We were supposed to not be drinking

We were supposed to not be drinking but given that I’ve spent the day producing, directing, running, editing, procuring ingredients, filming and doing wardrobe for Bella’s “How to make brownies” power point presentation with video content, there wasn’t much chance of sobriety.

The star of the show had a diva strop when it was suggested that her video would look better if she had her hair brushed and brushed her teeth.

I pointed out that her contract stipulates that she can’t look like a skank.

She wasn’t keen on my over enthusiastic direction when I asked for “tits and teeth”. In fact she pointed out that she hadn’t got any tits and I was a shit momager.

Dangerous then got to work on her long maths with our new “Nigella” for two hours whilst I took the boys to a nerf gun party. He phoned shortly after I’d arrived at the party and whispered

“Wine, wine, bring wine back with you – I can’t cope! There’s no need for enforced sobriety on a Sunday when the sun’s shining and England won!”

“It’s got nothing to do with those things, you can’t cope with our daughter and maths, can you?”

Like the dutiful wife that I am, I picked up a bottle of wine for us on the way home and then another bottle for the dog and one more for good luck.

The boys had taken it upon themselves to have a competition to see who could get the dirtiest at the party. I made them leave their clothes by the front door and make their way to the shower without touching the walls.

And in other news

I’m thinking of starting a race for people who can run with Pugs. A Pug marathon of sorts.

So many people seem to be of the opinion that pugs can’t walk or run when they are very active little dogs. Pugs aren’t just fat cute little lap dogs. They are so much more than that.

Obviously they are fat little lap dogs too.

I’m thinking of “Run Pug Run”.

An endurance test for pugs that don’t conform to stereotypes.

Thug Pug can run! I’m fucking ecstatic.

Thug Pug can run! I’m fucking ecstatic. He’s only ever been for a run with me once and he sat in the middle of a road to teach me a lesson. The lesson was “don’t fucking tell me what to do!”
This is a game changer!
He’s slow and he keeps stopping to sniff other dogs arses but he ran nearly four miles through Tatton Park.

Everybody laughed at us as he was panting so much and he kept jumping in the lake to cool off. When he jumped in the lake, he just laid down like and looked at me as if to say “it’s all on my terms. I will run but you will stop when I want to. You may think that you’re in charge but you aren’t!”

We could enter him into a Triathlon. Fuck knows how he’d cycle but we could get a basket for him. He’d look up at me…lovingly…

Almost a year ago we got a Pug called Trevor.

Almost a year ago we got a Pug called Trevor.

We made an informed decision about the type of dog that our family could accommodate, bearing in mind that we were already a chaotic family of five.

We didn’t know much about dogs. We thought that a dog would be a welcome addition to our family.

I researched breeds and thought that something like a Cockerpoo would be ideal as they don’t moult and are good with children.

No fucker would listen to me.

The three little shits wanted a Pug. They wanted a Pug because Pugs are cute.

Pugs are cute but they are so many other things too.

We didn’t get a family dog. We got Trevor or as Ted called him “Chever”. Trevor isn’t our family pet, he’s my dog. He won’t leave my side. He won’t sit on anyone else’s knee.

I met a lady on the pier yesterday who had a Pug with her. After speaking to her, I conceded that at least I hadn’t got it as bad as her. She owned eleven other dogs and had four children. The Pug was sat on her knee. Apparently she couldn’t leave her Pug as he would howl for her. She’s managed to leave eleven other dogs in the care of someone else but not the Pug. She told me that she couldn’t even go in a shop without the dog howling for her.

Some things that you need to know about Pugs.

They are loyal = They are needy. They won’t let you have a slash or a shower in peace.

Pugs don’t need much exercise = Pugs will happily run around for hours with other dogs playing chase but they will then decide that they need carrying Home from the park.

Pugs moult a bit = you will have the fucking hoover out twice a day.

Pugs don’t like getting wet = they will happily piss in the house if it’s raining outside as they don’t want to get their paws wet. Conversely, they will happily paddle in the sea or a lake if it’s warm. Upon arrival home, they will dry themselves on your favourite cushions and sofa.

Pugs stink.

Pugs are greedy but for really weird things like cake and expensive biscuits. Trevor can smell an unopened packet of expensive biscuits even when he is asleep.

Pugs can lose their eyes in strange accidents.

Pugs shouldn’t wear a collar because of this.

Trevor has now taken to howling and barking at random things like cars, bins, most men, all manner of wildlife but mainly birds and squirrels.

Pugs cost a lot of money at the vets.

Pugs, despite their diminutive stature, have no fear of Rottweilers, Staffies, Alsatians etcetera. If a dog barks or snaps at them, it’s an invitation to play.

Pugs will eat very weird things like snails but never feed them a large amount of ham. A large amount of ham made poor Trevor feel quite unwell.

And despite all this, we love the little twat.

Are all dogs like this?

Upon waking this fine, spring morning, high drama ensued.

Upon waking this fine, spring morning, high drama ensued. Trevor the Thug Pug had vomited on our most precious new bedroom rug during the night. On closer inspection he had vomited in Dangerous’s work shoes too. He must, like any good sailor, have made it to the edge of the bed and then just vomited over the side onto the bits that don’t matter. In my head, our bed is a large boat and Trevor is the pissed up pirate Pug. It had dried on to everything. I’m not sure if this made it easier or harder to clean up.

We decided not to endure swimming lessons this morning, as Ted had his very first football tournament.
I sat down in my rather dubious white dressing gown. with stains that might or might not have been dog vomit and pondered my life. If you’d told me twelve months ago that I’d be sharing my bed with a dog that snores and occasionally vomits in the night, I would have said that you were mad. I’m the woman that would have thrown the kids shoes away if they’d stood in dog shit. I’m also the woman that would wretch if the wheel of my pram had gone in dog shit. I used to chase the little shits through the park as they delightedly kicked about in the fallen golden leaves shouting

“STOP, THERE’LL BE DOG POO AND YOU WILL END UP COVERED IN IT!”

I was at a loss of what to do, after I’d cleaned up the vomit, then cleaned up the dog shit from the area that was formally referred to as our garden but we have just renamed “Trevor’s Toilet” so I perused Facebook.

I came across a tweet from Dianne Abbot with reference to a marathon in which she had mistaken a half marathon for a full marathon. It was the usual poke at Dianne Abbot about her getting things wrong but it made me cross. I’ve got a bee in my bonnet about people being mean to Dianne.

Now, forgive me, because I’m not that up to date with current affairs. My excuse is that I’ve got three little shits and a Pug that shits, pisses and vomits everywhere but it would seem that the tweet was a fake put out by the Daily Star and then picked up by lots of other sources. I’m not even sure that this is true. I’m sure that you’ll tell me if I’m wrong.

I like Dianne Abbot. I like her passion. I don’t like all her politics but I like the fact that she’s a black, educated, clever woman who has principles. I can’t stand it when people try to put her down. She’s sixty four, let’s just say it again. She’s a black woman at the forefront of British politics. She should be applauded, not lied about, mocked and smeared.
I read the tweet, I read all the subsequent fighting over it disguised as debate on Twitter and I felt really sorry for Dianne and a bit sick.

I know what it feels like to have people say mean things about you on social media, to lie about you and twist things to suit their own agenda and narrative but Diane’s got it on a fucking massive scale. Dianne’s trolls piss on mine. Mine are like the troll in “Dora the Explorer” compared to Dianne’s “bride of chuckle” type ones.

And she’s not the only one. She’s one of many. It would seem that anybody in politics, anyone in the media is also fair game. Have you noticed though, that the real venom is saved for women. So, anyone’s fair game but women are by far the the bigger targets.

Social media can be fucking amazing. It brings people together. I’ve met so many nice people that I wouldn’t have without it. I’ve made friends, I’ve done things that I would never have done if it weren’t for social media but it’s at a price.

The trade off for being able to connect with anyone and have our views heard about any subject is that people can air their most despicable thoughts without fear of reprisal.

Have you ever tried reporting abuse to Facebook?

We have freedom of speech and that is a great thing but it means that people can bully other people. It means that newspapers can change the wording on a tweet to undermine and diminish the work of a strong woman that should be respected even if we don’t believe in her particular brand of politics.

You might say “well, she asked for it, she made all those massive fuck ups” but you wouldn’t say that about your auntie or your mum. You wouldn’t say that about your friend or your colleague. I’m fucking certain that you wouldn’t.

I’m a bit fed up with the negative, dark side of social media where anyone is fair game. If you want to have a disagreement with someone on Twitter and it’s “one on one” then fine, but I’m over letting people be unkind to women in the public eye. We need to stand up for our views but without being vicious. We need to be kinder. We need to stop and think what our words do to other people.

So you share a tweet about Dianne Abbot being a dick on Facebook, then imagine that she read it…

Because she might. And yours isn’t the only one. It’s one of many. One of thousands.
And some of the things that she’s supposed to have done might have been lied about like this one apparently was.

And get this, she’s a real person!

Not everyone can get on, not everyone shares the same views or political ideals but most people know what’s a decent thing to say about another human being.

Trevor also shat in the shrubbery of our garden. I found the stinking, sodden shit as I was pulling weeds out of the area. I found it on my gardening gloves. I was a little bit sick.

And the moral of the story is don’t shit in your own garden or your mum will go mental.

And if you can’t say anything nice…

On our England, sun shining,

On our England, sun shining,
Allergy sufferers whining,
As we bask in this weather,
Our Fair skin, it turns to leather,

We spend our time, sat in the sun
Alcohol fuelling our special brand of fun.

We’ve shaved our very hairy legs,
Later, Crying over Harry and Megs,
Cleaned the bird shit off the car,
Later Propping up the bar,
Buying ice cream from the van,
Sipping warm cider from a can,
Getting our arms rather red
Scoffing burned meat enveloped in bread,
Sitting in the garden next to the bin,
Quaffing new varieties of gin,
Putting the washing on the line
Obviously Drinking gargantuan amounts of wine,

Got dehydrated in the sun
Grabbed the last beef burger buns
Loaded trolley up with booze
Got sozzled, had a snooze.
Worn a brand new summer frock
Little shits, they ran amok
Factor fifty on the pale
Barbecuing for the males.

Fifty quid paddling pool
Punctured before they return to school
Overheating beloved family pet,
Lining pockets of fucking vet.
Thrown the salad in the bin
Wondered why we are not thin?
Woken early, drenched in sweat
Hangover, the ever constant threat.

Ice lolly’s, sweaty sandals are a must
Last years barby turned to rust
Garden used to be so cool
Now become our special doggy’s loo.
Trampoline death trap,wrestling ring
Husband freckled, barbecuing king.

Monday, back to work we trot
Moaning “I don’t like it, it’s too hot”
That’s it, its all done now
Next nice weekend is in October.

I love my little shits

I love my little shits.

I love my dog.

I love my husband.

I just wish that sometimes they’d all fuck off for a few hours, or maybe even, a full day…

No amount of sunshine and bank holiday good cheer can make up for the fact that my youngest has been in bed with me for the last three nights and he’s been up since 5.14am.

No amount of nice Sauvignon Blanc can make up for the two Manchester City champions flags that are stuck on the boys bedrooms walls with some contraband drawing pins. This seriously interferes with my fear of marks on walls, as does the dirty handprints that I can see in the sunshine. I have been wiping dirty walls all day, when not in the fucking car, ferrying children around.

No amount of five days off from school drop off can make up for the Thug Pug pissing on the carpet again or that Dangerous has been very rude to one of our neighbours for no apparent reason.

And no amount of anything can get me over Moto GP, mock eleven plus exams, middle child accidentally buying something on his X box for twenty quid and then lying about it, Dangerous pissing off to watch City, football practise, gymnastics practise, hanging out in Aldi, constantly cleaning up dog hair, refereeing fights on the trampoline whilst knowing that another eighteen households can hear you hissing “just stop it, you dicks! I AM NOT GOING TO FUCKING A&E TODAY”
In a sort of shouty whisper weird thing that’s neither shouting nor whispering BUT EVERY FUCKER CAN HEAR ME!

The bank holiday can fuck off!

I fucking insist that we desist with this ridiculous outdated holiday that serves no purpose other than to make me look forward to it and then dash my hopes with motherfucking reality.

And Breathe.

#blessed #sunshine

The Totes guide on How to survive Easter Sunday.

The Totes guide on How to survive Easter Sunday.

I know that I should have offered this advice earlier but I only just thought of it.

Sorry for being slack.

Easter Sunday…

A day that time forgot. Seriously, it’s like going back to the seventies. The lyrics to Morrissey’s “Every Day is Like Sunday” could be brought bang up to date for modern consumption for something like the XFactor by changing the lyrics to “Every Day is like Easter Sunday”.

Can you imagine “The Smiths” night on XFactor with Johnny Marr and Mozza as judges? There’d be mash ups of “There is a light that never goes out” and “Girlfriend in a Coma” complete with backing dancers doing literal interpretations of the lyrics. A ten tonne truck could drive onto the stage for the finale and knock backing dancers over.

Louis Walsh would have a boy band performing “This charming man”. All members of the band would be holding a gladioli whilst doing bizarre harmonies but sat on bar stools In a line. As it was a singers turn to sing, the young pretty boy could wave his stem in a come hither way whilst looking into camera. Louis would be holding his crotch.

Mozza would walk out when it became apparent that some of the lyrics had been changed to have a happier outcome.

Sharon would wear a T shirt that says “Meat is ethically ok if it was outdoor reared and humanely slaughtered”

There’s generations of people that have grown up thinking that Sunday isn’t that bad. Back in the Seventies and eighties, it was a day to sleep through. It’s hardly surprising that hundreds of thousands of kids spent Saturday nights off their tits in warehouses and clubs when the only thing that they had to look forward to on Sunday was falling asleep with their head in a Sunday lunch whilst their parents wondered where they went wrong or going to the pub when it was open from twelve until three. If you’d had a really good weekend, you could usually get to the pub before falling asleep until Tuesday.

1994 was when this all changed with “The Sunday Trading Act”. I’m not sure that I remember when shops first started opening on a Sunday as I was probably to busy embracing popular culture in the form of MDMA. This was obviously the governments fault as it took them so long to let anything open on a Sunday.

Now everything’s open on a Sunday,
Except Easter Sunday when nothing is open.

I always forget this.

Yesterday,I offered to take Bella shopping today but Nana said

“But the Trafford centre isn’t open. It’s Easter Sunday!” I replied “are you sure?”

She gave me a very strange look. Nana is catholic.

I am a godless heathen. Dangerous told me so this morning when I was telling him that Homebase would definitely be open and that I wanted to go and buy some plants for the Garden.
As we drove there in the car because I insisted that it would be open, he patiently explained that Easter is the holiest day of the year. When I looked perplexed, he warmed to his theme and started asking what the fuck religious upbringing had I had? As we drove past the deserted car park, I kept saying “Jesus, it’s not open! What the actual fuck! I’m sure that it was open last year” to which he replied “No, you tried to go to the garden centre last year to buy plants on Easter Sunday. The garden centre was closed too.”

I’d never considered that Easter is actually a really holy day. The closest that I’ve ever been to organised religion was when I was in the brownies and we had to go to church with them. I thought Christmas was the really holy one and that Easter was just about chocolate. Now I have been reliably informed by my smug husband that it’s about chocolate and the shops being shut because it’s the most religious day.

Instead of shopping for plants, we went for a very ill advised walk down the TransPennine trail. Dangerous chased after the dog every time he saw another dog and insisted that he be on a lead. A nice lady with a dog asked if Trevor wasn’t good with other dogs to which I replied “No, he’s fine, it’s just my husband never walks the dog and he panics when he sees another dog, or a car, or a bike, or a blade of grass!”

The little shits fought over a ball and moaned. This is actually an understatement. They kicked the living shit out of each other to the point where Dangerous and I actually started mocking them and laughing at them because they were so horrible. Oscar was actually arguing with himself at points, like a man at chucking out time who’s had nine pints of Stella.

Dangerous said that it was the furthest he’d ever walked in his life.

So how to overcome this very holy and important day…

Lock the kids in the playroom with their chocolate spoils and some tech.

Eat loads of chocolate, drink loads of booze and do some online shopping.

I suppose that we could play “Sunday Night Slut” later.

You do realise that the first choice will be between Morrissey and Marr!

I’ve had my hair bleached for Mother’s Day and I’m officially under 10 stone.

I’ve had my hair bleached for Mother’s Day and I’m officially under 10 stone.

It doesn’t take much to make me happy.

Trevor didn’t appreciate going to get my hair done and was an utter twat. He howled whilst I was getting the toner put on my hair. He wouldn’t sit still, wouldn’t have a nap and kept trumping. The nice stylists kept looking around for an actual pile of dog shit, such was the stench.

I have been bought a bottle of Fleurie for Mother’s Day and some gin and tonic popcorn. Dangerous has also dug out my “push present” from when I had Bella, to sell.
The little shits seem most perturbed that we are both happy to sell my diamond necklace. I don’t like diamonds. I don’t like real jewellery. I’m not sure what came over him when he bought it. I don’t think that he knows what came over him when he bought it.

Does anybody know anywhere good that buys second hand jewellery? I’m sure that we will be disappointed with what it’s worth but it will probably cover a couple of Zara visits.

 

Hoorah – spring has sprung

Hoorah – spring has sprung. I have walked Trevor for over two hours. He shat and pissed on the floor in the playroom again last night. Dr Beckmann stain removal for carpets has had a surprising rise in profits since we got the Thug Pug.

And I didn’t shout at anyone this morning as opposed to last weeks, every morning psycho bitch from hell fest.

I’m off for more Pain management stuff. I have relapsed.

Dress Monki £19.99
Denim coat Asos £20
Boots Fly London www.bellsshoes.co.uk
Bag H&M collaboration with Kenzo £39.99

How to tell children about something terrible without scarring them for life…..the Totes way.

How to tell children about something terrible without scarring them for life…..the Totes way.

No doubt the little darlings will need counselling for Post traumatic stress in later life.

So here’s the thing. My poor lovely dog walker sent me a message yesterday to say that everything was ok but “please call me”
Obviously I presumed that Trevor our Thug Pug was poorly and I was a bit worried.
I called her and the whole office sat and listened to me as I made ever more terrified wails on the phone as I spoke to her.

Poor Trevor had been on a walk with his doggy friends and was happily playing with them. Sophie heard a yelp and discovered to her horror that Trevor’s eye was hanging out. Now, this was horrific for her. She rushed him to the vets who I later spoke to and they said that she had saved his eye with her quick thinking. Poor Sophie was distraught and phoned me. I was distraught too and my whole office listened in to the conversation with sickening interest.

I’d like to point out that it was better for Trevor that he was with a professional when this happened as I’d probably have gone to pieces. I’m shit in a crisis. I once saw somebody get knocked over. I didn’t help them or offer assistance. I just stood with my mouth open because I’m a bit of a tit. Having said that, we once got burgled and I was first out of the house to tackle the burglar on the drive who tried to run us over so let’s just say that my response to things out of the ordinary is erratic at best and useless combined with aggressive at worst.

Trevor is fine. He was sedated at the vets and is now at home living it up as we let him sleep in our bed and feed him scrambled eggs for breakfast. Apparently it’s a Pug thing. They have a weak spot and if they are unlucky, a blow to that area can lead to their eye coming out of its socket. Nothing happened to him other than a dog knocked him at a funny angle.

Dangerous picked Trevor up from the vets and I picked my three little shits up from school. I had to tell them the news that Thug Pug was really not well. I considered my options.
I decided on a policy of gentle and reassuring honesty as I drove them to see Juju in Huddersfield for her birthday tea.

I remembered how upset I was when my dog got run over when I was little and vowed to soften the blow with my soothing and wise words.

There’s one thing that you can say about me and it’s that I’m honest. There’s no sugar coating things, even when I fucking try.

The other thing that you need to know is that our middle child is going through a phase of nightmares that all seem to involve the death of our beloved dog.

Obviously Oscar was the last kid to come out of school as is his way, especially when we are in a rush.

Mummy “oh for gods sake, just get in the bloody car. I need to TALK TO YOU! It’s very important something has happened!”

Children “is it Trevor? Is he ok?”

Mummy “Jesus, how did you work that out? Now please be quiet, he is quite ok!”

Children “aaaaaaahhhhh is he dead Mummy?”

Mummy “no, he’s fine, he’s at the vets. Now no crying because he is ok! Do you promise not to cry? PROMISE? Because he’s fine!”

Children “we promise Mummy! What has happened?”

Mummy “Well you see, Trevor’s eye fell out”

Children “AARRRRRRRGGGHHHHHHHHHHH NO NO NO”

As this conversation and subsequent screaming and vomiting took place we were sat in the parked car outside school. All the other mummies were walking past the car as my children basically became what can only be described as hysterical. Bella was screaming “I’m going to be sick Mummy!” As I tried to reassure her that he was ok.

I tried not to lose my shit but in the end I did as was always going to happen.

Three children sat screaming with tears running down their faces.

Mummy “STOP CRYING. LISTEN, YOU PROMISED NOT TO CRY AND YOU LIED! TREVOR IS OK. DADDY HAS GONE TO GET HIM. HIS EYE IS BACK IN. HE ISN’T DEAD OR BLIND”

Bella “I’m going to be sick Mummy”

Oscar “so where is his eye now? Can I see it? Did it bounce on the floor? He won’t be able to win a fight against a wolf now!”

Ted Waaaaaaahhhhhhh Mummy. I’m so sad”

Bella “shut up Oscar. That’s a stupid thing to say!”

Oscar “Mummy, Bella is horrible. I hate her”

Mummy -“look guys. He’s fine”

Bella “no he’s not. He will never be cute again!”

Mummy “yes he will and even if he had lost his eye. We’d still love him!”

Bella “But he would be ugly. Uuuurrrghhhh I think I’m going to be sick!”

Oscar “so did it bounce Mummy? The eye did it bounce?”

Mummy “no darling. It was still attached by blood vessels and sinews and stuff”

Bella “no I’m really going to be sick!”

Bella was of course sick in the car park. She had threatened so many times that she had to see it through.

They fought all the way on the two hour journey to see Juju and I had to feed them the Marks and Spencer’s chocolates that I’d bought Juju for her birthday to distract the little shits from actually kicking the living shit out of each other whilst I battled to keep the car in a straight line on the motorway.

So to recap

Keep it simple, be honest, and have sick bags ready.