Tick Tock (and not the cool kind)

“WHAT A SHIT WEEK”

 

She says at 11am on a Wednesday morning.

 

In the space of 3 complete rotations of the Earth’s axis, I’ve managed to collect a very bruised bum cheek (see Instagram for video), taken an almighty “slap in the face” that’s probably gonna leave an indent for a little while and a heart almost entirely broken at the thought of losing my little fur best mate. What do I want for Christmas? A fucking break please Santa babes. (And I’m sorry for the two profanities in the space of three sentences, my Nan will be fucking livid…lol, soz hun). But I'm a little well versed to this kind of week now so I'm not going to even give it a verse (like what I did there, hey hey?) in my blog...we'll save that for another time.

 

They do say “That when it rains it pours” and I guess for now, I just need to pop my umbrella up, embrace it and accept this season for however long it lasts. Weather can’t be the same all the time, can it? It can never rain all day, every day, for forever- and I know this now (shout out to my therapist Donna for teaching me that I am, what one might call a “catastrophiz-er”, I’m still not completely sold you know) Maybe, right now this is just where I’m going to head into a season where there is more bad weather than good- but the weather always has to change. Maybe this is just a little storm before the sunshine and rainbow’s come out again, after all- I’d been pretty lucky with my weather for the last few months. But, if it never rains, the flowers don’t grow. So as much as we don’t like the rain maybe we should learn to. Some people find ways to be happy in the rain, don’t they? They dance (thanks Hollywood for this one), they jump (and thanks small children and the invention of welly boots for this one), they laugh, they wrap up extra warm and crack on…so the question is, how do we get through our rain?

 

For me, it’s to write. Writing down all the swirling, whirling and twirling thoughts whizzing round in my head that before I know it get all jumbled up like the Christmas tree lights we stuff back in the box and I end up in a right old mucking fuddle (*fucking muddle but I was trying not to swear…and now I have again, points for trying?). And if I can help untangle anyone else’s looped up ponderings…well then that’s a double win.

 

Recently, I caught a little bit of Disney’s Peter Pan movie on the TV. Random I know but Sky movies was definitely stuck in that interim period of Halloween Slasher’s and Christmas Classic’s, November is a weird month, isn’t it? I pressed play on it thinking I was going to be taken back to my childhood and enjoy a nice little movie that I hadn’t seen for YEARS (because I’m getting well old now). I did not think however that I would watch it and end up having an existential crisis and a brain questioning my entire life-oh it’s fun to be me isn’t?

 

And there is one scene to blame for this, that bloody “Tick-Tock” clock swallowing (I said CLOCK, keep it clean you lot) crocodile chasing Hook the whole movie. A comical, slap stick scene which, as a fledgling little RiRi, I used to find utterly hilarious. Now, its slightly panic-strickened me. 

 

That ticking crocodile isn’t just a comedic gag or a way to get rid of Peter’s arch nemesis, it’s a metaphor. Time is chasing after all of us. And whether we like it or not, it does catch up to us in the end. 

 

(I do blame choosing English Literature as an A Level for my inability to now watch, read, listen to any of the arts without constantly trying to dissect its deeper meaning…the curtain in the poem is never just ‘blue’ because it matched the furniture guys, duhhhh).

 

I’m getting to that age now where the old Facebook walls are starting to fill up with engagement announcements, gorgeous photos from yet another wedding, little bumps appearing on tummies of the girls who once shared my disgust of bloating after eating a panini from the school canteen, boomerangs of keys in front of the new build houses (which to be honest is the one I REALLY want to know how you’re doing it, because I don’t know about a cost of living, mine is truly just a cost of being alive). And my feed is me in a nice hat…or a photo of a nice cookie that cost me £6 (ahhhhh I slightly  get the house thing now).

 

And it’s not that I felt jealous. God no, I am truly, from the bottom of my heart, BEYOND happy for them. These are people I share so much of my life’s happiest memories with. I just felt a little afraid. Actually, scrap that, I felt fucking terrified. Sorry Nan, this one needs it.

 

Terrified that life is zooming on and I’m clinging on for dear life on this scary rollercoaster, that big 3-0 is lurking around the corner ready to pounce and… I don’t have any of this. In fact, I’m not in even close to having any of this. And then in turn, I’m not even sure which bits I want from life’s pic and mix anyway yet. Which then overwhelms me and just makes me want to buy two £6 cookies. Which with the ‘Blondie’s Kitchen” deal I may as well just buy 4 and get the 5^thone free HASHTAG GIRL MATHS. Yes, I have spent £24 on cookies before and I regret not a single thing because they are out of this world and my mouth has never quite been the same since.

 

I digress.

 

I feel like I’m so fixated on age because there is this pressure on twenty-somethings to be a certain way at 20, then 23, then at 25, at 29. There are these “invisible deadlines” with careers, love, life and I think we just end up feeling guilty if we don’t reach the expected milestones when we “should have”. About 4 years ago I was teaching a little girl and on her lesson, she stopped half way through her Tango and this was the conversation that followed:

 

LG: “Rianna, how old are you?”

Me: “I’m 25, will this knowledge now help you do a decent promenade position?”

(My sarcasm knows no age)

LG: “No…do you have a boyfriend or husband?”

Me: “Nope, boys are icky any way aren’t they, haha?”

(Kept it PG and didn’t wanna say most boys are assholes so not worth it babe, probably a more useful lesson for her than a Tango but)

LG: “So you don’t want babies?”

Me: “Well I’d love babies one day, but not right now I guess”

LG: “But your old, you should find a husband, you’ll be too old one day and then you cant get a husband…or have babies”

Me: “Let’s carry on with this Tango shall we?”

(Held back the tears from falling down my clearly haggard face and continued working on that dodgy promenade)

 

Now look, don’t come to me with the “oh don’t take it so seriously, she’s only young” I’m fully aware of how kids operate and they absolute one liner, gut punches they come out with (“Did you know you have spots on your face Rianna? That one is really big...there by that other one.") But this is a 9/10-year-old thinking that I’m way behind schedule and that I’m practically barren and a spinster already- that must have come from somewhere? 

 

Which loops me back to this “timeline” thing. Did we learn this in school or something? Is there like some special class that we attend where we told about this life we have to live. Most of us are obsessed with this idea of being domesticated and having our lives together- by a certain age. And I think it’s kind of sad, because, for me at least, I don’t feel like I’ve had the chance to enjoy my youth fully. Throw in an eating disorder, a job that not the best for having a social life at the best of times plus some pretty severe bouts of depression and that’s quite a significant amount of ‘time’ that I’ve ‘wasted’. As I said, 30 is approaching, yes I have Level 29 to complete first but put it this way…I’m officially in the “Late Twenties” era and I would be in the “Over 25’s” category on ‘X Factor’…where Wagner was. I shiver and want to book the botox immediately, get the walking stick ready by the front door. Is this the end for me? Shall I just give in and accept that I am a failure, a write off, a “non-starter” (fun fact: I watch the Diana panorama interview at least once a month because I think it’s truly iconic and you all should too ) never going to say, “I do”, get to wear the big white dress, put the new shiny metal key in a new shiny front door…oh no, I’ll never even hear the famous first word of “Mamma” from my own flesh and blood…strike me down God for my life is over. End scene.

 

*A little voice is heard from stage left- “Ermmm hi Ri, its inner Ri speaking here, the non mental one. Remember that time Donna said that you can sometimes catastrophize things into an absolute oblivion that’s beyond any form of rhyme or reason, and end up in complete meltdown because you’ve created a false narrative in your head? Yeah that’s what’s happening here Ri. And stop swearing, its fucking crass.”

 

 

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.Yeah, Donna actually might have a point.

 

Which is then when I think about it. I rationalise. I actually USE my brain rather than just believing what it tells me as the gospel.

 

I’m not behind in life. There is no schedule or timetable that we must follow. It’s made up. It’s as made up as Tick Tock the Crocodile. Made up by a society that kind of villainises you for even daring to go against the grain.  For sure life is happening, time is going, I am ageing (I ain’t blind, I can see those little wrinkles appearing). But right now, I’m where I need to be. We are ALL where we need to be. Otherwise we wouldn’t be there. I don’t have to just take the “big things” as the only life wins, I can enjoy and be proud of all the little bits in between as well. We all have different needs, wants and goals. Heck, I have so many different lives that I want to live, so many different me’s, that I think it’s a little sad that I genuinely won’t have time to live them all! 

 

Some will get married early, some will get married late (and I will look fabulous in white at any age I’ll have you know). Some don’t get married at all. Does that mean that their life will be filled with any less love? Nope. 

 

It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that just because I don’t have someone who wants to rip my clothes off 24/7 that I’m not loved. But, deep down, hidden by negative thoughts...I know I am. I am loved by so many (and hated by a fair few too but we don’t focus on the haters girls, gays and they’s do we Huns?) and actually when I really think about it, the love I feel from those few special people around me fill me up more than any “society approved, social norm” relationship has ever done.

 

Time is precious. Of course it is. And one thing I’m really going to do in 2024 is be more careful with who I give my time too. The only time I’ve ever “wasted’ is spending it on unworthy people and making them priorities in my life when they haven’t deserved it. “I will no longer swim oceans for people who wouldn’t jump over a puddle for me”. That’s not worth it anymore. Especially when I know there are people out there who would willingly hold my hand and cross that ocean with me any time and in any “season” I am in. A cold winter swim isn't as appealing as a warm sunny dip is it? 

 

It’s funny isn’t it how we spend so much time in life worrying and chasing those who don’t care rather than the ones who do? THIS is where we let time slip. We then let the good one’s slip. And before you know it, your slipping yourself. 

 

But we can stop the slide.

 

We can stop it by realising we aren’t behind, we aren’t late and providing we don’t get hit by a bus tomorrow…we have some time. We have time to fix, change, discard, gain, lose, buy, love everything we want in life. At our own pace. On our own timeline.

 

We can’t outrun that ticking time bomb, but we sure can learn to enjoy our own chase along the way.

 

(And that’s why I’ll still be buying my £6 cookies forever more…in my rain, in my sun, in my thunder and my snow).

 

 

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This Barbie is...sick and tired.

I was expecting to bound out of Screen 1 after seeing the new Barbie movie with cute giggles, ideas for new “Ken Memes” & MAJOR jealousy for Margot Robbie’s entire wardrobe throughout the film (I mean…all 3 of these did happen obvs, have you seen that pink Chanel Heart Flap Bag she has, utterly sensational & I’m TOTALLY obsessed) but I also came out wiping away the little mascara tears that had trickled their way down my face, leaving a very un-Barbie like black streak on my cheek, after silently SOBBING at multiple parts of the movie (and not just from laughing too much at Ryan Gosling’s interpretation of Ken, I smell that Golden Globe already baby)!

 

Oh, and it also made me want to call my mum immediately to apologise for literally everything. Love you Mumma. 

 

I think first of all I was shocked by the complexity of the film. It was one of the most beautifully constructed depictions of how little girls grow up and the women we then become. 

 

For those who have their doubts on this movie, I hear ya loud and clear but it really is just a genius commentary on the objectification of women, how the patriarchy operates (in the words of Ken, grrrrrrr) and how it negatively impacts men, their mental health…and their wardrobe choices. It speaks on the challenges of motherhood, being exposed to the dangers of a fantasy world, sexism but most importantly, it succinctly summed up the feeling of being held up against the most impossible standards as a woman. All whilst filled with gags, epic dance routines and a John Cena cameo. I told you it was complex.

 

I have to admit, watching the Barbie movie (even though I went with a Ken, a very sweet and nice Ken actually, so maybe he’s more of an ‘Alan’ at heart, who just has some big KENergy we did see Oppenheimer first though, as a sweetener) it was the most heart-warming sights to see. So many women, and little women came together, in pink obviously, to share these laughs, the tears and the spectacle that is Barbieland. Even as I walked through a rainy and grey Leicester Square to go and meet my Ken, there was the nod/smile/little wink to other women dressed in that undeniable Mattel colour scheme that seemed to add a sense of sunshine to the undeniably bleak weather of the day. 

 

Also shout-out to KENmil for taking his role very seriously also and wore a blue and white striped tee and chinos to fulfil my request to match my pink gingham co-ord…ladies, keep those standards high.

 

It truly felt like a once in a lifetime experience that will be a treasured memory. Like a moment captured in time of unapologetic girlhood to womanhood.

 

But enough of that mushy stuff, because I’m mad. I’m really mad. But also, I’m really, really tired of it all. And I’m tired of staying quiet.

 

Blame Barbie for firing up enough feminism in me to now punch a hole through a wall (male fragility style of course).

 

Unlike “Barbieland” where everything is run by women (and it really is just the coolest land of all), I’m in a profession that is dominated by men. I’m sorry ladies to be the barer of the truth….but we are. Right from being that little girl putting on her first pair of dancing shoes we are told that we are the disposable ones, sometimes subliminally but my mother has also been told that to her face as well when chatting with a father of one of my dance partners- he was a real nice guy * note asshole*

 

There are soooooo many more girls dancing and looking for that perfect boy partner  (he’s about as realistic as “Ken’s Mojo Dojo Casa House by the way) that, I guess naturally, we are the ones on the side-line, the lower rung crew. We’re waiting to get picked because the boys HAVE the pick from hundreds of us. And that’s before we get put up against the thousands of foreign girls as well because, and I quote, 

 

“I’d much rather dance with European girls because they have a much higher tolerance than English girls when I’m pushing them beyond their limits in practice and they are in pain…they don’t cry as much”.

 

Now, I can’t show you the face I pulled when I heard this comment come out of this ballroom dancers mouth, but if “fuck off” had a face, in that moment I’d have become the new poster girl for it.

 

Now, I understand that this world is tough, extremely competitive and not for the faint hearted but for this man to be proud of that statement stunned me. If he felt comfortable telling me, a woman (no hiding these double D’s are there) this the first time we met it makes me wonder what else he did/does to his partners…and look, don’t come for me with your “I bET woMEn ABusE thEIr dANcE paRTnErs tOo” argument because as that may be true we ALL have heard the stories (and let’s be honest here, we’ve witnessed it too on practice’s and at comps…cancel me go on, see if I care) about violent, abusive, sexist men...just we don’t really do anything about it do we? Just carry on as normal right…anyway I digress.

 

He’s meant to be on the same team as his partner but instead is probably getting a hard on from seeing how far he can push her before she starts to show some form of emotion. 

Did his arrogance, and let’s be honest, slightly sadistic tendencies, just come on one day or did having that “power” over women from a young age (this particular guy competed as a child) turn him into this monster? Like a Special Edition Ballroom Dancing Ken, tail suit and number card included- shoes and morals sold separately.

 

Maybe it’s a parallel to the scene in the movie where Ken took EVERYTHING that Barbie had worked for without an ounce of remorse, yet claimed he loved her? He watched her suffer and question her worth and did nothing. And in the end Barbie was still left with the responsibility of encouraging him and being his emotional support- little bit like a female dancer I know who has to “butter” her partner up, turn up the touchy feely-ness, lovey dovey bullshit near a big competition to make him feel good about himself even though she has no sexual attraction to this guy in the first place…(her words, not mine) yikes. 

I’m starting to see why I never made it in this world because this Barbie ain’t massaging a male ego to hopefully win a trophy. Genuinely a little bit of vomit comes up every time I think about this…

 

It would explain though as to why so many men in this business do treat women as disposable objects who they think they can control just because they’ve won a title or two in their lifetime.

 

One of the ickiest things about this industry are the males who use their status, success (past or present) & position of power to promise things to women. The Ballroom and Latin world has its very own version of the MGM 1950’s Casting Couch (I went with this style casting couch because come on, as much as dance is a VERY flawed world, it is opulent one darling).

 

Look, I’m under no illusion that I’m the only woman to have experienced this during my time but I have only recently wised up to it and can spot these “casting calls” coming from a mile off now- I iz a professional innit.

 

But before I was extremely stupid…actually, maybe I should be a little gentler on my younger self and let’s say naïve…stupive. Let’s go for that.

 

First example, I was messaged in 2020 by a highly regarded teacher who asked if I currently had a partner after seeing a video of me dancing. I replied no. He said he would help. I said that would be amazing. Back and forth, back and forth the usual, how tall, how old, willing to relocate, can I see your boobs? I thought it was a joke. It was not. 

He was willing to help me find a partner, but only if I gave him “special gifts” in return. Direct quote from him on the “special gifts” comment because I definitely wouldn’t call a tit pic a special gift…a pink Chanel Heart Flap Bag would be a special gift (take note Ken’s, my birthday is in January).

 

I have another successful, yet slimy, professional who slides into my DM’s, lubed up by his hair gel one can only presume, every January, May and October asking me if I want to stay with him in, and again I quote, a 6* hotel for dinner, drinks and fun (if the fun is going to Chanel and buying the pink Chanel Heart Flap Bag then I’m in Hun, I told you I was obsessed with it) I stopped responding to him after the first time he asked me to join him for a night of, what would only be disappointment on my behalf, back in January 2022…his last message to me was 26^th May…2023…I mean you can’t fault his commitment can you?! And at least this one is divorced but the single guys are just as bad. 

 

Chase you for weeks on end with messages and Instagram likes, promise you the world, get what they want, or when they realise they won’t be getting what they want they then just disappear of the face of the earth. Cool mate, didn’t invest any feelings, time, effort into you did I? Oh, and I haven’t even got to the married ones yet who clearly didn’t quite understand or even can recall the whole “til death do us part” vow segment of their big days. And believe me when I say, THERE IS A LOT OF MARRIED ONES.

 

Funny how they can remember to always say “don’t tell anyone about this”, “please keep this a secret”, “I’m so unhappy in my marriage, it’s all for show and doesn’t mean anything”, “my girlfriend is in another country so it doesn’t count” (again another golden nugget from a guy I went on a date with, without knowing he had a girlfriend- aren’t men just the greatest). 

 

PSA to these men by the way: 

 

I keep EVERY. SINGLE. MESSAGE. HUNS.

 

They get screenshotted and put into a little folder in my phone entitled “BULLSHIT” after they’ve binned me off, just in case a joker wanna start lying about something they said on 1^stApril. My Mumma didn’t raise no fool. Trust issues? You lot only have yourselves to blame.

 

I also just want to add, never have I been the first one to make contact with ANY of them, I’m useless at messaging people I actually like let alone a species who I’m growing even more tired of daily.

 

They must learn those sayings and quotes in term two at “Fuckboy School” because they all operate the same way, which is why now my rose-tinted glasses have been yeeted off into another dimension and the cynic, realist and the abhorrently low tolerance to bullshit in me has fully formed. My goodness I’m such a hoot these days.

 

PLEASE don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate men. Not in the slightest. They’re hot. They’re fun. They’re sometimes nice. And nor do I put ALL men into this ‘Crapbag Camp’, but there is such a high number of male dancers who do unfortunately unpack their sleeping bags and pop their tents up in it. In a world full of Ken’s, it’s really hard to find the Alan’s.

 

I was caught off guard by one recently though as it was new type of “Ballroom Sleazebag” I hadn’t experienced before. This one still competes first of all (it’s like a really shit version of ‘Guess Who’ for you guys as I have no cards to flip down, sorry Huns!) so that was a new one. I apparently had turned this guy down for a try-out about 11 years ago (move on babe) but he had “kept his eye on me” and had been “following” what I had been doing all this time. 

Looking back now it does sound like the start of a Crimewatch special I know but at the time “aweeeeee, how sweet is that, that’s so romantic”. He explained how unhappy he was with his current situation, both professionally and personally, and how much he liked me because I was so different and made him feel whole (that wasn’t in the first message, it wasn’t that creepy). 

 

This went on for weeks and weeks, and if you’ve read my previous blog entry you can find out all the deets (I got hit by a bus…well nearly). But then one day, I got a message saying he was cutting it off. Now at the time, I was heartbroken, truly. Because I genuinely liked this guy, we did that “click” thing and I had NEVER felt this way about a man before. The things he said to my face, the phone calls, facetimes, the plans for a different kind of future…I thought I could take him seriously about it. But now the cynic in me has the question, knowing how these Ken’s, whoops, I mean men, work.

 

“Was this a sick joke as some kind of payback for not having the try-out with him all those years ago”?

 

I know we can torture ourselves with what if’s and hypotheticals but let’s actually look at this…it doesn’t really seem impossible or implausible now does it? 

 

His ego dented slightly? Sees a picture where he clearly isn’t clicking like for my personality, goes to message me, sees the unanswered trial request and thinks “I’ll show that bitch, I’ll get her hopes up about dancing with her, say I won’t hurt her and appear super genuine the whole time but then I’ll do it with a remix and really mess her up”. Dramatic I know. And so, far-fetched….but not entirely unbelievable. Maybe I watch too many movies. Or is it just that I’m wising up to how men can be bitches too. 

 

And speaking of bitchy men (I promise I’m nearly done…keep going guys, you can make it to the end, I finish with a really important sentence!), what the hell is up with grown ass men in this industry going around discussing women who they don’t actually know?! (The one who’s had my name in his mouth has maybe SEEN me about 3 times in my entire life and I don’t even think I’ve had a conversation with him that’s gone further than “Hi, how are you”)? and their personal lives to other people like it’s funny to shame women for what they choose to do, or don’t do in it! I mean he obviously thought I’d never find out but, whoops, I did…people talk Mister & I’d also love to have a little chat with you sometime as well. Let’s hope he can find some time in his busy schedule for this Barbie…

 

But he had to find out from someone. And that’s where women step in. Yeah, you aren’t getting off lightly on my rant dollface.

 

A quote that really struck me in the Barbie movie was, 

 

“Men hate women and women hate women, it’s the only thing we can agree on”.

 

And ain’t that the truth. #PreachItGreta

 

This is how I see it going down- woman becomes some kind of truffle pig for gossip, collects said gossip from other woman after gaining trust and friendship (and slightly bedazzles it with some embellishments and also forgets to add a lack of context to it I might add, from my experience anyway) and sends back the tattle to important male to gain trust, favouritism and a couple of laughs around a kitchen table. 

 

It has got me thinking though, is this woman a victim of the patriarchy within our dancing world and is just trying to survive and thrive in any way she thinks she can or…is just a straight up ‘Mean Girl’ (different movie I know but they wore Pink on Wednesday’s so the comparison can stay). 

 

The lack of sisterhood within this industry is absolutely wild to be honest and definitely would make ALL the Barbie’s in Barbieland v.sad. 

 

I was tagged in an Instagram story by an account the other day that gave a shout out to the people who had been nice and supportive to her young daughter…beautiful and very sweet. But how comes this, in today’s world, is something that isn’t just automatically happening? 

 

Yes, we are in an environment which is competitive, it has to be, we have to aim to be the very best to succeed…but on the dancefloor only. We don’t need to vocally shame, bitch, be-little, judge women and their choices. We should be supporting each other in this crazy realm, not tearing each other down (we’ve already established that men can do that for us pretty decently already)!

 

Whenever I see a female owned dance school I can’t help but root for them, and not out of being a ‘kiss ass’ or wanting to be ‘seen’ and commended for it (let me tell you, I really have gone beyond caring what people think of me these days anyway!) but because it’s a natural reaction to seeing a woman win. Shining a positive light on someone else doesn’t dull your sparkle so grab your bloody spotlight and use it!  

 

I’m not claiming to have never said a bad word about any women, because I have, and I’ve been a proper bitch in the past…but for the last few years I’ve made sure that ANYTHING I say, in the context of a conversation, I always make sure I’m happy to repeat to ANYONE’s face. Pass me that megaphone. 

 

I’m not saying we can never say anything bad ever again but ask yourself is what you’re saying, and who you’re saying it to, is really necessary. Have you been personally affected by someone’s action’s and you want to voice how much of an asshole someone has been to you, totally cool, let it out girl. But if not, are you just saying shit to try to keep yourself relevant, seen, remembered, useful, to keep yourself in the “cult” or an attempt to join the illustrious club of people who dance really lovely natural turns in the past 40 years.

 

I know this is probably a little risky for me to be so vocal about this kind of topic (I could have gone further but Mum did remind me that I do want to continue working and not have a mafia rock up to my door) but in conclusion…

 

Barbie hammered home one important message for me and it was that women do not have to stay inside the box we think we belong in. We have a voice, that we fought long and hard for, so we need to use it. By talking and highlighting issues like this it might just make these men start to realise that they aren’t living in their very own “KENDOM” and that they can’t keep getting away with behaving the way they do towards the Barbie’s in the real world…

 

Oh, and I really, REALLY want the pink Chanel Heart Flap Bag.

 

RiRi xo

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The Seven Week Itch

Well, well, well look who’s found their way back to the keyboard…well only because I’ve had my heart slightly torn up once again and I felt like writing about it (and now I’ve started writing again, I don’t want to stop) and after all my loss is also my gain because nothing “bad” ever happens to a writer…it just gives new material so here we go…buckle up folks.

 

Did you miss me? (Obvs). Will you make it to the end of this mammoth essay of a blog piece (Probs not). But look, if you can’t love me at me “War and Peace” you don’t deserve me at my “Hemingway” when he wrote “Baby Shoes”.

 

Literally he just wrote:

 

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn”.

 

That was it. No prologue, no epilogue, not even a measly dedication to a lover, past or present. Not even to his cat (who could have also been his lover, I mean he was a “modernist”, insert *cheeky wink*there) Just those 6 words. Simple, easy, basic words. Quite heart-breaking, gut punching, rip your heart out words actually when you read it...then read it and feel it.

 

But look, I digress, and thank me when I say I really don’t want this to turn into one of my A-Level English Lit evaluations of a novel for your sakes- you DEFINITELY would be tapping your finger on the ‘close’ button faster than you swipe left on Tinder. I see you lot giving that index finger a workout (I could insert another *cheeky wink* there but I’m trying to keep this piece classy and not uncouth you know…).

 

So my first blog back is all about DICKS. Hehe, sorry.

 

Well, mainly the species who are attached to them. 

The Males. The Geezers. The Lads. The Chaps. Bloke’s, guy’s, fellow’s and the gentlemen.

Whatever your chosen noun is, that’s who I’m talking about.

Because I’m having a little bit of an issue with them. And verbalising these troubles might actually make a little bit of space in my mind for much more important things- Barbie the Movie comes out in exactly 40 days and I need as much room in my brain as poss to make that film my entire personality for 2 weeks.

 

I have come to the conclusion that I must have a massive sign on my head that reads:

 

“COME IN TO MY LIFE, BE NICE FOR ABOUT 17 MINUTES AND THEN COMPLETLY SCREW ME OVER TO ANOTHER LEVEL THAN THE GUY BEFORE DID AND MAKE ME EAT COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF BEN AND JERRY’S TUBS OF ICE CREAM TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER”

 

I mean my forehead is verging on a fivehead so it would all fit to be fair…

 

Either that or I am just the greatest “Fuck Boy” pied piper of all time and I give off an energy and vibe that just has them sliding into the DM’s like Tom Cruise in “Risky Business”!

 

I was once told buy a man (who was a fair bit older than me, daddy issues innit) whilst in a cinema queue that, and I quote:

 

“You’re definitely more of a Marilyn than a Jackie, aren’t you?”

 

Now, I was kind of offended by this comment. I mean he didn’t say it just because I was blonde at that time now did he?! We all know what this is implying and if you don’t…I don’t know, read a history book or something…dumbass.

 

Jackie was the ultimate “wife”- pretty, smart, quiet, the girl you’d take home to meet your mum and she’d say, “oh isn’t she nice”. Marilyn was seen as the complete opposite. The sex-object, the bombshell, the “dumb blonde”. The kind of woman you’d bring home to your mum…and she’d send her husband out for milk and bread.

 

After some recent “events” (God, that sounds like a tragedy that’s just popped up on the BBC news doesn’t it, I might message Huw Edwards and ask him to do a dramatic reading of this piece for me, I’d pay good money to hear him say “all about dicks”) those 11 words that he said to me swirled and twirled around my brain again and made me slightly question if this was the reason why, once again, a man had used me to make himself feel better and sacked me off once his ego had been re-pumped up just enough to not need to message me…again.

 

I met up with a guy back in April. Which if he’s reading this-:

 

Hiya, I finally saw ‘Jackie Brown’ and OMG WHAT A FLIPPING MOVIE! Loved it, solid 9.3/10. Would see again.

 

He messaged me, out of the blue 3 days after I had sworn off dating/seeing/being within 5 meters of a man for good. (I say out of the blue, he had been doing the casual “like” spree on my Facebook and Instagram for a few days prior, you know to put the feeler out…the modern way).

Oh, and European’s you’ve got yourself to blame for my “NO MEN” policy because you are slimy bastards who bring nothing but trouble, heartache and to be quite honest, probably some venereal diseases (I’m clear but there are a few ladies in the dancing world who might want to get down to a clinic ASAP Rocky- no shade, no judgement, only facts, stay safe because no man is worth an itchy vag…or worse)!

 

We’d exchanged messages, a few here and there, the usual stuff-

 

“Where do you live? What do you do for a job? So, when we meeting”

 

I don’t know why I responded really. I really was sick of men and all the shit, hurt and “situationships” I’d been in recently and I think, deep down, I knew I was probably going to start playing with fire again but something made me respond. And agree to meeting. I scrolled (stalked) his Instagram profile. And his Facebook. Couldn’t find his twitter account. And felt drawn to him. Like I’d known him from a time before. It was a weird feeling. Not my usual type… in terms of him being from England. And a blonde too! Not “Milky Bar” kid blonde, but would have definitely had that hair colour when he was little type blonde. But something drew me in.

 

We started messaging a little more frequently, trying to figure out when we could meet up. And then he says, “Can I call”?

 

ERMMMMMM…. CAN YOU FUCKING NOT? Hideous. The thought of a stranger having to listen to my diabolical Essex accent is the stuff of nightmares and if anyone knows me properly then you would know I can barely text back let alone actually click ‘accept call’, the thought made me shudder…although that could have been the fact I went and sat out in my garden at 9:30 at night in my pj’s to actually answer the call.

 

“Hello”.

 

Oh god its him. Wait, that is not at all what I thought he was going to sound like. I kinda like it though. Its giving Top Boy meets Peaky Blinders. I really like it.

 

We talked for a little while and instantly there was some sort of vibe. The conversation flowed and weaved seamlessly, full of cheeky chat but also it had moments of honesty and openness (from us both) that is rare in today’s filtered life. I felt so at ease that I didn’t realise my teeth were chattering and my body was shaking with the cold until my mum lobbed a blanket out the back door at me.

 

These “Garden Chats” happened a few times, stolen minutes when we could here and there. And I knew I had to see this guy. I had to see what would happen when we met. Would it be the big Hollywood meet/cute or would it be the biggest let down since Marcus Rashford missed that penalty in the Euro’s (sorry to do you dirty like that Marcus babe).

 

We eventually got a “date” in the diary and I of course, like any sane person would do got to London 4 hours early and did 18,000 steps around the centre of London before we were due to meet. I’m beginning to see the issue to be fair…

 

We were meant to meet at 4:30, he was coming straight from work and I was giving it the whole “yeah play by ear, let me know, no worries” when actually there was a lot of worries, don’t let me know fucking tell me what time precisely we are meeting and the Capricorn in me despises playing it by anything other than fact.

 

4:30…4:40…4:50…5pm- don’t worry he wasn’t an asshole and he did tell me that he was going to be late, but I won’t lie, by this point I already was like “Ahh forget this, I’m gonna go”. I’d even text my mum to say that I might come back home as I wasn’t really feeling it.

 

Him: “I’m here where are you?” 

Me: “Well I’m here, where are you?”

Him: “I can see a Five Guys”

Me: “I said the big Primark, right in front of the station”

Him: “Nah I can’t see a Primark”

Me: “Well I can’t see a Five Guys”

 

This went on for a good minute before he said, “wait I can see you”.

Oh god, he’s seen me. Too late now to back out RiRi. Shit, does my hair look alright…oh bugger I bet I’ve sweated off half my makeup from my blooming hike along the Southbank I decided to partake in…oh I can see him. He’s really tall (could be because he’s across the road), like really tall. Oh, okay, I’m crossing the road, my legs have literally taken me across the road, I didn’t even check to see if a car was coming, nice introduction that would be- me being thrown 50ft in the air after getting hit by a red bus. 

 

NOW THAT WOULD HAVE MADE THE BBC NEWS!

 

 

We do the hug thing, neither one of us really sure where to put our hands. Do we do the air kiss, is it one of two? No no, this guy is English Ri…he’s a one kiss for sure. Oh shit, maybe it’s even a handshake. I really need to date more English guys.

We start walking to nowhere and I hadn’t really looked at him properly yet, taken him all in I mean, until we got to the crossing and he turned back to look at me. The most ocean blue eyes I had ever seen were staring back at me. The type of eyes that would make that blue your favourite colour in the whole world. 

 

And it was at this moment I knew I was completely, and utterly fucked.

 

We sat down and had a drink, did the “usual” polite, chat about family, work, what we’d been up to that week but it didn’t feel usual. It felt like he actually wanted to know. It was as if he actually cared what I’d done that week. And wasn’t just asking because “that’s what you’re supposed to do”. 

We moved on a couple of times to different places, our steps slightly starting to interlink along with our hands catching each other’s, accidently of course, as we walked along the busy Sunday streets of London. Whenever I’m in London I always love the hustle and bustle of it but that day, even though it was heaving with cars, people and sunshine, they had never felt quieter and peaceful to me.

 

We finally settled in a cosy little wine bar down a soft side street and I prayed that there would be food as I was a wine and Aperol Spritz down by this point on just a Belvita breakfast bar that I’d pathetically nibbled almost 9hours ago. 

 

We laughed, we chatted, we spoke about movies and why Tarantino is the absolute tits, we shared dreams and fears, wants and tears, over multiple glasses of red that loosened our exchange even more. Oh, and we ate (THANK THE LORD) he made me try anchovies for the first time and in the very sexy way I managed to drop the little fishy out of mouth as he attempted to feed me the little bread/anchovy sandwich he’d made for me.

 

I instantly felt my cheeks flush a hint of red that was probably giving my freshly coloured hair a run for its money and I covered my eyes in complete and utter cringe and just wanted the ground to swallow me whole (a bit like my stomach wanted me to swallow the last bit of cheese on the board too).

 

He took my hands clearly from my face and instantly said “so come on tell me about your tattoo’s…what’s this one” as he pointed to the evil eye on my middle finger. Phew, he’s not asked for my mum to come and pick me up.

 

“Well it’s meant to protect me from evil in life...I mean it’s not done the best job so far”

 

We laugh. He’s still holding my hands. 

 

“What else have you got?”

 

I start giving a guided tour of them all and their little meanings, his face softens when I get to certain ones that mean a little more to me than just the pretty heart I fancied getting inked into me. He’s still holding my hands.

 

“I really like them, they’re so different…like you”.

 

He’s still holding my hands.

 

That was a cheesy line but tonight…I like cheese.

 

“I really want to kiss you”.

 

Well that’s delightful because I really want to kiss him too.

 

We lean in across the wobbly tiny table and our lips catch the balance as we fell into a new type of conversation. 

 

Now, I’ve had a fair few kisses in my time. Good, bad and the pure ugly (ewww washing machine tongue) but this was good. Like really REALLY good. So good in fact that he didn’t even seem to care too much that when we unhurriedly came apart I laughed directly in his faced when I saw I had shared my signature rouge lipstick all over his mouth. 

 

Hand in hand we head to another bar, the darkness now covering flushed cheeks and stained lips and eventually it was time to go home. He walked with me to the tube and I could feel my heart start to sink. I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to stay, his hand holding mine and head into the unknown with him. 

 

The whole train journey home I began to ponder and slightly worry that this was going to be another situation where I’d had the best time but I’d missed all the tell-tale signs that he wasn’t interested, so I braced myself for disappointment…I also braced myself for the wine hangover the next day too.

 

But he rang. The very next day. And then he rang again. And again and again and again. Holy moly, I’d smashed it. HE DID LIKE ME BACK! Alexa, play “Hallelujah” and crank up that volume baby because ya girl is back in business.

 

He showered me with compliments and would say things that normally would make me recoil in disgust as they were so “lovey dovey” but from him…I adored it. Being 100% honest, I was starting to slightly adore him too (and I’ve never adored anything that doesn’t have four legs and a tail) He told me he was thinking about me, spoke of things that showed he was hiding a vulnerable fragment inside him, he made plans of trips we’d take and after much deliberation we decided, it was simple. We just liked each other. For who we were. “Not kids shit”.

 

So, tell me why is it that 4 weeks later I’m sat on my bedroom floor wondering why I’m crying once again over a man after I receive the message “I’m sorry I know its harsh but I need to cut it off with you, I really like you but I can’t do this right now. You deserve much more than me.”? 

 

I knew from the very start that he was a busy guy, he had a lot of things happening professionally and personally in his life and I thought I’d made it very clear that I understood this and we’d meet when we could, heart-to-heart’s when we had some spare time (because hello I’m a busy working Mum to a Cavapoo so I got shit to do too baby). 

 

But when that message came, I was floored. Of course, I sent back the classic “cool girl” response with “Oh this sucks, but I’ll be fine…hope everything works out well for you in the future and you get everything you want and more…blah blah blah”. But I was not the cool girl in reality. In reality, I was the burning woman who had just been smacked in the face by a wet towel.

 

It’s giving “It’s not you, it’s me” vibes isn’t? 

 

The really shit thing is. I really liked him. I liked everything about him. Even the “bad bits” I wasn’t supposed to like. But he was open, honest, true, unafraid to say what he felt. Refreshing from a man. So strong yet had the slight vulnerable side to him that he didn’t shy away from showing me. I saw him. I saw all of him and I still wanted to make it work. I was truthful about all my own baggage and he didn’t run for the hills saying “stay away you crazy bitch”. He made me finally feel seen too. Heck, even my Mum liked him! And that is one tough cookie to crack.

 

I mean, part of me thanks him for being “honest” and not doing the typical “ghosting” move of just stopping replying and making the other person wonder if they’ve been hit by a bus? (What is it with me and busses?)

But then this brutal honesty made me question everything else that he’d said. Did he mean anything he had told me, was it all a lie? Was this just a bit of fun for him and he thought I’d give more of myself if he was “the nice guy”? Why even contact me in the first place if he wasn’t in the right place to follow through? I was doing perfectly fine (well…a ‘RiRi’ version of perfectly fine at least) until he showed up, made everything shiny and bright and then fucked off and took all the colour’s back with him when he left.

 

Or, and this is where the Marilyn/Jackie remark came back into my head. Is there something in my DNA make up that’s been made to be “desired” but not “loved” the whole way through. I’m a decent “side dish” but never the full “main course’. The Saturday night party girl not the Sunday morning breakfast in bed babe? A good “Act 1” but don’t bother coming back after the interval.

After all, Marilyn was “adored” by the whole world but she also had 3 failed marriages, countless love affairs that ended in disaster and a heart that was shattered to pieces by the time she had finished her time on earth.

 

Men seem to be in love with the “idea” of me but the “reality” of me is never quite what they want. As the lyrical prodigy that is Denise Welch from Loose Women’s son, Matty Healy, once sang-

 

“Don’t fall in love with the moment and think you’re in love with the girl”.

 

Is that the way I’m going to have to live my life from now on? Having these amazing human interactions and happy bursts throughout my time left but accepting that that’s probably all they are going to be, fleeting moments in my own story. Chapter’s. Segment’s. Does anyone ever really get the full “Happy Ending’? Or are we just chasing the unobtainable “Hollywood” fantasy…isn’t that what Marilyn did? So desperate for love are we that we’ll lick leftovers from a knife.

 

But even after all of this, I think I’m truly content with being a “Marilyn” after all. In the short time she was here she was so full of life, talent and most importantly love- in all its forms! She was bright, intelligent, strong-willed, funny, sexy, witty and she was the ultimate feminist icon who paved the way for so many women in the entertainment industry and beyond. She left her red lipstick mark on the world and if that’s who I remind folks off…I’m pretty fucking honoured.

 

To the Marilyn’s of the world, I see you and I love you.

xoxo

 

 

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