» Advice from Old People

My gran is losing the plot a bit these days, but she is my hero.
She was a single mother, worked all her life, passionate about politics and the rights of the worker, and has never let anyone make her ashamed of who she is and where she is from.

I love her to bits.

She's given me four very important bits of advice: -

1) Always earn enough to pay your own rent, even if your man is paying it for you - you never know when you will need to be independent, and having a life outside your home stops you becoming a clingy, needy individual.

2) Never let any man talk down to you. Ever.

3) Have as much sex as humanly possible, with no guilt, no shame, and no regrets. She taught me that I should have sex because I wanted to, not because someone forced me into it, but that to deny myself pleasure because of a misguided fear of damaging my reputation was stupid. Her biggest regret is that she didn't put it about more as a young woman.

4) People in power only hold that power because you allow them to. If they abuse that power, you can take it away from them. This applies to relationships, employers, landlords, councils and the Government.

I love my gran I do.
(Thu 19th Jun 2008, 16:57, More)

» The Onosecond

I was in work one afternoon
when I got hit with a bout of cystitis. Not a pleasant thing for us girlies, and I was in crippling pain.

My boss agreed to send me hom, and I sent a text message to my then boyfriend telling him 'I'm on my way home, got cystitis, everyone in work now thinks you are some kind of superstud and that we were at it like bunnies on viagra last night. Can you nip out and get me some cranberry juice?'

When I got home, there was no cranberry juice and the boyf was quite surprised to see me. Apparently he hadn't got my message. 'No problem' I thought, 'it'll probably get delivered later or something'.

About an hour later I got a phone call off a strange bloke, asking me how I was feeling. I'd got a digit wrong in my boyfriends number and the message had gone to this poor man. Apparently his girlfriend was not amused, but his mates thought he was some kind of wench magnet.

He thanked me for improving his reputation, and hoped I got better soon. I blushed purple, stammered a sorry down the phone, and tried to hide under a cushion.

Needless to say everyone else found this hilarious.
(Sat 28th May 2005, 16:00, More)

» Mugged

This wasn't me
but I don't fucking care, it made me wee.

I used to work up in Cheadle with a transexual by the name of Laura. Not the smallest, or feminine trannie I've ever met - she was ex army, with shoulders as wide as the doorway and hands the size of dinnerplates and certainly not the most convincing (think Bab's Cabs from League of Gentlemen), but she dressed, and lived as a woman. From behind, she looked quite girly in an old fashioned kind of way - shealways wore flowery skirts and she had a bleached blond perm.

She was out in Cheadle village one lunch time, and a passing chav on his bicycle thought 'Oooh an easy target innit, I'll tax 'er handbag'

He made a grab for it as he went past, only to be stopped by the muscles that 16 years squaddie training gives a man. He fell off his bike and landed on the pavement. Laura squealed in fright and looked down at the poor chav lying on the floor, who was by now utterly confused by the fact that his intended victim had five o'clock shadow and a voice deeper than Barry White.

I don't think I've ever seen a chav run as fast as that since.
(Thu 15th Jun 2006, 19:36, More)

» Grandparents

My Gran = Awesome. This post contains many words.
I wrote this eulogy for my Gran almost exactly a year ago.

"My earliest memory of my gran is of my dad warning us to watch her on the roads and make sure she crossed them properly. I used to think this was his sneaky way of making sure me and my brother remembered to use the Green Cross Code, but after many years of having to stop her striding out in to the middle of the roads amidst heavy traffic, listening to her constant refrain of ‘I’ll cause more damage to that car than it’ll cause to me’, I’m not so sure.

Gran was the most independent, headstrong, stubborn, exasperating and bloody-minded women I have ever known. She was also one of the kindest. She never backed down from an argument, or confrontation. She wasn’t impressed by wealth, social status or job-titles, and I have seen her give many a jumped-up jobsworthsuch a telling-off, that they would silently contemplate a change in career or early retirement rather than run the risk of having to deal with her again. There are people who work for Manchester City Council who visibly pale (and occasionally curl into the foetal position and weep) at the very mention of her name. Rightly so – she was a formidable woman.

If I was to stand here and talk about her many and varied encounters with people in authority, I’d be here all week. Probably all year. So I shall keep it brief.

When I was ten years old, and she took me and my brother to our first proper demonstration. It was the first time I’d really heard my Gran swear, and it was in connection with what she’d like to do with the Poll Tax and Maggie Thatcher. She marched all day, and her anger was truly genuine. I think that tells you all you need to know about my Gran and where she stood.

It wasn’t always politics that roused her bolshy streak though. Litter was another of her pet hates, especially when it was outside her block of flats, spoiling the view from her balcony. I remember my Uncle Jeff complaining one evening about the fact that his security officers had been pulled off their normal duties to clear the litter around the Barclay’s Bank building where they worked. ‘Some woman came in complaining’ apparently, saying she was going to write a letter to head office unless something was done about the rubbish dumped in the shrubs.

As my Uncle waxed lyrical about mithering old ladies, it slowly dawned on my dad who had made the complaint. Head in hands, he confessed that the woman was indeed my Gran. I don’t know who was more mortified – my Uncle for possibly causing terrible offence by complaining about Gran, or my dad for the fact that myGran had read the riot act in her own inimitable style! It worked though. The rubbish was cleared, the security officers got some fresh air, and my gran’s view was once more unspoiled.

My gran never gave up on a cause she believed in and she never ‘put up and shut up’ for an easy life. It wasn’t in her nature. She never cared what people thought of her, she just did what she felt was the right thing to do. She would fight battles for those unable to fight for themselves, and she never turned her back on a situation she knew to be unfair.

She was a single mother who worked hard all her life to provide for her children. She was passionate about politics and the rights of the working class, and never let anyone make her ashamed of who she is and where she is from.

I love her to bits.

She’s given me four very important bits of advice: -

1) Always earn enough to pay your own rent, even if your husband or partner is paying it for you - you never know when you will need to be independent.

2) Never let any man talk down to you. Ever. They’ll never earn the right to make you feel stupid.

3) Love as much as is humanly possible, with no guilt, no shame, and no regrets. She taught me that I should be with someone because I wanted to be there, not because someone forced me into it, and that to deny myself love because I was ashamed, or worried about what people would think was stupid.

4) People in power only hold that power because you allow them to. If they abuse that power, you can take it away from them. This applies to relationships, employers, landlords, councils and the Government.

She would walk for miles to find the perfect spot for a picnic. If she heard of a good park, she’d not rest until she took us – and even at 65 years old, she always beat us to the swings. She blatantly cheated when pulling crackers at Christmas, and if you did manage to win, she had absolutely no shame in pinching your prize. She was sneaky too, and had sharp elbows if it looked like you might put up a fight.

In short, my Gran was awesome.

She was my playmate, my conspirator, my confidante but most of all, she was my best friend. To put those words in the past tense is more painful than I can say.

I will miss her.
(Sun 5th Jun 2011, 23:10, More)

» My job: Expectation vs Reality

I work in insurance. I expect it to be dull. It is dull.
When I'm not regretting my career choices, I sing in a covers band. I'm classing it as a job because people book us, and pay us to entertain. We're not bad, and we get quite a bit of work locally. I've been asked more than once why I don't do it full time, why I don't make a living from singing, why I have to 'waste my life' by working my day job. Other people genuinely are shocked that I can get up in front of people and do what I do, considering the fact that I am grossly overweight and not quite what people are expecting.

The reality?

I'm never going to be a professional singer. I'm 36, fat and female. Never going to happen, not even if I woke up tomorrow a size 10. I'm too old, and the music industry likes their newbies young. Unless you're Susan Boyle, and I am not Susan Boyle.

Everyone assumes that it's easy money. They see the wad of cash being paid at the end of the night, and it does look as though we're making a fair few quid for four hours work. It looks easy. It looks fun. It IS fun. It's the best fun you can have with your clothes on - but unless you are a signed band, who can tour constantly with original music, you will starve. Even if you are in a signed band who tour constantly with original music, you will starve for a LONG while (my mate is a drummer, his band have played at the O2 arena, and he still needs a day job to pay his bills). The wad of cash I get at the end of night gets split between five of us. It pays for petrol, a couple of beers, and a lot of it gets ploughed back into equipment. We earned £3000 in our first year, and £2500 of that went straight to pay for most of our gear. I dread any of our gear breaking because it means we essentially gig for free in order to pay for replacements. It is not easy. I spend three or fours a week working on the set with the band, and the same amount of time working on my own to make sure I can do a song justice. We constantly change the set list to keep things fresh, and we will tailor a set to an event if we can. It can get boring. It really really can. I sometimes resent the rehearsal side of things, but it has to be done. If you factor this in, I get less than minimum wage.

As for the last thing...well. I've played in some ROUGH pubs and clubs. I've played to 15 drunk punters on a Saturday afternoon, and I've played to packed venues with 150 drunk punters on a Saturday night. . I've played to lairy, drunken, leather clad moshers. I've played to chavs, alcoholics, upperclass hoorays, drunken mums, hen parties, stag parties, teenagers, old people (seriously, everyone should have the pleasure of watching a woman in her 70s jump up and down to Killing In The Name), schoolkids, and on one memorable occasion, two small babies who were lulled to sleep by Led Zeppelin.

Not once have I ever had anyone be abusive, throw anything, insult me, or make me feel anything other than fucking amazing. I was shocked by this, as I thought I was a pretty easy target, but people have never failed to be anything but appreciative and awesome. They buy us drinks, they shout for more, and they never let us go without an encore or two. Getting recognised in the street is sometimes weird (I never expected that to happen, but it does), but it makes me grin like a lunatic :D
(Sun 11th May 2014, 1:01, More)