Guest post by Elissa Corrigan @misselissac

There is a pattern emerging. Men keep showing me their penises. Now, some would say that I shouldn’t complain, but what I’m talking about is a display without good reason. Penis without provocation and I have had ENOUGH. 

Let me start by opening the debate and this question is strictly for the girls. Have you ever seen schlong with out ever asking for it? Recently, I’ve had the displeasure of viewing three unsolicited ding-dongs. And surely that’s not normal? In fact so troubled by this quota of unwanted appendages, I began questioning myself, is this something I’m putting out there? Have I got something inadvertently tattooed on my forehead that says: I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours?

The first time was on a recent jaunt to Spain. Imagine the scene- I’m in a rustic restaurant quaffing a crisp glass of Chardonnay, sitting on a gorgeous mosaic terrace, surrounded by trails of Petunias and Geraniums, basking in the balmy evening sunlight.

I’m in deep in conversation when I’m rudely interrupted by a guttural drunk in a Diadora tracksuit and his dollymop wife arguing like they were on the set of Jeremy Kyle.

It was hard to hear but I managed to deduce; the chav-tastic wife ‘Irene’ was irate with her hammered hubby’s behaviour after getting them ejected from a restaurant down the road. I watched open mouthed as she roared at him, her dentures clicking like castanets and pointing her sovereign-clad finger in her pissed up partner’s face.

Except he was bladdered and oblivious to her bawling. So the rowdy hag was left with no choice but to stomp off back to the direction of her hotel leaving her hiccupping other half to fend for himself.

I accidentally caught his glazed eye. He began meandering his way toward our table, coughed a rainbow of germs in my direction, pulled down his shell suit bottoms and give the plants next to us a watering of his own like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was the foulest creature I’ve seen all year.

About a week a later, I was returning home late at night when, 10 metres from my apartment, I came upon another bloke performing this unattractive ritual: peeing in a doorway. I was stepping into the road, tutting and muttering to myself, giving him and his ever-increasing sulphurous puddle a wide berth, when he turned around, swinging his pathetic piece in the air like Saddam on Youtube, and yelled out at me to “Suck it.” Bloody diabolical if you ask me, but I wasn’t in the mood for a fracas. Not that night. 

The final straw came when I was having my nails tendered a few months ago and I was sent a picture of a penis. That really was the wrong side of enough. I decided to teach this gobsh*te a lesson.

But first some background info that later becomes very important. I’d been on two dates with this guy- let’s call him J. No sex, no fondling, no kissing even. Actually, you couldn’t even call them dates; we just used to hang out. God knows he tried his luck in the usual gentlemanly way; dinners, champagne, chocolates and flowers but I wasn’t interested and no amount of gifts was going to change that.

You’d think he would have got the message when I never returned his phone calls but I guessed he must have a lower IQ than the number of his limbs. Instead he decides to send me a snap of himself stark bollock naked in his bedroom mirror and qualified his actions by saying: “This is just in case you never get to see me naked.”

Now I am as far removed from a prude as they come, but really what is this phenomenon whereby men have to branish their bratwurst around. Am I being stupid by not marvelling at the self-exposure of these pathetic strangers? Ten years ago you would never have heard of this, let alone believe it. If it’s not being wielded in front of my face, then it’s being pinged to my mobile. I am astonished when I think about it. It’s a disgrace, disrespectful and a pollution as well. Is this acceptable behaviour? Keep it in your pants FFS!

Revenge ensues. Firstly, I text him back saying: “That thing will never be put anywhere except the palm of your hand and possibly the occasional Watermelon or Russian sex doll.”

Secondly, I called my best friend, V. I showed her the photo and after a serious bout of laughter, we decided right then and there, it was just not on and we would make an example of J.

We reasoned, he was obviously so pleased with his nether rod, and so willing to show it off then why keep it hidden? What harm could it do if we shared it with a few hundred relative strangers. We would let it his phallus flourish.

Not only did we post the picture on Facebook and tag this awful cretin - making it instantly appear on his profile - but we also tagged 50 of our mutual friends, so they could join us in our mocking, no scratch that, our sharing.

As you can imagine, as soon as J got wind of our scheme he was utterly distraught. Such was his mortification that he deleted his account all together. But really what do you expect when you send a pic of pecker to a manipulative witch like me?

I can tell you it caused quite a stir and some of the jibes left on the picture were hilarious. Try these on for size. “It looks like Jeremy Beadles withered hand”, “I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil” “Has that guy got an inny?” – Everyone was in unison, it was a grow-er not a show-er. Actually it was just a SHEOWER.

The desired effect, you may conclude. You may be right.

This was a life lesson he would never forget. Harsh, but necessary.  But on a wider scale our actions should serve as a warning to anyfella who’s toying with the idea of forwarding a picture of his precious piece. THINK AGAIN.

Elissa 

I'm a shit blogger. No posts on here since April! Although still loads of beauty/lifestyle ones under reviews on www.ScouseBirdProblems.com like. I do solemnly vow to blog a bit more on here, even if they're short and sweet.

Last Saturday night a few friends and I attended a charity ball in aid of the Dental Mavericks at the Hilton as volunteers helping out with running the auction etc. I’d found out Chris Maloney was gonna be there and already I’d envisaged us in a mad scrap like the scene out of Bridget Jones when Colin Firth and Hugh Grant go through a window. I’m not dramatic honest.

Anyway we got there early for the briefing, CM my arch-nemesis came in and started introducing himself to everyone, I made sure I was otherwise engaged tweeting etc. Soz lad, without telling you who I am there’s no way in good conscience I could shake your hand. Besides I might catch gobshite-itis. No one needs a dose of that on a Saturday night.

After all the glam, rich people went in for their dinner, we were sat about in the bar having a couple of drinks and a bit of food while we waited for our cue later on for the auction. Gotta get these people nice and drunk before you hold an auction. Advice I should have heeded. Having not eaten all day, a couple of glasses of wine had gone straight to me head, so it wasn’t the wisest time to head over to ‘just take a look’ at the silent auction of signed photographs. I spotted a signed Audrey Hepburn picture which would look amazing in my make up room alongside Marilyn Monroe & Ingrid Bergman so I thought “Okay, it’s gonna be expensive BUT it’s for charity, and I do love her, and I’ve just paid off my credit card and most importantly, I’m drunk. I’ll bid say £150, everyone’s happy.” I filled in my details for the super posh man who was running it and then he handed me over the bidding card and said “Just put your maximum bid there.” It was only then that I flew into a blind panic when I saw the reserve price was £700. Oh god, I can’t back out now, the man is dead posh and I’m at a posh ball, he’ll know I’m poor and a fraud and he’ll judge me and look on me with pity! I best put £701 and hope all these rich people outbid me. I deffo won’t win. As we all know, alcohol mixes well with most things, except decisions.

I heard no more about it and relieved at my lucky escape I later egged me mate on as she bid up to a grand to go on Rossie’s breakfast show on Radio City but got outbid at the last minute. She’s starting up her own business at the mo and I’m pretty sure she would have been getting divorced if she’d won.

Anyway back to us sitting in the bar. We were perched on a couch thing eating our steak when who should walk past, back from (I assume) a ciggy break but dun dun dun, my arch-nemesis CM. “Oh haven’t you’s got a table?” The shame! No we’re volunteering for charity actually, we’re not loaded or getting paid to be here. My mate told him who I actually was and he just looked at me an went “But WHHHYYY??”

Me: Cos ur horrible.

I then went onto explain the contents of my other blog about CM explaining my beef with him and obviously went into actual details.

He said “Well alls I can do is apologise for my actions, I must have been going through a bad period in my life. But I’m not gonna stand here justifying myself to you.”

“Sound. Best of luck.” And carried on eating my steak. What an anticlimax, I wanted drinks thrown an all sorts. It was like an awkward scene from Desperate Scousewives. Am I convinced? Hmmm not sure. But as far as I’m concerned he apologised for the offence caused to me personally so that’s that.

Other highlights of the night included:
• meeting Atomic Kitten which was more emotional for me mate cos he’s a die hard fan of Kerry Katona, loves the bones of her.
• Wearing a necklace containing John Lennon’s DNA. Felt pretty damn scouse after that.

So anyway, Monday rolled around and I was in work, typing away, minding my own business when I got a phonecall.

“Hi, you attended an event on Saturday night?”
“Yes….”
“You’ve won a signed photograph of Audrey Hepburn.”

Oh shit. Fuck. Twat. I burst out laughing down the phone to her and said “Oh my god I am in so much trouble, me fella is gonna kill me” I had to think quickly, I got my diary out and started organising delivery for the day I knew he’d be at work and I’d be home. I’ll just hang it up in the make up room, he’s not very observant, he’ll never even notice. It’s my credit card, I don’t get statements, no one has to die here.

I quickly started googling Audrey Hepburn photos to see how much I could flog it for on ebay…turns out I could maybe actually make a profit on it if I ever decided to sell. In the end I’ve decided to keep it cos I love her loads. I had to break it to me fella this morning and I’ve sold the situation to him by sayin it’s like investing in shares, it’ll increase in value, plus it’s all for charity! He’s not speaking to me now though. Oops.

Could be worse babe, it could’ve been shoes. Again.

X O X O

Scouse Bird

Some people are shoe people, some people are bag people. I like shoes and I like bags but my great love affair is with make up. It’s getting to the point where I really think I missed my calling in life as a MUA. Imagine just doing make up all day every day – heaven!

I have tons of the stuff, everything from Maybelline to Mac, Collection 2000 (doesn’t get used) to Chanel – it’s a luxury I don’t think twice about splurging on. Don’t get me wrong, I was recently almost reduced to tears at how beautiful my friends real Louboutin collection was but the average girl cannot just simply drop a grand on a pair of shoes at a whim – but £50 on a new foundation? No problem! It’s the designer gear we can all afford, at least every now and again. Every girl should feel the buzz that comes from strutting through town with an array of designer bags on her arm (in the crook of the elbow of course). Grey Goose lifestyle on a handbag vodka budget.

I’ve been to get my make up done professionally a couple of times and I know people I can rely on to do a fantastic job but truth be told I very rarely get my make up done by a ‘trained professional’ because I ENJOY doing it myself (I say trained professional, the amount of girls now who’ve been to a demo day at the MAC counter and now reckon they’re boss, setting up Facebook business pages with wonky eyes all over the gaff is ridiculous. They look like they take their inspiration from Picasso rather than Peaches). It’s like the adult version of ‘art class’. I get my palettes, my brushes and I can express myself on a blank canvas. Do I want natural (answer normally no), dramatic, gothic, 50’s, glamorous? Do I want it to be all about the eyes or the lips? Do I want glitter (always)? I can let my creative side loose.

As with most things, unless you’re some sort of child prodigy, doing make up well is a skill that needs to be learnt. I remember looking back at pictures of a night out after my first dalliance with black eyeshadow and I looked like Uncle Fester from the Addams family, smackhead eyes I called it. I was scared of black eyeshadow for a long time after that – I’d look at pictures of glamour models rocking the dramatic black look and start shaking and crying in the corner. I never wanted to look that much like a wool ever again.

Probably one of the hardest things to learn (other than sticking your eyelashes on straight and perfecting an even eyeliner flick – which is NOT like riding a bike, you can definitely get rusty unless you constantly practice your technique) is the smokey eye. A few years ago when Benefit released their smokey eye kit, including a handy step by step guide to creating the look, I felt like a mysterious new world had finally been unlocked for me. Their safe, neutral pinks and browns and plenty of practice gave me the confidence and skills required to pull off the smoke well. Now the make up world is my oyster and I’ve developed the 60 second smoke technique (patent pending ha) for having fab Scouse eyes every day - even when you’re late for work. NB Those who are still drawing their eyebrows on wonky need not apply, requires good hand to eye co-ordination.

When MAC first opened in town I was overjoyed, like a Scouse Bird at a footballers party, I was in my element. Everyone soon cottoned onto it though and now I dread going in because I know I’ll have to wait at least 15 minutes while the staff are either serving some wool who doesn’t know her pink from her coral and is gonna look a show no matter how much she buys (you can buy all the make up that MAC can make, but if you look inside you, see you’re a wool through and through, you can accept that you’ll never be a damn scouse fitty), or they’re talking about who’s copped off with who the weekend before “Oh Louise I was a proper sheeeooow yano, I slobbered on his shoulder!” – Listen Louise, never mind that, I want a lippy and I want it NOW! Thank god for Illamasqua opening opposite.

If you ever go to New York one of the things you absolutely MUST experience is make up shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue and Barney’s. I was served by two of the most overly dramatic camp guys I’ve ever met in my life (and I live in Liverpool, the city home to Pink & Garlands) and they had me wanting to buy the whole make up counter, which I very nearly did. “Oh hunny that colour looks FABULOUS on you!! I am sooo jealous! This colour was made for you!” Eyar here’s me credit card, just take it, it’s yours!
Scouse Bird 4 make up 4 eva IDST xx

Now this is a story all about how
My life got flipped turned upside down
An I'd like to take a minute just sit right there
Ill tell you how I became the Prin of a pool called Liv-er
Innnnn West Walton central I lived an lazed
At the sunbeds is where I spent most of me days
Just chillin out, tannin, an scrannin all food an
Shoutin at wools from outside of the pool
Then a couple of times me brows were up to no good
Wonky eyed nobhead of the neighbourhood
I did one little tweet an tagged 3 lil words
It's the start of scouse bird probs an the start of scouse bird


I pulled up all the probs since age 7 or 8
An i lashed them all on twitter "soz ba use, see ya later"
Now I fall out of Kingdom
But have fabulous hair
An I sit on the throne
As the Prin of Liv-er