Thursday, 25 August 2016


When I was 10 years old I made my first visit to our local rugby club. That was the day that went on to shape my formative years.

There weren't many young teenage girls in the 90s who spent every weekend surrounded by big burly blokes - well not in my home town anyway! 

By the age of 16 I'd witnessed enough to make my university days seem tame in comparison. Half naked blokes, yards of ale, language that would make your granny blush - just a normal Saturday! For my 18th birthday a group of them even stripped for me, which was...interesting!

Of course it was all good humoured fun. Just a group of blokes releasing the pressures of a hard weeks work. Although how banging a tray repeatedly against your head does that I've still yet to work out...

Anyway, there was a reason why I suddenly decided to write all this down's exam results time. (Stay with me!)

Spending all your time in a rugby club you'd think that the chances of some teenage one on one action would have been quite high. Well, definitely for some, but not really for me. 

To be honest I looked on most of those around my age in disdain. I didn't like them, they didn't seem to like me. I spent most of my teenage years in an awkward haze. The geeky older sister of the more popular one.  I was the one who worked the bar, ran the tuck-shop, helped in the kitchen. They were the ones who went out and got pissed. It was all fine by me. To be fair, they were probably all lovely people, but teenagers can be dicks. Especially me. I was awful.

I screwed up my first chance of 'romance' at the tender age of 14 with an acute attack of embarrassment, met my first boyfriend during sixth form and finally ended up dating a rugby player when I was 19...and the least said about that the better.

There was that one though. The slightly older unattainable one. 

The one who embarrassed the hell out of me by performing the haka only millimetres from my face in the middle of the clubhouse. 

The one I could never look straight in the eye afterwards. 

The one who made me blush ever so slightly if he so much as glanced in my direction. 

I was working behind the bar just after GCSE results day. Most people were outside and in he walked, straight up to me in the bar.

"Hey, how you doing?" (Although, he didn't sound like Joey from Friends!)

Now, obviously he was ordering a drink but he was talking to me. Just me! I stared resolutely at the beer pump as he continued.

"So, did you get your results?"

I looked up.

"Have you decided what A levels you're doing?"

I placed the pint on the bar. "I've been at university a year now. Studying Law."

And with that he turned a darker shade of pale, mumbled something incoherent and walked off with his pint.

And that ladies and gentleman, is how you cure a crush on a guy with a name like a biscuit!

Not your average results day tale but I hope it raised a smile during what can be a stressful time!

Thursday, 18 August 2016

All My Fault...

I don't swear much but when I do I like to really mean it. So, if you're of a particularly nervous disposition or are offended easily, I suggest you turn away now.

What a fucking awful day!

Toddler tantrum number three thousand, four hundred and...oh, who am I kidding? I stopped counting months ago.

It started off well enough. The 3 year old screamed because he didn't want to get dressed, because he didn't want to go to his swimming lesson, because he didn't want to leave the many electronic devices in the house. But I got him into the car, into the leisure centre, into his swimming gear and into the pool. Result! 

But then it all started to go wrong and the tiny part of the world I inhabit got to share in the joy that is my child. 

And this is where the swearing really starts...

I'd like to thank the people of Altrincham who are, quite frankly, a miserable bunch of judgemental fucktards. Not all of them in fairness but a good proportion. The ones who look on with frowny faces. Audibly tut when you pass them. Stand and stare. Whisper behind their hands. Laugh and shake their heads. One women even altered her path to avoid us like we had the fucking bubonic plague!

Now obviously my 3 year old's behaviour is my fault. 

It's my fault he refused to go to bed last night. It's my fault he got up at stupid o'clock this morning. It's my fault I took him out for a lovely lunch. It's my fault I refused to buy him the bubbles. It's my fault he's grown out of his trousers and I need to buy him new ones. It's my fault I try to stop him from licking lamp-posts. It's my fault he has to wear shoes in town. It's my fault I refused to go back for the bubbles. It's my fault I have to hold his hand whilst crossing the road. It's my fault he can't stick his hand down the side of moving escalators. It's my fault I refused to go back for the fucking bubbles. 

But this is all I accept responsibility for. Everything else is firmly his fault. 

I hate the way fucking middle class twats in this part of the world take any and every opportunity to look down on others. The way that they pretend that their children never had tantrums. If you're claiming they haven't then I'd suggest that (1) they're either too scared of you to do so (bit worrying), (2) their emotional development is slightly in question, (3) you've blocked the trauma from your memory, or (4) you're fucking lying!

I know it's slightly annoying when someone is screaming at the top of their lungs, but guess what? I live with him! And I put up with it far more than you do. And no, there is nothing wrong with my child, but thank you ever so much for your concern random stranger. HE'S JUST 3!!

After subjecting the good people of this blessed plot to my child's quite frankly, appalling behaviour we went back to the Leisure Centre for round 2 - the 8 year old's swimming lesson.

The dirty, stinky, cesspit that is Altrincham Leisure Centre then proceeded to mug me for another set of swimming lessons for the boys and a certificate and badge for the 3 year old. A badge which he immediately lost under a vending machine and I had to spend a good proportion of time on my hands and knees looking for.

After I'd spent a good ten minutes at reception trying to pay whilst shouting at the 3 year old to stop swinging on the turnstile the receptionist laughed and said, 'And you'll have another one to pay for before long'!

I simply stared back as the realisation of what she'd said sunk in.

Now, I know I've had to suspend my gym membership during the holidays and I've consumed a fair amount of chocolate and beer just to maintain my sanity...but in no way do I look fucking pregnant!

I then had to buy a bottle of cherry coke and a Yorkie to calm my nerves and spent the rest of the day looking at myself sideways in mirrors and shop windows to assess the damage.

So, just in case you require an executive summary: 

- 3 year old's are mini explosive devices ready to go off at any second;
- The people of Altrincham are judgemental fucktards;
- I am fat


Friday, 12 August 2016

We're Going On A Wine Hunt

So, I've been a little bit quiet recently so in true Blue Peter style, here's something I made earlier!

Some of you will have seen this little poem before on my Facebook page but I figured it deserved another outing.

With apologies to Michael Rosen. It's intended as an affectionate parody, rather than blatant plagiarism - please don't sue me, I'm not worth it...

We're going on a wine hunt
We're going to pour a big one
What a crappy day!
Everyone be scared

Uh-uh! Project homework!
Crappy project homework
We can’t ignore it
We can’t just fudge it
Better just do it
Glue, stick. Glue, stick. Glue, stick.

We’re going on a wine hunt
We’re going to pour a big one
What a crappy day!
Everyone be scared

Uh-uh! A tantrum!
A massive toddler tantrum
We can’t ignore it
Can’t we just ignore it?
We’re going to ignore it
Stamp, kick. Stamp, kick. Stamp, kick

We’re going on a wine hunt
We’re going to pour a big one
What a crappy day!
Everyone be scared

Uh-uh! A dress up day!
Another frigging dress up day
We can’t ignore it
Can we ignore it?
Better just scramble around at midnight pulling together an old curtain and a pair of tights into an anglo-saxon costume. (whilst wishing we’d ignored it)
Sew, swear. Sew, swear. Sew, swear.

We’re going on a wine hunt
We’re going to pour a big one
What a crappy day!
Everyone be scared

Uh-uh! Bed-time!
Apocalyptic bed-time.
We tried to bath it
We tried to calm it
So why is it running round the living room at 10pm in just a pull up acting like a little…?

We’re going on a wine hunt
We’re going to pour a big one
What a crappy day!
Everyone be scared

Uh-uh! The sofa
The lovely comfy sofa.
We can’t move off it.
Don’t want to move off it.
Better just…...

Tiptoe! Tiptoe! Tiptoe!

One pounding head!
Two bloodshot eyes!
A furry mouth!
We’re not going on a wine hunt again!