dirty laundry Issue 1 How dare you turn on me now right when I need you most
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From now on it will be this way
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Because we think too much. Because we drink too much. Because we’re not who we were supposed to be. This is Dirty Laundry
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Image: Frederic Patrise
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Some people know what it’s like Editor-in-Chief Louise Hemmings Art Director Kieran Partise Design Matthew Brindle Contributing Editors Gemma Winter, Naomi Daggers, David Gardner Contributors Francesca Tallone, Vann Apragal, Cassia Tabatini, Clarissa Dolphin, Nikki Birdwell, Helen Redmore, Emma Schneider-Pick, Xim Izquierdo Assistants João Magalhães, Laura Greenwood, Niki Charlton With special thanks to… Brenda Polan, Rob de Niet, Sacha Lynch Robinson, Hannah Teare, Hamilton Stansfield, Pyung-Hwa Oliver Haan, Motohiko Hasui, Julie Séguinier, Graham Rebak, Robert Newmark, Robin Kelley, Jessica Scott, Jay Spooner, Nick George, Frederic Patrise, Jamie Bennett, Wendy Mukluk, Jordi Cussó, SJ Howard, Melissa Gray, Jay Turnbull, Hannah Beasley, Catherine Donnelly, Hauser & Wirth and Chris & Jane Hemmings without whom Dirty Laundry would not exist Love. Hate. Whatever www.dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk editor@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk Dirty Laundry is published by Champagne Paper in conjunction with The Conceptionist www.champagnepaper.com www.theconceptionist.com Reproduction of any part of this publication is strictly prohibited without prior permission from the publishers. All rights reserved. © 2009 Champagne Paper Printed in the UK by Kingswood Steele. Cover Image: Xim Izquierdo www.ximizquierdo.com Words: Pedro the Lion – A mind of her own I wish I could have seen their faces when they heard the news Now that’s the sort of smack that leaves a bruise
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It’s time to both celebrate, and mourn, what it means to be a woman in 2009. We are a new generation suffering from a quiet sadness, yet a deep despair, in touch with the despondency surrounding the increasingly disheartening forecast for our future... Dirty Laundry: An antidote to the poison produced by the mainstream women’s media, but not another confrontational and intimidating feminist title bursting with pro and anti causes. Positive but realistic. The epitome of today’s femininity: glory and gory.
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Welcome to my Quarter Life Crisis
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Twenty-something, twenty-everything or twenty-nothing?
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Happily ever after
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Not waving but drowning....
…writes Stevie Smith. Our deepest sympathies, but you’ve really been thrown in at the deep end this time. You’re in deep, in too deep. Take a deep breath. You’re going under...
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Images: Francesca Tallone www.patternclash.com Shot in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
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Welcome to my Quarter Life Crisis
Image: Vann Apragal www.vannapragal.com Shot in New York, USA
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Bright. Young. Thing. That’s me. Vibrant, energetic and full of life. Career prospects galore; men falling at my feet; and a rammed social calendar. I’m super connected (Facebook, Myspace, Twitter); and super switched on (Google, Youtube, iPlayer). My CV brings potential employers to their knees; I’ve got at least five men wanting to charm the socks off me; I’ve got an apartment to die for; and if we’re being honest, I rarely have a spare minute to stop to consider how amazing I am. Oh give me strength. I am £16,834 in debt (actually add on at least an extra ten grand as I can’t bring myself to work out the actual figure); I have amazing exam results and a great degree, yet no job (I worked my arse off for all those years to make coffee and answer the phone for the next ten years?); I have a stack of unopened and unpaid bills, I live in fear of my electricity being cut off and I haven’t checked my bank balance in the last six months; I have no boyfriend and no hope of getting one anytime soon (hell I don’t even know if I want one, if I do then the sort of man I want, and no idea if he can or will actually help anything); I am liberated enough to have one night stands yet feel used and abused the next day; my world is full of unanswered questions (Am I supposed to be thin, fat or happy as I am? Should I be using wrinkle cream? What does ‘happy’ feel like?); I’m so connected to everything and everyone it feels as though I have a constant migraine (thanks Facebook); some days I can barely move from under the duvet, I often send every call I receive to voicemail and sob into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s I can’t afford; I would gladly drink myself into a stupor on a daily basis and my GP’s suggestion of Prozac just made everything worse. I’m lost, I’m confused and I’m far from happy.
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Twenty-something, twenty-everything or twenty-nothing?
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Clad in a vomit-stained dress, clutching a pile of unpaid bills and probably still drunk from the night before, this twenty-something, debt-ridden singleton has become the poster girl for the Quarter Life Crisis generation. Louise Hemmings recovers from her own hangover long enough to investigate. We were Generation Girl Power. ‘Spice up your life’ we sang, dressed in our uniform of skirts-over-trousers and banana clips as we debated which Spice Girl we were most like. We shopped in Tammy Girl, drank Sunny Delight, collected Beanie Babies and watched The Parent Trap. We discovered Napster, got hooked on MSN and upgraded our internet connections from 56k to Broadband. We read J17, Sugar and Smash Hits. We swooned over Clockhouse at C&A and begged our mums to let us wear Kickers. We watched Mystic Meg on a Saturday night and cried when Princess Diana died. We drank our way through our teenage years in a blur of Barcardi Breezers and Smirnoff Ice. We were Independent Women inspired by Destiny’s Child and Charlie’s Angels. We sailed through years of education, memorising the mark scheme’s model answers every step of the way. We sat in exam halls across the country, furiously scribbling practiced answers like a pandemonium of parrots dressed in Topshop. SATs, GCSEs and A Levels all passed by in a breeze. ‘The world is your oyster,’ our parents and teachers cried. Nice houses, fast cars, exotic holidays: whatever we wanted to have, we would have. Lawyers, architects, novelists: whatever we wanted to be, we would be. We were Generation Everything. We were bright sparks heading for an even brighter future. And then everything changed. Napster got shut down. Sunny Delight turned out to be horrendously bad for us. Lindsay Lohan went to rehab. Tammy Girl went bankrupt. Destiny’s Child split up. And alcopops meant only one thing: alcoholism. Suddenly we are on the fast track to nowhere. What happened to the good times we were told to expect? Shadowed by a feeling of never being good enough, our years of expensive education have not only left us riddled with debts but also the doubt that we will ever find a job at our intellectual level. Push.co.uk estimates the average student debt is now £17500 and coupled with the increasing amount of credit card debt, difficulty in securing loans and large interest rates, it’s no wonder we’re left feeling a little out of pocket.
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“Disney ruined my life”
Image: Emma Schneider-Pick www.emmapick.blogspot.com Shot in Auvergne, France
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We’ve got the exam grades, we’ve got the degree, but where
box of Corn Flakes. A recent University of Manchester study
are the glittering careers we were promised? We’re stuck with
investigated the drinking habits of 200 girls aged between 16
nothing but the photocopier or the beer pump. And for a measly
and 24 in a sexual health clinic in the South East. 75% drank
£6.50 an hour. If we’re lucky.
more than five units on a typical night out but a significant number consumed more than the recommended 14 unit weekly
“I got a first from a good university in a highly regarded subject,”
limit in one night alone. The Daily Mail headlines don’t lie:
explains graduate Sophie Hynes. “Yet here I am two years later,
We’re now a nation of very drunk young women who can only
and the only thing to look forward to is another evening of
find relief at the bottom of a wine bottle.
empty pint glasses and KP Nuts.” The amount we’re drinking isn’t our only worry. Atkins? There’s no home sweet home either. Instead of chic urban
Cabbage Soup? Weight Watchers? We’ve been there, we’ve
apartments with stainless steel kettles and spare bedrooms, we’re
done that, and we’ve got the T-shirt. Anorexia? Bulimia? We’ve
faced with grotty flatshares or moving back to the family home.
been there, we’ve done that, and we’ve got that T-shirt too. With conflicting messages being sent out by magazines, it’s no wonder
“I live in a mouse-infested bedsit in Hackney,” says 24 year old
it won’t be over until the fat lady sings, or, more accurately, until
Aby Peacock. “It takes me 25 minutes to walk to the tube station,
the fat lady’s thin.
and then I have an hour’s journey to get to my job. I still pay over £100 a week and that doesn’t even include any bills.”
It’s no wonder we’re feeling under pressure. Who have we got to inspire us? Are we supposed to adore the vanilla looks and
And forget about love conquering all. “Disney ruined my life,”
vanilla personalities of Fearne Cotton, Holly Willoughby and Cat
confesses Hannah Beasley, a 23 year old photographer who, on
Deeley? Or is it all about marrying a footballer and stripping off
paper, has everything going for her. There is no understandable
for page three?
reason why this attractive, intelligent girl should be single. And yet she is.
We’re in the midst of an identity crisis. Call us ‘girls’ and we sound like alcopop drinking 16 year olds on a night out
“Every time I see my mother, she looks at me in despair. ‘Not
in Essex; call us ‘ladies’ and we may as well be wearing vast
bringing a nice man home this time dear?’ she chimes. ‘No
amounts of Jaeger and ‘doing’ lunch; and call us ‘women’ and it’s
mum,’ I reply, as yet another year of being single passes.”
all tampons, the Pill and childbirth.
Raised on a diet of Aladdin and Pocahontas, we’ve suddenly
Career or children is no longer the question. Career and
faced with a decided lack of Prince Charmings. And without
children is what we expect and what is expected of us.
Prince Charming, can there ever be a happily ever after? Our
Compromise is not an option. Success and contentment are
little girl fantasies of a white wedding and ‘til death do us part’
supposed to go hand-in-hand. We’re angst-ridden twenty
are exactly that, fantasies. With two out of three marriages
somethings, carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders.
ending in divorce, we are having to be a lot more realistic about our future. Some of us may end up with the white picket fence
We were young and ambitious. And now we’re feeling old and
dream; others may remain eternally single. Either way, men are
embittered. Forget mid-life crisis, it’s all about Quarter Life
no longer the definitive answer to ultimate fulfilment.
Crisis. The mess we’re in would have even Sylvia Plath in tears.
If we can’t find a man, there’s always drink. We’re enjoying a drink even if the only thing to celebrate is the opening of a new
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We’re getting on, we’re getting by and we’re getting nowhere.
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Happily ever after
“There are no such things as happy endings because nothing ever ends,” an eternal optimist once said. “Oh purlease,” says Louise Hemmings as she realises that it’s not just us sprightly twenty-somethings who are suffering, and takes a look at life for those in their thirties, forties and fifties.
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Thirties Well done!
34 and you’re at your peak, says
Career, childcare; it’s all in your
inappropriate boys your mother
more Quarter Life Crisis for you.
You survived.
No
moisturiser brand Astral.
stride.
would most definitely shake her
Sit back, kick off those Jimmy
couldn’t agree more.
You
head at? And if you take a good
Choos, and sip on that glass of Chardonnay in the spirit of self-
There’s no more photocopying
congratulation.
for you.
Life is perfect. It’s everything you
look in the mirror, the wrinkles
ever wanted it to be.
are really starting to show. And
All those years of
if you really think about it, didn’t
climbing the corporate ladder
Only, wait one second.
Didn’t
you sort of rush into marrying Mr
‘What was I worrying about?’ you
have finally paid off.
You run
your friend Sophie just quit her
Right? Is he actually that right at
often ask yourself. All those frogs
your own business and your
£120k a year job and run off to
all? And as for having his kids…
you had to kiss, the occasional STI
friendship group is a useful mix
India to run a yoga camp? And
after one too many drunken nights
of PR executives, marketing co-
Seeta turned to the demon drink
In your thirties? Having a crisis?
out? That’s all a thing of the past.
ordinators
other
after career and kids became
‘You’re having a thrisis,’ says
And besides, you’ve found your
creative types. ‘Glass ceiling?’ you
too much. And there’s Claire as
Kathyrn Knight in the Times. Not
Prince, and you’ve got your castle:
ask yourself, ‘what glass ceiling?’
well. She woke up one morning
so well done after all.
and
various
a three bedroomed warehouse conversion in Islington.
and realised she couldn’t spend You held off having kids in your
another thirty years staring at her
twenties, along with most of your
husband’s face across the breakfast
Oh and you’re at it like rabbits.
peer group. And now the Office
table.
Free of all those body issues
for National Statistics is releasing
think of it, is this it?
you had in your twenties, you
figures highlighting how women
what life is about? And wouldn’t
can’t help but think you’re the
between the ages of 30 and
you rather be eighteen again
sexiest you’ve ever been.
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and staying out all night with
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Hit
And now you come to Is this
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Forties ‘Forty is the new twenty’, you
Still.
Cherie
between 35 and 54 dying from
quite excuse the quick fumble you
remind yourself. ‘Or is forty the
Blair did it. Even Jane Seymour,
Madonna did it.
alcohol related illnesses doubled
had with the guy from IT at last
new thirty, or is forty the new
Marcia Cross, and Jerry Hall did it.
between 1991 and 2006. “Liver
year’s Christmas party after all that
black?’ you ask, flicking through
So why shouldn’t you do it?
failure,” the doctors said, “Eva
champagne. You have needs, and
drank two bottles of vodka a
the average once-a-month just won’t do.
a copy of Marie Claire. ‘Morning sickness means baby will have
You could be like Nicole from
day.” You attended her funeral in
high IQ,’ you read, stroking
work. £30000 worth of IVF later
an L.K.Bennett black shift dress;
your bulging belly.
You did
and she’s still no closer to hearing
as recommended for women in
You spent £400 on anti wrinkle
leave it late, what with divorcing
the patter of tiny feet. Rumour
their forties by the Daily Mail’s
products last year, and £600
Husband Number One after you
has it that her infertility was
Liz Jones. You wouldn’t want to
on trips to the hairdresser. You
met Number Two, and you are
caused by untreated Chlamydia
look like mutton dressed as lamb
binned your favourite red lipstick
a teeny tiny bit concerned. Last
caught in her early twenties. Still,
after all.
last week, after Maria said you
week someone at work sent you
you don’t like to gossip.
a report published in the journal Human
prune’. You’re quite tempted by
which
And you’re so lucky compared to
they used to be in the bedroom
a bit of botox, maybe a lift here
revealed that mothers over 45 are
your friend Eva from university.
department. Husband Number
and there, and you’re bombarded
three times more likely to have
You always knew she’d get to
Two had a few tests done in his
with advertisements for cosmetic
a Caesarean than those in their
the top. No husband, no kids,
lunch break. “Nothing to worry
surgery everywhere you look.
early thirties. And older mothers
but CEO of an international oil
about,” the GP said. “About 52%
‘Whatever happened to growing
are also more likely to suffer from
firm. You read in a magazine you
of men experience problems in
old gracefully?’ you ask.
high blood pressure and twice as
found in the dentist’s surgery
getting an erection when they hit
likely to develop diabetes.
that the number of women aged
their forties.”
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Reproduction
looked like a ‘prostitute turned Things aren’t quite as hot as
Still, that doesn’t
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Fifties You had a little cry in the car on
of 2009) and you do pay £40 a
everyone’s getting it on the side
the way back from school today.
month for a gym membership in a
now anyway,” she says over your
The Yummy Mummy brigade
very swanky party of town.
weekly glass of wine with the girls.
gates, discussing the arrangements
It’s not as though you’ve joined
Still, you could be 60…
for their little darlings’ sports day.
the tea-sipping, Saga-Magazine-
Keen to get involved, you offered
reading,
to run in the egg and spoon race.
brigade quite yet. And who wants
were out in full force at the school
National-Trust-visiting
to be a latte sipping fake blonde, “Are you sure you’re not too old
bankrolled by a wanker banker
for that?” asked one Kate Moss
husband anyway?
lookalike, holding a Louis Vuitton
dictated by the dates of an Ocada
A social life
bag with one perfectly manicured
delivery? No thank you.
hand and swinging the keys to her brand new Range Rover Sport in
You can’t help but feel a little
the other.
jealous of Maria. She had her kids young, and now they’ve flown
Yes, you are a bit older but so
the nest, she’s decided to go on
what? It’s not as though you’re
a year long world tour, writing a
not capable of running around
novel about it in the process. She’s
after your twins (Holly and Lucas
also having a steaming affair with
- the most popular baby names
a man 30 years her junior. “Oh
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Illustrations: David Gardner
Narcissism
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Last orders
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Please sir, more
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The girl who never was
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I said no
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Was she asking for it?
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Who killed Amanda Palmer?
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And then the sirens went off
Five young women sitting on a wall, five young women sitting on a wall. And if one young woman should down an entire bottle of vodka and fall, there’ll be four young women sitting on the wall. Four young women sitting on a wall, four young women sitting on a wall. And if one young woman should starve until she faints and fall, there’ll be three young women sitting on the wall. Three young women sitting on a wall, three young women sitting on a wall. And if one young woman should pop some pills and fall, there’ll be two young women sitting on the wall. Two young women sitting on a wall, two young women sitting on a wall. And if one young woman should scream no, I said no, and fall, there’ll be one young woman sitting on the wall. One young woman sitting on a wall, one young woman sitting on a wall. And if one young woman should not-so-accidentally fall, there’ll be no young women sitting on the wall.
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Image: Francesca Tallone www.patternclash.com Shot in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
Narcissism The new journalism?
We quite fancied washing
And then Tanya Gold
And then the writing
our dirty laundry in
came to our rescue;
began. Every paper on
public, and so we did.
a
our
the planet was suddenly
In fact, we did it in this
own heart.
Her rather
publishing her no-holes-
very magazine.
successful
career
barred,
And
woman
as
no-stone-left-
now our style of ‘Gonzo
a
journalist
unturned, no-bottle-left-
journalism’, ‘confessional
began when she mounted
unopened account of her
writing’ or plain old
the Evening Standard’s
journey to the Priory.
self-indulgence is at the
famed art critic Brian
centre of a debate in the
Sewell, having spent the
And then the headlines
oh-so-hallowed
pages
morning drinking Vodka
followed:
of the Guardian. Louise
from a Pepsi can. Shortly
therapy: I still howl at
Hemmings takes a look.
after, she was shipped off
the memory’;
to every alcoholic’s worst
Scream. Rest.
We
hope
Jill
Parkin
reveal-all
after
‘Group ‘Sit-up.
nightmare: rehab.
never gets hold of a
The headlines followed.
copy of Dirty Laundry.
From ‘Group therapy: I
She wouldn’t like it very
still howl at the memory’
much. In fact, she would
to ‘Sit-up. Scream. Rest.
hate it.
Self-confessed
exercise
phobic Tanya Gold puts In a recent article in
her fitness to the test’,
the
we heard it all. All very
Media
she
Guardian,
described
any
Take A Break, if Britain’s
female journalist who
best selling weekly was
would write a “soul-
Jewish
baring
educated.
confessional”
and
Oxford-
in return for a couple of column inches as “mad, desperate or plain misguided.”
Mad and
desperate we may be, but misguided? Hmm…
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“Am I a practitioner of
We do it because we
Not all of us have stories
a
know what it’s like. We’re
to tell, or the means to
dark,
self-loathing
art,
a
noxious
splice
not 55 year old professors
tell them, but for those
of
masochism
and
from some woebegone
of us who do, revealing
exhibitionism that can
university
spend
our inner most thoughts
only end in self-hatred
their
studying
and secrets is less about
or
something they will never
self-absorption and more
truly understand.
about self-expression.
despair?”
Tanya
asked, in response to Jill
who
lives
Parkin’s column. So off we skipped to the nearest pub, ordered a large glass of dry white, and we had a think. After a few more large glasses, and just as
We’ve been there, we’ve
the landlord called for
done that, and we’ve got
last orders, the moment
the T-shirt.
of truth dawned. Here at Dirty Laundry, we don’t choose to write about
our
experiences
personal wrong.
So turn the pages, and
because
Confessional journalism
make up your own mind.
we’re so obsessed with
doesn’t end in ‘self-hatred
Are you with Jill? Or are
ourselves that anyone else
or despair’; it begins in it.
you with Tanya?
laziness,
out or
seems insignificant.
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of
Tanya
was
Last orders Here at Dirty Laundry, we like a
quite bad enough; no situation ever
drink or ten.
Louise Hemmings
seems to outweigh my need for that
recounts the journey that started at
wonderful feeling of another glass of
the party, and almost ended at the
wine slipping down my throat.
Priory. My
drinking
credentials
have
It wasn’t the unstoppable shakes
always been impressive. Research
that started as soon as I opened my
carried out by the National Centre
eyes, the times my heart seemed
for Education and Training on
to momentarily suspend or the
Addiction found that 55% of
constant fear I had of throwing
teenagers acquainted themselves
up; it wasn’t the arguments I
with the demon drink at the age
couldn’t recall, the harsh words
of 14. Thanks to a handy bottle
I had no idea I’d spoken or the
of Bailey’s that mysteriously went
tears I couldn’t remember crying;
astray at a family Christmas party, I
it wasn’t the disturbing fact I could
could beat that 55% by at least four
drink everyone I knew under the
years.
table, or the two bottles of wine I drank every night or the taste I
Six years later, at the tender young
had developed for straight spirits;
age of 16, I had drunk my way into
neither was it the £450 bottle of
the 23% of British women aged
vintage champagne I attempted
between 16 and 24 who drink over
to drink and knocked over when
21 units a week. I have to ask: what
I decided my need for a drink at
were the other 77% doing? At least
four in the morning outweighed
95% of the British women I knew
the five years that had passed since
also slotted quite happily into that
I’d received it as an 18th birthday
drunken 23% - the ones stumbling
present from my godparents; it
home at three am with clothes
wasn’t even the Christmas at home
covered in vomit, trying to open the
which saw me devour an entire
wrong door with the wrong key.
festive season’s worth of alcohol in one evening, fill the empty bottles
A single pub measure (35ml) of a
with water and then experience
40% ABV spirit equates to around
the uproar when my mother’s trifle
1.4 units. So the 50p vodka shots
tasted more like tap water than
available at the sticky floored
sherry; and it definitely wasn’t the
clubs I frequented ensured, for
subsequent
we-think-you-may-
the grand total of £5, I had hit the
have-a problem-and-need-to-go-to-
Government’s recommended limit
rehab or my troubling response, ‘ok
of 14 units of alcohol per week
but can I get another drink first?’
within five minutes of walking through a club’s doors, fake ID
I’m still waiting for something
in hand. We would gather in the
awful to happen. And it needs to
ladies, vodka shots lined up in the
be something so truly awful that
sink, and drink, and drink, and
I’ll decide if I never see another
drink, only stopping when one of
double vodka and coke again, it
us either threw up, or passed out.
will be too soon. Yet nothing is ever
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And then university life dawned,
By this point, the occasional night
and drinking became something I
out on the tiles was well and truly
could do wherever and whenever
on its way to developing into a daily
I wanted. My parents might have
need to intoxicate myself into a
encouraged drinking at home, but
stupor.
only after eight pm. At university I could drink as and when I pleased, regardless of whether it was nine am, or nine pm.
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One drink, two drink, three drink, four.
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Five drink, six drink, seven drink, floor.
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Soon, waking up to a splash of
I was uptight, I was inhibited, but
orange juice in my vodka was a
it didn’t matter because I was very
regular occurrence. “Drink through
drunk.
it,” I would tell myself, thinking that I’d deal with the awaiting hangover
Looking back, it’s clear that alcohol
another day. If I hadn’t been at some
became the love of my life from
crazy party, where the alcohol freely
the moment the very first drop of
flowed, I’d be at home, drinking
creamy Irish liqueur passed my
until the early hours and drowning
lips. Alcohol did what any good
away my sorrows.
lover would do: coaxed and cajoled me; introduced me to many a good
I hated being sober.
It was like
friend; held my hand in nerve-
watching television in black and
racking situations; and ensured that
white. As soon as the first drop of
a distinctly average night quickly
alcohol passed my lips, my world
turned into the greatest night ever.
was in colour again. And I would
One drop of that intoxicating liquid
do everything and anything in my
and life’s little lubricator would
power to ensure I never saw life
work its magic, numbing the pain
without my alcohol blurred lenses
of existence and making the world a
ever again.
much better and brighter place.
Then the summer came, and passed
The Home Office’s latest attempts
in a blur of parties that never ended.
at
One would seamlessly blend into
advertisements
the next; my entire life planned
and piss-stained individuals who
through when I would get my next
look like they have been dragged
drink. This wasn’t out of want. It
through a bush backwards, followed
was pure and utter need.
by the wise words, ‘You wouldn’t
curbing
binge
drinking
depicting
-
vomit
start a night like this so why end On days when I would wake up
it this way?’- miss the point: No
to the most hideous hangover
sane person would willingly spend
imaginable, with text messages on
both their free time and their hard-
my phone expressing either anger
earned cash on putting themselves
or concern from whoever I had
through such hell if the positives
pissed off the previous night, I’d
didn’t outweigh the negatives.
think that maybe it was time to stop. The Priory’s number was even
It’s not big and it’s definitely not
on my speed dial, ready for me to
clever but an entire generation
make the call.
of Britain’s young people are so discontent and disappointed with life, they are willing to risk life and limb for a few hours of blissful relief from the pain of existence. Photos of
blackened
livers,
unwanted
pregnancies and violent behaviour after last orders?
42
Oh well. Another drink anyone? I never made the call to the Priory. I’ve been about 30 seconds away from doing so, or having someone else do so on my behalf, on at least 20 occasions now. But it never happens, because too much is never quite enough. What has taken me about 2000 bottles of wine, 400 bottles of spirits, and three pints of beer to understand is simple: happiness can not be found at the bottom of an empty bottle, but right now, it’s about as close as I’m going to get.
43
Images: Frederic Patrise Model: Annalise
44
Please sir, more
Naomi Daggers. Medical student. Bulimic and anorexic. Self hatred oozing from every pore‌
45
“Who would like seconds?” the
Eight. “Whenever I see you, you are
Tears, so many tears, so so many
dinner lady asked.
always eating,” chimes Miss Murray,
tears.
my ballet teacher.
kitchen.
My hand
inevitably shot up, without pause for thought. Mmm… gingerbread and
Throwing plates across the Tears.
Throwing up
anywhere, everywhere. Pity anything
custard…
that had the misfortune of getting Nine. Ten. Eating ten things a day.
anywhere near my gullet.
“No, not you Naomi. Anyone else?”
Still (not surprisingly) a foot taller
she responded.
and a foot wider than anyone else in
Tears.
my class.
many tears.
into my lap, tears threatening to spill
And then the miracle. I was THIN!
52kg came and went.
over the edges of my eyes.
Almost overnight. 50kg. Taller still.
Too many tears.
Too, too
My face flushed and I buried my face
Thank god for puberty. And then the questioning.
Fifteen. Christmas Day 2000. 42.4kg
Why
(electronic scales).
wasn’t I allowed seconds when
White Lodge. My dreams en pointe.
everyone else was?
Shattered ten months later along with
And then the
epiphany. I was FAT. I was fatter than all the skinny blond
I felt fucking
incredible.
two tarsals in my left foot. Back to
January 2001. There’s a Priory bed
reality, back to normality. Back to
with my name written on it. Waiting
fatness.
for me.
white kids that overran my school.
SHIT.
Refused to go.
Bargained.
Fucking fat. ‘Big boned’ as my
Fourteen.
mother had put it. AKA FAT. At the
60kg. So fucking fat. None of my
Christmas Eve 1999. Thrice weekly visits to Dr. R. at the
age when all you want is to be the
clothes fitted.
That was the final
Priory, food diaries, force feeding etc
same as everyone else, I couldn’t have
straw. A ‘stomach bug’ allowed me
etc etc. Nothing you haven’t all heard
stuck out more like a sore thumb if
to be excused from Christmas dinner.
a hundred times before.
I’d tried: A foot taller, tanned, dark
Didn’t eat, couldn’t eat; not until I
curly hair, and FAT.
was thin again.
I was five years old. And that’s how
New Year’s Eve 1999. A new era.
months. Felt like SHIT. Then the
it started.
57kg. Felt amazing. And that was
vomiting started again, after eating a
the end of normality (whatever that
salad of all things. Funny really.
48.7kg. Put up with the fattening for three months. Three miserable
Out of some logic, from somewhere
is) once and for all.
or other, the idea popped into my head that because I was five years old
Sixteen. Eat. Vomit. GCSEs - ten My aim in life: 52kg.
A*s. Eat. Vomit.
I would eat five things a day. Then I would be thin.
Tantrums.
Tears.
Hiding.
Lying.
Having my dinner smeared in my Six. Six things a day. Seven.
face.
Seven things a day. Class
exercise. Weigh ourselves and plot a bar chart. 42kg. Tears, lots and lots of tears. Inconsolable.
46
Seventeen. Eat. Vomit. AS Levels -
Fucking hell. Stranded in the middle
five As. Eat. Vomit.
of pissing NOWHERE. No escape. An entire four weeks (they tell you
Eighteen. Eat. Vomit. A-levels - five
two at first but they mean four; they
As. Eat. Vomit.
lie to get you there). What the HELL was I doing? Was my life really SO
Nineteen. Eat. Vomit. University to
bad that I needed to change it? I
study Medicine. Eat. Vomit.
just wanted to run away. Apparently everyone experiences this when they
Nothing made me happy.
All I
first arrive.
wanted was to be thin again. 52kg: now illusive, now unobtainable.
I was shown to my room, a dated hotel suite. Unbelievable for the ÂŁ3k
Twenty-one.
55.6kg.
Sex, drugs,
a week they were charging. Then
alcohol, vomiting: A year filled with
they go through your bag. No wires,
so much fun. SO MUCH FUN! And
no belts etc etc etc. And go through
so much shit.
the rules: No alcohol or drugs on site; half-hourly checks overnight (were
Summer.
Three months in Paris.
Too much shit to mention.
we meant to sleep?); early morning wakeup calls at seven am; three meals a day; attend the programme
Friday. August. A routine visit to
from nine til five; happy pills at ten
Dr. R. (university stipulated I must
pm; in your rooms by midnight; no
at least twice year).
men in the ladies rooms, and vice
Broke down,
completely broke down.
It was a
first. It took Dr. R completely by surprise, as much as it did me. Sunday. Two hour silent escort to Godden Green with both my parents.
47
versa. Blah blah blah. You get the picture I’m sure.
And then I met my fellow inmates:
Kelly.
35.
New
Zealander.
Accountant. Depressed. Had a ‘melt John. 32. Police officer. Depressed.
down’.
OBSESSED with Anthony
Wife and two kids. Wife’s cheated on
Kiedis.
Single but claims to have
him (at least) twice but he won’t leave
met her soulmate who happens to be
her. Nice guy. Shame.
going out with her best friend. Turns out we’d both been at the same party
Anita. 36. Ex-PA. Depressed and
a few months back. Small world.
suicidal. Likes abusive relationships, like her father-daughter relationship.
Doreen.
With an abusive partner Rob whom
Depressed. Self-neglect. Widower.
73.
Retired Secretary.
she refuses (to this day) to leave.
Weird. Skinny little old woman but came up with some corking oneliners. Talked about her dead hubby (Alfie) a LOT. Natasha. 26. Teacher. Depressed. Another one who liked abusive relationships,
like
daughter relationship.
her
father-
Has now
married her abusive partner and had a baby with him.
48
John. 78. Do-gooder. Depressed.
Katherine. 50 (looked 70). The ghost
9am
PAIN IN THE ARSE.
of Godden Green.
management. Anxiety mnagement.
Talked
Hallucinative
therapy.
Anger
Depression.
charity work.
coming out of the TV and believed
Interpersonal kills. Outings in the
they were attacking her. Interesting
Chuckle bus to the local farm shop
woman. Once mute.
or places of interest (until the Ferals
40.
Office Worker.
Depressed. Anxiety attacks. Married
Once had a
family.
CBT.
Art
endlessly about his selflessness and
Katrina.
Used to see images
-
One-on-ones.
vandalised it).
with three teenage boys. Raped by
Relaxation.
Dr.
R.
Problem solving. Relapse Prevention.
an AA man after breaking down on
Sophie. 23. On the dole. (Ex?) drug
Stress Management.
the side of the motorway. Refuses
addict.
Yoga. Sitting round in a circle reciting
to get into a car now by herself. Understandable.
Most amazing,
Self Esteem.
stories relevant to the workshop, but Lorna. 61. House wife. Alcohol
completely irrelevant to your life.
supportive family.
abuse. Nasty divorce.
Mood sheets. Food diaries.
Louise. 45. MD. Depressed. Self
The Ferals.
Harmer. Suicide Attempt. Married.
Unit.
Mother of two.
Overweight goth lesbians (at least
6pm - Dinner. AKA The Adolescent
About
eight
of
them.
10pm - Meds (I wasn’t allowed to partake).
that’s what they looked like from Daniel.
29.
Office Worker.
Depressed. Again. Grant. 48. Mechanic. Depressed
a safe distance).
Self harmers.
12am - Bed.
Enjoyed destroying everything and anything they could lay their hands
I lasted three and a half fucking
on. Enjoyed disregarding authority.
weeks.
after his mother died. No phone signal. No internet. No
54kg. The day of my release. Finally.
Ivor. 40. Office Worker. Depressed
visitors allowed unless you agree.
RELIEF.
after his wife left him for another
No outings. No nothing. How was
man.
I going to survive two weeks, never
Packed. Signed my discharge sheet.
mind four?
Parents picked me up.
Two hour
non-silent escort home. 7am - Wake up after a shit night’s sleep on a plastic mattress. I learnt
Dinner. Had to get back to London,
how to control my bladder when I
back my to life.
was two thank you very much. Back. Threw up dinner. Went out to 8am - Breakfast.
a gig, got WASTED. Went home with the lead singer. I would like to say I’ve changed. But I’d probably be lying.
49
The girl who never was
50
“And suddenly, as Selden noted the fine shades of manner by which she harmonised herself with her surroundings, it flashed on him that, to need such adroit handling, the situation must indeed be desperate.” Edith Wharton – The House of Mirth
51
Image: Nikki Birdwell www.flickr.com/photos/dearbrains Shot in Texas, USA
Living a lie for over two years left Agatha’s* world in ruins. As
to an ‘Undercover Agent’ who could tell you exactly who had
Louise Hemmings discovers, things aren’t always what they seem
been viewing your profile, and how many times a day they were
on the other side of the computer screen.
returning. Grim Rita, the site’s popular agony aunt, provided useful information for members in need of a bit of advice: “Rita,
Agatha is nervous, really nervous. She‘s nervous in that I-don’t-
I found a lump on my neck and I think I’ve got cancer. I’m too
actually-think-I-can-go-through-with-this sort of way. She
scared to tell my parents or go to the doctors. What should I do?”
knows she shouldn’t be, and that there is nothing to worry
Rita wasn’t known for mincing her words: “For fuck’s sake, it’s
about. But that doesn’t stop the nerves kicking in. Meeting
a lump on your neck - why not tell your parents? If you’re this
someone after only speaking to them online holds too much of
much of a wimp you deserve to die.”
a familiar fear for her. It all started three years ago when Agatha received a message It’s taken me months of coaxing and cajoling for her to agree to
on Faceparty. Bored out of her mind at a university she hated,
meet. Agatha was reluctant at first, not wanting to drag up a past
she was browsing the website she had first joined as a 14 year
she has tried very hard to leave behind. Eventually she agreed
old in search of a bit of entertainment. The message was from
and this is her story.
someone calling himself Simon, and he thought she was very pretty indeed.
Faceparty, the popular online haunt of 15 year olds in search of a bit of fun and flirting, is where it all began. Before the days of
“I replied and oh my god, if I could just go back to that point
Facebook, and before the MySpace phenomena had truly begun,
in time, I would do anything. I wish I had deleted that message,
Faceparty was the social network of choice. A little cheekier than
and logged off Faceparty and gone outside and met some guy in
other websites, users could anonymously vote other users into
a bar and then maybe things would be so different right now,”
categories such as ‘Colin’, ‘Miss Terry Gender’, or ‘Uber-Daddy’.
she says, nervously picking at her nails.
And if you wanted to know exactly who had been stalking you, paying £24.95 for ‘Cool Tools’ would ensure you had access
52
There’s a long pause. “It all began to innocently. It was just a few
spoke to me that night, I found myself telling him that friends
flirty messages at first, and then he asked for my MSN address,
had tried to make me eat because they thought I was too thin. I
and before long, we were talking every night, and he wanted my
was playing a game of opposites.”
telephone number.” “I know people tell white lies on the internet,” she says, unable
After a few months, Simon was completely hooked on Agatha,
to look at me in the eye, “but I really really lied and exaggerated
and it’s not difficult to understand why. “I was plasticine,” she
the truth an awful lot.”
says, “I could harmonise myself with him by telling yet another lie.” Whatever Simon wanted, Agatha could be by doing nothing
Agatha was in her first year of university when it all began, and
but typing a few words into a computer. To go to these lengths to
deeply unhappy with her course, the city she lived in, and her
please, Agatha must have really liked Simon.
new friends. She won’t disclose where she was, or even what she was studying but at a push, she reveals she was 19 when she ‘met’ Simon.
“Actually, no. He meant nothing to me; he was nothing but a mirror,” she explains, with the conviction of someone who has
“I am so utterly ashamed of what I did,” she explains. “I never
spent a lot of time thinking about this. “It was like looking into
wanted anyone to know and I still don’t.”
a smoke-filled mirror; I could suggest an image I wanted to be there and Simon would confirm it was there and the smoke
“In reality I was this overweight quiet girl who didn’t dress very
would fade and the image of this perfect being would appear.
well and didn’t have much to say,” she says. “I mean I remember
He validated the identity I wanted to have.” She pauses, looking
walking around one day and my thighs rubbed together and
down into her lap. “It was just a game. How far could I push
became sore and I thought of how disgusted Simon would be if
things?”
he knew I was overweight enough for that to happen. When he
53
Simon was a 25 year old who worked in insurance and lived in
“I had such a close call on my 20th birthday,” she says and
Bristol. “He wasn’t the sort of person who would usually do this
shudders. “I had a lot of friends visiting for a party so they were
sort of thing,” Agatha explains. “Kind of like me really.”
inevitably going to take photos of the evening and put them on Myspace. I spent the entire evening wondering if I’d look
Was Simon ever suspicious? “Not at the beginning because I
particularly awful, but mostly obese, in a photo and he would
was so vigilant about what I allowed to go online,” she points
find it.” Agatha had gone too far, and she knew it.
out. At the time, Facebook was only for students from selective universities and so tagging of ‘real’ photographs wasn’t a problem
“By this point, we were talking on the phone for hours every
as Simon couldn’t access them. Agatha describes how Myspace
night and had been for around 18 months. All my friends were
was a “complete nightmare” as he had unlimited access to her
asking about him, and knew everything about the situation apart
friends’ profiles, and if they had put realistic photographs of her
from the fact that we had never met, so that was yet another web
online, he would easily have been able to see them. Agatha had
of lies.” One set of friends would be told one story, and another
to be a control freak; her personal Myspace was full of photos
one would hear something completely different. “It was hell if
that projected the image she wanted him to see.
the two groups ever mixed,” Agatha sighs. Simon was begging Agatha to meet him, and Agatha knew that
I ask if she will show me the photographs. She is unsure but after
time was running out. “He was inevitably going to have to meet
a bit of persuasion, she goes to her Myspace page. “I don’t look
the real me. I knew he wouldn’t last much longer without just
at these very often,” she explains, and I can tell she isn’t lying.
turning up on my doorstep in desperation,” Agatha explains. She
I see photographs of a girl, definitely Agatha but younger and
felt she was clutching at straws, clinging to the last remnants of
much thinner. The girl in the photographs looks alive and has a
the personality she had created before it all fell apart. “I didn’t
spark in her eyes the Agatha I’m sitting with has lost. On-screen
want it to end because I loved that he was keeping this girl who
Agatha flirts with the camera, glass of wine in hand. The real
I was so desperate to be, very much alive. I remember being on
Agatha can barely look me in the eye as she nervously sips on a
a train home and thinking that I couldn’t lose him because he
glass of orange juice.
was all I had.”
54
Eventually she set the judgement day, and agreed that he could
“It was like a first date for a normal couple that just didn’t go
meet her. “By that point, both ‘me’ and ‘Simon’s me’ had pretty
anywhere. Only this was the culmination of two years worth of
much blended. I thought that I was that perfect girl, regardless
talking and him falling in love with this imaginary girl. I forced
of what was actually staring back at me in the mirror. I felt
myself to stay until the bitter end because I wanted to punish
invincible.”
myself for doing this not only to myself but to him as well.” He departed without a word.
A new haircut, a very expensive dress and a bottle of wine later, Agatha was ready to meet her match. “In the few moments before
A week later Simon finally emailed Agatha. It seemed that words
he knocked on my door, I actually thought I was that wonderful
on a screen were the only way in which they could effectively
girl. I really did think I was the girl he thought I was.”
communicate. The email was frank: “Agatha, I’m in mourning.
“As soon as he opened the door and as I saw the disappointment
It’s like my wonderful Agatha died and I have to deal with that.
in his eyes, my whole world crashed down. He gave me a hug
I’m left with nothing but you.”
and held me for a while but it just wasn’t heartfelt. The reality of who I was struck me like lightening. I wasn’t the girl I wanted
Did Agatha’s world collapse? “Yes because that level of rejection
to be at all.” The pair spent the evening chatting awkwardly over
is horrible. He called me fat; he told me to go to the gym; he told
drinks. Agatha could sense he didn’t want to let the idea of her
me I was ugly and dressed horribly. I had every inch of myself
go, but the reality was proving difficult for him to accept.
scrutinised and trashed by him because he was so angry.” Yet she admits she never blamed him. “I allowed him to say all those things because I needed punishing, I needed the myth I had perpetrated to end. I came down to earth with a thump.” She looks confused; a mixture of anger and hurt apparent in her expression. “I can’t talk about this anymore,” she says. She pauses and then whispers across the table: “That part of me could only ever exist in cyberspace. Out of everything, the hardest thing was that I was in mourning for her too; the girl who never was, and the girl who will never ever be.” *All names have been changed to protect identities.
55
I said no
56
57
...but he didn’t listen
58
I wish I’d had to run down my road, out of breath and not knowing if I’d reach my flat. I wish he’d shoved me against my front door as I fumbled in my handbag, praying that I’d find my keys in time. I wish he’d punched me in the face, grabbed the phone from my hand and smashed it into tiny pieces, ensuring I’d never be able to dial 999. I wish he’d dragged me down an alley, unzipped his jeans and shoved it inside of me. I wish he’d fucked and fucked and fucked until he came, and then laughed in my face, and walked casually away, as I fell to the floor and screamed. And didn’t stop screaming. Not then, not ever. Because at least then I would have known. At least then I would have been able to scream until somebody came and dialled 999. At least then a kind police woman would have arrived, and taken me to a special place, and asked me gentle yet probing questions. At least then I’d have taken off my clothes - my best dress and cardigan - and put them into a plastic bag for evidence. At least then, a nice doctor would have taken a look down there to see what was wrong. At least then some evidence would have been taken from my bruised and battered vagina and someone would be able to say, yes, yes, yes, you were raped; and I am so, so, so sorry. Vodka, vodka, white wine, red wine, vodka, tequila… the only friendly guests at a party in a city not too far from home, but far enough to be too far away. And a man, who is sort of good looking, but evidently not interested. And the surprise when he is interested, and he mentions his cocktail making credentials. And his concoction of the most ridiculously alcoholic jug of cocktail, and as everyone else passes out in another room, he tells you to drink it. And he dares you, and he says you can’t do it, and you can’t handle your alcohol. And you do it, because you’re fucked, and you are so close to passing out anyway, and you want to make a point. And you know that this time, you might have taken it too far, and that this is going to end in tears. And then he kisses you. And your mouth is covered in his saliva. And you don’t care. Because finally someone finds you attractive. Because someone finally makes you feel desired. And he shoves you onto the floor, and you think that this is what passion is about. And he rips apart your dress – the pretty dress your mum bought for you to wear to your cousin’s wedding – and he pulls down his trousers. And he pins down your arms and he throws himself on top of you, pulling your legs apart. And you say no, no, please no, don’t do this, get off me. And then he pulls your M&S cotton knickers to the side and shoves his penis inside. And you cry, and through your tears he hears your screams of no, no no. And still he fucks you; in and out, and in and out, and in and out. And you scream for him to stop, and scream that there is this guy you like, and that this will ruin everything. And he laughs, and laughs some more, and he tells you that it’s too late for that. And then he stops fucking, as his face fills with pleasure, and he cums, and he cums, and he cums. Deep inside of you. And he sees your tears, and he laughs. And he finds the remote control and turns on the television. “I can’t sleep without listening to QVC,” he says, as he puts his head on a pillow, and drifts off to sleep. And you lie on the floor, and he snores, and you realise that he has torn your brand new bra to shreds. And you leave the room silently, torn bra in hand, with the QVC voiceover playing in the background, and you sneak into the bathroom downstairs. And you use the white flannel to wipe the mess away, and you throw it into the stainless steel bin. Because who would want to wipe their face with it now? And then you head upstairs, and you sleep. Because what else is there to do? And three years later, as you realise you can’t bring yourself to talk in the first person, the reality hits: it was rape. He raped you. You were raped.
59 As told to Louise Hemmings
Was she asking for it? “Seduction is often difficult to distinguish from rape. In seduction, the rapist often bothers to buy a bottle of wine,” celebrated feminist Angela Dworkin once said. Louise Hemmings investigates. Courtney Love had just finished touring with Mudhoney when she decided to stage-dive. “It was a huge audience and they were kind of going ape-shit,” she told Interview in March 1994. “I just dove off the stage, and suddenly it was like my dress was being torn off of me, my underwear was being torn off of me, people were putting their fingers inside of me and grabbing my breasts really hard, screaming things in my ear like pussy-whore-cunt.” By the time she had been pulled back onstage she was naked. “Someone took a picture of me right when this was happening, and I had this big smile on my face like I was pretending it wasn’t happening,” she explained. It was this experience that inspired her to write a song called ‘Asking for it’. “I can’t compare it to rape because it’s not the same. But in a way it was. I was raped by an audience, figuratively, literally, and yet, was I asking for it?” Twenty years ago, the conviction rate for rape was 19 per cent. Fast forward to today and the conviction rate for England and Wales has fallen to 6.5 per cent. It’s even worse in Scotland; the conviction rate is 2.9 per cent. Kate Allen, Director of Amnesty International is concerned. “We have been calling for urgent action on this key failing of the criminal justice system for several years,” she wrote in a letter to the Times. “Large numbers of people believe that a woman is partially or totally responsible for being raped if she has behaved in a ‘flirtatious’ manner, has been drinking or has worn ‘sexy’ clothing.” Lily Fonbrook experienced what she eventually classified as rape on a night out. “I was very drunk and he took advantage,” she explains. The word ‘no’ was mentioned over and over again to no avail, yet Lily still didn’t believe she had a case. “It would have been a case of ‘look you were wasted and you were flirting with him’ so what do you expect?” She took no action. With attitudes like this, it’s no wonder that 93 per cent of victims don’t tell the police. “Why would I report it?” Lily asks. “I would become the accused and have every inch of my personality torn to pieces in court.” ‘Was she asking for it?’ Courtney Love sang in 1995. It’s 2009 now and the answer is, was, and will always be: no, absolutely not. To support Amnesty International’s campaign to Stop Violence Against Women, log on to www.amnesty.org.uk
60
Images: Nikki Birdwell www.flickr.com/photos/dearbrains Shot in Texas, USA
61
62
Who killed Amanda Palmer?
religion and abortion” and refusing to give it any airtime.
If we could sing, we’d probably be a bit like Amanda
Palmer believes it was misunderstood. “This song is about
Palmer. Only we can’t, so Louise Hemmings will sing her
denial,” Palmer explains. “It’s about a girl who can’t find it
praises instead.
in herself to take her situation seriously. That girl exists
“When you can not joke about the darkness of life, that’s
everywhere. You probably know her. You’ve probably
when the darkness takes over,” says Amanda Palmer,
met her. You might be her.”
ex lead singer of the Boston- based Dresden Dolls. The
Luckily, all is not lost. Palmer’s latest project, a joint
vamp-virgin/ virgin-vamp is currently fighting for her
collaboration with renowned author Neil Gaiman and
right to offend, after attempting to release her new single
photographer Kyle Cassidy, is about to be released.
‘Oasis’ in the UK, and meeting intense opposition from
‘Who killed Amanda Palmer?’ is a book inspired by the
pretty much every music outlet in existence.
photographs Palmer has been taking of herself for the last
“I sat down on day in or around 2002 and wrote a tongue-
14 years.
in-cheek, ironic, up-tempo pop song about a girl who got
From a broken-hearted governess found floating in the
drunk, date raped, and had an abortion. She sings about
lake, to a dead girl slung over someone’s shoulder down an
these things lightly and happily and says that she doesn’t
alley in Boston, as sirens blare in the background, Palmer’s
care that these things have happened to her because Oasis,
latest creation is a visual celebration of the beauty and the
her favourite band, have just sent her an autographed
mystery surrounding death.
photo in the mail,” she explains.
“Are we allowed to talk about it, joke about it, turn it over
The song was produced by Ben Folds, and the video by
from every side and try to figure out our own confused
Michael Pope, with the intent of portraying a happy-go-
reaction to it? Or is that just too icky, too uncomfortable,
lucky scenario and a literal play-by-play of what was being
and shameful? Or should we just cry about it demurely
described in the song; the idea being that it would be more
and hope that the proper reaction, the one that society
Princess Superstar than Evanescence. “If you can not
deems appropriate, will make things go away?” she says.
sense the irony in this song, you’re about two intelligence
Amanda Palmer, we couldn’t agree more.
points above a kumquat,” she says.
63
Palmer’s single is unlikely to be hitting your nearest HMV
Who Killed Amanda Palmer? will be released on July 7th.
any time soon after the British music industry expressed
Copies can be pre-ordered from
outraged, claiming that the track makes “light of rape,
www.whokilledamandapalmer.com
Does size matter?
68
Dirty Sexy Money
70
Blow me away
88
Between you, me and the bedpost
94
Oh fuck me
96
You’ve been papped
98
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Love is not the reason…
… Love is the lure, according to Jane Hirshfield. And we’re inclined to agree. ‘Phwoar,’ Cosmopolitan screams in Barbie pink font, ‘5 steps to SEXUAL HEAVEN’. What about five steps to an STI? Much more our style. Ladies and gentlemen, the Clap! A round of applause please. Or how about a standing ovation as we spread our legs for the nice doctor? He shakes his head. No more OWO for you young lady. That’s Oral WithOut (condom). Or there’s CIF (in your face). Or CIM (in your mouth). Learn and earn. So we did. Fake tits, fake hair, fake tan; we couldn’t sell it for love nor money. It’s just sex, they told us. So we attempted to learn, or at least self-improve. Fat hairy men with a tiny tiny dick. Suck Me Bitch. Eww, we cried. Where’s Russell Brand when you need him? A bit of the old in-outin-out-in-out? Yes, please. On, and in case you were wondering, yes, our Laundry is very Dirty indeed.
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Image: Francesca Tallone www.patternclash.com Shot in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
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Does size matter?
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‘How big is your cock?’ isn’t one of the questions we would be likely to ask on a first date (even if we are on the third bottle of wine). But if things are going that well, and we found our date on 7orbetter.com, we’re unlikely to be disappointed in the bedroom department. This free online dating site considers well-endowment to be a pre-requisite rather than an added bonus. Sensitivity? Generosity? Trust? Yawn. Huge cock? Oh now you’re talking… It might be incredibly vulgar but we’re pleased that it’s men being objectified for a change. There’s nothing like a bit of role reversal once in a while…
w w w . 7 o r b e t t e r .
c
o
m
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Dirty Sexy Money Whilst schmoozing the owner of a high class escort
Working as a ‘Customer Services Agent’ for one of
agency in pursuit of an undercover story, Louise
London’s top escort agencies, I would be selling a
Hemmings was offered a highly paid job in the business.
strictly generic form of beauty straight out of page three.
Here she explains why even the promise of £3000 a
Fake tits, fake tan and fake hair all came packaged in a
month couldn’t persuade her to accept it.
size eight body, gift wrapped with an exotic name tag. There were no plain Janes here.
The grey carpet was the worst; it was old, it was worn, and it was covered in a whole host of suspicious
“We pick the girls for a reason,” my new boss told
stains. On the single bed, with its flimsy headboard
me. “Everyone has to have experience in the industry
and faded floral duvet cover, sat an old teddy bear, a
because our clients expect a high standard. They
fraying red bow hanging loose around its neck. The
mostly come from Brazil, Russia and Eastern Europe
doors of an MDF wardrobe had been flung open,
but some are English. There are a lot of quite successful
clothes and bits of hastily dismantled computers
glamour girls who do it purely for the money, and that’s
spilling onto the floor. A windowsill full of half-drunk
why their faces have to be blurred on our website.”
bottles of super-strength vodka, almost completely
Sadly for my employer, he wasn’t as attractive as his
hidden by nicotine-stained net curtains, were the
employees.
only hint that the occupant was slightly more hedonistic than this dismal room would suggest.
A greasy-haired Russian wearing nothing but a tattered dressing gown, he wasn’t quite the gangster pimp I’d
Surprisingly this was no £22 per night B&B in
expected.
Blackpool, but the nerve centre of an operation that turns over hundreds of thousands of pounds every year,
I was to be employed as the voice of the business; the
and the place where I would learn the art of making a
first point of contact that clients would make with the
huge amount of cold hard cash, and fast.
agency, and the person who would set up meetings with the ‘girls’. All I had to do was carry a mobile telephone with me, and answer it whenever it rang. No grey
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office, no set working hours, and a huge wad of cash
A few telephone calls later and it was all arranged:
at the end of the month: could this be the dream job?
10pm, room 346, Generic Chain Hotel, Kensington; £300 plus taxi fare in cash, payable on arrival. I
“Sunday nights are quiet,” he explained, “it should liven
imagined Tony: an attractive and successful forty-
up later and then you can have a go”. The butterflies
something, lounging on cream sheets and wearing a
in my stomach worsened at the thought of what I
white hotel-crested bathrobe; sipping on a whiskey and
would have to do. Think of the money, I told myself,
Coke he’d later charge to his expenses account; making
wondering whether it would be worth it.
the inevitable call to his wife and three kids to wish them goodnight; tidying the business papers for his
I didn’t have to wait long before the telephone rang.
9am meeting... and finally the beautiful Adelina would
Tony was in town on business and feeling a little
knock on the door, wearing a tightly-fitted trench coat
lonely in his Kensington hotel suite. He knew what
and carrying a heavily-monogrammed handbag, hastily
he wanted, and that was Adelina – a blue-eyed English
leaving exactly an hour later, her cheeks just a little rosy.
rose with flowing brunette locks and impressive 32C24-32 stats. I found Adelina’s telephone number on the
In five minutes, Tony had earned me £15; five per cent
complicated database system the Russian had set up,
of the £300 Adelina would collect from him for her
and tentatively telephoned her to check her availability.
services.
“Adelina? good evening. I’m calling from the agency,
The next few calls were equally simple: John, who
would you be available for a booking this evening?”
liked the look of leggy blonde Paloma (£200) but
my PA voice echoed through the telephone line. She
settled for equally leggy blonde Madelina (£250)
hesitated, used to being barked at by the Russian,
[£12.50 in the bank]; Steven who was into Brazilian
and not used to this level of politeness. “Yes of
beauties and settled for sun-kissed beauty Margarida
course, in call or out call?” she enquired, sounding
(£350) [£17.50 in the bank]; and Marcus who
entertained by my childlike voice. Damn, I hadn’t
wasn’t really bothered who he got, as long as she was
asked.
“Umm, one moment,” I replied, aware
less than £250 and had blonde hair, and as Lavina
that the Russian was scrutinising my every move.
(£250) was available and fitted the bill, off she went, earning me another £12.50 for five minutes’ work.
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This was like ordering a pizza. Browse the menu,
The Russian’s personal telephone rang, and he
place your order, and 30 minutes later it would
disappeared into the corridor, looking annoyed. I
arrive at your door, ready for you to make a meal of
panicked as the agency’s telephone began to vibrate,
it. Not particularly memorable, but satisfying, if only
the screen showing that a private number was calling.
temporarily.
“Good evening, how can I help you?” I said, the nerves apparent in my voice, now that it was my first call
According to the Russian, it wasn’t always this easy. I
without the Russian‘s guidance. A faint Arab voice
scrolled through the lists of girls on the database on
whispered that he wanted a girl for tonight, and asked
the screen, determined to remember a few names in
what could I offer. “What sort of girl are you looking
each of the categories to reel off to clients, should their
for?” I asked, following the Russian’s instructions to
chosen girl be unavailable. “If they ask for Bella, and
narrow down the options to his tastes and budget.
you know Bella is on another job, do a quick search,”
“Blonde, sexy, lots of cleavage,” he replied. I thought
the Russian advised, typing her name and coming up
of Mirella, who had texted me to say she was free for
with a list of Bella’s attributes. “So you know Bella is
bookings that evening, and so I advised the client to
Mexican, with long brown hair, huge tits and costs
look at her profile on the agency’s website, doubtful that
about £500. Search for attributes in this category
he would turn down the pretty curly-haired blonde.
and you’ll get a list of similar girls to recommend to the client. Whilst he is having a look at their profiles
The Arab apparently wasn’t au fait with Internet
online, call the girls and see who is available. And be
Explorer, and it took ten minutes of explanation
quick, or we will lose the client to another agency.”
for him to find the lovely Mirella. “Ummm, ahhh, ummm,” I heard through the telephone line, as he took
I scrolled through the attributes: nationality, hair
in the images of her provocatively displayed on red silk
colour, vital statistics. Something caught my attention
sheets, in nothing but a thong and high gold shoes.
– A-level. “Is there a category for if the girl has a
“No,” he declared, “Mirella, no.” I pointed him in the
degree?” I enquired, imagining well-to-do business men
direction of Marina, similar to Mirella but £200 more
requiring a girl for high-brow conversation over dinner.
expensive. “No,” the Arab stated, “Marina, no”. This
The Russian almost fell off his chair laughing. A-level
was getting difficult. I tried Helenya. No. Rosetta?
meant the girl did anal; I had a lot to learn.
No. Catelina? No.
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“You, what’s your name?” he asked, stopping me in my
softly spoken PA who the CEO liked to hear transferring
tracks. What was my name? The Russian had told me
his calls. And now it was being used to sell the world’s
to come up with a new name, my birth name not sexy
oldest profession.
or exciting enough for this industry. Names whirred around my mind: Lily, Evelyn, Daisy; the names I had
The Russian was getting impatient; things were a little too
wanted to be called as a child. “Chardonnay,” I blurted
quiet. I wasn’t getting paid by the hour, but was working
out, immediately embarrassed by the obviousness
solely on five per cent commission from whatever the
of the name I had chosen. He didn’t seem to notice.
girls earned, so every minute that the telephone didn’t
“Mmm... Chardonnay, your voice is lovely, very very
ring, the pile of cash waiting for me at the end of the
sexy girl,” he whispered breathlessly, “how much?”
month became increasingly smaller. “You have to sell the girls,” the Russian commanded, like the boss of a
So the Arab wanted me? I almost laughed out loud.
garage trying to shift some used cars. “Sell, sell, sell”.
He must have been imagining some blonde doe-eyed beauty, lounging in a red velvet room in a little leopard
“What’s available for 300 quid?” the next caller
print number. The reality was so different: smudged
asked. “Umm, Karolyna is available this evening.
makeup, dirty Converse and a greying white t-shirt. I
She’s a very lovely girl, very kind and welcoming,” I
realised what he’d been doing whilst I’d been explaining
volunteered. The Russian shook his head and pointed
the ins and outs of Internet Explorer. I hung up.
at my tits. “Very large ti… umm breasts,” I offered,
The Russian re-appeared. He’d evidently been listening
“and very, ummm, soft hair?” The caller hung up.
from the corridor. “You’re supposed to be selling the service,” he scolded, “not providing it”.
The Russian looked furious. I felt sick; I was selling human flesh, not used cars. “Tits, arse, legs, tits,
Yet it had been this natural asset that had got me the
arse,
job; not perfect 34Cs, to-die-for legs, or a flowing
at my ability to describe the blatantly obvious.
legs,”
the
Russian
chanted,
unimpressed
blond mane, but a voice like honey that could soothe the eardrums of anyone in hearing distance. The voice
The night was to go from bad to worse. “I booked a
had got me work before: the voice of a Yorkshire steel
girl off your site last night,” the next caller snarled,
factory; the reassuring operator at a law firm; and the
“and she’s just turned up and she’s a complete dog.”
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My stomach tightened. “I’m very sorry about that
clients, and she just can’t get enough. When I collect
sir,” I offered, without a note of sincerity in my voice,
the money from her, she just wants to shag, shag, shag,
thinking of the poor girl who had been rejected solely
as if she hasn’t already been at it all day and all night.”
on her looks. “Yeah well I won’t be fucking using your services again,” he hissed, and then he was gone.
He showed me her profile page, proud that such an exquisite example of femininity would so much as touch
“That sometimes happens,” the Russian offered,
him. Of course she shags you, I thought, you‘re her
nonchalant at the nature of the call.
“The girls
pimp. She would want to be the favourite, the one who
often look younger and like they’ve got bigger tits
got all the work, and the one who made the most money.
on the website. The clients just pay a standard £50 and then fuck off. It’s money for nothing.”
He slid up to me on the bed, the muscles in my stomach getting tighter.
“Let’s talk about you,”
He logged onto his website and found the girl in
he whispered, his bony hand stroking my thigh.
question, a 23-year-old blonde glamour model
I glanced at the screen, seeing the photo of the sex-
from Lithuania. “Oh, her,” he shrugged, “we get
crazy girl he claimed to be shagging. Her thighs were
a lot of complaints about her.
She’s cold with
perfect, creamy and inviting. I looked down at my
the clients, you know, doesn’t make them feel
own, chunky and milk white, and wondered why he
like what she is doing is anything but a service.”
was bothering. I imagined him seducing me on the cheap, stained sheets, him on top of me as I counted
I wanted to know about the girls, the clients, the
the cracks in the ceiling. I could smell the stale alcohol
industry. These girls cost anything from £200 to
that had been left to ferment in his mouth overnight.
£1000 upwards, and were all housed in expensive apartments around South Kensington and Chelsea.
I ran to the bathroom. I would have thrown up but it was filthy. The murky yellow toilet was covered in stains, the
I asked about the obvious. “Drugs? Sometimes, not
shower mat covered with pubic hair. I swallowed the
really, no,” he replied. “The girls genuinely love sex so
lumpy vomit in my mouth. Did he expect me to sleep
they are just getting paid damn well to do what they love.
with him? Was this part of the job description? Was
It’s just easy. There’s this one girl, really popular with the
opening my legs for the boss just part of the territory?
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The telephone began to ring once again, the now
keeping couples together. The man gets his fun
familiar tune echoing through the flat. The Russian
on the side, the release he needs. It’s only when the
barged into the bathroom and handed me the phone.
wives find out that problems occur.” I wasn’t inclined to agree, and removed his hand from my shoulder.
It was yet another private number, but this time it was a woman’s voice. “Who is this?” she asked. “Why
The phone rang again.
has my husband been calling this number?” I was
to smash it against the piss-stained tiles, but
My instincts told me
lost for words, unsure of what I could possibly say
instead I answered.
to diffuse this situation. “He’s using prostitutes isn’t
number with a country code I didn’t recognise.
This time it was a foreign
he?” she said, already knowing the answer, the tears running down her cheeks evident in her shaky voice.
The caller was German. He wanted a girl for a
I wanted to reach through the phone line and hug her.
weekend away in Amsterdam. I saw pound signs in
I wanted to scream that he was a spineless twat, that
the Russian’s eyes, and realised I was playing for the
I was so sorry, and that I was nothing to do with this
big money. The job was worth a minimum of £3000:
horrible situation. Only I was everything to do with
£150 of that straight in my pocket, and God knows
it. And it was leaving a very bitter taste in my mouth.
how much for the Russian. I rolled my eyes, thinking that perhaps he could employ a cleaner with the profits.
The Russian grabbed the phone from my shaking hand. “Who is this?” he barked into the phone. I could
We shortlisted the girls who fitted the description
hear her sobbing. “Oh fuck off,” he hissed, his voice
the Austrian had given, and I began calling to check
full of contempt, “you’re blocking my phone line.”
their availability. “Hurry up,” the Russian hissed,
“That never happens,” he assured me, “stupid bastard
“you don’t have to be so goddamn nice to them.”
should have deleted his call list”. I thought of the wife, sobbing into a bottle of vodka, calling her lawyer as
Zofia, Alisa, Tatyana, Lana, Tamara... no-one was
she packed the cheating scumbag’s clothes into a case.
answering. I tried Lavina, not expecting a response as she was with Marcus, the client who had wanted
“This is a service to society,” the Russian said, his hand
a blonde for less than £250. To my surprise she
resting on my shoulder. “It’s actually a great way of
answered and confirmed she would be available.
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“Erm, wasn’t Lavina supposed to be with a client?” I
hell, the walk of shame and the guarantee that I’d never
asked the Russian, wondering if I had made a dreadful
be spoken to again.
mistake, sending her to the wrong hotel or the incorrect room. “She is,” he smirked, “our dear Marcus will be so
Maybe if I’d had a loving relationship to go home
coked off his face, he won’t know what’s going on. He’ll
to, where sex was something more than a business
be pumping away whilst she’s chatting to her friends.”
transaction, I’d have been able to detach myself and think of the money I so urgently needed. Maybe if I
Lavina, Benedykta, Anya, Eloise, Marianna: ten
hadn’t felt such hatred towards the men who wanted
minutes later and the shortlist was ready for the client’s
nothing more than a quick release, I’d have been able
perusal. The list read like exotic birds in a zoo, and I
to answer the phone without the taste of vomit flooding
was spitting feathers.
my mouth. Maybe if I hadn’t have been so caught up in my own tangled web of hatred for my body, I’d have
I don’t know who I was most angry with: the clients,
been able to sell the flesh the way I was being paid to.
supposedly decent men who reduced women to nothing more than a bra size; the girls, for lying there
It wasn’t the girls I had a problem with. If the girls could
and taking it, cheapening the meaning of womanhood
sell their bodies and earn a huge amount from doing so,
at a huge cost; or the Russian, for organising the entire
then maybe they were the smart ones. Was it that the
sordid process and making vast amounts of cash out of
men were victims? Were they the victims of women
someone else’s dirty work.
who were selling something that should never have a price?
Actually, I was most angry with myself. I was 22 and I had never made love. My sexual experiences were
I knew the Russian would attribute my disgust to
identical to what the girls did every day, only without
middle-class prejudices. He would blame the well-
the financial reward. Meaningless one night stands and
brought up white girl who had probably agreed to this
fumbles in the dark, all dissolved into a champagne-
after a few too many drinks, and upon sobering up, got
fuelled, red-wine-induced, vodka-hazed-stupor were
too caught up with what Mummy and Daddy would
the blueprints of my sexual DNA. I’d been used and
think and couldn’t bring herself to go through with it.
abused so many times; waking up to the hangover from
He didn’t need to know the truth.
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How was I supposed to explain to this sleazy Russian
But I didn’t care. The phone rang again and I didn’t
that I hated men, and I hated what they could do? I
move. “Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asked.
knew it wasn’t rational, and there are men out there
“No,” I replied, “I am not.”
who don‘t treat women like doormats, but I had yet to find them. If I didn’t quit this job right then and
I picked up my bag and coat and walked towards the
there, I never would. Because my hatred of men would
door. “I’m sorry, I know I have wasted your time. But
become so intense, I doubt I’d ever recover from it.
I can’t do this.”
I’d stop caring about being mended, I’d become even more bitter and outraged, and I’d think of nothing but
The Russian was shaking with anger: “You have no
squeezing every penny from the men as revenge; two
choice, I’ve fucking spent all day and all night training
years of therapy, and two years of progress, wasted.
you. You said you would do it and you will do it.” I was scared, stuck in this hellhole of a flat with this
What I needed was the relationship equivalent of a
hellish man and his hotline to Hell.
bubble bath and a mug of hot chocolate, not even more blurring of the lines between love and sex.
The telephone rang again, and he told me to answer it. “No, I won’t,” I said calmly, “if you make me touch
Every time I ‘sold’ one of the girls, I was re-living what
it again, I will smash it. I don’t want anything to do
had happened. I was being paid to promote the very
with this. I want to go home, and I don’t want to think
thing I hated the most; and five per cent of the cost of it
about this ever again.” I sounded calmer than I felt.
was going straight into my pocket. I didn‘t know whether to laugh or cry.
I was stuck in the midst of East London, at least half an hour from home. It was 5.30am, I was exhausted and
I called the German back, hoping that he wouldn’t
my mouth tasted like sick. I was petrified but I knew
answer. My prayers were answered. The dial tone
I couldn’t bring myself to so much as look at his damn
was one long beep; the phone number wouldn’t work.
phone. Watching his crazed reaction I realised that his
All that effort had been for nothing. The Russian was
need for me to answer that phone was more than my
fuming.
need for his money. He found it difficult to find polite, well-spoken young ladies for his precious phone line,
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and now he’d found one, he wasn’t about to let her go, especially with every last bit of information about his business, and the girls.
I didn’t know if I’d make it down the four flights of dimly-lit concrete stairs and cheap metal railings. I imagined him pushing me all the way down, or bludgeoning my head against the graffiti covered walls, leaving my bleeding body unconscious on the stairs. But I reached the ground floor.
And as I stepped
out into the refreshing morning air, I vomited, and vomited, and vomited some more, expelling every last ounce of the disgust, the shame, the guilt. Wiping the sick from my mouth, I realised, this dirty sexy money, it just wasn’t worth it.
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Image: Xim Izquierdo www.ximizquierdo.com Shot in Barcelona, Spain ‘The End’ Project discusses pain and proposes an open debate without moral claims. Based on the idea that the pain of truth will die away, but it is necessary to live, to evolve, to grow. Special thanks to: Jordi Cussó (www.campopuntocero.com), Fiona and Jan.
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Blow me away Shh, says the Dirty Laundry team. Don’t tell our mums what we’ve been doing…
Craigslist.com Re: You think that you know but do you really? m4wIve Giving a blow job is a skill that any woman thinks that she can do and yet it is one which is surrounded by mystery. The 'porn star experience' that men seem to want does not necessarily maximise their pleasure and men will often tire of a woman who offers the same blow job time and time again. According to research, many men are dissatisfied with the oral sex that their partners give them. A survey of my own male friends has told me time and time again that what men want is variety, sensuality and experience. I am an experienced therapist who has given many lessons in giving the perfect oral experience to a man. If you are interested please contact mantoplaywith@xxx.com
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To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
I'd like more information on your lessons please.... L To: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
From: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
My main lesson 'Oral techniques for women: giving the ultimate blow job' is available in the London area. I operate on a donation principle so that you give as little or as much as you feel that the lesson has been worth. The lesson starts by introducing you to techniques of tongue anatomy using chocolate (who said that this couldn't be fun). Then I demonstrate to you the anatomy of the penis and its various nerve endings and groupings. In the final part of the lesson you have a chance to try out a number of techniques including butterfly, blocking and edging. I always use condoms in these demonstrations. If you would like to arrange a session, or have a specific issue of technique that you want to discuss then please don't hesitate to get in touch. Best wishes, T To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
I'm very interested... But how does it work? Have you given these lessons before? How do we get over any awkwardness? To: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
From: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
I have given three lessons before. It started with a female friend, who was not a girlfriend who wanted to know how to give good oral and I offered to give her an anatomy lesson on which bits are sensitive and what men tend to like. I have given two lessons to women. One of whom was very inexperienced and then three together women who did it for a bit of a laugh but ended up finding out a lot and we all learnt something. OK, the awkwardness thing. Yes, of course giving a blow job is a very intimate thing but there are various levels to the lessons. Firstly, we have a general conversation about what you want to get out of it and what you might want to find out. Then we might have some fun with it - I have a fun exercise with a flake where you try and touch it with your tongue and your lips without getting any chocolate on yourself! This teaches you about ideas of lightness of touch with your mouth and the different shapes and movements that your mouth can make. Next we dim the lights a little and I talk you through the anatomy of the penis and its nerve endings and receptors. Men do like different things but there are a number of generalities. You might then decide that you want to try and find out about different areas and explore with your fingertip and / or tongue / mouth / lips. Note that I always use a condom or you can supply your own. We can then explore different basic techniques and more advanced techniques of 'edging'. We will have fun and laugh about it: it is not a serious matter and taking it too seriously can inhibit what should be great fun for both partners. A glass of wine can help to get over some initial nerves! I hope that this has given you a bit more information. It is natural to find it awkward...in general there is an awkward culture in this country about sex! Tell me more about what you want from this: would you now have the courage to make an appointment for a lesson? T To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
T, many thanks for your very informative reply. I would be grateful if you could let me know how old you are and possibly send a photo, before I make any decisions. L To: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
From: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
Attachment: T.jpeg
L, here is a reasonably recent photograph, but I do change my hairstyle often! I am 35 years old although I do not look it and have lots of experience in this field. I am well educated, articulate and polite but have a good sense of humour - giving the perfect blow job IS about having fun you know! Let me know what you decide, but if you need any more specific information then let me know. T To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
T, thanks for the message. Erm, I’m quite interested but this is a bit weird. L To: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
From: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
I understand. Perhaps the best thing to do is if we meet and you could talk about what you would like to know and we could take it from there. I am available this Monday at 5:30pm and could come to yours if you are centrally located in London. T To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
T, I have been thinking. I have spoken to a few very very good friends of mine who are in the same situation as me. We were wondering whether you would be willing to give us a joint class, like you did for the three ladies. We would all feel much more
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comfortable this way and think what we would learn a lot more. Is this something you would be up for? We are all free next week and would greatly enjoy your lesson. L
To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
L, I have an hour free on Wednesday night from around 8:00 pm if you are fairly central in London. Of course, it would be fine to do this with a number of your friends and I agree that this makes the situation more comfortable and relaxed. Could you let me know where the lesson would be held and I can make preparations. T To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
T, Wednesday at eight would be great. We are all really looking forward to it. I am based in Stratford - is this ok for you to get to? L To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
L, Stratford is good for me. Let me know where. Looking forward to meeting you all! T x To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
Please let me know where you want me to come to at 8pm and I will be there for the lesson. It would be good if you could let me know directions this evening as I am out all day on Wednesday and so won’t pick up my e-mails until later. Will check before I leave in the morning... T x To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
Fom: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
T, My address is 12 xxxxxxx Road, Stratford. It’s very easy to find... come straight out of Stratford station and turn left. It’s the third door on the right. Looking forward to meeting you, L x
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To: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
From: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
L, I really enjoyed the session with you last night. I am available for individual perfect bj sessions that I think you might enjoy. I am planning a variety of lessons on various themes. Would you like to book another session? T x To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
T, so erm thanks for yesterday…all the girls really enjoyed it. I can certainly say it was informative, as well as, should I say, productive. Best wishes, L. To: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
From: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
I was glad that you all enjoyed it. It was nice to work with such a young and friendly group of people who were so enthusiastic about the subject matter. I am working on another two types of lesson: ‘Unleash your inner dominatrix: fun and fantasy’ and ‘Handjobs 101: lubes and edging’. Are you interested? I’d be very keen to work with you girls again…T x To: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
From: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
L? I was thinking how much you and your friends’ feedback helped to provide a good lesson after a poor lesson in the last week. You asked lots of questions, which was great. Since we met I have given three lessons, two interesting and profitable but one (my first hand job lesson) not so good in that the women were not communicative in the same way as you were, made it very technical rather than experiential. So I am looking to improve my teaching technique in terms of a hand job anatomy lesson so if you would like to be a receptive audience then I would like to give a rehearsal of handjob lessson 101... T x To: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
From: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
T, I was sorry to hear your recent lessons haven’t been going well. I’m afraid we’re all very busy at the moment so will be unable to help you further. L To: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
From: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
L, hope that things are well with you and have calmed down. I have been giving a few lessons but have branched out into a few more things. One of which is a nude cleaning service where I clean a flat in the nude and do anything else that she might desire (or not!). Has been good fun and a nice role reversal for some women who quite like the s/m lite kind of thing. Would love you to have a go. T x
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To: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
From: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
L, I am also into spanking if that interests you. I am also into bondage so if you want to tie me up and use me as a footstool then that would also be one of the things that I like (and you might to). I am currently also available for afternoon cleaning services so if this is something that might appeal then we could have some fun. T x To: xxx@dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk Lâ&#x20AC;Ś? You there? x <MAIL THREAD DELETED>
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From: mantoplaywith@xxx.com
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“If you haven’t had an STD, you haven’t lived.”
Overheard at a party in Stoke Newington, April 2009
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Between you, me and the bedpost A Bittersweet Symphony, a Jaguar 1956 XK140 roadster, and a sunglassed Annette Hargrove driving down a highway with a particularly prolific journal on the passenger seat... Remember Cruel Intentions?
We do, and our heart is still bleeding
for serial womaniser Sebastian Valmont.
Louise Hemmings
discovers nOOkist.com, and thinks that if the gorgeous Sebastian had joined, he might still be alive. Forget scribbling in the diary you hide under your bed, this revolutionary new website allows you to upload details of all your sexual conquests online. Particularly useful for those who wince when the nurse asks about the number of sexual partners in the last six months, nOOkist allows users to create profiles of all their conquests, complete with vital fields such as ‘unprotected’, ‘length’ (minutes, not inches), ‘position’ and ‘hotness’ rating. There’s even the option to upload an image, should your memory be that blurred. Designed as a way of keeping track, rather than showing off, nOOkist also allows you to create graphs showing what time of the day your most likely to be sexually active and the positions you enjoy most. Rather usefully, the site also keeps track of any STD tests, and sends reminders when your results are about to expire. So if you’re waking up on a Sunday morning to more than a phone number and a hangover, join nOOkist.com. Just don’t be quite so promiscuous with your password… www.nOOkist.com
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Oh fuck me Waking up to the hangover from hell and absolutely no painkillers in the medicine cabinet, a Facebook message from a one night stand was the last thing Helen Redmore needed; especially when it declared she not only had Chlamydia, but had actually been the one to spread it. And so the search began, as she donned her cape and hat, and became the Sherlock Holmes of the sexual world.
The Candidates 1. The Ex
2. The Dior Model
3. Mile End Cunt
The one that got away. And thankfully far far
Wales was a beautiful place, he was a beautiful
The name says it all; he was a cunt and he lived
far away. Unfortunately he not only suffered
man, and we had lots and lots of beautiful sex.
in Mile End. Pure rebound material.
from OCD but was a vegan too.
I know
Only problem was that he has slept with every
STD rating: Are monobrows infectious??
vegans aren’t exactly immune from STDs but
model that’s ever graced the pages of a fashion
surely you can’t catch much from fucking an
magazine (including Look so standards aren’t
aubergine? He did once cheat with a slag from
exactly high). This apparently includes Kate
Croydon, although he was certain (as he was
Moss, but this could be a lie.
throwing a pint glass at my face) that he did
STD rating: Kate Moss
wear protection. STD rating: Violent but still Vegan
7. The Northerner
8. The Spanish Model
9. The Boy who Sent the Email
Crazy name, crazy guy. A slight oversight on
I’d never seen anyone cry during sex until this.
After speaking to my (liberal) mother about
my part after being loaded with drugs, and
How on earth can you be so stunning, but so
this she told me to write a nice thank you
taken back to his place with another random
terrible in bed? Missionary for two minutes
letter, as he didn’t really have to tell me. She’s
girl… do you see where this is going? The
and he’s done. So gentle, so tender, so insanely
speaking from experience. The guy who she
result? Running from his flat whilst screaming
dull.
lost her virginity to gave it to her. Ouch.
and crying after they asked me to stay for
STD rating: Siesta Fiesta Tapas
STD rating: Honest
more. I didn’t stop running for half an hour… STD rating: ermmm.....
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Image: Pyung-Hwa Oliver Haan www.f0t0.net Shot in London, England
4. The Scottish one
5. Bike boy
6. The French boy
Rule number 10: One should never screw
Current flat mate, who keeps looking over my
Older attractive men are bad news, especially
one’s friends, even if one can’t walk straight.
shoulder as I type.
French ones. Judging by the vast number of
Especially when one’s friend is in a relationship
STD rating: Awkward, very.
photos of him posing with attractive models
and in the room at the time. Not one of my
on his Facebook page, he is definitely getting
finest moments.
some. The words ‘don’t fly your kite too close
STD rating: Breezy kilts
to electricity lines’ have never rung truer than now. STD rating: OUI OUI OUI
10. The Hazy Spaces in my Mind
11. The Randomer
Note to readers: This was written in a GUM
I can't for the life of me remember who they
The only random sexual encounter that
clinic in a particularly unpleasant part of east
are. I may make posters, allowing previous
deserves its own mention, purely because of
London. If you don’t want to find yourself
sexual partners to identify me. You know, a
how horrific it was. I mean what can you say
stuck in a room filled with old whores with
sexual retrospective for us all.
if someone has a tiny manhood and insists on
pubic lice and venereal warts, follow my
STD rating: 10
doing you for hours, even though you threw
advice and Wear A Condom. I have the excuse
up on him and are pretty much catatonic.
of Catholic Convent School, you probably
Stamina is one thing, but cystitis is another.
don’t. Helen Redmore is a pseudonym. The girl
STD rating: John Wayne
behind the name has a career and potential boyfriends to think about.
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â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Human pap smear showing chlamydia in the vacuolesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Image: Dr. Lance Liotta Laboratory with special thanks to National Cancer Institute America
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You’ve been papped!… … only there are no red carpets
So I lay my bum where backsides
or flashing camera bulbs in sight.
belong and rest my spine on
And yes, we know ‘pap’ smear
plastic cushions, crinkling the
is the American term for the
paper as I stretch. I put my feet
whole unpleasant ‘cervical smear’
in the stirrups. She stands in the
business. But what’s in a name?
front row with the speculum. My
Clarissa Dolphin describes the oft
sex tool’s centre stage. I hope she
feared but little discussed business
doesn’t smell cottage cheese or see
of getting checked out ‘down
the timeline of my vagina. Here,
there’.
there, Bob, Christian, backseat, pub bathroom, all wrapped up in
Pants down, pubes out. Beware the tangled muff I weave.
the cervix.
And
the stench (remnants of a yeast
It’s just a pinch, she says. More
infection I had months ago) and
like two forklifts stretching flesh
the discharge. Raunchy womb all
walls in unnatural directions.
curdled.
The device hangs, pulling my insides to the floor. It stings, it
Standing in a sterile white room.
stings, I wish she would hurry
Walls are clean, but corners are
up.
dirty. Cabinets full of inspection
foundation’s falling down!
tools ready to pluck and prod
the floor.
and dissect.
bang on the ground.
Me, wrapping the
Pussy demolition.
My To
Watching my uterus It hurts.
white paper around my hips, tying
What is she doing? All she has
it in the tightest knot so it won’t
to do is stick a cotton bud, swipe
fall and reveal even more of my
some tissue from the side and put
soft goods.
Bottom of me half-
it in a container. I can feel the
naked, soft interior wind from the
air conditioning in my fallopian
air conditioning rubs against my
tube!
thighs.
Crystallizing
Refrigerating my eggs. my
reproductive
system with every second.
Ah,
She tells me to get on the table.
ah, it stings. Swipe! Smear! Do
I don’t want to sit on that thing.
what you have to do just hurry up!
New paper pulled out, but I don’t
Ouch. The pressure disappears.
want to lay my butt cheeks on a
My walls are released. All done.
device that has hosted countless backsides. But I do. It’s for the
I’m moist. Wet with no climax.
best, it’s for my health. Whatever
Feet
that is.
cushioned. I sit up. Dangle my
I don’t feel the cellular
changes in my cervix.
in
stirrups,
What
feet. Stand on the floor. Unwrap
the hell are they? Is my vagina
the paper around my hips. Hide
mutating?
Will I grow a third
the vaginal steam vapours in my
ovary, a second clit? Wouldn’t be
pants. Button my jeans. Look at
that lucky. Probably end up with
the nurse writing my name on a
a mammoth vulva, a reproductive
tube with my womb cells in it.
campsite with lots of tumours in the tent.
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backside
Wait for the results.
Burn baby burn
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The way things are held
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It’s not all hate
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Don’t tell a soul
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Meat & greet
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We love you so
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What’s the magic word?
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The Catherine Donnelly Mystery
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All dressed up and everywhere to go...
...all dressed up and nowhere to go.
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Image: Francesca Tallone www.patternclash.com Shot in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
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Image: Cassia Tabatini www.cassiatabatini.com Photographic Assistant: Nick George Stylist: Gemma Winter Stylistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Assistant: Niki Charlton Model: Shabnam Naomi Spiers Make-up artist: Jay Pinxie Turnbull
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Burn baby burn Fashion doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to be flammable, says John Townshend. You might be on fire but donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get burnt this summer. Wear sunglasses that fit your face, not your ego. Blah blah blah
John Townshend is a musician, artist and poet. He lives in Wales, has four cats, and thinks fashion
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journalists need to get a life.
Surprise surprise Here at Dirty Laundry, we are bored of generic shoots in generic fashion magazines. So we werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exactly going to do our own shoot without a little twist. Our stylist, photographer, make-up artist, model and assistants all thought they were at the studio to put someone else in the spotlight. How wrong they were. They were the actors, and this was their stageâ&#x20AC;Ś.
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Image: Kieran Partise Photographic Assistant: Jo達o Magalh達es
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The way things are held
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A series of photographs in which geometry becomes organic as it is brought to life through subversive and absurd interventions in the cityscape.
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All Images: Cassia Tabatini www.cassiatabatini.com
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It’s not all hate
… because this isn’t a ‘bitter, pre-menstrual rant’. And we do more than drink away our sorrows. And sleep around. And cry ourselves to sleep… Honestly.
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Don’t tell a soul Starbucks, Strada, Sainsbury’s… is it us or is the world losing its soul? SOS says Louise Hemmings as she puts her heart and soul into finding the people and places that don’t prove the corporate rule.
Look who’s talking! We could tell you to join our Facebook group, or have you add us to MySpace, or ask you to follow us on Twitter. But we’re on the verge of Melodies and desires
throwing our computers out of the window, and think it’s about time we ventured out into the
Follow these instructions.
real world and met some of you properly.
Do exactly as I do. Lean your shoulders forward.
We don’t have a chatroom; we chat in a room.
Let your hands slide over to my side.
So come and join us in this oh-so-revolutionary
Move your body closer.
venture on Saturday 20th June for cocktails and
Let your heart meet mine. Love is the harmony. Desire is the key. Love is the melody. Now sing it with me.
chit-chat. Dirty Laundry Saturday 20th June, 2pm Freud, 198 Shaftesbury Avenue, London, WC2 www.freud.eu
Beautiful. Need we say more? www.lykkeli.com
Publish or perish Microcosm Publishing is our saviour. Stocking wonderful zines such as Peops (full of one page autobiographical stories each with an illustrated portrait), Adventure’s in Menstruating (which aims to revolutionise that time of the month) and ‘How I Learned To Love Myself and Occasionally Other Men (Dave’s guide to coming out as a gay man), Microcosm proves that publishing doesn’t always have to involve a member of the Newhouse family. www.microcosmpublishing.com
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Mind in motion Ballet without the traditional pomp and splendour, this is choreography as we have never seen it before. Wayne McGregor’s revolutionary technique involves using computer software to develop complicated formulae which dictate the way his dancers move. Trust us on this one, and you won’t regret it. Random Dance | Entity 4-6th June Sadler’s Wells, Roseberry Avenue, London, EC1 Tickets: £10-24 www.sadlerswells.com
Cheap and cheerful Roll up! Roll up!
Cheap and nasty Avoid like the plague
We’re quite sure Nellie the elephant would never have
Forget the ‘opulent Bohemian’ look they were hoping for,
packed her trunk and said goodbye to the circus if
Little Bay looks like something Linda Barker designed for
she’d known about what’s just hit Stratford. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, Circus Eats is in town!
Changing Rooms in 1998. Red velvet curtains stapled to the wall? Tick. MDF cut outs? Tick. Gold walls? Tick.
Situated in the Stratford Circus Arts Centre, Circus Eats aims
Back in February Little Bay decided to put on a truly credit
to provide good wholesome food at reasonable prices. With
crunching offer: customers were invited to pay what they
starters such as salt cod puree with brown toast, roasted
thought their meal was worth, regardless of whether that
peppers and Avugra caviar (£3.75) and mains such as slow
was a penny or £100. Shame that offer wasn’t valid when
roast pork belly with roasted apples and pears served with
we recently visited. Out of five main courses, four were
sweet potato and smoky leek sauce (£6.95), it certainly doesn’t disappoint.
the plague.
If you’re walking the tightrope in the finance department,
Little Bay Restaurant
try the school dinners menu. Meat and two veg followed
117 Farrington Road, London, EC1
by sponge and custard for £4.50? A truly show-stopping
www.littlebay.co.uk
performance. Circus Eats Stratford Circus, Theatre Square, London, E15 www.stratford-circus.com
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returned. Bland, flavourless and simply revolting; avoid like
Meat & greet Fed up with friends taunting her with
I head to the bar, and contemplate the
The gorgeous Australian rings a bell
gin-drinking cat woman jokes, Louise
menu. What I’m not contemplating
and badge no. 5 approaches my
Hemmings went speed dating.
is which cocktail to order, but
table. Ryan. Hello Ryan. How are
whether ordering a bottle of wine
you Ryan?
Things haven’t got off to a flying start.
instead of a glass will make me look
Ryan?
As if being here isn’t embarrassing
like a raging alcoholic to the other
want to come across as a desperate
enough,
gorgeous
daters. I decide it will, and settle
try-hard who has a pre-prepared list
Australian speed dating host has
on ordering four glasses of wine and
of questions in her handbag. Before
just laughed in my face.
hiding them under the table instead.
he’s even finished explaining (or
the
rather
Will he
be joining in tonight’s proceedings, I wonder.
Is this your first time
It’s all very generic. I don’t
should I say justifying) his reasons
“As if I need to,” he
There’s a ‘score card’ on my table and
for being here, our three minutes are
sniggers, whilst writing my name on
I see that I’m supposed to fill it in after
up. Bye Ryan. I give him a yes on
a badge, and attempting to pin it onto
each ‘date’. The options are stark in
my score card, unsure of how high
my dress.
their simplicity: yes, no or friend.
my standards are supposed to be.
The girl on the table next to me looks ‘I’m not wearing that,’ I think to
as perplexed as I feel. We introduce
Along comes No. 4. Hi Lee.
myself, as I unpin it and discreetly
ourselves and make forced small
notices my lack of name badge.
He
drop the bright orange ‘My name
talk. There’s no female camaraderie
“Oh has it fallen off already?” I ask.
is…’ badge onto the floor. Could it
here. This is a competition, and she’s
He doesn’t seem to care. My name
be any more obvious how desperately
thinner and prettier than me. I see
doesn’t matter anyway. To him, I’m
I need to get laid? Do I really need
her eyeing up the other girls; mostly
nothing more than No. 5. I go with
a confirmatory badge? Should I just
clad in this season’s jewel colours and
a hesitant yes for Lee, and a question
turn off the music, jump onto the bar
high heels, apart from one twenty
mark in the friend column.
and shout it for all to hear?
something who hasn’t quite got over her teenage obsession with all things
Number 2. Sunny. He attempts to
goth. My neighbour looks pleased
regale me with his latest research into
by this particular contestant, and I
astrophysics. I get the next glass of
get the idea she’s just written her off
wine from under the table and regale
as any sort of competition.
myself with drinking it.
This meat isn’t as cheap and nasty as I felt. For meat that tastes as yummy as it looks, log on to www.daylesfordorganic.com P.S. If you’re reading this, feel free to send us some free meat.
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Number 1. Banker. Hot but knows
There are the rib-eyes: popular, juicy
it. Arrogant prick. No. Number
and highly desirable thanks to being
20. Nice shoes. Very shiny. Yes.
especially tender and flavourful.
Number 19. He’s shorter than me,
The fillets: prime cuts, extremely
and I’m short. I decide not to be so
tender and a rare treat. The sirloins:
judgmental, and give him a chance.
a much tougher cut, and probably
It’s still a no. Number 18. Matt.
best served with a sauce. The rumps:
He’s from my hometown. Common
alright fried on a week night after
Ground? Yes. Number 17. Adam.
a long day at work, but nothing
Scottish, gorgeous accent. Oh alright
special.
then.
Number 16.
Jim.
Devon.
Suppose so.
Next it’s David, and Dave, and Sarmad.
Jim, Piers, Tom, Marc, Ben, James…
I’m bored, really bored,
insanely bored.
The next few pass in a blur. I can’t even remember their faces. I’m not
I hate this hideous flesh-fest, where
sure whether that’s more to do with
judgements are made within three
the three minutes I have to meet
minutes, and decisions are filed into
these men, or the rapidly diminishing
one of three boxes. I hate the way
glasses of wine under my table.
I have to judge the men, and they have to judge me, making potentially
We get to number 9. We’re on the
life-changing decisions within three
home straight.
minutes. But most of all I hate being
Amer looks like a
doctor, he sounds like a doctor. Oh
part of this battle.
he is a doctor. He hasn’t even asked
to compete against these women.
I don’t want
my name. “I’m one of the best in
Because in my mind, they will always
the country in my field,” he drawls,
win. I don’t fit into their boxes, and I
and I stop listening. I look around,
don’t want to either.
and think how this is just a meat market. It’s so loud. Everyone is
There’s more to me than ‘meats’ the
selling their wares, doing their best to
eye.
stand out from the competition. ‘Buy
mince meat. And if a fillet steak is on
me,’ is disguised as a plate of polite
offer, who is going to pick a cottage
questions
pie?
and
polite
responses,
But at this market, I’m just
peppered with a hint of flirtation. If you too want to be judged after three minutes, and become nothing more than a tick in a box, why not log onto www.speeddater.co.uk?
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We love you so Miranda July, Sophie Calle and Pipilotti Rist… Louise Hemmings declares her love.
“Assignment 39 - Take a picture of your parents kissing. Kenny Robinson Berkeley, California, USA”
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Miranda July "What a terrible mistake to let go of something wonderful for something real." When Miranda July needs a website building for her latest project, the last thing she does is turn to a designer. Instead, she turns to her fridge. For her latest book ‘No one belongs here more than you’ the Los Angeles based performance artist didn’t take her creative frustration out by raiding the contents, but used both the door, as well as her stove as a canvas for her thoughts. Using only a pen and a wipe, she wrote everything she needed to write on the appliances, photographed it all, and then turned it into a website. Her website isn’t generic, and neither is her writing. ‘No one belongs here more than you’ is a collection of short stories, showcasing seemingly ordinary people living the most extraordinary lives. There’s the girl who moves to Belvedere and teaches a group of OAPs how to swim using nothing but three bowls of warm tap water; there’s the elderly man who works in a factory and is invited to his colleague’s home to meet his attractive younger sister, and only when the two men are sat on the sofa snogging does he realise the sister never existed and was nothing more than a lure to get him there; and there’s the special-needs assistant who inappropriately begins a sexual relationship with her 15 year old special-needs student. Back in 2002 Miranda July and Harrell Fletcher created 60 assignments that could be completed by anybody. Wanting to encourage ordinary people to complete out of the ordinary projects, they created a website where participants could upload their submissions. ‘Climb to the top of a tree and take a photo of the view’, ‘write a press release about an everyday event’ and ‘give advice to yourself in the past’ were some of the assignments. ‘Learning to love you more’ is the book created to showcase the most memorable submissions. The result is surprising, lively and overwhelmingly heartfelt. www.noonebelongsheremorethanyou.com www.learningtoloveyoumore.com www.mirandajuly.com
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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Assignment 39 - Take a picture of your parents kissing. Kenny Robinson Berkeley California, USAâ&#x20AC;?
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Sophie Calle “I saw him for the first time in December 1985, at a lecture he was giving. I found him attractive, but one thing bothered me: he was wearing an ugly tie. The next day I anonymously sent him a thin brown tie. Later, I saw him in a restaurant; he was wearing it. Unfortunately, it clashed with his shirt. I was then that I decided to take on the task of dressing him from head to toe: I would send him one article of clothing every year at Christmas. In 1986, he received a pair of silk grey socks; in 1987, a black alpaca sweater; in 1988, a white shirt; in 1989, a pair of gold-plated cufflinks; in 1990, a pair of boxer shorts with a Christmas-tree pattern; nothing in 1991; and in 1992, a pair of grey trousers. Someday, when he is fully dressed by me, I would like to be introduced to him.” Sophie Calle - Appointment with Sigmund Freud What does Sophie Calle do when her boyfriend breaks up with her via email? Cry? Break into his apartment and rip his clothes to shreds? Sob into a tub of ice cream? No, the celebrated French conceptual artist is more likely to gather together 107 women from across the world, and have them analyse every last word of the email, right down to the very last sentence ‘take care of yourself’ and then write a book about it. We’ve been captivated by Calle since we discovered a retrospective of her best work, ‘M’as tu vue?’ Whether she’s inviting strangers to sleep in her bed, following them to Venice, or employing a detective to follow her without him knowing she has arranged it, Calle’s work is always original and often controversial. Calle’s talent is turning her internal pain into art, and what could have been more painful than finding out her mother had a month to live? ‘Pas pu saisir la mort’ is a film installation documenting the last few moments of her life. Not wanting to miss her last word or breath, Calle painstakingly kept track of the minutes left on each tape, rather than the minutes her mother had left to live. Rumour has it that Calle will be exhibiting at the newly opened Whitechapel Gallery in October. We’ll see you there. www.galerieperrotin.com www.whitechapelgallery.org
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“Das Zimmer (The Room), 1994-2000”
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Pipilotti Rist “I am ready to defend from the bottom of my heart the fact that we shall only be able to work for man and culture’s progress by formulating things in a positive way.” We’d never met anyone named after Pippi Longstocking before, but if we had we’d have expected them to be infectiously energetic yet slightly disturbing. So when we found out about Pipilotti Rist, all our suspicions were confirmed. The Swiss performance artist treats life like a laboratory, turning every day life into a surreal acid trip. In her video ‘I’m not the girl who misses much’ she dances in a black dress with uncovered breasts, singing, or more accurately screeching, the same line over and over again. Her image becoming increasingly blurred as the end approaches, and breaks into the song’s inspiration – John Lennon’s ‘Happiness is a warm gun’. Having recently won the €70000 Joan Miró prize for her outstanding contribution to the current art scene, Pipilotti Rist is heading for the big time. And we’ll be watching her every step of the way. www.pipilottirist.com
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Images: Frederic Patrise
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What’s the magic word?
“I will create a bar and restaurant in a posh part of London. There will be gold thrones for the rich people to sit on and
Themed toilets, a pink-suited multi-millionaire owner and
the floor will be made of mosaic tiles in every colour of the
Russian folk music? Louise Hemmings squeals with delight, as
rainbow. In the middle there will be a big black table which
she visits Abracadabra Restaurant & Bar in Mayfair.
spins around, so the diners get dizzy. Every item on the menu will contain mayonnaise, as this is my favourite. All the toilets
As a Year Seven, embarking upon IT lessons for the first
will have a different theme. One will be Alice in Wonderland
time, I remember being challenged to use my newly-acquired
and the toilet will be shaped like a giant mushroom. There
Microsoft Publisher skills to come up with a business and then
will be witches and cauldrons and scary clowns everywhere,
create all the required promotional material. This was 1996,
and I will call it something magical, because I really liked the
and you couldn’t get full marks if you hadn’t demonstrated
magician at my sister’s sixth birthday party when he pulled a
your ability to use a variety of fonts (Lucinda Handwriting,
white rabbit out of his top hat.”
Impact, Comic Sans), insert Clip Art, and most importantly, apply the gradient tool to the background.
‘Well,’ the IT teacher would have thought, ‘it’s ten out of ten for imagination, if not for taste.’
It’s a shame Abracadabra Restaurant & Bar wasn’t around for my IT lessons back in 1996. If it had, it would have been top
Close your eyes for a moment, and imagine if said Year Seven
of the class.
had gone on to found a seriously successful cut-price booze warehouse in Calais, so successful that the owner made it
Let’s start with its promotional leaflet, a thoughtfully put
onto the Sunday Times Rich List with an estimated fortune of
together splodge of everything Microsoft Publisher ever stood
£100 million. Then consider if said Year Seven turned multi-
for. Think a background of pink, slowly fading into blue via
millionaire had become so exasperated with the standard of
the gradient tool; an impressive use of fonts (all in capitals,
service in London’s nightclubs, he had decided to follow his
naturally); and finally, the jewel in the Publisher crown, a Clip
dream, and set up his own nightlife extravaganza at a cost of
Art cauldron complete with Word Art text resulting in the
a staggering £6m.
company’s logo. Open your eyes. Let me introduce you to Dave West in his Ten out of ten so far, but what about the business idea? In the
infamous pink suit, and his technicolour dream - Abracadabra
words of a Year Seven:
Bar & Restaurant.
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We wanted to laugh. Oh how we wanted to laugh. Even
It came, and the laughter didn’t stop. So a Year Seven had not
before we’d arrived, we were in floods of tears. A pink-suited
only designed the promotional leaflets, but also prepared the
sixty-something from east London who had made his money
desserts. A folded pancake sat beside a dollop of chocolate (not
from booze cruises? A revolving floor? Themed toilets? A
vanilla) ice cream, strawberries littered the harlequin patterned
club beneath the restaurant called HeyJo? We were going to
plate and icing sugar had been dropped everywhere. The end
be in stitches.
result resembled a snow scene. Surprisingly, after I’d employed a plough to shift the snow, the pancake below was delicious.
We began with the cocktail menu.
It hadn’t yet had the
Publisher treatment and was a true vision printed straight from
Next stop was the toilets. It was almost empty, so we decided to
Microsoft Word. The House cocktail ‘Abracadabra’ (£8.50)
explore both the ladies and the gents. They didn’t disappoint.
contained a potent mix of vodka, blue Curacao, lemon juice
Urinals shaped like lips? Fabergé egg shaped toilets that had
and lemonade. We sipped in sync with the Russian folk music
to be peeled open to reveal the toilet seat within? Gold taps
vs Celine Dion soundtrack.
moulded in the shape of the owner’s penis?
Then came the food menu; a heady mix of Russian, Japanese,
This was amazing, the most terrible experience I’d had in quite
European and American dishes, mostly served with a dollop of
some time, and I loved it. Yes, the food was mostly dreadful.
mayonnaise. “Pork Karbonat loin of pork grilled then baked in
Yes, the decoration was unspeakably dire. But it was so so bad,
the oven with onions, mayonnaise and cheese (£13.25),” had
it had entered the realms of pure brilliance.
us smothering fits of giggles around the table. Still, at least it wasn’t Salad Cream.
In Shoreditch, Abracadabra would have been ironic.
But
in Mayfair, surrounded by musty old members’ clubs and I ordered Russian House meat balls, made from minced beef
expensive shirt shops, it was heartfelt and honest.
and spices with a mushroom sauce and served with mashed
West could have used his millions to employ a pricey interior
potatoes and, wait for it, fresh mixed salad (£9.50). It looked
designer to wave his magic wand over his kaleidoscopic vision,
awful, truly truly awful. Yet surprisingly, it actually tasted really
but he didn’t. And the result is even more magical because
quite alright.
of that.
“I dare you,” laughed my lunch companion, pointing at the
Abracadabra Restaurant
dessert menu. “Bliny – tender traditional Russian pancakes
91 Jermyn Street, London, SW1
served with sweetened cottage cheese and raisons, flavoured
www.abracadabra-restaurant.co.uk
with vanilla ice cream.”
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Dave
The Catherine Donnelly Mystery When a mysterious package arrived at
This parcel was different from the cards;
her doorstep Louise Hemmings began
there was actually a postcode written
to investigate. After some good old
as the sender’s address. “Let’s just open
fashioned detective work, the result
it and see and then reseal it and send
was surprising…
it back,” my flatmate proposed. With a knife, we carefully prised apart the
“I dare you,” my flatmate said. “No,
brown paper packaging, not wanting
I dare you,” I replied. We were both
to leave any marks.
staring at the brown parcel we’d found on our doorstep upon returning
A card fell out and Big Ben told us
home. The address matched ours
the time, half past two to be precise.
perfectly, only it was addressed to a
“Our darling Catherine, the location is
Miss Catherine Donnelly. There was
right but the time is wrong. You were
obviously something inside, and the
born seven minutes later. Enclosed is
neat handwriting in black marker pen
a birthday gift. If you don’t like it, we
indicated that it had been packaged
understand. You know it can always be
with care. Should we risk the wrath of
taken back and to do that, you know
the Royal Mail? Or should we do what
what must be done. Have a nice life.
we were inevitably going to do - open
Mum & Dad.”
Image: Nic Shonfeld www.nicshonfeld.com
it and conduct our own investigation? My flatmate and I exchanged glances. This parcel added yet more mystery
The mystery was deepening. We
to an ongoing saga. Every year, on
returned to the package where two
exactly the same date, a card would
jewellery boxes fell out and opened,
turn up addressed to the same girl.
revealing a silver amethyst bracelet
And every year, without fail, we would
and matching necklace, the sort
go through the same dilemma. Some
middle-aged women wear along with
of them were scary in their bluntness:
scarves from Tie Rack. “OK they can
“Our darling Catherine, we hope you
definitely go back,” my flatmate joked.
are having a nice life. Love Grandma and Grandad. P.S. Your dog is dead.”
So what were we to do? We had a
Others were mournful: “Catherine,
name, a postcode and two boxes of
words can not describe how much you
jewellery we definitely didn’t want to
are missed.”
keep. Time for some research. A quick search for a Catherine Donnelly based in London drew a blank. 471000 results in 0.30 seconds. Why couldn’t she have a name a little less generic? How were we supposed to track down a girl with one of the most popular Irish names ever?
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Could she be Catherine Donnelly
Frank owned a garden centre just
By the following day, we had
It turns out that ‘flat seven’ can
- Trinity College Dublin graduate
outside of Bangor and regularly
managed to trace a telephone
look an awful lot like ‘flat one’
and extremely successful French-
played golf at Bangor Golf Club
number for the parents. What
sometimes. It also turns out that
speaking barrister? Or how about
(founded 1903). Mary was a
would we say? “Is your daughter
placing a notice on the building’s
Dr Catherine Donnelly – specialist
teacher
Grammar
dead?” or “did your daughter get
notice board is a lot easier than
in delegation of Governmental
School and had recently raised
pregnant and flee to London?”
over-complicating
power to private parties? This was
£150 for charity at a fundraising
sounded a little blunt.
the internet. But mostly, it turns
going to be difficult.
event. In May 2008, the couple
at
Bangor
I dialled the number and an Irish
Eventually, after a good few hours
golf club in support of a local
lady picked up. “Umm, I think
of solid research on the good old
hospice. And we’d got all of this
you might have sent a parcel to
internet, we had everything about
from an initial and a postcode.
my address,” I offered, “but there’s
not her exactly.
on
out that my imagination has a
attended a charity dinner at the
her background established, if
matters
tendency to run a little too wild…
no one of the name Catherine We began to panic. I imagined
Donnelly here.”
a beautiful Irish girl with long It’s amazing what you can find
flowing locks. Her strict Catholic
The line went silent. “Frank,
out with a few targeted searches.
parents would expect her to stay
someone
Very quickly we had established
at home every night like a good
Catherine,”
that Catherine’s dad was Frank,
little girl but she would be too
voice, who I guessed was Mary
and her mum was Mary. They
highly strung for that. She would
Donnelly. There was yet more
lived in Bangor in County Down
fall in love with an older man, a
silence. ‘Oh god,’ I thought, ‘she
in Ireland. Bangor is the largest
bad influence, and run away with
really is dead.’
town in County Down, with a
him to London. Years later, her
population of 76403 according
parents would still send cards
Ten minutes later and I was trying
to the 2001 Census, making it
and presents to her last known
to hide my red face as I carefully
the third most populated town
address in the hope that one day
placed the jewellery back inside
in
Bangor
she would want to speak to them
the package and wrapped it up
Marina holds prestigious Blue
again. I could be the missing link!
with brown tape, hoping the very
Flag status and the town itself
I would find the illusive Catherine
much alive Catherine Donnelly
was voted the most desirable
and unite her with her family!
wouldn’t notice that it had been
Northern
Ireland.
place to live in Northern Ireland
is
calling said
the
about Irish
opened. Fifteen minutes later
by UTV viewers. The Donnelly
Our thoughts began to take a
and a normal looking girl in a
family lived in a pleasant red
sinister turn. What if Catherine
tracksuit knocked at my door and
brick three bedroomed detached
was missing? Could she have
claimed her birthday present.
house with a well kept garden and
moved to London as a student
had recently applied for planning
and never been seen again? What
permission for an extension.
if she was dead? What if she
Their house was estimated at a
had died in our flat? Would her
value of £345000.
ghost come back to haunt us for opening her birthday present? Had her mother not accepted her death and still continued to send gifts, addressed to her dead
*Hopefully Catherine Donnelly
daughter? We didn’t sleep well
will never read this but if you are
that night.
her, or know of her, please send our apologies. We hope she is enjoying the jewellery.
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Ah, the futility of it!
Spending so long in front of mirrors when the soul itself is threadbare. Brian Patten
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Until next time...
www.dirtydirtylaundry.co.uk
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June 2009
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