My Time Out interview with Leisha Hailey and Camila Grey of Uh Huh Her

Lesbians around the world, it's time to turn green with envy as I got to interview your favourite electro-pop hybrids, yep I got to chat to Leisha (of the L Word fame) and Camila of Uh Huh Her. Thankfully, it was all conducted over the phone, so that they didn't get to see my hot fear rash and severe case of the shakes! I thought you might like to see the fruits of my labour, so click on over to TimeOut.com on the link below!

Alison Aston and Uh Huh Her

16:39 - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

The LMB: a load of old bull...

The LMB: a load of old bull…

Now it's been a while since I stunned you with my rather vast and stunning collection of acronyms, some of you may be fortunate enough to remember the delights of the LDP (lesbian dinner party) not to mention LLD (lesbian line dancing) - quite the spectacle let me tell you.  Well today it's the turn of the LMB and no prizes for guessing what the L stands for, yep I'm predictable if nothing else.  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the lesbian mini break…

With a whole week off from the corporate treadmill, the girlfriend and I decided that it would be rude not to hit the road and get out of town for a few days of R and R.  As you're never more than a few miles away from an Ikea or an Asda Walmart on an English road trip, we thought it wise to head over the border to the land of sheep, valleys and male voice choirs.  And we weren't to be disappointed either, the minute we passed the Croeso i Gymru (Welcome to Wales) sign, it was as if we'd been transported to picture postcard heaven, well once we'd gotten through the nether regions of Newport and the butt end of Bridgend that is. 

Being all mouth and many credit cards, we were staying in a rather swanky hotel, complete with top-notch spa and space age steam room.  It was seriously to die for, but the intrepid explorer in me insisted on dragging the girlfriend away from her terry-towelling robe, spa slippers and Balinese massage and out into the great wide open, or rather to the amazingly beautiful Three Cliffs Bay on the Gower Coast. 

Not ones to be flinging ourselves off bridges attached only to a piece of string, we prefer to take things at a gentler pace, read sedentary with lots of ice cream.  So imagine our disgruntlement when we were told that said bay was a twenty-five minute walk from the car park.  What's worse, there wasn't even going to be a pub with roaring fire and roast dinner when we got there, nope nothing of the sort, only a bunch of old ruins and enough limestone to found a quarry. 

Despite ourselves, we fought valiantly on in search of our inner lesbians who, once unearthed kicking and screaming, were quite happy to clamber over rocks and skip through streams in their best trainers.  And it has to be said that it was quite the moment when we noticed the crumbling castle perched precariously up on the cliff, so powerful in fact, that the girlfriend was about ready to throw herself down and kiss the ground renouncing urban life and carbon footprints for good.  Catharism at its best. 

Sated from the experience yet high on fresh air, we climbed up to the old chateau and sat on a wooden bench facing out towards the pretty bay.  We talked about how in another life we could've been happy being 'haircuts,' you know lesbians of the earth, all plaid shirts, muscle cars and acoustic guitars, until all of a sudden our reverie was rudely interrupted by a rustling in the bushes.  And no it wasn't the Indigo Girls!  'It's probably a rabbit or a squirrel,' the girlfriend said with a winning smile.  I pulled out my mobile phone to take a picture, ever eager to capture nature in action, when she shouted, 'oh my God it's the f%^$in' minotaur,' as a beast the size of Brazil pounded up the side of the cliff. 

Finding ourselves face to face with a bloody great big bull on a cliff top in Wales wasn't exactly the glamorous exit either of us had imagined.  I always hoped mine would be a bit more Hollywood: impaled by a pair of six-inch stilettos at a Jimmy Choo sale would've been a bit more like it.  But alas it wasn't to be and my life started to flash before my eyes at a rate of knots, until I took a moment to look down at my red wool coat that is, that's red people, R-E-D.  When realisation of my exact predicament finally dawned hot fear didn't even come close to describing it, so much so that I have never disrobed faster, getting pregnant quicker than a teenage girl on prom night. 

Complete with red wool child, I was ready to fling myself off the cliff like an overweight lemming when the girlfriend told me through gritted teeth that if I stopped staring at the bull then it might just leave us alone.  This was all well and good of course, but who could blame me for wanting some notice should it decide to play rodeo!  After what seemed like donkey's years it dropped its head all ready for the charge.  I duly braced myself for the end.  Seconds later still clinging to the bench, I turned my head to see that the bloody thing had started to munch on the grass instead. 

How rude, I thought briefly before chasing the girlfriend down the steep path to the car park like roadrunner on a blue light.  Let's just say that the rest of the LMB and any subsequent LMBs will be spent in the confines of the spa, seeing as another kind of LMB (lesbians mauled by bull) is quite simply not an option. 

09:05 - 11 Comments - 21 Kudos - Add Comment

Lesbian speed dating: the fast, not the furious...

Top of the morning to ya,

Just thought I'd pop on to tell you (read - boast, brag and bellow) all about the article I have running in this week's 'Time Out,' London on lesbian speed dating. And before you start thinking that I'm on the look out for a bit of the extra curricular, then I should quickly point out that I didn't actually take part. Oh no, my mission was entirely selfless and for the common good of lesbian singletons the world over. Just call me cupid!

Here's the link and before you ask I haven't donned a red wig as an elaborate disguise, it is in fact bona fide images of LSD in action. Enjoy!

Lesbian Speed Dating - Time Out


PS. And a special thanks to Paul Burston - you know who you are!

03:55 - 9 Comments - 13 Kudos - Add Comment

Ta-ta Tony, Bye-bye Blair: A Word of thanks from the bi-national same sex contingent!

Dear Tone,

Ten years. Blimey how the time has flown. When you first came into office I was nothing other than a young whippersnapper of a student, complete with bright ideas and severely pickled liver. What did I really know about the ways of the world as I charged my watered down pint to your unfettered success. Yep, you pretty much lost me at hangover.

So I suppose we went our separate ways there for a while. I toddled off to work in media, darling, my head rammed half up my arse and the rest in the clouds - swapping pint glasses for crystal flutes and my cherry red DMs for a bit of the Jimmy Choo magic. All the while, you went about pimping the nation with upbeat chants of Cool Britannica, hanging out with the likes of Noel Gallagher. Life was pretty damn peachy then, all boom, boom, boom and not a lot of bust.

Then I saw her on that dance floor, all big blue eyes and black, black hair. As a single lesbian, it was my very own coup de foudre, California style. Slipping a disc in the process, she swept me off my feet and it was only over a particularly fraught dinner three months later in San Francisco's Phuket Thai restaurant - equal part noodles and tears – that I realised government policy was going to be the unwanted third wheel in our relationship. I would've married her then and there but, of course, the sanctity of marriage wasn't on offer for our sort and nor was the insignificant perk called immigration.

As the girlfriend's homeland appeared to have conveniently forgotten about their forefather's pledge of freedom and justice for all, I was pleased to see that you hadn't forgotten me. Thank you, firstly for amending the Unmarried Partner's Rule giving her the opportunity to move to the UK after we'd spent two years in a relationship akin to marriage. Okay, so it nearly crippled us financially what with me giving up the media high life to do a free internship in the States so that we could accrue the time together, but it was an option at least. And we made it.

What's more, thanks for all the stuff you've done since to make us pink pounders feel part of the parcel, like the introduction of Civil Partnerships amongst other things. Thanks to you, Phuket Thai and other such eating establishments won't have to put up with British lesbians wailing and screaming into their hot and sour soups because they're allowed to bring their women into Blighty lock, stock and turkey baster.

Thanks Tone, you've been fab!

Toodle Pip,

Alison x


Unfortunately, the US still hasn't seen the light, so there are many people who aren't quite so lucky as the girlfriend and I, please, please click the link and get writing to your Representatives and urge them to support the bill.


HRC Action Center

12:06 - 13 Comments - 19 Kudos - Add Comment

Big sister's accidental revenge

Last weekend my brother got married and seeing as he and his new wife are emigrating to Australia on Sunday, it also doubled as something of a leaving party. So my parents asked me to say a few words and I thought I'd share it with you. Obviously, it was the big sister's prerogative to go town with some of his most entertaining moments of his childhood, but little did I realise that I would upstage my other brother, the best man...

Our Jay

So today's the day when women the world over will cry inconsolably into their pillows because Our Jay's getting hitched. It's true, Mum and Aunty Ber will be in floods. 'Oooh Henry, he was ever so handsome, wasn't he?' they'll say dabbing at their eyes with scrunched up tissues. And whilst he does make a dashing Ken to Becky's Barbie, it wasn't always the case. What? I hear you cry, Jay has always been more than a hit with the ladies, or so you thought…

As I remember it, there was a time back in the day before he could single-handedly save the world with his left bicep when he was skinnier than Victoria Beckham on a hunger strike. His matchstick legs were jealous making to say the least and even Jay, himself, realised that they were wasted in trousers. It was at this point that he developed a rather distinct penchant for the contents of my wardrobe. His particular favourites included a rather fetching green and white knee length dress, which he liked to team up with his Bugs Bunny slippers and a lovely straw shopping bag. It was quite the picture and it seemed that he had a bright future in store, you know, a real Super Model in the making. That is until he entered the fancy dress competition at the Cotswold Caravan Park. Not put off by the stiff competition, a five year old James in his bright red bikini and satin 'Miss Cotswold' sash stood boldly next to the five Action Men, four Superheroes and a scary looking punk (me). When it was his turn to go up to the mic and take centre stage he pouted at the portly host from six inches deep under pencilled brows and painstakingly painted lips and said 'I'm James and I'm Miss Cotswolds 1983.' The pea-brained host not realising the originality of the phenomena he had on his hands replied, 'Oh isn't that lovely Ladies and Gentleman, give us a round of applause for the beautiful Miss Jane.' Needless to say, the little girl in the bikini didn't walk off with the prize. She was robbed and Jammy La Rue, international drag act extraordinaire's career was over just like that – sadly before it had even begun.

A few years later, when Miss Jane was a long distant memory and Jay was into more macho pursuits, such as tending the goal for Swindon boys and obsessed with WWF wrestling, usually practiced on an unwilling Simon, we went on holiday to Butlins and he turned his hand, first to limbo dancing and then to Pentathlon. They say that white boys can't jump, well this one couldn't limbo dance either - to save his bloody life. Si and I sat on the sidelines aghast, as we watched Jay squirm and writhe to get under the pole - and that was when it was sixteen feet high. Although what was perhaps more toe-curlingly embarrassing for us hapless siblings was the fact that he was knocked out of the competition every time. Yet he still took his place in the queue to go again until a harassed looking Red Coat told him to 'sling his hook son,' in the nicest possible way of course. We had higher hopes for the Pentathlon. I mean, how hard could it be, the first event being the one hundred-metre sprint. Mum, Dad and I duly lined up to cheer the boys on, them flanking a young half pint of a girl in NHS glasses, probably four years their junior. They were all smiles and boys are better than girls confident, until the starter gun fired and she left them eating her dust. Unfortunately, she wasn't Paula Radliffe in the making, so Dad was about ready to trade them in for better models.

Having realised that neither a glittering career on the catwalk or sports field was going to be his thing, my brother then immersed himself in the chilling period, I now refer to as DJ Jammy. Yes, God help us indeed, his love of 'Happy Hardcore' music blew our ears out on a daily basis, seeing as he liked to share the decibels with the indigenous tribes of deepest Africa, Papua New Guinea and the Milton Keynes Bowl. Hearing his vocally challenged self, warbling along to the speeded up, screechy lyrics was quite simply grounds for third degree murder. Luckily, I left for university just before it got ugly and thus he lives to tell the tale.

So Becky, if you find that drag, limbo and happy hardcore are big in Australia, and you lose him to his former ways, I've looked into it for you and you've got a full three years to file for that annulment.

___________________________________________________________________


Yep, now my brother can't wait to get on the plane because his friends just won't let him live the bikini moment down - ooops! I thought the best man's stories of adolescence and their early twenties would blow my tale out of the water.

Anyway, I hope that they'll be super happy in Perth and I for one can't wait to book myself in for some Western Australian sunshine!



http://img522.imageshack.us/img522/476/p10202773zk7.jpg

11:10 - 12 Comments - 17 Kudos - Add Comment

Lesbian fright night - a complete lack of balls...

Okay so it's time to come clean and vent my spleen if you will about the rather embarrassing fact that the girlfriend and I are a couple of Big Bird sized chickens.  That's right, in addition to being more than a little lousy with our DIY butch box, we're also scared of everything and its uncle, including our own shadows.  When God was dishing out all things spunk and gumption we were clearly cowering at the back of the queue, clinging on to the Cowardly Lion's matted tail.  Although wait, we would have been shit scared of him too.

Over the years, we've got ourselves into some right old palavers to say the very least.  Some more man made than others, like the time when I, ever the card, hid in the wardrobe and jumped out on my unsuspecting love causing her to let rip with a blood-curdling Hollywood style scream, which in turn saw me return the favour before dropping dead with unprecedented fright.

Of course, we wouldn't be the drama queens our friends know and hopefully love without our stories of the paranormal and ridiculous, such as when I woke up and saw a translucent woman hanging out by the bookshelves in our London flat.  I then grabbed the girlfriend with a vice like grip that could only mean ghosts and ghouls a-plenty.  Paralysed with fear and wound up like a couple of mummies we didn't speak for hours until the warm light of morning brought the welcome knowledge that all such nasties would be long gone and on to their next shift à la Monsters Inc. Naturally, we moved out shortly after and the fact that it could've been our overnight guest, Helen, looking for the loo is neither here nor there!

That said, perhaps one of our most hysterical outbursts, however, came when a tiny mouse ran at full pelt across the kitchen floor and we had to call in our friend 'Indiana Mel' to save us from said 'Big Bad Stu.'  She arrived some minutes later to find us standing on chairs waving our tennis rackets round wildly like some kind of modern day joust.

Feel free to laugh at our yellow-bellied excesses, but surely we can't be alone, can we? I want to know what frightens everyone, but am especially keen to find out if we are the most frightened lesbian coupling in the whole wide world???  

PS. If you haven't checked out the excerpt of my novel yet, then please stop by www.alisonaston.com and have a butchers. Merci beaucoup!

06:13 - 23 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Read all about it: la vie lesbienne!

Hello one and all,

Just to break the habit of a lifetime, this blog is going to be short, but especially sweet - a bloglette if you will. On this sunny afternoon (it does happen once in a blue moon), I just wanted to let you know about an interview I've done for a fab peer education site called Supersexedu. So, if you're at all intrigued about how I feel about being a lesbian, then please click on through to the other side:

www.supersexedu.com

08:22 - 6 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

United we may stand, but are we Brits and Americans singing from the same hymnsheet?

When I first met the girlfriend back in the days of yore, you know when Moses was making a name for himself by carving up the Red Sea, we spent much of the early, heady days of romance giggling about the linguistic differences between our two nations.  When we did our weekly shop, I duly put my aubergine in the boot, whilst she favoured putting her eggplant in the trunk - obviously we're as rock and roll as they come!

Over the years we've turned into these bizarre hybrid type creatures who mix and match between the two without batting so much as an eyelid, but in that time we've also learned that Brits and Americans are in fact as different as New England Clam Chowder and Yorkshire Pudding to say the very least.  I've never quite been able to put my finger on it, but two things happened this week in quick succession, which will give you a happy little insight into what I'm referring to:

Contrary to the stereotype, we Brits aren't exactly what I'd call big on organisation and especially so when it comes to the NHS (our socialised healthcare system).  And yes, it's great to have but sometimes it really does take a little more than the biscuit.  To give you an example: I went to see my dentist last August because I was having 'issues' with a wisdom tooth. After having a good old poke around, x raying me within an inch of my life and the rinse and spit routine, she told me that she would have to refer me to the specialist at the dental hospital because it wasn't going to be a straightforward extraction.  All's fair in love and dentistry of course, so I took it in my stride and waited (in much the same way we Brits like to queue…and queue…and queue) for my referral.  Seven months later, that's right SEVEN months later, I arrived for my consultation appointment with the specialist and was shipped off for enough x rays to turn me at least partially radioactive. 

Imagine therefore my delight and surprise when an hour later said specialist walked in and turned out to be MY ORIGINAL DENTIST!  'Hello,' she said, all smiles.  'Oh yes, we were going to take this tooth out, weren't we?  So, yes if you tell the receptionist to book you in for an appointment we'll be able to do that for you.' 

And because I'm British, I didn't bite her head off with my remaining teeth. Instead, I smiled politely and then queued in an orderly fashion to make my appointment.  I'm now being seen at the end of April for the extraction.  Go figure!

Once I was safely back in the car and able to show my true feelings, I both passively and aggressively whacked the radio on only to hear a DJ laughing about a tale from America.  Apparently, goodie bags at kids' birthday parties are getting a tad out of hand and parents are being forced to remortgage their homes in order to send their kids' friends off with the pimpest of rides.  One Mom had decided that enough was enough and took matters into her own hands and wrote on the invitations to her kid's party: 'Please spend no less than $35 on little dude's present.  Otherwise, I won't be covering my costs!'

Illustrative?  I think so.

08:53 - 12 Comments - 21 Kudos - Add Comment

It's here, it's queer: read some of the novel on my new website, whoop whoop!

Hello, me again. Oh okay, I admit it I'm procrastinating and should be pounding away on the cross trainer as we speak. But anyway, since I've got your attention I thought you might like to read a bit of this bloody novel I've been bending your ear about for what must seem like an absolute age. What can I say I'm a myspace whore turned novel bore! I'll become a bumper sticker mom before you know it: my novel's an honours student at .. hmmm, well here's hoping! Anyway, for all you fellow novelists out there, another great way to avoid shedding those post novel pounds is to decide you need a website. It's brilliant. It's called Mr Site and it came in a takeaway box too, so it was almost as good as a Chinese but without the guilt of sweet and sour pork balls. So without further ado I'll shut up - believe you me it does happen sometimes, usually on a Wednesday when the girlfriend has to change my batteries!

She draws a breath and attempts to create trumpet type noise, sounding nothing like a fanfare, but oh well you get the picture..

Please check out my new DIY website and read the synopsis of Closet and a snippet of chapter eight as well.

I'd love to get your feedback too, so let me know what you think, please.

A xx


www.alisonaston.com

15:22 - 19 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

The Return of the Gym and other evils...

Don't they say no pain, no gain?  They lied!  A great big whopper of a lie in fact.  This used to be something of a personal mantra I fully subscribed to, you know especially where shoes were concerned.  In particular those vertigo inducing, eye-wateringly high killer type heels, but you can forgive a girl that for the sake of fashion, surely.  Hell, I've paid my dues in blisters alone.  But I was fooled, fooled I tell you, by this no pain, no gain malarkey.  You see, it was with nothing other than sheer, unadulterated pleasure that I single-handedly managed to swell my body weight by twenty pounds during the last blast of novel writing craziness.  Every quadruple choc cookie that passed my lips was savoured with much relish, even if they were passing said lips at the same rate as the bullet train burns up the Japanese countryside. 

So you may well be wondering why I've got the hump with my no pain, mucho gain scenario.  It was after all to be expected.  I mean, there's only so much Dorito stuffing a person can do before the seams start to burst on their designer jeans.  Let's just say I now know why writers write in sweat pants, the expandable waistline allows for all manner of sins let me tell you.  The problem only arose when I tried to return to the real world and I felt like the Giant trying to squeeze myself into Jack's forty denier tights.  It was all a bit 'Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!  Oh Shit, I've just put my foot right through the gusset!' 

That said, I'm hopefully back on the path to my own personal righteousness and it is at this juncture that I must thank you all for the flowers and well wishes since the arrival of baby 'Closet,' the novel.  I also must commend you further on your frequent and persistent calls for me to return to the gym.  You'll be pleased to hear that your cries continually fell on deaf ears, until this morning that is.  Oh yes, I was thrilled to substitute my warm and cosy bed for the bloody cross trainer at some unearthly hour not long after cocks around the world were a-crowing this am.  That's right, you read correctly: the gym, Monday morning and before work.  I am clearly a few sandwiches short of a picnic if you'll pardon the pun. 

I'm sat here now with legs of jelly and a tummy full of lettuce.  Maybe when I write the next novel I'll try gin and slimline tonics instead! 

08:30 - 13 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment