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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






I went to London & nobody called me a cunt

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So last week I went to Windsor with my Mother in Law for a Maundy Thursday date with The Queen.  True story.  She chose me, as the least embarrassing of her children and daughters-in-law (who’d have thought it?) to accompany her to receive maundy money.

I was quite excited, as I do like the Royal Family.  Our little island may be a bit of a global laughing stock politically, at the moment but if we didn’t have the Royals and weird shit like Stonehenge and traditions like rolling cheese down a hill or coal carrying races, then, let’s face it, no fucker come visit from abroad and spend their money.  So if you’re one of those people who bang on about wanting St George’s Day to be a public holiday and having the right to fly an England flag in your yard without being seen as a football hoolie or a racist, you can’t also bang on about the Royal Family being a waste of public money.  To be British means you have a Royal Family. End of. They’re part of the deal man.


Anyway, I digress… Somehow I managed to pass whatever security checks the palace do on Maundy Money recipient’s companions and I had my invitation.


More importantly, I had the Ruby Shoo heels and matching clutch.  The beauty of which would hopefully detract from the £13 Primark frock and the fact that I had opted not to wear a hat.


Didn’t need a coat in the end


I’m not a religious person, but St George’s Chapel was a beautiful building. So glorious inside.  Made all the more special by the old fashioned pomp, procession and fanfare that we do really well in this country whenever there’s anything royal occurring.

You weren’t meant to use your mobile but I managed to sneak a couple of pics before Her Maj and Eugenie arrived.  I didn’t dare, once she’d arrived, in case I was tackled to the ground by the Military Knights of Windsor or a Yeoman of the Guard then dragged off to the Tower of London.




During all this, Her Maj walked around the chapel aisles in what seemed like a random fashion. Kind of like the way I wander aimlessly around Lidl or Morrisons (much to Bman’s irritation). She handed out a red and a white leather pouch containing the maundy money to each recipient.  MiL was chosen to receive it this year for Christian services to the church and community.  So I am unlikely ever to repeat the experience unless a different relative over 70 with outstanding Christian proclivities gets chosen and asks me to accompany them!  #notlikely


The Queen was a vision in canary yellow and a lot smaller than I had realised.  For a 93-year-old, she looked fabulous and did a sterling job of plodding around the chapel.  If it had been a case of all the olds having to go up to her to get their money, we could well still be there now!  With the minimum age to be a recipient as 70 years old and many of the recipients looking way older than that, I felt positively youthful in that chapel. 

There was a rousing rendition of ‘God Save The Queen’ before Her Maj left to kick off her good shoes and gloves and put her housecoat & slippers back on and fire up a Bombay Bad Boy pot noodle at Windsor Castle.  We had a drinks and canapes reception at Windsor Castle too, but not with Her Maj unfortunately as I had initially been led to believe.


To be fair, she’d have been swamped by olds if she had been in attendance.  The resident Knights made up for it by entertaining us no end.  Not purposely, like court jesters or anything. But one, in particular, let’s call him Sir Chatsalot, I could have listened to all night.  He was like something off ‘The Fast Show’ and we loved him!


Managed to meet up with other royalty whilst on this royal religious mission and saw my old mucker from Bish, who was a superstar and top bag-wrangler and I can’t wait to see her again properly in August.

Before we knew it, the tiny sandwiches on silver platters were depleted and our royal date was over.  We headed back home via London Town, where I resisted the desire to get any random southern geezer to call me a “FACKIN’ CANT” because honestly – who doesn’t love that?  I’m a northerner and no mistake but I do love the way those southern shandy drinkers say my favourite C word.  Makes me go all unnecessary.


Meanwhile, my MiL is delighted with the (only slightly doctored) pictures I whatsapped to her of our visit.



So if any tourists were rubbernecking (and there were many). We are sure to be on several holiday snaps.  I did a royal wave at a fair few of them.  They had no clue who we were. I could have been a random distant countess of somewhereorother for all they knew.

I’ll honestly never get to do anything like that again.  By 8pm I was back down to earth with a bump. Back in Sadford with no silver platter bearing, white-gloved flunkies to cater to my whims.  No Knights to entertain me other than my Game of Thrones, Ser Davos Seaworth of the sigil of the onion, lookylikey husband.

BTW snaps to me for not laddering my tights or getting my dress tucked into them at the reception or anything.  Pretty sure I probably deserve an MBE or something for that!

Ciao Ciao and God Save the Queen MoFos! Xx


How looooooong has this been going on?

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Anyone else wondering if it all might go a bit ‘Game of Thrones’ or ‘Threads’ once we / if we eventually leave the EU? 
Failure of the national grid? Walls of ice separating north and south? Fights to the death over lettuces in Aldi?  Children burnt at the stake to appease non-existent gods?
Forget dope and crack – the dealers will be cashing in, selling insulin and ibuprofen under cover of darkness.  Mothers bartering sexual favours in doorways in exchange for rats in a basket to feed their kids because we can’t get cans of beans anymore? 

It almost went that way yesterday when Whatsapp, FB and Insta all went down at the same time and the entire nation had to make conversation with their loved ones rather than communicating via memes.  Thousands of posed & heavily filtered photos remained unposted. People around the country were denied the knowledge of what their old school friends, not seen for 25 years, had eaten for their tea!  


What a catastrophic clusterfuck of ineptitude our government is at the moment?  When are we changing the national anthem to the Benny Hill theme tune?  We must be a laughing stock to the rest of Europe.  FFS!
I didn’t vote to leave but I respect anyone’s decision who did, providing they voted as best they could with the scant information I felt we’d been given.  I’m not sure anyone actually knew what was going to happen. Although if you were one of those people who voted to leave because you thought anyone not born and raised within the sound of the Bow Bells would be immediately deported, then you, my friend are a bellend and I do not respect your decision.
  I used to be in charge of School Council when I worked in a school (this one time…) and a bunch of primary school children seemed more capable of sorting their shit out than our current lot in charge.


Meanwhile, I have got some new sneakers and they are super comfortable and feel very bouncy – I may even be tempted on my walk to work to break into a light jog – who knows.




Am also slightingly disturbed that in the last few days when I log on to FB on the laptop, I am getting pop up ads for viagra and sites which encourage random sexual encounters!  One of which depicted a cartoon image of a woman astride a man who was sat upon a washing machine – the heading read, “Are you having a dry spell?”  WTF Facebook?


Ciao Ciao MoFos.  I’m off to stockpile like an end of days prepper and watch people yelling at one another on Question Time  Xx

Trying to dodge old age with the Artful Dodger

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Movie Quote of the Day:  “SHUT UP and drink your gin!” – Oliver

Starting the New Year with an old classic.

‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. 

50 years old apparently. Wow!

I particularly liked the way the unPC parts weren’t edited out, like how they cut the line “penis breath” from ET the other day.  There’s an entire scene about how women shouldn’t drive cars and the brilliantly outdated line from Grandad Potts about “scaring away the FuzzieWuzzies”. Fuck me you get into trouble these days for assuming a person’s gender!  So I won’t lie, despite its incorrectness, it was most refreshing to hear. Not because I’m racist in any way, just because I’m a bit fed up of everyone being such a flannel.

And this dude is still one of the most terrifying characters in films, even to this day


“Lollipops, lollipops”

Next up, ‘Oliver’.  That good old family feel-good film about children for sale, burglars, hookers and pickpocketing youths living with an old man. Featuring Leonard Rossiter no less. Wonder if he had a wank in his trailer thinking about any of the young cast members while making this one?  (allegedly).  “Ooer Miss Jones”.


Natch I will be singing along while I have a blast on my step and sit-up machine and do a bit of facial yoga in a vain attempt to stave off the gooseneck, the spare tyre and the imminent menopause.

So bring on 2019. What a time to be alive. Brexit (FFS! – what could go wrong there?).  The last season of ‘Game of Thrones’. ‘Stranger Things’ season 3 in July. More episodes of ‘Inside No.9’ and tonight – the return of ‘Luther’.


Why hello Idris… welcome back

Take pleasure in the small things people and don’t waste your life being a miserable bastard. Take it from one who has spent a chunk of their life being maudlin.

Ciao Ciao Xx

Puzzles, Thrones & Going Out

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My rock and roll weekend consisted of finally firing up a jigsaw, sent to me at the start of my self-imposed house arrest, by a good friend.
It has been sat on the kitchen table for over a month.  

It didn’t take long to get into the zone once I started.  It was a ‘Carry On’ themed puzzle.  That bastion of British TV from the 60s & 70s, soon my brain was awash with thoughts like, “is this Hattie Jaques’ cheek?. **insert duck whistle or close-up of heaving cleavage here**

The cat is claiming it did the jigsaw alone. I helped.

Along with that, I had rediscovered Game of Thrones on Catch Up TV.  (You know you can’t just watch one episode). Pretty soon my restless mind was overloaded at bedtime with phrases and earworms like ‘House Baratheon’, ‘Unsullied’ & ‘You know nothing’ all interspersed with tiny images of dwarves and Sid James’ laughing face, stocking tops, Joan Simms bursting out of her nightie and Kenneth Williams doing that face that he did. Chuck the theme tune in on top of that and it has made for a few restless nights trying to get off to sleep. 

carry on girls

jon snow


sid james

Can’t help but think that if the Carry On team were still in their prime, that their take on GoT might be worth a watch.  The tits and booze are already a given.  I can just see Sid James and Bernard Breslaw dressed as whores for one reason or another in one of Littlefinger’s brothels.

I’d finished the jigsaw by Sunday night anyway and now have a new one to sit on the kitchen table until such time as I start it.  1970s sweets and chocolates this time – once again a gift from a very thoughtful friend.  

Tonight I am venturing out.  Not Out Out. But most definitely outside.  Into Leeds no less for a date with Micky Flanagan for some casual cunting and peep maintenance.  I am a bit nervous TBH.  It’s a huge venue and it means being in Leeds after tea and coming home on the last 508.

Wish me luck.

Ciao tutti Xx

Tipped over the edge by cheap ice cream

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It’s been a while brewing, but I had a mini meltdown in the shed earlier whilst getting a tub of neopolitan out for the kids’ dessert.


The sight of the chest freezer brimming with food seemed to me to represent everything I hate at the moment and am struggling to deal with.  Namely capitalism; over-reliance on technology; materialistic greed etc. Somehow it even represented my not altogether unfounded irritation with benefits claiming work-shy uneducated bums going on holiday abroad twice a year, while I’m lucky to go once every 3 or 4 years (and only then if our parents pay for some element of it.)  It represented a massive ball and chain weighing me down to this house, this neighbourhood, this life…



I can’t even think of anything else to write if I’m honest.  When I fired up the laptop I was full of ideas of some profound piece of deep and meaningful.  Instead I’ve got distracted by the last two episodes of season 5 of Game of Dwarves.  Not having seen this series from the beginning I only have a scant idea of WTF is going on.  All I do know is that Miles Finch from Elf plays a good part and is in fact the only dwarf in Game of Dwarves.  They need to stop all looking the same, wearing hoods and someone needs to turn a bloody light on so you can see what the hell is happening. Five series in and they still haven’t managed to drop that damn ring into Mount Doom!