Usually thought of as the domain of frustrated teens who can’t or won't physically act on their hormonal urges, this particular by-product of the ubiquitous smartphone is not just relegated to those greasy teens anymore – it’s also popular among those in adult relationships who for one reason or another don’t get to see enough of each other to feed that new-relationship hunger.

Sexting is really just a modern love letter. As a race we’re all a shitload more sexually liberated than we were when Gramps was courting and the only way to titillate a far off lover was to send a fragrant letter by post. These days you can instantly send and receive naughty pics, suggestive messages, even dirty videos. I know from personal experience that with free smugphone to smugphone multi media messaging apps these day, the sky’s the limit.

It’s staggering the amount relationships have changed in the digital age. I for one can’t even remember how I ever even saw or communicated with boyfriends 10 to 15 years ago. If we were stripped of mobile phones and the internet these days we’d lose each other for weeks on end and be reduced to walking the streets in the hope of randomly bumping in to one another. (Luckily it's really only stalkers who have to resort to this type of behaviour).

The media love sexting, mostly because it involves teenagers, and as we all know those crazy teens are just out of control.
In the course of my research (by research I mean a bit of lazy googling, barely ever beyond the first page of results, and a few dirty pics sent back and forth with a ‘friend’) not surprisingly the fifth search result was a piece from the Daily Mail, which in the first 3 paragraphs uses the phrases “provocatively”, “shockingly” “leafy suburbia” (oh god no!! surely not!!), “degrading”, “deeply alarming” and "will horrify parents”…
Ok so not that I agree with the Daily Mail (over my dead body), but I will say this; grown ups? Why not? Get your kicks (not that 'grown ups' are beyond trouble arising from sexting). Not so grown ups? Be careful, remember - you are idiots – you’re only gonna be broken up in 3 weeks with nothing left of your relationship but a bunch of dirty pics for him to show his mates and anyone else who cares (i.e. the internet, a.k.a. everyone in the whole world everywhere, ever).

They’re just another set of human beings… you are not contractually or legally obliged to be nice to them, but in all actuality you’d better be…

I can write about this with some authority cos although I don’t have any at this time, I bloody well have had in the past.
They’re the parents of your live-in lover; what may be viewed in the eyes of 'god' as your sinlaws.
So, you‘re living in sin...
You would hope that this delicious buffet of sin lets you off the hook as far as familial duties with your other half’s family go, just leaving all the fun and sexy stuff with none of the responsibility! Waaaay! You get to avoid all the rubbish stuff like having to do paperwork if you break up (breaks-ups suck bad enough as it is without having to fill out documents).
But somehow, being as we are human beings, and therefore generally disposed towards harmony (at least most of us fairly sane, or 'can pass as sane' ones) you find yourself in situations with these people, dealing with the strain of hyper-politeness, trying not to swear, generally being on best behaviour, stifling all the best and most exciting parts of who you are and acting like you are some sort of a wholesome, mature individual who was certainly not completely off your face and naked with their son the previous night.

Part of the problem is that you subconsciously know that without that marriage contract, you're on shaky ground anyway...
Also, there's always going to be the thought that you just can't chase away that all they are thinking when the look at you is "you do nasty, dirty things with my boy"...

I remember biting my tongue when now ex-sinlaws came over for live-in lover's birthday. I slaved frantically and fearfully away cooking a roast and making a massive and impressive cake covered in icing, candles, the whole bit... Upon arrival, mother-sinlaw announced she had brought a (not previously arranged) pudding. I thanked her and said that in actual fact I had made a cake but I'm sure we could have a little of both. To which she replied in her trademark blunt way "You can have the cake tomorrow night." I sat through dinner (while every bite was scrutinised by said mother-sinlaw, all the while damning it with faint praise) then after they had left and we could barely move for gluttony, I stubbornly got the cake out and insisted on lighting the candles and singing the damn song.

All in all though, I've had a fairly easy ride with the sin-laws... If you're lucky they live in a different city. If you're even luckier, a different country. You also want to hope for sin-laws that have extremely full and busy lives themselves so there is no time or desire for meddling, with the added bonus that conversation topics are more plentiful.

That particular mother-sinlaw (of the unrequested pudding) is soon to be another girl's actual 'in-law'...
I can't help thinking I dodged a bullet there...

I don’t often listen to local BBC Radio Bristol because, well, it’s a bit shit.
Anyway, I decided to check it out today because believe it or not, school closures in North Somerset do actually affect my life... (don’t ask)…
So I open up RadioBOX, (it’s a slick little app that allows one to stream most any radio station straight through one’s iPhone… yep, I sound like a wanker) in time for the 5 o’clock news and weather update and whaddaya know, I get hit right in the earholes with a conjoinulation…
Bristol really isn’t used to heavy snowfalls, and although we have been getting a lot recently it still causes complete carnage. This morning for example, the airport was closed and there were no buses or trains running, nor were any of the schools in the region open.
I stayed home, and so did everyone else judging by the number of snowball-armed delinquents running about in the streets in my neighbourhood.
So when the radio announcer mentioned that it’s Snowmageddon out there, I gained a new respect for our local radio.
He’s right though… it’s a kind of gorgeous picture postcard destruction scene out there; Cars have been abandoned on the sides of roads, people have been panic buying, and although I made it to the shop today, (vodka supplies at mine had become critical) narrowly escaping falling on my arse, the shelves were looking decidedly bare and the people had that crazed look in their eye – the look of people who have broken out of mental institutions (otherwise known as work and school) and were now roaming about looking for trouble. Or vodka.
Only time will tell what happens in the following days of the Icepocalypse…

Hey, forget traditional forms of revenge (all you unhinged people out there who regularly indulge in a helping of your favourite cold dish)... you know; spray painting your lovers car with abuse, throwing his clothes out onto the street, breaking his shit, shooting him to death(?) (I had to say that cos of the picture I used for this piece)... This is the digital age and it takes far less effort to enact eVenge than revenge.

Examples of eVenge can be found on sites such as DontDateHimGirl.com and ManHater.com ("We don't hate ALL men, just the jerks!" - yeah so they've changed their name to 'womensavers' now, but that's just doesn't pack the same punch) - sites specialising in assassinating the characters of men who have been naughty. This has the dual purpose of getting back at the naughty boy AND warning other girls against ever dating them. It gets pretty full-on apparently. One guy filed a lawsuit against DontDateHimGirl.com because a bunch of chicks defamed the living hell out of him. [wiki]
I can see why some people go in for eVenge; with a few mouse clicks, an upload here, some creative writing there, you can create a complete revenge package where a) the humiliating consequences reach a far wider audience, and b) it is far more difficult for him to get rid of these slights in order to clear his name.

So, eVenge.
If you've not yet figured it out, eVenge is a smooshing together of electronic + revenge.
(Urban Dictionary tells me it is sometimes written with the first consonant capitalised. As you can see I have decided to run with this. They just love doing that with 'e' stuff, don't they?)
But you don't have to go to a special website for eVenge of course. Nah, you can slag people off on facebook, twitter, whereever you have an audience on the internet.
I could get some eVenge right here if I had the inclination...

Ah men... I can’t keep away from the subject.
Manscaping can be defined as the removal of excess male body hair via waxing, shaving, plucking, lasering or trimming.

For me, manscaping calls to mind thoughts of heavy machinery being required, the possibility that it will turn into a long-term project, that it will most certainly be costly and physically arduous and with a definite chance that the final product won’t look as natural as you would like it to. At least not until the growth takes root and flourishes to once again recreate a lush and verdant environment.

Personally, I prefer my men less well manscaped. I mean, within reason I tend to be attracted to the disheveled types (usually with personalities to match)...

However, it seems there are plenty of people out there who think this is the be all and end all for the modern male and are more than willing to sell you a solution.
In the course of my research I came across some very forceful writing about the do's and dont's of manscaping techniques from the 'experts'. A few key pointers cropped up again and again:
DO NOT completely shave the armpits or the genital area - this is NOT what women want and will turn them right off. Three words: Trim, trim, trim!!
DO get rid of every bit of back and shoulder hair. This is a manscaping MUST.
Don't even THINK about having messy hair (on your head) or haircut growing out that looks all 'mangy' if you're going for the manscaped look.
Eyebrows? Pluck 'em.
Nose and ears? Trim or epilate.
Knuckles and toes? Tweezers again.

Yep it's probably gonna be painful, but apparently you're a bloke and you need to harden the fuck up if you want to end up soft all over.

It seems to me that traditionally the latter months of the year were reserved for such celebrations as oh, you know – Halloween, fireworks night, maybe erm...Thanksgiving if you're American, Oktoberfest even...

Not any more – it seems these pre-Christmas months have now become important celebrations of men and their various types of facial hair...

As if Movember wasn’t enough as we chortled at our man-friends' wispy, straggly, bushy and prickly efforts at being moustacheoed for charity, Movember now has a boisterous and bristly brother – choptoper
- grow your sideburns for charity.
Go on!

Actually, don’t worry, do it next year – I just realized it’s already Movember…
Imagine the chops you’ll cultivate by next year though!!

I still (despite the fact that he’s held this post for over 6 years) can’t believe that The Terminator has what is surely supposed to be an almost serious job these days… Who let that happen? Wasn’t anyone watching him terrorise Sarah?

I suppose he did redeem himself later (forgive me if this has once again been turned on it’s head – I never saw past T2... Is he even in the other ones? Hang on - isn't his role played by a sexy blonde chick in the 3rd one? No, he's in that one too... erm, clearly I’m really floundering when it comes to the Rise of the Machines-y one). Anyway, despite everything, something wonderful has come out of this whole thing - a super swish conjoinulation...

I was in San Francisco about four or five years ago and Arnie had a choice to make. He got to decide whether a prisoner on death row in Oakland got to live or die. Now that, THAT is the kind of choice befitting the Governator. What did he decide? I can’t remember. Before he made his decision I had left California for the margarita’s and refried frijoles of dear old Mexico, where life and death prisoners in the US of A were none of my concern – I had more pressing matters to attend to (apart from tequila, tortillas and tortugas, my own relationship was staring death in the face. Meh... nothing like a holiday in the carribean to make like everything is peachy and to set the scene for another 2 years of denial).

But I digress.

The point is, they let an Austrian Mr Universe turned robot from the future take charge of the state which brings us the most overblown, expensive, cheesy entertainment in the world.

Oh... when I put it like that… it makes perfect sense.

I live alone, and to afford this relative luxury I live in fairly small quarters. Space is at a premium, and storage space at an even greater premium. Now I certainly don’t purport to be the tidiest soul in the universe. No sir. I can clean and tidy when I need to, but I also spend a fairly sizeable chunk of the time (being as it is that I live alone) wallowing in my own filth.

Now if I had a family to clean up after, kids and the like, well… it doesn’t bear thinking about, just the thought of it makes me tired.

So… to the matter of storage space… I have a wardrobe… I have a chest of drawers… I have about a million items of clothing (of which I probably regularly wear about 2%) and something here just doesn’t add up. Now you understand why my studio can be, quite frankly, a tip. What happens is that my floor space becomes not so much ‘space’ but in fact takes on a new role – that of a ‘Floordrobe’ a temporary wrangling area for those clothes worn once, maybe even just for a matter of minutes or seconds, scrutinised in the mirror and discarded perfectly clean (at least for the time being) on the floor until such time as I am hit by a madness of cleaning frenzy, or they get absorbed back into the cycle and worn again passing the test they previously failed by being teamed with something that works, or until the weather becomes either a) too hot, or b) too cold (more likely) that I don’t care what I am wearing.

Useful item, the Floordrobe, doesn’t come flat packed, no assembly required, takes up very little space until full, and always matches the carpet.
Oh wait… it is the carpet.

For most of my life I have battled the confusion, the crippling gulf of misunderstanding, and the depths frustration involved in trying to establish common ground when finding the right name to describe a sandwich which is squished between the two heated plates of a small kitchen appliance and cooked thus, until the primary sandwich filling (inevitably cheese) is dangerously and deliciously molten and ready to eat.

As a child, from as soon as I could speak I learnt that these curious type of cooked sandwiches were called 'toastie pies' and were made in a 'toastie pie machine'. It was only in my teenage years that I realised that this was some southern farmer dialect spoken only by those living in rural New Zealand, or possibly even confined to my family alone. Come to think of it, I have in fact, never come across anyone outside of my family who calls them this.

Through the years I have come by the following variations: Toasties, cheese toasties, toasted sandwich, breville, grilled cheese sandwich, and who could forget the virgin mary cheese sandwich - it sold for $28k (in fact there has been a whole range of holy cheese sandwiches, Google it.) *edit: I was clearly to lazy to put a link in here.

Then there's the priceless Australian 'Jaffle' - this sound like a conjoinulation to me but I'm pretty sure it's not. These are made in a Jaffle iron (of course) and I read somewhere that the name comes from 'Jaw Full', which is less a conjoinulation, and more just lazing talking.

But it's the Americana I'm interested in here...

"In the United States, the Toastwich is possibly the earliest toasted sandwich maker, dating back to before 1920. However, it wasn't patented until March 3, 1925 (applied for on May 26, 1924). It was invented by Charles Champion, whose other inventions include a corn-popping machine for mass-producing popcorn." [wikipedia]

And so it is that I have finally reached a point in my life where, by the power and the beauty of the conjoinulation, I will never again be misunderstood when describing that most versatile of snack foods: The Toastwich.

It’s a cruel trick of nature that after pregnancy, the culmination of which generally results in a human coming out of another human, when you might finally get a chance to get your mind back, without the constant hormonal attacks, you are almost certainly immediately so sleep deprived that you become, once again, quite, quite mental.

Pregmentia is, (so I hear, although not having experienced it first hand I can only trust that it’s not just a conspiracy by pregnant women created as an easy out for any fuck-ups they might make during this time) a state of semi-senility, or dementia which occurs during pregnancy, generally attributed to hormonal imbalances and the fact that you have a parasitic being inside of you literally sucking the life out of you, also the fact that it is probably quite distracting to know that at the end of 9 months you’re gonna have to let this giant thing use your vagina as an exit – they’re not French doors, you know.