Not that anyone needs the gaze/approval of the opposite (or indeed same sex) for validation. But when incels say women aren't interested in them, perhaps it's time for some introspection and reappraisal of whose advice you're listening to.
Be a Harry.
In a world where you could be an Andrew Tate, be a Harry Styles instead.
One personifies toxic masculinity and makes the world's vaginas clamp shut.
The other is so confident and comfortable in his sexuality and identity that women and girls of all ages flock to him.
Lad is a whole green flag.
If you remember these scents, how's perimenopause going?
In other news, I bought a takeaway coffee in my local Tesco as part of a meal deal. We're 3 days away from March and they're still using the Christmas cups. I approve. Turns out, in Stockers (the new Berlin) it's always Christmas and we reduce unnecessary waste. A veritable inverse Narnia.
One of the MANY reasons why - in my 40s and all out of fucks to give - I don't want to be skinny af but wham af. At 6ft tall I'm leaning into my strengths (literally). But omfg when are we going to stop making this a women's problem when it's a *man* problem. www.theguardian.com/society/2026...
Anyway. Back home for a brew and then bed. No longer the blanket/coat while kipping on a pal's sofa.
Happy new year one and all. May 2026 be less shitty than all its predecessors (though who are we kidding, eh? We know it's going to be utter bobbins).
A whole year workshopping this: Coldplay, some shite, Big Ben, Bollywood, some other stuff. Anyway, what does New York do? "Off the end; off the Hudson, who knows?!". That's the discussion. No one knows. Too many hours drinking to understand.
Happy new year, bitches.
Cheers, Monzo.
What can I say? It's not a crime for a girl to like a vegan sossij roll and a second hand pair of dungarees, is it now... IS IT, NOW?
A glimpse of what my future holds (I'm not complaining).
This is the 15th year of #DuvetKnowItsChristmas, which is preposterous. Rules: if you find yourself dealing with unusual / claustrophobic / gaudy sleeping arrangements this Christmas Eve, share a picture with the world. Use the hashtag (with capitalisation) and cc me if you can be bothered.
You could say it's "up and coming" and "perfect for creatives" then charge £2k a month for that space in some corners of London, Manchester and Bristol.
Well that was a load of old shite. I look forward to rewatching Love Actually in a year.
Liam Neeson's 12-year-old on-screen son's gf is really, REALLY, annoying.
I don't know where those sloth emojis came from... But I approve immensely.
Martine McCutcheon's on-screen parents were her first bullies calling her "plumpy".
The whole lot need therapy.
If I accidentally answered the door to the PM while in my pants I'd not just wish him on his way. That's why Alan's crush is a whole red flag. Why's she not got some policy questions for him?
Emma Thompson was about a year older than me when this was filmed. And she's absolutely *stun*. Give the babe an award; would *kill* for the thick hair and beautiful skin.
Alan, meanwhile, was a total babe IRL but a total twat in this film.
The kid with Liam Neeson as his da is well annoying.
Kris Marshall finding that women in the US also found him a bit cringe, a bit annoying, would have been an infinitely better storyline than him becoming a sex god in Wisconsin. But Richard Curtis is basic, so that was never going to happen.
Rowan Atkinson out-performing 90% of the cast by just being Atkinson. Like a 2% effort from him.
Single women definitely, always, every day, wear matching red underwear. No single woman ever wore giant pants and a bogging, ancient, grey bra that's incredibly comfortable... 👀
Love Alan; hate his character.
She's not gonna shag you, mate.
FAAAAACKING HELL the Martine McCutcheon being "chubby" with "huge thighs" storyline gets worse each year.
The poor lass is *stunning*, and what - a size 8 to 10?
But OH MY GOD SHE HAS BOOBS AND HIPS.
Outrageous.
Fat old bint.
(Je blague, obviously).
Stockport when anyone ever says it's the new Berlin and what a blueprint for regeneration of shit northern mill towns looks like.
Stockers: "They're all of me... But you never talk to me. You always talk to [Manchester]... you don't like me..."
The world: "It's a self-preservation thing you see".
A five by five grid drawn on a pad, like a classic bingo card. Top row: gym equipment, taxidermy, sofa bed, attic, large collection of jigsaws Second row: too much crafting stuff, bookcase of 70s/80s classics, electronic drum kit, black & decker workmate, folded towels Middle row: lounge sleeping, bed next to fridge, *DUVET*, caravan, old cuddly toy Fourth row: 80s tv/film-related bed linen, garage sleeping, adult in child bed, scary dolls, bed under desk Bottom row: sleeping bag, brass instrument, own house but not own bed, inappropriate electrical points, Proper Cancellation Stuff...
I have made a #DuvetKnowItsChristmas bingo card! And done alt text on it (as everyone else should, if they're able).
Tl;dr: a shit film with some great actors and a masterpiece in "feelings" from Thompson.
The kid is well annoying though. Even if he did just lose his mother.
My annual hate watch of Love Actually is here. Every year, the Kris Marshall and Chiwetel Ejiofor love triangle and Martine McCutcheon being coded as fat become more ridiculous/outrageous. Yet every year, Emma Thompson's secret bedroom crying and bedspread smoothing gets me more than the last.
Only eight days left to perform the annual hate watch of Love Actually.
Living the middle aged, middle class, childfree, woman's dreams by drinking chicken wine rosé in bed on a Friday night while rewatching Fleabag and laughing at stupid shit my mates have sent me on Whatsapp.
