Wednesday, January 30, 2013


I used to write this blog a lot. Every day for practically a year I wrote an entry. Then I stopped, and despite my best efforts to write more regularly I have struggled. The reason for this is, I fell in love.

I found a boy, smooshed my lips against his for a few months, had a horribly awkward conversation about whether or not we thought we ought to be smooshing our lips against anyone else, decided we wouldn't, fell in love, moved in together and the rest is the future.

I haven't particularly wanted to write about it before because I found it difficult to write comedy when my ongoing aura was that of the smuggest Smuggerson that ever lived smugly in Smugville. My comedy persona was built out of being desperately miserable, desperately single and a bit desperately desperate. It couldn't have been worse time for it to happen to be honest, I feel like some kind of Alice in Wonderland. If Alice has chased the promise of regular sex down the rabbit hole and ended up in a one bedroom flat in Brighton. In fact, if I'd only been chasing a rabbit I'd probably at least have had the good sense to throw it away shame facedly when the batteries ran out after a few days. As it is I've bought paintings for the rabbit hole and learned that Tottenham Hotspur play in White Hart Lane. What the fuck, dear reader? What. The. Fuck.

We've lived together for 5 months now and I feel like if I don't start finding the funny side in it then:
a) My career as a comedy writer is going to grind to a crushing halt.
b) I'm going to cram a spoon in his head and:
    i) laugh when they sentence me
    ii) refuse to answer the questions as to how I got it so far in only using my bare hands.

What baffles is me is that, for generations, we have been schooling our youngsters in everything they could possibly want for the future: science, maths, sex ed, religious studies. As a 14 year old I even learned how to wash my own arm pits and happy cave. As though they'd just been festering for the 8 years I'd been in charge of my own showers until Dr Roberts popped up and said, "Hey, ever thought of a sponge? You be careful now."

How has no one ever stopped and thought, "We expect the vast majority of these kids to live in a partnership of some kind one day. Let's teach them how to deal with that?" Was there a group meeting shortly after Adam and Eve reached their paper anniversary where everyone went, "Well, this has turned out fucking horrible, let's let people figure it out for themselves. If we tell them now they'll all start doing it lion style so that at least there are two people in the household who understand recycling procedures."

5 months ago I climbed to the top of a helter skelter thinking it would be an excellent ride, not realising that every inch of the ride was taking me closer to becoming my mum. My mum is standing at the bottom of the slide with a passion for Fat Face and coat for me that looks remarkably like hers. I'm being welcomed to the fold.

The spirited freedom fighter in my head that was going to break all the moulds has realised that men and women haven't just been "a bit twatty" for the last 2,000 years. It is fucking difficult. Because, the truth is, Happily Ever After is only 50% accurate as a statement. You won't always be happy, but it is going to be all the time. Prince Charming gazing at you when you're in a ball gown and a helpful budgie has decorated your hair with nature is great. Prince Charming gazing at you while you're trying to work out a punch line for a joke is distracting and downright unnecessary. It becomes nigh on infuriating when you find out he's gazing at you because he's hungry and doesn't know if he's allowed the chicken in the fridge.


Because, I have become keeper of the chicken. I'm like some crazy dictator who wants to be left alone to laugh at the word bum, whilst also ensuring that my people keep the fuck away from my chicken because I need it for the dinner I'm somehow making us all. Don't touch my chicken. All in all, it's pretty confusing.

I suppose, the point of this post (lost as it is in the cloudy fog of my own inability to be the perfect house wife cum career girl) is to forewarn you that this little nook in the internet might be a bit more domestic now than we're used to. I mean, don't get me wrong, I am the happiest I have ever been - I feel like Cinderella, a Cinderella who has to make up excuses to go and fart in the hall. That Cinderella. The one no one wrote about. So, you know, she's doing it herself. While Prince Charming gazes at her. Fucking chicken.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

No Cliff, No.

I'm about 4 days away from taking my first holiday abroad as an adult. As discussed yesterday, we are not including Magaluf as a holiday as an adult for several reasons that include the fact I don't consider a holiday to have happened if none of the people who went on it have spoken to each other since the plane touched down.

I'm going to Prague. I'm about to do something that I've always despised other people doing and go to a country where I'll simply have to hope everyone else speaks good enough English for me to get by. I slightly hate myself, but I think 4 days to learn Czech is only going to result in me learning to sob with an accent.

The city looks beautiful. If we disregard the fact that the numbers of stags and hens out and about might make it feel frighteningly similar to a night out in Brighton or any Friday gig in a big city, then I'm looking forward to the change of scenery. There's something about a holiday that makes you change a bit and loosen up. Even I, the most frugal person I've ever come across who wasn't a Dickens character, have just said - "Hey, it's only £21 for a taxi from the airport to the hotel."

The only thing I'm worried about it what on earth we're going to do for 3 days. What do you do on holiday as an adult? As a child I know my holiday itinerary is this:

1. Get a pain au chocolat from somewhere.
2. Eat it.
3. Locate the swimming pool.
4. Be in the swimming pool looking warily at other kids until Mum makes you get out.
3. Get a baguette and wonder if you like Brie this year.
4. Eat it.
5. Get back in the swimming pool.
6. Get out of the swimming pool because mum says you have to wait an hour.
7. Get back in the swimming pool after half an hour because mum can't stand your whining any more.
8. Make friends with a kid from Derbyshire and talk about how you'll be best friends forever.

Repeat every day until you have to go home.

What do I do now I'm a grown up? Will I have to go to Museums I don't understand? WILL THERE EVEN BE A KID FROM DERBYSHIRE IN PRAGUE???

So many questions. So little pain au chocolat.

Friday, January 18, 2013


My first feelings towards 2013 are that it is still just as tedious as 2012. My Twitter feed has just substituted the word 'Mayan' for either "Snow!" or "Horses" - neither of which are making me stop looking at Twitter, they're just making me hate myself and it while I do it. I can barely think of a single one of my Facebook friends whose garden I have seen a photo of when it's not snowing. Listen folks, I don't know how impressed to be of your snowy garden when I don't know what it normally looks like. For all I know you're all just jogging on to Google images and collecting a blurry image of a garden and whacking it up there for all the world to like. I don't mind people being excited about phenomenons like Tesco having no moral standards or a cyclical annual weather pattern, but try and give me some perspective on it.

I would like a picture of your garden in the summer please, so I can say, "Hey, yeah, that IS a lot of snow." Or, if you say "Oh my god I can't believe we don't deal with snow like Canadians do even though it's perfectly logical, it's taken me an HOUR to get home." tell me how long it normally takes you, in case I think, "Well, that's remarkably quick to get from your office in Staffordshire down to your perpetually snowy garden in Penzance."

When you're outraged about Tesco and the horse meat, please also explain to me the best friend you had as a child who was a horse so that I'm clear as to why you'd be cross about eating a four legged animal bred for the purpose. Also, remind me why four pints of milk for a pound doesn't upset you, so that I know why you've chosen your moral outrage points and I don't have to assume it's because "horse meat" sounds funny and the papers told you to be cross.

I like snow. I like horses. I like most people. But my God doesn't social media just drain the moron out of all us and spread it like a paste across our screens.

In other news, 2013 is generally going swimmingly when I'm away from my computer. Some exciting developments in this itchy thing I call a career have started to sprout, and my New Years Resolution was to cheer up. As part of my cheering up process I've just booked a holiday (yes, naturally it has started bucketing with snow just before I'm due to fly) to Prague. I've never been on holiday as a grown up person, I mean, I went to Magaluf when I was at Uni but as I only slept for 13 hours in 5 days I don't count myself as having been of adult mind when I was there. Truth be told, I don't think I was of sound mind when I agreed to go but that's another story. Let's just say, I shan't be going again, I don't remember what happened on the balcony and it wasn't my bra. Ok. Back to Prague. I know nothing about Prague except that, and this is a fun fact, it had the cheapest flights and hotels available when I was booking on Wednesday. So, how exciting!

I hope your 2013 is off to a good start and you've got all the instagram apps you need to enjoy the weekend. I have to go now because I've just received an email that starts like this:

"Dear friends, 

The US is about to treat the world to the first genetically modified meat: a mutant salmon that could wipe out wild salmon populations and threaten human health -- but we can stop it now before our plates are filled with suspicious Frankenfish."

...and I need to go away and think about whether or not I would prefer GM foods or billions of people starving as we decimate natural sources of food and increase the number of people on the planet to an increasingly unsustainable level.


Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Uncle Olly's Funny Face

Uncle Olly had a funny face. He had hair that grew right out of it - covering his cheeks right down from his ears to his chin. Uncle Olly didn’t have a beard like Grandpa, or long hair like Mummy. Uncle Olly had side-burns.

Oliver wanted side-burns more than anything else in the world. He wanted side-burns as big as Uncle Olly’s. Then, he and Uncle Olly could ride on the motorbike with their side-burns sticking out of their helmets and billowing in the breeze.

“When you’re older,” Uncle Olly would say, “When you’re older you can grow side-burns as big as mine.”

“What are they for?” Asked Oliver.

“They’re for keeping my cheeks warm.” Said Uncle Olly, “They’re for keeping my cheeks warm when I go to the North Pole and fight the evil Ice Princess to set the Prince of Penguins free. Without my side burns I would be too cold, and the evil Ice Princess would win.”

Oliver didn’t want to wait until he was a grown up - he wanted to go to the North Pole now.

Oliver tried to make his own side-burns - but Daddy got cross about the holes in the rug and the wasted selotape.

“When you’re older,” Uncle Olly would say, “When you’re older you can grow side-burns as big as mine.”

“What else are they for?” Asked Oliver.

“They’re for catching the bugs when I’m on my motor bike,” Said Uncle Olly, “Without my side burns I would have nothing to catch the bugs and then I would have nothing to feed the enormous tarantula that lives at the bottom of my garden.”

Oliver didn’t want to wait until he was a grown up - he wanted to catch bugs now.

Oliver tried to make his own side-burns - but Grandma got cross about the holes in her lawn and the mud on Oliver’s chin.

“When you’re older,” Uncle Olly would say, “When you’re older you can grow side-burns as big as mine.”

“What else are they for?” Asked Oliver.

“They’re for using as pillow when I’m camping in the mountains,” Said Uncle Olly, “Without my side burns I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep with only a rock to rest my head on. I would be so sleepy I wouldn’t be able to carry the rocks needed to drop on the head of the Mega-Squishy-Lion-Giant-Booger-Man.”

Oliver didn’t want to wait until he was a grown up - he wanted to go to climb the mountains now.

Oliver tried to make his own side-burns - but Mummy was very angry and said Holly the dog was going to look very silly at the park now.

“When you’re older,” Uncle Olly would say, “When you’re older you can grow side-burns as big as mine.”

“What else are they for?” Asked Oliver.

“They’re for disguise,” Said Uncle Olly, “Without my side-burns the bears in Canada would know I was a human and would never share the secrets of the rivers and the trees. I need my side burns to blend in.”

Oliver didn’t want to wait until he was a grown up - he wanted to go tlearn the secrets of the bears now.

Oliver tried to make his own side-burns - but his brother Finley was very cross that his teddies couldn’t hear any more.

“When you’re older,” Uncle Olly would say, “When you’re older you can grow side-burns as big as mine.”

“What else are they for?” Asked Oliver.

“They’re for tickling with” Said Uncle Olly, “Without my side-burns I couldn’t do this!”

Oliver wanted to make his own side-burns - but for now he’d have to make do with Uncle Olly’s.