Phoenix Fights

"The only thing we have to fear is fear it'self – nameless, unreasoning, unjustified, terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance." Franklin D. Roosevelt. Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2015….

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“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2015 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”

Hi all.

Yes (those of you who know me) I’m still here.  Kinda.  Hanging on by my fingertips actually.

But here.

For those of you who don’t, a very brief potted history:


Walked out/sacked from my job after being bullied by my boss after confiding in him about my depression.  It was 18 months of hell, but fought my corner, negotiated a pay off them promptly collapsed into what one might call a breakdown.


Launched ‘Phoenix Flights’ on the stroke of midnight New Year’s eve 2012 as a way to vent creatively, work through my aims and complete recovery (scheduled for December 31 2013) sharing with y’all what I did and how I conquered all my demons and why I am such a huge success today, with my great career as an author, my cottage by the sea, clan of like minded friends who adore me, first class travel to exotic locations, loving partner, wrinkle free skin, hair that doesn’t need blow drying anymore etc, etc.


Yes, I was that naive.  I knew I had problems, but it was because of the environment, the stress, backstabbers, etc. and now I was away from all that, I truly believed would discover my inner being, find peace and true meaning and direction for my life.

Until I was diagnosed with EUPD (border line personality disorder by any other name) in December, just in time to wreck my  Christmas, thus squishing my plans for a celebratory New Years Eve party (hah!) but also confirming why I was the way I was.

Bottom line, I could not deny that so much of it rang true.

Ho, ho, fucking ho…

New Year 2014

So another older but wiser Sister signed on ‘Blogging for Mental Health 2014′ as ‘Phoenix FIGHTS’, but made another stoopid mistake by veering wildly in the opposite direction.

Instead of believing that I could do mastermind my own recovery all by myself, I decided that I was too sick to cope on my own, regressed somewhat and resigned myself to the care of group therapy with a couple of eminent psychiatrists who would fix me, and then I would sally forth into the great unknown in a couple of years time and have that great life, with the great career, state of the art beach house, nose job, great friends, blah blah.

And given that the therapy would be on two midweek days, there was no point in me getting a real job.   No, I would just saunter on, in the sure and certain knowledge that this time i was on the right path, and for that reason God would supply me with a delightful array of part time job opportunities to finance me through these lean times, and all would be well in the end.

So I waited anxiously for news of when my therapy would begin and my life could begin again.

And waited.  And waited.

And waited  Month after month after month.

After lot of questions, form filling and preparation, we started in Winter 2015.

So my life had pretty much been on hold for 75% of the year during which time, my money had run out, I lost more friends because I could not afford to socialise, became even less employable, and I finished the year even older and wiser than ever.


I say wiser.

But to be honest, I still don’t really have any answers for you and I’d be doing both of us a disservice to pretend that I do anymore.

In a lot of ways I’m very much worse off than I was prior to that fateful summers day in 2012 when I walked out on the life that I knew for the last half century.

Was I right to wait for the therapy?  Probably.  But not to rely on it solely, nor that the gods would provide and support me whilst waiting.

Also the group dynamic isn’t quite what I thought it would be.  I thought it would lessen my loneliness and bring me comfort to be around ‘my people’, but we aren’t all kindred spirits.  Some I like.  Some I don’t.  Some really get on my tits sometimes.  So I keep my distance because, if anything, it’s even more politically fraught than any corporate environment.


Plus they know too much, so I can’t get close to them, because if they ever used this information to hurt me, there would be hell to pay. ;-)

It’s also not an enjoyable process like it is with Aunty C (my previous/current psychologist counsellor), because we have a relationships and rapport, whereas I don’t entirely trust the shrinks or their motives, and sometimes I feel patronised and humoured as they are not at all good at being sincere.

Not to mention I get bored, depressed, irritated and downright amused by the absurdity of the exercises we are given to do on a weekly basis, and it is nigh on impossible some days not to take the piss out of them.

But I soldier on.

What else can I tell you?

Things that help?

The usual.  You know.  All that annoying shit bandied around on memes via Twitter and Facebook.


Mediation, exercise, good nutrition, lots of sleep, not too much sleep, support, contact, connectivity, mindfulness, creativity dancing, helping others, yoga…


If only we loved ourselves enough to make us do these things for ourselves sometimes, right?!

But on the days I do do them, they are a triumph.

Other pluses?

I am kinder, more tolerant, people seem to warm to me more, I am more patient (most days) and I’m actually learning to understand my fellow man a whole lot better.

But every day is a new day, and most of them i wake up groaning that I’m still here and have to find a reason to stay, let alone get out of bed.

But things can only get better.

They have to.  Don’t they?

My writing has suffered of late because sometimes it feels like I’ve said everything I have to say, and nothing I scribe has any worth anymore.

But this platform has just given me reason to keep going.

Namaste bitches x


YOU CAN GO NOW, SISTA… #bpd #depression #cocksuckers


3 days into Lent, so many aims and ambitions (most being dietary/health related), but I’m taking it it slowly and starting with the main ones (giving up sugar and alcohol) and aiming to add extras as I progress, in order that I can get a life or something.

I’ve also being tasked with writing a positive message to myself every day (a schema therapy activity) and putting it in a pretty box.  To date most haven’t been too inspiring or ambitious (‘Managed not to shriek at benefits people this afternoon – yay me!‘), but today I was proudly able to scrawl ‘I have been to yoga for the first time in 2015′ onto my little pink post-it and pop it into my receptacle.

Progress indeed.

I didn’t like it very much, the yoga class.

It ached, my balance is all fucked up, and even my hands hurt.  And when I went into shoulder stand, all the lard I have cultivated on my belly squidged unattractively into pale sausagey wedges, and I felt a surge of hate and disgust infuse my entire being.


How revolting it is.  And the more I look at it the more anti veggie/vegan I feel, as let’s face it, at least if someone dines on big slabs of flesh, it’s useful, as unless you really look after your body you end up looking and feeling like a factory farmed heifer.  I was watching some footage from the Meatopia fair this afternoon and I thought ‘Yes, that’s it Sista!  Donate your piggy body to the next festival!  There’s plenty on there for everyone and crackling too!’

My body, for it’s part, is sulking, hence it’s protesting twinges, total inflexibility and generous cultivation of blub.  My fault for not coming out of hibernation, gorging on comfort food, indulging my addiction to expensive hot chocolate and watching back to back DVD boxed sets, not to mention gross neglect on all levels.

That’s what I’ve been doing all this time y’know.  Watching TV.  I can’t really afford to do anything else (yes I know that’s no excuse), and let’s face it, the people who populate HBO TV series have so much more interesting lives than mine.

My current passion is ‘Deadwood’ and I am besotted with the two male leads, anti hero Al Swearengen and Seth Bullock, the latter for rocking a moustache like no other, and very nearly bringing my libido out of it’s coma like state.

Much good that will do me right now, as I wouldn’t wish this blubbery carcass on my worst enemy.

The former however, fascinates me like no other.  His anger, toughness and sharp tongue resonates heavily with me and whilst I don’t go around spitting profanity at all and sundry, I sure as hell used to, and then some.

I’ve just finished Season One, and in the first few episodes, I hated him, but having watched the last episode last night, I saw a different side to the homicidal whore house owner, and it had such an impact on me, I watched it twice and replayed the heartbreaking scene between Al and Reverend Green again and again.

These characters seemed in that uniquely intimate moment, when Al did God’s job for him, the two sides of the same coin;  One world weary and filled with spleen and hate, the other devoted to his Lord and oh so desperate to believe that he was still in his light and his appalling suffering was not in vain.

And when Swearengen tenderly muttered to the dying priest ‘You can go now, brother’, as my throat closed up, I felt a pang like no other.  Whether it was sadness, relief or just sheer envy I know not.

To be sheer conscious and nothing else.  To shed this bag of blood, flesh and bones.  How freeing that must be!

But that scene touched me and stays with me 24 hours later, as did crippled Jewel dancing in her leg brace with Doc Cochran.

And whilst I am in my own gutter, muddled with medications, looking to movie stars and fictional characters for meaning and inspiration, I know that I at least, unlike poor Reverend Green and Jewel, I can get up out of the puddles, stagger to my feet and move on.

It’s a question of wanting to, really.  Maybe I have it too easy.  Maybe you have to be physically fucked up or super angry to give a shit about this world.  But I’m not allowed my anger anymore, as unlike Al, it did not and does not help me succeed in this world.

But I’m still trying to get to my feet and ease on down the road.  In my own feeble, reluctant way.

My home is now on the market, I’m going to try and get back into favour with my body and brain, and hope there is a life worth living ahead of me.


Once upon a time, my philosophy was not that dissimilar to Al’s, and my anger did push me forward in the world, but in the act of trying to manage that part of my nature via therapy makes me more passive, and drumming up passion and the will to live is now ironically harder than ever.

But the notes box is both beautiful and roomy and I’ve still got lots of paper, and I’m at least inching forward towards my destiny.

Ready once again, to face up to the black hats of the world, and take my pain like a man.  But also to hope, like the Rev.

Namaste Cocksuckers, namaste x




Yes it’s another fun packed day of Sista moaning about inconsequential shit…

But I have to tell someone otherwise I’ll say something to the person in question.

Which would not be good. :-(

So anyway, I have this ‘friend’ on Facebook.  She’s not really a friend as such but a relative of a close friend of mine.

I can count on one hand the number of times we have met or socialised, and we have very little in common, but that does not stop her tagging me on all of her banal Facebook posts, thus plastering her shit all over my home page.

These posts are getting more and more frequent and can take the form of ‘amusing’ memes, animal videos, photos from events that I did not even attend, and even her friends personal ads selling their old tat, looking for flat mates, their missing hamster etc. etc.


I must hasten to add that this lady is not a horrible person.

I think she’s probably trying to be friendly.

But I cannot lie, this unsolicited, intrusive activity is really starting to get on my tits now.  I’ve even had to amend my settings so I get to sort the wheat from the chaff and approve each tag on a case by case basis.  So now, I get an email every time she tags me on something, which invades on my space even more than before.


I mean, the fucking arrogance of it.

Who does she think she is exactly, plonking her crap all over my real estate?  Which is what your Facebook page is of course, it represents you, your personality, your friends, your likes and preferences, beliefs and principles, NOT those of some tiresome old bint you barely even know.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s like someone coming into your home and plonking a horrible, stained, chintzy sofa into your sitting room, leaving, then all your visitors think you wanted it.  Or someone parking their shitty rust bucket of a car in your drive.


Across two spaces.

Or interrupting you mid sentence.

Or telling you then end of the book you’re reading.

Or even someone writing their pointless drivel in your blog!  In your name!



I am woman, and oh Lord, Emma, you really don’t wanna hear me ROAR right now!

I mean, I don’t even want good friends doing that shit to me.

One of my pals makes really lovely crafts, and every now and then she’ll tag me on her latest creation, and lo an behold, there it is on my page, immediately initiating lots of ‘Oh that’s lovely, did you make it?’s from my friends.

Then I have to reply ‘No I didn’t fricking make it, Jenny did, and she is hanging out for a bit of Sista praise (or just wants to show off), but isn’t patient enough to wait for me to spot it in my feed, so she hauls it onto my page and drops it at my feet like a cat bringing in a dead bird, and is waiting eagerly for a metaphorical scratch behind the ears as we speak!’

Or words to that effect.

Whatever happened to observing peoples boundaries FFS?

I know that I am particularly territorial and like my own space, but honestly some people are just absolutely oblivious.

In a very rare outing to the pub last night, a male acquaintance quite literally sat with his knees pushed up against my thigh, his face inches from mine, arms thrashing and gesticulating wildly like some mad professor.  If I wasn’t quite fond of him, I’d have found a broom and poked him hard in the ribs with it.

I’ve clearly spent to much time in my own company as I am, quite honestly, allergic to my own species nowadays.

Back to Emma.

How do I deal with this situation?  The way I see it, it will be win/lose no matter how hard I try for a mutually beneficial outcome.

If I’m honest with her, she’ll be offended and my close friend will be annoyed at me.

If I don’t say anything, I’ll spontaneously combust and do something very drastic.

Like tagging her on every single thing I upload.

Especially the most profane and offensive stuff as she’s a Christian :-)

Or I could tag her on porno uploads.


Oh Lord.  I can just see myself doing that after a few drinks one night!

Any ideas anyone?

Namaste x

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I’ve always been a bit obsessed with Six Feet Under.

I own the boxed set and have just finished watching all five series (seasons) for about the third time, and the finale always stays with me for days, hence this song stuck in my head on repeat.

Because I’m also obsessed with death, plus I totally and utterly envy the fictitious, feckless, fucked up Fishers.

Because despite their disputes, down times and dysfunctional behaviour, they are a proper family.

They fuck up time after time, they fall out, make up, make the most appalling choices for themselves, are promiscuous to a man/woman, but they are family.  That creepy house come funeral home with its coach house, dated decor, antiquated kitchen always has room for everybody, with a constant influx of the living and dead alike, and they all ebb and flow like the ocean that features so significantly in the dream sequences, so that it’s almost like a living, breathing entity.

Plus they all seem to have plenty of time to hang around smoking pot without ever getting busted.

Not to mention Ruth’s crazy, pill popping sister Sarah has an amazing flower power domicile somewhere out in the sticks, and has a constant stream of hippy friends popping in to dance around the bonfire naked.

And when I saw all the women standing around the body of Fiona their fallen sister singing ‘Calling All Angels’, I, like Ruth longed for that kind of intimacy on a permanent basis.

Who lives like this?  Can I live like this?  Where is this fucking place anyway?

Because what is left of my family is strewn across the UK.  And my friends are either estranged or busy with their hectic 9-5 (or rather 8-8) existence, and I am lonely.

Wrap me up.

Today I walked to town and back.

So what, you might ask?

Well I did my 10,000 steps and its the first real bit of exercise I’ve done this year.

The Fishers made me do that.  Well watching Nate (the bastard) collapse after shagging that awful Maggie and wake up with stroke symptoms, and then die, might have spurred me on a bit. :-)

And I know for a fact that I’m not going to find my very own utopia sat at home on the couch with the cats living vicariously through the Fishers.

So tomorrow, I’ll take a deep breath, and do it again.

And try not to lose myself again.

Namaste x




Friends, Britons, moneymen, lend me your ear.

If only for 300 seconds.

For today, I’ll have you know, is national ‘Time to Talk’ day, and you are impelled, nay, obliged to take 5 minutes out of your day to talk to your pet office nutter, or at the very least, talk about nuttiness or the deranged to your peers in general.

And just in case you run out of stuff to say and are tempted to welch on the deal, you have to log your five minutes on line, so don’t even think about it, sane person!

Oh my. :-)

This is one of the few times I’d love to be back in the corporate world watching everyone squirm like a fish on a gaff, trying to say something relevant and politically correct, whilst eyeing the clock frantically until the final seconds tick past  Or worse still, patronise the nearest depressive (simultaneous outing them) whose name they can’t quite remember, who they’d never normally talk to anyway as they are so far down the food chain.

‘Erm yes, hello young, erm Janice, so you work in accounts…sorry, of course you’re my PA…..yes, I know, 5 years now….well don’t you worry about your depression at all OK? My wife’s second cousin was once hospitalised, but we all talk about it now and go and see her at least once every five years and…erm…well at weddings and funerals.  Just try and smile a bit more!  What’s that song that American with the mountie hat sings, yes buy a copy of that, that’ll cheer you up!  Don’t worry be happy! <guffaws, then looks up>

Is my five minutes up yet?  Book me a cab will you?’

To be honest, as a card carrying crazy myself, I’m not even sure how I’d broach the subject.

Check people’s bags for medication?


Host a game of all staff ‘Name that Mental Health Condition!’ perhaps?

Ask for volunteers to talk about their experiences?

Excuse me if I just smiled to myself here :-)

Because as we all know, no one ever comes clean about having depression/bipolar/BPD etc. if they want to maintain their career and a roof over their head.

Unless you’re stupid like me and believe that honesty is the best policy, and that as long as my condition didn’t effect my work that I’d be allowed to carry on whilst continuing manage myself, and take annual leave NOT sick leave when I felt the black dog approaching, because as most of you know, it didn’t quite work out that way.

Silly, silly, silly Sista…

What I’d have liked to have done was out all the psychopaths at senior management/board level, but that would never happen, because guess what?  The sickest folk of all don’t even know they’re sick, because they have no conscience or empathy whatsoever!  They want what they want, and don’t care who they need to stamp all over to get it.

And they’d probably implement and deliver their 5 minutes of faux support talk to some unsuspecting pill popper, words flying off their tongue, as slick as greased weasel shit, and then walk away looking like a hero.

I know some of you normal folk will be thinking ‘What a cynical, miserable old cow, what’s wrong with this campaign?  At least  they’re trying to open a dialogue about this awkward and potentially alienating subject matter?’

And you’re right.

But 5 minutes of patronising small talk is nowhere near enough my friend, even if you were lucky enough to find someone mad enough to be ‘out’ and tolerate your enforced waffle.

Because any real change in the work place will only be implemented from the top down and would take someone with a fine set of balls, a bit of moral courage and some vision which as we all know is sadly lacking when it comes to most companies.

Because it might cost money.

It might affect productivity.

It might create a need for flexible working hours.

They might flip out if I shout at them!

I won’t be able to sack them without looking like a total prick!

Someone might attack me like that bloke in American Psycho!

Calm down bitches. Little do you know, but that guy is probably already on your dream team ;-)

It might mean that the powers that be would have to entertain the idea of valuing honest people with honest feedback as opposed to ass sucking, greasy pole shinning, silver tongued spin masters talking crap in order to justify their huge salaries whilst hundreds of normal working people get laid off.

Because if people continue to be ousted from the workplace and pushed to the sidelines just because they once had a breakdown, are on medication, have to have the odd duvet day, or all of the above, then companies are missing out of working with brave, competent, highly skilled, deeply creative individuals with excellent emotional intelligence and the highly underrated talent of being able to recognise one of they own and support them in their time of need.

And I can put my emotions to one side and be objective about this.  I know the potential pitfalls of hiring someone who has a history of mental illness.  I’m a bit mad but by no means stupid.

I know certain people wouldn’t flourish in highly pressured roles, boring pedantic jobs or jobs where one has to compromise their integrity, or be willing to fall under the bus whenever deftly pushed by their blame adverse line manager.

But everyone has something they are good at, and if they work in an environment of acceptance and understanding (or the willingness to understand at the very least) they will flourish, contribute, think outside the box and bring no end of benefits to a variety of industries.

Does everyone really want team after team of ‘yes’ men who kiss their asses and big up their ideas and strategies, even when said strategies are not performing?

I have recently had the great satisfaction of now knowing that all the initiatives and target deals that I was meant to bring in three years ago, never came to fruition after all, even when worked on by men three levels senior to me.  The projects they blamed me for not ‘negotiating properly’.  And now, having no one to dump the blame on, they are being let go, and everything i predicted has finally come to pass.


But joking aside, that didn’t have to happen.  And whilst people for a while questioned my sanity, there was and is absolutely nothing wrong with my business acumen.

So to the Alan Sugars, Richard Bransons and Peter Jones’ of this world, please step up to the plate and start creating jobs, even part time or casual positions for people with actual mental health conditions, setting an example to others in this country, and prove that we can be valuable team players.  In other words…

Put your money where your mouth is; or you ain’t saying nothing.

And, to reversion that old Stranglers song:

I need a job where I can live what I said
I need a place that understands my head
Where the boss doesn’t curse and wish me dead
if you don’t hassle me mister I won’t lose my head

Five minutes and you’re nowhere near
Five days and I’ll address my fears
Five weeks and you might see
What an asset I might be

Five months and I’ll still be there
And you’ll be pleased you took my dare
Five years and you’ll forget why
You ever thought I could not fly


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So, a month has gone, and despite all of my good 2015 intentions, each days rolls into the next, as uneventful as the one before.

Unless a job comes through.

And then I jump to it because (a) I can, (b) I don’t have to reveal anything about myself and (c) it pays.

But, apart from that, it’s generally a more boring version of Groundhog Day.

I still haven’t gone to yoga.  I still haven’t gone to the gym.  I still haven’t put my flat on the market. I haven’t written anything, not even my blog.

I have been reading though, and have just finished a book called ‘Life After Life’ by Kate Atkinson where the protagonist keeps coming back and reliving the same life time and time again, a concept which I found pretty horrifying.

I mean I’m willing, well, resigned to sticking this incarnation out, but coming back?  I mean surely it’s like the Big Brother house?  Once you’re out, you don’t have to go back in?

Or if you do have to come back, can’t you choose another more advantageous person/body to be for your three score years and ten?  For a start, I wouldn’t be a woman.  Fuck that for a game of soldiers.  I didn’t even get to procreate this time.

Or an animal?  I’d happily be some kind of four legged creature, ideally in the wild please?

Or even a different woman?

But to come back as me?  Again and again and again, fucking up left right and centre, until, on my eightieth incarnation I actually nail it? Maybe.

That’s just fucking mean.  Because I know I’m not hitting it out of the ball park this time around.

And I still haven’t really got a plan.

My ad hoc plan is currently living vicariously through the housemates in this year’s Celebrity Big Bro, which is fucked up because (a) it’s shit TV, (b) they’re nearly all even more mental than I am, and (c) I actually found myself arguing with some other freak on Twitter about whether being amused at Perez Hilton’s jibe at Calum Best (‘I’m gonna stick my dick up your ass!) means that I supported rape or not.

Given that I myself was a victim of a real, honest to goodness, pin-you-down-force-cock-in-fanny assault, that rankled somewhat.  Especially as it was an insult not a threat, and big butch Calum would squish effete little Mario like a bug if he even glanced in his direction.

So I found myself arguing online on a Sunday night with a complete stranger over some pitiable, pathetic, narcissistic ‘celebrity’ who neither knew I existed and would probably care even less, and that’s when I realised that I could spend the rest of my life doing this wasting shit, and no one would intervene and save me from myself.  Not only that, but there were more of my kind out there desperately following and emotionally buying into these crappy shows so that they didn’t have to face how pointless and meaningless their own lives are.

So I closed the conversation and stopped watching reality TV.

Oh and I’m eating!  I’m eating loads and turning into a right little butterball, so I now have a goodly layer of fat to protect me, along with my other avoidance and repelling tactics. That should keep the men at bay!

Yes, F-E-A-R is still in da house, peeping nervously from behind the burly, threatening bouncer like frame of my ‘Angry Protector’, whilst his erstwhile brother the ‘Avoidant Protector’ turns on the box, breaks out the boxed sets, shovels cake in my gob, and does everything he can to keep me in the Colditz of my own making.

But unlike those POWs and indeed, unlike those ‘C’ listers in the CBB house, I can actually leave this place if I want to.

And I’d love to round this post off by promising you that I will walk out and stride forth and get involved in my life of my own accord.

But I say every day that tomorrow will  be different, but then tomorrow becomes today and all bets are off.

Plus, if I’m gonna have to come back time and time again, what’s the rush?

It might be Colditz inside but…


Namaste x




I don’t know if any of you watch British Celebrity Big Brother, but this year has been a doozy.

The ‘housemates’ include hateful panto-esque Twitter villainess cum rent-a-gob Katie Hopkins, RuPaul muse and radio host Michelle Visage who was ‘weaned off the teats of drag queens’, 80’s soulster Alexander O’Neill, plastic surgery casualty Alicia Duvall, creepy ‘comedian’ and actor Ken Morley, serial womaniser and reality TV star Callum Best, and hyperactive Baywatch star Jeremy Jackson.

And whilst this colourful cast of characters might not sound like a sure in recipe for trouble to you, this shit has gone nuclear.

We’ve had sexual inappropriateness, racism, sexual harassment, bullying, sleep deprivation, bitch fights, al fresco simulated solo sex and a bunny (ornamental not real) beheading, and I’m not gonna lie, it has been riveting viewing.

But there comes a point where someone has to cry ‘Enough!’ and pull the plug on this shit.  Or at the very least remove the walking wounded.

Ken and Jeremy are gone (see and the tabloid press for info), but undoubtably the ‘star’ of the show has been the increasingly dysfunctional, terminally annoying Perez Hilton and he is still cavorting around the old town of Elstree tormenting everyone in sight in the hope that he can be booted out and get to keep his no doubt exorbitant fee.

He even goaded Alexander into calling him a ‘f****t’, something I doubt he would have done had he not being pushed, but the house now consists of the participators, the interferers (yes I’m talking about you Nadia Sawalha), the ‘I’m keeping well out of this shit’ers, and, as of Friday night, unlikely peace envoy, model and business woman Katie Price.


Sadly though, I think it’s gonna take more than magic wand wielding KP in fairy godmother mode to fix this cursed domicile.

She may get a gratis polite 12-24 hours if she’s lucky, then once again, all hell will break loose, as Perez has alienated nearly all of his housemates now, and having heard the cries ‘Get Perez Out!’ from the general public that were meant to love him, he wants out.  And he ain’t going empty handed.  And Big Brother/Endemol have no intention of paying and releasing him, not until they allow him to push himself to the brink, crank the viewing figures up even more, giving them the opportunity to milk this demented cash cow to the max.

The trouble is, to my mind, this boy is crack’in up and he’s putting money before his mental health and the retention of the last shreds of his dignity.

Plus, after days of being on pretty much her best behaviour (well for her anyway), the repellent, sadistic bully Katie Hopkins is out of her box, has tasted blood and runs around nipping at his heels trying to expedite his downfall, kidding herself that this will raise her profile and likeabilty with the British public, whilst he bellows at her bull like, as they reenact some particularly dark episode of ‘Cow and Chicken’.

This is not entertainment.

It’s ugly and by watching it we are mocking the afflicted.

Hell, even Danny Dyer has dismissed it on Twitter as being ‘Like a snuff movie.  Or holding hands with Max Clifford.’

And it brings back painful memories of my own psychological downfall back in 2012.

Whilst I was not working in the same kind of environment as Perez or getting anything like as much exposure, I could feel people watching me like I was a soap opera on legs.

And whilst I did not seek expose my condition or deliberately draw attention to myself, the longer I stayed, the more the gossip fed mob goggled at me, in the office, in the cafe, in the lift, hotly debating what might happen next.

And whilst I wasn’t holding out for a pay out, a pay out would have to be negotiated in order for me to survive post expulsion.

And whilst I didn’t walk, because I was determined to be heard, I could have.

And maybe, just maybe I should have.

It’s hard to determine whether I did the right thing for myself back then.  I believed I behaved with dignity and hung on because I was not going to be intimidated and forced out by a huge American company who had allowed me to be bullied and mistreated and I was determined that, even if I did not survive the outcome, that this would never happen to anyone else after I was gone.

However the 18 month battle invariably left me with scars that are today, nearly two years later, still scabbing over and not yet healed.

Which is why I implore Perez Hilton’s advisors to bust him out of there, fee or no fee, before he does something even more stupid to himself.

Which is why I implore Big Brother/Endomol to meet Perez and his people half way and facilitate his release because the quicker he comes out, the less damage limitation he’ll have to do and his career, in the US at least, may survive this ugly, humiliating charade.

Because nervous breakdowns do not great headlines make.

Suicide even less so.

Think about it Endomol, do you really want his blood on your hands?

Or, if I really want to reach you where you live, do you really want the doors to that house to close for the final time this month?

Who wins?

You decide.



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