A Low Blow.

This week, a heartwarming story has been floating around (and a video if you care to see it) about a young British girl who gave blow jobs to 24 men in a bar in Magaluf for a bottle of cava. Beautiful.

I have seen the video and it is so depressing. This girl runs around some seedy, dingy bar like a blue-arsed fly while a bunch of ruddy-faced men whip their cocks out. Unwashed, skanky, dirty bollocks out in the open air for a two-second suck.

At this point, some of you will probably go “Oh, you’re such a prude!” but I don’t give a shit. I’m well aware that Magaluf is not a part of the world where everybody is chaste and clutching their rosary beads, but the whole thing is wrong on so many levels:

1. All these blokes appear unwashed and she is all over their sweaty penises like it’s an everyday thing. Where’s the quality control??

2. She has no idea where they have been or who they’ve plunged their penises in before she started giving mouth-to-mouth. They could be swimming with STD’s. After she has finished, she could be getting a round of applause in more than one way.*

3. Girl, you are on camera. Your filthy exploits are on t’internet for the whole world to see and there is no way of erasing it. It’s on newspaper sites, been shared on social media, everywhere. And if the person who filmed you was a friend, then I hate to tell you…you have no real friends.

4. This kind of thing does not empower you as a woman. Behaving like this in public is not an illustration of you owning your sexuality. Nothing wrong with getting your freak on, but behind closed doors. It does not leave you empowered- it cheapens you. Whatever happened to leaving things to the imagination?

Mind you, I once saw an episode of Ibiza Uncovered where a pair of harlots went out on a Saturday night. One of them boasted that she had pierced her private parts and then allowed some random man to touch them up on camera and in full view of the whole main square. I sat slack-jawed at witnessing such nastiness.

The sad thing is there are quite a few young girls and women who think this isn’t a problem. But this girl must be stupid because that footage will stick with her forever and likely affect her chances of employment and other things. Back in the day that kind of thing could be done anonymously. Now everyone has a camera/video phone and uploads stuff on t’internet, things are very different.

I’m sure this girl will turn up in one of the Sunday tabloids in the morning after selling her story for nowhere near enough money. She will probably think it’s worth it as she’s getting paid, possibly end up having a stint on next year’s Big Brother, but her reputation will be sullied for a long time. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

*the clap, or gonorrhoea, as it’s otherwise known. Hence the term ‘a round of applause’, which is Cockney rhyming slang.



I don’t know about you but this heatwave that’s enveloped Britain is something else. Very few places in the world look as beautiful as Britain does when it is bathed in sunshine. But one question has nagged away at me since the heatwave began last week and it is thus: should I reveal my bingo wings to the world or keep them under wraps?

Like many others I am blighted by this phenomenon, always telling myself that I’ll start my tricep & bicep regime before summer comes. In the past, I hardly thought about them but my way of thinking has changed over the past couple of years. I’m a little self-conscious about them. While my bingo wings don’t flap in the breeze when I stretch, they aren’t non-existent, either.

I have seen some unfortunate things during this heatwave. Numerous pairs of desert-dry feet I’ve clapped my eyes on over the past couple of weeks, some of them crustier than a fresh baguette. And as for some of the male members of the species, all I’ll say is it’s always the ones you would beg to keep their tops on who go topless. The beer-bellied or scrawny bird-chested men who flaunt their ‘wares’ to us women. Wow, aren’t we lucky…

So cut to last week and the mercury hit 32°c. Hemlines skimmed a wide array of buttocks; bikinis were now considered suitable attire when buying a loaf of bread even though there are no beaches in London; legs were no longer hidden by tights or trousers and arms were bared by all…except me. But as the weather forecast predicted hotter stickier days (and nights- it was 25°c last night!) I knew I had to throw caution to the wind. In the end I realised that no-one cared about the state of my bingo wings- and if they did then that’s their problem. Who in their right mind would cover up in this heat? I didn’t get any filthy looks or have someone run over and fling a pashmina over my shoulders when I exposed my arms.

A lot of our time is spent worrying over things such as our appearance. We can’t change much (and sometimes when we do, we end up making things worse) and you’ve got to live with it so starting loving it, especially in a country where you only get 2 weeks of summer per year.

© G. Holder 2013