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That time we were 30 & childless

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17 years ago today, I married this cunt for a second time! What a masochist I am. (Or a sadist, dependent on your view)


**insert joke here about murderers getting released earlier than this**

2 weddings!

1 low key at local registry office, flowers from the market, photo booth pics at Bradford Interchange.

1 much more ‘Hello’ magazine with fancy pants marquees, portaloos and big-budget fireworks. (Thanks so much parent dudes Xx)

And here we still are.  Twice as large and just as dumb.


Both so beautiful – WTF happened?

I know I annoy you, take the piss, I threaten to trade you in for a younger or healthier model or a sex doll (DO NOT try to make me one please!) and won’t let you get a pet raccoon – but if you play your cards right, either or both of those ideas could still happen. Never say never big fella.   


But I do love you, you snoring, noisy, deaf, mildly dyslexic, dozy lummux, fat motherfucker.

Well done for not killing me over the years by smashing the unclean washing up over my head.

Ciao Ciao Xx


Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? Here’s what she said to me…

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Today we celebrate a landmark birthday for the eldest fruit of our loins. 

Sweet Sixteen!  How the hell did that happen?
    It’s surely only a few months ago that I was 37 weeks pregnant and complaining of backache, not realising I was in labour (because I’m utterly hardcore and because she was 3 weeks too keen to come aboard the big blue rock that we are killing, one plastic straw and bottle and chemical emission at a time).

Let us not compare her to the ghastly 1980’s horrorshow that I was at that age. Smoking fags, chasing unsuitable, unworthy boys and utterly clueless about pretty much everything.

She is taller, more beautiful, far more discerning, much more academic and already talking about university.  Hopewfully she’ll go far (preferably far away from this shithole for a start).

Happy birthday baby bear schmooberry babkin. I’m proud of you every day even though your room is a constant source of irritation to me and, despite often mocking me for knowing nothing, you still have no idea how to cook pasta.  You might want to learn before you head off to Uni.


Now cue the embarrassing photo montage. Remembering when your dad had hair and neither of us had any real comprehension of what we were letting ourselves in for on this crazy ride called parenthood…








Enjoy your day lovely girl and don’t forget your vegan bbq jackfruit pizza!

Ciao Ciao Xx

BSBs and fear of fear

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I went to Manchester to see the Back Street Boys on Monday night. I’d like to say I was reliving my youth, but in honesty, I was a bit old for the BSB when they came out – already being around 21, I was a bit old for boy bands. Also, with it being the early 90s there’s a fair chance that I was very busy jumping around off my swede to hard house or jungle anyway.

This is what happens when you work part-time. You see things on Daytime TV and just happen to be up and not in work when tickets go on sale – next thing you know – you’re off to see The Back Street Boys and have to get a ‘Best of’ CD off ebay for Christmas so you can have a fair idea of some of their tracks other than the one about ‘Am I sexual’.

Met up with old raving buddy for a good catch up over dinner at Wahaca where we enjoyed some Mexican street food and almost broke the tech left on our table in order to rate our food (but not pay for it- no amount of punching buttons will let you do that apparently). Left feeling that our hunger was sated but our knowledge of the IT world was sorely lacking.  Dinosaur times!





My kids


There were several hundred people in attendance at the gig who had a much clearer understanding of who they were going to see than we did. I had a vague awareness that there were five of them and one was called Kevin.  I was right! But not the one I thought it was.  We did actually know more than one track but despite needing to leave a bit early in order to ensure we got our trains home, we refused to leave until they did the one about ‘Am I sexual’  Was well worth going just for the resulting shaky phone footage of said tune with quality karaoke style singing in the background from myself.

I particularly like the way I look Pete Burns on this pic.




My friend’s first time at the arena and about my 3rd visit since all that horrors of 2 years ago. This time though we left through THAT bit. It made me feel very uncomfortable indeed. The old hackles were right up.  I’d already spent a bit of reflective time stood looking at the little memorial area in Victoria Station while I’d been waiting for my friend earlier on.  Can’t help but think of my two girlies. Already going out to gigs themselves without me.
You can’t wrap them up in cotton wool and you have to let them go out and do fun stuff without fear, but bloody hell. Not knowing how to operate an app on a gadget in a restaurant is one kind of fear at my age, but I honestly think that having teenagers is scarier than when they were babies.


There are a lot of messed up scary ass people out there -this is why the dead don’t scare me on all these ghosthunting adventures. It’s the living that frighten me more.

I do like to think that there is more good in the world than bad though, but it’s always the bad shit that dominates the news. 

Sometimes we just need to remind ourselves.



Tick Tock – guess who’s going to die first?

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So Theresa May has finally resigned. Does that mean there’s nobody in charge?  If so, much the same as the last few months then…
Gove has been exposed as a
closet coke head (retrospectively) and regrets it. In fairness, I never thought I’d ever say I had anything in common with Michael bloody Gove, but I’m with him on that one. Wish I hadn’t bothered too on the couple of occasions I did. Nasty stuff.  And let’s face it – I don’t need any artificial help in the arsey attitude and gobshite arena. I can pull that off naturally thanks,

In other news, I went up to our local club, not somewhere I would usually go if I could possibly avoid it.  There was a psychic medium night so my friend and I couldn’t resist.  Excuse the pun, but it was dead up there.  Only 8 people up there so she was pondering whether to even carry on as “it might not work”. I wondered why not, as if you have the ability to converse with the departed, surely it wouldn’t matter if there was 1 person there or 100?  Anyway, she cracked on with the usual vagueness and non-specific details.  She told me that my spirit guide (a female – which was not news to me) told her that I was a bit cynical.  She could have picked that up from listening in to our conversations before the ‘show’ started.  She told me that I felt unworthy at work and felt like I was being treated like a mug. I denied this and said I was perfectly happy at work thank you very much.  Everything she said was quite relevant a year ago – just not now. She told me to bear it in mind anyway.  Obviously, I did not let on anything about my work situation but she was pretty admant that this was how I felt.


I was more interested in whether or not she was as aware of whoever the hell it was who was lurking on the stage area peeping like Micky Flanagan around the curtain…


She then said she had a lady ‘in spirit’ with her who was holding her head in pain and said that she would have literally dropped dead “without even time to put her coat on” and she’d left behind 2 children and she would have been not much older than 50.  I said it didn’t match anyone in the family that I was aware of.  “Fucks Sake!” I said – it’s me isn’t it?” She assured me she didn’t tell the future and this was someone already passed over and from my dad’s side. So any famalam reading this who could shed some light on that, do let me know.  Not sure what the point of that exercise was, as this lady had no message of enlightenment from beyond the grave.  No winning lottery numbers or insider stocks and shares tips that might actually be of some use.
I’m still convinced she meant it was me.  So that gives me just under 3 years to crack on and enjoy life.   Perhaps if I either wear a coat for the rest of my life or never attempt to put one on, I could cheat death like on Final Destination.  LOL. Or perhaps she was talking shite?  Time will tell. And if I do drop dead at 50, found on the hall floor with my coat half on and half off then you read it here first right!

Shirley Ghostman meets the sceptics


Ailments – imaginary or otherwise

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Had an appointment at Bradford Royal Infirmary the other week. Back in January, I went to my GP about feeling some discomfort in my chest at night and getting a bit out of breath more than I usually would.  GP didn’t think there was much to worry about other than general wear, tear and the slow decline into decrepitude that comes with being in my late forties. But, in the name of caution, arranged for an appointment at the cardiology department.  So fast forward to mid-May and the appointment came through. (Good job I wasn’t dying really).

Cue crystal maze type experience of trying to find out where I was meant to go.  I found a reception desk. Helpful lady there pointed me in the right direction to another reception desk where I checked in. Was told I was on the computer but not on the daily list of appointments.  My name was added by way of a hastily scribbled post-it note.  A 16-year-old sad looking assistant came to get me and told me to strip off from the waist up.

“Pardon me. Do what now?”

Was told to put my clothes in a basket and don the old hospital gown leaving it open at the front.

Was then sent down a corridor clutching my gown shut and led into a room where I was given an ECG.
If anyone has never had one of these, it’s essentially 5 minutes of someone sticking plasters to your tits and torso then plugging you into the mains for 2 seconds, then peeling the plasters back off.  It’s about as dignified as it sounds.  No wonder the poor lass looked glum
  “What do you do for living my love?”  / “I stick band aids on saggy old bodies every day” / “Awesome!”


I was then advised to get dressed and head to the blue waiting area.  Did I know where that was?  No.  So she gave me directions along the lines of, “Through the double doors at the end of this corridor then take a right, then a left, then straight on to the other double doors, across the narrow sea to the island of Dragonstone; then through the seven levels of the Candy Cane forest, through the sea of swirly-twirly gum drops, and then walk through the Lincoln Tunnel”


I eventually found it, then was told I needed to sign in at reception.  I said I had already signed in at two separate reception areas.  An exasperated-looking nurse told me that neither of those was the blue reception area so I needed to, “go back down the corridor, through the double doors, take a left past Mount Mordor, through the revolving doors and past the realms of men; climb the Faraway Tree and then toss my name into the Goblet of Fire, then make my way back via the river Styx so she could take my blood pressure” (which would no doubt at this stage, be through the fucking roof).  Obviously, I got lost, because as we all know, my map reading skills are sadly lacking. I also detoured en route back to go for a wee and got completely disorientated coming out of the loo. I ended up back in the waiting room but then realized it was the orange waiting area.  Back through the shadow of the valley of death, I ventured. Passing Shergar, Madeliene McCann and Lord Lucan along the way!




Arrived back in the blue waiting room to find two exasperated nurses who were wondering where I’d got to.  As they took me in a room to do my blood pressure, one of them declared that I wasn’t on the system and had I been to check in at reception?  Refusing to go through all that again, they sent another nurse down to the blue reception to ask what the delay was.  Are these computers not linked?  It would have been quicker to use two yogurt pots on a string.  Come on UK. Get our NHS back on track. Stop wasting money on shit and give them some funding FFS.

Anyway, I digress.

The short version (because there is one believe it or not) is that I’m not dying just yet.  Doctor Klopek seemed quite happy with my health, but erring on the side of caution again, is arranging for me to attend some other test or other but that’s not until June.  At least I should (?) know the way next time.  I’ll leave a trail of breadcrumbs next time just to be sure.

You’d think that this minor health concern might worry someone like me who has a propensity for overthinking situations. But no.  What kept me awake the other night was a throwaway comment from my daughter. She was telling me that the scrape on her buttock (from her cider rider injury at Swingamjig) was healing nicely and, “Not to worry Mum, I haven’t got sepsis.”

I then lay awake pondering my recent injury where I had scraped the back of my hand on the poolside and was quite sore.  What if I had developed sepsis?  Would my hand have to be amputated like Kevin Webster’s son’s leg in Coronation Street?  Could I still teach swimming with one hand?  Yes, I thought, that would be no problem.  But how long would I be out of action workwise while the stump healed over?  Should I get a golden hand like Jamie Lannister in Thrones?  What if they had to amputate at the elbow?  Could I still support the children in the pool with a shorter arm?  Yes, I decided.  That would also be fine.  Trickier than just having a stump for a hand, but not impossible. 


What though, if the entire arm had to come off?  What a waste a lovely tattoo on my upper arm? That would be £160 I could have saved.  Typical me. Not bothered about losing an arm. More fussed at wasting money unnecessarily like the stereotypical tight northern fucker I am.
Would I still be able to teach successfully then, with no arm?  I expect so, with time. And I could always dress as post-Pennywise-arm-torn-off-in-a-drain Georgie from ‘It’ at Halloween. I already have a yellow raincoat so that would be a money saver.



And this is me at quite a mentally stable stage in my life.  You can imagine what my head was like a couple of years ago when the demons got in.

And don’t try and deny that many of you aren’t just as overthinking, nuts and weird.  I’m just not that bothered about admitting it.


Watch this space MoFos Xx




Eras at an end & unanswered questions

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It’s been a week of endings, some of them more disappointing than others.  ‘Game of Thrones’ was never going to end the way everyone wanted, but it’s not like the groundwork for the anti-climax hasn’t been laid over the last 10 years.



Daenerys said she did not wish to become Queen of the Ashes. But that’s exactly what she was – for about half an hour until she got the sharp stab of Jon’s Valyrian steel (and not in a good way).

Weirdo Bran might be the all-seeing oracle but I reckon everybody’s favourite mad red witch knew what was coming 2 episodes ago and thought “Fuck This for a copout!” and that’s why she binned her magic necklace and crumbled to dust rather than stick around for the ending, especially that twee bit with Sam Tarly’s book ‘A song of ice and fire’.

FUCK OFF HBO Sam may as well have winked directly at the camera like something from Fleabag!


Bollocks to this shit – I’m ooot!


Ygritte had the right idea 3 seasons ago

The finale was what it was.
   I was prepared for disappointment and was not disappointed. We were promised the answers to questions long asked but all I really wanted to know was where is Hot Pie and is he still doing okay in that pub? Does he still have time for the gravy? (There’s always time for gravy).  And of course – this…



Meanwhile, ‘The Santa Clarita Diet’ has been cancelled after leaving us on a cliffhanger at the end of season 3 and oh yeah in real news – our strong and stable leader has announced her departure as of June 7th. Theresa May Resignation Speech in Full

At this stage, the runners and riders for her replacement are not particularly inspiring confidence either.  Hot Pie for King and Hot Pie for PM! Vote for Hot Pie. Or that dude who was dressed as Elmo one year. Or buckethead man who was like a bargain basement Ser Gregor the Mountain (am back on Thrones again, sorry).


Can I get a FFS??


In other news. It’s Sunday and in the spirit of ongoing cash cow sagas, we are rewatching Star Wars ‘The Last Jedi’ because we couldn’t remember what happens in it, or why?  Questions asked throughout, Eddie Izzard style, thus far, have included such conundrums as “Do they have different toilets on board to suit all the different species of alien?” Amidst speculation that Admiral Akbar’s ablutions would be worse than Princess Leia’s. I said that was racist and sexist and possibly intergalacticist (if there is such I thing), which I expect there is these days.
Also, considering you never see any cleaners aboard the space ships, they are always spotless.  Are there cleaning droids? or do tabard-wearing ladies appear with hoovers and a roll of bin bags when nobody is looking, like at Disneyland?  Death Star Canteen – Eddie Izzard


And like the psychic mediums always say… “I shall leave that with you my love”.

Ciao for now MoFos. Have a lovely Bank Holiday Xx






That time I smelled a hand that touch Ricky Butler/Edgar Frog & brushed against Paddy off Emmerdale in the line for tea

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Some weeks ago my friend asked me if I was up for attending a horror film convention in a disused steel mill in Sheffield so we could bother Corey Feldman.



We then discovered, having bought our tickets, that it was an extra £35 for a photo opportunity with the man himself.

Fuck that!

After getting the hump about it briefly, we decided to go anyway and just try and get some photos when he did the Q&A session and just get Allie to photoshop us into it with him.

A last minute idea that we ought to put more effort into our wardrobe than my Frog Brothers hoodie resulted in this…  apologies to any of the neighbours who saw this parked outside this morning.


Bman did warn me that given the potential demographic of this type of event, we might attract the unwanted attentions of geeks.  I assured him that these guys would be too busy creaming their pants over horror movie props and the various other film franchise celebrities in attendance to be bothered about us.  I was only partly right…
…the coconut shy (shrunken head shy) man just let us go to town with the balls to throw to try and win a creepy toy.  No shrunken heads were knocked from their perches but he let us take a toy anyway.

Hostage child dolly… nice.



We wandered about a bit and had people jump out on us a lot. One of whom only didn’t get their mask punched off their face because they were clearly a young child.  After a further wander, we found the main hall which contained a plethora of horror related collectors tat to buy.
After some deliberation, I opted for a mini Audrey plant, although I was sorely tempted to get a hand-stitched voodoo doll with pins, or a replica mummified Rasputin’s penis.  One of those I can easily cobble together at home with some old material and my trusty sewing box. I’ll let you decide which one you think I mean.

Snaps to the man at who got our obscure League of Gentleman quote and joined in.

Best overheard conversation of the day was a father to his young daughter “What is it you’d like to buy?” Daughter replied “A pug in formaldehyde” To which I turned around and said “Well who doesn’t want one of those?”


Feed me Seymour!

I’ve been singing “Suddenly Seymour” all day since I bought this baby.


Touch it! Touch the mummified penis


Trussed up fetish Barbie.  Boob implant Barbie. Severed digits chess set.  Cabbage patch skeleton. Was also tempted by the skeletal mermaid of course but it was a bit big.



Some people had gone to a lot of trouble with the old costumes.  Possibly a little too much time on their hands but worth it for some selfies.





The scariest part of the day for me was when we’d asked some scary boiler suit zombie Michael Myers type for directions and he sent us the wrong way.  On the way back past him, my friend told him off for sending us the wrong way. We saw him again a bit later and she poked him on the shoulder and then ran off, leaving me to face him.  I ran away and he chased us down the corridor. We did the dumbest thing ever and ran into the ladies loos – thus leaving us trapped.  I feared he would be waiting outside for us, machete raised above his head.  We left it five minutes before sneaking out.  Luckily he had gone to find someone else to butcher so we were ok.
In fact, there was a worrying amount of weaponry there.  Annie Wilkes with her sledgehammer (“You dirty bird”). Machetes, axes, acetylene torches, nail guns, etc.  So many masked people.  They could have been anyone.  We could have been attacked at any point by a psychotic lunatic who had  ‘el-snappoed’ after mowing one too many lawns, and we would have just thought it was part of the show and filmed it or got a selfie.

Truth be told, we perhaps should have paid more attention to the rules (“Gav”) before we decided to stake out the adjacent (empty) queueing area to Corey in our persistent efforts to obtain the perfect free photo op.


To be fair, it doesn’t say you weren’t supposed to fall about laughing like morons and take a buttload of mostly useless photos.  Nor does it say that you’re not supposed to obstruct another ‘guests’ autograph line even though we were actually the only people in it.  Some poor fucker from American Horror Story amongst other things was sat there, pen in hand, with a grand total of nobody, waiting to get their merch signed.  No doubt cursing inside that he had been put “next to that gobby kid from the fucking Goonies” while two crazy bitches who make those mad old women waving union jacks outside Windsor Castle and creaming themselves over Prince Harry’s baby, look like absolutely normal pillars of the community.

At several points whilst signing other people’s things (an extra £35 to sign stuff) the man looked up – clearly distracted by our mirth and envious of the fact that here were two pals unperturbed by the fact that that they were making a holy show of themselves in a giant hall full of people in the close presence of a Hollywood celebrity.


See – he’s looking right at me – he wants IN on this fun


This is probably my favourite picture of the day and he’s not even in it,  If ever a photo summed up an average conversation between us two, then this is it.  It could only have been improved if cardigan man wasn’t in the way of Corey and his Smooth Criminal hat.


This is why my eyes are so creasy – too much laughter

I can’t even remember why we were in hysterics.  Possibly because Linda had just told me off for taking about eleventy blurry photos of nothing because she kept telling me off for moving the camera.


This is me saying “stop yelling at me” & Linda saying “I’m not!”

Another comedy moment, later on, was when I was looking for Pennywise the clown and Linda suddenly grabs me and says, “Dead ahead dead ahead”.  I’m looking about gormlessly for someone dressed as a clown and she’s hissing at me, “There! There! in front of you!”  I’m still staring about like a dolt going, “What? Where am I looking?” and eventually I realized she meant this…


This is not a waxwork


No, that isn’t Bman next to him

Linda, ever the opportunist, inveigled her way to him to ask if he would sign her pot (she recently knackered her arm falling over). He was very polite about it but said he wasn’t allowed to. But he did shake her (other) hand.


The hand that shook Corey’s

She said his hand was very soft “from all the drugs maybe? (allegedly)” assuming I suspect that Hollywood = must have indulged at some point.  But I’m not sure if she knows how drugs work. Unless the man was snorting lines of Nivea back in his misspent youth.  Hands that do narcotics are as soft as your face and all that.
I sniffed her hand afterwards, so I’ve smelled a hand that has touched a Frog Brother.

We then went and had a brew to calm down and compose ourselves before we went to the Q&A session.  I was stood behind Paddy from Emmerdale in the queue for tea. At least I think I was. I’ve tweeted him to ask if he was there but funnily enough, he hasn’t replied.


That day we ‘met’ Corey Feldman in Sheffield

I honestly haven’t laughed so much in ages for no real reason. I’m pretty sure when Corey clocked us doubled over in pleats, pissing our pants, he was put in mind of the good old days with his shits and giggles with his old pal Corey Haim.


Neither of these are Will Wheaton

He is more than welcome to join our little clique, as long as he knows his League from his Inside No.9 and his Fast Show from his Fonejacker. Fuck it! Paddy off Emmerdale can come out with us too, He looks like a man who enjoys a good craic.

So mostly my future now lies in creating horror and gore themed dolls and weird shit like mummified (ethically sourced) animals in ghoulish tableaus so I can have a stall there myself next year.