France never issued me with a birth certificate, so here is an approximate version of mine.


I dislike how large corporations have ruined my ability to ever name my child Helvetica. That, and gentle nudges by friends who get I come titrated with just the right amount of quirk but on the whole remain sensationally dumb. It also appears naming your child after a font could prove problematic, regardless of the high yield it might generate.

And because names have connotations, but mostly because children use playgrounds as hosting venues for showing character being mean, we (the small population that think ahead) have to adjust to this ever-evolving carousel that claims to have tackled everything from gender to body shaming and yet, when I ask my friend’s six year-old why everyone hates Augustus Gloop, it’s still mostly because he’s fat.

Now I have a solidly starved child on the agenda, I still don’t have a name for it. And the more enter my head, the more I veto.

It feels noteworthy to mention attempting to alphabetise this list is literally the most technologically advanced task I’ve performed in a while. But stretching it to sub-categories seemed too much effort, so congratulations, baby.  You don’t know it yet, but your mother is both judgemental and lazy although that could well work in your favour as once she’s deemed you too pudgy, turns out she also can’t be fucked to feed you.

Also, knowing I’m too middle class to ever have enough children to fill this list makes me kind of sad.

Since a vanity license plate of A5HHLEY just drove past me, no. Ashley leaves a trail of drama and frappuccinos in her wake which now also rules out Martha because goddamnit, I will not raise a child whose destiny is clearing up milkshake splatter for £8.20 an hour. Also, Martha is always somewhere around fifty and I’m not ageist but.

Megan is a slut. As is Bree. Roxanne. Holly. Heather. Victoria. Shannon. Kristen. Sherri. Shelly. Amy and your baby face isn’t fooling anyone.

Jessica manipulates. That’s my thing.

Natasha has nice eyebrows but is a bully.

Christina is a non-sentient ectomorph ice queen who hides her parasitic persona by signing her name with hearts over every possible letter. Amanda is cute but dumb. Or both. Alison is a fucking riot but deep down I’d be proud of her because she can hold her liquor and I feel she’d make a good power lifter. Kylie will be a patented name within the next six months and every Connie I know is Chinese.

Sarah is boring. Sara is a bitch. All Joys are sad and all Hopes are failures. I’ll never have a grandchild with an Irene because she lacks sufficient body fat to produce her own offspring and Portia is a toss-up; the grandchild will be happy but not a guaranteed biological relative.

Very little about me is cute so cutesy would fail to be representative of family values. So no Claire. Lucy. Camilla (if I want pot pourri, I can buy it). Cecily (this isn’t 1812). Chloe. Ella. Hazel. Heidi. Lily. Madeleine. Adelaide. Anywhere on a map. Amelie. Annabelle. Avery. Bonnie. Daniella. Emily.

Grace is a fucking whore and Oona isn’t a name, it’s a goddamn emoji.

Every Stephanie I’ve ever met has some kind of personality disorder.

I’m not trashy enough for Skyler but not soignée enough for Agnès. Can’t vouch for what being a MILF is actually like, but being Stacy’s Mom is out and if you didn’t get the reference, fuck you and your new-gen shit. Anything that starts with a z is risky business. Impatience might be hereditary and I had a hard enough time at school waiting for them to get to r.

I remain equally unimpressed with google results on what millenials are calling their kids and further unimpressed that they even have kids at all. Only vaguely acceptable one I see is Milo, but mostly because The Phantom Tollbooth may well be the greatest book ever written and Milo is the perfect amount of inquisitive and normal.

Also, Milo is a boy. Which I hadn’t considered.

I could just have a boy.

Oh, please. Who am I kidding.


Ground Control To Major Dumb


It’s hard to open with a reference from a show called Love because I was so proud to be toting my Kuomintang reference hat. The slump back down to girl who watches patchily scripted, yet idiosyncratically quaint Rom-Com TV carries some shame. Now I’m a sentient lump, probably cartoon-esque, but with big eyelashes like Henry The Hoover’s girlfriend. Definitely wide-eyed, because I need to find out if the characters fall in love. Definitely gullible, because shows called Love where nobody falls in love are totally how TV networks invest their money.

I’ll sleep in a white-painted bed with red pelmets and some kind of patterned throw, which will be symbolic of my drama queen flux. Teddy bears on its borders will overlook lipsticks and I will have many types. Matte. Glossy. Somewhere between the two. Probably a shade called Vixen, for when I want to show my wild side.

Considering I own one lipstick and the name faded so long ago, it has no name, this should give some indication of how much I use it. Beanie babies deck my headboard, but in a cool way. I like the way the flamingo and chicken’s legs “hang”. Also, I was the generation who bought these pieces of crap as an “investment”.

I’ve noticed something in TV shows. Actually, I’ve noticed something in life. It’s just better condensed in TV, and also television affords me the vicarious engagement of all my fleeting fancies without the real world- which is effectively dealing with morons, incompetent idiots, and dicks.

Since TV is more condensed and this very much isn’t, let’s pull from examples. The greats and the trash. Shows where the nerd ends up with the cute girl. Which, apparently, we haven’t grown tired of yet. If you find yourself near perfume counters in department stores and the sales assistant gently suggests anti-wrinkle serums, Friends. If you’re still watching Big Bang, I’m not judging you but… dude.

Either way.  They end up dating. Note how the girl will always roll her eyes in dismay at her boyfriend’s interests. They’re geeky. Nerdy. Too intellectual for her pretty little head. However. She must at some point “make an effort”.  At least show “some interest”.  We’re dating, after all. I’m not asking you to take your unused lipsticks and write witty reductions of ribonucleic acid’s representation of your desire to “get in my genes”. Just, you know. Come to a movie with me once in a while. About dinosaurs. Or the origins of robots. You owe me that much.

And she will. Because she owes him.

She gets a counter-argument, though. Whatever. I’ll come, but I’m doing this for you and anyway, this is completely unfair. You never show any interest in my stuff. Seriously. You don’t.

But sweetie, your stuff is synthetically produced liquids in a tube whose greatest achievement is annual revenue for L’Oreal. Your literature is Vogue magazine. It’s ok, though. I still love you.

Right there. He gets away with it. Every time. And the audience always sympathises with the guy. So I guess now I’m done waving sexually conservative flags on my quest to make the world’s riding of the egalitarian dick less lopsided,  I’m weaving a new one. Which isn’t going too well, because I think I just accidentally started waving the flag for dumb.

And now it’s too late to un-dig it.

So, basically, crap.

I’ll try my best. Dear men. All that shit we’re interested in, that doubles up as a prop for your inferiority complex? All the push-up bras. Bow details. Flower arrangements. Matte versus gloss. Contour versus highlight. High versus kitten. The 20,000 hours we’ll spend deciding whether the dress really does make our butt look big, or whether that actually died years ago and junk is in?

Yeah. We use that to make us look cute. I’m sorry, do you want to be banging the ugly girl?

Over and out.