twenty nine 'grams

It's not an addiction, I could give up any time. Honest. I just really like taking pictures. Sorry what? I was just uploading something to Instagram. I'm back. Put it down? Concentrate? Right. Yep. Good. Sorry.

Long gone are the days of carefully considered exposures onto Kodachrome, when each shot had a cost, both financially and in that every photo of your thumb was one less of Aunt Maude falling off at the Donkey Derby.

Now you have gigabytes of space at your disposal, and poor Maude's floral bloomers have been liked and commented on by seventy five of your followers before she's brushed the sand off her knees.

With both mass generation and consumption of digital photos, their lifespan can be fleeting. Unlike photos of the past which were carefully inserted into special books and then dragged out to show off to friends and relatives at every given opportunity, digital shots tend to disappear into the storage ether, safe, secure, but rarely viewed. Let's face it, even the Marquis de Sade wouldn't make his neighbours sit through a 14 hour slide show of honeymoon pictures.

Concerned that I was becoming a photo sharing sadist, I loaded up the last 12 months of Instagram pictures, surely if I'd felt the need to share them, they must have been good. Hang on...Why did I photograph a salad, let alone five of them? And who's cat is that?

Scrolling through, the realisation dawns that a lot of the pictures I've shared are utter shite, despite the sepia filter and tilt shift, and that even more are just plain boring.

"Look at the size of that cake. LOL."

Good grief.

On the other hand, there are some really nice, honest shots.

Truthful even.

You can see where this is going right?

Once an art and design student, always an art and design student.

No. Don't go. Stay, it won't take long honest. Cup of tea? Chocolate Bourbon? Now that's better isn't it?

Ladies and Gents, I give you "twenty nine 'grams - an ounce of truth", it's a little bit over an ounce (of truth), but give me a break, the pun still works, and where was I going to get a third of an Instagram picture from?

The pun's not a problem? You just think I'm a tit?

You can have the rest of the biscuits if you stay and look at the photos.

No I don't have any chocolate Hob Nobs.

Anyway. Chucking out the arty pretense for just a minute, I've chosen 29 pictures taken between 25th December 2011 and 25th December 2012 that mean something to me, or that I thought were just good photos. Agree. Disagree. Be indifferent. That's what makes art fun. And yes, I know I said I was ditching the pretentious twaddle, but photography is art. Even that childhood picture of you in the bath wearing a beard made out of Matey.

If you like these pictures that's wonderful, but they are mine, and as the copyright holder I'd be very grumpy if you were to borrow them without permission, so please don't do that.

"twenty nine 'grams - an ounce of truth"

25th December 2011 - The National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery, London, UK - No ones idea of a Merry Christmas.

26th January 2012 - Russell Square, London, UK - Having spent an hour being briefed by Dad's medical team on the extent of his condition, the prognosis and signing the DNR forms, Mum and I stepped out into the crisp January sun, it was like a weight had been lifted. Things were not good, but at least there was some certainty. We knew that things would not get better and why. We knew that Dad was not coming home and that plans had to be made for his care. It may not sound normal to be relieved that someone was physically losing their mind, but it explained the behaviour, the decline and the situation we found ourselves in. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, even if it was one that he wasn't coming back from.

29th February 2012 - Marbella, Spain - The sunset, the sand, the warm water lapping against the shore, the glamour of working for an international technology company. Not an average day on the business park.

21st March 2012 - TOT Shirts, London, UK - An industrial estate in Tottenham, might not be high up there on a list of exciting filming locations, but when you're marketing databases, you need interesting customer stories to draw people in. TOT are a huge T shirt printing firm, owned by a bloke who looks and sounds like the cockney gangster in Snatch. One of the most interesting and surreal working days I've had. Whatever you do don't say cool.

5th April 2012 - La Plange, France - Having smuggled the diamond through customs and kept it hidden in a tiny apartment for 3 days, it was a relief to see it taking pride of place on Anna's finger, even if it did take her a while to realise that Cameron was proposing.

5th May 2012 - Oxford, UK - Receiving an email out of the blue from someone I'd met on Guardian Soulmates a year or so before, who'd shot off to Australia a few days later (nothing to do with me), we met up for Lunch and a catchup just outside of Oxford. When I got back to the car, there was a squeezy tiger on the bonnet. She's now training to be a doctor at Southampton, I'm not responsible for that either.

11th May 2012 - Hungerford Bridge/ The Golden Jubilee Bridge, London, UK  - Out for a wander around town and everything just seemed to line up.

12th May 2012 - Maple Cross, UK - This is Rocky. He's a very angry cat. Possibly because his owner makes him wear a studded collar with a pink tag, but no one is really sure. UPDATE: His owner has informed me that he is NOT a psycho, he just has some protection issues. That's what they said about Bronson.

13th May 2012 - Nissan UK, Maple Cross, UK - A Ferrari F40. An underground carpark. 250 petrol heads wearing earplugs. Pistonheads Sunday Service. At noon the song of thousands of horsepower being unleashed from some of the worlds most exotic machinery bounced off of the walls and turned the assembled mass into the worlds largest group of Cheshire Cat impersonators.

24th May 2012 - Cevice, Soho, UK - The strange Latin American cocktails were flowing, the raw fish dishes were on their way and an incredibly intoxicated PR girl in her mid 40's was calling me Clive. Thankfully her friend took her home and having tried lime cured fish, I never have to eat it again. Although I'm certain that Kieran will find something strange for me to eat or drink before 2013 is out. I have no idea how we got through day two of that trade show.

26th May 2012 - Chorleywood, UK - Laying in the back garden watching the planes climbing out of Heathrow. This one appeared to be running from the sun rather than to it.

3rd June 2012 - Clapham, UK - King Stuart celebrates the Jubilee. To be honest, this could be any day of the week. This man loves to dress up and throw a pose. He normally has a beer in his hand and doesn't wash below the knee.

14th July 2012 - Strongroom, Shoreditch, London, UK - What had started out as an SOS call at 11am from Couch End, had become a quest not just for the hair of the dog, but for his whole furry hide. Breakfast in the Blue Aubergine, led us to Harvey Nichols  for Cocktails, a Knightsbridge pub for Prosecco, Shoreditch for a Birthday Party, Archway for Northern Soul and Clapton for a the most packed out living room in London town. Miss King led the charge, chauffeur in tow. An epic 16 hours.

16th July 2012 - Somerset House, London, UK - Geller is responsible for this picture. Having told me that M83 were performing a few hours before and that tickets were still available, she talked me into manning up and going it alone. Good work Geller.

26th August 2012 - Amersham, UK - Putting away childish things, I decided it was time for a proper grown up car, something comfortable, safe, capable of driving in the snow. At 160mph, sideways. Okay, so it's 14 years old and has more beige leather and walnut than is strictly decent, but if it was good enough for DeNiro, it's good enough for me.

8th September 2012 - Taghazout, Morocco - Standing on the roof of the Surf Maroc villa, watching the sunset. One of the best weeks of my life. Amazing place, wonderful people. I'm still crap at surfing.

21st September 2012 - Chorleywood Underground Station, UK - On route to Oktoberfest. The London one. Everything was calm, it had been raining on and off all day, but the sun came out briefly and baked everything dry. As it started to set the station lights came on adding another level of lines to those provided by the tracks and platforms. True perspective.

3rd October 2012 - London, UK - Wandering down Brook Street on the way back from a meeting, Mike and I discovered these chaps taking a proper lunch break. I'm not sure what to admire more, the fact that they had little tables, complete with gingham check table cloths, or that they had coned themselves off in a nod to health and safety.

12th October 2012 - KOKO, Camden, UK - Submotion Orchestra. It was at this point that I fell in love with the vocals of Ruby Wood. One of the very best live performances I have ever seen.

16th October 2012 - Airport Bowl, Heathrow, UK - After months of planning, we'd made it through day one of a developer conference and had taken 60 coders bowling. No one died.

26th October 2012 - Wired Live 2012, London, UK - RG and JG. She wants to steal the couch. He's just spent 2 hours telling me that he refers to his penis as "The King". They are totally unrelated as are the previous statements. No Really.

30th October 2012 - Olympic Park, Munich, Germany - There is the weirdest Rock and Roll "museum" ever at the top of this thing. You have a strong legacy to follow team 2012...

6th November 2012 - Stoke Park, UK - Angus and Emily were married. The band were playing Journey. There was nothing else that we could have done.

7th November 2012 - Stockley Park, Uxbridge, UK - A photography exhibition in Rackspace's former office. It may look like Mike is interested in the photos, but in actual fact he's stuck to the floor with carpet tile adhesive.

28th November 2012 - Chorleywood, UK - Movember 2012. Yes I cheated. Yes I had a beard beforehand. But doesn't it look magnificent? Woof!

2nd December 2012 - Chesham, UK - This is Nina. She is one of my oldest and best friends. These are her Yorkshire Puddings.

5th December 2012 - The Phoenix, London, UK - Yes, that is Lionel Blair. Yes, he did tap dance. No, you can't keep him Katy.

18th December 2012 - Renaissance Tattoo, Rickmansworth, UK - A three hour sitting turned into a five, and after many years as an outline, the Koi was complete. Amazing work from Amanda. I think there's some space on her waiting list mid 2014.

25th December 2012 - The Chase Care Home, Croxley Green, UK - A year on and Dad is settled into a specialist care home for those with Alzheimers. Jon, Becky and I arrived half way through lunch. Dad had no idea what was going on, or who we were. He did know that he liked the biscuits that Becky had baked for him though. Happy Christmas.

who is Dave Gorman?

Totally daft question. Of course you all know who Dave Gorman is. He's the guy that did that Googlewhack thing. 11 years ago.

Now that must be a bit depressing.

Oh hang on, he's the bloke who set out on a challenge to drive across America without using any big corporates for food, fuel or accommodation, a journey of discovery through the backwoods of the United States of America. 5 years ago.

Sigh.

But still a cultural reference point for people. That's a good thing, surely? That people attach you to a place, time or project?

Flattering, for sure. But what about everything since then? Does that not even register?

Frustrating?

"I think what's frustrating is that there's a capsule-journalism type version of events that lots of people believe. So to many people I'm that-guy-who-does-wacky-things-in-order-to-write-shows-about... which I hate because that suggests those were contrivances, rather than shows about things that had happened to me - in one case, a breakdown. When those are all people refer to - & more often than not, framed incorrectly as deliberately contrived - it sends a message to those who've never seen what I do, that the assumption they made, based on a 100 word précis they read in the paper once was right. It's as if people ignore the shows/books that can't be contorted to fit that description because it makes their world messy." Dave Gorman - 3rd December 2012

Now that is frustrating.

What's my point here? Why am I regurgitating a conversation with Dave Gorman on twitter? Why am I asking who Dave Gorman is? Why do I feel any of this is relevant, to me, you or anyone other than Dave?

Well this is frustrating.

I enjoy Dave's work. I've read his books, and seen his shows. I wish whole heartedly that the BBC would bring Genius back, because it made me feel like I wasn't the only one with daft ideas, that there were thousands of us. And we're mostly harmless.

He makes his own case for why being pigeon holed, often incorrectly is frustrating, he's not ungrateful, but who likes to be misunderstood?

I like Dave, he seems like a decent bloke, one of us but with a better beard. Lets be frank, many share this familiar frustration at being misunderstood or our work misrepresented.

For many, once university was over, getting a job, any job proved to be much more challenging that expected. We waited tables, sorted post, answered your call centre complaints and manned reception desks. We were employed. Food was on the table, petrol was in the car and we had managed to get away from the clutches of Jeremy Kyle. Life was OK.

OK. Who want's OK? You don't go out to watch an OK film, to have an OK dinner and some OK conversation. You want more! Right?!

Well, I can only speak for myself, but after 3 years studying design, answering the phone, opening the post and signing guests in and out, OK was not enough. This job was not me. Certainly not a defining part of my character or necessarily a key reference point to my life. I was going slowly going off the edge.

So I found things to do, I pushed my role open, I took on more and more, I proved that I was more than just a pretty face and four years later, I am not a receptionist, I am part (half?) of a two person marketing team for a huge tech company, planning and running events, doing creative, print, web and online for six countries.

So why when our CEO visits do I still get refereed to as "Chris used to be our receptionist in the old office"?

Frustrating. Really frustrating.

It is as if the last four years haven't happened.

This experience is not mine alone. Lots of my friends squeezed themselves into a role and forced a job open to fit their skills, but still struggle with getting the recognition both financially from their employer or in terms of reference from their colleagues.

I've been advised, that the only way out of this, is to move on. To find something bigger and better to work on. Maybe that is an answer for the rest of us. However, if the frustration has boiled over to a point where you're stealing printers and beating them up with baseball bats, it's probably too late for you.

But what to do when you are Dave Gorman?

I don't know. But whatever he does next I'd like to see it, read it or hear it.

If you haven't seen or read anything since Are you Dave Gorman?, Googlewhack Adventure, or America Unchained or you never have and are just basing your views on a précis (new word for me, thanks Dave), then go have a nose through www.davegorman.com, watch, read, listen and get as enthused as I am about whatever is coming next.

an open post to Mark Thomas

As I walked through the station on my way home this evening, it became apparent that I was singing opera under my breath. I didn't realise I was doing this. I had headphones in and thanks to the wonders of Spotify had decided to embark upon a voyage of operatic discovery. I thought the funny looks were for the PLO style scarf I had wrapped around my neck against the cold, or the ridiculous facial hair that I have been growing on my upper lip, and now cannot bare to part with. No, it was the dulcet tones issuing from underneath my shemagh which were drawing looks of awe.  Suffice it to say, that if Pavarotti was one of the worlds best tenors, I am a slightly manky 5p, and that what I had initially interpreted as awe, was in fact concern for this strange warbling bird trapped in the body of a 6'2'' man. For this I feel you should apologise to the other late night patrons of the 22:57 Chiltern Railways service from London Marlyebone to Aylesbury Vale Parkway - I considered starting a revolution, but thought I had probably caused enough bother for one evening.

Earlier in the evening, I had sat in the third row at the Royal Opera House and felt the hot salty sting of tears trickling down my cheeks, I quickly dashed them away least the other Radio 4 listeners think me soft and uncynical. Sadly the evening was filled with familiar words and feelings.

I've written in the past about my Dad, 6 times it would seem and having just had a read through I started off really fucking angry with him. He never hit me or my brother or my mum, he was just a bit of a dick sometimes. Thinking about it now, I was angry for him at being ill, no one wants to see their dad dying, no matter what he was like. Then I was angry at the level of care in the NHS, then even angrier once I discovered that this level of care was not representative, just a local pocket of shit. And finally resigned to knowing that nothing will get better, that he will gradually slip away inside of himself.

Dementia really a totally fucking arsehole isn't it?

Combined with a bit of Alzheimers and some Amyloid Angeopathy thrown in just for laughs, there's not a whole lot of my Dad left in there, just the odd word, a flash of recognition and then gone.

Anyway, I wanted to thank you for the show tonight. Every time I encounter someone else who has had personal involvement with dementia, I feel a little less hopeless, a little less useless, like I'm part of some slightly embarrassed club where we all shrug and look at each other knowingly before changing the subject.

For anyone else reading this who hasn't got a clue what I'm talking about, tonights performace of Bravo Figaro! was being recorded for Radio 4, so you can have a listen next year, if the Tories haven't managed to disassemble the Aunty by then.

For anyone interested, or just nosey, the things I've written about Dad are at the bottom of the page, some are less than eloquent, but so am I.

Happy 67th Birthday Dad, I'm sorry you couldn't be there. - Monday 23rd April 2012

the cure and the curse - Monday 12th March 2012

we need to talk about dad - Sunday 22nd January 2012

Orangutang - Tuesday 15th November 2011

a close shave - Thursday 3rd November 2011

Disappointment - Sunday 16th October 2011

the 8th amendment

Imagine a world where the unborn have a right to life, where from the point of conception, when the sperm breaches the egg, at a time where any life involved is as self aware as a soiled Kleenex, the right to survival is equal to that of the mother.

Sounds like the beginnings of some pretty standard science fiction, there are going to be replicants, a detective, some questionable medial practitioners. Tom Cruise will star and it will be a huge hit at the box office.

The budgets will be huge, the effects spectacular, the visuals shocking and the morals deep in their questioning of society.

Sadly it's not Sci-Fi, there is no multi-million dollar blockbuster staring Hollywood A-Lister's, no snazzy trailer or must have tie in merchandise.

It is the Eight Amendment of the Constitution of Ireland, 1983 and on the 28th October, 2012, it helped to kill Savita Halappanavar.

Savita was 31, a dentist, originally from India who was going through her first pregnancy. She asked for a termination after experiencing extreme back pain. University Hospital Galway declined. It has since been reported in the Irish times that she died of septicaemia. A review is underway.

Not an investigation.

There's nothing to investigate, the doctors were following the letter of the law.

The law of a nation which feels that it should decide what a woman does with her uterus.

Strange that they don't feel the same way about sperm. Not to get all Monty Python, but surely every sperm should be considered sacred and a womans eggs too...so both masturbation and periods should be stopped. Outlawed in the name of the Holy Father.

I'm sorry to make light, but quite frankly Ireland, your behaviour is ridiculous.

But then to my mind any act driven by religion is.

It is 2012, relying on the words of men, passed off as the words of Gods as if they are the air that you breath is insanity. How many more need to die in hospitals and on battlegrounds before state driven religious zealotry is the crime, rather than common sense?

I'm back. I'm cheating. I want your money.

"At the start of Movember guys register with a clean shaven face."

At this early stage, I want to come clean, limit potential disappointment, save face, if you will and admit that I shall not be starting Movember 2012 with a clean shaven upper lip.

Bah and indeed humbug, you may well say.

Tough titty.

I started out this years growth campaign on the 8th September in Morocco, by resolutely not shaving and bumming around not quite surfing for a week...6 weeks later and I cracked, all but the upper lip down to a grade 4...today, I've cracked again and started to carve shape into the bristles.

So why this rebellion from the one simple rule of Movember? Why do I feel the need to deviate? Why can't I just be a good "Mo Bro" and grow with my bro's?

Well, quite frankly as a long term patron of stupid looking facial hair, the idea of shaping as you grow is fricking ridiculous, you need a beard to start with, you need some fuzz to cut the intended style out of. Attempting to grow a Mo from a clean shaven face is akin to planting some seeds and expecting a fully dressed chicken ceasar salad to materialise out of the dirt.

I enjoyed having a Mo. I think some of you liked it to. Especially with the John McEnroe outfit...perverts.

More importantly, you lovely people contributed £750 to a worthwhile cause.

I'm back. I'm cheating. I want your money.

And this is why.

I've gone for the Bronson, so in the spirit of good old Charlie, I'm asking for your money.

Get involved, it's gonna get hairy either way, and from where I'm standing, behind the Mo is the place to be.

http://mobro.co/ChrisMann1981

...trust me on the sunscreen.

Epiphany. I'm certain that I am not the first person that's gone to Morocco and had one. I may be the first person to have gone to Morocco and had one about an unpaid congestion charge. Bollocks.

Momentarily I panic. Frustration and anger washing over me at the realisation that a £10 charge is now a £60 fine. That said, it's taken me nearly a week to remember. Fuck it. It doesn't matter.

I shrug inwardly and stare off into the distance, watching the waves break further along the coast, the warm late summer water of the Atlantic swelling beneath me. I lose a few seconds staring down, marveling at the patchwork repairs that scar epoxy body of the handsome Bear longboard and watching the light refract through the water on my hands. I really could use some more sunscreen.

The waves have worked themselves flat, the wind dropping and providing white frothy foam where the ocean touches the beach. I head in for that sunscreen and maybe a little water.

It's been a good week, my first trip away alone in thirty one years and everything has felt right.

The late night decision to book up a weeks surfing and yoga with Surf Maroc, is one of the best I've made for a long time. Hell, I've made so many bad decisions in recent years that a good one had to come around eventually.

I've surfed for the last 4 days, stayed in a nice place, used some good equipment, eaten some great food and met some awesome people. My only regret is that I didn't do this sooner.

Walking up the beach, slow reaslisation dawns that I probably look a bit special, wrapped up in my own thoughts a slight grin on my face, I might have even giggled a little. Hey I am a bit special.

Dancing back and forth on the hot sand as I unstrap the leash, I hear a sharp intake of breath, the resident paparazzi Chris' eyes are locked on what could only very generously be called a tan line around my ankle...best get some more sunscreen on.

Suitably rehydrated and with a thick coat of UV protection applied, I head back out with Chris. He offers me a little coaching, try this, maybe stop doing that, paddle, paddle, PADDLE!

I was saying the people are awesome? This guy is the photographer and he spends an hour or so giving me advice on position, stance, paddling and reading the waves. I feel myself noticeably improve. I guess a guy sat watching you through a telephoto lens can be of benefit sometimes...who knew?

The day comes to an end all too soon. We pack up the boards and head home. It really does feel like home. I could live here. Chatting to the guys and girls that work here, maybe I couldn't. The days are long and the work is hard...but the surf can be awesome. I guess it's the same as a ski resort in that way. You're right on the beach/piste, but there's work to be done before you can get out on your board for the fun stuff. Hmm. I'm very fortunate just to be visiting.

I stop feeling fortunate at about 11pm. Dizzy. Clammy. Sick.

Crawling into bed, my stomach empty, my muscle aching, I hug a bottle of water and drift off into delirious sleep. Too much sun. Too much salt water. Not enough common sense.

Waking the next day I drift around the villa. Drinking water. Risking a couple of bananas and some flat Coke I start to feel more human. Chatting with Lisa and Julie as they work (hosting/coaching and operations respectively) the feeling of good fortune returns. This is a special place and I am very lucky to be here.

They say that "money can't buy you happiness". This is incredibly true, but it can be incredibly useful when it comes to paying for things.

This wasn't a cheap trip for me (and not just because I am careful with my cash these days) a week here including flights with all the trimmings has been just over a thousand pounds sterling.

I have nothing material to show for it, other than a fading tan and half of Taghazout beach in the back pockets of my Levis.

I met some truly special people and had some great times. I gained some much needed perspective. And I learned the importance of Mary Schmich's words "Wear Sunscreen". If that's not worth 6 months of hard saving, I don't know what is.

In the spirit of Mary's speech, I will offer one piece of advice, based on my meandering experience: grab hold of every opportunity offered to you, you don't know what's going to happen in life, live it to the full, have no regrets and try not to worry about what might have happened. Oh, and trust her on the sunscreen.

not quite date rape

She held his hand as he swayed unsteadily down the street, a few hours with her friends for engagement drinks and he had polished off a bottle of wine, in her view hardly a lot for a veteran of rugby tours such as he was, but the gentle sway in his movement threatened to edge her off of the curb into traffic, she steered him onwards, back to the car.

They stopped halfway, a long shadow cast in the light of a kebab shop doorway, he pulls her inside and leans on the counter, turning halfway through his order and locking lips with her.

The man behind the counter casts his eyes down and looks away, his attention returning on the slurred order for a chicken shish with that pink sauce and a slice of cheese (the plastic kind), topped off with a can of Diet Coke, he is in training after all.

The cold can is pressed into her hands and he leans against her, breathing heavily, clearly drifting off to sleep . 

Suddenly reanimated by his completed order, she is propelled out onto the pavement, holding the flimsy carrier bag of late night sustenance.

They stop once more, he disappears into the shadows, the steady stream of urine being passed echoes up the walls of the narrow alleyway, she watches as it trickles down the concrete footpath, passing within inches of her feet. Appearing in the street light, splashing through the thin yellow stream, he grasps her hand and staggers the last 15 feet back to the car.

She unlocks it and gets behind the wheel. His hand pressing on her thigh. He wants to go back to hers.

She turns to face him. They had talked about this. He was getting a train early the next morning, she had things to do, it was her doing all the driving and frankly she wasn't really in the mood. There will be other nights.

He looks into her eyes. He's incredibly horny. Does she want to leave him like this?

Look. Don't spoil things. Come on, lets get you home.

The pressure on her thigh increases, she can feel him edging his fingers up the seam of her jeans towards her crotch. He leans in and kisses her, the sudden heat of his breath in her mouth is shocking, her eyes are wide as his teeth bump off of hers, his hand fumbling for her fly. 

She pulls away.

Come on now. Stop. You're making me feel uncomfortable.

He shrugs. What's the problem? We've had sex before. Why are you being like this?

His hand is on her shoulder, leaning across the transmission his body pressure on hers, lips clashing, she feels his teeth lock on her bottom lip and pulls away.

I've told you you're making me feel uncomfortable, I've asked you to stop. Look, let's call it a night ok? 

How often do you feel sexually desired? 

She ignored this. Starts the car and reverses out of the space. They travel back to his Mothers, conversation drifting in and out over the 10 minute journey.

As she pulls onto the curb and lifts the hand brake lever, his hand is back on her thigh, the sweet stale smell of alcohol fills her nostrils as he kisses her again, the hands groping her crotch, fumbling for the buttons.

Stop. Come on. I asked you before.

She wonders if he can hear her. Repeats herself. And once more.

He leans back, looks at her with something edging onto disgust.

You're right. I suppose I have had a bit to drink. Night.

She drives home. Feelings of violation and anger ebbing through her conscious, glad to be alone.

10 am and her phone vibrates: "Sorry for being a bit rapey! X".

What you have just read is a true story.

It happened on Saturday 11th August 2012 in St. Albans, Hertfordshire.

I'm certain that some of the women reading this aren't surprised. Shocked. Upset. But not surprised.

What if I told you that part of the story above is fictional. That the roles have been reversed. That "He" is in fact "She" and vice versa.

Surprised now?

I've spent a couple of weeks thinking about this post. A draft version has sat online, in one form or another since the 13th of August. I didn't quite know what to say. I was angry, embarrassed and ashamed. How dare one human being treat another like that?

As a man, I have been brought up to understand that "No means No". Why should it be any different for a woman?

I've talked this through with some people, the reactions range from laughter "Ha but shes a girl." "You got out of it, what's the problem?", "You should have just shagged her", to horrified disbelief and questions about my well being.

Today the realisation hit that I had become a victim of sexual assault.

Something that gets bandied about a lot when crime statistics are discussed is the likely hood that the victim knows the perpetrator.

I didn't know her that well. We met through an internet dating site.

Up until yesterday, I thought this was done. It was out of my mind. There had been a few text messages. I'd suggested we called it quits and explained why. She was surprised that I felt so strongly, thought I was overreacting, but eventually backed off.

At 22:37 last night she sent me this:

"ha ok just for giggles had a look at your profile again... I seriously put you out didn't i?!? I know I'm a wee bit kooky and so on, but I think you have some massive massive issues of your own to deal with if I clearly scared you as much as I did. Jesus..."

I was shocked to be honest, but never one to back down replied at 22:41

"No means no. You chose to ignore me several times. When someone says that what you are doing is making them feel uncomfortable, you need to respect that and stop. You chose not to. Twice.

You didn't scare me in the slightest, you made me feel violated and angry.

Think carefully about what happened, reverse the roles and tell me it's still acceptable"

Eight minutes later:

"massive massive issues, you have majorly over exagerating and clearly need to get a grip! you take a girl on 4 dates in 1 week where we have sex every single time, and then offended that I was a bit tipsy and wanted a bit of a fumble you freak. you are literally the biggest head case and clearly massively fucked up that you are twisting this in your sad little mind that I'm some sort of rapist! dream on, massively punching above!"

The she blocked me.

Now I'm not an expert, but that was a pretty serious lashing out to a calmly written couple of sentences.

I don't know why she contacted me. I don't know what she hoped to achieve. But that last message was constructed with the sole intent of making me feel deluded, stupid and worthless.

The big problem, from my side at least, is that I was sober. I remember what was said and done.

Given that she's a primary school teacher, I don't know what concerns me more, that her memory is clearly not up to much, that she does not appear to understand the correct usage of punctuation, capitalisation and grammar or that she thinks it's ok to sexually assault men.