Unpopular opinion? Why IDGAF about LFW

It's London Fashion Week and social media is full of takeovers by bloggers, F-ROW photos and much excitement. Each to their own, but I don't give a flying monkey fuck about LFW (or any other straight sized fashion week) and here's why.

Straight sized fashion doesn't interest me at ALL. I can hardly think of anything with less relevance - it has no bearing on my life whatsoever. I don't coo over fashion that doesn't cater to me and people like me. I don't get excited by high fashion because I don't get to see it translated to clothes I can wear. Why get excited about all the trends that ultimately people don't think fat people deserve to wear? No thanks. Don't believe me? How many tents with butterfly patterns have you seen over the years? How many tops or dresses which would have been lovely if not ruined by cold shoulders? Because naturally an acceptable part of a fat person's body to show without offending people is their shoulders.


via GIPHY
Have you ever just tried to buy a top, a simple black top? Let's say I want a black top with elbow length sleeves. Well, it'll have cold shoulders or a zip down the back which freezes your spine in winter and cooks it in summer. It'll have some shitty knot thing at the hem, or even worse an elasticated hem. There's no design too simple to be fucked up and shoved at fat people, as if these horrible and unnecessary 'tweaks' take the viewer's eye away from our fatness. I can't tell you how hard it is to buy the most basic of things without someone fucking it up so it's 'appropriate' for a fat person to wear. 

I don't care about all the pretty things that will never be translated to plus size fashion. I don't want to wait to see what crumbs will be thrown my way. You only have to look at a retailer who does straight sizes and plus sizes to see the jarring lack of continuity. Go to New Look or any other store which does both and have a look at the straight sized fashion, then - if you're lucky enough to find a store which has a plus size section - go and look at what's available to you as a fat person. Weep as all the beautiful colours and amazing fabrics downstairs in thin girl land are translated to muted colours and safe, boring patterns for fat people.

I don't care what models the size of my 11 year old niece are wearing - it doesn't translate to my body. Fucking hell, most plus size companies' models don't even translate to my body! I don't see a 2 grand handbag and think 'I can't wait for a high street dupe!' so I can pretend I'm a rich arsehole. I don't want to know trends months in advance. I really don't care. I don't understand why plus size bloggers (especially the larger sizes of plus size bloggers) get so excited about something which excludes them......but that's just me. I like clothes, but fashion? Nah, that's been off limits to me for as long as I've existed in a fat body. I'll just wait for the new season to come around to see what - if any - crumbs have been thrown my way.

Do you give a fuck about high fashion? Let me know.

Let me get it straight, I'm a plus size blogger

Hey.

I want to talk about the dark side of being a plus size blogger - the harassment I get from men all across the internet. I have been contacted by men thinking with their dicks on every branch of social media I'm on. In fact I don't know of a solitary female plus size blogger who hasn't been subjected to the same kind of crap as I have.

I'm a plus size blogger, but a lot of men seem to get that confused with other things. Like this muppet, who thought my blog's Facebook page was really Plenty of Fish. But the difference with dating agencies is you elect to put yourself on them. By virtue of being in the public eye in the tiniest way, men constantly assume I'm single and for the taking, like my whole life has been in some kind of suspended animation waiting for their dick to come along and boof, it rains poodles and candy and all is right with the world.

What the everlovin' fuck?

• I'm not free porn for those too lazy to download it.
• I'm not looking for attention from men.
• I'm not fishing for compliments from men.
• I don't seek male validation - the only male opinions I value are those of my husband, my dad, my brother, my step dad and a few male friends. 
• I don't share photos of myself for the appreciation of men - I do that to celebrate my own body after years of being told it's something to be ashamed of, and to uplift and inspire other women to love their bodies.
• I'm not a fetish. I'm a body type.
• I'm not a BBW.
• I'm not desperate because I'm fat. 
• I'm not single.
• I'm not a commodity to be bought. 
• I'm not down for being contacted by DM or email by men who assume because they fancy me or because I'm fat my thighs will miraculously fall apart in delight and anticipation.
• I'm not the person you think I'll be when you email me with 'I'm Bob, 36 from Glasgow' because I'm not some prize you can win by throwing a few sentences at me.
• I'm not a person who should have to prove I'm married for men to leave me alone.
• NOTHING I do with my blog or social media is for men, except this post. Now piss off. 

Awwwwwww, now the other one is jealous!

• I'm the woman who posted a shot of her bum clad in underwear for 3 men on Instagram to say exactly the same thing: 'I want to eat that ass'. 
• I'm the woman followed on Twitter by men who put me in Twitter lists like 'Mature BBW' and 'Big Butt BBW' so they can categorise their spaff material. They reblog my fully clothed photos amongst women with their tits and vaginas out . They also tend to tweet me to tell me what they think of my body. I. DON'T. CARE.
• I'm the woman DM'd on Instagram by men who start with 'Hi' and end up with dick about 3 badly-composed, txt spk sentences later. 
• I'm the woman whose body is automatically sexualised by idiots because they fetishise fat bodies and collect fat women on their social media like Pokemon cards. 
• I'm the woman that when a man I don't know DMs me with 'Hi' who ALWAYS wants to reply 'I'm married, let's not waste anyone's time here.' No one DM's a woman to talk about the weather, you know. 
• I'm the woman who has cut my head off lingerie photos before because if seedy fat girl collectors repost my photo to disgusting places then at least my head isn't in it. 
• I'm the woman who wants to post more of my body to help other women but knows the more I do, the more unsolicited and unwanted attention I'll get from men.
• I'm the woman who had some dude on Tumblr offer to send me serious amounts of money to buy clothes with so I could model them just for him, even though he knew I was married. 
• I'm the woman with a lot of fat friends on social media and I see men copying and pasting the same thoughtless comments on ALL our bodies. Cast the net wide, yeah?
• I'm the woman who receives requests to dress up in certain ways like I'm their personal fat Barbie doll. 
• I'm the woman who had a douchebag message me through my blog Facebook page who, when I told him I was married said 'So what?!' then offered to speak to my husband on Skype to tell him how much he liked me. (Yes, really).  
• I'm the woman that a man think it's acceptable to send me a message that just says 'Sex'.
• I'm the woman who shouldn't have to put up with this shit to blog my outfits, to put myself out there to try to make other women feel better about themselves. 
• I'm the woman who if I wasn't already married would definitely be batting for my own team because what I've seen of men on the internet in the last 5 years has turned my stomach. *Bonus - first one to say 'Not all men' gets a violent kick to the perineum.

At least he was polite, but I'm no one's fat Barbie doll!

Nah thanks, mate. 

I know there are some decent men out there, it's just that the stupid ones make themselves known so often.

You should also go read Charli's post Plus size, naked and fetishised.

Ladies, share your horror stories below.

Leah xoxo

10 things I couldn't give a shit about

Hello flowers!

I'm pre menstrual and in the mood for some brutal honesty. Hold onto yer hats.

1. Kissing the right arses. If I like a person or a company I'll say so and if I don't, likewise. I'm here to be honest (not have every company love me) and if my honesty about the lack of equality in plus size clothing pisses people off, GOOD. If they do something about it I'll shut up. ;)
2. Bloggers who buy social media likes on Bloglovin' etc. Whatevs...
3. Going outside in the cold. Bugger that! I'll be here, in my dressing gown, next to the radiator. 
4. Washing my hair right now. Cold bathroom + water = eff off. I'll go back to every-other-day washing sometime next August.
5. Shops putting 'Merry Christmas' signs up already. Do one. I like Christmas as much as the next elf but strictly from December 1st. Don't make me shank you. 
6. Pedicuring my feet. Come next time they're out of boots (March) I'm gonna have hooves.
7. Picking the crust off my septum piercing. How much can a hole weep? Actually, don't answer that.
8. I'm a liability get me out of here....oops, my bad. I'm a CELEBRITY get me out of here. Celebrity?! *cough*. Anyone who volunteers to go on a show to chew on wriggling bugs is an eejit and I hope they get the shits for a month.
9. High Street Chrismas shopping. Don't swear at me. I'd sooner have a Brazilian then roll around in a Scotch Bonnet puree. ALL OF THE SHOPPING SHALL BE DONE ON THE INNERNETZ. 
10. Cooking. Why didn't I marry a chef?! Oh yeah, because he'd be out cooking for other people all day long. Someone come and make me all the foooooood.

What's sticking in your craw? Let me know in the comments.

Thanks for reading.
Leah xoxo

P.S. I was deadly serious. I'm as premenstrual as all hell. 

Black dog/stream of consciousness

Hello.

Do I sit and write honestly? Ye gads....what a bag of mischief that would release.

Well, stuff it.

Sometimes I get the monthly blues before the red deluge, sometimes I get them afterwards, and sometimes I get them before, during and afterwards (lucky me!) This month (as anyone unfortunate enough to catch me on social networking will attest) has been a swine. I've held off getting an airplane to drag 'I feel like bollocks' across the sky, but other than that everyone knows about it and I'm sure you're as fed up with me as I am.

My ovarian cysts have come back with jazz hands: 'Did you miss us? Did you miss us?! Here, have 6 months pain at once! You don't need to have Valentines Days sex! You don't need to have a weekend at all! Instead you will be sweaty and clamped to your wheat bag all weekend, and when you find a forgotten box of codeine, you'll be so happy you'll want to fellate it!'

Still, it won't take away the pain but it kind of takes away the edges of consciousness.

So yes, I feel shit. I'm pissed off because I had to miss the Anna Scholz Simply Be event. I'm pissed off because I'm missed off the list for most events, and even if I wasn't I couldn't go because I'm a not able. I'm pissed off because depression sucks. I'm pissed off because I'm at that joyous mental health stage where I want to withdraw from everyone and everything, but you can't do that when you're a blogger. No, you cannot. You have to be everywhere - shiny and new. It's not enough that you blog 18 times a week, you have to whore yourself out on Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, Instagram and everywhere else. It's not enough that you're a nice(ish?) person, you have to kiss all the right arses, flatter all the right brands, tweet big fat hints like 'Oh, I really want this by XYZ!' (not forgetting to @ mention the people you want a freebie from) and if you have enough followers sure enough it'll land on your doorstep the week afterwards. You might want a new pony, but it's OK you can #PRrequest it. You have to buy everything - or kiss arse for it - be everywhere, know more about the people and the goings on in the plus size world better than you know your own self. What is real life?! You have to sell yourself so much and so short and spread yourself so thin you wonder where the hell YOU are, and you do it because you love the BLOGGING and the readers and somewhere under all this BOLLOCKS is the love of reaching out, the love of sharing your enthusiasm about things, and all this other SHIT ruins it.

RUINS
IT

See what happens when I run my mouth?

I can't be everywhere. I can't go to every event. I'm one woman with a load of health crap going on and I'm doing my best to be Mrs Wonder Blogger ™ but I'm finding it really bloody hard. Writing a blog post is the easiest thing in the whole process. Seriously. Have I shared it on all the social networks?! Have I put myself out there enough in order to make sure I don't fall out of people's minds? Because she who shouts loudest/most often/to the most amount of people gets heard. This isn't just about DOING enough. The blogging is probably the smallest part of it. You have to network, for as much time as humanly possible. Sleep is for the weak, dontcha know? Have I missed something crucial that's happening on Twitter? Probably, because I spent...ooh, half an hour in which I attempted to have a LIFE. So because I can't possibly keep up with this eternal merry-go-round, I step off while it's still moving, and end up a pile of scattered limbs.

I won't effing #PRrequest a goddamn thing. I won't be happy shiny jazz hands all the time, because that's not real life. There's so much fake bollocks in blogging. So much that isn't real. Well this isn't pretty, and it isn't PR-worthy, but it is real.

I love my readers. I love the connection. But all this fake kissy-arsey-shiny-shiny shit? We are real people with real shit going on in our lives. Let's not forget this. This is PR suicide and I couldn't give a toss. I'm done with this pressure. I'm just going to let it all wash over me. I am an island in a foaming sea. What matters is me and you, my readers. Nothing else matters *breaks into Metallica*.

I'm off the merry go round. I'm a blogger, not a self-publicist, not a professional hinter or an outright grasper. I'm going to concentrate on doing my thing and let it all pass me by.

And no, no one has prompted this. Blogging is so incestuous it's very rare that something happens in a vacuum. But this has. I'm just tired, pissed off and in pain.

UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Expletive count: I lost count.

If you got this far, I salute you.