The Birthday Party

There was once a Mum, a birthday party virgin if you like. Full of hope and excited expectation at their offspring being invited to a jelly and icecream filled shindig. Their child will be the most popular, being welcomed into the cool kid crew, join in all the party games and maybe, just maybe be the Musical Chairs champion of the world! She’d burst with pride she thought to herself. It’ll be so amazing she mused strapping her little bundle of joy into the car. The poor cow would soon learn she was very, very wrong.

She would come to realise kids parties are NOT fun. They are in fact the opposite of fun, they are almost as fun as having a giant cactus inserted into your rectum and twisted (righty tighty, lefty loosey)  but not quite. She would have a rude awakening of the rudest kind.

For she would soon find out that she would not be welcomed into the party by Mum’s high fiving her, handing her prosecco and kids elbowing each other, whispering about the amazingly cool Mum that just walked in. Instead she would have the card and present unceremoniously snatched out of her hand, she’d spent hours in The Entertainer mulling over that sodding present. Did she go cheap because after all she didn’t even know this kid? Did she go extravagant so she wasn’t forever seen as that cheapskate cow that went to the pound shop? She went middle of the road in the end and just hoped that Birthday Kid wouldn’t be allowed to open it in front of her and show her the huge, huge disappointment in his eyes.

She would then find no friendly faces and slink off to the darkest corner and there she would stay. Sometimes with her kid, the one who refuses to join in, clinging snottily to the front of her painstakingly chosen blouse or all alone like a cast aside bag of bollocks.

12 times the kid will want to go to the toilet so she has to do the crossing the dancefloor walk of shame while everyone wonders who the hell she is and why she was invited. If she’s lucky she might burst a balloon on the way over so everyone eyerolls  at her inadequacy and fat feet.

To her horror when the super fun character makes an appearance Kid will run screaming from the building like Freddy Krueger just rocked up  and asked for a Gangnam Style dance lesson. To be fair Peppa Pig does look as though she’s spent the last few months in a crack house but who is she to judge.

The food though, they’ll eat the food, of course they will, when the buffet announcement rings out the kids will smash each other out the way for their sugar rush, like a bunch of mini football hooligans clawing each others eyes out for a jammy coconut biscuit. The poor kid who takes the last chocolate finger can look out – they’ll get a bonk to the brain with a pinata stick because how bloody dare they?

The poor Mum clinging to the last little bit of hope that’s slowly but surely pouring out of her and pooling at her feet like a puddle of piss would make a last ditch attempt to join in by dragging the kid up to Cha Cha Slide like the other Mum’s who have their shit and coordination together. Kid will not be impressed. Kid will kick off and pull away screaming that they don’t want to, out of the corner of her eye she sees pompous Mum dialing the number for social services whilst tutting along to the Justin Bieber song that’s just blasted it’s way into everyone’s ears.

She will thank her lucky stars when the lights go up and everyone is expected to bugger off, Kid grabs a party bag on the way out and she’s wondering why Party Mum had that weird smirk on her face. She wouldn’t have to wait long to find out as the minute she sits relieved in her car seat she will be deafened by the high pitched squeal of a bastarding plastic yellow whistle.

For the love of God. Now she understood.

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Bad Day? No Way!

Now I’m not one of those nutters who professes to be able to cure depression in 24 easy steps, this is purely meant as a light hearted post when you’ve had a bad day whether that’s grumpy shouty people at work, nightmare at home with the kids trying to drown each other in the downstairs bog or your supermarket of choice delivering your shopping and substituting your kids size 4 nappies for a multipack of yellow dusters. Want some ideas for taking your mind off it? Strap yourself in and here we go.

• Four finger kit-kat? Dairy Milk the size of your oldest child? Double Decker eaten the naughty way with the chewy bit first? Whatever floats your boat… get it in your gob. In the airing cupboard obviously, we’ll have none of that sharing nonsense, thankyou very much.

• Gin? Prosecco? Mad Dog 20/20? What’s your tipple? Drink it til you get that ‘just stepped off a waltzer at Porthcawl fair’ feeling. Just try not to spew, or your bad day will turn into 2 bad days when you’re scraping Tuna ‘n’ Pasta chunks off the bedroom carpet the next morning and stumbling into work with a monster headache.

• Give the kids a cuddle. They might fart in your lap or throw up their Turkey Drumsticks if you squeeze too hard but those little buggers give good hugs don’t they? Continue reading

Shopping? You’re Off Your Trolley!

Shopping. Love it or hate it, it’s a job that has to be done at some point unless you fancy starving. Jon and I have very different views on shopping. To me it’s a chore, I’m a get in, get it done and get out kind of person. He’s a take your time, peruse at your leisure kind of person. This is a recipe for disaster as on the majority of occasions we end up at loggerheads with me whispering “will you bloody hurry up” through gritted teeth and him telling me to “sod right off”, usually with something added about being a moody cow for good measure. Added to the fact he ALWAYS wants to go after I finish work, I am indeed a tired, hungry, grumpy bastard.

Take the other day for example, I can drive, he can’t, so most of the time I have to go with him because I’m not spiteful enough to make him drag it home on the bus. He’s a fussy bugger and likes to squeeze the melons and whatnot so won’t entertain the idea of online shopping. We rock up, for once child free, I was looking forward to getting the shopping done and naffing off home to eat chocolate and watch programmes unsuitable for young children. No. Over an hour it took him while I stomped around behind him like a teenager that’s been dragged out with Mum and Dad who hold hands and kiss in public. Not my idea of fun, I can tell you. Continue reading

The School Disco With A 90’s Lyrics Quiz

The good old school disco, who didn’t love it? None of your prom nonsense in gorgeous dresses and coiffed hair, in the 90’s when I was a teen we wore Hypercolour t-shirts, shell suits, ruffle front white chiffon blouses or maybe if you had “one of those Mum’s” a neon pink Bridesmaids dress you wore to Aunty Sarah’s wedding in the late 80’s. If your hair hadn’t been crimped or scrunch dried rock solid you just didn’t cut it. Go big or go home. The boys had wet look gel. The whole gigantic tub of it in one go. As slick as Uncle Mick’s frying pan styled quiff.

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Knobheads, Knobheads Everywhere

Over the years I’ve come across many of lifes, um…lovely people. You know the type, the ones who make your eyes roll so hard they fall out and you have to chase them up the road but you can’t see though can you so you trip over your own daps and headbutt a dog poo bin. Here are some of the particularly knobby ones I’ve attracted recently.

• Mcdonalds Chav Crew – look, I’m 40 now. Which is old as fudge, meaning gangs of lairy cross body bagged teens are a bit intimidatey (nope don’t care it’s not a word) when you’re fighting your way through the purple grape vape fog just to get a poxy Happy Meal. Not to be confused with the kids who sit having a chat with their mates, I’m talking about the ones where 1 kid is ALWAYS on a bike, 1 uses the c word every other and there’s 2 laughing about their latest fight and how they kicked Callum’s head right in while fist bumping. Continue reading