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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


Half Term Pt2

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Sweet dreams of Magic Mike Live (“Ooh young man”) and a cracking breakfast later and it was time to say goodbye to my sister and my friends, who were heading back up north.
I, however, was staying around in London to meet up with a school friend, not seen since we were about 13 or 14!

I don’t think we’ve changed a day.  Perhaps a bit more worldly wise but still essentially the same.


Amazing to catch up again with the friend I used to call Old Bean (and we can’t remember why).  Reminiscing about the variety performances we used to inflict upon our parents twice a year.  Dodgy dance routines and songs from The Kids from Fame.  Comedy skits lifted in their entirety from The Kenny Everett Show (all done in the best possible taste).  We even had merch!  Cajoling our relatives into buying an array of tat and cack, handmade or purchased from local thrift shops for the occasion. Marked up penny chews, that sort of thing.   Another reason I am glad that smartphones did not exist in the 1980s, as mercifully there are no photos or videos of these cringeworthy shows.


Then it was time to head further south to sunny Brighton to catch up with another friend (hopefully two) and attend a ghost investigation at the Old Police Cells.  Checked in to yet another hotel – the very welcoming and lovely Jury’s Inn.


I do love Brighton (“D’you know what I mean by that?”) and everything is so much more fun in the sun, and sunny it was.  Surprisingly so for February!  I was glad I’d listened to big Brew and left my ‘Shadwell’ parka at home.


Friday night we set the world to rights in Revolution and some other bar I forget the name of, where the bathrooms held the kind of graffiti that only Brighton could offer:-


2-4-1 cocktails, free shots, sampling a Brighton gin and waiting 50 minutes for microwaved popcorn shrimp and a basket of chips! Then off to bed in order to be up and at ’em for the next day.  Not having heard from our local friend we were resigned to the fact that we had been blown out, candle in the wind style.


Next day. a  few nice drinks and a fabulous vegan kebab from this place Hope and RuinTry one meat eaters you will love this – the joy of seitan – try it, try it, you will see.




While sampling the delights of the vegan kebab and after a last-ditch text invitation to join us.  Our, thus far, absent friend rocked up just as we were contemplating moving on! Bold as brass and as if butter wouldn’t melt.  I announced his arrival with an unladylike exclamation of “Fuck Me!!” followed by, “You are such a fucking cunt!”

Most pleasant catch-up and being shown to a brilliant shop, which we would never have found on our own. Snoopers Paradise
I almost bought a Jesus lamp and a set of knives with deer feet for handles but thought the better of it. Not least because I would have had to carry them around town for the rest of the day.




Our friend, the international man of mystery, possible MI5 agent and definite cunt, then went home to ignore our texts and hide from us for another 2 years.
I went back to the hotel to get a hoodie for the evening in case it was chilly in the police cells and headed back down the seafront to meet my friend and prepare for our ghost hunt (but not before I’d witnessed a lesbian fight in a bar).

Astonishing results on the table tipping, thanks to, let’s call him,’Dan’, who managed to get the table walking all the way out of the cell once the lights were off.


I am sure that this group were seasoned ghost hunt investigators, but may I suggest waiting for answers on ouija boards or whatever before assuming an answer on the basis of just one initial and then asking another 3 questions.

Another man, let’s call him, ‘Ricky’ might also benefit from a belt or trackies that fit, so we don’t get distracted by his butt crack.


At one stage the ouija board spelled out the words ‘Cunt’ and ‘Cock’, so perhaps the spirits were in evidence after all and are most intuitive.


Interesting and amusing night.

Next day we met up on yet another sunny southern morning and went for coffee and had an amazing sandwich from this place HellKitchen.  I chose an ‘Envy’ with less avocado and more tomato, from a most helpful and friendly man behind the counter.  It was the best sandwich I’ve had in a very long time. I’ve thought about it a lot since I got home. Probably had more of an effect on me than the hunks from Magic Mike if I’m honest.  Was so good I forgot to even take a photo of it, so now it exists only as a joyous few minutes of seafood based sandwich ecstasy in my memory.

Brighton, I will return.  If only for the sandwich, and if I’m really lucky, the Jesus lamp will still be there and the planets will align and my other friend will decide to come out of his hole.

And now I’m back in the family fold and about to go to work.  Reality bites and all that, but right now my reality is just fine as it goes.  All is as it should be and you can’t say fairer than that.

Ciao Ciao MoFos. Xx


Half Term Pt1

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I’ve had a little mini holiday this half term and it wasn’t by mistake.

Thursday I headed to London, not for free though, thanks to Grand Central train being cancelled and having to get a much later train with another company.  Bummer!

Got the tube to my destination.  I can do without the tube TBH but it doesn’t scare me like it does some people.  I like to use it when I am in London just to remind myself that I’m lucky enough not to have to use it every day for work.

I met up with my sis and my two friends who had managed to find each other in a pub on Drury Lane and we all checked into the Travelodge before getting ready for a pre-dinner drink, then dinner, before the main event – Magic Mike Live.

What. Was. I. Thinking?  Have I turned into a cliche of a woman pushing 50? Treading water desperately to hold onto youth, vitality, attraction? Worrying that ever-encroaching decrepitude and eventual death are not that far into the future?  Or do I just admire the art form of the sculptured male physique via the medium of dance?

You tell me.

I do know that we were pretty terrified at how close we were to the stage. And rightly so when the show began.  No spoilers for the ‘storyline’, but suffice to say it was a bit like ‘Cats’ but with buff shirtless men crawling around and mounting you when you were least expecting it.

Unicorn stamp on the way in, which I can only assume contained LSD because reality was surely altered when those lads came on stage.  Money of joy fell from the ceiling and away we went amid speculation about how those conversations went down with the families.

“Good news Mum, I got a job in the West End”

“Wow, amazing! Can you get tickets for me, your dad and your gran?”

“Erm, No I’m not sure that’s going to work Mum!”

See also, “What do you do for a living then love?”  “I catch sweaty tee shirts thrown to me by fit, hench, possibly homosexual men twice a night”





That’s not me BTW – just to clarify.

Much cackling & whooping all round and agreeing that the show probably wouldn’t work if it was the likes of our own husbands, brothers, male pals etc in the cast.  Much love to Big Brew, JC & The Boy but….no…

Remember ladies.  Channing Tatum is inside all of us…

And I’ll leave that video clip and that thought with you girls.




Catching up. Growing old.

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Just had a weekend in the countryside with old pals, which was most pleasant.  Fresh air, good laughs, horses, dogs.  Good times. 

My friend has marks on her kitchen doorframe of the heights of the children and some of the grown-ups throughout the years.  It is confirmed.  I am shrinking. Check out the difference since last year! And no. I did not have shoes on last year and bare feet this time around.  Not sure what happened inbetween.  What’s that thing about being taller in the morning than the evening?  Maybe it was something to do with that.




Today is my youngest childerbeast’s birthday.  I’m not sure she was on board with me busting out the Teletubbies birthday banner I’ve had since eldest child’s first birthday.  Like a true Yorkshire woman, I do like to get my monies worth.



She is currently downstairs with her new nose piercing, playing Cards against Muggles with her pals.  A far cry from my 14th back in 1980-something.  I invited ‘boys’ round with expectations of what? I have no idea. They brought a couple of shit videos and my friends & I got ourselves Shirlied-up like dogs dinners. Pink eye shadow times.


Die Antwoord cake.  Zef!

I am upstairs feeling old and decrepit, out of touch and preparing to feel even more so once ‘The Brits’ starts in half an hour and I can torture myself by watching it and not have a bull’s clue who anyone is.  Very much feeling surplus to requirements at the moment. In more ways than one.

Going to London tomorrow to see ‘Magic Mike Live’ where I can also feel like a has-been. Safe in the knowledge that there is a 99% chance that I will not be selected for audience participation.  * Do NOT even think about it!*
This was arranged months ago and am now wondering what on earth I was thinking.  Am sure it will be fine…

Onward from there to Brighton and I’m hoping that some southern sea air and setting the world to rights with an even older friend will take the edge off before I tip over the edge.  Not sure why we’re going all the way there.  Other supposed pal, a resident of the gay capital of the UK is being, is quite frankly, a dick and we’re highly probably not even going to meet up.

Just another friend who has decided I am no longer worthy of bothering with.

Nobody likes me.

Everybody hates me.

I think I’ll go eat some worms.


(Have already switched ‘The Brits’ off.  Watching ‘The Goldbergs’ instead).

Ciao Ciao Xx



Goodbye and adieu

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On Saturday I went to Reighton, near Scarborough, on an exceedingly busy train full of York race-goers, to visit my oldest friend before she emigrates to Australia.

Our parents were (and still are) friends, so I have always known her.  For years now she has lived in London so we’ve only ever really hooked up on joint visits back to Scarborough or when I have managed to drag myself darn sarf.

Tomorrow she and her youngest child are leaving for a new life in the antipodes. For a brand new golden gaytime if you will.  (Well worth the 23 hour journey to Oz just to be able to ask the ice cream man for a Golden Gaytime if I’m honest).


One of those rare friends that you don’t always see. That you don’t speak to or text all the time, but when you meet up it’s like you only saw each other an hour ago.  (If you have any of those friends, love them, cherish them and keep that shit up y’all!)


Because of her, I have an eclectic taste in music – she introduced me to rock in the 80’s whilst she also used to sing along with me to hip hop and house music.
We still laugh about buying ‘
brown drops’ in the local shop. About fighting over the velvet red riding hood cloak at nursery school (I bought her one as a leaving gift which I have insisted she wears on the plane all the way to Melbourne – I need pictures as evidence BTW.)   The sole kitten of one of her cats is our cat Pepper – fed by her every 2 hours when the mother was still at the vets recovering from an emergency C-section.

It was her who was with me – doubled up and almost weeing with laughter – when the Bman slipped on dogshit during a water fight in the street and slid underneath a parked car in our teens.  The very thought of it still makes me chuckle.
RaRa skirts and connies, pineapple hairdo’s, wearing socks with kitten heel shoes, sneaking peeks at her dad’s 1970s porn mag collection at Hampton Road (that’s right Mother). Making lists on sleepovers of which boys we liked and sharing a love of Matt Dillon, Keifer Sutherland and the 2-Coreys and films like ‘
The Outsiders’.

Ever grateful for her skinny arms being able to slide up inside the fag machine in the arcade on Scarborough seafront to steal me a pack of Regal diddies and ever grateful for being the most glamorous bridesmeaid ever, and I am still sorry for not asking you in the first place (I just thought you wouldn’t want to get all Shirley Girlied up).

I am so proud of her for saving up for the past 2 years to fulfill her dream of moving to Oz with her man.  Good luck Maverick Matchstick Mekon and look after yourself and enjoy your new adventures.  

Now I just need to save up to come out and annoy you.