And For These, I Am Grateful

WARNING: this post contains one very offensive epithet, and gratuitous pictures of my arse. I will if I like.

I’m grateful for the new facets polished into the precious stone that is my life. It is a precious stone; precious to me, a stone nonetheless. I don’t pretend it is a diamond. At best, the jewel in the manure pile. But year by year, new facets reflect new beauties. So if this is a time of reflection for some, I choose to reflect on some recent blessings which have made me very happy.

Not Getting Them Out (photo: Kevin Mitchell)

A drunk guy at a gig the other night shouted out “Show us yer tits!” while I was on stage (or something. He might have asked for a shag. I can’t remember). Later, a more gentlemanly individual whirled me around the dancefloor. Gallantly he asked, ‘I’m so shocked at him. How can you carry on, on stage, after someone’s said something like that to you?’


Ha! Here is an example. Just the one: this sums it up sufficiently clearly.

I used to work in Customer Care. Not any more, obviously: now I’m just fabulous and I spend all my time being so. Or being Pope. That’s fun, too. But at one time, Good Morning! How May I Help You? - that’s what I did, and on reflection (for that is what I am doing) I would rather have been in the business of whoring. One is less sticky; there aren’t many other differences*.

One day, I was dealing with an Angry. Again. You people out there – you can be demanding and unreasonable little fuckers when you want to be. This particular individual was angry because I wouldn’t compensate him financially for a non-existent hardship he believed he had suffered. When he realised he really was going to get nothing out of me, he said, quite calmly, and I quote verbatim, “I hope you get raped by ten niggers.”

I was so astonished, I had to ask him to say it again. And he did. “I hope you get raped by ten niggers.” He sounded like a twelve-year-old saying the word ‘c**t’ to his mum for the first time. It was pathetic. However, the company being one of those which prides itself on ‘great customer care!’, I couldn’t tell the little cocksmear to go fuck himself. I politely excused myself and hung up the telephone.

So if some idiot shouts ‘Show us your tits!’ while I’m on stage, that’s his business. I’m up there because I’m fabulous. I’m up there because I’m not crushed. Anymore. I certainly won’t show him my tits; but even though I could, I won’t tell him to go fuck himself either. It. Just. Doesn’t. Matter.

For These I Am Grateful: Weapons. Scabbard handcrafted just for me. My Big Arse. (photo: Nash)

I’m grateful that my life has changed so much that I no longer have to be subjected to the treatment described above.
I’m grateful that my outlook has changed so much that I believe sufficiently in myself to be able to create something and show it off to people.
I’m grateful that I get to wear pretty things while I do it. And I’m grateful that my passion for pretty things is such that, these days, I can reasonably claim to have a Costumier and an Armourer.
I’m grateful for unexpected directions.
I’m grateful for the love of my beautiful friends because they inspire me every day.
I’m grateful for the physicality of women who reject the misogyny of a small-minded mass media, and instead feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the Sisterhood – you know, it’s what happens when normal women are nice to each other. I’m so grateful for that.

A woman came up to me in the street last week – a complete stranger, she held me close and told me she ‘loved my look’. I’m seventy, she said. I was raised a Catholic and I ran away to London to escape the nuns. I lived in Soho and I was a very naughty girl. And I’ve had a huge amount of pleasure because of it. I once had eight orgasms all in a row. Enjoy yourself, my dear, she said. You deserve it.

I am grateful. Thank you.



*Ok, this is flippant, and shallow. Get antsy about it if you like. I’m just saying how it feels to me. And it may be all me-me-me. I know that – it’s my blog. Fuck off. I’ve told you before, if you want serious commentary, don’t come here. And actually, it’s important: if (by reading my experiences or being shocked by my temerity) someone who used to feel the way I did can begin to feel the way I do now, I would consider that the greatest of possible blessings.

This Is All I Have To Say On The Subject Of Easter This Year

PINTERFACE-TWITTAGRAM And Why I Love It. Dot Mu.

DO YOU KNOW YOU CAN FIND ME ON FACEBOOK? Of course you do. It’s probably how you ended up here.

You - yes, you! Say something

And on Twitter – you can find me there, twittering away with my chums; and now on Insta-that, too.

Oh, and of course, Pinterest, with my *famed ‘Woops, There Go My Panties’ Beard Porn Board, providing late-night entertainment for Ladies the world over, apparently (and Men. That’s implicit). Look me up, I post all sorts of pretty things. And Beards. Lots of Beards.

I have a website; it isn’t especially good, but…  

FACEBOOK  https://www.facebook.com/MurielLavenderPoetrix

WEBSITE ... you can look, if you like www.muriel-lavender.com

PINTEREST*  http://www.pinterest.com/muriellavender/

BLOG  http://muriel-lavender.blogspot.com/

TWITTER @MurielLavender          INSTAGRAM @muriellavender

… but really, this is where the fun happens.  Why not follow my blog, while you’re here?

I’M GOOD AT SOCIAL MEDIA. Insofar as there is a proper way to use it, I use it in the properest way. That is, I keep it light and sparkling¹, I interact with people all over the world, and I don’t post pictures of my fucking dinner.  Or of rainbows, either.  I know they’re nice, but for fuck’s sake, the entire world doesn’t need to join me in running outside to point at the pretty thing.

because there's never a bad time to look at my legs

Being an International Superstar (as I most certainly am, what with being the current World #2 Whiskerina, and also Pope, so there’s that) naturally I meet the most interesting people. Some of them are are so remarkable that I just fall in love with them right there. Others are plain peculiar.  Some of them don’t exist (staggeringly beautiful 19-year-old transsexual living in my hometown? No, I think I’d have met you by now *ignores friend request*); whilst others really seem to admire my shoes to an unholy degree. I’m absolutely ok with that. Some of them – most, I must say, actually, there’s no ‘some’ about it – are tremendously witty and intellectually stimulating. But then, I move in the social circles, the celebrity squares, and the Dairylea triangles of Poetry, Burlesque, Steampunk and Competitive Bearding.  Wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful.

FINALLY GETS TO THE POINT

I want to introduce you to a fellow blogger, with whom I have enjoyed many a half-hour of amusing and/or challenging conversation. Sometimes we talk about Beards, or dreams, or snow; sometimes religion or sex or politics; sometimes we just do Monty Python sketches or sing silly songs. One night we chatted about Poetry. I admit now, Dorkbeard, you worried me at that point. Anyone who says ‘I used to write poetry.’ is as wont to unleash a storm of self-pitying dribble as they are to unleash the literary equivalent of cock-shots. So I played it down a little. Ok, a very little: I replied that my poetical output was really just a series of minge jokes. But a few minutes later DB sent me a poem full of such bliss that I have, in fact, performed at it two shows now (introducing it as the work of my good friend, just as I ought) – and congratulations have poured in. The audiences loved it. And, as it is indeed itself a thoroughly good minge joke, here it is:

A woman once said that a rose is a rose is a rose

But I'm afraid that I'm inclined to disagree

For each and every flower is uniquely distinct

When properly observed upon bended knee

Some have pink petals like satin and silk

So tightly closed their inner mystery they hide

Other still appear more like sun-bleached, chewed leather

And are open enough to fall inside

Some blossoms are set within manicured gardens

Some alone or with a neat shrub upon the porch

Yet others seem lost within deep, tangled jungles

So dark one may need to bring a torch

The sweetest of blooms smell sweetly and pure

It's a pleasure to behold their bouquet

Yet there are those left alone and not tended with care

Those smell more like low tide near the bay

Dear ladies please heed these small words of advice

And tend well to the roses that you keep

For then any true gentleman will gladly bend his head low

And ensure that his appreciation runs deep

Dorkbeard

5 March 2014

Delicious. See what I mean?  My acquaintance via the internets, they set the bar pretty high. I love their company and I am grateful⁴.

Incidentally, when it comes to Facebook, I have only ever blocked about a dozen people or so, and every single one of them was either a) racist or b) unimaginative. One bright spark managed to claim the entire intersection of that particular Venn diagram for himself by referring to someone as a 'curry-eater'. You really couldn't make it up, could you?

Get to know Dorkbeard here http://dorkbeard.wordpress.com/

¹Don’t start. I’m also aware that social media is an invaluable tool for spreading knowledge, politics and global issues, unadulterated by news agencies or governmental bias. But so is telly and it doesn’t stop them broadcasting Hollyoaks² and I’m A Third-Rate Celebrity and all the other lowest-common-denominator brain-rot.  As I said, I mostly do minge jokes. If you want serious political debate, go and see Russell Brand³.

²Is that even on, anymore? I’m well out of touch with the televisual device, me.

Is this yours?

³Russell Brand. I so would. I can’t help it. 

⁴Yes, I’m also fond of those who post when they get their hands stuck in the Pringles tube, but that is for very different reasons.