Right then, Kraken-lovers. I have a nadge-worth of news for you. You have to prepare yourself though. Those of you who love me may have to be sedated while those of you who hate me may invert yourselves with joy. Ready? I’m scaling down my blog posts. That’s right, instead of hollering the word ‘fuck-nugget’ at t’web several times a week I’m now only going to do it as and when I feel enraged enough to stab at my keyboard like a meth-addled woodpecker.
Here’s why: I’ve opened my online shop Kraken Kreations and to cut a short story even shorter it’s taking up a shit load of my time, so much time that I’m now swearing at my sewing machine rather than the online world of cyber-knobs. You see, Kraken Kreations is the product of the hundreds of hours I spend in my sewing shed creating home and fashion accessories. It started as post-breakdown therapy and has now morphed into a teeny tiny business, one which I hope will pay enough to keep me supplied with rum. I reckon it’s my one stab at becoming a productive member of society again (a thought which made Conjugal Kraken strain his gusset with mirth). It may at last lead to my world domination or it may lead to me being repatriated into my local psychiatric unit. Watch, as they say, this space.
Course, The Kraken will live on and if you want to check out my products for the love of fuck do so. You’ll love ‘em, not least because I am now a one-woman campaign against the ditzy bloody print. Not only am I using fabrics so bright that they shit mercilessly over anything dainty and floral, but I’m using patterns that do actual damage to actual eyes. In other words, they are grown up designs for grown up people – mainly women – who are sick of being told that tampon bags should be discreet. I’m even sewing swear words on some of my goodies and am so open to commissions that my gynaecologist has broken into a sweat. Laptop cases, totes, toiletry bags, sky pockets, bunting, iPad cases, sports bags, stuffed birds, lightening bolts… whatever you want, just let me know.
Anyway, what was I saying? That’s it, The Kraken Wakes will now be The Kraken Dozes While Waking Occasionally When ITV Patronises Her. So when I do post from here on in it really should be worth the wait.
For the love of fuck, does Kirsty Allsop ever shut up? I ask because, like a foghorn from the darkness, she insists upon blarting her withered opinions across our cultural ocean with the regularity of an IBS sufferer who’s eaten a deep fried Mars Bar. And this time she has gone too far. No, not because she has resurrected her argument that that women find housework therapeutic or because she today announced that women should eschew university for childbearing. It’s because I’m a sewist for a living and, as the self-styled figurehead for the crafting masses, Allsop is making my career look like Martha Stewart’s stool water.
Let me explain. I’m about to open my online shop Kraken Kreations where I’ll sell my outrageously bright and wild geo-print accessories for the home. I’ve turned my sewing hobby into my sewing career in a one-woman campaign to bring an end to the ubiquitous and terminally offensive ditzy print. Believe me, if I wanted to surround myself with dainty flowers I’d find a flux capacitor and go live with Enid Blyton. The problem is that for me, and thousands of other women who make a living from a needle and thread, Kirsty Allsop has somehow finagled herself into the role of Chief Crafter and every time she announces that women should stay at home she’s tarring us with a brush formed from her patriarchal bristles. In one breath she’s telling the nation’s women to ditch degrees for dummies and in the next she’s giving crafting lectures to those of us who want to turn their hobbies into careers. Thanks to this dual role of hers, the distinction between the two groups is terrifyingly thin and every time Allsop claims to represent us women who have the vision to create businesses from hobbies it gets even thinner.
For the love of fuck, kraken-lovers, you know much I adore Facebook but there are times when I want to track down Mark Zuckerberg and tie him to stake forged from mousemats before driving sharpened chip forks through his scrotal delights. That’s because in recent weeks Facebook has been infected with one of those cyber postcards complete with vintage image and an alleged truism. Now there are some people who will no doubt claim that what I am about to rage over is “just a bit of fun”. Thing is, I’m laughing like roadkill as it takes its last breath because at the heart of this postcard is the reason why there’s a 19 per cent pay gap. That’s right, it’s the bilge that reads, “Your husband will always be your biggest and oldest child who needs the most adult supervision”.
Now, if you have put this on your own timeline and also consider yourself a friend of mine I’ll be optimistic and assume that you’ve perpetrated this heinous act with a sense of humour/ irony/ sarcasm because you are inherently understand why it is the verbal equivalent of chaining women to a family sized bottle of Domestos. However, if you don’t fall into that category and have posted this card seriously, with an indulgent giggle while patting your husband on the knee, this would be a good time to step away from the blog because I am about to take you down. And when I say down, I don’t ever really intend for you to get back up again.
Here’s a first for The Kraken. Instead of being enraged to the point of exuding through my pores boiling spleen juice, today I am mostly heartsore. I know, I know. Who’d have thunk. You see, I had a bit of a lock down on blogging last week but when I surfaced on Thursday I found myself greeted with a nugget of such distressing offensiveness that I almost hunted down Tim Berners- Lee himself. I could leave you guessing about this t’web turd but I’m too sick to the stomach to bother. Yup, it’s another article by Natasha Devon and this time it’s a lumpen mound of an opinion piece claiming that feminists thrive on being victims.
No, I have not plucked those words out of a tombola spun by a crack-addicted spaniel, much like Devon seems to have done in the paper on 15 May. You can read the entire thing here but if you want to retain your dignity while divesting yourself of the notion that Devon cares about female equality, here’s the upshot: Devon starts by saying the has rarely encountered misogyny and that the men in her life are all about gender equality; she considers herself a feminist but “struggles to comprehend” women wanting to be rid of page 3 and lads’ mags; harmless acts of wolf whistling are now being labelled as ‘rapey’; that opposition to Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines is based on the misguided notion that all men “know women want it”; that feminists make assumptions about what men are thinking; that feminists use the word ‘misogynist’ too often and easily; that The Everyday Sexism Project is great but excludes men; in 2014 Britain women can get any job they want and get paid the same as men; feminism teaches women to be victims and men to be villains; feminists need to give men more credibility. Feel free to read that lot again and compare it to the original article because the last time I wrote about Devon she told me I’d taken her words out of context. From where I stand, though, the only contextual problem is that Devon is writing about a world in which few other women actually exist.
If you are any sort of long term reader of this blog, you’ll have guessed by now that I’m a kraken of the Welsh variety. I know, I know, what can I say? I’m living the dream kraken lovers, I’m living the dream. The only problem is that being born in Wales carries with it a burden of such weight that it’s like carrying the entire city of Atlantis around on my bloody shoulders. That’s because as much as I love my heritage there is a shit load of it that I’m apparently duty bound to cling to even though it’s hackneyed and clichéd and sucked dry of enjoyment simply because it’s been rammed down my throat from the moment of my birth. And it’s your lucky day, kraken lovers, because I am going to list these cultural boulders for you. Ready?
Dylan Thomas: Look, I can appreciate that the globally renown piss-artist of a poet was important in the world of, well, poetry but I find him as unfathomable as the Marianas trench. Perhaps it’s because he was incapable of writing so much as a fucking shopping list without imbuing it with the sort of earnest weight usually reserved for funereal eulogies. Or perhaps it’s because even when I have tried hard to read his outpourings I’ve switched off after approximately three sentences because boredom overwhelms me. Or perhaps it’s because, as a Welsh woman, loving him is now so expected of me that I turn to Larkin and Hughes as an act of rebellion. Fuck knows, Pam Ayres would be an improvement. Seriously, it’s no wonder Thomas was a bloody drunk. Ten minutes of his overblown droning makes me want to poison my liver as well.