Writers’ Gusset

A new website called Newscasters’ Closet has been launched in America, offering people the chance to buy the used clothes of their favourite newsreaders.

Now, I’m a big fan of Channel 4′s Jon Snow but I have to admit that not once in all my years of watching him grilling hapless politicians have I ever found myself thinking, gosh I wish there was some way I could get my hands on that technicolour tie / luminous green and pink sock combo.

But clearly I have been missing something and so, keen to cash in on this hot new trend, I have decided to launch my own alternative site called Writers’ Gusset.

At Writers’ Gusset you will be able to buy the genuine undergarments of your favourite scribes in order to intimately recreate the conditions under which they wrote their literary masterpieces.

Just imagine – you could become the proud owner of the very y-fronts that helped Stephen King create Carrie.  Or the reinforced control pants behind  Ann Widdecombe’s various tomes.

But why focus on writers’ underwear, I hear you cry.

Well, it is a little known fact that the humble underpant plays a crucial role in the writer’s creative process. When wrestling with issues like awkward plot twists and character development the last thing you need is to also be wrestling with a wedgie. Unless of course you are writing Misery Lit, in which case a thong two sizes too small could be just what the publisher ordered.

I am actually giving a talk on this very subject at the Accrington Stanley Writers’ Convention next month, entitled ‘Long Johns and the Emergence of 19th Century Novel’.

To get the ball rolling so to speak I would like to present you with the first pair of undergarments on offer at Writers’ Gusset:-

Writer's Gusset

I wore these pants throughout the entire writing of my first novel, Sweet FA. The book was a comedy – hence the natty watermelon design and it took about a year to write - hence the comfortable cut.

If you would like to intimately recreate the conditions under which I wrote my first novel then please send your bids on a postcard. The lowest unique bid ‘wins’. Good luck!

Anyone Seen Gordon?

Has anyone seen our Prime Minister?

Is it just me or has the so-called ‘iron’ chancellor turned into cotton wool leader ever since he got the keys to number 10?

It is absolutely shameful that as the uproar surrounding Megrahi’s release rages our PM is nowhere to be seen. However, he has found the time to write to congratulate our cricket team for winning the Ashes. And no doubt he’s been on the phone to his good mate Simon Cowell congratulating him on the new series of the X Factor. Previously he issued this statement regarding Britain’s Got Talent:

“I hope Susan Boyle is okay because she is a really, really nice person and I think she will do well. I spoke to Simon Cowell last night and to Piers Morgan and wanted to be sure that she was okay.”

What the hell?!!

I’m sure the families and friends of the 270 victims of the Lockerbie bombing are all really, really nice people too, Gordon, so how about showing a bit of concern for them?

This whole Libyan affair absolutely reeks.

Apparently Prince Andrew has now cancelled a planned trip there. Firstly, I didn’t know Libya had a golf course – but secondly, what the hell was he doing going anywhere near there?

And what the hell was Gordon Brown doing shaking hands with Gaddafi at the G8 summit last month? And Lord Mandelson sliming all over Gaddafi’s son on various yachts?

Apparently, if you are an ‘evil-doer’ with an oil field then small matters such as the murder of 270 citizens can eventually be over-looked.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have a leader with balls? Someone who actually had the courage to tell it as it is. But maybe that’s precisely the problem? Maybe the truth is so stomach-churning it can’t be told.

Never mind Gordon, I’m sure Piers will have another juicy celebrity story for you to comment on soon…

Wish You Were Here?

Greetings! And apologies for my two week absence. I have been on my staycation.

For those of you not in the know – a staycation is the latest trend in holidaying – where you stay in your home country rather than vacationing abroad. Obviously one of those trends sparked by the recession where we pretend that having no money is ‘super-fun’ – as in, who needs a beach-basting in Barbados when you could be dodging downpours in Skegness? Or in my case, Lewes, Brighton and Wolverhampton.

I was accompanied on my staycation by my twelve year old son Jack - my boyfriend is acting in a play at the moment so was unable to join us. What follows are a series of postcards from each of our ports of call, so that you can share in our staycation joy:

GREETINGS FROM LEWES – PART 1

Have arrived at the hotel and it is like staying in an episode of ‘Most Haunted’ what with the oak-beamed ceilings and sloping floors. Apparently Thomas Paine wrote ‘The Rights of Man’ in the bar here. Classic moment at the reception desk when a fellow guest was overheard complaining that the design of her room “just wasn’t up to 21st Century standards.” To which the receptionist dead-panned, ‘Well it was built in the eighteenth century, madam.” Off on a hike across the Downs now. Can’t wait. They look fantastic -  so lush and green!  S x

GREETINGS FROM LEWES – PART 2

Well I don’t know what happened to the Downs! They looked like they were close to the hotel but when we set off walking we ended up on the A road back to London. Nearly got squashed by several articulated lorries and ended up in a carpark behind some kind of industrial plant. Not very scenic really. Was just like being at home! We were just about to give up when we saw a group of pensioners walking down the road. They were accompanied by official stewards with ‘Walk Guide’ written on the back of their jackets. We decided to tail them, thinking that they must be heading to the Downs- where else would they be going? Followed them for three quarters of an hour around the back streets of Lewes – trying not to look conspicuous every time they stopped to look at some flowers or a bit of water – only to end up at some kind of community centre for ‘Over 60s Bingo Hour’. Most disappointing.  S x

GREETINGS FROM BRIGHTON

Just got back from the pier. Hang on a minute I think I might be sick again. No, it’s ok, I guess I got rid of it all on the beach. I remember when going to the seaside meant ‘fishing’ in crab pools, sand castle building and the scariest ride you went on was a donkey. Which bright spark decided to put man-made death traps on the end of the pier? I am NEVER going on a roller coaster again. Jack seemed to enjoy it though. He said he’d never seen anything funnier than me screaming ‘we’re all going to die’ . He was a bit baffled at my hysterical recitation of the Lords Prayer though. I guess he’s not too familiar with the whole Last Rites concept. If it wasn’t bad enough being sick over the side of the pier, the final humiliation came when the official photographer asked if they could use my picture from the ride in the Horror Hotel to ‘terrify the kids’. Wish I was there… Sx

GREETINGS FROM WOLVERHAMPTON

Well here we are – on the final leg of our staycation – deep in the heart of the Black Country. We came up to watch Wolves play their first premiership game of the season. The atmosphere in the ground was electric and the game was great – despite Wolves losing 2-nil. At the station now, waiting for our train back to London. With several hundred West Ham fans. They seem like nice chaps. All wearing very clean trainers. And singing lovely songs about blowing bubbles, aw, how sweet. Now they’re singing about what they’d like to do to West Londoners. Good grief! I didn’t think it was possible to fit one of those in that particular orifice?!! Oh dear! Wish you were here??? S x

Damned Statistics

Ladies, I have just read some extremely worrying statisticss.

If you thought that men spending 43 minutes per day ogling us rather than picking pants up off the floor was bad (see previous blog) then this statistic is going to make you weep into your cup of St John’s Wort.

Apparently we spend 23,214 hours of our lives washing clothes.

23,214 hours!

Now, do you want to know how long we spend having an orgasm?

1 hour, 24 minutes.

That is a paltry 1 hour, 24 minutes over an entire lifetime.

We spend roughly 23,000 times longer putting on a load than we do – well you know the rest.

This is not good.

I have come up with a way of balancing out these shocking statistics however.

It involves sitting on your washing machine during a fast spin cycle whilst eating a Cadbury’s flake – that’s all I’m going to say.

Making Eyes…

I am a sucker for those surveys that tell you how much of your life time you spend doing a certain activity. For instance did you know that the average person spends 92 days of their life going to the toilet and 22 years asleep?!

Yesterday I came across an absolute classic in this genre – apparently the average man will spend around a year of his life eyeing up women. This figure has been broken down into an average of 43 minutes per day – that’s 43 minutes per day – gawping at ten different women.

I did a further breakdown of this eye-popping statistic and worked out that he must therefore spend 4.3 minutes ogling each woman.

Now although I don’t have access to any Home Office statistics on the subject I assume that the average man doesn’t usually get arrested for this kind of behaviour so how on earth are they getting away with it?

Last night I carried out my own study in the pub after my writing group and, when two attractive blondes sashayed in, the secret was revealed. The men in the group began a series of surreptitious glances blonde-ward which, timed individually, took up no more than a second, but totted up on my ogle-ometer soon came to about 4.3 minutes worth of staring per man.

Later, when I saw my boyfriend (and still smarting from his ‘little roadside floral tribute’ line – see earlier blog) I decided to have a bit of fun.

“So who are they then?” I demanded, waving the newspaper cutting at him.

“Who are who?” he said, not even looking up from his Non-League Football Directory.

“The ten women you’ve spent nearly three quarters of an hour today eyeing up.”

He stared at me – but not in a way that could be considered part of his daily 43 minute ogling quota – it was more the kind of look you would give to the clinically insane.

“Apparently the average man spends one year of his life ogling women,” I took great pleasure in informing him. “Which breaks down into 43 minutes per day and ten different women. So who are they?”

My boyfriend looked horrified.

I smiled smugly and waited for the flood of apologies.

“Is that all?” he finally replied. “I thought it would be way more than that.”

What is Wrong With Us?

On Saturday night I was listening to a radio show I’d never heard before. The show’s format was fairly typical for a music station; arrogant male host, giggling female side kick and sycophanitc producer types laughing and whooping on cue in the background. However, something that happened on the show was so shocking I still can’t stop thinking about it.

The host of the show had got his female side-kick to phone up a guy they both knew and pretend that she wanted to have an affair with him. The guy was living with another woman and they had just had a baby together.

The recording of the phone call was then played on the radio show so we could all hear the guy leaving the room where the mother of his child was, to go and tell the female side-kick that, yes, he would love to come down to London to have a night of meaningless sex with her.

If this wasn’t bad enough, after playing the recording of the conversation, the show’s host then declared the phone lines open for a live poll – with the question being – “Should I call his girlfriend and tell her what kind of love rat she is living with? Should I smash their relationship?” This was all delivered with such venomous glee that it literally rendered me speechless – no mean feat on a Saturday night after a good few glasses of merlot.

Wasn’t it bad enough that they had created this ‘honey’ trap and broadcast the guy being led by his **** straight into it? Wasn’t it bad enough that any one of the poor girlfriend’s friends or relatives or even her herself might have been listening? Could there be anything more excruciating than hearing your partner talking dirty with another person? But to want to call her and break her heart live on air takes broadcasting to a new low, surely? It was like Jeremy Vile, sorry Kyle, going on the rampage with a turkey baster to artificially inseminate poor helpless women so that he could then drag them on his show to gleefully tell their boyfriends that they weren’t the daddy.

But as the show went to an ad break I decided that it must all be a ploy and that there was no way he would really call this poor woman.

Wrong!

Despite the fact that most of the listeners who called in seemed to be telling him in no uncertain terms not to, the host decided that actually, he knew best and he would call up this woman and “smash” her family.

What happened next was excruciating in the extreme.

He called her. She was lovely. He asked her all about the baby and her partner and if they had any plans to get married. She said, yes, she had proposed to him and that they were very happy together. He asked her if she could trust him. She started to sound confused and a little afraid.

The host then asked to speak to the boyfriend. He asked him if he had “been up to anything interesting lately”. The boyfriend immediately smelt a rat / himself and started making excuses to get off the phone.

The host asked to be put back on to the girlfriend. The rat said that she was in the toilet. The girlfriend could be heard in the background saying, “No I’m not, why are you saying that?”

The host again asked if he could speak to her. The love rat and his girlfriend were heard grappling for the phone while she pleaded to know what was going on. Then the line went dead.

Cue much excitement in the studio.

“I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t smash her family, she was too sweet,” said the kind-hearted host.

“Oooh I feel so guilty,” shrieked his lovely side-kick.

They then carried on with the rest of the show without a care in the world. But all I could think about was the sweet young mum somewhere who would now be plunged into a hell of doubt and unanswered questions.

Then yesterday I went into the paper shop and was rendered speechless yet again by two tabloid headlines. Both were equally gleeful. One detailed Kerry Katona’s husband’s latest indiscretions. The other unveiled “secrets from Michael Jackson’s deathbed”. Both were accompanied by graphic pictures.

Is this really what we are becoming? Do we really want to revel in other people’s heart-ache or even death? Do we want to view infidelity as if it were some sick spectator sport? Do we want to see pictures of a dying man’s incontinence pad whilst we munch away on our Weetabix in the morning?

If a free press and media is a reflection of the society it represents then what is ours saying about us right now?