Saturday 21 August 2021


 I have meant to write a blog on this subject for years, but I figured I was already hated enough, and my views on the topic might raise more than a few heckles.  Now I take on the fierce pride of the cockneys, scousers and jocks, what's wrong with speaking 'working class' they will say.  They are proud of their roots, they speak like their parents, their grandparents and all the working class generations that went before them.  I see the noble ideology behind their arguments, but let me put forward an alternative, actually I will stop pussyfooting around, let me put forward the radical thoughts of Professor Henry Higgins* together with a few of my own.  

I can see now how lucky I was to have a mother who didn't give two hoots about codes, conventions or how a mother or a woman should behave.  She was Irish, but she spoke like the Queen, her accent was the first thing she ditched when she got off the boat at Hollyhead, aged 15.  Of course, it was a different story at home, where she was more like a giggly playmate, both my brother and I were born in her teen years, but in public, out and about and on the phone, she was a loud formidable 'English' woman, no-one dared speak down to her.  As a small child, I was in awe of her powers, She had a beautiful, strong, almost melodic voice and she pronounced every word correctly. She was a huge fan of Patsy Cline and could sound just like her.  She may have been considered as mad as a box of frogs, by some, but no-one ever took her for a fool.  

My dear old mum was kind of savvy, she knew she would be treated better with an English accent than she would with an Irish accent.  Such were the times, 'no blacks, no dogs, no Irish'.  And we lived in Virginia Water, one of England's 'poshest' areas, which helpfully polished both her accent and mine.  Yes, like most daughters, I grew up sounding exactly like my mother!  I have a posh accent.  Not because I was born into millions, but by the way I was raised.  I copied my mad mum.    

Professor Higgins was right, it wasn't Eliza Doolittle's dirty face and wretched clothing that would keep her in the gutter, it was her awful strangulation of the English language.  He made a bet to turn a guttersnipe into a princess, simply by teaching her to speak properly.  Ok, the George Bernard Shaw play was set in the early 1900s, but the arguments surrounding regional and, err, uneducated dialects, still apply today.  We don't need the academic background of Professor Higgins to sum a person up, like a psychic at a fairground, we take in an awful lot with that first impression.  Where do they come from, are they rich/poor, educated/uneducated, an alpha personality or a follower, outward appearance, kempt or unkempt, happy or sad? A bit daunting to think of it like that for anyone going to an interview, but we carry so much with us that we are unaware of. 

Without a doubt, a person who speaks well, be it male or female, becomes significantly more attractive.  They have no need to tell the world they come from a long line of washer uppers.  They have worked on their voice and speech just as much as they have worked on their hair and body.  So I wonder why so many young women go to so much trouble with their appearance, yet totally neglect their voices.  It's 'Did you truly fly in from Paradise?  Nah, Luton Airport' all over again.  Where that old ad was ironic, this new trend to sound ignorant and lacking in vocabulary while dolled up to the nines, is heartfelt and done with conviction.  The few words they have they chop in half, my personal favourite is 'well gell', the result you are going for.  As in 'feck off, your eyebrows look more like caterpillars than mine, you're just well gell'.  I just don't see hedge fund managers and yacht owners lining up for a date here.  

I read an article in the Guardian many years ago, sadly I cannot remember the name of the writer, but she pointed out the importance of speaking well, especially in a face to face interview.  So many candidates fail simply by having such terrible communication skills. The point of communication is to get the message across with clarity, to everyone, not just those who speak the same dialect as yourself.    Being precious about your accent and working class roots is not a good way in which to advance, as Jane Austin might say.  I also told my sons, if you can't take her to the Ambassador's Ball, where they serve Ferrero Rocher on silver trays, think again.  Whilst it is sweet to have a limited vocabulary at 16, it is moronic past your 30's.  How to increase your vocabulary?  Read, read, read. 

Kids who go to public schools speak well from a very early age.  So even at a very early age, they have an advantage over their peers in the overcrowded State schools.  Teaching your child how to speak, how to communicate is the best gift you can ever give them.  It is lifelong, but in the early days, bad behaviour, temper tantrums, screaming and writhing on the floor, can be avoided if they can communicate exactly what it is they want.  Note.  this is not foolproof, especially in public places like supermarkets where most tots have figured out, they have their parents hostage. Their cute little faces look at you and say, 'put the bag of sweets in the cart or all hell breaks loose!  

Chatting with your kids is, I think, one of life's greatest joys, they think you are wonderful and believe everything you say.  That stops around age 11.  Try to get into them all the important things, like good manners and the advantages of being able to speak well.  It's hard with a busy life to find time just to chat.  As a young mum, I read an article that suggested quality time and I followed it to the letter.  I stopped wracking myself with guilt for working and always being busy, the designated quality time took a load off.  That aside, kids can do find other ways to torment you with guilt, it's their greatest weapon.

It saddens me to see young mums playing with their phones, while their babies are gurgling and cooing and reaching out to them for attention.  Babies think you are more wonderful than their older siblings, they never take their eyes off you, you should be singing, dancing, juggling and telling them all about the mushed up goo you are about to feed them.  Their time in the highchair is very limited, so spare them the machinations of the Labour party and the back stabbing of Jeremy Corbyn, that's better suited for your mutt, who doesn't care what you have to say, as long as it has a sausage with it.  But Boris is at least quite comical and could easily slip in alongside the telly tubbies.  Of course it matters not what you say, but how you say it and how your little bundle of cuddles has your full, undivided attention.  

I feel like I am an old voice, lost in the wilderness, when I am wincing at the dumbed down celebrities who have so much influence over the next generations.  My views probably belong in a byegone age, where speaking properly was more of a class thing along with top hats and cloth caps.  Everyone knew their place and there was an active dislike of classes outside of your own.  Speaking well was scorned and mocked unless you came from the right background. The language of the streets was territorial, no outsiders.  Ok, to tip your hat to upper classes (while despising them), but the middle classes were fair game, not far enough away from their humble births to protect them from scorn.  

There is no shame in coming from a working class background, especially if you are successful, because you got where are on your own.  Self made is more formidable than nepotism and inheritance.  But you are the result of previous generations taking steps to change their destiny, and yours.  Those who survived are those who adapted and changed, they didn't hold onto their working class roots, their hovels and backbreaking jobs.  They became educated, they ensured their children were educated, they ditched the language of the ghettos and the war zones of their neighbourhoods (unless of course they became rappers in which case they became millionaires).  I'm speaking figuratively of course, and in jest, you simply can't make a good impression on anyone, least of all an interviewer, if you tell her you are well gell of her Jimmi Choos.  

I don't demand that everyone speak in the standard English of the old BBC and 'Listen with Mother' and I don't hate (all) regional accents.  Sean Connery (Scots), Richard Burton (Welsh), Father Ted Crilly (Irish), all with voices that would make a girl swoon.  But cockney, awful, especially when exaggerated to sound like a sarf London thug or a terminally miserable actor from Eastenders.  Shudders.  Fine line between cheeky chappy and creep.  Scouser, hmmm, was mad about Paul McCartney singing, not so much when he spoke, but have never got drunk with a scouser, so will have to reserve judgment.  Elvis had me with hello.

Language I fear is disappearing, text speak, the shortening of words, the replacement of language with emojis.  Are children still being taught to write?  Have books and pens been swapped for screens and computers?  What brave new world is this?  To be fair, I don't actually fear that future generations can be dumbed down.  Each of them has on their phone, high tech computers that will give them an answer to any question they have, and within seconds.  Logic would predict they will be more enlightened than any generation that has gone before.  Ha ha, that argument sounded intelligent, until I remember the US voted for Trump and the UK voted for Boris Johnson.  

Have I turned into an old crone?  Am I out of sync with the rest of the world?  Ok, yes I am.  I want kids to speak properly, I want young girls to know how much more beautiful they would be if they fine tuned and harmonised their voices.  If they made their voices as pretty as their faces.  It is really hard not to correct the bad English of others, the old school marm in me just won't go away.  That part of me is now in the pile labelled 'beyond my control', let them speak as they wish (while quietly sobbing).  The world is full of Eliza Doolittles, beautiful young women who could increase their potential exponentially, simply by speaking properly.  And by potential, I mean, the job they want to get, the man they want to marry, the life they want to have.  

Yes, I know that does indeed sound so very last century, and I maybe watch too many historic dramas (wish bowing would come back), but I see nothing wrong with refining every part of yourself as you go through life's journey.  By refinement, I mean not just our outward appearance, but also those troubled parts of our characters (zen?) and our voices. do we sound as if we are in the middle of a mental breakdown, or totally chilled and under control.  Of course most of us learn how to manipulate our voices to get what we want during the toddler stage.  Some, sadly, keep the same tricks past 40, which is particularly creepy.  I have a pet hatred of grown women who speak with little girl voices, grr

But I have waffled on too much, I will end with a video clip, enjoy:


Friday 13 August 2021

WHO OFFERS THE BEST HEAVEN? After 64 you need to choose, a fun look at the options


Several months ago, or it even more, I can't really remember, I decided to change my philosophy of life, whatever it may have been, after sweetness and light, wink wink.  I decided to go with, arguably the greatest philosopher, thinker and music maker and Liverpudlian, Mr.  John Lennon.  As a schoolboy he stated the purpose of life was to be happy.  His teacher scolded him and told him he didn't understand the assignment, he told her, she didn't understand life.  Quite.

It really is that simple, I just wish I had known it at the start of mine, that is before being indoctrinated with the Catholic ideology of guilt.  Took a lifetime to discover we were not actually put on this earth to suffer pain and misery for some distant reward in heaven.  That is a terrible purpose/philosophy, reason for living.  But a very good philosophy for keeping peasants subdued and working ever harder. The rich man in his castle, the poor man in the field, all things bright and beautiful for sure.  There is God telling us the way things should be, it was his will, not the will of the greedy elite, nothing to do with them.  Religion preserves the status quo, the class system, the establishment.  Blair claimed not 'to do' religion, but as soon as he left office, he got baptized and hung religious icons in all his homes.  Something scared the bejesus out of him.  The thought of bumping into that shite in the next life, heavenly as it may be, does not appeal.

It is for this reason I have now decided to follow the old religion of the Norsemen!  Yeah baby, the Vikings (still obsessed with them, red faced smiley).  To be fair, I have always hedged my bets on religion, I can go from athiest, to agnostic, to screaming 'Dear God' in the Catholic sense, on any given day.  At this end of life, I'm carefully looking at the options available at the end.  

With the Catholic route, the journey to heaven is pretty much defined, live a clean life, no sinful partying, drug taking or killing your father and mother.  Ahh, but if you do, the Good Lord loves the fallen, and if you repent the weed and lines you did before stepping in front of that bus, you're still good to go to heaven.  But, I've never really liked the idea of heaven that much on the basis that it would be full of do gooders telling you how good they were in life.  They will have big long lists of all their public do gooding and abstinence.  All the while looking down on you for smoking, drinking, partying and maybe even pushing your folks off a hill, for, well, all eternity.    

Hell meanwhile, doesn't seem that bleak.  Ok, there's the excessive heat and all that, but it is going to be full of all the heroes and anti heroes you never got to hang out with in real life.  I usually compare it to pubs these days, that is all the fun people are outside shivering under an umbrella in order to have a smoke, no flames per se but maybe an outdoor heater provided by a kindly landlord.  Smokers probably spend more at the bar.  

Buddhism I have also dabbled in, if you call a Dali Lama quote each day dabbling.  I nearly got enticed into the whole you need Buddhism in your life, in a South London pub several decades ago.  Mischievously, I took my then boyfriend into a pub where I knew my old boyfriend would be.  I knew exactly what would happen, but I was still that naughty little girl who carried a mouse in my pocket for shock value.  It was pretty much like a fight scene from the old wild west, furniture and fists flying.  I was 'rescued' by a table full of buddhists who sensed I needed a bit of peace in my life.  I was 'Ooh two men fought over me' and I couldn't wait to tell my mates.  It was pure 'mean girl', my ex used to describe me as 'Aunt Sally' to his Worzel Gummidge, always looking for an opportunity to be mean to him.  To be fair, he gave as good as he got, probably why we stayed together for so long.  Now, I think, I would just go straight for the ice pick.  I jest, have you ever tried digging a patio?

Valhalla and the Norse religion offer a pretty good deal.  Drink as much as you like, eat magic mushrooms and partake of anything edible that gets you high, covet whoever or whatever you like, dress like a gladiator (yes, girls too), die fighting (with your sword in your hand) and return to Valhalla the next day to do the same all over again.  Bliss!  OK, can't say I am enamoured of the 'fighting' every day, not with my feet, but I am hoping the long white hair might qualify me as a shield maiden.

Which leads me nicely onto the hair and the above pic.  To cut or not to cut?  All the pandemic I cussed at the tragedy of not being able to go and get my hair done.  Ergo, it has grown and grown and with my frequent use of blue shampoo, is now blue.  Strangely, the boldness of the colour has given me a new lease of life.  A kind of inner 'come on old girl, it aint over yet', there is no law that states you have to get your hair cut short and permed.  And no reason to start buying granny clothes and hobbling.  To be fair, I do have an involuntary hobble (bunion) and I lean towards 'sensible' in the clothes department.  On the clothes front I did gaze longingly at a full length pink fairy dress with layers of crinoline and puffed sleeves on a market stall, but then I thought, where am I, aged 64 with a dodgy hip, going to wear a Cinderella dress?  I then had visions of Bette Davis as Baby Jane and swiftly moved on.  I can hear the shudders at the back there, ha ha.  My memory is not great either, perhaps why I momentarily thought a pink ball gown was just what I needed. I also keep losing words, which is dashed annoying, but happily the oldy worldy ones are still imbedded, probably because they were planted there in my youth, and they are a bit more profound, 'forsooth' for example, can be worked into any conversation.

For those who care, I have not been unhappy in my long absence from my blog.  This was the first time in my adult life that I haven't been obsessed with writing.  Naturally I went through all the 'tortured artiste, writer's block stuff - writers can think up all sorts of ways in which to torment themselves, I'm an A* at it.  But eventually that particular cloud lifted, I stopped caring that I couldn't write, I started to enjoy other things, binge watching especially, oh the joy of historic drama.  But also I am having lovely days out visiting castles and stately homes and ticking boxes.

I dropped the cooking and the ridiculous grocery shopping, there's only me, and M&S make spag bol and macaroni cheese just as well I do!   I feel like one of the last people in the universe to get that you don't have to stand over a hot stove every day or prepare everything from scratch in the 21st century.  Doh!  

But back to the hair, I think I have decided I am not going to get it cut, leaving as is, feels a bit rebellious and I like that.  I'm going to enjoy it, it is the hair of a Viking queen or a Tagarean - yes was also addicted to GOT*.  On the religious front, forget Catholicism, so too Buddhism, just like the Catholics, again with the misery, all recurring lives are miserable until you get it right.  The boyfight alone will bring me back as a gnat or a toad, not a Viking queen I fear. 

I think we should be able to select which heaven we want to go to, kind of like choosing life insurance or a new car.  Ok, so what do you God, or Gods, have to offer for a lifetime of worship?  I feel they should have show houses of what you are going to get for all that praying, kneeling and sacrificing?  I mean dahlink, are there swimming pools, stables maybe, banquets, diamonds, jewels, an ocean view? A slice of chocolate cake for that time when you went to church and put 50p in the collection box.  Quid per quo, what's in it for me?

And let's be fair, has anyone ever seen the fine print, all the byelaws, outlaws and inlaws, involved in having the paperwork to get past gatekeeper St. Paul (or is St. Peter) outside those pearly gates?  God, Jesus and the Holy Ghost (never understood the Trinity) have a record of every bad deed you have ever done.  That includes running over a mouse trying to cross the road.  I honestly didn't see him until it was too late and I still weep for his little mouse family waiting for him to come home.  In my defence I did once call out an emergency vet at 2.00am for my son's sick hamster.  He didn't make it, poor Conan but we were all with him at the end, not to mention he also left with a hefty vet bill.  My treatment of humans may warrant a few Xs on the naughty list, but if there is a priest around I can get forgiveness for that by repenting.  Maybe that's what I dislike about Catholicism, you can live your life as a complete b'stard and a word in a priest's ear can get you past the post.

Today I choose the Gods of the Vikings.  I want to go Valhalla and party with Odin, Thor, Freya and that naughty old Loki.  They really know how to party and fight!  One rule is that you have to die with your sword in your hand.  I don't have a sword, but I do have a very good butter knife and wonder if that will suffice?  Hopefully the Gods are a little less particular these days.  

Tonight, I say to you all, SKOL.  My kindest wishes to all those who still look in and wonder what I am up to.  I think the writing itch is gradually creeping back and hope someone, anyone, lol, will pop on and say hello.  Please no rants or nasties, I have in my head at least, moved onto a 'happy land' and what I'd like more than anything is just a chat, especially about hair, eyelashes and nails.  That's who I am now :)

Sunday 1 August 2021

Climbing a bit further up the fence; Just musing, masks, socialists and feck Jess Phillips *unedited)

Again on social media the radical anti maskers and anti vaxxers (mostly the Far Right) are making the biggest racket about the very small inconvenience of wearing a mask and getting a vaccine.  Ok, wearing a mask is a pain, especially for we oldies as they cruelly expose all the wrinkles around the eye area and make your nose run,  but so what, science says they work.  I know science also says masks protect others from you, that is your breath and globules, but I feel they protect me too, so much so, I may just carry on wearing them forever, and wish I had had them when travelling to work on crowded trains and buses.  In those up close and personal situations, you had a constant whiff of whatever exotic meal the person breathing down your neck had the night before.  Oh garlic, I cuss you!

On the vaccine front, yeah fair dues, there is a one in a hundred zillion chance that this incompetent government led by Boris (bring back chain gangs) Johnson is trying to inject the masses with a liquid mind controlling implant developed by Bill Gates, but if you bring logic into he equation, it's just not possible.  

And on the vaccine front - think historically.  Imagine ordinary people at the height of the 1918 Spanish flu, where 50million died, being offered a free vaccine that would stop them dying?  Is it possible any of them would refuse it ?  They may have been simple people - by todays standards, but they wore masks and took precautions, ironic that they would now look on us as chimpanzees for not only refusing it but making a song and dance about it.

The pandemic in the USA, is now the pandemic of unvaccinated.  The hardest hit areas are those in 'Trump country'. That's not me being political, it's a fact that the biggest indicator of of the unvaccinated is they voted for Trump.  Traditionally, the UK follow the trends of the US, usually several years later, but more recently with our own instalment of a Trump Mini Me, Boris Johnson, as Prime Minister.  We are catching up rapidly.

But from contemporary history to present times, a very wise man, a successful double glazing salesman, I know sounds like an oxymoron, but let's just say he acquired a lot of wisdom.  'The answer to EVERY question is money' was an inspirational quote he threw out there.  I was intrigued by that statement, not sure I believed it, or if I wanted to believe it.  But time has proven, again and again, that that hardbitten DG salesman, had more of a handle on life than all the philosophers I had read.

There is no doubt, that money was/is the answer to every one of life's questions and Trump's crimes, that's how it is with greedy narcissistic people.  They need the cash and luxuries because no-one likes them.  The UK version Boris too, was spending inordinate amounts of money on takeaways, Ok, a bit of a Billy Bunter comparison, Boris was/is guilty of so much more than being a fat public schoolboy, using his obvious ineptitude as a front to cover up his slimy amassing of vast amounts of (taxpayers) cash. He, the narcissistic Boris, is soothing his fragile ego with all he stows away.  Maybe he plans a bath covered in thousand dollar notes with slaves telling him how wonderful he is - who know wtf money grabbing bastards dream about, the only constant is that history records them exactly as they were/are.

 Boris bizarrely,  is wiser (I know sounds weird) than Trump, in that he doesn't openly want to despise and blame immigrants and poor people, he gets those around him to do it for him.  He remains the kindly, jovial nation's Uncle and we all hate Priti Patel.    

Those people telling others not to wear masks and not to get vaccinated make the news for all the wrong reasons.  That maniac at last week's rally, no, can't be arsed to look her up, claiming nurses and doctors were hung following the Nuremburg Trials.  As if all those valiant NHS staff we were all applauding last year, were complicit in some sort of Dr. Evil plan.  Where tf did these people park their brains?  Or did they just toss them out when they found a new controversial leader to follow?  

I'm with Nietzsche on the whole make your own decisions, be your own self, philosophy?  Do we really need a God or a higher power? Someone 'wiser' than us to tell us how to lead our lives?  Pah, say I, that's an idea I have always scoffed at.  Probably why I had such a hard time in the convent.  I saw myself as a martyr, of the Christian variety naturally, I had very limited reading material, but for the opposite cause.  In that, what if I don't believe Jesus came back from the dead?  What if I don't believe God created the world in 7 days?  What if I believe all you holy moleys with your hands clasped in prayer and your eyes looking up to the heavens are a load of phoney shites?  Wasn't I a martyr, one who stood against the dominant ideology, and was beaten for it?  Maybe I did believe in God, maybe I thought he  (all powerful and could see the truth) would step in at any moment and protest the injustice of it all!  

The problem I have with all those 'telling us what we should do (get the vaccine ;) ) is their assumption that they know best, they know, better than we do, what is best for us, and  what direction our lives should take.  I guess if you have got that 'leadership gene' in you, it is kind of frustrating now to find a 'cause' to lead.  How do you become the new Virginia Woolf or Cristabel Pankhurst (no, not where I got my writing name from, but a virtual Nebuchadnezzar of champagne to anyone who can name the origin correctly :) )

We skoff, quite rightly, at those seeking fame at any price. but for the sake of being controversial, aren't we looking in the wrong places for heroes, heroines and role models?  It pains me, physically pains me, that we are putting the worst, the absolute worse, on pedestals as examples of how we should lead our lives.  Lack of education, lack of vocabulary is, for some fffd up reason, being celebrated and pushed to the forefront of this 'Woke' culture we are all being herded into.  

 I have long wanted to do a blog entitled 'Why can't the English teach their children how to speak'  My hesitance was down to the quote's origins?  George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion, the divine Rex Harrison film version or, as it turns out Alan-Jay Lerner.  Whatever, the sentiments, I wholeheartedly agree with them.  Isn't it our duty as parents to give our children the absolute best means of communication.  Why limit their vocabulary?  Both my sons went through nursery and school relatively trauma free, due to their ability to talk their way out.  Teach your kids to fight, even to this day, is a common doctrine, tut tut tut, teach your kids to win, without being physically assaulted or physically assaulting others, those principles have longevity and, dare I say it, honour.

But returning to speech, I have to have a wee bash.  Not quite ready for a full assault on the pride of the working classes, but building myself up towards it.  Mostly because I have stood silent as 'language' as we know it, is again, being changed, unbeknown to most of us, by a malignant influence that is trying to whitewash our past and everything we learned during the enlightenment.....  Moi, who is presently really into the Renaissance, is just seeing history repeat itself over and over.  re

I love language, I love dialects, I especially love dialects that are put into a written form that we can all understand.  I hate censorship, I hate that Alex Scott was criticised for presentation.  She won her spot 'there', more fairly, some might say than  most of the tory twats who usually present the news. That's not the norm, that's not what thrust her into the spotlight.   Go her, say I.  But she has real achievements that support her success.  Sadly, and back to reality, her sisters competing in the job market and real world, need the ability to pronounce words correctly and a vast vocabulary.  I really don't get this pride in sounding as if you are mentally retarded.  See Katie Price.

This week, my Leftist, Marxist credentials are being put to the test, and I am failing expotentially, lol.  True, I don't have the energy anymore for anything radical, but I am still politically homeless.  I will love Jeremy Corbyn til the day I die, but I simply cannot support the snakes that went out of their way to make sure Jeremy Corbyn wouldn't win.  They committed the crime of the century, they enabled a government who wouldn't give a damn about a global pandemic.  How the f can I see any sort of socialist rescue of the masses, from the mememe antics of the Labour Right (yes, you Jess Phillips).  F*** the lot of you Labour 'leadership', you have betrayed oldies like me, but worse, you accursed wannabe tories, have betrayed the next generation and future generations of socialists to come.  You, yes you Jess Phillips, who agreed to doff the cap, and cuddled up with Jason Rees-Mogg. have aspired, agreed with, and embraced tory ideology to such an extent that  you actively worked against a genuine Labour (in the true sense of the word) candidate.  

Jess Phillips is the face of everything that promotes 'elevating the 'chav'.  She is so desperate to promote that her supporters are working class, that she goes out of her way to pretend she is exactly like them.  But she's not.  She went into higher education, she wrote her essays in the Queen's English, language and grammar that gave her the degree she sought.  She knows that you cannot succeed in life without being able to communicate effectively.  If she was honest, she would tell those youngsters in her constituency to speak properly and widen their vocabulary if they seek high level jobs!

OK, I can accept that Katie Price speaks like a moron to boost her followers and 'likes' presumably because it is popular, but there is something  a bit yucky about a Member of Parliament boasting they are just as thick.  Yes, Jess Phillips, I again refer to you.   

I'm psyching myself up for a 'why can't the English teach their children how to speak blog, also a feck off 'Me Too' blog and an anti 'poor me' shite blog.  Watch this space, lol.  

Sorry about the lack of pics, watch this space ha, ha.