Monthly Archives: January 2013

The Five Types of Bitch

Love You, Mean It
As the sort of person who doesn’t like to ruffle feathers out of the sort of fear that induces IBS, I don’t like to generalise women, especially considering that they’re a damn sight better than men. But let’s face it- there’s a cunt epidemic out there amongst us gals that is spreading quicker than genital warts in One Direction’s shared abode. Why do women act like bitches?

Let me first say that this is a very small minority of women. Most are decent people, you know, normal humans preoccupied with their own stuff whilst mildly aware of trying to avoid stepping on the toes of other, similarly self-preoccupied women. And we all like those people.

But then, every now and again, we all have the misfortune to encounter an almighty biatch whose sole purpose in life is to ruin the buzz of every lady, aspiring lady and honorary manlady in her big selfish-cuntbag path. A bitch whose own ineptitude has marinated so long, it is able to project itself like a flying turd right down the front of my motherfucking blouse. And to those women, I say ‘Fuck you, bitch’.

This reading is (hopefully) not my usual blog style of a crazy beast hoping to Jesus that those voices in her head are ”normal” and ”will go away”, and please, don’t think I’m trying to be some sort of new Samantha Brick, desperate to tar women with a jealous brush to explain away her own unlikeableness and narcissism, I’m just saying that some women are bitches. And that small minority are the single reason why some arsehole men call us all bitches, when the majority aren’t.

But there isn’t just one type of bitch. Oh no, that would make them too easy to expose. Here are my five types of bitch:

You Know Who I’m Worried About?

Ever converse with a passive aggressive mate who likes to pick mutual aquaintances that are down on their luck by saying, ‘You know who I’m worried about?‘ and then proceeds to bitch and whine endlessly about the person whom she claims to have compassion for. You know what? In this scenario, sharing is not caring. Why not just say, ‘You know who I hate? Me. I hate me. But my self-hatred has been somewhat alleviated by Jodie getting dumped by her boyfriend. Let’s discuss that, plus suggest reasons for why Jodie is unlovable. Perhaps afterwards I can cite these reasons to other mutual friends, but to them, I’ll say that Jodie’s ex-boyfriend threw all this shit in her face as he packed up and left. Also, I might suggest that Jodie has attempted suicide, but I’ll put a comedic slant on it, like she tried to slit her wrists with a butterknife or something, so that people don’t get concerned enough to confront her and then everyone will find out that I’ve made it all up. Apart from Jodie getting dumped, which was, terrifically, true. Hooray!’

I’m Just Telling It Like It Is

If you have to suffix, ‘I’m just telling it like it is’ to your sentences, then you probably didn’t have to tell it like it is because you really didn’t have to be that mean. ‘Honesty is the best policy’ bitches are just cunts behind smokescreens. Yes, you could be totally blunt, or… have a bit of tact?

Passing Off Criticism as Constructive Criticism

‘Critical’ bitches who reassure themselves that their comments are constructive are similar to our chip-laden shouldered lasses in the former category, but with the added delusion of thinking that they are handing out valuable and appreciated advice to the recipient. In reality, this is usually not the case. If a bitch feels the need to constantly criticise others under the guise of ‘self-improvement’, then she’s the one with the problem. Perhaps she could well-meaningly criticise herself and see how long it takes before she breaks down and starts shooting up the motherfucking Mac counter, for they make us look like clowns. Probably for a laugh. But that’s neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh yes…

Assuming Everyone Is Out To Get You

There is nothing more tiresome than a bitch who believes that she is the subject of relentless jealousy from other females. Why self-promote if the reaction gets your goat? When bitches sing their successes from the rooftops and the reaction is less than congratulatory, it is most likely that people are responding by rolling their eyes, not seething with envy. But regardless, ‘Everyone is jealous of me’ bitch soldiers on, refusing to let the ‘haterz’ get her down. You know who else thinks they have ‘haterz’? Speidi, that’s who. Do you want to be Speidi? No, neither does anyone. So pipe down.


Although no-one knows the exact origin of ‘Quip-women’, rumour has it that this new breed of pseudo-intellectual females who say they don’t give a fuck what you think but are inexplicably still wearing a Wonderbra, dragging themselves to the gym in the morning and have a picture of Jo Brand stuck to their fridge as a deterrent came about during a shift in societal norms when it was no longer acceptable to bray your wife with the back of your hand amongst white, upper-middle class America. Shame on them. Now, people like Whitney Cummings are allowed on the TV to vomit up the programme equivalent of a pink champagne stain on a Laura Ashley cushion. ‘Love You, Mean It’, in which no-oil-painting-herself Whitney critiques current events (i.e. outfits/bodies/faces of female celebrities) with the sort of humour that wouldn’t even make it into a pound shop joke book while visibly biting her lip to keep herself from exploding with smugness. I wouldn’t mind so much, but Whitney’s rising career as a comedienne (eurgh) is depriving an outlandishly camp man of a BFF somewhere, and I fear that, now that their friend-destiny remains unfulfilled, instead one day I may waste four and a half minutes of my life watching his Youtube rant about how Bobbi Kristina needs to get her shit together. Fuck you, Whitney.

I would also like to point out that I am not a ‘Quip-woman’, as I’m far to slow to devise any sort of decent comeback, and prefer to sactimoniously whinge from the comfort of my keyboard. I’m a keyboard bitch, which is the younger counterpart of a ‘Catlady’. Life is good.

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My Top Five Fashion Tips For January- Slimming Special!


I hope by now you will have noticed the recurring theme running through January’s posts that all pay tribute to the fact that January is easily the most horribly depressing fucker that ever existed. Also, The Thinking Gal is a year old this month, so I’m celebrating by being extra sour and trying not to shoot myself in the face, so that’s also why my posts are super cheerful these days.

Anyway, January is traditionally renound as a lean, healthy month where we all try our best to shed those Christmas pounds, resolve to become better versions of ourselves (denial) and prepare for the year ahead. In terms of fashion, we’re talking heavy, natural fabrics in blacks and browns in an attempt to keep warm whilst similtaneously hiding the fact that you ate like a greedy fucker over the Christmas holidays, even whilst watching the Oxfam advertisement (basically just a clipshow of starving children), without even so much as taking the wrappers off the Quality Street sweets first.

So how does one hide their festive bulge whilst maintaining fashionista status during this cold, Winter month? Here’s how:

Cloak of Invisibility

January chic.

January chic.

Throwing on a Cloak of Invisibility, or a Jimmy Saville Raincoat as it is known to those in senior positions within the BBC during the 1960s to the present day, helps you to look fabulous in a heartbeat because being invisible means no-one can see how fat you are. Dress it up, dress it down- it doesn’t matter because you’ll be invisible. And beyond being a high-fashion garment within the cartoon community, a Cloak of Invisibility has many practical uses, such as helping you stalk without consequence, providing a medium via which you can shoplift effectively and- best of all- commiting untraceable murder. Farewell, midnight police raids! So long, warrant for your arrest! And so on.

Spanx The Monkey

Considering how fat I am, I like to layer my Spanx on top of each other so that all possible flab is contained within those mummified layers. Spanx, for those of you who are are unfamiliar with the phenomenon, are basically extra-strength American Tan tights with a special ingredient- self-loathing- that hold in your muffin top to ensure that women, no matter how much gender equality evolves, will always have it in the back of their minds that they’re not as good as men, who wouldn’t dream of wearing such a thing just to appear attractive to the opposite sex. For fuck’s sake. As I was saying, layering your Spanx so that your hideousness is contained ensures that your arms and legs look disproportionately large compared to the rest of your body, which is brilliant because you then get to make up bullshit excuses for your abnormal appearance, such as that you are a part-time wrestler, all the while knowing that people are calling you a ‘weirdo’ behind your back.

With a Moo Moo here, A Moo Moo there, Here a Moo, There A Moo… Etc.

Accessorise with a mobility scooter for the ultimate in 'Dying of Diabetes' chic.

Accessorise with a mobility scooter for the ultimate in ‘Dying of Diabetes’ chic.

Moo Moos, like the one Homer Simpson wore in the episode of The Simpsons when he deliberately puts on weight so he could work from home, are not only the hottest garment among the ‘over 55 female Traveller Community’ (such a stylish bunch), but are also deceptively cosy, drawing heat from your inner thighs as they rub together while you walk from your mobility scooter to your bed to illustrate you immobility to someone slightly less fat than you while filming for Channel 4’s Supersize v Superskinny. Moo Moos come in an array of unflattering Hawaiian prints, and are guaranteed to grab attention from your local news station the next time they are secretly filming members of the public as part of a Polyfiller-style piece on obesity to fill up the news slot on a slow news day. Expect to see your muffin top featured, you trendsetter, you!

A Great Pair of Heels

‘I like my men like I like my heels- tall, black and the most coveted accessory in the room,’ said Marilyn Monroe. No, she didn’t, I just made that up, but that’s exactly the sort of shit that clutters up my Facebook wall like a turd that just won’t flush. I personally spend my days trudging around in a pair of sodden Converse like the downtrodden bastard that I am, but women who wear heels as part of an everyday routine terrify me. For one, their arses must be made of steel, and they would definately win in a staring contest because the rest of us can’t look them in the eye. But for 2013, why not carry a pair of heels around in a carrier bag? If anyone points at your regular shoes and tells you they aren’t feminine enough, you can whip your heels out and beat them around the head with the pointy bit for a while, because that looks mighty fucking satisfying.

I Saw the Sign

No creepy bastard should be without this.

No creepy bastard should be without this.

If all of the above don’t help you to feel slimmer and more beautiful, then there’s something fucking wrong with you. However, I have one last trick up my sleeve for banishing those January blues- a big massive sign with the words ‘Fuck off and leave me alone’ painted on it with your own blood. No-one is going to say shit about you when you’re carrying that around. Of course, ‘Fuck off and leave me alone’ is optional (your own blood isn’t)- you can write whatever the fuck you want as long as it a) makes you look like a irrational mentalcase capable of GBH and b) is hilarious and endearing. Other suggestions include, ‘It doesn’t matter what you think. Does it?’, ‘Please like me’ and ‘I may be ugly but I can make a cracking roast dinner and therefore, can be your live-in girlfriend who hides in the cupboard when you have company round. Just tell me you’ll think about it’. Remember: in order to pull of wearing a sign, you may need extra accessories to achieve you desired look, such as a portable CD player playing Christina Aguilera’s Beautiful on loop, a knife or a dead cat strapped into one of those contraptions that smug bastards carry their embarrassed babies around in.

Rock on, fashionistas. Etc.

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How To Apply Fake Tan

Gotta love looking translucent.

Too poor to go on holiday and looking pastier than Patsy Kensit being dry humped by a raw turkey crown? Shit one.

January, the month when suicide numbers hit their annual peak, is a continuous shitstorm of crap. And when it comes to having a sunkissed glow, you’re fucking kidding yourself if you think that’ll be happening anytime soon. No, such thoughts should be relegated to more suitable times of the year, such as the hour of Summer bestowed upon us sometime in May.

However, help is at hand when it comes to faking a tan, thanks to endless fake tanning goods propped up in supermarket shelves like the product equivalent of the Geordie Shore cast- promising to give you a Ronseal Wood Varnish glow should you buy, or punch your fuckin’ lights oot if you don’t. Fake tan, I imagine, is just a little bit rough.

But how do you achieve a natural shade that enhances you without looking too orange? You fucking don’t, alright. But I’m going to slap the bastard on anyway and get drunk quickly so I don’t notice the streaks and will happily fight anyone who dares to look in my direction.

What the fuck are you lookin' at?

What the fuck are you lookin’ at?

Here’s the lowdown on applying fake tan:

Trial and Error

Choosing the right tan is key- therefore, be prepared to try out lots of products before settling on the right one. Do this on the cheap by going to your local Semi-Chem and hotfooting it straight to the non-branded tanning wipes that look like they could also double up as toilet roll when you go camping. Go home and vaguely wipe your limbs with your purchase, taking care to vomit into a designated area, such as a toilet or bin, rather than all over yourself in reaction to the smell of the ‘scented’ wipes. Wait ten minutes and- hey presto- your beige-and-white striped body looks like a mobile version of Ralph Lauren’s Homeware Collection for Spring/Summer Every Year Since It Began, seeing at it looks the fucking same every time the bastard thing comes out. Now, having achieved an adequately stripey, Pikey look, sling your greasy mane into a BumBun (TM), and off you go to Debenhams where you can shoplift luxury brand tanning items to try without repercussion because the security team is unlikely to approach you for fear of being bitten. And contracting HIV.


To achieve an even finish, one must exfoliate to get rid of dry patches and ensure that skin is smooth and even before applying product. Take an industrial sander and carefully apply to soles of feet, which have built up enough hard skin to achieve flipflop status in their own right, and try to close your mouth as much as possible so bits of hard skin don’t accidentally fly into it during sanding and make you die from shuddering. After your feet have been cut to ribbons, apply to industrial sander to elbows, knees and other crusty bits, carefully sweeping up discarded skin-bits to use as snow in next year’s nativity play at your local church. Finally, on delicate areas, such as your face and neck, opt for a dentist’s drill with bits of old carpet glue to it for that ultimate sheen. Failing that, don’t worry about exfoliating because nobody bothers to do it anyway.

A Hand’s Turn

Remember to take great care with your hands when applying tan, as they absorb product quickly and can turn a deep shade of orange within moments of contact with fake tan. Use gloves to combat the dreaded ‘tan hand’ fiasco. Tramp’s Tip: just slap it on without gloves and if anyone asks, tell them you’re best friends with Victoria Beckham and you’ve just returned from an afternoon of feeling her implants.

Victoria Beckham: Keeping it as real as Rev Run sitting in his big fucking mansion pretending to be ghetto.

Victoria Beckham: Keeping it as real as Rev Run sitting in his big fucking mansion pretending to be ghetto.

Care When Drying

Letting your tan dry after application is vital in getting an even finish. So no going outside naked and jumping in puddles, unless it’s absolutely an emergency. Or you want to achieve a nice Vitiligo look. Or you’re a big fan of Michael Jackson and wish to show your undying support for that time he lied about skin-lightening surgery. Or your desired shade of tan is ‘Pale and Dirty Bastard‘.

Stay in the Shade

Once you’ve got that first layer down, it’s all about building up the perfect shade that’s just right for you. Go to B&Q and get yourself a nice portable wood varnish shade chart, and use that as a bible in building your colour from ‘Moments from Asphyxiation’ to ‘Good News, Mr Jones- We’ve Decided To Turn Off Your Wife’s Life Support Machine Today To See What Happens. Don’t Worry, We Reckon She Has A Good Chance Of Living’. And beyond that, it’s up to you. Dare you go as far as ‘Cocksure Whore’, ‘Leather Bag Slag’ or even ‘My Electricity Bill Is Zero Because I’m My Own Lamp Vamp’. Or will you keep it mellow with ‘Michelle Heaton’s Oranger Mate’? The choice is yours*!

Chelsy Davy: A Cunt with a Stupid Tan

Chelsy Davy: A Cunt with a Stupid Tan

*Unless you’re still using those non-branded wipes, in which case, you may as well be drinking bleach. Good luck with that one.

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Exercise Move of the Month: Getting Rid Of Your Christmas Chocolate For A Healthier New Year By Eating It All This Week

New Year, New Me. Not.

Christmas- it’s the most wonderful time of the year for people who can’t stop shovelling processed gunk in their gormless pieholes. Me, for example. And it’s great- not only do people keep bringing you little parcels of wrapped and ribboned colon cancer, but you’ll also not be able to resist picking up similar digestive system-ruiners when you call to your local Tesco 4,071 times during the month of December. This year, I splashed out on a half-baked chocolate log, whose box squealed ‘half the fun is baking your own Log! Just place me in the oven for 35 minutes and spend the rest of your afternoon decorating me with the icing turfed into this box as an afterthought!’ Brilliant, I thought at the time, I’ll be like a fucking Yankee Candle Christmas display baking this bastard, and off I went to buy it. Only a few days later, resentfully lobbing it into the oven (which I was standing well back from because the amount of Christmas alcohol is my system left me in danger of going on fire) and sitting on the icing packet to try and liquidise it did I realise that I’d paid double the price for half the product. Needless to say, I’m never fucking baking again.

But that’s what Christmas is all about- stuffing your already nearly vomitting self with crap that’s so full of additives that when they dig up your corpse decades after death, it will still be stuck to your skeletal pelvis, perfectly intact. That mother ain’t never going to break down, bitch.

So this month’s exercise move is brought to you by those people who innocently went down to their local precinct to do some shopping and were unwittingly filmed by a regional news team from behind, and later turned on the 6 o’clock news and had the misfortune of seeing their arse and muffin top splayed across the TV screen with statistics about obesity plastered over them, and is called ‘Getting Rid of Your Christmas Chocolate For A Healthier New Year By Eating It All This Week’.

Here’s how to do it:

Step 1

Start off slow by lying on the sofa in your pyjamas all day, ensuring your heart is at resting rate. Small bursts of activity, such as switching over Friends when you realise that it’s going to be one of those fucking episodes full of clips from past bloody episodes, or taking time out to work out your thumbs by joining well-meaning but definite bullshit groups on Facebook like ‘New Year, New Me’ and ‘Slimming World 4 Lyf’. If your thumbs are starting to feel strained, that only means its working.

Step 2

Your friend texts you, ‘It’s January, lazybones! Fancy a game of tennis?’ Work out that chest and shoulder area by sobbing quietly to yourself. Take your workout up a gear by ugly crying AND texting back, ‘Death in the family, you cheeky fuckbag. Piss off.’ Speaking of piss, you cannot deny that days in your pyjamas have left you smellier than an old Odor-Eater that Christina Aguilera was using as a tampon, so kick your workout into an even higher gear by heaving yourself off the sofa for a whore’s bath. Feel the burn!

Step 3

During your whore’s bath, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and realise that all of the Christmas overindulgence has left you looking like Kirstie Alley after she ate Clare from Steps. Work those forehead muscles as you frown a lot at the state of yourself.

If only we could all have the natural peak physique of Ron from Biggest Loser

If only we could all have the natural peak physique of Ron from Biggest Loser

Step 4

Work those calves and thighs as you lunge to the kitchen with the intention of throwing out all junk food as you vow to make a lifestyle change once and for all. When you start to feel the burn your legs, step your workout up a notch by grabbing the Iceland carrier bag that you ironically carried all of your colon-blowing purchases home with after buying them enthusiastically mere days prior, to throw them away in. Then, when your core is least expecting it, stop lunging and grabbing, and take you heart down to a resting level again by focusing on your neck area as you shake your head upon realising that you’re far too much of a repulsive addict to throw out your junk food stash.

Step 5

Engage in some heart-healthy cardio as you feel you heart back-flip with delight as you decide to get rid of all of your junk food by eating it now instead of throwing it in the bin like you really should.

Step 6

End strong with your workout as you take your Iceland bag full of Intestine Polyfiller and trudge back to the sofa to find that part of the seat that your arse has indented. As you settle in for an afternoon of Maury’s Best Bits, bring your heart back to resting level as you toss the sugarcoated gout down your stinking piehole.

And, rest. Great workout, boys and gals!

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How To Survive An Apocalypse

Those bags of shit love to swing.

Those bags of shit love to swing.

Sadly enough, the world selfishly didn’t end on 21st December, as sensationally reported to be predicted by Mayan buffoons. Even though we live to see another day, I still find it shocking that the EU didn’t make a single provision for the potential apocalypse on the off-chance that it wasn’t a load of crazy talk- selfish bastards. If the world had’ve ended, they’d certainly be redfaced come Monday.

I decided to do my bit for the gullible among us who went and camped up mountains in preparation for the end of the world by ensuring they weren’t disappointed when fuck all happened by going and knifing the silly bastards to death. There is something mightily satisfying about stabbing a tent wildly to haphazardly puncture the human content, kind of like Bobbing for Apples but with murder.

Anyway, due to a distinct lack of apocalypse survival guide material available so that we have a hope in hell of coping should the day come when the world does end, I’ve appointed myself to make up some stuff. Let me just say, there is no point worrying about the world ending- you are far more likely to die of old age or in some sort of freak accident, say for example, in which a knife wielding maniac ‘accidentally’ falls on your tent when you’re out camping. This guide is for emergencies only. Like the Emergency Chocolate that Sainsburys patronisingly markets towards women who’ve just broken a nail. Fuckers.

Right, here’s my top tips for surviving an apocalypse.

Makeshift Hats

In any industry when things are likely to fall on top of you, hats equal safety, so why the fuck not? But remember, meteorites are rather hefty, so it’s best to make your own rather than shelling out for some plastic Taiwanese flim. Therefore, I will be making my wonderhat by turning a pot upside down, knifing two eyeholes in the bastard with that knife I used earlier to murder all those campers, and placing it on my head. Us gals- we’re nothing if not dedicated followers of fashion.

Keane Albums


Keane; faces for radio, music not for radio

Keane; faces for radio, music not for radio


Whatever happened to Keane? I don’t even know if they’re still making music, and I’m scared that my laptop might die of embarrassment on my behalf if I Google it. But if they aren’t, you can still buy obtain all of their music in any Tombola at a Hospice fundraiser near you, providing your ticket ends with a ‘5’ or a ‘0’. Alternatively, you can recreate sounds of Keane from the comfort of your own home by trying to construct the song equivalent of the cheapest thing on the menu of a gastropub while chronically yawning and asking yourself, ‘What would the Lightning Seeds do?‘, all the while fussing with the funnelled neck of an navy polyester jumper by Jeremy Clarkson for Matalan because it’s giving you a rash. That’s Keane. An afternoon listening to their lyrical diarrhea will prepare you for the end of the world alright. You’ll be praying for the apocalyse.

Face Paint, Bandana and Gutsy Catchphrase

Although the other items listed in this guide are serious aids, I have to admit that this section is about basic vanity. Tying a bandana around your pot-helmet and smearing some face paint on it can help you to look all badass when you’re rolling around the ground while singing the Mission Impossible theme, pretending to hide from aliens, even though they have nothing to do with anything. It is also handy, in life generally but especially in the event of an apocalypse, to keep a gutsy catchprase in your mental holster incase you accidentally do something heroic and you want to get extra super-cool points. Mine is ‘Swinging shitbags!‘ but you’re more than welcome to use it, too. But if we’re together, I’m the only one who gets to say it and you have to act all surprised and clap at me in slow motion.

Vanilla Sky

Tom Cruise: the world would be so much better off if he'd die soon.

Tom Cruise: the world would be so much better off if he’d die soon.

I went to see Vanilla Sky in the cinema, and it is, to date, the only film that I walked out of for fear of going insane with crapdom. While this was many years ago, I recall sitting in the cinema for around four decades before finally deciding that enough was enough and emerged into the real world with utter shock that, in fact, time did not stand still- it just felt like it had. So, in the event of an apocalypse, it is advisable that you retrieve your copy of Vanilla Sky from beneath the leg of your dining table that is slightly smaller than the others and throw it into your poor, unsuspecting DVD player. Hey presto- a vacuum via which time is automatically slowed, turning seconds into days. Now, you have all the time in the world to potter about with the well-meaning intention of building a spaceship to escape Earth but never actually getting round to it because you spent your Vanilla Sky centuries playing Farmville instead. And you have only yourself to blame, because Tom Cruise was stopping time just for you.


There’s no point in buying a saucepan, a Keane album and a table wobbler stopper a copy of Vanilla Sky if you’re just going to go and starve to death afterwards, so you’ll need some form of food to keep you going while you hope that help is on it’s way while knowing deep down that death is inevitable. Best to pick something that is non-perishable and full of preservatives to prolong the life of the food. My suggestion is a KFC Bargain Bucket, as it is not only unpenetrable by bacteria due to bacteria not being hungover enough to be able to merely entertain the thought of it, it is also the most requested meal by inmates on Death Row as their last meal, thus, it’s very presence will make you glad that soon, your charred remains are going to be eaten by cockroaches.

Swinging shitbags!

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