I have no Internet here. I am writing blog after blog and can not post any. I am craving social media exploration and need to know what's going on. I want to write about the new beauty products on the market but have no way to research. oh what I wouldn't give for a quick google search. I never realised how heavily I relied on the Internet.
Is it me as a twenty first century girl or is it my journalistic nature? It's hard to know.
It's amazing how much the Internet aids our daily life. I find myself telling people to 'wattsap' or 'bbm' me instead of texting, which they can't. Then during phone calls concerning work I say, as I usually do, "ok just email it over to me", which I wont recieve in time. My social Callander is a complete mess I don't know who's birthday is when, what events are coming up, where and what time am I expected without Facebook. Don't even mention twitter, my finger hovers over that little blue bird symbol every time something slightly humorous happens or a random thought pops in to my head, all now long lost and forgotten. I have just realised I use twitter as a diary of my mental ness, every crazy thought or funny thing that happens, or is said...I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing.
Tomorrow I have decided to go in search of some wifi. I know some places do have it but not many. How do people live out here without the internet? I mean in london you cant walk for five minuets without finding a hot spot. I have Been here for a week and not picked up one. Maybe that explains why everyone looks so relaxed, they all just mooch around slowly looking happy. Like they have no cares in the world, maybe its the lack of internet, without the non interrupted, constant white noise of online voices all fighting and screaming for attention and to be heard. I mean, I found it relaxing to begin with, the silence, the freedom. But now I'm pulling my hair out with worry on what I might be missing. What important emails have I not received, what deadlines are creeping up? what's going on in London, what events am I expected to attend upon my return?
This need of mine is causing arguments. My mother and I are having one right at this moment. "Why do you need the internets?" To get my emails mum, from work. "We'll they know your away" yes but no one expects that there will be no way to pick up emails now days, I may have a deadline. "Well your not there so do it when you get back" the deadline maybe Monday that will only give me a day to do it, but if I check my emails and know I have to do it I can start on it now. "Oh whatever, I don't see what difference it makes." GAHHH that's the problem people who have never used or had the Internet don't realise how debilitating it becomes without it. If no one used the Internet then all would be fine but the fact is you can not get ahead in today's society without conforming to the new way of contact, and at the moment it's all via the bloody Internet.
It's not just the wifi I am having problems with though. The reception out he in the middle of know where is playing havoc with my social life. I am finding myself so desperate to send and receive texts that I am holding my phone above my head like its Simba and jumping about in the hope to find just one single bar.
Anyway this is Michelle, in the middle of France, hoping you receive me loud and clear, over and out!
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
The French and their keys
Today has been the third day in a row where I have driven to some historic castle or chateau only to find that it is closed. I'm staring to get the impression that the whole of France is closed or they just don't want to share their history with the British.
I get an image of a French man clad in stripes with a beret with a coffee on a white fenced balcony on the look out for any Brits that may come to the village. "Lock your doors" he shouts and grannies scramble to close everything. In moments the entire place looks like a death town. I can't prove this theory of course.
But for the last three days I have found the tourist office and asked when the place of interest is open, and they always say "you have to get the key from...." The first one was from the bakery, the second was kept by the butcher and today's key, well I think she made up a word to be honest. All three were either closed or never found.
This is beside the point. The fact is I don't feel comfortable when I have the keys to a friends car or flat let alone the key to a 15th century castle. It's too much responsibility, I mean, what's their lock smith situation like? I haven't seen one since if been here and how would a locksmith deal with a historic lock?
Could you imagine it? sorry entire village I just lost the key to your most historic prized possession.
Why don't they just leave it open? It's not like people are going to steal anything and if they did I'm sure someone in the village will notice a person walking about with a 15th century massive tapestry or chair. I mean leave it open, get someone to sit there, ask for a few euros and hey presto your making money. That's better than people turning up, going on a key hunt and then leaving. You would even make money from the tourists buying stuff and eating.
Tomorrow I will try again, maybe I will get lucky and find something open. Perhaps everything closes Saturday to Monday?
I get an image of a French man clad in stripes with a beret with a coffee on a white fenced balcony on the look out for any Brits that may come to the village. "Lock your doors" he shouts and grannies scramble to close everything. In moments the entire place looks like a death town. I can't prove this theory of course.
But for the last three days I have found the tourist office and asked when the place of interest is open, and they always say "you have to get the key from...." The first one was from the bakery, the second was kept by the butcher and today's key, well I think she made up a word to be honest. All three were either closed or never found.
This is beside the point. The fact is I don't feel comfortable when I have the keys to a friends car or flat let alone the key to a 15th century castle. It's too much responsibility, I mean, what's their lock smith situation like? I haven't seen one since if been here and how would a locksmith deal with a historic lock?
Could you imagine it? sorry entire village I just lost the key to your most historic prized possession.
Why don't they just leave it open? It's not like people are going to steal anything and if they did I'm sure someone in the village will notice a person walking about with a 15th century massive tapestry or chair. I mean leave it open, get someone to sit there, ask for a few euros and hey presto your making money. That's better than people turning up, going on a key hunt and then leaving. You would even make money from the tourists buying stuff and eating.
Tomorrow I will try again, maybe I will get lucky and find something open. Perhaps everything closes Saturday to Monday?
Not speaking French
So I'm on holiday in France. The problem is I don't speak French. It's annoying and I feel so typically English and ignorant. I keep trying to talk to people in either Spanish or English, neither work.
I'm trying to learn while I'm here, reading from a phrase book which does no bloody difference because they can't understand my god awful accent. This is the first time I have been in a country where I have no means to communicate with the locals and its killing me. How do people do it?
I have been on holidays before where everyone around me speaks no other language other than English. They just shout and point and seem to have no problems other than the odd rude look which seems to just go over their head. I have been at a bar and have someone yell "I WANT A BEER" to the bar man. They seem to think nothing of it, where as I was so embarrassed I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. But that's what I'm doing now.
It made me think, why do we have so many different languages? Why don't we all just learn one? Why did every country have to make up different sounds in which to communicate?
It would make life so much easier without the language barriers. People keep trying to talk to me, just randomly, maybe I look French? The first time was a woman in a perfume shop, she didn't work there, she was browsing and came up to me smiled and jabbered on. I smiled back and then pointed to myself and said "English" and she nodded and walked off. Then some teenage boy came up to me in the street and started talking to me so I said "pardon, no pole vou Frances" he looked confused and stood there. Then I thought saying I don't speak French in French is a little confusing. So by the third stranger I came up with a cunning new tactic. I made hand gestures and pretended I was deaf, that seemed to work. I just hope that I don't bump in to someone who knows French Sign Language!
I'm trying to learn while I'm here, reading from a phrase book which does no bloody difference because they can't understand my god awful accent. This is the first time I have been in a country where I have no means to communicate with the locals and its killing me. How do people do it?
I have been on holidays before where everyone around me speaks no other language other than English. They just shout and point and seem to have no problems other than the odd rude look which seems to just go over their head. I have been at a bar and have someone yell "I WANT A BEER" to the bar man. They seem to think nothing of it, where as I was so embarrassed I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. But that's what I'm doing now.
It made me think, why do we have so many different languages? Why don't we all just learn one? Why did every country have to make up different sounds in which to communicate?
It would make life so much easier without the language barriers. People keep trying to talk to me, just randomly, maybe I look French? The first time was a woman in a perfume shop, she didn't work there, she was browsing and came up to me smiled and jabbered on. I smiled back and then pointed to myself and said "English" and she nodded and walked off. Then some teenage boy came up to me in the street and started talking to me so I said "pardon, no pole vou Frances" he looked confused and stood there. Then I thought saying I don't speak French in French is a little confusing. So by the third stranger I came up with a cunning new tactic. I made hand gestures and pretended I was deaf, that seemed to work. I just hope that I don't bump in to someone who knows French Sign Language!
Churches and no smiling Jesus
Why is it that people seem to become infatuated by churches when on holiday? Don't get me wrong, I like to have the odd mooch around an old church or chapel and basque in their gothic beauty, the 'odd' being the operative word. I don't want to walk around every church I see, when you have seen one, you have pretty much seen them all.
I mean apart from perhaps the pictures not much else differentiates them. They all have an organ, benches, candles, big wooden doors, and a cross and table at the front. Some are beautiful and I am interested in the way the interior has changed through history or per continent. But there are only so many times you can walk around smelling the mixture of mold and frankenscence while commenting on the beauty of it.
Today we entered one and I felt uncomfortable. This happens a lot in churches. I feel sometimes like I may combust or that I shouldn't be there. I suppose this is down to my lack of belief in religion. I feel like a fraud creeping around a 'house of god' that I don't believe in. I see people sitting in silence, some praying and feel guilt, I can't explain why. Perhaps it's the fact that religion, through history, has been used as a way to control the masses using fear. If you don't prey or live by the rules then you will burn in hell. Maybe that's it, maybe I feel hatred towards religion and so uncomfortable when entering the hub.
I mean it's not just the whole, if you follow our rules you will be rewarded in death that I don't agree with. It's the wars religion caused, the deaths it has warranted, the money it makes, the terrible things done by the very people who preach in its name and the way these bad deeds are pushed under the rug. Its so contradictory and is part of everything it preaches against.
I digress, I apologise, I shall retract to my original point. While walking around this church I noticed that in every picture of Jesus he is always Laying about dying. In every statue, he is attached to a cross dying. Why is he always dying? Why are there no pictures in churches of him smiling? What about doing some daily activities like healing leprosy, blessing people or turning water in to wine? I mean wouldn't that be nicer? If you love him so much and have so much respect for him why use the worst possible part of his life to focus on? I mean no one looks at their best when their nailed to a cross with blood dripping all over the gaff.
Another point, I may have made it before, what's all this nonsense about drinking his blood and eating his body? That's vampirism and cannibalism right there. Now I think that Jesus would have something to say about that!
I mean apart from perhaps the pictures not much else differentiates them. They all have an organ, benches, candles, big wooden doors, and a cross and table at the front. Some are beautiful and I am interested in the way the interior has changed through history or per continent. But there are only so many times you can walk around smelling the mixture of mold and frankenscence while commenting on the beauty of it.
Today we entered one and I felt uncomfortable. This happens a lot in churches. I feel sometimes like I may combust or that I shouldn't be there. I suppose this is down to my lack of belief in religion. I feel like a fraud creeping around a 'house of god' that I don't believe in. I see people sitting in silence, some praying and feel guilt, I can't explain why. Perhaps it's the fact that religion, through history, has been used as a way to control the masses using fear. If you don't prey or live by the rules then you will burn in hell. Maybe that's it, maybe I feel hatred towards religion and so uncomfortable when entering the hub.
I mean it's not just the whole, if you follow our rules you will be rewarded in death that I don't agree with. It's the wars religion caused, the deaths it has warranted, the money it makes, the terrible things done by the very people who preach in its name and the way these bad deeds are pushed under the rug. Its so contradictory and is part of everything it preaches against.
I digress, I apologise, I shall retract to my original point. While walking around this church I noticed that in every picture of Jesus he is always Laying about dying. In every statue, he is attached to a cross dying. Why is he always dying? Why are there no pictures in churches of him smiling? What about doing some daily activities like healing leprosy, blessing people or turning water in to wine? I mean wouldn't that be nicer? If you love him so much and have so much respect for him why use the worst possible part of his life to focus on? I mean no one looks at their best when their nailed to a cross with blood dripping all over the gaff.
Another point, I may have made it before, what's all this nonsense about drinking his blood and eating his body? That's vampirism and cannibalism right there. Now I think that Jesus would have something to say about that!
Badly Made Horrors
Blood, guts and gore are not the only things that make a horror. Granted they are the first things you think of when you hear the genre, but to make a good scary movie so much more needs to be taken in to consideration.
While on holiday I came across a British made zombie film. Unfortunately I bought it. One rainy day, I decided to give the churches and castles a rest so, I lit the fire, got a packet of peanut puffs and snuggled down under a blanket ready for a good old horror.
It was a cheap film but I thought, theres not much you can get wrong with a horror, is there? The answer is 'Yes', to be honest, this film: 'Night of the living dead resurrection' got very little right, when I say very little I mean nothing at all.
I feel at this point I should stop, fearing that James Plumb, the film maker, may be upset by my criticism. But I won't, you see I am in the middle of France, it's raining, and cold, this film was meant to be today's saving grace, it made it worse. In fact, it's so bad I'm looking forward to my run to the local (mile away) village, in the rain, to get some 'lait et du pain', the most mundane groceries ever.
To start, the camera work and sound is appalling. You can hardly hear the lines through the tin sound, at one point you hear quiet talking in the background thats not even supposed to be there. The camera work is jumpy, twisty, upside down and badly angled. The overall look and sound is cheap. I wouldn't mind if it was accidental, but you could tell lots of the shots were done in an attempt to be 'artistic'. Well, it's not artistic, quite frankly it's rubbish, confusing and pointless when it's not done properly.
It's not big and it's not clever to have a follow view of someone's bottom walking up the stairs or an upside down and back to front view of someone laying on a bed. These shots need to be done at the right time, to coincide with the script, in order to create fear and anticipation within the audience. They need to have purpose not just be random, for instance, a follow view should be done when someone is spying, creeping up on, or hiding from the person in shot, usually their back. An upside down or spinning shot should be used, again, if the person in shot is feeling confused or disorientated. These convey the same emotion to the audience in order to create a bond between them and the character, usually the protagonist.
That is another thing this film didn't have, character, audience empathy. At no point did I identify with any characters. It jumped through too many. There wasn't a chance to bond with any and so, to be honest, I didn't care if any of them lived nor died, or got eaten alive. It started with a wimpy man being harassed by some welsh yobs, who i thought were in their late twenties, early thirties but later it transpired they were young teens that apparently needed someone to buy them alcohol, well I wouldn't have asked for I.D. Anyway the man enters the shop and low and behold their all zombies. At this point the film could still be good maybe this guy will man up and become a hero...NO he gets bitten.
He then turns, you know this by the ice blue contacts, blood pouring from the mouth and usual zombie slow shuffling on the side of the feet, groaning walk. He leaves the shop and bites the yobs, great more characters I didn't get time to identify with. Then another man randomly stops his car, gets out and yells "get away he has been bitten". The yobs don't heed his warning and so he gets back in to his car and drives off with us, the audience by his side. He drives down, of course, deserted country lanes and rings someone to tell them he is coming to get them. HA! you think, he is the protagonist and he is going to save someone, NO he gets his brains blown out by some welsh man through the letterbox. I should have known, he was the tocan black man in he movie, bound to die.
So now were stuck with some welsh family which in better circumstances would have been on the Jeremy Kyle show. A mum and dad, an emo Justin Bieber lookalike boy, who has been bitten, an old man spurting 'the end of the world lines' who has also been bitten, a pregnant woman and her husband who is sleeping with her teenage sister.
The rest of the film is them, in a house, trying to survive with an emo and old man locked in rooms rattling on wooden doors while zombies approach. Ahhhh but that's not all, now a new group emerge. A group of yobs. These are fixed on devastation and destruction, killing everyone in their way, for no reason at all zombified or not, even running over the father with his own car, while spurting out game references "this is like COD" and "lets go all world of warfare on his arse". Later when the sun rises and everyone is dead yet another group appear shooting zombies and dressed in army camo. They find a survivor and end the film with the line "put her in the rape van".
One may argue that this film is trying to show the end of humanity in present day and this can be blamed on the desensitisation of children through the media? But I feel that would be giving this film to more consideration than it deserves. It's unclear just like the entire story line. There is no back story to the family or the outbreak or anything. But there is lots of badly shot, terribly lit, off colour, intestine eating.
While on holiday I came across a British made zombie film. Unfortunately I bought it. One rainy day, I decided to give the churches and castles a rest so, I lit the fire, got a packet of peanut puffs and snuggled down under a blanket ready for a good old horror.
It was a cheap film but I thought, theres not much you can get wrong with a horror, is there? The answer is 'Yes', to be honest, this film: 'Night of the living dead resurrection' got very little right, when I say very little I mean nothing at all.
I feel at this point I should stop, fearing that James Plumb, the film maker, may be upset by my criticism. But I won't, you see I am in the middle of France, it's raining, and cold, this film was meant to be today's saving grace, it made it worse. In fact, it's so bad I'm looking forward to my run to the local (mile away) village, in the rain, to get some 'lait et du pain', the most mundane groceries ever.
To start, the camera work and sound is appalling. You can hardly hear the lines through the tin sound, at one point you hear quiet talking in the background thats not even supposed to be there. The camera work is jumpy, twisty, upside down and badly angled. The overall look and sound is cheap. I wouldn't mind if it was accidental, but you could tell lots of the shots were done in an attempt to be 'artistic'. Well, it's not artistic, quite frankly it's rubbish, confusing and pointless when it's not done properly.
It's not big and it's not clever to have a follow view of someone's bottom walking up the stairs or an upside down and back to front view of someone laying on a bed. These shots need to be done at the right time, to coincide with the script, in order to create fear and anticipation within the audience. They need to have purpose not just be random, for instance, a follow view should be done when someone is spying, creeping up on, or hiding from the person in shot, usually their back. An upside down or spinning shot should be used, again, if the person in shot is feeling confused or disorientated. These convey the same emotion to the audience in order to create a bond between them and the character, usually the protagonist.
That is another thing this film didn't have, character, audience empathy. At no point did I identify with any characters. It jumped through too many. There wasn't a chance to bond with any and so, to be honest, I didn't care if any of them lived nor died, or got eaten alive. It started with a wimpy man being harassed by some welsh yobs, who i thought were in their late twenties, early thirties but later it transpired they were young teens that apparently needed someone to buy them alcohol, well I wouldn't have asked for I.D. Anyway the man enters the shop and low and behold their all zombies. At this point the film could still be good maybe this guy will man up and become a hero...NO he gets bitten.
He then turns, you know this by the ice blue contacts, blood pouring from the mouth and usual zombie slow shuffling on the side of the feet, groaning walk. He leaves the shop and bites the yobs, great more characters I didn't get time to identify with. Then another man randomly stops his car, gets out and yells "get away he has been bitten". The yobs don't heed his warning and so he gets back in to his car and drives off with us, the audience by his side. He drives down, of course, deserted country lanes and rings someone to tell them he is coming to get them. HA! you think, he is the protagonist and he is going to save someone, NO he gets his brains blown out by some welsh man through the letterbox. I should have known, he was the tocan black man in he movie, bound to die.
So now were stuck with some welsh family which in better circumstances would have been on the Jeremy Kyle show. A mum and dad, an emo Justin Bieber lookalike boy, who has been bitten, an old man spurting 'the end of the world lines' who has also been bitten, a pregnant woman and her husband who is sleeping with her teenage sister.
The rest of the film is them, in a house, trying to survive with an emo and old man locked in rooms rattling on wooden doors while zombies approach. Ahhhh but that's not all, now a new group emerge. A group of yobs. These are fixed on devastation and destruction, killing everyone in their way, for no reason at all zombified or not, even running over the father with his own car, while spurting out game references "this is like COD" and "lets go all world of warfare on his arse". Later when the sun rises and everyone is dead yet another group appear shooting zombies and dressed in army camo. They find a survivor and end the film with the line "put her in the rape van".
One may argue that this film is trying to show the end of humanity in present day and this can be blamed on the desensitisation of children through the media? But I feel that would be giving this film to more consideration than it deserves. It's unclear just like the entire story line. There is no back story to the family or the outbreak or anything. But there is lots of badly shot, terribly lit, off colour, intestine eating.
French Toilets
When you need to go, you need to go. Usually I am not too fussy about where I urinate - oh come on we have all been desperate for a wee on a night out and had to use an alleyway. Festival toilets don't even phase me, with their poo smeared walls and giant well of pee underneath. But I have to say when I stopped at a motorway toilet in France on the way to a wolf sanctuary I was devastated by the situation.
I opened the door to the stone house and chose a metal door to enter expecting to see the usual porcelain seat, when low and behold there was simply a ditch in the floor. So what they claimed to be a toilet was nothing more than a shack with a hole.
This created a problem, how to squat in a maxi dress while gripping on to my flip flops with my toes all the while trying to avoid urinating on myself. It was a feat let me tell you. I managed to hitch my dress over my head and balance vicariously over the hole, my flip flop only slipping once, which was enough for splash back.
But the horror did not end there. No toilet roll.
Luckily my mum was at hand with a packet of tissues I now regretted berating her for. To the rescue she came like a Knight in shining armour. Except these tissues were Albus oiled. So now I am stuck with a pissy foot and a burning foof.
Thanks France!
I mean why, in this day and age have you still got holes for toilets? Sort it out for the love of god.
I opened the door to the stone house and chose a metal door to enter expecting to see the usual porcelain seat, when low and behold there was simply a ditch in the floor. So what they claimed to be a toilet was nothing more than a shack with a hole.
This created a problem, how to squat in a maxi dress while gripping on to my flip flops with my toes all the while trying to avoid urinating on myself. It was a feat let me tell you. I managed to hitch my dress over my head and balance vicariously over the hole, my flip flop only slipping once, which was enough for splash back.
But the horror did not end there. No toilet roll.
Luckily my mum was at hand with a packet of tissues I now regretted berating her for. To the rescue she came like a Knight in shining armour. Except these tissues were Albus oiled. So now I am stuck with a pissy foot and a burning foof.
Thanks France!
I mean why, in this day and age have you still got holes for toilets? Sort it out for the love of god.
Strippers
Every time you go to a male strip show you inevitably end up with a cock in your face.
I have always been weary of them and nervous whenever I have been to one. It's like comedy shows, I always worry that they will pick on me and so have never really liked them.
I suppose to say I don't like them is a little harsh, it's more like I find them cringeworthy. There are always women who take it a step to far and turn in to wild beasts, crazed with the sight of a naked man dancing to 'its raining men'. They scream and leer at them, pulling at items of clothing or fighting for the chance to rub baby oil on a bum cheek. It's like they have never seen a man before, it's embarrassing. There is always that one drunk hen who yells out 'gerrem off' like a mental banshee. If your that excited to see another man naked perhaps you should rethink your marriage?
The dance routines are always to the same cheesy old music, you know at some point Barry white or the Weather Girls are going to rear their overplayed heads. I have an idea, why don't you do a provocative dance to 'I'm too sexy', or even better 'You can leave your hat on' but the twist at the end is covering your other head with the hat? Or even better dress in a white suit and do the officer and a gentleman routine to 'love lifts us up'. It's not just the music though the choreography is made up of awful steps that are nothing better that the moves made up by a teenager in their bedroom. There is always one that has no rhythm and is clearly there purely for his looks and an old one arthritic ally thrusting about.
All this animosity may have arisen at my first experience of a strip show. I was sixteen and my friends mum decided to take us to her girls night out, at a grotty old mans club. The carpets were stained with old alcohol, peanuts were strewn all over the floor, the tables thick with dirt, the whole place smelt of stale beer and don't even get me started on the toilets. As we approached you could see them hanging out of, not only their dresses, but the front doors smoking and yelling at the top of their voices, stumbling about on their stiletto heels, the drunk women. When we entered it got worse, women bashing tables and stamping their feet like a hoard of wilder beasts, tone deaf screeches resembling the words "get your cocks out, get your cocks out, get your cocks out for the girls". Maybe it was the fact we weren't drinking - not that we didn't at that age we were no angels- but we were with a mum, or maybe it was my reserved upbringing but I felt fearful for the men and utterly embarrassed.
Out they came, like the characters from YMCA, all in some form of uniform. The women turned in to creatures of the night frothing at the mouth grabbing, leering, screaming, jumping about, I was half expecting them to rub themselves across the floor leaving snail trails. But this wasn't the worst bit. The strippers, one called 'warrior' with the biggest penis I have ever seen started whacking the women across the face with their bits and rubbing themselves on them like stray dogs leaving their scent. To my surprise instead of the women being appalled by having a strangers shlong shoved in their face, seemed to revel in it some grabbing it, some trying to milk it and others trying to eat it.
As if this want bad enough during every break I snuck out for a sneaky ciggi and every time I did I noticed a car, the same one every time, with steamed up windows bouncing about. Each time a different woman got out pulling down their skirts followed by the 'warrior'. Well done ladies, you just got, at best, ghonoreah! This made the whole experience worse I feared him coming near me knowing where it had been.
'The warrior' was in his late fourties, even early fifties, his muscles clearly still defined were starting to look sinewy and stringy. His face was haggard and skin looked like old boot leather even when covered in oil and the colour of a mahogany table. The limp shaggy hair that fell to his shoulders was thinning at the top and the black dye was growing out showing shades of grey. He wore a constant smarmy, greasy smile and walked around with his chest puffed out like a pigeon as well as a constant hard on. The only way I can think that he could have 'pleasured' all those women was with a serious dose of Viagra and a lot of fake orgasms - I do have a male mate who fully admitted to faking orgasms so it does happen.
When I got older I went to a friends gay hen night and so of course we went to a female strip show. It was the seediest place I think I have ever been. There were seats all around a stage, dirty old men sitting in the back rows in the darkness licking their lips at the sight of a girl completely naked rubbing her vagina on a pole and opening her legs and pointing it at them. I decided to foursquare my location to shock my followers and noticed the stripper pointing at me. Then I got berated by a bouncer for 'taking photos' "I'm foursquaring" I yelled and showed him my phone, bloody vain woman, why would I want her picture on my phone? Ok maybe I took one to send to a guy I was sort of seeing...but it's not like I'm going to Facebook a vagina is it?
Anyway about three minuets in I decided I needed the toilet and as it was a mans establishment the only female toilets were those in the strippers changing rooms. So off I went to be faced with a crying stripper, coked out of her head, who was yelling about how awful her life was. I got her some tissue from the side and sat there comforting her, she repaid the favour when I realised there was no toilet roll. Later when I made my way back to my seat I must have taken the wrong turn in my drunken stupor because as I went through the doors I found myself on the stage. To my horror the music started playing so I slowly and as seductively as I could, backed up back through the doors and was escorted off the property.
The last two I went to were better. One was a straight hen night and the other a surprise birthday party. I had fun at both, I suppose they were more, well, classy with a drag act. Both were still attended by crazy drunk women but there was fencing protecting the men. The only things that I didn't like was firstly the singer coming up to me and singing in my face and the last act flinging his cock about close enough to my face for my to get baby oil splash back. Both of these nights turned in to a club after and of course we stayed to party. What I didn't like was the way the strippers came out like they were gods gift and the women flocked to them. They surrounded them like a pack of hungry wolves eating their prey and it annoyed me that they acted like putty in their hands. One girl followed one of the strippers around and cried when he left her side, she acted like a needy clingy little girl throwing herself at him and it made me feel physically sick.
Anyway I like magic mike so I can't totally hate them all right? Bit less of Matthew Mcghona-putitaway though next time...thanks.
I have always been weary of them and nervous whenever I have been to one. It's like comedy shows, I always worry that they will pick on me and so have never really liked them.
I suppose to say I don't like them is a little harsh, it's more like I find them cringeworthy. There are always women who take it a step to far and turn in to wild beasts, crazed with the sight of a naked man dancing to 'its raining men'. They scream and leer at them, pulling at items of clothing or fighting for the chance to rub baby oil on a bum cheek. It's like they have never seen a man before, it's embarrassing. There is always that one drunk hen who yells out 'gerrem off' like a mental banshee. If your that excited to see another man naked perhaps you should rethink your marriage?
The dance routines are always to the same cheesy old music, you know at some point Barry white or the Weather Girls are going to rear their overplayed heads. I have an idea, why don't you do a provocative dance to 'I'm too sexy', or even better 'You can leave your hat on' but the twist at the end is covering your other head with the hat? Or even better dress in a white suit and do the officer and a gentleman routine to 'love lifts us up'. It's not just the music though the choreography is made up of awful steps that are nothing better that the moves made up by a teenager in their bedroom. There is always one that has no rhythm and is clearly there purely for his looks and an old one arthritic ally thrusting about.
All this animosity may have arisen at my first experience of a strip show. I was sixteen and my friends mum decided to take us to her girls night out, at a grotty old mans club. The carpets were stained with old alcohol, peanuts were strewn all over the floor, the tables thick with dirt, the whole place smelt of stale beer and don't even get me started on the toilets. As we approached you could see them hanging out of, not only their dresses, but the front doors smoking and yelling at the top of their voices, stumbling about on their stiletto heels, the drunk women. When we entered it got worse, women bashing tables and stamping their feet like a hoard of wilder beasts, tone deaf screeches resembling the words "get your cocks out, get your cocks out, get your cocks out for the girls". Maybe it was the fact we weren't drinking - not that we didn't at that age we were no angels- but we were with a mum, or maybe it was my reserved upbringing but I felt fearful for the men and utterly embarrassed.
Out they came, like the characters from YMCA, all in some form of uniform. The women turned in to creatures of the night frothing at the mouth grabbing, leering, screaming, jumping about, I was half expecting them to rub themselves across the floor leaving snail trails. But this wasn't the worst bit. The strippers, one called 'warrior' with the biggest penis I have ever seen started whacking the women across the face with their bits and rubbing themselves on them like stray dogs leaving their scent. To my surprise instead of the women being appalled by having a strangers shlong shoved in their face, seemed to revel in it some grabbing it, some trying to milk it and others trying to eat it.
As if this want bad enough during every break I snuck out for a sneaky ciggi and every time I did I noticed a car, the same one every time, with steamed up windows bouncing about. Each time a different woman got out pulling down their skirts followed by the 'warrior'. Well done ladies, you just got, at best, ghonoreah! This made the whole experience worse I feared him coming near me knowing where it had been.
'The warrior' was in his late fourties, even early fifties, his muscles clearly still defined were starting to look sinewy and stringy. His face was haggard and skin looked like old boot leather even when covered in oil and the colour of a mahogany table. The limp shaggy hair that fell to his shoulders was thinning at the top and the black dye was growing out showing shades of grey. He wore a constant smarmy, greasy smile and walked around with his chest puffed out like a pigeon as well as a constant hard on. The only way I can think that he could have 'pleasured' all those women was with a serious dose of Viagra and a lot of fake orgasms - I do have a male mate who fully admitted to faking orgasms so it does happen.
When I got older I went to a friends gay hen night and so of course we went to a female strip show. It was the seediest place I think I have ever been. There were seats all around a stage, dirty old men sitting in the back rows in the darkness licking their lips at the sight of a girl completely naked rubbing her vagina on a pole and opening her legs and pointing it at them. I decided to foursquare my location to shock my followers and noticed the stripper pointing at me. Then I got berated by a bouncer for 'taking photos' "I'm foursquaring" I yelled and showed him my phone, bloody vain woman, why would I want her picture on my phone? Ok maybe I took one to send to a guy I was sort of seeing...but it's not like I'm going to Facebook a vagina is it?
Anyway about three minuets in I decided I needed the toilet and as it was a mans establishment the only female toilets were those in the strippers changing rooms. So off I went to be faced with a crying stripper, coked out of her head, who was yelling about how awful her life was. I got her some tissue from the side and sat there comforting her, she repaid the favour when I realised there was no toilet roll. Later when I made my way back to my seat I must have taken the wrong turn in my drunken stupor because as I went through the doors I found myself on the stage. To my horror the music started playing so I slowly and as seductively as I could, backed up back through the doors and was escorted off the property.
The last two I went to were better. One was a straight hen night and the other a surprise birthday party. I had fun at both, I suppose they were more, well, classy with a drag act. Both were still attended by crazy drunk women but there was fencing protecting the men. The only things that I didn't like was firstly the singer coming up to me and singing in my face and the last act flinging his cock about close enough to my face for my to get baby oil splash back. Both of these nights turned in to a club after and of course we stayed to party. What I didn't like was the way the strippers came out like they were gods gift and the women flocked to them. They surrounded them like a pack of hungry wolves eating their prey and it annoyed me that they acted like putty in their hands. One girl followed one of the strippers around and cried when he left her side, she acted like a needy clingy little girl throwing herself at him and it made me feel physically sick.
Anyway I like magic mike so I can't totally hate them all right? Bit less of Matthew Mcghona-putitaway though next time...thanks.
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