The Five Worst Things A Woman Can Do

GillianPublicityShotPeople can be their own worst enemies sometimes, and women are no exception. In fact, I believe women can be very hard on themselves. So I have made a list of the top five worst things a woman can do to damage her life.

Settling Down With Someone You Do Not Love.

The biological clock is probably the worst thing that ever happened to a woman. It can make us go a bit crazy. A male friend once described woman in their mid-thirties as ‘terrified and terrifying’. Quite unfair and he was about the same age himself. Worst than that, it can make some woman settle for a man they do not love so they can get married and have children. I completely understand this, I really do. Even in 2013 there is a ‘status’ thing between married and unmarried woman, and there certainly is one between the childless and those with children.

The media is full of stories about leaving it too late and this can cloud a woman’s judgement. But deep down, you always know whether or not you love someone. Relationships are hard enough if you do love someone. A relationship chosen because of your biological clock fears will never be a happy one, nor last.

It can also be hard to end a relationship with someone you do not love anymore. The fear of being single is a very real one for a lot of people, but it is only fair on you and the person you are dating. You will both find partners that you are meant to be with.

I came across this amazing quote from Kelly Brook in Easy Living magazine: “I’m not scared to walk away when things aren’t working. I’m not scared of being single, of not having kids. What I am scared of is being stuck in something negative. That is what I am most proud of: having the confidence to know I deserve everything.”

Starve Herself

The pressure to be thin can be tremendous. This pressure comes from the media and other women. It rarely comes from men. If a man loves you he won’t mind if you pack on a couple of pounds.

When I was in drama school I heard stories of women eating cotton balls soaked in orange juice to stay thin. The very idea of it is insane. If you starve yourself your body will not get any nutrients. You will damage your fertility, your health and your hair will fall out. I have heard way too much about starvation diets, that is not a diet, it is anorexia. Let’s stop it now.

Another thing: The whole Curvy versus Skinny thing is a war that should never be waged. Different people are supposed to be different sizes. Diversity is beautiful.

Let a Man Pay For Everything

There is nothing wrong with the man paying for the first date in my opinion. Especially as the women has already probably spent a fortune on a new dress and beauty treatments. However, letting a man pay for everything gives him the control in the relationship. It also makes it harder to walk away if the relationships stops working and you are not financially stable. A woman should always have a means of making money. If not, she has no control of her own future. Virginia Woolf has a famous quote that ‘A woman must have money and a room of her own’. I could not put it better myself.


Judge Another Woman’s Choices.

Woman can be really hard on each other. The truth is that sometimes when we judge it is actually a mixture of envy and admiration. Life does not give everything to one person. When you make a choice another option ends. The grass can seem greener on the other side. When women judge each other it holds us all back. It is time to live and let live.

 

Take Her Foot Off The Pedal

Another thing that some woman do is slowing down or quitting, even before they realise they have done so. When you start to think about children you can take your foot off the gas pedal. This can manifest in not applying for promotions, not going after something with a passion or not following a dream. The expectation of getting pregnant can stop you in your tracks, but do not let it. You never know what will happen in life and maybe you will not want to be a stay-at-home mum. Stay passionate and go after what you want.

What do you think women do to sabotage themselves?

Reality Tv? Look no further.

Well, I’ve been away from these wild pages for a short while… I know, I know… it’s been hard for you. Those long winter nights must have been like long winter nights but fear not- stout fellows, for I am reborn in the guise of Reality TV reviewer and blogger, both here on the beautifully popular Frost Magazine and for a brand new website dedicated to everything theatrical: www.stagestatus.co.uk.
As many of you will already know, I’m extremely opinionated so I guarantee I shall be saying stuff that many of you will disagree with, and I’m NOT a performer- of any kind. As I wrote that I could almost hear the luvvies amongst you hissing like vampires in a tanning salon.

Don’t get me wrong, I have ‘connections’ and I am qualified- well enough to write this anyway. I’m not just some fat , northern, gobby bloke who resents the fact that for every Billy Elliot there are thousands of bog-standard plebs still shoveling shit every day and he’s one of them. Neither am I someone who has tried to make it vocally- queued up for X Factor only to be told by some teenager with a clipboard and a lanyard, ‘you’re not even talented enough to be ridiculed’.

I just don’t have the talent to perform… but I can write.

Wherever you get your fix of TV you’ll have about as much chance of avoiding the reality gushing from it as I have of avoiding the reality of man boobs- in other words, it’s way too late so just go with the flow and find someone you can trust to measure your cup size.

That would be me.

I shall be starting in earnest with ‘The Voice’. Currently the biggest TV show in America and already a huge hit in 29 other countries. The BBC have spent 22 million pounds of our money getting it over here so I intend to make sure I get my money’s worth.

Following that I shall be sinking my teeth into the latest ALW search for Jesus in the vain hope that the real thing will turn up and get rejected for not being ‘jesusy enough’ by someone so uptight they have their farts auto-tuned to stop them accidentally attracting sheep dogs.

Until these delicious freak shows- or amazing opportunities to unearth undiscovered gems, depending on your viewpoint, are with us, here’s my view of two of the current crop- just to give you an idea of how I think.

Dancing on Ice: Love it! Want to lose myself in Katarina Witt beyond the reach of even the coast guard and genuinely respect the amount of time and effort the celebrities have had to put into it. Plus, anything with Philip Schofield in is TV gold for me as I like to pretend he’s my actual friend so I’m clocking up TV minutes in his ‘company’ like air miles in the hope it will eventually become official. I’m glad Louie Spence took over from Jason because it was just turning, like so many other Judge-based panel shows, into a showcase for the judges and not the talent. I love Chico as much as any straight man can and I think Jorgie will win because she’s clearly the most talented at the job in hand from every angle. My only bugbear about the little fire cracker is the way she pretends to be a six year old at Alton Towers every time she speaks. “Oh my golly, it was so, so, so, hard and everything! Ooh, I’ve got sparkly on my nosey. Time for bo bo’s. Will you read me a story unky Phil?” And then she goes out and performs with the kind of steely determination that could force the Terminator to re-word his catch phrase to, “I’ll only be back if the public decide to keep me in.” If you can perform like that and are happy to occupy the wank-banks of every lads mag reader in the country then you could at least talk like someone who eats without a bib.

Take me out: With pleasure- I’m just waiting for the bullets I bought on Ebay to arrive and the I’ll be right on it, till then I’m afraid it’s, ‘No ammo- no blammo!’

So there you are.

One thing I will add is that in this age of media submersion- a phrase I just made up so bear with me, reading things like this used to be a one-way street. I wrote stuff then you read it, flushed the bog and went back to work. Nowadays it’s more conversational. We have the ability to respond to the idiotic and clearly misguided views of gits like me and that’s precisely what I want you to do. If you are a performer, or a ‘creative’ or you’re a member of the public (the most important people of all), and you have a view then educate me- tell me that you once worked with the no-mark I’ve just torn to pieces and he/she is actually bloody good and deserves a break.

I’ll be there. I won’t be getting into any slagging matches and I may not have time to respond to every comment but I’ll be about, writing and reading and, most importantly of all, maybe, just maybe (but doubtfully if I’m honest- and I usually am) changing my mind. It can happen and that’s the beauty of a blog on a website over a newspaper column or a TV show.

So please feel free to comment either via the main website forums or on my twitter account @elywhitley because, at the end of the day, your opinion is just as valid as mine and as long as what I write gets people talking, either in agreement or disagreement, then I’ve done my job.

To paraphrase the famous saying: Opinions are like arse holes- everyone’s got one… and even Simon Cowell’s stinks now and again. Also, I tend to communicate through mine so don’t worry if it leaves a nasty taste in your mouth… ever get the feeling you’ve taken an analogy too far?

The voice begins on 24th March so I shall be spewing my thoughts from then onwards- may God have mercy on my soul.

It's Christmas time- there's no need to be afraid.

I’ve just seen an ad for Littlewoods, or copses as they should be known. It’s your usual fare. Loads of cute kids on stage at a school and the proud parents beaming from the fold-up chairs below. It’s not a nativity of course, god forbid, it’s a singing tribute to how wonderful mums are. Nice? Well not really no, because the song- and there’s even a rap in there to keep it ‘street’, is all about how mum is wonderful for buying just about every consumer electrical gizmo you could imagine that doesn’t begin with an ‘i’.

There’s a laptop and an HTC Android phone. The first kid proudly holds up his X-Box Kinect unit like it’s the ‘fragrances that are also useful in scrabble’ shop’s entire stock of Myrrh.

It ends with a little girl, her ruby cheeks poking out from between the just-closed curtains, reminding us that the mark of a wonderful mum is the quality, measured in expenditure, of her gifts. And that we should, therefore, measure our own maternal love by that scale alone.
The add stops short of having Santa flying overhead trailing a banner from his sleigh that reads, “MONEY = LOVE, don’t forget kids!” But that mantra is sewn, inextricably, into the underpants of every precious, seasonal second.

I’m not against Christmas, contrary to the view of the parent of a child that approached me once and asked if I was Santa’s sister because his mum has said I was ‘Aunty Christmas.’ I love Christmas. I come over all Jimmy Stewart as soon as Summer’s over and I can’t hear the opening bars of ‘Silent Night’ without bursting into tears and wanting to join the Sally Army. I just hate this unnecessary and inexplicable extortion every year.

I don’t have kids, and I’m sure some of you are thinking, “If your wife’s as tight as you are, you never will!” But my sister does. My sister is a single mum with two sons. The eldest is 22 now so his festive focus has fully relocated from under the tree to under the table but his kid brother is 14. Old enough to want everything but too young to care what it costs.

When his mates are all tweeting photos of their new PS3 on their new ipads and running round to his house in their new trainers to make sure he got it because he hasn’t ‘RT’d’ yet, he’s going to hide his market versions- the ‘iPhone’ and the ‘Games Centre Play Console- with 7 game cartridges included!’ And look at my poor sister like she’s picking the last of Santa’s gonads from between her teeth just because she couldn’t get herself into deep enough debt to avoid the emotional scarring a shit present can have on a teenager.

He won’t really because he’s a good kid. He’ll do what I used to do and pretend it’s just as good as the thing you really wanted then find a way to hide it long enough to casually mention you played with it so much it broke, and suffering the inevitable comeback, “That doesn’t just apply to toys you know!”

I still remember desperately faking happiness when the ‘Evil Knievel action figure with interchangeable costumes and multi-trick stunt bike’ I’d asked for turned out to be a small plastic moulded ‘figure-on-bike’ with a big glued seam running down the middle that you revved up and watched career in a short curve into the nearest skirting board. Not to mention picking the stitching from the fourth stripe on my ‘same as Adidas’ trainers before I got to school only to be told by my jeering fellow students, as I knelt down for assembly, that they had different coloured soles- not from genuine Adidas trainers but from each other.

That was nearly 30 years ago. The pressure’s ten times worse now.

Why? Where did this law that you have to spend a couple of hundred quid on gifts come from?
Not the Nativity, that’s for sure. Its been sacked by Littlewoods in favour of ‘Grange Hill does the Ludovico Technique.’ (Google anyone?) And I’m sure Jesus would be spinning in his shroud, if he was still dead, at the thought of his birthday being hijacked by everyone else. Imagine if everyone got presents on your birthday. It’d certainly take the sheen off it I’ll bet, and that’s my point really. Birthdays are personal and they only involve one person.
Mark Twain said, “The two most important days of your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” I agree with the first part, although the day I heard my mum say, “by the time I realized it wasn’t wind it was too late,” doesn’t even make my top 100, but you get my point. Presents on birthdays make sense! Let’s just do that shall we?

Here’s what I think we should do: Everyone, at the same time, stand up and say, “There won’t be any presents this Christmas.” Then enjoy a huge sigh of relief and start, for the first time in a long time, to really look forward to the holidays.

It’s important that everyone does it at the same time and sticks to it, which will be hard to organize and even harder to check, and there will be mass disappointment for every child in England but it will pass when they all realize they’re in the same boat and they’re not missing out.

Now imagine the Christmases that will follow. Everyone can just work until the holidays start and then enjoy time with their friends and families. Boyfriends and husbands won’t have to reduce themselves to asking the teenage assistant behind the perfume counter for suggestions because they’ve forgotten what their wife’s favorite is called and EVERYTHING just smells of perfume!

It can feel like a real holiday for a change and, once it’s all over, there won’t be a national depression as everyone spends January skint, cold and about as festive as Scrooge’s warts. Better still, single parents or families that have little or no income won’t have to worry that their kids will hate them and/or get bullied at school. Loan sharks, feeding on the poor and vulnerable in in the less affluent areas of the country, will have to find other ways to ‘help people out till pay day’.

A weight of unnecessary obligation would be lifted from everyone and we would all be no less festive for it.

As for Christmas morning? Imagine getting up (whenever you like- you’re on holiday remember) and strolling downstairs to greet your family with a hearty breakfast and a mulled wine and hugs all round. Elders can talk to youngsters while the crisp winter morning air draws the first flame from the Yule log. Christians can take a moment for silent reflection while the rest of us slap a bit of Slade on and work up an appetite for the largest and best meal of the year. Happy in the knowledge that it’s cost you no more than all the good will and genuine Christmas cheer you can muster.

Sounds great to me.

Tiger Woods and His Caddy: What did you call me?

I’m not black. It’s something I’ve come to terms with over the years. Many hours huddled over an old tape machine working out what James Brown was saying haven’t altered the hue of my dermis one iota. I have, however, been the victim of racial abuse. My time living amongst the Catalans of Eastern Spain was spent mainly pouring drinks and waiting tables and, to a small degree, ducking flying dog pooh and watching my underwear burn on the washing line. The locals were happy for me to serve them food and drinks as long as I didn’t look at any women or make eye contact with any of the big fat patriarchs. I was spat at and, on several occasions, had pool water flicked at me by a local boy while his father looked from beyond his obesity and smiled with whimsical pride. It inspired me to work my way through a host of covert ‘relations’ with the local females like the local tap water worked its way through me- quickly, quietly and with no intention of producing anything solid. I also became far less likely to develop testicular cancer throughout that time as I would check myself thoroughly several times a day just prior to arranging the food of those engorged and ignorant patriarchs.

In that particular area there is a large and proud nazi movement- I would say ‘underground’ nazi movement but it was about as well hidden as the London Eye. [You’ll notice I have refused to give it a capital ‘N’- I don’t do it with the ‘G’ of god so these shaved fools can whistle!] Local boys, preparing for their national service, would sit at the bar practicing their hitler salutes and showing off any nazi memorabilia they managed to buy like I used to show off my football stickers. We had a black cook at the time, she was North African and looked like she possessed a cartoon cat and a fear of mice. She was told to stay out of sight because the locals would eat elsewhere if they knew their food had been prepared by a ‘black devil’ for fear they would explode into flames or their penises would wilt and fall off from the poison she secreted through her every pore. I used to hug her whenever any of them ventured round the back to retrieve the drugs or porn mags they kept by the bins away from their catholic fathers.

Eventually, they put black and white together and got ‘food poisoning’, or at least enough of an accusation of it that she was dismissed and they returned to sit and gloat and wheeze in their sweaty, dated ways and I had to develop a itchy sphincter and a penchant for elasticated waistbands.

Prior to Spain, I had hated racism for purely moral reasons. It was all about fairness and equality and rights. My time there showed me the real face of racism though and that was just plain and simple ignorance.

Now, we’re all ignorant of many things- appropriate punctuation in my case? But this is different, this is intentional and that’s what makes it so nasty. To choose not to understand something, or someone, for no reason other than the sure knowledge that it will upset your comfy little existence, is the act of a coward. It’s the kind of ignorance that you have you really want, and the only thing that makes someone work that hard is fear.

Fast forward to the present day and we finally have the two reasons I’m telling you all this: an argument and a caddie.

The caddie should need no introduction if you’ve been reading the papers lately… but I’ll tell you anyway. Tiger Woods’ former caddie, Steve Williams called him a ‘black ——-‘. I’ve written it like that because that’s how the press printed it but there isn’t a nickel-plated cheque book and pen up for grabs so don’t bother working out the second word. It’s the first word that’s the problem and it’s a problem that I was arguing about just a week before this incident made the headlines. I’ve argued the same point on various internet forums since too because of allegations against footballers and their use of the same word.

I’m not here to explain what’s wrong with racism in general because everyone knows that- even the racists. Even Terre Blanche would look away or find an imaginary bogey when confronted by the sheer illogicality of his views like a creationist in the Natural History museum. I’m here to explain a very specific point. Here’s what has been asked of me recently in various forms:
“Why is it racist to call someone a black ‘anything’ when they are, in fact, actually black and don’t consider being referred to as black an insult?”

The first person I argued with about this had started by asking why he couldn’t call ‘them’ niggers because, ‘if they can call it each other then why can’t we?’ And I had to pipe the definition of ‘context’ into his brain like an asthmatic inflating a bouncy castle. More recent, and more considered, views have been along the lines of, “But it’s not racist to call a black person ‘black’!”

Greg Norman, who’s nickname is, I’m sure, just a reference to his predatory golfing style, has said that Williams isn’t a racist. He said that Williams thought he was in a ‘restricted environment’ when he made the kind of ‘stupid comment’ we all make from time to time, and that ‘far heavier’ things were said that night. Well that’s cleared that up, thanks Greg… except, ignoring the fact that, in just the same way a falling tree will ALWAYS make a noise regardless of who’s listening, a word retains it’s meaning regardless of where it is said or to whom and should never be judged based on the relative ‘weight’ of other comments, as if it’s ok to punch someone as long as they’re already being stabbed in the kidneys by someone else. And not even mentioning the fact that ‘we’ don’t all make comments like that from time to time, there is just one thing I’d like to pick you up on.

He is a racist.

This isn’t my opinion, it’s a fact gleaned from precisely the thing he did.
It’s like when family and friends of murderers are interviewed and they say, “He’s just a regular bloke, he’s not a murderer.” Well, I’m sorry but that murder he just committed kind of means he is. I don’t care if he spent his childhood helping old ladies cross roads and healing sick puppies. It’s not a political viewpoint, it’s not a personality trait. It’s a definition of someone who murders.

Now I’m not, for a second, comparing Williams racism to murder, I’m just pointing out that if one does a thing, intentionally and without external pressures to do so, then one becomes a doer of that thing.

So, back to the big question- why does dropping ‘black’ into an insult to someone who is black make you a racist in the first place?

It boils down to this: When we are insulting someone, we are choosing words that WE consider derogatory. It’s what insults are made of, words that demonstrate what WE consider to be bad about the other person. If you were having a blazing row with someone called Dave you wouldn’t say, “You stupid person called Dave!” Because it would be a ridiculous insult. Being called Dave isn’t a bad thing to anyone, even you who hate his guts, so you would never consider including it. More pertinently, I’ve been called everything you can imagine by some very nasty people but I’ve never been called a ‘white’ anything. Why? Because I’ve never been insulted by anyone who considers being white to be a bad thing and, therefore, worthy of inclusion in their little list of what makes me lesser than them. Even those pointless little Spanish Nazis couldn’t hate my colour because it was the same as theirs so ‘black’ becomes ‘English’ or just ‘foreign’. Anything really that they weren’t and which, therefore, according to the rules that help them sleep at night, must be shit.

Tiger woods has any number of qualities Williams could have picked out. Qualities that are personal to only him but it was the colour of his skin- something he shares with millions of people and that it is physically impossible to use to upset someone, that Williams decided to open with.

Calling someone a ‘black’ something when you’re insulting them is saying that being black is a bad thing to be. It’s the same as calling someone a ‘stupid’ something or a ‘heartless’ something or an ‘ignorant’ something and yet it’s a lot worse. Worse because people, as individuals, can be stupid, heartless and ignorant and they are bad things to be. These insults are based on the actions of the individual and reflect your personal view of them.
Nobody told Williams to use the word and he could have chosen any other but he felt that it was what he considers bad about Tiger Woods. He made a racist remark intentionally, and without external pressures to do so… which makes him a maker of racist remarks… otherwise known as…

“Yeah, I know what I said but… come on, play fair Infidel!”

Carlos the Jackal, the notorious terrorist and assassin of the latter part of the last century hasn’t got a nail clipper and he’s peeved. It’s mainly because he’s doing a lot of press and he wants to be presentable, after all, it’s a basic human right to have as much chance of meeting Louis Theroux as anyone else, right?

It always amazed me when people who have taken an oath to destroy an entire society or bring down a government that represents, to them, pure evil and then when they get caught, or their rucksack fails to reap the souls of the infidels around them because it got wet waiting for the train at Luton and now it’s just got cake mix oozing through its webbing, they seem more than happy to bend the principles they killed for if it means a few quid or a comfy cell.

It’s as if they’re saying, “I want to destroy your way of life because it represents all that is wrong with the world… but until I do, can I get a skinny latte and do you have WiFi?”

Osama Bin Laden, erstwhile leader of a terrorist cell that holds the most anti-western viewpoint of them all wasn’t averse to a nice pair of trainers and a designer watch. That video of him rocking back and forth in front of the telly looked more like he was waiting for the Lotto program to skip past the crappy thunderball and get to the main event. You could almost read, “it’s a roll over this week,” in his body language- and while we’re at it, I suspect that he didn’t just go for the ‘Al Jazeera’ channel when it was being installed either. Those long nights in a cave can just fly by if you’ve got Babestation and The Simpsons to keep you going.
It just feels like, if you’re going to take the moral high ground to such an extreme, you should be willing to die by the same sword you came running in screaming with.

Suicide bombers, for example. You don’t get more committed than that. Delusional sheep, bereft of even the most basic common sense they may be, but commitment they do very well. You’d think, therefore, that if their planned trip to everlasting back-patting and more virgins than a ‘World of Warcraft’ convention ended up as six months in an orange boiler suit in Southern Cuba, they’d laugh in the face of such conditions with the kind of scorn only someone who has tried to do to themselves what their captors will always stop short of doing, can pull off. It’s a shame we can’t take some of those that survive and retrain them as call center workers or marriage councilors. A little conversion and they could get employee of the month at The Samaritans on a two day week.

But no. Instead they’re hiring lawyers and complaining that their human rights have been violated. Abu Hamza, the low rent Dr. Evil who hates all non-Muslims and has devoted his life to trying to bring down civilization and turn the world into a Muslim state, screamed like Louis Spence on a ghost train the minute he thought he could lose his council flat and benefits and even appealed against losing his British Citizenship.

So, to any terrorists out there let me just say this: Play fair. I know you hate me, and it’s fair to say I hate you, but come on. Do it properly or not at all. We’ll give you your human rights if we have to because that’s what we do- we’re the human rights people, you’re not. Having them thrust upon you should feel, to you, like a vegan protestor, marching for PETA against vivisection, being given a fur coat and a bucket of KFC so they don’t catch a chill. You should eschew such western ways with a hate-filled ‘harrumph!’ And maybe a gob full of something nasty in the face of your jailer. Screaming that you’ve missed ‘strictly’ and only had four of your five a day just makes you look like the jihad equivalent of Johnny Rotten. One minute he’s sticking pins in the establishment and swearing on TV, the next he’s that property developer off ‘I’m a celebrity’ who advertises butter.