The Rules of Flirting

We all know that watching other people flirt is one of the most stomach-turning, puke-inducing experiences out there. Enduring an hour of badly placed innuendo, endless lip licking and constant hair tossing (Girls….just stop it) is nothing short of hellish for everyone but the parties directly involved, who see themselves as a pair of  glorious unicorns courting in an enchanted forest. The reality is, you are standing in a club that smells of feet, forearm resting in a puddle of spilled Sambuca. Girls, you are all too aware of your skirt riding up, boys, your balls have been sweaty since you got here; but still we soldier on with this bizarre ritual like so many of our animal brethren. unicorns Let it never be said that I am above flirting, I’m not, none of us are, there are, however, a few techniques that I am above. The rest of this post is based upon my evening on Friday. Myself and an adventurous friend of mine were recently invited out by the owner of my local Italian restaurant and its manager. This place is genuinely my favorite eatery near me and, having turned down an invitation a few weeks previously, I thought I may as well keep these two gents on side so I can continue to stuff my face there. Stepping into their car we are instantly engulfed in a haze of Dolce and Gabanna Light Blue, a half empty bottle sits in the central cup-holder and we look on in horror as the cap is removed and the remaining contents are hastily spritzed onto every inch of our chaperones. cologne We eventually found ourselves cruising through central London; Euro-pop blaring we stopped at a red light, and then it happened. The music subsided, we breathed an audible sigh of relief, the window was wound down and the cat calling began. Italian is a beautiful language, I cannot deny this, however I have never felt so repulsed by the words “Ciao Bella” in my entire life. We called the boys on this most pugnacious of acts; “seriously, you’re those guys?!  Do you do this in bars?”, they responded thusly: “We see the girls, we call them over. We say ‘champagne!’ And then they go home with us”. Are you fucking for real right now?!  And these girls, they sound like absolute trash! I’m sorry, I am very much pro-female, I think in this life we take what we can get and give nothing back; however, sleeping with a man for champagne crosses a line I thought we had long since left behind.

We eventually arrived at a Greek Club called Elysee ( a very cool, townhouse-esque bar awaits upstairs with an amazing roof terrace complete with hookah pipes and heaters-a-plenty. The atmosphere was friendly and the crowd  95% Grecian. Having paid our entry fees, our gentleman companions disappeared into the night, leaving us to fend for ourselves in uncharted territory. Myself and my friend are not the best girls to attempt flirtation with; we are very much the strong independent woman type, and do not take kindly to the roving eyes of strangers, approach with caution. We found ourselves talking with two Greek men, B (for bearded) and N (for no game). Now B was quite chatty, and eventually had my companion enthralled in a flirting lesson, he was telling us that in Greece, you see the girl, she looks at you, you look  at her and you go home. He was asking what advice we had and, me being me, I told him the following:

1. Always have the upper hand. This is something that men never expect from women (interestingly when two members of the same sex come together, this often isn’t an issue as gender-roles tend not to come into play) For me, if a you can take the upper hand with me, then you are intelligent enough to merit a few minutes of my time in what will doubtless be an inconsequential attempt at getting into my pants. This rarely happens as I am gifted with a quick wit and an unrelenting cynicism which usually ends up a bruised ego.

2. Make me laugh. Seriously, if you are funny I am going to be so much more interested in speaking to you than if you are full of woe or empty compliments. Also, a sense of humor indicates an understanding of basic human psychology; we are obviously more attracted to those who induce a feeling of harmonious warmth.

3. Just maybe don’t be a total dick.  There is a huge difference between confidence and being a penis and it seems as though most men are unaware of this; confidence occurs when you are secure enough to have a conversation and not have to use put-downs, name drops and/or lies. Being a penis occurs when you have one too many to drink and accomplish any of the following: saying “we going home then?” (yes that was said to me on Friday), anything to do with “blowjob lips”, arse grabbing and dancing all up on me. Do not assume that because I have made an effort to not look like a complete hag, that it is an open invitation for crass commentary and dry humping.



The fact is, flirting is putting on a show for someone you want to impress, making that initial connection,  picking your best stories, working out their sense of humor; however below this surface level titillation is a degree of vulnerability. My mother said to me when I was about 10, “somewhere waiting out there is some poor unsuspecting man who is your one”,  and it has to be said, I don’t believe that I will meet ‘the one’ in some dingy bar or grossly overcrowded club, which is probably why I behave like such a perpetual bitch.


Obsession, not Love

We go through most of our lives from one love to the next. It starts with your favorite toy, when you outgrow that,its your first bike, then your first pair of glitter jelly shoes until finally you start liking other people. Now before this you focused your attention on inanimate objects which have no choice but to silently and graciously accept your love, until the time comes you are ready to move onto bigger and better things. Ah a simple time, the chase is brief, the bond seemingly unbreakable. But when it comes to people, you are up against a sentient being which has its own wants and needs, not to mention the ability to destroy you with the greatest weapon humankind has in its arsenal: rejection.

Have you ever been so blinded by your own obsession with someone, hazed by your ability to convince yourself and, dangerously, other people, that you and this person are absolutely game on, perfect and its just a matter of time. I have, not even just once either; many many excruciating times. There are a few different types of people in the word when it comes to lurve; I will look at two of them. There are those who are blessed with the ability to attract those they like and to happily get on with things in a ‘normal’ manner and then there are people like me. The ones who, no matter what, something will happen to rain shit all over your heart. I have never been in love; I consider love to be what I call a ‘reciprocal’ emotion, you cannot love alone, it is a mutual thing. I have however had much experience with love’s ugly cousin: obsession. bunny boiler Obsession is something with which most of us suffer, and it seems with age comes the self-confidence to overcome this most crippling of weaknesses. Looking back at the compulsively kept diaries from my late teens, obsession was something which absolutely mangled my already fragile mind. Being a teenager is horrendous, we all know this, its a time of awkwardness and self loathing, made all the more difficult with those fucking hormones running riot in your veins, giving you weird tits, greasy skin and an increased awareness of your body hair. What a perfect time then, to discover feelings! Now over the years there have been several typical teenaged crushes, I’m talking the popular boy at school who smiled at you when everyone else was taking the piss, the guy from drama who always caught you staring at him but never called you on it, the boy you’ve known your entire life and never done anything about. These are the school crushes, they are the ones who shape you views on love. Then come the more complex ones.

At 18 I found myself living with 27 people 24/7 doing a year long course. One person will always stand out to me in a ‘special’ way. Let’s call him D (for dickhead). D was seeing someone, but D also liked me, so foolishly I allowed myself to think that I would be something to him, the way he was to me. A year of cheating (on his part) went by with various inappropriate texts, adult sleepovers (I would like to point out that at no point did I do anything beyond fumble with D) lies and confrontations, until the final night of the course, where he consolidated everything that had happened with us with a kiss under a bridge and then off he fucked. Our paths have crossed a couple of times since, but I will never be able to look him in the eye and have a normal conversation knowing that he effectively shat all over my very delicate heart. shat on my heart Since then, I pretty much decided that sex was a non-emotional thing, the majority of the sex I’ve had was drunken and essentially meaningless, I remember in my third year of uni my housemate gave my number to the head of the waterpolo team (oh sweet jesus what a bod) who had just broken up with his girl and was looking for a rebound; which I graciously provided. I slept with a guy I met in class in first year who in third year revealed he was single (nb never judge a penis by its abs, this guy was shredded, but man was he tiny) I am coming to learn, that sex is not so emotionless to your partner; a guy I encountered of late told me that ‘the casual sex thing doesn’t work for him’. Now this was astounding to me, the girl who has basically spent the last 5 years being the man, fucking and dropping. The ones I actually like, nothing has ever happened with. Four times now I’ve fallen for a close friend, and each time I’ve fallen hard. I have always gotten over it, with time and drugs….lots and lots of drugs. These guys know who they are, one of their girlfriends has come to be one of my closest friends. But why is it that I can seduce those I have no real interest in, but those I do I repel? Discuss.

My Night Out with Clevage

Fun Bags, jugs, cupcakes, bee stings, baps, jubblies, the twins, yes, I’m talking about boobs (I will not be using the word breast in this post because I don’t like it, it feels impersonal and medical and that just isn’t what tits are about for me).  Sweater stretchers hold a special place in all of our lives and have throughout history. From Botticelli’s Venus to Dolly Parton, Jessica Rabbit to Janet Jackson and the glorious Joan Holloway we are a society who has a healthy appreciation for any pair of snuggle pups.  We all have those friends who have absolutely fabulous norks and the best nork-growers will gift their friends with the unmatched joy of using them as a pillow. Praise be to BBWs for their majestic racks like clouds offered up to the tired and the needy like life rafts bearing us off into the sunset.

jane hollowayjanet jackson

But let us not forget, the pain that those of us ‘gifted’ with large chi chis, the constant bra wearing, the holding on whilst running up and down stairs, the inability to wear anything backless. This is where our less endowed sisters come into their own. Now I know that ladies with smaller ta tas often see this as debilitating, the problems of ill fitting clothes, mistaken gender and nipple erections that could cut glass are all too familiar. However, the glory of being constantly perky, not having the fear of the dreaded pencil test (ladies you know the one), the absolute triumph over the multi-million pound bra industry to whom you give a massive middle finger is an absolute revelation!


I myself am a 34DD, a nice size, however I, like many of my sisters, am not a fan of cracking out the cleavage of an evening. However, one night about two weeks ago, I donned a dress which spectacularly showcased the bahamma mammas, and the reaction I got when out and about was hilarious. Like I’ve said before I’m no Megan Fox, but in this particular dress I was received in a way that I have never experienced before. The reaction from the males at this particular venue was ridiculous, I was standing having a casual cigarette with my ladies, buzzing my tits off, chattering like a monkey and I overheard some douche bag beside us utter something along the lines of ‘my God, if i could still be breastfed’. Firstly, son, the amount of mummy issues you are displaying in this one short gormless statement is nothing short of laughable. Secondly, they are MY bazoos, how dare you assume that if you could still be breastfed that I would allow a man of such callous remarks to lay so much as a finger tip on them.  For about 45% of the night I felt as though I didn’t have a face, many conversations were had between my mambas and members of the general public who probably wouldn’t have notice if I had a horse’s head where my own should be.

On the plus side,I was never standing at the absolutely rammed bar for more than a couple of minutes before being served my rum and coke. Even my friends were appreciating, both verbally and physically, momentary cupping, a slight squeeze, a gentle yet firm glance. Also I think I spent approximately half an hour with a huge lipstick mark on my right tit caused by a friend essentially frenching it. This difference in reception has got me thinking about performing a series of social experiments.  I have my own sense of style which is not for everyone. I will essentially NEVER go out in heels, no matter how awesome my legs could potentially look, I will not get my cleavage out, I will not wear a tiny little bodycon number complete with full body spanx to hold in the multitude of wobbles with which I am blessed. Following a conversation with my mum, I realized that it is very likely that if I dressed like your average girl on a night out, it is likely that I would receive more positive’ attention from males. So I’ve decided, I will (at some point in the future) don a teenie tiny dress, mega heels, crack out some ridiculous false eyelashes, maybe some hair extensions, wear control pants that will crush my organs but give me the “silhouette of my dreams” and see what happens. Wish me luck!

Food for thought (punches self in face)

Picture the scene, its been a long day, you make it home, and the house is warm, you go to the fridge….and nothing. Bare. A bleak white landscape stares back at you, the once bountiful land of nourishment has been ravished of its goodies, and you know who did it… was you. Hence you’ve been to Tesco’s and stocked up on the essentials, which for me are becoming more and more lavish the more I come to accept the fact that food is my boyfriend. Oh sweet harrissa hummus, oh glorious kettle chips and you, oh you my one my only entire packet of caramel chocolate digestives, life would be so much less wonderful without you constantly reminding me that everything will be fine.

Now I’ll be honest, your girl here used to be something of a porker, a lady of lardaceous tendencies, I discovered fairly early in life that my feelings are utterly ambrosial, so I would constantly chow down on delicious inadequacy, necterous anger and my personal favorite,scrumptious self loathing. Food and I have had a tumultuous time, my first year of Uni I lived opposite a Chippy and a Chinese restaurant, and having spent most of that (and the following two years) in a baked haze of gluttony, thought nothing of getting several meals there a week. But all changed when I realized how unhappy I was, and how much what I was eating affected that. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a glass of water and a house salad girl by any means, no no no don’t be so ridiculous, but I have learnt that I can eat absolutely anything I like without it having to be horrendously bad for me!


It used to be that cooking was a chore, a means to an end, a ball ache; but, with shows like Masterchef and Bake Off creating a nation of out and proud food lovers our eating habits are coming out of the dim secretive light of the pantry and into the bright limelight of Instagram, Facebook and Pinterest. Glory be to the Hairy Bikers for showing us that food is sexy no matter who bastes the turkey in its own juices, (excuse me whilst I take my clothes off).It has been known for me to groan in a very inappropriate manner whilst watching back to back episodes of Man Vs Food, in which Adam Richman would take on huge food challenges, like the 190lb burger (be still my beating heart!) Interestingly, Adam has, since the show last aired in April 2011, lost 60lbs and the ladies who once flocked to watch him stuff his face with endless tasty morsels have now discovered that he isn’t as cute now that he looks like everyone else. My heart bleeds for you, Adam, truly it does.

Hairy Dieters Hairy Bikers man v food

For the last few years I have discovered that my kitchen is the heart of my home, it isn’t just where we cook and eat, its where we laugh, cry, sing, dance, share and welcome people into our lives. It has always been said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, however I think that anyone anywhere can be won over with a good meal. The dinner table brings with it a chance to reflect, you share the buttery roast potatoes of life with you and yours, sure some people may prefer hot sauce to mayo, and arguments erupt at the table, but I know from experience, that any argument can be quelled by quietly putting on “I wanna know what love is” and letting the argument descend into the discussion thereof. Believe me, it has happened in my kitchen, talk went from “yes but you can’t tell me that you understand my financial circumstances” to “yes but what IS love” in about 45 seconds.

There is a saying in France (or so I’m told) ‘show me what you eat, I’ll tell you who you are’ and its so true. A question I have often asked new friends or potential love interests (which are virtually the same thing) is ‘what would you have for your last meal’ and its a question that everyone loves to answer. My personal favorite answer so far came from a man who said he would have a tomato salad, made with his mothers home grown tomatoes, which were always so delicious because she would frequently nourish them with her own piss.


Singledom vs ‘Romance’

All of us have come to fear singledom since Bridget Jones’ terrible premonition of dying alone and being eaten by Alsatians. There is a huge pressure placed on each of us to couple up, pair off, find our “perfect match” and begin the rest of our lives, you now cannot watch an advert for a frigging sofa company without being told that this sofa will impress a member of the opposite sex enough for them to never want to leave your living room or your life ever again.  There is even an advert for Freeview in which a cat seduces a budgie with a love song, in what world does that make sense?!

It’s no wonder that everyone is running around like a headless chicken trying to find their ‘one’, with modern technology taking full advantage of our fear it’s now just a case of swiping right to find your ‘match’, there are now countless different websites offering to help you find someone, there are websites for even the most specific needs. I’m talking ‘Equestrian Cupid’, ‘Amish Dating’, ‘Clown Dating’ , ‘Singles with food allergies’, ‘Mullet Passions’, and even ‘STD Match’ where you can find a partner who shares your foul disregard for safe sex.

At 23, I am one of what seems like few who are adamant that online dating is not for them. I went on a date with a chap I matched with on Tinder yesterday and it was super fucking dull. He is a perfectly nice guy, but following our conversations over Facebook and Tinder in which he came across as very chatty and funny, he failed to match up in person. The screen gives us the opportunity to think before we speak (type), it removes tone and gesture, making it almost impossible to really gauge what a personality is really like. You choose what people see of you, you choose which picture looks the cutest, or the most fun, or the coolest and that is how you choose to represent yourself.  They say a picture paints a thousand words, but most of those words could be lies.

I am a traditionalist when it comes to so-called ‘romance’: I think it is a case of meeting someone with a mind like yours. That said, I’ve been single my entire life, I will admit that I find it difficult to sleep with the same person twice due to a phenomenon I have labelled ‘Post-Sex Hate’. That feeling where you are aware that someone has seen you naked and at your most vulnerable and can do whatever they like with that information. There are a few people who I have experienced this feeling with and managed to remain friends, with one friend in particular I constantly joke about it and it doesn’t hurt either of us. What I struggle with is the fact that every time I find someone and think ‘game on, this person is awesome (and you’ll notice I do not specify gender), let’s see where this goes’ that person inevitably walks away. I’m always left thinking ‘Again?! Really?! Are you fucking serious, what was it this time?!’. Meanwhile most of my closest friends are with partners who are like mirror images of themselves, they glide effortlessly into a relationship like its nothing at all.

During a conversation with a friend last night, I realized that I have consistently slept with what I would consider to be very attractive people. There is not one conquest that I look back on and think ‘ew, what was I thinking’, beer goggles or not. And I should point out here that I’m more Lena Dunham than Mila Kunis, so my achievements with said attractive specimens are something of a revelation to me. I’m told that being hilarious helps, but at some point it has to be more than that, right?


I recently met a guy who I thought was brilliant, let’s call him D (for dickhead). So D and I shagged the first time we met in a booze fuelled, clothes tearing frenzy. A couple of weeks later we hung out and lo-and-behold I’m told “I just want to be friends”. Ah yes, that familiar kick in the cunt we have all experienced at one time or another (or in my case, probably going on 100 times).  I feel as though I should get this ego shattering mantra tattooed on my hand so I can cheat during the test of life and crack it out whenever I can’t be bothered to explain to someone the complex reasons behind why I am happy to pork you, but talking regularly isn’t going to work for me. And may I remind the charlatans who throw the mantra about like fucking wedding confetti, FRIENDS ARE BETTER THAN SEXUAL PARTNERS, and I have enough friends. Friends are the people who listen to you whinge and bitch and moan about literally everything, they let you get your tits out and puke in their living room and don’t get cross about it, they support you as you do stupid shit which they know you’ll regret. So if you “can’t commit to anything meaningful” with me, telling me you want to be friends is like asking to marry me. You cannot handle a friendship, not a real one, not with me.