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.



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. 




My cousin Brian is getting married to the lovely Angela tomorrow, so the Crilly family (plus a couple of hangers on – hi David! Hi Phil!) have made the journey north of the border to attend.

Unfortunately due to lack of room in the car (overspill – Crilly probz) I had to get the train. I do like a good train adventure though so off I went, armed with a marvellous Spotify playlist, my tea (a packet of Discos and some wine gums) and loads of maps and bus timetables saved to my phone to help me get from Glasgow city centre to where we’re staying for the next couple of nights.

Things started to go a tad wrong when I arrived at Preston to get on my connecting train. Firstly, I’d eaten my nutritious evening meal only an hour into the journey, and secondly the train was delayed. Preston is not the best train station to be delayed in, as there is absolutely nothing there, but I just got stuck into Grazia and patiently waited.

I finally arrived in Glasgow an hour and a half late, a bit harassed and very hungry as the shop was shut on the train. At this point, my brilliant idea of screenshots of street maps was rendered useless as my phone died. I therefore spent a good while wandering aimlessly around town, found my bus stop, got on a bus and didn’t have the right change for the bus but the driver took pity on me and let me on anyway.  The ledge ♥

I then proceeded to get off the bus about fifteen years too early. There followed nearly an hour of wandering around Mount Vernon. I only had my photographic memory (geek skillz), road names on bus stops and, I kid you not, my trusty hearing aid picking up the noise of the motorway (which I knew was by our hotel) nearby to help me on my trek.

I finally arrived at my destination seven and a half hours after I left my house and charged my phone straight away, only to find about a million texts and phone calls off family members who thought I was dead.

I’m alive, I’ve had a McDonald’s for tea, and I’m safely ensconced in bed with Lenny Henry. Happy days.


Lenny and Catherine 4eva



Before I embark upon this particular rant, I’d like to put out the disclaimer that my job isn’t that bad, the people I work with are great, this blog post is completely tongue-in-cheek and I am extremely grateful to actually have a job in the current economic climate.


Having said that though, some of my customers sometimes really try my patience.

Here are my top bugbears, and I’m sure they’re similar in call centres across the land.

What it is, is…”

My heart sinks as soon as a customer launches themselves into the conversation with this particular opening gambit. It means that they will tell you their life story before getting to the actual point. Unfortunately, by this point, I’ll have probably dozed off.

Bizarre takes on the phonetic alphabet

Q for cucumber, F for Philip…Christ alive.

Not knowing their phone number

Me: “Can I take your contact number?” Customer: “Just bear with me, you never know your own number do you?!” Customer proceeds to laugh their head off.

Why don’t you know your own number? It’s only eleven numbers in a row, and those eleven numbers in a row are a necessity for everyone you know being able to get in touch with you. MEMORISE IT.

Terms of endearment/name-shortening/over-use of my name

I got called “darling” today. I wasn’t happy. I’m genuinely happier when being insulted. I know where I stand then.

Similarly, calling me Cat, Cath or Cathy is sure to get my back up, as is over-using my name. Don’t wear it out.

I’m sure l’ll have thought of many more before the week is out.