Friday, August 26, 2011


My Vagina Is Not French

This morning I went for my Brazilian waxing. It is still the summer here in Hong Kong, and I am often required to parade myself on super-yachts, in a series of increasingly revealing bikinis, to ensure repeat invitations. Nothing is more likely to get you back riding the Star Ferry with all the plebs, than unsightly pubic hairs escaping from the gusset.

I have found a useful waxing woman, who just about keeps the right side of bull dyke, and seems to do an efficient and reasonably painless job. There is everything to be proud about, for being a good minge waxer. So many people are shit at it.A particularly vicious, butcher beautician, left me bleeding from my perineum, something which I consider should only happen during childbirth, or after a especially vigorous night of passion. Inept waxing has made me sore for days. I have had an allergic reaction to the wax, which caused stinging and a great reluctance to sit, for about a week. Yes, the art of bikini waxing is one which, when mastered, should be an occasion of great pride for the practitioner.

If you are good at something, there is no need to try and add other strings to the bow. One of the skills I sometimes use in my job as a therapist, is hypnosis. I can hypnotise people, but I don't feel tempted to learn how to saw them in half as well. I'm a mental health therapist, not a fucking magician, even if we do use some of the same techniques. In the same way, I don't expect my waxing lady to lose focus on the business of removing hair from my fanny and start practising clairvoyance.

"Ah, it is you" She said "You want all the hair off, right? I remember you". I was a little insulted by this, as have always thought the "Hollywood" look to be one that women wheel out for men who are closet paedos. I don't like the thought of some bloke banging me and pretending I am ten. It's just a bit hideous, and I especially don't like being mistaken for one of those idiot, paedo-shagging whores.

The other sort of women who have Hollywoods, are those ones with the grey pubes,who don't want men to notice that they are old boilers. My pubes are still untroubled by grey, and in Hong Kong, blonde pubes are rather a curiosity. I am not going to lose that edge, thank you, and I hope I do not look old enough to "need a hollywood".

"No, not all the hair off. Just leave a little"

"Ah - you want landing strip, right? I remember now".

At this point I went slightly pale. "No. I want a small triangle. Natural looking shape, but just really tiny". Landing strips are for people who need to earn their living through their vaginas, or for unimaginative chavs who think marrying a retarded sportsman is the height of success.

I disrobed and she had a good old stare at my vulva and a prod around the houses with a glorified lolly stick.

"Are you French?" She asked "French women have very strong hair. You have very strong hair. Like French woman."

I just couldn't be less French if I tried. I am tall, I am very blonde. I don't eat snails or cream. I hate coffee. I have large hips and huge feet and broad shoulders, and avoid horizontal stripes and berets. The only reason she could have for calling me french, is that I have a French minge.

People have given me shit in the past, for showing insecurities about my vagina. Women are supposed to be proud of their clouts and and see them as powerful life giving forces, that have the potential to keep men in thrall. We are encouraged to go on that show "The Vagina Monologues", or to pay money to watch other women droning away about their clunges on it. We are expected to go to Anne Summers parties and wave enormous, cervix-eroding dildos about, whilst cackling like hags. Well, I say this to you, vagina-overconfident women. I am in solidarity with men, who have small penises. And with men who have penises with a bend in them, or uneven shaped balls, or a really gargantuan and misshapen head. I am not in solidarity with them because my pudenda is unsightly, it is not. I am being insecure about my vagina because somebody called it French.


Friday, August 05, 2011


Fast or Feast?

Today I watched a clip about UFOs, and this man was going on: "We have the technology to travel to the stars. Aliens have been sharing intelligence with us".

Having worked in mental health, I just rolled the old eyes and thought "Here we fucking go. The next sentence out of his mouth will be about the antenna he has in his brain, and he'll round it off with an announcement that he is the next Messiah with a message for us all". Loonies tend to go down the same couple of roads. They are either scared shitless of the television and how it is looking at them funny, or they think they should have a channel on it all to themselves and tell everyone important messages from on high.

Interestingly no one else seemed to think this man was a mentaller, and people got awfully excited "Alien intelligence, how interesting, and you say it is because the information carried a high level secrecy rating that that is the reason no one else knows about these Alien liaison agencies, telling us how to fly into space". I'm exhausted by the chatter about UFOs and the like. I just couldn't give a shit about aliens or their vehicles. This planet is already wearing me fucking thin and the stars, apart from the sun as I like a decent tan in the summer, can kiss my arse and fuck off while they are doing it. In the next breath, someone else was harping on about how we have never, actually been to the moon, yet the moon is incredibly close compared to even the nearest star. "Oh no" said this one "There is no way anyone has actually set foot on the moon. It was just propoganda, to poke one in the eye of the Russians".

Where were those fucking Alien Navigation Experts then, hhmm? Does anybody know the answer?

Well, I know why the Aliens did not help spacemen get to the big, dumb moon. It is because they were not interested in petty earth squabbles about who was the fastest up into space, or Communism vs Capitalism. And who can blame them? I am a human and both of those things bore me rigid. If I had one eye, and a very long forehead, and lived in a jellified crater, I can't for a second see myself getting all revved up about either of those questions. And especially if I were a one-alien-genius Universal Navigation Expert, then the idea of directing a bunch of bickering men in oversized white suits and heavy boots, to the equivalent of the corner shop, would leave my rubbery green skin, entirely cold.


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