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

Easter, Nobheads, and London Clubs

Do you know how many Easter Eggs I've consumed the past few weeks? No, neither do I I have lost count.

       "Ya not supposed to eat them before Easter! That's terrible!!"

Oh sorry, were you in church on Sunday? No, thought not. Plus, I ate fish on Good Friday so on you. I nearly set fire to the flat cooking it, but oh well.

This past few weeks, it hasn't half felt good to be a Scouser. We had the 25th anniversary for The Hillsborough disaster, which in my opinion, brought us all closer :) It's not about football, it's about us all sticking together, and we did. Plus, Liverpool are top of the league, and Everton are 5th. For the first time in aaaaages, I've seen Reds supporting Blues and vice versa. Isn't that nice tho? There is no room for argy bargy in our city <3 Did anyone go the Charity game yesterdee? If so, giz a geg at ya piccys of Redknapp in his shorts will ya? Ta.



Also, what's been getting raaaaar on me Hackney Wick is when people ask ya if they can "grab" something off ya. "Can I grab a coffee?" "Do you want to grab a chair?" "Yes thanks love, I will, I'll grab this coffee an swill ya grid with it, then grab the chair an twist raaaar round your swede."

I'm on a roll this week. I'll tell ya about the club I went to a few weeks back. It was a Friday night, and me mate suggested we go The Big Chill on Brick Lane. Fuck. Me. I have never seen such a palarver just to enter a bleedin building. They searched AND frisked me, TWICE upon entry. I said "Where dya think we are? 10 Downing Street?" Got in there, and at first I thought the punters were dancing ironically. Turns out they were deadly serious. There were 2 fellas who had so much tan on, they looked the colour of my hair. Twice one of them smiled at me. I laughed at him. Arlass me. They thought they were in a Bruno Mars video, nodding their heads in slow motion and high fiving everytime a girl walked past. £10 for a drink. And there were fucking kitten heels EVERYWHERE. Calling it pretentious is an understatement. I've never seen so many hipster dickheads gathered in one place. The girls hadn't so much as looked at a hairbrush, never mind a pair of straighteners or a set of rollers. Safe to say I won't be going there again, unless it's for research purposes. I am yet to find a place in East London that I like dancing and drinking in. Essex is more my brew <3 And the fella's are tasty too.
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Did I tell yas about when I went to Liverpool Street Station few weeks back and got approached by this little fella in a red polo? Looked like he worked at Wilkos. I tapped in, and he chased me halfway down the platform. "Scuse me miss, you didn't tap in, can I see your Oyster Card?" I said, "I did tap in. Can I see your ID please?"

I swear to God, he had what looked like a blank postcard, taped to a bit of string, with scribbles on. "Staff - Liverpool St Station. "Shall we go find your manager?" I asked. As I led him, he ran off. "Ay mate!!!" I shouted at a fella in a Greater Anglia jacket. "Some little fella just tried to con me!" I explained what had happened and he asked for a description of him. "Small, Asian fella in a red polo" I said. "Well there's only two of us on tonight, and we're both black isn'ni?". He laughed, told me he would turf him out if he saw him again and off I trotted on me train.


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I made a roast dinner with American George, who lobbed the chicken in a pan an put it in the oven. Always remember to use an oven glove when doing this, unlike soft ass Ginge here who forgot it was hot one night and nearly took off her finger prints. Slept with me hand in a bowl of ice water. Don't worry, I didn't piss meself.


Tra xoxoxoxo

Gerron This

Me mate Patrick has written a short story abar me. He hasn't done it for a laugh, he's a writer. A good one too. It's boss an I'm a lil Prinny in it too. Well, I'm a Prin in real life aren't I? ;-)

Ya know me, I never take meself too seriously anyway. Give it a read anyway. Hope ya like it. I loved it!


http://www.tenwords.co.uk/2014-a-year-in-stories-week-14-happily-ever-after/

Also, if anyone has any questions ya want me to answer, about London, life, men, whatevs, inbox me on Facey and I'll answer them in a post. Be assed answerin them post by post.

Tra xoxoxoxo

Aarrrrrr.

I know yas 'ave all been waitin on me new post, so I can update you on the Jay situation. Well. I gave him his hoodie back an he was made up. We went for a Cheeky Nando's an he even let me 'ave a puddin'. Worra babe.


"You been writin about me again?" He Cockneyed. "Eeeee nosey aren't ya?" I Scoused. Not only did he lose his bottle, he lost the link to this blog.


He said he was absolutely Schindlers List one night and panicked, hence the text he sent me saying we were "rushing into things". (My reply "Rushing Into Things? You haven't even fingered me yet!" went down a storm with his mates. Apparently I "Mugged him off").He's gorgeous, but simple. He called me a "Sort", kissed me, topped up me refillable Diet Coke and all was forgiven.


Few days later, I went to his. In London, we have little taxi offices. They're Private Hire and you just go in and they take ya right away. None of this waitin for Delta shite. Honest t'god, they didn't have a clue where the address was. Even with two A-Z's an a Sat Nav. Eventually I got there.


"You done another blog about me aintcha?" Oh my life, I swear he's obsessed. He thinks he's got a followin'. I haven't even gorra followin' so why would he? Soz abar me avin no mates. We had proper bants watchin Gogglebox, then we decided to get.......cosy. He put the Radio Channels on expectin some mood music...chillout or some indie. No. Abba, The Carpenters, and a Welsh Male Choir. Could not cope. He kissed me and called me "Right Awkward" in the most London accent I've ever heard. I couldn't stop laughing. While kissing him. I bet that was amazing for his self confidence. 


Don't tell him I'm writing about him, his head will get bigger than his nob. Oh aaayyyyyyeeeeee.


He's nice. He's a Geezer. I'll leave it at that.....Until the weekend.....


And if he flaps after seeing this post, I'll wool him everywhere for bein a little fanny.