Partner, Friend, Lover, or Just a Contracted Call Girl?

‘Partner’; it’s a modern expression that is commonly used to describe your misses/fella/girlfriend/boyfriend. I think it’s an expression that’s been partly introduced to accommodate the gender-diverse relationships in contemporary society, but also it’s used as a marker of the degree of respect that men must now have for the aspiring, independent modern woman. Let’s face it, I don’t think the men in the lives of women like Katherine Bigelow, Angela Merkel, Christina Fernandez, Kate Blanchett or Fatima Whitbread would get away with referring to their other halves as ‘Er indoors’ or ‘Mi bird’ for too long. And I guess if you’re all hip and bi-sexual like Jessie J, or just weird and try-sexual like Alex Reid, the old traditional terms would be a bit limiting as a reference for the other person that you are… well, whatever it is you now call the monogamous ‘thing’ that you’re having with another person. Personally though, I hate it. It’s so… dare I say – unromantic. It’s devoid of any passion or emotive sentiment. It’s a term that conjures up images of practical, organised, convenience rather than hot, sexual abandon, or deep passionate, desire, or the warm, fuzzy, heart fluttering of lurve. Put it this way, I don’t want to be in a partnership with someone who I also want to sit on my face. I don’t want to be in a partnership with someone who I cuddle up to in the morning, or divulge my innermost fears and desires with, or dribble uncharacteristic sentiments to when we both see a beautiful sunset. I suspect in business that most partners tolerate each other for mutual benefit, like Clegg and Cameron, or the business beggars and those sharks on Dragons Den – someone is getting a better deal than the other but, ah well, at least it’s something. That doesn’t really sound like the stuff that loving dreams are made of. But perhaps that’s as good as it gets in a modern relationship.

I had an ex-girlfriend who I thought I loved. She was in her mid-twenties. We shagged each others’ brains out at every opportunity. We went partying and got drunk and high and danced the night away. We went for days out in the countryside when it was sunny and picnicked on the grass. It was great – for a time. I love the ‘honeymoon period’ and confess to having trouble moving beyond that period. But this went beyond the honeymoon period and when the bitch dumped me I was pretty broken up about it. I just couldn’t get those good times out of my mind. However, when I stopped floundering pathetically in the lovesick headfuck that being dumped causes and started to think rationally about what our relationship actually was, I eventually got over her. You see, the truth of the matter was, aside from the sex and the fun, she didn’t really contribute much. I couldn’t tell you what her opinion was on anything, because in-between shagging and partying she was a catatonic spectator on the sofa. I couldn’t tell you about an instance she comforted me in a time of need, because whenever I had a time of need she didn’t want to see me because I was being miserable. All I can tell you is how much she could drink and how much fun we had when we went out; ironically it was the rest that was a blur.

Culture killer, passion killer!

In recent news a headmistress at a girls boarding school condemned Kim Kardashian as “almost everything that is wrong with Western society”. When reading the feature and looking at the two women, a cruel, shallow part of me couldn’t help but think that the lady who looked like David Rappaport’s identical twin sister was just jealous of the lady who looked like the woman you close your eyes and visualise when you’re having sex with your ‘partner’. Kim Kardashian is what you would call ‘hot’, there’s no doubt. And although I don’t know the woman, my male instinct says “Yes, I would like to pound the living daylights out of that ‘bootay’ and everything that is attached”. But no matter how great she is to look at, if she was shallow, characterless and intellectually vapid, she would not last beyond a dozen good sessions before I’d get bored and start looking at her sisters – maybe even her mum. Beauty is more than skin deep – you have to have a great body under that skin too, and Kim definitely has – but just being a sexy bitch doesn’t cut it. So although Kim Kardashian isn’t the first sex kitten to be built up by the media as a female icon of sexual perfection, I’m inclined to agree to a degree with David Rappaport’s sister.

Sex sells and contemporary young women do often demean themselves by reducing their worth to the sum of that part between their legs. They (and the media) know that most men think with their dicks, and provided she is accommodating in bed a modern women thinks that she has control over her man. But what many women fail to understand is that a penis is a fickle beast. That old saying about men wanting a womanto be ‘a chef in the kitchen, a lady in the living room and a whore in the bedroom’ isn’t far from the truth. But a man also wants a best mate who he can have great sex with without being gay, and in my own personal experience of the modern woman, they seem to think that it’s just the ‘whore in the bedroom’ bit that counts. Not so. When I think back over my relationship with my Ex – indeed, many of the relationships I’ve had – it was me breaking the sweat in the bedroom, it was me who served up the best culinary delights at tea time, it was me who drove us to the countryside and bought the meals and the drinks. In retrospect it seemed to me that they just hung around waiting to get laid and entertained. Which, to be fair, is pretty enjoyable if you like entertaining; but only to a point.

“Nice vajazzel love, but I’m bloody starvin’!”

It has been suggested to me that I’ve been going out with the wrong kind of women, but I’ve been out with all kinds of women. It’s been suggested that I’m too fussy, but with only one life to live fussy doesn’t come into it. It’s been suggested to me that I’m just a twat – that may be true. All I’m saying here  – and this isn’t directed at all women – is if modern young women were to take their head out of those bullshit magazines and concentrate more on what their own man wants rather than what the fictional Cosmo / Marie Claire / Elle magazine man wants, she might be surprised at just how easy it is. The women who edit those magazines have the luxury of status and a great pay package to keep them warm and happy at night. The men they’re talking about are fabricated from other men based of polls from other magazines made up from opinions expressed by other contrived opinions created by magazine and media editors – in short, they don’t exist in real life. Neither does Kim Kardashian – even if she is in a reality TV show; a show that shows a reality that isn’t real.

I’m aware that the traditional role of a man is that of the arrogant, ‘two pumps and a squirt’, unreliable, philandering, twat; but I’m not that man, and I know a lot of guys who aren’t that bad either (but if you are one of those other guys, you need to up your game Brother!) But by taking her cue from the media, the modern young woman seems to think that the key to independence is all about being sexy and having fun and all she has to do is ensure that she looks good, sucks good and fucks good, and she is fulfilling her end of a relationship. Well to be brutally honest, a regular hooker can do that too, she’d probably work out a lot cheaper in the long run, and you wouldn’t have to put up with her shit.

I know those of you with ovaries who are reading this will be cursing me as a chauvinistic prick, but flattery will get you nowhere. And besides, I’m not the one who’s selling you the false dreams, just take a look at some of your modern icons – from Madonna to Ga Ga, Beyonce to Minaj – all they promote is booty, breasts, fake tan, clothes and surgery. None of that shit makes me love you any longer than my erection lasts, but during that erect period I promise to promise you the world. However, if you bring something more lasting to the party then I might give you something more lasting back in return.

Just some of the contents of a weekend bag.

Despite what I said at the start, relationships are a partnership of sorts, so if your man isn’t keeping his end up [so to speak], tell him. That’s where the independence comes in; you can now demand your respect and make the choice of walking away. Equality isn’t about having the freedom to do all the bad things men are traditionally known to do, it’s more about freedom of choice. So choose to do what you want to do, not what a magazine has advised you to do. Men are very complex creatures with very simple needs for the most part, and I assure you that no matter how good you look, suck, or fuck, he will eventually just prefer you could cook.


True Colours

The 2012 European Championships are currently underway and aside from the outstanding quality of competition in the tournament so far, the other major topic that has dominated the games has been racism. Now the racism issue must be pretty important when you consider that Mario Balotelli is also playing in the tournament, a character who’s every move dominates the headlines of any football tournament or fireworks display he is associated with. As a Manchester City supporter I was very interested to see how Mario Balotelli would perform in the tournament… when I say perform I mean as a footballer rather than a source of bizarre entertainment. His initial statements about how he would deal with the racists in the crowd didn’t so much make me bristle with voyeuristic anticipation, but I did smile with paternal endearment toward the moody little ninnyhammer (I found this word on a website about weird words that have gone out of use and it just seems to suit our Mario perfectly); there’s something about Mario that’s just so loveable. Maybe it’s because he is a little bit dumb – although the lad thinks himself a genius; bless. He reminds me of a boxer – not the sports type but the dog – muscular, taught, narrow limbs, hostile and aggressive in appearance, but really just a sweet little beast. So to read reports of him saying he will kill anyone who throws bananas at him just made me go “Aw”.

Loveable rogue

A loveable rogue with great ball skills

Great footballing talent that he is, ‘Super’ Mario is as brittle as a Twiglet on the pitch when challenged with any intent, so it’s hard to see him really getting stuck into some retarded racist thug armed with a banana cosh. Luckily for the banana-wielding primate who launched the fruit missile during the Italy-Croatia game, the offending fruit was removed before Super Mario saw it. Nevertheless, with foot in mouth rather than on the ball, you do have to love the boy ‘genius’ for his own judgement of self-worth. Just check out some of these quotes:

“I think I am a genius, but not a rebel… I have my life, my world, I do what I want, without annoying anyone.” Mario, you annoy everyone – apart from me, I love ya kid.

“I believe I am more intelligent than the average person.” There are millions of school children all over the world who can quite easily manage to put on a bib during sporting sessions that might argue with Mario there, but hey, that doesn’t deter the lad does it as he goes on…

“The talent God gave me is beautiful and wonderful… There are few people with such talent” Ah Mario, he who blows his own trumpet is usually a soloist, but not in Mario’s case because he has a perfect partner in Cristiano Ronaldo, who makes Mario sound like a man on a diet of humble pie. The pair of them should really have their own TV chat show, it would be unique. Each week Ron and Mario would invite famous guests on to talk about… well to talk about them really.

Whilst the oily Christiano Ronaldo makes my skin crawl because of his sincere self-aggrandisement, I don’t mind Mario so much. Not because he plays for Man City but because he reminds me of a spoilt little boy who really doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong and just wants his own way, but can’t understand why he can’t have it. Ronaldo is just a hyper-arrogant cock. In an alternative universe where the status of footballers and circus performers were reversed, Ronaldo would be the equivalent of the Bearded Lady with amazing juggling skills. But this isn’t about the two footballing genius’ that the Lord has been benevolent enough to bestow upon us for our entertainment – Lionel Messi isn’t in this tournament and Diego Maradona has been retired for a long time – this is an examination of racism at Euro 2012.

Ronaldo keeps his eye on his balls but dreams of a future as a lady.

Racism exists and probably always will. Whilst writers of his-story continue to skew and manipulate facts to favour the victors and proceed to miseducate their youth, and whilst the media continues to proliferate negative stereotypes of their minority audiences, the disease of racism will continue to spread. And it is a disease. True racists are truly mentally disturbed individuals. I could write thousands of words discounting the claims of racists, but if you’ve got any sense, historical knowledge or social education, it really isn’t necessary to elaborate on just how ridiculous racist attitudes are. Great people and great empires have derived from many different countries and cultures. Absolute complete and utter pieces of shit have also been spawned from those same countries and cultures. Probably every nation and creed has bloodied their hands throughout history, but that is just the nature of Man as a species, not any particular colour or creed. Yes, it’s a dippy hippy mantra, but as a people we are but one and the same, albeit with certain physiological and cultural differences. And whilst we all have our own likes, dislikes and prejudices toward certain people and certain parts of cultures, only a truly, ignorant or truly sick, fuck would condemn an entire genus of their own species under some disturbed delusion that they are somehow superior.

Although many have condemned UEFA’s decision to hold the Euro’s in a country that has problems with racism, I personally believe that unless you confront those issues by hosting international events of this magnitude in countries like Poland and Ukraine and therefore shining the international spotlight on them, you are never going to change the ignorant attitudes of the (I hope) minority of people in those countries. Then again I don’t really believe that was UEFA’s intention. UEFA and Platini have clearly illustrated their own ignorance toward racism by the paltry fines they have issued to offending Football Associations’ fans. The media displayed their typical hypocrisy as they rounded on Russian and Croatian fans, but not on the fans of the sublime Spanish team who are the current darlings of world football. But that shouldn’t really surprise anybody as the media could do well to look in its own back yard for banana’s thrown from its own institutions. Like the Mafia, the media doesn’t really take sides, they just support whatever or whoever works for them.

Racism in football really isn’t a big problem according to Platini

Britain has transformed as a nation over the course of history by opening its arms (albeit tentatively) to people from all over the world. As a result the culture is richer, the people wiser and the cuisine is a hell of lot better. During the civil rights movement in America Rosa Parks got on that bus even though she knew nobody wanted her there, but in doing so she helped to change the future. The dark skinned football fans who went to Euro 2012 whether the racists amongst the Poles, Ukrainians, Spanish, Russians and Croatians wanted them or not, will hopefully help to change the attitudes and the future of those nations too.

So whilst the bigots hoot and howl and wave their arms around and drag their knuckles along the floor and grunt their chants to a worldwide audience, for all intent and purposes they are the ones who are acting like extras from Planet of the Apes – apes that aren’t even intelligent enough to hold onto their own bananas. They’re the ones who, for all their apparent nationalism, are an embarrassment to their own nations. They’re the ones who are condemned by their own football associations. And it’s that public condemnation that is the key to killing racism. Expose it for the dirty little scum stain that it is. Racism is pure ignorance, but if you can’t escape the truth then you can’t remain ignorant. So perhaps it’s fitting that all those nations with the racist fans were knocked out of the tournament, with the exception of Spain. Although truly unfair to the players and the civilised supporters, perhaps karma played its part for the greater good.

This is Beasley Green

I am Beasley Green and I confess to feeling a little bit dirty. The acrid scum-stain of hypocrisy is smarting in my mouth as I type these words because it feels like ego-porn. I can actually feel a hint of whiplash from the abrupt u-turn I’ve taken by subscribing to this blogging malarkey. You see, I have a thorough contempt for the contemporary culture of the vapid, self-absorbed, reality TV ‘star’, the Tweeter, and the social-media-poster-of-incessant-inane-personal-trivia – WHY DO YOU THINK I CARE!!?? But here I am, a random stranger in cyberspace offering up my opinion on the world we live in and the human creatures that inhabit and shape it – WHY DO I THINK YOU CARE!!?? Maybe I don’t think you care. Maybe it’s just a compulsion; a need to throw my pebble in the pond to try and stem the flow of utter shite gushing forth and threatening to demean every single higher attribute of humanity by pummelling our every sense with inane distractions via a small, corporate, cartel of pop-media moguls. A cathartic need to simply vent my spleen and have a platform to air my grievances with the world. Or perhaps I am just another self-absorbed ego-whore spreading my legs for the world to enter and I don’t even realise it. It could be any or all of these things, but one thing I promise you, unless you are totally illiterate, my musings, rantings and ramblings will be funny, insightful and thought provoking. They’ll probably be a little bit offensive too, but hey ‘sticks and stones’ and all that. If you are illiterate, then you could read with a dictionary and thesaurus by your side, but the literary momentum will probably be lost – but hey, God loves [laughing at] a trier! And I’d love to have you along for the ride anyway in the hope that you will improve your mind and your vocabulary, and have a smile along the way.

So what will I be blogging about? Well I guess you should know a little bit about me to help you understand my perspective on the world, but I’m not going to tell you. It’s not about me. Lord knows there’s enough pretentious, posturing cocks out there who get paid good money to tell you a load of shit as directed by their editor, press officer or producer. No, I’m going to remain relatively anonymous so that you literally ‘take it as read’. I may sound sexist or racist at times, but I can assure you I am neither; I’m an egalitarian and exercise an equal opportunities policy in my misanthropy. My mother is a woman, as is my sister and my daughter – and I believe at least one of my nephews too – and I love them all.

As far as having racist views, well that is impossible; my father is an Afronese-Celt whose Japanese mother settled in Ireland with my African grandfather, who was an RAF pilot during the bombing of Pearl Harbour in WWII. My Scandistani mother was the daughter of a Swedish explorer who married the woman who cared for him when he got lost on an expedition to Kathmandu (he got very lost). What that makes me is probably unpronounceable, but I reckon I tick every box – the main one being that I have dark skin. All those other boxes are just there to make sure that institutions aren’t seen to be racist, otherwise there would be more ‘mixed’ categories aside from the ones that involve the mixing of pigmentation – but lets save that for a blog one day eh.

As far as my age and background are concerned; well lets just say I’m young enough to misbehave and old enough not to care. I have traversed the spectrum of socio-cultural experience and have learned life lessons that are priceless. As I write my blogs, touching on things as diverse as sport, fashion, religion, politics, philosophy and the threat of the New World Order, you will come to know me and maybe even love me. I don’t really care that much because we will probably never meet, and to quote Frank Skinner, “You can spend your whole life trying to get people to like you, but at the end of the day the turnout at your funeral will be largely dependent on the weather” – or whether you can get a day off work.

Happy reading!