( . ) Titillating Topic ( . )

Baps. Bazookas. Bangers. Boobs. Breasts. Babylons. Bumpers. Bristol Cities…

These are just some of the B words for those bumps of flesh we have sitting on our chest. Yes, these varying burrata balls that bounce, dangle or protrude just above our rib cages have been creating quite a bonanza for a while now. But, why?

“They’re so squashy, comforting and nice’”

So is a marshmallow mate, but I don’t see you losing your shit and eyeballing them down the confectionary aisle.

There a few amalgamated events that have led to this slightly angry blog.


My own mother has an award-winning pair of knockers and carries them with a quiet pride, but even she surprised me with her taboob outlook on breasts.

About two years ago, along with my sisters I was singing in a wedding ceremony for my cousin, and as we often do, I had spent copious amounts of time and money fretting over the outfit, and had actually decided on an outfit I felt fierce in. The outfit consisted of high-waisted grey trousers and a deep plunge khaki leotard, see @lisaangharad8 on Instagram.


When I walked downstairs I was greeted with big green eyes and ‘Is that what you’re wearing?!”

To which I replied defensively “Looks like it doesn’t it, is there something wrong with it?”

“It’s just very revealing that’s all”

It WAS revealing. The important part here isn’t the revealing part, it’s the revealing a part of a body that isn’t ‘suitable’. Had I come down in a body-con dress nothing would have been said, and the crazy thing is, I have big chunky thighs with cellulite and stretch marks, whereas my breasts (touchwood) are still like two pannacottas topped with two slightly large brazil nuts. So, does it not make logical, visual sense that I show off my best bits?

You don’t make a trailer for The Lion King and just show the bit where Mufasa dies do you?!

As my breasts don’t move much (think pannacottas) there’s much less healthy and safety risks of getting them out than wearing a flap fondling dress.

To add a kick in the cunt to the disapproval, the only reason Mam asked me this was because we were about to enter a place of worship and she was worried what people would think. A place where people worship something I believe is very bizarre, where they condemn any sexuality in a woman, hate faggots and believe a woman should ‘obey’ the man.

“You should respect people’s religion”

I absolutely do. The same as I respect people who go to nudist beaches. People who have online virtual girlfriends. People who have sex with their cars.

Does that mean I have to obey Christian rules whilst in a marquee watching someone I love get married? Should I not have gone to the ceremony if I can’t ‘obey’ the rules? Would a Muslim attending the wedding be asked to take off their burka to show respect?If I went to a nudist beach wedding, would it be disrespectful of me to wear a sequinned kaftan?

“It’s disrespectful”

What is actually disrespectful about my breasts? Are they winking at the vicar giving him a hard on so that he can’t concentrate on his sermon? My problem…? No.

Are they affecting my ability to sing in tune and do my job? No.

Are they suggesting something untoward, illegal or disgusting? No.

All these ‘disrespectful’ things my breasts are capable of are happening in other people’s head, it’s nothing that I’m actually doing, so surely it’s their problem, not mine?

If my breasts were going around during the ceremony flicking people’s crotches, teabagging the organist’s testicles and face slapping young children whilst they try and sing ‘all things bright and beautiful’ then I would understand. I would, I promise.

Are my baps not one of the bright and beautiful things your God himself created?!


More recently I have decked my babylons with a feminist t-shirt, with the boobs drawn on it. When I say drawn, I mean like a child’s drawing, two lines and two dots.


My goodness do these 4 tactfully placed shapes create a scene. I have worn the t-shirt about four times, and every time I feel as if I’m walking about naked donning a necklace made of tampons and dildos. I get pointed at, I get tutted at, I get sniggered at and I get whistled at.

Which one of those do I prefer?

Well the whistling of course. Some of you first wave feminists might disagree with me, but at least these people are celebrating my cartoon boobs. Straight Men and Gay Women finding boobs sexy is absolutely ok with me, and although a lot of you find the whistling offensive, to me voicing the fact that they find them sexy is absolutely fine. I voice the fact that I love a good strong arm sexy all the time.  Do I whistle at men who are walking along the street? Absolutely not, but my head does half a whistle and then immediately proceeds to think about the amount of cheddar that’s left in the fridge, where bats go in the day and how we ended up letting a spunkbucket like Farage decide that we were to leave the EU.

What doesn’t sit comfortably with me is the people who assume that absolutely everybody finds boobs sexy, all the time, which results in them thinking that boobs should be hidden at all times.  These people are my problem.  These people don’t only walk the cobbled streets of Aberystwyth and London, Oh no… Breasts have been involuntarily sexualised worldwide.


Since the age of about 14 when I had what can only be called fried eggs(… but no egg white in sight, Just two big awkward yolks) I have gone topless when the sun’s out. Simply because it feels nice and relaxing and it means you don’t get horrible tan lines. It doesn’t matter where I am, if the sun’s warm enough the bakewells come out.

So, when I’d flown 10 hours to see the sunny shores of Mexico to beat that fat, skint month of January and had spent nearly the whole week frolicking topless like a walrus poolside, the last thing I expected was a short sweaty waiter to come over and ask me to ‘cover up’. Hoping maybe that he’d noticed that I was burning and that he was kindly advising me to cover up to avoid going from walrus to lobster, I said “Oh am I burning? Thank you”

“You need to put a top on madam”

It soon dawned on me that he wanted me to put my bakewells back in the bakery. I kept my calm and kept my breasts out, and asked politely,

“Oh right, you would like me to cover my breasts. Is there a specific reason?”

“You need to put a top on madam”

He did that thing of repeating exactly what he’d just said because he was slightly uncomfortable and had no answers, bless him.

“I’ve been topless here all week and no one has said anything, is there a reason my boobs aren’t allowed out today?”

He waddled to get his mate, who was as uninformative and awkward as him. So very politely with my breasticles still rapidly bronzing, I asked nicely if I could speak to someone who could give me some answers. Rushing over comes the “manager” of the complex.

“You need to put a top on immediately madam, it’s the rules”

“Oh I see, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had a policy regarding toplessness, where is it written?”

“It’s not”


“It is a family complex madam, so if you don’t put a top on I will have to ask you to leave”

Things had taken an uncomfortable turn, my boobs had heard the chats and were dangling awkwardly averting their nipples away from the “manager’s” eyes, the sun had decided it would rather shine somewhere where there weren’t misogynistic pricks ruining people’s days, and those around me had reached that awkward part of their daiquiris where their straws were making a shitload of noise whilst desperately dragging the diluted dregs through the ice.

I was desperate to put a top on but even more desperate not to give in without a clearer explanation.

“If this was a written policy I would have known before spending a week out here topless, I also would have been told on the first day, rather than the last. Correct me if I’m incorrect, A ‘family complex’ only points out the fact that there are children here, yes? So those you’re protecting from my bare breasts are children, yes?”

I was quietly fuming now. One of my friends decided it was a great time for a cool down, and another just happened to fancy some chips right at that moment.

“I hate to bring this poor gentleman into this, but can you just take a look over there at that gentleman there with breasts quite a bit bigger than me. Will you be asking him to put a top on?

“No madam, let’s not be ridiculous”

“I’m trying to understand. Right now, you are making my breasts sexual without my consent. You are insinuating that my breasts are out to provoke arousal in those around me?”

“I am asking you to put a top on”

“But why? For what reason? In case the children see them, realise that they used to suck on them 4 years ago and dive on to my nipple for a 3 of clock snack even though there’s free paninis over there? Because those 5 yr olds splashing around in the pool certainly don’t see my breasts as sexual, in fact I can guarantee you that those children you are so worried about offending are the only ones in this complex that haven’t noticed or given two flying shits that I’m topless. Which makes me think that you aren’t asking me to cover up for the sake of the children, that in fact the main reason you want me to cover up is to avoid embarrassing boners around the pool? Am I correct?”

He was stumped, but it was me that had to give in, put my top on and walk sheepishly down to the beach to continue my sunbathing. I was humiliated and made to leave the complex because of the bizarre reason that there were children who might see my breasts. Those lumps of fat that are so crucial for the circle of life are made taboo, massively over sexualised and children are continuously taught that they are ‘naughty’ or funny.

The primary function of the breast is to feed children, so when and why did our society make breasts solely sexual?

The ‘genital echo theory’ believes that breasts developed the way they have when our distant ancestors decided that they didn’t want to crawl around anymore and that they might just try standing up and going for a walk. Prior to this our sign of fertility and winning flirting tool was our bum and we’d swish it about when we wanted to have a baby. According to the theory, when we started walking we needed a sign from the front too, so thankfully evolution gave us a chest swelling rather than a big fat bulbous vagina. Little high five to Evolution for that!

So contradictory to my whole rant above, did nature in fact decide that our breasts were sexual thousands of years ago? Am I hopelessly trying to dispense something that has been happening naturally since we were just past our primates?

Or am I correct in thinking that by today, most of us are considerably more advanced in our way of thinking than we were when we were scrambling around in our sister’s head looking for a snack, and that it’s today’s religion, media and retail industry that’s repetitively telling us that our breasts are sexual?

Do we have to listen to them? No, we don’t.

Do we continue to be brainwashed and not think twice about it? Yes, we do.

Shall we maybe try and kick this taboob gently in the crotch? I think maybe we should.









You clicked on the title thinking, oh here she goes, she’s going to rant about the female orgasm. About time you thought? Well, I could rant on for a while about that. A very long while in fact. Why are we still faking them?! I’m saying we, because bloody hell when needs must, so do I.

The only sane explanation/comparison I can give to you boys and girls is this ;

Let’s imagine we’re in a Theme Park. You get on the roller coaster because the person you’re with tempted you to, even though you wouldn’t have if you were alone, but it’s nice to do things together and sometimes you have to compromise and please others.

You sit on the rollercoaster and the first corner is OK otherwise you would have immediately signed the alarm, but by the third corner you’re thinking ‘fuck this is fucking awful’ but there’s not much you can do. You can’t press the emergency stop button now because you know absolutely everyone would be pissed off with you for next few hours for ruining their fun and making ‘selfish’ decisions. It’s best just to shut your eyes make the appropriate noises, put your hands in the air in forced glee and hope to good god this is a quick ride.

Now do you get me? No?

OK, You’re halfway in.  Her bra has had a fumbled execution, you’ve snogged for the required minimum, pants down parade has passed and penetration party has commenced. She’s pretty damn arid down there and you both know she is but you’re both pretending she’s not. Out of the blue, she suddenly remembers that she hasn’t submitted one of her piano pupils for her grade 1 and the deadline is due tomorrow… suddenly her brain is not in that bed/car/field(each to their own) anymore.

In fact, her brain is frantically clicking on the ABRSM website. If her brain isn’t focused, you may as well be planting cabbages mate, she is never going to come. Now, this isn’t new breaking news, in fact science backs up that 99% of a woman’s orgasm comes from her brain.

So, as much as she loves/likes/fancies the person inside her (who’s sweating profusely and quite obviously busily imagining she’s Britney Spears in the ‘Slave for You’ video and ignoring the fact that she’s got that puzzled face on that she usually has when she can’t remember where she put her sudocrem), she has lost focus.  The likelihood of her orgasming (apparently this isn’t a word, screw you red line) is similar to the likelihood of me having a new year’s eve without at one point considering emigrating to Austria on my own and opening a beagle orphanage.

It’s not because we want to lie to you, trick you, or the more popular assumption, boost your ego. No, It’s because it’s easier to fake it. It’s easier. Humans like things that are easy. Travelators… frozen jacket potatoes… self adhesive stamps…I could go on, but it would be easier not to.

ANYHOW, this blog is absolutely not about faking orgasms, although now a good chunk of it actually it, and bloody hell I could write a dissertation on the topic, but today’s not the day.

This is a word vomit following from my summer blog ‘Vagina Dating’ where I planned to try and take my heart on dates rather than just my vagina. I was aware as I was writing that it wasn’t going to be simple and by the cold month of November I’ve actually come to the conclusion that it’s something that I possibly can’t actually do.

The truth is, you take everything with you on a date, because as a human you’re a compact (some more so than others…eye rolling emoji) package. Regardless of what you plan/want to take, you take the whole package, it’s just that you only use the bits that you think are appropriate at the time. A bit like when you go caravanning. Sure, you take your fur hat, your wellies and your inflatable watermelon rubber ring, you absolutely can’t play safe enough when caravanning, especially in Britain.  But you’re not going to whack on your fur hat and your wellies and jump into your inflatable watermelon are you?!

When do I get to the bit about ‘faking it’? Bear with.

From my understanding and experience, a relationship, as it is today, in the modern world consists of the matching of three things.

  • Looks/Chemistry/SEX
  • Intelligence
  • Morals

Now, surely the chances of those three elements being bang on between two people is extremely low?

Oops, Am I being cynical again?  (If so, I blame Brexit, UKIP and Trump. They’re getting the blame for everything these days, period pains, bad hair days, gone off yoghurt still in the fridge……)

Back to the point. As a nation of Bake Off lovers, we all know soufflés are bloody hard to make, and consist on a lot of elements being bang on to achieve a perfectly risen soufflé, a bit like a relationship does?

So not every Paul, Delia and Mary can just whack out a puffy, beautiful soufflé at the drop of a rolling pin, but there seem to be relationships (which are, surely, scientifically even more complex than a soufflé to perfect) rising like bloody hot cakes all around me.

So my question is this, are people just faking it? (And there it is!)

Are they just pretending to the world and possibly each other, that their relationship consists of those three matching elements? Or are they just ordering a soufflé but happily settling for a quick omelette?

Now maybe, contradictory to what I’ve said above, there is no specific requirement for a perfect relationship, and that it’s all much more spiritual than scientific and actually consists of no necessary matching elements, just unexplained fireworks.

If so, maybe they aren’t lying to us, (us being the ever judging social media eye, they being everyone in a seemingly perfect relationship) maybe we’re just assuming that they have everything when we double tap that picture? Maybe we’re the ones guilty of ‘faking it’?

Day to day, I often ask myself, am I just a cynical, bitter, late twenties singleton that’s skimming through Instagram subconsciously zooming in on every tightly held hand, every gentle kiss on the head, every loved up cackle,  and point blank refusing to accept that they are simply happy because it makes me feel better to think otherwise?

Am I also just conveniently choosing to ignore 2011’s census statistic that states that the UK is 51% single…most of them rattling around in London frantically searching for that happy ending?

Or am I just happier being a cynical, bitter, late twenties singleton striving for a soufflé rather than be someone who’s potentially, genuinely satisfied with an omelette diet?

YES to the latter.


Vagina Dating

Today’s big question is this. Have I just been taking my vagina on dates for the last three years? Did I actually attend any of the dates as a human being, a complex, evolved organism full of creativeness, emotion and heart?

I’m beginning to think not.

I have been dating app dating on and off in London for three years, and last week I went on a date and came away with the startling realisation that I had arrived at that date Vagina first. And for the first time ever I thought, was that a conscious choice I made? Or is it a subconscious defence mechanism that’s spiralling slightly out of control?

Am I Vagina Dating because my vagina doesn’t suffer anxiety? She can’t tell me that she feels shit in the morning? She doesn’t wear a rejection cloak for the following week? Maybe it’s because she’s down there, far away from my heart, I can hide her and her secrets away in pretty lace knickers and let my top half face the world as if nothing ever happened.

So, ‘vagina dating’, a term I coined last week during a pissed chat with someone I regularly vagina dated in my younger years. A date where you care more about what your vagina gets out of it than you do as a person. A date where sex or sexual chemistry is the be all and end all, and you conveniently/stupidly forget to take your heart with you to avoid any serious rejection.

Before going on a date, the main question our generation ask each other is ‘you going to shag him then?’ We do it to our sisters, our gay best friend, even our not so best friends. It’s always the first question asked.

Why on earth are we sooo focused on this? In my earlier blogs I preach how sex is a physical need, a want, something natural and pleasurable that you should explore and celebrate, but the older I get the more I realise that humans can’t be fully happy without love too.

When I try to analyse why I’m so scared to present my whole self rather my hole self on date, I always end up at this thought. There is nothing more unattractive than a man who is very open about his want for a girlfriend.

‘Looking for a gf’

‘Not looking for just fun’

‘Been single for 10 years, ready to find a wife’

I immediately imagine him sat at home for ten years wanking/crying into a tissue. My annoying typewriter of a brain spells out D.E.S.P.E.R.A.T.E and then turns the Hollywood lights on a sends fireworks full of spunky/snotty tissues cascading over it. Funnily enough, I just don’t want the poor soul I’m on a date with to have that traumatic experience, so I simply rather approach a date carefree and flirtatious. Yes, Vagina first.

Is taking your heart on a date considered too dangerous these days? Am I living in a city where hearts are left at home, just in case? Are we fast city living, childless young professionals wrapping our hearts in cotton wool because they’re the only precious things we have? Are we taught by society to be too careful with our hearts?

‘Your heart is the softest place on earth, take care of it’   @nayyirah.waheed

We’re all spamming Instagram with life changing quotes about how we’re free souls that exude love and openness, but are any of us really living that way?

‘The most beautiful people wear their hearts on their sleeves, and their souls upon their smiles’ @markanthonypoet

I mean, yes that’s beautiful, but is it realistic? Are we all just fantasising on social media again? Doing that thing of pretending that our life is the next Disney phenomenon and any minute now its going to start pissing it down and some fireman will come to your door because his fire engine has broken down and he needs to use your phone… ok fine, more pornhub than Disney, but still.

Why do we do that? Where in reality, what we’re doing is walking around selling sex in the hope that we get a free side of love with it.

As we approach dates why aren’t we asking each other ‘Are you going to tell him about your anxiety? Will you mention the troubled relationship you have with your dad? What will you do if he’s really right wing? Or worse a racist?!’

Nope, it’s always just ‘You going to let him spray his man mayo in your lady quiche or what?’

It’s even reaching the point where what your vagina wears is more important than what you wear. Don’t want to look too try hard and show too much naked skin… are these diamonds too much?! Fur coat… looks like I’m hiding something underneath? Too much perfume is overwhelming, boys love a girl’s natural smell…. Right?!

What’s the answer then? Is it finally time to add my heart into the mix because there’s no way in hell I’m leaving my vagina at home, she’d be livid.

Do I need to be a bit braver and start presenting the full package and understand that you must present it all to attract the appropriate customers?

 ‘We are waiting for the buyer. 

The one who wants all of you. 

 But you have to be careful as you open up shop.

“It’s just business.” 

And some just want to look around’ @TMOF

 Does this mean that I need to go on dates with men that are willing to bring their full package to the party as well? The thought actually makes my nostrils sting. I love a challenge, but this is the scariest yet.

Yes, it’s time. I need to start going on foursomes. A fanny, a dick and a couple of hearts.     I can hear Richard Curtis scribbling the screen play as I type…

So, here goes, who would like a foursome with me?

Form an orderly queue guys.


Tut, Frown and a Clit Slap

(So, I have spent my whole day ranting fiercely over this blog, and an hour ago I was informed that someone has basically put their hand in my mouth and stolen my words and blasted them all over national TV. Hallelujah girl! I am utterly thrilled that someone thinks the same as me and has the power to spread the love. Here are the words, with more descriptions, more comparisons and more fire. It’s also written in a Welsh accent.)

In my last blog I raised the question – would you rather your daughter took cocaine every weekend or slept with a different man every weekend… but it seems that the more topical reality would be – would you rather your daughter had sex with someone on TV or be aggressive, unkind and unstable on live TV. Sex loses again.

ITV’s latest addictive trash TV Love Island has revealed everything that’s wrong with the beauty pageant world and more than that it’s shown me how much of a problem the way the most intelligent animal on earth, us humans, treat sex.

If you’ve got a great, fun filled life and have managed to avoid being on the sofa at 9pm every night for the last two weeks then, firstly bloody good for you, and secondly let me quickly get you up to date.

Like every other reality programme ‘Love Island’ is simply an anthropology study. This one is played out as a competition, and focuses particularly on our understanding, reactions and morals in relationships.

One of the contestants in the house happens to be Miss GB, and as part of the competition she had to spend a night in a bed with a rather bloody gorgeous pineapple haired, Tarzan shouldered male.

Absolutely bizarrely, she got turned on, and God forbid, did something about it.

As a result, the Miss GB sex police had a little tantrum. They publicly shamed her for her actions, and with a tut, frown and a slap on the clit, they snatched her crown and gave it to the runner up who they’re hoping and praying has no libido whatsoever.

A few days later, another contestant, Kady, couldn’t deal with her jealousy, paranoia, confusion in the house and dealt with it horribly, ending up frantically screaming abuse at another contestant over a fence, May I add, probably the most unimaginative abuse I’ve heard this year so far, “Your dress is shit”…. Good one babes. Really good one. You know someone out there has created the meme already…

Now, to go back to my opening statement, if I was a parent I know which one I’d be most worried about. Yet, who do you think has made the media moist? Who do you think has been slut-shamed by most papers out there…

Zara, although she was as likeable as a smear test to begin with, she did absolutely nothing disrespectful or untoward to anyone, and yet it’s her that’s been uncrowned, shamed and who has now left the house with her tail between her ass. All because she had sex.

Did we see her fucking like a spaniel on heat and forcing the rest of the house to watch? Did we hear her squealing like a piglet keeping everyone awake at ungodly hours? Did we see her selling blow jobs for a fiver and calling herself an entrepreneur?

Did we hell! There was a slight kerfuffle under the sheets, a few tactically placed fireworks to imply orgasms and then we saw her giggle and lick her lips. For all we know she might have had corn on the cob for tea and a pube had just flossed out a bit of stubborn kernel.

Good TV editors know what they’re doing, one should never assume.

For crying out loud, Sex is a need, a physical animalistic need. It’s not a treat, it’s not that cheeseboard you shouldn’t have, it isn’t that sequinned kimono that you can’t afford and it definitely isn’t that Tuesday afternoon full body massage when you owe your mate a hundred quid for the electric bill.

It’s a need, you can’t ignore it, so why are women regularly punished, embarrassed, uncrowned for wanting it?

Yes, maybe Zara was aware that as ‘Miss GB’ she wasn’t allowed to have sex, but haven’t we all been there, in a bed with someone we can’t do anything sexual with? If you haven’t, I urge you to try it. It’s the most exciting, frustrating, excruciating thing EVER. There’s never a time your senses are more heightened than when you’re so turned on you can hardly remember your own name. You’re laying there with your clit throbbing as if you’ve just closed it in a door, your breath is as if you’ve just swam 4 lengths for your 1000m badge to sew on your swimsuit, and all four of your limbs are twitching like that poor ant you’ve just flicked off your naked lollipop stick…It’s fierce.

I have to ask what Miss GB’s slut-shaming team were expecting when they “allowed” Zara to go into the house to partake in a competition that involves a house full of attractive single people trying to couple up? Were they expecting that maybe, as their dark age sexist pageant competition crowned her a “princess” she didn’t have any sexual needs? Maybe they believe that when the crown sits on your head it squashes your libido? Maybe they thought the title ‘Miss GB’ alone numbs every erogenous zone on your body for a year? Maybe they let her go on there to be a role model to other girls of how you should never ‘give in’ to a man, or ‘give yourself away too early’… you know those harmful concepts that ruin girls’ sex lives forever? That concept that sex isn’t to be enjoyed by girls, it is a prize that you give a man once he’s dutifully earned it.

My main purpose here wasn’t to slag off beauty pageants, I am writing this blog to point out how media-influenced we are with regards to sex, and I don’t think we realise the extent of it.

If there are enough headlines telling us that this girl or woman is ‘wrong’, ‘dirty’ ‘shameful’ for having sex with that person, in that place, in front of those people, then it is too easy to get brainwashed, and end up half-heartedly agreeing with these ridiculous claims and subconsciously skip on to the slut-shaming bandwagon dragging others with us.

Why aren’t we as a generation creating a stink about how old-fashioned and damaging these beauty pageants are? Why aren’t we shaming them for their bizarre, sexist, dampening rules and regulations of what a strong female role model should be?

If these ridiculous pageants are to continue, why can’t we campaign for the first Miss GB with wonky teeth, a sense of humour and one tit considerably larger than the other, who was genuinely involved in charity work before she realised she had great legs to promote a fake tan brand? Why don’t we ‘crown’ women who speak up, who don’t conform, who make history and make their own choices due to what they feel is right rather than spend their time trying to conform to what a rule book written in 1945 says? In 1974 the Welsh Miss World contestant Helen Morgan, was asked to resign when they discovered she had a child. Although this didn’t technically break any written rules, she was asked to resign to avoid ’embarrassment’.  So she basically lost her crown for having sex once. Have things improved in 42 years?

The thing that smacks me in the face is the hypocrisy of the whole pageant. If you google Zara, Miss GB, every picture that comes up is of her in a dress or a bikini looking as sexy as she physically can, yet she is not allowed to play that part. She must look sexy but she must not be sexy or partake in any sexiness. Do team Miss GB believe a woman is to be admired, as a trophy, a doll, but must not come alive? Are we happy with that notion being plastered all over the media for the next generation? Is that a strong female role model?

Some of you might think, ‘Leave them to it, if that’s what they want to do, it doesn’t affect us, they know what they’re letting themselves in for when they put themselves up for it’ and that’s where I disagree. Right now, there are thousands of girls on their iphones, swiping through facebook, browsing on twitter, who are reading that what Zara has done is disgraceful, and are being made to believe that if they act in that same way, they will ruin their chances of ever being a thing of ‘beauty’, a ‘princess’ or a strong female role model.

This is disastrous.

Which is why, fellow humans, ones with breasts and ones without, we need to speak up and put our opinions out there, loudly for the next generation to see,hear and believe.

Let’s become strong female role models together. Let’s support each other in our choices, be it publicly or privately. Let’s not shame each other, or conform to anyone, let’s be individuals, together.

Together is Stronger.

Fanny Farts over Sunday Lunch..

Some of you may have seen me on Channel 4’s new ‘shocking’ programme #sexbox…. And thought, bloody hell, what did she do that for?!

It wasn’t until last year when I toured six forms across Wales discussing current issues affecting young people, that I realised how dire the state of sexual education was in Britain. It wasn’t until then that I also realised how passionate I am about talking about sex.

The current curriculum states this :

“Some parts of sex and relationship education are compulsory – these are part of the national curriculum for science”

Now then, How many of your first times were ‘scientific’? How many of you approach sex with a thermometer, gas mask and a Bunsen burner….. I imagine a VERY imaginative minority…. And most of them not impressionable 15 year olds…

The only compulsory element of Sex Education in Britain at the moment is this

“All schools must have a written policy on sex education, which they must make available to parents for free.”

So, in other words, schools can teach them anything they choose. This, in my opinion, is D for DANGER. Why the bloody hell are we more than happy to teach our children how to eat healthily, how to communicate successfully but not willing to teach them how to have a healthy sex life? Are we not all agreed that Sex is as much part of our lives as how many wives Henry the 8th had? If not that teeeeny tinnnny bit more?!

The biggest thing that struck me was how sex is currently being pictured as something ‘ych a fi’ a term so fondly used in Wales to describe something a bit yucky… something slightly untoward to talk about….like fanny farts over Sunday dinner, like an used condom on a see-saw… you get my drift…

The majority of young people in Britain today are taught that sex is solely about STI’s and Pregnancy, and if you just don’t do ‘it’ then you’re perfectly safe from both those disasters.

Do any of them teach girls about the clitoris? Do any schools teach children how misleading porn can be? How not every girl likes to be spanked? How not every boy has to be dominating and aggressive?

Do they hell! But to be fair some of the lucky ones do get taught how to put a condom on a banana though, which I’m sure you’ll all agree is VERY handy as most penises I’ve seen have been visually & similar textured to the berry of a herbaceous plant….

Some unlucky ones were taught that a carrot is very similar to a man’s sexual organ… every winter it baffles me that we don’t have a nation of young people that go around making love to snowmen’s noses.

I went on #sexbox to discuss my sex life, something I have always been very open about and have absolutely no regrets about, and yet when the first episode aired I was anxious what people’s reactions would be to me revealing my “magic number”. The public’s reaction was exactly as I had imagined.

I have been single for 11 years and in that time I have had sex with who ever I have wanted to have sex with. Is that wrong of me? Is it undignified that I admit that? Is it filthy that I as a woman find sex pleasurable?

I want to live in a society where it doesn’t matter what your magic number is, where you can choose to have sex with one person for the rest of your life or you can choose to have sex with hundreds. You can do exactly what you and your vagina want to do. You are a team, and you are going to make each other happy. And more than this, whichever path you choose, you are allowed to talk about it, absobloodylutely any time you want to.

So to answer my opening question, this is why I went on #sexbox. I fully consider myself a generally good human. I’m generous, I’m honest, I’m open, I’m caring and I’m a humanitarian through and through, and yet after broadcasting how many people I have had sex with on television I waver between being empowered and liberated to feeling complete shame and regret.

The issue I’m personally battling with myself is this, Is it me that’s making myself feel shameful? Am I self hating or is it the society I live in that feel they should be ashamed of me because they don’t understand my need to reveal such personal inappropriate issues?

Am I ashamed that I have slept with this amount of people or am I just ashamed that I have admitted it to the nation? The truth is I do not regret any of my decisions, I have not broken any laws, I have not hurt anyone, so why am I ashamed?


Another thing I struggle to understand about myself is this, why when I discuss sex do I feel the need to make it comedic and ‘shocking’? Is this because I feel I have to, to say the things I want to say? Or is it because it makes it easier for the people around me to cope or react with what I’m saying?

When my friends were getting to the age where they began to settle down, find life partners, get engaged, I found myself increasingly panicking. As I don’t believe in marriage as such, rather than approach the situation maturely I would joke, and say things such as ‘well my target can be to sleep with a hundred people’, instantly making sex a game, which is in no way or form what I believe, but it got the laughs in and I feel it made my friends feel less uncomfortable about the whole ‘single elephant in the room’ issue.

It increasingly seems that people who are publicly open about their sexual life, appear to be, or are portrayed as crass, obscene and vulgar, and as one of those people myself, I subconsciously play up to that stereotype rather than be brave enough to take a mature honest approach. Regretfully, this is exactly how I portrayed myself on #sexbox.

If I did a survey on the streets today “would you rather find out your daughter was a cocaine user or had slept with a 100 men” I wonder which would be the biggest issue? One is legal, releases endorphins and natural, the other is illegal, affects your mental state and results in a come down. It would be very interesting and very revealing…

Sex is a human instinct, not some modern fad, not something risqué we should wait until it becomes fashionable until we can talk about it. Some think money makes the world go around…. I think it’s sex.

Let’s talk about sex. Let’s have happy sex. Let’s be the generation of delicious sex!

This little rant is just the start of things to come…. I want to discuss every point I made above in further detail and explore exactly why we’re so bloody backward when it comes to discussing sex. Watch this tiny internet space!