My ex is demanding that I admit to raping him and threatening to post it on my Facebook wall
I was hanging out with a guy who is in a relationship. I told him nothing could happen, and we decided to keep things friendly. A while ago, I made the drunken mistake of climbing into the backseat of a car with him, and things got racy pretty quickly. He asked if I was on birth control; I told him yes, because I was, and he penetrated me and came inside me after one thrust.
The next day, I got all emotional, and he’s since stopped talking to me because I freaked. Here we are a bit later, and I just had a pregnancy scare. Had I been pregnant, I would have had an abortion. If I’d actually been facing an abortion, I would have called and told him. Would that have been the right thing to do?
I wouldn’t have asked for money or support; I would have told him solely because it would have felt wrong not to. I had some feeling, like he should know—because he has a right to know, you know? I can’t imagine I’m the only woman who’s been faced with a “to tell or not to tell” situation. Weigh in?
Classy Lady
11 May 2011
You don't have to be a confrontational egotist to host The Apprentice, but it helps
Inspired by the over-the-top nonsense on show in the debut of The Apprentice series 7 last night, let’s take a look at what the Lord Sugar equivalents in other countries have had to say for themselves over the years. I’m sure it will mostly be some good no nonsense business advice.
“They say I’m the saviour of football in this country. Well, they’re right.“ Terry Serepisos, the Lord Sugar of New Zealand.
“Leave my fucking girlfriend’s dog alone.“ Mark Bouris, the Lord Sugar of Australia.
“Without a doubt I think he is ruthless, he is cynical and he has no integrity. It’s all about publicity and ego. He might dress down. He might wear the jeans and the oul’ shirt and have the oul’ cup of coffee in his hand and all that stuff but that’s all an act. He has a huge ego.“ Bill Cullen, the Lord Sugar of Ireland, about Ryanair boss Michael O’Leary.
“I have a great relationship with the blacks. I’ve always had a great relationship with the blacks.“ Donald Trump, the Lord Sugar of America.
11 May 2011
11 May 2011
Procrastinating student? Just buy some motivation!
News from Chicago of crazy scheme which just might work.
“The Write-in is a week-long workshop in which 20 students pay a $50 “motivational deposit” and commit to showing up at the library each morning and writing for four hours.” [ Via Nudge blog ]
Isn’t it nice to live in a world which has commoditised our internal impulses?
11 May 2011
London agenda for Wednesday 11 May
1. The author of a humanist take on the bible and The Archbishop of Canterbury go head to head at AC Grayling and Rowan Williams [Le Cool]
2. Make some papier macher masks [Run Riot]
3. Wash off the blood at the Literary Death Match [Flavorpill]
4. Pick the right trains for Crossrail [Ian Visits]
5. Meet Jacob the Dray Horse [Tired of London]
11 May 2011
Diarrhoea Pigeon
Shortly after breakfast this morning, as I flew over your man-city of London, I realised what it means to be a pigeon in this world.
You have indeed fucked me over for the last time.
To be honest, I’m not even sure what it was that did it exactly, because I ate a lot of shit yesterday (not actual shit), but I suspect it was a kebab, and it must have had some wrong ‘un chilli in there, or garlic sauce; whatever it is you filth eat. (Ethnic foods are a scourge of city-pigeon life. But this is only one of your many misdemeanours.)
It was, yeah, about 10 am, my little belly wasn’t feeling right, that much was obvious. It moaned strange and disturbed gurgling noises as I glided over your dirty river. Naturally, I thought it best to go land on the South Bank and sort myself out with some crumbs. Stabilise. Get my bearings. But I was still mid-air when my gizzard decided to unleash itself.
It thundered out a warm jet, a bit of white close to cream cheese and the rest a neon-korma yellow that splashed across the concrete just by the new Foyles, home of your commodified human scribblings. Near Festival Hall! It wasn’t nice but it was a relief and looked like something one of your teenagers would sick up outside a pub on a Thursday evening, outside Wetherspoon’s after Curry Club. Unfortunately it did not strike one of your younglings.
Strange that it took me an unfortunate episode of digestive malfunction to realise: Man has ruined us for long enough. This splash of slop represented the final straw; a harsh diarrheality check. So I’m partly thankful for this wake-up call so serendipitously befallen upon me. I only wish it had befallen on one of you.
After the embarrassing incident in the air over South Bank, I winged it over to Trafalgar Square. I still hadn’t cleaned my leaky vent by then. A bit of wet was still on my tarsus. So when I got there my fellow aviators eyed me sideways and asked me where I’d been. (I don’t hang out at the Square no more. Got a bit too hip for my tastes. It’s a young bird’s game over there. I like it South of the river where a different kind of two-leg is willing to donate seed and chips and whatnot; your tourists who haven’t quite grasped the concept of feeding my flock. But anyway, I’m not here to fraternise with you bipeds. You make/made me sick.)
I told them I’d been out last night, in Vauxhall, had myself a few drinks, sucking them up jolly and fine, then went and got myself a bite to eat before getting some kip under the bridge with this fit bird I been seeing. Anyway, the fellas caught eye of my claw and asked me what the rotten smell was. I raised my feathers and presented to them my soiled cloaca. They gasped. Some cooed. That bit was confusing. But suffice to say, they weren’t happy. It turns out the same thing had happened to Marty last week.
Anyway. I gathered a few of the willing and we embarked on our secret crusade, to re-carpet your absurd habitat a crude yellow-white. Some of the others shouted “Rock Pigeons of the World, Unite!” as we took flight. I didn’t quite agree with that, but I let them off because they’re young squabs and don’t know what’s what in this world yet.
But let me clear something up first, before I tell you about our covert operation.
We’ve been here longer than you. Not that that matters, to you or to us. We were willing to share. We’d conquered the land and the seas all over this fine Earth. I have brothers and comrades as far as you can imagine. Stories you wouldn’t believe. But what have you done? Only fuck it up, is what.
The Slaughter of the West Midlands was fine. Trapping and murdering us for sport, I let that one go. You people need your hobbies. And anyway, I don’t agree with some of the policies my kind has carried out up there. Delivering messages, racing, and performing in Newcastle-based children’s television series’ is not quite what our ancestors had in mind (Geordie Racer is a disgrace to our once-respected species. But the BBC headquarters will get theirs. ‘White City’ will take on an entirely new meaning when we’re done with it). OK, the demise of the Passenger Pigeon did ruffle my feathers slightly, I’ll admit. Feeding us to slaves and that. But that was way back when. We had an agreement with you walkers then.
But like I say, none of these things had quite got me to this, my current level of avian outrage. It was the shits that did it. And now I’m going to squirt long and hard from this vent onto your sickly ornithological prejudices.
Why you hate us for living, I’ll never understand. Tesla had a thing for us; he was alright. But ‘rats with wings’ I hear you say. You are pigs in clothing. We don’t spread disease to you vain and arrogant mammalian money-whores. Of course not. It is merely your puny-brained paranoia. Though it would be good if we did.
You think it’s funny how we walk, how we look? You are bastards. Look at yourselves. Loping in your ridiculous shoes. Trotting in your heels. Running for buses that have just got a fresh lick of my paint. Running around like headless chickens. Yeah, we have that phrase too. Kind of racist if you think about it. But chickens are idiots. Even you have no respect for them despite their cooperation plopping out eggs; fools for man’s breakfast. And dirty collaborators.
So now we will make you taste our cold flying muck. It will rain down on you invisible and splatter in silence. No longer will you suggest it lucky that your lips have been stained with the white of pigeon bum.
And we will start in Leytonstone, the home of your propagandist Hitchcock. Be warned. We have gall and we will show it.
I guess I’m what you primates would call me, a terrorist. But you gave me this diarrhoea. All I can do is aim it at you. Man.
We will take down all who fly in our faces. And all faces will fly into our faeces. Man, pigeon, animal. You are all the same now. Linnaean taxonomy be damned. No discrimination between you exists. We will drop our acid bombs of watery hell on all your soppy faces.
And you will beg us for mercy with your hands raised up to the skies.
Then we will shit on them too. But you will have two options: Warm or cold. The choice will be yours.
10 May 2011
Some kitchen utensils you will want to own precisely because you have no need for them
Baguette cutting board
Bean stringer and slicer
Seashell resin spoon rest
Parsley mincer
Tea bag holder
Potato pick
Nut, ice and lobster crackers
Molecular cuisine starter kit
Vegetable brush
Blackbird pie funnel
Cookie monster cookie jar
Pumpkin ramekins
Olive stuffer
10 May 2011
Your Microsoft paint masterpieces are doomed
“The fast pace by which technology changes means that many of the earliest works of art created on computer are in danger of being lost, or are already impossible to read” The Observer, via @CreativeReview
I did an amazing doodle of the universe when I was 8. Heartbreaking to think it might be lost to posterity.
tweet @mikpollitt
10 May 2011
Does anyone even care that it doesn't rain anymore?
Since the start of March there’s been 16.9mm of rain in London. The average rainfall in this period is approximately 400mm.
So that means something like 96% of our rain has just plain disappeared out of the sky. Why is nothing being done about this? Snipe demands that somebody take action.
[Data courtesy of NW3 Weather]
tweet @mikpollitt
10 May 2011
London agenda for Tuesday 10 May
1. Prepare for banjos at The Elasticated Waste Band [Le Cool]
2. Learn how to make your lover writhe in unimaginable pleasure, with secrets stolen from the lesbian sex world at Coco de Mer [Run Riot]
3. Celebrate 2011’s Asian Literature [Flavorpill]
4. Listen to Alan Rusbridger, editor of The Guardian, pontificate on the slow progress of reforming libel laws [Ian Visits]
5. Walk through the Hibbert Gate [Tired of London]
6. Go see Hey Rosetta!, Brasstronaut, Said The Whale at the Relentless Garage [John Rogers]
10 May 2011
Snipe Highlights
Some popular articles from past years
- An interview with Desiree Akhavan
- Only 16 commuters touch in to Emirates Air Line, figures reveal
- Diary of the shy Londoner
- Random Interview: Eileen Conn, co-ordinator of Peckham Vision
- Nice map of London's fruit trees shows you where to pick free food
- The five spookiest abandoned London hospitals
- Silencing the Brick Lane curry touts could be fatal for the city's self-esteem
- Hope and despair in Woolwich town centre
- Number of people using Thames cable car plunges
- Could red kites be London's next big nature success story?
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