I was going to blog about this week: a lot has happened. But I’ll tell you all of that next time, because the following exchanges occurred this morning before I’d even got out of bed.
|Yes. I'm in this.|
I say ‘exchanges’; they weren’t. I told you last time, I don’t do social media spats. But, but, but. This is beginning in the middle. Let’s wind back a little bit. Earlier this week, issue 242 of Skin Deep Tattoo Magazine went on sale. I admit I haven’t had cause to get all that excited about SDTM in the past, but now I have reason to be – and not just because I’m in it. Yes, I had a small tattoo somewhere private* as a result of youthful folly, but I never, ever dreamed I’d get another one, or that it would be huge, or that it would raise £2000 for charity, or that it would – oh, here it comes – end up as a five-page reader profile in a magazine.
|See? Told you|
I won’t say anything about the article – bloody go and buy a copy. It’s well worth the money and there’s a nice picture of my bum in it. Besides, you know, all the other cool tattoos and much-prettier girls. But – exposure… it has a circulation of fifty-odd thousand or something, so you never know what will come of it. Then, this morning, something did. One thing, definitely: I don’t know about the other two. It’s possible. I ended up with the feedback classic, the Shit Sandwich.
Layer one: Nice Gentleman, sent this. Charming words AND he liked some of my poems. What a lovely thing to say! Earns a deep curtsey from me, not to say a flutter of my fan. My actual fan. Seriously, Shup, people.
Layer two: hardly a Gentlemanly response to the image on the right, but if all opinions are valid, his is too**. As you know, I don’t respond to this kind of thing, but I did share it – quite objectively, I hope; with a hint of sarcasm, I admit. A flood of comments followed – again, not a wave of support but plenty of feelings on both sides of the argument. Privately someone suggested I take a look at his profile and rip him to pieces. No. I just wouldn’t. It doesn’t matter. Again, as has happened before, I’ve reached a place in my life where this kind of thing doesn’t hurt. I wonder, though – does that actually make me a Condescending Witch? Oh, the irony…
And finally, Layer three: layer three is just delicious. Layer three is not a slice of Hovis 50/50. It’s not even a complex handmade Seeded Batch. It’s a delicate, melting Brioche, lightly warmed between the thighs of a –
Well. Read it yourself. It was a private message, from a woman. Her permission to share it has been sought and obtained.
Have you read this far? Well done, you. Seriously, I'm impressed. Thank you. I check my blog stats: no fucker reads it. Ever. The only time they even glance at it is when there are pictures of tits and arse in it, and then the chances of them actually looking at the words are almost nil. So yes, I will continue to voice my opinion, safe in the knowledge that no-one will ever, ever know what it is.
|Not really my opinion. Lighten up.|
- Damien Hirst can't fucking paint.
- Some people are beautiful, both inside and out.
- Others, though, are just c*nts.
Ignore this. My opinions are no more valid than the next fool's. See below.
Then kiss me, Motherfucker.
*I say ‘private’ – didn’t stop me getting it out at the the Great British Tattoo Show when a random individual asked to see it. Can’t believe I did that. Well… there’s a lot of nudity at these events. You stop worrying about it after a while. Still – tut, tut
**All opinions are NOT valid. Ever read ‘Have Your Say’ on the BBC website? For fuck’s sake.