I don’t gush. I’m not a gushing type of gal. There’ll be no frivolous gush from this lady, d’y'hear? I’m much better at, erm, squirting a bit. Or vaguely leaking. Heck, now it sounds like this will be a post about incontinence. Or female ejaculation.
Well, it’s NOT. Back off, you pervo. This is my post about BritMums Live, the blogging conference I went to at the weekend.
There was a moment before the conference started, before we’d even got there, in fact, when a friend imparted a certain veritable and unassailable fact about the actress Jamie Lee Curtis. Something I had never heard before. It floored me. I was overcome with this new knowledge. ‘This,’ I thought to myself, ‘this will be the BEST THING I learn all weekend. NOTHING ELSE will touch this fact. I may as well not bother turning up to the conference! EVERYTHING NOW PALES INTO INSIGNIFICANCE!!’.
Dramatic, yeah? Well, I had already had some Prosecco by that point. But sadly, it was also true.
OK, before I start being an enormous negative noob, lemme gush a little bit first. Better put some towels down.
I can say, without a sliver of a doubt, that the people I met at the conference – the ones who were on my list – not the Bastard List, but my OTHER list, the good’un list – were uber-awesome and just farking lush. The group of gorgeous friends I was with, the shminky Twitter friends I was desperate to meet, the super talented bloggers I have idolised for an age, the lovely people who came up to me and introduced themselves: y’all helped make this weekend totally rock. Thanks be to thee from the bottom of my knickers.
Gush: done. Phew. Let’s continue with the analogy of underwear. BritMums Live was like a pair of knickers I haven’t worn in a while. They look like they should be comfortable. They’re clean, at least. I put them on. It’s OK – they’re a bit small, maybe. My muffin-top is bulging but I can handle that jelly. I decide to wear them. Walk around for most of the day. By nightfall, they are the most ridiculous pants I have ever worn in my life. Chafing, sweaty and clinging to my crack. I remember why I don’t wear them. They don’t fit me.
The conference finished on Saturday evening. We’d heard some marvellous posts read by the bloggers themselves. The wine was free-flowing. Everyone was buzzing. I shoulda been on a high. I wasn’t. I felt hugely pissed off. Maybe something to do with having been awake for almost 36 hours, but that’s another blog post. I couldn’t shake this feeling of spiky moodiness. What was up with me? Dunno. Still not sure, really. I guess, in some ways, I knew before I went to the conference that I was never going to be a BritMums kind of lady. In the BritMums meme that did the rounds a few months back, I totally spaffed out my usual brand of snarky answers, but still thought, ‘Hey, it’ll be OK, I’ll have fun, I’ll learn loads of shit about blogging’ and arrived with that mentality.
But the agenda disappointed me. I don’t do craft, cooking or photography. I don’t use Pinterest or Google+. I don’t blog for the greater good, or use my blog to support charitable causes. I’ve already published an ebook. The Discussion Dens looked interesting but I didn’t feel I’d have much to contribute. I looked at the one called ‘Blogging for Happiness: Sod the Stats’ and thought, actually, I DO give a damn about my stats. Where’s the workshop called ‘Huzzah for Stats! I Check Mine All the Time, Innit!’ or something similar?
Anyway. You may consider me a noob but I only went to one seminar – the Dad Bloggers one – as I had a vested interest in that. Even so, it was a bit dry. Can we please all shut the fark up about the whole mummy/daddy blogger debate now? Guys blog, girls blog, we should all just get along. Gender divides fark me off when they’re perpetuated by pointless discussion. In my humble opinion, there should have been MORE men there. Rooms full of women make me antsy. Too much farking oestrogen. I was worried we’d all suddenly menstruate and totally destroy Hoxton with a tsunami of blood.
Diplomatic mask on for a moment: the event was extremely well-organised and more than capably handled by the BritMums team. Yet why have men in pants serve us wine, like we’re all at a tacky hen’s night? Why have nowhere to sit and relax without being jumped on by over-eager PR teams? Why saddle us with so much free crap that even my secret consumerist soul baulks at the waste of it all? Why pack so many farking workshops into the day that there is not enough time to actually meet and talk to people you want to meet and talk to? Hmm? HMMM?
Ah well. I’ve gone on enough. Suffice to say, my best moments from the weekend had nothing to do with the conference itself. Oh, apart from hijacking someone’s laptop during the final evening do and inadvertently making almost 500 people snort discreetly into their wineglasses. Soz about that. Couldn’t resist.
Next year? Maybe. Never say never. Still don’t think they fit me, though. And vice versa.
What did you think? Has my, erm, ‘review’ been helpful?