24 reasons why a vibrator is better than a man (for me at the moment)


For my birthday last month, two of my best friends conspired behind my “innocent” back to buy a vibrator for me.

While the thought of them giggling around a sex shop while asking numerous (and varied I’m sure) questions of the sales assistant was nearly as funny as the gift itself, the motivation behind the gesture was perhaps less so.

That night, after quite a few beers and with my dad, step-mum and numerous guests safely ensconced in the courtyard downstairs, they presented my new friend (which I guessed beforehand – in all fairness, it does have quite a recognisable shape) with the serious intonation that they bought it for me so I would stop sleeping with the wrong men. Roger that.

I think they meant one man in particular, whom I’ve only made scant reference to in this blog, and whom I haven’t slept with – let alone seen – for more than 100 days or so now anyway. Not that I’m counting or anything.

The reason I haven’t written more about him, and the mess that I temporarily became when our love affair abruptly obliterated after promises of a future that I know now he could never commit too, is because some days I love him still.

And other days, well, I wish and wish and wish for so many different things that writing about my schizophrenic feelings would likely make me seem more unhinged than usual.

So, the appearance of a vibrator, who was instantly christened Victor, was about much more than a potentially lonely vagina. It was about a potentially broken heart.

Of course, before anyone comes up with a list of reasons why a living, breathing man is better than Victor, the point is for me at this moment in my life, a vibrator is better than falling (again) for a broken dude who couldn’t love me – or anyone else.

But I do sometimes wonder if I’m a sadist or perhaps I just have a fetish for fractured human beings because they make me look more sane?

Whatever my deep-seated issues are, which no doubt have been lingering around since I was five, Victor’s entrance into my life has inspired me to come up with this helpful list so he knows why he’s so much better for me than men at this moment in time – not that he can read of course.

24 reasons why a vibrator is better than a man (for me at the moment)

  1. A vibrator always knows where your clitoris is – always.
  2. You don’t have to make small talk with a vibrator or compliment them on their appendage size (ditto, you’re never surprised by aforementioned appendage size the first time you get naked together).
  3. A vibrator never finishes before you do and then promptly falls asleep.
  4. You never have to watch sport with a vibrator.
  5. You never have to meet your vibrator’s mother.
  6. You don’t have to put up with a human jackhammer, racing to an orgasm finish-line of their own secret choosing, with a vibrator because the speed control is literally in your own hands.
  7. A vibrator will never try to come on your face, your boobs or literally anywhere at all.
  8. A vibrator will never “accidentally” confuse anal sex with dog-style.
  9. If you’re too tired for sex, a vibrator will never sulk around the house for days at a time.
  10. After you’re finished with your vibrator they don’t mind being coldly shut in the sock drawer – unlike most men I would presume.
  11. A vibrator is loyal and always finds you sexy, even if you’re wearing your ancient, holey, undies in bed.
  12. A vibrator never takes up most of the bed, hogs the blanket in winter, or tries to give you a Dutch Oven.
  13. You don’t care what your friends think of your vibrator.
  14. It would be supremely weird to introduce your vibrator to your parents – even if they were downstairs when you first met.
  15. If your vibrator gets a bit worn out, you just callously buy a new one and neither of them will care.
  16. A vibrator will never lie to you.
  17. A vibrator never gets performance anxiety.
  18. A vibrator never wants to come before you.
  19. A vibrator never complains that you’ve drunk too much.
  20. You never have to wonder where a vibrator is and whether they will call you because, well, it doesn’t have a phone or hands for that matter.
  21. A vibrator never gets too tired to finish the job – unless it runs out of batteries and then you just buy some more from down the corner shop.
  22. A vibrator never wants to sit around talking about their, or your, feelings.
  23. A vibrator will never spend every day of the best part of a month with you, tell you all their secrets, make promises, and then promptly disappear like it was     all some type of magical movie mirage.
  24. A vibrator will never ever break your heart.

Ikea and me


Today I spent five hours attempting to assemble Ikea furniture while also drinking beer.

I decided to document it because, well, I knew it probably wouldn’t end well (at least for the furniture). It’s a departure from my normal blogs in that it’s mainly photos and maybe the “odd” video of me fighting a losing battle, so here goes…

imageIt’s surprising how much you can fit into a Fiat 500 and please note the six pack of beer because I had a sneaky suspicion that I might need it.

imageI had to carry this box, which weighed more than 30 kilograms, up a flight stairs to get to my new “writing room”. It was 30-plus degrees today with high humidity so that was really fun. I also am so awesome that I didn’t ask anyone to help me. What a superstar.

This was the moment I realised that the instruction booklet for my new writing desk ran to more than 20 pages and I didn’t own a flat head screwdriver. So I decided to have a beer.


Even though the instructions are in English they might as well have been in Swedish and I soon realised that I’d put the “sidey, rolley bits” for the desk drawers on backwards.


One of the top moments of the day was surely realising that I had put the top of the desk on backwards and would need to de-construct almost the whole fucken thing. So, here I am pondering whether my life has any meaning, and whether I am in fact a dumbass.


After “successfully” assembling my new writing table, from which a plethora of Pultizer and Oscar-winning stories will no doubt be created, I see that the drawers are a little off-kilter and I am a victim of premature celebration. So, after nearly three hours, because I was clearly winning, I decide I might as well assemble the book-shelf. Here’s what happened not long after…

I’d had about four beers by this stage so I decided to take an Ikea “Kallax”  reflection selfie.


I must admit that having beers makes the whole Ikea process much more enjoyable but you also get a little distracted. Such as this photo when I realised that my lady-bird was on a precarious lean. I knew the feeling.


While listening to some very good, and increasingly loud, tunes I had a moment when I thought I was the Ikea Queen. This is a piece of piss I thought while simultaneously dancing in my study. Then I realised that my joy was about to be curtailed by the dreaded Ikea hinges.


And then this. I mean, what the fuck is this supposed to mean?


So the “ghost hand” freaked me out so much I had to do this.

Then I spent an hour trying to decipher how to turn two of the empty spaces in my book shelf into cupboards and, well, seriously fucked it up. I have never been so confused in my life. So here is the denouement of my efforts. What a glorious victory!

Sure beats the blog I was going to write about my ex coming around to pick up his furniture.



The unbearable lightness of low-alcohol beer


For the first time in quite a few years, I decided to have a few drinkies on New Year’s Eve. Unfortunately my choice of beverage was less than ideal and significantly diluted my dance moves on the first early morning of 2016.

I think it’s been about four years since I’ve had a drink on the last night of the year. For at least two years before I had my 18-month hiatus off the stuff (a blog topic coming soon), I’d had sober New Year’s Eves by choice. I guess when you get to a certain age, there aren’t that many decent parties you’re invited too and hanging out at nightclubs with all the youngsters is lame, and let’s face it, a little creepy, too.

So this year, with my party invite in hand, I decided to crack open a couple to see where the night ended up and to say good riddance to a pretty sucky 2015.

The problem with the holiday season, though, is that Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve are so bloody close together. Why can’t they be a few weeks, or better yet, a few months apart so you can get into match fitness for both?

I asked this question at a family barbecue last night and it was suggested that perhaps we could celebrate Christmas in January or February sometime instead? That idea lasted all of two seconds before everyone decided that our family being our family meant we’d probably just end up with one extra excuse for a party and be worse off than we were before.

This Christmas Day was a spectacular one with all the stuff everyone loves, including a highly memorable game of “what’s an alternative use for this crap shoe horn that one of us received in our festive bon-bon?” The winning idea, although debatable and somewhat hazy I must admit, was either Keith Richard’s cocaine scooper or an eyebrow shaper.

There were no family arguments, in fact it was a huge success until someone (who may or may not have been me) decided that it was time for some Scotch on the rocks. In hindsight, I realise now that was a mistake and that going to sleep in a hallway probably wasn’t one of my finest hours. I blame it on the 5km run I did that morning, mind you.

So it was this episode that convinced me to consume low-alcohol beer on New Year’s Eve instead. No more Scotch shenanigans. No more waking up on the air-bed wondering how I got there.

The New Year’s party started and the low-alcohol beers actually tasted pretty good but as the night wore on I became increasingly annoyed. You see, everyone else was getting into the festive spirit, and I was not. Those goddamn light beers were keeping me in a twilight zone of very mildly, not really much of a glow-on at all, state of mind. Which is their job, but I didn’t know it.

While all the other party-goers started talking and laughing louder, for me not much changed at all. I wouldn’t have minded being sober for my fifth New Year’s Eve in a row if I hadn’t paid so much for the beer and known that each one was also about 100 calories. My wallet and waist-line would’ve been much better off if I’d just stuck to water.

I was staring down a sober midnight when about an hour before, someone (who may or may not have been me) suggested that a few sneaky shots might get the party really humming. My suggestion, however, was a fait accompli as one of the guys had pre-planned for such a happening and brought along an assortment of “masculine” liquers, which would be fashioned into something sickly-sweet called a Jam Donut.  They then decided that Baileys, another testosterone-laden drink I might add, was also a very good idea.

It was at this point that my soberness became my best friend because after only a few I said no more, while the group of guys went on to knock them back one after another. I hear they paid for that big time the next day.

After midnight came and went, someone (who may or may not have been me) reminded the “stayers” about the infamous interpretative dance-off we’d had at the same location at one of the host’s 40th birthday parties a few years before.

As soon as I said it, though, I knew that I wasn’t drunk enough by half to take part but, yet again, I’d backed myself into an embarrassing corner that only a few split-leaps and pirouettes could extricate me from.

So it was that after a marvellous interpretative dance by R that was worthy of a standing ovation, I found myself in a “dance battle” with the said same person to, of all tunes, Welcome to the Jungle.

But I knew within mere moments that my sick dance moves just weren’t there. In fact, the contest was over before it’d even began. The unbearable lightness of that low-alcohol beer had, alas, left me with nowhere to turn except sheepishly back to my seat mid-song with my head bowed in eternal shame.

My self-appointed crown as the interpretative dance-off queen was well and truly lost. Although, I now admit, that my dignity remained intact, which was the whole point, so perhaps not such a bad result after all.