Just *gif love a chance

Hell to the YEAH! The following is a totally ‘gay’ celebration of progress and happiness, as told by pictures. Some of them are moving. It’s like Harry Potter in here. If Harry Potter was super gay and magically happy! ACCIO PROGRESS!

The Marriage Equality Act passed in New Zealand parliament today with a 77-44 easy win.

Dance dance dance!

This wasn’t exactly a surprise, considering the previous readings were pretty clear majorities as well. For once we’re not the first in the world either – just a lucky number 13. We’ve had civil union since 2005, but this still held back certain rights legal, medical, and reproductive. But no more!

But two parents who actively want a kid are clearly going to destroy that child, right? Coz homo is contagious?

I’ll admit up front that I’m biased because I have two Mums. Yes, okay, I technically have a Father. Fuck you genetics. But he long ago rescinded his parental rights for the foreseeable ever.

What I do have is an ‘Other Mother’ as I call her, and I’m her ‘Sorta Daughter’. I made that up when I was ten and it stuck – cute huh? Blood relatives are great if you can get ’em, and if they’re kind, lovely people who treat you right. But what I think is also awesome are the people who choose to love you even if they don’t *have* to.

‘Gay’ is not contagious. What is contagious is either hatred or open-mindedness. Growing up with a variety of different types of people in my life made me open to new ideas and lifestyles. It did not make me gay or any other particular ‘type’ of person I saw in action. The effect it did have was to show me that many lifestyles, aspirations, and types of people were all wonderful and acceptable, and whatever of them I turned out to be would be okay. Not always easy, but okay.

Sadly, there are a bunch of fucktards whose ideas are so incredibly incomprehensible that I struggle to even begin. I don’t expect everyone to have the same opinions as me, but to the supporters of Protect Marriage NZ such as this guy:


I say:

Since I’m behind the curve due to the time diff (coz NZ is ahead of the rest of the world EVEN when it’s coming in number 13), I was all ‘COMMENT ON ALL THE STATUSES!’ because:

But that took me a really long time, because everyone on my facebook feed was all ‘Go NZ! You did it! Down with hate, up with love! Rrrrrespect for (most of) our politicians!’ etc ad awesomeness.

Not a single person on my feed was anti, or if they had little weird feelings in their little weird brains, they recognised them for an irrational piece of prejudice that they should deal with privately and certainly not publicise to the i-world.

During the campaigning I dug a lot of the pro-law-change websites that were all sarcastically like ‘how the world will change if gay people get married’ (cue blank screen) and ‘how gay marriage will effect you’ (cue blank post).

But now that the law has passed, I have to disagree. Maybe you won’t see it straight away. Maybe this is just a stepping stone. But it sure is a step in the right direction.

This will affect your life, whether you realise it or not, because the world is moving forward, despite the efforts of some to drag themselves and the rest of the world back into the dark ages.

Being allowed to marry their love may not help a gay person being beaten up behind a club or stop the offensive stereotypes on TV or end people who are different being exhiled from their communities. The Marriage Equality Act can’t eradicate douchebags, or change their opinions on two members of the same sex getting married, but as a tiny little super important starting point it has said:

So fucking deal with it.




*Title credit to the fabulous saradraws (see below). Yeah, I stole it. It’s called a collabo. Deal with it.


I knew it would be an alien!

Royal Spawn Update:

Day two and the ‘child’ is already out of the hospital and waving to hypnotised hoardes fawning over the steps of the portal to the other dimension hospital.

Tiny tiny fingers waving ‘hello, I will destroy you now’

I was always suspicious of the distinct lack of weight gain or bumpage over the course of Kate’s pregnancy, or I would have been if I’d given enough shits to read a gossip site during the period. Luckily, the Daily Mail showed me ALL THE PHOTOS in the immediate lead up to the bursting forth of the alien king.

Clearly that hush hush stay in hospital for ‘severed morning sickness‘ was in fact an early opportunity to hypnotise the poor commoner into hysterical pregnancy, and Will kept up the charade by inserting fake bumps under her clothing as she slept and feeding her Ipecac. Don’t blame poor Will, though, you know he only did it because Grandma Lizzie threatened to chop his balls off – the same as she did to his Daddy.

Now that the alien spawn has been placed in her oblivious arms, it’s only a matter of time before its ultimate plan is revealed. Those little fingers are clearly either signaling the home planet, or doing one half of a Monty Burns ‘ecccsssellent’ in anticipation of uncurtailed supremecy.


Stay tuned* for more late breaking headlines on the ultimate overthrow of the United Kingdom (and the rest of the world thereafter) by one hairless Windsor. And I’m not talking about Wills. Or Charles. Or Phillip.**

*Or alternatively, never hear of this again, we’ll see.

**Harry, you’re cool, gingas rule.



The littlest Prince


Dammit, I did not call that one. Barring velociraptors, I was completely gunning for a lass to take the #3 ranking in the ranking of pointless things.

The announcement came early this evening by way of smoke signals out of the Palace chimney – blue for boy, pink for girl of course – with the number of cannon fires from the Tower of London marking the pounds and the tolls of Big Ben denoting the ounces. Thus is was the Doctor – the only person capable of being in all three places at once – who broke the news to the nation by way of telegraphs sent to each and every home of Britain.

As the tiara-ed tyke was born on the hottest day in seven years, expert astrologers have predicted that his birth marks the beginning of seven years of sunshine, when the rest of the world will be bathed in ice while Britain regains its rightful place in the blazing sunshine and rules with a baby’s rattle. That or the sun will never rise again. I guess we’ll see in the morning.

Prior to the genital announcement, bookies had hard-ons odds on for ‘Alexandra’ as the leading ladies’ name. While ‘Diana’ was cold in the grave, I fancied ‘Georgina’, but ‘Chardonnay’ was coming on strong with 1000-1 odds to take the name from the pole to the palace.

Now that the peen has been seen, ‘George’, ‘Francis’, and ‘Charles’ are taking the lead in the totally-dull-and-unsurprising-contenders category. At least some of the other contenders – ‘Louis’, ‘Alexander’ and ‘Arthur’ – are better placed to enable the child to grow up with the healthy narcissistic megalomaniac complex this country needs in a future King!

Personally, my vote’s with ‘4real’.

Now that the sacred child has come of the commoner’s womb and revealed its most crucial appendage to the world, other aspects of the great-coming-forth of 2013 have taken forefront in the minds of the world’s media and world leaders are frantically convening to debate such pressing issues as:

  • Is it a Cancer or a Leo?
  • Did it really come out of her ladyparts?
  • What the hell is the royal family’s surname anyway?
  • When will we see Kate naked on a beach again?
  • What’s happening with that royal placenta?
  • If Queen Lizzie eats it, will she live long enough to spite Phillip out of the throne?
  • Who will be first to update the Royal Family‘s Wikipedia page?
  • Don’t all those people outside the palace have bloody jobs to go to?
  • Will Harry go full Robert-Downey-poon-her now that he’s been bumped down the list?

Well apparently the Royal Family are fans of holding out on us, so it may be days or even weeks until we learn the name of the future King – or at least the King of those few of us who will outlive Lizzie, Charlie, and Billy. Experts agree that only 1.24% of the current populace will live to mourn Liz (who sleeps in a vat of preserves), let alone the forehead-family.

Of course, experts also extrapolate that the bubs has increased the chances of the Royal Family still existing at such a future time by 23547%, as the whole world coos at the pudgy-wudgy cutesy-wutesy excuse to ignore the ACTUAL news.


The gossip rages

Sometimes I go a bit off-topic for a rant. But ranting is my topic, soooo…. just roll with it!

OMG! A man! Now we can be whole again!

One of the things I have completely given up in my #LondonPoverty is a good ol’ gossip rag. But when I was handed one by a co-worker today and perused it on my way home, I realised that I’d given them up for real, not just as a common comfort, but ideologically, because it made me RAGEY.

I had a phase as a stupid teenager imagining myself a journalist for one of the girly mags: Dolly, Girlfriend, Cosmopolitan. I guess I saw how simple their copy was and thought ‘I could write that when I grow up!’ The writers seemed to live such glamorous but accesible lives, existing in the celebrity-zone, but reaching out to us plebeians to show us how it was done, illuminating the illusion.

I could have grown up to write such titillating pieces that include such relevant how-to, fuck-me tips as:

Be Like Him
Hang Around… A Lot!
Now Disappear
Ask for his help
Be confident too
Feed him grapes
Love him

And finally… love yourself: “This is both the first and the last step in getting a guy to fall for you.”

If you think this drivel is so detrimental to womankind that even a man couldn’t have come up with it, please do NOT check out Cosmopolitan, where I drew this step-by-step guide from.

You will literally want to harm people. Like, seriously, how are there all these how-to-blow-jobs guides and no how-to-rid-the-world-of-stupid guides? Of course, this inanity abides in the same home where “Rihanna works red hot lips in London” and “Causes of Cory Monteith’s death revealed” live side by side as clearly equivalent to the current spectrum of human appreciation.

Granted, stupid is and stupid does and stupid sells.

But at the same time, aren’t ‘we’ responsible for what we put out in the world, and aren’t ‘we’ responsible for what we pay or click to consume? I just searched ‘cosmo sex tips 2013’ for this blog, and FUCK ME I feel a lot dirtier and cheaper than any sex I could ever have could ever make me feel.

I’d rather be alone forever than pay [whatever amount] for a magazine to tell me that the only way a man will every love me is if I tickle his blue balls with a dove’s feather while I scream at him in a foreign language (one geared to enhance the anxiety) and pour hot asian chilli in his mouth while rare clawed miniature turtles crawl over his belly, nipping him gently in his tender parts, until he recalls all of his awkward teenage boners and excises the memory of Mrs Matheson, his year 8 maths teacher, the one with the big boobs and droopy earrings, and calls out for ‘Mummy’ until Freud rolls over in his grave.

Let’s not forget that before, during, and after, I must treat him as I assume all men will treat me, with disdain and contempt and a hefty dose of ‘daddy knows best’.

Feminism gone wild, you say? It’s not that. Feminism has nothing to do with ‘being’ men, nor hating men. It has nothing to do with taking the worst parts of any gender and exacting them against the other.

I don’t think most readers of gendered magazines have any idea what they’re really consuming. Or I just hope that’s true. If they did, would they still buy it? Perhaps naively and perhaps idiotically, I assume that eyes could be opened faster than new franchises, minds opened more often than shoe boxes. Of course I’m probably stupid for thinking this, for assuming education could ever convince women that they’re worth more than this trash.

The magazine I was given today was a cheapest of the cheap drivel mag, and I knew that going in. I also knew I had not a dime to spare, which meant that the whole reading experience was much shortened by skipping the fashion and shopping pages, which aren’t really aimed at me anyway. I also don’t know who most of these UK reality *stars* are, so I don’t care anything for their life updates.

It seems, therefore, that the most significant blocks between myself and a trashy mag are:

a) I don’t have money to spare to buy you
b) Assuming that I acquire you otherwise, I don’t have money to spare on your advertisers
c) I’m a critical thinker, so I read all articles assuming that your sources are bullshit and therefore derive little informative/entertainment value from them
d) I’m an English student who once aspired to journalism (be it as a ten year old) so I cry inside when I read your writing
e) I’m a foreigner and I don’t know half the people you’re talking about (not your fault of course that I’m a foreigner, but seriously, your celebs are rubbish f-listers)
f) You put the trash in trashy.

I’ve not even mentioned the bikini bods. Some of them are SUPAFINE. Some of them are outside of societal norms. Some of the ones I think are SUPAFINE are the ones outside of societal norms, and I’m very very 100% sure that I’m not the only one who thinks this.  I also feel weird looking at them ALL (supafine or not) since they clearly didn’t consent to their pictures being taken.

I would not look good in a bikini, and I would not like any pictures of me [never gonna happen] bikini-wearing to be posted online. I look at other people in bikinis and I wonder how they feel about that, and no matter what their body type, I bet a lot of them feel the same way.

The ever-fluctuating Nicole Richie was on the cover of the bitch-rag I read today, which applauded her skinny-with-tits-bod. How must it be for a woman who has had well-documented issues with food and weight to be congratulated for upholding the ‘correct’ appearance for a Hollywood star? How must it be for those who have followed her as a role model with the hope of recovery?

These are all issues that many people are talking about at the mo, people smarter and wider reaching than me, and I’m just sharing my bitch-pinions.

Okay, so I’m not saying anything new, but I just wanted to say it to you.

How to complain about Summer

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice...

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice…

I’ve finally realised after a full turn of the heavens that it is not an anomoly – London has no concept of those lesser seasons that I love – the beautiful and wistful Autumn, the hopeful and uplifting Spring.

It’s just: Winter… KABLAMMY! Summer… KABLAMMY! Repeat ad nauseum.

After six months of darkness, during which there was not a single temp in double digits, there was a brief flirtation with Spring during which Londonites momentarily put away their poised razor blades and bathed in hope. After that two days in March it was all over again, though, and in late May I was frantically rewriting my suggested packing list to my mother to include thermals, bedsocks, and layers, Layers, LAYERS!

Now though, the weather gods have shown themselves to be lazy trollops devoid of tact or nuance or empathy to man. Every morning at work is a litany of how horrendous and squelchy and breathless our commutes have become, and how difficult it is to dress appropriately for the office while also waylaying sweat stains and mental breakdowns.

But then comes the same mantra time after time, seemingly obligatory lest the trollopy gods bear down on us with ash clouds and summer snow and apocalyptic flooding… “but we can’t complain about the sunshine!!”



The overloaded double decker crawled along, broiling its passengers to the same shade of puce as its iconic exterior. I stood in the aisle, beaded sweat rolling down bared arms, it’s sluggish path stopped only by the skin of strangers, surrounding on six sides.

The collaborative glare of 80 occupants fell on those who sat bewilderingly oblivious beside closed windows. It was to no avail anyway – nothing moved through the gaps as we sat in stilted, enraged traffic, glutted by the excessive desire of all these millions to ‘get to the park!’

Outside, the caterwauling sirens added a 5th sense to the cloying, clogging, choking air surrounding and hounding me, which I could already see, taste, smell, and feel.

Sunglasses slid south and stayed there – the interminable game of removing, wiping, prodding back up was too much effort and I gave in to the dampness. It was everywhere. In unladylike places, as well as particularly ladylike places. Hands slurped against the steadying pole, teaming with the deposits of other sweaty palms, and breeding with previous bodily deposits to create brand new and terrifying life forms in liquid miniature.

Once escaped, I looked up at the enlarged and pale as pale blue vault and felt hopeless. Not a wisp of cirrus or a stratus of protection from the onslaught dared to creep across the dome, lorded over by a cruel hot demon. A plane arched its back across the sun’s flight path and I half-expected it to burst into vampiric flames as the tiny windows failed to absorb the enormous light. At the very least the pilots must surely be blinded and dip the plane along with their shuttered eyes towards the welcoming other blue below.

Perhaps I should have welcomed the idea of going underground, into the cool dark cavern of my imagination. But I approached the gaping mouth with the trepidation of one who has known that torture before. A stray piece of curly black weave lay limply on the escalator and I wondered if an overheated frontal cortex had made its owner so enraged by commuters standing on the left that they had literally torn their hair out.

I wanted to literally tear my clothes off, but only if followed immediately by a waiting body of water. One cool, and clear, and calm, and deep. One free of tourists and hipsters, occupied only by lovers and giggling children and happy dogs. I would be happy just to feel my eyes sting from the salty spray of the wide inviting ocean, rather than the ocean of salty sweat rolling from brow to squinting, seared retinas.

Perhaps I am thinking of heaven, or perhaps of home. Perhaps home is a type of heaven – a castle in the Long White Cloud, moated by a sea salted with the tears of the old gods, weeping as they gave up to us the beautiful seasons. I pray to Autumn. I devote myself to Spring. I defy the fallen Winter.

And I beg for mercy from the cruel Summer.

Undies, undies, undies, togs!

Undies, undies, undies… togs!

Any kiwi knows what the code above means, and any in London have muttered it beneath their hot humid breath this weekend. For those not in the know, let me let you in on the in joke…

Apparently us ANZACs are the only ones who think it’s bizarre to see bikinis without beaches and bared boobs face down on picnic blankets rather than towels.

But what can I say, the Brits obviously enjoy getting their kit off and their tan on without fear of sand in sore places, screeching seagulls dive-bombing, floaters in the pool, or creepy-swimmy ocean-dwellers.

And I don’t think anyone’s really complaining about all the skin on show…

25 ways to know you’re poor in London

You live in London and you don’t live in Zone 6 or share a room with three strangers… but you’re thinking about it…

‘I can’t really afford to’ has replaced ‘shall we have a drink?’ as the most common phrase in your repertoire…

Your Mum wants to send you perfume as a present and you wonder how to tell her you’d rather have socks and underwear…

When you go to the Timeout London website it automatically selects FREE events even though you never clicked ‘remember my search settings’. It KNOWS…

You think about your student loan at least once a day and obsess over the lies your professors told you. Get a good degree they said… you’ll get a job they said… it’ll be easy they said…

You wish you could live at Poundland. And that’s not a euphemism…

You dread bank holidays because you won’t be paid for that Monday off and your friends are all off on holiday without you. Of course, you didn’t want to go to Ibiza anyway…

You’re jealous of every couple you know… because of their half-price rent…

You are willing to sleep inside your sleeping bag, in your bed, in ALL THE CLOTHES so that you can turn the gas heating off. Sexy…

You will go to work with the plague because your workmates can afford sick days and you can’t. Ahhhh… chew! Suffer plebs…

You hear Macklemore’s ‘Thrift Shop‘ and WISH you had $20 in your pocket…

During Winter you always meet friends at Museums because they’re the only place that will let you into the warmth without having to buy anything. #firstworldbumproblems…

The refrigerator broke but you didn’t have to throw anything out…

You drink 14 Nescafe Golds at work (shudder) coz you ain’t paying for that shit outsida 9-5…

Half the reason you want the sun to come out is so that it’s not weird to lie about in the park for 8 hours not doing anything…

You occasionally give all your rusty pennies to a good cause in hopes of some kharma…

When friends leave town you’re a gollum/smeagol combo – crying at their departure and gleefully clutching the linen you’ve inherited. Now you can change your sheets even if it’s raining!

You consider cutting your own fringe… People comment daily on how long your hair is getting… You wonder if you can string it out another 6 months to the next haircut… Chop, snip, ahhhh disaster!

You know which ATMs will give you just a tenner…

You refresh your music by creating new RETRO! playlists from the depths of your collection. Backstreet’s back, ALRIGHT!

You started making a photo montage of your clothes that have holes in them. You only didn’t post them on your blog because the 27 pics of individual holey items with fingers poking through somehow looked like a very particular type of fetish when seen together as a whole…

You miss that terrible temp job in the place with the free lunch bar… but you don’t miss the accompanying food hoarding…

You consider that £3, 1.5L bottle of ‘white wine’ at Budgens for more than 3 seconds… no, we’re not quite there yet. Maybe next week…

You have a strict no-presents rule, coz you know, we’re all adults now, and we don’t have to give in to the corporate marketing machine… let’s just be together, let our ‘presence’ be the present… unless you’re planning something costy, in which case… happy birthday on facebook!

You feel like London Grumbler just KNOWS you…

What I imagined my life in London would be like

What it’s really like:

**Disclaimer Alert – Disclaimer Alert**

Yes, yes, absolutely first world problems, absolutely chose this, absolutely still doing awesome stuff. Just giving you some insight into what people do to live in London these days!