Tag Archives: sex and the city

The bores on drugs?

Despite being nearly twenty years old and living in London as a student, I have never taken drugs. Even as a youngster, struggling to adapt to an ever-changing world in the Essex badlands my mind never clouded, my hands never begged, and my heart never longed for anything stronger than a full fat coca-cola and a chupa chup.

This can be determined because of a number of factors. One of those is fear, fear at changing myself to fit the needs of others, fear at becoming addicted, fear of perhaps enjoying the sensations and thus obliterating my entire outlook on life. For if I was wrong about drugs, what other things am I also wrong about? Do rolled up charity shop jeans and boat shoes really make a man stand out positively? Are the Geldof family incredible? Do I really know?

There are also the horror stories. I’m not a tabloid frenzied maniac, but as a comedian who I can’t remember once said, you never really hear of positive drug stories do you? Boring Bill Hicks diatribes aside, I’ve never known anybody to turn into an amazing person after they have started dabbling in a bit of crack, or how enlightened everyone became when they started dabbing MDMA into frenzied lips.

The arguments again are obvious and often stupid. “It’s MY life”. “You don’t know how to have FUN!”. Yeah, obviously which is why I’m up bright and breezy on a blissful Saturday morning while you’re all nursing severe headaches, shitting purple silhouettes and bemoaning the fact that you can’t remember anything that happened last night. If you think you got spiked, you probably didn’t – you’re just a bit of an attention seeker who can’t handle what you take.

Despite this, I’m not anti drugs in the slightest. Sure, smoke a bit of weed to relax, do whatever you do with speed to get you through that super tough maths exam, but that’s where I draw the line really. Does taking a little white pill really make a night that much better? If you need to do anything to get through something, isn’t it time to reconsider your life? Why take pills to make shit, thumping dance music tolerable when you could go somewhere that means you can have fun naturally, not binge drink sambuca and pretend you’re sexy.

It’s just depressing isn’t it? Life is a struggle yeah, and we should all do things we enjoy, but I would genuinely love to understand what it is about drugs that are so amazing. Some people would reply along the lines of “how can you slag something off without trying it?” For the same reasons that I haven’t raped anyone, or moonwalked in Basra, because they’re complete bullshit, immoral and wrong.

Getting stuff shoved in your face when not in a sexual situation is always problematic. Whether it is religious zealots, charity workers, or people you know who endlessly boast of how much they drink, how much coke they took, and how many people they got off with. Yeah, part of me is jealous, but the other half of me realises what utter dicks these people are, and how uncool it all is. Wasting the peak years of my life doing the macarana in a chain nightclub in residential hell doesn’t really appeal to me, and I sincerely doubt it does to many people deep down.

It’s tough to have these feelings though, when so many people who share them are actual knobs though. Obviously I’m talking about those nutters who claim to be straight edge. Nothing quite like setting yourself apart by aligning yourself and labelling yourself is there? I’d LOVE to be buzzing off my tits to Basshunter to save myself from the boring drone of a prick who hasn’t had a cider for a week so they reckon it makes them Henry Rollins. They should try depriving themself of air instead of booze.

So really, I hate everyone. Yet also, I love everyone. It’s the eternal contradiction, do I follow my head which tells me that drugs are unnatural, or my glowing heart which wants me to follow the crowd and shoot up? I’ve gotten to this age without even taking a paracetamol, so fuck knows how a belly full of amphetamines or gums full of white powder would make me feel.

Ultimately, what can you do? Let people be themselves I suppose, but it just gets me down. I shouldn’t hate the player, I should hate the game apparently. Maybe I should just hate myself for not getting it. Or not be a cunt.

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Burlesque

If you were out in a pub, supping on a pint and nibbling away at some nuts, when a group of girls strolled onto a stage, and removed all their clothing – minus a pair of knickers and some nipple tassels, would you consider that ‘art’, or just stripping?

On the 28th July, around 100 burlesque ‘dancers’ barged their way onto the streets of Camden – a place already festooned with the biggest amount of pricks per square mile than anywhere else in London, and protested over a new ruling by the Council which classed them along with strippers and lap dancers. I’d be offended by that new ruling too – especially were I a stripper or a lap dancer and being compared with such talentless cunts.

I’ve got nothing against burlesque per se – I understand it’s a way for extremely average looking girls to try and gain some false self esteem whilst lining their pockets with bearded perverts hard earned cash, but it’s far more sordid than people initially think. Yeah, it might be a bit of harmless titillating fun when you’re first watching these ridiculous people roll down some £2.50 stockings, but when you actually think about it, how can anyone be thrilled by this? In fact, where is the thrill at all?

Call me a fool, call me an idiot, call me a charade, but the only difference between a burlesque dancer and a stripper is that a burlesque dancer practically pleads with the crowd as they’re about to take their ill-fitting corset off, whereas a stripper just does it with no faux shyness, and no fake sense of grandeur. “Please accept me!” a burlesque dancer thinks in their head as they run through their routine frequently motioning to the crowd to whoop and cheer to make it seem that they’re not just taking their clothes off to a baying mob of fools in cowboy hats, and women in ripped tights. Isn’t it all just a little bit pathetic?

Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I just have no sense of fun or spontaneity (I’d disagree on both points – I’ve just created a baby elephant from a balloon whilst scratching my balls with a crayon) or maybe the whole tawdry business of burlesque is one that deserves to stay in the gutter along with a Chlamydia-ridden forty year old stroking her saggy tits for a group of coked up businessman, or a sexually abused teenage girl pole dancing for crack.

It’s all just disturbing cheers to excuse the nudity, when it comes down to it I’m a nineteen year old with a slightly paedo beard paying to watch girls strip masquerading as feminism. The purity of Motown mixed with the crassness of burlesque – when I put on my glasses to watch the show I feel as dirty as a pig in seven kinds of shit. So Camden Council was right, and their step down reeks of the same guff that emanates from a Burlesque dancers mouth as they try and justify their filth. If they just admitted they were nothing more than paid sluts I’d appreciate that and probably give them a pat on the back, but alas they don’t.

How many burlesque dancers does it take to change a light bulb? A hundred. One to change the light bulb, and ninety-nine to complain that they’re not sluts. Really they’re not – they wear tassels you know!