Real GDL Workload

I recently googled “GDL workload” to see if I was actually making a fuss out of nothing with the spinal fluid  I have been sweating these past few weeks. I found this “a week in the life of a GDL student” article by one of the providers. It was all, “Hey, we work hard, but we play hard too! And all The Guys, we all pull together, making group work a breeze.” Suffice to say, I felt like the most pathetic human being in the world. This guy is out playing rugby three nights a week, what do I manage to do? Fall asleep after half an episode of The Wire.

My life could not look less like this description I work hard and every now and then I cry hard too. I mean yes, I am deeply neurotic and a try-hard with deep set insecurity issues commuting for over two hours every day, but the fact remains, there is a rare shit ton to be done, and  to be learnt and committed to memory. Perhaps there are some people on this course who emerge from their mother’s womb knowing the intricacies of Leasehold Covenants (and if they do exist, I’m certain Slaughter and May et al are breeding them for trainees) but not me. It is not a blagable course, it is all about tenacity and chimbling away at topics until it sticks, there is no Eureka moment. How can there be when, so very little of something like Land Law makes so little sense it may as well have been written on the walls of a mental hospital. In shit.

I think we’d all be a lot better off if everyone stopped pretending that isn’t incredibly hard work. Enjoyable hard work, but hard work none the less. There is nothing at all wrong with you if you have to work hard to understand – let alone remember – the differences between the Law of Property Act 1925 and the Law of Property Act (miscellaneous provisions) 1989. Frankly, there’s something wrong with you if Cowan V Scargill [1985] does read like a favourite old bedtime story, not the other way around.

And whilst we’re at it, can group work please become a bit less of a dick swinging competition? I know lawyers don’t have a reputation for being the most collegiate bunch, but we’re not lawyers yet. So let’s stop talking over each other and rewriting parts of presentation from a purely stylistic point of view. You’re impressing no one.

I don’t regret doing the GDL for one minute, but it is hard work and I want anyone else thinking about doing to know that is and that is fine, because nothing in this world that is worthwhile is easy. So let’s all stop pretending we’re brilliantly naturally gifted. We probably all aren’t ok?

Here’s my alternative, Week in the Life of a GDL student.

Monday: Wake up at 6am after not falling asleep until 2 because I had the Trustees Act 2000 running around my head all night. Stumble around desperately hoping the clothes I’m pulling on are a) clean, b) good matches for one another.

Get to the railway station before 7, for a train that is frankly bound to be late, thus meaning I end up huffing and puffing into my 9 o’clock seminar 15 minutes late despite the fact I have been travelling for two hours. Get increasingly annoyed during the seminar that some people still seem to think I’m a cross between a PA and an idiot child. Work on the train, annoying fellow commuters, knocking them with my folders, despite my best efforts.

Go to the library and ram a sandwich in my gob whilst trying to consolidate what I’ve allegedly just learnt.

Three hours of lectures in the afternoon. Invariably there is someone who thinks lectures are supposed to be interactive. FYI, things where there is one person on the stage and over a hundred in the audience very seldom are.

Run to the tram stop in the vain hope of getting on a train that means I’ll get home before 6. Fail because someone is swanning around like the The Big Man on Campus.

Work on the train.

Work at home.

Have dinner and perhaps make a phone call.

Make an attempt do something fun. Fall asleep during this attempt.

Repeat ad naseum.

Still, I’m happy and I have a purpose. I’m not complaining (really, I’m not) I’m just saying that it is difficult and a time vortex. You’d be mental to pretend otherwise

“Padded Bras are the Devil’s Cushions” says The Islamic Council of Ideology.

Wow. Apparently Islamic scholars and I are as one on an issue. This must happen very seldom. I mean, my studies of the Qu’ran have been elementary at best.

However I have a sneaking suspicion that whilst our solutions might have been the same, our workings have been very different. I doubt that very many of these learned scholars have felt the dread that comes with hoisting ones lallies into a push up cup, certain in the knowledge they won’t be released from their foam and lacy prison for another fourteen hours. And that’s if it’s a short day. And if you can some how slip  it off under your shirt in the staff car park, without the MD thinking you’re rubbing one out a quick one on company property because of the look of sheer bliss on your face…

I just don’t understand why bras have to part of the modern modest woman’s daily dress. Even for the small breasted. Somehow, the minute there’s the possibility of someone seeing an outline of  an actual human breast, nipple and all, we get all Victorian. Odd, when you consider you can scarcely move without a nipple poking you in the eye from a billboard, or seeing a woman in a push up bra and top cut to her navel. Yet, somehow, we’ve never been so offended by the sight of real breasts.

I am as close as one can get to flat chested as it’s possible to be as an adult woman, without being an actual 11 year old boy, yet I still feel made to feel the deep depths of self disgust  that I have a body part capable of lactating  if I forgo a bra and it suddenly it looks like I’m smuggling skittles (the sweets, not the bowling apparatus…) down my sweater.

But somehow it’s ok to go out with virtually everything but your nipples covered. As much milky white demi globe as you please! But, ladies, keep those disgusting breast-warts out of our eye line… maybe even get them surgically removed? Barbie didn’t have nipples, just sayin’…

It’s another weird things about how we see women’s bodies, like the growing mainstream disgust at actually having a pair of labia minora or pubes or anything that makes you look like an actual human being instead of a life size doll.

Apart from work situations – when I’ll readily admit that no one needs to see anybody’s nipples – I’m going to give up on my bras; they’re too uncomfortable to wear daily to save other people’s embarrassment.

Are you meant to enjoy your Graduation?

I found the whole thing unbelievably stressful. Does that make it sound a bit like I can’t cope with real life? I can! I can! I promise!

Honestly, listen, I’ve got a job offer and I got a 2:1, I can cope with some aspects of real life. Just apparently not the ones where you’re making a spectacle of yourself. Genuinely, I’ve felt more at ease in exams and interviews. Imagine what I’ll be like if I ever get married; I’ll need to pledge my vows from behind a screen like a vulnerable witness in a court case.

A perceptive friend said that Graduation Days aren’t really for you, they’re for your parents, so that they have an occasion that can represent the fact that all their support has been worthwhile – after twenty-two years of careful rearing, you’ve finally done something to be proud of.

If that’s true – which I think it probably is –  then I just know I was the most bitter disappointment to my mother on that day. She just kept looking at me as if she couldn’t quite believe what she and my Dad had managed to produce. Her expression just seemed to say, “sure, she’s got a degree, but what good is that when she looks like she’s been beaten with a massive ugly stick in that hat?”

I cannot pretend I looked any good in my graduation get-up. I mean, I went through five changes of mortar board before I found one that even vaguely fitted my, apparently, humongous head.  Then it made my hair stick out on one side of my head, so I bore more than a passing resemblance to Hey Arnold!  

 

 

 

Secondly, despite the fact I’d swallowed my pride and ordered the very shortest gown they offered (4’7″ *sniff*) I seemed to have ended up with one that dragged on the floor, meaning it looked more like I’d wrapped myself in a polyester blanket than wearing the robes of academia. It was altogether an unfortunate look.

So, perhaps it was no wonder my mum kept pointing out other graduands who looked more convincing than me, with an element of wistfulness.

Then there’s the hat toss. I am not even a little bit sporting. Not even a bit. I avoid throwing things in mixed company because I give my gender a bad name; not all girls throw like me. Not even all chimps throw like me. But now my lack of ability to throw with any kind of conviction was going to be recorded for the ages. And I was in the front row, and I just knew I was going to be the girl whose hat covered the camera and/or who ended up cowering in fear of the other hats falling on her. Very undignified, either way.

As it turns out, I didn’t completely embarrass myself. But this re-enactment photo beautifully encapsulates just how worried I was.

Happy as Larry, right? You’re probably thinking that whilst the gown is far too long, that doesn’t look like too much an unconvincing throw, I mean, I’m even smiling!

Hang on a minute, though… what happens if we zoom in on my face?

 Then it all becomes apparent and starts to sum up the day beautifully. That is far from a smile, that is a grimace of worry, entirely out of proportion with the occassion. Which as my mother told me “is supposed to be fun.”

Oops.

Feel sorry for my Boyfriend…

Not only has he had to put up with me crying down the phone to him about my utter shit storm of a week (the culmination of which was me crying at work like a mad bitch after failing two quality checks in a row – fail three and you’re out on your arse) but he then has to deal with me being underwhelmed by the theoretical situations which he deems worthy of honour-defending.

Now, on the same day as I was The Girl Who Cried at Work (the companion story to The Boy who Cried Wolf, the moral of which is don’t cry at work or there’s going to be a whisper campaign that you once cried because you were PMSing and your computer crashed) I was going to a Death Cab for Cutie gig.  Just I was about to enter the venue having got past three kinds of security, I hear one man shout me back.

Mockney security man: Not wishing to be funny, but how old are you? (It was a 16+ gig, I’ve just finished a four year a degree).

Me: I’m TWENTY-TWO! (wishing I could flick a v with both hands to demonstrate my age).

Mockney security man: Sorry, my mistake, in you go. (By this point, he’s looking a bit guilty, so I thought I ought to help him out of his faux-pas).

Me: It’s ok; you must have just seen me from the back.

MSM: Even now I’ve seen you from the front I’m still not convinced…

After the day I’d had I was ready to knee him in the jewlies by this point.

My face must have said as much.

MSM: What?! Are you going to beat me up now?

So, I was telling Andrew this story and I said to him ‘It’s lucky you weren’t there, really. I’d probably have said something stupid like “Not me, but this hairy mother fucker will!” and it would probably just been embarrassing for everyone.’

“To be honest, there’s no way I was going to defend your honour there. It’s like that time you wanted to me to tell that fat man who insulted your parking to treat you like a lady.” (in my defence, I was at least… a third joking about this request). 

“ANDREW! By insulting me he was insulting you! He was saying you were a paedo for fancying me.”

“He wasn’t.”

“He WAS! And worse! He was calling you a CHILD FUCKER. A CHILD FUCKER. Are you going to stand back and let some rude mockney call me an infant and you a nonce?”

Ad infinitum. Ad naseum.

So, yeah. I felt a bit sorry for him after I’d calmed down. Like he could probably do better than me. And maybe he ought to start looking.

Still, this is the same man who spent a good half an hour trying to convince me that Juno would have still worked if the titular character had been giving away a piano instead of a baby, so I can’t feel too bad.

Give and take. Give and take.

Ladies: Cosmo wants you to shut up and put a sock on it.

Apparently, after five month long hiatus the minute I have an essay to write and revision to do, all I want to do is blog. I am a natural born contrarian, it’s true.

I keep opening up the Cosmo website and just marevelling at its shitness. Sometimes is makes me cackle for minutes at a time with its advice,  but after a binge I will eventually click off tab feeling sad and hopeless for the fate of humanity; surely procreation is in its last days if people are following Cosmo’s advice?

Some of my favourite gems from my wasted hours of browsing are listed below:

All he wants for Christmas… 

Leave out some of the detail

“It’s handy that my girlfriend is a details person because she’s good for reminding me of people’s names at parties and helping me to remember my mum’s birthday but it can get a bit tiresome when she starts telling me every detail of her day, including all the latest office gossip. I can’t remember who any of these people are.”

Hey, Sugar-tits! Quit your yammering, would you? Get back over there with your feet in the air until I’m ready for your only use again.

Your man doesn’t give a solitary shit about your “life”, or your “day” or your “job”. So just think before you speak to him next time, “Does this directly benefit my other half?” If not, shut your cake-hole and take off your top.

Stop worrying

“Worrying about how many calories she’s just eaten, worrying about what people think about her, worrying that someone’s defriended her on Facebook, worrying about which birthday card to choose… I wish my girlfriend would chill out and realise that none of the things she’s stressing about are important.”

Jesus woman, we’ve been through this! He cares a minus amount about anything you have to say! That includes any of the trivial things you’re upset by:  your  weight, if your nail polish has chipped, the fact your mum’s just died, your diabetes diagnosis. Y’know, all your chick crap; you just can’t dial down the drama, can you?

Stop putting yourself down!

“Call it male pride but us blokes like to cover up our faults (a few white lies and minor embellishments never did anyone any harm)… because we want you to think we’re brilliant. So why do you girls always seem to be pointing out your faults. We didn’t think your hair was a mess until you told us.

And now you’ve pointed it out, he just wants to put a bag over your head and make you face the wall whenever he’s in the room. You never learn, do you?

But aside from all this highly regressive relationship advice, there was my favourite ever sentence in the history of English in amongst the article subtly titled‘bank holiday bonkathon.’

Take a soft sock and slip it on his erect penis.

Yeah, if you’re like me you’re going to need to reread that a couple of times.

“A sock? A sock. On his...erect penis? We’re putting… a sock… on a man with an erection..? Let me read that again! That cannot be right, that’s actual insanity…”

Oh Cosmo, why are you promoting the use of wanking socks for hand jobs? To save on mess?  To make sure he’s left in doubt that find him and his genetalia inherantly disgusting and only want to touch them through fabric? To remind him of being thirteen, bored and an experimental masturbator?

At least it specifies a soft sock. That’s important, girls! Use one of your laydee socks, under no circumstance use one of his hiking socks! Christ woman, you’re so shit in bed. Get back in the kitchen and make him a sandwich, but don’t talk, and keep your eyes cast down.

Nookie in the Noughties

I’ve just finished a dissertation about American, female sexuality in the fifties (given the popular working title of “Fucking in the Fifties” by Andrew) and, for the most part, I found it really interesting. How could I not? It’s gender-centric social history with all the crazy shit that people used to believe; it’s everything I’ve always loved about history.

Some of the primary sources really were incredibly eyebrow-raising, like the marriage guide that recommended that, on the honeymoon, the new husband ought to equip himself with a diagram of a human vulva and thoroughly compare the illustration with that of his wife before even attempting penetration.

However, if someone were to repeat my dissertation in fifty years about the sexuality of women in noughties and had Cosmopolitan as their primary source, they’d think a snatch-map as honeymoon essential was comparatively sane advice. I just don’t know what planet the people who write for Cosmo live on, and I can only assume the people that actually take their sex advice are either under-age and don’t know any better or mentally handicapped.

Take this article:  How Clothes Make Sex Hotter.

I’m going to have to take issue with the title alone. The clothes are seriously not the causal factor if clothed sex does happen to be “hot”, it’s the spontaneity and intensity of feeling and rampantness that make it hot. Not , for example, the fact you couldn’t arse yourself to take off your flannelette pyjama top, or he’s riddled with verrucas so has to keep his socks on. To give the props – the incidentals – the credit for good sex is to completely miss the point and see the world like an IMDB contributor.

Give him a long look at you in a bra, panties, and tall boots. The vixenish-sweet combo majorly turns men on.

But does it, Cosmo?  Does it really? I’m not as sure as you seem to be that this is going to get the same result as you suggest. I mean, I don’t really wander round in my bra, pants and hooker boots, maybe other women do, I don’t know, I’m not their keepers.  But for me, this is going to necessitate a lot of planning, I mean, first off, I need to make sure I actually keep my bra on long enough for someone to see me in it and not slip it off under my top the minute I’m through my front door, secondly, I’ll have to procure some sort of fetish boots in a size one, then make sure I’m not wearing period knickers by mistake and then I need to find a excuse to slip off and slink into this sex-suit instead of, y’know, being with my boyfriend. Jeeeez, I’m tired even thinking about it.

And what’s going to be the pay off? Am I going to come for like, ten minutes continuously? Is he going to get up and offer to make me risotto afterwards? No, all that is going to happen is that he’s going to turn his head, laugh for about half an hour , then ask why I’m dressed like An Amsterdam prostitute.

While wearing a silky camisole, climb on top of him and slide your body all over his naked skin.

Or, y’know, have sex instead of writhing on top of your poor boyfriend like some sort of lingerie-wearing snake.

Let him lick your breasts through a sheer bra, then pull down the straps one at a time to grant him full access.

Firstly guys, “let him”?  Don’t get me wrong, I’m very much a “yes means yes!” kind of girl, consent is important and all, but do we nearly need to “let” our partners do this? Is this something everyone else continually has to put a stop to? Are tongues continually being swatted away from lace cups in bedrooms all over Britain? Am I missing out? I reckon actually it’s going to be a bit more like:

“Lick my breasts through my bra.”

“Why..? Can’t I just lick them unencumbered by fabric? What’s wrong with you?!”

Secondly, wet lace on nipples is going to chafe like an utter bitch…

Have him place his hands or mouth down south while you’re in undies. The fabric is a barrier (amping excitement), and his warm breath will feel amazing.

Yeah! Why would I want to actually be touched when someone can just huff on my knickers? Why aren’t more sex toys like hairdryers?

Unzip his pants, but don’t pull them off. Instead, take his member out of the opening in his boxers and treat him to oral sex. It’ll give him a rush to have only this one sexy body part exposed.

Yup, every single man loves to feel as though it’s a hurried encounter through a glory hole rather than anything more lingering.  Why don’t you enhance the public toilets vibe even more and wear a false beard so he can pretend you’re just some random bear? He’ll love the feel of prickling facial hair on his most intimate areas.

Fling open a front-closure bra right before climax. Setting your breasts free will send him tumbling over the edge.

D’you know what me and my friends are always complaining about with sex? Just being too in the moment, we always want some fiddly, pointless task to take our minds off the pleasure. But why stop at undoing bra hooks right before orgasm? Why don’t we just crochet the whole way through?

Dear John. I mean France.

Dear France,

I’ve been thinking. Really thinking. I don’t think we should see so much of each other. Perhaps we ought to have a more casual relationship? It’s not you, it’s really not, I know it’s my own problem, but I feel like there’s too much changed between the two of us for this to really be viable anymore. I’m sorry.

It’s not always been this way, has it? I remember when I first got those, warm tingly feelings for you. I was but a 16 year old ingénue (that is one thing I can thank you for; furnishing my English vocab with all these pretentious sounding words that I can slip into conversation) only just starting to learn your language, your ways, your history and being so interested in the idea of something so familiar, and yet so different at the same time. It was your mystery that first interested me so much; I wanted to know more, I wanted to speak your language and immerse myself in your culture. I thought I could unmask your mystery.

I ought to have known better. It was that very mystery that appealed. Familiarity has bred contempt. I just know too much about you; from your deep seated racism, to your questionable attitude to women, via your self-indulgent literary traditions; you’re just what I imagined when all I had to go on was the smell of Galloise, the taste of pastry and the hazy notion of a heroic resistance tradition (which, I know now, was one of your many lies).

I think the real turning point was when we lived together for four months. I could forgive so many of your other flaws when they were only theoretical, but as always, it was the little things that started to grate: your bathroom habits (Seriously, did you have to piss in every metro underpass?) your libidinousness (No, just being on the metro is not an invitation to try it on, and your lewd comments, were just that, lewd, not charmingly fresh. Genuinely, where did you find out about Anglo-Saxon women? The ladybird book of porn stars?) and not least your children (I have to say, they came as a surprise, after everything you’d been promising me with your films like “etre et avoir”, I did not expect the rag-tag assortment of little shit bags I was presented with).

I just think that we’re carrying on for all the wrong reasons. It’s just force of habit now. Sure, let’s stay together for the exams’ sake until the end of June, but after that, let’s a draw a line under this whole thing and just go back to enjoying something much more casual: I’ll see any new films you’ve realised that aren’t so far up your own arse they’re making your throat tickle, I’ll continue to enjoy your pastries, wine and sense of style. It’ll be better this way, nothing will be sullied by me trying to make excuses about your terrible work ethic and time keeping to my friends.  They know you’re not a good match for me.

Thanks for all the good times,

Katy

(Not, Kétty. Or Kathy. K-A-T-Y. Kah-ah-té-eeegrec. How we were together so long and you never learnt how to spell my name..? So hurtful).

 

Have yourself a gimpy little Christmas…

The end of the world is nigh, fashion has eaten itself, abandon hope all ye who enter Topshop; they’ve started selling what looks like some sort training gimp mask.

 

Ideal present for that special lady in your life who you’d like to introduce to the idea sadomasochism gently. “Darling, just try it on! Look, your face isn’t even covered. C’mon! It’s Christmas. I know, I know you said something from Knickerbox would be ideal, but this is so much more unique.”

God bless us, each and every one!

An unholy union.

Like many other seemingly innocuous things, that really shouldn’t bother me, but which in reality press every single one of my many, many  buttons; ostentatious fur and detachable collars have had a bad press from me.

However, never did I imagine the two could be combined in such an unholy union as the one below.

 

I just don’t understand the appeal. Or the thought process behind the design. Or…. Well, any of it.  Have ASOS moved into the medical supplies market? I can only think of three times when you might see that on the internet and think “Hell yes! That is exactly what the £50 burning a whole in my pocket needs to be spent on” And every one of them makes you certifiable:

1. You believe yourself to have an above average neck, and are fearful that those envious bitches on the bus with their, short, fat, non-swan-like necks are out to steal your perfectly crafted one. You just need to take the sensible precautions to protect your gorgeous head-stilt from theft from those who are not so similarly blessed. You’ve previously tried to secure it with a bicycle chain but, my goodness, did it chafe! That Faux-sheepskin is going to make your life so much more comfortable.
2. You are a concerned father. You’ve heard about the rise in Vampirism and are keen to protect your daughter and her neck from assault by one of those randy, blood-thirsty beasts. What was it fathers used to do back in the day? Something about chastity belts? Well, how about a chastity neck brace! Now the apple of your eye can hang about in as many crypts as much as she likes without fear of the repercussions. An old solution to a new problem, how perfect.
3. You’re looking to skive a few days off work and so far this year you’ve already had: normal flu, gastric flu, summer flu, food poisoning, lupus, menstrual cramps  and an emergency hysterectomy. And what’s more, you’re a man; the boss is starting to get a bit suspicious. Perhaps on this occasion it’s time to bring out the trump card: car accident! You’ll need a prop though, and what says “I’ve got a whiplash, no really, I do! It’s not like that time I said I was deaf, but it turned out I’d forgotten to take that earplug out, this is for real! Check out my neck-brace. Who is going to chose to wear that unless they have no choice, eh?” than this bit of below-chin attire?

I am just going to allow my mind to boggle for a bit longer.

 

And a big thanks to my mate, TC, for riffing some of this with me on MSN; she puts up with far more links to ugly things I’ve found on various clothing websites than it is reasonable for any one human to bear. Equally, if you think this is an appalling post, and I ought to go back to blogging thrice annually, then TC must shoulder some of that blame too…

Rape Humour: a guide for male chauvinists.

Hey misogynists!

Do we all know why we’re here? Rumour has it you’ve all been struggling with the concept of a taste and decency in your jokes and I’ve taken it upon myself to explain to you where the line is, OK?

Don’t get me wrong, I like “dark” humour, I really do. I’m not one of those people who thinks of Michael McIntyre as the height of avant garde comedy but equally I don’t squeal with delight every time Frankie Boyle mentions dead babies or  Kerry Katona’s vagina. Dark humour has to have a point if it’s going to be funny; there’s no point screaming about skull-fucking the still warm corpse of Claire Rayner and thinking it means you’re making some big, controversial, ground breaking point; people are only laughing because they’re not sure what else to do. Finding the funny side of upsetting, troubling things is important and necessary, but only when it is done with a view to subvert the situation and make the traumatic absurd, not just to revel in the joy of saying things that make people wince. And never was this clearer than with jokes about rape.

I think I became reasonably au fait with most kinds of rape jokes this summer. I was working with two boys (and truly, they were boys despite their appearance and age) for whom rape was second only in the hilarity stakes to eating shit; a favourite dilemma of theirs was “Would you eat Cheryl Cole’s shit if it meant you could fuck her?”  but “Would you rape your mum for ten grand?”  was another perennial favourite that deserves a  dishonourable mention. Questions that will echo through the ages, I’m sure you’ll all agree. It really did become incredibly irksome and predictable repertoire but at least I feel I can now speak with a degree of authority on the subject.

So, listen up! Here’s a step-by-step guide to what’s OK, what’s funny and what just makes you a fucking awful excuse for a grown man who deserves to have his scrotal sack stapled to an office chair. Violation doesn’t seem so amusing now, does it?

Thumbs up :

1)      Wanda Sykes “Detachable Vagina” routine:

OK class, first things fist, if any of you are thinking “harharhar, Wanda Sykes could jog naked through a prison and she’d not get raped.” Allow me to take a moment to explain why you’re all morons. Let’s be crystal clear, rape isn’t a crime of passion, it’s about power and the sooner we accept that, the sooner we can all stop having ridiculous conversations about what someone was wearing or their sexual history, it simply is not relevant.

As to why this is funny and not offensive. It’s not seeking to trivialise or banalize anything, it’s finding the humour in a horrible state of affairs (that many women simply don’t feel safe doing various activities because of the very thing that makes them female).

2)      When The Onion gets the point so perfectly.

Oh I do love you, The Onion. See Frankie Boyle, this is OPAQUE humour that is worthwhile and well crafted, it can be done.

3)      Anyone who has had the experience of rape trying to come to terms with it through humour and finding the ridiculous in the ghastly.

Humour is cathartic and it can be so healing to deal with things through laughter. I’ve had a google looking for examples of this, but I’ve struggled to find any. I suppose that’s because this kind of humour isn’t done for validation or a great big pat on the back for being “such a top jokes-smith!” It really is done amongst friends for the quiet satisfaction of knowing that this isn’t something that’s broken you. I think that’s probably a more valid reason for invoking this subject than making that rabid Mock the Week Audience clap like the pack of howling dogs they truly are.

So as we can see, there’s a relatively small selection of times when it’s an acceptable topic.

Now here’s a far from exhaustive list of examples that are not permissible that I came across at my time in one of the call centres this summer.

Thumbs Down:

1)      “Which man would you really like to be raped by?” as a question directed to anyone, but especially any female co-workers.

Pretty sure you need to go away and look up “rape” in the dictionary. There’s been a fundamental lack of understanding somewhere along the line. Perhaps that is where all this trouble stems from? Bit less time watching South Park, more time learning English, eh lads? I know you also hated it when I used the word “prolific” amongst others, claiming it was “gay”, but sometimes a rudimentary comprehension of English can really work in your favour.

2)      Getting right into your female colleague’s face and whispering “What would you do if I raped you?”

I mean, this is barely a joke. It’s only included because of the pants-pissing and back-slapping that went on after this was hissed at me, meant they found humour in it somewhere. This is just  a threat/harassment really, isn’t it? And no, I’m not some “humourless bitch” who’s “too sensitive” because I went fucking insane at those who said it to me. I’m just not and if you can’t see why that’s the case, then I’ll just have to fetch the staple gun right now.

3)      Telling a different female colleague who’d had her drink spiked, but not been attacked, that she “must have been a bit upset that the date rapist obviously didn’t fancy her enough to see it through”.

Again, YOU HAVE MISUNDERSTOOD THE BASIC PREMISE OF THE CRIME.

Anyway, I like to think I won a small victory in changing attitudes when one of the boys was boasting about how he’d made his girlfriend scream and cry by wiping his dick round her face whilst she was sleeping. Not in a sexual way, you understand, just in a sort of humiliation way. So I said “commit much low level assault of an evening?”

And his eyes raised upwards in pensive fashion and he uttered the words:

I suppose that is assault, isn’t it?

All hope is not lost after all.