Teenage idol


Fuck I’m glad I’m not a tween these days.

I don’t want to show how old I am by ranting on about the good ol’ days, but honestly, the selection of teen idols for young girls and boys to pant over is seriously lacking in talent.
You can take ‘talent’ to mean what you will; looks, or the ability to actually do something worth watching.
And yes Bieber, I’m talking to you as much as anyone.
I feel at liberty to single Bieber out, because I have a gripe with that little n’er do well.
I saw him in concert, pre-urinegate.
Sure the show was a slick one, him all hip wiggle and fall-down pants. Yes the boy can sing and thousands of girls in the audience were beside themselves in teenage hysteria, but what did that show do for me?
I’ll tell you what it did.
It made me feel damn old.
Because I was the chaperone. My daughter’s first concert. But it only felt like five minutes ago that my Mum was chaperoning me to my first concert.
Back when I was the hysterical tween, my first show was the final Wham! concert with George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley.
To be fair, not much has changed in the 28 years between the shows.
Boys wiggle hips. Girls swoon. Boys flash a mega-watt smile. Girls swoon. A female singer takes the stage to sing a duet. Girls hiss with demonic venom.
But as old as being an escort made me feel, it was also a wonderful trip down memory lane. Oh to be young and awe-struck by bright lights and smooth moves.
But even though he had big hair and a cheesy grin, I have no regrets that George Michael made me swoon.
Because there is a world of difference between Yog and the Biebs. Every time Justin gets caught up to no good, the poor wee fucker seems to dig himself a bigger hole, earning no sympathy, but a shit-storm of rage.
When George got caught cottaging in L.A, something that effectively outed him, his rebuff was hilarious and classy.
I know it’s not hump day, but in order to doff my hat to my teenage idol here is ‘that’ video:
“Let’s Go Outside”. It’s a little cracker. Enjoy.


DP Challenge – “Great Expectations”…Oh fuck it, who am I kidding?


Being a parent is fab.

From the moment you pee on that stick and it blinks: “You’re up the duff”, life changes.
You promise yourself you are going to rock this parenting shizness.

First things first: Pregnancy. You will be a sweet, bohemian, earth-mother waif, all demure smiles and barely a bump.
You will not spend nine months eating everything in sight, until your gorging is so bad that your other half fears falling asleep, just in case you devour them too.
Once your baby arrives, you solemnly vow to be ‘Super-Mum’ in every aspect of the parenting game.
Will you breast feed? Hell ya! You will breastfeed until your child leaves home for university.
When you do eventually introduce solid foods, your little darling will only dine on homegrown, organic, ethically-sourced baby food that you puree at 6 am, in an ancient shamanic ritual to ensure your child lives a long, healthy life.
You definitely do not feed your kids jars of shit baby food, no longer giving a flying fuck about where it was made or canned, because it’s the only thing your child actually eats.
There’s no doubt about it. The adventure of being a parent is filled with many great expectations.
But here’s the kicker. From the minute you squeal “Holy Fuck! I’m going to have a baby” you set yourself up for failure.
Why? Because as parents, we are super-hard on ourselves. We set ourselves sky-high, ridiculous standards.
As for great expectations, I have them. Especially about language, specifically the ahem, colourful language that I use.
I have a rule: I don’t swear in front of my kids.
That is my great expectation. The reality is, when my eldest was a toddler, his favourite expression when he dropped something was “Up sakes!” (His father can take credit for that one).
Although it was always me at the park, who had to suffer the sneers from the smug Mummies: “Did your little one just say “FUCK SAKES?!!”
“No, but you just did. Please don’t swear in front of the children.”
Frankly, I was proud that the kid knew how to swear in the right context, even if he couldn’t quite pronounce ‘fuck’ properly.

But a couple of days ago, I read an article that kind of made me re-think all my fretting about dropping the odd f-bomb in front of the kids.


According to the article, Dr. Timothy Jay, a psychologist and all-round profanity professor, says that parents should just well, fuck their expectations on the curse front. Apparently, by the time kids are toddlers, boys know six curse words, and girls know eight. That number increases to 34 and 21 respectively by the time they are six. He reckons swearing is inherent to human nature, that letting off steam is natural to us all, no matter how old we are.

“I think it’s part of them learning about their emotions and emotional expression and how their parents handle emotion, so I think if you look at it as just part of being angry or frustrated or happy or surprised, that is all normal. That’s built into all of us.”

So the moral of the story is, bugger it. We’re all destined to swear anyway, so why fight it?
Why feel guilty if you let the odd ‘bad’ word slip out? It’s your fucking destiny to curse.
So if your kid is at the play-park, spraying cuss words all over the place, don’t slouch, be proud.
After all, as my five-year-old said the other day when she got frustrated:

“Oh dammit!” (Another one of her father’s).
Me: “You mustn’t say that. It’s not a very nice word.
Daughter (wide-eyed and innocent): Why not Mummy? I’m just practicing for when I’m a grown-up and I get frustrated.”

Damn straight darling, damn straight.

But If you need any further proof that swearing is actually good for you, check out these words of wisdom from George Carlin in the clip below. Go on, watch it. It’s fucking hilarious. And his flares are awesome.


Alas poor Yorick, it’s hump day!


To be or not to be, that is the hump day question.
I hope you don’t think that just because I’ve got a horrendous potty mouth and a predilection for the ‘f’ word, that I don’t do culture.
Fuck off! I’ll have you know, I know some shit! For instance, did you know that today would be the 450th birthday of Shakespeare? It’s also the anniversary of his death too.
So in honour of the geezer who had fancy quill work, here are three songs to shimmy your ruff to. I said ruff. Not muff. Get your mind out of the gutter and listen to these three eclectic numbers. If you don’t know what a ruff is, google it. It’s nowt to do with dogs. Many and hearty thankings to you!

1. Ophelia by the Band

This poor cow is one of Shakespeare’s most tragic heroines. That’s why I love this song from The Band. Finally, the poor girl gets a bit of cheer.


2. You’re History by Shakespeare’s Sister

I dunno if Shakespeare had a sister (I know he was married and like to chuff on a pipe and write stories) but this song is so fabooshisly ’80s I had to list it. Na na na na na na!


3.Young Hearts (run free) by Kym Mazelle
What hump day would be complete without a rip-roaring cheese fest like this one? Plus it’s one of many kick-arse tunes from the Baz Luhrmann film, Romeo and Juliet.

Hump Day – Frankie Knuckles Tribute


So today was hump day.
And what a hump day it was.
Dreary. Grey skies. Pissing down with rain.
But I like the idea of posting a few choons to celebrate the middle of the week.
Even better, I like the idea of stepping away from the computer, cranking up the volume and truly dancing as though no one’s watching.
Sadly two weeks ago, a house music legend died.
Frankie Knuckles, a.k.a. the ‘Godfather of House Music’ died, due to complications from type two diabetes.
No words. Just a damn fucking shame. All over the music industry, tributes have poured in for a man that many viewed as a pioneer in the house music scene.
As someone who spent the best part of her twenties in sweaty clubs, arms in the air and getting her groove thing on, I feel it’s only right that this week’s hump day celebrates Frankie’s legacy.
Thank you Mr. Knuckles.
For all those nights. For all the times my crew and I would squeal, in unison “TUNE!” before shaking our groove thang until a new day dawned.
Music is the best remedy to make any dreary day cheery. It gives it sparkle. It makes it glow.
So with many glorious memories in my mind, here are three classic Frankie records for your enjoyment.
And my advice to you: Press play. Step away from the damn computer and raise those hands in the air.

1. Frankie Knuckles – You Make me feel (mighty real)

2. The Night Writers Frankie Knuckles – Let the music use you

3.Frankie Knuckles – Get over you

DP Challenge…A little Monday poetry for you


So every week on WordPress they have this writing challenge.

Last week it was a 50 word story. This week it’s all about poetry, baby.

Which for me is exciting, cos’ I love writing poetry. Granted I’m no Wordsworth and I don’t write anything flowery or fabulous, but poems are often great to give as a gift to a friend to wish them a happy birthday, to wish them luck or to say thank you for something.
They are also really good at detoxing yourself. You know, those times when people really fuck you off, but you aren’t at liberty to say so. (This is becoming a recurring theme to this blog. I clearly have waaaay to many “speak-the-fuck-up” issues).
Anyway, the poem that I am going to share is an old one. I wrote it about 14 years ago when I worked in a bar in London.
A lot of the clientele were snobby, brash and downright fucking rude. But as a lowly barmaid, you had to suck up their sneers with a smile.
After one particularly bad shift I came home, exhausted and pent-up with anger and vitriol.
Instead of going to bed seething, I wrote the following poem about a couple of particularly nasty women.
Instantly it took away my venom and how they had made me feel.
So my advice to you this Monday: if some fuck-wit is getting all up in your bizness, go write a poem about how ridick they are. Trust me, it’s creativity therapy at it’s finest. You’re welcome.
Let me know what cha’ think of the poem.


With eyes open wide
I watch how you slide
The facade now lifted
Your mind gently drifted
How many shorts?
For those crude retorts
How many lines?
To make you feel so fine
I wonder, are you wan
Beneath that sun-bed tan?
I wonder, why so weak?
What makes you dress so cheap?
You bustle and you preen
It matters only to be seen
But that’s all that matters
Is that you don’t get any fatter
That’s all that counts
Is wealth in large amounts
Wearing the latest clothes
Leeches flock in droves
You cackle and you giggle
All push-up bra and buttock wiggle
You clink your glass in time
It makes you feel so fine
Make-up troweled so high
Foundation to reach the sky
Do you ever take a break?
From your alter ego?
This fake?
Do you ever wish for peace
From the glamour queen you lease?
Can you remember a time
When sweet innocence was fine?
Now you care only for the pert
With rich villains
You dine and flirt
For no matter how they bore
You forget your roots of poor
You nestle in their arms
Content with avaricious charms
Poverty banished from your mind
As he pats your ‘Prada’ behind
From childhood poverty are you far
As you glide out of the bar

Phew. I know. After reading that, you feel well fucking cheery. Sorry about that. I’ll have another go later this week. With less whinging and more giggles. Happy Monday!

Don’t teach my kids the ffing D word


Brace yourselves.
The following post might be a litte ranty.
So this weekend I took to the streets of my ‘hood with ‘Boisterous Being Two’, a.k.a my fabulous eight-year-old daughter.
We pounded the streets selling her girl guide cookies. Here is a letter that I’d like to send to one of the neighbours who spoke to my child. Since I’m not really allowed to send it, what better way to get this shit off my chest than by writing it down here?

Dear Neighbour,

Hi there.
You don’t know me, but you might remember the cute little girl that came to your house on Sunday, selling her cookies.
You didn’t want them, and that’s O.K. Because let’s be honest here: five bucks for a box of shite tasting cookies is a fucking rip-off. And I have to tell you, I feel a bit like Fagin from Oliver Twist, making these kids walk around the neighbourhood, peddling crap biscuits. But whatever. It raises money and it’s for the greater good of the girls.
When you didn’t want the cookies you told my daughter in a sad voice “Oh I’m sorry dear, I’d love to buy a box, but I just can’t. They would ruin my diet.”
My daughter smiled and wished you a nice day.
You closed your door and probably didn’t give a second thought the to can of shit-storm that you’d just opened.
“Mummy, what’s a diet?”.
In one sentence you aged my daughter.
Do you know how hard I have worked to try and shield my kids from that nasty fucking word?
It’s only two syllables, but all over the world men and women are slaves to that b’stard. Calories are counted more religiously than prayers and stomachs are sucked in, stapled and tucked, all in the name of chasing what we perceive as beauty.
Wouldn’t it be nice if that word didn’t even exist?
I bet, dear neighbour, that you didn’t know this word when you were a kid. I mean, what kid should count calories or worry about the size of their barge arse? Hopefully none.
Because you know what? Diet is a grown-up word like porn or cancer that kids just shouldn’t have to hear.
So because of you, I’ve spent the last four days fielding questions from my puzzled daughter about ‘diet’.
Up until you opened your mouth, my daughter was oblivious to the societal pressures we place on each other as women. I never discuss people’s weight, my weight or that word around my kids. We never view food as the enemy.
I want my daughter to grow up with a healthy relationship with food. I want her to have an astounding body image. I want her to use her insatiable energy for life actually living it, not starving herself or comparing herself to airbrushed bullshit in magazines, thinking she’ll never measure up.
Sure, I know she was gonna hear it eventually. But I didn’t expect to give her pep talk on this subject so soon.
As women, we need to think about the next generation of girls growing up. I don’t have a single female friend that hasn’t at some stage been on a diet. I don’t know a single woman that, when asked, couldn’t give you a shopping list full of the things she despises about her body.
We give food the power. But wouldn’t it be nice if we took that power back?
What if we raised the next generation of women to see food as fuel? That food exists not as an enemy, but as something to nourish your body and soul.
What if we never used that word again?
Wouldn’t you like to be free of that word?
So neighbour, you’ll be happy to know that I dealt with the can of shit-storm.
I think for now I satisfied my daughter’s curiosity. I explained the ‘D’ word without getting into any negative connotations. I kept it lighthearted and left her feeling so like it was nothing she had to worry about.
Because an eight-year-old shouldn’t be worrying about that word.
Of course I know she’s gonna come across it again eventually. I know I won’t be able to shield her from the world at large forever. But hopefully by them, she’ll be strong and secure in her own mind and body image, that she’ll be free to live a life untainted by that miserable adjective.
For now my daughter is back to her bouncy eight-year-old self and the world is as it should be.
But you should have bought a box, lady. Life is too short to feel miserable about food.
But if you won’t eat the cookies, perhaps you’d like to watch this clip from the movie, “Mickey Blue Eyes.”
It’s called “Eat fucking Cookie”. How appropriate. Enjoy.

It’s hump day…so swing your pants and get your groove thang on like no ones watching


Today is hump day, which means it’s Wednesday, nothing to do with wild sex or feeling grumpy (as in “She’s got the right hump”…but you kinda have to be a Brit to get that reference).
But I digress. In honour of hump day I’ve decided to post a few links to some songs. I dare you to play them and dance around in your front room. Why? Because after you’ve done so, you feel fucking amazing. I know this to be true, as last night whilst watching the show ‘Happy Endings’ they played such an uplifting song, that it felt rude not to haul my exhausted carcass off the couch and get my groove on too. I swear my enthusiasm for the moment was NOT enhance by the Brazilian rum I was drinking as a nightcap. (Oh I know I’m not supposed to drink while cleansing, but since I just spoke to a good friend of mine who is about to undertake her first marathon on Sunday and she’s still knocking back the G&T’s, I feel no guilt).
Dancing is something I love to do. I used to live for Saturday night, where I could race to a club and dance the night away.
As the years have slowly slipped away, my dance hours have dwindled. Sure I still cut a rug to all the kids songs, but it just ain’t the same. But dancing like no one’s watching, whilst shaking your groove thing in the comfort of your living room was a blast. I shall be doing it again. But for now, here are three gems. Go on dance. I dare you.

1. Prince 1999

I love this man. He knows 27 instruments. Self fucking taught. Plus as Kylie Minogue pointed out once, he’s like sex on a stick. A small stick, granted. Enjoy.

2. Eminem – Without Me

This reminds me of my book club ladies, where when we are supposed to be out, all highbrow chatting about books, we end up in the local pub, getting jiggy on the dancing floor and goofing off. A cheesy fun classic.

3. Penny and her Mom from ‘Happy Endings’

So ‘Happy Endings’ is a modern day Friends rip-off. But this song is so cheesy that it’s funny. What’s not to fucking love. Go on. Press play, step away from the computer and shake that arse.

Happy Hump Day y’all!!!