He doesn’t, by the way.
Me: I’m thinking of writing a blog post called ‘My Boyfriend Has A Tiny Penis’. Is that OK?
Boyfriend: Erm, no.
Me: OK great, thanks, I’ll start writing it straight away!
Boyfriend: Did you not hear me? I said no!
Me: Yes OF COURSE I heard you, thanks for being so understanding and generous. I love how you agree with me about EVERYTHING.
Boyfriend: Are you DELUDED? I SAID NO!
Me: [gallops off on my unicorn]
That *points upwards* my friends, is a GOOD EXAMPLE of comedic writing. Notice also how the title of the post is funny, and not just cos I mention the word ‘penis’ which is, in itself, a hilarious word. PENIS, y’all. Ha. It’s funny cos it seems like I’m revealing a devastatingly intimate detail about my boyfriend’s anatomy to the entire world, yeah? It could be totally awkward for anyone who reads this blog and knows who my boyfriend is in actual real life. They’d meet him and instantly think, ‘All right mate. You have a tiny penis’, and then wouldn’t be able to banish that notion from their brains EVER AGAIN. Let’s face it, y’all are thinking hard about my boyfriend’s penis now, yeah? You deviants.
That’s funny. I’m smiling.
He doesn’t, by the way.
People laugh at inappropriate things. I’ve often been told I’m funny (luckily for me, my boyfriend also thinks so, ohmigod phew) and I have no doubt it’s partly because I blog/tweet about slightly shmutty* subjects like periods and sex and shit which are really not ideal topics of conversation in polite society. But I find it all funny. Maybe I’m not that sophisticated. Ah well. I write about that stuff in my own particular style cos I like making people laugh and maybe gasp a bit. The whole blogging shebang clicked for me when I realised that I could be funny with my writing. Sure, sometimes I vent the doom, but generally speaking, I think I’m known for the funny. Right? Yeah? Goodo.
So for me, writing the funny stuff is about the shmut and the audible gasp and the fucking bloody bastard swearing and the SHOUTY CAPS LOCK. This is my niche, this is what I can do. When I read other blog posts which contain any of those elements I laugh my tits off. I wrote a TV script like that just so’s it might get made into an actual programme and then I get to watch it on TV and laugh my tits off again. Yes, I laugh at my own stuff. If you want to write funny, you need to be able to laugh at yourself. Otherwise, what the fuck?
What actually happened was:
Me: I’m thinking of writing a blog post called ‘My Boyfriend Has A Tiny Penis’. Is that OK?
Boyfriend: Yeah, sure.
But that’s not funny. It is WAY funnier to make it seem like my boyfriend hated the idea, and then I just blithely ignored him, whilst passive-aggressively suggesting that he’s pussy-whipped and then ending with a triumphant exit on the back of my faithful blogging emblem, the unicorn. Exaggeration, untruths, mystical creatures. All funny stuff.
He doesn’t, by the way. Although it’s starting to sound like I’m protesting too much. LOVEYOUBOYFRIENDPLEASEDON’TLEAVEME.
If I was to ever run a seminar on ‘How to Write Funny Things and Make People Laugh and Maybe Gasp A Bit, Innit’ then I’d wrap it all up with these pieces of advice:
- what makes you laugh? Just do that
The session would only be 30 seconds long. I’d include a tap dance. Then we’d go to the pub for some gin.
What makes you laugh? And does your boyfriend have a tiny penis?
*new word: amalgamation of smutty and shitty. You’re welcome. Add it to the dictionary, yo
Marketing! Here’s a tip: it does NOT mean hanging around markets. No siree. DON’T make the same mistake I did. Markets are harsh, inhospitable places, where desperate marketeers lurk, and try to sell you knickers for a pound. It’s TRUE. Or am I thinking of gulags? ANYWAY. Marketing: NOT ABOUT GOING TO A MARKET. You’re WELCOME.
The marketing of which I speak is to do with making something/someone attractive to potential customers, and that’s a really very over-simplified way of putting it, but, you see, I’m not an expert, and I should think that was obvious just from my opening paragraph. The reason marketing is on my mind at the moment is that as a writer, and a self-published one at that, I SHOULD be able to market myself more effectively. I should be fucking AWESOME at it. I’d be selling MILLIONS AND MILLIONS of books by now if I was. I’d be flicking Vs at J K Rowling and shitting all over her profit margins if I could switch on the part of my brain that governed the marketing skillz gland, or whatever it is you need to be good at marketing. It is genetic, right? It’s much more convenient for me if it’s a genetic default that means I’m shit at marketing and not just my sheer ineptitude.
I am shit at marketing. The product is me and my writing. I am shit at promoting me and my writing. I am AMAZED when I get anything done, cos, quite frankly, I am sitting here waiting for it to all fall into my lap. I should be OUT THERE*, pimping myself to bookish people who might just give me the break I need which means I can make a living from this stuff.
Here is an example of how shit at marketing I am: I recently submitted a script to the BBC Writer’s Room. I had to fill in a form. There was a section on the form urging me to share any interesting and relevant information about myself. I left it blank. I’M AN IDIOT. I left it BLANK. My exact thought process was, ‘I have nothing interesting or relevant about myself to add here’. I AM A TOTAL WASTE OF BRAIN. Only now, DAYS later, do I know I could’ve mentioned my books, my MA in Creative Writing, my blog, my Twitter profile, ANYTHING in fact, that would give the BBC Writer’s Room readers an insight into me as a person, and as a marketable resource. Leaving it blank says fuck all. Or, indeed, it says I’M A TWAT.
Is it actually a part of my brain that instantly discredits my own capabilities and therefore sabotages any notion of myself as a worthwhile commodity that makes me do such stupid twatty stuff? I dunno. I can’t get over the fact that, at some level, I NEED to promote myself in some way – other than larking about on social media sites, which, to be fair, is somewhat successful, and better than doing nowt – and I can feel that familiar creeping worm of self-doubt burrowing into my ear and hissing, ‘Yeah but you don’t have a clue, mate. You can’t market yourself cos a) you’re crap and b) you haven’t got the marketing skillz gland and c) you’re crap. Go hide under a rock’. Bastard self-doubt. I’m sure I can’t be the only one who sees writers/bloggers on Twitter or wherever with their shiny self-promotional tweets and wonder how just HOW do they do it? How do they KNOW this stuff? And if they know THAT, what ELSE do they know? I don’t know where to start. I don’t have a clue. I write, I publish, I write a bit more, I publish again, I wait for it to all fall into my lap. Like a twat.
So. Marketing. It takes time, and effort, and patience, and surely, skillz. It means making myself just a bit more visible to the right people. It also means not assuming everything I’ve ever done is shit and pointless and vacuous and arse. Right?
How do you market yourself as a writer/blogger? Is it something you spend a lot of time on?
*if anyone can tell me where ‘out there’ is located, I’d be eternally grateful
*sings* Shiny, shiny new book for you! Who wants a new book? Is it you? Oh please do! *stops singing*
OK so I’m no Gary farking Barlow, it took me TEN MINUTES to compose that jolly ditty and I’m farking PROUD, yeah? Joy does strange things to your mind and, absolutely totally for a moment there I thought I was capable of producing song. Well, turns out I am shit at that, but what I am good at it is blogging and stuff, and to prove it, I’ve published a little ebook which you might purchase for your good selves, called…
That’s it, that’s my blog post book, all the good stuff from motherventing compiled and compacted into uber-shminky digital form, without any guff or nonsense to distract you from the quality spaff.
And all for the princely sum of £1.02!
That is LITERALLY the best £1.02 you will EVER spend. I guarantee you. And if it’s not, just let me know, and I’ll refund* you. (*I won’t. I’ll hex you instead)
S’all I have to say for now. If you have ever read any of my blog posts and thought they were all right/awesome/like the bible only better, then please do reach into your capacious bank accounts and download my book to carry with you forever. It might give me the impetus to write mooooooore.
If you don’t have an Kindle or other electronic reading device, you can download a reading app for your computer or whatever, and that is free. And THEN you can buy my book. Aha.
Instructions, for the bewildered and overwhelmed:
- buy book
- read book
- laugh, cry, vomit, whatevs
- leave a five star review
- read book again
- send me biscuits
That’s pretty much it. Easy, mais non?
£1.02. You know it makes sense.
I loves y’all. Thank you.
*exits, mounted on a unicorn*
Oh hello! Hi. HELLO YOU LOVELY LOT. Hey, how are you doin’?
Me, yeah I’m OK. Bit weird this, isn’t it? I mean, I stopped blogging, and I haven’t really missed it, and I did a few guest posts for people, and I promised myself to even more people and I haven’t delivered yet oops sorry about that, and now, here I am, surreptitiously raising my head over the parapet to blog something here and now AND, actually, to wish y’all a Happy New Year and felicitations for 2013.
So. Happy New Year. And felicitations. For, well, 2013. Innit.
Hmm? Oh, no, no, I’m not going to do a review of the year or any of that bollocks. Mostly cos some parts would be me just going ‘AAAAAARRRRGGNNNGHHHHHH’ and crying into a tea towel, other bits would be too saucy for your discerning eyes, and everything else was just farking mundane. Let’s just say, 2012 could have been better, BUT, technically, it could have been A LOT worse, and I am thankful, as ever, that it wasn’t.
Then what’s this all about? Why this sudden break in hiatus? Why the early retirement from the, erm, early retirement?
Well, my little Movotians, I have two tiny pieces of news for you. Teeny tiny. Minuscule. Barely relevant. You might even want to look away now, and go do something else. What? Oh, I’m being a tease? Yeah but you love it. You so do. Stop dribbling on me.
Seriously. I am trying to be serious. Here’s some news. Firstly, very soon, you will be able to download me. YEAH THAT’S RIGHT. There’s a book being made out of motherventing as we speak. All the best bits, with none of that meme crap or acres of Silent Sunday photos of Moo. But with most of the swearing, all of the naked photos and lots of the muff. Y’know, the bits you really like.
Hoorah! That’s good, mais non? Excited? Excellent. Please make sure you buy it when it’s available, and then maybe I can afford some food. KIDDING. We don’t need food. Moo and I, however, would like to build a helter-skelter in our backyard. All funds from The Little Book of MoVo will go towards that. IT’S A WORTHY CAUSE, PEOPLE. You know it makes sense.
Helter-skelters aside, what’s the other news, you may be asking yourself. Well… turns out I may have told a little white lie at the beginning of this post. Y’see, I stopped blogging as motherventing. But I didn’t stop blogging. Nope. I’ve been blogging since October. As someone else.
And that’s where I’ll leave that, I think.
Ooohhhhh I’m such a TEASE.
Unless it’s really obvious anyway and now I just seem like a complete tit.
Ack, who cares. It’s New Year’s Day, the start of a brand new year. Obvs. Time for, um, stuff to happen. Kind of. Maybe.
I’m rambling. I’ll stop. Oh it’s been WONDERFUL seeing y’all again, do drop by soon! Watch this space.
*disappears in a puff of smoke* *cough cough*
Hello! And, erm, goodbye.
This is going to be my last post, on this blog, for a long while, maybe forever. I’ve been agonising a while about blogging and asking myself why I’m doing it, and I can’t answer that any more without feeling like I’m forcing something that isn’t there, or isn’t happening easily any more, and is becoming a chore, and is kind of leaving me empty rather than full of yay-woop-woop-wahoooooo-a-go-go like it used to. Does that make sense? No? Shit.
Look, I love blogging. I love motherventing. It’s been a total blast. I’ve met some great people. Had some good times. Posted some awesome stuff, even if I do say so myself, and I want to clarify now that I am NOT deleting the blog, it will remain passive but online till I can work out how to utilise my blogging skillz and take over the world. So if you’re lonely one night and really, really want to read about my periods, or my dubious solo dildo-based personal lovemaking, or gaze rapturously at my naked photos, or make yourself feel better by recalling how shit my life got at some points, then by all means, do. I ain’t gonna stop you. Be my guest!
Readers, I love y’all. I am so insanely pleased that I managed to acquire and maintain an actual readership, and if it wasn’t for you lot, I’d have farked off ages ago. I hope no one thinks I’m a noob for bowing out so gracelessly but I feel motherventing has reached an end and it really absolutely totally is time to go. Once I’d made the decision all I felt was relief and I think that’s a pretty good indication that I’ve made the correct choice.
It will be uber-hard to let go, I have no illusions about that. Consequently, I am offering myself as a guest blogger, should anyone wish to have me thrust myself upon their blog every now and again. I am a writer, and a blogger, at heart, and I NEED to keep my creative juices spaffing, without the enormous task of keeping my own blog running. And it IS an enormous task – at my peak, I was blogging at least once a day, as well as replying to comments, reading and commenting on other people’s blogs, and promoting myself on Twitter – and yes, talking crap on Twitter is promoting oneself, innit – and it all got a bit otherworldly. It’s not my living, it’s a hobby. Hobbies should be fun. Sadly, motherventing stopped being fun. This way, I can free myself up to work on other projects which might end up being more fruitful.
One thing I will say – it could be advice, but never let it be said that I know anything about something – is that in retrospect, I made this blog too personal. I wrote about people and relationships that should have been kept private. At the time I believed I had a right to record situations and their effect on me with impunity. I kinda wish I hadn’t now. It’s not fair. The fallout has been deeper and more lasting than I could’ve thought. Conversely, and rather meanly, I don’t think I can be true to myself if I DON’T write about such things. It’s a vicious circle, and one I’ve been caught in for a long while. It’s time for me to look after myself emotionally for a change. Gawd knows I need to.
Ack, here I am rambling on, you’re probably waiting for me to shut the fark up. OK. Look. I’m still on Twitter, I’ll still read and comment on my favourite blogs, I’ll still write things for other bloggy folk, and who knows, one day, I might come back in a new, improved guise, and blow y’all away with my shmexy rhetoric and insightful witticisms. Ahem. Maybe.
Readers. From the bottom of my bottom, thank you. For everything.
My beautiful daughter, the incomparable Moo, is awake, and demands my attention. And as you know, she is VERY demanding. So I’ll say goodbye.
I will miss you loads.
*retreats into castle*
I’ve not been around much lately. This is not because – as some of you may suspect – I have been holed up in my lair with only a dildo for company. It’s good, but it’s not THAT good. Nope.
Not been around cos of Moo, innit. The little minx has dropped her afternoon nap, and decided that bedtime is for losers. I’ve been battling on an epic scale to get her into her cot each evening, and despite me throwing everything in my arsenal at her, it has been a proper clash of wills and a few times, it felt like she was winning. Moo – WINNING. And I hate losing. Hate it. I don’t lose, if I can help it. But to be bested by my 22 month old daughter feels particularly galling. I think, sometimes, just the fact that she was utterly exhausted meant that I triumphed. It is a bittersweet victory though, cos I’m farking knackered too, all the bloody time, innit.
So it’s all change here, I’m afraid. My current strategy of Do A Lot Of Physical Activity During The Day So That The Rambunctious Toddler Is Farking Shattered By Dinnertime seems to be working so far. Sadly it leaves me very little room for blogging and other online shenanigans, especially as my evenings will be taken up with play rehearsals as well, the further into September/October we go. Previous to this evening, I had not checked my emails since Saturday. SATURDAY! FFS. This is alien to me. And I’d barely surfaced on Twitter. My stats for motherventing are abysmal. Which irks me. A bit. Sigh.
But, y’know. Life is life, as someone wise once said. Maybe this is a wake up call and I need to accept that I can’t commit to an online existence of such scale (and really, if I’m honest, compared to some bloggers, I hardly scratch the surface) while my daughter is this young and needs my attention. Maybe I’ve immersed myself within this medium to such an extent that I’m losing sight of what matters. What is this blog, anyway? It’s not a job, it’s not furthering a career – it’s a hobby, an online diary, that I use for myself, and yeah, I get great page views if I blog on a daily basis, but now I no longer have the opportunity to do that, is it worth it me castigating myself about this? Nah. Not so much.
I love blogging. I do. It’s a form of expression which suits me greatly. I may not be everyone’s cup of hot chocolate and to be honest, I don’t really care what the haters think of me, they can suck on it and fark off while they’re there. And then fark off a little bit further. Yet as much as I love blogging, I’m backing off a bit. Just a smidge. I have a toddler to tame and she’s feisty. Once I’ve worked out what makes her tick, and I can deal with her, I’ll be back on it like a car bonnet. You wait and see.
All change, then. Change is good. Change is healthy. *sweats a bit* So I don’t blog every day, yeah? *twitches*
How often is enough for you? Can blogging get stale if done every day?
I think I’m going slightly mentalissimo.
See this post I wrote t’other day? Wishlist? You read it? You had better farking read it. Ten push-ups if you haven’t. Anyway. Seems I’ve repeated myself a bit. Cos I wrote this post – Want – back in January. And they’re too farking similar.
Not the content. Obvs that’s different. I was not the same person back in January. My list of wishes was a rather more wistful affair. And it did not contain cheese, which is outrageous. But the idea is the same: all I did, in both posts, is write a list of wants. Something initially so simple, yet to my fuddled brain I can’t help but berate myself for repeating the posts, and NOT BEING ORIGINAL.
I mean, fucksake. Who wants to read the same old crap again and again? Next thing you know, I’ll post MORE naked photos of myself. I’ll write about how disgusting periods are AGAIN. I’ll recount something funny that Moo did, or recall an overheard conversation, or just post photos of bizarro pictures from colouring books. And y’all indulge me, and I’ll think I’m great, until it all happens again and AGAIN and before you realise, I’m just writing the same old shit EVERY SINGLE FARKING DAY.
I started out writing this blog under the auspicious heading of ‘parent blogger’, though I didn’t claim to offer tips and handy hints on parenting. I haven’t got a farking clue what I’m doing to Moo, so I’d never presume to impose my haphazard ideas of motherhood on anyone else. I kinda just tell you what happens and hope y’all go along with it. Writing about parenting seems, dunno, a bit false of me. So I don’t.
The funny stuff gets recorded cos it’s funny, and makes me LOLZ, and I want to share it. That sort of thing happens often-ish. But sometimes, forcing the funny just doesn’t work either. I’m not in a humorous mood right now. It’ll come back, I’m sure, while in the meantime? What, more lists? Jeezus.
Blog posts that are lists – for me – are lazy. Brilliant, but lazy. I do a list post when I haven’t got a farking clue what else to write about. Just so happens that Bastards is my most viewed and commented on post to date, and THAT’S an epic list. But man alive, I wrote that in, like, two minutes. Lazy. And since then I’ve been tempted to write similar. Only called Cunts. Or Fuck-Donkeys. Or Total Arseholes. Maybe one day.
I don’t know what to write. If I’m running out of ideas, I don’t know how to generate more. Seems I’m damned if I write about the personal stuff, but that’s all I’ve got going on right now. I have the impetus and the urge to vent and to write, but not the platform nor the audience for the finished product.
Fark me this is getting technical.
Look, I’m struggling. I don’t want my blog to die. I love it too much. What can I write about?
I’m a sociable kinda gal. Most people may be utter cunts but I like to surround myself with the good’uns. Nowt like a lovely chat to perk up yer day. And d’y'know where it’s good to have a chat? That Twitter. Huzzah for Twitter! You can rely on Twitter 24/7 for inane banter, scintillating mass debate, and cutting edge topical jibber-jabber. I currently have over 2500 followers, which, to the uninitiated, means I’m more popular than Geoff, but a lot less popular than Justin Bieber, or someone with their tits out. That’s OK. I can handle that. I like having followers. Makes me feel like I’m a cult leader. And that’s CULT.
But yesterday and today I’ve been doing something I’ve not really done before. I’ve been unfollowing people. I know. It’s not even a real word. Yet I’ve been doing it.
See, at the moment I’m following 1757 people. That’s a lot of people. Some of them are famous people. Most of them are not. And I figure I only ever interact, on a regular basis, with about, say, hmmm, 5% of them? That’s more or less 88 people.* Out of 1757. WHY DO I FOLLOW SO MANY PEOPLE? My timeline gets all cluttered with their farking milm and crappy wiff-waff. Most alarming. I really don’t know.
Consequently, I began unfollowing. And how liberating is that? Like ‘squashing bluebottle flies’, as @agingmatron so charmingly put it. Yeah, well, it is. It is like cutting loose the useless and the non-fun. I could not have found it more brutally satisfying unless I had been casually picking off scabs from my knees, or peeling dried glue from my hands, or pulling apart split ends in my hair, as I did it. It was like I had fired up my giant laser and began zapping the driftwood from my Twitter timeline with an unenforced glee. Really. It was that good.
I’m still doing it. I’ll see a tweet, think, ‘Fark me, that person sounds like a proper bozo. UNFOLLOW IMMEDIATELY!’ Or, I’ll see a tweet, think, ‘Hmm, I’ve not heard from such-n-such in a while, are they following me? No? SACRILEGE! UNFOLLOW!’ It surprises me how many people I thought were following me, actually aren’t! Bastards. Their loss. I know Twitter does this unfollowing glitch every so often so there may be some genuine technical error in there, but more often than not, I guess people get fed up with me and sidle off, with nairy a farewell. Pfft. Two can play at that game.
The plan is to keep unfollowing and see what I can narrow it down to. I continue to follow new people so my totals will dip and rise a bit. Yes, I know I’m thinking about this a bit too much, and no, I really have nothing better to do. I am cultivating a nice carapace of bitterness, y’see. When I’m a big as Bieber EVERYONE will want to be my friend.
Man alive, it’s like a farking school playground.
How do you play the Twitter game? Are you a serial follower, or do you wait for folk to come to you?
And if I’ve unfollowed you and you think this is a travesty and a farce, do let me know.
*thanks to Twitter people who helped with the maths. I can’t do maths. Maths bites me on the extraordinary arse
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?
So, in a little over 24 hours time, I’ll be in London for that blog-tastic gin-soaked hoopla-a-go-go funfest that is BritMums Live. I’ve not packed yet, which is increasingly worrying me, but I know my style: frenzied, last-minute and slapdash, baby. Just like all things in life. My beauty regime, housework, cooking. Oh yeah. Even the shmexy time.
Anyway, BritMums! WAHOO! LONDON BABY! etc etc. Erm, there’s just one snag. I’m not, um, taking you with me. Nope.
Now don’t cry. It’s undignified. You’ve got some snot dribbling down your lip. Jeezus. Rein it in. Calm. Lemme explain. I’ve decided to not take my laptop cos a) I’ll lose it, or b) I’ll break it, or c) I’ll sell it for cash so I can actually eat while I’m in London. And ALL of those things would be bad. Y’see?
I want to be able to come back and blog afterwards. And, to be honest, I think some offline time would be good for me. Checking emails and blazing a trail on Twitter and blogging ferociously and messaging and Skyping and Facebooking and
searching for some decent porn all the time can make one feel slightly otherworldly. Spending a good deal of your existence plugged online messes with your brains. Fact. Scientific doctors have PROVED that, in labs. And by labs, I mean laboratories, not Labradors. That’s a whole other scientific experiment. Innit.
It’s only for a few days. I’ll be back after the weekend. Heck, I may even blog tonight. And I’ll have my phone, so if you REALLY miss me, I can send the odd comforting Tweet out into the ether for y’all to slaver over.
So if you wonder why I haven’t pinged into your inbox (ooer) for a few days, that’s why. I am offline. And knocking back gin chasers with some of the best in the blogging world. WAHOOOOOOOO
*disappears in a puff of smoke*