Record of Rage, Volume 5

I feel the need to vent after a particularly appalling Monday. 


I long for the day – (the 10th of Never) – when I am in possession of my own property.  My prerequisites for my dream abode are plentiful – a party kitchen, no neighbours, a pet sloth – but top of the list of requirements is to NEVER have a landline.  Only robots flogging PPI and people wanting money off you ring landlines.  I now refuse to answer our house phone.  It’s never for me anyway.

Loose Women

I don’t mean promiscuous adulterous females here.  I refer instead to the panel show comprising of crazed middle-aged banshees, desperately imploring us to believe that they’re just “telling it like it is.”  Also, it’s fronted by the awful Carol Vorderman (thinks she’s amazing, isn’t.)  I live in fear of being like one of these when I grow up.  Tragically, it is looking increasingly likely.  *weeps*

Theme parks

Ever since I endured a terrifying ordeal with our Maria on the smallest Big Wheel known to man – (genuinely thought we were going to die) (we were aged about 16 and 17, respectively, at the time) – I have been petrified of all things theme park-related.  I do not understand the appeal.  Why scare yourself to the point of nausea in the name of fun?  I think the last time I went to one was Camelot, in Year 6, and I did a lot of coat-holding.

“Our baby.”

…when the “baby” in question is in their early twenties.  Just NO.

The current Bodyform promotion makes my skin crawl with rage

Yes, I am blogging about “feminine hygiene” products, to give them their full supermarket aisle title. And?

Bodyform are currently selling their sanitary towels with a free carry case! I know, girls! Great isn’t it?! And guess what?! Said carry cases come complete with totes cute and not-at-all gender-stereotypical quotes on!

I’ll run them by you.

“I wish I had two birthdays, like the Queen!”

I don’t. The Queen is a bore for only having two. Mine go on for weeks and consist of many a shindig.

“I wish shoes grew on trees!”

I don’t. I wish cocktail sausages did. Or slipper socks, which are wholly preferable to shoes, always.
“I wish there was an app for bad hair days!”

I don’t. That is what dry shampoo is for. Plus I have more important things to worry about, like flying ants. A flying ant tracking app…now THERE’S something I’d be interested in.

“I wish two wrongs made Mr Right!”

I don’t. Mr Right sounds boring. I prefer Mr Just Wrong Enough To Keep It Interesting Without Being A Mentalist.

Before anyone points out that, to be fair, the products in question are quite gender-specific, I am well aware of this. It just made me ITCH with rage at the predictability of it all.

To use some advertising jargon, couldn’t they have taken a second to think outside the box?

And lo! Unto Wills and Kate a prince was born!

So the #RoyalBaby, to give him his hashtag full title, is finally here.  I spent last night laughing my head off at a.) the hapless hordes of media who firstly were kept in the dark for over four hours after the birth to give Wills and Kate time to bond with their bambino, and then only had the fact that it was a boy, and that it weighed 8lb 6oz, to talk about, and b.) the hundreds of fools adorned in Union Jack regalia gathered outside the Palace (although, as I admitted on Facebook, if I had been in London last night I would have down there with them, gurning behind Kay Burley, trying to wave to Mother Goose on Sky News.)

The poor kid is already undergoing a backlash of sorts – I noticed lots of people whinging about how it was going to be yet another Royal family member us plebs would be lining the pockets of.  However, I think it is lovely news – like the Royal Wedding, it’s put a smile on the majority of peoples’ faces, and to be fair to the lil prince he cannot help the fact that he has been born into such privilege.

I did feel a tad sorry for Kate when it was announced that it was a little cherub of the blue variety that had been bestowed upon her, solely because if it had been a pink one, she would have had someone to share the limelight in the Daily Mail’s Sidebar of Shame in the coming years.  As it stands, poor Kate is left to soldier on in solitude as the Daily Fail endlessly discuss just exactly what garments she’s “pouring her post-pregnancy curves” into.  She will not be allowed to slob about in vomit-splattered Primark pyjamas, and she will not be allowed to go out and make a show of herself on her first night out since getting pregnant.  For these reasons, I truly pity her.

Now we just need to find out what they’ve called it.  I’m still holding out for Rylan.


I’ve received reports from vigilant friends across the city today of sightings of my ultimate summer nemesis – flying ants. I seriously dread this day every year. It evokes memories of childhood, being forced by Mother Goose to go shopping in Old Swan even though clouds of the blighters were swarming everywhere, and finding them IN MY HAIR when we finally got home. It makes me shudder just to think about it.

Ever since then I have loathed them. It’s a genuine phobia! Last year there were two waves of them; what fresh hell?! We’re only meant to be host to them for a day!

Also, as a self-proclaimed flying ant expert, I am flummoxed by their appearance in this weather. They’re only meant to visit when it’s muggy, for about half a day, and then it rains and they get washed away to watery deaths. Does this mean that the little horrors are evolving and flying ant day will become, say, flying ant WEEK?! If so, then I will have to remain housebound for its entirety. I don’t care how “nice” it is outside. I don’t class being in a constant state of nauseous terror as “nice”.

Can’t cope.

I’m off to stockpile INSECT DEATH SPRAYS.

P.s I must make clear at this point that I haven’t actually spotted any myself yet. This is the fear before the fear. God knows what state I’ll be in when I do actually come face to face with any of the winged beasts.

Tonight I have accompanied my 14 year old brother to a gig

I’m blogging from said gig as that’s clearly what old ladies do at gigs for teenagers.

I feel about 100 years old and I’m definitely at least ten stone heavier than every other girl here. None of them are sporting Primarni control knickers, let’s put it that way.

However, I’m not one to let minor details like this get me down. I’ve got a pint of cider in hand and the band we’ve come to see have done a cover of Gay Bar, which reminds me of being as young as everyone else here. They also did a cover of Naive by The Kooks and everyone went insane AS IF THE ACTUAL KOOKS WERE PERFORMING LIVE.

Love it. Ciao for now;  I’m off to cramp our Paul’s style by dancing like Mother Goose at a wedding.

Bad things and good things about summer

Bad things

The constant threat of flying ant day striking.

Trying to get to sleep when your bedroom is hotter than the sun.

Drying your hair i.e blasting your already roasting self with hot air.

Buses that still have their heating on.

Insect bites.

Fellas wandering the streets with their tops off. Mings.

Girls wandering the streets sporting those denim shorts where you can actually see their knickers. Mings.

Having a full-time job, therefore not being as tanned as people who are off work.

Opening the window in a vain attempt to get some air into aforementioned boiling hot bedroom and a full-on ecosystem of moths, flies and wasps being created within seconds.

Good things



Beer gardens.

Ok so basically eating and drinking outside at all times.

Kazimier Gardens.

A tanned foot and toenails painted in fuchsia nail varnish combination.

Paddling pools.

Excellent sandals and excellent sunglasses.

Everyone looking more attractive when sporting said excellent sunglasses.

Getting to work without being drenched on the way and therefore not having to fret about the onset of trench foot.

The fact that good weather is just generally better, and makes everyone smile, and makes life a thousand times easier.


The top 5 films guaranteed to make me sob my heart out

I felt emotional just writing about these films.  P.s as previously mentioned, I’m no film buff, so don’t expect any cool, obscure films to crop up in this particular list.


This film has inspired this particular post.  I’ve just noticed it was on the list of films on demand on telly and, as I am a glutton for punishment, I put it on solely to watch the first ten minutes, which are ten of the most heart-breaking minutes in cinematic history.  Cross your heart…

Forrest Gump

One of my favourite films of all time.  I have watched it about a thousand times and the bit where Forrest is having a chat to Jenny at her gravestone about how smart Forrest Jnr is kills me off every time.


When Dumbo goes to visit his mum as she’s been locked away for being a crazy elephant (WRONGLY MAY I ADD) and Baby Mine is playing…oh I can’t type any more about this one.  Watch it instead:


A strange choice, you might think, as it is by and large gut-wrenchingly hilarious (the scene on the plane makes me sob laughing to be fair), but I’ve watched it countless times with our Helen and we are sure to well up at the part near the end when Lillian is about to leave for her honeymoon and she’s saying bye to everyone at the party and she can’t find Annie but then she glimpses her in the crowd and the look they exchange says it all.  Because you don’t need to say anything for your best friend to know exactly what you mean, do you?

One Day

I actually hate the film adaptation of this.  Maybe my tears when watching it are down to Anne Hathaway’s abomination of a Yorkshire accent.  But mainly it’s down to the fact that it obviously reminds me of the book, which I hold very dear, and the sad bit (which I won’t mention here for fear of spoiling it for people who haven’t read it) SHOCKED ME TO THE CORE when I read it for the first time.  When I went to see it in the cinema I nearly had to be hospitalised, I was crying that much.  My mate Sarah was contemplating pretending not to know me, I was that much of a show.


Bit depressed now.