Hot = Horny

This whole thing about English being prudish is complete bull. They’re just too fucking cold to think about fucking. I was at the park the other day when it was a balmy 18 degrees and the park was littered with couples basically having sex with their clothes on. Gyrating, dry humping, the works.

You only need to look at the randy Brazilians, Spanish and Italians to see there is definitely a connection between the heat and the horny.

And it’s easy to see why. It’s hard to have sexy time when your partner is so pale they camouflage into your white Egyptian cotton sheets. Or they’re so void of any colour you wake up in the middle of the night and freak out that you’re sleeping next to the Casper’s sister.

I know that global warming will probably destroy the world and all that but on a positive note (every acid rain cloud has a silver lining) it might help defrost the frigid English.

I could see a Mardi Gras style parade rolling past Buckingham Palace with the Queen getting low, low, low while Prince Edward puts his back in to it.

I sat next to the bogeyman

If you enjoy studying weird people there is no better place than the tube. It’s like anthropology on acid. After living in London for a while you find it easier to find who will be the best subjects. So I knew I had hit the jackpot when I spotted a guy in his mid twenties riding the tube at 3pm on a Saturday clutching a can of lager. He was either a) still drunk from the night before or b) had been drinking since breakfast. Either way I knew I was in for a treat and something to make my 40 min journey more interesting. So I sat right next to him to so I could observe him out the corner of my eye and in the reflections of the opposite window.

I am not sure what I was expecting him to do but I wish my eyes had not witnessed what he did. He picked his nose and then ate it. Not in a discreet way, he didn’t try and look like he was scratching his nose then pretend he was biting his fingernails. No, he very blatantly drilled deep into his nostril with his finger then almost proudly produced a green nugget for the whole carriage to see. He then held it really close to his face as though he was marveling at its beauty or conducting some sort of rigorous bogey quality control. Once he deemed it was up to scratch he put his finger in his mouth and nibbled away.

I have to clarify that this man looked sound of mind. It was only the can of lager that brought him to my attention, apart from this there was no other indication that lead me to believe he would eat his own bogies.

Now I am not looking down my nose at this guy from a throne of someone that has never eaten one of her own green nuggets. Like most people at the age of 8 curiosity got the better of me and i began to wonder if i might have been gifted with Willy Wonka style nostrils that produce bogies that taste of sherburt. But one taste was enough to make me think ummm yeah that tasted like a shriveled up caper that’s been rubbed in sand I won’t be trying that again.

My diagnosis of this man was he was suffering from invisible delusionment. This can also be seen in people that think no one can see them while sitting in their cars so again they pick their nose. If their case is serve people can even wank while waiting at the lights, I have yet to see this on the tube…yet.

Aint nothing good about it. Period.

Boys cover your eyes. I’m talking about periods.

When you first start getting your period is a bit of a novelty and really you’re quiet happy that its arrived because you were starting to worry that it might be a no show.

You feel quite excited to have been allowed into the world of womanhood. You carry around of couple pristine panty liners or ‘pads’ hidden in a secret zip pocket in their school bag as there is a constant fear of the floral packaging being exposed. After you feel a more confident you move on to tampons. You change them with stopwatch precision, every four hours, for fear that they might self-combust.

As you get older you get a lot more nonchalant about the whole thing. It’s pretty standard that at any point in time you will have at least two wild tampons flying around your handbag. You’re so over the embarrassment of it all that you will tell anyone within earshot about how annoying and painful it is, even your boyfriend if he is lucky enough.

You feel comfortable around most of your guy friends but you know that the men you work with can not handle knowing this lady information. So you have to perform a covert operation to get the tampon out of your handbang without them noticing. First you pretend you’re looking for something in the bottom of your bag using the rummaging as a diversion. Once they have been fooled you can grab one of the tampons running free across the vast fabric landscape. You then try and hold the tampon in your hand so it appears that you are actually not carrying a tampon in your hand. This takes years of practice.

Thou shall not covet my neighbour's tiny bottom

Everyone has at least one person that they’re envious of. They have the job you want, the cellulite resistant bum, the hair that doesn’t go frizzy or a lack of bodily hair that needs constant waxing. You know, important stuff like that.

Envy is a terrible emotion because it really serves no purpose apart from reducing your self-esteem down to the size of Prince in a pair ballet flats. But the thing that makes me laugh is that there are probably lots of people that are envious of YOU! Don’t scoff, it’s true.

The person whose bum looks like it was sculpted out of titanium might be envious that you have so much junk in your trunk you could have an impromptu garage sale.

Not that you’d ever know this because we never admit what we’re envious of. That is until we’re in the club getting tipsy. Then you can’t shut us up about it. We end up swaying in front of mirror watched by a bemused toilet attendant holding out a towel and a chuppa chup. We go through each others body like a checklist, I love your skin you never get pimples, look at the size of my pores they’re like fucking overnight bags. But look at your tits, they’re amazing, mine look they belong to Old Mother Hubbard. And on and on we go.

Although you might not always remember what was said it’s pretty fascinating to see what people really think of your body compared to their own and generally I think most of us our a lot hotter than we think.

If we lived in a world where everyone was an alcoholic or the Thames water supply was treated with ecstasy we would compliment each other all the time and as a result our self-esteem would probably be higher. I better start writing to Boris with that suggestion…

The Carrie Complex

It was scenario I'm sure you're familiar with. It was a Sunday afternoon and I had taken up residency on the couch after quite a big night on the slightly distressed tiles of east London. I had just indulged in a carb buffet of baked beans on toast followed by more pieces of bread with cheese on it that I had stolen out our communal fridge. 'Come Dine with Me' wasn’t on for another couple of hours so I reached for the box set of Sex and the City. I ended up watching eight episodes. At 30 mins a pop that’s four hours.

When I told my friend about this she told me off saying she read an article about women that start to identify with Carrie. They feel like dysfunctional relationships are normal and spend too much on shoes. After hearing this I totally freaked as after my marathon I had gone out and brought some shoes, they weren’t exactly Manolo Blahnik high heels, they were a pair of £10 flats from New Look on Brixton high street, but shoes all the same. Then I realized that I had started putting all my thoughts in to rhetorical questions…’I couldn’t help but wonder, did my life need an emotional spring clean?’…’I began to wonder how do you actually pronounce Tzatziki?...

So now I am prescribing myself some hard-hitting docos on dinner party hot potatoes like war, religion, politics and stuff. Anything that doesn’t feature fake flower corsages and women talking about relationships over egg white omelets. ‘I wondered though would this be enough to get the curly haired gal to stop narrating my life?...

Eye know the secret to Thom's success

I was thinking today if there might be a connection between Thom Yorke's infamous lazy eye and the fact he writes such beautiful melancholic music.

If both his eyes had decided to play ball and open properly would he still have been such a musical genius or would he have spent his youth doing handstands on kegs and chasing High School snatch?

Properly not, I would say even with two functioning eyes Thom would never have been a quarterback, but his eyes might have meet with the eyes of a nice looking girl called Meredith across a mosh pit and they could have fallen in love. Then Meredith might have got pregnant and Thom's Dad would sit him on the porch and tell him, without making eye contact, about the importance of being a man and getting a real job and forgetting about all this music melakey and so Thom would get a real job selling fake plastic Christmas trees door to door.

So before you curse your flaws think of Thom's sloth like eye and appreciate that your 'flaws' might be the things that are helping you achieve a higher level of awesomeness.

Are all women lost in a man Matrix?

I was watching an episode of Sex in the City the other day with my flat mate. After we finished watching the four neurotic New Yorkers she posed the interesting question, do men obsess about women as much as we obsess about men? I don’t even need to say it do I? Of course they bloody don’t. And I for one am really jealous of them!

We analyze each text message like we’re trying to crack the god damn De Vinci code and every date is pulled apart by interrogation style questioning from our girlfriends, What did he wear? What shoes did he have on? Was he wearing sports socks? Were his jeans too short so when he sat down you saw his socks?!!

Oh to be a man, to walk around in a simple world where only two questions exist. Was she fit? And did you shag her? Everything is so black and white, not the million shades of grey that girls spend hours trying to decipher. It’s like being trapped inside the matrix but instead of Neo helping us get out he adds to the confusion as we have to ring our girlfriends up to ask if it’s ok to date a man in a full pleather jacket. Get me outta here!