Oh boo. So we came second to last. Well that serves you right for putting all your eggs in one Engelbert Humperdinck. He act didn’t even have any props, no theme – that wasn’t a costume, just a suit. Slow, slow guitar. Yawn. Warbling and no slow dancers and pitiful downwards fireworks aren’t spectacular enough to get you that top deux points a pop!

Eurovision is definitely what the American show Glee is trying to create (except with auto-tuned teenage cyborgs) – it’s that sheer delight in music cheesiness! The novelty and the ecstasy; I mean you’re not going to see many spinning pizza ovens accompanied by traditionally dressed Russian grannies and a pounding Europop beat. Oh, you might wonder if you really need such a stage presence in your life. Well I do.

I don’t often pick up the Evening Standard. I pass piles of them every day. When I had a longer commute I would often get a copy to while away some of the time, but now I don’t feel the need. So it was with dismay that, flicking through one today, I realised I had chosen to read it on a day when it contained a few stories that pissed me off.

Trigger warning: eating disorders.

In a tiny comment piece, Sam Leith discusses Hollie Avil, the British triathlete who decided to quit the sport because of the huge stresses it was putting on her – including the development of an eating disorder. Her disorder was triggered in 2006, says Avil, after a coach (not hers), told her that, “You’ll need to start thinking about your weight if you want to run quick, Hollie.” 

The celebrity baby du jour is a girl. Everyone is after a little girl to share their love of heels with and will their designer wardrobe to when they are gone. This is assuming of course that the girl-child will be interested in heels and designer threads. In Closer magazine Victoria Beckham was reported to be warding off any tomboy behaviour from her daughter by enrolling her in ballet classes ASAP.

By this logic, I like to think of pregnant celebrities blasting their neat bellies with 70s disco and Kylie’s greatest hits ‘just to be on the safe side’. Because we all know gay men are experts on style.

It was Morrissey’s 53rd birthday this week. Because we like to be mad topical round here we have decided on a Smiths themed Friday 5. After writing letters to the NME and professing an undying love for The New York Dolls, Morrissey decided music was for him. His first band was The Nosebleeds but destiny came a-knocking in the form of a teenage Johnny Marr. The rest is Smiths history.

Taking pleasure in creating a smattering of controversy, Morrissey is pretty hard to pin down in spite of his lyrics. All we really know for sure about Morrissey is that he dabbles in pedantry, likes to leave notes on car windscreens and is a dedicated vegetarian. In fact many a middle-aged veggie, when pushed, will admit the decision to shun meat was inspired by Morrissey, just like Willy Russell’s character Raymond Marks in The Wrong Boy. 

We could have gone with vegetarian recipes, favourite flesh smells or other famous people who have taken a vow of celibacy (which, unlike chastity, simply means a vow to never marry – oh Moz you’re a sly one).  Instead we went with Morrissey tracks, which quickly descended into a Smiths tracks appreciation. Happy Birthday Morrissey...

Alain de Botton is now attempting to do what Feminism (though perhaps RadFem would not include themselves in this project) has been trying to do for years. Change the formula of porn. From the traditional ‘The plumber is here! Would you like a cup of tea…or something hotter?’ to something you have to work for.

Alain de Botton told the Guardian: “pornography, like alcohol and drugs, weakens our ability to endure the kinds of suffering that are necessary for us to direct our lives properly. In particular, it reduces our capacity to tolerate those two ambiguous goods, anxiety and boredom….The entire internet is in a sense pornographic, it is a deliverer of constant excitement which we have no innate capacity to resist, a system which leads us down paths many of which have nothing to do with our real needs.”

In a vague attempt to stop myself from being trolled by the Daily Mail I have taken to ignoring any of the Samantha Brick columns. The Mail’s handy habit of giving you more than the gist of the article in the headline helps me acknowledge that Brick hates French women-but-that’s-ok-because-they- hated-her first-and-they-are-immoral without the click of a button. I was also able to gauge that the incredibly mean spirited backlash regarding that column was beyond vindication for Brick. But I admit when a friend sent me a link to Brick’s celebration of her Trophy Wife status I had to click in spite of the informative headline: “Independence? A career? Who needs them! A husband who prizes your looks, not your mind is the key to a happy marriage.” Sorry. 

I have lived in the city. I have lived in the country. I have lived in a Belgian suburb and I can conclude that nobody wants to talk to anybody. Or rather; nobody wants to talk to their neighbours. Street parties can go forth and multiply because in real life I am not convinced anybody wants much to do with street parties beyond pocketing as much free cake as possible and making a swift exit. They certainly don’t want to talk to their neighbours, not with tell-tale cake crumbs around their pockets. So party shops, you can stop printing Union Jack napkins and publishing How-tos for street Diamond Jubilee street parties because we shan’t be taking part. 


Anyway, everybody already spoke to their neighbours in 2002, at the Golden Jubilee when it was easier to convince us a street party would be vintage and fun and twee. This is not because the general public hates the Queen, though frankly 3 Jubilees is greedy, but because they presume to hate their neighbours and there’s no telling how many people have touched that cucumber sandwich. 

If you live in the city, or even a village and don’t have a car (or a licence) you are probably grateful for the tube/trains/Busy Badger Bus service. This glow of gratitude can dim however, as you alight from the Busy Badger Bus after a long journey spent standing up against some stranger’s less than fresh armpit. Likewise the tube and even rail services can be iffy not just because of our dear service providers but the ever present problem of Other People. Here lies the main problem with public transport: anybody can take public transport. We, at Squeamish Bikini are familiar with commuter life and we have put together a small public transport etiquette guide, listing some of the pitfalls that make public transport such a challenge and some rules to try and stick by.  

Science. I like it (if this were a speech I’d put the note ‘pause for applause’ right here). I want science to have so much funding that laboratories can have rooms reminiscent of Scrooge McDuck’s money vault for scientists to take metallicky dips into during their breaks. It would mean more experiments could be conducted on the benefits of coffee and red wine consumption. It might speed up cures for various diseases and conditions. It might mean scientists could take the time to monitor how the results of their hard work are interpreted by journalists so we don’t have to see headlines such as “Is it Mr Wrong or Mr Right? A woman's hormones may make her delude herself over 'bad boys'.” If they can tear themselves away from swimming in the pool of money that is. 

Well, it seems it is no longer enough to just appear in the odd blockbuster, do an artsy indie film with a fake nose and win an Oscar for your times spent under hot lights with prosthetics melting off your face. Now if you want to be taken seriously as a proper celebrity you have to save a life. Mila Kunis will stop you from swallowing your tongue. Dustin Hoffman will dial 3 life-saving digits for you on your morning jog. Ryan Gosling goes further and will literally save you from being run over by a car. Literally. He will actually do that. The Squeamish team had a think and decided which celebrity they would like to save them…