When stripping off to your under-crackers is a good thing..

If you’re a true Sheffielder then the words ‘Full Monty’ (not the breakfast, silly) will evoke warm memories of a film created in and about your very own heartland.  A poignant story written about people like you. 

I will always regard the film with respect and deep affection. It was an incredibly warm and gritty tale of the economic hardship & social adversity that my generation unfortunately experienced first hand.  

It also realistically reflected a moral message that despite living in a society faced with a national pandemic of fear about the worse, good shit sometimes does happen. 

And actually, sometimes, humanity and hope do get their shit together. 

The film put Sheffield on the map – consequently opening up a mass of ‘conveniently averted eyes’ to the impact that conservative Britain had made on the working masses/classes up north.

It also catapulted the cast into Hollywood stardom. 

The Full Monty will no doubtedly be one of the most human films you will ever have the privilege of watching. It’s also the nearest thing to celebrity that Sheffield has – if you don’t count cutlery, Marti Caine and the location where Yorkshire Ripper (Peter Sutcliffe) finally became unstuck with SYP.

Until then, Sheffield was just a grotty little dot somewhere absolutely miles away from London yah.  

But The Full Monty, bless its little cotton socks, soon changed all that. ;)

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Please, please, please therefore show your support for Sheffield and the charity, Kendal’s Appeal and reserve your ticket to see Steve Richards et al hilariously recreate the iconic scene from the 1997 movie classic amongst an evening of fabulous entertainment, music, male strippers and topless waiters - all paid in spectacular homage to The Full Monty.

Tickets cost just £10.

Guaranteed to be a night of hilarity, charity and hope in humanity.

‘Anti-wrinkle cream there may be, but anti-fat-bastard cream there is not.’ – The Full Monty (1997)

Footnote: Sheffield is now also famous for Jessica Ennis, Nick ‘I really should shoot myself in the head’ Clegg’ & La Chambre – don’t ask.

I ♥ Facebook

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with Facebook. 

When I joined it for the very first time – not long after its official launch, it was a very exciting time for me. 
 

I was able to connect with friends and acquaintances that I hadn’t seen or even thought of for absolutely years. Yep. That meant old boyfriends. ;)

But my bird’s eye view of my own little community soon started to leave a bitter taste in my mouth. Whether it was the popularity race to gain as many friends, likes and VIP passes as possible or the bitchiness, back biting and ridiculous fall outs. It soon all started to grate on me.

The incessant stream of ‘Look at me!’ & ‘My life is amazing!’ status updates (which we all knew was absolute bollocks) littered my news feed on a Chinese water-torture basis.

I didn’t want to look at people riding camels in Marmaris when I was sat looking out of my window at the pissing down rain. 

I didn’t want to look at all my friends drinking champagne in swanky bars whilst my evening consisted of Question Time, a sausage roll and a packet of Digestives. 

Neither did I want to install the ‘Who’s been viewing your profile? App or play soddin Farmville or Candy Crush. 

I did like words with friends and Scrabble though.

Anyway, to cut a very, very long and extremely monotonous story short, Facebook and I broke up.

I’ll be honest; I simply got fed up of the same thing that had attracted me to it in the first place.

But absence did indeed make the heart grow stronger and now, some five years later - we’re officially back together!

It took a lot of personal growth on both parts for us to kiss and make-up but I am happy to say that I have fallen passionately back in cyber-love with Facebook.

I now appreciate the truly amazing technological miracle it is, and that besides being a public notice board for peoples sleeping/eating/drinking/sexual/toilet habits, Facebook also has the magical ability to inspire and facilitate the aspirations of my tomorrow.

Why having naughty kids makes keeping a low profile, absolutely impossible.

Your pin number, bra size, last bowel movement or any information remotely sensitive in nature, won’t be that much of a secret for very long.

Any amorous encounters are rudely interrupted by feigns of severe dehydration, 25 knock knock jokes and an absolute defiance that spells out in capitals that 'these children are most definitely not going to bed.' 

The adage “Don’t talk to strangers” doesn’t seem to apply when opening the door to the clipboard people from the TV Licensing Centre or a big beefy geezer wielding a wheel clamp in his hand. 

A straightforward trip to the supermarket results in a payday loan’s worth of damages and a police caution.