Category Archives: Other Bits

Mundane Poldark Erotica

You’ve at least heard of Poldark by now, even if you haven’t seen it. It’s a TV series (apparently a remake) about a very sexy man in Cornwall. He has a mine and he marries a woman and he sulks 80% of the time but sometimes you see his gentle soft side and you know that he’s only so angry because he knows the pain of love and needs the touch of a good woman (me) to heal his wounded soul. I’m not sure what else happens. I’ll be honest, I’m not watching it for the plot.

My friend Luke, a smut-peddler, has been writing these little erotic vignettes about Poldark for me. Initially they were just mini daydreams about Poldark catching me raiding the fridge and telling me to come back to bed so we could eat cheddar off each other – then Luke and I realised that the more mundane the activity, the bigger the challenge to turn it into a little nugget of erotic gold. They’ve turned into a bit of A Thing and Luke now has a tumblr, Mundane Erotica, which is basically Poldark doing household tasks in a loin-stirringly sexy way. Here’s a taster – I guarantee you it’s the future of porn.

Prompt: Poldark grating some cheese

“Poldark examines his sandwich. Insufficient cheese.

He fights down to urge to punch someone, instead heading to the fridge. The cool neon light bathes his bare torso in the pale glow of hunger, about to be sated. He reaches for the mature cheddar, prising open the seal with tough, calloused fingers.

He grabs a plate, holding it above his crotch. He slowly drags the soft dairy over his rock-hard abs, shaving off thin strips with the perfection that is his body. Eventually, he has enough. He dusts it over his sandwich and returns to the bedroom.”

Prompt: Poldark meets an owl

“Poldark sits in the woods, alone and shirtless. He hears a hooting.
Haunting, majestic. Beautiful. He watches a barn owl swoop down, ending the life of some small woodland creature with swift and graceful brutality.

He appreciates nature – savage, untamed, yet majestic. It reminds him of…him. He adjusts his trousers, and the creature turns its head, 180 degrees. Watching him, seductively swallowing the still-wriggling mouse. Even mother nature wants a piece of Poldark, it seems.

He obliges.”

Prompt: Poldark goes to MacDonalds

“Poldark examined his surroundings. Harsh lighting, gaudy, faded neon. Customers and staff alike stood in a cold, dead-eyed trance. The strangely compelling smell of sythnetic food washed over his sharp senses. He approaches the counter, and requests a meal.

Before he can finish, his raw sexual magnetism overpowers the server. She rips her top apart, exposing herself to him. “Take me Poldark!” she screams. He sighs. Poldark can’t go anywhere.”

Prompt: Poldark does his tax return

“Poldark sits in the dark, cursing the king, tax collectors, and this infernal personal calculator. He re-reads a paragraph on deductibles and personal expenses for the fifth time, the words quickly lost in a fog of incomprehension and frustration. He slams a manly fist into the wall, not even wincing. The sweat of fury coats his handsome brow, and he turns on his heel.

Spread out on the table, wide open, are his tax returns. His pure frustration boils over, and man’s baser nature takes him over. He gives the tax return a look so smouldering it leaves a scorch mark on the corner, the rapid rustle of air sounding like an excited grasp. He tears off his shirt, preparing to do his taxes like they’ve never been done before.”

Prompt: Poldark unblocks the sink

“Poldark knelt before the sink, manly sweat condensing on his brow. The pipes were clogged. Still. He’d poured a bottle of some kind of cleaner down there, though the bald man on the bottle did not fill him with hope. He growled to himself in frustration. Perhaps he’d just have to do this the old fashioned way.

He hunted down the plunger, brandishing it triumphantly. He turned on the sink, imminent triumph gleaming in his eye. The sink sat there, shiny and coquettishly impassive. It gurgled. He poured the last dregs of the cleaning fluid out, watching the liquid circle the plughole. The sink gurgled again.

He moved in for the kill. The sink creaked as he affixed the plunger, and with all his might, pushed it down. He heard something shift, could feel it, ever so slightly. He thrust the plunger down again, felt the shift, and grinned. He soon fell into a rhythm, pumping with all his might. He was getting close now, he knew it!

With one final shove, he drove the handle down to the hit. The pressure forced the blockage in the sink loose, and the buildup gurgled away down the drain. Poldark wiped a hand over his sweaty brow, exhausted after some pipes well-cleaned. He wanted a cigarette.”

Prompt: Poldark as a weatherman

“Poldark stood on the clifftop, the salty sea air whipping his raven-dark locks about. His cameraman waved his hand – a little to the left. Poldark obliged. In ten minutes, they’d be live on air.The producers had been lairy about letting Poldark do a live report from the scene, but eventually he’d persuaded them into it. He adjusted his anorak, the tight material clinging to his sculpted body in the wind, rivulets of water running between the muscles that were now so starkly defined. The cameraman blushed and adjusted himself. Poldark didn’t mind.
He looked out behind him, the dark sea chopped and swirled, as gigantic waves crashed against the cliff-face far beneath him. He couldn’t help but smile a little. The freak storms that had been ravaging Cornwall were due to strike again tonight, and Poldark wanted a front-row seat. He hit the camera with a smouldering look, dazzling the monitor with his pearly whites, striking a stark contrast to the sky behind him which billowed with the ominous promise of impending thunder.

The camera rolled. Poldark began his report, turning to look over his shoulder and gesture at the roiling sea and sky beneath him. At this instant, Mother Nature struck her decisive blow. A thunderbolt struck from above, hitting Poldark dead on. The cameraman gasped, and so did the rest of England.

Not even the fury of nature could bring itself to harm Poldark. The cornish Baldr stood erect and defiant as his clothes were vapourized, the ashes carried away by a dervish zephyr. He winked at the camera and the nation went weak at the knees, the cameraman’s gasp of shock-cum-delight accompanying an outward zoom of the camera. Poldark’s bare body filled TV screens around the land as he stood proudly on the clifftop, dark hair surrounding his face like the halo of a particularly wicked angel.

He was Poldark. This had been the weather at Ten O’clock.”

Prompt: Poldark buys some shoes

“Poldark wandered his way though the bustling market. His boots were starting to give out, all the hard riding he did on a regular basis playing merry hell with the leather. This was going to be his second pair this year alone, the thought of which filled him with a sullen fury as he stalked the rows, seeking the cobbler.

He eventually found what he sought, ducking into a small dark set of rooms that smelled of musk and leather. The cobbler, a tall man with a glorious mustache eyed him up. “Boots?” he asked.

“Boots.” replied Poldark. The man nodded simply, and Poldark took a seat. The man grunted, eyeing Poldark’s obscenely tight jhodpurs and shooting him a sly grin. Then he went back to making Poldark some shoes, because they lived in a capitalist economy where money is exchanged for goods and services. Like shoes.

The cobbler finished his boots, and pulled off Poldark’s old ones with the look of lingering desire that Poldark was, by now, accustomed to. He’d considered buying less bulgetastic jhodpurs, but had decided against it. As the cobbler pulled the tight, shiny new boots up Poldark’s muscular calves, he prepared to pay the man.”

And, my personal favourite…

“Poldark lies in his bath of chocolate milk, the rich brown liquid lapping coolly against his tanned, weatherbeaten skin. He is alone – though in his heart, he is always alone.

His piercing eyes scan the page. The Feminine Mystique. This simple, slim tome – it was more than he expected. More than he bargained for. Waves of empathy crash against the hard stone walls of his heart.

Their runoff – a single tear – flows languidly down his scarred cheek before dropping, alone, into the sweet milky bath.”


The Interesting Thing about Feminazis…

…Is that they don’t exist.

I was working in the pub and chatting to the chef and he goes:

“What do you think about feminazis?”

Having never been asked that question in real life, and assuming he was somewhat joking, I said “I like them, I think they’re good.”

Mateyboy responds: “Oh yes. Nothing like a bit of reverse sexism masquerading as equality.”

Feminazis do not exist. No, honestly. They don’t. The two very, very simple reasons for this are:

1. Nazis believed in the systematic oppression execution of millions of people based on the idea that some races, sexualities, and abilities were inferior to others. Feminists seek freedom from oppression at the hands of a society which values men above women.

2. Women under a patriarchal society do not have the power to reverse the discrimination they suffer, and have it be truly effective or institutionalised. For this reason, women cannot be really sexist, and reverse sexism is not a thing.

I’m not really into censorship but I will make an exception for this. Do you see how the term ‘feminazi’ is not only inaccurate, but offensive? It really is that simple.

You have hardline feminists and less hardline feminists. You have people who believe – like Martin Luther King did – that freedom cannot be given by the oppressor, it must be taken by the oppressed. You have people who believe that the goal of feminism has changed with the evolution of society, and that whereas pretty dresses and shaved legs and lipstick were once the uniform handed out to us by the patriarchy, we have reclaimed them as our own. There are women who want the right not to find a nice husband, settle down and have three kids, free of judgement – there are women who want the right to have exactly those things, free of judgement.

But debates about shaving and makeup and pink are boring – cutesy topics which, I think, detract from the gristly stuff which people don’t like talking about. Let’s do feminazis.

Personally, I’ve never seen eye to eye with the kind of feminism (tumblr users call it liberal feminism) which is fun and friendly and, to all intents and purposes, a slightly more political version of The Babysitters’ Club. I don’t think feminism should have a cuddly side – it should be fierce and strong. A force to be reckoned with – something that the patriarchy fears. It doesn’t matter if a man sides with feminism, or calls himself a pro-feminist – he shouldn’t get a medal for it any more than someone proclaiming that they’re not a racist should.

“I believe women deserve respect!”

Congratulations, you’re not a scumbag. Have a cookie.

The nervous bloke’s idea of a feminazi, from what I can tell, is a woman who would prefer a matriarchy (or ‘gynecocracy’ which is much cooler) over a patriarchy. Instead of equality, she wants supremacy over men. The word ‘feminazi’ was made ~a thing~ by sentient ballsack/radio host Rush Limbaugh, whose other great works include such phrases as “take that bone out of your nose and call me back” (said to a female African American caller). But having done five minutes of research, which is almost as much as I did for my dissertation, I’ve discovered that the idea of a gynecocracy/matriarchy/whatever is not as clean cut as that. There are lots of different theories about it. Charlotte Perkins Gilman wrote Herland, a novel about three men stumbling across a feminist utopia and reacting to it in different ways; a friendly looking ‘neopagan’ lady going by the moniker ‘Starhawk’ reckons the difference is that: “patriarchy is held to be about power over others while matriarchy is held to be about power from within […] a utopia where women are leading societies but are doing so with the consent of men.” A writer named Cynthia Eller  “feminists … [have] the understanding that female dominance is better for society—and better for men—than the present world order”. All crazy, dangerous ideas.

But that’s just it – the idea of being governed by women, however fantastical it may seem, is the Rush-Limbaugh-quoting man’s worst nightmare – despite the fact that women don’t get a say in the reality, which is being almost unanimously governed by men, with little to no consent. Obviously, whipping out your Gilman, Eller or Starhawk (or even Andrea Dworkin, who advocated women having their own country) in response to your feelings on ‘Feminazism’ is a boring and stupid thing to do. Wanking over your reading list is pointless when it comes to conflict. So instead of trying to convince you that ‘Feminazis’ are not a thing with an impressive list of names, here’s a simpler exercise.

Imagine a world where the roles are reversed, and feminist autocracy is in place. Men hold a meagre 1% of the world’s wealth. They are terrorised and abused in countries all over the world. They are targeted by extreme feminist groups for wanting the right to an education. At work, they earn less than a woman doing the same job. They are expected to put a family before a career. They are objectified and spread naked in magazines and television for the amusement of women. 1 in 5 men have experienced sexual violence at the hands of women from the age of 16.

That, apparently, is the aim of a ‘feminazi’. Despite the fact that all of the above happens to women under the patriarchy. When it happens to women, it’s just the way things are. When it happens to men, it’s feminazism. Men who accuse women of ‘feminazism’ are terrified of being treated the way they treat women, even if that would, THEORETICALLY, level the playing field. Feminazism: where the idea of men being in our position is so horrifying that it equates with the discrimination of the Jews in Nazi Germany.

Anyway, this is all just navel-gazing, thankfully! Guys – and specifically guys – I wouldn’t worry. As long as you’re dead set on the idea of Brad Pitt stripping down to his pants once in a blue moon being ‘objectification of men’, and as long as you accuse women who want to discuss women’s issues without the input of men as being ‘reverse sexism’, your stupid ugly regime isn’t going anywhere.

Anyway whatever here’s a gif of Lily Rabe.


Ah wish ah knew how to quit you

Today I’m quitting drinking. And smoking. 

I woke up twenty minutes ago full of remorse and regret and with the age old lie “I’m never drinking again” pounding around my stupid head like a basketball. Of course it’s not the first time this has happened. It happens pretty much every single time I go out and end up with a bastard headache.

Today, though, marks the beginning of something new. Not least because it’s half past eight and I’m already writing something, which hasn’t happened in a long while.  I’m excited! I can’t wait to not smoke or drink, even though I’m already doing it. It’s a really weird feeling. Obviously it will be hard as hell – I work in two pubs and pretty much everybody I know smokes and looks incredibly cool doing it. Everyone has a good drunk story. This is what’s going to suck:

1. My family are big drinkers.

My folks drink pretty much every night of the week, even if it’s just a glass of wine with dinner. It sounds pretty innocuous, but put it into a different context – for example, going to a bar every day and having a glass of wine – it suddenly sounds a bit sad. My dad quit smoking about ten years ago, maybe more, and to his eternal credit he hasn’t had so much as a puff of a cigarette since. There was that one time on New Years’ Eve he got high (with a little help from my mum’s friends) and decided to eat everything in the house in sandwich form. I can forgive him that.

My mum quit smoking for a long time and now she smokes again. This is awful. She and my brother have constant bitch-fights over it. She drinks more than my dad too and gets drunk fairly easily. Cue more bitch-fights. What we’re learning here, kids, is that booze and fags are bones of contention.

2. Working in a pub.

Sweet lord. This is going to be so hard. The phrase “do you want a fag break” (because you don’t get a break unless you smoke in pubs, generally), the nice heated beer garden, the clusters of cool flannel-shirted Brighton girls with their fringes and dark lipstick all sucking away on liquorice roll-ups. Ironically, though, I never really drink while working in a pub. Alcohol is stupid expensive and it only takes one gang of drunk Jack Wills enthusiasts with twenty pound notes in their sweaty little fists shouting “SAGRES PLEASE. ACTUALLY MAKE IT EIGHT” to make you renounce beer forever.

3. I am really shit at drinking.

I’m a chronic puker. I mean it. If I don’t end up vomiting first thing the next morning I’ll be hopelessly paranoid until I’ve purged my guts manually. I’m squinty and shouty after two pints. A recent night out culminated in me sitting on the toilet eating pasta out of a tupperware trying not to cry. I’m a mess.

I dread waking up after a night out because I know I’ll spend the whole morning, sometimes the whole day, on edge with the taste of ash and fermentation clinging to my tongue and just waiting to puke.

I actually just went for a quick vom now. It was fizzy and tasted faintly of Orchard Pig.

4. Roller derby

Roller derby is bad for your health. After working our arses off and putting on a sweat you could drown a small child in, a bunch of us will go and have a cigarette afterwards. Why? Why do we do this? It’s the stupidest thing we could do. All that delicious exercise and clean air and cardio and we ruin it by huddling around outside like a gang of smoky penguins immediately after. Also don’t believe the myths: derby girls can’t drink. They vomit into their own hair, cry on the bus home and make out with inanimate objects. Big tough badasses.

So there’s that. And the afterparties. I’m not quitting roller derby, that would be pointless – but I am going to run a country mile if someone offers me a cigarette. You can hold me to that.

5. Sugar.

I’ve been watching my sugar intake recently (I have a lot of spare time) and have been trying to cut out all refined and processed sugar from my diet. I was knackered all the time, my skin wasn’t great and I was getting awful headaches – cutting down on sugar made a massive difference. I’ve done pretty well considering I started in Easter (impeccable timing) and am well on my way to being a totally sugar-free self-righteous prick.

Obviously, though, there’s a titload of sugar in most alcohol. I was very careful the other day, sipping demurely on gin, soda water and fresh lime, and then fucked it all up by sucking down three pints of Orchard Pig (my new nemesis. I don’t even like cider.) Hence a huge sugar crash today, which really isn’t helping my hangover.


I’ve just noticed that over the course of five headings I’ve gone from ‘things that will be difficult about quitting’ to ‘very good reasons to quit’. That’s a good sign, surely. Mainly I want to challenge myself and prove that I can do it. Also I’ve written a blog post about it so it will be really embarrassing if I relapse.

Things that will make it easier, I imagine, will be removing myself from situations where I’m tempted to do either of those things. Ultimately though it’s up to me and no-one else to stop saying “can I nick a cigarette” and replace it with “THAT’S MY PURSE I DON’T KNOW YOU.” As a trendy youngster in Brighton, smoking and drinking are culturally significant. I hate that. So it’s time to stop.

Wish me luck!

Exciting News!

**Exciting news!**

I’m thrilled to announce that my lovely little rodents are available to order!


Mice, like the sleeping beauty above, are my usual beasties – but if mice aren’t your thing I’m happy and able to taxidermise rats, hamsters, guinea pigs and anything else cute and cuddly 🙂

You also don’t have to have your furry friend curled up asleep… maybe you want a rollerskating hamster or a guitar-wielding gerbil! Drop me a message with an idea of what you’re after, and I’ll make something especially for you 🙂  because I’m still gaining experience my work is very reasonably priced – so don’t be shy!

You can also rest assured that my taxidermy is completely cruelty free, and I thoroughly check that all of my animals are ethically and responsibly sourced from the reptile food industry. These little beasts have led happy and healthy lives, and are in better condition than any animal you’ll find in a supermarket.


Lily ❤

How to Make Money Upsetting Accountants.

Last week, strapped for cash and with too much time on my hands, I took part in some market research. The deal was that Lord Ashcroft’s minions asked you questions about Britain and the EU for a few hours and you got paid £120 for your opinion.

I know, right? Suckers.

Lord Ashcroft, if you’re not familiar with him, is the tax-evading Tory lovechild of Charles Hawtrey and Emperor Zurg. He runs a website called Lord Ashcroft Polls where he throws money at disgruntled bartenders like me to help him formulate opinions on things and advise the Tories on what do about the EU, the shortage of women in UK politics, and what on earth to have for lunch since the chef has run out of gravlax.

Don’t judge me. I make £80 a week.

Lord Ashcroft just having a casual Guinness in a pub, there.

Anyway. So here we were, about a hundred of us from all walks of life, representing the average Joe and the common man and everyone else. It got off to a great start – the ten people on my table were interested and had varying views on the issues of staying in and leaving the EU, and we all got on really well and had a good discussion. We had guest speakers come and highlight the good and bad points of each side (Charles Grant, Ruth Lea and some nervous intern whose name I forget), the free all-you-can-eat lunch was incredible, and the coffee was alright too. So far, so good.

Of course, after my third plate of ragu everything went terribly, terribly wrong.

“We’re going to do a fun exercise now!” beamed the moderator, and I wilted inside. Fun. The F word. There is nothing fun about someone else’s idea of fun. Especially when the fun you’re about to have is in a conference room at the Park Plaza Hotel, debating the future of Britain’s involvement with the EU.

Our moderator wrote a list of words on the whiteboard. Biscuit. Car. Job. Outfit. Animal. Random nouns, essentially. She turned to us.

“Now then. If Britain was a biscuit, what biscuit would it be, do you think?”

I wish I was joking. I wish I could say that we all sat there, incredulous, sharing glances of what-in-the-hell-just-happened with each other. But no.

“Ooh, I think a Hobnob.”

“Ooh yes. Sturdy, reliable, but sweet!”

“No, definitely a rich tea.”

I sat there reminding myself over and over that I was getting paid for this.

“What about a job? I think Britain would be a policeman.”

“No, an accountant.”



It was at this point, desperate and frustrated and quickly getting indigestion from my cramming at the buffet, that I decided to humour them. So I said, “it’s interesting that we can’t decide between a policeman and an accountant isn’t it? Because Britain is divided, and you think of a policeman as the working class profession, probably didn’t go to university, it’s a practical, important job… whereas an accountant will have spent loads of time and money training to sit in an office and gain a nice decent salary because it’s a specialist career… so our indecision stems from the fact that Britain’s national identity is based on class division and we don’t really have the ‘all in it together’ thing that we think we do… isn’t that kind of interesting? A bit?”

“So… a policeman then?” said the moderator.

I shut up.

Then each table had to present to the room on what biscuit, or job, or animal they thought Britain and the EU would be. This was a pretty awful process (especially the guy who compared the EU to a ‘horse and cart… probably pulled by a dirty old Romanian’) and then it got to our table. Surprise surprise, nobody wanted to stand up and recite what they thought about Britain in terms of baked goods or jobs etc. So guess who did it.


I really tried. I did. I repeated my nonsense argument to the room, maybe throwing in some poorly-thought-out phrases such as ‘Britain has no imagination’, ‘Britain lacks ambition’, ‘what’s the point of this exercise anyway.’ I took a dump with my trousers on, essentially.

I sat down to a deathly silence and prayed for the next coffee break to come quickly.

Then, in the coffee queue, I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned around to see an immensely tall woman and her companion, who looked like a teapot with tits, both scowling furiously at me.

“I didn’t like what you were saying about accountants. What do you have against accountants?” the tall woman demanded. I wondered if there was any point me explaining that I wasn’t having a go at accountants – that they’re probably the people I feel most ambivalent about in the world – and that she seemed to have missed the point of my admittedly awful tangent. However, she was furious and I was small.

“Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m an accountant”, she snapped. Then her little teapot friend leaned forward, right into my face.

And I’m Spanish”, she hissed.

I was very confused.

So I collected my £120, pocketed some free cheesecake, and ran home.

Stickers! Scribbles! Seaside!

Hey all,

Since my last post some exciting things have happened! The Croydon A and B teams beat Milton Keynes Roller Derby, I quit my job at the pub and started a new one in Brighton, and kind of sort of properly moved in with Ed.

Here are a few pictures of the flat!

Mr White, my beloved polecat:


My bit of bottles and bones…
IMG_2618 IMG_2624 IMG_2619

Sleeping cave…


Notebooks, crafty box and some new stickers


Salt’n’ pepper


Now I know where Japan is.

IMG_2609 IMG_2602

IMG_2601So now I’m just sitting around the flat, taking photos and drinking tea, until my first shift at the pub at 7.

I’ve moved house six times in the past four years, so it’s nice to finally have somewhere I can bed down properly in! It’s such a lovely place to live too 🙂 there are cats that come in and just sit on your lap, and there’s loads of space for me to make stuff. And don’t even get me started on the beautiful sofa.

I’m so excited for the coming weeks: tomorrow the coaches from Victorian Roller Derby are coming to teach a session at Croydon, then Sian and I are going to see Taylor Swift on Tuesday (no, I’m not joking and this is not a drill), Monday 10th I get to taxidermise a mouse, and then on the 15th is the Brighton Tattoo Convention! I’m saving my pennies hoping that I can get some work by Jaclyn Rehe or Angelique Houtkamp there. Oh, and did I mention that we’re bouting against Portsmouth on the 22nd of February? I’ll be going up against one of my all-time roller derby heroes, R.I.P. McMurphy. I really hope I get a bruise to take home…

I’ve been trying some more of  my own tattoo-esque scribblings too, though I have a lot to improve on…