fucking shove it

You know what, Simon Mills, why don't you crawl right back in to the hole you came from. Oh and take some journalism courses while you're in there. I hear the University of Phoenix offers some excellent distance learning programs, and you seem ideally suited to them. On said course you might like to learn a little something called fact checking and research! It's this super fun concept where when you write a bullshit opinion piece for the Telegraph (to be published in the oh so prestigious fashion section) you don't just pull the contents out of your arse!

Sounds great, huh?

I was angry reading your article, I really was. Phrases such as

"It is hard to argue that any of these irrefutably beautiful women has been anything but blighted - rather than enhanced - by her rash decision to become graffitied"

(So full of assumptions! So very patronising! So incredibly subjective!) and:

Most tattoos are the cheap plumage of the attention-seeker, visual ice breakers for last-chance barflies and aspiring reality TV show contestants. They certainly aren't scary or alternative any more. Now that they have been co-opted by the masses - the squares, the mortgaged, the Volvo drivers, the wusses and the girls - we have come to accept their fairground aesthetic in much the same way we have decided to allow Gordon Ramsay's pointless swearing.

(Oh no! Women get them, they are no longer valid! Also: Making sweeping generalisations about a sizable proportion of the population is fun and not at all hackish!) made me want to spit venom. But then I realised that essentially you are another irritating little man with an axe to grind, who for some reason takes offense at what people with no connection to you whatsoever do with their own bodies. Imagine that!

So now I kind of just feel bad for you. I'd still like you to go find that hole though.

Kisses

Alex

ps. you know it is possible Pharrell Williams is having removal work done so that he can improve the tattoos he has, this is actually an incredibly common reason for laser treatment as people evolve and change and wish their artwork to do so too. (You might want to factor that in to the statistics you're so fond of.) But it's cool though, if you want to keep making assumptions about the motivations of people you've never met I won't stop you.

pps. Spur of the moment flash ripped from the wall is a leeeeetle different from custom designed artwork requiring hours of work and lashings of skill

ppps. So glad you enjoyed my article enough to really take it to heart and follow the advice within it. Maybe next week you could write a piece about how maligned the White Middle Aged Male is, I hear that's pretty topical right now.

Update: apparently I wasn't the only person the Telegraph pissed off today.

a tribute to the truly marvellous pink pills which currently reside in my purse

Dear Pink Pills,

It's been a long time hasn't it? Almost seven whole years since we last crossed paths. I take partial responsibility for this, dearest Pink Pills, because I felt I didn't need you (and in truth I really didn't) and also because I couldn't get my hands on you without a prescription and, as much as I love you, my few scruples forbid me from flirting with doctors specifically to procure myself (unnecessary) medication. But this week I found myself needing you, desiring you, begging to have you back in my life (literally, I actually begged someone. Like, down on my knees, prostrate on the ground begged them). And you came through for me, Pink Pills. You made my life better - a place of happiness, light and a non-swollen ass in those hours I couldn't rely on my old mistress Red Wine to take the pain away. (Fabulous though she is, she isn't always appropriate company. Remember the mess she made the last time I enjoyed her company at work? Not. Good.)

You've helped me some tough times before, Pink Pills. Like the time we first met after I had been so roughly assaulted with a hockey stick one November morning (though others may quibble, I maintain that merely taking part in the game of hockey counts as a form of assault and so I will not be swayed in my declarations), or our encounter when you so kindly helped me recover from a tennis related injury (are you beginning to see now why I don't play sports?). But the time that I knew you were really for me, Pink Pills, when I knew that you were more than just a fairweather friend was when you helped me through the pain during my trip to Bolivia. When I pulled my Achilles tendon I thought I was going to pass out from the pain of walking on it. Being stuck in the middle of an area currently undergoing a civil war and knowing the only option was to keep on walking through the volcanic landscape to somewhere that we could finally camp was hard. The people I was travelling with bitching for over an hour about having to split my pack between them was harder. But you made it ok again, Pink Pills. You took away the pain and made it physically bearable.

And now, although I'm not asking you to help me climb mountains again, you have gotten me through the last eight hours at work. So I thank you for that, please don't think badly of me this evening when I abandon you again and run to the loving arms of my old alcoholic mistress. You know I love you - she's just more fun in social situations.

Thanks again, Pink Pills; for some you may be extra strength ibuprofen but for me you are 400 milligrams of candy coated joy.

Yours, analgesically

Alex

a letter, bursting with passive aggressivity, that probably shouldn't be open (and makes me look like a bitch) but either way is one he'll never read

A,

It's been a year now. A year since I last spoke to you, more than that since I last saw you. I honestly thought I'd never be in the position to say that. Honestly believed that despite all the bullshit and the game playing we were at least, underneath all the layers of passive aggression, friends. Although you tried to keep in contact I wouldn't let you, I know that probably pisses you off, frustrates you to no end and seems incredibly of petty of me; it really isn't. In your mind you are exactly the kind of stand up guy who keeps in contact with the ghosts of relationships past, who has exes as friends. I know it's taken years of overcoming the scrawny kid who played Warhammer 40K with stolen game pieces, who got picked on. You are the product of years spent carefully stacking up layers self conviction, feelings of superiority and entitlement. Your opinions were a little too offensive, your humour a bit too crude, your arrogance too overpowering but everyone bought it, including me. It's pretty much the only thing I regret: that I never got to see the man, only the construction of the boy you tried so hard to leave behind.

And that's who you are, your own construction. It's not a criticism, we're all that way but I know that for you at least your unshakable views are something to hold on to. And that's why I can't speak to you: I'm not doing this to fuck with your world view. I'm doing it because I have no desire to bolster up your ego. I have no desire for empty emails containing life updates. I'm doing this because I remember how much it stung to find out you'd sent yet another unsolicited email to your first great love. And I know there's another girl now and, frankly: I want to give her all the help I can.

I think I kind of like your new girl, she seems pretty - if eerily similar to me, you traded up again it seems - and from what I can tell bright, funny and kind of cool. I hope she's strong, because it would have broken me to discover that the pet name you used for me (and you know I'm not talking about "honey" or "sweetie") once belonged to some other girl. Be nice to her. If she haltingly confesses something to you in the dead of night, something she's never had the guts to vocalise before, something that could come to define her, don't mock her for it. (Seriously, sugar: scorning me for being "a bit gay"? You cheated yourself out of at least one threesome that way. You really can be an idiot sometimes, you know?) Don't accuse her of hysteria, don't make her feel guilty for crying. Don't goad her into resenting her friends.

So now, accusations and recriminations done with, it's time for my confessions. Self indulgent I know, to burden you with them but here they are - take them if you will. You thought I was a terrible liar, that simply isn't true. I just let you believe it because it meant you never picked up on the big things. I never told you anything I didn't want you to know. I didn't throw up through "suspected morning sickness" it was guilt over the person you hadn't even noticed bringing up. I cheated on you because you would willingly state that you didn't love me and your smug assumption that I'd never be the one to leave combined with your lack of any semblance of jealousy made me want to tear off my own skin. I tore myself up over it for years, but now I don't care. Why? Because for the entire three years of our relationship I couldn't get you to just tell me you loved me, I had to beg and plead and wheedle it out of you. You were breaking down outside of clubs and telling her you made a massive mistake, that you still loved her, you were chastely sharing a bed with her when she stayed - sleeping in each others' arms. For all three years. (Honestly I wish you'd had the balls to just get it over with and fuck her. Don't worry, after I found out I did it for you.) Love trumps a drunken kiss don't you think?

Well, would you look at that? I guess I'm still a little bitter. Which means I really do have to make my final confession (I was hoping I wouldn't have to): When you moved away I knew exactly what I was doing. In the end, when I barely saw you, when you wouldn't reassure me, when you refused to give me a definite answer about an event I'd been planning for weeks, when I would come to see you every weekend and you'd disappear off leaving me alone in your room for hours upon end, when your new friends would be shocked to discover you even had a girlfriend, when you wouldn't come to London to see me unless you needed a place to crash, I could tell you were pushing me but I bit my tongue. It was really selfish, and I'm sorry, but I gave up too much of my time and energy for you to be the one who got all the sympathy. So I waited for you to end it.

How childish is that?

If it's any conciliation, I do still feel bad whenever anyone comments on how quickly I got over the break-up. This letter makes it sound awful, for the most part I was happy with you - and although I can barely remember what it was like when we were together (a fact that scares me every day) it wasn't all bad.

I thought after my confessions I'd tell you all the things that I do now, the foods I eat, the exercise I take, the things I drink that you tried and failed to get me to but I can't. In the beginning it was an attitude of "fuck you" (and I'll admit now that is pretty much the entire reason I now drink, and am dependent on, coffee) but somewhere along the line I started doing those things for me, and for me alone. It's really nothing to do with you anymore. It's a lot easier without someone looking over my shoulder though.

So goodbye and good luck. I feel I've spent the last few months waiting for this moment. My emotional state hasn't changed much - pretty much since October - but you know me well enough to know that it just wouldn't be fitting until it got to a proper anniversary. So there it is.

Take care of yourself.

Alex

bandwagon jumping

Well, I was feeling guilty for my lack of postage of late (seriously, my life is so frakking boring right now it's unreal and, other than the fact that I've actually started using made up swear words in my every day speech which is freaking people out, nothing has actually happened to me in the last couple of months) and then I stumble upon a superb idea posted on both TK and Manny's blogs which I will now completely rip off because if there's one thing I love more than talking about myself it's writing open letters:


Dear My Thirteen Year Old Self,

Hi, Alex. Yes, one day people will call you that. And it won't sound weird, and it won't be forced. You're going to have to wait a while for that one though - but here's a tip: When you get to University just decide to be Alex, introduce yourself that way. Don't wait for someone else to name you because if you do it's going to be the start of something toxic.

Don't worry about that now though, I'm getting ahead of ourselves.

First up: start eating meat. Like, now. I know you hate food and I know that eating something weird or with an unexpected texture makes you gag. But you're painfully thin and once you start eating meat you'll have so many more options. You can't stay as skinny as you are, if you do then it'll stick in your mind that this is how you should look which is really going to screw with your head in college. I also know that you threw up breakfast every morning last March just because you couldn't stomach it. Just tell Mum, she's not going to think you're bulimic. Trust me, and trust her.

And listen, one day you're going to eat everything. You think now that you'll be scared of food forever, that you'll stay phobic, but you won't. You're going to be able to sit in a restaurant and dig into something without knowing what's in it - only that it tastes good. Boys will make you meals and you'll be able to eat every scrap without worrying about what ingredients are in there. You're going to end up being a brilliant cook.

You're going to love food and you're going to wish you'd been braver earlier.

Secondly: School is going to suck, and I'll tell you this now: you're going to ask to leave every single year and you're still going to be there until the end. You need to stay until Sixthform. Some good things happen then, and you get to meet some good people - stick it out.

The girl that makes you go home crying, the one your mother wants to suffocate? You're going out with her this evening. Do me a favour and don't lose touch with her during university, you're going to have some hard times and you're going to be confused about who you are and she is the one person who will never judge you. Admit everything to her and keep nothing back. She's not even going to mind when you sleep with her brother (I know, right? And he gets even cuter. We rock, young lady) she is however, never going to let you forget it.

Oh, and the whiny American girl she was friends with - the one you fucking hate right now? Ten years from now she'll be one of the few good things that came out of that place. Don't start being nice to her though, it'll spoil all the fun.

Don't go to Bolivia. I know that sounds kind of random now but in a couple of years you'll know what I mean. It's going to be torture. It's going to teach you fuck all. It won't make you stronger, or wiser or more tolerant. It's just going to make you pissed off, homicidal and three grand poorer. The only reason you should ever consider going is that it's going to be the event that turns you into a carnivore but if you listened to me earlier that shouldn't matter. If you do go and you hear Lizzie say those things about you and your family, don't stay quiet. Please go right ahead and punch her. Trust me, she deserves it.

Oh and while we're on the subject: wear flats every once in a while. Try in PE lessons. Carry on dancing. Your Achilles tendons are going to thank me for it.

Some bad stuff is coming up in the next six months. I'm not going to lie. It's going to be the worst thing you've ever gone through. Keep your chin up because when you come out the other side things are going to be so much easier. But for now, spend as much time as you can with your Dad and Carolyn and the kids. Especially Thomas, he's a good guy and the closest to an older brother you're going to have until Gareth comes along. You're going to miss him. Keep your eyes open during Christmas and remember it all, you're going to need the ammo.

Don't fret about it though, there's nothing you can do and believe it or not that's a good thing.

As far as boys are concerned (seriously, I know you just skipped down to this paragraph go back to the beginning and read this through) here are a few pointers:

When you get there, take a chance on the cute boy who walks you home from panto rehearsals: I know he's not going anywhere: who cares? You're only going to be sixteen once and cute boys don't remain that way for long.

Stalking your friend's crush over text message under her instruction in a couple of years time may seem like a good idea to her at the time but it's going to end in (her) tears. She'll be stronger after though, so don't feel too guilty if you can't help yourself.

I wish I could tell you what to do about guys when you get to University but I really can't. I still don't know I'm afraid sweetie. All I know is this: You're going to chose the wrong boy because of some misguided notion that you can't be with nice guys because you're a bitch. You're wrong but this is a mistake you need to make.

Just make sure you socialise, make some friends that are your own, stay away from cute American boys unless you're actually going to have the guts to leave him. Don't take his crap, it's better to be on your own that miserable and insecure. You're not going to listen because you're me, and I didn't listen either but try reaching out - they're not going to say "I told you so".

Don't hide the fact you play video games, listen to crap music and still love cartoons. You're going to be the exact same way in ten years time and believe it or not it's going to make you interesting.

Be nice to J, he's going to be a good friend one day.

Don't give up on Maria, she's going to really need you. More than once.

And don't worry about school - you know how smart you are, you're going to do great. You might want to learn to revise though, and occasionally do homework. You're right in thinking that you don't need to but trust me: you'll thank me for it when you hit college.

Take care, kid. Life just keeps on getting better.

Lots of love,

You, at 22.

ps. Don't worry about leaving Mum on her own when you leave for Uni. She's going to meet someone and she's going to be happy enough to make up for the last twenty years. He'll love her more than you ever thought possible. And one day you're going to call him Dad.

a letter to my brand new pair of purple leather boots

Dear My Brand New Pair of Purple Leather Boots,

I'll admit it, at first my attraction to you was purely physical, my eyes were caught by your glorious amethyst colour and I was reeled in by your cowboyish vibe. To be honest, I thought it was fleeting - a passing crush that would be over just as soon as I tried you on and found that you didn't fit over my calves, like so many pairs of boots before you. I was skeptical, after all - I had already bought four pairs of shoes on that fateful Saturday (God, was it only two days ago, Boots? It feels like a lifetime) and surely my luck could not be that good?

But as we know, I was wrong. And when my flatmate offered to buy you for me as a belated Birthday gift it seemed like we were fated to be together.

I know that it was risky, taking a chance on you that evening. Pub crawls take their toll on even the most familiar girl and shoe relationships but you stuck with me, and for that I thank you. Miraculously your flat soles allowed me to not only wear a short skirt (my first since the age of eighteen) without feeling sluttish but also kept my legs warm even on the walk back to a random house at 2am. I am so glad, Boots that I did not overlook you for your high heeled counterparts, seductive as they were. Even though you are flat, and my legs are so very, very short, you still gave me the confidence to hook up with a cute boy and you prevented the embarrassing drunken stumbling that so often comes with high heels.

Despite a couple of mis-steps, like when I stepped too hard down on my left foot before your leather had softened and convinced myself I'd broken a toe, you've shown me that not only are you beautiful but also reliable. No other pair of new shoes would have lasted as long, or remained as comfortable the next morning as I trekked the three miles back to the second pub we visited in search of my lost phone. Walking along the riverside blinking into the early morning Sunday sun I thanked you for being comfortable to allow large amounts of hungover walking and for being casual enough to prevent passers by from assuming I'd been out all night. You saved me from the walk of shame, Boots and I'll never forget that.

And now, as you accompany me to work, breathing new life into my standard skinny jeans and vest combo, I feel the time has come to tell you this: I love you, Boots. I promise never to surrender you to a boy's flat out of embarrassment as I did with my suede slingbacks or to donate you to S. Please, say you won't fall apart in a week's time.

Yours in style and comfort,

Alex

ps. Do you also come in teal?

Photos of Alex (77)

Dear Person I Went to High School/College With, Who I Added on Facebook During a Fit of Sociability and/or Irrational Insecurity About My Number Of Friends, But Now No Longer See Socially,

Hi! I see that you were out and about this weekend. You must have had a fantastic time, boy am I ever seething with jealousy right now! Seriously, I'm not kidding after all: you went to a house party. Congratulations. One minor point: you were there for five hours. Evidently they were a fun five hours as you photographed all of them. During those super fun five hours you saw the same thirty people. All your photos are of you posing with said thirty people. There are seventy of these photos. You are in at least sixty of them. None of the photographs depict a momentous or even humourous event. Call me crazy, you can even call me cynical if you really want to but your photos (all seventy of them, that is an awfully impressive number by the way - especially considering the static nature of the event and the number of people present) seem tailor made to demonstrate to the rest of the world what a brilliant time you were having. And it certainly looks like you were! Things certainly have changed, haven't they? I remember back when we were close, back in the days where we would both attend the same social events. I remember how you spent most of your evening collaring people to pose with you and the rest of it flicking through your digital camera deleting the pictures where you had four chins. Good to know that you've developed an all together more rational attitude.

Keep in touch!

Alex

ps. The little captions you add obsessively to every slitty eyed photo are just super too. "Drunk!!!!!! :)" - sheer poetry.

"Everything that is not photographed is lost, as if it had never existed, and therefore, in order really to live, you must photograph as much as you can, and to photograph as much as you can you must either live in the most photographable way possible, or consider photographable every moment of your life. The first course leads to stupidity; the second to madness." ~ Italo Calvino

I caught sight of the above quotation in the comments section for one of my favourite columnists and as well as being incredibly fitting it made me smile, hence the reproduction of it here. I am not a completely anti-photo person. I like photography. Photography took my thoroughly awful still life projects up to an A grade. Photography involves chemicals and silver and magic. It's art and it's science and nothing else combines my two favourite things so well. Photography I have no problem with. I have a problem with the endless streams of red faced people having "like, a totally amaaaaaazing time" that are clogging up my newsfeed. I hate that now whenever I go out I'm faced with the tyranny of the camera. I don't like photos of myself. I look dreadful in them: Because of the size of my pupils I will have red-eye even if everyone else in the photo survives unscathed, I also hate posing so am normally mid sentence when a photo is taken. (That sentence is usually "hurry up and take the fucking picture already".) My features are such that they're all slightly "off" my lip piercing is asymmetrical, but only slightly, my refusal to have five healthy teeth removed when there was no benefit other than a purely cosmetic one means that my teeth are out of line (actually technically it's my jaw) on the page this sounds awful. In motion my face works. I'm fine, average looking. Videos of myself do not make me cringe. Photographs however, unless they are black and white and completely candid look downright horrifying. But it's more than that, it's the fact that every time I start having a conversation someone inevitably collars me to pose for a photograph. I don't want to pose for a photograph. I want to continue discussing the decline in quality of modern British cinema. Just because every one else around me seems so determined to avoid having a good time by photographing it doesn't mean that I should be doing that too. I want to actually enjoy my evening without my conversations being interrupted by flash bulbs and I want to not be constantly panicking about the state of my eye make-up in case someone is prowling for snapshots. (Yes, I am that vain.) Is that too much to ask?


Apparently so. I blame facebook. I would attempt to rebel against it but then I wouldn't be able to stalk my ex's new girlfriend (photos: 941).