Category Archives: Ranty ones
My comment policy: I’m a dictator
This blog post has nothing to do with free speech. The comments on this blog are not – and will never be – an outlet for anyone to speak freely. There are lots of reasons for this, and because I am obsessed with transparency I’m going to explain my comment policy. On my blog, I’m a dictator. Other blog owners and companies that run websites are dictators too. If any website owner tells you that their site is a platform for your free speech, and that you will never be censored, they are mistaken. Here’s why.
Sexual harassment: There’s one way this conversation ends
The last few weeks have been a barrage of news about sexual assault and harassment. Guys in powerful positions in a number of industries are getting called out for doing things that are wholly inappropriate, to people they hold power over. Is anybody else completely exhausted? I know I am. Not exhausted by the call-outs, but exhausted by the response.
Ten things I hate about Doxy Number 3
OK gang, listen up because I’m angry. For years – YEARS – I have been recommending the Doxy to anyone and everyone with a clitoris. It’s the turbo-charged fuckstick of my wildest dreams and by my rough calculations it has delivered more orgasms in the three and a half years I’ve owned it than any living human has given me over the course of the rest of my life. Myself included. I love Doxy so much I would recklessly and gleefully abseil down the nearest tall building to unfurl a ‘FUCK YEAH DOXY’ banner that could be read from miles away. But now Doxy has launched a new toy – a compact wand called ‘Doxy Number 3‘ – and I am, to put it mildly, livid.
Here are 10 things I hate about the Doxy Number 3.
My best friend is a boy
My best friend is a boy. We sit together in pub gardens in the freezing cold, fishing weird white bits out of cold pints of cheap scrumpy. We laugh at each other, and ourselves. We fight over whose round it is because we always think the other is more skint than they’re letting on.
And when people find out that he’s a boy they ask some version of this: ‘so have you fucked?’
Good beds to fuck in: a rant
Regular readers might be aware that I have very strong feelings about sofas. A decent sofa can make all the difference in a romantic or sexual relationship. You need one that’s good for snuggling and fucking, and which will ideally allow you to do both of those things without either permanently staining it or giving yourself neckache. But until recently I hadn’t realised that I need to write the same rant about good beds for fucking and bad beds for fucking. So pull up a duvet, snuggle down, and I will tell you why furniture shops in the UK are ABSOLUTELY SHITE AT anticipating people’s sexual needs.