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.
Continue reading “The Great British Bank Holiday”
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”