To my Cysters and Cyblings (Ovarian Cyst Care Rant)

 Yep, it's that time again kids! Sit down, shut up and settle in for another edition of Angry Bitch Rant Time. Today's topic: healthcare.

 Ten years ago my Mam took me up to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital with severe abdominal pain. I was squealing, crying and could barely move. I'd never felt anything like it. I was rushed through triage, saw several nurses and doctors, given morphine while waiting for the consultant - and found out that I'm allergic to morphine so no more of that for me! It was a chore just opening my eyes by the time the consultant got there, a nice young doctor who - I shit you not - was the spitting double of Arnold Rimmer; my Mam agreed so it wasn't just the morphine talking. He'd been called down to confirm that, yes, it was appendicitis and, yes, slice her and dice her, get the bastard out. But after a feel of my tummy he stopped and frowned, and asked me if I'd had pain like it before. I said I'd had similar pains a few weeks ago but they'd been on the other side so unless I had two appendices then it probably wasn't that. He frowned again, explaining that (thankfully) they wouldn't be whipping me down to surgery and I'd be kept overnight for more tests.

 As I was only 14 at the time I was taken over to the children's department and once my Mam went home at about 2am a nurse came in to chat to me and give me more painkillers. When I'd washed down the codeine and ibuprofen she asked if I'd had sex recently and immediately I panicked. Firstly, I was only 14 and thought I might get into trouble; secondly, could I be pregnant or have some horrible disease? But the scariest part... I hadn't, I'd been raped a few month beforehand. I didn't have the vocabulary at the time to tell her this so I just said yes and started crying. To her credit, she comforted me, reassured me I wasn't in trouble and she wouldn't tell my Mam, and rushed a pregnancy and sexual health test for me. Thankfully I wasn't but that just raised more questions. It wasn't my appendix, it wasn't pregnancy or and STI, so what could it be? Over the next couple of days I was kept in hospital (not a great way to spend my half term) and given I was on the children's ward I was bored out of my mind and surrounded by screaming kids. I got a lot of reading done but I was scared, in pain and bored while waiting for the results of blood tests and waiting for an ultrasound. 

 They day after my scan my best friend Devon came to see me. The visit did me the world of good, while it didn't stop me being in pain it was easier to forget about it - and she brought me Skittles. So far the painkillers I'd been on weren't taking the pain away but doped me up so much that I didn't care. We were right in the middle of giggling about Doctor Rimmer when another consultant, a white haired, well spoken, older man - late 50s I'd say - and without introducing himself or asking if it was okay, he bluntly said "lift your shirt please, I'm going to feel your stomach". That was uncomfortable enough on his own, not only because he pressed hard and his hands were cold, but because this stranger skipped introducing himself to the 14-year-old girl he wanted to have a feel of. In any other context this would be gross and criminal, but because he's a doctor it was just put down to poor bedside manner. Well, some people put it down to that, I put it down to him being a massive dickhead. After a feel and a frown he explained he'd looked at my scan and all he could find were ovarian cysts. Case closed, please cure me - right? I bloody wish.

 According to Doctor Rude "ovarian cysts shouldn't cause pain, it must be something else." I was discharged after this consultation and put on the waiting list for more outpatient tests for everything from digestive function, kidney function, food allergies. But when they all came back clear they decided they finally had a concrete diagnosis: it was Psychosomatic. 

 Calling it psychosomatic pain was basically a fancy way of telling me that they believed it was all in my head and that I must just be another attention-seeking anxious teenager. Yes, I was (and still am) incredibly anxious. Yes, in later life I was diagnosed with non-epileptic seizure disorder triggered by severe anxiety. The definition of psychosomatic pain is "pain disorders caused by psychological stress or anxiety and is characterized by chronic pain in more than one area and lasts from months to years". I'm not an expert by any means but looking back, if I had disclosed my sexual assault to them then I can see why they'd think it was psychosomatic, but I hadn't. As far as they knew I was pretty happy, if a little skittish, so I must be looking for attention. I would have happily let it go and tried telling myself that they were right, it was all in my head, if the pain didn't keep coming back.

 Every now and then over the past ten years I've experienced the same agonising, stabbing, burning pain. Unable to stand, unable to sit up, unable to move, sweating, shivering, curled up and crying. I've done all the right things, gone to my GP and gotten a referral to gynecology, and been told after most of those scans "yes, you have a sizeable ovarian cyst, it should go away on its own - just put up and shut up". A few years ago I was hospitalised again with suspected appendicitis, though insisted the whole time that I was just taking up a bed that somebody else needed, but they wanted to get to the bottom of it. I was seen by another male consultant who again, had an appalling lack of bedside manner; this time not even bothering to ask for consent or speak to me at all - instead he woke me up by feeling my stomach while I slept. Of course being touched by somebody with such cold hands woke me up and led to tears and panic, while he made a sub-par effort to calm me down and explain who he was and why he was there. He couldn't understand why I was so angry and shouting at him for just "doing his job". In the end I was transferred up to Gyno, crying the whole way out of pain, exhaustion and frustration. Yet again, it showed what I knew was there: a big fat cyst the size of a tangerine.

 I'm writing this now because I'm having a particularly bad time with them at the minute and although I know I probably should seek some sort of medical attention, what's the point? I'll just be told yes, it's cysts again, toughen up and go home. And I'm far from the only one who's experienced this sort of treatment (or lack thereof). So many uterus-having people experience pain with ovarian cysts, and so many other gynecological conditions that leave them in agony, but all they hear from their healthcare provider is "yes, it comes with the territory of having a womb, deal with it". Surgical removal of cysts is only considered when they're extremely large as many do just go away on their own, and I'm sure that others who've gone through the unpleasantness of one bursting... Our doctors need to be doing better. We need more research into non-surgical treatment for ovarian cysts. Yes, small ones are normal, many people will get them at some point, and they do go away on their own. But when you go through years of pain and all you're advised is to tough it out because nothing can be done, we need to find something to do about it.

 My experience is just another case out of many, with sans-uteri medical professionals refusing to believe the pain that we're in because it contradicts what their textbooks say.  There's no two ways about it, just because you have a degree doesn't mean you decide how much pain my body is causing me; and just because you've never experienced it personally doesn't mean that it can't happen. This is my body with its fucked-up ovaries and fucked-up other parts that is screaming out "I'm hurting, please help." So when it comes to gynecology, here's the bottom line:

Not Skinny Enough... For Eating Disorder Treatment

 It's been a while. I'll get into why in a later post, but for now I need to get this off my chest. I will be talking about Eating Disorders and Mental Health. It will be very angry, very sweary and very raw; so if you don't feel up to reading about these topics then that's totally okay, I understand 💙 

 I had a phone call from my CPN today, I've not seen her in a while because I've barely left Heaton in the past six weeks. Other than Download Festival - a break I desperately needed - the furthest I've been from home is to see my parents. My CPN is based in Gateshead and is in the process of switching me over to the Newcastle team for the rest of my treatment; Gateshead are frantically trying to reduce their case and patient loads, my guess being because of budget cuts and staff shortages, and Newcastle have better resources for helping patients with Eating Disorders. It sounded like a sweet deal, closer to home and more specialised treatment than just DBT, and they had no waiting lists so I could be transferred straight over. However that phone call shattered any illusions I had about finally getting back into recovery.

 I don't blame my CPN, she was trying to get me more specialised treatment closer to home - exactly what NICE guidelines specify as key criteria for successful recovery - and even now she's writing letters and making more calls to try and change their minds, I'm very grateful for her. I have lived with an Eating Disorder in some form or another since I was 14, beginning after I was sexually assaulted; at some point over the years the bulimia developed into anorexia, though the binging and purging still like to rear their ugly heads from time to time. I consume on average 700-800 calories per day. I have a BMI of 15.8 (though BMI is bullshit criteria anyway). I've lost over 10kg since the beginning of 2018. I have collapsed in public due to sheer exhaustion. My thoughts are clouded, my brain is foggy and my periods have virtually stopped. But according to Newcastle's Mental Health team? I'm "not underweight enough" to receive treatment.

 They always say that asking for help is the hardest step to make when you're trying to recover. I asked for help in 2015, I saw my GP in Gateshead, got onto the waiting list for a psychiatric evaluation and four months later was diagnosed with a personality disorder - because nothing makes you feel more fucked up than being told it's your personality that's the problem. They never explored this, never worked on giving me anything more specific, just sort of went from there and offered me different types of treatment, from one-to-one talking therapy, mindfulness exercises, more DBT - including group therapy. Apparently this was part of the problem for Newcastle, as it wasn't until later into my treatment with Gateshead that I was recognised as having an Eating Disorder, they didn't see it as a long-term problem because of the late diagnosis. 

 They also said I seem "unwilling to accept treatment" too, based on the fact that I dropped out of the DBT group therapy after a few sessions, and refused an appointment with a dietitian. There are glaring issues with this. Firstly, the DBT group was ran by the most patronising woman I have met in my life; she would show me up for asking questions if I didn't understand something - in one session taking the time to say "and for Lizi's benefit, this means..." every time she explained a new topic. How fucking unprofessional is that? Of course I wouldn't want to keep going back if that's what they're offering me as 'treatment'. I didn't realise public humiliation was part of DBT! Also, what fucking genius thought that putting somebody with crippling social anxiety into group therapy with a bunch of strangers would work out? I don't care how many times you claim it's a Safe bastarding Space, I was treated better by drunken perverts when I was doing bar work.

 Secondly, and this is the kicker, what the fuck is a fucking Dietitian going to do for me*? I refused the appointment because believe it or not I know what sort of things I need to be eating to keep my weight up, I know exactly how many meals, how much, what macro and micronutrients I need to be putting in my face to maintain a healthy body. The issue is that I can't. I just fucking can't. The last time I checked, having a piece of paper that says "I'm a food doctor, I know what you need to be eating" doesn't also come with a bonus Magic fucking Wand that will suddenly make me able to eat without wanting to a) throw it all up again or b) tear off my skin because I feel so fucking afraid and disgusting every time I put food in my mouth. I didn't take that appointment because I know exactly what sort of strain the NHS and Mental Health services are under and there are thousands of other people who need that appointment more desperately than I do. 

*note - no offence to any dietitians out there, and you probably do a lot more than tell people what to eat but that's how your job was explained to me and (as you've probably gathered) I'm a stubborn cunt. Just let me be angry for now - or lend me that Magic Wand.

 So that puts me in an awkward position. Either I go back to the start of the queue, wait however long it takes to be seen for an assessment by the Newcastle team, probably involving going through all the bullshit of talking therapies and CBT again - where I was at five years ago - and hope and pray to whatever deity I don't believe in that I'll be able to get help not only for my Eating Disorder but for other aspects of my mental health. Oh yeah, according to Newcastle I seem to be "doing okay/managing" in other aspects of my mental health so I'm not considered at risk or in need of treatment. They totally ignored my CPN telling them about me being sexually assaulted the other month, and that she also believes that my specific personality disorder is BPD. In the words of my friend Annie (total babe) you wouldn't treat any other illness like this, you wouldn't say to a diabetic "okay so we know you're diabetic, but you haven't slipped into a coma recently so we should just wait and see how it goes!". And Eating Disorders aren't just Mental Health conditions, they affect your physical health too. Gateshead services made sure that I had regular physical health checks, everything from my weight, blood pressure, blood tests, ECGs (heart monitory things), how my ED has affected my asthma. I'm not a doctor and I don't have X-ray vision so I can't see the physical harm I'm doing to myself without their help; and as the saying goes it's "out of sight, out of mind" for me. If I'm not monitored then I can easily go straight back to indulging the voices in my head and continue losing weight without knowing what harm I'm doing. 

 That brings me to option number two. As above, I can continue losing weight in a bid to pull myself out of this miserable 10 year slog in an attempt to actually get treatment - or die trying. I'm far from the only person living with an ED who will have considered this as a viable option, in fact I know I'm not - you can read the reality of this trend for yourself. I say trend, it's more of our last resort in some ways.

 I fucking love the NHS. I wouldn't be alive without the bloody thing, for more reasons than I can list without making this longer than it already is. But it makes me sick to my stomach knowing that we have a government that has made so many funding cuts, putting so many lives at risk, that we now have a system only able to treat ailments when they become life-threatening. Treating the symptoms rather than the cause. 

Current Self:
Slightly sunburned, back from holiday,
trying to hold myself together.

 I'm feeling a lot of different things right now and hopeful isn't one of them. Current ED treatment plans seem more like they're treating the symptoms rather than the cause. It vaguely reminds me of the Cat and Mouse system used when the Suffragettes were imprisoned: let them starve, recuperate at home, then haul them back inside once they start being a problem again and force-feed them as the eventual solution; kicking them out again and starting the cycle over again. Without front line services in place, free at the point of use from the NHS, then how can we expect people to recover as well as they can from disordered eating? We can't, plain and simple. So in the spirit of 2018, if we really want to mark the centenary of the Women's Suffrage Movement, then we need to stop using the same methods to treat people living with and suffering with Eating Disorders.



To sort this whole shit-storm out in a productive way, I'm going to my GP in the morning, and hoping this is all a ridiculous miscommunication. I won't be wallowing in this and doing nothing about it. Either way I'll be making something of this anger, even if it's just sharing my experience to add to the list of reasons we need to improve the NHS and stop cutting its fucking budget. Seriously, how can you class anything as overspending if it's being put into a service that literally can stop people from dying?

Street Harassment: the Next Generation (aka Here We Go A-Fucking-Gain)

 Yes it’s that time again folks. Grab a blanket, some snacks and a glass of something strong because it’s that time again… Angrybitch Rant Time! You could say I have it down to an “art”. I’m sorry, that was dreadful, but that’s my only pun for today because this is a pretty serious rant. I’m somewhere between total rage, dumbfoundedness and exasperated; it’s pretty much a stop the world I want to get off sort of situation. I can’t remember which friend shared this picture but it jogged my memory and got me thinking about the topic.


 This is sadly very relevant for me today. Walking back from Asda and I'm confronted by three such creatures with penises, one of them informing me that his mate “wants a sucky-sucky". Of course, like any occasion when you experience street harassment (the fact that so many of you know this feeling personally is also saddening for me) I simultaneously wanted to vomit, punch said person in the face, blow up at them, or drag them by the ear and make them tell their mother what they’d just said to me. But there was something very different about this time around.

 This wasn't a fully grown adult specimen. Three of them must have been about twelve. Twelve. T-w-e-l-v-e. At the most - 12. Normally I'm quite sharp on the comebacks to cat-calling but I was just so stunned, I was more or less speechless. Well, I did tell him that he can sucky-sucky it himself because I can guarantee that nobody else ever will. It was all I could think to say. It seems like a tiny, insignificant thing; an interaction that lasted less than ten seconds (I could’ve said literally that to him but a) only just thought of it now and b) I’d probably give him a complex, it’d be too cruel). But it really got to me, mostly the fact that he is a child, meaning children are still growing up to think this is an appropriate/acceptable thing to say to a total stranger. And it really saddens me, especially when I think about the young girls who are growing up alongside boys like this and will be no doubt exposed to this harassment personally and more frequently.


This is not "boys will be boys" or "kids being kids", it's sexual harassment. It’s not just lads trying to look cool in front of their mates, testing out provoking behavior to push the boundaries and see what they can get away with. It’s a crime, plain and simple. They're not making this up as a new ‘thing’, this isn’t a trend like Snapchat and fidget spinners. It’s learned behaviour.

 “Oh but I always tell my boy to respect women, I don’t know where he’s getting it from!”. Hmm, let’s see… We have women in media, objectified in everything from Certain Tabloids That Will Not Be Named to videogames, to sporting events and yogurt adverts. We have this hegemonic view of beauty standards that all women, whether they fit into this conventional beauty box or not, we’re all held up to this scale that somehow ranks and measures our worth as an overall human being. It’s shit being a woman at times, genuinely.

 And probably the factor that has the most impact on the development of these views. It’s their schoolmates, cousins, community leaders, neighbours, and of course their families. It's easy enough to say "oh, little Tommy's just pushing the boundaries, seeing what adult behaviour he can get away with before being told off" - WELL OF COURSE HE IS CAROL because every time Big Tommy takes him out to the match with his grown-up mates he sees them doing exactly the same thing; hearing how they talk about women, learning how they value women - and let me tell you, they don’t hold us up very highly. We always hear how men totally respect women, like their Mam, their Gran, their sister… But guess what? This attitude isn’t extended to us women they don’t know, firstly because as strangers we’re seen as just...objects really, and secondly because they knew if their said that to their Nan or aunty then she’d clip him round the ear, and his Dad - or any male figure he respects - will reprimand him, tell him we don’t talk that way to women. Yet he’ll be seeing that same male figure gawking at a stranger’s cleavage, or hear him wolf-whistle at a woman walking down the street, or talking about how fit the lady who works at the local pub is.

 It’s not just Little Tommy that’s learning this behaviour either, it’s Little Carol too. Say one day Big Tommy takes her to the match with them, just one time so he can spend some “quality time with his little girl” or “take her of your hands for the day - as a treat to you Carol!”. She is going to be taking in the same things that her brother/assorted male relative is, but what’s worse is that she won’t be seeing it as something that is all in good fun. She’ll be seeing it is something to expect when she grows up. And don’t tell me that Big Tommy will be on his best behaviour in front of his Princess. This time last year a bloke shouted from across the road at me “oi oi love, get your tits out!” WHILE PUSHING HIS DAUGHTER IN HER BUGGY. Some men are just scum like that. Women group up exposed to street harassment thanks to the men in our communities and honestly, a lot of you are probably sound lads but for those with kids/young relatives who do do the occasional cheeky once-over of a woman you don’t know in public: those kids are seeing it from an adult man they probably respect or at least are learning from. So don’t teach them this shit.

 And going back to the old chestnut of the women they’re related to that they respect, how would you feel knowing that your son had said this to a girl or woman that is somebody else’s Mam/sister/cousin/Gran etc? Or if your female relative was the one who was propositioned in the street by a stranger? You’d want to knock the bastard’s teeth out wouldn’t you. A lot of people say they don’t want to pass bad habits onto the kids in their lives, so why keep passing on this one? Why keep teaching that it’s acceptable to say these things and acceptable to have them said to you? Yes, some may be teaching them unintentionally but like kids do with walking, talking and using things like spoons and iPads; they learn by watching you do them. Street harassment and cat-calling aren’t a bad habit though, it’s gender-based sexual harassment; it’s a criminal offence, and really if you do these things you should be thrown in the sea. Simple as.


 So yeah, this was my experience of being propositioned by a child. I still feel sick to my stomach and this feeling will pass, but as I get older it’s harder to shake when all it does is remind me of the fact that there are kids growing up with this learned behaviour and there are kids who are yet to become women who grow up knowing that they will experience harassment like this. Like I’ve mentioned in previous posts I have three amazing nieces, ranging in ages from six months to almost six, and if any of them were to go through this then I don’t care how old or of what gender the harasser is then I am more than happy to kick the shit out of that person.

 And to anybody who’s read through this and thought “I cat-call women all the time and they don’t say things like this. Just take the compliment and shut up.” Firstly, you’re a piece of shit and you need to stop. Secondly, take a moment to think about the kids in your life, especially young girls, and think about a stranger telling them how good her legs would look with their head between them (genuine thing that a white van man once said to me). Because if you keep doing what you’re doing, saying what you’re saying, then you’re feeding into that culture, keeping it going, and creating a society where she will have something like that said to her by a stranger. Think about that and do better than it, you fucking arsehole.

Reawakening... (aka the North East 2018 Feminist Calender)

 Well hello there folks, it's been a while. It looks like there may be some changes ahead. Calamity Kitchen have finaly gotten their own website (bloody freeloaders), Angry Northern Bitch is on Twitter, I've had a proper job job: yes dear readers, I worked at Lush for two months, keep your knickers on. Stormageddon turned four, and SlutWalk 2018 will be taking place in Newcastle.

 Wait... what!?

 Yes, you read that right: after a five year hiatus there will in fact be a SlutWalk Newcastle 2018. SlutWalk Newcastle last held a march in 2013 alongside a wonderful comedy night called Stand Up to Sexism, organised by myself and the incredible Rachel Charlton-Dailey from The Nopebook. Long story short: we had a march with lots of shouty, angry folk with important things to say, it's a lovely protest, and afterwards we held a comedy show with an all women line-up at World Headquarters. Of course, like with any event which focuses on talented women, we had plenty of comments and messages telling us we were sexist for not having men on stage, that we were exclusionary, feminazis etc - despite telling our critics many times that if they were really so worried about genderbalancing in standup comedy then why aren't they protesting other local comedy comedy nights like...every week?

 Oddly enough there were no reports of protests outside of comedy venues about the lack of women on the bill that I heard of, but if there were then I've missed out on some fun. Anyway, it was an amazing night and we raised a good amount of money for Rape Crisis Tyneside and Northumberland. Again, we're hoping to organise an evening event to go with the SlutWalk for those who won't be able to make the march on the daytime. Either way, I'll keep you lovely people up to date. I took part in a Firewalk for RCTN back in March 2017 and fully intend to do so again if they're running another this year. It was so much fun for an amazing cause and the brilliant staff at RCTN were insrumental in giving me the confidence to set up SlutWalk Newcastle to begin with.


 After a fantastic Nasty Women New Year party last weekend we floated around the idea of holding a Colour Walk in Newcastle. We have so many fabulous older ladies in the region that it would be a terrible shame to not celebrate them. Again, as a complimentary event, there are whisperings of a fashion show for those who wouldn't be able to make a daytime affair. We'll be keeping you up to date from here and from Nasty Women North East.

 So yeah, kind of short and sweet (like me!), with all the good news though you've got plenty of fun to look forward to. Much Love!

Angry Bitch x

International Day of the Girl: #FreedomForGirls

(To get the full cheesy effect of this post, please open this YouTube link in another tab)

 So I've been away for a bit, mental health playing up, other crap, blah blah and so on. Life gets in the way of my ramblings, sad as it is. But today is a happy day, a brilliant day in fact. It's a day to celebrate the young women of the future and making a better world for them. Now I know it's a little past midnight (sue me, I never claimed to be punctual) but the message is still the same: the reason I do the shit I do is for the future of today's girls.

 This is kind of a full-circle story. When I was little I was a rather socially awkward child. Big surprise, neurotic blogger who is open about mental health issues and crappy things from childhood - what a surprise! But sit down and shut up. I met Devon when I was in nursery school, so somewhere between being two and three. We didn't exactly hit it off, we each knew who the other was but I was more into playing pretend by myself. It wasn't until we got to primary school that we started playing together, more because the teachers were so fed up with us tormenting each other - stealing pencils, throwing rubbers at each other - that they forced us to play together. Twenty one years later and it's far from a being 'forced together' relationship but more of a 'I don't know what I'd do without you' one. Though I'd still happily play worm rescue with her. We grew up together sharing some of our best memories and our most traumatic ones, examaple being I remember her Mam taking us to the circus and on the way back seeing a car on fire, crashed into a fence and thinking 'shit...I don't know how I'd cope with this if I wasn't with her'. 

 New Years Eve 2002, it's hilarious to look back on now. My family were round at her's, I got my first taste of alcohol (fizzy peach Archers, I can't remember the exact name of the drink but it was very much diluted with lemonade), and a fun countdown to the new year, surrounded by friends and family. Then as soon as it hit midnight we let of party poppers, went outside to light fireworks, came back inside to watch the rest of the festivities on the telly... and soon as Basil Brush said 'boom boom!' the power goes out. The adults try to be rational while ridiculously drunk, we panic like all kids would because it's dark and scary. Adults think 'it's fine, we'll light some candles and they'll just think it's part of the new years fun'. As the clumsy-as-ever lass that I am, I knock one of the candles over and almost set fire to her Mam's settee. My brother gets scared and throws up all over the glitter from the party poppers (as pretty as you can imagine). Mothers go into Super Mam mode and sort us all out, get us to bed and calm us down, clean up and get settled. The next morning me and Devon are watching reruns of friends in her bed (she had a bunkbed, it was so cool!) and we hear shouting from downstairs. We go down to investigate and it turns out that, even though the power had went out, the telly switched on as soon as it came back - so my parents were woken up by another appearance from Basil Brush. It's one of my most enduring New Years memories and it makes me laugh just thinking about it.

 Being a chubby queer goth as a teenager, it wasn't exactly fun doing things like... going outside, talking to people, laughing at things. But this lady was my rock, to this day she still is. We both grew up with brothers so it was nice having somebody who was just like a sister but without all of the clothes stealing, hair pulling and fighting over who's turn it was to pick the TV channel. I still miss her mother every day, when I heard the news it hit me as hard as if it had been one of my own parents. Nevertheless, she persisted. She went on to get a top -level linguistics degree, while also raising her first daughter. This lady is a fucking Viking. She has supported me through breakups, my parents arguing, all sorts of family and relationship troubles and I wouldn't swap her for love nor money. Hell, if we were a person they would be old enough to drink in the US.

 In the past few years the feminist movement has made amazing progress. Yes, we're far from total equality, far from it. But for now I'm hopeful. We saw the SlutWalk movement beginning in 2011, the resurgence of student feminist groups, Nasty Women* in 2016 and now! The reason I'm so passionate about the feminist movement today isn't for the changes it can make for me. The way I see it, I'm happy to carry on fighting, shouting, marching, and screaming is to make sure that my nieces don't have to. Seeing them grow into a society where they don't have to worry about being told they're not pretty enough, they're pretty so they can't be clever, policing of their style of dress and relationships; I've been there and am still going through it, I just pray to Sylvia Pankhurst (or the atheist alternative of praying) every day that I'll make enough change in my lifetime so that they won't have to experience that shittiness. 

 Devon has two wonderful,, wonderful daughters and my brother and sister-out-law have one too. These three little girls are why I do what I do, so much because of what their mothers have done for me. So this is a slightly belated #WonderfulWomenWednesday and celebration of #InternationalDayOfTheGirl. This lady is one of the most amazing ones I know and has given birth to two more of them - how lucky am I!?

 *For those of you who have liking for Nasty Women, did you know that Newcastle will be playing host to the first ever international Nasty Women conference!! If you would like to attend and/or take part then please purchase tickets here, or for other questions please email us at northeastnastywomen@gmail.com. <3

We Need to Talk About... How we talk about Feminism

 I'm normally reluctant to say it but I'm quite intelligent, more than I give myself credit for. I've been to university, I can discuss political and gender theory in-depth, and I could very probably argue my way out of a locked room. Or into one, depending who I'm arguing with. But I'm not always perceived that way. Something to do with the bright hair, tattoos and face full of piercings I think, but more likely to do with the way I talk. As a teenager I had a bad stutter and it still likes to make itself known now and then, so I had to adapt the way I speak in order to actually communicate - often in short, precise sentences. And you know what? I don't regret the way I speak, it's efficient, it gets the point across, and I feel it makes me more approachable. At the same time though I do get nervous when it comes to longer words and more complex sentences, because it's so hard to stop stuttering once you've been tripped up by something you're unfamiliar with.

When I first talk to somebody new about feminism I both love it and hate it. I love it because, well, why wouldn't I? I've just met an awesome new person. But at the same time I dread how they'll talk about it sometimes; they'll begin talking and I won't know if we're talking about the latest legislation affecting women's rights or the menu of a funky new fusion restaurant they've been to. Luckily this isn't always the case and I've met some utterly amazing feminist folks who are comfortable enough with their own views that they don't feel the need to describe something in ten ‘academic' terms when they can use six regular ones to make the same point. I was talking about it with a lovely feminist friend of this type a few weeks ago. Her first language isn't English and we recalled how we'd both be sat there in meetings and be thinking “...what?”. Yes, most of the time we'd understand the point that was made, but when it came to replying there were some times I was being looked at as though I'd just opened my mouth and dribbled down my shirt. I'd hear whispers and giggles, on one occasion having my point repeated back to the rest of the group using academic language, as if making my interpretation sound better and more understandable to them. It was embarrassing as hell and I don't think I went to another meeting for a long time after that. I felt shown up in a space that I had thought was meant to be safe and accepting.

And what infuriates me the most is when I see articles or hear talks about Intersectional Feminism using such jumped-up, alienating terms. This is by no means me having a go at academics and people who use this type of language, but I've got a lot of pent up frustration here. I believe that it has its uses and its place, but that place - for me - shouldn't be in a group that is meant to be accessible to everyone. Newly elected Labour MP Laura Pidcock made this point very well in her Maiden speech in parliament, somebody had to say it and I'm glad she was the one who did, she's bloody brilliant. By alienating people through use of language, we basically say to those who can't ‘keep up’ that their views don't matter, that they don't have a place in these discussions - when often they're the ones with the most to say and the most need to be heard. We shouldn't be laughed at or berated for not sounding ‘clever enough’. During my time at uni I had the ironic joy of being told that my draft of an essay on class, language, and access to education didn't sound academic enough. I was struggling to meet the word count because while I'd made my points precisely and clearly, they didn't sound ‘right' in an academic piece. I'm sorry, but bollocks to that.

Feminism has existed long before the term ever did. Every time women working in factories fought for equal pay, women in communities fought for their safety and bodily autonomy, and for our access to education. In deeds rather than words. Don't patronise us, just be considerate, and don't bloody giggle at us! That's just rude.

Doctor Who's Jodie Whittaker: Nude Photos, The Sun and Mail Online (throw them in the sea)

 This is by no means the first time the Fail and the Scum have been misogynistic shits, objectifying and demonising women. And this is by no means the first time, nor will it be the last, that celebrity women have been shamed for nude photographs or scenes in their work, as I've covered before with the 'scandal' around Emma Watson's beautiful pictures in Vanity Fair. They try to portray women's bodies as something dirty, something shameful, but at the same time something that men are entitled to objectify, ogle, and get gratification from.

 I was utterly speechless when Jodie Whittaker was announced as the thirteenth Doctor. I was sitting in the bedroom on my DS, running through Pokemon X again and trying to complete my Pokedex when Paul called me into the living room. I'd lost track of the time and didn't realise the announcement was coming up, so when I saw the video... I couldn't even make words, I just couldn't. I was so, so happy. I can't wait for Whittaker's first episode. And how do these publications mark such a landmark announcement? Well of course by making it all about her body, her appearance, and her value as a sexual object. They same way they mark any achievement by a woman.

 Needless to say I'm absolutely foaming about this. What the genuine fuck? For all the supposed 'paedo hunting' the S*n like to think they do, they are now sexualising not only the idea of nudity to children through this, but an iconic children's television character. And what message does this send to the young women who watch Doctor Who? It tells them to be ashamed of their bodies, ashamed of nudity, and that they only exist for men's gratification - if they meet the unrealistic standards that these media outlets set for them to be measured against.

But think of it this way: during his time as the Doctor, Matt Smith appeared in the BBC adaptation of Christopher Isherwood's autobiography Goodbye to Berlin called 'Christopher and His Kind'. If you haven't seen or read it then I implore you to do so; you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll beg for more. It chronicle's Isherwood's time (played by Matt Smith) in the heydey of Weimar Berlin's underground gay scene, amidst the rise of the Nazi Party. It's both heartbreaking and heartwarming. During the filming of the sex scenes, the BBC implored director Geoffrey Sax that they had to be careful not to show shots of Smith's bare behind, as they couldn't show the Doctor's arse on telly. Sad, yes, but fair enough. They managed perfectly without doing so, despite the fact Smith has a glorious arse. Starring in not only nude scenes, but gay sex scenes. The tabloids could've had a field day with it but didn't, just a small article here or there. And I'm glad they didn't, it would've been a total violation of Smith's role, trying to slander and scapegoat him for playing an such an iconic role. It would be a betrayal of Isherwood's literary legacy, reducing his life and work to nothing more than a sex scene. So why are they doing the same to Whittaker? 

 Oh yeah, because they're misogynistic pieces of shit who don't believe women exist for any reason other than to be sexualised and objectified. By men. There's is absolutely nothing wrong with nudity, but the way they portray it in the press is sickening. So the next time you see a copy of the Daily Hate Mail or the Scum, do the world a favour and chuck them in the bloody sea along with anybody who reads it.