by Lily Rae
As Kate Middleton smiles beatifically in hospital, her cervical dilations being broadcast to all and sundry as she squeezes a mewling pork chop out of her dainty wine cellar, I’m saddened and sick that she’s now fulfilled her purpose as a breeder to this repulsive family. This unfortunate child will be taught from the moment it becomes sentient that it is better than every other child in the country. It will be doomed to a name like “Henry” or “Edward” or “Victoria” or “Elizabeth” – it will be sent to a vile boarding school and its every move will be documented by fucking Hello! Magazine. It won’t be able to have so much as a furtive teenage wank without there being some scandal. And yet, across the country, people are putting down Union Jack tablecloths and organising street parties and building shrines to William’s blue-blooded testicles (probably). It’s sad and pathetic.
So here are some things that are more interesting than this ridiculous royal baby nonsense.
I’ve just rediscovered muesli. I’ve never been a huge fan – it’s chewy and oversweet one minute, and then flavourless oaty goop the next. However, in the summer months all thoughts of eggs and bacon or pancakes or beans on toast go right out of my head and I just want something cold and quick which will keep me going til barbecue time. It was invented about a hundred years ago by a Swiss guy. He gave it to people in hospital – probably because they were going to die anyway.
Yes, this is actually a thing. People are asking for lines to be carved into their hands in an attempt to increase their chances of health/wealth/happiness. It costs over a grand and the ‘surgeon’ in the article is clearly insane. People are idiots.
3. My album!
It’s called Your Face and it’s all finished!! The tracklist is as follows:
It’s Not Cute, It’s Just Creepy
I Don’t Care About Anything
If You’re Bad At Poetry (Don’t Do It)
You Remind Me Of Someone Else
So Damn Nice
All I need is artwork and gigs. If you want to give me a gig and you’re in the UK within reasonable distance of London, LET ME KNOW! My songs are very short and I don’t have a band – if you want to be in my band, then for god’s sake get in touch. I can make people dance without touching them.
If you want to help me with artwork and you is well arty, then also get in touch. Facepaint enthusiasts especially.
Not gonna lie. I don’t have any money and I’m not expecting to buy a castle with the proceeds of this album. But I solemnly swear not to do an Amanda Palmer and pretend that I can make it up to you in hugs and beer before going home to roll around in ill-gotten gains. I can’t. But I will make sure that we have lots of fun and I definitely won’t shaft you.
4. The things you find under your bed when tidying up
I have a large collection of Sylvanian figures from my childhood. My best friend Robyn and I used to rip off their tiny pretty dresses and trousers and shirts and manufacture weird tribal robes out of red tights, and put little cocktail stick spears into their hands and make them fight each other. I also found a plastic lizard in a makeshift leather jacket, some Beanie Babies, two copies of the Smiths Special issue of the NME, a reeeeeeeeally sad diary (documenting 2006-2007 – not fun) and a note to myself in marker pen saying “NOT FRIGID – JUST CREATIVE.”
5. Giant snails
The giant African snail has no natural enemies, according to Wikipedia. That’s a pretty good life. When I was little, my dad and I used to go to Brixton market (when it was actually a market, and not a horrible yuppie village full of boutiques and weasel coffee) and this one time, he bought me two giant snail shells.
They were incredibly beautiful. Gold and brown with flecks of creamy white, perfectly spiralled, like an ice-cream cone designed by God. Unfortunately, they smelt like a tramp’s crotch.
6. The Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons
It’s the Bicentenary of the Hunterian museum this year, and I’ve not actually been but am desperate to go. Anyone fancy coming to look at some skeletons?
7. Roller Derby! Or specifically, CROYDON ROLLER DERBY!
Roller derby is a very fast, very scary game on rollerskates. Without going into the rules too heavily, two teams of women beat the shit out of each other with one especially speedy terror from each team trying to zip round and score points by passing the other players without getting creamed.
Unfortunately, the artistic representations of roller derby are pretty polarised – we’re either portrayed as a herd of Miss Trunchbull-type heifers stampeding around a track and accidentally killing Simba’s dad, or else we’re a bunch of buxom 80s hookers in fishnets and PVC, theatrically slapping each other until our tits fall out of our crop tops.
Neither is true. Believe me when I say that women from all backgrounds play this sport. Publishing executives, prison guards, teachers, therapists, estate agents, waitresses, and the gainfully unemployed. Rich girls, poor girls, big girls, tiny girls. Women with tattoos, women with kids. We can all skate, and we can all hit each other pretty hard.
Luckily for you, my league – the formidable Croydon Roller Derby – are playing against the Welsh Tiger Bay Brawlers on the 17th of August. It’s a Saturday, it’s in London, it’s only £5.50. The crowd go nuts, there’s hooting and hollering, there are cakes, there are stalls, there’s a bar, there’s a raffle, there’s an opening bout (kind of like a support act) which I’M PLAYING IN. you have absolutely no excuse. Even if you have no idea what roller derby is, I can promise you the most exciting day of your life.
I love sports, though it’s tough to keep loving it when the world of sports is so controlled by men, and only seems to value female athletes if they look like lingerie models. That’s why I love roller derby – it’s by women. It’s for women. Men help out, but they don’t take centre stage. And no-one can argue with a female athlete who can give dislocate someone’s shoulder with a legal hit.
PS: I’m especially looking for people who might want to come along to the game and write about it. Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org if you might be interested