Love is the opposite of death. It is our very reason for living, the mysterious dragon we all chase our whole lives- some to capture; some to slay. But ironically, love becomes embroiled with death. In the minds of the idiotic and narcissistic it is confused with lust and in the minds of the insane it becomes known as obsession. But one thing is for sure it is my only reason for getting up in the morning.

When you find true love, you’ll do anything to keep it. The twin flame all the other fools desperately seek has found their way into your life and you’re shocked and amazed such good fortune has come your way. Finally your life finds all meaning. True love, comes only once in a life time. There is only one of this magical twin flame for everyone. Although sadly many of us, myself included will fall in love many times over and only end up opening ourselves up to be used and have our hearts broken. I am guilty of the aforementioned. I have accepted all kinds of intolerable abuse in the name of ‘love’ and I would not wish that upon anyone. Well….. Perhaps some people…..

Albert Camus once said that there were 3 certainties in life- love, sufferance and exile. And they almost certainly follow each other in a pattern that has been practised since man discovered he didn’t have to beat his chest to prove his worthiness.

Love is not meant to be easy, it is a sprint at first to catch that ‘one’ person and then an arduous marathon to keep them. Pathetic, emotional weaklings who assume a relationship is a bed of roses and that every new person is a soul mate are wrong and deserve the loneliness and hassle they get. The first 6 months are an energy busting sprint of lust and excitement. However those who believe that is love; are completely wrong. It is merely infatuation. It’s the easiest trap to fall in human nature to fall into, the naive belief that the excitement and butterflies is love. It is the next 6 months that will define a relationship, the marathon; the arduous task of managing your feelings and settling into a level of comfort together. Few people however have the maturity to manage this and instead resort to that one pathetic cop out line that everyone fears- “I’m only doing this for your own good. It’s been fun BUT……”

In my opinion, people who do not work at making a relationship work and huff and sulk and do not talk and tear households apart deserve every bit of misery, pain and heartbreak they get. Or the people who do things in the wrong order by having a baby or moving in together and then expecting a relationship to magic itself up out of nowhere JUST because of these circumstances it finds itself in. It only ends in tears. I’ve nearly been there and I have to say my stupidity was entirely deserving of my life crashing down around me. People who base relationships on pure aesthetics should just be burned full stop but I have never and will not ever be able to understand how you can try to have a relationship, or even a conversation with someone as shallow as that. Never.

Real life is not like Twilight. There is not a handsome, troubled stranger on every corner waiting for you to fall into his arms and sweep you off your feet. Jumpin Jacks is not full of dangerous and exciting Jack Bauers to turn your world upside down or a Dante Gabriel Rossetti to be a muse for. This belief is stupid and naive. There is someone for everyone. And yes this world is a hideously monstrous and screwed up place full of freaks and scumbags and it is coded within humans to fish through this sea of horror, sadly catching a few but throwing them back in as and when we find a better one. Yes it’s slow and painful and soul destroying. But worth it.

My boyfriend is not a millionaire. He is not a paedophile Cullen Vampire or a crazed drugged up journalist, or a rock star or a footballer. But he is perfect for me. He is literally the male reflection of me; it actually freaks us both out sometimes- his tastes, his style and his general hatred of humanity. He’s not perfect as a human though, such a thing is a paradox. He hates tattoos and is not as fond of the Clash as I’d like. He eats enough food to fill 3 double Decker buses every day and asks me a lot of questions when he’s drunk. He huffs and moans e’er day, usually about my tattoos, or the state of the economy or the retard nature of most of the national newspapers. On a dating website, we’d be incompatible. DOES NOT COMPUTE- MATCH WITH FELLOW PASTY IT NERD WITH BOOBIES? But in the real world, where it matters, we are perfect together. There is no-one I’d rather come home to e’er night. NOT EVEN AIDAN TURNER OR JOSH HOMME, K? He’s kind, he’s caring and he has the most structurally sound moral fibre of anyone I’ve ever met. I’ve met ministers who are bigger scumbags than him. He’s frank and honest which offends others but makes me smile as it mirrors me, as we wander hand in hand through life, treating it like some weird social experiment, damning the lazy, moronic, narcissistic and just frankly laughable.
All in all, I’ve never been happier and we’re comfortably well matched. When he tells me I’m beautiful, I believe him and it makes me walk a little bit taller each day. The huffs, the grumps and the endless questions are all made worthwhile to hug him and have him crouch down to call me “sweet pea.”

When you’re in love, you know you’re in love, no matter what you’re going through. Or so the human league said. Love’s not meant to be easy. You are each other’s rock, their re-assuring arms to hide in from the cruelty of the rest of the world. Those who can pretend its all flowers and romance or all about the sex and don’t become involved while watching their other half fall unashamedly are, to be frank, cunts. Humanity and life is full of hardship and disappointment. And anyone, in a relationship or not, is a naive twat to think anything other than that. However, the pathetic social hypochondriac, the textbook paranoid internet addict is no better.

True love is about getting the balance right. If you spend every moment of every day in their pocket it will tear you apart and you will wish to kill each other. Long distance is an extreme case of that unless regular contact is maintained and visits as regular as possible. If you don’t see each other at all, paranoia kicks in and you both get hurt, but going out with Big brother and the thought police is worse…. Myself and my boyfriend like nothing more than hanging in the park with our best mate and his girlfriend, who are a well matched couple, mucking about as if we’re all just friends. We’re completely comfortable around each other.

It’s about being able to sit watching weird films and box sets in your pingu jammies while he’s cozying up in the tatty teddy’s, munching crisps and pizza and sweeties and the cat on top of you, being so comfortable . That is what contentment looks like. It about knows that despite you’re not loaded with money it doesn’t matter, a simple smile of satisfaction will make each other happier than anything money could buy.

In conclusion, I’d like to make a comparison to the swallows tattooed on my feet (ironic because he hates them). Swallows always fly in pairs. They are the most faithful birds, being an internationally recognized symbol of fidelity. My swallows carry the words “My family/ My Love” and that’s what he is. One person gives me the comfort, love and security of any family set up. Swallows travel together thousands of miles to the safety of the warm climates and raise chicks and get through hardships and solely because they have each other for support. To keep a swallow or any other bird caged is cruel, as it is to clip its wings. A swallow can only ever be a swallow. And like the navy swallows in the 1950s tattoos who signify home and safety by unlooping the rope of the anchor, he sets me free of all those who have hurt, used or abused me and brings me home to keep me safe and free from all those who oppress. For I am as free as a bird now……..

Everyone has a hero. Some people’s heroes are noble, charitable, and religious or martyrs. Some people’s heroes are serial killers or drug addicted rock stars or eating disorder stricken women who are paid to expose their plastic breasts. Some people are even stupid enough to idolize the talentless shitheads on the X-Factor. But it’s not often your hero will be a balding, fishing hat and yellowy aviators encrusted, drug riddled fraudster Doctorate of Journalism, staggering  about with a star spangled banner drowning in ether clasped to the face. Fewer are so deep in the waters of Anti-Hero, they are almost touching heroism. Even fewer have published works, describing the disillusionment so many of us feel with the glamorized Scum the mindless adore. In fact, I know of only a few people who share this hero. Hunter Stockton Thompson.

If anything, Hunter. S. Thompson should be admired for his cunning, daring and audacity. The sickeningly impressive way in which he can lie through his teeth in order to talk his way in or out of any situation- no matter how dangerous, illegal or just plain stupid. Despite having his loyal, if a little rugged attorney Dr Gonzo by his side, Thompson would often reverse the roles and talk “the Samoan” out of more trouble. The playful manner in which Thompson and his attorney would mischievously tell tall tales in rapid succession of each other to everyone from the Police, a hitchhiker, DA’s and a hotel cleaner saying everything from their trip to Vegas was to kill a heroin dealer, pretending the Samoan was a ‘Nam vet, to acting out a mob execution on the phone, pretending beheading was legal in California and recruiting a cleaner to the C.I.A, they’ve blagged their way through enough situations to equal life imprisonment.

“Plenty of fine novels have been written in prison.”

Thompson’s best known work is arguably “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” whose film adaption starred Hollywood superstar and cult hero Johnny Depp playing his close friend, Hunter.S. Thompson and was directed by legendary ex-Python Terry Gillingham. The film has cemented its place into cinematic history as it continues to register in the “Films to See Before You Die” list and winning over new generations of cult fans, proven by its recent release on Blu Ray.

But to people who prefer reading, his lesser known works are masterpieces of great interest, touching on subjects of great cultural and historical significance, if sometimes a little hard to grasp if you are not familiar with American political and cultural history, but especially the former in “Fear and Loathing- The Campaign Trail ’72″. But to the A.D.D. generation the iPhone Wikipedia app should help it become a little clearer.

His book based on his time spent with the Hell’s Angels is enlightening and tells the gritty and violent truth of America’s best loves scumbags, and does not gloss over their vicious and violent nature. It puts any dedicated fan boy of “Sons of Anarchy” to shame as Thompson demonstrates why they do not deserve to be met with such high levels of adoration and idolization. For the A.D.D. generation, there’s a video on the subject, taken from a Television debate between Thompson and a representative of the Hells Angels on YouTube.

But asides from his beautiful eccentricities and drug riddled but wonderfully  worded style with fully sensory extended metaphors and his other literary merit, Thompson’s ability to give his reader a snap shot of American history, a transportation back to America in the 60s and 70s is to be admired. His detailed and sensory descriptions are so accurately worded you can almost smell the marijuana, feel the sweltering heat and taste the warming Budweiser.

Thompson’s disillusioned social commentaries are also a brilliant way of fully demonstrating to our generation the feelings of like minded people all over America at the time. He documents in detail a different history to the one you read about in school or see in war films, the rising disgust felt by Americans, but especially young people of the time. The videos of the masses cheering to Nixon’s hideous plastic smile, those “born to raise the flag” cheering to the parades of their boys, playing “hail to the chief” and “tying yellow ribbons round the ole oak tree”…. meanwhile the “generation who got soul” were “starting a revolution” in disgust against the notion of being asked to fight for a country that cruelly ridiculed them and a pointless war in Vietnam. Their soundtrack was Credence, Airplane and Hendrix and their cause, to register their refusal to accept the horrifically futile loss of life in was to shove the American dream forced upon them by their “square” parents into the fire with their draft cards and convention. Thompson set out to find the American dream in Vegas, gun in hand and driving a red convertible. He found it. And he stomped on it.

The once barren desert, now the city were dreams are made and lives are ruined; itself the very epitome of the “neon flashing” American Dream. And a constantly wasted man armed with only a serious drug collection, a fucked attorney and a typewriter took on the fundamental beliefs of  all W.A.S.P (for the A.D.D generation White Anglo Saxon Protestant) Americans held dear….. And somehow won by utterly shattering it before their very eyes. And like the old wives tale of breaking a mirror, they knew it would never be the same again, and what was to follow would only be bad.

Therefore, as your attorney, I advise you to go to HMV or Amazon and invest £3 of your money and a few days of your time to reading “Fear and Loathing.” (Well at least to begin with.) If not for the unveiling of a new and exciting way of reading and style of writing, then for the chance to own a piece of cultural history and allowing yourself to become immersed in the world of Woodstock. You will have heard of this “world of Woodstock”, may have even made pretentious references to it. But now experience it.

I first read this book when I was young and had the attitude “If it’s not punk, duh care.” But only now can appreciate it fully for the modern masterpiece it is.

“JESUS! YOU SEE WHAT GAAAAWWWWDD JUST DID TO US MAAANN!!!!!”

“Sam, what the fuck was in that fucking joint? That’s not fucking cool,” he spluttered as the thick fog now engulfed his lungs. He looked over to see Sam sitting perched on his bed, his yellow aviator sunglasses glinting through the thick haze.

“That my friend is what real grass is like. Not the shit they sell you at college. You’ve been out for like 3 hours dude, thought I was going to have to put you in a shallow grave. You just can’t stand the pace, haw haw.”

“Fuck you Sam Thompson.” Attempted to lift his head from the rough carpet. The room was still spinning and he elected to thud his head back down before he threw up.

“Sam, this room fucking stinks.”

“Well that’s because you’ve been sweating out Scotch whisky, it’s like that freak who can cry milk except with alcohol. Plus, it’s a price you were perfectly willing to pay for a decent joint seeing how you were rolling about the floor giggling like a small girl. Seriously, if you’d see yourself-”

Adam put his hand up because even the noise of Sam’s breathing was making his head thump. “This is my bedroom and I’ve got to live with the smell, nice one Sam.”

“Haw haw, rough are we?” Sam guffawed as he licked the gummed paper on joint number three of the evening.

It had just gone midnight, it was a sticky hot summer’s night and a burning white moon shone through the net curtains of Adam’s room just catching his eyes. He groaned as he thought of how stuck in this routine he and Sam had become. They’d been at college two years and nothing had ever changed or progressed for them. In the rest of the world, it was 1969 and everyone else was in the grasp of flower power, drowning in the music, the sex and the drugs. All Sam could think to do was to smoke a bit of weed and masturbate. He felt the rough brown carpet on his bare back and stared at the worryingly large crack in the ceiling.

“Sam, it’s 1969. The rest of the world has been indulging in sex, drugs, music…We came here to participate, to join the revolution. And what the fuck have we done?”

“You’ve smoked half of my stash what the fuck are you complaining about?”

“It’s pathetic Sam, that’s what I’m complaining about! Danny’s out all the time, parties that could pass as orgies, becoming a part of history. And we are….?”

“Danny’s a dick. And dude, you don’t want wimmens anywhere near you, they’ll fuck you so bad.”

“Never think that might be the idea?”

“Haw fucking Haw Adam.”

Adam stood up, zipping up his jeans and buttoning them. He searched around for his black converse and and then his black shirt.

“Where the hell is my shirt?”

“Oh, it’s down the hall…” Sam muttered. He then lifted his head in confusion. “Where are you going boy?”

“Danny said there was a party going down at that Ivan Bathory’s house.”

“Ivan Bathory is a cunt.”

“Yeah but Danny said his parties have to be seen to be believed. And I’m worrying about the relationship I’m developing with my right hand. So I am going to fully indulge in the free love and peace up at the Bathory House. Now are you coming? Might even be something in it for you, or rather someone?”

“Ugh that place will be full of posers’ dude! But I’ve heard Ivan’s acid is off the scale so I’m in.”

Adam grabbed the half empty Scotch Bottle by his bed and took a swig from it.

“Now Mitch, do not show me up tonight! I have a reputation to uphold so do not ruin this for me.”

“Fuck you.”

The Bathory Family had only been in the old manor house for a year but it hadn’t taken long before oldest son, Ivan become legendary for his decadent parties that lasted for days. Well, from what they’d heard from Danny. Adam had never understood why Danny had gotten into these things. Danny had always been freckly ginger kid everyone took the piss out of in school. In fact Adam had saved him from a kick in on many an occasion. His older brother Billy was everyone’s golden boy and Danny had always been overlooked. But then again, so had Adam. And Sam. That’s what made them friends; they were outcasts- the tall muscly one, the ginger one and the other one with the aviator glasses.

But recently, Danny had changed. For once, the coolest person in town had wanted to be his friend in the form of Ivan, and Danny was sleeping all day and partying all night- fucking and fighting anything that moved. Adam’s thoughts simply were it was fine for those that could get it. It was nearly a new decade, things had already changed directly and the changes showed no signs of stopping.

The old manor house stood as a solitary shadow in the middle of the countryside. But not too far out. Well, not far enough that it merited paying for a cab. Some nobleman in the 1800s had designed it after a visit to Versailles, but a lot more Gothic. It was eerie. It had always been somebody’s folly, not a home, until the Bathory’s moved in last year. In fact, it had taken months before anyone realized someone had moved in until word of Ivan’s rock star lifestyle got round. Apparently his parents were Romanian nobles who had fled Ceausescu’s rule, but had travelled a lot since. But no-one had seen the parents, or any siblings, just Ivan.

As they approached the old house, looming out of the darkness, Adam couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Perhaps it was just the weed paranoia kicking in…. But there was definitely something in the air around the house that was screaming at his senses to turn round and walk back. Everything stank of horror, fear with a dash of death thrown in for good measure.

“Sam, I don’t like the vibes I’m getting from this place, it’s creeping the fuck out of me-”

“You just can’t handle your grass.”

“No, shut up. Listen, seriously-”

“Stop being so paranoid. I like it out here its kinda private.”

They approached the huge oak door as a huge grotesque menaced down on them from the terrace above. Adam’s heart pounded and he felt uncontrollably sick. Sam pulled the tattered red velvet cord by the door and there was the faint sound of a bell in the distance. Adam could pick out the sound of Jimi Hendrix blaring somewhere, the shrill guitar muted by the heavy stone walls, but the bass pounded in Adam’s head.

“I think I’m going to be sick-”

“Don’t you dare!” hissed Sam. “This was your fucking idea, don’t you dare show me up!”

Shadows flickered through the heavy red curtains by the candlelight. There was shouting as a flurry of foot-steps click –clacked along what sounded like wood and then stone. With an ominous, almost clichéd creak and a harassed looking girl stood in the door way.

“What?”

“Oh, you’re nice!” Tutted Sam.

Adam felt her piercing green eyes flicker up and down their bodies. “Ugh, presumably you’re here for Ivan?”

Sam opened his mouth to no doubt say something smart but she continued before he could utter a word. Adam merely stood and stared in awe at her. She was only about 19 by the looks of her, but she gave the impression of being a lot older somehow. Her hair was straight, dark brown and stopped at her collar bone. Adam felt her green eyes burning their way to his soul and sending his heart racing. She looked flustered but yet she was pale, there was not a bit of colour on her face apart from the bright red lipstick she wore and the black eyeliner on her top eyelid that accentuated her bright eyes.

“Ugh, sigh, of course you’re here for Ivan. Everyone’s “here for Ivan.” It’s far too much to ask that anyone in this town likes sober company and intelligent conversation rather than just shit drugs and easy but ugly and boring women?”

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. “Ugh, wimmens. So huffy.”
Suddenly her eyes caught Adam’s gaze. It sent a chill down his spine, there was something bizarre about this girl, her eyes were such a gloriously bright green, but somehow, something seemed dead behind them.

“You look like-”He stuttered

“You look like you’ve already had more than enough,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. She gestured to Sam, “What’s he staring at?”

Adam was sent thudding back to earth thanks to a smack on the back of the head by Sam.

“Not cool Adam. Not cool,” he growled from behind his aviator glasses. “He’s fine, really woman, he’s just a bit slow. Now, can we come in? Your gargoyle’s freaking me out.”

She begrudgingly stood aside, deeply inhaling as Adam walked past; and a slight smile came to her face.

“Listen, imbecile, it’s not a gargoyle, it’s a grotesque. Gargoyles have to have water coming out of it; it comes from the French gargouille which means throat.”

Sam gave Adam a disapproving look and mumbled “Wimmens.”

She led them along a cold stone passage way into a grand hall, well, what would have once been a grand hall, with a huge marble staircase in the centre that led up to beautifully ornate carved balconies with a series of heavy oak doors along the peeling walls. It was lit by huge red candles, and in the light you could see that the heavy velvet curtains were moth bitten and the walls were cracked, with the ornate red and silver patterned wall paper was peeling off. The grand portraits that hung on the walls were not particularly visible with only candlelight but the paint seemed cracked and fading. The bright moonlight coming from a circular window at the top of the staircase made the layers of cobwebs glisten silver through the darkness. The noise of Hendrix was suddenly much louder, and the noise of merriment and mirth making even more so. The girl opened another huge oak door to a grand room, lit once again in a red haze by the candles reflecting the red curtains and decor. Classical black silk armchairs were dotted about as was a black silk chaise lounge which the girl sat on, picked up a book from the exposed floorboards and began to read, as if the writhing group of bodies in the centre of the floor by the fire was completely normal. Some people were naked, some half dressed, clearly tripping, but in ecstasy, revelling in the decadency of it all. And in the middle of it stood Ivan Bathory.

Ivan, was (in Adam’s heterosexual male opinion) nothing spectacular to look at- Bone thin, tall, ratty almost with thick, messy but still poker straight black hair. He was deathly pale, like the girl, apart from his piercing blue eyes. He was shirtless, revealing a torso so thin you could define each and every bone, but not skeletally thin. Thankfully, he had thin black drainpipe trousers on, unzipped though. He licked his pale lips as an equally thin girl with very long flowing red hair wrapped around him. She stared curiously at Adam, her dull blue eyes getting lost in her panda eyed make up. She seemed slightly more alive than Ivan, but she was still pale. She ran her protruding front teeth over her bottom lip in an almost suggestive manner, giggling as she kissed Ivan’s neck.

“Welcome son. We hoped you’d come. Who’s your friend?”

“Adam Mitchell. I have the weed you wanted.”

The pale girl giggled. “Awww bless, he looks lost! Maybe I could help him?!”

Adam looked alarmed as the girl on the chaise lounge scoffed “ugh God help him” in disgust, without even looking up from her book.

Ivan scowled at her. “I gather you’ve met my sister, Cathrice then?” He looked directly at Cathrice on the chaise lounge. “No-one asked you to be here. You’ve got a whole manor to rattle about in.”

Cathrice snapped her book shut and stood up. “No Ivan, but this is my home too and you’re out of control. One of us has to be a grown up and it’s not you! Oh and Nancy leave that poor boy alone, he doesn’t want your germs.”

The other girl looked at Ivan to do something. “You must excuse Cathrice’s terrible manners, she’s terribly anti-social. Very old beyond her years. Anyway, please do get stuck in boys.”

Ivan slid an ornate silver tray of sugar cubes across the coffee table his hand rested on to Sam. Adam watched as they both popped one in their mouths. Sam grinned, sinking to the floor, first to his knees, then to his back, laughing to himself. Another female body emerged from the pile and began to kiss Sam.

Adam’s senses were in overdrive, his head swimming, making him dizzy and wobbly on his feet. He glanced over to see Cathrice standing defiant by the chaise lounge, arms folded. Her facial expression was one of permanent disgust and her nose wrinkled.

The opening notes of “Hey Joe” resonated round Adam’s head as he disorientated tried to grab something to steady himself. Before he knew what was happening Cathrice shot behind him and caught him and guided him to the chaise lounge, where a large dark shadow from him by the hair, his hands wandering all over her black lace mini dress. She pushed him from her and his retaliation was to slap her. He was pale, with blonde curly hair and thick NHS glasses didn’t look especially bright to Adam.
“You bitch,” he roared, “You are mine, mine! You whore!”

Adam saw more of the shadow. He was broad, tall and his eyes were dull and soulless. Beady little eyes staring perversely at Cathrice’s body. Cathrice recovered herself by clinging to the chaise lounge and Adam noticed her eyes flashed and it scared him. The guy lunged forward, putting his hand up her dress, haw-hawing and snorting in his own little sick pleasure. Suddenly, Cathrice flew round, pinning him to the wall, grabbing his head and pulling it to the side.

“I am nobody’s possession you sexist bastard! Don’t ever touch me again!” She hissed in his ear. “You never will again though.”

She pulled his hair further to the right and Adam noticed blood dripping down his face as her nails clung into his scalp and in the next flash he collapsed to the floor dead and Cathrice was violently vomiting up blood.

“Ugh, it’s disgusting!” she rasped. “It tastes vile, so impure, so dark and sickening its-”

She wretched again. Adam could have sworn he just saw Cathrice tear her attacker’s entire throat out with her bare teeth. But surely not, that would be insane… Adam was seriously worrying about what Sam had put in the weed…..

“What the fuck was that??!!”

Ivan snapped round, throwing Nancy from him and snapping off the record player with a squeak. “I second that emotion, Cathrice, what the fuck was that?!”

Cathrice’s now even paler face appeared behind the sofa.

To me, all it seems to be is a commemoration of misery and lonliness. I would say loves lost, but we all know that’s a lie. If they were loves, they wouldn’t be lost. Although I’m sure if you have a “love” it will be lovely and romantic and all you want it to be. Skype’s the best I’m going to get, sadly. But ha! It’s a Sunday this year- no post and work next day, so fuck you!

I personally feel that “love” is a term used too commonly in this day and age, and it very rarely conveys what it was created for. I for example, when I say I love my cat or I love my best friend, I mean it. I genuinely do. It just doesn’t mean I want to marry either of them, make the eternal vow and share my soul forever and eternity. But I’m not “allowed” to say that about my best mate, on the grounds that he’s male and I am female because “people will talk.” Fuck off. Haven’t these people got anything better in their lives to do?

Love is hard to define. It’s that feeling when your stomach flips, your heart races and you can’t breathe when you see your better half. When nothing can get you down, and you feel safe around them. The lost feeling you get when they’re gone and the addiction you get to having them around. When they can make you happy when nothing else can, you can be totally honest and trust with them when life gets tough. When they are your world and your protection from it’s evils. It is like in the marriage vows, “in sickness in health, for richer for poorer.” Love is for life, not just February the 14th.

I frankly despise people who fall in love after 5 minutes. I should know, I’m one of them. I have made excuses and argued my case for my own stupidity with the best of you. I am a hopeless, desperate romantic. More emphasis on the hopeless because I NEVER learn from my mistakes. I try, I genuinely do. But then I get blinded by the good in people and I fuck up big style and get my heart broken. I detest people who tell people they love you when they only want to “fornicate” with you, and not only that when someone tells you they love you on a form of technology and not your face. You clearly don’t have the balls, therefore you are not worth a moment of my time. Look, if that’s all you want, just say. It’s much easier for all concerned in the long run and it means I won’t try to kill you afterwards. Doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get the answer you want, but it means you won’t have committed my cardinal sins. Sometimes I do believe black widow spiders have the right idea.

I believe “Love” is one of those words that applies to the big word rule. If you don’t understand it or know the meaning of it- leave well alone.

Yes, I have every right to be bitter, before you start. I’ve been heartbroken too many times for an 18 year old. And yes, a real heart break, not a 14 year old version of heartbreak. I tend to have relationships that spiral out of control too quickly and I get a bit dazed. I seem to attract the type that a)gets off on the smell of vulnerability or b) needs a therapist, not a girlfriend. Or sometimes a disasterous mutation of the two. Their technique is to sweep you off your feet, make you feel greatful you’re getting the attention (because you see, I’m “not the prettiest”) until you submit and bear your heart, your soul and other things, just long enough for them to get into your head and get what they want, only to drop you faster than Chanel drops a size 10 model. Others are a bit slower and wear down the very core of your personality until you’re not yourself any more, you’re the person they want you to be.

Maybe it’s a generational thing? My parents, my aunts and uncles and my godparents had met their “one” by the time they were 16 and have at least 25 years married behind them. I am now 18. This depresses me. Maybe I’m just broody or boring as fuck, but that appeals to me greatly. A little bit of security would be nice in my chaotic life. A nice simple life. Don’t worry, I know it’s not going to happen. Has the broken home culture the media has created, changed young people’s ideas on what love is? What it’s meaning is? I think so.

I think people with boring lives must dream over the idea of having a life as stressful as mine. I dream about having a life as boring as there. Job, husband, kids, house. End of. No illnesses, no evil ex’s. Ahhhhh.

But nevermind campers, things are looking up for me. So let me tell you about White Rabbit. White Rabbit has been lighting up my life for a nearly two months now, on off, depending on who’s turn it is to have a nervous breakdown. And it’s incredible. You have no idea how amazing it is to have someone who knows everthing about you, even the really dark stuff, and doesn’t give a fuck. You don’t worry about having to hide it or worry about how you’ll tell them. I know him inside out and he knows me and shit is sooooo cash. We’re not the perfect couple, we have rows. We tell each other when we’ve pissed each other off, he gives me rows when I’m due one, there is mutual respect and honesty with one and other. And he’s a generally handsome and charming chap, laugh out loud. He’s the first man to know the meaning of the word “sorry” and the first one I’ve met who’s not sex obsessed. He’s the first one I tell when things are good and bad, as I am him and he’s just always there. Possibly through a lack of anything else to do. He’s also quite nice looking but don’t tell him that, he’ll just argue with you. It’s funny how you get used to having someone there. And I met him through a psychotic ex and he used to hate me! How things change!

So what can we conclude from this? That this generation has fucked another thing up, good and proper? That I am in love with being in love? Possibly. But only one thing matters- that for once in my sick and twisted existance, I am happy. Have I written this out of jealousy because I’m not being wined and dined and getting roses on Sunday? No. Knock yourselves out. But because I’ve met someone who has changed my outlook on humanity, who understands me and who cannot stand cliches as much as me.
So happy valentines day, zombies. Revel in your once a year cliches and eat chocolates on me. xD.

Everyone getting so excited, so happy, so full of hope “This year will be so much better than last.” I personally do the same, make resolutions, get all teary eyed and a glimmer of hope appears…. Then usually by the second of January something has happened to shatter this illusion. It’s a cliché. I don’t understand why people never learn not to get themselves so “worked up” about it. But I will be the first person to admit that when it comes to never learning, I could tell you some horror stories.

However, I have promised myself that I need to change my life dramatically next year because this year has been nothing but a disaster from start to finish. Between the monumentally bad relationships, where things seem to spiral out of my control over night, (which is the thing I really don’t learn from), to failing health, past ghosts coming back to haunt me, an ill advised move to Edinburgh, and then an even more ill advised departure from Edinburgh, and even managed to fit a near wedding and a university education in between.

But 2010 will be a new year, a new decade and big changes. I have already stopped smoking, which I am very proud of and intend to stay that way. I will once again leave home, only for good this time,  and chase a career in a field with one of the highest dropout rates and most competitive entrance in the modern world. And I will have to put my all into it, such is the nature of the work. Get into an art college to improve my portrait skills and live independently.  Edinburgh or Aberdeen, ohh the choice??

I plan to keep running the mile a day I currently am in the hope I lose some weight. Which I know is never going to happen, but it might reverse a bit of the damage the smoking has done.

But my main resolution is to stop allowing people to use me and take advantage of me. This year, more than any has been probably the worst so far for it, but it ends here. I am going to run my own business. In business you can’t afford to let that happen, therefore it stops. I don’t care what people think of me as a result to be honest.  I have been stabbed in the back so many times this year my spine probably now looks like Swiss cheese.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. I have made some of the best friends anyone could ask for this year, between my Heriot Watt crew and that one special someone who makes me smile no matter what. I have rediscovered old friends who I thought I had lost. And there’s always that one person who just totally and utterly surprises you……

A nice guy wouldn’t go a miss but in today’s world those are pretty hard to come by so I’d rather just focus on my business than have a lot of relationships with people who will just cause heartache and stand in my way.

2010 will be the year I have to turn everything around from being jobless and stuck at home with a lot of dreams to making those dreams into a reality, which I am prepared for the fact that it won’t be easy. But nothing in this life ever is. But let’s be honest, it would be so fucking boring if it was.

So here’s to the new decade and a new hope for myself, my best friends and those who matter deeply to me.

In Cosmopolitan the article was on their “Women of the Year awards”. And it was discussing two ex professional models who have launched their own range using only “Plus Size Models.” Intrigued, I continued to read, expecting it to be referring to Beth Ditto types. So you imagine my horror when I discovered that a “plus size model” is actually anyone over a size 8! Rendering me “plus size.”

It was the article in Elle however that really got to me. “He doesn’t really love your curves”, a woman’s perspective on a boyfriend she had who refused to have sex with her because she’d put on a few pounds. If I was that woman, rather than cry and starve myself to keep him, I’d tell him to fuck off, and point out areas where perhaps he could improve his physique. Yes, I have made grown men cry……

I read articles like this or see on the covers of the slightly lower brow gossip glossies photos of celebrities looking like cadavers. And then get confused as to why people get confused as to where all these cases of anorexia and bulimia come from…….

To me, a size 8 is more along the lines of a teenage girl, still in the clutches of puberty, it should most certainly not be considered healthy for a grown woman to be a size 8. We, in the West live in a world of plenty, and we are HORRIFIED by images of third world poverty and people who have no choice in starvation. So why, for the love of God do so many people in the developed world, some of the wealthiest and most powerful nations in on this planet, choose to starve? Spend their wealth on Colonic irrigations and Laxatives (Bulimia for the person who doesn’t like being sick), Diet Pills, Gastric Bands and Liposuction? This obsession to be skeletal is a plague on our society worse than any other. We are all repulsed and appalled every time a “Save the Children” advert comes on TV, showing the desperate skeletal faces of African children who haven’t been fed in months. So I ask you this world- Who the hell decided this “look” was so much sexier on a grown woman?

Whoever it was, I’d like to think (for their sake) they’re already dead or contemplating suicide because by the time I’m finished with them, they’re going to wish they were…..

I have spent 18 years of my life suffering at the hands of this society wide obsession with weight and I will not suffer any more.

Well, here are the numbers involved. And I’m proud of them. I’m 5 feet 2.5 inches tall, size 6 feet, 34E bra, 26 inch waist, 23 inches corseted, 34 inch hips and, so I’ve been told, a rather impressive ass. Overall this adds up to a UK size 10, but in some shops I have to take a size 12 because I can’t fit my chest into certain garments. Basically, I like to think (well more hope) that I have the figure of a 1950′s pin- up girl, akin to Dita Von Teese, (although personally I think she’s a bit too thin, but that’s just me.) I’m proud of my figure. I’m human after all and I like to eat, like normal people and I have a terrible sweet tooth. GET FUCKING OVER IT. Also I can rest safe in the knowledge that my eye catching bust is just the gifts God gave me, as opposed to silicone implants. If I’m honest, those who desperately seek to be stick thin can kiss goodbye to the idea of a large bust because the biology just doesn’t add up. That’s why every time I see a really skinny, like skeletal skinny person with a substantial bust I know they’ve had implants.

I haven’t always been this body confident. This is only a very recent thing thanks to a select few people who know who they are. Up until a few months ago my whole life had been a blur of school bullies (primary and secondary), teachers, parents, boyfriends, doctors, so called “friends” making my life hell and trying to control what I ate and how I looked by inflicting such a level of misery and self-hatred I would have gladly crawled into a small hole and died. And they were all saying the same thing, right from just subtle little things like “You don’t want to eat that, you’ll ruin your figure” (My mother and my grandmother) “Maybe the boys are right, you could stand to lose a bit of weight” (School councillor) to “F**K OFF YOU FAT C**T”, (a P.E. teacher at my old school.) And don’t even talk to me about Uni……

 But I’ve made it through the other end, stronger for it. The memories still haunt me and always will but I’ve stopped hating these people because hating them means you’re still wasting energy having feelings for them. End of.

 Most of my best friends are boys and the general consensus is that they prefer curvy women, although I don’t think Hayley Williams deserves the admiration she gets for being so “proud to be herself.” She’s stick thin! I will always hold true to me the day that my best friend said to me “Yeah, Hayley’s fit but she could do to beef up a bit. She’s too skinny for me, and she doesn’t have a lot in the form of cleavage.”Kat Von D on the other hand is a personal heroine of mine, not just because she’s a tattooist but because she has her own style, she’s not stick thin and she doesn’t give a fuck what people think of her.  But then on the other side of it, there’s my sister and her brother (not my brother, it’s complicated) ranting about how “fat” people are horrible and vulgar and how they wouldn’t be seen out with them. I was truly horrified.

To me, there is nothing more pathetic than these internet groups “Stunnas 09″ etc. The only thing sadder is the self-obsessed plastics who photograph themselves for the site is those who join it in the hope of pulling! It must be truly sad to seek gratification in the form of a comment reading “I’d well shag you” from a stranger on the other end of a computer.

Therefore in a world where the laxative, middle finger, diet pill and starvation is King, and record numbers of teenage girls as young as 12 are being admitted to hospital suffering from anorexia or bulimia, I’m going to put on my curve-hugging dresses, flaunt what I’ve got and “shock” this society into realizing that there’s nothing wrong with being human and yourself. Put it this way- for someone who’s meant to be so “fat”, “hideous” and a “monster to society” I’ve had a fair few compliments.

 ”I’m bringing sexy back…………”

Yes, although Jimi Hendrix, Plant and Page, Shaddix, Ramone and Lynott, there will always be undoubted legends; as far as I’m concerned they don’t even come close……
As 2009 draws to a very bleak close I feel that this album could not be more appropriate, in fact it is as relevant and as reflective of the times today as it was on the year of its release on the 14th of December, 1979. Yes Ladies and Gentlemen, if you hadn’t already guessed; I am of course referring to The Clash’s “London Calling.”
This album is striking from the off- the iconic cover image of Paul Simonon smashing his bass and the green and pink writing is just as recognizable as “Abbey Road” or “Dark Side of The Moon.” It enjoyed success as the first double album for the price of a single album, innovative for its time and notably so. And we’ve not even got to the music yet…….

To understand why “London Calling” was so relevant and iconic you have to understand the back drop. Musically, 1979 was completely different from today. In order to be successful in the rock era of the 1970s you had to be a masterful musician and write your own music- there was very little industry help and NO technological interference. Britain in the 1970s and the end of 1979 was meant to herald a new hope in with the coming of a new decade. But instead with the coming of Mrs Thatcher on the 4th of May 1979, things were only ever going to get worse. Britain was a country crippled by strikes within every sector, mass unemployment, a dying industrial sector and the worst race riots in decades. Police brutality was all too common and record numbers of British citizens, many of them young people were claiming benefit. “Labour isn’t working”- Yeah you’re not joking there. Naturally, Mrs Thatcher- a capitalist, pro-American Conservative was only ever going to make a bad situation worse- but that’s another story…..

The punk scene of 1976 was slowly dying too, being taken over by the “New Wave” and “Two Tone” bands such as Madness and The Specials. The icons of the decade lay dead too- Vicious for 2 months, Marc Bolan and Elvis for 2 years, Hendrix had been dead for 7 years and David Bowie had killed off both Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane by then……..Prog rock lay in tatters too and the likes of Led Zeppelin and The Who had fallen victim to drug abuse and personality clashes.
So in a way, “London Calling” signalled the end of many things- the end of one of the most culturally diverse decades of the 20th Century, and the beginning of the Thatcherite, cut-throat, wealth-orientated of world we recognize today. It signified and mourned the death of punk, but with a much more mature and masterful sound and message than say the Sex Pistols or The Ramones. And some have said- and I agree- that it hailed the end of rock and roll itself and the start of a new era in rock. And it’s never been the same since….. Bassist Paul Simonon’s bass smashing is significant in more ways than one, a working title of “The Last Testament”, and a song entitled “4 Horsemen” The Clash made it clear that “the end was nigh.” If you think about it, it’s never been the same since…. And it probably never will…..

Sadly “London Calling” also signalled the musical peak of the band- although they carried on to release a further 3 albums the group dynamic was never quite the same as drug addiction, personality clashes and a chameleon style attempt to adapt into “the electronic 80s” lost the band members, fans and ultimately led to their demise in 1985.
But WHAT a swansong!! Right from the striking opening chords of “London Calling” to the last beat of “Train in Vain”, the listener is whirled round through heavy rock, to punk, to rock’n’roll, ska, reggae, pop, funk, jazz and even piano based power ballads, all catchy and musically masterful but with a deep and powerful meaning behind them.

From the apocalyptic visions of “London Calling” and protest to the police brutality of “Clampdown” to the jovial acoustic chords of “Spanish Bombs”- a tribute to the fallen of the Spanish Civil War, and the reggae and ska beats of “Wrong ‘Em Boyo” and “Guns of Brixton,” which despite their catchy upbeat riffs and bass lines tell of the racial discontent and gang warfare in the group’s native West London.
The Clash was the first group really to prove it was possible to be outwardly political without shoving it down people’s throats. “Rudi Can’t Fail” is a catchy two-tone tune telling of the bands time spent being unemployed, on the dole and seeking solace in alcohol- a sentiment familiar to many young people today while “Koka Kola” is a fast paced prophecy of the Capitalist world to come, exposing the debauchery and nightmarish visions of the “corridors of power”, which we of course know all too well with the current Banking crisis. The sorry tales of “The Card Cheat”- a salute to “all of the men who have stood with no fear in the service of the King”- A sentiment and sadness which hangs as a constant black cloud over the society of today…..
So please, I beg of you, put down your Fall Out Boy and listen to true masters at work. Listen, learn and appreciate- because there will NEVER be anything quite like this again………