Happy May Day! Luckily for us Great Brits, this year May 1st fell on a Monday, which meant another Glorious and Great British Bank Holiday for us all to enjoy. But today wasn’t going to be about BBQ’s, queues and booze. Today was to be about fun and frolics at the village fete, fairies, faun, flowers and phallic looking poles for us to prance around. Today was to be Pimms and lemonade on the lawn, followed by a raunchy summer romp in the miscanthus giganteus (that’s a large grass, just in case you were mistaken), finished off with the crowning glory of a beautiful May Queen. Happy May Day indeed. Could it possibly get any more pleasurable than this? Continue reading “MayDay MayDay”
Roll on the Great British Bank Holiday. A delightful long weekend in which important, tired and hard-working people get to rest their weary heads, and less important but equally as tired and hard-working FTM’s get to, quite frankly, carry on regardless. A joyful time in which the Great British Public love to either a) inebriate themselves over three consecutive days, whilst manning a succession of dwindling tinfoil BBQs in the pissing rain, wearing T-shirt and shorts, b) spend quality time with husbands, wives, partners and children, engaging in cohesive and incredibly fun activities, such as Twister, Jenga and Junior Trivial Pursuit or c) a bit of both, more commonly known as boozed-up childcare in the rain. Whichever way you choose to spend your Bank Holiday though, one thing is for sure: The Great British Bank Holiday simply wouldn’t be the same without a Great British Queue.
The GR has resurrected herself. Bang on cue. Just in time for Easter. It’s Day 1 of the “holidays” and her timing is impeccable once again. Her little-black-cloak has been dry-cleaned, in honour of the numerous jollifications planned and her scythe has been sharpened, ready to strike anyone or anything that, quite frankly, has the audacity to Gd’dam breathe. Approach at your own risk.
So here’s the thing. For the past year or so, I’ve been involved in an arrangement. A you-scratch-my-back-and-i’ll scratch-yours type of thing. In fact, I could easily go as far as to call it a relationship. A mutually beneficial, reciprocal kind of relationship, which saw its inception at the school gates. At first I was dubious, but after several rides, I was hooked. And so was She. Soon there was little alternative – we’d be lost without each other. Continue reading “Car Share”
When it comes to going on holiday, it’s somewhat of a prerequisite to actually like the people you are going with. After all, indulging in a Sex on The Beach with someone you like has to be preferable to sharing a Screaming Orgasm with someone you can’t bear the sight of, right? And so, it was a bloody good job that this year, once again, we were jollying with tried and tested holiday pals. Three years on the trot and any shred of shame had been annihilated, bulging bikini diets abolished and pre-holiday spray tans abandoned. This time round, we were holidaying together as old-timers, besties, bosoms. I say “we”. What I actually mean is “I”. For this year, controversially, I left my Other Half behind. And not simply because I don’t like him.
But just quite how controversial this move was, I hadn’t anticipated. Tongues wagged, heads turned. It was clear there were two schools of thought unfolding on the state of this marriage: Either he’s left her (in a hurricane of hormones, “with child” and two tear-away toddlers) or she’s left him (amid a mid-life crisis, with a 4o-something year old receding hair-line and his very own burgeoning belly – can you blame her?) Either way, with newly-acquired, expectant single-mum status, I was going to enjoy milking this little baby. Continue reading “Trouble in Paradise”
So here we are again. The central heating is on, the woolly cardigans are out and X-Factor has started. The summer we’d all been waiting for is done. Done and dusted. Caught on camera before being swept away as abruptly as a tidal wave, leaving us with nothing but sepia-tinged memories to cling onto. Sombreros are gathering dust on the tops of cupboards and the rose-tinted spectacles that last week hugged us tightly, are now long-lost amigos, forgotten amongst cluttered drawers full of everything and nothing. Needless to say, my vitamin-D enriched skin is now peeling into snowflakes of white and my sun-kissed legs won’t get to see the light of day for another year.
The clock had been ticking for nigh on two years. Tick Tock. Tickety Tock. 1460 home-made beds and 2190 meal-time marathons later, the time had finally come. For a holiday. Another one? Never mind a year’s worth of maternity leave, weekend joyrides in Amsterdam or the five week stint on The Costa Del MIL (& for that I most definitely deserve a medal). No, what was needed was a belting holiday blow-out, of the bum meets beach meets balcony meets bar meets buffet meets booze meets boogie meets bed kind. And with a party of six regressing-on-adolescent adults, four terror tots, one bouncing baby and a stuffed Minion in tow, forget Anonymous in Antalya. There was no question that this was going to be a holiday to remember. And so were we to be remembered. By every other poor sod in the environs. Continue reading “Brits on Tour”
The points had been clocking up for just over three years. 1,095 “I’ll go/you go” school-run squabbles and innumerable nappy-changing arguments later, the time had finally come. In honour of a rather large pending birthday, Mum and Dad were about to spend some QT together. As a couple. Ditching our generic titles in favour of Mr and Mrs M and with daughter deployed, we were to embark upon a short-escape, city-break. Sans child.
After all, it’s not every day that your other half turns a decade less than half a century.
And it’s not every day that life begins again. Apparently. Continue reading “Mum and Dad on Tour”
The points had been clocking up for four and a half years. 1,642 lost lie-ins and countless self-sacrificing moments later, the time had finally come. Guilty of wanton abandon [kids and husband “abandoned” at home, that is], she/I/mum was letting loose in Amsterdam. City of freedom, cannabis and prostitution. Continue reading “Mum on Tour”