Monthly Archives: June 2013
I’m not one to offer an apology easily. My star sign is Leo and I have more pride than Simba, Elsa, Clarence the Crosseyed (google it) and any other lions you may be able to think of, put together.
But, here goes……
Andy Murray, you’re not a miserable Scottish twat, or a mardy ginger git and I don’t hope you lose
Now maybe I’m a victim of advertising – I know a PR exercise when I see one – but I watched that programme last night which basically said “C’mon, take another look at him, he’s not that bad you know”. So I did, and he’s not. In fact I was quite charmed. He seems like a lovely young man and even his Scary Mary mother came across more Fern Britton than Maggie Thatcher.
This is a major turnaround for me as I’ve actively and loudly disliked him for years. I think it was the football comment and the fierce Scottishness that started it.
Maybe I should explain, at the risk of being called racist and carted off to jail or being outed in The Sun, I’m not very keen on Scotland or the Scottish. There, I’ve said it.
Before you start with the hate mail and comments attacking my weight, looks, family etc, I do have reason for this uncharacteristic prejudice of mine.
I used to visit the North East of Scotland regularly for work and I can honestly say I’ve never known such a grim, forbidding, soul-sapping place or such dour, stony-faced, unforgiving people.
I happened to be there in 1998 (during one of the few World Cups Scotland have scraped through to) and rather naively a colleague and I decided to visit a local bar to eat dinner and watch England’s match against Colombia.
We were the only English people in the place and to say the atmosphere was hostile would be such an understatement – it’d be like saying Katie Price was a virgin. The anti-English feeling directed at us was just incredible, I felt like I was in downtown Bogotá. To make matters worse, England lost the game. I can still hear the cheering and caterwauling now. We made our hasty exit, a skinny, scared young bloke and a clearly upset young woman wading through the vitriol and being pelted with beer mats by upwards of 50 “grown” men.
But I can’t really take it out on Andy Murray any more. I mean, at the time he was only 11 and I doubt Scary Mary would have let him frequent the bars in Banff at such a tender age.
So, I’ll say it again, Andy Murray I apologise, you’re not so bad after all. I wish you all the luck in the world these next two weeks but, if you do go on to win the title, please remember you are BRITISH. You are only Scottish if you go out before the quarter-finals ok?
Oh, and I’m happy to report that my story had a happy ending. Scotland were royally shafted by Brazil the very next evening!!
I’m not well.
That’s a fairly innocuous statement which doesn’t convey the drama surrounding any illness that dares invade the temple (ok, slightly crumbling medieval church) that is my body.
You see, dear reader, my name is Beebee and I am a Hypochondriac.
So, the common cold which visits all of us fairly frequently, tends to result in me taking to my bed, iPad in hand (to google my symptoms, silly) convinced that I am the first confirmed case of a particularly virulent strain of a new human-race ending virus.
I don’t know why I’m like this – it’s certainly not for attention, when I was a child my mother was particularly horrible to us when we were ill and anything short of the Black Death was treated with scorn. My husband is the same really, he’s not big on sympathy and just mutters “go see the doctor” regardless of whether I’ve broken a nail or a limb. He might bring me the odd paracetamol accompanied by a saintly expression but that’s about it.
So, at the moment I am suffering from a hacking cough, a high temperature and weird electric shock-type pains in my arm. But these symptoms are multiplied tenfold if you add in the anxiety that befalls me at the first sign of illness.
I’ve googled Ebola and its not that (I’m not bleeding from my eyes), but I haven’t ruled out typhoid, beri-beri or multiple sclerosis.
I also feel particularly martyr-like as Husband is away so I’ve had to carry on regardless with no support. Child and Dog couldn’t give a stuff if I’m ill as long as they are fed and watered. Child has inherited his Grandma and Father’s disdain of me being ill although he did weaken for a second and brought me some cough medicine (he probably couldn’t hear the telly).
So, I’m struggling on (wo)manfully, I’ve been to work but didn’t do anything except cough, sigh, and rub my temples. All my colleagues are men so they obviously didn’t notice a thing. I tried ringing Husband in the hope of some sympathy but just got told off for ringing him at work. Child came home full of hormones and sulk and Dog just carried on being stupid and doggish. But two of my lovely girlfriends texted seeing if I needed anything and my dad rang to see how I was, so at least SOME people care. They’ll all be sorry when I’m carted off to a government lab in the middle of the night….
How do single parents do it? Really, I’m serious. How do they carry on day in day out, 24/7, illness or not? These people must be made of iron-encrusted titanium. Forget the SAS, our country should have single parents as a defence force cos they make The Terminator (and me)look like a right pussy.
Single parents everywhere, I salute you. You’re bloody brilliant.
Well it started off alright, I decided I would take dog for a nice walk in the countryside – even though he “playfully” bit my nose last night. Child was too bloody lazy to do it and seeing as though he had a friend round, resorting to violence or swearing would sully my reputation as an Earth Mother (in my dreams). The walk would also contribute to shaving the 36 inches or so from my thighs before my holiday in 4 weeks time, thought I.
So, off we went, woman and dog in perfect harmony in this green and pleasant land. The walk was pleasant enough but how humid is it today? By the time we were heading back we were both panting with our tongues hanging out, looking forward to a refreshing cold drink.
But, oh no, that would be far too easy. We arrived back home only to find that child had buggered off somewhere with said mate and LOCKED THE BLOODY DOOR!!
“Thank God for modern technology,” thought I, as I fished out my phone from my bra (it’s great having massive boobs for many reasons but the main advantage is the huge amount you can pack into your bra, including my bunch of keys which of course I didn’t need to take with me today…).
But of course he didn’t answer. The child who is permanently glued to his mobile to reply to his never ending harem of “girlfriends” call had decided to ignore me.
So, after 6 (unanswered) calls and a threatening text, his lordship finally deigned to contact me.
I ordered him home in a voice that would have made Ghengis Khan shit himself in fear.
But Child is made of stronger stuff than that Mongol nancy. He didn’t rush home, leaving dog and I desperately turning into vac-pacs before each other’s eyes. I was so desperate I even wondered if it would be considered unseemly for a 40-something mother to squat down on the drive and urinate into a plant pot a la Bear Grylls….
Luckily for my neighbours, Child arrived back just in time.
We are no longer “three”, oh no, since September we are now “four”.
No, I haven’t spawned another devil child, we have a dog!
Yes, I caved in one day and decided that child’s life would be ruined and he would be a Jeremy Kyle certainty if he didn’t get a dog. I think it was the guilt of having only one child that got to me and I didn’t fancy getting even fatter so, off we went to the breeder – we told child that we were going for lunch with nana and grandad, and then hit him with it “there you are, you’re getting a puppy”.
Gobsmacked wasn’t the word but he was v v happy and we took home the little bundle of joy after parting with £800 because he is a designer dog – a pugador (mongrel) yes, I know there is no fool like an old fool.
So my posts will now mention dog quite a lot. I have a bit of a love-hate relationship with it, sorry, him. He loves me and I hat….no, that’s maybe a bit harsh but he’s certainly put me through the wringer these last 10 months. I’d have been better off having a sprog I think but at least my pelvic floor is holding up better this way.
I’ve decided to get back into this blogging lark and regale you with all my hilarious tales and sparkling anecdotes about my oh so interesting life…
Oh, OK then, husband is now working away, child is in bed and I am bored out of my tiny little one. So, to prevent me from overdosing on Haribo fried eggs or committing hari kiri I’ve decided it would be a really great idea to write a load of shit that no one will ever read! Bet you can’t wait! Move over 50 Shades, there’s a new bestseller in town bitch!