Your Opinion Matters. Wait - No It Doesn't. And Neither Does Mine

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.

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.