Like, OMG. WTF. Totes shitballs. I’m one of those women aren’t I? One of those women I bitch about. Who spends her whole life talking about her kids. Well, her whole blog anyway. I’m spending my whole blog talking about my kids. Not that my blog is my life you understand. Hell no. I mean, I have LOADS of other stuff going on outside of the blog thing. Like. Well. Um. Desperate Scousewives on Sky+. My daily Groupon email. Learning to talk ‘street’ (see above). I mean, jesus, I’ve got an appointment with the dental hygienist later. Fullofloadsofexcitingstuff, that’s my life for you.
I’m lying, of course. My life may be full. But of terribly exciting stuff? Not so much. The dental hygienist? Despite me resenting the fact she speaks to me like an 8 year old** and my deep-seated fear of dental floss, I’m actually quite looking forward to my appointment because it means half an hour out of the house and a chance to read the waiting room copy of Grazia. Life wasn’t always so lacklustre though. Shall I tell you my claims to fame? Shall I? (if you’re shouting ‘NO’ at your computer, you should probably stop reading now). Ye-ah boyee. Kid free and all about me, fill yo’ boots:
- After helping out at The Soap Awards one year (a career high never to be equalled) I challenged Ben Freeman of then-Emmerdale fame to help me start a fight between The Dales and Coronation Street. He seemed up for it but wouldn’t swing the first punch so I think maybe he was just humouring me. At the same party, the man who used to play Mr Cunningham in Hollyoaks (anyone?) climbed onto a speaker and, to a backdrop of Starlight by Supermen Lovers (again, anyone?), took off all his clothes and thrust the bit that most men like to thrust when they are 100% naked until security had to forceably remove him
- I once posed in a women’s magazine with no clothes on. It was an article about body issues, was tastefully done and motivated by the sole fact I got fifty quid for it. Because of this, I then appeared on GMTV with daytime TV’s queen of condescension, Lorraine Kelly, who conducted an in-depth discussion with me and a plus-size model on body dysmorphia. I like to think the fact our chat only lasted 5 minutes and was preceded by a performance of Celebration by Kool and the Gang didn’t deter from the seriousness of the subject…
- I used to write mucky sex stories for a national magazine. You know those ‘and then he put his spanner down and shagged me up against the dishwasher’ real-life confessions? Very much not real. Ditto the letters page
- I once gave Pat Sharp an antihistamine and then took that as an open invitation from him to me to go on a massive rant about how much I hated Dr Fox. Shortly after I rounded up my ten-minute diatribe with ‘I mean, he’s not even a real doctor’, Pat Sharp revealed that while Dr Fox may indeed not be a qualified member of the medical profession, he was in fact his daughter’s godfather
- For whatever reason, most probably as a result of me lying my face off, I once ended up on some PR lists as the editor of the magazine I worked on, rather than the lowly editorial assistant I actually was. As a result of my bullshitting, I got invited to the re-launch of Stringfellows and, after drinking a lot of free wine, me and my mate ended up sat atop a motorbike with Stringy himself. ‘Come on girls, mount the Harley’ he said. No word of a lie, that’s what Peter Stringfellow actually said. FUCK. ING. AWESOME.
Of course, based on the Stepford circles I find myself moving in these days, I’m not really meant to admit all of the above and, even if I do, it’s supposed to be done in an ironic-roll-the-eyes-‘ha-I-used-to-think-this-kind-of-shit-meant-something’ way, whilst simultaneously professing my spiritual awakening to the really important stuff in life. Like, you know, Boden, pilates, PTA committee meetings… If truth be told though, just like X Factor, Beyonce’s bumpwatch and Teen Mom on MTV, I love the trashy stuff today as much as I did pre-kids and nothing gets me more giddy than another person’s tale of a time they met a celebrity. That’s your cue – dish it. Give me gossip. The grubbier, the better.
**Hygienist: So now I’ve shown you how to brush properly, we’ll all be happy bunnies at the next appointment, yeah?
Me: #looking behind me for the toddler I presume she’s addressing# Sorry?
H: YEAH! Cool bananas! #goes to high five me#
M: Can we not do that please
P.S. I’m tucking it down the bottom because I feel a bit of a knob about it and everything but I’m now on Twitter. I don’t know if it’s the website for me, I’m not convinced it’ll catch on…Anyway, should you be also on Twitter and would like to make an old woman happy, give me a little tickle or whatever it is they call it. A twickle? I have no idea. http://twitter.com/#!/upyoursginaford