Well behaved women seldom make history


Friday, 17 April 2015

Zoella in The Sun newspaper. 'Scrubs up Zo-Wella'

Back in February, The Sun, a national newspaper, published this spread about Zoe, detailing the groundbreaking news that sometimes, she doesn't wear make up.

Reading about news I don't mind. I work for newspapers, I study journalism, news is a large part of my job. We need news. But this isn't news, this is 'news' and this kind of 'news' feeds nobody but the insecure women who can't stand to see an attractive female without a coinciding photo that relies on awkward camera to suggest that a beautifully made up woman doesn't always look polished.

Zoe isn't the only female newspapers are writing 'news' about. Holly Wiloughby recently had a really insightful article written about her on how she went for a walk. And then there's that time Lauren Goodger didn't walk into a puddle.

I do not care.

I don't care about people walking, or missing puddles or not wearing make up. I'd much rather you told me about what's going on in the world of science or told me about crime and achievements and the education sector and what's happening in the run up to the general election. 

In fact, tell me about the economy, tell me what's new in music, tell me what medical progress we're making, tell me about injustice, tell me about viral videos, tell me about god damn cats just please, do not tell me about a woman leaving her house without make up on.

PS. The headline is sh*t.

Monday, 13 April 2015

How to get Tumblr hair


Wednesday, 18 March 2015

The Croissant Incident ft Posh People

Last month Ciaran and I headed to Oxford for a weekend away. The hotel had a five star rating (because I like to pretend I’m a millionaire) and was the sort of place you’d take the Queen for lunch.
Things went relatively well. I didn’t trip over, nor did I get a horrendous bout of hiccups – something that has happened to me on more than one occasion that I’m trying to be as sophisticated as possible – and the posh people didn’t notice we were imposters.

We spent a couple of days out and about in Oxford, we went to a theatre show with lots of middle class people who we referred to as ‘Yars’ (inspired by their pronunciation of ‘yes’), ate dinner at some great places and relaxed in the spa.

It was on the final day we went to breakfast at the hotel. It was the fancy kind where you have to wait to be seated and can’t eat and run like most Premier Inns. After we sat down, I arose elegantly from my chair and sauntered over to the continental breakfast. I stood, amongst female Yars who smelt like potpourri and I allowed myself a small, victorious smile. I seemed to be holding my own. Hell, I was a few ‘splendids’ away from them anointing me a junior Yar and letting me live in their annex. In short, I had done well. As I picked up the croissant pliers and reached for the most rounded, buttery one I could find, my pride was quickly wiped away when somehow, the croissant leapt from the pliers, fell onto the floor and scattered broken bits of pastry everywhere. The Yars gasped. They looked down, shaking their heads, as though I had just kicked a puppy. I panicked. I was about to say ‘oh sh*t’ but I didn’t want to be catapulted back down to Jeremy Kyle status so I did the best thing I could: I looked at the croissant in disgust and loudly called, in my poshest voice, ‘goodness!’. The Yars looked up at me, as I sauntered over to retrieve the misbehaving croissant and their eyes narrowed, trying to suss if I was the real deal. I walked back to the table, wondering if I’d gotten away with it. I glanced to my left and spotted a boy, no older than six, drop a large slice of ham on the carpeted floor, lean down, do a quick scan of the room before shovelling it into his mouth. Of course, the Yars missed that. Goodness.
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