Thursday, 15 October 2015

It Has Begun....

When you give up your life in London to come back home for a bit? You miss Scouse men, (obviously), you needed to look after your mum and dad before you eventually have to put them in a care I right guys?

But what if you've been here a couple of months, back in Liverpool and you still can't get your head around things. You still carry your bank cards around with your Oyster in a card wallet, your scouse tones have not returned 100% and you can't deal with 40 conversations a day about what "the baby did the other day it was proper funny!" ..... Please bear in mind, "The Baby" can range from foetus to an 18 year old lad. Everyone is already planning Christmas because it's the only thing worth getting excited about, and  every Friday consists of "getting on the wine coz acaaaarnt cope".

I wake up everyday longing for quiet journeys to work, not to be stopped by neighbours asking me what I'm doing, where I'm working, how me mum an dad are; footballs being kicked or "volleyed against the window". But alas. I myself, can't cope, and as I look to my nails; my once so short and neat nails, they have now developed into talons, and before I know it the mitt is upon my hand and the mousse slathered across my freckled torso. On my back too, depending on who's around to do it for me.

So far, the hair remains its fiery self. The rollers have been left in London, covered in cobwebs due to the fact I've let it roam free like the lions mane it is for the past 9 months. I am Barry Gibb, here me.....roar? Well, not roar, maybe squeak.....

The make up has toned down, and the eyebrows remain like a wannabe Cara Delevigne. However, the weight has piled on due to all the sausage roll pasties I've been eating, and I've been snarling my way through Picton like Jennifer Ellison finding the pound bakery closed.

All I need now is a child called Teegan/Kelseigh/Lexie/Lucas/Connor/Adam/Callum and I'm settled. As long as they all get to see their dads this weekend so I can get on the wine, go to bed, moan about me hangover on iron their uniforms, am fuckin sound!

It has begun......

Saturday, 30 May 2015

When You're The Odd One Out

I'm watching films that remind me of me youth tonight. I've watched Clueless and now I'm on She's All That. 

Most girls I went to school with are married with kids. I can't even commit to a mobile phone contract for more than 2 years. Most girls I know will be cosied up in bed tonight with their man, having amazing sex and watching Netflix together, feeding each other Papa Johns and having an amazing time. In fact, 2 couples I know are SO in love, they got married today! Congratulations! I'm currently picking hairs out my chin and picking my nose with a tooth pick. 

I've started questioning my lack of ability to sustain a man. Is it the fact I can be too lazy? Too clingy? Is it because I'm annoying? Or is it because they can't handle how beautiful I am? The first three obviously. Sonia Jackson has found love, as has Mick Hucknall. I feel if there is hope for these people, then my time must be soon surely? 

Maybe not. Maybe, I'm not meant to settle down. I'm a fast paced lady with a taste for excitement and vigour. I am the sort of girl who walks round East Ham at all hours getting followed by groups of lads in cars who are constantly asking me if I'm ok. I'm the sort of girl who chain smokes and drinks vodka, calls you a cunt, thinks she's hilarious and whimsical when she's wasted, cooks in a bra, heels and leggings and thinks farts are hilarious. Can you imagine me having a baby? I couldn't face the baggy fanny. And I most certainly don't want a Caesarean:-I've seen Alien where that creature comes out her belly. Can you imagine me being responsible enough to sort out my kids shit? Schools and that? Oh no, I'll baby sit my mates kids anytime, but the moment it starts screaming I'm leaving it on their doorstep. 

Paul Walker got better with age.  . 

Thursday, 21 May 2015


I'm sick. Not in the  "Spend my lunch money in the local Chicken Shop after school", cool and trendy way. The ill way. (I live by two secondary schools and a high street. You should see it at 4pm...They put years on me. Though I have been called "bruv" by this youth by mine. Blonde, earring, cap to the side and toothpick. Looked like one of them from Blazin Squad. He was offering me a weight loss programme offer and I told him I had previously lost 4 and a half stone to which he replied "SMASHED IT BRUV" and snapped his fingers. I felt ever so youthful that day.) 

I am in bed with my Everton top on. I have had a stomach bug for 2 days. The weight I've lost is phenomenal. Tho I don't advise you start getting the shits off your mate because Zante with the girls is approaching. Today, after sicking up everything I had, wishing I had an extra pair of hands to hold my Mick Hucknall strewn mess back. (Strangely enough Martine McCutcheon was sick into his dreads after a night out in the West End. When I was sick after a night out in the West End I had my assistant manager from The Bookies where I work-ahem to hold back my hair. Soho at night is not as glam as it looks in OK! and heat magazines.) 

I turn into a little victim when I'm ill. I just want Netflix and cuddles. Just someone's chest to lean on while I fart myself into oblivion. So I need someone really, who's got decent wifi a good sense of humour and a bad sense of smell. Granted he has to look like Paul Walker or Ryan Dunn. Not on fire in a car, but coincidentally they are (or were) 2 of my most perfect men. I just want to sit off and chill.

I've made my bedroom proper cute and my beds like a den with the fairy lights on. WHERE'S ME MATES? Come bring goodies! I'll leave the room to fart I promise! 

Wednesday, 20 May 2015


When going through your list of exes, do you find yourself saying "yeah I still would"? Some of you might be like me, friends and on good terms with some of them. You may have had your quarrels in the past but you were kids then. Things don't work out. You have separate lives and separate plans for life...but every few years, something keeps bringing you back together for one night of filth. Some exes are meant to be your best mate. That's it. No sex, no lust, just friendship.You're compatible everywhere else but in bed. Everything that you once found attractive and sexy about that person now seems obsolete. Your palette changes and you find you now find muscles, joggers and hoodies attractive rather than skinny jeans and converse. Me? Dunno what you're talking about, I mean in theory... But every now and then it's easier to stick to what you know, rather than the awkwardness of another first date with another online date. Only to get it out your system, mind. I'm not for one minute suggesting you consider getting back with an ex. Cos let's face it, they're an ex for a reason. But we all have needs. And if you're at the right stage with that ex then why not? A quick fuck is not a cue for you reminiscing about the cute 3 months you spent together as teens. Sex is sex. Save the romance bollocks for someone who deserves it and wants to spend time with you, even after he's emptied his load.  Someone who WANTS you to cook for him, fuss over him and stay in bed together with Netflix and a smoke. They deserve the sexy undies, the cute texts and wifey stuff. Be patient.


Sunday, 19 April 2015

How do you tell a man

You want to sleep with him? Especially if you vowed to both of you, you'd never sleep with him again if your life depended on it? Is it weak? "Of course it is" you tell yourself as you remember the way he came in and out your life quicker than a pop up in Boxpark. You fell for all his bullshit, he took you for TGI's and the occasional outing. But that was it. And for some reason, you were completely hooked. So why do we do it to ourselves? The sex was ok, he was nothing spectacular but every now and then you get pangs for them. But as soon as you're done with them you're filled with regret and remorse. So it's easier to watch youporn and have a cup of tea. 

If you're reading this Mr, you're a fucking moron. But I still would. 

Thursday, 9 April 2015

The Grand National.

I went the Grand National once, maybe twice as a kid. From what I can remember it rained like there was no tomorrow and it got called off. There was no glamour to my attire either. I wore a skirt and tshirt with little plimsoles. I was 8 and a tomboy. Irene insisted I wore the skirt. We had sandwiches in tin foil and Capri Suns a plenty. No champagne or nibbles. As Liverpool became a more wealthy city, the outfits got more glam. By 2008 it was Blossom Hill, maxi dresses from Kirsty Doyle and clutches from Cricket. 

I worked in Primark for over 2 years (don't pity me, we had a BALL) and every ladies day without fail, 5pm would roll around and the prinnys in 6 inch heels would all hobble in to the store screechin about how they needed a pair of flip flops "raaaar now". It was brilliant. Bladdered in the queue on our floor, "Ashleeeeey!!! 'Old me clutch while I change me shoes pleeeeeease?!" "Who wants to go for a Teesooo's? Am proper staaaaaarvin". There'd be "merder" if there was no size 5s left. Devvod cos there's only "pure man sizes" left. I loved ladies day. I finished at 7pm and walked through Liverpool One with a Starbucks an a ciggy just people watching all the way to the 79 bus stop on Paradise Street. Every now and then there'd be a couple avin merder cos Jay looked at some slag in the queue for the HSBC cash machine on Church Street. "Eeeeee ya did a saaaaw ya doneven lie ya little sweat" but mostly it was just loads of people from all Liverpool and all over the North West avin an absolute ball. Demi Lee an Kelsey buzzin off the fact they caught a glimpse of Coleen and Alex from afar. 

I'd recommend it to anyone that skits the girls cos of what they've seen on The Daily Mail Online. Cos if you went you'd actually have fun. And if you need some pencil for them understated eyebrows, they'd be more than happy to help. 

I preferred to get the Echo with me mum and dad around 11am Saturday mornin an sit there pickin me horse in front of Live & Kicking. Watch it on telly then moan I hadn't won until Noel's House Party was on an I'd buzz off Mr Blobby. I'm the same now. I just watch it on telly but instead fume until payday.

Every year I think "them people who live in them houses over looking the race course are dead lucky. They get to be on telly once a year." In Primark we would do a sweepstake. This entailed us picking horses for each other based on its relevant name. Like I said, we had a ball....that wasn't the funniest thing to happen there though. The funniest was when the manager of the stock room fell over. He was fine like. But he went down like a sack of shit. 

Tuesday, 7 April 2015

Why is it,

An I'm not bein a proper feminist or nothin but why is it when ya ask a fella if you wanna go for a drink together, they automatically think you mean a date? No wonder everyone in London is so miserable, it's cos whenever they try an make friends they get the whole "I've got a boyfriend/girlfriend" thing. Get a grip! It's a drink, I'm not asking you to finger me on the Central Line. Bring your other half by all means an we can all be bezzies! A lot of men in the past have assumed I fancy them because I'm quite a vivacious character. But introduce me to the missus and I promise she will love me. And not in a weird threesome way either. I'm not interested in my own sex life so I probably won't care much for yours either. The only relationship I have is with Fake Taxi. And YouPorn. 

I think I've opened up a bit too much there, I'm digressing....

.....Sometimes it works the other way. They quite enjoy the fact they think it's a date and you don't fancy them back.  In this situation you have to just immediately friend zone them. You don't wanna sit on their face, but you don't mind havin them about. But the awkward part is actually letting them down without makin a show of them.Ya call them "lad" or "mate". Just so ya lettin them know where they stand without bein a nob about it. I remember goin on a 3rd mate date with someone an I turned up at his flat and he'd poured 2 glasses of white wine, dimly lit the room and had his best Zara top on. I was in a Libertines t shirt and leggings. I declined the wine and got one of me best mates to come pick me up. He text me when I got in saying "Nice to see you mate". The penny dropped quicker than a beaked up prinnys knickers at the back of The Fudge. 

So I guess making friends can be awkward at first but it's funny when you look back and laugh at them, while they stare miserably at Ibiza Weekender pretending to be fine about it. "Ay remember when you pure fancied me an I swerved ya?" I think you have to have fireworks with a person in The Ten Bells pretending to give a shit about their job in  Angel and their Spanish housemate who uses all the milk without replacing it. And how could we forget the fallen ones? Let's just have a moment to remember the ones who didn't even get friend zoned. The ones who never made it past the first date. Whether it's because they wore chinos and a blazer to an East End boozer, or because they took you to a restaurant that didn't have cranberry juice or straws. They never got a second chance. 

The most recent example is when I saw this fella who wore the clothes mentioned above and had the chronic burps. He did it politely but we could all smell it. Poor bastard. 

And of course the ones who will never get a first date because they support Man Utd and love to gloat about it over Whatsapp knowing that you're from Liverpool. Keep trying babe but it's never going to happen.