“The dirtiest, most disgusting females on the planet…”

Published February 8, 2012 by Claire

That, boys and girls, is what a ‘gentleman’ hiding behind the moniker of “sucky2dollar” thinks we hookers are.

THE DIRTIEST, MOST DISGUSTING FEMALES ON THE PLANET.

When you decide to become a prostitute, you accept that some elements of the population will hold that view. You might perhaps expect it from a member of a fundamentalist religion, or an extreme feminist maybe. You become inured to it when it comes from ‘outside’ – from persons not associated with or involved in the sex industry. You harden, grow a thicker skin, and accept that some people may hold those views because of a fundamental lack of understanding. They are unable to empathise or accept, because our experiences and values are so far divorced from their own as to be unimaginable.

But when that view is expressed by ‘our man on the inside’ – by one of the very men to whom we provide our services, by a ‘punter’ – it shocks in a way that the outsider could never do. If he can feel that way and yet still seek services, what does that say for punters? It makes you wonder if he is more typical than you think, if he’s actually making a representative statement of what all clients  really think, deep down.

And then you say ‘No, of course not, I’m just being silly, and he’s made this comment on a public forum, frequented by many other men who visit hookers. So he’ll get shouted down, right?’. Well yes, by a couple of people. One or two men who were brave enough to stand apart from the flock and say ‘No, you don’t speak for me, I don’t like what you said there’. But just a few, out of hundreds who use that forum (if we are to believe the stats espoused by their leader, at any rate).

So let me just send a message out to the rest of the users of that forum.

Every time you read and run, every time you fail to correct, every time you don’t argue with those extreme views – well , you may as well have openly agreed. Don’t ask in future why the mud sticks, because this is why. If you don’t voice your own opinions, you’ll get someone else’s attributed to you. That’s why it matters which gang you decide to follow.

You know, I thought long and hard before writing this blog post. On the one hand, I don’t particularly want to gratify the originator of the quote used as my title today, and I do see that by rising to the bait I will brighten his small world considerably.

But sometimes , you can’t rise above this stuff. Sometimes, you can’t turn the other cheek, because your silence can be as much permission for these people to continue as anything else.

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A very quick message…

Published February 1, 2012 by Claire

… to the person who has been trying to telephone me this morning.

I do not answer with-held numbers on my work phone. Calling me eleventy-thousand times between 8am and 11am will not change that!

Have a nice day now, y’all.

Bruised, but not beaten…

Published January 25, 2012 by Claire

I took the dogs out yesterday morning, as I do every day.  It was a soggy day, but the dogs don’t give a monkey’s chuff about such trifles and plough quite happily through the marshiest bits they can find. Within about three minutes Daft Dog was brown from head to toe, and the only speck of white I could see were his eyes as he galloped towards me intent on planting his paws as firmly as he could onto my thighs. Thank god it wasn’t Mad Dog though, ‘cos she’s a foot taller and although this means she doesn’t get quite as mucky as the little ‘un, it also means her paws catch you firmly in the midriff and you collapse into the mud like a sack of sh*t!

Anyhoo, I managed to dodge the incoming Furry Mud Missile and proceeded in a nor-nor-westerly direction ( I don’t know if that’s true by the way), with Mad Dog prancing merrily in front of me waiting for me to throw her ball for her. Now, as I have the body of a weak and feeble woman (albeit one who ate all the pies), I’m not much of a bowler, so I have one of these ball-throwy-thingies so that Mad Dog gets enough exercise. Also, as I’m a girl, I throw underarm.

So I draw the arm back behind me,  and I swing the ball-throwy-thingie forward with as much force as I can muster. And on the forward swing, it gets caught in my dangly dog-walking-cardigan pocket (so glamorous, you can’t even imagine) in which resides my stupidly large bunch of doorkeys. The doorkeys join in the general upward swoop and don’t stop until they connect quite firmly with the corner of my right eye, and for a few moments I absent myself from the world around me whilst I try to work out

  1. Who the very feck I am;
  2. What just happened, and above all;
  3.  Am I brave enough to put my hand up and find out if  I’m bleeding to death?

Dear Reader, you’ll be glad to know (depending who you are of course) I wasn’t, and didn’t, bleed to death. I do have a rather fetching bruise though, which I can’t quite cover with makeup. Super.

Bristol

Published January 22, 2012 by Claire

This is Bristol. My hometown, and has been since I was four. Some nights when I’ve been out of town, and drive back into the city, along the Portway or up the A38, I see it all laid out in front of me and am filled with such pride. It’s a fantastic place to live, so much on offer and so much history and heritage combined with forward-thinking and new development. Watching the lights of the city come into view brings this feeling of such immense potential, and gives me a sense of wellbeing and at-home-ness that I find difficult to put into words. I am proud of Bristol, proud to be Bristolian, complete with “oo-arr” accent.

Or at least, most of the time. There are times when Bristol is represented in such a way that one could almost hang one’s head in shame. When you switch on ITV and find four people in grubby tracksuits being harangued by Jeremy Kyle because two of them have produced a baby and none of them are sure which two it was, for example. And then they open their mouths and you realise they’re Bristolians AGAIN. That’s not so good.

But it pales into insignificance when compared with the sight that greeted me when I visited one of my regular chaps last night. He’s young, and sweet-natured, and mild-mannered, and life has thrown some sh*t at him and I’ve watched him deal with that and grow through it, fighting his demons all the way. He’s also Indian, and on Friday night in a kebab shop somewhere in this city, a complete twat punched him in the face and broke his nose, because of the colour of his skin.

I feel so angered, frustrated, rage-filled over this. This guy moved to Bristol from London a couple of years back and loves this city. He’s full of praise for Bristol and I feel so ashamed that he’s been treated this way. Of course racism isn’t solely a Bristol issue, I’m not stupid. But I’m so lost as to how in this day and age anyone can verbally abuse a stranger without provocation, and when they try to turn away, can hit them with such hatred and such force. And then leave, laughing, and go on with their life. I might meet that guy. He could be a client,  or the next plumber I call, or my bank manager –  and I would never know. That’s why my shame  extends to the whole of the city, because I can’t pinpoint it with any more accuracy.

I can’t speak for the people of Bristol, but for myself, I am so very sorry that you were treated this way, A.

“Dear Santa…”

Published December 5, 2011 by Claire

Dear Santa,

This year I have been a very good girl   a moderately good girl  a somewhat good girl  very good at my job, and so if it’s not too much trouble I would like to find these things waiting for me at the end of my bed on Christmas morning, please thankyou;

1) A new Ford Fiesta in hot pink, with a  numberplate that reads  PRO5 SIE.

2) A year’s supply of Wispa bars. Please don’t underestimate my Wispa consumption capabilities, one Wispa a day will not be sufficient. I’d aim for about five a day if I were you.

3) A year’s supply of interestingly flavoured condoms. I’m bored with strawberry etc. I’m thinking Black Forest Gateau flavour, or perhaps Pork & Pickle pie? Again, don’t underestimate a year’s supply, I am a floozie after all.

4) An application for my phone that will call back all the people who ring me at 3 or 4am, and will play Cliff Richard’s Greatest Hits at them very loudly. Ideally, I’d like it to call them back at three minute intervals for the rest of their lives.

5) World peace, obviously. Can you fit that in a stocking?

 

Lots of love,

Claire.

PS:  In case you don’t remember me, thirty years ago I was the one with the pigtails who woke up and caught you putting the presents at the bottom of my bed.

PPS: Has anyone ever told you, you look just like my mum?

 

Guess Who’s Back?

Published December 2, 2011 by Claire

I know, it’s been a while. I have no excuses, I simply ran out of things to say.

I also went through one of the most grumpy phases of my Entire Life. I mean, really grumpy. Like all those women off that programme rolled into one, with added arsiness for luck. I had nothing nice to say, not just here but anywhere. I avoided people, especially new clients , as I simply couldnt trust myself to be friendly!

But I’m back, and I’ll try to be nice. No really I will.

And I will have things to say – watch this space!

Changing Rooms

Published July 1, 2011 by Claire

I know, I know, I said I’d be better at blogging. In my defence, however, I have an excellent reason for my absence this time..

Some of my readers may recall that my daughter’s nickname is ‘Stig’, because of the dump she laughably calls her bedroom. At any given time this room might be knee deep in a disgusting mulch of pens, papers, laundry, plates, crisp packets, pencil sharpenings, make-up, hair paraphenalia.. you name it, it’s in there somewhere. The room usually looks like the pictures you see of Mumbai rubbish mountains.

But no more! For this week, Stig has been away on holiday and while the brat’s away, the mother gets busy.

Yes, Stig’s Dump now looks like the ‘after’ pictures on ‘Sixty Minute Makeover’ – although it took a darned sight more than sixty minutes to achieve this transformation. In fact, it’s taken me four days!

With a little help from TMBK, I’ve wallpapered (that bit was me, TMBK can’t be trusted to put wallpaper up. His chosen adhesive for any job is duct tape), painted, moved shelves, hung new curtains, taken off a door, made a curtain to replace it, and laid a new carpet. The carpet part wasn’t meant to be happening, but I accepted the help of my pal’s very enthusiastic boyfriend on the painting side of things and the old carpet somehow got more paint on it than the walls did. All of the above to a soundtrack of yelps, squawks and squeaks as I balanced precariously on an antique stepladder, borrowed along with the pal’s boyfriend.

“Even though I says it as shouldn’t”, as my old granny used to say, the room looks amazing. A beautiful room for a young lady. I’m cherishing a faint hope that Stig, who is due back from her jaunt today, will see it and a blinding realisation will hit her that as she is now growing up, she needs to keep her space tidy.

That could happen, right? Right? Please?