Dear men in nightclubs: stop being assholes. Sincerely, Kat.

And so, here it is: 2012.
I don't know about you, folks, but I didn't wake up as a new girl. Instead I woke up at 8am in an upright position on my friend's sofa and thought - "How long have I been awake? Why is there a bed on the floor? Where are Bethan and Louise?" Not a lot of time got spent on the thinking, I was pretty happy to climb into this makeshift bed for a few hours, because at 8am I was still drunk. My New Years Eve was spent in Northampton, with my friend's student house as base, and Northampton "clubs" as our destination.

I do not like clubs.
When I was 10 years old "clubs" had a different meaning to me (girl guides, swimming team, etc) and I still didn't like them. You may sit there and think "but you're a young, single girl who likes to drink and act in a completely obnoxious manner - why on earth would you not absolutely love clubs?"

Well for a start: the music, the girls, the guys, the prices... so everything. There are some things associated with clubs that I do like. I like getting ready (to an extent) and I like spending time with my friends.

Everyone you meet in a club is an absolute asshole. The girls all want free drinks, so they've dressed as much like a prospective rape victim as they possibly can. And the guys all want someone to fuck and it doesn't even matter who. Why would they waste breath on conversation when they can as easily say nothing and grope a woman? It's just as charming, right? Wrong. So wrong.

Last night some guy, who we'll call Dick, repeatedly pinched my bum. The first time I let it slide a bit, I probably politely told him to fuck off. He was less lucky the second time. I was drunk, but I'm pretty sure I slapped him, and I'm told that I then picked up a bottle and told him he really better leave me alone. I'd never have actually bottled the guy (I don't come from Brixton, for one) because even when I'm drunk I know it's best not to get a criminal record for GBH... even if it'd be totally justified.

Sometimes words are wasted on individuals like Dick. Instead of the vocal act of making small talk, he opted for the physical pinching act. And so, instead of the vocal act of explaining that women don't take too kindly to that kind of come-on, and "do you know that's harassment?" etc, I opted for the more physical act of slapping his big stupid face. Some people are too ignorant to understand words, but I'm hoping his sore face will teach him everything I could have explained.

Maybe I just shouldn't go to clubs, or maybe guys in clubs should stop being such complete freaks. I have never met a nice-seeming guy there, and if I have, I am pretty sure they were hiding some Rohypnol for later. The guys who I have met in clubs act like they're on night release from prison for rape-related-crimes. Please note, men, that there is NOTHING sexy about that.

And if I'm wrong about clubs - if these sex pests are actually the best boyfriend material I'll ever find, then I would rather die alone with several cats for company.

I believe that I can leave Jenna Marbles to wrap this up for me.

Realizing that it is time to 'clean up my act'

In a more formal social situation today, I was to discuss a shoe. A black Dr Martens boot for men, in fact, but that's not the point.
What I wanted to say is: "You need this shoe because let's face it, England's shit and it pisses it down all the time and you're going to get bloody soaked this winter."
What I actually said was: "You need this shoe because let's face it - England's .... (long awkward pause where I wonder if 'shit' is the only negative descriptive word I know) ... famed for bad weather and you're going to get .... (astounded that I made it so far without swearing) ... rather damp."

Later in the evening, when I got home, I looked at my Twitter feed. It appeared that maybe one of two Tweets would be clean, whereas the others featured a variety of foul words that I think it would be best not to repeat.
I read this Twitter feed, astounded and a bit ashamed, and thought to myself - "Blimey. Is this the impression I make on people who aren't lucky enough to have met me to my face? From Twitter, do I merely come across as a bad tempered little smoker who hasn't completed any formal English qualifications and picked up her vocabulary by watching bar brawls?"
Yes. Unfortunately, that is probably exactly how I might seem.

This is my dilemma: I like to swear. Just the same as how I like to smoke menthols, and I like to drink Old Rosie despite its dangerously deceitful alcohol percentage.
After I read a wonderful quote by Stephen Fry, I had always thought - yes! What a modern view on swearing. What a marvellous opinion. How very British to be swearing whenever one pleases. (Here is the quote for anyone who never saw it)

Swearing is a really important part of one's life. It would be impossible to imagine going through life without swearing and without enjoying swearing... There used to be mad, silly, prissy people who used to say swearing was a sign of a poor vocabulary -such utter nonsense. The people I know who swear the most tend to have the widest vocabularies and the kind of person who says swearing is a sign of a poor vocabulary usually have a pretty poor vocabulary themselves... The sort of twee person who thinks swearing is in any way a sign of a lack of education or a lack of verbal interest or -is just a fucking lunatic... I haven't met anybody who's truly shocked at swearing, really, they're only shocked on behalf of other people. Well, you know, that's preposterous... or they say 'it's not necessary'. As if that should stop one doing it! It's not necessary to have coloured socks, it's not necessary for this cushion to be here, but is anyone going to write in and say 'I was shocked to see that cushion there, it really wasn't necessary'? No, things not being necessary is what makes life interesting -the little extras in life.

At a time in my life where I need to make some moderately-sized changes, this might be an important one. In the days of social networking (and if you've read my previous blog you already know my feelings about that) I am less likely to meet a wonderful bloke and enjoy an Old Rosie in a pub garden together, than I am to meet said wonderful bloke, give him my name, only to have him search me on Twitter and think - "That girl needs to wash her mouth out with soap. Alone. Without my help."

And so as of this moment, please prepare to hear me use fabulously eccentric words and phrases like 'blimey', 'goodness', 'oh my', 'crikey', 'bar steward', 'mucking up'... (I'm getting lost now, does anyone have any inventive words?)