The Vagenda

Last week, for reasons that are long and boring to explain, I went to Malia. In fact, I’ll just call it ‘Vagenda research purposes’.

Now, for those of you who have not just experienced an involuntary shudder down the spinal cord - presumably you aren’t from the UK - let me explain: Malia is the worst possible version of Britain, translated onto a beach strip in Greece. My friend and I had a hotel in what the travel agents Thomson affectionately refer to as ‘2wenties Club’. They blare Crazy Frog out of speakers around the pool from 11am onwards as standard. Two triple vodkas and a shot are 5 euros.

A much better rendition of Sylvia Plath, via listal

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

Ok, yes, I know, it's Vice. This is the magazine which has tried so desperately hard to be "edgy" that it has been known to hold a fashion shoot at a protest.

I am Little Miss Condom. It’s true. I might not have a crown or nothin’, but I haven’t had unprotected penetrative sex in six whole years. So when the letter arrives from the sexual health clinic telling me to call for the results of my yearly STD test, I ignore it for a day or two, because I know they’ll say ‘all clean and lovely – well done you!’ I even suspect that they’ll offer me some kind of shiny medal or gold star, or at the very least a lollipop.

Oh, Grazia, how I have missed you and your strange mix of current affairs and sandals. Where else would I find the 'news' that Karl Lagerfeld proposed to his cat being reported alongside the violent protests in Turkey? Wherein which other hallowed pages could I see both the headlines 'She's a Katie-in-waiting!' (cover story) and 'The mothers and daughters forced to share a husband' (hot story number five)? Surely no other magazine so accurately represents the conflicts of modern womanhood (etc.

There is a new music video and I can’t stop watching it. After finishing finals, I hit up the Internet for a summertime tune that would serve my need to dance aimlessly around my room in my underwear - if ya catch my drift. Instead I collided into this enigma. 

Now I usually have mad love for hip hop, r&b and rap. I appreciate inhabiting the same era as 50, Kanye and Eminem.

The news (and I use this term loosely) that an American lass had dobbed in a guy TO HIS MUM after he sent her an unsolicited dick pic has got me all in a spin. I mean, I have questions. Quite a lot of questions.

So this lady met Trevor - the guy with the dick- on an internet dating website and they were just having a chat about the weather when he decided to ramp things up a notch by sending her a picture of his erect penis. As you do. Or don't.

Never has any body part been advertised as much as breasts are. We see them every day. Hell, most the readers here have a pair. We’re so used to seeing tits in the media, (either stuffed into low cut tops, those on a plastic Barbie and shell-clad mermaid ones), that it doesn’t register sometimes how advertisements makes use of them.

1.) School

2.) Exams

3.) The patriarchy

4.) The fact that statistically, even if I go to Oxbridge, I will get a less paid job than a man with the same qualifications

5.) Shitty Wi-Fi

6.) When the boy I like reads my texts and doesn’t reply

7.) More of my friends have lost their virginity through rape than consensually

8.) I think I’m going to die a virgin

9.) Up until last summer my best friend told me I was a whore and no longer a virgin because I used tampons from the first time I got

Two of our writers open up (pun intended) about this painful condition

Vulvodynia quite literally translates as 'broken vagina'. Don't worry if you've never heard of it, I hadn't either. There I was, having sex one day completely fine, and the next ow ow ow fucking painful ow fucking hell ow. 

Now as a 19 year old girl with a penchant for the overdramatics, and a horrible habit of consulting Dr Google, I was convinced I was going to die. Or, at the very least, never have sex again.

Brilliant video from Hollie McNish. Well worth a watch. More awesomeness at www.holliemcnish.com

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