Thank Christ for Kate Moss.

Kate Moss
It’s like looking in a mirror.

Having just seen Virgins Sex Pistols inspired credit cards and dragging my eyes through and article about pop ‘rivals’ Katy Perry and Taylor Swift writing vaguely pissy songs at each other, Kate Moss has saved my laptop from being coated with vomit.

Thank you Kate for being the last vestige of rock and roll. Thank you for being gorgeous and a bit pissed on an aeroplane like all fabulously wealthy supermodels should. When celebrities get angry, they don’t swear or scream or throw things, they tell each other how they are feeling and then they cry. Which is what they also do when they are happy/sad /accepting an award/in the vicinity of Oprah Winfrey, horrible boring celebrities. Kate Moss isn’t a celebrity, she’s a genuine famous person with dimensions and flaws and perfections.

I’m not going to let the fact that the aeroplane incident really isn’t a story spoil my enjoyment. According to fellow passengers Ms Moss was no bother at all ‘she was not aggressive to anyone and was funny really’. The flight crew WERE actually behaving like a bunch of basic bitches and called the police who did nothing, because there was nothing to do. But of course we still got the headlines about a paralytic prima-donna being dragged off a plane, which may not be true, but still made my day.

The Daily Mail particularly seems to dislike Kate Moss, last week they ran a story about how she had the audacity to ask Andrew Marr if she could have his seat in a busy café as he’d clearly finished his coffee. What. A. Bitch. Of course I don’t always agree with everything Kate says and does, but that’s because one of us isn’t a global fashion icon so there are bound to be some different interpretations of reality. Anyone who thinks that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, clearly hasn’t got a whole box of Oreo ice creams in her freezer, for example.

There is undoubtedly more than a little bit of misogyny about how this non-incident has been reported. Suzanne Moore in the Guardian points out that Moss’ disruptive behaviour wasn’t actually disruptive, unlike many celebrity antics, but it has been exaggerated in certain parts of the media because: ‘There is nothing that disgusts these people more than a woman enjoying herself’.

Yes, she was drinking – the hussy- another example of press double-standards is the way they report alcoholism. Last month Jed Evans Killed his sister, mother and her partner, just a few days later the DM was suggesting that the mother’s alcoholism was to blame. The penalty for being a flawed mother is death apparently. Men who are alcoholics are tortured self-harmers deserving pity; women are selfish destroyers of other people’s lives deserving what they get. Notice how stories about drunken tourists are always illustrated with a picture of an inebriated woman, because that’s more disgraceful? President Obama has a beer for breakfast at the G7 and he’s respecting a cultural tradition, I pop open a can of Carling at toddler group and I have a ‘problem’.

So screw them Kate, stay supercool, and I’ll ride with you anytime (maybe not on EasyJet though).

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Drink

elephant in the room
Geddit? Nothing to do with the post, really.

My first mistake was picking up the NHS leaflet titled ‘Know your limits’. I was bored and waiting for the surgery and had forgotten to bring my book “Limits are for Pussys, Pass Me Another Cigar” by, erm… Hemmingway.

So it turns out I drink too much. Waaaay to much. I leapfrog all the first three zones of drinking behaviour in the leaflet – “Safe drinking”, “Excessive drinking” “Dangerous drinking”. I am in the category “Hey dude, leave some for everyone else”.

So I’m much more likely to get lots of cancer if the heart attacks don’t get me first, but let me ask you how many people die each year of boredom?

Well none, but the leaflet assures me I will die soon because it assumes that my drinking is a life-long behaviour, rather than just to get me through the years of small children and all the delightful challenges that brings.

One of the reasons I don’t want to stop drinking is because feel I’ve given up so much already. Fags, biscuits, drugs, unprotected sex, glue sniffing, tattooing in insanitary conditions. Admittedly I only really ever did the fags and the biscuits* but still, let me have a vice. Why can’t old people be naughty?

Whenever there’s a news story about middle-class binge drinkers getting trollied in their own homes every night, I can’t help thinking ‘So?’ These people aren’t drunk driving, smashing up town centres or having unprotected sex. They’re steadily seeing their way through a bottle of Shiraz while watching Newsnight. There may be a bit of shouting at the telly before they stagger off to bed, but that’s really the worst of it. Leave them to it I say.

May be this leaflet was a bit too close to the bone for me. It’s left me feeling guilty and depressed. Next time I’m at the doctors, I’ll read about something I can’t possibly get, like testicular cancer, that’ll cheer me up.

*I cannot really vouch for the cleanliness of Lil’s tattoo parlour in Leeds. Ok there was vomit on the floor, but as I recall it was my vomit, so it would be unfair to judge.

Things I miss about school

Chalkboard

– Sharing crushes.

When I was at school, my mate and I both had a huge crush on the same poor bastard for years.  It was great. Unrequited love is less pathetic if you know you’re not alone in exquisite misery. I still get crushes all the time, but not so often on schoolboys, nowadays I target the blokes off the telly. My present telly bloke crush is Ben Willbond from Horrible Histories and The Thick of It, (Those two programmes represent around 60% of my TV viewing over the past year so the poor fella really didn’t stand a chance).

I miss sharing my obsessive tendencies with girlfriends who can laugh with you, sympathise with you and crucially stop you from doing anything illegal. I do already know someone else who watches the same telly as me and shares this crush (not mentioning any names), so I’m thinking of forming some kind of Facebook group, get a few of us together. If nothing else it would help to organise a job share arrangement to divvy up the stalking. There’s only so long you can spend standing outside some one’s house between school-runs (exactly 5 hours and 13 minutes). I’m kidding, I don’t even know where Ben Willbond lives                                              yet.

– Having a good time without alcohol.

I had loads of fun at school, and before I was 15, booze didn’t feature so much. Nowadays, I can hardly remember the last time I had a good night without drinking. I can hardly remember the last time I had a good night with drinking either. You know- because of the drinking.

I did think about joining a net ball club to try and recapture that abstemious fun, but I know who I am. The very first training session would end up in the bar. Pretty soon I’d be skipping the netball bit and heading straight for the pub.  I suppose I could invite the team to join me, but like I said, that’s not who I am.

Picking shit up

Of course I don’t mean shit literally here. I’m just using it as a general slang term for stuff. Except a couple of years ago when the kids were small and the cat had a tumour, when it would have been literal.

I suppose I picked up a few things from time to time when I was a kid, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t constantly picking stuff up like I am now.

An average day for me is basically take the children to school, come home and pick stuff up for a couple of hours, have a bit of lunch, maybe pop out to the garden where I pick stuff up for a bit until it’s time to get the kids, (I deliberately avoided using the expression ‘pick up’ the kids, because I feared I was in danger of labouring the point).

When I was at school, it was as if I was blind to all the stuff lying around waiting to be picked up. I took responsibility for the things I dropped (I wasn’t a delinquent), but I felt fine with leaving other people to pick up their own damn stuff. I could quite happily walk past stuff, not pick it up, and then just get on with my life.  I miss those crazy care-free days.

– Engaging in shameless hypocrisy.

I remember spending a couple of hours in class with friends designing an anti-smoking campaign with the slogan “You’re a fool, if you think it’s cool”. Then lunch time came and we snuck out of school for a quick ciggie and to call each other fools. Nowadays I don’t have an ironic bone in my body (except the ulnar or ‘funny’ bone). I really mean it when I shout at the kids to be quiet, or bore my husband shitless with pressing issues regarding grocery shopping.

I hate getting old, it’s as disappointing an anti-climax to former promise as a really bad ending to a blog post.