You Can't Choose Your Parents...

I was summoned to lunch today by my mother. It happens once a month, usually scheduled to coincide with one of her shopping marathons. It's never a pleasant experience.

I'm sitting at a table in Harvey Nichols' top floor restaurant, idly picking at my fingernails because she's late, as ever, when I hear a voice trill, Sara! There you are!, like she's the one who's been waiting for me for the past half hour.

I look up from my scrutiny of my ragged cuticles and there she is, my mother, a vision in Jaegar, trotting over to me with the usual half-crazed look of elation in her eye following a morning of heavy Amex abuse. She puts down her shopping bags with the sort of care other people reserve for new-born babies, and goes, oh Sara! I can't tell you how exhausted I am! I have had such a hectic day! Then she air kisses me - keeping her make-up immaculate is one of my mother's primary concerns - and treats me to her infamous once-over. I'm obviously looking as disreputable as I normally do, because she purses her lips and goes, oh Sara, you could be such a pretty girl if only you tried a bit harder. Look at you! Shakes her immaculate highlighted bob, sighs, what kind of outfit do you call that?

I go, hi Mum.

My mother shakes her head with regret. Oh Sara, she says, a wealth of misery sounded with each syllable, as I've told you before, you are travelling on a one-way ticket to Nowhere Fast.

I'm like, oh God, here we go.

The great tragedy in my mother's life isn't my father leaving her for a younger, blonder and more malleable version (after all, my mother got the house and a whacking great divorce settlement, plus she doesn't have to put up with a man around making the house untidy anymore, kind of a win-win situation for her), the great tragedy is having me as her daughter. I am the complete opposite of what she had hoped for. The kind of daughter my mother dreams of is sweet, presentable, conventional, has tidy hair, and can make polite chit-chat at parties without getting drunk, offending anyone or being discovered half-naked in the downstairs loo with the vicar's nephew. To say that I am a major disapointment to her is an understatement.

So Sara, my mother ventures, toying with her (undressed) salad, what have you been up to? I'm like, oh you know, nothing much, same as usual. Are you still working at that ...club? she asks, the last word spoken as if she's just discovered something unhygenic on the sole of her shoe. I'm like, uhuh. Oh Sara, she says, you know I'd be more than happy to pay for you to do some kind of course, secretarial, maybe? Or maybe a nice cookery course? Prue Leith is very good. I make a non-commital grunt and she looks at me sharply. Surely you don't like working in that place? I mean, really Sara, it's hardly the kind of job with prospects, is it? Or the kind of place where you could meet a suitable man?

I groan. My mother is desperate to marry me off. I suspect that she thinks that I'm going through a special stage, a little rebellion that maybe has gone on a bit longer than is usual but that it will end as soon as she can wish me down the aisle. Obviously, marriage to a suitable man (definition of suitable: rich and halfwitted) will turn me into a shiny-haired, grinning fool with a censored vocabulary and sterilised mind. Ha! Fat chance, mommy dearest.

Considering my gene pool, it is possible that I am a complete and utter miracle.

Why Is It That When Shit Happens... Part Two

Thursday nights at the club are pretty dull. It’s hardcore night and the punters love it, which means they’re dancing not drinking. I usually spend a lot of time examining my fingernails and re-arranging the spirits bottles lined up along the back shelf of the bar. And since Don had found and appropriated my stash, I didn't even have the occasional trip to the loo to look forward to. Talk about being in dire need of a diversion.

I was so bored I almost felt grateful when Don and his posse turned up. Don is the owner of the joint and the only person alive who doesn’t get the full-on nasty treatment from the Fat Bastard. F.B. Mike knows which side his loaf of bread is buttered; you can guarantee that as soon as Don walks through the door Mike’s nose will be rammed so far up his arse as to necessitate surgical removal.

Don was checking me out from the moment he swaggered in; why I’m not sure as that night I looked like something the cat threw up. I went over to deliver yet another bottle of cut-price bubbly and before I knew it I was on his knee with his hands clamped firmly around my waist. Fortunately Don has the attention span of a two-year-old so I knew that as soon as a girl with a more flesh on show than me walked past I’ll be free, so I just resigned myself to the unpleasant experience and tried to avoid smelling Don's breath.

Don's like, looking even more gorgeous than usual, Sara. Why don’t you sit down and join us? I'm like, do I have a choice here? Don goes, no, what Don wants Don gets. I'm like, uhuh, is that right? He's like, sure is. Arse, I thought, but I drank up, my smile getting weaker by the second as Don attempted to look soulfully into my eyes. Seconds later a shiny blonde goddess in a tiny gold mini-dress wiggled her way past the table and I found myself on the floor. Lucky for me he's such a slag.

Don and his table were still in full-on party mode by the time the club closed. I was totally looking forward to getting home; no after-hours partying for me, I've been pushing it a bit lately and needed some r&r. I closed down my bar fast and headed over to the cloakroom to collect my stuff, stopping for a quick chat with Tara the cloakroom girl, a candidate for Prozac if I’ve ever seen one. Then I made for the loo.

The first thing I saw when I opened the door was Don’s hairy buttocks pumping into the shiny blonde goddess. I made a mental note to tell the cleaner to do an especially thorough job tomorrow and turned to go but I wasn’t fast enough. Don caught sight of me in the mirror. Sara! he goes, get your kit off and get stuck in! - the goddess giving me evils from her perch on the sink, Don looking more eager than I've ever seen him. I'm like, euwww, trying to tear my eyes away from the purple erection pointing at me, thinking, oh my God, this is the stuff of nightmares.

Don starts bellowing, don't be shy Sara, rumour has it you're no stranger to cock! I'm like, yeah, sorry Don, no can do, I've got a serious case of crabs. Doctor says I'm off fun and games for at least a month. Don's face falls and he starts to wilt. Anyway, I go, sorry to disturb you, I'd better be off. Then I got the hell out of there.

Working in a club really sucks sometimes.

Maybe it’s time I got a new job.

Why is it that when shit happens, it never arrives alone?: Part One

I've had a really shit night.

A really shit night. It was one of those nights destined to be shit. And the shit just kept on coming.

First of all, Helen and I got totally stoned yesterday afternoon. Not giggly stoned -zombie stoned. The kind of stoned where you just sit, because any more effort than sitting is impossible. So we just sat and stared at each other, and the walls, and the carpet, and occasionally, when we could summon up a spark of energy, we sat and stared at the telly.

At some point I managed to drag my eyes to my watch, and I'm like, oh fuck, I've got to be at work in twenty minutes and I'm still wearing my pyjamas.

By the time I'd managed to leave the house looking half-decent I was hideously late and I knew that Fat Bastard Mike was going to take huge amounts of pleasure in giving me a mega-bollocking. I was in for a real Mike Special. Imagine - banging headache, numbed brain, bad hair, raging PMS and the Fear Of Mike in me. I was not a happy unit.

The bus took as long as possible - old ladies paying for their bus tickets with two pence coins, the bus stopping to eject a pissed-up hoodie, and all the other crap that only happens when you're late for something important. I raced to the club, praying for Mike to have come down with a bad case of anything serious enough to prevent him from dragging his lardy arse into work tonight. As usual, my prayers went unanswered. I ran slap bang into Mike as soon as I got through the door. I swear he must have been lurking there, just waiting for me to arrive.

I got the hairy eyeball and a growled, where the fuck have you been? I'm like, sorry Mike, bus took ages, really sorry, won't happen again, I promise. And he's like, smirking, oh yeah? You're always fucking late so don't fucking start throwing bullshit at me. I'm like, sorry Mike, really sorry. I was about to turn to go down the stairs when Mike digs in his pocket and pulls out a baggie. As soon as I saw it my stomach started churning.

And another thing, he goes, this wouldn't happen to be yours would it? No Mike, I go, of course not, never seen it before. He's like, oh yeah? Then what the fuck was it doing hidden behind the Moet on your bar then? I'm like, face all innocent, I don't know Mike, I've never seen it before, I don't do that shit. He laughs his head off, oh yeah? I wasn't fucking born yesterday. Don't fuck with me, Sara, he goes, there's plenty of others ready to take your job, so don't fuck with me. You mess with me one more time and you're out on your arse, alright? I go, yeah Mike, as meek as I can, sorry Mike. And he goes, so what are you fucking waiting for? Fuck off downstairs and get to fucking work! So I fucked off downstairs to get to fucking work. And that's when it all really started going wrong.

That's part one. Part two comes later.

Beauty And The Beast

Nadia is an old friend of mine in the grip of a dangerous addiction. No, not drugs, alcohol, shopping, gambling, or any of the usual stuff that most of the people I know suffer from; Nadia only ever dates ugly men.

Now, before you all start posting in a frenzy, going God, Sara, you're so shallow and it's what's on the inside that counts, yada yada - just wait a minute and hear me out. This is not a cheap pop at people who have had the misfortune to have been hit with the ugly stick, so bear with me. There is a point.

Nadia is drop-dead gorgeous, kick-ass funny, scarily intelligent and inexplicably solvent. In fact, is she wasn't my friend, I'd probably hate her. She's perfect, such a shining example of womanhood that she's practically a goddess. She could take her pick. So why is it that Nadia can always be relied upon to leave a party with the worst-looking guy in the room?

One night Nadia turns up at one of our usual haunts with her latest conquest in tow. I'm like, wow, Nadia, you've really outdone yourself this time. She smiles and goes, yeah, I'm so happy. Isn't he just the cutest? I take another look to make sure I didn't miss anything on my first double-take, and I'm like, um, no. I mean, I don't want to offend you, but he's not exactly a looker, is he? Nadia looks over at her latest squeeze, purses her lips, and goes, I guess not. I go, so tell me, what's so great about him? Is he fantastic in bed? Nadia looks a bit coy and says, he's not bad. OK, I go, so has he got an amazing personality? She's like, well, I suppose he's quite funny. I go, so he's a millionaire or something, right? She shakes her head, not at all, I earn more than he does.

I've just about exhausted all the possibilities when Nadia turns to me and says, don't you get it, Sara? Ugly guys try so much harder. Think about it, she says, your average good-looking guy has to shoulder the weight of a huge ego. They're more concerned about themselves than about making you happy. And most good looking guys have so many girls throwing themselves at them it's more temptation than they can cope with. And who can be bothered with that?

She gets all dreamy and goes, ugly guys make me feel great.

I'm stunned.I mean, think about it. If Nadia needs a guy to make her feel good about herself, what hope is there for the rest of us mere mortals in the self-esteem stakes?

The Definition Of A Backhanded Compliment

Helen and I were lounging about watching Trisha this morning when she turns to me and goes, Sara, you know what your problem is? You're a feminist trapped in the body of Jessica Rabbit, but you're harbouring the sad delusion that we live in a post-feminist world.

I'm like, huh?

I think that maybe Helen is taking her Cultural Studies degree a bit too seriously.

Why are men psychotic?

Here's the background: I don't do relationships. All that cozy couple shit makes me feel queasy. B&Q Sundays and his ‘n’ hers bathrobes? It just isn't for me. I mean, I can just about cope with breakfast in bed the morning after the night before.

Yeah, the first part of a relationship, the falling in love, in lust, when you just can’t wait to lay eyes on the object of your desire, rip their clothes off, suck the sweat from their face and call it nectar, beg them to take you every which way right now wherever you are because you just have to have them inside you, that rocks. That’s great. An impeccable instant high. For as long as it lasts.

Anyway, I might not subscribe to the myth that a girl’s life is incomplete without a man to call your own but it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’ve sealed up the tunnel of love and declared my body a cock free zone; I love sex, every single sweaty inch of it. This is as good as it gets; sex minus the emotional harrassment. You’d think guys would dig this. You’d think it would be the fodder of a thousand fantasies; a girl who wants a guy for his cock and isn’t bothered about all the other stuff. But men are nothing more than me, me, me, self-obsessed, oversized, contrary toddlers.

Jimmy. The perfect example. The definitive case study.

I’d seen Jimmy around, propping up the Clerkenwell bars, a tall dark silent streak with trouble in his eyes. Sexy as Hell. I couldn't resist, so one night, feeling an itch I couldn't scratch on my own, I invited myself back to his place. The next morning I left Jimmy snoring gently, sleeping like a baby under his musty duvet. I didn’t think too much about the whole interlude. It was just another night indulging in my favorite exercise alternative, much more satisfying than getting sweaty at the gym.

The next time I go out, there’s Jimmy, eyeballing me like he’s just stumbled across an oasis after an unplanned thirty-mile desert stroll. He’s all over me like a rash, putting his arm around me, nuzzling my neck, introducing me to his friends who slip casual comments in that Jimmy must have it bad, he’s been talking about me all week. Alarm bells start clanging in my head so I make my excuses and get the fuck out. The next day Jimmy’s on the phone in a pout, grumbling about me doing a wham, bam, thank you my man, saying he’s heard about my reputation, telling me I’m a slag. Like he’s as pure as the driven snow. Christ on a bike. Talk about role reversal.

That was over a month ago and Jimmy’s still hanging round like a bad smell. I just can’t figure it out. I mean, I'm enthusiastic but I’m no screaming porn star. I’m foxy but I’m no supermodel. I wouldn’t exactly put myself in the Angelina Jolie category, but Jimmy’s not the first to lay this crap on me. What’s the big deal?

My only explanation is that men are psychotic. If they can’t have it then they just want it all the more. But if you’re into them, if you show them some honey, they’re like, yeah well, so she’s crazy about me. That means I’m a stud, I’m the bollocks, I am King Dong, so I need to get out there amongst the desperate hordes and spread my own personal brand of joy.

But show them that you don’t give a toss, like, yeah whatever, and you're elevated to godess status. It’s easier to persuade a shark with his teeth sunk in your midriff that vegetarianism is the way to go than to get a cunt-struck testosterone-zoned male to leave you alone.

So in the love/lust zone, instant throw-away gratification is the route I choose. It's the only answer.

Life's too short not to fuck around.

Why be a corporate whore when the perks are so much better elsewhere?

Ugh. Sunday morning. Possibly the most horrible hours of the week.

Unless of course you spend most of your waking hours stuck in an open-plan office pod, in which case the whole of Monday is a major disaster zone, without question.

I've never been able to do the office thing. I have tried, I mean, I'm not dissing it without some prior knowledge of the situation. Admittedly, my knowledge of office-bound wage-slavery isn't based on years of the torture - I managed two days and three hours before I packed up my stuff and ran out of there with a smile on my face and relief in my heart. But that was enough for me to be able to say, without any hesitation whatsoever, that the mere thought of being confined to an office during daylight hours for the rest of forever makes me itch.

The corporate world doesn’t fool me. I can’t toe the sort of line that puts money in the bank and sucks away your freedom, giving it back to you in little taster parcels they call ‘holiday’ as if that’s supposed to keep you afloat and relatively sane from here to retirement. I might never be able to boast at parties about what a big swinging dick I am in the field of corporate banking, or chicken-feed wholesale, or Tupperware parties, or whatever, but at least my mind is free, free from flipping through hoops of advancement, promotion, promises, free from being assaulted with the lies that it means any more than jack-shit at the end of it all. At least I have my integrity. Nobody is going to suck me into the career brainwashing maelstrom. I'd rather sign up with the Hari Krishnas. Or the Moonies. Or even the Scientologists. Yeah, my feelings about it are that intense.

I guess you could argue that I'm still a wage-slave working at the club. But it's different. There are no promises. All I'm expected to do is turn up, serve the punters, smile a bit, refrain from insulting any of the DJs or members of their entourage and then, when all the punters have been booted out and I've handed over the takings on my till to Fat Bastard (more on him some other time), I'm free to go home or, as is more often the case, to party. Nice and simple.

And this kind of job has some attractive perks. I don't mean that I get a pension and a season ticket loan (get real, like that kind of shit makes me salivate). I get a much better deal; I haven't queued or paid entry at a London club for the past two years, I get major discounts on my supplies of good-time candy, and I have a ready stock of Alpha males in lust with the barmaid vibe. Plus, I get to sleep all day if I want to and I never have to button myself into a suit. Not too bad, huh?

I kind of like my life.

What's Up, Doc?

I was sixteen when my Mother watched a documentary about teenage tearaways, freaked out big time with The Mommy Fear, and threw me into a year of couch sessions. I guess it must be kind of scary to envisage your only child being destined for a life as a trick-turning crack-whore. But then, my mother always has been a bit of a drama queen.

So, my mother leafs through the Yellow Pages and next thing I know, I'm signed up from here to infinity for weekly sessions of psychological torture. And it was torture. I had to sit in a stuffy, smelly little room every week for fifty endless minutes with a fuzzy-haired stranger regarding me impassively from behind her wire-rimmed glasses and occasionally muttering, well Sara, how do you feel about that?

I just didn't know what to say. I had nothing to say. Not a sausage. I mean, this therapist was an expert in teenage trauma and I was about as far from traumatised as you can get. So after a few weeks of painful silence - weeks of nothing but the clock ticking, feet tapping and the occasional heavy sigh from me - I got bored of trying to stare my therapist out and started to make stuff up. I had to entertain myself somehow and it sure wasn't going to happen unless I was the one to make the effort. So I borrowed a copy of Freud from the library and started conjuring up elaborate dreams packed full to bursting with phallic symbols. My dreams featured an alarming array of pillars, posts, mountains, fighter jets, rockets, swords, guns, baguettes, postboxes, pens, and even, to spice things up a bit one day when I sensed that my therapist's attentions were starting to wane, a giant florescent pink dildo with wings trying to attack my mother.

My therapist's verdict? I have penis envy.

I mean, duh! Thanks for nothing. I could have told myself that for free. What woman wouldn't love to have a cock all of their very own for a day? I mean, think about it - the possibilities are fascinating.

But maybe that's a topic for another time.