Bristol: Can I get a Hallelujah?

What happens when you take a country bumpkin and throw her with force into a city? 

That's the question I've been asking myself since school.
Living under no illusion that I'd be able to be a rich and successful journalist for Vice, Vogue or really anyone worth working for from the sunny sea side county that is Cornwall; it did cross my mind that city living would be on the cards.

Ignoring a few failed attempts (and several panic attacks) trying to navigate London on my own in the past 19 years, I'd never really spent much time in any of the UK's big, bustling, bodacious cities and since starting university in the high-rise capital that is Hastings* I realised that some city education might be in order.

The Experiment: 5 days, 4 nights out, 3 crash pads, 2 birthdays and a lot of shopping
Location: Bristol, near Somerset

Outcome:

DAY ONE: 8 hours, 5 coffees and a two hour stop off in London (panic attack mostly avoided) I stumble off the coach in the official centre of Bristol.

It's nice. Lovely even.

I find a coffee shop and sit to enjoy the scenery and try and figure the place out. What is Bristol? What is it's identifier, as Olive Penderghast would say?

The answer to that question was genie pants, and a lot of them. Sat there in jeans and boots, I started to feel shockingly over dressed- like I would have fit in better if I'd stumbled off the coach in my pajama bottoms.

Me and my wifey outside
Timbuk2

In that moment it became overwhelmingly clear why my dance student, genie pant wearing, beautiful hippy friend chose to come here.

A few hours, and several layers of make up, later and I'm on a boat; Thekla, to be precise. If you haven't heard of Will and the People, then you will struggle to understand the amazing choice of venue and atmosphere that was created simply by their indie, Hawaiian shirt wearing presence. They're pretty cute too! Happy Birthday Jess!

[Seriously, check them out: Will and the People, Misunderstood]

The rest of the night blurs into my vodka and energy drink and we wind up at Timbuk2, barefooted and with even more friends.

DAY TWO: Why do I have the words "she is the mask you live in" saved in my notes on my phone?

I think I ate a hot dog last night, which I'm pretty sure goes against my new vegetarian diet, but we live and learn.

Because I clearly missed the memo that stated everyone from the Penzance (Cornwall) area must attend a university near Bristol, I'm lucky enough to find the city incredibly familiar. Everywhere I go, I'm about as much likely to bump into someone I know as I am in Cornwall.

The city is beautifully old and rich and full of the right kind of life. Obviously every time I walk past the college green I imagine I'm one of the characters from Skins (series 1-4 only) but who wouldn't?!

Being here isn't like being in a rat race. Men in suits aren't constantly barging me out the way and women in high heels are looking down at my converse like I'm scum. So far so good...

So far, so much better than London.

Ramshackle night at the O2 Academy does not fail to disappoint. Despite my still very hungover state and the fact that I may cry if another big burly bloke grabs me like an Irish gypsy at a party, it's a great night.

We (who I should probably mention is my "bestie wing man, Mozzy" from my Boardmasters or Sexmasters? blog from earlier this summer) have joined forces with the rest of the crew from Boardmasters Festival and it's safe to say that as a group, we know how to party.

Without offending too many people, my drunken mind is starting to wonder why I didn't come to Bristol Uni.

Of course a proud moment came at 3am when I decided enough was enough and managed to crawl into a taxi back to my sofa for the night (which was actually half of a double bed - thank you wifey!) and wake up well rested and hangover free!

Can I get a Hallelujah?

Pre-Urban Outifitters lunchintons in
Wagamammas 

DAY THREE: Shopping. Because when in a city, us country folk have to take full advantage of the shopping spree potential. I've been saving all summer for this.

First stop: Urban Outfitters.... Wow.

I find it hard to admit this being a girl seriously into fashion, and Vogue, and that whole side to journalism, but I had never been in Urban Outfitters before. It's safe to say that despite the small hate tweet concerning the "EAT LESS" top, I love it. It's like they crawled inside my head and pulled out all the different fashion styles that I love and put them in a shop. And then added the book 'It' by Alexa Chung. Hello Mecca!

Combined with lunchingtons at Wagamamma's and dinner at TGI Friday's (another first for me) today was pretty bloody successful.

"Calling all students and teenagers in the Bristol area!! UWE halls is having a party!"

It's Birthday #2.

DAY FOUR: That was a crazy night. It's safe to say that I am wounded, and sore, and more hungover that I thought possible. Also, thanks to a late night shower, my hair is resembling that of a blonde Whoopi Goldberg in the concluding scene of Sister Act. I need a falafel.

Perched on a bench in a little patch of green outside the falafel stand, it soaks in that tonight is my last night in Bristol. A quiet night in, where I will inevitably fall asleep on the sofa at about 10pm watching films.

DAY FIVE: A falafel burger, an 8 hour coach journey, 5 coffees and a two hour stop off in London (panic attack mostly avoided) and I stumble off the bus back in Hastings.

Bristol freshers has ended, but Brighton's has just begun. Wish me luck!

Peace Out ♥

Front Room Discussions

Sat in the front room, the new hottest hang out in town, we discuss the hottest men in town, and out of town, and everywhere in fact. But conversation soon adjusts to a new hot topic: the future and it's terrifying possibilities - or lack of them. 

"What are we going to do?" The taboo question for us (nearly) twenty something's to even think about, let alone utter out loud. What does the future hold? Will we make it in the music industry? Will we become successful journalists and events organisers or are we just fantasising about a life far too rare for all of us to succeed in? 

When I get home later that day, I sit and contemplate what Carrie would do. Or what she did do at my age- sadly that confusing, lost bit of her life is somewhat missed out between The Carrie Diaries and Sex and the City. 

A successful columnist for the New Yorker living in a beautiful apartment with beautiful clothes and a great group of friends; forget cat woman and super girl, Carrie Bradshaw is TV's most kick ass super hero. 

"When you want to be a doctor, you go to university, then you go to medical school, then you're a doctor. Why can't everything be that simple?" My friend is on a role for asking great, unanswerable questions today... "I mean, I want to work for a record label, or own one. How am I going to achieve that?" ... And there's another great unanswerable question.

For the past two weeks I've been trying my best to practise non-negative thinking, a brand new craze over taking the internet. It's not simply the practise of positive thinking, a customer in the shop told me, "Why set yourself up for disappointment? It's pointless hoping and saying that tomorrow will be glorious and sunny when it's the middle of winter. However, that doesn't mean you have to sit there and moan about how it's going to rain." She tells me "the more you practise none negative thinking, the more you open yourself up to the wider possibilities of a positive outcome."  

This may have been the reality check I needed. I may not be the next Carrie Bradshaw; or the next Jameela Jamil or Alexa Chung, but that doesn't mean I should feel disappointed, give up and wallow, because it's okay to fail. 

Because everything will be okay in the end, because it has to be. We have an amazing group of friends (just like Carrie Bradshaw) and that's all we need. The rest should just fall into place.

So, as a side note, a bit of advise from a second year to a first year: it'll be okay. Uni is the fun part, so just enjoy freshers. 

Boardmasters or Sexmasters?

After the longest game of sexual Never Have I Ever in the history of drinking games, my hazey brain started to think about the weird, sexy things that people do; and more importantly, where they do these weird sexy things. Especially at festivals.

"Never have I ever had sex in the dance tent..." Who's drinking? 

So way too many confessions later, me and my bestie wing man, Mozzy go on a hunt. Starting at one side of the camp site, we stagger around asking the general (and slightly smelly) public where the weirdest places people have had sex this weekend! 

So this was our top five,bthank you so much unwilling and drunk participants for your dirty little secrets....

1. "Last night I had sex behind the milkshake stand... While it was still open. I didn't know the guy but I'm pretty sure his name Andrew" - Laura, 20 

2. "I was banging this girl on the cliff edge so hard that we nearly fell off the edge of the cliff. Was worth it though haha!" - Nick, 22

3. "Me and my boyfriend got a bit excited on the first night and started having sex in the dance tent. Eventually people started noticing and in several strange moments I was struggling to pull my pants up while crowd surfing!! I think it's safe to say that it was the most embarrassing moment of my life" - Jen, 18

4. "I was so wasted last night and had been getting with this guy all night so thought, why not? I staggered back to the tent with him and we started fooling around, about 20 minutes later someone opens the tent and screams! I realise I've climbed into not only the wrong tent, but the wrong field! Talk about a walk of shame..." - Christina, 25

5. "I had sex in a port-a-loo. It was raining so me and some random chick took shelter in the toilet.. I was pretty hyped and next thing I know she's bent forward touching her toes. The port-a-loo must have been rocking a bit because we get a round of applause as we leave! Can I get some lad points?" - Sammy, 17

Yes Sammy, you can get some lad points! 

I think it's safe to say that when young people get left on their own, it's more than a few forts and slip and slides that we get creative with.

But it's not all about the sex. Here's a few picks from our forth year at the Boardmasters festival in Newquay.

The best fucking wingman a girl could ask for.

 

Peace Out.

Was That Good For You?

According to Urban Dictionary, a hopeless romantic is defined as someone who is both in love with being in love and being loved. This is apparently very different to a hopeless flirter, who is defined as someone who is simply in love with being loved. 

I'm the latter.

There's nothing wrong with being either, whether you are positively naive or just have some issues (I'm the latter again). After all, if you loose the bullshit, we're all just hopeless really.

Regardless of this fact, sometimes all a girl wants is fireworks. Beautiful, spontaneous fireworks that blow your mind and send you tumbling.

It doesn't have to last forever, in fact I'd go as far as saying it could only be one night. 

It may just be my inherent desire to be loved but it's starting to become clear that I'm asking for too much.

Surely a year of built up sexual frustration, a little too much vodka and a play fight is enough to set off some pretty epic fireworks. 

Were my expectations too high? I mean what was I actually hoping for? Because it's not like I'm a believer in fairy tales... And I don't want to marry the guy. 

Objectively, I have no reason to complain but it's clear my search for fireworks continues. Afterall, there was definitely no sign of them on the sofa; or on the floor, table, bed and in the shower. I checked twice! 

"Uh, was that good for you?" ..... Enough said.

Peace Out. 

The Arrogant Woman

Warning: this post is influence entirely by research done by Honey and Bunny, two of the terrible threesome

The site of the revolution

Free drinks, free taxis home- we don't even need to put out for the privileges anymore.

As the terrible threesome (we've been missing the third for a while) sit in a quiet cafe, we compare notes. Whether it's in a night club or getting a number from 'that guy' it turns out that one simple rule applies... If you don't ask, you don't get.

It's the 21st century and it turns out that women have realised a potential upper hand over the other sex: confidence. 

We've all heard of the arrogant man, who's confidence and self assurance makes him irresistible. So what about the arrogant woman? A woman who is confident, independent and knows what she wants. Men, imagine this kind of woman would you? Walking up to you in a night club and dropping all the shit, all the meaningless flirting and subtle hint-dropping; she wants you. You'd cripple to your knees surely? 

This new breed of woman is really taking control as well. We've been dubbed 'sassy' and even 'slutty' but there is no denying that there is very little difference between that and a cocky womaniser. 

But maybe this breed of woman isn't something that we decided, but something that was forced apon us. That's right men, this could be your fault. You've had your turn being womanisers and quite frankly, you've gotten lazy. Instead of being swept off our feet, we're lucky if we get to sweep our phone off the table because you're calling us. 

So now we're playing you at your own game. Scared? You should be.

You're chat up lines have been documented, your moves have been memorised and your attitude has been studied in countless films and chick flicks.

We know you, so it's about time you found out more about us. 

Just because we don't wear 50's dresses anymore, doesn't mean we don't want to be treated like we're being spun round a dance floor... And no, grinding your penis against our backs in a night club doesn't count.

We deserved to be wined and dined.

Take a tip from Karma Sutra.

Peace Out. 

My Time on Slut Row... Otherwise Known as Tinder

Imagine you're walking down the street, minding your own business when you can't help but catch someone's eye. There he is, checking you out, a tall dark stranger, checking you out. And there you are, checking him out. You smile and get on with your day considerably happier than you were 30 seconds ago. This isn't a movie, this genuinely happens... every now and then.

Now think about that happening to you on an average of 15 times a day. Then imagine that about 5 of these 15 (mostly) beautiful men decide they're going to talk to you. Even the most confident girl would wonder if someone had come along and given them a model style makeover over night... or just a full on face transplant.

Introducing Tinder, where you "match" people based on the fact that you both consider each other bangable. No other info needed, just pure shallow booty call fun.

On a totally experimental basis (I promise!) I downloaded the cheeky new app taking young single adults everywhere by storm.

Day 1: This was a stupid idea, I've been swiping people left like there's no tomorrow, where are the hot guys everyone's been telling me about??

Day 2: So as it turns out, nearly every guy I decide to like, has also liked me. Thanks new profile pic, you're doing well. Apparently all the guys on here are either psychic or massive stalkers because they all seem to know everything about my life and future plans... creepy!

Your Tinder picture is important.

Day 3: Turns out surfers aren't as 'rad' and indie as I thought. Yup, that's right, they're all on Tinder. Also discovered that by syncing Tinder with your Facebook, all you're info is transferred as well, which explains why all these guys have been asking me about New Zealand and journalism. Shout out to Tinder match number 10 for pointing that out for me... but no, I will not sit on your face.

Day 4: I'm an addict. Met up with some friends in town and could not put my phone down. Exchanged a few numbers today (or Whatsapp, or Facebook or Snapchat names). So far so good, thanks for restoring my faith in humanity guys, you're all nice people... Well, mostly! Yes I'm talking about you, Mr Fallen Angel. "Hey, looks like God has lost an angel. Or did you escape you naughty thing" is quite simply not how you start a conversation with a stranger. "Hey, did you know that pineapples don't grow on trees but like individual plants... like cabbages" is definitely a better way to capture my attention.

Day 5: This is getting a bit much, I feel like a top lying adulterant husband, and my friends think so too! I've got my favourites and I think it's probably time to narrow it all down, my ego is dangerous, selfies are occupying my life because apparently I'm sexy, with fabulous eyes (or eggs... my favourite opening line from a guy by far.)

Day 6: Now I'm just a slut. It has to stop. Goodbye Tinder, you were fun while you lasted, but my days are over. Tinder deleted.

It's been a week since I deleted it now and if I'm honest, I think it was for the best. Who needs men falling at your feet every hour a day? I definitely could do without the constant buzzing of my phone.

Over all, its just an shallow, ego boosting booty call all wrapped up in one big sexy app! So if you're horney, lonely and feeling a little down on yourself, give a few guys a like, get chatting, arrange a date and bang their brains out.

Call it what you like, it has it's uses...

Don't want to be a third wheel with your friend and her boyfriend? Take a Tinder date.

Need to get your mum off your back about being lonely and without a boyfriend? Use a Tinder date.

Peace Out, get laid.
 

The Older Man

Whether it's true or not, I've always preached the theory that women become mentally mature at a younger age than men... Therefore we have to pick someone older right?

It's no new trend, women have been attracted to older men for years. From Monica and Richard in Friends, to a school girl confessing that she's got a crush on a guy in college.

But as everyone hits the 18 mark and beyond, this theory seems to really come into it's prime; and apparently the age is 22. 

"Hope, it's all about the 22 year olds- I don't know what it is but they're the best in bed!" 

She's referring to her boyfriend of course. And I worked out that 22 is the current age of all those boys you thought were so attractive a few years above you in school. You always dreamed that one day they would notice you... And it turns out all it takes is a few years and serious style rethink. Who new? 

At times like this I wish I had a time machine so I could go back and tell my little awkward and nerdy self that it's okay, because in the future all those guys will actually be willing to sleep with you!

But what if you're talking to a 25 year old? Or sleeping with a 29 year old? Is there a point where it stops being 'older' and is just plain old? 

My theory is there are two lines a girl will not cross:

Over 30...

Obviously there's always someone who have a one night stand with a 35 year old man because they were just so wasted that night but over all, it's a general faux pa to be regularly sleeping with someone more than 10 years older than you.

Over 22 (if you want to bring him home) ...

Imagine being a mum (maybe you are a mum... Or a dad); your 19 year old says she wants you to meet her new boyfriend, she brings him home and introduces him as "hey, this is *insert name* and he's 27." Chances are he's not seeing his next birthday. But 22 is just about on that boundary of okay. 

So how did this come about? Do the lines increase a year everytime you get a year older? And where have all the guys the same age as you gone in this scenario? Are they also going for older women? Or are they continuing the cycle and have started going for younger girls? The questions go on and on. 

At the end of the day, I think it's up to the individuals and what they believe. But it's a trend that's been going on for centuries, why change it now? 

Peace Out.