I Get Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman!

Feminism is a curiosity for many young people today; something ugly that's curled in a corner, to be prodded with a stick because they don't quite know how it's going to react. To be honest the extent of my knowledge of what feminism stands for, or who a feminist actually is, goes no further than expressions of powerful female iconography that I've been exposed to through pop culture whilst growing up. Madonna grabbing her crotch whilst wearing underwear as outer-wear. The Spice Girls pulling peace signs whilst declaring 'Girl power!' Lady Gaga being... Lady Gaga. But is Madonna really a feminist when she's still having to sexualise her performances by having her tits peeking out of a blazer? Surely the five 'categories' that the Spice Girls were organised into only serves to present woman as a one-dimensional being? And as much as I love Lady Gaga, she has settled herself so snugly in an alternative niche - through her imagery particularly, often standing outside of what could be easily classed as any clearly defined gender - that is she really representative of a modern woman? The stereotypical bra-burning movement was a little before my time, and so with a liberal mind and heart my interpretation of what feminism stands for is restricted to what I've absorbed from the early 90s onwards.

Obviously there's room for debate within any of those claims, but then thank God for Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman for helping clear up some of the hazy finer points of feminism. With chapter headings as pronounced and loud as her Twitter posts ('I Start Bleeding!', 'I Don't Know What To Call My Breasts!'), it essentially goes like this:

Put your hand in your pants.
a) Do you have a vagina? and
b) Do you want to be in charge of it?

If you said 'yes' to both, then congratulations! You're a feminist.

It's not exactly earth-shattering stuff, but then what's enjoyable about How To Be A Woman is that it focuses on one much-needed thing: clarity. Moran writes in a brash, over-exaggerated tone that is accessible to all. In fact, it reads like it's basically just you and her, in some dingy little pub, putting the world to rights after too many bacardi and cokes. Part autobiography, part feminist mission statement, you stumble through each chapter confronted by various feminist issues, such as sexism in the workplace or the trickiness of high heels, until Moran pulls you back and says: 'Do you know what? None of this really matters. As long as you're doing it because you want to, then it's neither here nor there.' She quickly denounces the ridiculousness of Katie Price and her alter-ego Jordan as a successful businesswoman as little more than a phoney and a fraud; dismisses girls who are paying their way through university by stripping for money; and exposes the absurdity of spending £6,000 on a designer handbag ('If I'm honest, the handbag I would probably like most is a big, hollowed-out potato with handles on it. A giant King Edward with satchel straps. Then, in times of crisis, I could bake and eat the handbag, and survive the winter. That is the way of my people.")

All this is done with so much loling and roflment - indeed, the chapter 'I Get Married!' reduced me to such hysterical giggling as Moran documents the developing armageddon that was her wedding day, that I genuinely thought I was going to have to pop a valium - that it is a joy to read. It also reinforces the notion that Moran believes we should approach 'serious' topics such as feminism with a good smattering of humour, thrown in for healthy measure.

But it is the last few chapters that talk about giving birth, question the assumption that all women will have children, and Moran's decision to have an abortion upon discovering she is pregnant for a third time which are the most revealing. The biggest challenge of the 21st century will be shattering pre-conceived ideas of not only women and feminism but identity in general, focusing on offering anyone, whether female or male, the respect and opportunity to make their own choices, free from any set agenda. Upon discovering Germaine Greer, Moran invites all women to stand on a sofa and shout, 'I AM A FEMINIST!' By the time you've reached the end of How To Be A Woman, it becomes clear that Moran is simply advocating anyone and everyone to have the balls to stand up for themselves and purely create themselves in their own image. To this end, I will go one better than Moran. I will gladly join her up on that sofa but instead I will scream, 'I AM A FEMENIST!' Not to change the term to include the word 'men', but rather to change the term to include the word 'me'. See - free from any set a-gender.

Expecto patronum!

Harry Potter is the story of a generation's childhood. Watching the final installment in the franchise on this ordinary, muggy evening, I was taken back to just how enraptured I was with Philosopher's Stone when I first read it. Enamoured with the idea of Quidditch, I would sit on the back of my parent's two-piece sofa (which required quite a bit of balance and, thus, made it more realistic in my mind that I was really on a broomstick) and pretend to catch the golden snitch. Like many children around the world, I deliberated over which house I would belong to and what my favourite Hogwarts class would be. Even the holidays I went on whilst growing up were defined by what Potter book I was reading at the time: Goblet of Fire in the Isle of Man; Order of the Phoenix in Crete; Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows in Portugal.

Transforming the books into films was never going to be an easy task but the later films in particular have been very strong, and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 was a complete triumph in my opinion. I feel privileged that this series was written directly at my generation, with the books progressing in both style and subject matter as readers have got older.

Finally, imagine putting yourself in J. K. Rowling's shoes and carrying that weight of responsibility when crafting a fitting conclusion to such a well-loved story. I do not believe the best stories ever leave you, which is why I'm so glad Hogwarts will always be there to welcome me home.

Albus Dumbledore: "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?"



(Watch from the four minute mark)

L! O! V! E!

Dance to the beat of my drum! Dance to the beat of my drum! Crackin'.

Ich trag den namen monster

On the one hand Gaga, I had geared myself up to sit you in the naughty corner. I was ready to put on my serious face, stand over you and, quite honestly, give you a good telling off. Hyping the new album up beyond belief? That lacklustre first single, which leans a little too much on Mother Madonna's shoulders? And don't get me started on the Radio 1 Big Weekend set. That was the final straw which really broke this camel's back. Diverting into free jazz? Throwing some of your biggest hits (Telephone, Poker Face, Alejandro) away in a medley that wasn't really a medley because you had breaks in-between each one (!), before undertaking a ridiculous cover of Orange Colored Sky in homage to Will and Kate? And for the love of Gaga, stop rhyming things with Gaga! I've already composed 'Gaga Black Sheep'. I'm onto you.
Of course, these bad moments were interspersed with instances of genius (incubating yourself in an egg being at the top), but generally there was a feeling of setting yourself up to fall. "You're going to sit here and think about what you've done," I would say sternly, whilst little Gaga would look up with wet eyes and a trembling lip.

But you see, there's a glitch in the plan...  your new album is actually rather good. Certainly, it doesn't live up to the hype but then that was all a load of blah-blah anyway. When the album does shine however, it burns bright like a red-hot smoking pipe of pop porn. And it'll confuse you if I punish you for doing something right - right? Poor doll.

Granted, it could've gone a bit further. You could have taken a few more risks musically. Monsters who thought you were heading towards a harder, more 'industrial' sound will be left disappointed. It's pretty much par-for-the-course in terms of drum machines and catchy hooks, all wrapped in a bangin' electronic shimmer with a cherry cherry boom boom on top isn't it? But the quality throughout is top-notch, with several really beating their chests loudly. Government Hooker begins with an eerie operatic wailing before descending into a moody ditty about, as far as I can tell, politicians and their whores. "Put your hands on me, John F Kennedy," you drawl. Nice shout-out. Scheiße is a strutter's wet dream, screechy synths set over a dominating talk-rap in German. Hair is a shoe-in for a future Glee episode and Bad Kids is a simple, carefree ode to loving yourself no matter what. Outstanding.

So, no naughty step today but I'll be keeping a close eye on you. That saxophone seems to be creeping into far too many songs for my liking. Milk and cookies Gaga?

Download: Government Hooker, Hair, Scheiße, Bad Kids

Hoofy

A few weeks ago I was commissioned by Dazed & Confused, a publication that I have a huge amount of admiration for, to interview the artist Iris Schieferstein, who breathes a new sense of purpose into the lifeless animals that construct her artwork. These tools are taken to the laboratory of the artist, where they are recomposed and stitched together with the mastery of taxidermy. The creatures do not appear deformed or lacking in grace, but instead are of a measured and sublime physical shape that leads the observer into a surreal and fabled reality. The artist discusses life, death and getting her knuckles rapped by the police in her homeland, Germany, below or you can travel to Dazed & Confused's website and read the piece there.



What attracted you to working with dead animals?
My interest in using animals began in 1990. I was thinking about what we eat whilst I was preparing some fish. They are like garbage. They can’t eat or sleep or whatever. Then I started with chicken, because they look a little bit human-like. I started using them because of the nature of making and fixing, but also to create another material from the animals too. Of course, you could create them for a practical purpose, but for me it’s an artwork.

Do you think your art re-animates the animals in some way?
Somehow, it looks alive. In the beginning I put them in liquid, and straight away there seems to be a life. This is a very old, traditional thing; like if you go to a museum. I work in a very traditional method. You’ve had the Egyptians and the Greeks who used to preserve animals in the past, and I think somehow my work reminds you of that. It’s a game of thinking, ‘what is behind that?’ It will always figure in our history.

Do some people find your work shocking?
There might be some people who find it shocking, but it’s not really all that shocking because you can feel it everywhere; what you eat, what you’re wearing… This is all animal. If you worked in a slaughter house, then that experience would be shocking. I don’t think I’m shocking. I just try to get in touch with people in a different way. The audience can approach it from any direction they want.

Have you ever faced any criticism for your art?
When I began working with dead animals I would pick them up from the street. But these animals are protected by the government in Germany, and so after ten years they tried to put me in prison. It’s forbidden to show them or make art with them in Germany. All these free animals that used to live in the city or the country… You can go to jail for almost six years for doing what I did. It’s absolutely absurd. On the other hand, they will cut the horns off of a cow in Germany. I cannot follow or understand these things. There are so many rules in Germany that are absolutely stupid.

What dictates how one particular animal will be used in a piece?
It really depends on what’s in my mind, but they are always more than one thing. It depends what influence you have in your circle and what you’re looking for.

Is your work open to interpretation?
Absolutely. I always try not to explain. Somehow I like to think of my artwork as a kind of explanation in itself. These are my words to use, to show people what you can think, or to send them in another direction. If something touches you, you just start thinking. Every artwork is carrying something for the people that decide to get in touch. I hope that people do get in touch with my artwork and feel inspired by it, and perhaps start to question certain things.

In progress?

We will meet where the lights are/The defenders of the faith we are/Where the thunder turns around/They'll run so hard we'll tear the ground away.

Four become five. It’s an emotional and significant album for Take That. In-band squabbles and differences have been put aside to celebrate the good times, and all this has been condensed into an album that suggests they could actually have a future together as a five-piece.
Those expecting a rehash of Beautiful World or The Circus are in for a shock/treat (delete as appropriate). Gone are the middle-of-the-road ballads and in their place is a contemporary euro-pop album that consistently plays on your belief that you’ve come to know what to expect from Take That. This is 100% a very good thing. Personally, I don’t know if I could stomach a CD of lighters-in-the-air anthems, while Robbie stares lovingly at Gary and all is forgiven. Instead, what we have is an album that boldly dares to write the next chapter in Take That’s history, documented in a collection of ten perfectly-formed tracks.

SOS is like ABBA on steroids. The chorus is a whirling cry of disarray, and disorder has never sounded so catchy. Kidz, not to be confused with Williams’ solo hit of (almost!) the same name, sizzles over a thumping electro stomp whilst Mark mumbles anti-establishment sentiments of “kings and queens and presidents, ministers of government” and such, before Williams grabs the issue by the crotch and roars, “There’ll be trouble when the kids come out/There will be lots for them to talk about”, to which Mark retorts a few “hey hey heys”. It’s quite a departure from Take That’s typical soundscape and, as such, is one of the best tracks here. Consequently, Kidz is an obvious contender for follow-up single to The Flood.
Meanwhile, Pretty Things is a soothing lullaby lost in clouds of synthesizers - fronted almost entirely by Williams again – whereas Happy Now is a ray of euphoric pop that is almost as jubilant in its sentiment as Do What You Like… but then again, nothing ever is.

Howard and Jason hustle their way to the mic on Affirmation and hidden track Flowerbed respectively, both songs positioned in the rear of the track listing. Both tracks do the job however, and will hush detractors that say the vocals should be spread more evenly.
And what about Gary? Well, he is here, most obviously on The Flood and official album closer Eight Letters. Otherwise, he tends to take more of a back-step. ‘Mutiny!’, I hear you all cry. Not quite, as Barlow’s influence can be heard melodically throughout Progress, in the urgency of SOS’ furious beats per minute’s right through to the exuberant harmonies of Happy Now. The decision to step aside and allow Williams and Owen the majority of lead vocals was certainly a brave one, but one that I think pays off when you consider the addition of Stuart Price too.
This year alone, Price has played the part of producer extraordinaire for Kylie, Scissor Sisters and Brandon Flowers’ first solo LP. Here, Progress is enveloped in a layer of warmth that actually contrasts well with the vocals of Owen and Williams. Owen’s voice is an unusual one, which forces its way out in a slightly tense pitch, whilst Williams can let loose with thundering power. The verses of Kidz could not have been done by any other member than Mark, and it is Robbie’s call-to-arms vocal that crash against The Flood which make it such an epic comeback single. To this end, production and vocals are suitably matched, but it is the absence of Gary’s vocals that will cause the biggest upset with fans, rather than the shift in sound.

Some of these songs will sound huge live, and with the album cover depicting the five members in the various stages of mankind whilst lyrics speak of “divine intervention” and “preparing for apocalypse”, Take That can really go to town on the theatrics when their 2011 tour roles around. Progress is a fiery disc of molten brilliance, shot out from the centre of the earth. Well done boys.

A text-ual analysis

James: are you ready?!
J: BUGGER ME!
Amy: a diving catch! i trashed my trifle in my excitement
J: i don't think i'm ready for the second half! shaking
J: what's with jucinta's teeth?
A: goosebumps!
J: b! eight! get in the cuba!
J: ahahaha "the cuba" :D
A: in my hysteria i deleted your last text before even reading it :P clueless!
J: concentrate stocking! you'd never survive in the cuba!
J: nicola! ;D
A: what's with all the lumberjack shirts?!
J: they're all chopping wood - tapped!
J: national lottery!
A: rollover!
A: untouchable!
A: his lankyness is his greatest asset
J: like me!
J: so tense
J: "don't let it rattle you", wise words from the fox
J: "just that final leg!" omg, that punched me in the stomach
A: you keep quoting just as i'm in the middle of typing the same quote! fwoo trace is getting tight chested
J: tell her to take a deep breath. i've had to remove my knitwear
J: the tower's laughing at him!
A: brought him to his knees, steady on schofield!
J: did you see the body was played by... the body! :D

THE CUBE

The black billowing cloud

I always tend to be wary of things when they're considered popular. There's something inside me that ticks like a bomb, albeit one that is cushioned by a hundred used mattresses, or spun in bubble wrap and then discarded at the bottom of nobody's basement; but my body still tenses at that consistent, however muffled, ticking. It's as if I think no-one and no thing can be truly popular without some form of deception or cruelty or foul-play taking place. I don't judge myself to be naturally distrustful. I believe in many things, I suppose - what about you?

Upon waking to the news of the volcanic ash that's drifting ever closer, my immediate thought was of Don DeLillo's White Noise, and the airborne toxic event that he describes.

'...we saw a remarkable and startling sight. It appeared in the sky ahead of us and to the left, prompting us to lower ourselves in our seats, bend our heads for a clearer view, exclaim to each other in half finished phrases. It was the black billowing cloud, the airborne toxic event, lighted by the clear beams of seven army helicopters. They were tracking its windborne movement, keeping it in view. In every car, heads shifted, drivers blew their horns to alert others, faces appeared in side windows, expressions set in tones of outlandish wonderment.

The enormous dark mass moved like some death ship in a Norse legend, escorted across the night by armored creatures with spiral wings. We weren't sure how to react. It was a terrible thing to see, so close, so low, packed with chlorides, benzines, phenols, hydrocarbons, or whatever the precise toxic content. But it was also spectacular, part of the grandness of a sweeping event, like the vivid scene in the switching yard or the people trudging across the snowy overpass with children, food, belongings, a tragic army of the dispossessed. Our fear was accompanied by a sense of awe that bordered on the religious. It is surely possible to be awed by the thing that threatens your life, to see it as a cosmic force, so much larger than yourself, more powerful, created by elemental and willful rhythms. This was a death made in the laboratory, defined and measurable, but we thought of it at the time in a simple and primitive way, as some seasonal perversity of the earth like a flood or tornado, something not subject to control. Our helplessness did not seem compatible with the idea of a man-made event.'

So, I guess I believe in fiction.


Banksy: 'They exist without permission. They are hated, hunted and persecuted. They live in quiet desperation amongst the filth. And yet they are capable of bringing entire civilisations to their knees. If you are dirty, insignificant and unloved then rats are the ultimate role model.'

I've always been a fan of Banksy's art, and not just the curious suspicion it evokes in modern-day principles, but the means in which Banksy as an artist operates. To work with the medium of graffiti should be problematic for an artist, what with the obvious time pressures and legal issues that abound, not to mention the notion of whether it should be deemed 'art' at all by many individuals ('People look at an oil painting and admire the use of brushstrokes to convey meaning. People look at a graffiti painting and admire the use of a drainpipe to gain access'). I'm sure Banksy doesn't call it art. And yet it is obviously the means itself with Banksy that imbues his pieces with something more pertinent. His work is raw and angry, terse but suggestive. They stand as venomous advertisements, motifs of disillusionment and quiet violence. By scrawling it across a battered tube train on the District Line, or the empty canvas of a forgotten white-washed wall in Bristol, Banksy is asking for our distrust to the same degree as all those big-buck businesses are crying out for our hand via their next advertising campaign. His role as a graffiti artist is as much about reclaiming the streets from the rodents as it is about letting them loose from the stinking sewers. Are the rats those corporate companies and politicians that run riot, or is it the ordinary man, left squatting in his own mess? Surely it can't be a coincidence that 'rat' is an anagram of 'art'?


Tonight I will be watching the first televised political debate between the three main parties. I don't know who to vote for. I've questioned whether to vote at all. Then I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't know or understand enough, which basically translates as they haven't tried to know or understand enough. I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't believe it will make any difference, which actually means they don't want things to be any different. Everyone is claiming that this is the most exciting election in a long time because the race is so narrow but, when you think about it, it's actually the most unexciting because people just don't care who wins. The state of things hasn't quite reached the level of an 'airborne toxic event' yet, but it's certainly more than a 'feathery plume'; I'd say it's at the stage of a 'black billowing cloud', but one that is getting progressively closer and darker.

Banksy: 'Imagine a city where graffiti wasn't illegal, a city where everybody could draw wherever they liked. Where every street was awash with a million colours and little phrases. Where standing at a bus stop was never boring. A city that felt like a party where everyone was invited, not just the estate agents and barons of big business. Imagine a city like that and stop leaning against the wall - it's wet.'

Head first in love

Purchasing a CD has become, and I'm sure I speak for many, a bit of a rarity these days. The reason why was perfectly illustrated today, when I snatched myself a copy of Goldfrapp's new album Head First (Goldfrapp are of course an exception to the rule, being one of those bands where I have to own every one of their LPs). When I got home, I burnt the CD into my iTunes, so that I had the songs on my laptop. Then I connected my iPod up, so that I had the tracks on this all-important device too. And then I stored it on my family's central music system, so that all the many people who inhabit this house - a grand total of three - can listen to the album wherever they jolly well want to as well. Satisfied, I finally placed the CD on a shelf. Thank you decomposition, please take place quickly now.

And it's such a shame, don't you think? Everything is so crisp and untouched, and if Apple has anything to say it will continue to remain crisp and untouched. Everything about a CD in its physical form is a work of art. From the carefully conceived design of the packaging, to the liner notes full of lyrics and little thank you's and production credits, and then the perfectly circular disc that's held in place by those tiny plastic diamonds. Even the process of the CD spinning, and the stereo reading the music as it turns...? Spins my head right round like a record, baby.

A duo such as Goldfrapp, for all their progressive pop moves, make me pull back to listening to a CD as it was intended. This is an organic record through and through. No matter what sonic landscape they decide to create, it's still structured around soaring pop melodies and joyful harmonies - the simple things that are essential if a pop song is to be sincere. And if a pop song needs anything in abundance, it is sincerity. Head First embraces a gorgeously realised state of euphoria; 80s synths that shimmer and soft beats that fizzle with warmth. Alison Goldfrapp, if rumours are to be believed, is in love, and it shows. 'Believer' is drenched in optimism, a spritely feel-good anthem to the joys of keeping the faith; 'Alive' could be Olivia Newton-John having the best time of her life; and for those of you who enjoyed Supernature, 'Shiny And Warm' is the sloshed sister of 'Satin Chic', a splendidly dizzy romp with Allison basically getting off on the drive home to her lover. The album melts in hues of pink and blue, with a consistency in sound that I have not heard over the length of an album for a long time. And by clocking in at 39 minutes, its duration is sweetly on point.

Alison has commented that "'Head first' means to go into something without fear - head first in love. It's not trivial. I think it's more celebratory." And with this wave of deliriously dreamy sounds, what's not to celebrate?

Please dial again

Something pretty exciting happens when you watch the music video for Lady Gaga's 'Telephone'. In fact, that entire sentence is so understated as to render it absolutely redundant. It's less a run-of-the-mill 'music video', and rather a 9 and a half minutes tour de force spectacular, a post-modern pastiche of what a promo clip should be. This clip is not observed; you become fully immersed in its idea of 'celebrity' - executed in such a way that its satire is anything but satirical - and the present landfill of product placement is acknowledged, trashed, spat back out, and recycled. 'Something pretty exciting happens' when you make a sandwich, doesn't it?

And that's not all. Its length hints back to a time when the release of a new video by a popstar was a big event; iconic promos such as Michael Jackson's 'Thriller', which displays artistry and ambition that is still lauded today. With our continuous crop of 'here-to...-oh-you've-already-gone' music acts, a video such as 'Telephone' stands out, with its synergy of pop artist and pop culture which can only truly occur when a thing is actually 'popular'.

Do I sound gaga? Maybe, but 'Telephone' proves that we want literal popstars, astronomically exaggerated human beings that have been shot out of the centre of the universe. I want someone wrapped in nothing but police tape whilst wearing a telephone on her head, thankyouverymuch!

I want a bite of the apple

I've fallen prey to it.

For years I've managed to resist. Of course, I've enjoyed mild flirtations, but now they have me in their grubby little paws. Having always dismissed them as a case of style over substance, an overblown 'craze' that would surely die down eventually, I now find myself in the embarassing situation of being swept up in the latest hurricane of hyperbole - and I want a piece of that windy hype.

It must have been Apple's latest gizmo, the iPad. Now, I'm not that tapped. However, the fuss about its new sprog has forced me to check-up on the first born. And I'm broody. Put simply, GIMME THAT MACBABY!

Pyjama-rama

Apparantly it's not limited to a selective few oddballs. It's not even an act that is considered embarrassing. In fact, it's supposedly becoming a national phenomenon. I'm referring to Britain's movement towards a more pyjama proud populus - specifically in the aisles of our fruits and veg. Supermarkets have had to explicity state on signs outside their doors that customers must be wearing appropriate dress and footwear, i.e. not your slips and nightgown. Some customers have remarked that those who shop in their loungewear cause them to be "embarrassed" and "offended".

I can't decide what to make of this. On the one hand, the image of myself doing the weekly shop in my pyjama top and bottoms causes my face to screw up in dread and I can't suppress the instinctive reaction to snort in derision. But I also can't help but enjoy the fact that people feel comfortable enough with what they are wearing (albeit not much) to go out in public like this. To be honest, with the recent surge in popularity of those grey trackie bottoms that every man and his dog seem to be wearing, coupled with the resilience of the fuggin' ugg boot, it's not suprising that we're taking things back to basic. Emphasis on casual comfort and... wearing what you sleep in? Perhaps this is a new market the fashion industry can tap into a little more. It's the only item of clothing that's still not produced in any manner that can really be considered 'high fashion', isn't it? Hell, if Britain is known for its multi-culturalism, perhaps it can be known for its 'multi-couturism' too...?

Mr Blog and I

It was only in the aftermath of an inordinate amount of time spent formatting an image of Robbie Williams from a GIF file to a JPEG one - a stupidly simple task - that I realised how much I missed the blog that never was.

Mr Blog and I have had a rocky relationship. I first heard of him through the casual chit-chat of those in the know. There seemed to be a buzz about the chap, but I dismissed it as nothing more than hype. Then I caught a glimpse of him; clean-shaven, smart but distinct, with a style all of his own. He was perhaps a little rough around the edges, but we could soon sort that out. However, modern-day cynicism soon set in, and I decided quite quickly that this was no doubt a case of style over substance; all talk and no trousers.

And then, like all the great romances, one day Mr Blog and I just happened to bump into each other. I suppose I should have expected it - I was in his neighbourhood. We got to talking, and it turns out he's a great listener. And what do you know, he shares a lot of the same opinions as me. And so friendly and polite, a complete gentleman. Never interrupts. My heart starts racing and I'm thinking, 'Gosh, this could really be something!'

So, I invite him back for coffee and we started playing around... Then we start fooling around... Which is playing around minus the coffee... Turns out I really know how to turn him on. When we'd shut down for the night, my mind would run rampant with all the, ahem, conversations we'd had. I really felt like I could get something out of this relationship.

We continued fooling around for a couple of weeks, but it wasn't long before the cracks started to show. He couldn't keep anything I told him private. He just regarded our relationship as an open book, for anyone to read. And then he stopped communicating with me altogether...! Can you believe that? He was happy to talk to other people about us, but had nothing to say to me. The nerve! I lost interest in him, and as a result didn't put the effort into our relationship that I perhaps should have... The answer was inevitable.

I deleted him from my life.

Life continued for 6 months or so, and I didn't think much of Mr Blog. And then tonight I found myself in his neighbourhood again. I was certain that he'd tricked me, but something inside me had brought me back here. That old familiar feeling rose up, and before I could stop myself I was caught in his net once more. And that's where I am right now.

The problem before was that I was trying to define our relationship. This time I'm happy for it to be an open one. As long as we're both committed, communicate with each other and keep things exciting, then we should be fine. Like that Robbie Williams photo, I knew our relationship was never going to be picture perfect, but then perhaps I'm missing the bigger picture...?