Samantha Rea is a freelance journalist living in London. Her writing is a disarray of filth, feminism, poker and peccadilloes. She’s interviewed Bounty Hunters, Stars Wars actors and men who buy dirty underwear. She’s written about squirting, manspreading, beauty treatments for men's balls, and being a Playboy Bunny. She has an MSc from the London School of Economics and she’s happiest when she's sinking into a sofa with an Old Fashioned.
And so I feel for Kim Jong-un, who's also a fatty with no desire to do anything about it, except obliterate any mention of his fatness in the media. Apparently, North Korean officials have asked China to ban any references to him as "Kim Fatty the Third," a nickname so popular, it gets suggested by auto-complete on China's leading search engine, Baidu.
If supply creates demand, it seems likely that the advent of the Mansplaining Helpline will see a surge in reports of men unnecessarily explaining things to women. It will seem as if we have an epidemic! But is it really that bad and do we really need a helpline?
Last night, I spent 90 minutes in a blacked out room, with no idea what I was drinking. I was in a kind of cabin, like a 12 seater sauna, with men I'd never met before. Times can be tough as a freelance writer, and sometimes I do things I'm not proud of.
When it comes to sex, I'm very vanilla - I'm happiest in missionary. The closest I've come to apparatus, is when a boyfriend put ice-cubes in his mouth, for some x-rated Frozen fun. So when I arrive at London Fetish Weekend, I'm as out of place as Katie Hopkins at a body positivity workshop.
Instead of trying to "opt out" of being a woman, in order to avoid the worst bits, how about working towards a safer and more equal society for everyone - regardless of how they identify. Nobody can actually change sex, but what we can do is challenge the gender stereotypes, and break down the cultural constructions that leave women lying in the wet patch.
I'm not a fan of the current trend for men storming women's toilets. Quite a few have been at it lately, in response to the US "Bathroom Bill" which states that people should use the toilet designated for their biological sex.
Katie Price has been let down by <em>Loose Women</em> and the viewers who complained about her. I hope that ITV and Ofcom recognise the double standard inherent in the complaints and dismiss them, showing this up for what it is: slut-shaming snobbery.
Poor Ben - how can you burst the bubble of a man with chipmunk cheeks, who's grinning cheerfully in the manner of David Walliams, after swimming the English Channel. I suspect some envy is afoot, because technicalities aside, it probably <em>is</em> the "best selfie ever." It trumps anything ever taken in a toilet...
Anyone who's a vague acquaintance, thinks they can fast-track a response by slipping in the back door of social media. To some extent, they're right. Once I see a message I'll respond, because until I do, it'll hang over my weekend like the stench of spilt sardines.
I become a connoisseur, admiring a nice 90 degree angle and revering a really good spread. I'm so excited by the width between one man's knees, I actually fall into him, in my haste to claim the seat beside him. When I spot an empty seat between two spreaders, it makes my day. I couldn't be happier if I'd found £50 on the floor.
The dumping was done - obvs - by WhatsApp and included the line: "You are lovely, funny, smart and attractive, but not here." Attractive? I want to ask if he means incredibly beautiful but the dumping doesn't invite debate. It concludes: "I will of course respectfully delete all the fun on my phone and ask you do the same. Sorry."
The ramifications of dividing up toys, activities, colours and clothing according to gender, is that if children don't like the things they're "supposed to," they're treated as if there's something wrong with them.
Ever worked shifts, Camilla? Ever done over time 'til seven in the morning, then taken public transport home, attempted to sleep while Satan's arse spawn screamed outside your window, then headed back to work for another fifteen fun-packed hours?
We'd barely begun the main when Cliffo asked me if my breasts were real. My assets are as authentic as a BOGOF Ming vase in a Bangkok night market. My silicone is not a secret. But it was somewhat disconcerting to be asked about my breasts by a man I'd never met before.
Can you actually use a wriggling, crying baby as a piece of fitness equipment? And should you? They do a bit of sick on you at the best of times. It didn't seem like a brilliant idea to me, but I decided to find out.
12/08/2015 15:56 BST
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