The Great British Bitch Off

In recent weeks my Facebook and Twitter have been swamped with a whisked and beaten, flambeed frenzy of Gas Mark 9 debate. The return of the much loved Great British Bake Off has inspired an endemic of terrible puns and uncharacteristically British fervor. I personally haven't been a viewer, due to my current obsession with apathy and a general unwillingness to engage in normal human activity. However I've been witness to the odd snippet when Mum's had it on in the kitchen.

From what I can gather the programme itself is a rather jovial romp through the world of cupcakes and innuendo. The presenters, Mel and Sue make light of the good-hearted silliness of the whole affair whilst the adjudicators, Bread-Man and that guy from Animorphs who turned into a hawk, step up to their allocated characters and bestow their incontrovertible judgement upon the contestants with all the farcical piety one might expect from such a show. It's a glorious TV pantomime executed to deliver the viewer with an hour of 'something nice to watch' and the only people who take this competition with any level of seriousness are the kind of people who might turn up in Bizarre magazine after having married a cupboard. 

With this is mind, it might prove shocking to some, the level of enthusiasm and in some cases ferocity with which the general public have taken to social media to vent their personal opinions.

Clearly one person is appalled by the nations reaction. Finalist, Ruby Tandoh took almost immediately to her bureau to discuss how nasty everybody had been about her and how it was probably all to do with her having a vagina. It was published this morning by The Guardian and within hours, hordes of bra-burning feminists and independent coffee house bothering uber-liberals were heralding it as the most important piece of social comment since Das Kapital.

The article itself was very articulate and clearly Miss Tandoh has as good a method of mixing words as she does eggs and butter. 

There are two major issues with it though:

Firstly, she assumes that the vitriol she personally and other contestants received is somehow exclusively a feminist matter. 

If there is one thing I deeply despise it is the misuse of gender inequality in a current affairs debate. I have no doubt in my mind that if Ruby Tandoh was a 6 ft 4 pectorally sculpted, fireman he would have received just as much online 'trolling' for taking a baking contest so insufferably seriously and generally being as irritating as his female counterpart.

I mean no ill to this woman whatsoever and I doubt anybody else does either, I am sure she is probably a genuinely lovely human being but to me she is a face from the TV. A celebrity, a kind of ethereal entity that's purpose is solely to entertain me, void of a soul and probably not really real at all. This brings me to my second and most important problem; Is it OK for celebrities to complain about people talking about them? Is it OK for somebody who willingly offers themselves up as entertainment to the masses to go on and dispute their own reception?

Well no, it clearly isn't. Could you imagine Sir Lawrence Olivier clawing back the curtain after a performance of Hamlet to demand that the audience clap harder? 

 Within hours of the final , Tandoh climbed onto her public podium, denounced us all as mean nasty sods and all but ordered us to never air our opinions of other people in public ever again. Ignorant to the fact that she was granted this public podium by us, the viewer and the reason that programmes such as this are so very popular is because of their ability to arouse opinion. Our price for this precious place among the elite is her soul. It may be an unusually cruel system but that's how celebrity works. She was never led into the stocks, she stepped voluntarily into the shit storm and then complained when she got some in her eye. The devil came a knocking and she signed the release form.

There are two ways to avoid the pain of being called a miserable bitch on Twitter.

 1. Don't go on TV and act like a miserable bitch

and

 2. Don't type your name into Twitter.

Clearly she ignored both and it reminded me of the scene out of The Young Ones where Ric interrupts the dinner table to ask everyone who likes him to put their hand up and when nobody does he threatens to kill himself with laxatives.

 On the one hand I feel for these types of reality stars. They may be inexperienced in the ways of the demon TV producer and how the goblins in the editing suite will do everything to pick out the contestants weak points and reduce them to a ridiculous caricature but it is unbelievably naive to appear on a prime-time slot and expect the world to critique you on your baking skills alone. Human nature is at it's very core a nasty, repugnant witch. Lets face it, the vast majority of people probably only remember Einstein because he had funny hair and stuck his tongue out. British people in particular don't like those doing better than us and so we naturally ridicule anyone and everyone we see being even slightly more successful. It must be an ancestral instinct. One day they'll probably find the perfectly preserved bones of a Homo-Habilis, sticking the V's up behind the back of a Homo-Erectus, presumably mouthing "Upright BASTARD!".

I'll never condone threatening or violent abuse aimed directly at a celebrity and that sort of thing is a criminal matter but what we must remember is that when people voluntarily give themselves up for scrutiny in the public domain, it is not only egocentric and sanctimonious to expect to receive no scrutiny at all but it diminishes the very point of fame itself. The mystical status that differs you from the common man. I like most others I suspect, would love to see this modern concept of the instant celebrity demolished. It has become not a status attained at the merit of the individual and more about being famous just for being famous. The more possible celebrity becomes, the more immediate it's effect takes hold and the less you seemingly have to do to get it, the less the general public will respect those that have it and the less they will hold it in regard. 

So as sad as it is that this is what we do with our evenings. Sat there eating crisps and spitting unfounded bile at people we've never met, it's human nature to discredit others, in particular those on an elevated platform. Qualified or not, we as a species have been passing judgement since the dawn of time. Lowly serfs, probably spent their evenings chewing parsnips staring wistfully at the palace and calling the current monarch a 'malodorous witche' or a 'Bile tract' or whatever.

The message has always been there, it's just with the rise of social media the alarm bells are louder; If you hanker so badly for the attention of the world, please be prepared for the fact that the majority of it won't be very nice.

Ever seen Aliens? Yeah it's probably a bit like that.

So yesterday's offering was a bit of a wry, tongue in cheek funscapade, prodding at my own personal swath of misery. As a creature of habit, today's post follows suit but with perhaps more of a BLOODYFUCKINGYOUWHATNOW? to it.

Now I have never been one to shy away from a taboo and indeed I think it positively unhealthy to do so. With that in mind and a possible sense of shit got real loneliness, I have decided to be forthcoming with my own current health, catastrofuck. (catastrofuck is a bit strong but I do like the way it rolls of the tongue).

Now as most people will know I am a qualified GP. Not in the normal, been to med school, done all the hard work, actually know what I'm talking about way. That's dull. No I have in fact graduated, with honours, from the University of Google . I'm basically the modern day version of the old village witch, sitting in my hovel doling out medical advice and pseudo-diagnosis to all in sundry, particularly myself.

Being an incessant hypochondriac has it's down points. Constantly believing you have an ailing organ or another and living in the fear, no knowledge, that you are going to keel over from a massive heart attack any day soon, has a pretty detrimental effect on your every day life. I have to actively avoid that little smiling twat Dr. on GMTV for example, in case I suddenly start convincing myself I have testicular cancer. There is, however a less obvious advantage of this utterly ridiclous and time wasting affliction. The ability to be totally aware of your own body and notice things going wrong quicker than the average shmuck.

Perhaps this is why I am so completely, gob floppingly shocked that the only real thing that has ever been wrong with me has utterly evaded my roving eye for possibly years and were it not for my poor suffering boyfriend, begging me to shut up and go and see a doctor, I would have continued to rule out as 'nothing to worry about'.

Basically, it turns out I have a giant alien entity billowing around in my abdomen, waiting to burst out of me like Jean Claude Van Damme punching his way through an elephant seal and I didn't even realise.

Now I'm used to grey, indistinguishable images, having been the owner of a Nokia 5320 for the past three years but an ultrasound is a whole new level of 'fucks that? As I laid there, contented with warm jelly and a smiling sonographer wiggling all over my belly (just the picture stick in her hand, not the sonographer) I was blissfully unaware of the horror about to be unveiled to me. The large black blob, that was first mistaken for my bladder was later explained to me as a 13cm ovarian cyst.

 I have called her Bertha. I find it helps to be anthropomorphic and besides, Bertha has a better ring to it than Potentially Life Threatening Glob of Internal Fluid.

Now ovarian cysts are very common in women of my age group, they can form naturally as part of ovulation, are usually harmless and disapear of their own volition but Bertha is one big ass mother fucker. The Dwayne Johnson of the of the vesicle world, you might say. And just like Dwayne Johnson (Sorry Jack), she is completely benign but ultimately a nuisance of the highest order and must be eviscerated . This means surgery and that means general anesthetic. Just as I was enjoying being made unemployed and confined to my hinterland prison cell, I'm now faced with my biggest life long fear. Cheers God, you massive invisible wanker.

I think most people who aren't dribbling, feckless, horror-movie inbreds are afraid of going under the knife and for many, the very thing that scares us most is the thought of being put to sleep like a foul breathed old farm dog. I am probably lucky in never having to deal with this before but in escaping it's dark velveteen grip for so long, general anesthetic is held in my mind as a dangerous and mysterious threat. I don't like the idea of being unaware of what some guy is doing in my abdomen. Poking around, losing bits and what not and I especially don't like the vision I have in my head of being put to sleep, resembling the dreams I have had in which I'm dying (not the best I've ever had, regardless of what Tears For Fears think). A warm hand of darkness stubbing me out, perhaps never to see the glow of life again. Forever floating, numb in a black sea.

Jesus, see, I go well fucking Tim Burton just thinking about it.

I am struggling to see a future in which I am walking voluntarily into the hospital and lying down voluntarily on the bed whilst some blue hatted psychopath, sticks a tube into my hand and creepily lulls me into the ether, promising definitely not to stick a finger up my bum or play Buckaroo on me whilst I'm out. I mean who the fuck would actually voluntarily do any of that? So I'm being forced to do this, through my own fear of mortality, because I've been advised not having this great big fucking lump of fuck taken out of me could eventually lead to sepsis, cancer or death. Led from the slaughterhouse to a smaller room where they just take bits off you instead.

I mean it's nuts right? Why haven't they invented something better? Like a tiny spaceship, like in that film where they go in the body and it's like a big sing song and the patient is like watching them travelling down his brachial artery doing old show tunes, on a monitor on the side of his bed, whilst exotic, be-sequined women feed him wine and pate.

 Paralysing people and strapping them to a cold blue table, whilst people in futuristic religious attire blow gas under their skin and prod big metal claws into every orifice they can? Bloody perverts. So much barbarism, where's the Hollywood sparkle?

I am totally appreciative to those of you sat here right now thinking 'shut up you fucking drama queen, a laparascopy? Keyhole surgery? pah, I had a triple heart bypass and six ribs removed without anesthetic' or whatever. For some people, this is just me whining like a little shitty five year old. You're probably right.

But I wanted to talk about it on here because I am shitting myself and it could mean all manner of complications, like me being infertile or having to piss in a bag for the rest of my life and those sorts of things shouldn't go unmentioned. Especially, seeing as I am super sensitive to my body and didn't pick up on it. So on a positive note, it's not cancerous and it is relatively simple surgery but bitches please, check your bits. If you notice any unusual pains, a hard swelling etc. go and make your doctor check you out. Most will go away and you'll be free to populate the land with your ungrateful screaming bastards as much as you see fit, but just on the off chance, better safe than sorry.

I'm probably going to document my journey into the NHS as best I can. From hilarious gynecological mishaps: 

"While you're down there doc!" *canned laughter*

to side-splitting anxiety anecdotes:

"Get the fuck off me, I'm not going anywhere near that fucking operating table, you blood lusting maniac" *Jerry Springer style OOOOOHHHH*

I'm going to aim to share with you my horrible and dignity stripping experiences from step 1 to my imminent death, sorry recovery.

On a plus note I now have a VERY valid reason for being fat.

*cries into Snickers*

The Woes of the Employed VS the Unemployed

Unemployment has been a much chattered subject of late, with politicians scrambling all over each other to think of new and more horrifying ways of punishing the disadvantaged. With the prospect of totally failing to find a job and the Tories new and effective method of getting me one (taking away my benefits) being tantamount to removing a patient's medicine to encourage them to get better, you'll forgive me for feeling a little hopeless.
 As I sit here in the dark grasp of unemployment, like most, I am of course struck by the terrible feelings of woe it yields. I've not been unemployed too long and being a creature of misanthropy, I have not forgotten the woes of the slightly better off, or indeed way back when I was a student, the woes of the blissfully unaware.
So who is the least joyful? Who's having the shittest time? Because it seems to me, when I speak to everyone else, we all think we are.
 I guess unhappiness is completely subjective and can only really be put in to perspective once you realise how shit things can actually be.
I have decided to compile a list of the complaints of both the better and the worser off, for your amusement and possibly enlightenment. Hopefully some of you may read this an become instantaneously struck with a sense of your own sickening, cosseted petulance.


Employed: "I'm so sick of the office calling me on the weekend, I mean come on, give a guy a break here!"

Unemployed: "MY PHONE'S RINGING, MY PHONE'S RINGING!!! YEAHHHH MAYBE IT'S AN INTERVIEW...nope, it's just Debt Express AGAIN."

Employed: "I hate Sundays, that feeling of knowing you've got to get up in the morning..."

Unemployed: "I hate Sundays, that feeling of knowing you have nothing to get up for EVER"

Employed: "I hope my boss doesn't find out the reason I didn't get that report out on time is because I've been trying to beat my best score on Solitaire for the past half an hour"

Unemployed: "I hope the wider world doesn't find out the reason I haven't washed in two days is because I have been awake for 48 hours trying to beat my best score on Spider Solitaire"

Employed: "How am I going to afford an outfit for this wedding when I don't get paid for another two weeks and I accidentally spent last month's wage on getting pissed and having a great time, generally"

Unemployed: "How am I going to afford washing powder for this wedding, to try and take the gravy stain out of the one dress left that fits me because food is the only comfort I have left in my life"

Employed: "Oh my god, oh my god, I shouldn't have taken out a Wonga, how the hell am I going to afford that mini-break in Paris next month now????"

Unemployed: "Oh my god, oh my god, I shouldn't have taken out a Wonga, to pay off that Quick Quid I got out to pay off that Payday Express I needed when I couldn't afford the bus to an interview, how the hell am I going to afford to eat?"

Employed: "I wish people would stop getting mad at me for not making it round at the weekends, I am a busy girl, I can't please EVERYBODY"

Unemployed: "I swear I used to have friends"

Employed: "It's totally unreasonable them asking me to work the day before, the day before Christmas Eve, I mean Christ  it's supposed to be the holiday season, how am I supposed to enjoy it knowing I'm basically the only person in the world still working that late"

Unemployed: "I wonder if Poundland pay you extra to work Christmas Day"

Employed: "I don't pay my taxes so that you can sit around on your arse, leading the life of luxury"

Unemployed: "I can't believe a moron like you has a job and I don't"

Employed: "I think it's totally unreasonable that the council only collect the recycling bins every two weeks, it's starting to look like there's been a party in Threshers in my garden"

Unemployed: "I wonder if I Sellotape the top of this half-drunk can of Skoll, it'll be fresh enough to take the edge off tomorrow?

Employed: "Classic night before payday tea: Beans on toast. #lol #retro #hurryupmoney"

Unemployed: "Classic night before dole day tea: Glass of water and a docker re-rolled from the ashtray"

Employed: "I wish I could afford to buy ALL my shopping from Waitrose, but I just nip there for my 'bits'"

Unemployed: "I wish I could afford my shopping"

Employed: "Yeah, so I'm thinking of going back to uni to retrain. Anything is possible if you really want it"

Unemployed: "I was thinking of going back to college to retrain but the Job Centre said they'd take my benefits off me"

Employed: "Excuse the mess, I'm no domestic goddess, I always say: a clean house is the sign of a wasted life"

Unemployed: "A clean house is a sign of someone with too much self-esteem"

Employed: "Was that the door? Yippeeeee, my ASOS has arrived!"

Unemployed: "Was that the door? Shit, hide. I hope I locked all the windows. Bailiffs can't break an entry right?"

Employed: "I am so unhappy with my phone contract right now, I'm going to kick off with Orange, I mean how am I supposed to play Farmville all day with only 1000mb?"

Unemployed: "I haven't had a text message in 3 weeks. I guess people got fed up of me not replying"

Employed: "Yah, so I'm going on this no meat diet because like the rain forest or some shit is dying and like we all have a responsibility and I mean that's what it said in the Guardian and anyway I need to lose a few pounds before we go off to the Maldives. #bikinibody #savingtheworld"

Unemployed: "There is only so much plain rice you can eat before you seriously start considering butchering your own pets"

Employed: "I really need to get myself a winter wardrobe, I mean I have like two coats for the whole season, and don't even talk to me about jumpers, I shrank my best one in the wash last year, it was from Topshop, what an idiot"

Unemployed: "Those clothes bins in the car park. How hard do you reckon it would be to reach into that weird scoop thing and pull out a pair of shoes?"

Employed: "I have been up all night worrying about bills"

Unemployed: "I have been up for 3 days worrying about there not being a meaning to life"

Employed: "What I really need right now is some 'me time' "

Unemployed: "Does anybody have the number for The Samaritans?"

Employed: "It's total bollocks that there's no jobs, my Dad found me one in like A DAY"

Unemployed: "I think my email is broken, maybe I'm a ghost. I mean even a rejection letter right now would help, just so I know I'm not actually dead and this is some sort of cruel Limbo, where I'm forced to spend every waking minute knowing my existence is seemingly of no use to anybody anywhere. Only really leaving the house every two weeks to go to the Job Centre, to lose any scrap of encouragement I have left from the many other spectres, loping around in abject misery"

Happy Teatime guys xxxxxxxxxxxxx