make a decision. I want to make a right one. For me.

Therefore! Manies and Gentlelades, with the help of my mother dearest we have come up with a brilliantly simple way (If we do say so ourselves. Which we jolly well do, thank you very much!) of focusing the self on what you are worth. Take head;

Say to yourself, every morning:                          Be aware of and erradicate through PAA:

Potential                                                                 Food

Ability                                                                     Alcohol

Attitude                                                                  Anxiousness

You need to realise your potential before you can move forward chaps! Only you can make it happen, “No bugger else is going to do it for you.” (Words taken from The Mum.) Once you know your potential, realise your ability. You’ve got it, so why the bloody hell are you resting on your haunches still?! Be active, do something to help yourself. Once you have recognized the amazing human being that you are, your attitude will change. You hardly have to even try, attitude is the key driving force to your success. (Fear not, I fully appreciate how horrendously cliché and cringey that sounds, but people never seem to listen to clichés any more.)


Not too hard, eh? *quiver*

So! In my next post I am going to tell you all what I have changed in my life to help me become the person I actually want to be and like, instead of this ludicrous bag of hopelessness I have been behaving like. Yeaaaaayyyy…

E x

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Death, Fear and Nice Cats


Unfortunately, I’m the sort of person that has this irrational fear to death. I don’t mean that inherent fear we all have as human beings, I mean the properly hide-under-the-bed-covers-and-nearly-sweat-to-death sort of fear.

I remember growing up not being able to sleep without a light on or Classic FM playing in the background. Breathing heavily from fear then suddenly holding my breath when I heard the creak of a floorboard. I would scrunch up into the edges of my bed, pulling the quilt away from the other edges so that if someone came in they’d think no one was in there. And by ‘someone’ I don’t mean the postman, I mean like a monster-type. You know the ones, all scary like. If I can’t see it, it can’t see me.

“A loophole,” said Susan.
“Well, why can’t you find one too?”

My imagination is so off the rails it thinks it lives in the DiscWorld and goes to Hogwarts. Which is wonderful on the one hand of course; The best times I had was when I was alone pretending. But on the other hand, the one that isn’t holding fearies, magic, laughter and wonderful dimensions, my mind would unravel like a kitten-driven ball of wool. And I wouldn’t be able to stop it.

It could be about anything. Any one. Most of the time it was about other members of my family dying in some horrific accident. My Mum used to work a lot when I was younger, we had Au Pairs for years. But even then, if I knew she was driving home from work at night and hadn’t called (and why would she) I would go into a blind panic with horrific images flashing across my brain. She would get home to find ‘House Phone’ had called about 11 times. And this was when I was 8.

Even now, if my little sister goes out for an evening my mind races with thoughts of rapists, murderers, dementors and evil spirits for hours. It is so frustrating and totally unnecessary. I know, logically, that these things are highly unlikely and damn near impossible (no, I’ll never stop believing) but my mind runs off in a toga and unsightly sandals thinking it knows what’s what.

So now, whenever I get scared of death and dying, I think of Death in the DiscWorld. He’s awesome.


You should probably all pick up a Terry Pratchett book.. And reading it would probably help you along too.

“I meant,” said Iplsore bitterly, “what is there in this world that makes living worthwhile?” Death thought about it. “CATS“, he said eventually, “CATS ARE NICE.”

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Perfect Fuck-Up

[Old Poem. ’08]








A preconcieved thought, vast, playing
On your every move. That shadowed figure
Predominant, unyielding. It flits, darting
Between each step you take, growing, bigger.
Plead the strings of my heart to stop

Providing that wonderful music. Feeling
Exhausts that well known melody. Ever fierce,
Ever so fine! O’! Crisp and wet, falling
Like snow flakes, your tears. No. They pierce
The skin, stinging at every blink they drop.

All you ever wanted in one embrace, breathing
In the fumes of poisonous pleasure. A whisper,
One word or two – enough to leave you gagging
For the sweet smell. New taste hits like a blur
Of colour, gathers loosely around your taste buds.

Search those clouded eyes in wild pursuit, itching
From the darkness. Slowly you become the nightmare
That began this heartache. The shadowed figure looming
Once again over your tired face. Lids close. Nostrils flare.
One last brush of hand on cheek. Then peace.

It thuds.

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So Don’t Try.

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Buzz to your own tune.. Just be.

Now, where to begin the sad, sorry story of a girl in love? It’s very hard when you’re on the cusp of liking-the-same-sex-is-wrong and –liking-the-same-sex-is-fine, especially when you’re only 9 years old.

I was extremely lucky in a way. Firstly, I fortunately had the most wonderful of mothers who had worked in the public sector with any sort of teenager, convict and pervert there is to know. Quite frankly, she had a mind as open to shit as any arsehole. But when it comes to your own child it is quite a different thing, I gather. I remember being very young, in Primary School, when I first bombarded her with my befuddled mind full of boobies and soft, porcelain skin. She was perfect, I can recall her very words even now, years on; ‘Darling don’t cry, it doesn’t matter. I will love you whoever you chose to be as long as you’re happy.’ And yes that is SO cliché, but even when you’re 9 it means a lot. Funnily enough she made the grave mistake of saying this again in front of my younger sister. Suddenly a squeaky voice erupted from the back of the car saying “So if I want  to be a hooker that’s fine..?” She was 8. Luckily it was followed by “Umm.. Mummy what’s a hooker?”

This carried on for quite a while. Me breaking down in tears fearing for my life because I enjoyed the female physique. Thought’s of madness and fear would flurry about my mind for years, telling me I was in the wrong and feeling this way was ‘not allowed’. I wont lie, I was genuinely freaking the fuck out, if you will. I would be kept awake talking to myself, ‘I don’t want to be gay. I don’t want to like girls. It’s wrong.’ How ludicrous is that?! And that was only, what, 11 years ago. The image of same sex relationships made my skin crawl, both in horror and in absolute delight.

As soon as I hit ‘Proper Boyfriend Age’ in Secondary School I forgot about being different and got on with ‘Trying To Fit In’. There was no room in any part of teenage hood for gays, bisexuals or (heaven forbid) transsexuals. Good Television and it’s friend the Radio, I can hear the laughter now. If anyone had tried to explain a transgender person to a rowdy bunch of 12-16 year olds you’re asking to get ridiculed. As luck would have it, no one tried.

Once I hit about 17 I began to become aware of my bisexual tendencies. Again I became a wobbling jelloid mess of terror and anxiety. Only, by myself this time. I don’t know what it was that made me not talk to my Mum about my feelings this time. Perhaps it was the length of time since the last outburst of Lesbian Love. I’d sit on the sofa at 3 o’clock in the morning when everyone was asleep watching ‘Sugar Rush’, a teenage lesbian/coming out series. (If you haven’t seen it, I’d well recommend it worth a watch.)

I went through heartbreak and crushes without telling a soul. No one, not even my closest friends knew that when I said, “Megan Fox is so HOT” I actually meant it. I went through my upper school years fancying the pants off many a fair maiden (Yes, you. Cheeky) and not quite knowing what to do with those feelings. Yeah, I massively fancied boys as well, and still fall for bearded young men. But that’s easy, that’s acceptable. This wasn’t quite so.

I then went on to have the time of my life in Australia for 8 months. On my own (as you should know!). I met a beautifully broken girl out there, whom I must say, I fell in love with. She was the first ‘lady’ I’d had sex with. I wont lie, it was the most incredible and uplifting experiences of my life. That was the proper turning point for me..

Sexual acts with boys had always been ‘nice’, I guess. But I always felt fumbley and confused when trying to enjoy myself. And even slightly put off and disgusted at times. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure if I really fancied a guy it’d be extremely different, but I’ve never properly’ made love to someone I’ve fallen in love with (male). But when I had this fling with this girl, it all seemed to slot into place. It felt good, I didn’t even have to try. She was happy, I was happy. No worry, no stress, no pain (y’know). Plus it was in a shower the first time, turn on to the max.

So when I returned from the land of Oz I had very short hair, one side shaved, quite comfortable with my sexuality. It’s amazing how you feel when travelling. You don’t care one bit what people perceive you as and yet they take you as you are. It’s wonderful. I didn’t shave for 6 months and people loved me more than most. No joke.

But once I came back I felt the need to ‘assert’ myself in my sexuality but also got deeply embarrassed by the inherent ‘English Way’ I had flourishly forgotten. Although I must say, those closest to me weren’t perturbed whatsoever. I even remember my best friend saying, “Oh yes, I kinda guessed that.” It’s just the ‘Secondary People’ that I seem to fear.

The people, acquaintances and family that don’t know me particularly well are the ones I seem to freeze with. I’m not the sort of person to openly and frankly state that I like women. I don’t see the point, it doesn’t define who I am. It is just the awkward questions like; ‘Have you got a boyfriend yet’. Of course the blatant answer is a simple ‘No’, but I feel as though I need to tell them that I actually much rather snuggle up against a firm breastical than a penis.

Life’s hard. People accept, take time, or don’t. But at the end of the day they are not you. You’re beautiful whoever you are born as.
”It took me a long time not to judge myself through someone else’s eyes.”  ~Sally Field

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