Samantha Brick: Maybe you're just a bitch?

If you hadn't heard of journalist Samantha Brick before last week, you certainly have now.

Samantha Brick as caused a two day storm on Twitter, after she wrote an article on the Daily Mail entitiled: 'Why do women hate me for being beautiful?'. Since her article went online, she received 5,000 comments and gained the Daily Mail 1.5 million hits to their website. Impressive.

But why has it got people so riled up?

Firstly, it is critical that we look at the offending subject matter: Brick's beauty.



"I'm not smug." Really? Really?!



Now Samantha Brick is not an unattractive lady. Her airbrushed photograph reveals perfectly highlighted blonde hair, groomed nails and a simple complection that makes her a particularly unoffensive sight for the eyes. In fact, I bet thousands of men are really into that over-the-hill school teacher simplicity. But beautiful, she is not. Now I could sit here for hours and try to define beauty, or I could point out some of the universally considered beauties of the day. So I'm gonna go with the latter, because I'm lazy as shit.

The sexy and smouldering Angelina Jolie. The cute-as-a-button Zooey Deschanel. The blonde bombshell that is Scarlett Johansen. These woman can be labelled as 'beautiful'. In fact, they are labelled as beautiful every single day. But, now here is the ever so crucial difference; they have never labelled themselves as beautiful. And that's what everyone is so pissed off about.

Samantha Brick herself realised in the article that she was "no Elle McPherson" but nevertheless claimed to be so beautiful that her looks have affected her career, her relationships and her social life. What she seems to be missing is that no one, not even her idol Elle McPherson is that beautiful.

Even comapnies and celebrities are jumping on the bandwagon.

Samantha Brick claimed that people would stop on the street to admire her beauty. Not only that, they would then go and buy flowers for her, buy her champagne and even train tickets, that's how beautiful she (says she) is. Most hilariously of all, she now comes to expect this kind of behaviour wherever she goes and takes random acts of kindness as a token to her beauty. After a airline captain sent over a bottle of champagne on a flight, she writes, "While it was lovely, it wasn't a surprise. At least, not for me."

But the article wasn't about how beautiful she is. It was about the dark side to beauty, and how her godforsaken looks nearly ruined her life. No, not rape. No, not human trafficking either. Erm, no, not eating disorders. Shit, this is getting a little embarrasing now. No, it's not to do with mental issues either, though I suppose that it debatable. Yes, you've got it! Her beauty caused no significant life problems whatsoever.

Samantha Brick details how she was prevented from climbing the career ladder because her female boss was jealous of her undeniable beauty. Another boss told her that her dress sense was "too distracting" for her colleagues, forcing her to don unflattering pant suits. She talks about how her friends would turn to ice whenever she was around their husbands. But why, oh why, can't she see that this has nothing to do with looks?

Since the internet has turned against her, Samantha Brick has written a comeback story, saying that the reaction has "proved" the fact that people hate her because she is beautiful. What's more, she is now trying to write the reaction off as "a gender issue". No one hates Samantha Brick because she is beautiful, I think that is clear to see. In fact, no one really hates Samantha Brick. Mostly people are a little embarrassed for her and the rest find it absolutely hilarious that someone has turned around, in real life and written online on the Daily (bloody) Mail: "Don't hate on me for being really, really, ridiculously good-looking."

She may be very hurt by the comments people have made about her, but it seems that she still doesn't understand that no one thought she was particularly ugly before that article, but stating that you are beautiful inevitably brings critique.

Samantha Brick has been deluded into thinking that it is her beauty that has resulted in women "hating" her. If it has been universally aknowledged that she is simply not that pretty, then what else could it be? After pondering this for quite some time I have come to this astounding and somewhat revolutionary conclusion: Maybe she's just a bitch.

A Day at the Races: Tips from a first timer

On a whim after handing in my dissertation, I decided to tag along with my boyfriend to the Cheltenham Horse Races. I didn't win anything, it was freezing cold, and I was nowhere near drunk enough, but I had an absolutely fabulous time.

The atmosphere of horse racing is markedly different to that at a football match where it seems that noise for the sake of noise a totally acceptable way of cheering on your team. Neither is the atmosphere as reined in as at Wimbledon where every cough causes people to turn around and look at you. Instead, the day was filled with moments of jubilation, stress and a lot of Guinness.

Well, let's pretend that's true for a minute.

The first thing to know about a day at the races, is that drinking starts early. Not afternoon early, morning early. I shakily carried a pint of ale to our table at the pub at around 10.30am. It was a very bizzare feeling; it was so early in the morning that I felt as though I needed some Dutch Courage to get that pint down me, ironically. As it happens, as soon as I got the first few sips out the way, I was soon on to ordering another, and feeling rather pleased about it as I grinned at my boyfriend's friends from across the table.

An important thing to take into account is that there is a lot of walking, a lot of standing around, and in some cases a bit of running to the bar/bookies. Luckily, I was feeling pretty smug in my boots as we all walked to the race course. It took me a little while to realise how tipsy I had become as I launched into a discussion about daffodils: "They really are such a happy flower aren't they?" I was promptly told to shut up and keep walking as I chortled away with another member of our group about my drunken epiphany.

Soon enough we were queuing up to enter the Best Mate enclosure which offered the cheapest tickets to watch the horse racing. Unfortunately, we had arrived a little late and by the time I got my head around who was the favourite to win in the first race and understood what "five pounds each way" meant, it was a little late for me to place my bet. Not all was lost, as I had a chance to look around and take it all in. What first struck me was that I was most definitely in the minority, gender wise. The second thing that occurred to me was that not all bookies are crooks. Online betting shop, Paddy Power, clearly knew the truth of the Cheltenham Races populace as their controversial and now banned advert illustrated.

I don't know why people keep trying to deny it, Chavs are very much part of our society and, much like the African antelope, thrive on social interaction when near a watering hole or, indeed, a Guinness trailer. Apart from an incident at the bar when I was shouted out by an intelligible man who seemed to be angered that I was holding two pints of Guinness- "Don't worry, there's more!"- the day was not made unpleasant and there was no fighting, as there was at Ascot last year.

A final tip: If you're a sore loser, don't bet. It is as simple as that, or at least it was for me. Sore losers are often those that are more likely to fall victim to the sin of gambling; the more they lose, the more they want to win, the more money they spend. Not me. I was so distraught when my horse came fourth that I stalked off to get yet another pint all the while muttering phrases including "the whole world's out to get me" and "bloody unfair". I tried my luck one final time in a stingy £1 each way bet on a horse I liked the name of, and can you believe it, I lost again. It is probably already clear that I don't know the first thing about horse racing, and I probably should have read some sort of manual before I committed myself, but there we are.

Between races, the forty minutes or so goes so quickly in between going to the toilet (a breeze if you're a lady) grabbing a drink and placing a bet so a day at the races goes a lot faster than most people imagine it to. It can get a bit hectic, running along the bookies to try and find the best odds, all the while looking out for a group of guys in tweed, sipping single malt scotch from a hip-flask. Oh yes, the boyfriend went all out for this event. Stress levels peaked and dropped throughout the day which were directly connected to the times at which the finish line was crossed and when Guinness was consumed.

I learnt my lesson from betting on the jockey with the nicest bottom.

All in all, there was much laughter, much excitement and much Guinness. Going to the races is an event I would recommend to anyone with a penchant for afternoon drinking and a competitive streak. What better excuse to get drunk in the middle of the day and watch a bunch of short guys compensate for something?

Have the races changed my life? No. But I have opened a Paddy Power account.

Five Things They Never Told You About Sex

Do you remember the bewilderment you felt after the first time you had sex? I certainly do, but my bewilderment soon turned to embarrassment which then turned to anger. How dare people let you go through life learning about sex and then 'forget' to tell you about all the disgusting bodily functions that occur during and after coitus?! Here's a round up of the top five things they should have told us before we embarked on our sexual adventures. 

Fanny Farts

Fanny farting is possibly the most embarrassing thing to happen to a girl mid-intercourse. The fart-like sound erupts when we least expect it, causing us to go bright red and mumble something about “trapped air”. The problem is, where there is one fanny fart, there are more, and the only way to get them all out is by moving/jumping/wriggling until you think it’s all over. I have heard, though don’t believe, that it is worse for boys who feel unbearably awkward as they struggle to keep an erection and try not to think of you farting.

RUEF (Random Unprovoked Erectile Failure)

Maybe if it thinks I'm not looking, it will get hard.
No?

It’s hot. Really hot. You are both semi-undressed, your girlfriend presses her hand up against your leg and moves it up your crotch and- nothing. For some reason, you don’t have a raging hard on. She stops kissing you and looks at you with a mix of bewilderment and sheer disappointment, which only makes it worse as you urge blood to flow to your unmentionable. It’s annoying and frustrating for both parties, as you both try to get dressed again while retaining your dignity.

The Messy Aftermath

In every movie sex-scene, there is no mention of a condom (unless key to the plot, i.e. Knocked Up) so I take it we are to assume there isn’t one. Bearing that in mind, the sex-scene happens, the man rolls of the woman and then they both just lay there without any mention of the massive wet patch in the middle of the bed. And then the woman just gets up and goes about her business! What about the trail of sticky white stuff running down your leg, lady? Are you just gonna leave it there? Someone should tell you: keep tissues next to the bed, things get messy. But they don’t, unfortunately for your dry cleaning bill.

Orgasms don’t happen like ‘that’

I had a conversation with someone the other day who has the viewpoint: you are still a virgin until someone else gives you an orgasm. If this were true, I have been a virgin for half my sexual history. Men, I fear, are slightly mislead by porn films about how easy it is to give a girl the big O. A girl will not start manically moaning 10 seconds into sex, unless she is faking it. Sorry boys, someone had to tell you. For ladies, a little work and a lot of patience is needed before her world will shake with pleasure.

There’s no such thing as ‘no strings attached’ sex

I long for Sex and the City’s Samantha’s attitude towards sexual encounters: get in me and get out, but it wasn’t that simple for me. After a few weeks of being someone’s friend with benefits, I found myself thinking about him in other places than the shower. I got butterflies when I saw him and I found all his jokes hilarious. Eventually it hit me that I had feelings for this guy, because sex, as much as it can be a recreational thing, also creates an emotional bond due to the dozens of chemical reactions that occur left, right and centre in the body during and after sex. It may not be the same for everyone, but we’re all human, and sex undoubtedly changes the way you feel about someone, even if that feeling is ‘I never want to go through what you think is sex ever again’.

Don't take it personally, but I'm only with you for your pole.

Why Should We Save The Intern?

There is yet another storm on Twitter (what is it, cyber-monsoon season?) over an intern that really buggered it up tweeting: "I should log out of my twitter so that my intern doesn't twit-rape me..." The comment was met with disgust and outrage as many took offence to the term 'twit-rape' possibly believing it to be the rape of a particularly dim-witted individual. (That was sarcasm, by the way, in case anyone gets offended.) What made the whole scenario ever so slightly worse was that the person getting 'twit-raped' in this scenario happened to be a kind of important Labour MP called Tom Watson.

Photo from Blottr.com

It was at this moment that hundreds of people all over the country struck their palms to their heads and exhaled sharply through their teeth. And possibly did the awkward turtle manouvre. Writing on your boss's Twitter account is probably in the 'NoNo' section in any office rules of conduct. Referring to rape, tax evasion or a cat/mistress/wife love triangle (yes, John Hemming, we mean you) is probably in the 'Under No Circumstances - Not Even Under Torture or Threat of Vanessa Feltz Using You as Chair' section of that office rule book. The fact of the matter is, if you wrote something on your boss's Twitter that had an offensive term in it, depending on the boss, you would get fired, or receive several painful slaps on the wrist. And most people would agree that any consequences of such a thoughtless but essentially harmless act would be deserved.


Apparently, not when it comes to the intern of Tom Watson. Twitter is buzzing with people talking about the "poor intern who screwed up" with #SaveTheIntern hashtags popping up left, right and, err, well it's really just on the right of the screen isn't it? Anyway, the popular feeling of the Tweeters out there seems to be that the intern should get off with no punishment at all, seeing as they got Tom Watson an extra 500 followers. Unfortunately, in the real world, gaining your boss Twitter followers will not redeem a punishable action. However, this is 'cyber world' and things work a little differently in there, don't they? People are now calling for the intern to get paid for this idiotic mistake rather than be struck off like any other intern would have been at this point.

Maybe he'll keep me on if I do my puppy dog eyes...

What people seem to be forgetting is that interns are qualified men and women hoping to work their way up the job ladder, people that have been to school, college and even university. Interns will make mistakes, just like any other person of any other age and will pay for them, so why is Tom Watson's intern getting so much sympathy? In the work place, life is very simple. If you fuck up, you pay the consequences, no matter how many people are supporting you on Twitter. Let's hope Tom Watson realises this before promoting his intern to Executive Media Correspondent.

Read the full story here on Blottr: http://www.blottr.com/breaking-news/tom-watsons-twitter-account-taken-over-intern

Why You Shouldn't Take Part in Vajanuary

All of us had to suffer through the month of November when countless numbers of men grew their moustaches - a month which was affectionately known as Movember. This was all in aid of a fantastic cause but ladies everywhere had to suffer from stubble rash after kissing a charitable man for an entire month.

Literally the only man that could pull off a mo - why don't other men understand this?

Now, ladies have a chance to get back at their man in a venture called: Vajanuary. Unlike Movember, Vajanuary is not an excuse to let hair grow to extreme proportions disguised as a worthy cause, this is simply for the sake of pubic hair growth. Reports have recently come to light that some people have actually raised money with their beaver beard - but how? The official website for Movember called for weekly photo updates to check your progress in hair growth. I dread to think that somewhere on the internet, there's a gallery specifically dedicated to pubic hair progress pictures.

[Pause to vomit in bucket/bin/hands]

Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's fucking disgusting. No one likes to see a bushy bush, and that includes the Peeping Tom sitting in your tree. Give him a wave - it's cold out there, he's clearly a trooper.

Say hi to Tom. Peeping Tom.

January is now drawing to a close, and I don't know anyone that's actually grown their panty-jungle. Although then again, why would I? Every time I ask people personal questions these days, people keep their deepest darkest secrets hidden, else they fear it will be spread all over the internet.

"So," I asked my group of closed girlfriends "is anyone doing... Vajanuary?"

"Bless you."

After I explained, my question was met with all kinds of ridiculous claims of invasion of privacy blablabla.

"Calm down guys," I said "I'll only write about it if it's really really funny, and even then you'll remain anonymous."

"No, Stef, we're not going to tell you if we have been waxing our vaginas recently."

Spoil sports. Essentially this means this story is poorly researched with little to no evidence of Vajanuary taking place. The lack of evidence, however, has led me to believe that either no one is growing their pubic hair or people have learned to be wary of me.

Look! There's literally a beaver in her pants! The little things amuse me.

Now the thing I, and I imagine people everywhere want to know, is why in the name of all that is holy would you take part in Vajanuary? I can only assume that it is a form of flagrant feminism that is, for once, kept under wraps.

The history of feminism has always been a loud and aggressive call for equality and an end to sexism in the workplace and at home. Feminism has always been a rather 'in-your-face' demonstration of women who want more. Examples include bra-burning in the streets of New York, vowing never to use a razor again and simply getting butt naked in Washington Square Park. At the time, this was a shocking and controversial way to grab the attention of those in power and point out that there really is a problem with sexual equality in the Western world.

However, times have changed. No, women have not achieved equality, but we're a hell of a lot closer than we used to be. I think it is totally unfair, let alone ignorant, to say that women haven't achieved anything since the '60s but, yes, there is more to be done.

Do people really think that participating in Vajanuary is going to make a feminist point? Feminists have grown their box curtains for years to get back at men but while it was mildly shocking (not to mention in vogue) then, it's simply a little bit gross now.

Now I'm not saying everyone go out there and get a Hollywood as it's goddamn painful to say the least, I'm saying don't participate in this ridiculous folly. Keep your vagina hair under control - it won't make the least bit of difference to anyone other than your boyfriend who may find he is being forced to floss a little more regularly.

London Christmas Shoppers: The Rules

I don't know how many of you have braved the streets of Central London to find Christmas gifts for your loved ones, but if you have, you have my deepest sympathies. Christmas shopping, which used to be a rather pleasant affair to be accompanied by tea and biscuits in the afternoon, is now a bloodbath of inconsiderate shoppers who will stop at nothing to piss each other off.

Is it really worth all the risks?

I myself headed to Oxford Circus yesterday after a bit of cash came my way. I hopped on the bus from East London and the sight of Christmas decorations and the dark London streets touched a romantic nerve in my bitter and cynical body and I'll admit to you all - I was excited. After having been in Birmingham for several months straight, I craved the sight my home city and during my journey on the number 8 bus, got rather worked up as the bright lights and glamorous shops of Oxford Circus came into view. I hopped off the bus, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and was ambushed. That's the only way I can describe it. Hoards and hoards of people came at me from every direction, seeming not to notice me, swinging bags and gesticulating wildly. Being a London girl, I managed to recover quickly and made my way to the nearest shop before lighting up to take in the action. Once I found a gap in the throngs of people, I joined the crowd heading towards Bond Street and that, dear reader, is when the anger struck. I felt what can only be described as burning hatred towards every person in front of me that forced me to dodge and weave my way towards my desired destination, Selfridges.

The Selfridges Christmas decorations - untainted by hoards of shoppers.

I finally arrived flustered and seething with anger. I stalked past Chanel and Jimmy Choo and went straight downstairs for a free espresso (in case you didn't already know: Nespresso, Food and Dining section. Ask a trainee for a sample). This is very unlike me. I could spend hours lingering amongst luxurious leathers I will never be able to afford, but on this occasion, I simply had to calm down. How can Christmas shoppers cause so much distress? I thought. Then I realised. I am one of them. After pausing to think after my espresso, I thought, it would be great if someone made a list of rules for Christmas shoppers to follow, outlining simple etiquette that should be followed by every person making their way to London for the Christmas season. That someone is me.

Smokers

You're stressed. You're panicking. The shops close in three hours and you haven't got a gift for your mother-in-law's sister or your cousin twice removed. You need a smoke. I get it. But it is totally unacceptable to simply stop unexpectedly in the path of a fellow Christmas shopper to light a cigarette. The whole experience can be rather startling for those around you who will have to dodge and find a new system of walking on the street with a brand new obstacle in their way. It would be similar if a postbox sprung into existence in the middle of the street. Though a little less weird.

Buggy Pushers

It would be far easier if children were outlawed from the whole shopping experience, but alas, they are not, so we all have to deal with them.  It could be made a great deal less distressing for fellow walkers if you keep your buggy aimed in a straight line and do not use it as a weapon to slow down Christmas shoppers around you.

Little Jimmy's idea of Santa's grotto was greatly
confused by the appearance of Ginger Rogers.

Large Families

You all insist on forming groups so large that no one has a hope in hell of overtaking you. You walk slowly and you call out numbers to continually check that each member is there.  (If you've got a mean streak, say "where's number four?" very loudly and watch the family panic shouting "four?!" in an insane, parrot-like fashion. Devilishly fun.) As if that's not bad enough, you then proceed to stop every twenty yards to double check everyone's there. If you lose a kid in London, they'll just get taken to Hamley's and put in the Lost Children section of Lost Property. Or they'll make their way to a pub and have a hell of a time. Families should walk in single file and have faith that they'll stay connected. Failing that, shackles may be a good idea.

Arseholes

Arsehole: Are you talking to me?
Me: Yes I'm talking to you, I'm just trying to get past, would you mind terribly if you moved ever so slightly to the left?
Arsehole: Are you insulting me now?

It's wannabe de Niros like this guy that just make me want to punch someone. You can act like an arsehole back in New York, but when you're in London, oblige to common courtesy and recognise that when someone says "excuse me" they are not planning on stealing your wife, children or place in the queue and may, simply, be trying to get past.

General notes:

Be Polite: If everyone were polite to one another, the world really would be a better place. Be courteous and do not barge, bash or try to slither past other shoppers. It will only alert you to the sad fact that you aren't as thin as you thought you were.

To Take Photographs: In London, you will often find it is safer to stop on the road than the street during the busy Christmas season, so if you absolutely have to take a picture of a busker wearing a kilt, make your way to one of the concrete benches they have lining many roads in London. If there are no concrete benches, take a bloody mental picture and keep walking.

Speed: Londoners usually have this spot on, walk in a straight line, with purpose, do not barge or push and stop only in case of emergencies. (In case of desired shop entry see: Shop Entry Tactics) I'm no xenophobe, but foreigners have got to learn how to walk like a Londoner. There is far too much dilly dallying and ambling on the part of tourists, the likes of which should be made punishable by law in London.

Short of seeing this in a shop window, there is no excuse to stop.

Shop Entry Tactics: It's called the swerve. As previously stated, one should never ever stop on the streets of London, so upon approaching a shop you wish to enter, slow down, veer to the right and choose your moment to swerve smoothly into the shop of your choice.

Sorry: It has been proven to be the most used word by anyone British. Add it to your vocabulary book and use it whenever you are in doubt - you can't go wrong.

Happy Christmas shopping everyone!

Lonely Hearts Deserve to be Lonely

The other morning I was calmly browsing the Birmingham Mail when I came across the Lonely Hearts section. I proceeded to choke on my breakfast. Did a 67 year old man really ask for a between 20 and 30 year old for "no strings attached fun"?

"I've always wanted a woman with tits above her belly button."

I was saddened to find that the advertisements in the Birmingham Mail and any other newspaper with a Lonely Hearts section are all genuine. There really are people out there who, through the medium of local papers, feel it is acceptable to advertise themselves as "intelligent and sexy" or even "65 but flexible". After trawling through column after column of those who consider their hearts to be lonely, I felt disgusted. Yes, there were some relatively normal requests "lonely 30-something widower seeks companionship from intelligent lady" or "60 year old hiker seeks someone to go for long walks with", but these were few and far between. I have to say, the majority of the ads in the Lonely Hearts were simply vile and I had to wonder; who in the name of all that is holy has sent in a lonely ad, let alone found someone?

And then it hit me. My cousin and her husband met through a lonely hearts ad and they were married in 2008. Or 2009? Maybe it was 2007.

Hold on.

No, my mum doesn't know either. Anyway, the point is, they have been married for at least three years, and happily so. My cousin is a beautiful woman that simply decided to take action and find someone rather than wait around for Mr Right to show up on a white horse, Cadillac or similar. So I have to conclude that Lonely Hearts is not an entirely bad thing and, evidently, can lead to a happy marriage.

It takes a couple with balls to begin foreplay at the wedding dinner.
[NOT my cousin]

But still, I can't say that I wholly support it, simply because if they are not disgusting in request, they are very misleading and confusing. Of course, no one admits to being fat, instead everyone is "bubbly and busty" or "curvacious". But what if one is simply curvy? Would one have to lie and call oneself slim? Surely this can lead to moments of extreme disappointment when Lonely Hearts meet only to find that the "curvy blonde" they read about is, in fact, the fat check out girl at Asda that always reminded them of their mother. Similarly, it could lead to elation when the "bubbly, busty, brunette who comfort eats" is the spitting image of Nigella Lawson.

Actual Weight	Honest Description	Lonely Hearts Lie
24st	Morbidly obese with room for the entire cast of Flashdance in my pants	Full Figured
18st	Too fat to go abroad for fear of being mistaken for a beached whale	Voluptuous
15st	Fat, but with appropriate placement of duct tape, can appear curvy	Busty
12st	Voluptuous to the point of indecency	Bubbly
9st	Perfectly formed with breasts and bottom as bonus	Curvy

You see??? With the Lonely Hearts Lie, how will anyone ever know the truth?

Onto another point, what about the GSOH that every single person claims to have in their Lonely Hearts ad? Having a good sense of humour is something that everyone wants, but very few people have. You can't just throw the phrase around willy nilly when you have the sense of humour of Ed Miliband, Jo Brand or a wet fish! Actually, I did hear a good one the other day about Ed Miliband, a nose surgeon and Michael Jackson- but now is not the time. Furthermore, how can one claim to be intelligent? Someone may consider themselves intelligent for having discovered a way to get through their entire higher education simply by reading spark notes. Others may consider themselves intelligent for reading the entire Harry Potter series and finally realising that You Know Who, He Who Must Not Be Named and Voldermort are all the same person. The fact of the matter is, Lonely Hearts ads are designed for lonely people who aren't really fussed if they end up with a whale who claims to be curvy - so long as despite their white hair and liver spots they can still call themselves "a slightly older George Clooney".

"See? My Berlusconi impression is hilarious!
Someone love me."

Despite my Lonely Hears rant, no doubt in twenty years you'll see me in there:

Bubbly, busty blonde with GSOH searching for an intelligent man for conversation, fun, companionship, but mostly someone who will put up with all my shit so I don't die alone.