Warning: contains graphic material. MAN IN PANTS. And out of them.
Some might wonder what it is, to be a feature writer for women’s magazines. You won’t, after reading this.
So, funny story. Continue reading
It’s not easy being a blogger. Something mildly colourful happens and you’re all OMG I HAVE TO BLOG THIS. You whip out your camera (phone) and you hope that one picture later, you’ll have the perfect picture to pimp and prime in one or other of your many photo-editing apps, so it’s 97% better looking than it was, then you can whack it on the blog along with a string of words and call yourself retired for another week. Continue reading
Four scores and eight years ago (or just eight years ago, as I don’t know what four scores are) I was nearing the end of my post-graduate course in journalism. I untacked an advert pinned to the school’s noticeboard looking for feature writers to work for the UK’s biggest press agency, based in Bristol, and took it home.
Then I invited a friend over for dinner. This friend was already a journalist and much further along her journalism career than I, for she did not stop to wang about smoking weed and achieving nothing for a few years. While we discussed my career options, I remembered the ad that was stuffed into my satchel and I pulled it out to show my friend. Continue reading
When I was a yoof, I used to hang about with a group of lads who’d shout ‘pigs’ whenever the police drove past. I didn’t approve. I prefer to say ‘5-0!’ like they do in the Wire. But not in a disrespectful way, because I bloody love the police. Just in a kind of Baltimore kidz on the street, rollin with my homies kind of way. I’m cool like that. I also say ‘Omar comin!’ and I hope you do too.
But yes, the police. The ambo’s. I love them all. We go about our daily life not needing their assistance. And then crash, bang, wallop – something goes wrong and there they are, ready to see you through your emergency. Continue reading
Social media, you little tyke. You have sucked me in and shown me for what I truly am: nothing but a flagrant show off, strutting my stuff online before I even think to fact-check. I’m like Lindsay Lohan Instagramming an Arabic message that she thought read ‘you’re beautiful’ but actually read ‘you’re a donkey.’
I feel like a bit of an ass myself right now.
Because like Lindsay, I just want to inspire my Instagram followers (all 70 of them – beat that, Lohan.). Continue reading
The General Election is nearly upon us and I am poised, ready to mark a cross in a box. But which box?
I don’t take a huge amount of interest in politics, because politicians make politics mind numbingly dull. Hand me a copy of the New Statesman and I glaze over. I have more of an appetite for salacious goss about Jennifer’s Aniston, Lopez and Garner than I do the political leanings of MP’s Cameron, Miliband and Farage. Continue reading