Parents – I give you…

Parents – I give you…

Ten imaginative and stylish things that you can do with the last three months letters and drawings that have been sent home from school, that you just found in your kids bag.

You know, all those mouldy old letters and dog eared drawings of a fish riding a tortoise or a self portrait that looks like your kid has taken magic mushrooms, that come out of the rotting school Bag?

You do know the sort…Easter bonnet competitions for over the enthusiastic and competitive parents, there has been an outbreak of nits, please shave your child’s head and dip it in fucking pesticide, permission to leave school to conduct a traffic survey in which at least two kids will get knocked over by an old bloke on a mobility scooter because he hates kids and they were pissing around outside his house, please send thirty quid so that your child can attend a horse denture clinic to see the dying art of denture making for rare breed shire horses and, can you please help out the PTA by baking and sending in two dozen cakes so that we can sell them for the princely sum of ten pence which is quite frankly an insult when every other mother fucker went to the Coop and that sort of general stuff type letters.

You know those letters?

They are usually filthy, water stained and considerably out of date. Accompanying them will be a considerable amount of pencil sharpener shavings, thirty unopened Xmas cards, an invite to a birthday party that you didn’t see and that took place last weekend, a couple of filthy used plasters, three dirty school jumpers but none belonging to your child and a pair of trainers that you had presumed lost and so replaced only last week.

Imagine the possibilities…

1, Fuck paying Hobbycarft prices! Simply use the letters as inexpensive decopatch. You could upcycle your hall console table that the little shits have taken chunks out of by kicking a football against Don’t worry about glue, use the three gallons of PVA stored in your ten year olds bedroom for the ingredients to slime that she thinks you don’t know about!

2, Have you not got a lighter and misplaced the cooks matches? Simply use a letter to get a flame from your hob to the barbecue! This could be quite dangerous. When testing out my theory, the smoke alarm went off, I panicked and threw the flaming paper in the sink.

3, puppy pads. Let your puppy piss all over them. They aren’t particularly absorbent but it is another idea…

4, should the worst happen and you run out of toilet paper…you could write a list to take to the supermarket on one!

5, use them as stylish table mats at Christmas.

6, do you have a dinner party arranged and you’ve run out of napkins? A school letter will make a a stylish and sophisticated napkin replacement. Your guests will be truly impressed. Should the conversation waiver, you could discuss your views on year twos residential course to the The youth hostel in Powys and how to get poster paint stains out of underwear.

7, Roll it up and make it into a straw for drinking wine. (Obviously when you’re already pissed as it does tend to make the paper soggy)!

8, How about making a letter into a hat to shield your eyes from the sun or a Spanish senorita type fan to cool you down on this hot day. You could do the traditional Flamenco dance for your husband whilst wafting it around sexily to cheer him up in his return for work.

9, Not paid the electricity bill this month? Set fire to the letters to create warmth and a cozy ambient feeling in your home, not to mention that rustic smokey smell.

10, how about making them into papermache and making a life size bust of Queen Victoria.

You are welcome!

Chin chin – up yer bum.

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 have taken a mental health day

I have taken a mental health day.

Everybody should do this now and again because it’s good for the soul.

It was good for my soul.

I have been having a bit of a hard time of it recently but today I realised that what I’ve been worried about is inconsequential. Nobody has died, my children are healthy and there are no real areas of concern. We have a roof over our heads and we live in a country that although not perfect, is not war torn nor poverty stricken. I know people who have real problems and mine aren’t that. I have just become too concerned with what, people who don’t know me, think of me.

I’ve decided today, to change that.

It was good for my soul.

Deciding to change my stance on something rather than let it get me down, was good for my soul.

I got up at the crack of dawn and went for the best run with my friends. It was cold and misty Not a soul was around as we set off. It was a bit eerie, not at all like Timperley. As we passed our statue of Frank Sidebottom, our voices echoed in an unusual way. No cars passed us and nobody was popping out for a paper. Sometimes a run and a moan is all you need to lift your spirits. We went down the canal where we played our “Hello, good morning ” game with other runners but they were having none of it.

We laughed at the miserable bastards.

Sometimes laughing at people that fail to acknowledge you is good for the soul.

We saw the man that we once accidentally knocked into a Bush and he did say hello.

The fact that this man can be so polite and smiling despite him ending up head first in a bush once at our hands, makes my day every time we see him.

As the mist burned away, I walked the kids to school and my lovely friend asked if we should take Thug Pug and have a cuppa outside Costa. Thug Pug was in an unusual mood where he saw fit to bark and howl at people and inanimate objects. I apologised to the other people, sat outside drinking coffee and smoking fags but the said that they didn’t mind at all.

He howled at Frank Sidebottom and he barked at a bin.

Sometimes a cuppa enjoyed whilst your dog is howling and you are sat in the sun is good for the soul.

As I run too much and have no core strength, don’t stretch and generally abuse my body, I have been thinking for a while that I should try Yoga. I haven’t done this as I’m scared of trying new things because I’m a big fat wuss.

Today I tried Yoga. Trying something new and enjoying it was brilliant.

It was good for my soul.

A lovely lady that I know organised the class as she’s newly qualified. She was having a practise before she starts the class properly next week.

It felt good to help her out and good to enjoy something new.

You’re getting to know it now, it was good for my soul.

I sat in the garden and contemplated my day. I decided to do nothing more.

I didn’t hoover, I didn’t dust and I didn’t look at any work.

It was good for my soul.

My problems aren’t that big. I write a blog and organise a couple of groups. Somewhere along the way, I’ve pissed a few people off but I’ve decided to stop bothering about the negatives.

Not everyone will like me just as I don’t like everyone. We can’t get on with everyone.

So what if I get the occasional message to say that a person hates me? So what if upon occasion I get five or six in a day? I can choose to ignore them.

I can choose to believe that these people don’t know me and that there words say more about them than they do about me.

I tell my eldest this a lot. I tell her that if someone is unkind to her, then it says more about them than it does about her.

I just didn’t tell myself the same thing.

So, whilst sat in the sun today, I did.

It was good for my soul.

I picked the little shits up from school and gave them a cuddle.

It was good for my soul.

Then I had a fuck off piece of chocolate cheese cake and a glass of wine.

And that was the best for my soul.

Chin chin up yer bum Mofos, to both the lovers and the haters.

If you fancy a yoga class next week, then I can highly recommend Vanessa who is running a class from 11.30 Tuesday at Bowdon Parish centre. Bowdon Cheshire.

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 to surviving the Great British May bank holiday

The Totes guide to surviving the Great British May bank holiday.

Handy hints for all types of British People.

It’s the bank holiday – “fucking epic”

I have started the bank holiday early as the three little shits are off school, something to do with democracy…Then something to do with the teachers thinking that they’d probably be better not to go in tomorrow as they’d like to spend the bank holiday weekend minging, off their tits!

The reason that teachers are teachers is because they are really fucking clever! I’ve yet to meet one that wasn’t overly partial to a “fuck off” glass of wine. What better way to get over a slight headache from over indulgence, than with a pre bank holiday weekend training day?

If you live in our beautiful land and accept the British way of life, then this one is for you.

For the first time in twenty years, the weather is actually going to be nice. We will spend the next twenty years looking back to the halcyon days of May bank holiday 2018.

So how will you spend it?

Whatever you decide…

Here’s a list of shit that you will definitely be needing to get through the next few days. Whether you be a teacher, a doctor, an accountant, an estate agent, landscape gardener, painter and decorator, IT consultant, banker, chef or TV presenter.

A case of Sauvignon Blanc, a couple of bottles of gin, good quality tonic water, beer, lemons, limes, raspberries/ blueberries (not to eat – to put in the gin), a case of Prosecco, ice and some Fanta or lemonade for the little shits.

A new barbecue because some arsehole never put it away last year and it’s gone rusty, sausages, burgers, burger buns, salad to put on the table and then for you to pop in the bin after you’ve eaten.

Whatever you do…

Get to the butchers tomorrow – you don’t want to get in the queue on Saturday and waste valuable drinking and tanning time.

Also – you will need, in no particular order:

A paddling pool, fourteen packets of Magnums that you should have bought last week when the weather was shit because they were on special offer, some tan accelerator, some factor fifty for your other half’s bald bit and some after sun for when you are bright red.


Tackle your lady garden, give yourself a manicure and a pedicure. If you have already procured your booze stash, don’t start on it in earnest until you’ve finished the task in hand – we don’t want any accidents! Find your bikini, throw the fucker out after crying a bit, find your swimming costume and pull your tummy in whilst swearing a lot and dust down the sun loungers (they are in the back of the shed and have been home to a family of mice)

Get your summer wardrobe out.

Find your flip flops.

Suggest that you go and watch the “Tour de Yorkshire” and make like the French with a gingham tablecloth for your picnic. Have an argument with your other half about why he threw out your tasteful gingham picnic table cloth.

Get up at four o clock in the morning on Saturday and beat the traffic to the coast. Stake your claim on the beach with your windbreak and deckchairs.

Whatever you do, do not under any circumstances:

Sober up.

Undertake any DIY whatsoever.

Try and blow the paddling pool up with your own lungs.

Use petrol to light the barbecue.

Have bank holiday sex after you’ve drunk too much or there will be no places on the labour ward in February 2019.

We have a child that was born in February, you have been warned…

This photo was taken this morning before I lost the will to live

This photo was taken this morning before I lost the will to live driving the little shits down the M62 to meet their cousins.

We got stuck on the motorway as we nearly always do. We got stuck from the moment that we joined the carriageway.

An electronic sign on the newly made “smart” part of the motorway informed us that junction 13 to 17 were heavily congested. I had Bella look up where these junctions were so as to ascertain if we were to be affected.

“Just google, where is junction thirteen on the M62? Erm westbound???, No eastbound because we are east, no west, no east of Huddersfield but heading west….is that right? “

“I don’t know I’m ten”

“Google says it doesn’t know mum!”


The boys grew bored of kicking the shit out of each other and demanded to play a game.

“Mum, let’s play a game!”

“Let me think, errrrr NO!”

“Why mum? We want to play a game. We’re bored. Can we play the game where we count the number of coloured cars?

“Errrrr No.”

“Why not Mummy? Let’s play a game”

“No, I’m sorry I hate playing games in the car because it leads to violence. You always fall out and start crying, then start twatting each other”


“Ok, Oscar, you can be purple, Ted yellow and Bella Orange”

“No, that’s not fair, I want to be white!”

“You can’t count white cars as there are too many. You need to look for more unusual colours!”

“I hate purple”

“I hate Orange”

“Yellow is rubbish”

“LOOOK A YELLOW CAR” I shouted to try and ease them into it.

“Aaaaaaaarrrggghhhh that’s not fair Mummy, you are helping”


“I want to be Orange”

“Well, I am Orange”

And then they started twatting each other again.

We thundered along the fifty mile an hour route, doing ten miles an hour with occasional stops. Bella kept winding down the window and saying that she was going to vomit and complaining that she could smell poo.

“That’s because we are next to the sewage plant darling and you have wound the window down and have your head out of the window!”

The new smart part of the motorway is very small and has been three years in the making. All of a sudden though, for the first time ever , there were tons of men working on the bit that isn’t yet “smart”.

We went past all the signs on the motorway where it informed us to not exceed the speed limit because “My Daddy works here”. When we see these signs of the little boy in the hard hat, we like to shout

“No he fucking doesn’t, no fucker works here. It’s been down to fifty miles an hour for three years because nobody’s Daddy is here at all”

Jumpsuit Rew Clothing
Jacket whistles, I will never disclose the price
Boots Zara £39.99
Necklace H&M €5

This is a Barnaby Bear

This is a Barnaby Bear.

Barnaby Bear has had a fucker of a weekend.

He’s thinking of ways to leave his employ. He’s sent his CV off to lots of other employers.

He’s uploaded his CV onto “Reed” and he’s polished up his LinkedIn.

He started life at the “Build a Bear Workshop”. They told him in training that he’d get to sit on his arse all day and that life would be good for him.

But it’s not…

Unfortunately Barnaby drew the short straw.

He got to be a class bear. The Bear that, every week, has to lie in a suitcase and then go home with a different smelly six year old.

Some six year olds are okay. They might be an only child or perhaps the eldest child in a family. The mummy’s and Daddy’s take good care of Barnaby and they do nice things like go to an ice cream farm, the zoo or maybe go and visit Nana.

Some mummy’s wash his clothes and take hundreds of photos of him doing exciting things. Barnaby once went to Egypt on an aeroplane. He has been to Paris and to watch Manchester United.

Gigs like these are few and far between though.

Barnaby has to take the rough with the smooth.

And when it’s rough, it’s rough. Barnaby is going to contact his fucking union about this weekend. He’s got rights. He deserves so much more than this shit!

Barnaby has burnt out. His anxiety is out of control. He can’t stand the anticipation of finding out just what sort of family he’s going to end up with.

He needs a few weeks off in the Priory.

This weekend when he was shown to where he was staying, he didn’t think that it would be too bad. He remembered the house as he’d been before. He remembered a nice home where he wasn’t treated too badly. He’d been to swimming lessons with the family before. They weren’t the sort to take him abroad but they would treat him with the respect that he deserved.

Except they didn’t, they’d changed…

The Mummy that had tried so hard to do exciting things, the first time that they’d met, couldn’t be arsed. She sniffed his clothes and mentioned washing them, but then the lazy bitch never got around to it.

She took the three little shits to swimming lesions, gymnastics and football but she forgot Barnaby.

Barnaby thought that he sensed hostility when he first saw her. Lots of mums and dads moan about the printer not working but this woman was nasty.

He laid in his suitcase all bastard weekend. Waiting, waiting. They didn’t deserve him. They didn’t even check to see if he was okay.

And then at seven o clock on Sunday night, the sick bitch remembered him. Barnaby blinked, blinded by the light and was overcome with emotion.

He should have been careful what he wished for.

The six year old and his brother took him on the trampoline.

They let the dog lick him.

The mother took a photo and ordered the six year old to write some lies about what they’d done that weekend.

So that’s it, he’s fucking out of there. He’s not going to stand for it. He’s going to take the primary school to a fucking tribunal.

And then he’s going down the fucking pub.

He’s going to spend the money that he gets in compensation on getting high and loose women.

I’m parked on a quiet side street in Hale

I’m parked on a quiet side street in Hale waiting for the two eldest shits to be tutored in the fine art of passing the entrance exams. Curtains are twitching as the residents wonder if they are about to be done over. My car stands out like a sore thumb in these parts.

I’m not much into cars. If I were to be filthy rich, I’m sure that I’d get s nicer car but cars don’t do it for me. I have tried explaining to Ted about them being a depreciating asset but it doesn’t concern him. He’s still going to buy a Lamborghini when he grows up. I have also tried to explain that they cost about the price of a two bedroom apartment and that he wouldn’t be able to insure it but he barely looked up from “Fortnight”

This car has started to smell rather like the last car. I got rid of the last one because there was an invasive smell that couldn’t be shifted. Despite me cleaning this one and the last out, about once a fortnight, they both smell.
I think that it is the little shits. No amount of Frebreeze or Oust seems to make the car smell nice for more than twenty four hours. It just smells dirty. It smells of dirty little boys.

I’d just like to point out that the boys may well smell bit that’s not for lack of effort on my part.

I make one of them have a shower every day and the other two, every other day. This is a relatively new thing. I have spent the last ten years bending over a bath. My back hurts just thinking about how long I have spent bent over a bath as three squirming little bodies Twatted each other and rubbed shampoo in their eyes.

“Aaaaaaaarrggghhh. It’s in my eyes!”

“Not again, darling. That’s the fifth time this fucking week that you’ve managed to get shampoo in your eyes”

My little darlings never wanted to get in the bath but once in, I couldn’t get the little fuckers out. They would have sat in there for hours if I’d let them with the disgusting mouldy bath toys. When the disgusting mouldy bath toys finally went to the bathroom in the sky, it was a very sad day in our house. This wasn’t all that long ago.

And don’t get me started on the bottles of shampoo that have gone missing to make bubbles!

We actually have old fashioned bars of soap in our home because shower gel would last all of ninety fucking seconds. The problem with the well know brand of soap that I use, is that, it disintegrates if left in water for an hour or so. You will never witness a woman losing her shit quite so convincingly as when I find s bath full of freezing cold water with a blob of something that once was soap but now is like a chemical spill in the bath.

Now, they simply use all the hot water and flood the bathroom floor before emerging without having actually washed themselves. I regularly have to do the scratch and sniff test on the boys and then frogmarch them back in again to wash the chocolate from around their mouths whilst shouting

“Bums, willies, bums willies, get them washed now please. WITH SOAP!”

It’s Thirsty Thursday. The amateur night of midweek drinking but still a special night on the calendar.

Chin chin. Up yer bum.

Dress Rew
Necklace – it was from
Boots Zara

We are live from the leisure centre

We are live from the leisure centre.

It is full of nice parents that don’t snarl like a psycho at their little darlings. I, on the other hand have been banging my head against a wall and weeping/swearing whilst intermittently snarling at them.

Banging your head against a wall is quite an effective means of blocking out the pain caused by three little shits whom have no concept of time and still can’t dress themselves. Other ways are drinking vast amounts of alcohol. I have checked and the leisure centre doesn’t allow alcohol on the premises.

Today we (that’s me and the little shits) are going to be working on a concept that my darlings still find very difficult to grasp.

It’s centred around socks and the misuse of socks and footwear in general.

I have tried explaining the concept in its entirety but as they are only six, eight and ten, they have been struggling to comprehend this unbelievably complex subject.

Socks are worn on the feet to stop the outer shoe rubbing against the skin and creating pain. Socks can also be used to gather up the perspiration that comes from the foot and then washed so that the footwear/shoe does not harbour foul odours from the perspiration.

Today we will be working on part of this principle.

Reasons that you shouldn’t wear socks outside and also reasons that you should never leave socks outside overnight or for a few weeks.

1, if you wear socks outside without shoes, they will become possibly wet but definitely very dirty.

2, wearing socks outside will not protect your feet from stones and banging them on things.

3, if you leave your socks outside for a while, they will be taken by the fox or an earwig could use it as a home.

4, if you leave your socks outside, Mum won’t be able to wash the dark brown stained socks because she won’t be able to fucking find them.

5, if it is wet outside and you walk around with your socks on, then come back inside, you will make wet and muddy footprints on the floor.

That’s enough for this module now. They can’t take too much in at once.

This afternoon, we are also going to be having an introduction on the complexities of how Mum will go fucking mental if you throw lolly sticks and other rubbish under the bastard trampoline.

I’m out, out tonight!

Some days you should just keep your mouth shut

Some days you should just keep your mouth shut.

Do you think that I kept it shut?

That’s right – did I fuck!

There I was, at pick up time channeling Mr Tumble after my seven mile run (that turned in to nine or ten) when I decided to invite half the school to our house for a play date.

Bella had a friend, Oscar had two friends and their brothers.

I’m lying about half the school but there were eight of them. Ranging in age from three to ten.

What do you do on a lovely hot day if you are a kind but delusional parent? I’ll tell you – you give all the little shits a Magnum whilst thy are on the trampoline and tell them to sit down whilst they eat.

Do you think that they sat down?

That’s right – did they fuck!

I only left them for three minutes.

I have cleaned the thick of it off but I failed to get all the writing off the netting.

Who knew that you could write with ice cream?

After the ice cream, do you think that was the end of it?

That’s right – was it fuck!

There was delighted shouting from the trampoline/wrestling cage.

The older children pointed at the three year old and excitedly and told me that he’d shit his pants.

“Are you sure, are you really sure?”

“Yes he has done a poo in his pants. We are sure – he stinks”

Do you think that he had really shat himself?

No you are right – the lovely little boys were fibbing.

I looked around in vain for a nappy. I found wet wipes and then I thought to ask his elder brother he if his little brother wore pants or nappies.

Eventually I picked up the little boy and checked his pants.

Luckily we had a bottle of Prosecco in. I don’t even like Prosecco. I had to put some Chombard in it to make it taste better.

Do you think that it tasted better?

That’s right – it fucking did.

We drank it in the sun whilst shouting at the crotchfruit to not kill each other.

Do you think that they listened?

That’s right – did they fuck?

When Dangerous got home, I gave him the bad news about our lack of alcohol.

Do you think that he took it well?

Did he fuck!

I got sent to Sainsbury’s for provisions.

Chin chin, up yer bum on this sunny Friday.

Do you like the picture of me on the running gear? I’m going to pay Dawn for making me look so skinny.