The Frazzled Mam’s Christmas Meltdown

Have a heart attack realising how much 10 year-olds expect for Christmas. 

Arrange for a bank loan to purchase meaningless Xbox game complete with capitalistic plastic figure that does fuck all but costs a small fortune. 

Verge upon Bankruptcy as you consider the real cost of ‘a few Christmas drinks at a quiet bar in town’.

Empty the DVD rack as you try to recycle funds to pay for the ‘must have’ CD’s of the moment. 

Attend first AA meeting as Xmas pressures start to manifest themselves in empty vodka bottles.

Make up some hair-brained excuse to not pay Council Tax, Rent, Water Rates because Bratzilla outfits are only £2 a pop in Home Bargains so of course, must buy twelve. 

Empty every single half opened packet of foodstuffs in the cupboard in an effort to create a meal, because this week’s shopping budget went on an Ipad.  (Fuck you Apple and your socially ingrained peer pressure).

Run down the road screaming because the HP men are here to recover the Christmas presents that haven’t even made it to 25^th December yet. 

Regret spending £10 on an amazing radio controlled car that just had to have, despite having no credit on the electric meter and sitting in the dark eating tea, playing I-spy.

Yearn for the days when the only financial outlay I had at Christmas was a fiver I chucked in works Bran Tub.

X-pect everything to sort itself out in time for Christmas Day.  Er, dream on. 

Make space in the garden for when I get that sick of seeing the fucking Christmas tree, I decide to launch it straight through front window, decorations and all.

Accept that despite what the adverts say, Christmas isn’t all about abandoned puppies, party food, cash donations and really crappy CD compilations. 

Sing the praises of the truly appreciated friends who’ve contributed to make this Christmas far more enjoyable than the last - thanks to their altruism, love, kindness, understanding and much valued presence in my life.  

Have a fantastic pissedmas everyone!

I wish each and everyone of you a prosperous 2014. 

x x x

Why sometimes being a Mum & getting old is a big bag of shit

I used to live life carefree, me.  Yearning, earning, partying and farting about. 

Until one day, the great conception star in the sky said:

‘Hey u! You’ve been spending far too much money on Jack Daniels, Yves St Laurent and Morgan De Toi.  Let’s give you something else to spend your money on instead.’

And ‘poof’ there I was, single mum to twins.

Now, I know we’re all supposed to say how wonderful being puked on and shat on is, how poignant our babies first steps/words/bowel movements are, how monumentally exquisite being a mum is but let’s be honest - being a mum is a big pile of shit, sometimes.

You slave your guts out for shit. You work your ass off for shit, you get covered in shit, you get fed full of shit. And if that wasn’t enough, you have to go through shit, eat shit and not give a shit by the time you learn how to deal with the shit.

Believe me. The ‘pregnant’ blooming glow is a barrel of bollocks.  Having kids sucks dick.

Behind the Quinny, The anti-MMR brigade, the banal and completely unnecessary birthday parties, etc - you’ll still end up a bashed in, ground down, wrinkly, haggard looking old bastard.

If it’s not your child’s clothes, hair, shoes, manners, road/internet/personal safety you’re worrying about, it’s whether they’re going to shop you to Child Protection Services because every teatime, you lose the plot.

And let’s face it, no designer handbag, amazing school-play costume/disco outfit, Ugg Boots or 4x4 is going to disguise that really.

Sometimes what you don't know, won't hurt you.

The truth behind the top ten lies that men tell:

‘Nothing's wrong, I'm fine’

Obviously he isn’t fine and he’s shitting himself about telling you he’s lost this month’s mortgage payment on the 2.15 at Chepstow.

‘This will be my last pint’

No it won’t. He’s just ordered another three before he texted you. And one of them was for a bird.

‘No, your bum doesn't look big in that’

He’s looking at someone else’s arse.

‘I had no signal’

Not technically a lie. Bad reception in the bookies, apparently.

‘My battery died’

That’ll be the incessant text messages to his Facebook ‘friends’ – All female, obviously.

‘Sorry, I missed your call’

He was too busy poking his eyes out with a rusty fork. Oh, and getting a blow job while he was at it.

‘I didn't have that much to drink’

Before condoms came into the equation.

‘I'm on my way’

To A & E, or a Sauna usually.

‘It wasn't that expensive’

He got a payday loan in your name to fund it.

‘I'm stuck in traffic’ 

In the back of a Police car.

The truth behind the top ten lies that women tell:

‘Nothing's wrong, I'm fine’

I’m on my period and come within ten feet of me and I’ll stab you to death.

‘Oh, this isn't new; I've had it for ages’

Well, had an eye on it for ages anyway.

‘It wasn't that expensive’

I forged a payday loan in your name to get it.

‘It was in the sale’

Yes, last year. In a different colour. And in a completely different design.

‘I'm on my way’

In the opposite direction.

‘I don't know where it is, I haven't touched it’

It’s broken and it’s buried in the garden.

‘I didn't have that much to drink’

After 3am.

‘I've got a headache’

I have plans and they don’t involve you.

  

‘No, I didn't throw it away’

I gave it to charity.

‘Sorry, I missed your call’

I was far too busy having much better sex with a much better looking guy who is earning much better money than you are.

It’s not all about Christian Grey, you know!

Prompted by a friends recommendation,  I’ve started reading the ‘International Phenomenon’ (*rolls eyes*) ‘The Man’. 

What can I say?  Other than it being yet another FSOG clone (yawn).

On a literary level, the typescript is absolutely horrendous - although it reads much better when under the influence of stimulants/prescription drugs,  I must say. 

Please allow me to summarise it for you:

‘Ana Ava is a naive idiot who thinks with her fanny young professional who cannot overcome her attraction to domineering selfish bastard playboy Christian Jesse.’

I know.  Sound familiar?

When I read a book, it’s usually because I either want to learn something or I want to escape normality for a while.  So, when I read a book for recreational purposes, I enjoy it much more if I’m given the opportunity to create my own mental picture of it.  I don’t like it when every single iota of detail is dictated to me.  For instance, in many erotic novels I’ve read, way too much page space is given to tedious minutia that’s completely irrelevant to the storyline/book objective. 

Personally,  I don’t want to know every single decorative detail about the setting/backdrop/characters personal life;  neither do I want to read about everyday mundane occurrences or be painfully subjected to an exchange of banal and pointless dialogue. 

I want the book to set the scene, not to over-analyse it.  I don’t need to know that the lead’s six foot nine inches tall with a square jawline and hazelnut coloured eyes.  I just want to know that he’s fit and I’ll mentally construct the rest, thank you very much.

I want the book to divulge the outline and sketch out a few seductive details. I don’t need the I’s dotting and the T’s crossing.  That’s the job that my reader brain has to do.  I don’t want the neuroticism, materialism, idealism and sometimes downright stupidism that all too often lands itself on the pages of a hell of a lot of erotic novels I’ve recently read. 

I don’t want to be force-fed formulaic Mills and Boon bullshit and I don’t want my lead to be a billionaire, have his own Charlie Tango and be a ridiculous incarnation of the man from the Milk Tray advert.  I want my man to be completely real and completely human.  Flaws, falls, fails and all. 

After all, aren’t the best sexual fantasies the ones that are anchored in reality - involving real life people and real life situations?

My not-so-polite note to the PM

For the Attention of Mr my head is up my posh arsehole Cameron 

I think you need to take your airy fairy arse out of that ivory tower of yours and open your eyes to what’s happening in the real world, posh boy.

You’re supposed to be leading this country but all you’re doing is decimating it. 

First Coal and now Shipbuilding?

I seriously think you’re Maggie Thatcher’s illegitimate lovechild.

And don’t bother blaming Labour either to cover your evil ways. I’m sick to the back teeth of hearing that same old tired regurgitated shit. Labour aren’t in charge now. You lot are. 

I have grown in a political era which seduced me as a youngster and then left me to perish. The ‘New World’ I grew up wanting to be a part of, has disintegrated into a life full of endless promises, astonishing greed, imbalanced wealth, unnecessary deprivation and suffering – all thanks to the Tories.

It is only now that I am truly recognising that despite all of my efforts, I am in the same place that I started from. Below the breadline. And I’ve worked all of my life at that. 

Under Thatcher, I have disturbing memories of my miner dad being called a scab and spat on in the street, my reluctance to wear education issue clothes (which were then three sizes too big for me, btw) and a constant diet of uncle bens boiled rice (before foreign food was even in fashion). 

Under you, I’m at the same social disadvantage some twenty-five years later. No industry, no growth and no fucking hope either. WTF are you doing to us all?

Diligent years of slaving away to imaginary and unachievable benchmarks, to reach a time when before we can even think about going out to work, we have to contemplate ridiculous child-care costs. And after childcare costs have robbed us blind, along comes the authorities with their rent and council tax demands.  And on top of that, extortionate water rates and feeding gas and electric meters like they’re going out of fashion. Then, oh my god, don’t even mention the rocketing cost of food shopping. 

No wonder IDS flopped out on the challenge of living on a week’s JSA. Sanctimonious piece of shit, he is.  Is it any wonder gambling houses/charity shops and pawnbrokers are booming? 

People need a national lottery win just to cover their basic living costs.

I wonder, do you and Samantha ever have to copper up to feed the gas and electric meters or make a fiver last you three days? 

Nope, I didn’t think so.

Parents can’t afford to clothe and feed their kids and all you want to do is build big army toys to aggravate other countries with and look good on Twitter.