June 30, 2004

From the King of Chavs to the King of Cheese

A word of advice to you all: never meet your idols. Ok, so Macca isn’t actually an idol (I leave that cross for Jimmy Cliff to bear) but he’s a living legend and I wasn’t going to miss hearing him belt out some classic Beatles tracks.

You see, our Very-Cool-Father brought me and my sister up on a strict diet of The Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin and The Who. But it was the Beatles that we identified with the most from an early age.

Those long and boring drives to various holiday destinations were never quite so long and boring when we could belt out “Drive my Car”, “Eleanor Rigby” and “Rocky Racoon” from the back at the top of our pre-pubescent voices. Despite our pleadings and remonstrations, our Not-Quite-So-Cool-But-Incredibly-Lovely-Mother would usually go and spoil it all by playing “Brian Adams - The Best of”.

Ms Jones: (whiny voice)“Muuuummmm, my ears are bleeding.”

Mum: “Don’t be silly, dear. You’ve had your music, now it’s my turn. Dum di dum, Look into my heart, you will find…

To this day, I still know all the words to That Song and whenever I hear it I start to shake, burble and splutter. Perhaps I should wear a bracelet to warn people!

I digress! There were about fifteen of us down in Glastonbury and not a single one of us could bring ourselves to admit that we actually wouldn’t mind seeing Paul McCartney that much at all… if there weren’t any other good bands on at the same time, you understand. But one by one we came out of the McCartney closet and we set off to the Pyramid Stage bolstered by the fact that we were all indeed as sad as each other.

So imagine my abject horror when he kicked off the set with the uber-cheesy Jet. I’ll go further and ask you to picture the look on my face when the ENTIRE CROWD sang along enthusiastically to the NER NA NA NER NA NA NER NA bit.


All of the above!

The rest of the gig was like some kind of pain/pleasure torture technique, oscillating from the superb to the toe-curlingly awful. The man is talented; there can be no denying that. Technically superb with that instantly recognisable voice but just so fucking cheeeeeeesy with it. It was like watching a wedge of Edam singing rock & roll. His chitchat between numbers was worthy of a turn at the Phoenix Club. After the closing bars to Let It Be he uttered the corniest of lines I’ve heard anyone ever speak.

“Glastonbury, I can feeeeel your vibrations. Groooooovey.”

I nearly died!!!


June 29, 2004

Glastonbury 2004 - part 1

Thanks to my sister for posting my updates over at hers. I fear that she may be feeling less generous when she sees how much mud I've brought home with me. I'll clean the bath tonight, I promise. xxx

To be honest, I hadn’t expected the weekend to start off with a near death experience! Scary stuff actually and my heart hasn’t quite dropped back into its chest cavity.

The Old Girl was carrying more weight than Rick Waller, what with four lardy people, four rucksacks, four tents, four sleeping bags and three crates of beer. She looked more like a speedboat than a car so back heavy was she. It was only when I hit a smooth 75mph in the middle lane of the M4 at rush hour that I discovered that the front tires didn’t have enough grip. One minute she was ploughing down in a straight line, the next she’s all over the place and the steering wheel is as light as a feather. She lurched one way, and then the other and then back again. I had absolutely no control

At first I thought we were being buffeted by the wind but a quick glance at the static trees whizzing by blew that theory out of the water. The expression on the face of my navigator confirmed my suspicion that we were fucked. I could see the whites of his eyes as his right foot instinctively tried to find the break pedal in the passenger seat! I kept it together though, and got us into the slow lane where cautious experimentation determined that we couldn’t push her over 60mph. Oh yes… 60mph to Glastonbury, heart in mouth all the way. I was overtaken by three of those fuck-off huge lorries that carry cars around... up a hill!!!

In all seriousness it’s funny how the sudden realisation that you nearly killed yourself and three of your best mates can affect you. I couldn’t get there soon enough and it took a day for the knot in my stomach to go. But get there in one piece we did, and it was a blinder.

One of the best, and worst, experiences was the football. The atmosphere was great – you just don’t get football hooligans at Glastonbury and so everyone there was a genuine, peaceful football fan. Why can’t football always be like that? I’m not saying there wasn’t any harsh language flying about (one of my mates must have used the C word over a hundred times) but it didn’t translate into that aggression you often feel on the terraces. It was like a big peaceful football love-in, but one with a very bad comedown. I thought the Swiss were supposed to be neutral!

On to the Friday: You’ll have all seen the news… it was a muddy one. But we were graced with one day of beautiful weather and boy did I bask in it. Life couldn’t get much better really, sat in the sunshine listening to music, soaking up the atmosphere with your best mates, beer flowing, joints rolling, all responsibilities seeming so far away. The highlight of the day was Snow Patrol. Their recent album hit me straight in the jugular when it was released and I had to watch them a hundred yards or so away from my mates for fear of them seeing me get more than a little emotional... not that they would have minded but, you know…

The hard life caught up with me later that evening and I slept (or if you believe my friends I passed out) right the way through Kings of Leon, who sounded shit anyway. I wanted to watch Oasis. They headlined my first ever Glastonbury in 1995 but I have no recollection of it at all (younger, more hedonistic days) and while I’m not a great fan, they were the soundtrack to my student years.

But, SHOCK HORROR, Oasis were shit. Liam Gallagher had clearly mistaken Glastonbury for a fancy dress party and had come as the King of Chavs wearing an ankle length bright white parka (what a wanker), and we bailed out after he snarled his way through Rock and Roll Star. We wandered around for a while, ate banana and chocolate crepes and headed back to the tents where we lit a fire and talked (shit) into the small hours.

More to follow soon.


June 23, 2004

Music, mates and just a little precipitation

Oooooooh, I’m all excited and all of a fluster. I’m raring and ready to go. My knee is jiggling under the desk, my focus has vanished and this flier I’m working on can go to hell.

I’m off to Glastonbury tomorrow and even the rain won’t dampen my spirits (though it may well dampen the rest of me). The Old Girl’s itching to get on the road too, though I don’t know how she’ll cope carrying four people, four rucksacks, four tents and four crates of beer down the M3 in her petite frame. I doubt we’ll be hitting the fast lane much!

The 5.30 start’s not daunting me either. Getting up early for work is shit, but getting up early for play definitely isn't.

We’re travelling down in two cars from two different parts of London so I’m expecting some comedy phonecalls when we get there along the lines of:

“We’re just coming into the field now, where are you?”

“Oh, we’re pitching up by the blue dome tent and next to the orange one man affair about three quarters of the way up the field. There’s a man with a beard and a funny hat standing a couple of metres away. Can you see us?”


We’ll get there though.

So, until I’m back my lovelies, until Tuesday when I’m sat at my desk, tired, flat and wishing I’d finished the marketing flier before I’d left, until then have a lovely, lovely weekend. I shall think of you all… occasionally.


June 22, 2004


I’m out of sorts today. God knows I shouldn’t be, what with the 4:2 blast into the quarterfinals last night and what’s coming my way over the weekend: Glastonbury, and it just got about 20% better because I’ll be watching the next England game in a field with thousands of other people and six very, very good mates.

Suffering is such a terrible thing and I hate seeing it in others. If I see someone weighed down with pain and sorrow I can’t help but take a little bit of it onto my shoulders. My instinct is to soothe and comfort; I can never just walk away. That is who I am. I will never change and I don’t want to.

But I sense some Jonesy time is in order and with that in mind I cannot wait until Glastonbury. I’m going with some of the best people I know and I’m going to let their friendship put back what helping someone has taken out of me.


June 21, 2004

Miss Fuckwit UK

Scrap Miss World. It’s an outdated competition. And besides, there’s just no comedy value there. Well none that’s actually intended.

Bring on Miss Fuckwit World instead, a search for the woman who finds herself saying “whoops” the most. I would enter that competition and I reckon I’d stand a pretty good chance of blowing any opposition out of the water. I thought I’d put forward a synopsis of Saturday’s most fuckwitty moments and you can judge for yourself whether I'd be fit to represent our glorious nation.

Saturday 8.30am:

I got up. This in itself is probably the biggest mistake I made this weekend. Had I not got up, then nothing could have possibly gone that wrong.

Saturday 2pm

I broke my £40 Diamond Water Wheel Tile Cutter… by washing it. Only afterwards did I notice the big red sticker saying, “Do not wash this tile cutter with a hose or any other water jet”. Oh well!

Saturday 3pm

Utterly fed up with the fact that I’d been such a fuckwit I decided to head round to my mate’s house for a cuppa. Upon leaving my flat to get to my car I found that the most random bit of parking I have ever been responsible for had landed me a nice fat £40 parking fine. Bollocks!

Saturday 4.30pm

I offered to iron my mate’s clothes while she’s in the bath getting ready for a hot date. Now you know those T-shirts that have that foamy stuff printed on, you know, the stuff that if you pass a hot iron over it melts and smears all over the shirt and burns itself indelibly onto the iron? Well, guess what… Oh yes!!!

Saturday 5.30pm

Because my mate had been helping me out with the tiling, and because I’d ruined her shirt, I offered to drop her off at her hot date. She gave me the address and we spend a good half hour completely baffled by my A to Z. It just didn’t makes sense and we poured and poured over it… that is until I noticed that when page 92 had come loose a month back I’d stuck it back in the book next to page 121 rather than page 91. Pourquoi? Who the hell knows!

I reckon, based on the information provided above, I’d be a good candidate for Miss Fuckwit UK. If we don’t win the football, maybe I could bring this trophy home?


June 18, 2004

Is this the best name in Euro 2004?

Bernt Haas

(think about it?)

June 17, 2004

Oooooh. What should I blog about today then?

The Big Brother Bust up? Nope!

The fact I pulled a sickie? Nope!

My car? Nope!

My Flat? Fuck no!

Hang on a minute, doesn’t that just leave, I mean it can only be, but dare I? Shall I?

Of course I fucking well will!!!!


You were so good on Sunday. Play like that again and we stand a chance.

Becks, lift your team mates and fire them up.

Michael, get into the game and make those runs that you know can tear defences apart.

Scholes, forget what everyone is saying. You can score for England! I know you can. (just watch those shite tackles, though!)

James, if we’re winning at ninety minutes and the Swiss get a free kick, keep Ashley Cole on the line with you.

Rooney, keep making runs like that one and you’ll be set.

Heskey, please be careful when you tackle.

Gerrard, put that back pass behind you. This is your tournament!

Sol, stand tall and keep your defence strong.

And sis, if by any horrible chance England lose tonight and I come home all dejected and sad, please don’t bounce down the hall and tell me you were supporting the Swiss. Just let me fall into bed and leave me to my abject misery. You could bring me chocolate, though!


June 16, 2004

Room 101

For want of anything particularly exciting happening at the moment, I thought I’d let you know some of the things I’d happily send into the deep gloom of Room 101, never to return. Should I ever get the chance.

Firstly I’d like to nominate the summer cold. What the bulbous fuck is that all about? Clearly it makes sense to develop a steaming head cold when the ambient temperature is a cool 32 degrees centigrade in the shade!!! Colds in the winter? Fine! I can live with them. They’re a great excuse to snuggle up in front of the telly wrapped in a fleecy blanket with a hot water bottle and a hot toddy. But in the summer, when you’re too fucking hot, when lethargy has taken its hold, when you’re stuck on a boiling hot tube with a runny nose and a sore throat and you’d rather be in a pub by the river, well that’s just taking the fucking piss as far as I’m concerned!

Next up is road rage, mine specifically. You would never have guessed that such a cool, calm and collected woman like me would suffer from it, would you? Well, would you? I hold my hands up and admit that I do. The strange thing is that I don’t suffer from it all the time and I’m struggling to figure out the pattern behind it. Very often, when I’m stressed with work or with the flat, I’ll go for a drive somewhere and it will calm and soothe me. Days like these the road rage is nowhere to be seen. I let people in from the side roads, I smile and thank drivers for their every generosity. But there are days when I just scowl and compete and ride as close to the bumper as I can. If someone cuts me up I hammer my fist on the horn and call them a wanker. If the traffic won’t let me in, I’ll grumble under my breath and force my way onto the road, often sticking two fingers up as I do so. It’s a bit embarrassing really. I don’t like road rage in others and I hate it more in myself, so if I could just take away that side of my driving, I’d be a happy and content bunny, and so would all who drive with me.

The third has got to be PMT. Regular readers will have been subject to all the glorious and gory rants that I’ve laid down on this blog. But honestly, why the fuck do we have to deal with it? It’s horrible feeling narky, paranoid, ugly, unattractive, fat, sore and grumpy for no reason other than you haven’t conceived that month! For three days my trousers feel tight, (well, that’s not strictly true. They feel tight pretty much most of time. Maybe I should say “tighter”). For three days I feel like someone is burning red-hot pokers through my abdomen. For three days I’m restless and find it difficult to sleep. For three days I’m aware that I might cry because I spilt some water. And for a week, I bleed. That’s just not right, surely!

Lastly, after much thought, I’d like to put my sister into room 101. She was supporting France on Sunday. I think my parents left the hospital with the wrong baby by mistake.


June 14, 2004

From the jaws of victory

It’s shaping up to be a great party, all of us together at the barbeque, mates, mates of mates and partners of mates. The sun is shining, there’s a bin full of ice-cold beer and England are kicking off in less than four hours time. The air buzzes with anticipation as we tuck into drumsticks, burgers and hotdogs. Spirits are high and the game is the only topic of conversation.

“We don't have a chance. France are too good.”

“Don’t say that! You never know!”

“France are shit hot though. I mean we could do it, but we'd have to put up one hell of a show.”

“God the butterflies!”

“Yeah, I’ve been like this since Thursday.”

“Woke up at nine!”

7.45 pm and the anticipation hums like static in the air. You can feel it, touch it even. We crowd into the living room, squashed up in our common friendship. Our faces are lit with expectation. The ref blows the whistle and we take a breath.

We look good and our hopes begin to rise as England push further and further forward. A sigh of relief as France puts the ball over. We settle back as England regains control.

And then it happens, the ball hits the back of the net and we roar our appreciation while the French shake their heads.

Half time and we shuffle out into the air. The talk is breathless, sentences short and hopeful.

“We can do it!”

“I know we can!”

“We can really do it!”


We pack back in and the second half gets underway. We’re playing too deep. We’re defending too much.

“Get up there! GET UP THERE!”

And then


But Beckham misses.

“We’re still one up though. We can do this. COME ON ENGLAND!!! COME ON!”

A reckless challenge and we hold our breaths as one of the world’s greatest masters steps up. He scores. The room deflates as we see it slipping away.

“Fuck’s sake!”

“A draw is better than a loss.”

“No, Gerrard. Fuck NO!!”

Up he steps again and we know. We just know and we don’t even have to look.

France wins two one. The sun has gone now, the beer has run out. We shuffle our way home. Muted.

“It’s okay. We’ll beat them in the final.”


June 10, 2004

By the way...

... The Old Girl's legal now.



The Old Girl and Me – Part One

I remember telling you that The Old Girl and I have a shared sense of adventure that makes for some interesting tales. Last night’s little run-around was no exception.

After apologising profusely for her derogatory remark about the England air-freshener, I agreed to drop my sister off at her friend’s house on my way to work on the flat. The short stroll to the car took us past the local boozery outside which a group of Hackett wearing pond scum was guzzling pints of the old wife-beater in the hot sunshine.

“SHOW US YA MELONS, TREACUL!!!” came a highly intellectual shout from amidst the group. We walked on wondering how we could stop these men from contributing to the gene pool. Off we drove, my sister, The Old Girl and me, windows down, music up, air freshener bobbing away happy to have joined our gang.

Fast-forward a couple of hours (because really all I did was drive a bit, go to B&Q, drive a bit more, cut a tile, and drive home) and I was enjoying some quality time with The Old Girl, just the two of us. Windows down (again), music up (again), air freshener grooving away to Maroon 5 and all was well in the world once more.

I turned the corner onto the street and drove up the road towards the aforementioned local boozery. Thirty metres back and I saw that the pond scum were still there. I hardly noticed the bloke cycling past them on the pavement.

Well, that was until one of the Hackett wearing Neanderthals suddenly jumped up and tried to push him off his bike. Bikeman lost his balance and hopped onto the road. Hackett Man 1 jumped after him, throwing indiscriminate punches around Bikeman’s head. Luckily he had a cyclist helmet on. Bikeman, half on / half off his bike, tried hard to get away but Hackett Man 1 had a firm grip of his shirt. The struggle moved into the centre of the road, Hackett Man 1 punching, kicking and pulling, Bikeman just trying to get away. By this time I had stopped the car ten metres away and was waiting for one of the many people outside the pub to intervene.

And sure enough Hackett Man 2 and Hackett Man 3 got up and headed over. I assumed they were going to pull their friend away, but to my horror they joined in instead. It was now three on one and no one was doing anything to intervene. About ten grown men were drinking outside this pub and none of them got up.

You know when you switch into automatic and you’re not really sure why you do what you do? Well I found myself putting the car into first gear and driving towards the scuffling group of men. Bikeman was taking punches everywhere. I drove closer and closer, edging towards them shouting at them to leave him alone. They turned but carried on. I kept advancing slowly shouting all the while. Eventually they would have to move or my car would drive into them. It worked. The fight broke off. I didn’t see what happened to Bikeman but I hoped he had enough time to get on his bike and cycle off. Either way he disappeared behind The Old Girl.

Hackett Man 2 walked past my side of the car in a threatening manner and I told him that none of us want to see that kind of shit on our streets. I realised that my windows were down and both doors were unlocked. I started to get nervous and wished that I had kept my mouth shut. He walked passed leaving me alone. Hackett Man 1 however was still pumped up and he walked round to the other side of The Old Girl. He started trying to kick the window in and so I drove off.

I parked a few block away, got out of the car and started to shake. I called the police, explained what I could and then headed for the flat. The closer I got the shakier I felt. What if they saw me? What if they recognised the car? Would they follow me to the flat?

I was too shaky to find my keys so I knocked and my sister opened the door. I burst through and shouted at her to lock up quickly. I stood there shaking and told her what had happened. Stella and Marlboro Lights were found and duly consumed. Over the next half hour I began to calm down but as I did so I began to question whether I’d done the right thing. I’m not Wonder Woman. Anything could have happened. I started to genuinely worry about whether they’d recognise me in the street. I was going to back to check on the car but my sister sensibly talked me out of it.

I was still doubting myself when my sister said something.

“If it was you on that bike, you’d have wanted someone to do something wouldn’t you?”

So I hope I did the right thing. I hope Bikeman got away. I hope they didn’t find The Old Girl and trash her. I hope the police found the pond scum and throw away the key. Sadly that’s unlikely. And as for them recognising me? Well, I don’t feel so worried today. They were absolutely shitfaced and wouldn’t have recognised their own mothers.

Today I’m contemplative. I don’t understand what drives people to behave like that and I don’t understand why no one else helped Bikeman out. After all, he was just cycling along the river minding his own business!


June 09, 2004

Just a quick question

If my car is registered with the DVLA at my old address but insured at my new one and if the tax ran out nine days ago, is it legal?


June 08, 2004

A Second Chance

I’m beside myself with guilt. How could I have been so blind as to not see her pain? She was crying out to me and yet I did not hear. She was fighting me and yet I could not see. All she wanted was some care and respect. In return she would take me anywhere.

I see it all now, now that she has been caressed and cajoled into life, brought out of herself by a the tender ministrations of someone who understands her needs.

Sluggishness is replaced with vitality, and stubbornness with joy. She attacks the road with a youthful enthusiasm, despite her years. I feel her eagerness again, her desire to explore and to seek out the open road.

I think she has forgiven me. When it came to the crunch I stood by her and so her faith in me has been restored.

We are a team again, but this time I will keep to my end of the bargain and not take her for granted.


June 07, 2004

The Old Girl

I knew she could do it, the tough old bird. I'm sat here with a wobbly lip and a tear in my eye.

I think I'll treat her to the full monty at the car wash tomorrow. I'll even press the "Wash Hubcaps" button. And what about some some new car accessories? Whatever she wants. Whatever she needs. She's done me proud yet again.

And now, please excuse us... We need to spend some quality time together... I wonder if she'll remember the way to B&Q...


The waiting game

I can’t keep still, such are the nerves. I’m distracted, tense and edgy, staring intently at the phone willing it to bring me good news. Will we be reunited or is this the end for us?

The Old Girl’s at the MOT test centre as we speak. The mechanic is confident. She’s running like a dream, apparently. “Purring”, he said. I’m sceptical. She’s 14 years old. Can cars that old purr?

The suspense is killing me.

You can do it old girl!!!


June 04, 2004

Bada Bada BLING!!!!!!!!

Kids are all about BLING these days and it seems they are involved in perpetual contest to out-BLING the other. That’s all well and good as long as it doesn’t involve little old me! And why would it, I hear you ask? Let me explain:

I have ickle feet and when it comes to footy boots, well they don’t design any especially for women. My feet are too small to buy any of the men’s boots, which means that I shop for my astros in the kiddies section. Embarrassing? Yes! But cheap, thanks to the VAT rules!

All good then you may think. Well no, not really. The men’s section have a huge selection and the BLING scale is very wide indeed. You can buy simple black boots that lack entirely in ostentation or you can go BLING-tastic and opt for gold, silver, red, shiny boots. I prefer the former, low key boots for a low key player. Do you reckon the kids agree with me? Hell no!!!

Bring on the BLING!

BLING me up!


The manufacturers have realised that there’s absolutely no point in producing any plain old black boots because the yoof will just turn up their collective nose and head for glittering gold and silver stylies. I trawled Oxford Street for hours in search of some plain old astros:

“Do you have any plain black astro boots, like these men’s ones, but in size 5.5?”

“Hell no, innit. All we got is this A1 superfly bada bada BLING range just in from Nike!!!!!”

So here I am, ready to get stuck in on behalf of my company, to fight the good fight, to valiantly take on our rivals. But I’m wearing silver boots with the number 90 emblazoned and embossed down the side (why? Who knows?).

It’s just not dignified for a woman of 28 years to be sporting something that Dave from number 23 would wear when his mum lets him play out!

I’m bracing myself for a lot of piss taking!


June 03, 2004

A good old fashioned Bridget style rant

It’s official. Things are really beginning to get on my tits now. Proper, like! The car’s still languishing with the poxy mechanic getting prepped up for its MOT – un-taxed. I may have to replace one of the front tires, and the shock thingies over the front wotsits are fucked and have to be changed. Hello??? I love my car but as soon as I get it back I’m going to get a branch and smack the fuck out of it Basil Fawlty style.

And then there’s the kitchen, that golden and happy place where I will be spending 90% of the coming (incredibly sunny) weekend. I’d hoped to have tiled most of it by now but without the old banger I haven’t been able to get over there since last week. Great. Really fucking great.

And now on to the job! I am so spectacularly bored at the moment. Unchallenged, uninspired and now un-contracted. Yep, my contract ran out in March and none of us noticed. And so begin the long drawn-out back and forth negotiations for a job I don’t really want anymore.


So, now that the rant is over, am I just going to sit back and fester? Fuck no! I am in control of my own destiny and while burying my head in the sand (or my entire body as I did in Bournemouth this weekend) is much more appealing, getting off my arse and dragging myself out of this rut is what I’m going to do.

In this light I have got back into the habit of exercising and for the first time in a while I’m really beginning to enjoy my footie. Yesterday I played with the work team for an hour and a half over lunch and was still able to put in a full two-hour training session in the evening. I’m playing in a tournament with work tomorrow afternoon. This is basically a five-aside event where only a few girls play, so I will spend approximately six hours playing footie and watching about sixty blokes running around in footie shorts. If that doesn’t cheer me up then frankly I’m fucked!

To further help me in my quest to regain my fitness I've acquired Allen Carr’s book on how to stop smoking. I’m sick of the fags, I really am. I’m sick of waking up after a big night out sounding like Barry fucking White. I’ve agreed to do the Three-Peaks-Challenge in a couple of months time and something tells me that the Ms Jones Ten-Fags-a-Day Training Programme probably isn’t going to help me much.

As far as work goes I’ve ordered the What Colour is your Parachute book and intend to read it as soon as it arrives from Amazon. I already have a few ideas for a career change but I think I just need to find a bit of focus and direction. This book will help my crystallise these ideas and give me a structure around which I can get to where i want to be.

So much to do and so little time and while I may be down, I'm definitely not out!


June 02, 2004


So what’s that all about then, when various muscles and nerves in your body start twitching for absolutely no apparent reason? 'Tis very weird indeed.

The other day my mate’s eye started going, twitching away, and annoying the crap out of him. It used to happen to me when I was younger and I remember that I could even see the twitch in the mirror if I looked.

This morning, about an hour before my alarm went off, I stumbled into consciousness and wondered what on earth I was doing awake. Did I need the toilet? Not really. Were there any loud noises? Nope. Had my sister woken me up? Unlikely.

Then suddenly I felt it.


In the weirdest of places as well! The triceps in my right arm were going bananas, jumping all over the place.




I rolled over, rubbed the back of my arm and settled back on to my front ready to doze back off.


Hmmmm. This was getting a tad annoying.

This time I sat up, raised my elbow next to my cheek and stretched the back of my arm behind my head. I waited. Nothing. Excellent!

I rolled back over on to my front, nestling into my favourite sleeping position with arms under the pillow and left leg bent to the side of me. Mmmmm. Sleep. Mmmmm.


Oh for fuck’s sake.






They're still at it now!


June 01, 2004

Twenty eight going on thirteen

Being grown-up, well frankly it’s a bit shit really. I’m not really a grown-up sort of person. I love doing things that children do. You know, playing games, building sandcastles, kitting myself out in fancy dress, drawing immature and puerile pictures in a colleague’s Red & Black notepad just before he goes into an important meeting.

That’s why I love going on tour with the footie team. It’s like taking a step away from the daily grind, the hard slog, the trials and the tribulations so you can focus on nothing but having fun for three whole days.

This weekend I got to dress up, to play games on the beach in the moonlight, to play in the sand, to play football, to eat two lovely cooked breakfasts, to dance, to sing, to sunbathe, to eat ice-cream and to witness my mates doing very stupid things. Oh, and someone buried me in the sand. Blinding!

But then reality strikes back with a big fuck-off grin and heaps yet more crap onto my “so, you want to be gown-up do you?” plate. Fate, it seems, hasn’t finished with me yet!

Firstly, I get my handbag stolen, which wasn’t too bad in the end because I claimed on my insurance.

Secondly, I ran out of money on my house and so I’m now spending all my free time tiling a 20m2 floor.

And now, just when I thought that things couldn’t really get that much worse, I’ve been landed with yet another dilemma. Fate’s really got me by the short and curlies this time. Let me explain:

I put my car in for a service and MOT last week and have found out I need to spend about £500 quid on it. Let’s put the fact that I don’t actually have £500 lying around to one side for a minute.

Some would question my need for a car. To them I’d say how else am I going to get home past midnight after spending five hours tiling? How else am I going to get to Charlton to buy that bargain bathroom I saw? And am I going to have to get cabs back from B&Q once a week? I just don’t think I can manage without my car at the moment. Well, so that’s decided, I have to have a car.

The car itself is probably only worth £500 so is it worth repairing? Some say it is because once repaired I’m assured it will run like a piece of German engineering (oh yeah, it IS a piece of German engineering, all be it a 14 year old one). Some would say, spend the money on another car. But surely it’s a case of “better the devil you know”? I might buy something for £500 and have to spend another couple of hundred fixing some problems that show up two weeks down the line. And I love my car. It’s my first one and has been pretty reliable. I can’t just trade it at the first sign of a problem? Think of the valiant effort it made to get me to Glastonbury and back. Think how it drove me to the hospital when I found out my sis had been taken to A&E. Think about how it’s carried me to the train station every morning, rain or shine. Okay. I’m fixing the car and keeping it.

Right, that's sorted, so where am I going to get half a grand? Shall I extend my overdraft? Blimey, my overdraft is pretty sizeable, isn’t it? Shall I borrow more money on the mortgage to pay off the overdraft? Will that cost me less each month than the overdraft itself? Will I ever be back in the black again?

This is the bit about being grown up I don’t like. Making decisions. I am not a “natural” decision maker. I think I was born with two brains and they disagree on everything.

Oh to be a kid again, when I could eat fizzy cola bottles on the couch and wonder what’s behind the round window.


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