Sometimes, I wonder if I’m being filmed. Not in a weird, stalkery way, like the one with the shaved head from The Wanted would feel if he knew how much I Googled him. More in a hidden-camera-let’s-mess-with-her-mind way. Like the time I attempted a nice game of pass the parcel at my son’s birthday, only for Smack My Bitch Up to be on the party tunes compilation. Or the day I was having a stab at shifting some baby weight at the local swimming baths and the strap on my costume broke, resulting in me flashing a single, pallid knocker to the year 7 swim class in the next lane. There are occasions when so much stuff that shouldn’t go wrong, goes completely wrong and so many good, simple intentions go arse-up that I end up asking if it’s all a big, fat prank. Maybe there’s some kind of phone vote involved. And a bunch of viewers who revel in my misfortune so much that they’ll gladly spend money on a premium rate number if it means they can help bring about my nervous breakdown. Basically, I think my life is The Truman Show meets Beadle’s About. And yes, I know they say Beadle’s dead but what if he’s not and what if that was all part of this elaborate, creepy ruse of his? He crash-landed a spaceship in someone’s garden for pity’s sake, faking his own death is totally the next step up from that.
Um, so ok, that’s the theory. Now picture the show – a really small camera has been hidden in my hair. I think it’s the start of a dreadlock brought on by the fact I’ve not had chance to shower for four days. It’s not. It’s a camera. Anyway. This is the voiceover. It’s the voice of Jeremy Beadle obviously, you know, what with the whole not being dead thing:
“Here’s tonight’s fraught mother, Abby. She’s had a crisis of confidence in her parental abilities and has decided to offset that morning she gave the kids Dairylea Dunkers for breakfast against a trip to the forest to pick some berries to make jam with. That’s what she wants to do, but viewers, how this actually works out is up to you…
If you’d like to see Abby enjoy a nice, low-key afternoon of berry-picking and jam-making with her children, text NICE to this number
Alternatively, if you’re laughing at her naivety and want these genteel, idealistic notions booted into touch, text FAIL”
For whatever reason – maybe because I’m a bit ginger or because I’m really intolerant of people who use apostrophes in the wrong place – the nation hates me. They all text FAIL.
“What our victim doesn’t know is we’ve had a dog do its business in the forest. What she also doesn’t know is that her daughter trod in said dog poo earlier. Watch what happens when, in an attempt to placate her whining daughter, Abby obliviously picks her up and….hang on….wait for it….YES!….BRILLIANT!….she’s done it, she’s smeered dog shit up her mother’s back! See Abby’s face crumple! Is she disgusted? Defeated? Viewers, I think it’s a bit of both!”
Cue the uh-oh-what-a-knob music
To round-up, the hidden hair camera captures me unsuccessfully trying to wrestle two uncooperative children into my car whilst simultaneously gagging over the smell of dog muck, right before Beadle bids everyone goodnight with a chuckle, a shake of his head and a cheeky wink.
Thinking about it, does anyone have Channel Five’s number? I think I could be on to something…
upyoursginaford 
You do make me chuckle – these painful moments are a killer at the time but do make comedy gold in hindsight!
I swear I saw Lord Beadle sniffing some knickers in my local charity shop the other day. He had a shrivelled hand and everything. So everything you say could be TRUE.
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Today i tried to go to the dentist. After 2 hours, a train, 3 buses and ending up in the middle of a housing estate, (i still have no idea where?), i had to cancel my appointment and find my way home again, so i’d be inclined to agree with you.
I’m telling you now, that Beadle’s a b*stard. He’s out to get us
You know that time when you flashed a single, pallid knocker at the Year 7 swimming class? Well, perhaps the Year 7 swimming class should form a survivors support group with my postman, who tried to deliver a parcel to our house (whilst I was breastfeeding). I got up, answered the door, said hi to the postman, signed for the parcel, and wondered why the postman was blushing furiously throughout the whole exchange. It was only afterwards that I realised that my right nork was still out. Poor postie. Thankfully, he bears no resemblance to Mr Beadle.
I always think I’m being filmed. I hear the commentry in my head from a show called “How Not to Parent”
“… As Frances wipes her youngest son’s nose with a dirty sock from the laundry pile, her elder son is in the other room, using a cork screw to punch holes into the parcels she has just spent the last twenty minutes wrapping and addressing.How will she choose to discipline him? Positive discipline? The naughty step? Or just stand there wailing till she can no longer breathe?”
this is hilarious, your not alone In the last 3 weeks I have got into 3 different cars belonging to randoms, the worst one was when I was with the baby I shout to my husband what have you done with the f**king carseat only to met with with a rather terrified indian man