Some Fool Once Attempted to Mug Me & Middle Sis*

We'd just rolled out of a bar and were walking back up the hill in the dark when said eejit jumped out from behind a bus shelter brandishing a screwdriver.

"OK girls, give me your phones" he said.

"Oh you poor, poor bastard" I thought, "You've just picked on the wrong family."

He started sobbing as we tied him to the tree. "There's no need for this" he blubbed.  

I think that's what he said because after Middle Sis had kneed him in the face he wasn't very coherent.


*This is a complete work of fiction but you can imagine eh?

Most Eighties Music was Shite

I was a teenager in the eighties.  Most of the music was utter shite.  Which is why I don't understand radio stations featuring eighties nights or those that are dedicated entirely to eighties music.  It was SHIT.

TOTPS used to make be squirm around 83/84.  That was the point at which I retired to my bedroom and started listening to Dinah Washington.

Some Shit Eighties Bands/Musicians

• Spandau Ballet:  Mihst all crucking fighty
• Kajagoogoo:  Christ on a bike
• Wham:  So shit they were almost brillant
• Bananarama:  What a bunch of slappers and each of them with the same singing talent as Dido, i.e. none
• Culture Club: Culture Shite
• Phil Collins:  Please die, please just f*cking die
• Simple Minds: Simply shit
• Tears for Fears: "Everyone wants you to run off a cliff"
• U2:  These wankers are still bleating on even now
• Johnny Hates Living in a Wet Box: a compilation of impossibly crappy bands that I have had to merge into a single dung heap

ABC were fecking brilliant though.

I Inflict Further Damage on My Boss' Mental Health

The quarterly farce that measures my performance as an employee.

DS: "Right, we need to set your objectives for Q1"

Me: "It's nearly Q2. How can I set objectives for the quarter when half of it is gone?"

DS: Sighs. "Just give me some objectives for the quarter."

Me: "I want a pay rise."

DS: "That's not an objective."

Me: "It is for me."

DS: "Phen!"

Me: "Ok, how about I head up the department because you're crap?"

DS: Gritting teeth, "How about learning a new skill or taking ownership of a process?"

Me: "Do I get a pay rise?"

DS: "Look - it's about Personal Development."

Me: "Ok - how about you give me four grand and I'll get 'em done? Angus would appreciate a decent pair as well."

DS: Lays his head on the desk... "Can you please just go away now?"

Death by Bun

Cuz nearly clubbed me to death once over a hot cross bun.

Having attempted to outrun a tsunami through deepest Worcestershire in a Nissan Micra we ended up marooned on a traffic island at two in the morning.

Water lapped playfully over the wheel arches as Cuz thrust her legs down the sleeves of her anorak and I attempted to tune the radio to anything other than "Woollyback FM".  It was cold, dark and we had just faced a near-death experience having being nearly swept off a bridge into a swollen river.

Triumphantly Cuz produced a carrier bag from deep within the footwell.  "Would you like a hot cross bun?".  It was Easter and we were sharing the car journey Oop North.

Traumatised and not knowing if we would ever see our family or friends again - the severity of the situation hit me and I responded "Is it buttered?".

As Cuz leaned over the seat to retrieve her socket set I knew I had not given the response she was anticipating.

"Poke Your Father - See if He's Still Alive"

So my poor Daddy was chronically ill for the best part of 20 years.  Bits were always falling off him and we were on first name terms with the local paramedics.  But some parts of all that illness/nursing were bloody funny.

Aside from all the chest problems and numerous other medical issues Ekky also suffered from a condition where he couldn't close his eyes when he slept.  This was a little disconcerting for visitors because it was like one of them weird pictures where the eyes follow you round the room.

As he got more poorly it would catch us out too. 

I was up in The St Tropez of the North for a weekend.  Mother needed a break so we went shopping leaving Ekky in his armchair reading the flight arrival Telextext pages (why did he do that??), eating biscuits and moaning about John Prescott.

We get back after a couple of hours and Ekky's now stretched out on the sofa.  Eyes wide open - and we can't see his chest falling/rising.

Mother goes into the kitchen and lights a fag to cope with the possibility she's just become a widow.  I'm standing about like a spare prick at a wedding in the living room thinking "Oh no, me suits in the dry cleaners".

After a couple of deep drags she sticks her head round the kitchen door and instructs me "Poke your Father love, see if he's still alive."

So I poke Ekky in the shoulder and the 'corpse' barks "BLOODY HELL - CAN I NOT HAVE A KIP FOR 10 SODDING MINUTES WITHOUT ONE OF YOU FEMALES PRODDING ME?"

Over the next couple of years I had to "Poke your Father love, see if he's still alive" a few more times.  I don't think this technique has been adopted by the NHS as an ABC protocol.

Why Women Drivers Should be Banned (Apart from Me & My Sisters)

Imagine this: you're at a junction ready to pull out when a car approaches indicating a desire to turn left.  If you glance at the driver and it is female DO NOT PULL OUT.  She's had that indicator going since Stoke and it hasn't yet dawned on the stupid bint that green flashing light on her dash or the persistent "tick tick tick" noise is because she's left the bloody indicator on.

Never ever trust an indicating woman on a roundabout either.  She's been round it four times and still can't find John Fucking Lewis (it's the big green building love, says JOHN LEWIS in big fucking letters).

A fair number of women drivers (or WDs) like to persist in doing 60mph in the middle lane of any frantically busy motorway.  Totally oblivious to anything but the Leona Lewis CD they are listening to, they really have no idea they are holding up half of the county's traffic behind them including an organ transplant courier and several emergency vehicles.  These WDs must be anticipating there will be a milk float in the slow lane at some point in the next 150 miles because they aren't going to move over despite you flashing your lights and shouting "MOVE, YOU SLAPPER".

God forbid you get stuck behind a WD on a ramp in a multi storey carpark.  That bitch is determined to burn her clutch out before you make it into M&S for a prawn sandwich.

They text their hairdressers while manoevering a tonne of metal at speed.  Sweet Jesus.

Mums on school runs:

a. Get a fucking job
b. Those yellow zig zags outside the school gates are not a landing zone. 


Of course my sisters and I would never do any of the above.  We're Ekky's girls.

A Perfect 24 Hours?

I'm driving into to work with some awful commercial station on the radio.  The  station is running a competition for the listeners where you can "Win Your Perfect 24 Hours".  All you have to do is text in with a description of your ideal 24 hours.

I listen to a couple of submissions like "My perfect 24 hours would be to go scuba diving and then fly to Le Touquet for lunch" and "My perfect 24 hours would include body surfing followed by an afternoon in a spa".

And I'm thinking OH, FUCK OFF.  That's not a perfect 24 hours. I'll tell you what a perfect 24 hours is.  Being locked in a hotel room with Joe Calzaghe. That's a perfect 24 hours.  

Stuff your sky-diving, you wierdos.

Things Not to Do When You've Had One Glass of Wine Too Many

 

 

• Try and be witty and urbane on Facebook.  Your spelling abilities are shot to hell and your "fwends" think you're a fuckwit.

• Attempt to adjust your false eyelashes in a pub toilet mirror.  You will emerge with them having migrated to your forehead and the rest of the punters will think you're the drag act.

• Don't phone your friend in New Zealand.  It's 9am there and you are pissed while she is not.  She thinks you're an arse and is wondering why she ever hung around with you in the first place.

• Fill your hot water bottle from a freshly boiled kettle.  It is like trying to dress a cat.  Injury guaranteed.

• You will not pull if you've been on the red wine all night.  By now your teeth are purple.  If the venue you are in has UV lighting GO HOME, no one wants to snog a werewolf.

• Get a family photo album out.  There are dead people you miss very much in there.

• Pick out an outfit for work the next day.  When you wake up tomorrow you ain't 18 years old and you ain't a size 10.

• Compose a text message.  The recipient does not comprehend that "ima lit tening 2 Whomp" actually means you are blasting out Wham's greatest hits, have slapped some sluttish red lipstick on, are wearing odd dangly earrings and is now dancing like a complete mong in your living room.

• Phone your parents.

Look Sis - I Did It!

So one minute I'm pogo-ing up and down in a very dodgy Liverpool nightclub off my face on cider & black and then I wake up in a house in the south of England. I've got a husband, a daughter and a humungous overdraft. 

I very badly wanted to be a journalist when I was younger.  Somehow that ambition ended up as a career in marketing which in turn morphed again so now I'm a (girl)Geek.  But I still love WRITING so this me carrying on WRITING but in blog form.

Not for the faint hearted no doubt this content will feature some bad language, the occasional rant and some opinions you may not like (anyone who is a Royalist look away now).  Some of it will be very embelished and some of it completely fictional:  I like making people laugh ok? 

I have a Cast List of the main people in my life.  If you want to audition let me know.  Most of the names have been changed to protect the vulnerable - you know who you are...

The Cast List

• Ekky:  Dearly departed father and love of my life.

• Angus:  Somewhat autistic husband but with enough patience and kindness to cope with me

• Cariad:  Immaculately conceived daughter.  She is a 40 year old midget with a smart mouth and is already dishing out one liners.  Sound like anyone?

• Middle Sis:  Beloved sister and my best friend.  Hard as nails.

• Big Sis: Beloved sister although frequently MIA.  Hard as nails.

• Mother:  Staunch Irish Catholic and mad as a box of frogs.

• Cuz:  My favourite cousin with a heart of gold.  Makes a mean margharita.  Wears carrier bags round her ankles.

• The Human Pinball:  Welsh ex-drinking partner now exiled in Glasgow.  Used to neck Stella but now is a Domestic Goddess.

• Wilson:  Scouse mate still in Scouseland.  She is funnier than watching someone falling over and badly hurting themselves.

•  Mac:  A dear friend I've never actually met but I bet she's a great drinking partner.  Will be Ireland's first producer of Beef Jerky.

• Acton Baby:  Ex-Ealing drinking partner.  Health concious until in the same room as me - bring on the fags.

• Badger: Ex-Ealing drinking partner.  Likes rolling about in the back of black cabs.

• Nobby:  My Nissan Micra.

• DS: My Boss.

• The Foster Sons:  The blokes I work with.

• WRFU: My passion and endless source of disappoinment.

• LFC: Generator of much swearing and deep sighs.

• Jean Rhys, Emile Zola, Alice Munro, William Trevor, Mary Webb, Kate Atkinson, Spike Millgan et al - can't live without these folks.