Hello again!


Hello my internet darlings!

It has been an awfully long time! Did you miss me?

As you have probably not noticed, I deleted my first post on this blog – the one on the topic of feminism. This is not because I have renounced feminism or ceased my pursuit of equality for everyone. It is because I have learned a lot about the complexities of gender since then and some of the witty things I tried to say made some unfair (and unintentional) divisions on the basis of genitalia. A vagina does not a woman make, it is much more complex and important than that and I did not do it justice in that post.

I endeavor to do better in the future and I hope you all stick around to read it 🙂

Next up in my series of internet ramblings will be a review of ‘The Ruling Class’ starring James McAvoy that I had the great pleasure of seeing on it’s closing night. I know, I know, doing a review of a show after it’s closed? Is this amateur hour? Well, suffice it to say that, even with a maximum of 7 likes on my blog posts, I was not invited to press night. However, the play did leave a massive impression on me and I am itching to write about it so, indulge me?

Until next time, my dears.

Chloe xo


Breathing For Two


Hello again everyone! 

As many of you probably don’t know, I very much like fiction writing and would like to make a profession out of it one day! 

Here is a short story inspired by this harrowing documentary on Syria that I found on the brilliant website ‘Upworthy’ – http://www.upworthy.com/a-news-team-risked-their-lives-to-uncover-this-story-they-wanted-you-to-see-the-horror-yourself-2

Give it a watch, it moved me so much I just felt this instant desire to write about it – I hope you like it, and I hope you watch the video and subscribe to Upworthy.com, which is awesome sauce. 

Ok, here goes…


Breathing for Two by Chloe Jacobs


He presses the hard ridges of blue plastic inwards; thumbs calloused hard by work he is too young for squeeze air into her lungs. Again and again, forcing her little bird-ribs out until he fears they might break and then allowing them to collapse, like a flower curling in, like a building crumbling to dust, then forcing them out once more. His arms have passed the point of aching and have fallen into a numb marrow limbo that he hopes will last until morning, until the first light. Until the shells in the distance stop falling like summer rain, their muted blasts shaking the clinic to its foundations.

There are people everywhere, running, crying, weeping (for months and months of misery have taught him that there is a difference between crying and weeping), bleeding, praying. Men carry canvas stretchers in, bearing bodies in varying stages of completeness and living, bodies too small to have been wrenched from life, their past and present hewn in two like coarse fabric. They carry a man in who screams; one side of his face blasted with a constellation of shrapnel, weeping long lines of blood like melted red wax. His leg is bent at an unnatural angle; a woman’s headscarf is wrapped around the knee and reflects the overhead fluorescents wetly, saturated entirely. Several more stretchers are brought in, people missing limbs and baring bones are placed on the floor, on squares of cloth and worn mats. Jigsaw humans with holes and spaces where lost-flesh puzzle pieces should fit.

He continues pumping, a steady rhythm that matches the off-beats of his heart, breathing for both of them and hoping that he can keep this fragile little person alive long enough for her body to stitch itself back together. His friend stands in front of a soldier, the other boy’s eleven years and tiny stature dwarfed by the man who sits on a cracked green examination bed in the corner, shaking slightly – like aftershocks, involuntary tremors – as the child gently cleans the cuts on his face with steady hands. The white pad in his small fingertips, doused in stinging alcohol, turns slowly pink like clouds at the bottom of a sunset. The boy cleaning blood and the boy filling lungs look at each other shortly across the room, a mutual, silent ‘are you okay?’ that reverberates against the wasted walls.

The girl breathes, the soldier curses at the touch of antiseptic against raw flesh, a bomb splinters into smoke in the distance.

They are in a snow globe, a domed sky trapping them in a continual drift of ashes and debris, peppering buildings that seem wasted examples of how people once lived. Towering apartment blocks blasted and torn, jagged and broken like rotting teeth in the mouth of the city. A girl in the hallway, that can’t be more than thirteen, stabs the inside elbow of a man with the needle of a drip, with practised hands that have seen too many elbows and needles and plastic bags hanging like swollen fruit from metal trees, pregnant with morphine or blood or saline solution.

There is one doctor and two nurses still living, and they are busy, hastily tearing away the scarf-man’s makeshift bandage and re-tying it as a tourniquet before carrying him to another room, screaming and bleeding with intimate muscle and tissue visible from knee to hip. His place on the floor is soon filled with another person, their blood mingling and becoming indistinguishable from the rest.

The boy pumps again, hard, somehow hoping that it will shock his little patient back to independant life. He remembers a time when he was frightened of blood. The sight of something so vivid and vital flowing free like scarlet rivers had made him tremble, had made him feel physically sick. Even now, seeing too much all at once made his throat convulse, but it was different. This was his life, his job. Two years of his meagre fourteen had been spent in these rooms, amongst the gore and the suffering and the tears and the prayers and the death. He had closed enough eyes to realise that there were worse things to worry about than a little blood.

It was like water to him now, he told himself, it is just water, as common and as natural and as harmless as water.

Even so, he can’t help but think there is a reason blood doesn’t run clear in his veins. It is meant to be seen.

the end

Hope you liked it folks, and I hope I did the situation justice! Let me know what you thought 

Chloe xo


Orange is the New Black



It has been an awfully long time since I updated my blog, and I am astounded to say that I have officially had 106 views!


That is insane! I love every single one of you and would happily hand deliver you all cupcakes, if I weren’t such a pathetically lazy creature. 

When I started this blog I honestly thought no-one would read it, so I am blown away that so many of you have!

I hope you like it, guys and dolls! 

So, on to the topic of this post…

A stupendous television program called ‘Orange is the New Black’, ever heard of it? 


Words cannot even describe how much I ADORE this show. It is perfection from every angle – from the writing to the acting to the cinematography to the sets to the costumes to the actors – it is spectacular. 

And, more than that, it is IMPORTANT. 

It’s a witty, colourful extravaganza of the most human, 3-dimensional characters I have ever seen. It gives humor and craziness without ever sacrificing it’s integrity, it balances comedy and drama – which is insanely difficult to get right but a delight to watch if done properly. 

For those of you who have never heard of this wonderful program, it is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before and I HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT. 

Based on a true story, it follows the life of Piper Chapman (played by Taylor Schilling), an upper middle-class New Yorker who must leave life as she knows it, her friends, family and fiance behind when her past indiscretions (including a beautiful lesbian and an international drug cartel) catch up to her and send her to a women’s prison. 

piper ointb

Piper Chapman – have I mentioned this show is freaking hilarious??

Upon entering Litchfield Correctional facility, she is reunited with her tall, hot-as-hades, drug dealing former love, Alex Vause (played by Laura Prepon).

alex vause oitnb


said hot-as-hades former lesbian love

She is also introduced to a whole company of seemingly insane characters who slowly become more human as the episodes progress, largely thanks to insightful flashbacks into each character’s road to prison. 


This cast includes, but is not limited to,

a mad-haired former addict called Nicky

oitnb nicky

a badass Russian cook called Red

oitnb red

 Suzanne or ‘Crazy Eyes’

oitnb suzanne

a prisoner/librarian called Taystee who trades cocoa butter for blonde hair

oitnb taystee

Pennsatucky – a religious meth-head nutbar who attempts to baptise someone in a kitchen sink

oitnb pennsatucky

a perverted arsehole of a guard with facial hair that’s earned him the title of ‘pornstache’

oitnb pornstache

a gorgeous transgender fireman-turned-prison-hairdresser

oitnb sophia

(yes those flip-flops are made of duct tape)

and many, MANY more. 

I honestly can’t recommend this show enough – it’s hilarious, dramatic, beautiful at times, desperately sad at others. It also addresses the shortcomings of the legal system, sheds light on human nature in inhuman conditions, shows that happiness can be found in the most desperate of places and the everyday struggle of these women just to live. It also highlights the many issues surrounding homophobia, transphobia, sexism, religion and racism, both in and out of the legal system. 

oitnb healy


Correctional Officer Healy on ‘The Gay Agenda’

It’s also one of the only female-driven, ethnically diverse shows on TV at the moment. I absolutely adore it. 

It is an astounding watch, and both seasons are available on Netflix! Give it a go 😀

 netflixNetflix = My bae

Chloe xo

Stereotypes :O


Hello everyone! 

Long time no speak! How have you all been? Fantastic, I hope. 

So, today I will be tackling another controversial topic, most likely with all the style and grace of a three legged water buffalo on speed. Nevertheless, I’m doing it. Brace yourselves. 


Now, I have nothing against a little National pride. I delight in watching Americans interact with British people, their (!Stereotypical!) bawdy optimism and openness contrasts deliciously with our wistful social awkwardness. However, there was a key word there. In the brackets. Stereotypical. 

A word I despise with a passion. Why? Because people seem to believe that big words like ‘stereotypically’ beef up their argument, making sentences like, “I’m sorry, but stereotypically, most gay men like pink’ sound better. They think it adds authority, like they’ve done their own private survey among the gays and produced bar graphs and pie-charts about the amount that just go bat shit over fuchsia. 

Essentially, it’s squinting a little at something and shrugging, deciding that all people of a certain race, gender, country of origin, age etc. are all the same. Comedians use it in satire a lot, spinning the commonalities we have with each other into humor.

Idiots use it a lot too, however, in a different way. 

Now, yes, the British have some common traits, as with any place. But everyone born in a box would grow up used to walking in squares, wouldn’t they?

Our proximity and shared experience means we are bound to have some things in common with each other. However, idiots overstep this funny little social construct when they start confusing stereotypes with identity. The things that you are, labels such as ‘White’ ‘Muslim’ ‘Vegetarian’ ‘Teenager’, become confused with WHO you are, as an independent human being. 

The people who seem to buy into this idiotic idea the most happen to be…dun dun dun…nationalists. 

Now, Nationalists, I’m talking directly to you. Do you know what this little island actually is, by any chance? It’s a little bit of land – rock and earth – that split away from the other lumps of rock millions of years before you were even possible. On that other lump of rock? More people, more humans, with their own funny name for their lump and practice their own customs. But fundamentally, we are the same. We are human. 

So, next time you start yelling ‘Britain for the British!!’, replace Britain with ‘lump of rock’ and British with ‘people who live on it now – the genetic result of thousands of years of foreign invasion’ – that’s right, baby, your great great granddaddy was probably Swedish or French! 

And, maybe pick up a history book, or a million, and read up on the history of immigration. Where do you think we got America from?????


Hope you liked it, guys and dolls!

The next post will be lighter, promise. Just needed to get some stuff out :p

Chloe xo 

Get it together, humanity


When we are children, our parents often try and teach us certain values.

To be honest, kind, understanding. To share our toys. 

We are praised if we do, punished if we don’t – this teaches us to be good, well-rounded members of society. To be good citizens, when we grow up. Good people. 

However, the adults – politicians who tuck their children up in bed at night with words from bedtime stories about cheaters and thieves that never prosper – don’t seem to hold these values themselves.

When the toys aren’t toys but land and water and food and oil and money, they do not share. 

When honesty is to be honest with a nation, with the world, about their mistakes and shortcomings – they are deceitful. 

When kindness means sacrificing the comfort of their luxuries, kindness is no longer a virtue. 

When valuing human life and peace comes at the price of excess, human life is worthless. 

How dare you teach us kindness when you allow children to die of starvation and dehydration in Kenya and Haiti and India and so many other places.

Do not lecture your children about necessary virtues when you allow families to die in their homes in Gaza and Syria.

Do not lecture about acceptance when people are slaughtered for who they love or the color of their skin or the God they pray to. 

Our world is broken. We do not seem to care about those outside of our immediate circle of experience. We are numb to human suffering, to children dying, to the destruction of life as people know it because it is not OUR life. 

I am quickly losing faith in humanity, and I wonder if human nature is not just to destroy. 

Selfishness and greed and indulgence and ignorance will be the end of us. 


Chloe xo

Wireless, I love you


Today, I find myself desperately sad. 


It is not because I accidentally left my windows open and my bed was soaked through with rainwater while I was out. Ah, the wonderful British summertime. 

It is not because I accidentally broke my Flour Baby and spilled such an impressive volume of flour over my carpet that my mother is convinced that I am either a coke addict or a closet baker.

I think we all know which is more likely.flour baby


These creepy, arrogantly happy fucks are Flour Babies


My cupcakes are shit, but my class A drugs are excellent quality. I’m basically Alex Vause. 


It is not because I managed to throw EIGHT CONSECUTIVE FUCKING GUTTER BALLS whilst bowling yesterday. How??

It is not because my GCSE results day is an excruciating 27 days away. Like who the fuck does that? I spend my whole summer wishing for it to end, just so I can find out whether I scraped a C in Geography. 

I better have gotten a C in Geography – I did not fucking wade in a river measuring rocks for three days for anything less. 



The real point of this blog post (if there ever is any actual point to the ramblings I post on the internet) is sadness and nostalgia.

“Over what?” I hear you cry. Or maybe that’s the voices in my head. 

Either way…

It is because I want to go back to Wireless. 

On the 5th of June, a couple of my best friends (aka the greatest people you will ever meet) and I went to Wireless Festival in Finsbury Park.

mean girls

It was my first festival and not my kind of music so I wasn’t expecting it to be fantastic.

You know what they say, losing your virginity is not easy or comfortable, but it’s necessary to get to the good stuff. Wireless was where I lost my festival virginity. 

Wow ok so that sounded odd, but you get what I’m saying, right? 

I didn’t expect great things when we rocked up to the train station, exhausted from our school prom the night before. My hair was a wreck, still frizzy from the back-combed updo I’d been wearing. Yep, it was exactly as classy as it sounds. 


We must’ve looked a complete car crash, heading into London with two of my friends singing 5SOS (“It’s pronounced 5sos not 5 ess-oh-ess”) at the top of their lungs and the rest of us trying ever so hard not to slip into a coma. 

We arrived, after a valiant tube ride in which I am 90% sure the middle aged man in beige trousers next to me filmed one of my friends on his iPhone (he STANK of urine and desperation), to the announcement that Drake would not be performing.

 I’m sure you can imagine, I was gutted like a fish. Like a fish in fish aisle of sainsbury’s. All fishy and gutted. All fishy and gutted and lying on ice, staring up at the fluorescent lights and lamenting over my fate. 

Too much sarcasm? 

Anyway, the atmosphere at the festival was insane. Like, I was petrified of being in the crowd and getting trampled/suffocated/mugged. I thought the claustrophobia would kick in the second the throng of bodies increased to anything more than five or so.

I could not have been more wrong. The feeling of being a part of the crowd was phenomenal, second only, I’m sure, to being on the stage. I found myself singing along to songs I didn’t even know, dancing (which I do not generally do, as it is considered only slightly outside of the definition of a natural disaster) and throwing my hands up in the air. 


The people were friendly too, which was uncharacteristic of London. 

One (very drunk) man in a white wig stumbled up to us, we were sitting on the grass drinking milkshakes when he decided to strike up conversation. 

Drunk man: Hey! Why aren’t you guys partying?

Us: We’re just taking a break, chilling. Go party for us!

Drunk man: taking a break? You guys look about 16!

Us: We are

Drunk man: Oh shit, I gotta go before I get arrested! 


One of my favorite things about the day, aside from standing so close to Labrinth that he may have actually breathed on me, was people watching. The people were awesome!

We sat in an area which we later fondly named the ‘Valley of Piss’. The queues for the loos got longer, and therefore the only logical thing to do (apparently) was to piss up against the black mesh barriers behind some food trucks, in front of everyone. I definitely saw vagina a couple of times. 


Some poor man taking a phone call leaned up against the pissy mesh and just looked at his hand, aghast.

Later in the evening, weed smoke actually replaced oxygen in the crowd. A pair of lesbian/bisexual/overly sexed high girls started grinding on each other, and later, bizarrely, tried to include my friend, Abigail, who just sort of stood there like…





A woman did cocaine in the crowd (I may or may not have hooked her up with some ‘flour’) like a foot away from us. Rudimental was insane, and I fell in love with one of their singers. (Her name was Anne-Marie, and our love will burn for all eternity).


Anne-friggin-Marie ❤

I was shoved around a bit by three sweaty older women who looked like bitchy dinner ladies on their day off (let’s call them Sandra, Debbie and Chardonnay). Ladies, if you’re reading this – which you’re probably not as I doubt you can use a computer – elbowing me in the face will NOT make Labrinth love you. Sorry. 

I even used one of the port-a-loos, which was more disgusting and horrifying than you can possibly imagine. It was like a dark stinking pit of despair with pee droplets on the seat and the cardboard tube in the middle of toilet rolls shoved down the bowl, alongside a used tampon and a small gas canister. (??????)




All in all, though, it was fantastic.  We even got a carriage to ourselves on the way home and ran up and down it, swinging on the safety poles and singing ‘Titanium’ at the top of our lungs. (Have I mentioned how much I love my friends?)

And, like all good addictive personalities, mine has latched on the the atmosphere and the crowds and the drunk people. 

Long story short, 

someone take me to a festival.


(Preferably Anne-Marie. Girl, if you’re reading this, I am single and ready to mingle ;] )


Lots of love guys and dolls,

until next time

Chloe xo

An open letter to Herbal Essences


Dear shampoo bitches,

how it should be 2

No, I’m sorry. Perhaps that is unfair of me.

You do conditioner too. My bad.

Ok so here’s the deal Herbal Essences…

I liked your shampoos and conditioners. I love my hair, thus I want it to smell like a tropical rainforest/ wild violets/ pearls (whatever the fuck a pearl smells like?? the ocean??). I also like my locks to be ‘tousled softly’.

*Side note: Tousled is apparently pronounced Tow-selled, not tuss-elled. Did this blow anyone else’s mind??*

I do not, however, like your adverts.

As a female, albeit a bisexual one, I do not enjoy Nicole Sherzinger full on porn star moaning over apricot shampoo (or whatever it is).

Unfortunately, watching an attractive woman simulate an orgasm in an airplane bathroom (??????) as she washes her hair doesn’t quite shake my maracas, guys.

It certainly doesn’t make me want to buy your product.

Frankly, I don’t know what marketing genius turned round and convinced you guys that women would be persuaded to buy expensive fruity hair shit by another woman yelling


whilst lathering up under a waterfall?

What Shampoo adverts are like: 

meg ryan2

How it makes me feel:

ew face


How I think it should be:

how it should be



We, the viewing public, have gone through a lot at the hands of advertising. Italian-no-wait-he’s-welsh opera singers and meerkats selling us car insurance, the train wreck that is the animation on the Mr Muscle adverts, and that horrific man pushing double glazed windows over in someone’s living room.

You know the one: “You buy one, you get one free. I said YOU BUY ONE YOU GET ONE FREE!”

The one who appears to be wearing a magicians costume/ salsa armbands?

this guy:


And this is the final straw.

Apparently this moaning woman schtick has become a thing, as Muller yoghurt is doing the same thing – even dropping a few casual ‘balls’ and finger sucking into the script just to make sure the male viewers actually jizz in their pants.


And then, presumably, order their girlfriends/wives/dogs a whole box of Muller fruit corners?

I doubt it.

I love Nicole, I really do. She was the BEST on X Factor, and I admire her strength and humor a lot. She is incredibly beautiful, but these adverts are just so demeaning and irritating!

If my mother comes downstairs one more time thinking I’m watching porn when in fact I am just waiting for ‘8 Out of 10 Cats’ to return from an ad-break longer than a Sherlock Hiatus…

current mood

Yours loyally,

Chloe xo