The Truth About Festival Sex

When I applied to volunteer at V Festival, I had no idea what to expect other than me crying my eyes out every night stuck in a tent in a field in Chelmsford counting down the hours until rather Pink came on or I could go home. It turned out to be the best week of my life. With hundreds of 18-24s sharing a compound, my week was filled with drinking overpriced alcohol (£22 for a bottle of Echo Falls!!), dancing at the barrier to the best music and, well, tent-hopping. Here’s what I learnt:

Tents Are Never As Soundproof As You Think: Now I’m not expecting an anechoic chamber, I know that there’s going to be a fair amount of noise escaping through that ridiculously slim canvas sheet over my head, but it wasn’t until I could hear the girl in the tent next to me breathing in her sleep that I realised the true lack of privacy. Especially when you forget to zip up the door. No wonder my neighbours didn’t say hello to me the next morning.

It Will Be Uncomfortable At Times: You’re rather trying to evenly distribute your weight on an airbed to stop the other being flung off or are on the floor with only a groundsheet between your aching back and the freezing cold, dewed-up grass, it’s hardly going to be footage for the next Fifty Shades film, you just have to (literally) roll with it and try and use him as a chair as much as possible.  Continue reading

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8 Thoughts we all had during the Women’s March

The Women’s March was the best thing to happen for feminism in ages, but as photos flooded in, news teams documented the events and Piers Morgan continued trolling, what were we really thinking as the protests unfolded? Here are 8 thoughts we all had during the Women’s March. (Image courtesy of Katie my favourite slice of cake who can be found on Instagram @katiec2210)

Why can’t I stop crying? Oh I know, maybe because this is the most amazing thing I’ve ever witnessed: 600,000 people in Washington, 200,000 in LA, 200,000 in New York City, 100,000 in London plus thousands in Amsterdam, Paris, Melbourne, Mexico City etc. all letting Trump know that misogyny isn’t cool. No, the marches aren’t going to get him out of office (RIP Ending Climate Change), but they sent the president the memo that people power is at the heart of democracy. Cue non-waterproof mascara steaming down my face.

Why hasn’t someone gagged Piers Morgan yet? And no I don’t mean in a sexy, fifty shades of grey kind of way, I mean stuck a bed sock in his mouth and taped his fingers together to stop him from tweeting or speaking or even thinking. Obviously, I value freedom of speech and so I enjoy reading different perspectives but Morgs has a habit of just spewing out his view without any consideration for others. Like a kind of potato-faced volcano. I think gagging him is justified. Continue reading

The Sex Effect

Bear with all the panty puns as I have just returned from the compulsory middle class birthday experience otherwise known as going to an underwear exhibit at the V & A and now I want to do some thon(kin)g out loud. Because at face value ‘Undressed’ was simply a showcase of everything ever sold in Ann Summers from corsets to Spanx via Juicy Couture, however once inside you realise it represents the looming question which has divided feminists for centuries:

Sexualisation: Empowering or Degrading? Storemags - Free Magazines Download in PDF for iPad/PC

Full of history students (recognisable by the manic scribbling on Pukka Pads and huge undereye circles), old people (aka the ones pointing to the 1890s whale bone bodices and mumbling ‘oh we used to wear them didn’t we Vera? The youth of today don’t appreciate what we went through’ between mouthfuls of Soreen fruit loaf) and pervs (like me) who just want to creep on some undies and maybe even gather some inspo for my next pair- everyone was commenting on this key question, regardless of which side of the bikini line they fell. Are thongs anti-progressive? Do body sculpting tights purely appeal to the male gaze? (Why the feck were swimsuits ever made of out jersey? Or maybe I’m the only one wondering that. Probably more for the dressmakers to answer than the freedom fighters of the world.) Is the little cheer that my mum and I did as we walked past the display reading ‘the feminists decided the bra was a symbol of oppression and are often seen without it’ supporting some kind of distasteful, (bum) cheeky view of women? Would it be better to go back to the days when petticoats landed at the floor to prevent any ‘obscene’ sights? Continue reading

Go Burn Your Bridge

A post titled so perfectly that in a single pun it can summarise how I’m about to simultaneously talk about feminism and never get a job at any newspaper. Ever. In fact tbh I might as well forget a career in journalism because I seem to have slagged off everything that’s ever been printed- apart from Elizabeth Wurtzel- and soon I’ll have no other option but to apply for work at Poundland where I can give all my friends a staff discount on the Fruitella and then confuse everyone when I say “that’s 50p please” because darling decimals don’t belong in Poundland. I mean, that’s just like, the rules of feminism. gretch

This past month I’ve been trying to write a 2,000 word essay about the F-word for Newnham College which sounded really easy until I realised Newnham is in Cambridge, as in the Cambridge. Cambridge Cambridge. Upon this realisation I had to cross out all the inappropriate vagina jokes and Fetty Wap references, so now all I’m left with are a few ideas being pushed around my plate like broccoli stems (because realistically no one eats the stems) (except the vegans), however it’s not all bad. In the absence of words, I’ve done lots of research, read plenty of articles and painfully scrolled through thousands of comments, until I realised: newspapers hate feminists. I wrote a post similar to this before about the general public but I didn’t realise the people bringing up factual news would fall the same way. Continue reading

New Year Old You

It’s 2016 and, despite the fact numerical time doesn’t really exist and therefore we’re celebrating what is essentially our own invention, for many people a new year can be the perfect kick up the bum to tidy desk drawers, start a YouTube channel or steer their lives in a different direction. Most of us will have at least some kind of resolution, whether that be a huge career goal or a minor self-improvement, and usually these are harmless. But what about when they’re not? What happens when you realise NYE is a time for everyone to make unrealistic, overoptimistic resolutions and then start a Crunchie binge on 5th January to distract themselves from the fact they’ve failed to avoid the inevitable, turning their ‘Body Posi 2016’ into the biggest queue for Slimming World that the Guinness Book Of World Records has ever seen?

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Cheeky Crunchie Binge

 

Apparently New Year has become the absolutely perfect excuse to constantly move the milestone of happiness; phrases like ‘I will be happy when…’ or ‘Happiness will come after…’ are ruined once the goal is achieved and something else crops up, pushing satisfaction further and further away. Suddenly everyone realises that this year they haven’t been rich/pretty/skinny/successful enough, that despite all the super smiley selfies, A* a levels and holidays to Greek islands that no one can pronounce, they’re just not happy. On the 31st December we reduce all the ups and downs of a whole year into a tragedy pageant of which we conclude that we need to be better. And how do we find out how to be better? The internet. Continue reading

Happy Nudes Year

Just when I thought we’d made it through 2015 without too much interruption from the meninists of the world, I am introduced to someone expecting me to wish him a happy nudes year. It got me thinking about how, despite most of us seeing similar screenshots on Buzzfeed and Tumblr, you never expect the sassy feminist replies to be coming from you. So a rather unplanned addition to the blog this week: The Many Stages of Social Media Misogyny

The preparation: Meninists could appear at any time and, although it feels weird essentially bulling people you’ve never met in order to defend yourself, sometimes you’ve just got to grab yourself a glass of soya milk, readjust your bra straps and woman up. (If that fails to empower you, maybe do some Sudoku puzzles to warm up your brain or something.)

The bit where you check they’re not a troll: This is the part where you manically scroll through their Twitter feed to make sure they’re at least vaguely sane; in this case he’d retweeted some we-would-rather-gauge-our-eyes-out-than-have-Trump-as-President campaign so I thought he was a safe zone, especially because it started with him asking me about feminism. Even if you come to wrong conclusion (which, spoiler alert, you probably will) it always feels better to check.

The bit where it suddenly gets weird:

Continue reading