Adapting.

Two years ago, my mother put me on the train at Liverpool Lime Street with my suitcase, handbag and corned beef sandwiches to enjoy on the journey. Having grown tired of the same surroundings all the time, I decided that London was the place to be. What a shock to the system! Gone were the girls sporting rollers in their hair around town, making a point of letting you know they were going out that night. Sunbeds and Shellac on every street corner were no more. Instead I was faced with the more natural look. I couldn't cope. Clinging on to my St Moriz and eyebrow pencil for dear life, I realised I would have to tone it down. I replaced the platforms for a pair of flats and after a temporary nervous breakdown I eventually got used to it. See, even if a Scouse girl pops to the shop for a pint of milk, they have to put on at least 2 layers of foundation an a set of lashes, because "ya never know do ya?" For the first 2 weeks I was getting stared at like something out of Ripleys. Even more so when I opened my mouth. "What part of Scotland are you from?" I was mortified. Not that there's anything wrong with being Scottish, I mean I love Lulu and I've got ginger hair. But my accent is part of me. Liverpool is part of me. London girls are a lot more chilled out. They prefer looking natural. I tried it I really did. I tried to fit in. I wore less blusher, lashed my hair in a pony instead of the good old curly blow dry...but I'm not a London girl am I? I'm a Scouse Prinny. I screech instead of speaking. My reaction to bad news is 10 times more dramatic than an Accountant living in Clapham. Some girls are intrigued. Some are fascinated. Some are just disgusted. But when I open my mouth in the Capital, there's never a dull moment. Needless to say, without even trying, no matter where I go I end up making a statement. From the way I hold my handbag to the way I walk, I've got Liverpool written all over me. And I don't mean I'm wearing a fake LFC kit from a stall on Shaftsbury Avenue. But I can't shake it. It's something that can't be changed. I do love the days were I can't be bothered and I can just get the tube in a hoodie, without it having to match my glittery, jewel embellished tracksuit bottoms and colour co-ordinated trainers. I love the freedom of being bronzer free for a couple of days without being stared at. And most of all I love not being judged on the boldness of my eyebrows. 

Last year I was introduced to the London House Party. Replace the Vodka with Red Wine, the Swedish House Mafia with Mumford & Sons, and swap the Sausage Rolls for Olive Bread and Truffle Oil. I had my best Lipsy dress on, I'd had my hair in pin curls all day and when I got there I realised this was a very different world. We sat in a circle and discussed various pop ups in Shoreditch, where the best place is to "grab a coffee" and who are favourite poets were. My Roger McGough comment was greeted by mixed reviews. After realising where I was from, I got the usual Beatles chit chat, the plea of getting me to say the words "chicken" and "Purple", and to my surprise, I was welcomed into this world of something I'd only ever seen on BBC Four, I was soon making girl friends. Swapping tan tips for Salmon Dill recipes (I just pretended I knew what that was) I guess I can be a mixture of Liverpool and London after all. I recently went back to Liverpool, where my accent was mocked. "You sound like a Londoner now!" I sound exactly the same by the way. 

There's just one issue. London men. They just don't know how to handle a Scouse girl. We are one of a kind. Known for being self confessed "Cranks", many a man in the Capital are flummoxed when faced with the temper and cold shoulder from that of a girl from Liverpool. Men in my home city are used to it. Their mums are "Cranks". And nobody messes with a Scouse mum. All they need to do is take us shopping for a new bag, buy us some perfume and all is forgotten. But London men try and talk through the issue of which they have somehow created, leaving them in the doghouse. Usually it will be something they did 2 months ago and it's just sprung to mind so now you're obviously livid at him. But the London man doesn't know this. He's frantically going through his every move for the past week, apologising for working late, neglecting you for his bi weekly yoga sessions. He thinks flowers are the answer. Can I eat flowers? Can I wear flowers? No babe. Get your Oyster, we're off to Westfield. Not that I'm THAT shallow.... A galaxy and a cuddle will do... 

It's Spread.

No, I'm not talking about Nutella. For a change. Proper love that stuff yano. No I'm talking about the evil plague that began in the depths of Shoreditch to Dalston. 

           BOXPARK, Shoreditch.

It started off under control, then before you could say "Fabrics", it spread across Britain like wildfire. The infected stick together in huddles, with their round sunglasses and brogues. Mocking the non diseased, eating street food. If you go to Brick Lane on a Saturday Night you are swarmed by them. Don't get me wrong, some of my friends have this illness but I plan on raising enough money to find a cure. 

The beard that resembles a wicker basket from Wilkos is a common sign. No man should ever have a beard long enough that they have to condition it. The moustache twirl is simply unfortunate. And inexcusable. 

Clinging to their latte from the local abstract Coffee Shop in a side street of Spitalfields, they ride the streets of London on an Antique pushbike like they own the place. A typical job would be someone who works in a Computer type media place making adverts for one of the many supermarkets.

An app for all occasions on the brand new iPhone. And iPad. They will continue to rub them in your face until you just have to pretend that you think their phone is better than yours just so they will stop harping on. 

Their favourite pub displays books upon books, upon shelf upon shelf, complete with board games on the coffee table. Yes, a coffee table in a pub. I couldn't believe it either. If they are proper hipsters, they'll have a dog with them. A Pug with a bowl of water at said owners feet, while everyone fusses over it. The owner pretends not to be assed, but deep down you know they are. Tom, Ollie or Toby will have pug related items on him at all times. A phone cover maybe. A leather Oyster Wallet and satchel, the hipster flits off on the Overground back to its home in Dalston. Where they enjoy bands only they have heard of and a bottle of red wine. Wondering what new place they could "grab" a latte from next. 

Charlotte, Emily and Sophie will usually have a Laura Ashley cardigan, a tea dress from Primark and ankle boots from Topshop. They discuss whether Ollie really wants a relationship with that bitch Jess from Accounts or if it will soon fizzle out because she's such a bitch with big boobs and MAC lipgloss. They have quaint little days out eating Vintage Cookies and wearing very little make up in the process. A quick Itsu for lunch and later an apple for the Northern Line home from work, the hipster girl has exhausted herself from saying "like" and "random" at least 30 times a sentence. Off to Waitrose to pick up a Salad for one. And that cute bearded commuter she passes everyday by the cobblers at the tube station. Or so she hopes. She goes to bed reading her Bronte books, hoping that tomorrow is the day someone has described her in Rush Hour Crush. And she may just wear them kitten heels from Office. Just cos she can. 

I'm not gona sit here

an moan. Well, I am but like, not much. I don't wanna harp on but I think there's too much pressure to have a perfect relationship, what with the opportunity to cheat being so easy. Tinder, POF and Grindr are an app away and you could have a match on your doorstep within minutes. They say all a girl wants is Loyalty and Orgasms. I happen to want more. But I'm not talking fancy expensive restaurants, having jewellery thrown at me left, right an cenny or being bombarded with love letters all the time. I'm actually quite simple, as many of you know. To give you an idea what I'm on about, I've compiled the following to show you what I expect in a relationship. 

Tracksuits. I do like a man who dresses well. Beckham is deffo on point with his clobber. A nice groomed man to show off wouldn't you agree? But not too groomed, ya don't want a diva. There is a time and place for a suit. And I don't mean Crown Court. A fella looks his most manliest and sexiest to me, when he's got his trackie bottoms on an a hoodie to match. There's a reason why us birds love joggers:- you can see the outline. Nuff said. 

Beards. Not the long hipster beards, no. Can't be doin with them. Too frizzy, sign of pretentiousness and too high maintenance. Fickle with fashion and likely to dump you if he doesn't like your choice of coffee beans. Just a couple of days growth will do nicely. For me to stroke. And bite. It calms me down when I can't cope. 

Junk Food. I'm an ex fatty. I was a size 20. Fine for some, but for my height, it was absurd. Face like an apple pie an legs like footstools. Somehow I lost weight and me boobs stayed massive. Winner. Anyway I'm just showin off now... The gist being, I love me food. I pure love a mazzy big fat scran. Take me to TGI an I'm MADE UP. I love desserts too. Are we fuck leavin before I've had chocolate fudge cake! Don't want someone who's on me case about eating healthy all the time! No TAR! Swerve the salads, give me pure stodge.  

Compliments. Tell me I'm beautiful. Tell me I have nice hair. Sure. Do not tell me I have great tits (I know this already babes)  and arse to match. Do not tell me I'm alright for a ginger and certainly don't try and mimic my fucking accent. You can't do it. And stop asking me to say the word "Chicken". This does not get me hot and bothered. Its embarrassing and not as original and hilarious as you think. Don't then start accusing me of robbing your wallet, shouting "Calm Down, Calm Down!!"

Football. Can't be doin with a fella who doesn't like footie. And his team can't be Man Utd either. Me ma would go spare. 

Chill the Fuck Out. The more chilled you are, the more chilled I'll be. I don't need someone who constantly wants a tear up. Be assed with petty rows over whatsapp either over NOT'IN.

I Like Junk TV. And I like to watch it in my pj's whilst eating Nutella. Leave me be. 

Build. Taller than me. Nice arms. Nice hands. I'm not askin for Zac Efron (unless he's up for it like), just someone who is a bit fit so I at least fancy him.

Sex. Sorry family, you may wanna look away, but yes I do know what sex is. I don't go putting it about yano. But it is vital in a relationship. And so are the handcuffs and vanilla lube. 

Prezzies. A trip to The Disney Store wouldn't go a miss. I'm pretty up front when it comes to prezzies cos ill just tell you what I want instead of dropping hints. Saves the hassle doesn't it? Lipgloss please babes. And theatre tickets to plays I'm  interested in. I'm quite the intellect when I wanna be. An no, not friggin Jersey Boys or Urinetown.

Scouse. It's more than an accent, it's a way of life. My family and friends are scouse. We come as a package. Liverpool is my babe an you skit it I'll have murder with ya. 

Boobs. I love boobs. Big boobs. If you find that a problem then ya bin bagged. I even love me own. Sometimes I just stare at them. I stick me hands down my cleavage when it's cold. Boobs are boss, end of. 

I think I've pretty much covered everything. If anyone's got any questions, send me a SAE to my MySpace and I'll fax you a fact sheet. Tra. xoxoxo 

What it's REALLY like having Big Boobs.

Big boobs run in my family. I have The Gaffneys on my dads side to thank for that. My cousins and I discuss the ridiculous price of DD+ bras on the regs. Girls with average size boobs get to shop for bras at Primark. Complete with undies to match for £4? Go 'ed. However, if I know I'm gona get lucky with a fella, (which lets be honest is abaar every 6 months cos am a born again virgin) then I have to spend £30 a pop for a semi decent one that isn't nude or plain. So anyway I decided to make a list of things that do me head in about having big boobs.

1. The price of bras.

2. Knowin that whatever top you wear, they draw more attention than a sale at Primark on Giro Day.

3. You can't wear office attire without looking like something off youporn. Especially if y'av got ya glasses on. Pencil skirts and blouses are gamble.

4. Men think you're easy. Wrong. I'm a fridge who never cops off, constantly friend zoned and convinced I'll never find my "bae".

5. Women who are slightly less endowed are proper nasty to ya. Ya mates birds constantly watch ya round them. If ya on a night out in a low cut top or dress, girls get all insecure and giggle about you in little covens round the dance floor. Sniggerin behind their clutches from BU. I've been branded a slag just for wearing a vest top. Would you say that to a girl with B cups love? No, probably not. 

6. Titty moisture. Right down the cleave. Sounds a bit sexy? It's really not. It's uncomfortable and vulg. 

7. You have to cross ya arms if you don't want to draw attention to them. This makes ya look like you have a massive cob on. Even if you're feeling proper amazin. 

8. Knowing that if you breast feed, they may drop lower than ya standards do after 6 glasses of Vodka and Cranno in The Raz in a Thursday night. 

9. Before ya vile beaut of an auntie visits once a month, (no, not ya auntie Carol with her HRT an Silk Cut who swindles ya nans pension on the sly) it's sheer agony. If someone is pushed into ya on a bus or in the tube ya wanna just sob into their Kindle Fire. 

10. Running. Instant nob head. Everyone laughs at ya an they KILL afterwards.

11. Sleepin on ya front. Ya feel like ya hovering 3 feet in the air. 

12. Red marks off ya bra fucking EVERYWHERE. Gorj.

13. Crumbs get down there. A lot. I found a dollop of Nutella an some chopped nuts in me cleave last week so I put them on a Kingsmill Waffle. 

I'm not gona sit here and say "Oh God I can't cope with me life cos am a big titted bitch". It is boss like but they're the down sides! On the plus side, I look BOSS in a Hooters top and I get served first at the bar. That's amazin in itself cos I actually can't stand queueing. It makes me want to cry harder than when me socks get wet in the rain. 

Tra babes xoxoxox 

My latest quibble

Is when people think I'm Scottish. Not that I've got a problem with the Scots, I adore them. Their tartan, countryside and  Jimmy Krankie. I'm fond of Lorraine Kelly and I'm almost certain Calvin Harris is meant to be my husband. However it is not me. I am scouse. I don't sound anything like Annie Lennox or Tom Jones.  It's the red hair. That's something I suppose, I thought I was going darker! Perish the thought! 

I suppose there are similarities between Liverpool and Glasgow...the rival footy teams, docks, and penchant for a bevvy an a barney. But anyway, if people don't think I'm Scottish, they think I'm bloody Irish! Again, I love the green island...sorry Emerald Isle....I proper LOVED Ronan Keating when he had spiky hair and a cream suit, absolutely ruining Father & Son on Live & Kicking while the little gay one who looked like a lion sang the harmonies with the other 3 we don't care about. I eat Lucky Charms and my ancestors were Irish. Gypsies, some of them. But I don't feel like me if my accent is mistook for another. I am a Liver Bird. A Scouse Prinny. In London. 

The Other Week

The other week, when it was roastin, I went to The Olympic Park. I decided to wear my denim high waisted shorts an a crop top to show off these rolls CURVES. At first I wasn't so sure, but it was roastin, me freckles weren't gonna get any darker sat in me jeggins an hoodie were they?

I know me ass looks like 2 melons in a split Lidl bag, but I thought fuck it, I'm only goin over the road.

It was the longest journey to Westfield EVER. I felt ashamed. Not only were me wobbly bits hangin out, I looked almost transparent. There were people pointing.


 "Ha look at the ginger thinking she an go out in the sun like a normal person!"


Anyway, I went an had a pathetic attempt of "sunbathing" for abar 2 hours an it all got too much for me am afraid. I thought oh I bet when I get in, I'll look in the mirror and I'll have gone a lovely colour.

An I did. In places. I went for the "I leant on the iron by accient" look. Worked well.

The moral is, where were my so called mates to stop me? Stop me goin out lookin like Tina Malone in Blonde Fist? Stop me getting sun burnt? Stop me goin funny in the heat? There should be more Public Awareness about Gingers In Summer. If you see one in the street when its pure hot, just ask them if they need a lie down and some water. Everyone was quick enough to jump on the Homeless bandwagon when it was snowin, so lets do the same for redheads this summer!

Some of us in life can only dream of going to a hot country for a beach holiday. I am one of those poor individuals. So the next time yas are goin away, think of me. And my disability.

Thanks xoxoxo

Post Datal Depression.

Picture the scene, girls. You meet a lad on Tinder (I know, I've only myself to blame) and you are inboxin eachother. Ya avin a boss chat, an ya seem to be getting on quite well. You go on a date in the cool & trendy East End....you show him round Bethnal Green, Shoreditch, an "grab" a bagel on Brick Lane. You're getting on, and neither of you are in a rush to go home. You stop off at a pub filled with Hipsters, City folk and all that malarkey. An then, when ya thinkin "maybe they're not all dick'eads", he takes one look at the 5ft10 barmaid with the tattoos and Dr Martins. An is onto her.


Boss.


Yes, this was me, tonight.


Now what I will say is, on this occasion, I dressed down. Usually I would turn up in something that shows off me "hourglass figure" as me mate Kirsty calls it. I call it too much Cadburys, greed, and lack of self control on the arl chicken nuggets. But that attracts the wrong attention. Hence the cazzies. Turns out this makes me look quite butch. Amay. Not that I'm justifying his obvious lack of both perfect 20/20 vision and decent taste, but maybe I could have glammed up a bit more.....saying that, an I'm not bein funny or anything, but she did look like Adam Rickitt at a Sum 41 gig.


Now as soon as I clocked this bang on behaviour, I suggested we end the date due to time. On the way to the Tube, I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. However, the lad I clocked was half cut, staggerin about an sportin a proper sorry Martina Navaratilova barnet. Unlucky. An he didn't even get on to it anyway. So now I'm sat 'ere with Post Datal Depression, questioning whether it is just better to throw in the towel an go on the arl muff. This will all disappear though when I go on Google later to perve at Beckham to cheer meself up.


Then ya start asking yourself if the world is just filled with nob'ed fellas, and romance has popped its clogs. Destined to be alone forever, with only the internet, a giant bar of Galaxy and feet that deffo look like spatulas, no matter what your mates tell you. This, ladies, and gents alike, is Post Datal Depression. You put on a romantic film, stare at Hugh Grant or Jude Law, an ponder "Why can't all fellas just be nice?" Sayin that, Grant shagged a prozzy behind Liz's back, and Law was at it with the nannie whilst he was with our Sienna!


"But nice men are out there somewhere....aren't they?" Ya desperately shovelling chocolate into ya grid, slatin the pair of them to all ya mates on Whatsapp, "Pair of fuckin beauts eeeeeee shoulda seen her!!!" Feeeewwwwmin, for abar an hour, then ya phone beeps. It's a message off another gorj fella on Tinder. "Oh some proper fitty has just sent me a message yano" an the whole friggin process starts again! Me mates say I'm too fussy. Well shouldn't I be? Why deny yourself the best ay girls? It's what we all deserve. Alls I want is someone to at least fancy me, get me loadsa food and spoon the shit out of me. Whilst thinkin I'm the best thing since Soccer AM.


I reckon it's cos I'm ginger. It's gorrabee. I know I'm a firecracker and a bit quirky, but I'm not a complete bell end. I act like a bit of a divvy sometimes, but c'mon, I'm no Solange Knowles. (Satirical).


Anyway, I'm off to bed now, goodnight babes,


luv yew


xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo