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.

No strings = good things

According to some sources, if you haven’t met your husband by the age of forty then you might as well just lie down and die. 

Thing is, I don’t actually want a husband. Husbands are just another mouth to feed, more pots to wash and more tidying up to do. Plus, I don’t particularly relish the prospect of being poked awake by an erect penis every morning for the rest of my life. 

No, what I really want is a completely hassle/risk free sexual liaison that has mutual benefits and is on agreeable terms - no emotional head-fuck and no extra ironing pile. Easy.

I know, in an ideal world, we’d all be married to amazing princes who were also amazing fathers and who did their fair share and then some, they’d treat us to new shoes every weekend, make us feel beautiful every day and even put the toilet seat down. 

But in real life, more than half of marriages end in divorce and a worrying amount involve domestic violence, oppression and result in horrific deaths. Hardly a positive advertisement is it?

Besides, being a single mum takes a hell of alot of juggling – to throw a full-time man into the middle of all that would just completely obliterate my equilibrium to smithereens. Historically, the impact it has had on the family dynamics has rarely been a particularly pleasurable one. 

Nope, I don’t need a ready made husband/father; I need a ‘pop-up’ lover.  

I don’t need a husband reminding me it’s time to hit old age; I need a lover who makes me feel twenty-one again. I don’t want a text asking me if its meat and potato pie for tea, I want a text asking me what colour knickers I’m wearing.  

I want clandestine, seduction, playfulness and fun. 

And in my particular case, that’s exactly what I get.

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. ;)

****

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.