Skinny Hitches
I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been too nice recently.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve been relatively cosy in my seat of late (read: arse got fat), and have lost the spark of righteous indignation that used to be so endearing to those with the clarity of mind and self-assurance to understand it (read: crankiness used to keep all manner of drab cunts at bay). Whatever it is, my posts of late have been all mouth and no trousers, and I plan to put it right.
It’s not me, you see. I’m a bitter wench, and loud where I don’t need to be, and repetitive enough to test the patience of a rock face. Is it that things haven’t been annoying me lately that’s lead to my being so anaemic on Coddle Pot? Fuck no! Things annoy me all the time! Right now I’m annoyed by a twinge in my shoulder and next door’s yappy hellhounds, whom I’d like to boil in wax and turn over to the Russians. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been all namby pamby recently, and it needs rectification. Vent, Rant and Snippy aren’t just good nicknames for bad bassists, you know.
So.
We got SkyPlus in recently, and I’ve been rewinding all sorts of beige twaddle that doesn’t warrant a second viewing, just coz it’s novel, and I can. But, bereft of television for a whole month, I suppose I’d lowered my tolerance for the visual shocks involved in day-to-day viewing; now that I have SkyPlus, I find myself rewinding and staring agape at something I must have forgotten existed. A fleeting evil, a horror of no substantial proportion … Holy mother of Gawd, when did female celebrities get so fucking skinny?
Now look. I’m no blue whale in stilettos, or anything. I’m a well-proportioned kind of chunky, like a gingerbread man with boobs. And I’m happy enough with it. I like to eat, you see. I do it a few times every day. So when I see these wisps of animated tissue on prime-time television, looking all drawn and in dire need of a plate of egg and chips, it’s not out of jealousy I call the wrath of Sithis down upon them. I don’t phone up my Weight Watchers amigas and bellow lustily like only a lardarse can about how the sleek shall inherit the earth and there’s not a sniff of equality about the whole thing. It seems, you see, that when you say a pretty, wide-eyed starlet (or, in Sweary-lingo, “a perfumed fucking corpse”) is too thin, you’re accused of being jealous, some embittered ogre who crawled into a packet of custard creams as soon as you got up and whose complaints can be explained away as the horrors of a sugar-comedown.
Female celebrities these days are too fucking thin. I will not engage in debate on this.
It’s not as if I wouldn’t have plenty of takers to deliver the opposing argument. The prevailing attitude from the size zero brigade is that fatarses don’t understand that frailty is a sign of strength. You’re not thin when you’re a celebrity. You’re “working very hard”.
Working very hard. As if having your hair styled for an hour and then having someone put your fucking nails on for you is a regime that would cause a psychosomatic aversion to bread; what a load of utter, induced diarrhoea. I can’t feel my fucking ribs jangling when I walk; does that mean I don’t work hard enough? Are women of average waistline simply lazy bints who couldn’t dredge up motivation, let alone the slice of quiche they had for lunch? Wank. Working hard does not leave you looking like a hat-stand wrapped in tinfoil. Isn’t that right, Cheryl?
Needs.
More.
Sandwiches.
But, y’know, now that I think about it, perhaps what is meant by “working very hard” is “motivated by the snappiness of an empty tummy”. Meaning that perhaps if I were a few pounds lighter, I would be a little angrier, a little more inclined to the ranting I was once so gifted at. If my tummy was less full, my bones less warm, my gums less pink and my hair less glossy, I’d certainly be a prune-faced artiste on a mission to make everyone else as fucking miserable as I am! Which is surely the Sweary way. Oh my God, maybe it is because I got too cosy in my seat!
Food for thought. Ooh, and thoughts don’t get flabby! To the vomitorium!
There’s a lot of money to be made in the whole weight gain thing too, which hasn’t really solved that whole problem at all.
Kerry Katona’s went the last few months with these interviews of how she’s ashamed/proud(depending on what the last interview for the specific rag was) of all the weight she’s gained.
Lara Flynn Boyle. Courtney Cox. Paris Hilton. I’d advocate force-feeding any of them, but that may mean that the cunts would be alive longer. If they want to starve themselves to death, can they not go off somewhere else and do it quietly? I mean, billions of Africans are dropping dead of starvation every day, and I don’t have to look at their bony animated corpses staring at me from magazines strategically placed the grocery store checkout aisle.
Bobby Sands and Gandhi weighed more, combined, when they carked it, than Nicole Richie does now. Zombies look healthier than most female celebrities nowadays. And the zombies have more brains.
Give up on the TV thing, it’s shite. Ever since “The Shield” and “Battlestar Galactica” ended, I just don’t bother. I watch SpongeBob all day long with the sprog, and I can assure you that I am just as intuhllekchual as ever I was.
you would have to wonder about the breasts on that female when you can see the blatant outline of each rib.
But what I for myself would worry. If I had a girl-child, and given the stubborn bloody-minded genes she would inherit. I could only hope that whatever sense she had came from the other side.
Needs.
More.
Sandwiches.
Indeed.
B, I think there should be some sort of war declared on the lunacy that is Kerry Katona and her ever increasing/decreasing flab battalions. Since when is someone’s enjoyment of chip butties fucking news? If there’s anything worse than a sleb being praised for being emaciated, it’s one happy to be berated over her normal figure for cash.
Sparra, I only watch tv these days for The Simpsons. And E!’s Super Skinniest Celebrity Sexpots, obviously.
Vince, my girl-child has already been conditioned to howl, “What a load of cock” at mascara ads. I can’t imagine a boy-child indulging me so.
And Rabbit, indeed, indeed.
I think you’re wrong about Cheryl Cole Sweary. I hear she’s a good 20 stone, but that her bulk exclusively extends backwards instead of sideways. That’s why you never see her from a side profile. If you did, you’d note that she was over a meter and a half deep.
Stuff and nonsense!
There’s no depth to Cheryl Cole!
naw, have to disagree with your conclusion that, “if I were a few pounds lighter, I would be a little angrier”. I am as fat as a slim American and spend my life in a semi permanent rage. My tum tum is never empty thus also blowing the myth of the jolly fat man wide open….fat n angry, that’s me……I also get tired a lot….
Really? Goddammit. Are you sure, like? I find that I get very cranky when hungry, and crankiness breeds art, don’t you know. But I suppose you ARE a waiter, so you probably know best.
Oh well, back to the drawing board. And the chip pan.
Hmmmmmm.
There seems to be far more scrutiny of women gaining and losing….from what I’ve observed no one minds a man putting on a few pounds or two (or his hair going a little grey)….in fact, on some men, it can be attractive.
While clothes probably do “hang” better on a thin frame I wonder if men really do prefer these terribly thin ones, especially when they are so scrawny?
Women spend countless hours on their weight, hair, make up, clothing, et cetera….all with a view to attracting a man (or keeping up with other females).
So…I wonder…what do men really want?
In all seriousness …
The easy answer is that “men like curves”. However, women who have gone through periods of being dangerously thin have spoken about the serious male attention they got when being but a bag a’ bones. Men might say they like curves, but they tend to come over all Manly Protector when faced with a fragile lollipop-head in a cocktail dress.
anorexics mightn’t realise it but their condition might be the key to world hunger. to wit – when the anorexic/bullemic decides to puke up their meager lunch they are directed to spew into a specially designed recycling bucket. their boke is then processed, purified and shipped to the starving of the world. problem solved, and it makes the skinny minnies feel a little better about themselves.
Yeah, but if they feel better about themselves, their eating disorders disappear.
Your plan is doomed to fail, I’m afeared.