Mouthy sluts

Sometimes in life you are a victim of circumstance. A series of events, timings and inevitablilities can end up forcing you into atrocious situations you wouldn't normally have left yourself exposed to.

My recent fate (the time I take my lunch at coupled with the facts that our staff room has two stations-ITV and AV, and that I usually feel too brain dead to read a book) has led me to dark depths. I have unwittingly become a follower of ITV's female led panel show Loose Women.
A show which "consists of a panel of four women who interview celebrities and discuss topical issues, ranging from daily politics and current affairs, to celebrity gossip and sexism."

Today saw them discussing (with guest panelist Fizz from Coronation street) the ever so topical engagement of Prince William and Kate. Proceedings got very spirited, as you can imagine, and the excitement was oozing out of their painted mouths at the rate of knots when they started discussing the potential dress designs and wedding speeches. Things took a turn for the worst though when they had a heated debate over whether or not it was right for him to give her his dead Mother's ring. Handbags at dawn-quite literally.

I find it very hysterical that a show which lists sexism as one of it's topics would not even see the ironic irony in it's own title. Only mouthy sluts have opinions, is it? Its a title that was clearly meant to induce surprise once you got into it- "that must be a show full of cum guzzling knacker tarts" and then switch it on to be greeted by a group of strong, mature women who have refused to let themselves go . They have opinions ladies, and they aren't prepared to hide them!

What you actually get is a pack of divorce ridden trolls in blusher who churn out dollops of celebrity horseshit glossed over with a lick of current affairs (just to show women can talk politics too.)

I'm not opposed to women only shows if I felt they were entertaining, in any way representative or were serving any purpose in our quest for equality. They should just give up the ghost, get their tits out, throw down some double bacardis and start simulating blow jobs on chippendales.

My Vagina; My Hometown

I saw the vagina monologues during the week in Trinity. I dont know what I was expecting. I watched a documentary with Eve Ensler and had seen snippets, and a few years ago, in a mortifying moment of extreme self confidence I'd even auditioned to be in it. I knew what I was getting myself into. As I watched the monologues that were punctuated with horror stories from the Congo and cautionary tales of how many people were raped and murdered so we could have mobile phones, I felt embarrassed. And it wasn't for the performances, which for the most part were really, really good.



I'm sure someone standing on the stage shouting "CUNT! CUNT! CUNT! CUNT!" while waving their fist at you is meant to be shocking, but it just wasn't. Tales of the joy of having a full bush and cumming for the first time probably should have felt liberating, but they just didn't. As the coochie snorchers, vulvas, and clitori rolled out, I felt red in my cheeks and heat on my neck. As I dabbed my (coincidentally) streaming eye I hoped that no one thought it was because I was overcome with emotion. Because I definitely wasn't.



Maybe its the filthy company I keep, or my sprightly age, or maybe (as I fear Eve might think) I'm secretly just a repressed dried up old vagina in need of a hand mirror and a hot bath.