The Something.

So I seem to fancy absolutely everybody, but thankfully don’t act upon my every thought. And I guess this makes me, what I call, a Silent Slut.

Although I do find most men (and women) handsome in one way or another, I am no hippy. I judge Olivia Palermo when she puts a rare foot wrong in the fashion stakes and am the first to question why on earth anyone would fancy “the hoff”, but I really do believe that everyone is attractive in their own right. And I think I first realised this when I clapped eyes on Phillip Schofield and automatically wanted to drop my pants.

From this point forward, I’ve never gone for someone because of their veneer smile or perfectly preened facial hair. Instead, I’ve always dated the unconventionally gorgeous rather than the Brad Pitts of the world. Perhaps that’s because I’m not one of the gobsmackingly beautiful Angelina’s of the world, or perhaps because I think with my lugs rather than my lust. If someone can quite literally stop me breathing from laughter, they’ll always win over those who catch my breath because they’re tonker than Thomas the Tank.

Although undoubtedly a horrible generalisation, I’m not too sure I could trust the hottest of totties for longer than a snog in a club. Perhaps that comes down to my own insecurities, or maybe it comes down to watching my friends fall in the face of fitties. Either way, I think many are missing out on the good stuff because they quite simply, judge a book by its cover.

Take the new romance that has sprung off the back of being a celebrity between the talented Pro Green and MIC’s Millie Mackintosh. I judged them when I first spotted them in a glossy magazine. One, because I “knew” that if she’d met him growing up in Hackney as opposed to now, a UK rapper hanging out in Mahiki, she’d wouldn’t have gone near him with a polo stick. Thinking back, I might’ve judged too quickly. Perhaps Stephen Manderson enjoys jam and crumpets? Perhaps Camilla enjoys a fag and a bottle of voddy behind the bike sheds? Who really knows? And who on earth am I to judge? They’ve obviously found a common ground and have decided to take a stroll.

So give that person who might not “fit the bill” a shot. After all, you never know what lies beneath. I always thought my “type” was a rather large, well spoken, rugby player. How wrong was I?

So although I’ve worked out that everyone on the planet is a catch, why do I still grapple with the issue of working out my own strengths? All I seem to see when I look in the mirror is a slightly dodgy nose, a spattering of freckles and an awkward walk. What I should see is another catch of the day. Someone smack me in the face please and remind me that I, like everyone else, has that something that someone’s looking for.

The only thing that doesn’t have that special something?

Marmite.

But that’s just common sense.

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The Promise.

Between pancakes, BRIT nominations, London Fashion Week and Valentine’s Day, February is arguably that little bit better than bleak and frosty January.

But for those of us raised in a reasonably religious household, February also ushers in the start of all things Easter, beginning with lent. And for me, this means one thing only: giving up baguettes, thickly sliced loaves and anything by the dozen, all for forty days and forty nights.

Now I know that most of you will try and remain chaste from chocolate, or even make the effort to avoid sugar altogether. You might even be contemplating going t-total or surviving without caffeine, but I personally need to take my annual break from my long-term boyfriend: Bread. Although he rises right on cue when things get hot, he’s also not very good for me. He makes my thighs expand and my tummy bloat, he makes me eat too much butter and cheese and he can’t resist getting messy when it comes to Balsamic Vinegar. He is, sadly enough, my guilty pleasure. And it’s at this point that I can’t possibly feel anymore Irish.

When it comes to my lentern promises, I will be the first to admit that I am selfish in my yearly abstinence. The same as every year, by Easter Sunday, just in time for my birthday, I simply wish to be a few pounds lighter. It has nothing to do with Jesus, God or any of his disciples. No, as per usual, it oozes selfishness, but my promise allows me to feel a little sense of achievement as I settle down on Easter morning to some peanut butter on toast. And as I push my chocolate eggs to one side on that day of rest, I will, without fail, swear that I didn’t even miss toast that much as I gobble down my fifth slice. So even if motivated by selfish reasons give something up or do something good everyday for the duration of lent. You’re guaranteed to feel something, even if it is just a looser waistline.

So although Josh Hartnett did endure one of the most challenging of challenges, I think I rise to it with my break from bread, although to be honest I’d much rather part with a penis than a Panini any day of the week.

And unlike a man, after we’ve taken a break from each other for over a month, he won’t ask questions when I make like a toaster and whisper “I want you inside me”. Bread will softly reply, “That’s hot.” And hop right in.

That’s love for you.

Happy Pancake Day everyone!

 

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The Valentine.

Last year I spent Valentine’s Day with my ex-boyfriend in McDonald’s which, genuinely, has been my favourite love day to date. A Big Mac and a stroll through Exeter city centre and I’m all yours, apparently. And before you assume that I was only content with such a budget date because I was a student, I can tell you that I’d still much rather sit in McDonalds getting pea-shot-at by delinquents than paying double for a meal at Pizza Express, whilst rubbing shoulders with newly-weds and soppy couples called Jasper and Mimi.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no cupid-quasher and am an absolute sucker for huge, romantic gestures, but something I’d like to see happen is for real love to be expressed on the most doting of days rather than just accepting the crappy Hallmark definition.

Carrie Bradshaw once said that she was, “Looking for Love. Ridiculous, inconvenient,  all-consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love”. And on first watching that final episode of undoubtedly one of the best television series of all time, I thought that this was romance at its finest. But as time goes by, I’ve started to wonder whether or not this is in fact something that lots of us crave, all the while totally taking for granted real love.

For love to be ‘all consuming’, it verges on an addiction. And an unhealthy one at that. For it to be “inconvenient”, it normally involves sacrifice of sorts. So one of you might already be attached or you could be living far away from each other. These components make everything far more intense and cause you to label your feelings as a matter of urgency, perhaps thrusting us into the label of love when in reality it’s something very different?

As I’ve mentioned before (on roughly 4576 occasions), I have been in love once in my life. And although it has recently come to pass, it did teach me what real love is. It’s not that bizarre teenage love that consumes you for the duration of sixth form. Instead it’s quite literally offering someone your last Rolo. Or leaving a great party early when they’ve had too much to drink or buying a train ticket to see them even when you’ve almost maxed out your overdraft.

I’ve come to realise that real romantic love should be as infinite and comparable to that which you have for your best friend (minus the canoodling of course). For instance, I would never in a million years contemplate swapping any of my best girl friends for any other women. And real romantic love should feel the same. If you look back at every Valentine’s Day since you were aware of its arguably pathetic existence, I can assure you that there will have been one new love interest per year. But I bet your bestie has remained well after you’ve closed the door behind all of them. That’s real love. You know that feeling you get when you’re with someone and nobody else in the room exists? When there are ten people better looking than Gerard Butler or Megan Fox put together but there’s only one person you wish to take home? That’s also love.

Basically, when you experience real love, the grass is always greener on your side of the fence.

I’m lucky because my parents have lived through a long and happy marriage and when challenged about how she has remained faithful during those twenty-five years married to my father, mum proudly replies, “Because he’s enough”. And as unromantic as that ‘enough’ might sound to you, it’s probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. It’s the contentment and utter acceptance of who each other are that I find so inspired. And that’s why I think they’ve lasted a whole quarter of a century.

Life is only full of ups and downs if you let yourself get taken along for the ride, and with the right person, even the most challenging of circumstances can be plain sailing.

So if you’re looking for someone to spend your life with, then you won’t want what Carrie calls ‘real love’. Instead, you’ll want friendship, with that certain je ne sais quoi thrown in.

Not just a shit card on Valentine’s Day.

Happy 14th February everyone.

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The Position.

I think a lot of people feel as though their favourite sexual position says a lot about their personality. And I couldn’t agree more.

I, for instance, would rather say in public that my favourite position is doggy-style because, as a woman, it makes me feel all seductive and devious. In reality, I love a good missionary. But in certain social situations I’d keep tight lipped about this fact. After all, it’s almost like opting for plain toast over jam or marmalade. Totally uninteresting and lacking in lacklustre. Butter on toast is sex’s equivalent to the cowgirl, if you will.

But while I’ll remain sexually explicit on the outside, I’ll still vye for the ‘mundane’ on the inside. I mean come on, surely to God I’m not alone in thinking “so what?” when people go on and on about the fact that they’ve had sex in some ‘seriously outrageous places’? The fact is, although you might feel a little bit naughty because you’re engaging in al fresco activities, you’ve probably also got grass in hard-to-reach places and sand in your saddle bags. And although the thrill of being caught is promising, the possibility of starring in a tantalising peep show is overshadowed by the reality that some old pervert is whacking off to your antics from behind a wheelie bin. I’m therefore not jealous of your experiences, I’d just recommend checking the internet for some unwanted up-skirt shots from around the back of Infernos.

Another position I’ve grappled with for years now is the standing position. Although ideal when propped up against a wall or able to rest on some sort of ledge, the standing position only works if the guy is able to lift you in the first place. I’m no heavy weight but I do have some mild junk in my trunk and I cannot tell you how disheartening that subtle groan is coming from your man, not because you’re doing something right, but because you’re quite literally too heavy to handle.

The most likely location for standing sex to take place is the shower and the prospect of this fills me with dread. For me, the most powerful showers peel away at my fake tan, I constantly fail to keep my head from being placed under the stream of water turning my sultry waves into a frizz bomb and I wouldn’t really ever want to have sex with no makeup on so I’d go from looking pristine to panda in around thirty seconds. Just about as long as the sex would last before one of us slipped on the soap and was taken to A&E. Trust me, it happened.

Then there’s sex on unsuspecting furnishings that people so love to brag about. “We had sex on the stove last night”. Why on earth would you want to romp on the same place your rump was frying the night before? I feel as though I could make some sort of saucy joke here, but I’ll refrain.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no prude. I like a good marathon as much as the next girl and there’s nothing better than a need-you-now moment, but there is also nothing better than sticking to what you know. And much like finding the perfect dress, you’ll spend hours traipsing around (all hot and bothered) finding the perfect one, only to realise that you found it in the first shop you browsed that morning.

Having said all this, in a game of sexually orientated ‘I have never’, my glass is normally one of the first to be emptied.

Trial and error kids, trial and error.

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