“When I interviewed Billy Corgan from the Smashing Pumpkins, I had interviewed Courtney Love a couple of months before and she said he was really good in bed. And so I said to him ‘are you really good in bed Billy Corgan?’. And he just looked at me and said ‘if Courtney says I am, I must be’. And he looked at me, and at that moment, and I’d never fancied him before, I knew that he was probably the most incredible fuck you’d ever meet. He just had that look in his eye. I got so flustered at suddenly realising that Billy Corgan was an amazing lay I went bright red, didn’t say anything for about 45 seconds, which, when you’re listening back to it on tape, is a fucking long time and then blurted out ‘Do you know who you look like? Mooncat! It’s a character from a 1970s tv show!’ He’s there staring at me like ‘what the fuck’s this bitch on about?’. I literally had to wrap up the interview and leave. I was totally thrown.”—
Caitlin Moran interviewing Billy Corgan aka Mooncat.
“Oh God, I saw her just before Christmas and we got absolutely wankered. She played me the whole of the new album. So I heard Born This Way for the first time and it was just her in a bra and knickers, jumping up and down screaming it in my face. By the time she got to the end of the album I was a) not only convinced that she had written Hair about me, because she kept pointing at my hair and I was thinking ‘last time you met me my hair was so inspirational that you’ve written a fucking song about my hair’, which is amazing, but I was also so drunk that I’d started to think that she fancied me and that maybe something would happen. Next time I’m with her I need to not drink quite so much whiskey, I think? But yeah, we’re working on something now.”—Caitlin Moran on Gaga.
“When I had two children I had a couple of evil gay friends that would say the most revolting things about the whole idea of reproduction, vaginas and stuff. To be honest, I did bring a lot of things on my self, like when we went to a party once and everyone was doing their party tricks, I did my party trick, which was to squirt my breast milk across the beautifully converted warehouse we were in at the time. The gays didn’t like that, particularly when I accidentally hit one of them in the face with milk; he was really quite unhappy about that. So, I’ve brought a lot of it on my self. I can see why they were horrified.”—Caitlin Moran interviewed by The Gay Times about misogyny.
How on earth are you going to go about thanking every body on Twitter?
Have you not seen my Twitter feed? It’s just full of the repeated phrase ‘Oh thanks, darling. Xxxx’. I might narrow it down to just ‘xxx’ and then just ‘x’ when I start getting repetitive strain injury. I’m doing my best; I like the people who buy my stuff. Someone was asking me yesterday, as so many have been responding to it on Twitter, and a friend of mine who loves Lady Gaga as much as I do, was asking if I was going to give my fans a nickname in the style of ‘Little Monsters’. Given that so many people have responded to the masturbation chapters, I may start calling them the ‘little wankers’. [Laughs] Then I can start saying how much I love my ‘little wankers’ all the time and raising my paws.
“So when women fret over what to wear in the morning, it’s not because we want to be an international style icon. We’re not trying to be Victoria Beckham- not least because there’s an absolutely gigantic pile of toast downstairs with our name on it, and we’ve cracked a smile in the last fortnight.”—Caitlin Moran, How To Be A Woman (via utiliser)
Lying in a hammock, gently finger-combing your Wookiee whilst staring up at the sky is one of the great pleasures of adulthood. By the end of a grooming session, your little minge-fro should be even, and bouffy – you can gently bounce the palm of your hand off it, as if it were a tiny hair trampoline.
Walking around a room, undressed, in front of appreciative eyes, the reflection in the mirror shows the right thing: a handful of darkness between your legs, something you refuse to hurt. Half animal, half secret – something to be approached with a measure of reverence, rather than just made to lie there, while cocks are chucked at it like the penultimate game on It’s A Knockout.
And on proper spa days, you can pop a bit of conditioner on it, and enjoy the subsequent cashmere softness, safe in the knowledge that you have not only reclaimed a stretch of feminism that had got lost under the roiling Sea of Bullshit, but will also, over your lifetime, save enough money from not waxing to bugger off to Finland, and watch the Aurora Borealis from a five-star hotel whilst shit-faced on vintage brandy.
So yeah. Keep it trimmed, keep it neat, but keep it what it’s supposed to be: an old-skool, born to rule, hot, right, grown woman’s muff.
”—Caitlin Moran, listing the great deal of pleasure to be had in a proper furry muff, in How To Be a Woman. (via anqiw)
“I get home, and cry on the doorstep. It’s honestly too crowded to cry in the house. I’ve tried crying in the house before – you explain why you’re crying to one person between the sobs, and then you’re only halfway through before someone else comes in, and needs to hear the story from the top again, and before you know it, you’ve told the worst bit six times, and wound yourself up into such an hysterical state you have hiccups for the rest of the afternoon.”—Caitlin Moran
“For when we talk about people having to leave a town or a city, what we’re really asking them to do is leave their whole lives and make another one. And the people being asked to do this – ill; poor; with children settled in schools – are the ones least fitted to it. This isn’t like asking a generation of boisterous young fellow-me-lads to up sticks and seek their jolly fortunes elsewhere. This is herding the shamblers and the scared through the streets – and then shutting the city gates on them. Tiny little rooted lives, sliced through with a spade. A whole country changed, with a single shiver – circles radiating out from Westminster.”—Caitlin Moran, on the cuts to disability housing benefit (via breadforsong)
“And do not think you shouldn’t be standing on that chair, shouting ‘I AM A FEMINIST’ if you are a boy. A male feminist is one of the most glorious end-products of evolution. A male feminist should ABSOLUTELY be on the chair - so we ladies may all toast you, in champagne, before coveting your body wildly.”—Caitlin Moran (via alysinw0nderland)
“These days, in a world where adolescents get all their sex education from pornography, Adam may have named the animals, but Ron Jeremy names the vaginas. As one might expect, when one leaves the choice of words to porn stars who are improvising the dialogue during a double-penetration scene, not much thought, delicacy or aesthetic goes into it. As a result, there is a whole generation of girls growing up whose ‘go to’ phrase for their genitalia is ‘pussy’. Personally I dislike ‘pussy’. I’ve heard ‘pussy referred to in the third person too many times in porn films for it to seem like a joyful or fun word. ‘Your pussy likes that, doesn’t it?’ ‘Shall I give this to your pussy?’ It’s got all that unpleasant physical-disconnect bullshit - women separated from their vaginas - that I find un-hot in bad pornography, PLUS gives the constant, unsettling impression that the gentlemen might actually be referring to the woman’s cat, which is sitting just out of camera shot, glaring balefully. One day, I think, idly, all the cats who are watching porn being made will rise up, revolted by all the uncouth dialogue ostensibly being aimed at them, wander onto set, and ostentatiously vomit up a hairball in the middle of some bumming. But, let’s be honest, ‘pussy’ is the least of it. There is a panoply of slang words that are, in their ways, just as truly awful as ‘vagina’. Let’s bullet point! Your Sex: sounds like a pre-emptive attempt to shift blame.
Hole: a bad thing that can happen to stockings or tights. My Johnnylulu is a GOOD thing that happens to stockings and tights.
Honeypot: inference of imminent presence of bees.
Twat: an unpleasant melange of cow-pat, stupidity and punching. No.
Bush: the band of the same name are tiresome. The vegetation has spiders in. No.
Vag: sounds like the name of a busybody battleaxe, a la ‘Barb’ and ‘Val’. Suggestion also of chain smoking Rothmans, and borderline addiction to bingo. No.
On the other hand, ones I do like:
Minge: sounds a bit like a slightly put-upon cat. Sometimes mine feels like that.
Foof: pampered, slightly ridiculous French poodle.
The Saarlac Pit: endless resonance, not least because, however much it wants Han Solo inside it, it never quite gets him.
Of course, once you start with the silly names for your number one vestibule, there’s no real reason to stop.
‘It’s all going off at West Midlands Safari Park and Zoo,’ I will say, ruefully, sitting on the toiler during an attack of cystitis. ‘The tree has been struck by lightning in Tom’s Midnight Garden.’
On other, happier days, one can comment that, ‘The mist is really rolling in on the Mull of Kintyre tonight.’”—
But, of course, you might be asking yourself, ‘Am I a feminist? I might not be. I don’t know! I still don’t know what it is! I’m too knackered and confused to work it out. That curtain pole really still isn’t up. I don’t have time to work out if I am a women’s libber! There seems to be a lot to it. WHAT DOES IT MEAN?’
So here is the quick way of working out if you’re a feminist. Put your hand in your pants.
a) Do you have a vagina? and
b) Do you want to be in charge of it?
If you said ‘yes’ to both, then congratulations! You’re a feminist.
Because we need to reclaim the word ‘feminism’. We need the word ‘feminism’ back real bad. When statistics come in saying that only 29 per cent of American women would describe themselves as feminist - and only 42 per cent of British women - I used to think, What do you think feminism IS, ladies? What part of ‘liberation for women’ is not for you? Is it freedom to vote? The right not to be owned by the man you marry? The campaign for equal pay? ‘Vogue’, by Madonna? Jeans? Did all that good shit GET ON YOUR NERVES? Or were you just DRUNK AT THE TIME OF SURVEY?
These days, however, I am much calmer - since I realised that it’s technically impossible for a woman to argue against feminism. Without feminism, you wouldn’t be allowed to have a debate on a woman’s place in society. You’d be too busy giving birth on the kitchen floor - biting down on a wooden spoon, so as not to disturb the men’s card game - before going back to quick-liming the dunny.
“And if a woman should say she doesn’t want to have children at all, the world is apt to go decidedly peculiar: ‘Ooooh, don’t speak too soon,’ it will say - as if knowing whether or not you’re the kind of person who desires to make a whole other human being in your guts, out of sex and food, then have the rest of your life revolve around its welfare, is a breezy, ‘Hey - whevs’ decision. Like electing to have a picnic on an unexpectedly sunny day or changing the background picture on your desktop. ‘When you meet the right man, you’ll change your mind, dear,’ the world will say, with an odd, aggressive smugness.”—Caitlin Moran, How to Be a Woman (via littlekitsch)
“I cannot understand anti-abortion arguments that centre on the sanctity of life. As a species, we’ve fairly comprehensively demonstrated that we don’t believe in the sanctity of life. The shrugging acceptance of war, famine, epidemic, pain and lifelong, grinding poverty show us that, whatever we tell ourselves, we’ve made only the most feeble of efforts to really treat human life as sacred.”— Caitlin Moran, How to be a Woman (via imohsocasual)
Do not get me wrong. It’s not as if I dislike women acting all fruity in videos – I was raised on Madonna. Beyoncé and Gaga are my girls. Put Divinyls’ I Touch Myself on, and I will terrify you on the dancefloor. Literally terrify you. You will want to leave.
It’s just the… ubiquity of female pop stars dressing up as hoes that’s disturbing. It’s as odd as if all male pop stars had decided, ten years ago, to dress up as farmers. All the time. In every single video. Imagine! Sitting down to watch your 5,000th video incorporating a baler and a man in a straw-covered gilet giving medicine to a coughing ewe. You’d think all men had gone insane.
“On being hit with ‘yeah, well at least I’m not fat’ on two occasions, I tried to pervert a classic line, and replied, ‘I’m fat because every time I fuck your dad, he gives me a biscuit.’”—Caitlin Moran (via oh-dor-wheresthesalad)
Just thought you might like to know that I met Ms Moran yesterday! Queued behind her at Caffe Nero in Victoria Station. She was with her little ones and in a massive rush but I gushingly told her she was amazing and she thanked me, very kindly. I was shaking for about 10 minutes afterwards.