Entries Tagged as 'Pretty Noose'

Ladies of Pleasure

The women in my life are breathtakingly marvellous. Beautiful, accomplished, independent, opinionated, fiesty, fashionable, sweet natured but strong, and with a hedonistic streak of mischief. And, quite deliciously, there’s not a bitchy bone among us. Of course, this doesn’t preclude the odd piss-taking audible mutter or practical joke. To be a truly good girl you need to allow yourself a few small evils.

With the advent of summer we’re all starting to dust off our frocks, deciding a few weeks back that we’d go for a pleasure ride one weekend. It’s a simple premise: girls with tousled hair, pretty sundresses and adorable high heels, cycling blithley around the lakeside, ringing bells and waving to all and sundry. Thus, the Pleasure Society was born.

Until recently I’ve had an ambivalent relationship with the word ‘pleasure’ and I blame Jean M Auel, she of the “Clan of The Cave Bear” series of novels. As a euphemism for sex, ‘pleasure’ is at once a bit gross (it’s the lingering ‘l’ and ‘zh’ sounds, I think) and also completely lame and bland.

I’ve also felt a bit guilty about the induglence of partaking in pleasureable, luxurious activities, as if the fact that most of the world’s population is struggling to get by means I should suffer as much as possible, too, in solidarity. As I grow into being a woman, however, I’ve come to realise that making time for pleasure is not only necessary – it’s sensible!

One is much more able to deal calmly and rationally with the demands of others if one has taken the time to revel in the delights of being alive.

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Shit I have put up with over the fence

So all this Backyard Backanalia/podcast/Margaret complaining to the Chief Minister hoo-ha has got me thinking about my life as a musician and dweller in suburbia. While I can see how someone with delicate nerves would be disturbed by events such as having a group of actors shouting over the fence or even a Backyard Back, I would like to suggest that life as a performer can offer its own drawbacks in terms of neighbourly noise.

For instance, if you got home from a filthy, noisily drunken (the audience, not you) gig at 6am (after you’ve packed down and lugged all the heavy gear out of the venue, packed it in a car, cruised around for something approximating a meal, etc, etc) then the last thing you want is for your toss-pot neighbour to be flushing out his freaking motorboat at 9am on a Sunday, precisely onepointfive hours after you managed to get to sleep.

In case you don’t know it sounds like a choir of chainsaws. Every Sunday. Every Sunday all year.

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Crazy little thing called Love

I once had a boyfriend who hated the word ‘love’ and the fact that I used it so often. In his mind, to pronounce one’s love of a thing/person/place somehow devalued not only the concept of love, but the love that one (I) was offering. To him, the more love I professed, the less love I actually HAD. This is not a hugely uncommon train of thought, and is shared by such illustrious (although somewhat fucked-up) men as DH Lawrence (who strikes me as a complete pain in the arse as a partner, wonderful writer though he was).

The qualifier in this story is the fact that at the time I was all of 17 and the boyfriend – I hesitate to call him ‘lover’ – was 32.

Even then, in all my youthful romantic idealism and bubbling hyperbole, his attitude struck me as pretty churlish, particularly as he espoused a kind of messianic “love-for-the-masses” propaganda, despite having trouble scraping together enough love for one.

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The Problem with Men and Women.

There’s a lot of rubbish floating around the collective psyche about men and women and how we interact, or fail to. For example: Men and Women Can Never Really Be Friends. Which is bollocks. Even if you do end up shagging once, twice, or a few times, what’s to say you can’t wind up friends after all’s said and done? Some of my favourite and longest running friends with penises have been those whom I shagged in the distant drunken past, and it generally takes a careful search of the memorybank to remind me that it happened at all.

I blame much of this misinformation on stupid magazines who tailor too much of their material to the almighty demographic, rather than to people as individuals. Your cleo-cosmo-dolly girl-fodder, your fhm-zoo-loaded mc-messages. Never mind common sense or a little old-fashioned introspection: Quick! Take this Quiz and find out if you’re Too Clingy! or better yet: Is He Cheating On You? 20 Sure-fire Signs he’s Doing the Dirty.

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