Too many hyphens!
Hello dear friends and followers. Just though I'd let you know that I have now become an official Cakette at blog-fantastico The Most Cake. And rather than bashing on about my non-existent love life, I have actually written some non-vag related pieces for them. Don't worry, I'm still a filth-monger.
Here are the links. Feel free to read, re-read, send to your mum, print out and throw at your boss.
Top Ten Songs to Make Out Too
http://themostcake.co.uk/love-life/tuesday-top-ten-songs-to-make-out-to/
Top Ten Ways to Get Sacked
http://themostcake.co.uk/we-like/tuesday-top-ten-ways-to-get-sacked/
Sense and Sexuality
http://themostcake.co.uk/right-on/sense-and-sexuality/
I'd just like to point out that despite becoming vaguely successful lezzie blogger and commentator on queer politics, I am still failing at life in all other non-work-related areas, and I still live in a bedsit. Just so...y'know, it doesn't look like I've 'forgotten my roots', or anything.
xxxx
p.s - Seriously though. The blog is ace. You can become our fan on Facebook here. And if you attend the Cake party in March, be sure to tap me on the shoulder and introduce yourself. I'll be one with the hair that is twice the size of her head. Come on - make me look like I've got friends!
Thursday, 4 February 2010
Friday, 11 December 2009
Have Your Kate and Eat It
Hello dear 30-something readers of my blog,
Following my previous apology-laden post, I can imagine you were all expecting GGAT to launch off into some kind of caffine-fueled, 1-post-a-day rampage. To be honest, I was a bit, too.
Sadly, my life is proper all over le masion at the moment, and scarcely gives me a chance to have a cup of tea - let alone have a cup of tea and write for an hour. Hence lack of blogs. Hence angry texts from friends asking when I'm going to get my virtual act together.
In response to said angry texts, I emailed the good ladies at one of my favourite lesbo blogs - namely, TheMostCake - to see whether I could get my creative rocks off there. And, miraculously, they said yes!
Those of you who are my friendlies on the Book of Faces will already know that I reviewed a recent Tegan and Sara gig for them....
http://themostcake.co.uk/musicmakers/tmc-reviews-tegan-and-sara/
Although writing for TMC means I'll be subject to editing (they took out all my swearing, and a bit where I said that T+S made the audeince "a bit damp". They also corrected my spelling), it also means that I'll have something regular to contribute too. My love life has about a much drive as a 16-car pile-up, and my psychiatrist reiterated again this week that telling people I have had sex with 15 people in the last month when I haven't "is basically just fraud".
The answer? To write about music. And films. And stuff that doesn't involve me having something that could be described as a life.
So - from now on, I will be blogging at TMC. I'm going to see whether the gang will allow me to post my stuff here, but hopefully that should be fine...
I do thank all of you for sticking with me for so long, even though I have been admittedly awful.
Oh - and another thing. Most of why I've been busy has to do with my music. I'm one of those singer/song-writer thingies. My artiste sudonym is Kit Richardson, and
I have a website where you can basically get to all my listenable shite. I wouldn't normally plug shamelessy but...
...hang on, that's bollocks. I love self-promotion.
The website is www.kitrichardson.com (check that, y'all. I'm a friggin' DOMAIN). Perv on my band. They are all stupidly attractive.
Hopefully, you'll be hearing a lot more from me soon. It just won't be vagina-related.*
Much love,
Kat xxxxxxxx
*stop sighing. I can hear you.
Following my previous apology-laden post, I can imagine you were all expecting GGAT to launch off into some kind of caffine-fueled, 1-post-a-day rampage. To be honest, I was a bit, too.
Sadly, my life is proper all over le masion at the moment, and scarcely gives me a chance to have a cup of tea - let alone have a cup of tea and write for an hour. Hence lack of blogs. Hence angry texts from friends asking when I'm going to get my virtual act together.
In response to said angry texts, I emailed the good ladies at one of my favourite lesbo blogs - namely, TheMostCake - to see whether I could get my creative rocks off there. And, miraculously, they said yes!
Those of you who are my friendlies on the Book of Faces will already know that I reviewed a recent Tegan and Sara gig for them....
http://themostcake.co.uk/musicmakers/tmc-reviews-tegan-and-sara/
Although writing for TMC means I'll be subject to editing (they took out all my swearing, and a bit where I said that T+S made the audeince "a bit damp". They also corrected my spelling), it also means that I'll have something regular to contribute too. My love life has about a much drive as a 16-car pile-up, and my psychiatrist reiterated again this week that telling people I have had sex with 15 people in the last month when I haven't "is basically just fraud".
The answer? To write about music. And films. And stuff that doesn't involve me having something that could be described as a life.
So - from now on, I will be blogging at TMC. I'm going to see whether the gang will allow me to post my stuff here, but hopefully that should be fine...
I do thank all of you for sticking with me for so long, even though I have been admittedly awful.
Oh - and another thing. Most of why I've been busy has to do with my music. I'm one of those singer/song-writer thingies. My artiste sudonym is Kit Richardson, and
I have a website where you can basically get to all my listenable shite. I wouldn't normally plug shamelessy but...
...hang on, that's bollocks. I love self-promotion.
The website is www.kitrichardson.com (check that, y'all. I'm a friggin' DOMAIN). Perv on my band. They are all stupidly attractive.
Hopefully, you'll be hearing a lot more from me soon. It just won't be vagina-related.*
Much love,
Kat xxxxxxxx
*stop sighing. I can hear you.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Head first
Okay, I admit it. I am pretty awful. Over the last week I have stood up Adventures in Lesboland several times, leaving her waiting on the corner of Blogger Street, Cyberspace, while I stay at home in the warm, watching Taggart and sleeping in cookie crumbs.
But here. I give it to you open palmed. My first blog in about three weeks. Let's hope it's a good one.
---------------------
Being a lesbian brings with it many unique pleasures. The universal right to wear dungarees. The knowledge that you belong to the only sub-culture on earth that can get away with a mullet. The glorious thrill one gets when overhearing a drunk gaggle of women on public transport moaning about how "all men are bastards".
However, there are few pleasures greater than getting to initiate a girl into Lesboland. It is, like, my favourite thing ever. So when my friend Jo told me that she suspected she might be a little into the muff, all the little people in my head got into a line and did a Mexican wave.
I relish the thought of guiding Jo’s timid hand through the Museum of Dyke. And before you ask, there is no National Trust Guide book, and you are encouraged to touch everything.
This week, I am dedicating my spare time to nurturing my little prote-gay (yes!), and in preparation, I have begun making a list in my head, of all the differences between the straight-lady world and the gay-lady world. My initial list was 5 pages long and read like a Colin’s dictionary, but with a little editorial skill (and a lot of backspacing), I have narrowed that shit DOWN into three Commandment-like lessons. So cross your legs, stop pulling that girls hair, and prepare to be taught.
If the first lesson on the agenda had featured in the Bible, it would have been probably been summed up as ‘Thou Shalt Not Give So Much Of A Shit’. As a gay woman, you are basically an honorary man. You can get away with all of the things men get away with, safe in the knowledge that, when you wake up the next morning, you will not be harbouring an unwanted erection and will still have funbags. Fuck make-up. Fuck Veet. Don’t wash for three days. Get hideously drunk, pick a fight with a bouncer, and get thrown out of the club for vomiting on the pool table. Plaster titty mags all over your room. Adjust yourself in public. Spend an entire weekend playing Pro Evo, in your boxers, using your free hand to alternate between eating cornflakes from the packet and playing with yourself.
Many gay women despise the thought of others attributing their bad behaviour to their sexuality. I say embrace it. You’ve got a reservation on the Vulgar train. You may as well get the fuck on. *
The second, and possibly most important lesson, is this – do NOT put up with bad sex. Straight sex is a bit of a minefield. Neither party has any fundamental idea of how the other person’s anatomy works. Foreplay is a starter to the main course of penetrative sex, which means men often like to skip the prawn cocktail and get straight to meat and two veg (and the winner of the Most Inappropriate Metaphor goes to...).
But if you’re not having sex with a girl for the fun of it, why ARE you doing it? You can’t make no babies. Lady-on-lady sex is sex for sex’s sake. And you’ve got no excuse – you’ve only got to look as far as your crotch to find a working replica of your future partner’s nether regions.
Another lesson which really should be adhered to is this – don’t pigeon-hole yourself. You’ve just come out, the world is your pretty pink pearl. Hold off on the buzz cut and the Tracy Chapman for the minute. I have seen many a woman enter the gay portal in matching underwear and heels, and return looking like the bastard son of Macaulay Culkin and JT Leroy. Don’t let this happen to you.
(This is of course more of a personal preference. I like women that look ultra-femme – high heels, junk in the trunk, long pre-raphelite locks. My ideal women is basically Ariel, minus the fin. Or not. Maybe that would make it more interesting).
What I mean to say is..have fun with it. Being queer gives you the ultimate excuse to experiment with your look. Try varying levels of lumberjack chic. Find the trendiest gay bar in town and turn up looking like one of the 7 Brides. Trust me – confusing people is a lot of fun. I once went to the Ghetto with a banana down my trousers...
...
That’s it. No punchline. I just like putting fruit in my pants.
And finally – and this is a big one – fall like you’ve never fallen before. In love obviously, not into a manhole. Or with a manhole.
See, man-on-lady relationships are a bit push and pull. Men are genetically programmed to put their fun bits in as many female reciprocals as possible, while women want someone who will cherish them, make babies with them, and not fuck off to Shirley Winter’s house for a bit of How’s Your Father.
The combination of women’s genetic clingyness, and men’s natural urge to run the hell away from them, somehow creates an equilibrium, so when a straight couple come together, things generally move at a healthy pace.
Lesbian relationships laugh in the face of sensible decision-making. Any relationship that involves two uteruses doesn’t stand a chance when it comes to being rational. There is no straight man to stop the domestic snowball that happens when two women fall in love. This may explain why my dear friend Naiomi recently went to live with her current girlfriend. In Leeds. After 4 weeks.
But wait. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Kat. Are you suggesting this is a good idea? Are you some kind of fucking sadist?’. And to that I say,
Yes
and...
Thanks for noticing,
Because I believe love is a wonderful thing, in all it’s hideous incarnations. Men miss out on a lot of love because they fear its consequences. Women run at love like it’s Platform 9 and 3/4s – risking getting a brick wall to the face for something that might be incredible. And for this I salute them. As that sly old dog Tennyson once said, “It is better to have loved and lost, than to run into a brick wall.” Or something.
The best thing about initiating Jo into the wonderful world of Lesbianism, is it gives me a chance to reflect on how much I adore being a woman who likes women. And despite all the failed dates, the sexless evenings searching Leisha Haley on YouTube, and the fact that my haircut costs me roughly the same amount as my council tax, I really do love this life.
Not This Life though, That was rubbish.
Love Kat xxxxxxx
But here. I give it to you open palmed. My first blog in about three weeks. Let's hope it's a good one.
---------------------
Being a lesbian brings with it many unique pleasures. The universal right to wear dungarees. The knowledge that you belong to the only sub-culture on earth that can get away with a mullet. The glorious thrill one gets when overhearing a drunk gaggle of women on public transport moaning about how "all men are bastards".
However, there are few pleasures greater than getting to initiate a girl into Lesboland. It is, like, my favourite thing ever. So when my friend Jo told me that she suspected she might be a little into the muff, all the little people in my head got into a line and did a Mexican wave.
I relish the thought of guiding Jo’s timid hand through the Museum of Dyke. And before you ask, there is no National Trust Guide book, and you are encouraged to touch everything.
This week, I am dedicating my spare time to nurturing my little prote-gay (yes!), and in preparation, I have begun making a list in my head, of all the differences between the straight-lady world and the gay-lady world. My initial list was 5 pages long and read like a Colin’s dictionary, but with a little editorial skill (and a lot of backspacing), I have narrowed that shit DOWN into three Commandment-like lessons. So cross your legs, stop pulling that girls hair, and prepare to be taught.
If the first lesson on the agenda had featured in the Bible, it would have been probably been summed up as ‘Thou Shalt Not Give So Much Of A Shit’. As a gay woman, you are basically an honorary man. You can get away with all of the things men get away with, safe in the knowledge that, when you wake up the next morning, you will not be harbouring an unwanted erection and will still have funbags. Fuck make-up. Fuck Veet. Don’t wash for three days. Get hideously drunk, pick a fight with a bouncer, and get thrown out of the club for vomiting on the pool table. Plaster titty mags all over your room. Adjust yourself in public. Spend an entire weekend playing Pro Evo, in your boxers, using your free hand to alternate between eating cornflakes from the packet and playing with yourself.
Many gay women despise the thought of others attributing their bad behaviour to their sexuality. I say embrace it. You’ve got a reservation on the Vulgar train. You may as well get the fuck on. *
The second, and possibly most important lesson, is this – do NOT put up with bad sex. Straight sex is a bit of a minefield. Neither party has any fundamental idea of how the other person’s anatomy works. Foreplay is a starter to the main course of penetrative sex, which means men often like to skip the prawn cocktail and get straight to meat and two veg (and the winner of the Most Inappropriate Metaphor goes to...).
But if you’re not having sex with a girl for the fun of it, why ARE you doing it? You can’t make no babies. Lady-on-lady sex is sex for sex’s sake. And you’ve got no excuse – you’ve only got to look as far as your crotch to find a working replica of your future partner’s nether regions.
Another lesson which really should be adhered to is this – don’t pigeon-hole yourself. You’ve just come out, the world is your pretty pink pearl. Hold off on the buzz cut and the Tracy Chapman for the minute. I have seen many a woman enter the gay portal in matching underwear and heels, and return looking like the bastard son of Macaulay Culkin and JT Leroy. Don’t let this happen to you.
(This is of course more of a personal preference. I like women that look ultra-femme – high heels, junk in the trunk, long pre-raphelite locks. My ideal women is basically Ariel, minus the fin. Or not. Maybe that would make it more interesting).
What I mean to say is..have fun with it. Being queer gives you the ultimate excuse to experiment with your look. Try varying levels of lumberjack chic. Find the trendiest gay bar in town and turn up looking like one of the 7 Brides. Trust me – confusing people is a lot of fun. I once went to the Ghetto with a banana down my trousers...
...
That’s it. No punchline. I just like putting fruit in my pants.
And finally – and this is a big one – fall like you’ve never fallen before. In love obviously, not into a manhole. Or with a manhole.
See, man-on-lady relationships are a bit push and pull. Men are genetically programmed to put their fun bits in as many female reciprocals as possible, while women want someone who will cherish them, make babies with them, and not fuck off to Shirley Winter’s house for a bit of How’s Your Father.
The combination of women’s genetic clingyness, and men’s natural urge to run the hell away from them, somehow creates an equilibrium, so when a straight couple come together, things generally move at a healthy pace.
Lesbian relationships laugh in the face of sensible decision-making. Any relationship that involves two uteruses doesn’t stand a chance when it comes to being rational. There is no straight man to stop the domestic snowball that happens when two women fall in love. This may explain why my dear friend Naiomi recently went to live with her current girlfriend. In Leeds. After 4 weeks.
But wait. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Kat. Are you suggesting this is a good idea? Are you some kind of fucking sadist?’. And to that I say,
Yes
and...
Thanks for noticing,
Because I believe love is a wonderful thing, in all it’s hideous incarnations. Men miss out on a lot of love because they fear its consequences. Women run at love like it’s Platform 9 and 3/4s – risking getting a brick wall to the face for something that might be incredible. And for this I salute them. As that sly old dog Tennyson once said, “It is better to have loved and lost, than to run into a brick wall.” Or something.
The best thing about initiating Jo into the wonderful world of Lesbianism, is it gives me a chance to reflect on how much I adore being a woman who likes women. And despite all the failed dates, the sexless evenings searching Leisha Haley on YouTube, and the fact that my haircut costs me roughly the same amount as my council tax, I really do love this life.
Not This Life though, That was rubbish.
Love Kat xxxxxxx
Friday, 9 October 2009
Knit one, purl one...
Several things have happened this week, all of which have lead me to conclude one thing : I need to get laid.
As I mentioned in my previous post, a significant amount of time has passed since I last had a roll in the hay. I probably shouldn't use the word 'significant', since this suggests that, prior to that time, I was swimming around in a vat of women. I wasn't. Although, as a side note, if anyone owns their own swimming pool, I would quite like to try that.
Currently, the future of my nether-regions looks pretty bleak. I have no girlfriend, no love interest (mutual, that is), and all of the attractive women I know are either in relationships, or are that particularly volitile breed of lesbian, who I refuse to show any interest in, for fear they will confesss their undying love for me after two weeks, and shave my initials into their pubic hair.
The problem is, my need for a bit of how's-your-father has never been greater. This I can conclude from three and a half things...
One. I am really getting into DIY. In the last three weeks, I have painted the fixtures in my bathroom, my piano, and my wall. Last week I even started designing a custom-fit MDF rack for an awkward space next to my shower. If peeling the labels off beer bottles is number 5 on the 'Sexual Frustration' scale, this is about 52.
Two. While attending a recent 'Fuel Girls' event at the Den in Holborn, I got so excited at the prospect of seeing boobies that I nearly vomitted, and had to spend over half an hour in the loo being wiped down with cold paper towels by the toilet attendant.
Three. All my dreams end in sex, regardless of their content. I could be dreaming about going to the denist, or being in the Wizard of Oz, but I can gurantee, at some point, someone's getting mounted. This means that over the last month, I have had sex with my denist, Judy Garland, my old singing teacher, my best friend Jenna, and Jane Lynch, who plays Joyce in the L Word. In my mind.
Three point one. I have started to find Jane Lynch, who plays Joyce in the L Word, attractive. Hot even. She is 3 years younger than my mum. That is some kind of wrong.
Obviously, the easy answer to my problem is to get a friggin' lady-friend. But I fear, with things the way they are, women will be able to smell the desperation on me like a particualr funky cologne (funky as in stinky, not as in Prince. If I smelt like Prince I would be sorted).
In order to pull successfully, I have to stop thinking like a pervert. So, I will do as any middle-class woman would do in my situation - I will take up a hobby, and immerse myself in it until I forget I have a vagina. There isn't much more room in my flat for DIY, so I think a domestic hobby, like sewing or knitting might be a good plan. Maybe I can knit myself a woman, who will keep me warm at night and not insist on talking through Waking the Dead.
....
*cough*
As I mentioned in my previous post, a significant amount of time has passed since I last had a roll in the hay. I probably shouldn't use the word 'significant', since this suggests that, prior to that time, I was swimming around in a vat of women. I wasn't. Although, as a side note, if anyone owns their own swimming pool, I would quite like to try that.
Currently, the future of my nether-regions looks pretty bleak. I have no girlfriend, no love interest (mutual, that is), and all of the attractive women I know are either in relationships, or are that particularly volitile breed of lesbian, who I refuse to show any interest in, for fear they will confesss their undying love for me after two weeks, and shave my initials into their pubic hair.
The problem is, my need for a bit of how's-your-father has never been greater. This I can conclude from three and a half things...
One. I am really getting into DIY. In the last three weeks, I have painted the fixtures in my bathroom, my piano, and my wall. Last week I even started designing a custom-fit MDF rack for an awkward space next to my shower. If peeling the labels off beer bottles is number 5 on the 'Sexual Frustration' scale, this is about 52.
Two. While attending a recent 'Fuel Girls' event at the Den in Holborn, I got so excited at the prospect of seeing boobies that I nearly vomitted, and had to spend over half an hour in the loo being wiped down with cold paper towels by the toilet attendant.
Three. All my dreams end in sex, regardless of their content. I could be dreaming about going to the denist, or being in the Wizard of Oz, but I can gurantee, at some point, someone's getting mounted. This means that over the last month, I have had sex with my denist, Judy Garland, my old singing teacher, my best friend Jenna, and Jane Lynch, who plays Joyce in the L Word. In my mind.
Three point one. I have started to find Jane Lynch, who plays Joyce in the L Word, attractive. Hot even. She is 3 years younger than my mum. That is some kind of wrong.
Obviously, the easy answer to my problem is to get a friggin' lady-friend. But I fear, with things the way they are, women will be able to smell the desperation on me like a particualr funky cologne (funky as in stinky, not as in Prince. If I smelt like Prince I would be sorted).
In order to pull successfully, I have to stop thinking like a pervert. So, I will do as any middle-class woman would do in my situation - I will take up a hobby, and immerse myself in it until I forget I have a vagina. There isn't much more room in my flat for DIY, so I think a domestic hobby, like sewing or knitting might be a good plan. Maybe I can knit myself a woman, who will keep me warm at night and not insist on talking through Waking the Dead.
....
*cough*
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Snozcumber.
It has come to my attention, since the demise of thelondonpaper, and my subsequent move to the world of cyber-journalism, that there is a small percentage of the lesbian population who are gravely misinformed about the sort of person Katherine Richardson is. So, herein lies a revelation. Sort of.
Last week, I received a lovely message from a lady (a fan lady) on The Book of Faces (referring to Facebook this way brings me everso slightly closer to my dream of one day being Macaulay Culkin in The Pagemaster).
Anyway, she wants to go on a date. Great, I say. Fellow journalists have told me to stay away from dating 'fans', but, truthfully, I needs to be taking whatever I can get. I assure her that I am much more cool/attractive /funny than my column suggests, and that they edit that out so I don't intimidate my readers.
So, in response, I get a list of possible events we could attend. Film night at Nottinghill Arts Club, that painfully trendy night Mannequin in Shoreditch. Cocktails in some undergournd bar of Great Eastern Street. I'm kind of nonplused by all this. Most of them require me to have a shower, which is always a drawback. I suggest to my date that maybe we should just 'hang out'.
This doesn't go down too well. Don't I want to do something totally awesome? Don't I want to go to this gallery off Brick Lane where this videoartist has been filming himself eating crayons for 24 hours? Amelia's Magazine gave it, like, 8 out of 10. And they are such bitches.
Then it dawns on me. My date is misinformed. My date thinks I'm 'cool'.
This has actually happend to me before, this mistaken identity. 3 weeks ago, I was at the Abbey pub in Camden, celebrating my friend's final music night. A pretty girl came up to me and asked me if I was "that girl from the paper". I confirmed this. And then she said, "Oh, right. Wouldn't have expected to see you somewhere like this!"
Assumedly, our friend thought that I spent my spare time in Hoxton, attending live art performances with titles like "Fuck Your Mum, Yeah?", and trying to avoid anything touching my hair. Not standing on a table, at a folk night, with the half-swallowed contents of a party popper hanging out of my mouth.
Unfortunately, I am a disappointment. No matter how interesting my hair, I will always be, fundamentally, a bit of a loser.
I know what you're thinking. I'm in denial. I am actually a fucking superstar with a talent for self-depreciation. Well, in response to those critics amongst you, I have decided to create a definite list of ten reasons why I am not cool, aptly titled 'Ten Reasons Why Katherine Richardson Is Not Cool'.
1) Although I like the song 'How Soon Is Now?' by the Smiths, I genuinely prefer t.A.T.u's cover version.
2) I know how to capitalise t.A.T.u properly.
3) The other day I went to Other People's Property in Dalston. The photographer there was taking pictures of all the attractive people in the venue, and all the less attractive but well-dressed people too. After 2 hours of not being papped, I approached said photographer and asked if he could take a picture of me and my friends. He obiliged.
There are around 100 pictures of that event on the OPP's Book of Faces page. I am not in any of them. I'm pretty sure they just edited us out in favour of some hipster in a lycra jumpsuit.
4) I haven't had sex for over 5 months.
5) On Tuesday, I avoided a social event to stay at home and watch the 1989 cartoon adaptation of The B.F.G. On my own.
6) The first time I met Noel Fielding, I didn't know who he was. The first time I met Lorraine Kelly, I hyperventilated.
7) I was a teenage goth.
8) I downloaded a DOS simulator for my computer so I could spend my spare time playing King's Quest IV: Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow. My favourite kinds of games are games that come on 12 floppy discs and have characters like 'Ali the Pawshop Owner' and 'Billy the Boisterous Bookworm'.
9) I own every record Mark Knofler has ever made.
10) Girls don't like me.
Put that in your cool pipes and smoke them. I should get a badge or something.
I am considering sending this list to said pending date, together with a request that she come round to my flat for piela and Paul Simon. However, I feel once the illusion as has faded, and she realises I'm basically a mildly-autistic teenage boy in a lady suit, she will run for the hills.
Rice and peace,
Kat xxxxxx
Last week, I received a lovely message from a lady (a fan lady) on The Book of Faces (referring to Facebook this way brings me everso slightly closer to my dream of one day being Macaulay Culkin in The Pagemaster).
Anyway, she wants to go on a date. Great, I say. Fellow journalists have told me to stay away from dating 'fans', but, truthfully, I needs to be taking whatever I can get. I assure her that I am much more cool/attractive /funny than my column suggests, and that they edit that out so I don't intimidate my readers.
So, in response, I get a list of possible events we could attend. Film night at Nottinghill Arts Club, that painfully trendy night Mannequin in Shoreditch. Cocktails in some undergournd bar of Great Eastern Street. I'm kind of nonplused by all this. Most of them require me to have a shower, which is always a drawback. I suggest to my date that maybe we should just 'hang out'.
This doesn't go down too well. Don't I want to do something totally awesome? Don't I want to go to this gallery off Brick Lane where this videoartist has been filming himself eating crayons for 24 hours? Amelia's Magazine gave it, like, 8 out of 10. And they are such bitches.
Then it dawns on me. My date is misinformed. My date thinks I'm 'cool'.
This has actually happend to me before, this mistaken identity. 3 weeks ago, I was at the Abbey pub in Camden, celebrating my friend's final music night. A pretty girl came up to me and asked me if I was "that girl from the paper". I confirmed this. And then she said, "Oh, right. Wouldn't have expected to see you somewhere like this!"
Assumedly, our friend thought that I spent my spare time in Hoxton, attending live art performances with titles like "Fuck Your Mum, Yeah?", and trying to avoid anything touching my hair. Not standing on a table, at a folk night, with the half-swallowed contents of a party popper hanging out of my mouth.
Unfortunately, I am a disappointment. No matter how interesting my hair, I will always be, fundamentally, a bit of a loser.
I know what you're thinking. I'm in denial. I am actually a fucking superstar with a talent for self-depreciation. Well, in response to those critics amongst you, I have decided to create a definite list of ten reasons why I am not cool, aptly titled 'Ten Reasons Why Katherine Richardson Is Not Cool'.
1) Although I like the song 'How Soon Is Now?' by the Smiths, I genuinely prefer t.A.T.u's cover version.
2) I know how to capitalise t.A.T.u properly.
3) The other day I went to Other People's Property in Dalston. The photographer there was taking pictures of all the attractive people in the venue, and all the less attractive but well-dressed people too. After 2 hours of not being papped, I approached said photographer and asked if he could take a picture of me and my friends. He obiliged.
There are around 100 pictures of that event on the OPP's Book of Faces page. I am not in any of them. I'm pretty sure they just edited us out in favour of some hipster in a lycra jumpsuit.
4) I haven't had sex for over 5 months.
5) On Tuesday, I avoided a social event to stay at home and watch the 1989 cartoon adaptation of The B.F.G. On my own.
6) The first time I met Noel Fielding, I didn't know who he was. The first time I met Lorraine Kelly, I hyperventilated.
7) I was a teenage goth.
8) I downloaded a DOS simulator for my computer so I could spend my spare time playing King's Quest IV: Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow. My favourite kinds of games are games that come on 12 floppy discs and have characters like 'Ali the Pawshop Owner' and 'Billy the Boisterous Bookworm'.
9) I own every record Mark Knofler has ever made.
10) Girls don't like me.
Put that in your cool pipes and smoke them. I should get a badge or something.
I am considering sending this list to said pending date, together with a request that she come round to my flat for piela and Paul Simon. However, I feel once the illusion as has faded, and she realises I'm basically a mildly-autistic teenage boy in a lady suit, she will run for the hills.
Rice and peace,
Kat xxxxxx
Friday, 25 September 2009
Tits
That got your attention.
This post is about tits. My tits, your tits. Your friends tits. In fact, ESPECIALLY your friends tits.
Yesterday I was sat with some friends in the Enclave, three of whom were comparing mammories. It seems if you leave a group of women on their own long enough, this sort of thing just happens. Like menstrual synchronisation. Or bitching.
"They're pointy. I look like Madonna with volcano tits"
"Mine are smaller than yours, what bra are you wearing?"
"Yeah, but at least yours are perky. Mine are pendulous"
As a woman of conversation, not being able to join in this one was quite frustrating. But, I am at a loss.
You see, breasts are breasts. As any red-blooded lesbian will tell you, they're all rather nice. There are no 'bad' breasts. They all move in that 'sexy bowl of jelly' way that makes our knees go funny. Big, small, pointy...whatever, every girl looks hot sat on a washing machine. And don't even get me started on nipples.
This girl I took home once insisted that we had sex with her shirt still on. She wouldn't even let me touch her under her shirt, such was the extent of her shame. It was like that scene in High Fidelity. "Attack and defense, invasion and repulsion". This, needless to say, made the whole act a little awkward. Having sex without seeing a ladies bubbies is like going to Pizza Hut for an Ice-Cream factory, only to find out they've run out of hundreds and thousands. You still eat it, but it's considerably more boring without them.
The said girl is now dating a friend of mine, who recently got to see the illusive breasts. When I asked my friend what was wrong with them, she said "Nothing. She just thinks they're too big".
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhaahahahaaaaaaaa...
*breath*
..hahahahahaha. TOO BIG?
Just so you know ladies, there is not such thing as too big. Or too small. Or too asymmetrical. The truth is, once we've spent 4 hours wooing you into submission, we're happy for whatever we get.
Oh, and sorry it took so long for me to get this down. Life is crazy busy at the mo.
Much love,
Kat xxxx
This post is about tits. My tits, your tits. Your friends tits. In fact, ESPECIALLY your friends tits.
Yesterday I was sat with some friends in the Enclave, three of whom were comparing mammories. It seems if you leave a group of women on their own long enough, this sort of thing just happens. Like menstrual synchronisation. Or bitching.
"They're pointy. I look like Madonna with volcano tits"
"Mine are smaller than yours, what bra are you wearing?"
"Yeah, but at least yours are perky. Mine are pendulous"
As a woman of conversation, not being able to join in this one was quite frustrating. But, I am at a loss.
You see, breasts are breasts. As any red-blooded lesbian will tell you, they're all rather nice. There are no 'bad' breasts. They all move in that 'sexy bowl of jelly' way that makes our knees go funny. Big, small, pointy...whatever, every girl looks hot sat on a washing machine. And don't even get me started on nipples.
This girl I took home once insisted that we had sex with her shirt still on. She wouldn't even let me touch her under her shirt, such was the extent of her shame. It was like that scene in High Fidelity. "Attack and defense, invasion and repulsion". This, needless to say, made the whole act a little awkward. Having sex without seeing a ladies bubbies is like going to Pizza Hut for an Ice-Cream factory, only to find out they've run out of hundreds and thousands. You still eat it, but it's considerably more boring without them.
The said girl is now dating a friend of mine, who recently got to see the illusive breasts. When I asked my friend what was wrong with them, she said "Nothing. She just thinks they're too big".
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhaahahahaaaaaaaa...
*breath*
..hahahahahaha. TOO BIG?
Just so you know ladies, there is not such thing as too big. Or too small. Or too asymmetrical. The truth is, once we've spent 4 hours wooing you into submission, we're happy for whatever we get.
Oh, and sorry it took so long for me to get this down. Life is crazy busy at the mo.
Much love,
Kat xxxx
Thursday, 17 September 2009
Take Back The Night
Speed-blog alert...
I am writing this between mouthfuls of Rivita. My keyboard is hence a little crumby.
No time for a massive OMGthelondonpaperisgonewhatamIgonnado? post, but I thought I'd just let you all know that from now on, you will be able to get your fix of my somewhat-humiliating adventures on-fucking-line (I am aware that expletive wasn't necessary, but now I'm not being edited I feel obliged to dip my toe in the fountain of bad language).
Secondly, to all you ladies that care, the world-famous Take Back The Night march, for safer streets and an end to sexual violence, is going on tonight. It really is an astonishing event. I will be there, on my lonesome, dressed up all colourful, like. Come down and say hello. Feed the feminists. Wave a flag...
In all seriousness though, here are the deets -
Thanks for finding me. Hopefully I'll post something soon that isn't about rape or Rivita.
Much love, and a bit of a grope,
Kate xxxxxx
I am writing this between mouthfuls of Rivita. My keyboard is hence a little crumby.
No time for a massive OMGthelondonpaperisgonewhatamIgonnado? post, but I thought I'd just let you all know that from now on, you will be able to get your fix of my somewhat-humiliating adventures on-fucking-line (I am aware that expletive wasn't necessary, but now I'm not being edited I feel obliged to dip my toe in the fountain of bad language).
Secondly, to all you ladies that care, the world-famous Take Back The Night march, for safer streets and an end to sexual violence, is going on tonight. It really is an astonishing event. I will be there, on my lonesome, dressed up all colourful, like. Come down and say hello. Feed the feminists. Wave a flag...
In all seriousness though, here are the deets -
"LONDON'S TAKE BACK THE NIGHT"
Thursday, September 17, 2008
6:00pm - Gathering with live music, dance and informational displays, All welcome. Northwest corner of Victoria Park, Richmond and Central.
6:45pm - Speakers & Rally
7:30pm - MARCH!
9pm - After party at "Winks Eatery" (Richmond and Albert), music, dancing, etc
Thanks for finding me. Hopefully I'll post something soon that isn't about rape or Rivita.
Much love, and a bit of a grope,
Kate xxxxxx
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