Why we should all be angry about the Daily Star’s fake Diane Abbott tweet.

We’ve become desensitised to the British media’s shit show.

Our newspapers spark riots and wars, fuel racism, hack dead girl’s phones. They lie. They lie a lot. Sometimes it gets corrected within a few weeks, other times it takes decades and court cases, and now some shops in Liverpool still won’t stock The Sun because of the lies their reporters told about the Hillsborough disaster.

The British media can be, but are rarely, a force for good. And we’re used to it.

As such, few headlines shock me these days. I spend so much time being so angry at what strangers say online about abortion and Brexit and the latest Katy Perry album that by the time I scan the papers I’m emotionally exhausted, and this is normally at around 9am.

Continue reading Why we should all be angry about the Daily Star’s fake Diane Abbott tweet.

Toxic masculinity and the male messiahs: why we need to stop teaching boys to save the world.

Jesus was a dude. A man, I mean. An ambitious man, yet tortured. There’s a chance he may have struggled with mental health issues (say some pockets of the church) but the message communicated via this unequivocally non-white man was that we should love and forgive one another, be kind and help the poor. I walked past a Marie Stopes clinic near Tottenham Court Road a few weeks ago and found several Christians disregarding those guidelines, instead spending their time abusing young women who’ve just had an abortion. Which is a shame because those jokers are going straight to hell and I feel like Jesus warned them not to do stuff like that.

History has been plagued with males looking to master the masses and reprise the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ, in their own sweet, evangelical way. From serial killer Henry the Eighth who named himself head of the Church of England, through to a chap like Richard Dawkins who preaches the gospel of atheism to swarms of angry followers who surround his sweet secular pollen like incensed bees. Their goal: to be the one, singular almighty saviour.

Continue reading Toxic masculinity and the male messiahs: why we need to stop teaching boys to save the world.

Conspiracy theory: is Kirstie Alley… God?

When it comes to theories surrounding the possibility of  a higher power, I like to keep an open mind. Although I’m 100% convinced that both God and Satan exist.

What other explanation is there for that spontaneous side-splitting one-liner you delivered in front of a massive group of people, making everybody laugh, when you’re not even a funny person? Easy. God inserted it into your brain for shits and gigs. And it’s almost certainly science-fact that when you’re late for work, in a rush, and tip an entire tub of cotton buds onto the floor, Satan pushed it.

Dogs? God. Hippos? Satan. Rainbows? God. Wars? Satan. Beyonce? God. Jazz? Satan. Cheese? God. My big fat ass? Satan.  I could go on, but that’s probably all the proof you need. Rumour has it God and Satan were bored one day and colluded to create YouTubers, but we’ll see how that unfolds.

So whether you believe in a traditional ‘clouds and pearly gates in the sky’ vibe or that we all reside within a super high-tech simulation I think we’re agreed that there must be a God. But who is he or she? And does he or she live among us?

I’ve never been sure, but this week I believe we may have been handed a clue and God’s mask slipped – for a second – to reveal that our holy father is in fact an American celebrity from one of the world’s favourite sitcoms, and an OK film about talking babies.

And isn’t it a sweet, sweet irony that Stephen Hawking himself uncovered the biggest and best-kept secret known to humanity?

He died, this week, aged 76. And a bloody good innings it was, too. The web was unanimous in its adoration for his superior mind and more recently avid defence of the NHS. Yet, amongst the tributes sat a curiously coded comment that had Twitter raising its collective eyebrows. Kirstie Alley had something to say:


Several hundred people all at once branded her heartless in a moronic, ignorant display of sexism. Why sexist? Because not one of these trolls was willing to admit that a woman – Kirstie Allie – could be the ultimate supreme being, living on earth. She was literally thanking him for his efforts towards driving change upon the very world she created. Think about these six things:

1.   When I run a workshop, during office hours, and someone leaves early, I’ll generally thank them for their input. Especially if they contributed a great deal and helped to create some positive outcomes for the wider group.

2.   Anyone that knows anything about God knows that God has a plan. Stephen Hawking, with his smarts and his maths was probably a really significant part of that plan, and created some extremely positive outcomes for the group (i.e. the world’s population).

3.   However, everyone also knows that Stephen Hawking didn’t believe in God, so at the moment – and likely for a while – he’ll refuse to talk to Kirstie directly. This is why she chose to share her comments on Twitter, because he might check that first.

4.   In 2016 Alley was quoted as saying: “I am not a Christian but believe in God. And I respect Christians and learn from the Bible.” This was her first subtle hint to all of us… She bloody knows that God exists! It’s her!

5.   She literally transforms the way she looks THE WHOLE TIME, like a God would.

6.   She was in a film with John Travolta.

Alley doesn’t thank any old celebrity for their input. Just the greats. Heartless? Of course not. With around 50 million people dying each year, if you’re God, you’re likely to become a little desensitised. Plus she’s fully aware that Hawing’s on his way to an excellent afterlife, so she’s like: “why would I be crying? He’s about to get an unlimited supply of stuffed crust pepperoni pizza, non-stop hugs and new episodes of Friends literally every hour.” HE’S ON HIS WAY TO HEAVEN, FFS.

Now do yourself a favour. Go over to Kirstie Alley’s timeline and read her tweets with fresh eyes; eyes that see her for what she really is: a divine super-being.

I don’t know any of this to be true, it’s just a theory, but I’ve been through the evidence with a fine tooth-comb for the last two days and I can’t conceive of any compelling counter-argument, nor has anybody been able to put one forward.

Combine this with the news that Katy Perry is Satan, unloading her wrath onto the religious community, and I think we’re pretty close to one hell (pun intended!) of an impending showdown. This is it, guys. The apocalyptic battle the big books warned us about. Alley versus Perry. Good versus evil. Right here on earth.

And you know what? My money’s on the only woman who was powerful enough to resist the sexual advances of Sam Malone.

cheers cast

FLASH FICTION: Operation Fuck-up

He sits in darkness, squinting eyes fixed on the screen: a flashing America in front of him. The map is real-time, changing colour second-by-second with every piece of new data. The latest polls are in and his beloved nation is turning red.   

“Beep… Beep…. Beep…” he sings; his naturally soft voice harmonising in soprano with the computer as it updates.

Donald’s hands shake violently. The amphetamines are starting to kick in. Great, he thinks: he only took them about 15 minutes ago. He grabs his glass of vodka and Red Bull and takes a swift glug before it spills, making a mental note to buy straws.

“Donald?” whispers Madeline, his assistant, as she walks into the smoky room. “Donald, what are you doing?”

He turns his head, slowly, jowls-first. The make-up under his eyes has rubbed off revealing dark circles. His mascara is running. He’s been crying.

“Social listening.” Continue reading FLASH FICTION: Operation Fuck-up

Much Ado About Bono.

I don’t care what Bono says

Struts through Dublin like he’s king

A taxi driver told me once

(en route to Temple Bar)

Couldn’t stomach to even hear him sing

Little bore in a leather jacket

You call it a record, I call it a racket

No one makes me feel indifferent

In quite the way you do.

Bono, Bono, Bono, Bono

Bono, look at you.


I didn’t want Bono to give

The gift of album on MP3

Crept silently into my room at night

(without request or permission)

To force entire songs upon me

So now I listen on random and U2 pop up

I have no choice but to skip, pause or stop

Very few have the arrogance

To legitimately believe they’re God.

Bono, Bono, Bono, Bono

Bono, it’s so odd.


Thus, when Bono says some words

Like: music’s gone all girly

He misses when things weren’t so black

(Hip hop’s full of rage)

Wants his industry white and burly

Please ignore the man and watch him cry

Can’t live with or without you let me try

Sometimes even the greatest

Need to leave to check they’re missed.

Bono, Bono, Bono, Bono

Bono, doesn’t exist. 

Why 2017’s posh-pushers remind us that the UK has no class.

2017 was a tough year to be poor in Britain. Whether it’s the 128,000 children who woke up on Christmas morning homeless, or the seventy-one named victims who died in Grenfell Tower likely due to a criminal council exercise in safety cost-cutting; we’ve got a problem.

What became apparent in 2017 is that not having money can kill you. I’d say “what became apparent to those living in caves for the last two millennia” but it’s quite the opposite, isn’t it? Four million children live in poverty in this country, and many more are shafted by debt for choosing to pursue a university education, considered essential for most tertiary sector jobs. You may not see the impoverished with your own eyes when you’re popping down the shops for some Ferrero Rocher but rest assured, they exist. Continue reading Why 2017’s posh-pushers remind us that the UK has no class.

Society never stopped accusing women of being witches, we just stopped burning people alive. 

Let me tell you a story. The story of Matthew Hopkins.

Hopkins was born in Suffolk some four hundred years ago, the son of a popular clergyman. He was the fourth in a family of six children, so may have suffered from ‘middle child syndrome’ whereby a lack of attention can cause resentment and anger.  So far, so normal.

The most notable thing about Hopkins’ early career was that he failed as a lawyer. Unable to pursue his first choice of profession, Hopkins plumped for plan B, becoming one of the most prolific and brutal murderers of women not just in the 1600s, but of Britain’s history. Between 1644 and 1646 he was responsible for at least 300 female deaths.  Continue reading Society never stopped accusing women of being witches, we just stopped burning people alive. 

Six impossible things that happened when I started believing I live in a computer game

I don’t even need to ask if you’ve ever played The Sims and refused your characters bathroom visits for so long they urinated on the floor. You also enjoyed encouraging adultery a little too much and got bored when they started to live normal, successful lives, didn’t you?

As a teen, so addicted was I to controlling the days and nights of these computerised characters with their crap jobs and mismatched houses and weird little foreign words, for six months I shunned all human interaction. I grew a beard, started smoking crack, my family disowned me and I had to offer up my body to the predatory landlord to make rent. None of those things happened, but whenever I piss myself on the kitchen floor, as I often do, I can’t help but wonder… is an addicted teen controlling ME? Continue reading Six impossible things that happened when I started believing I live in a computer game

Six impossible things about Titanic. 

Whenever someone asks what my favourite film is, I hate them.

I hate their willingness to estimate my worth based on audio-visual tastes; I hate their lack of interrogative imagination; I hate their list of favourite films fired back at me which will inevitably feature Scarface, Citizen Kane and some war-based shit I’ve never heard of. I hate that if I’m going to answer the question honestly, I have to say Titanic, and it’s important for me to always be honest because my honesty and integrity are all I have.

I was at secondary school when Titanic was released. I paid to see it at the cinema twice (and then at the IMAX in 3D fifteen years later). My friends Kelly, Nicole and I purchased the CD single of Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On and listened to it on repeat whilst lying on Kelly’s bed with our eyes closed, crying. My first boyfriend bought me the VHS the day it came out and it remains the most memorable present I’ve ever received. Memorable mostly because he threw it at me in an HMV bag and shouted: “HAPPY NOW?!” And I was. I was ecstatic.

Continue reading Six impossible things about Titanic. 

It’s the little things: deconstructing “she needs a good shag.” 

I once worked with a very efficient woman.

To clarify: I haven’t only ever worked with just one efficient woman – I’ve worked with many – but hell, this particular woman could make even South West Trains run on time (#burn #nichetransportburn #nationalisetherailways).

The office walls would whisper rumours of her meeting every deadline, no matter how tight. She was omnipresent; thrown on all projects; ruled her roost with ruthless attention to detail and delivered the shit out of each and every task, no matter how menial or grandiose.

I used to dream about this woman. Not in an affectionate way, but because her to-do list was fired at me with such force and mapped with military precision that her instructions became stuck in my subconscious like a piece of chewing gum working its way through perfectly blow-dried hair.

Continue reading It’s the little things: deconstructing “she needs a good shag.”