Friday, 27 April 2012

VOTE LABOUR next week, and I'll tell you why

I see the tory meanies have thought up another way to claw back some of their ill begrudged taxes from the undeserving poor.  They think deducting their benefits will solve the problem of these layabouts not getting their kids to school.  The kids are probably not going because the parents have spent all that surplus cash on white cider and fags.  If you make them a bit poorer it would solve the problem.  I am just curious about the logic behind it, is all.

If someone is already living in poverty and desperate, wouldn't depriving them of money, increase that desperation and possibly lead to addiction and crime?  This coalition government is ignoring the blatantly obvious, and putting wealth creation (their own) above compelling arguments based on sound empirical evidence.  Worse, they are smiting the future of our children and future generations.  In less than two years, they have taken away the fantastic EMA of £30 a week, and the opportunity for further education for so many young, working class kids.  That £30 made all the difference.  The reality is, even in this century, many families struggle to support their kids through higher education, and many kids are itching to earn their own cash as soon as they reach the legal age to work.  Sadly, the jobs are not out there, nor are they likely to be.  We have now reached the stage of over 1 million unemployed youths with NO job prospects. 

They took away SureStart, another desperately needed service that was laying down the foundations for our childrens' futures.  We all know that parenting skills are being lost, and new families are becoming increasingly more isolated, such is evolution.  Parenting is not easy, and it makes sound common sense to provide assistance and guidance.  It will ease the burden of future feral children roaming the streets and spending the rest of their lives in and out of prison.  I think it might have been Freud who said 'all the damage is done before the age of 5'.  I once had a neighbour who thought that picking her two year old up by the head and battering him would get him out of nappies quickly.  I had a terrible row in the street with her because she told me 'how lucky' I was to have such well mannered, likeable kids (its my blog, I'm allowed to brag) - I was incensed!  I couldn't stand the bitch, so was looking for an excuse.  It had nothing to do with LUCK, I screetched like an old fishwife, they had good manners, because that was the way I raised them!  The row drew quite a crowd, I felt a bit like Elsie Tanner.

With the elections coming up next Thursday, I plead with you all to vote Labour.  Our NHS is about to be carved up between billionaires at £250,000 luncheons and the profits from that sale will be shipped to offshore islands, before the next General Election.  

I don't know the ins, outs and machinations in each of your individual areas, but just remember that a select few are investing in their childrens' futures by selling out the future of ours.  If you care about the vital services in your area vote Labour, even if you think he/she is a waste of space or an automaton, like Nick Clegg.   I would even plead with those who traditionally vote tory or liberal to switch to labour, it won't change the government, but it might influence the vote on the sale of the NHS.  Examine your conscience (yes, I will even sink to a catholic plea) - the NHS was/is a shining example of civilisation to the rest of the world (now appealing to Nationalists), and it has transformed our society for the good.   It is a Humanist issue, which I hope will cover the religious and the cynical.  I am old enough to remember walking through passport control, and feeling an odd tingle of pride when I saw aisles labelled 'British' and 'Others' - it was a bit like going down the red carpet at an oscar ceremony in diamonds (just daydreaming) or paying the extra fiver for gallery seats at the pictures.  Its great being led past the riff raff, to the posh floor above.  Totally worth the extra fiver. 

This isn't a party matter, this is a vote for one of the things that make this country great.  We are in a double dip recession, and the  tories are scratching cash back from those who have the least to spare.  Not just those at the very bottom.  Fortunes can change in an instant.  Secure jobs can be lost, demands from debtors can close in, those services we don't need now, may be services we will need in the future. 

Those cruel cuts will effect all of us, and pretty soon it will be compulsory to keep your incontinent blood relatives in your spare room.  I jest, a bad one to be sure, but the Care Industry will, or already has, become the biggest employer in the UK.  My best friend Lynn became a 24/7 carer, through love, duty, necessity.  Never married, never had children, simply cared for her invalid mother.  She is far from alone in my generation, and it was a tough life.  She was never, ever, off duty.  

That burden should not be placed on any one person.  Our society has changed, we no longer earn our dosch in factories and domestic service (though it may not be too far off), and paid employment feeds money back into the economy, its not that much of a conundrum. 

Don't be in a conundrum (fav word at the mo) next week.  Vote Labour and save the NHS.   


How to swear like a Lady...........

Ever since my mother died, I have had the wierd feeling that her spirit decided to hang around this world for a while and jumped into my body.  I seem to have inherited so many of her traits, actually, almost all of the bad ones.  Now this line of thought opens up a whole nest of hornets, is it spiritual?  Should I wait until I see her image in a mirror, as per good spooky films, or should I get along to a spiritualist church to see if I am possessed?  And, whilst there, possibly get the name of a good horse from my Dad?  Or it could also be explained by saying that I am now able to step out from her shadow?  It all gets very complicated, so I think I will opt for the straightforward possession.  I have no wish to caste her out though, I kind of see it as a gift from Buddha.  I'm having great fun!

I have a nagging feeling that I should have discussed the above with a good psychiatrist, before airing it in public, but too late now, oops, and its 3.15am, so what do I care. 

My mother had an 'ah feck 'em' attitude to pretty much everything, while my father was much more stable.  She was Irish, he was Scottish, it was a terrible match.  I liked to think of them as the Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, of their day.  I had a crush on Richard and thought Liz was so beautiful, especially those diamonds! Actually, my mum and dad weren't really anything like them at all, apart from the fighting and the same colour hair.  

My mum had no respect for anyone, well not anyone outside of family, and if she spoke to them as if she did, you could tell it was fake.  She would always give one of us a playful grin, and say 'ah feck 'em' as we walked away.  She pretty much did as she liked.  Even in her dying days, she sat in bed in the hospital ward and lit a fag.  The senior nurse had to give me a call to let me know that, 'hmmm, she is quite a character'.  Apparently she put up quite a struggle when they were trying to get the fags off her, she said the 80 year old lady with one leg in the bed next to her, was having it orf with an orderly, and the respectable old dear doing her knitting, of having a bottle of gin stashed under the covers. They were all laughing their heads off when I got to the ward, and thought she was wonderful. One old dear was still saying 'I have never been accused of such a thing in my life', it made her day.  

I had a point when I started, so I had better get back to it.  My momma told me, there are some people in this world who simply do not understand long explanations, or informed arguments, they can only understand language at their own level, anything else is wasted.  I particularly liked the way she handled those endless sales calls, by telling them to feck off.  She didn't bother beating about the bush. Came straight to the point.  I think as you get older, you are less inclined to torment yourself with guilt over other people's feelings or to nip into a forest and hug a tree.  You begin to think of your own mortality, you begin to think creatively, or you become bitter.  Of course the age thing didn't apply to my mum, she was always like it, apart from being bitter.  There was always a quick retort and a mischevious grin.  On the morning she died, I asked her if she wanted me to switch the tv over from the children's channel, she said 'no leave it on, I've always been a big kid'.    

Saturday, 21 April 2012


I can see no valid reason whatsoever for maintaining the prohibition on weed.  Lets face it, we have an entire generation who have had grown up with information at their fingertips since they were able to run up a phone bill.  In my day, you had to struggle with an outsized newspaper (designed by Elasticman) to read 'marijuana not so bad after all' underneath 'tiny earth tremor in Outer Ecuada'.  Our generation may have listened to the views of Lesley Philips and Majorie Proops, but this generation have Google and Professor Green. 

I am reliably informed that life on the local rough estate is considerably more chilled since weed became the preferred choice of getting off your face.  Hoodies talk to me, because I am sympathetic to their cause.  They said in the past when they were all drinking, there were fights everywhere, now they are just all chilled and say 'yo man' to everyone and can't even remember if they were enemies or not.  They are all desperate for jobs, and daft if their futures are put in such jeopardy because of such ridiculous laws that would criminalise them for something so trivial.  I wonder if the police know weed is responsible for the drop in crime?

I can't help but wonder if the powers that be use negative propoganda to target our rage at the criminal element in the lower echelons of society.  Hoodies bad, posh Eton accents good, and while we are all chanting 'hang the hoodie', the Eton mob are dividing up the spoils of the NHS. 

I have faith in our young, they know what spin is, their parents might take the word of the Sun as gospel, but the hoodies have media degrees.  They have seen their parents knock seven bells out of each other on a Saturday night and suffered the fall out of flying kebabs, they know the problems caused by alcohol. 


I wasn't going to acknowledge the hate site dedicated to my name, but I have woken up in considerable pain, and the side effects of my prescription medication are so bad, that they are unusable.  Cie la ve.  Those who hate me have caught me at the right moment, and if I lived near Beachy Head, a sky dive without a parachute would be an option.  I doubt though, that my mangled corpse at the bottom of cliff would be sufficient, I feel they would insist on dismemberment and my head on a pike at the very least.

My crimes.  I took the Catholic Church to Court for abuse I suffered whilst in their care as a child, and I wrote a book about it.  I am accused of lying about being in a convent.  Approximately 30 A4 box files of documents prove that I was, and indeed there are documents that prove the 'Uncle' in charge of our home was a paedophile.  Everything I have said can be verified. 

Why all this hatred?  Is it personal?  Is it because I am arrogant?  There I have said it.  It came out during the above trial, the nun and the paedophile accused my 12 year old self, of arrogance.  It seems I did not accept the beatings with the good grace and gratitude that I should have.  I partially accept what they said, I have the arrogance of someone who has dedicated their life to acquiring knowledge and I have a smile that says 'I know more than you do'.  I can see that would piss some people off.

I don't however, think the website is about the church abuse, I believe it has sprung up from a forum I once used and the most likely culprit is a former poster with a grudge. Someone who dislikes my controversial views, but lacks the vocabularly to explain why, so has resorted to name calling and punch in the gob prose.  

Don't worry Beachy Head will not be an option, and if I am found in that situation, I was pushed! lol.  

Incidentally, I am now tempted to do further articles on the YGL and a bit of psychological profiling of my own, watch this space.........   

Friday, 20 April 2012


I think it is generally agreed that that book, has spectactularly backfired.  We girls know that rampant hetero guys never diss us, because they always hold out a hope that they can come round for a quick shag.  And if we have nothing going on, we will usually oblige. 

That focused, obsession to reach the top, is quite macho though, as Simone De Bouvier would say, you will never get a female Mozart, in the same way that you will never get a female serial killer.  We girls get distracted, we think in the Matrix, in our heads we are thinking 'must hang the washing out before it rains' while our lovers are singing yi, yi yippee ho, and screaming yeh baby.  Oops, too crude, its 3.30am, what do I care. 

I am not sure Simon will be able to execute his PR people and minions, though you can't trust those tories not to slip in a new bill without us noticing and executing the help might just be legal now.  I guess he will  just have to fire them or maybe promote them.  Whatever way you look at it, its dominated the front pages this week. 


I do, and will, regret for evermore, that I never went along to Greenham Common.  I truly admired those women.  I had no idea why I admired them, but I just knew that I did.  I was the product of a catholic girls school, so my view of the world was a bit skew whiff. If I knew then, what I know now, I would have bought myself a tent from an army surplus store and got myself along there.

I fear, fear, fear just now, the fecking lethargy that has affected the population.  My beloved dad, who I make no apologies for quoting again and again, knew how much his vote counted, as do 'that' older generation, the generation that escaped a constant diet of McDonalds, Reebok trainers and establishment approved pop music. 

It seems to me our youth have no outlet, life is reality tv - if you can make there, you can make it anywhere, the twinkly, sparkly face of capitalism, the only way is Essex.  Or should that be, the only way out of obscurity is to sell our souls to the devil, or the highest paying humiliation show. 

We are all persuaded to strive for that Place in the Country, that quiet retreat, where we can say 'fuck you rules and regulations.  I gave you 50 years of my life you bastards, yes sir, no sir, three bags fucking full sir.  Now I want to put fences around my territory and tell you all to fuck off, go away world, I don't like you anymore.  I have the the ensuite bathroom, the big country kitchen and I shop at M&S, I am living the dream.  I no longer care and I wouldn't give up a thing.  Signed.........     X on the ballot paper.   




I have only had half a bottle of Rose (mixed with water, what a philistine) hic, I am such a lightweight these days.  Figuratively speaking of course. 

Do we get wiser as we get older, or do we just get nuttier.  I am finding it increasingly more difficult to keep my trap shut.  In the past, I would have thought, well my hair doesn't look that great, so I don't want to draw attention to myself.  Now, even if I have got at least a 3 inch growth of pure white hair middle parting (a long story, and one I haven't got the heart to go into to), I just have to open my gob.  I don't see many people, my sad life is much discussed, lol, and not disputed I might add, so if I find myself in the Co-op and spot a bargain, I can't help telling everyone in the queue about it.  It does me no favours, I know, from a logical 'there won't be any left for me tomorrow' perspective, but I like spreading sweetness and light.

I'm thinking about My dad tonight, I should be thinking about my mum, because its her birthday (never proven), and I know she will laugh at that btw.  My dad was what I would call a learn-ed man.  That is he was a man of knowledge.  When he got his first job in a factory at the age of 14, he committed himself to purchasing a set of encyclopaedas - paying weekly, and eagerly awaiting each volume in the post.  They have now become an heirloom and treasure.  I remember being bedazzled by the black and white photos from the Gunfight at the OK Coral - it was a Sunday afternoon, and the film had just been on the telly.  

Meloncholia, I expect, a symptom of my illness, or the half a bottle of Rose - correction, three quarters, hic.  As I sit here now, questioning myself over the best bit of advice he ever gave me, my head is overloaded, if I were a computer I would crash.........   He had no qualifications until later in his life, once he had made sure, we his kids, were OK.  And we were, and we are, and we got letters after our names too.  

Who do you vote for?  Who teaches you, your politics?  In my day (I always swore I would never use that phrase, but thanks Big Lynn) schools did not, or dared not, teach politics in any way, shape or form.  It may even have been written into the law books, teachers must not influence pupils.  I went to a catholic girls school, so the law may have been mis-interpreted, suffice to say, I was a pompous little Sue Ellen/Thatcher wannabe for the first 10 years of my adult life.  I was always a rulebreaker though, and got away with it while I was gorgeous, (not so much when I put on weight) but after I got educated (like Rita) I discovered why I was at odds with the world. It was an awakening.  It was as though I had been let into a great big secret that alluded so many of those that were around me.  Why had I been so naieve, (sp), why had I voted for Thatcher?  I'm in confessional mode tonight, wait til you read the dog blog, you will be in tears)     

But back to my beloved Dad.  Labour are for the working class, and the tories are for the rich.  He was always able to say in a couple of sentences, something that would take a Guardian writer 6 pages.  He had the gift of the really, really, clever of being able to explain in the most simple terms, the major and minor political and historical events in a way that I, as a child, could understand. The best example would be that Tom Hanks film, 'explain it to me as though I am 4 years old'.  Its a great philosophy and I owe everything I know about greek mythology to a Puffin Book (aged 4-8) and my first dabble into history, to Carry On films.  Even with this limited knowledge it is possible to blag your way through conversations with experts.  Just throw in references to Hercules and The French Revolution and Sir Rodney Ffing (aka Sid James) and you've cracked it.   

To my shame I would oppose my dad, mostly to be contrary it must be said, but it was partly teasing, because I think secretly, he loved getting up on his soapbox.   I even wore a Star of David after reading Exodus just to defy his political stance on Palestine!   Bless him, we quarrelled in the days before he died.  I was going on an 'Anti War March' and he wanted assassins to murder Sadam Hussein. It was such a silly argument, well not silly, in the greater sense, our arguments would make us go away and learn more about said subject, and come back for round 2.  I still delivered his shopping and inordinate amounts of Sarson vinegar.  The last thing he gave me was a book entitled 'Vinagar Cures Everything' for my cold, and told me to wrap up warm.  Strangely, when I logged on to tell family, friends etc, my first message was 'Vinagar Cures Everything' from 'anonymous'.  It was spooky, yet reassuring at the same time. 

Ps.  Note to Bev.  my dad would have given you 1001 ways in which vinagar would cure your cold, but trust me, go with the brandy..................   

Sunday, 15 April 2012


Cellar Door is, debatably the most beautifully phonaesthetic compound noun in the English language, sell-a-dore, it rolls off the tongue, and sounds almost tuneful, but its a bugger trying to slip it into everyday conversation. 

The French, I think have more flexibility with their language and pronunciation, Sacrableu sounds far more theatrical and classy than 'oh fuck', particularly when it is enhanced with that lovely gutteral sound peculiar to the French. I have always found the accent sensual and when faced with an attractive French waiter, I never miss the opportunity to ask 'what is Cointreau'.   

I often focus on words that I like the sound of, words that add drama and interest to prose and speech and when I latch onto a word, I use it unashamably until I get bored.  For a while 'debris' was a favourite, but pronounced in the American way 'deh bree' rather than the English 'day bree', but it was a difficult one to use in everyday conversation. 'Oh sacrableu, your room is covered in major debris' I would screech at the kids, who for some reason, rarely took me seriously.  

I dislike 'gobsmacked' intensely, it conjures up an image that is not in the least bit attractive, ditto 'pants', which my boys quickly learned, could actually cause steam to emit from my ears.  I get that 'wicked' now means good, and 'sick' has taken on a new meaning entirely, but even in its original form, it never had a nice ring to it, probably because of its association with vomit (yuck). I much prefer the genteel 'indisposed', far more ladylike, but after a night on the tiles, 'indisposed as a pig' doesn't really work.  


Friday, 13 April 2012


I regret that I was never put in charge of anybody, and it wasn't for for want of trying.  Whenever a job with a bit of authority came up, I would jump and down and shout 'pick me, pick me' , but the bosses would notice that maniacal glint in my eye and think better of it.  I once had a short lived career as a stationary monitor, but within weeks I had turned into a tyrant and was easily bribed. The power went straight to my head, I used to walk around the office singing 'You Must Love Me'.  Evita was big at the time. 

To be honest, I wasn't much good at all that ordering and re-ordering thingy, I just could not take the blue chits and the pink chits seriously, especially as chits is a funny word.  It eventually reached the point, where I only went into work for the extended lunch hours.  It was London, it was the eighties.......  and who would have thought an irate boss would have a heart attack because you still hadn't got him that stapler he ordered 3 weeks ago. 

Sadly, I never reached such lofty heights again, and wasn't sure I wanted to.   With power, comes a big head and a strong work ethic, and most of the time I couldn't be arsed.  There was nothing exciting in typing endless legal jargon dictated by dreary Henrys and Henriettas, who actually made the life choice of studying the most boring books in history.  You can just imagine a solicitor's leaving note to his wife 'My dahling Hermione, I hereby MAKE OATH and swear as follows:  I am running orf with my new secretary Chardonay and 4 of her 7 kids in a caravan.  See sub-paragraph 4. Section A.  Quite frankly, her tan, hair extensions and eyelashes come to £552,187.22 less p.a. than your dress allowance, and even with 7 kids and the extended family I will be quids in.  See Appendix D, Clause (b) (iv).  Signed, your former husband, Arnold (now known as Arnie the Asphalter).  Toodlepip.   For me being a secretary wasn't a life choice, I hated it.  That's why I love the George character in Seinfeld - no pretence whatsoever that he enjoys his job.  

Its probably fortunate for all that I gave the power craving a miss.  Much too stressful.

Tuesday, 10 April 2012


I've known many people with pristine homes, the ones where you have to take your shoes off at the front door and there is not an overflowing ashtray in sight.  I often wish I had the courage just to turn up, out of the blue, and catch them in tracky bottoms with the remains of their spag bol down their fronts.  I sort of picture them surrounded by half empty boxes of KFC and lager cans, like Wayne and Waynetta.  I can only dream.

I haven't quite reached the point where Kim and Aggie have to unearth me from under a pile of newspapers, miscellaneous crockery and a few dozen moggies, but I don't lose any sleep about a bit dust on the skirting boards.  I also now happily wear odd socks.  I refuse to be dictated to by a pile of laundry.  Should I be run over and rushed to hospital, my undies are clean, but my last words will probably be 'I couldn't find the other one'. 

I am suffering from empty nest syndrome at the moment and sharing my Dine in For Two with an elderly mutt called Barnabus Bubble.  His table manners are appalling and his conversation isn't up to much, but he is a good listener.   He agrees with everything I say, and is quite happy to march alongside me, as long as he can stop for a wee at every lamp post.  Another plus, is that I don't have to share the wine, and I get two puddings. 

But I digress.  I need a cause.  I have had it in my head for a long time that women of a certain age are badly negelcted.  Its bad enough that we see our lovingly prepared meals sitting on the side on the command of 'I'll have it later', and we are unappreciated by society in general.  We have a wealth of wisdom and experience that is largely untapped and definitely not rewarded.  We face difficult times, our children especially, so many kids are being criminalised by Judges who are handing out sentences that reflect society's outrage, but are disproportionate to the crime.  We should be laying the foundations for our childrens' futures, not building more prisons to house them.

Saturday, 7 April 2012


I should probably re-name this blog, The Confessions of A Manic Depressive and be done with it. 

Moaning is moaning.  There is absolutely no good around it.  Sometimes you do get cheesed off and want to go into the clinical depths of your all your aches and pains.  Is there anything better than bumping into an old friend and saying 'did I tell you about me arm'.  Ok so it is quid quo pro, you have to listen to stories about her gory innards and her hysterectomy, but worth it, I think. 

Laugh and the World Laughs with You - Cry and You Cry Alone - its actually Weep and You Weep Alone actually, and surprised some of my critics from YGL didn't point that out.  And yes, it was deliberate.  But back to that interminable cycle of depression.  You have no idea of who is still talking to you because you didn't return phone calls or answer their texts.  Or worse, you have no idea what you might have said or done during your last manical stage.  Close family members, used to introduce me to strangers and apologise in advance.  Then I would up the ante, grin like a lunatic and say 'I'm better now'.  I was never popular at parties.  If I could go back in time, I think I would definitely have been a goth, I feel I missed out on a whole load of fun there.

If you are a drama queen such as moi, you pick up your heroine's iconic words, 'I  will think about it tomorrow, when I feel better', so you distract yourself with other things, until your head is about to explode.  I am sure there are more eloquent ways of saying that, but thats about the gist of it. 

Ps.  It was Scarlett O'Hara from Gone With The Wind. 

Friday, 6 April 2012


There's no getting away from it, I really do.  I could phone her at 2.00a.m to tell her how desperately in love I was after a date, then phone  her and drag her out of bed again a week later, weeping and wailing becaused he hadn't phoned me.  She would groan and say 'hang on while I get me fags' and then I would hear her falling over the coffee table trying to find the light, she was a clumsy moo, bless her.  It was before the days of mobiles. Like myself, she knew the situation had to be looked and examined in at least a 1001 different ways:

a) He may have lost his phone (the one hoped for)
b) He may have laryngytus and developed warts on his finger tips
c) He may have left the handbrake off his Lamborgini and invertently broken all
    his limbs, checking out the wiring to his subwoofers (again, we can only
d) He may not have any credit on his phone (not a good sign)
e) He may not remember who you are (also not a good sign)
f) His ex grabbed you by the throat and tried to pull your hair out when you
    went for a wee. should have been a sign.

The list is of reasons why he hadn't called was exhaustive.  We checked out all the phone lines, power cuts and all major and minor world disasters until we were left with the only obvious answer, 'he didn't like me' and that was unthinkable.  How Big Lynn kept her big gob shut, I will never know.  I would do the same for her, I think it was a mutual arrangement.  I remember coming home one night to find her crying over her 6th can of Stella, weeping and singing along to 'I'm Never Gonna Dance Again' by George Michael.  She had just heard her latest love had been arrested on some sort of charge to do with dodgy motors.  I told her to stick with him, he sounded like a good 'un.  Besides, it was always a good idea to have intimate relations with a car mechanic, especially one with missing teeth and a tattoo.  You never know when you might need one.  We were both driving very unreliable bangers at the time.  Incidentally, not a good idea to explain to a woman on the other end of a phone holding a screaming child, that you met her husband once in a night club and he said 'call me at any time'.  I refer you to f) above. 


I feel I should follow up from previous blogs, and say right now, its far from easy to get away and start over, for a thousand reasons, all of which are valid.  For most, leaving means starting a home again and the thought of that is terrifying.  At this point I would say, be sure to grab your books, your cd's, your carefully acquired, individually chosen kitchen knives (I have mild OCD lol) and ancient beloved furniture.  I speak from knowledge.  There is nothing more pathetic than a woman wailing drunkenly down the phone about her lost (fake) Georgian chest of drawers.  I know.  I have been that woman. 

Should add bed to the above list, I have managed to hold onto this one for 12 years.  I know that sounds old for a bed, but it doesn't get much action. The great advice of my Scottish forbears, was ringing in my ears when I went on my search.  You have got to have a good bed and good shoes!  It was chosen with such precision as to be a masterpiece in comfort and I put all mattresses through the same severe testing as the princess and the pea.   Mad fiery demons sent from Beelzebulb himself wouldn't make me part with it. 

I will not lie and say it is easy, it is the road less travelled.  You don't want to go, and you continually validate  your reasons for staying.  I actually reached the point of a nervous breakdown (as Charlie Windsor would say 'whatever that might be') before I made the change.   And remember the change comes from you, not them.  I actually went along to my GP and told him I thought I had galloping consumption.   I was reading a lot of Dickens at the time.  I came over most peculiar during my night job and even considered calling an ambulance. My GP was one of those amazing doctors who took me seriously, and sent me along for every test going, he even sent a psychiatrist for a home visit.  Though I don't think they bother now, especially if you are over 50. It turned out those pesky hormones were not content with making me nuts in my adolescence they were now going to spoil any hopes I might have had of joining the WI.   

But back to starting over.  Yeh, its fecking tough, but its exciting, and it is a challenge.  It can be funny too, and bonding, and it can release those kids from the trauma of living in such a hostile environment.  It is horrendous for a kid, they love both of you, they are torn.  It is not fair to put so much stress on young minds.  I always had an inbuilt unbreakable law, never row in front of the kids.  Looking back, I have to admit I was kidding myself, they were far from stupid. 

There are lots of down sides to starting over, but there are lots of ups too.  Not least you have absolute say over the decor and Charlie Chaplin can stand proudly at your front door and over your fireplace, a fellow traveller, who showed the way.  One of my first acts of rebellion was to hang the words of the Red Flag on the loo door so I would know them off by heart at my next Labour Party Meeting.  I was working for solicitors at the time and I never missed a drunken opportunity to sing it at inopportune moments.  I could get away with murder in them days, I was gorgeous. 

As an addendum to the 'things to keep hold of' list, cooker. You can get over a man, but you cannot get over the loss of an oven that you have grown to know and love over the years.  And of course one which produces world beating yorkshire puddings............  


Ps.  please add oven gloves to above 'things to keep' list, oh, and casserole dishes.


Anny and Bree, you are making me wistful.  Maybe there is a perfect man out there somewhere just for me.  I am presently in love in Sheldon from The Big Bang.  For those not familiar with this divine creature, he the lanky geek, a sort of cross between Dr Spock, Stephen Hawking and a daddy long legs.  He is adoreable, I just want to bring him home and make him chicken soup!  My tastes in men are very diverse.  I can go from Gerrard Butler in a gladiator outfit (phew, hot flush) to the divine Niles from Fraser.  [loving the word divine at the mo, so please excuse excessive use]

I always say looks never bothered me, at the tender age of 14 I fell in love with Galen from Planet of the Apes, I saw past the unusal features and the excessive body hair hair, I just loved him.  Sadly, I kind of stuck with that whole simian thing for many years thereafter, which is a whole other story.  Don't worry, I will give you fair warning so you can get the tissues and the gin at the ready, and oy, Helen don't forget the Maltesters (2 boxes for £2.50 in Co-op)!  You can have a couple yourself for setting me off giggling.

But back to the perfect man, still smitten with Sheldon at the mo, but will try not to let biase my judgment.  To be honest, if I had to go back and start all over again (heaven forbid, phew, its the only thing that puts me off Buddhism, I'm just not sure I could fully commit to that whole coming back again and again, and next time I might come back as a rat), but I digress.  

I made some very strange choices when I was young, free and single.  Would I really have rolled up me pencil skirt to climb onto the back of a Hells Angel's fake Harley?  It wasn't quite the romantic experience I expected.  He wasn't a real Hell's Angel and I was no biker chick!  I screamed like a banshee nonstop, lost one of my false eyelashes and a stilletto and he cried like a big girl when I threw my remaining shoe at him.

For brevity, I will go off and continue along these thoughts.  It is going to be hard to come up with a recipe for the perfect man without my beloved Sheldon being a main ingredient (he is just sooooo cute, pull yourself together woman) and I am torn because Anthony Bourdain (he loves a puff and can cook) has to be in it, ditto Salvador Dali and a couple of table spoons of Mo Molam (also liked a puff and solved Ireland problem) - Not sure if that makes me gay, or just plain wierd, lol.

Saving the best til last, the divine Marlon Brando (yes, smoked the demon weed Bree) whose feet I would have happily died at, the man was a God!  

Come on girls, hubble bubble, toil and trouble, who else do you want to chuck in the pot? 

Wednesday, 4 April 2012


Yeh, yeh, I know, its a taboo subject, but one which will increase dramatically as more and more lose jobs and struggle to keep afloat financially and mentally.  Its not so easy to sing 'I got you babe', when you haven't got a fiver for the electric and your other half is still down the pub.

Bizarrely, otherwise sane, intelligent women, and increasingly more men too, stay in relationships that are abusive, miserable, and sucking the lives out of them.   We were all indoctrinated as children to find a partner, build a home and produce and nurture offspring, its our destiny. Men made the rules back in the days of Fred Flintstone, when men selected the hunter gatherer option and women were relegated to the domestic sphere of the cave.  It was carved in stone by a group of neanderthals who had stumbled on some rotting grapes to have with their dinasaur sandwiches.  Whilst admittedly, there was a fair bit of skill and strength required in tracking, hunting and conquering the savage beast, once caught it could provide several roast dinners, a few stews and a hundredweight of bridge rolls.  This of course left said hunter gatherers (HGs) with lots of free time to gather quite a few more rotting grapes and doss around hammering rules into rocks to ensure the status quo.  They tried kicking a rock around but it was too painful for their bare feet - A few million years would pass before the discovery of football boots and the Premier League.  Unfortunately, some of the HGs would overly partake in the rotting grapes and return to the wrong cave.  Which is where we came in.

Back to reality.  Many moons ago, I read one of those 'life changing' books Women Who Love Too Much.  It didn't change my life per se at that time, I was still attracted to mad, bad and dangerous men, but at least l knew why.  It took a long, long time for the wise words of Robin Norwood to make that change, but the words stayed with me forever.  You need to like yourself, then find someone who likes you too - Ok, that might not be the exact quote, but the simple message was there.  I believe that those caught up within violent relationships have to change themselves.  

I once worked voluntarily for Women's Refuge.  I think its something most of us who come out the other side, feel a need to do.  We want to speak to those silly little lasses, and drum some self esteem into their stubborn little heads.  We know that they will return to the abuser again and again, and if not that one, they will find another one who is equally as bad, or they may even up the ante.  Their need of course stems back to childhood, and as Robin Norwood said, they need to recreate the trauma from their own childhood again and again, so they can make it right this time.  It is a hard cycle to break, and of course, some never do.  I just hope that their families and friends keep a door open for them. 

Monday, 2 April 2012


To the sad bastard(s) - I will not publish your venom, nor will I discuss it.  You have some freaky Kant nightmare going on in your miniscule brain that I can't be arsed to go into.  And if I do, I will charge by the hour.


I am not wearing well at all.  An old lady asked me if I had a bus pass.  To be honest, I can't blame her, I have the infernal grey stripe down the centre of my head again.  I still look like 'Stripe' from the gremlins, but an older version.  Why does beautiful hair last for only 2 weeks?  The problem is, I look twice as bonkers if I wear a hat, and getting a reputation as it is.

I've only got myself to blame, if ever there was a wild side waiting to be walked on, I would find it.  I ate the doner kebabs at 3.00a.m. on the roadside and I willingly climbed into limousines with unknown men, and pretended to the bailiffs that I wasn't in.  And it shows!  I am half tempted to sue Joan Collins, in her authobiography she said she stayed young by living it up and partying.  Those who stop, go to pot.  Actually in retrospect, she may be right, she loves a party and looks great, so wil have to rethink that one.

But back to writing.  I have always thought it would be great to have some sort of written dialogue, family words from one generation to the next.  I think thats why the Royals are so prolific in their writings, diaries, personal letters etc, they are leaving a legacy.  If they are important enough to do that, then so are we.  All forms of writing and everything you have to say is valid.  Once you get past that mental block, you are free to go. 

I also believe it prevents grumpy old ladies from putting moggies in dustbins!

Ps.  Don't know how I got onto writing there, lol, but was daydreaming - watched Michael Collins on the telly last night and am smitten with Liam Neeson all over again.......  sighs 

Sunday, 1 April 2012


I'm quite pleased Gorgeous George is back in parliament, they could all do with shaking up a bit.  I like that he believes passionately enough about his causes to get bodily removed from the House of Commons.   I think that is a good thing in an MP.  Lets face it, they all seem to have merged into each other, superslick, square mile, masters of the universe, they all look and speak like thunderbird puppets.  I miss the ugly mugs of the old lot, the Harold Wilsons and Norman Tebbits, even if they did scare the kids.  Norman Tebbit came to our town once, and someone lean't out of a top floor window and shouted at him to get on his bike and a few of us cheered. 

But I digress, I am currently trying to raise 250k so I can have a quiet word with Dave.  I have much I would like to discuss with him.  I have only got £2.50 so far, so it might have to be a pasty on a park bench, hope he doesn't mind the pigeon droppings.  Can't say I am in the least bit surprised by these camdine with me revelations, in fact only surprised they made headlines.  Helloooooo.  Its what leaders do when they get to the top.  I refer you to Imelda Marcos and Tony Blair.  One headline that would surprise me, would be Dave and Sam handing out left over Nigella Lawson canapes to the homeless along The Strand, but I can't see it happening. 

There is much the Gorgeous George says that I do not agree with, not least his support of systems that suppress women, but he is a powerful orator.  I wonder if this bodes well for Ken Livingstone?  He has a not too dissimilar electorship?   I can't wait for GG's first question.