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Archive for January, 2009

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I think it’s fair to assume that all of us have crushes on famous folk. Some, of course, are more predictable than others. Brad Pitt and George Clooney are obvious choices, and there’s the whole ‘scarlah’ spectrum of our crushes of shame. Erotomania sufferers aside, none of us are delusional enough to think that Brad or George are going to wander into our lives and want to run off with us. But what happens when you want to revoke your crush? One of my long-standing objects of lust is Giovanni Ribisi. Yes, him of Saving Private Ryan, Lost in Translation and, oh, Phoebe’s dimwit brother in Friends. But imagine my shock on discoving that he’s an active, enthusiastic Scientologist. Heck, my lust instantly evaporated. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a live-and-let-live kinda girl, but Scientology creeps the HELL outta me. How can a seemingly rational, cool guy like him be so taken with a cult that doesn’t believe in psychiatry?

So he’s off my “list”. Good thing I haven’t got it laminated.

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Dear reader, I can’t even begin to tell you how excited I was to read that Kanye West is on for starring in a porno. Not that I’m a huge fan of Kanye per se (too sulky for my personal taste, and that’s before we mention the Brazil-sized ego). I’m more impressed with the type of skin flick that Kanye would like to make. We’re not just talking any old run-of-the-mill, 22-positions-with-some-pneumatic-bint malarkey either. Rather, he has admitted that he wouldn’t be averse to the idea of doing a bisexual flick with a man and a woman.  Now, threesomes are as old as time itself (probably), but the idea of a threesome with two men who wouldn’t mind socking it to each other is a concept that completely cranks my chain. None of your fake-shock-macho-bullshit-when-swords-get-accidentally-crossed rubbish for me, nosiree bob. Truth be told, this has been one of my longest standing fantasies – a threesome situation where everyone is…you know, giving and getting to beat the band.

 

Barely able to contain my excitement and/or raging libido, I made the mistake of saying all this out loud at my place of work. A pack of rabid, farting dogs would have gotten a warmer reception. ‘Ewwwwww,’ said one colleague, looking me up and down for any other outward signs of perversion or freakery. I should also point out that my workplace would be considered fairly progressive and dynamic…it’s certainly no convent. But seriously; is my sexual fantasy du choix – and the public airing thereof – really something that should have gone past the censors?

 

Anyway, the whole episode got me to thinking about my long-standing, semi-professional career as a masturbator (what’s the female equivalent of wanking…is is ‘fanking’? Or ‘womanking’? Anyrooooad). As mentioned in a previous post, this is something I have been doing since I was about 5 or 6. Obviously back then, I had no idea that it was something sexual or could be perceived as ‘dirty’ by anyone. All I knew is that it made me feel good. Again, this may be a case of The Sex Freak Overshareth, but thankfully I know I’m not alone here…another friend of mine had been doing the same since she was very young too. I may as well offer up the following disclaimer: I don’t mention this in a bid to open up a whole can of worms about paedophilia/children as sexual beings. I’m merely talking about my own personal experience here.

 

A few years later, things cranked up a notch when I found my first Playboy magazine, stashed away in my dad’s bedroom locker. I should state for the record that I am probably about 98% heterosexual (right now), but anyway, the Playboy magazine breathed fresh impetus into my ‘little activity’. I wasn’t that attracted to the women in hindsight, but the pictures did provide a handy springboard from which I could concoct my own fantasy scenarios, often including a sleazy photographer and a milk-fed, virginal model desperate to get ahead. Yes, I was a would-be Seymour Butts even back then, so help us all.

 

In the decades since, my tastes for porn have become more refined and the Internet has proved to be manna from heaven for anyone partial to a fiddle. Truth be told, I am faddy to the point of fickleness when it comes to porn. One week I can’t get enough of gang bangs; the next I am practically gasping for grainy, grimy amateur stuff. I also had a prolonged period of watching nothing but gay porn (though, curiously enough, have never really gotten ‘into’ lesbian porn. Too much boobage and not enough willy in any one frame). I also found perverse pleasure in watching the Gene Simmons sex tape, something I’m still scratching my…er, head over (c’mon, it’s Gene Simmons. You still would). Round about now though, I’m hankering after vanilla flavoured, Joy Of Sex, one-guy-one-girl porn. Sometimes it’s nice to get back to one’s roots.

 

So how about you lot…anyone brave enough to fess up to their own pornographic proclivities or fantasies? More importantly, one question is looming large in my mind. Given my early start was I – as I’ve always suspected – truly the naughtiest girl in my primary school?

 

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Kermit Bale

Christian Bale. Kermit the Frog. Who knew they were kindred spirits?
kermit-balegeorge_kermit-1
This
totally hilarious (and slightly insane) gallery of images that proves Kermit and Christian have a lot in common just gets funnier and funnier as it goes on….

Link via Jezebel.

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The Veet Bush post got me thinking about body hair. I’m currently rocking some very hairy legs. Before Christmas I decided I was going to stop shaving my legs because it’s a pain in the bum. No wait. That sounds like a grand feminist statement, which would be misleading. I stopped shaving my legs in order to grow the hair, so I could then wax it off, which would mean no more shaving every odd day.julia-roberts-arm

The thing is, it’s been months now and I’ve kind of forgotten about waxing my legs. It hasn’t really affected my life in any negative way, so I’m kind of putting it off for a while whilst walking around on fuzzy pins.

Last week, I was round at a friend’s house for dinner and the subject of body hair came up.  She’s French and told me she only started shaving her pits when she came to Ireland. French women don’t shave their armpits. I’m thinking, ‘wow, AND you guys have more sex too.’ So if French men and women don’t mind, why should Irish men and women? Ninnies.

For some people, hairiness is a deal-breaker though. Remember all the nonsense that went on when Julia Roberts and Drew Barrymore flaunted their hairy pits on the red carpet? How dare they soil the sanctity of the red carpet!

I personally think if you’re in the sack with someone and you pull off your keks to reveal hairy legs they’d shrug and carry on. It’s not a deal-breaker for me. Although recently another friend was turned off when she discovered (all too late) that a guy had shaved his nethers (isn’t that tricky and dangerous?) and his armpits. Why do people get so upset about body hair? Is it all just crazy social conditioning?

I always remember when I was a child my mother always had hairy pits. She never shaved and never looked gross. In fact, she always looked kind of cool.

I’m thinking I might experiment and stop shaving the pits too. Who knows, next time you see me, I might even have a ‘tache.

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George Bush = unwanted hair

veet2veetHow much do I like this ad for Veet? A LOT.  Ah Veet, you may make bikini line regrowth scratchier than old vinyl, but your political heart is in the right place.

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blogawards

We got nominated! For several Irish Blog Awards! Thanks to whoever nominated us for Best Arts and Culture Blog, Best Group Blog and Best Newcomer. You are all too, too kind. Vielen Dank!

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tamponI was sad to hear this week that John Mortimer (of Rumpole of the Bailey fame) passed away at 85. I wasn’t particularly a huge fan of his avuncular barrister creation, but as a kid I got a kick out of the fact that he called his wife Hilda “She Who Must Be Obeyed”. Mortimer wrote a ton of plays and novels, but he looms large in my memory for an entirely different reason.

One fateful Friday night in the 1980s, I was watching The Late Late Show with my mother. Up popped John Mortimer as a guest regaling Gaybo and the audience with witty tales of legal life and literary anecdotes. My mother had just finished blow-drying my hair for me when she started “the talk” and told me all about periods.  My 10-year-old self was a bit horrified at first, but aware that I was being told grown-up woman stuff. As John waxed lyrical about Rumpole, I was learning about eggs, fallopian tubes and using sanitary towels.

To this day, whenever I see Mortimer on TV, I think about that night and will always associate him with finding out about the joys of periods.

So where/when/how did you find out about Aunt Flo/Eve’s Curse/your flowers?

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Vampires have been on my mind lately. Last week I gave myself the unparalleled luxury of taking in an early-evening screening of Twilight, the teen vamp movie based on Stephenie Mayer’s best-selling novel. The movie had all the elements of a great teen movie – major love interest and then major obstacle to that love (turns out Edward is a vampire and Bella is an irresistible-smelling human).

Broody broody

Broody broody

 

I love teen movies – the high school setting, the high drama of piffling problems, the general open warfare. But aside from this being a really good teen movie, it reminded me of how much I love vampire stories and how long it’s been since I’ve seen a really good vampire film.

As a child, I read Salem’s Lot, a bit too young if I’m honest, and I think it did lasting damage to my psyche. I know I did lasting damage to my bed (stop that!), having to take an enormous long jump from the light switch by my bedroom door to my bed most nights so no lurking vamps could drag me under the bed once I had hit the lights.  

I still love The Lost Boys to this day and regularly say ‘you’re eating WORMS, Michael’ to people who don’t seem to have the same set of pop culture reference points as me. Hmm. I even bought  it on DVD recently to go in my ever-expanding ‘to-watch-on-rainy-solo-Saturday afternoons’ pile .

 

Sookie and Bill do some more intense staring into each others' eyes

Sookie and Bill do some more intense staring into each others' eyes

Having had my vampire interest piqued by Twilight, I was delighted to stumble across True Blood, a new television series by Six Feet Under writer and director Alan Ball, which also takes vampires as its subject. I’ve been watching this ever since and think it is just fantastic, or should I say fang-tastic (mwahwahhaha!).

 

In the show, vampires have come out of the closet and are now living in the open, some trying to integrate with mainstream society, others keeping their own company at vampire-only bars like ‘Fang-tasia.’ Anna Paquin stars as Sookie, the telepathic waitress and she just took home the golden globe the other night for best actress in a television series. It’s true, she’s great in it. What do you expect from the girl who won an oscar as a child? Anyway, there’s a nice ‘will they-won’t they-or-even-can they?’ love story going on between Paquin’s character and local vamp, Bill Compton. It’s pretty steamy. 

 

 

 

Why are vampire love stories so H-O-T?

Or is that just me again?

There are a few steamy ‘love-that-can-never-be’ moments in Twilight too. ‘You’re impossibly fast…and strong,’ says Bella. Be still my heart!

 

 

Just remember though: ‘Vampires think about one thing, one thing only…drinking blood.’

p.s. As for questions regarding the recent whereabouts of Leigh and I, all I can say is we fell facedown into a Youtube feeding frenzy of Summer Heights High and True Blood. We’re sorry.

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6a00d09e516075be2b00e398a779850004-500piQuestion: how to you react when you hear everyone banging on about a new and much-hyped TV programme? The type of shows, say, that turn people into heinous YouTube bores at house parties? If you’re anything like me, you’ll run straight in the opposite direction of it all. Given that every cat, dog and divil is so breathlessly waxing rhapsodical about The Wire for example, I’ve elected to give it a wide berth. Ditto Mad Men, The Inbetweeners and How Not To Live Your Life.  This is not a decision based on the potential merits or otherwise of the shows; it’s more to do with the fact that watching them now under a monstrous cloud of expectation could only end in disappointment. Ach, I will catch up with them eventually, but right now the idea of getting stuck into another TV show reads dangerously like pissing several hours of the only live I’ll ever have up a wall.

All of this means, if course, that I’m shamefully, embarrassingly late to the Summer Heights High party. A friend had been raving about the show – foaming mouth and all – for months, and I filed his rants under ‘telly addict horseshite’. Fast forward to a colder-than-a-prison-guard’s-tit evening in December; drunkenly flipping through the channels, I unearthed a bit of a gem through the snowdrift. Within minutes, I’d run the gamut from hearty belly laughs to actual tears slipping down my face.

The brainchild of 34-year-old Australian Chris Lilley, SHH is shot in that very reliable, well-worn mockumentary style and follows three main characters through a single school term. We have Mr G, a megalomaniac drama teacher who is peddling his own fame-seeking agenda; Ja’mie King, a 16-year-old, pain-in-the-hole of a girl transplanted from a private school on an exchange programme; and Jonah Takalua, a remedial Tongan student who is one verbal warning away from spending the rest of his life on the naughty step.

Hardly a reinvention of the wheel by any means, but Lilley’s execution of these three characters is nothing short of staggering. Playing all three characters, he flits seamlessly between the vile, self-obsessed Ja’mie and Mr. G, a classic study in self-aggrandisement.  After researching his three characters for over a year, he affects the quirks, ticks and affectations of all three so that the viewer experiences a complete and utter suspension of belief.  It’s ridiculously enjoyable to watch him get under the skin of each type.

Perhaps the most disarming thing about Summer Heights High is that it is entirely improvised, the scenes living in Lilley’s head until he arrives on set. Sometimes Lilley’s supporting cast flounder, unsure as to where he is taking the scenes. No doubt they figure that some of Lilley’s more outlandish ramblings will eventually end up on the cutting room floor. However, the teenage girls that make up Ja’mie’s coven keep their cool as (s)he affects valley girl chic:

Another classic that I will no doubt start calling up on YouTube at various parties to annoy everyone:

 

The bottom line is that – irony of ironies – I am now so hooked on this show, I can’t stop harping on about it in polite society. I have developed a mammoth, crippling crush on the one-man creative cauldron that is Chris Lilley, who looks like this in real life:

 

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Speaking of TV crushes, my ovaries start to positively twitch whenever I see critic Charlie Brooker call someone a Bumbox or Celebritwunt on-screen. Like a sort of Holy Moly mailout made flesh, Brooker – via his BBC show Charlie Brooker’s Screenwipe – harpoons various TV shows and trends with the ruthless glee of a right cantankerous bastard. Be still my trousers…

Here he is providing an inspired summation of the Russell Brand/Jonathan Ross bunfight:

Again, I have arrived rather late to the Screenwipe party, but I am rather glad I did…try watching it without tears of laughter springing to your eyes, I dare you.

One party I wish I’d missed altogether, however, is RTE’s newest attempt at a comedy show, This Is Nightlive. In a parallel universe, this half-hour of drivel is called ‘This Is What Thirteen Stone of Smegma Looks Like’. For a start, John Ryan straddles too fine a line between art and life, playing a smarmy, heinous newscaster with frightful conviction. What is ostensibly meant to be a sideswipe at various broadcasters and media quarters has alas been whitewashed and pummelled to such an extent that it’s now a sort f Lidl version of The Day Today. The three jokes that were vaguely funny in the first episode (shown last week) had been disappointingly wheeled back out for last night’s follow-up. Adding insult to injury, the show’s fictional news team remain frightfully two-dimensional and predictable, from the Naas-boutique-plugging showbiz reporter to the ambitious, raven-haired Gaeilgeoir. No prizes, by the way, for guessing their real-life counterparts.

Granted, there are flashes of humour – ‘U2 album gets leaked to Adam’ rolls across on the screen at one point – but these moments are sadly few and far between. At one point Ryan over-eggs a ‘camel-toe’ joke to the point that you want to kick in your own face. No doubt he is aiming for that Gervaisian brand of ‘uncomfortable’ comedy…instead, he sounds like the worst kind of gonkleton.

Of course, it’s our default reaction as a nation to automatically regard any RTE comedy as a great steaming pile of dogwank. Sad to say that in this case, the shoe fits.

 

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Cute Overload

Need something to cheer you up on this manky Monday morning? Check out my current favourite website in the world, the wondrous Fuck You, Penguin, in which someone who rightly fears the power of overwhelmingly cute animals “tells [the aforementioned adorable creatures] what’s what”. I think this one might be my all-time favourite, if only for the lines “I mean, seriously, Anteater, what’s with the pose? Are you in a sports montage? Or are you mid-clap in an (undoubtedly lame) rendition of “Hey Jude”?”, but the entire site is freaking hilarious. You know the way a lot of the time swearing is gratuitous and obnoxious, but other times a well-chosen swear word makes something a million times funnier? This site knows how to swear properly. Enjoy….

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