b3ta.com user bolshevette
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I'm a (mature, fnarr) student and part-time button monkey. I get paid by the government to read books. I live in North London. When I grow up I want to be Caitlin Moran.



Here is me loving my new B3TA tshirt. Note: did not dye my hair ginger in homage to anyone.



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Best answers to questions:

» Helicopter Parents

C'mon Smudge..
*delurks*

I could tell stories that'd make you weep for my poor lost childhood about my parents' strict, protective nature, but I save them for "it's not fair" whingeing over Xmas dinner - they had a mid-life liberal renaissance and raised my younger siblings in a fashion so laid back they were practically horizontal.

Hell hath no fury like an oldest daughter watching her 15 year old sister skip in at 8am, straight from her boyfriend's house, having suffered years of being locked in her room for being one minute over the 11pm curfew. While my life was akin to Saffy from AbFab, she's living the rock-n-roll, fags-n-glamour existence of Patsy. Bitch.

But anyway. This is more a tale of dramatically unconcerned parenting, because it's more interesting. At the tender age of 14, being of sound mind (read: a raging hormonal mess) and unusually fast development, I found myself a wholly unsuitable boy - 17 (ooh, dangerous) and a school dropout. All the better to rebel against my sensible-shoes and 9pm-bedtimes upbringing.

Of course, within all of a week we were spending every spare minute in bed. Which was fine, because I'd convinced my mother I was doing "extra homework classes" to ensure I "followed her into Oxbridge". His parents never spoke a word to us in the house, and couldn't have given a fuck who I was. So one sunny afternoon we're at it like rabbits on Viagra in his bedroom, and being too hot for covers (oh those balmy Yorkshire summers.. erm..) we're naked on top of his sheets.

Then comes the knock at the door.

Christ, we think, we'd better grab some kind of covering material before someone sees us as god intended (and, potentially, phones the police given the age gap). We spend a futile couple of seconds pulling the same bit of blanket, that's wedged under his back, in different directions. Making odd eek-like noises. Perhaps we can rescue this with the aid of a few more seconds and a Argos Man United duvet cover.

But no. Not being a sensitive or particularly engaged mother, and so never realising why we're holed up in his room for hours a day making squeaky noises, his mother simply walks in. With their Jack Russell, whose yap would put Katie Price in a cat fight to shame. Curtains for us? As I'm trying to dissolve my chest into him in the clear hope his mother won't see my tits and realising it's way too late for my arse (yes, we'd for the first time decided to "give that weird girl on top thing a go".. bless), his mother reaches over the bed. To make it worse, said dog is barking like a car alarm and doing something that felt suspiciously like humping my boyfriend's naked, half-off-the-bed leg.


I'm literally scarlet, wondering what the fuck she's doing and when she's going to scream when she pipes up.

"Ooh Daz (for that was his name), where've you put them choccy biccies?"

Yes, after walking in on her only son heartily boffing his underage girlfriend, her only concern is her mission - find the biscuits.

Scrabbling round and finally finding the half empty packet of dark chocolate HobNobs on the windowsill whilst *reaching over our writhing naked sweaty flesh*, she turns on her heel and walks out. Saying loudly to the dog "Come on Smudge, let's leave these two lovers at it".

My first boyfriend's mum saw me naked. And shagging her son. Then, I wanted to die. Now, I love her, and aspire to be her (well, at least in her attitude to teenage sex). Click "I like this" if you want to hear what happened when my (then) Christian Conservative ma found out about all this...

No apologies for length, you should see what I have in my top drawer.
(Thu 10th Sep 2009, 20:38, More)

» Helicopter Parents

and then my mother knew...
I've been thinking all week about how to make this into funnies. It's not, it's just the most embarassing episode of my life so far and even writing about it is making me cringe. So apologies for lack of hummous.

My mother eventually found out about the wholly unsuitable boy (story) from my little sister. In hindsight, bit stupid to tell that motor-mouth about it, but I wanted to show off to someone.

Weirdly, hitting the roof didn't occur. Instead, I got the "i'm just disappointed" treatment, and dragged to the doctors the next day. Mummy didn't want to be GrandMummy just yet, so she set about procuring me the Pill. So far, so good, but for three points:

1. Anyone who's been on the Pill will know it's most effective when taken at around the same time each day. My mum took this advice, impressed upon me by the GP, rather to heart.

2. My mum is of the old-school who believe that every medicine is probably a bit dangerous and the effects of this can be cushioned by only taking drugs after a proper meal.

3. I've never eaten breakfast.

So 1 + 2 + 3 meant I had to toddle along to the school nurse's office every chuffing lunch time for two years. Past the rest of the school queuing for dinners down the same corridor.

Yes, my mother persuaded the school to dispense my hot-monkey-sex enabling tablet to me. Not only did the rest of my year assume I was the school bike (not so bad), they learnt quite how much of a "mummy's special soldier" I was too.

Might not sound so bad now, but imagine being a teenage girl. You're embarassed thinking of your own sex life, let alone knowing everyone else is thinking about it too.

To top it off my mother told this story to my first serious, living-together-n-all boyfriend when I was 21. Over dinner. Then asked him to administer my sexy-time hormones in future. Because I'm "a bit ditzy".
(Wed 16th Sep 2009, 13:02, More)

» IT Support

The telltale typo
Maybe this would have been better suited to the call centre question a while back, but never mind.

I work in "support" for a company who run websites on which you can make applications for stuff (for two more days, yippee). As you can imagine, applying for stuff makes people as mental as a barrel of screeching weasels. Completely batshit nuts.

In my very first week someone rang up to whinge they couldn't type in any of the fields on our site. Being new and keen, rather than laughing mockingly (inside) and asking them to get their internal IT to have a look, I asked them to go to Google, via typing in the address bar. No joy there either.

"Are you on a laptop?"

"No, I don't own anything that fancy, I'm not technical"

"Erm, this might be a silly question, but have you checked your keyboard is plugged in?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, I'm not technical"

"You keyboard, the thing you type with? It should be plugged in via a cable to the back of your PC".

"So you're saying your website has broken my computer?! I shall be taking this to the highest level of complaint!"

"Er, no, it's not possible for that to happen because of a website.."

etc, etc, ad nauseum. I eventually had her crawling around under her computer following the cable to see where it was going. She tried to plug it into the wall. That's as far as I got without briefly squeaking "you'll need IT to help you, I can't", corpsing and hanging up. I suspected it was some kind of first week hazing ritual until she actually made the complaint after all.

But the best support calls are the "I'm really angry at your service but actually I'm an idiot" ones. So satisfying when someone rude (usually the posh ones) finally realise they're dumb and you're excellent. Names and emails slightly changed to protect the deranged and over-privilieged, and my job.

The Telltale Typo, a play in one act

"Hello, bolshevette speaking, how can I help?"

"I'VE REGISTERED ON YOUR SITE TWICE AND STILL NEVER RECEIVED AN ACTIVATION EMAIL!!"

alarms bells - super posh angry person, sounds too much like my mum, attempt not to stutter

"Ok madam can I take the address please?"

"Why on earth do you need that?"

"So I can find your records and try to help".

"Fine, I suppose. It's [email protected]m"

*searches database*

*suppresses enormous wave of laughter*

"I'm sorry Madam, you'll need to register again, you've made a typographical error in your email address"

"That's certainly not the case. What do you have there for me?"

"It's under firstname dot BLACK POO at (famousstoutstereotypicallylovedbytheirish) dot com."

"Oh." *click*.

Reader, I nearly died. Come to think of it this could have fit just as well in the childish QOTW.

Apologies for length, but I've been here 18 months and it's eaten my life.
(Thu 24th Sep 2009, 13:41, More)

» Ouch!

Pea from the Doctors/Nurses/NHS whinge QOTW
Not my ouch, but anyway...

When I met my (wonderful, love of my life, should have told the story in the Flirting QOTW) boy all was well in bed. Better than well. Awesome. Except for one thing. I'm not an expert on the male anatomy, but you know the bit that's meant to be able to go back and forth? It just... didn't. Occasionally it would go back, but getting it to go forth again was difficult. Very difficult. And red. And sore.

Combined with my concern for my dearest beloved and the continuation of his sexing abilities, I didn't really fancy having to deal with blood and viscera should it ever happen to explode. This looked likely on occasion. So, after much cajoling I got him to go see the doctor.

Doctor's response? Bang, no sympathy, booking you in for a circumcision, put your trousers back on.

Cue much worrying (over Xmas) and anxiety and buying of DVDs for the inevitable week of housebound-ness (BattleStar Galactica SE1-4, watched it all in three weeks). The day rolls round. Had to wait a bit, but nothing you don't expect for the NHS, and annoyingly, they wouldn't let me in to wait with him or hear any of the post-op instructions. Did see older couples going in to day surgery together, perhaps they thought my youth meant I'd start stealing drugs and graffitying the screens.

So anyway, he comes limping out, looking a bit green, and we decide he'll get a taxi home while I walk, giving me the chance to pick up some painkillers - yup, they don't give you anything, even if you beg for morphine.

I get in the door about 10 minutes later to the worst thing I have ever seen.

I don't know if anyone here (barring doctors and nurses) has seen a newly circumcised penis before - even if you've had it done, you're told to leave it bandaged for 3 days so unless you're bizarrely fascinated by the sight of your own cock covered in blood, swollen to three times its girth, with stitches all around the head, I doubt many people will have witnessed this. It was horrendous.

The bandage, the amazing techno bandage we were told would last three days had come off in the taxi. The nurse hadn't taken the plastic off the side that sticks to the wadding. Tool. Luckily, he'd be skeptical enough about the three-day rule (as in "erm, how am I meant to piss?") to get them to give him spare kit, but we were still faced with the oozing, enormous (in a bad way) cock to deal with and no idea how to get the bandages to work.

Cue 10 minutes of practice which, if they were bad for me, must have been 40 times worse for him. Every touch is murder, and I'm mangling away with sticky bandages and tape. Didn't help he'd failed to trim his (luxuriant) pubes - ever accidentally anchored your penis to your body, tip facing up, by catching a pube in tape, then standing up? The force of gravity either rips the pube out or pulls the tape off. Either way, bonus pain to add to your experience.

I don't want to be too down on the NHS but the complete lack of advice and post-op support (phone line was always busy and didn't work weekends so we had to go to A&E when he popped a stitch, who were great) was just unnecessary. It would hardly cost any more to have provided us with a leaflet, let me ask some questions, and to put the fucking bandage on properly in the first place.

We call it the week of the Frankenpenis.
(Fri 30th Jul 2010, 14:29, More)

» Doctors, Nurses, Dentists and Hospitals

I'm not cleaning it up if it explodes
When I met my (wonderful, love of my life, should have told the story in the Flirting QOTW) boy all was well in bed. Better than well. Awesome. Except for one thing. I'm not an expert on the male anatomy, but you know the bit that's meant to go back and forth? It just... didn't. Occasionally it would go back, but getting it to go forth again was difficult. Very difficult. And red. And sore.

Combined with my concern for my dearest beloved and the continuation of his sexing abilities, I didn't really fancy having to deal with blood and viscera should it ever happen to explode. This looked likely on occasion. So, after much cajoling I got him to go see the doctor.

Doctor's response? Bang, no sympathy, booking you in for a circumcision, put your trousers back on.

Cue much worrying (over Xmas) and anxiety and buying of DVDs for the inevitable week of housebound-ness (BattleStar Galactica SE1-4, watched it all in three weeks). The day rolls round. Had to wait a bit, but nothing you don't expect for the NHS, and annoyingly, they wouldn't let me in to wait with him or hear any of the post-op instructions. Did see older couples going in to day surgery together, perhaps they thought my youth meant I'd start stealing drugs and graffitying the screens.

So anyway, he comes limping out, looking a bit green, and we decide he'll get a taxi home while I walk, giving me the chance to pick up some painkillers - yup, they don't give you anything, even if you beg for morphine.

I get in the door about 10 minutes later to the worst thing I have ever seen.

I don't know if anyone here (barring doctors and nurses) has seen a newly circumcised penis before - even if you've had it done, you're told to leave it bandaged for 3 days so unless you're bizarrely fascinated by the sight of your own cock covered in blood, swollen to three times its girth, with stitches all around the head like Frankstein, I doubt many people will have witnessed this. It was horrendous.

The bandage, the amazing techno bandage we were told would last three days had come off in the taxi. The reason? The nurse hadn't taken the plastic off the side that sticks to the wadding. Tool. Luckily, he'd be skeptical enough about the three-day rule (as in "erm, how am I meant to piss?") to get them to give him spare kit, but we were still faced with the oozing, enormous (in a bad way) cock to deal with and no idea how to get the bandages to work.

Cue 10 minutes of practice which, if they were bad for me, must have been 40 times worse for him. Every touch is murder, and I'm mangling away with sticky bandages and tape. Didn't help he'd failed to trim his (luxuriant) pubes - ever accidentally anchored your penis to your body, tip facing up, by catching a pube in tape, then standing up? The force of gravity either rips the pube out or pulls the tape off. Either way, bonus pain to add to your experience.

I don't want to be too down on the NHS but the complete lack of advice and post-op support (phone line was always busy and didn't work weekends so we had to go to A&E when he popped a stitch, who were great) was just unnecessary. It would hardly cost any more to have provided us with a leaflet, let me ask some questions, and to put the fucking bandage on properly in the first place.

We call it the week of the Frankenpenis.
(Fri 12th Mar 2010, 13:54, More)
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