A year on.

I have to confess that I’m half cut. I’ve been out for a friend’s birthday party and drunk more wine than I’d usually go through so if there’s any spelling or grammar errors, I apologise. But I write better when I’m pissed. Or, more accurately, I write more honestly when I’m pissed. I wrote my dad a letter when I was pissed and he was dying. I’m much more honest when I’ve had a few and I’m typing, it feels like there’s just you and your writing there, no audience, no one you have to play to, just somewhere to write what you feel. And so here I am again, after a night filled with wine and other people’s problems to write it down again.

It’ been a year since my dad died at 58 of metastatic non small cell lung cancer. Well actually it’s been just over a year, May the 27th if you’re concerned with dates. The funny thing is that a year doesn’t seem the milestone that you think it will be. When someone dies unexpectedly and before their time, you grieve. This is the natural order of things. But in that grief, you look at ‘a year’ as some sort of pivotal date, like after that everything will be easier, you will no longer feel responsible for your mum, you will no longer feel like something is missing every time you go into their house, you won’t be hit with that sudden longing to go backwards to a time when they were there and you could see them. You think that at a year you reach some sort of acceptance with what has gone on. I don’t know why you’d believe that this marking of a calendar year would make the blindest bit of difference but you do. And the realisation that it doesn’t is pretty hard.

I still miss him. I still struggle to deal with my mum. I still find it the hardest thing in the work to ignore it when she says things designed to get at me and my brother because she’s hurting. Patience is not a virtue that has ever come naturally to me and the passing of a calendar year hasn’t changed this. I am a practical person, give me a practical problem and I will offer you seventeen solutions, stand a person in front of me crying and saying their life has fallen apart and I’ll shuffle about like a twat, saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing and making everything worse. A year of people crying in front of me hasn’t, as it turns out, moulded me into Oprah Winfrey.

Tonight I went out for a friend’s birthday. She’s a very  old friend, in fact she’s my oldest friend, our mums made friends when they were pregnant and lived in the same street so we’ve been friends since before we could walk or talk. So inevitably our parents have been friends for that 32 years too. Since my dad died, relations between my mum and my friend’s mum have been more strained and less spontaneous than they used to be. I don’t know exactly why, maybe my mum resents that her husband died and her friend’s husband didn’t, who knows. But tonight, after we’d all had a few, my friend’s mum opened up to me and confessed that she felt hurt by the way my mum has acted, the way she’ s been avoiding her in recent times. She was also hurt that when my mum and me/ my bro had a bit of a set to the other week, we turned to another friend and not her for advice. And at that point my taxi arrived so I said I’d phone her tomorrow and arrange to go round for a brew and a proper chat. At which point my slightly more sober friend asked if i would please do that, so it must have been mentioned a bit round their house.

The upshot is this: A year on isn’t a magical date at which the grieving stops. It  isn’t a magical time at which any strained relations will suddenly be fixed either. All it is is the end of the ‘firsts’, first father’s day, first birthdy without him, first christmas, first 23rd December (his birthday), first anniversary. What I can say is that a year on I recognise that other people outside our immediate fmaily are hurting too. My friend’s mum is hurting, not just from the loss of him but the loss of her best friend and the potential loss of the closeness we all had before the lung cancer blew it all apart. I recognise that her husband has lost his best friend and that if you watch him at group parties you’ll see him wander aimlessly fron group to group, never settling, never quite fitting in because his wingman, the one he always chatted to, is gone now and you can’t replace 30 years of friendship and shared history in a heartbeat. I recognise that I now have a responsibiity to try and make  things easier for those I care about, which is why tomorrow I’ll do   what I said tonight I would do, I’ll ring my friend’s mum and go round for coffee to try and reassure her that everything will be ok. And it’s a lie. I don’t know whether it will or it won’t. All I know is that at some point around the diagnosis of cancer the roles were reversed and I became the responsible one, the one people round here turn to for answers about my family. I never asked for it, I didn’t want it but I’ve got it and now I have to try and make it ok for other people without any knowledge, training or aptitude. It’s not easy.

Disappointingly a year on isn’t a magic date. I wish it were. A year on and we, or at least my brother and I, have accepted what has happened and are trying to rebuild things but that doesn’t mean we don’t still hurt, or get angry, or feel like our foundations have been knocked. We do. But now we are starting to see that other people are hurting too and that brings its  own set of challenges and problems that have to be faced.

 

Jubilee Weekend commentary

Hot on the heels of my new resolution not to get so angry about work because I’m in danger of getting sectioned and people were starting to flatten themselves against walls and avoid suuden movements or eye contact as I walked down the corridor, we get a long weekend! How lovely is that. So did I go down to London to join the crowds in the Mall, waving flags and cheering, did I wander round St James’s Park making conversation and watching the concert on the big screens, did I stand outside Buckingham Palace in the hope that Prince Harry would suddenly find my beauty irresistable and take me out for a cracking night on he champers round the posh bits of London?

Not exactly. I woodstained and assembled two flatpack shoeracks. This took up most of my long weekend with a little break in the middle to go to a friend’s house and stay over there. On the plus side, this means I saw most of the jubilee celebrations on the telly while swearing at the woodstain, wrestling with the flatpack assembly and wincing at the muscle damage I acquired while wrestling the new shoe racks into the car. And my thoughts are thus:

River Pageant – It’s quite remarkable how dull the BBC managed to make 1000 boats travelling down river. Now I will give them the fact that the weather, in typical British fashion, was shit, but really, was it that likely to be brightened up by the application of Fearne Cotton, a presenter who has fewer IQ points that she has fingers and who is fully capable of dumbing down literally any event. Highlights of Fearne’s performance on the day include addressing a war veteran as Jim, when his name wasn’t Jim and by describing another guy’s survival of the bombing of his ship by clinging onto the body of a dead shark as ‘wow, amazing’ in the same tone she used to describe the Jubilee sick bags. More of which later. I genuinely have no idea why she keeps getting wheeled out for live broadcasts, they require concentration and thought, which let’s be honest, aren’t Fearne’s strong points. Throw a sparkly bangle across the road and you’ll lose her as she scampers after it like an eager spaniel. Girl’s as thick as two short planks.

The Concert – I liked the concert. The concert was good. Not too sure why Will.I.Am featured so heavily, like a small  grinning gnome in fancy dress, since he’s American and as far as I’m aware, America hasn’t been part of Britain’s commonwealth for quite some time. As is Stevie Wonder but then at least Stevie Wonder has some musical talent, unlike our own Cheryl Cole who succesfully managed to prove that talent doesn’t necessarily follow beauty and sometimes miming to a track that’s been fed through the autotune machine isn’t a bad thing. Cliff Richards looked most intriguing, like a stretched marshmallow balanced on top of two pastel coloured pipecleaners and Elton John seemed to have a brand new chihuahua stapled to the top of his head. Outstanding. Rolf Harris did supremely well not to slap Lenny Henry right off the stage after the ignorant git interrupted his song to get Stevie Wonder on. Listen Lenny, it’s ROLF HARRIS, which may not mean much to you but my generation grew up with Rolf, you ask anyone my age ‘d’you know what it is yet?’ and they’ll have flashbacks to Rolf’s Cartoon Time. You. Do. Not. Kick. Rolf. Off. Stage. EVER! Got that Henry?? Rolf was kindly filling in because Stevie Wonder was late, it wouldn’t have killed him to wait another minute till everyone’s favourite Aussie doodler was done. Show some respect.  And another thing, it wasn’t really the time to air your working class black lad shoulder chip. This wasn’t about you and your gripes, it was a concert.

Rolf Harris - legend. As opposed to Lenny Henry - bellend.

Rolf Harris – legend. As opposed to Lenny Henry – bellend.

 Annie Lennox was as usual dressed in something weird and magnificently in tune, Paul McCartney was as usual dressed like he was still in the Beatles and mediocre. All in all, liked the concert and if Gary Barlow doesn’t have a knighthood before he’s 50 I’ll streak down Deansgate in nothing but carpet slippers.

Church thingy and various other bits and bats yesterday – What I particularly liked about the church service was that Prince Harry, Kate and Prince William were quite clearly hungover. Wills and Kate tried to hide it, Harry slumped in his seat like only a Big Mac and a pint of Sprite would save his life. Magnificent. This is what we want to see from Royals, a stinking hangover, as per royal tradition of hundreds of years.

Royally fucked - we've all had moments like this. Not usually in front of tens of millions of people mind you.

Royally fucked – we’ve all had moments like this. Not usually in front of tens of millions of people mind you

 I didn’t really listen to the sermon because I’m not religious and I was having some difficulty with the assembly of my shoe racks at this point but I’m sure it was lovely, mostly because I like Rowan Williams, he’s delightfully beardy, looks like he doesn’t give a fuck which direction his hair goes in or what his clothes are doing and says the first things that pop into his very brainy head. This seems to get him into trouble but it is mighty amusing and so I like him. The rest of the stuff from yesterday wasn’t that interesting and was marred once again by a liberal application of the moron Cotton, who this time was with weirdy songstress Paloma Faith, a woman who started by plugging her album and then moved on to discussing the jubilee sick bag. Which apparently comes in two colours and according to the insightful Cotton, whose commentary on the affairs of the day never fail to impress, you can eat too much and then pick which colour you want to throw up in. Every utterance is a gem, truly.

Someone just cranked the level of stupid in the room up to 'maximum'.

Someone just cranked the level of stupid in the room up to ‘maximum’.

So, a lovely jubilee weekend, two shoe racks fully stained and assembled, only one hangover over the whole period and one personal injury. I count that as a raging success. When’s the next one?

Things which are stupid today.

Today, all the members of my team received an invite to a ‘safe digging forum’ from Corporate Wankery’s ‘Safe Digging Champion’. All the members except me. I was the only name not included on the invite list. So, he’s now on my ‘There are no limits to the number of ways in which you can go fuck yourself’ list. This links in with the HSE Director’s ‘thank you’ emails to each of the guys for their weekly inspection reports. Did I get a thank you? No. I got nothing. So, if he isn’t going to acknowledge them then I’m not going to send them. It really is that simple. I didn’t like the idea of having to fill in a sheet to state exactly where I’d been all week, what I’d seen there and what I’d done about it anyway.  If he doesn’t like it, he can feel free to email me to let me know and I will promptly ignore it. I’m beginning to think that perhaps the warning I was given by someone way back at the start that Corporate Wankery aren’t really very keen on women in roles that don’t comprise solely of filing and counting paperclips might be true. If I was intending to stay here for any length of time this might be an issue but since I’m planning to stay for precisely as long as it takes me to find alternative employment and work out my notice, it isn’t altering my sleep pattern too drastically. To be honest, I’ve given more thought to the fact that my toenails need repainting. Possibly I offended the ‘Safe Digging Champion’ when he asked whether we risk assess every man before he digs each hole and I laughed, assuming he was joking. Big silence descended round meeting table. He wasn’t. Oops. That’ll be a no laddy, we don’t. Never mind. It’s not as big a fuck up as after the meeting when The Boss and I were discussing how one of our co-workers had turned from a top bloke to a corporate wanker since Corporate Wankery took over. He had definitely still been in the boardroom when we left it. He was not when we left The Boss’s office, he was in his office, which adjoins The Boss’s office. And from the reasonably impressive death stare he gave us, he’s quite clearly heard every single word. Oops again. Still, perhaps it’s better that he knows, after all everyone in the company is calling him a corporate twat and no one wants that. It’s like the theory that if you have a colleague who smells of old cheese, it may be mortifying to tell them but it’s the kinder thing to do.

So now I’m off to hide under my desk because the Group Director, who is exceedingly cross with me for something that mercifully this time wasn’t my fault, has just announced he is coming to visit The Boss and she has advised me to be very quiet and pretend I’m not here. Just another day in the Batcave of Insanity that is this office…

Progress.

Well,the new owners of the company I work for have now implemented lots of their systems and changes have been made. Apparently there are lots more changes to come and I can’t describe to you how much we’re all looking forward to it. Let me show you some of the impressive changes that have been made so far:

Getting a new wiper blade for the car

Previous system: Go to local motorist store. Chat to men behind counter. Buy wiper blade and let nice men fit it for you for free. Cost: About a tenner, claimed back on expenses.Time taken:  Depends how long you chatted to the guys at the shop but no more than 15 minutes.

New system: Ring employee assets to find out what I have to do. Contact Halfords Autocentre as instructed and discover that the man at Halfords has no idea what I’m on about. Go to Halfords where man looks at car and informs me that they don’t stock wiper blades and will have to order them in and get authorisation from Big Company to fit them. Fill in some forms. Drive back to office to await phone call from Halfords when the blades arrive at which point they may or may not be allowed to fit them, depending on whether the half wit they contact at Big Company can find the car on a list. Then I will drive back through Trafford to Halfords, where they should fit my blades. Cost: a fuck sight more than a tenner. Time taken: I’ll let you know when I get my new wiper blades.

Getting Hi vis gear with the company logo on.

Previous system: Go on Staples Direct website, click on the stuff you needed, add purchase order number in correct place. Wait for stuff to arrive in approx 2 days time. Cost: Whatever the cost of your stuff was plus ten minutes of your time. Time taken: ten minutes plus two days of delivery time.

New system: Fill in extensive form, by hand, which has to have every item detailed seperately, including a product code which differs for every size of item. Scan in form. Email to purchasing services. Await the call from them to inform you that this week, the company you ordered from isn’t on the approved list and you’ll have to use the useless prick that you had an argument with about boots to order the gear as they are now the approved supplier. Redo the form exactly the same except for the supplier name, scan it and send it in. Await goods. After a month when they still haven’t turned up and clients are beginning to complain that your staff look like tramps, email someone to ask where it is. Receive reassurance that it is on its way to you, in manner of cheap taxi firm ‘it’s just coming round your corner love’. Stuff arrives. Check stuff and discover none of it has a logo. Ring them and explain why this isn’t satisfactory, receive explanation involving useless prick’s inability to take less than ten working days to heat seal a bloody logo onto a coat. Arrange for non logo stuff to be sent back and await correct stuff coming. After a further fortnight receive stuff and discover that order is completely wrong plus the ‘hand wipes’ that they sent instead of the ones you ordered have a warning on them about not getting in contact with skin. Keep stuff anyway because it may be incorrect but at least its stuff and you have no idea when you will see its like again. Cost: Astronomical I should think. Time taken to get stuff for return collected: No idea, it’s still sat in reception 3 weeks later and will probably still be there at christmas. Time taken to get hi vis stuff with logos on: 6 and a half weeks. Time taken to get correct other stuff: No idea, still haven’t managed it.

Isn’t corporate progress a marvellous thing?

North Korea – land of shin splints and sports bras.

The headline news item last night was a piece about North Korea’s new ‘Dearest Leader’, Kim Jong Un and his lovely shiny military parade. And a most interesting parade it was too. We had nice shiny tanks in formation and big impressive trucks carrying huge green bombs. To be honest, you’re probably more likely to be killed getting run over by the trucks than hit by the bombs, given their attempt on Friday to launch a long range missile which started with a fanfare but ended with a fizzle and a big splash as it fell apart and landed in the sea. Still, that’s no reason not to flaunt big shiny bombs if you own them is it? The rest of the world isn’t to know they’re about as much use to your army as slippers are to an eel. Apparently diplomats are pondering the correct response to North Korea’s dismal attempt to launch a rocket – clearly they learned nothing in the playground at school. The correct response when someone makes a big song and dance about how great they are at something then they are proven to be shit at it is to point and laugh.

Still, the parade was very impressive. Lots of shiny uniforms and Our Dearest Leader made a charming speech about how the West no longer had military superiority. Well quite Kim, if war ever comes down to who is the best at making perfect squares with their soldiers and dressing them so that they make a picture of your national flag when viewed from a balcony, you are going to properly kick our arse. If it comes down to running anywhere though, your lot are probably fucked because if they’ve spent more than two years doing that goose stepping thing round the parade ground then they’re going to have shin splints and the knees of a 90 year old . I loved the ladies section though, that was something quite unusual, a collection of stern looking ladies in knee length skirts, goose stepping past the balcony, skirts raising to thigh level as they marched and headmistress expression never wavering. Marvellous. Send that lot marching at a battalion of squaddies and they’re going to be so busy pissing themselves and whistling the Benny Hill theme tune that you’ll have them overpowered in no time. And they came in a variety of colours too, army bog-green and navy white, complete with silly hat. Fabulous. North Korea must be congratulated though, they are either manufacturers or importers of the finest collection of sports bras I’ve ever seen. Those chests were even more impressively controlled then the facial expressions.

If you ask me, Kim Yong Un looks like he might be a bit odd, kind of like a small child stuck in the body of a large dumpy bloke with no chin and a dodgy under-cut hairdo. If his grandfather and father hadn’t been North Korea’s glorious leaders he’d clearly have spent his days at school getting bogwashed by the bigger lads instead of arranging brightly coloured soldiers with buggered knees into geometric shapes outside the house. One of the ladies interviewed said that he was ‘North Korea’s destiny’ and ‘she felt safe and secure knowing that he was behind North Korea. Either she has doesn’t have very high standards, because the low grade sociopathic, child-man son of an angry midget with a penchant for giant spectacles isn’t who would give me a warm fuzzy feeling of security, or she’s been made aware of the fact that the right answer to this question by international journalists leads to good fortune, the wrong answer leads to three decades of internment and your house and family vanishing in the middle of the night. Either way, it makes North Korea look even more batshit crazy than usual.

If you fancy having a gander at the parade with its impressive array of soldier-squares and goose stepping, take a look here!

Samantha bites back – and she’s still not quite got it.

She still thinks you're jealous

Since yesterday’s batshit crazy article, which earned Ms Brick the coveted title of Wanker of the Week, there has been a lot of interest in Sam’s views, most of it horribly uncomplimentary. This has brought Sam out fighting or more accurately whining, and she’s penned another article in the Daily Mail (which can be found here: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2124782/Samantha-Brick-says-backlash-bile-yesterdays-Daily-Mail-proves-shes-right.html ) to explain why everyone’s ire proves that she’s right.

So let’s have a look at her reasoning shall we?

Firstly she’s horrified that people have been mean about her, complaining that folk have taken umbrage with what she’s written. Now don’t get me wrong, there are some proper lunatics drifting round the internet and I don’t doubt she’s had some really unpleasant comments arrive in her inbox in the last 24 hours but let’s be quite fair, you can’t go public in a national newpaper and denounce pretty much every woman in the UK and France as uglier than you, jealous of you and being an insecure bitch whose husband will leave them following once glance upon your glorious visage then expect the female contingent not to answer back. I’m afraid that if you dish it out in public, you’ve got to be prepared to take it as well. Particularly baffling is her comment about the women she knows:

But far worse came from those I had considered friends. When I logged on to Facebook, I found a group of them had torn me to shreds. Some were asking: ‘What the hell does Sam think she’s on?’  Really? You’re actually surprised that the women you know are pissed off? Yesterday, in front on millions upon millions of people, you denounced an unnamed collection of them as far uglier than you, jealous harridans who refused to have you as a bridesmaid because you would outshine them on their big day. One poor woman who had the temerity to be concentrating on the road rather than the people wandering along the pavement was accused of being so jealous of your superior beauty that she deliberately blanked you. Some of them were accused of not wanting you around because they thought their husbands were going to pack their bags and do one after just one sparkling conversation with your good self. You’ve called them ugly, insecure, jealous and pitiful and accused them of making your life miserable and now you’re baffled because they’ve turned on you? Can you really be so self-centred that you don’t see how offensive to them your remarks were?

“Women I’ve supported emotionally and financially taking the first opportunity to declare I had it coming.” Yes, women who counted you as a friend and who have quite possibly just been utterly denounced in a national newspaper are properly pissed off. Who’d have thought it?

“Without doubt, this is a gender issue. For not only is it mostly women who are attacking me, it is also because I am female that I am being attacked for acknowledging my attractiveness” No Sam, it isn’t. It’ s mainly women who are attacking you because you attacked women. You launched the salvo, this is the fallout. If you’d stood up and had a go at men, believe me they’d be biting back too.

“If Brad Pitt were to say: ‘Yes, I’m a good-looking fella,’ then the world would nod sagely in agreement. But if Angelina Jolie uttered something along those lines, she’d be subject to the same foaming-at-the-mouth onslaught hurled at me yesterday. ” If Angelina Jolie were to stand up and say ‘I am beautiful’ I, as a not unattractive but definitely in the average bracket, woman would smile and say ‘yes Angelina, you are’. Because she is. If she stood up and said ‘I am beautiful, much more beautiful than you and because of that you’re jealous of me. You won’t let me speak to your husband because you’re so insecure in your relationahip that you believe your husband will want me instantly if he sees me. You’d never let me be your bridesmaid because you’re so pathetically shallow that you wouldn’t allow anyone pretty to be part of the bridal party in case they outshone you’, I would smile and say ‘Angelina, you’re a fucking nutjob’. The problem is not acknowledging your beauty, I’m sure Angelina does, when I get tarted up for a night out I know I can look good, my friends are aware from comments and reactions they’ve had in the past that they are pretty women. No one has a problem with someone acknowledging she’s pretty when she is. What we have a problem with is pretty women either getting their own attractiveness WAY out of proportion or using it as a stick to beat others with.

“I’m the first to give out compliments when someone I know looks good or has made an effort. I don’t understand why other women don’t do the same.” Has it occurred to you that maybe, if you’ve spent all this time marvelling at how attractive you are, they think you don’t require compliments? Women do compliment each other, I compliment my friends when they look nice, when they’ve had their hair done, when I like their nail varnish colour or shoes, when they’ve written something clever or funny, I compliment my friends on a variety of things and they do the same for me. It’s perfectly normal. But then maybe it’s only perfectly normal for us because I dont’ think my friend’s husbands are even vaguely interested in me and I would be perfectly happy to leave Mr V alone in the house with any one of my friends. I trust him and I trust them. If one of my friends started suggesting that I was jealous of her and that my husband fancied her believe me she’d be getting told the truth in no uncertain terms.

“While I was tearfully dealing with the emails and calls outside the supermarket, a young man approached me, offered to park my car and even get me a coffee.He could see I was having a tough time — and yes, my looks had helped me out again.” For the love of all that’s holy woman, that’s not because you’re beautiful, it’s because the young man has been brought up well and taught that if you see someone in distress, you ask if they’re ok and you try to help if you can. I carried a pram up the stairs of the tube station for a young mum the other week. I helped an old lady get a cab in London and I picked a small boy up who had fallen on the floor and found his mum on the promenade in Brighton. I didn’t do any of these things because I thought the person was beautiful, I did it because they were people who needed a bit of a hand and I was able to help. It’s simple compassion that leads people to do these things Sam, not lust. The world would be a sad place indeed if the only time people helped each other in life was if they fancied them.

“While I’ve been shocked and hurt by the global condemnation, I have just this to say: my detractors have simply proved my point. Their level of anger only underlines that no one in this world is more reviled than a pretty woman.” Wrong Sam, the level of anger underlines that your article was a quite staggering lapse of judgement on your part, not only because you’ve pissed off half the women in Britain but also because you’ve pissed off your friends by slating them in public. And following it with this article has underlined that you have very little regard for anyone’s opinion but your own. There is so much more to a woman than how she looks and frankly, your looks are not strong enough to compensate for the lack of personality. You’ve spent two articles blaming every flaw in your personal and professional relationships with other females on them and have at no point given any time to thinking that some of the problem may lie with you. I have many beautiful friends, who I think the world of and who I trust. All these women are gorgeous, smart, funny, and popular, with lots of male and female friends. The world has fallen for Kate Middleton good and proper, actresses like Jenifer Aniston, Carey Mulligan, Amanda Seyfried sell out cinemas, women don’t have a problem with beauty, what we have a problem with is women who think they are better than us for no good reason, who use their looks as a weapon or an excuse and who think they’re irresistable. Character counts for a lot, in theory, Dawn French who is terribly overweight shouldn’t be beautiful but she is, she’s funny and she’s confident and it comes through. Never forget that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and what we’re all beholding at the moment is a woman with an overinflated sense of ego who has no social skills and no ability to recognise their own flaws. Most of us aren’t judging you on what you look like, we’re judging you on what you said and what you said was unattractive. Your relationships with women won’t improve with wrinkles and grey hair, the only way it’ll improve is with a good long look at the way you behave and act. Given this article I doubt that’ll be happening anytime soon.

Wanker of the week – Samantha Brick

It’s not often I come across a wanker of the week candidate so worthy as today’s charmer. Nicholas Cage was without a doubt a worthy winner however Nicholas Cage has spent years with sychophantic pillocks fawning on his every word and feeding his delusions of acting prowess. Today’s wanker doesn’t even have this excuse. Get yourself a coffee and a slice of cake, make yourself comfortable, put your feet up, this could be a long one.

Let’s get acquainted with today’s wanker shall we? Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to…Samantha Brick. Never heard of her? Well here she is in all her technicolour glory:

Ladies,lock up your husbands, Samatha is out on the town....

This is journalist and producer Samatha Brick. I’m sure you’ll agree, Samatha is quite a pretty lady, she’s not Elle MacPherson’s jaw dropping sister but neither does she resemble the hairy hindquarters of a badger. In reality she is, as most of us are, somewhere in the middle ground.

In her head however, it’s quite a different kettle of fish.

For those who want to read her article in full, you can find it here:  http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2124246/Samantha-Brick-downsides-looking-pretty-Why-women-hate-beautiful.html?ito=feeds-newsxml

For those who can’t really be arsed, let me pick out the salient points for you.

The article is headed “There are downsides to looking this pretty – why women hate me for being so beautiful”. Who could resist an opening like that? Especially from a woman who looks like pretty average? Let’s see why Sam is so determined that her staggering beauty is a curse shall we? Oh yes, let’s…

She starts with a woe filled tale of how her spectacular beauty is noted once again – “On a recent flight to New York I was delighted when a stewardess came over and gave me a bottle of champagne. ‘This is from the captain – he wants to welcome you on board and hopes you have a great flight today’ she explained. You’re probably thinking ‘what a lovely surprise’. But while it was lovely, it wasn’t a surprise, at least not for me. Throught my adult life I’ve regularly had bottles of bubbly sent to my table men I don’t know.” Ok Sam, here’s the thing – I don’t want to burst your bubble but on the pre-flight run up the Captain does things like checks the instruments, has a brew, chats with the co pilot and goes through the safety checks. What he/she doesn’t do is check print outs of everyone’s passport or do a tour of the cabin to check out if there’s any buff women on board. The captain’s priority is getting the big shiny metal tube with the wings on that contains several hundred people across the Atlantic in one piece, it’s rates slightly higher up the food chain than ensuring your beauty is heralded in the form of fizzy plonk.  What is far more likely to have happened is that someone has tipped off the airline that there’s a tabloid journo on the flight and that a bit of buttering up may result in some good PR for the airline. And getting bought a drink by a stranger at a bar has happened to pretty much every woman everywhere by the time they get to your age. Men the world over are quite happy to ply women with booze in the hope of a cheeky snog or a bunk up, it’s really not as unusual as you might think, even for us mere mortals. Still, let’s not let reality get in the way of a bit of navel gazing shall we?

What other trials has Sam had to endure I wonder? Oh hang on, she’s going to tell us! “Even bar tenders frequently shoo my credit card away when I try to settle my bill”. Well that must make life interesting for their accountants. How on earth do they ever make any money if they don’t take payment from anyone who ranges from average upwards? Unless poor Sam has been so busy lamenting her ravishing good looks that she’s not noticed the event in question had a free bar. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. Still, onwards and upwards, Sam has a bigger problem to tell us about.

It’s the sisterhood. Ladies, shame on you, every one of you, you are blighting the lives of Sam and her fellow goddesses. “But there are downsides to being pretty — the main one being that other women hate me for no other reason than my lovely looks.” Are you quite sure it’s that?

“I’m not smug and I’m no flirt, yet over the years I’ve been dropped by countless friends who felt threatened if I was merely in the presence of their other halves. If their partners dared to actually talk to me, a sudden chill would descend on the room.” Sam, you’ve just spent 6 paragraphs telling us about how men fall at your feet and insist on paying for everything wherever you go. You’ve said 3 times how attractive you are. Is there some definition of smug that I’m not aware of? Is this a street thing that I’ve missed because I’m not down with the kids? And in all honesty, I suspect that most people reading this would be wondering if perhaps your friends have dropped you for reasons more connected with your personality than your looks. No one wants to spend the evening with someone who bangs on about how fit they are all night, it’s boring. And I think the chill might be in your head – it’s probably the breeze flapping round the empty space where the section of brain that contains modesty is located in ordinary people.

 

And most poignantly of all, not one girlfriend has ever asked me to be her bridesmaid.You’d think we women would applaud each other for taking pride in our appearances.I work at mine — I don’t drink or smoke, I work out, even when I don’t feel like it, and very rarely succumb to chocolate. Unfortunately women find nothing more annoying than someone else being the most attractive girl in a room. No one wants you to be their bridesmaid? Get out, surely not? And I’m sure you’re right, I’m sure it’s PURELY because you’re far more gorgeous that all your mates and they don’t want you there because everyone will be looking at you all day long. Including the groom, obviously. And the vicar. And the photographer. In fact if you’re there, no one will even notice when the bride arrives because they’ll all be too busy jostling to buy you drinks and gaze upon your heavenly visage. But surely, SURELY the selfish girls should have been prepared to take one for the team and make you a bridesmaid so that you could have your time to shine? Mean girls, what were they thinking? The cruelty of these women is beyond compare.

“Take last week, out walking the dogs a neighbour passed by in her car. I waved — she blatantly blanked me. Yet this is someone whose sons have stayed at my house, and who has been welcomed into my home on countless occasions. ” Sam, is it at all, in any way, even vaguely possible that she didn’t see you? I drive round on auto pilot most of the time, on my way to work I could be waved at by a giraffe wearing a clown costume and juggling balls of fire and I wouldn’t notice. I think perhaps you’re being a little over sensitive, or as it’s also known, massively narcissistic, taking some poor lass’s preoccupation with her inner thoughts as a sign of the fact that she’s consumed with burning jealousy over your traffic halting good looks.

Sam then goes on to tell us in great detail about how all her female bosses and colleagues have hated her and been mean to her because she’s s ravishingly gorgeous but it’s a bit long winded and frankly very tedious so we’ll just gloss over it. Suffice to say that all the problems she’s encountered with work based relationships have been someone else’s fault and related to the fact that women are jealous of her beauty and terrified that their husbands are going to have one conversation with the siren that is Sam and be smitten for the rest of eternity. Yawn.

Anyone out there female and over 30? Apart from me that is. Because apparently older women are the most hostile to beautiful women, “perhaps because they feel their own bloom fading”. Ouch, shot across the bows from Sam to the more mature lady. Still, nice to see her momentarily showing some balls instead of just whining like a petulant child.

Well at least her husband takes it all in good part.

.As a Frenchman, he takes great pride in hearing other men declare that I’m a beautiful woman and always tells me to laugh off bitchy comments from other women. 

Ah the old ‘as a Frenchman he likes to hear other men calling his wife beautitful’ thing. Can’t beat a good national generalisation, well done for slipping that in there Sam. As we know, all Frenchmen are exactly the same.  All we need now is a comment about stern Germans, randy Italians, pissed Irishmen and Polish plumbers and we’ve completed the stereotype tour of Europe. Cracking.

 
Taken: Samantha with her French husband Pascal Rubinat. Ten years her senior, he takes great pride in hearing other men declare that she's a beautiful woman and always tells her to laugh off bitchy comments from other women
 
Sam with her husband Pascal. Sporting the scariest moustache I’ve seen in while. Pascal that is, not Sam, Sam is FAR too gorgeous to EVER have a moustache. Or leg hair. Or underarm stubble where she just couldn’t be arsed to deal with it because it’s winter and everyone is wearing jumpers anyway. No, that is behaviour for normal women, not goddesses recently descended from Mount Olympus.
 
Samantha Brick on her wedding day
 
Sam on her wedding day. Or given her comments and view of others, maybe someone else’s wedding day.
 
But it’s not just weddings that cause a problem for Sam, it’s ordinary social occasions to. No do is too small for the jealous women in Sam’s locality to make things difficult…Yet I dread the inevitable sarky comments. ‘Here she comes. We’re in the village hall yet Sam’s dressed for the Albert Hall,’ was one I recently overheard. As a result I find dinner parties and social gatherings fraught and if I can’t wriggle out of them, then often dress down in jeans and a demure, albeit pretty, top.” Might I suggest Sam, that the women in your village may possibly be of the opinion that you overdress  somewhat? You appear to have confused ‘jealousy’ with ‘mockery’ here and you do know that wearing jeans and a ‘pretty top’ to a social occasion is pretty normal, right? Not everything requires a sequinned ballgown and a pair of Manalos. Still, it must be hard for you when every social gathering is blighted by other women’s jealousy, the issues being not at all to do with you being a vapid narcissist with all the social skills of an elderly asparagus stalk.
 
Still, there is hope for Sam because perhaps in her 50s things will improve,So now I’m 41 and probably one of very few women entering her fifth decade welcoming the decline of my looks. I can’t wait for the wrinkles and the grey hair that will help me blend into the background.Perhaps then the sisterhood will finally stop judging me so harshly on what I look like, and instead accept me for who I am. Oh Sam, here’s the problem you’ve got, things are never going to get better because believe you me, the sisterhood is already judging you on who you are rather than your looks. Your looks are average but your character is a car crash. Beautiful women the world over, far more physically attractive women than you are, are surrounded by good friends, both male and female because they are entertaining, funny, intelligent and kind. They are not navel gazing, self-obsessed, vain, airheads who blame all their problems and issues on others rather than taking a good long hard look at themselves and spotting the vast flaws running through their own characters. Samatha Brick, if you can tear yourself away from the mirror for 5 minutes, your Wanker of the Week trophy has been delivered by courier. I didn’t dare give it you in person in case some remnant of your beauty remains inprinted on my eyeball and Mr V, on seeing it, packs his bag to find this vision of entrancing beauty. Always pays to be cautious.Incidentally, if you google this woman, you get links to all her other articles, some of which are quite disturbingly appalling. If you’re a feminist of any variety, I’d recommend not doing this. Perhaps we ought to have a regular section, Sam Says, where we can have a look at some of her other thoughts on the world. Such as the fact that her husband says if she puts on any weight he’ll divorce her and she thinks this is fine. Or the fact that she blew £25k on tarot readers. Or the fact that she apparently used her sex appeal to get where she is. Absolute blog gold.