Tag Archives: sex

Traversing the Tinderverse

16 Aug

The Tinderverse is a bewildering flotsam of social media space junk. The lost and the lewd, the peculiar and the promiscuous- they all hover uncertainly amidst Internet acronyms, unselfconsciously meta profiles, and enthusiastic emoticons. In my mind, Tinder embodies the Mos Eisley cantina from Star Wars: a quagmire of freaks, all killing time in between misadventures, all disappointed that they can’t play with their droids, and all waiting for the chance to unholster their weapon.

He’s 5km away from me and has a gun. Shit.

And I’m in the middle of it all. Looking for a young Harrison Ford. And just trying to get to fucking Alderaan. 

Bam-chicka-wow-wow: Storm Trooper porn

Hold on…Alderaan explodes, doesn’t it? 

Well that doesn’t work as a reference. 

I mean, I’ll never make it there. 

And I’m three decades too late to find a young Harrison Ford. Young Mr. Ford doesn’t exist anymore. Not even in the post-apocalyptic Tinderverse.

Wow. That just makes that whole metaphor kind of…depressing. 

And meta as fuck!

This is apparently two images of the same man. And that, my friends, is a failed Jedi mind trick.

Anyway, every now and then, your weirdness meshes serendipitously with the weirdness of another, and you find yourself on an actual date.

The Muso was a horrifically cute fellow that I went out with a few times last year. He was the main songwriter in an unsigned prog-metal band​. I matched with him and, feeling frisky, decided to break conventions by sending the first message: “Is the state of Sydney’s live music scene so calamitous that a musician has to find women on Tinder?! Don’t girls just peg their underpants at you as you walk down the street?” 

Apparently, being nerdy enough to use the word ‘calamitous’ as an online mating call endears you to some people and, impressed by the size of my dictionary, he invited me to beers at an achingly hip pub in Bondi.

Our first date ended with a warm smile and a chaste hug. And it was refreshing. Old-fashioned. Other-worldly, even. The force was strong in this one.

He messaged the next day to say that he’d had a nice time and would love to see me again.

How nice, I found myself thinking, to be in the company of a dude who didn’t make his desire to wrench my legs asunder the focal point of our time together. It’s refreshing. Old fashioned. Other-worldly, even.

And the second date? Well, it started with a beer and it ended with the phrase, “I’m seeing a psychologist because they think I’m somewhere on the autism spectrum. You’ve heard of Asperger’s, haven’t you?”

Ah. So I was wrong- the cute musician boy wasn’t not making a move because he was a gentleman. He was not making one because he couldn’t pick up on my ‘I am amenable to the concept of being kissed by you’ social cues.


Nothing’s easy, is it?

His announcement should have signalled that he wasn’t the droid I was looking for, but I didn’t want to be judgemental, especially since he a) played lead guitar and b) continued with, “Being a nurse I figured you wouldn’t run away. Thank you for not running away.”

Heartbreaking, no?

And there might have also been c) he had a pierced tongue.

But I’m not admitting to anything there.

And I figured that the words “autism spectrum” were more palatable than “casual heroin habit” or “I only killed animals as a child”, so I agreed to a third date.

It was on New Year’s Eve. We were going to have a socially isolated quiet evening at his house. He was stoned when I arrived. I was unimpressed. He misread my facial cues and offered me a joint. I poured myself a glass of wine instead. He began to sermonise that weed is healthier than alcohol. I became irritated. We debated. The exchange became somewhat heated, then he blurted out, “I was an accessory to murder once.”

Wait- what?

An accessory to…what?!

Was this a debate technique? Misdirect your opponent with ejaculatory disclosures? Why was he telling me this? I hadn’t even kissed him yet. And, in the timeline of relationships, should your lips not briefly converge with another’s before you unlock your closet and dump a pile of rotting bones on them?

As I pondered this, his cat jumped on my lap. I began to stroke the beast’s head; noticing for the first time the disquietingly large number of Pop! Vinyl dolls there were in his lounge room. The entire cast of Dr. Who was there- he’d collected the Spectrum out of them. They stood, crowding every surface: an army of esoteric sci-fi characters, mute, but somehow proud in their zanily proportioned, bobble-headed glory. They were all spaced precisely three inches apart. They were all angled to face the lounge we perched on, and they were all



I took a swig of wine.

And, under their unyielding, inanimate gaze, the Muso told me his story, giving it the sort of unerring attention to detail that only an Aspie can muster.

The murder happened during a drug deal gone bad, one that took place in a dowdy, inner-west flat. My soft-spoken, seemingly gentle Muso was there with a volatile, steroid-injecting acquaintance. They were visiting an emaciated dealer. To buy an ounce of pot. The PlayStation in the corner was broken. There was a hole in the curtains. And a blue Louisville Slugger softball bat was by the door to the kitchen.

To cut a long, disturbing story short: Steroid smacked Skinny with the bat mid-deal.

Completely out of the blue.

Ha! Geddit? ‘Cos the bat was…?!

Golly I’m clever.

Anyway, Steroid hit him once…twice…a handful of times. Skinny collapsed on the carpet. The Muso started to rise from his seat, buttocks hovering over cheap pine, when Steroid turned, pointed the blood-streaked bat at him, and told him to “wait in the fuckin’ car.”

Unsurprisingly, he obeyed.

“He had the new Slipknot album,” he told me, scratching his knee through his shorts, “so I just listened to that while I waited.”

“What song?” I interjected. “‘Wait and bleed’?”

He frowned. “No. That was on their first album.”

I rolled my eyes. Friggin’ Aspies. “Never mind. Continue.”

When Steroid emerged, the Muso asked him what happened. Steroid stripped off his bloodied shirt, wiped himself with it, threw it in the car, and told Muso to clear it from his fuckin’ mind. 

Muso left Sydney the next day. He boarded a train to Queensland, planning to move back in with his mum. On the way there, in a burst of melodrama, he threw his SIM card out the window.

“So I couldn’t be tracked,” he explained.

I ran a finger over the rim of my wine glass. “Did you call the cops?”

He looked at me like I asked if he’d changed his underwear. “Of course not-”

Of course he hadn’t changed his underwear: Aspie’s don’t like change (!!) 

“-He’d have killed me,” he finished.

I paused. “Did you ring an ambulance?”

“Nup. Too risky.”

At this point, the cat on my lap had begun to feel suffocating. “But you could have anonymously rang one and saved his life. Does that bother you?”

He frowned, genuinely confused. “Why would that bother me? It was none of my business.”

Holy-fucking-hell. He wasn’t ‘somewhere on the spectrum’, he was Aspie as shit. Aspi-er than Susan Boyle.

And funnily enough, that night after I left, ‘I dreamed a dream in time gone by…that I was high…and playing softball…I dreamed the game had gone awry…’

I awoke the next morning to a message from him. He wanted to progress to “a dinner” because he felt that we connected on “many levels”.

Which, in a way, we did: we were both smokers, both socially awkward, and both fans of Karnivool.

The only problem was that pesky ‘accessory to murder’ nonsense.

Because it wasn’t the ‘my sister’s boyfriend used to abuse her, so I gave her a gun to defend herself with’ kind- which, under the right circumstances, I may or may not be able to justify- but the ‘I sat in a car while one man bashed another into a pile of broken bone and brains’ kind.

Which is, generally speaking, the disturbing kind.

I mean, ‘once there was a time when men were kind, their voices soft, their words inviting…’

Sorry. I’ve got ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ stuck in my head now.

Anyway, I wasn’t going to go on another date with him any more than I was going to part his arse cheeks and wear him as a hat.

So I replied to his text with a generic and insincere ‘thanks for the lovely night/ maybe we should just be friends/ best of luck in the future’.

His response came three hours later: “Well FRIEND, I appreciate your honesty. And since you don’t want to date anymore, how about you come and see my band sometime, FRIEND.”

I shivered, He’s really got to work on recognising those social cues.

I threw my SIM card out the car window.



Trawling Tinder

8 Aug

I’ve never had a good experience on Tinder. And yet, like a woman trapped in a co-dependant union, I keep going back.

Because Tinder is fucking hilarious.

Pockets of humanity lurk on there and trawling Tinder freaks has become a perfectly acceptable way to spend my weekend.

He Gives Good Head

Take this guy:


Check out what he’s holding. Doesn’t the image of a man with a decapitated goats head scream, “IT PUTS THE FUCKING LOTION IN THE BASKET!”?

Who’d make that their Tinder profile pic anyway? I mean, doesn’t that just get your goat?

I’m ‘kid’ding.

Can you see where this is ‘head’ing?

Ooh- maybe he’s trying to allude to giving good head?

This joke is old now. It’s time to put it out to pasture.

Pre-Battle Banter

Some men on Tinder are only after one thing.

TinderMan1: “So are we going to meet? What’s your address?”

CC: “We can meet, but I’m not giving you my address. How about a coffee?”

TinderMan1: “We know where coffee is going to end up, so just give me your address.”

This vexed me: Where, exactly, did this audacious prick believe that coffee was going to end up? Does coffee herald coitus? Not necessarily. Coffee can wind up in lots of places: a manic discussion on Jack Kerouac. A hilarious foam-on-the-upper-lip moment. Hell, I could be a stage five clinger that thinks espressos will mean babycinos.

CC: “You see, coffee is my he’s-not-an-axe-murderer-and-I-can-invite-him-into-my-house insurance policy :)”

TinderMan1: “Yeah. See, I work in the music industry and I can’t afford to buy every girl coffee.”

As this message was read, a thwack echoed across the city as the drawbridge to my lady-parts slammed shut.

CC: “What a shame: I’m a gold-digger and I’m not interested in poor men. Better luck next time.”

Luckily, the men on Tinder are a production line and Tinderman1 segued seamlessly into Tinderman2.

TinderMan2: “Where do I work? I work in banking and investments. So how about a vino sometime?”

When I didn’t expeditiously respond, he messaged again.

Tinderman2: “What, is working in finance a deal breaker? :P”

CC: “No. It’s not a deal breaker at all. In fact, it might even be fun to have a drink with someone devoid of a soul :D”

He blocked me after that. He wasn’t devoid of a soul, but apparently devoid of a sense of humor. My sardonic wit often combusts in the tinderbox. I was blocked by another fellow after I playfully said, “Don’t get too excited to meet me- I might yet be a convincing pre-op transsexual ;)”

Testing my Patients

I recently matched with a bearded bloke from Enmore whose profile spoke of ‘sustainability’, ‘craft beer’ and ‘meat trays’.

My, how I do love a hipster.

On our first interaction, The Beard gave me his Instagram handle and invited me to stalk him. I did. There was- amid jumpy iPhone footage of a plethora of live bands- a surprising number of posts dedicated to Shiner Bock beer. These were photographed in glistening, moist, pornographic glory. I counted eleven pictures of beer, but hardly any of him. There was more beer than beard on there.

I pulled out my phone and typed, “Saw your Instagram. Nice. I think my first question is: are you still sponsored by Shiner Bock?”

It was a whimsical bon mot that deserved, at the very least, an emoticon smiley. Instead I got a long, not really coherent explanation that was so convoluted, I wondered why he didn’t just type the word ‘no’ and save us both a lot of time.

We decided to meet for a drink at Newtown. I caught public transport in. Trains weren’t running due to trackwork, so I arrived ten minutes late, breathless and nervous. I scanned the crowd, my gaze finally settling on what I can only describe as a ‘demented lumberjack’. And he wasn’t okay.

Neither was I, actually.

Because who this bloke was in the Tinderverse and who he was in reality was somewhat incongruent.

The man from Tinder was bearded, smiling, slender. He wore Wayfarer sunglasses in one shot, clutched a bass guitar in another. He drank from a stein. He posed with a mischievous pug.

And the man trudging towards me? Well, he was the kind of overweight that usually has the adverb ‘morbidly’ attached to it. His soft, round midsection poked through a threadbare, black sloppy joe that was long ago washed to grey. It was, at least, clean. There were no obvious cum-stains or spag-bol remnants on it. His beanie, on the other hand, was coated in a powdery white substance that was, at best, cocaine and, at worst, dandruff. His face and eyes were completely flat- nary a flicker of emotion was spared for the jittery brunette before him.

And really, an expression would have been nice.

Because I’d only made a tiny bit of fucking effort in getting there.

I’d only spent an hour or so trying on outfits in my bedroom in a Tassie-Devil whirlwind of cotton. I’d only spent ninety fucking minutes battling rail buses, half of which was time spent in close proximity to a man with a facial tattoo who overused the word ‘cunt’. And then, when I changed buses at Strathfield station, there was only that tiny, little argument that I got into with the douche-bag in the hatchback; the guy who, after clocking my vintage army jacket and Doc Marten boots, decided that I was a Neo-Nazi. The dude that then began to trawl me in his car, chanting things like: “Where’s your Swastika, love? Adolf, hey? Seig Heils! Yeah! Nice boots Adolf!” through the open passenger window as I willfully ignored him for as long as I could.

‘As long as I could’ turned out to be ‘half a block’. I snapped after that and shouted- yes, shouted– “Go fuck yourself, you Peugeot-driving wanker!”

Not my finest moment. If I didn’t look like a scary skinhead before I started shouting at passing motorists with wild-eyed zeal, I certainly did after. Something clever and punchy like: “How dare you call me Adolf! Call me Eva. Or Miss Braun, you socialist swine,” would have been better.

Fucking l’esprit d’escalier.

Anyway, this bummed me out, because I thought that my carefully-chosen outfit said, ‘I’m stylish without trying too hard and my Heathers t-shirt says that I understand and embrace cult pop-culture references.’

But it didn’t. Apparently it just said two words: Master Race.

But, back to The Beard: when he greeted me, it was in a monotone, and he slurred his words.

Oh fuck, I thought. Is he drunk?

He leaned in for a kiss. I offered a cheek. He rested a paw uncomfortably close to another cheek. I pulled away. His hand lingered on my jeans like Velcro. He told me about his Sunday: a long walk with a friend that was hard because he got “munted” Saturday night, but a walk that he persevered with nonetheless because he’s “a fat bastard now”.

Then he asked where I wanted to go. We could go anywhere except The Townie. He’d been kicked out of The Townie last month- a feat that I, nor anyone who has ever set foot in The Townie, would think possible. But it was. The Beard’s version of events was: ‘I slur even when I’m not drunk.’ The bouncers was: ‘Even so, ten beers and a broken chair is inappropriate, and you have to leave.’

He asked if I’d eaten, the memory of his fat arse breaking a chair seemingly jogging him back to food. “Let’s go to Mary’s. You ever been there?”

I hadn’t.

He wiped his mouth. “I can’t believe you’ve never been to Mary’s,” he exclaimed in a flat voice.

We began walking up King street, taking a left turn down an alleyway. He led me through the darkness, deep into sex-crime central, before stopping at a place that had no signage, just a bare red bulb glowing above the door.

Oh Christ, I thought. He’s taking me to a brothel. Or a rape dungeon.

It wasn’t. In fact, Mary’s may be the only good thing to come out of that night. Mary’s is a dingy, heavy metal pub that serves fried chicken so consumable, I’m fairly certain it was a Breaking Bad, crystal-meth laced, Los Pollos Hermanos bird. They also serve a fried chicken dish named ‘Larry Bird’, which tickled me. Immensely.

He sat opposite me, studying me with open curiosity. “So how’m ah’doin?”

I put down my piece of chicken. “What?”

He wiped his mouth. “How am I doin’ on the date?”

I was taken aback and laughed. Loudly. “HAHAHAHAHA! That’s a…question. Isn’t it? Look at you asking…questions.”

“Is there like, any chance of,” he paused. “You know…”

Oh please God, don’t say it.

“Because I don’t go for casual stuff,” he continued. “Mostly. Like, I had a friend with benefits once, but that ended. It’s not me. There was one Tinder girl who took me home. That was weird because, like, she was tall and our feet touched during it. She left straight after it.”

I’d like to pause the story and assure you that I am absolutely not making this up. He absolutely said this to me, and as he spoke, I was absolutely conducting a mini-mental examination on the poor bastard: What the fuck is he talking about? That didn’t make sense. That was thought disordered as fuck. And I think he’s derailing. Is he derailing? No, he’s totally derailing. Is he a patient somewhere? I bet he’s a schizophrenic.

He wiped his mouth again. “You’re, like, big- for a chick, I mean- aren’t ya? You’ve gotta be five eight or…?”

Maybe I should ask if he takes Clozapine. The belly. The drool. Fuck! Okay, this is weird. I think I’m accidentally on a date with a fucking-

He considered me. “How do you usually go on Tinder dates? Like how do you do this?”

What the shit…? Oh no, he’s staring at you! Quick, say something now! Change the subject! Talk about  the chicken! Larry Bird! LARRY BIRD!

He left to use the bathroom. I took the opportunity to broadcast my woe on Facebook. When he returned, I casually brought up the uni assignment due that evening. I’d already done it- it was submitted earlier that afternoon, in between leg-day at the gym and my ‘yuck, I now smell like a diseased yak’ pre-date shower. I didn’t know that The Beard was going to be a living nightmare and I wanted to be free from responsibility if he wasn’t.

“So I have to leave. Right now.” Which is a shame, I tried to say with my eyes. But, you know, responsibility. Stuff.

“Have another beer.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that! To Hornsby!”

“It’s an easy drive.”

“No, it’s fine. Besides, you’ve been drinking.”

“Only four pints.”

In two hours. And I don’t want to die in a fiery car wreck. At least not before I erase my Google Chrome history. “Really, I’ll get the train.”

He walked me to the station, I glanced at the board and saw that a train- although not my train- was leaving in two minutes. “Two minutes! Nick of time. I’ve really got to run.”

He responded by grabbing me around the waist and grinding his crotch into my hip like a horny Doberman. He went in for the kiss and, again, I offered a cheek. He smelt like chicken. Craft beer. Plague. Peristalsis. Hormones. And desperation.

I boarded my train feeling fed-up. You can’t go on a bad date without it draining you of something. Even if you enter the evening with no expectations, you leave robbed of a little effervescence. I can usually see the funny side, and writing about it fortifies me, but there are times when I can’t help but wish I could go back to that heady period in my early-twenties when the world didn’t seem to be full of weirdos.

Wanting a little pick me up, I opened Tinder.

And found this guy.
img_0023His profile states- with a two-finger salute to the rules of grammar- that he is “the badboy you’re mothers warned you about”, he’s “the real 50 shades baby.”

He’s also a poet, because he goes on to claim that he’s “hung like an ox”,

“enjoys nibbling at your…”

“and making you scream with his…”

But only blows his load into socks.

Okay, so I made that last one up.

Tinder, hey?


Fleurgen the Stereo Muppet

18 Sep

Six months ago I bought an $800 car- a dusty red Charade manufactured back when Paul Keating was Prime Minister. I dubiously christened her “Cherry Bomb”.

She was bought from a fellow in Darlington. From there, Cherry travelled nine kilometres before having a hot flush and overheating on a busy road, ultimately forcing me to tow her like a menopausal beached whale to my mechanic. After some tinkering from him, my $800 bomb became my $1100 baby. We shared a few volatile months that were punctuated by agitated dashboard slaps, emergency radiator refills, and cries of “Just move you old whore!” Shortly after returning from an impulsive and ill-advised road trip to Melbourne, Cherry Bomb died, and I abandoned her on the side of the road like a Bangladeshi baby girl.

Then I bought another car. A shiny blue Citroen: round as a bubble, pretty as a daffodil, and reliable as a mule. I called my darlin’: Clementine.

Clementine deserved a new stereo. Speakers, too. Other stuff. I’m not sure what- I’m not fluent in tech…but something heroic that could handle Meshuggah being played at a volume best described as “unwise”.

I turned to Google. Found Fleurgen. Fleurgen has a 100% 5-star Google review rating. RodBallz2164 claimed that Fleurgen is a “wizard” that does “seriouse jobs n wiked shit”. DriftMaker called him the patron saint of car stereos before adding: “Don’t let the size of the shop fool you! lols! Hes an awesome dude too.”

Sounded good. I emailed Fleurgen. He instructed me to visit him Friday.

On Thursday night I had a few quiet beers with my best friend, The Reader. Because we’re horrible influences on each other, our three craft beers quickly devolved into being the last two inebriated idiots badgering staff at The Absinthe Salon, followed soon after by a dodgy kebab that may, or may not, have contained some minced dachshund.

So on Friday morning we’re both in a fragile state. Through a green groan, I tell The Reader about Fleurgen.


“The dude who’s installing my car stereo. He’s Swedish. I’m sure his workspace is filled with misbehaving chickens and that he says, ‘fleurdy der, der fleurdy der…bork bork bork!’ as he works.”

Just to, you know, ram that reference home for you all. Bork.

Just to, you know, ram that reference home for you all.

“We’ll go,” I continue, “Meet him super quickly, then have wanky inner-west coffee somewhere.”

“And bacon.”

I grin. “Pork pork pork!”


The first thing you notice about Fleurgen are his teeth, because they aren’t really his teeth at all. They’re Gollum’s. Despite this, Fleurg smiles warmly, talks quickly, and repetitively answers his mobile phone during the consultation.

My knowledge of car stereo systems is just behind that of Toad from Wind in the Willows, and, in my hungover state, I’m about as green as my foppish, amphibian counterpart. I try to explain my audio needs to Fleurg, “I listen to music loud. And I listen to a lot of metal,” I swallow, willing myself not to fleurg recycled absinthe all over Fleurg’s floor. “I don’t want anything too extreme, no doofwoofer thingies,” I croak, “Just something that can frighten the soccer mums in traffic.”

Instead of answering, Fleurg leads us to his ute and folds himself in, leaving a pale, hairy leg protruding horizontally from the door. The Reader and I eye each other. Fleurg emerges and encourages me to get in. I do. He flips a switch and Swedish gangsta rap straight outta Stockholm assaults my ears.

“Sure,” I say, once he’s mercifully turned it off. “Sounds good.”

He grins wolfishly. “Well, that’s expensive.”

“Too good,” I quickly clarify. “I’m not worthy of such a sound.”

Fleurg then enquires about my budget. I evade the question, knowing that an answer will betray both my lack of knowledge and my deep pockets. He studies my car, muttering words like “amplifier”, “head unit” and “tweeders”, which sound like the unfortunately named sidekicks of a meth dealer to me. Fleurg suggests that I “soundproof” my ride, something that involves ripping my doors apart and stuffing them with what appears to be Ikea bubble wrap.

“It’s to create a speaker box,” he explains. “I can skip this but it really won’t sound any different after an upgrade and you’ll be wasting money.”

It’s all got the vague aroma of bullshit, but absinthe numbs my olfactory receptors and I was out of my depth the minute his jargon morphed from dB’s to THD’s, so I agree and ask for the quote. $1300. A quarter of the price I paid for the fucking car. It’s more than what I’d expected, but Fleurg is the best. And the best costs money. And it’s what Opeth and Katatonia would want to be played through, so…

“That’s fine.”

As he’s taking a small deposit, Fleurg asks where I work.

“I’m a nurse.”

“Oh, so you know about signalling molecules?”

My stare is blank. “I’m a mental health nurse. Not, you know, a real one.”

“Oh, mental health,” he clasps his hands together. “No. Even more relevant. Yes. Wait, please.”

He leaves, returning a minute later with a small photo album.

And then it got weird.

Because for the next ten, cotton-brained, dry-mouthed, we-are-both-way-too-old-for-this-shit, and-maybe-that-shot-of-mescal-was-a-bad-idea minutes, Fleurg shows us pictures of mouth cancer, ulcerated flesh, STD-ravaged genitalia, and limbs smeared with autoimmune skin disease, all juxtaposed with images of slightly less grotesque versions of the aforementioned. The Reader retches, swallows, and absently touches the cigarette packet in his pocket. Fleurg doesn’t notice. He’s enthusiastically flicking through the album like it’s a twisted Playboy– illness porn. He claims that the sole credit for healing goes to ASEA.

Make that ‘science porn’.

“What’s ASEA?”

According to Fleurg, ASEA is a scientifically sound revolution of molecules and atoms that are created in scientifically advanced ways and used in the fantastically scientific science of curing disease scientifically.

ASEA is the fountain of youth. The next big thing. It can fix anything. Anything. Did he mention that? Cerebral Palsy. Tuberculosis. Acne-scarred skin.

“Acne-scarred skin?” The Reader asks dubiously.

Fleurg nods. Anything. In fact, Fleurg’s been drinking ASEA for years.

“ASEA cures anything. Anything!”*
*except poorly fluoridated teeth

The Reader raises an eyebrow, “Drinking it?”

Yes. ASEA is water. Salt water, actually. Filled with miracle molecules.

I gaze at Fleurg, wanting to ask if he has any magic beans to sell us, as well. Before I can, he gets to the point: ASEA is, to be blunt, a pyramid scheme.

That I can buy into.

For the low, low cost of $259 per month.

Then, I can then sell ASEA to my patients at work, making a tidy profit in the process.

Simply by encouraging the mentally ill to exchange their antipsychotics for magic saline.

I’m not sure how that fits into that pesky ‘duty of care’ thing we nurses have.

Fleurg isn’t either. “Hmm, maybe you just refer your patients to me- keep things simple for you.”

I agree to it. I’ll agree to anything just to get the fuck out of there. “Yep, I’ll take a look at it…No, it sounds very interesting…Yes…No, of course I will. Just, ah, email it to me, and I’ll, um, look.”

By offering to buy the Kool-aid that he drinks as opposed to the stereos that he is meant to be fucking selling, I have pleased Fleurg immensely. “Goodbye, Happy CC!” he cries. “I send you information tonight!”

The Reader and I barely make it into the car before we begin cackling like jackals.

“What a fucking lunatic!” he exclaims as I speed out of there. “I just knew he’d be nuts. Fucking Scandinavians.”


Two hours later, over a cup of the inner west’s finest coffee: An overpriced, single origin blend infused with Guatemalan hayfever and Colombian orphan tears, we dissect ASEA.

I look up from my phone. “It is salt water. Literally. The bottle lists the ingredients as ‘salt’ and ‘water’. And, on a side note, the company director looks like a member of NAMBLA.”

The Reader leans in to look, smoking and smirking. “I think we should sell everything we own and buy into this. We’ll be rich as Nazis!”

I switch to Google stalking Fleurg. “According to his LinkdIn profile, Fleurg is a health and wellbeing enthusiast who believes that the apocalypse is coming.”

“Fruit loop. I might start selling my pubes as organic dental floss.”

“If they’re paleo you might be able to get Pete Evans to spruik them.”

“Think he’s on the wank-water bandwagon, too?”

My coffee cup clatters to the table in mock indignation. “It’s ‘ionised molecular saline’. Not wank-water. It cures cancer. Get it right.”


Later that evening, I receive a voicemail from an ASEA associate, a woman named Gaia who tries to build a rapport- or possibly credibility- by opening with, “I’m a nurse, too”. She then…speaks with…odd…pauses during part…s…of the conversation, almost…as if she was reading it…from…a script that had a large…cancerous…tumor on it.

Apparently ASEA have found a way to clone William Shatner into a female’s body, as well.

Fifteen minutes later Gaia calls again.

Then once more after four days.

Next, Fleurg emails me: ‘Hello Happy CC, Do you have steering wheel control for the radio in your car? Do you still want to be able to use this?’

‘Yes. And definitely,’ I type, finishing the sentence tersely in my head: I’m not sure what else I’m about to pay you over a thousand fucking dollars for.

His reply comes the next day. He’s ordered the part. But he can’t guarantee that it will work. Apparently, Happy CC’s car is “a borderline”.

Oh, no, I think. Clementine is a PD. I guess that explains the scratch marks around the doors. Maybe some ASEA in the fuel tank will cure her.


But that wasn’t the end of the email:

With regards to the Redox Signalling molecules i spoke to yo about.

Here are a couple of links to short info videos:


Watch ” The Redox Breakthrough” (9 min)

” ASEA The Genesis” (21 min)

I like ” Doctors and Science” (5 min)

If you have further interest i suggest that you attend ASEA Discovery Event in Ryde this Saturday morning starting at 10, for about two hour.

This will be part of mainstream health care not to long from now.

You will hear real testimonials face to face.

Come along and have some fun a great bunch of people!

It was an event such as this that it convinced me it is something i need to be part of. This is an exceptional opportunity not only to seriously help people …but also to get paid for it!

Ver-fucking-batim. I think Fleurg’s positive Google reviews were left by fellow bricks on the ASEA pyramid.


“Don’t fucking go to that!” The Reader shrieks when I tell him. “It’s probably in a fucking dungeon where they make you drink their atomised rape-water and molest you to Swedish gangsta rap!”

“Think they want to ‘pork pork pork’ me?”

“Or maybe ASEA is just the bottled tears of their investors. It’s all just too fucking strange. Cultish. And how do people fall for this shit!?”


So, in conclusion, it wasn’t the redox that signalled to me on a molecular level that I was making a mistake in getting Fleurg to install the stereo in my car. It was an intuitive twang, something as thin and fine as gold filigree that plinks in my gut every now and then. I used to ignore them, often finding myself in horrific situations- like, you know, the time I was fucking robbed in fucking Panama– but I try to listen now.

Or, more succinctly: I tell Fleurg to fuck off.

I find a well-known car stereo franchise that afternoon. I speak to an earnest young man who quotes me $500 less than Fleurg. So far so good.

“And can I still use the steering wheel controls already in place?”

“That’s going to cost a little bit more.”

I hold my breath.

Keys click on the computer. “That part costs $15.”

My breath exhales in a rush. “And it’ll work?”

He eyes me strangely. “Well, yeah.”

I glance at his pasty, unfortunately pock-marked skin. Acne-scarring. Obviously not an ASEA enthusiast.

I grin. “How much deposit do you need?”


A post that is almost about blow-jobs

22 Jul

This. THIS is why I hate feminism.

Or feminists.

I’m not sure. Maybe both. Maybe I am a misogynist with a vagina. Who knows.

Okay, before I begin, I want you to embrace a hypothetical for me. Let’s pretend that this blog is read by more than just three Cambodian perverts and a semi-literate goat in Brazil. We need to pretend that this blog is huge, that it receives over 4 million page views per month.

…Sorry, I was side tracked in cleaning up the gigantic puddle of urine that erupted, mid-cackle, when I considered the complete unlikelihood of my inane ramblings ever going grand-scale.

Not that you would know that I paused to clean up urine. I mean, you would have finished one sentence and skipped straight to the next, not knowing that there was a break in typing as I mopped up wee.

I didn’t.

Mop up wee, that is.

Or, come to think of it, wet myself, either.

Actually, I’m not even sure why I included that wee lil’ urine joke, it’s not funny.

And it probably leaves you with a small question as to the state of my pelvic floor muscles.

Perfectly fine.

By the way.

I’m, uh, totally continent.


Anyway, we need to pretend that I am a male writer with a strong pelvic floor and a stronger disdain for lady parts. We need to pretend that I am a man who hates eating pussy.

Stay with me- there is a point to this.

Pretend that I have written a blog post that talks about how gross it is to eat a girl out. This blog post is going to be sexist, NSFW, and offensive, so you are probably going to read things like:

“Vaginas, in general, are disgusting. And ugly. Below the waist, every woman looks like she has been flayed by an inept Hannibal Lecter with late stage Parkinson’s disease.”

“Even the word: vuh-gyna. It sounds like something that an AIDS-ridden Care Bear would say.”

“When girls get excited they leak manky, salty fluid that tastes like battery acid, Kraft Blue Cheese dressing, and sorrow. And, all girls smell like an old can of tuna.”

I want you to imagine the words “axe wound”, “meat curtains”, “hairy doughnut”, “sausage wallet”, “fish taco”, and “cum dumpster” are included in the article.

Picture a graphic description of sweaty thighs with no box-gap clamped over ears, followed by a bad joke about this pressure inducing an aneurysm. I would then talk about a hairy bush that has the unmistakable tang of urine.

Imagine, that as a man, I complain about what a horrible chore it is to eat pussy but I simply have to because if I don’t, all of the Machiavellian double-x chromosomes out there will cry and, since women look ugly when they cry, it’s easier to just suck it up and take one for the team…by “digging around that black-hole with an increasingly cramped tongue.”

It would be pretty offensive, no?

Now, if this article actually existed, it would be pulled apart and ovulated over by the radical fillies at Mamamia. For those that don’t know, Mamamia is a feminist blog run by Mia Freedman. I hate-read it on a regular basis.

Seriously, it’s dreadful.

On the blog, the writers frequently point out sexism in society. (“Gob-smackingly sexist media moment of the day“, “The man is repulsive. The end.“, “Female defense force cadets are ‘flabby and smell like fish’.“) They complain about things. (“It’s time for offensive and violent bumper stickers to be banned.”) A lot. (“What’s the difference between a men’s magazine and a rapist?“) They hate Seth MacFarlane. (“Today, the world got together and said ‘No’ to Hollywoood’s creepy, lazy misogyny.“) A lot. (“Oscars host Seth MacFarlane’s ‘We Saw Your Boobs’ song. Sexist, or just wrong?“) They don’t believe in objectification of men. (“Shameless objectification. Of men. Is this ad offensive to boys?“) They point out the sins of the patriarchy with smug, cats-cream smiles. (“Somebody actually wrote ‘5 reasons to date a girl with an eating disorder.’“) They frequently take things that are supposed to be a joke, put them into a gigantic vagina-grinder, and somehow turn it into the reason that men and women STILL DON’T GET EQUALITY IN THE WORKPLACE. (“The 2UE ‘Comedy’ sketch which left me cold.“) They skirt the sticky line between lipstick-feminism and “the female body should under no circumstances be shown in a mildly sexualised light or else our daughters, and daughters-daughters, are going to be chained to a kitchen sink and repeatedly gang-raped by a martini-wielding Don Draper-type while being forced to bake brownies from scratch” with hypocritical abandon. (“Embarassing and degrading for celebrities.“)

Occasionally, I leave comments. Often, they are deleted. My last opinion that was promptly erased from cyberspace like the memory of a bad date was: “It’s tripe like this that gives feminism a bad name.”

So, going back to my original point: if this anti-fanny blog post I hypothesised about earlier actually existed, it would have been shredded by Mamamia.


This piece of rancid afterbirth appeared on Mamamia a few weeks ago.

“Giving head is the worst”

It was written by this odious character.


Rosie Waterland.

Guys, if you ever see this woman in the street, I would suggest that you fucking run like you are being chased. By a woman. Who hates your sweaty penis.

Then dance like nobody’s watching. Laugh like there’s no tomorrow. Sing like nobody is listening and love like you’ve never been hurt.

You know, if you get motivated. By running. Maybe a spontaneous act of strenuous exercise will energise you? Maybe it will give you an endorphin rush of inspiration that suddenly turns you into a lame e-Card.

I’m not even making sense anymore.

Anyway, you can click the link to read the article or, since I know that reading on the internet breeds a special type of laziness, you can read it here, complete with her unfunny photo captions.

I’m just going to come right out and say it:

Giving head is the worst.

It’s okay – you’re reading this in your mind right now so nobody has to know that you agree.

I understand, as unjust as it is, that most ladies (and I suspect a lot of guys) feel like they can’t admit to having unpleasant feelings about sausage-shaped chunks of rigid flesh being shoved repeatedly into their mouths.

There seems to be a general feeling that one must pretend to enjoy performing oral sex or risk a life of loneliness, listening to Taylor Swift while getting into twitter fights with people about Jennifer Aniston’s love-life.

I get it. There’s pressure to conform. But this is a safe place, and I think we all just need to admit that eating penis isn’t enjoyable.

Don’t get me wrong – I totally accept that giving lady-head would be just as unpleasant an experience. I can’t imagine having to swim through my pube garden would be easy by any means. But it’s all about doing something nice for someone else and taking one for the team. So while I understand that enjoyment can come from doing something that your partner enjoys, that doesn’t mean you have to enjoy the sweaty balled, sperm-inducing act itself.

I mean, let’s break it down, shall we?

It usually begins with a make-out session that is rudely interrupted by the not-so-subtle pushing down of the head. That is the penis-owner’s code for: “I would like an orgasm that requires no physical exertion on my part. Thanks in advance.”

hotdogIf only.

If you accept your fate and agree to be a selfless blow-job hero, you then have to pull off the dude’s undies and untangle his sweaty bulge from his hairy balls (one of which always needs to be peeled off the inside of his leg) and unfurl them like one of those wrinkly puppies stretching out in the sun.

All the sweat that has been collecting in between his pubes from hours locked inside his penis-oven now glistens on your hands, which you try to politely wipe on the bed/carpet/your own pants without him seeing. Because romance/magic etc.

After some obligatory kissing of the general area, you eventually realise that you’ve put off the inevitable long enough – you must take the actual penis into your mouth. You can only cup sweaty balls and kiss the safe zone between the belly button and the pubes for so long. You must get down to business.

(Also, let’s take a brief moment here to acknowledge that just the concept of putting something in your mouth that was probably shooting out urine just minutes ago is straight up gross.)

It’s important you try to get comfortable now, as there will be some sustained physical effort on your part. The key word being ‘try’, as comfort for a person giving a head job is generally regarded as an urban myth. You’ll either get a dead leg from being on your knees, or an aching arm from lying on your side and trying to hold up the top half of your body with one elbow.

Highest possible comfort level attained (not very), you must then must ‘ease’ into proceedings, as just shoving the whole thing into your mouth and letting it sit there like a docked boat until it explodes is, unfortunately, considered poor form.

You must try to coat the whole shaft in your (sexy, make sure it’s sexy) saliva to ensure adequate lubrication for your hands (usually still covered in glistening ball sweat), which will shoulder some of the workload while you avoid the inevitable for as long as possible: the attempted deep throat.

orangThis is all I could find in stock images to represent sweaty balls.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a penis must be in want of an individual to deep throat it. And no matter how many times he has tried and failed, he will grab the back of your head mid blow-job and try to push it as far forward as he can.

Men tend to forget the concept of head ownership during sexy-times; they assume that if their penis is currently attached to someone’s head, it indicates ownership of that head. IT DOES NOT INDICATE OWNERSHIP OF THAT HEAD. The person who owns the head knows how far it can go in, okay?

It’s at this point you are usually expected to begin ‘sexy moaning’. This involves ignoring the fact you currently have a penis trying to poke the top of your left lung, so that you may concentrate on making the relevant human sounds that indicate sexual pleasure.

It is also, though not always, expected that you make sexy eye contact with very sexual sexy eyes. It should also be noted here that looking sexy with your gaping mouth stretched around a penis is impossible – no amount of sexy eyes is going to fix that.

It’s been said that a very rare and select group of women look attractive while crying – I suspect those are the only women who look attractive with a dick in their mouths. And probably also at the dentist.

Okay. Here’s where things start to speed up. At this point you are basically like one of those perpetual motion chicken toys that drinks the coloured water, except on steroids. All pretence of hand involvement is forgotten. This part is basically about you trying not to gag as your head moves back and forth at an exponential rate. You must resist the urge to switch whatever leg/elbow/hand/toe you are leaning on, or the rhythm will be interrupted and you may end up having to go even longer.

The lips you have wrapped around your teeth to protect his precious manhood are starting to feel the pressure. All you can think about is how much easier this would be if you were fitter. You desperately need a glass of water.



Get ready to die, sperm. IN MY MOUTH.

He finishes. (Which is just a nice way of saying that he explodes 1 billion little wriggly sperm into your mouth, which immediately begin gasping for air, racing towards an egg they’ll never find).

Grouped together, they have the consistency of warm snot and the taste of broken dreams. And it doesn’t matter whether you spit or swallow; some of them will definitely end up wedged in sad little sperm graveyards between your teeth.

So, that’s it. Not unbearable, but certainly not pleasant. I’m not saying that I never do it. I’m just saying that I hate it. And I know, I know, I’m not the only one.

Because giving head is the worst.

Now please excuse me while I go and watch any chance I have to find a man slowly fade away.


My first thought on reading it was, ‘Lesbian!’ Followed shortly by, ‘So…does that mean she swallows?’  Then, inevitably, ‘Wait a minute, you can imagine that it’s not easy to “swim through [your] pube garden”? Maybe, um, you know, you should give your hedges a little trim every now and then?!’

Plus, she makes the bile-inducing suggestion that even though giving head sucks, she does it.


Rosie. I mean, bravo.

You heroic, blow-job warrior.

Her making this comment is a thinly veiled “See? I’m not a man-hater” but it actually comes off (ha! comes off. Geddit?! Like… Oh, never mind) as the dating equivalent of “I’m not racist but…” In other words, a bad justification.

Oh, maybe I could have made a semen joke there: A bad jizz-tification!


A girl left a comment saying how much she “freaking *loves*” giving head, thereby securing her a moderate queue of men who would happily cut off their leg at the hip for half a chance to spend the night with her in any permutation of any foreseeable future.

Anyway, if a man told me that he hated to eat pussy, then proceeded to describe the act in the way that Ms. Waterland just did, I would rightly brand him a sexist pig and promptly take my lovely, little ‘giney to a man that is going to enjoy it. People who use phrases like “yuck”, “gross” or “I don’t do that” in regards to oral sex immediately ring alarm bells for me. Not because they’re a prude and I’m a fiend (which I may well be), but because people who flap their hands at the wrists and cry “Ew!” when it comes to something as normal as oral sex have some fucked-up issues that I don’t want to begin to unravel. I’ll find a nice, normal man who is only too happy to bury his head between my legs with delightful regularity and work on repaying the favour. In full. With interest. And stuff.

But it’s this double standard that annoys me about feminism, and I suspect it is what is sending a generation of girls running to websites like Women Against Feminism. For many feminists- and I have that heinous clan of upper/middle-class, Anglo-Saxon wenches at Mamamia firmly in my sights when I say this- feminism is less about fighting for “equality” and more about carrying a large, vagina-shaped chip on your shoulder. (On a side note, I just googled “Does feminism have a capital f?” and found that someone had answered, “Isn’t there a man around that you can ask?” Bwahahaha.) If Mamamia really believed in equality, they would never have published this article because it’s fucking hypocritical to call out instances of sexist jokes against (against? toward? about? yeah, about sounds right) women and then poke fun at men. That’s not equality. That’s fucking sexism.

And I’m calling it out on my tiny blog.

And, gentlemen, you know how you can thank me? 😉

I’m kidding.



…But seriously, I’m not.

Get down there.


“I’m the one that’s fucked up?! Just because I’m looking deep into your birth canal for four quarters…”

24 Mar

I’ve started taking dance classes.

A particular type of dance. Which involves a particular type of prop that one may or may not spin around.

Every Monday night I join a troupe of twenty other brunettes wearing baggy T-shirts and bashful grins at Beginners Pole Fitness.

Now, I don’t have daddy issues, I got plenty of hugs growing up, and I paid attention in school. Stripper stereotypes aside, I imagine that any feminist reading this post now is clucking about objectification of women and the male gaze. Hush. Feminism gave me the choice to spin on a pole in bike shorts and a singlet while Sexyback plays in the background, and I thank you not to judge. Go back to tittering over the antics of Miley Cyrus and her freakishly long tongue. Or, go back to pursing your lips and not having any sex. My boobs and my vagina remain covered at all times. I am empowered. Pole dancing is a totally valid form of cardio, too. Just like cheerleading. Pole dancers are athletes. Athletes with a particular skill set that is impossible to take seriously.

To be honest, I had wanted to learn how to pole dance since my best friend lent me her Carmen Electra aerobic striptease DVDs, a move which ultimately resulted in me performing several clumsy and inebriated lap dances for my ex-husband, Queens of the Stone Age thumping though the speakers with a slinky seduction that I could never quite pull off.

When organising my wedding, I asked the wedding coordinator if the hotel room had a CD player in it.
It could be arranged.
The conversation could have stopped there. It should have stopped there. Unfortunately, CC-Land is prone to the odd storm of verbal diahorrea.
“Oh that’s good,” I babbled. “I’ve bought a corset and I’m going to give my husband a lap dance on the wedding night.”
I wasn’t sure what this piece of information was meant to accomplish. Perhaps I thought that whores got discounts on hotel rooms.
There was five seconds of silence which I gather was her swallowing the bile that had risen in her throat.
“Oh. Um. That’s great.” A forced laugh echoed down the line. “Is there, ah, anything else you need?”
“I don’t suppose you could help me lace the corset up?”
No, I never said that. I realised my overshare immediately and bit a knuckle in shame. I imagined she had to rub the flesh off her temples before the image of a clumsy brunette with a big bum grinding before a lanky, inebriated groom in a poorly lit hotel room was erased. Perhaps I should have asked where the best location for a surreptitious mid-reception blow-job was. Or, I could have told her to make sure the room also contained a butt plug, a large jar of Nutella and some amyl nitrate. You know, just to thoroughly freak her out and send her dashing back to a boring suburban call centre that does not involve conversations with jabbering dickheads who give TMI’s about their wedding night antics.

Anyway, enough of that.

Tomorrow I’m changing my name to Destyni, gluing on some acrylic nails, recklessly dousing myself with shimmering clouds of body glitter, and unleashing my inner trollop.

Look, there’s every chance I am going to get sick of nursing one day. There has been more than one occasion that I have strolled onto the ward, feeling thoroughly burnt out and burdened, only to be immediately abused by a toothless ice-junkie. Times like this I find myself absently thinking, Fuck this, I’m becoming a stripper. I won’t be able to work in mental health forever; well, not without winding up on the other side of the glass, having been unceremoniously stripped of my keys. I may as well learn a valuable skill before arthritis and cellulite renders me unable to execute a decent angel spin. Pole dancing beats learning how to type. I can retire early and pay for everything in small denomination bills. I’m only doing it until my acting career takes off, anyway.

Or, maybe this is a cunning stunt. We all know that the quickest way to Charlie Sheen’s heart involves a pair of clear heels and a snowstorm of cocaine. I can spin my way to Vegas and then I am only one black eye and a drunken boot down the stairs away from sheening my way into a large sum of hush-money via a strategic blackmail manoeuvre involving a nanny cam, a midget and the National Enquirer. I’m opportunistic. And, as my nan often reminded me, sitting on a gold mine.

Do we have enough justifications? Yes? Let’s begin.

There is a definite schism between my expectations and reality as I nervously await my first class. I’m expecting that I will swan around with an agility and poise that puts the other beginners to shame. My teacher will call me a natural. She’s never seen a girl so at home on the golden rod before. My wild, unbrushed hair will mean I bear a striking resemblance to a gracefully ageing Jennifer Beals. This will pique the interest of the well built Scandinavian fireman who happens to be loitering across the room in between dashing heroically into burning buildings to save women and children. We will lock eyes. It will smoulder. And I will spend my days thereafter twirling like a music box ballerina around a fireman pole while he does one handed dead lifts and solves world hunger.

The class started and I began to wonder if I looked like an elephant from Fantasia. One with cerebral palsy. My body rolls looked like I was rebuffing the scaly penis of a degenerate in a trench coat before being punched in the uterus by a midget.

I’ll pause and let you picture that.

My drops were often accompanied by the screeching sound of flesh sliding down metal-the erotic version of fingernails down a blackboard- and I dismounted my spins like a car crash victim being violently flung through a windscreen- complete with high pitched keening sounds of terror.

To top it off, the instructor is an impossibly gorgeous blonde, a compact pocket-rocket full of perky enthusiasm who, I’m fairly certain, can’t count beyond, “five, six, seven, EIGHT, come on girls!” She has the lithe grace of Sylvie Guillem teamed with a freakish Herculean strength. I watched helplessly as she demonstrated a firemans sit with ease, trying and failing several times myself before finally hiking up my 3/4 leggins and using friction and well versed thigh muscles to squeeze and cling to the pole, my eyes alight with fear and inferiority. “That’s fantastic, CC!” she exclaimed through pouty red lips. “Now we just have to SPIN!” and, like proud mother watching her child on a roundabout in the playground, she twirled me with an alarming velocity that caused the room to revolve in a nauseating blur of mirrors, awkwardness and hot pants. I’d like to believe that I alighted this spin with the ethereal grace of a Victoria’s Secret angel floating to earth.

But I’m a realist.

I looked more like Lucifer unceremoniously crashing from the heavens, all horned indignation and red ass cheeks.

Despite this, and despite the collection of blotchy bruises I now have on my legs, I am completely addicted.

Pole dancing and bruised knees. Can this post get any more suggestive?

He’s cute like a frog.

4 Mar

I do a lot of stupid shit when I’m drunk.

A few months ago I placed a restriction on myself: it’s fine to get mildly tiddled with friends and make devastatingly clever and funny insights about human nature at achingly hip bars that none of us have any business being in, but it’s not okay to be alone and drunk, in ones tiny-inner-city-flat. I have learnt that the latter ultimately leads to me tearfully caterwauling from one ridiculous concern to the next with maudlin 80’s pop music playing in the background.

Yesterday though, I had a “fuck this, I’m sad and I’m going to get drunk” moment. It felt good to relinquish my vice like control freak grip for an evening. Getting drunk alone seems to hedge the sticky line between “social 30-something” and “burgeoning alcoholic” in my mind. Drinking alone makes me feel shameful, as if I am spending hours furiously masturbating to internet pornography: it’s certainly a way to pass the time but in the end you just wind up naked from the waist down with the distinct impression that you are wasting your life.

Marieke Hardy has pointed out, “Drinking alone can be infinitely preferable to drinking with other people. For one thing, you don’t have to tolerate the company of other drunks.” So with that endorsement I took a deep breath and prepared to be naughty for a night.

Two bottles of average red wine later, I had a headache, a tiny-inner-city-flat in various degrees of chaos, a troubling mobile phone call history, a pink bra hanging precariously from the television, several blank spots in my memory, a small jar of glucosamine powder for animals, and a large chunk of material for a self deprecating blog post.

And, I would like to apologise to Charlie, David, Leeroy, Duane, Ben, Andy, and the person whose name I cannot remember who is simply saved in my phone as “Mr Awesome.”

Drunk Dialling

Between the hours of one and two on a rainy Tuesday morning, I thought that prank calling people would be “hilarious” rather than “fucking irritating”. I’d been trawling through my phone when I discovered that I still had the telephone numbers of men collected during my time on an internet dating site. Most of these blokes I had never met, I usually offered my mobile phone number in an offhand manner when they were sufficiently intriguing in email form and I couldn’t be bothered continuously logging in to respond. These fellows were saved as some variation of “Ben – POF”, and with their dating profile picture added so I could keep tenuous track of them. I had not conversed with any of these lads in months, to be honest I have no idea why their numbers were still in my phone.

Unless it was to provide 67 minutes worth of entertainment to a lonely, intoxicated, thirty-something who exists in a worrying state of arrested development.

I have a Prank Call app on my phone, a relic from my relationship with my ex which would see us waste oceans of time harassing our friends and falling into fits of thigh-slapping glee when they eventually spewed strings of profane words uttered in the rabidly pressured speech of the truly pissed off.  We discovered that, much like the SpeakEasy Text-to-Speech! app, Pranksterz! provided 87 minutes worth of entertainment to two bored, intoxicated twenty-something’s who existed in a worrying state of arrested development.

My first victim was Andy, then Ben, Charlie, and I’m sure you can gather the rest. Some answered their phone, some of them will undoubtedly discover baffling voicemails where a robotic-sounding Chinaman informed them that their food was ready at 1am and would they please get out of bed and come to the store and pick it up?

When I got to David, all hell broke loose.

David was the only one on the list whom I had actually met. He was a fellow that I shagged from Plenty of Fish who became progressively nastier when I suggested that I didn’t want to take our union further, ultimately leading to a three day long text war of Dynasty proportions at which point I shrilly threatened to “ruin him”.

David was called at 1:13am, 1:21am, 1:22am, 1:22am, and at 1:23am. At 1:37am, when an intoxicated thirty-something in a worrying state of arrested development got bored of using her iPhone app, David had a three minute conversation with a human being. Named Mindy. Who explained in badly accented California-girl English that the middle of the night was her chosen time to ring past sexual partners and inform them that she had Chlamydia. And, ergo, there was a small chance that they had Chlamydia, too.

At 1:41am David was reminded that hanging up on Mindy wasn’t nice. Mindy was merely showing neighbourly concern about the sexual health of David and his future partners. Unfortunately, David did not show an appropriate level of appreciation.

At 1:50am, Mindy was briefly crushed when David called her a “crazy cunt” (which sounds like a chain of discount stores hawked in late night infomercials by a red-eyed John Singleton). David insisted that he had no idea who Mindy was and that he had “a very clean cock”. Recovering quickly, Mindy referenced the overweight Staffordshire terrier that David frequently locked in the laundry when entertaining his lady friends, proving that they had indeed shared a tawdry evening together.

Upon hearing this, David fell silent and uttered an audible gulp. His thoughts seemed to ring loudly through the crackling air: How did she know about my dog? Maybe I have fucked this bird. Oh god. Maybe I have Chlamydia. Shit. Shit. SHIT!

Unfortunately, this beautiful prank was ruined when Mindy gave a loud burp, collapsed into giggles and disappeared in a telephonic beep, never to be heard from again.

Denes Glucosamine

The white jar sat innocently on the couch. I had no idea where it came from. Upon inspection, I discovered that it was Denes Powder, a “green lipped mussel and glucosamine formula for cats and dogs”. Having no pets, I was mildly confused. There were two selfies in my phone- one of me holding a parcel, one of me holding the powder. Further investigation unearthed parcel wrapping in the bin, which suggested that at some point during the night I had decided to sneak down to the mailbox and steal my neighbours mail, ostensibly hoping that the small jar-like shape in the package was some exotic brand of cosmetic. I can only imagine that I had an inebriated internal conversation, where I managed to convince myself that if the package hadn’t been collected by 11.30pm, she obviously didn’t want it and by stealing it I was actually doing all of the other residents of the complex a service by ensuring that small packages were not left on top of the communal mailbox.

I left my keys hanging in the front door, too. A karmic invitation for burglars to let themselves into my house while I snored like a drooling pirate fuckwit with my inexpensive bounty scattered at my feet.

There is red lipstick…on everything

I woke up on the couch with red lipstick smeared on my arm, my face and my cushions, an empty wine glass sitting upturned at my feet, the crumbs of the midnight ham and cheese toastie spread over both my bosom and the kitchen floor. A small square of gluten-free bread sat forlornly on the bench, half-moon bite mark taken out of it, a determined trail of ants marching to and fro from a small crack above my kitchen cupboard. At some point in the evening, I had also made myself an espresso and managed to paint the kitchen cupboards with abstract art using only the finest organic Columbian coffee grounds.

I have no idea how or why there is now a harlot coloured lipstick print on the E key of my laptop. Perhaps I fell in love with an E, or an Edward, or Bob Ellis. The likely explanation is that I have ceased typing, mid sentence, after spontaneously collapsing, gracelessly faceplanting my laptop in the process.

To be honest I’m not even sure why I donned red lipstick to throw myself around my apartment, alone, on a Monday night.

The ever present iPhone

My Google history usually provides an interesting insight into the evening: “hybristophilia”, “Placebo Loud Like Love video clip”, “is Scarlett Johansson a whore”, “Denes glucosamine human consumption”, “is Denes only for animal consumption”, “can I give Denes to a human”, “will I die if I eat Denes powder”, and “how do you spell schaudenfreude”.

Earlier in the evening I had received a text from a fellow writer that I have been on a few dates with. I recall receiving the message at about 8.30pm but, with a flow of words pouring out of me like vomit and a bottle of red wine under my belt already, I had decided against replying, choosing instead to bash away at my laptop like a frustrated Mozart. However, at some point during the night I had picked up my phone and composed a verbose and mistyped SMS- involving entirely too many emoticons for anybody over the age of seventeen to use- which endeavoured to inform him that I found his thick framed hipster glasses “ironically dreamy” and that, despite the fact he is only my height and I would really prefer it if he could find a way to stretch his physique “only about half a foot or so, I’m not picky”, I would really enjoy another date with him if he would be “amenable to the idea” because he is “cute like a frog”.

Fuck. A. Duck.

Thankfully, I never sent it. And, thankfully, he doesn’t read my TMI blog, because I seriously doubt that I would receive much more than the awkward suggestion of alcoholics anonymous if I had not blacked out before hitting send.



One Night in Bangkok

22 Dec

I had been in Bangkok for one hour when I was propositioned for a threesome.

Do we want to hear this story? Yes? Let me back up and explain.

I was looking forward to Bangkok- it felt like a bit of civilisation. Cambodia had given me two solid weeks of cold showers (bearable, except when the flu causes you to spend the majority of the night coughing what you are fairly certain are small pieces of lung up onto your pillow), squat toilets (God bless Kathmandu all purpose travel wipes) and dodgy chicken (followed inevitably by food poisoning, making you nearly faint in the kayak as you lamely try to row to shore, desperately fighting the urge to hurl your lower intestine up into the murky water). A small part of me always knew that I would regret the Kampot Chicken.

I had been on a bus for about eight hours, the last hour spent coughing like a tuberculosis patient. So intense were my hacks, they drew an elderly Chinese lady from the lower deck of the bus. She handed me four cough lollies with a polite smile like some diminutive, bespectacled flu-angel.

I arrived at my hostel, dropped my bags, slicked on more deodorant, and set off for Khao San road. My evening plans included dinner, a few beers, a spot of people watching, Thai Cold and Flu tablets, and an early night.

I was drinking a Singha, watching the drunks slip past when I felt a pair of eyes on me. A girl about my age was staring at me. She smiles. I smile in return. Before I know it, she’s sitting opposite me.
“Are you alone, or are you waiting for someone?”
“I’m alone.”
“Do you feel like having some fun?”
I assume she’s inviting me to hang out with her and the three drunk men in her company.
“Sure, I’ve just ordered some food but-”
“Do you like women?”
“Do you like women?” She asks, fixing me with an intense stare.
Here is where CC becomes uncomfortable, and when CC becomes uncomfortable, CC turns into a blithering idiot. CC also talks about herself in the third person.
“Well, girls are cool, I mean I have more male friends than female friends for some reason, but I have no problem with chicks, in fact-”
“No, I mean sexually.”
Ah, of course you do. “Um…”
“You see, my boyfriend, he’s the one in the maroon shirt over there, and I are looking for a girl to have a threesome with and I think that you are very beautiful.”
I fought the urge to scoff. I didn’t feel particularly attractive, my hair was scraped back in a ponytail, I had no make up on, my clothes were rumpled from travel, nose blocked from the flu. In fact, I was fairly certain I looked like this:

At that point, one of the drunk lads sits next to me. “Hi.”
He squints. “Are you from Germany?”
“Ah, no.”
I shake my head. “Further south, mate.”
He frowns. “You don’t look Thai.”
“No, I’m Australian.”
“Leave her alone,” the girl suddenly barks. He scampers like a naughty puppy.
“We met those two tonight,” she explains. “They won’t be there, unless you want them to join in.”
How a threesome seamlessly becomes an orgy.
“So, how about it?”

Now, I would be a filthy little liar if I said I wasn’t considering it, and, come on, if an attractive young British couple propositioned you during a quiet single gal dinner, you would consider it, too. Admit it. Not out loud, but let’s all be honest with ourselves. Go on. It’s okay. It will set us free.

I wasn’t sure what to say, my mouth was opening and closing like a dying goldfish, internal debate raging. Common Sense Traveller CC was saying, This could be a scam to rob you. It’s happened before. You fall asleep and wake up in a bathtub of ice sans kidney. Or, more realistically, in a seedy Bangkok hotel room without your handbag.

This was intermingling with the voice of Free Spirit CC: As if that’s going to happen. Just do it. The world dropped this in your lap, woman, now go for it!

My Pad Thai arrived. I was still unsure what to do, so I put it in the hands of the universe. “Look, I’ve been travelling all day, I literally just got here. Let me have some dinner and drink a few beers and come back in a bit.”

There, I’ve neither said yes or no. I’ve just sat on the fence like a chicken.

“Okay, shall we meet you back here, then?”
I nod. “I’ll be here.”
She gets up, stops, and says, “If we don’t see you again tonight, you are very beautiful,” and she kisses me square on the chops.

Alright, so that part never happened.

I’m just trying to get the tawdry “lipstick lesbian” surge in site stats.

Her inebriated, geographically-challenged friend hopefully hovers over me. “Leave her alone,” she snaps, dragging him away. Her boyfriend gives a drunken, lecherous grin. “We’re going to come back,” she says before herding them all away like an irate school teacher, leaving nothing but a flummoxed 30 year old and an empty bucket in their wake.

No, they never made it back. They probably met a girl not suffering from being-on-a-bus-all-day-brain-drain who jumped at the chance like I arguably should have. Or, they may have returned after I’d left. Actually, I probably should have told you a furphy. You know, to weave a more entertaining tale. They came back and, after five vodka buckets, the bad decisions flowed like a syrupy river of Red Bull, the air thick with the stench of stale sweat, sex and regret…

Nah. That sounds a little too 50 Shades of Shit for my liking.

I reasoned it was probably for the best, my flu definitely would have seen me coughing on a vagina some lady parts. And I’m fairly certain the ability to breathe through my nose would have come in handy. I put it out of my mind until the following night.

My roommate and I decided to head into Khao San rd Ugh, again, CC? for a quiet beer. A devastatingly handsome man comes over, flashes a dimpled smile, and says in a British accent, “Ladies, my friends and I were wondering if you wanted to join us.”
“Yes,” I replied immediately, then looked at my roomie. She shrugged and nodded.
He introduced us to two Australian guys. We sit and chat. Devastatingly Handsome British Man is very charming and flirtatious. I’m pretty sure the delicate ovarian flutters from my roomie and I could be felt down in Phuket, like a metaphorical butterfly effect…

Wanker. The Mills & Boon writing will stop now, I promise.

Two glasses get put on the table, Devastatingly Handsome British Man rises. “Ah, this is my girlfriend…”

Girlfriend? Damn it.

I look up and feel a fissure of recognition. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world.” It’s my friend from the previous night. I look back at DHBM, squint, and picture a maroon shirt. A thunderous penny drops. He looks different when he’s not off-his-face. Better. She gapes at me. I wait.
“Hello,” she says politely, then leaves.

I drop it. It’s not like I can say, “Hey, remember me? Did you still want a threesome, or…?” That may run dangerously close to socially inappropriate.

Later in the evening I saw my roommate back at the hostel.
“It got very weird after you left,” she said.
“Oh, really? How so?”
“Well, the cute British guy said to me, ‘I’m jealous of your friend. I’d like to pick someone up.’ And I said, ‘Um, don’t you have a girlfriend?’ He said, ‘Yes I do. Do you think she’s pretty?’ I’m a bit uncomfortable, but I agree. Then, he said, ‘You can have her, if you want. She likes to fuck chicks.’ I wasn’t sure what to say, it seemed quite rude to talk about your girlfriend like that- you can have her…like she’s a piece of meat. She was sitting right there as he said it, too. She started crying and left the table. He went over to her and they had this huge fight in the middle of the club. She was screaming at him and sobbing. Then she hit him and stormed out. I left just after that.”

Holy shit. I think I just dodged a massive bullet.

I’m not sure what happened: maybe they found a girl and it got weird afterward, who knows. But, for once, I was glad for to have a mildly cautious nature at times. Without going all armchair psychology, there are some fucked up dynamics in that relationship. I’m probably lucky I didn’t get caught in the middle of it.

I laughed. My roomie looked at me quizzically.

“I’m going to tell you a story and it’s so strange that you will probably think I’m lying, but I promise you right now that it’s absolutely true.”

This is long. And angry…”CC’s rant about idiots.”

18 Dec

Maybe I have been away for too long, maybe the world is made up of equal amounts of dipshits and cool people. In any event, some travellers in South East Asia are starting to shit me.

Especially, for some reason, young American and English tourists. It seems that if you get a privileged white kid, give him a modicum of travel experience and throw him in an underdeveloped country with Daddy’s MasterCard; you get the most cocky, smug, know-it-all, Ferris Bueller fucktards around.

I’ve been avoiding them. They are easy to spot, the blokes look like rejects from a Bret Easton Ellis film adaptation with counterfeit ray bans and the girls all wear elephant print Cambodian pants with Birkenstocks- you know, the I’m a free trade loving, world travelling, Coldplay fan look. Or, at the other extreme, the girls wander around in hot pants and bikini tops, looking like a well-fed sex crime on a plate, not very feminist, CC offending everyone with their attire except their ditzy friends.

I’ve overheard tourists aggressively bartering the locals down to absolutely nothing just because they can. A certain amount of negotiating is essential- for example, not bartering with tuk tuk drivers can actually be detrimental to locals because drivers can avoid them to take cashed up tourists instead. However, I can not and will not haggle a desperate market stall owner to near tears to save $2. I have, you know, pride. Or respect. Or intelligence. Or sanity.

I don’t want to tar everyone with one brush. I have met some deeply cool people from all over the world while I’ve been away.


Many tourists here are completely different to what I have encountered in Europe. Perhaps the locals are too polite to pull them into line. Could you imagine someone being rude to a French waiter, laughing with their friends because he or she didn’t speak flawless English? There are times I’ve felt like shouting- how well do you speak Khmer, skank? Not well? Well, shut the fuck up.

I know. Grumpy old lady.

The fat woman at Angkor Wat.

I’d gone for the sunrise, getting up at 4am, suitably dishevelled and feral. It’s packed, and I join the hordes of people waiting to catch a glimpse of breathtaking beauty at dawn.

Just before the sun rose, a woman with dirty blonde hair pulled back in a scrunchie stood behind me. She bent and began to rifle through her bag, bubble butt sticking straight up in the air, a disturbing pair of red lace knickers protruding from the top.

Eventually she straightened and pulled out a tripod, edging ever closer.

Hmm, I think I know what is about to happen.

She edged closer, furtively eyeing the small gap between me and the girl before me.

What she didn’t realise is that I’m a seasoned concert goer who is used to defending my place in a crowd, occasionally dropping the odd elbow or scraping a Doc Marten down a shin to do so.

She sidled over, trying to push in front. I shifted my weight to block her.
“Can I just-”
She frowns, then tries the other side. I shifted my weight again, readying my elbow.
“I just want to-”
Frown turns into a glare. I ignore her. Sorry, love. I dragged my carcass out of bed to get my spot, you should have done the same.

She tried the Japanese tourists beside me, who were too nice to say no. Eventually she squeezed to the front, bending again to set up her tripod, fat ass majestically high in the air. All I wanted was to put my foot up it. What annoyed me the most was that the tripod had a shit-hot DSLR attached to it. One would assume that she knew how to use it. Nope. I watched as she took badly framed pictures in auto mode with the flash on. Seriously, did we have to push to the front for that? If you’re taking flash photography pictures of a sunrise with a DSLR, you can have a few heads in the foreground because you’re a moron with too much money.

I put that thought down to lack of caffeine and, once I took in the sunrise, set off to find coffee.

Ignoring the Locals

At Angkor Wat, and indeed everywhere in Cambodia, you are badgered by people trying to sell you things. Constantly. It’s the nature of the country. They are poor- Siem Reap is apparently the second poorest city in Cambodia- and they see tourists as walking ATMs. If you are polite but firm, they go away. I was walking behind a young couple, in search for coffee. A Cambodian was scurrying along beside them, clutching a menu: “Sir? Sir? Would you like a coffee? Sir? Would you like some breakfast? Sir? Sir? Sir? Hello, Sir?”

Yep, tourist man was ignoring him. Quite rudely so. Yes, they are persistent but it takes nothing to acknowledge a fellow human being. Nobody is beyond that.

Eventually Cambodian man stops, glares, and says something under his breath in Khmer. I can only assume it was a variation of, “you rude motherfucker.”

I cracked up, couldn’t help it. He looked over.

“Dude, I’d love a fucking coffee, hey.”

Verbatim. Whatever- nobody is Mary Sunshine at 6.30am.

He led me to the Number 5- Harry Potter café stall. It’s two down from “Number 007: licence to coffee”. Love. It.

They can’t speak English, so they must be below me, right?

This annoyed me the most, to the point where I opened my mouth and gave the old fuck a serve, which I don’t do often.

I noticed him immediately. I was at the border in Thailand, waiting for the bus to Koh Chang with a gaggle of tourists. I’d just eaten my vegetable fried rice, was munching on a strawberry Magnum. Total cost: $3.30.

Bear that in mind.

I couldn’t place his accent immediately. I’m still not 100% sure, but I’ll go with American. He was rude to the Thai waiter that served him, enunciating things s-l-o-w-l-y, making demands, being dismissive. While he was waiting for his food, he got up and started chatting to the group of Chinese guys beside me. I pretended to read and listened.

“Look at the portions,” he was saying. “Babies portions. And for 50 baht! Next they’ll try and make it 70. It’s getting ridiculous here, tourists have to speak up. That’s the problem. No one says anything and it just gets more and more expensive.”

My blood was boiling.

You ignorant, arrogant fuck bag. You come over here, into another persons country, don’t respect them, and you are complaining about spending $1.65 on lunch. You probably make ten times the amount of money they do. If they want to sell it for 70 baht, fucking let them, maybe it will bridge the gap between privileged assholes like you and hard working people trying to eke out a living at a tiny bus station cafe.

He sat down and the waiter brought his food over. “No, no, no. Take it back and put more food on there. That’s a babies portion.”

Unimaginative. But at least he was consistent.

The waiter looks scared, he leaves and calls the manager. I’ve closed my book at this stage.

If he’s rude to the manager I’m saying something.

The manager arrived at the exact time the young fellow from the bus company materialised before me. “Koh Chang, Miss? Come!”

I’m torn. I can hear the manager patiently explaining standard portion sizes to the American and want to interject, but I have to board my bus. To compensate, I turn Girl Scout, perhaps to show not all tourists are assholes, “Koh Chang? Ooooh, awesome! Thank you!”

As I pass the guy I can’t help myself. I fix him with my best fuck you glare- my friends and family know the one- shake my head disdainfully and call him a “rude piece of shit” under my breath as I pass.

I didn’t catch his response.

Don’t think it was a polite retort.

No, I don’t know what got into me. I periodically do this. Last time I was in Thailand I called a group of drunk Aussies a “bunch of fuckwits” after they threw a bottle at the girl singing on stage.

Yes, I’m aware that this type of behaviour will cop me a smack in the mouth one day. If I’m standing up to a bully it will be worth it. I will wear my fat lip with pride.

I think Karma may have rewarded me- when I got to the minibus I was given the front seat next to the driver- hello, leg room- instead of being crammed in the back. However, he could have just been feeling sorry for the single lady.

A week earlier, in Sihanoukville, I was at a bar and I got talking to two guys from Beligum. One was married to a Cambodian lady and he told me a story that I don’t think I will ever forget.

His wife’s family fled to Vietnam during Pol Pot’s reign when she was a child. Years later, she moved back to Phnom Penh with her daughter after her husband left her. She was working as a massage therapist. The business was taken over, and the man who bought it wanted to turn it into a rub-and-tug place. She refused to do that, and was unceremoniously fired. She begged on the street with her daughter for a while, starving and homeless. Her friend invited them to move in with her. The three lived in a ten foot square shack in the slums of Phnom Penh. The toilet was a hole in the ground. No shower, they washed using a bucket of water. They slept on straw mats. She got a job as a masseuse in a pub, for every client she massaged she got 50c, plus $2 each day she showed up to work. She met the Belgium there, he was too drunk to safely get home- Long Island Ice Tea had wiped the name of his hotel from his brain- so she offered him a place to sleep. Yes, even after all she had been through she found it in her heart to be kind enough to help out a complete stranger.

That’s humanity.

That’s amazing.

This is why I have quickly become addicted to travelling, it prises your eyes open to the realities of the world. Anyone lucky enough to fly to another country can, at the very least, be civil to people there, respect the customs. If that American prick had of pulled his head out of his ass and talked to a few locals instead of dismissing them, he may have heard a similar story. Do you think he would be bitching about paying 50baht for lunch then?

The most frightening thing a girl will ever do

5 Dec

The lack of full length mirrors in hostel bathrooms is a blessing.

You see, while I’ve been away I have been eating like a traveller- blissfully floating on fluffy clouds of cream and sugar- but this has been interspersed with more walking than Lord of the Rings even the fucking trees walked in that movie. I was eating more crap, but my clothes still fit the same, so I wasn’t concerned.

Getting into the shower in Dublin, I got a fright. There was a pasty, chubby woman in my bathroom. Soft in some places, lumpy in others. I shrieked, then realised it was the first time I had seen myself nakey in six weeks. The sight that greeted me was a thirty year old woman who has not seen the inside of a gym for two months. I actually had stomach muscles when I left for this trip, unfortunately they were obliterated by caramel èclairs in Paris.

Ordinarily this wouldn’t bother me for a few reasons. I am more than just a round ass in a pair of jeans and I think dieting and obsessing with your weight is unhealthy. And, women are nastier about other women’s bodies than men are. I’m guilty of it myself- I have sniggered at my fair share of bigger girls in hot pants at festivals, but only because breakfast-shorts are for those with box-gap. Anyone over 50kg has no business wearing them. Girls, if you aren’t a whippet, don’t buy them. It’s okay, I can’t wear them either. If you feel bad we can have a hot chocolate together and sob about airbrushing in the media and it’s effect on women’s body image.

Besides, it’s my experience that we are nastier to ourselves than the opposite sex is. I have spoken to my male friends and they all assure me that we notice soft spots more than they do. Basically, the thought process going through their head as they grab your hips like a wild animal during that moment is not, how much chocolate has she been eating? but more asjkfserlkvuhvsdflgvjr-FUCK!!…zzzzzzzzzz

That’s phonetic spelling, by the way.

Normally I have a moderately healthy body image. Some days I feel like Greta the Girl Gremlin and others I get delusional and feel like Eva Mendes. Funnily enough, both occur after 4.5 glasses of red wine. Most days though, I sit in the middle and don’t waste energy beating myself up.

Especially when I can beat myself up for many other idiotic and gimpish things that I do on a daily basis.


I’m going to a tropical country.

And I haven’t got a swimsuit.

Which means.


Bikini shopping.

There are three things guaranteed to make women feel bad about themselves: bathroom scales, comparing yourself to a celebrity and buying a new swimsuit.

The last bikini I bought was in 2005.

I’m not kidding. Nearly a decade ago.

In the past eight years, I have gotten more body piercings than new bikinis. I’m running 3:1. Add tattoos to the mix and it cranks up to 4:1. I’m not saying that I hate bikini shopping, I’m just saying that I’d rather stick sterilised needles into my body than examine my figure in a confined space with fluorescent lighting.

Bikini shopping sucks. Nothing ever looks right, and I don’t do frills, bright colours, florals, underwire cups, boyleg shorts, tie bottoms, anything with gold on it, or bandeau tops.

Which rules out everything.

My last bikini was awesome. It fit, it flattered, the colour was right…but the old girl was in her autumn years. She’d had a good life- travelling from Cairns to Vanutau to Thailand, but now she was wrinkly and baggy, tired, blind and demented. She had to be put to sleep, then cremated and kept in a jar on my bookshelf with her name- Mareid- carved into it.

Actually, I’m being colourful. The truth is that I developed a fondness for the gym and figured that buying a bikini may not be so awful after all. In other words, I threw it out.


Then I went overseas and Ate. Pray. Ate. myself into a premature diabetic coma.

I am telling myself, mantra like: it’s fine, CC. You aren’t overweight. You look like an average female. Stop being neurotic and go.

I haven’t yet.

I have to drink 4.5 glasses of red wine, then, depending on who I feel like, I may consider it.

Taking Photos of The Sistine Chapel

4 Dec

Anyone who has been to Vatican City knows that it’s forbidden to take photos of the Sistine Chapel. Despite my rants against taking photos of works of art instead of appreciating them, the rebel in me wanted nothing more than to get a picture of the most famous ceiling in the world.


“Photography forbidden.”
Damn, I didn’t even want to take a picture until I read that…I wonder how I can get away with it…

I can’t seem to find the reason behind the no photography rule, especially considering you can take pictures elsewhere in the Vatican Museum. There is an article that suggests a Japanese television network owns the exclusive rights to photography after paying for the restoration. 

I enter the Sistine Chapel. My iPod is in, of course, and it happens to shuffle to a Rob Zombie song called “Teenage Nosferatu Pussy” at that moment. Apt soundtrack. While “Oh my fucking God” or even “Judith” would have been funnier, I’m still feeling ridiculously impressed with myself. 


You stand among hordes of other tourists, all of you craning your neck, your mouth agape. The guards mingle among you saying, “No photos,” in a monotone every few seconds.

If my iPhone hadn’t been stolen, taking pictures would have been easy. However, my camera is huge, it shines small light when focusing and it clicks loudly when taking a picture. The guards were eyeing me, possibly because I was lurking around like a rat, periodically looking over my shoulder, sneakily fiddling with a camera slung around my neck. I stopped, zoomed in, hit half way to focus and coughed loudly as the picture was taken. You know, to block the sound. Didn’t work.

“Miss! No photos!” a guard chastised me. I pretended to be deaf. Since I had my headphones in, he wasn’t convinced. After a finger was waggled at me I smiled politely, suitably chastened, and left.

I cleared the chapel, going past the souvenir stalls selling Sistine Chapel handkerchiefs- blow your nose on God!– I eagerly checked my camera for the picture and, since I care, I am going to share it with you. I hope you enjoy.

That’s a picture I found on the Internet of how it should look.

And, here is the picture I managed to take.


It’s the Sistine Chapel. Promise. You just have to sink a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and squint to see it.