Tuesday 30 December 2014

Adapting.

Two years ago, my mother put me on the train at Liverpool Lime Street with my suitcase, handbag and corned beef sandwiches to enjoy on the journey. Having grown tired of the same surroundings all the time, I decided that London was the place to be. What a shock to the system! Gone were the girls sporting rollers in their hair around town, making a point of letting you know they were going out that night. Sunbeds and Shellac on every street corner were no more. Instead I was faced with the more natural look. I couldn't cope. Clinging on to my St Moriz and eyebrow pencil for dear life, I realised I would have to tone it down. I replaced the platforms for a pair of flats and after a temporary nervous breakdown I eventually got used to it. See, even if a Scouse girl pops to the shop for a pint of milk, they have to put on at least 2 layers of foundation an a set of lashes, because "ya never know do ya?" For the first 2 weeks I was getting stared at like something out of Ripleys. Even more so when I opened my mouth. "What part of Scotland are you from?" I was mortified. Not that there's anything wrong with being Scottish, I mean I love Lulu and I've got ginger hair. But my accent is part of me. Liverpool is part of me. London girls are a lot more chilled out. They prefer looking natural. I tried it I really did. I tried to fit in. I wore less blusher, lashed my hair in a pony instead of the good old curly blow dry...but I'm not a London girl am I? I'm a Scouse Prinny. I screech instead of speaking. My reaction to bad news is 10 times more dramatic than an Accountant living in Clapham. Some girls are intrigued. Some are fascinated. Some are just disgusted. But when I open my mouth in the Capital, there's never a dull moment. Needless to say, without even trying, no matter where I go I end up making a statement. From the way I hold my handbag to the way I walk, I've got Liverpool written all over me. And I don't mean I'm wearing a fake LFC kit from a stall on Shaftsbury Avenue. But I can't shake it. It's something that can't be changed. I do love the days were I can't be bothered and I can just get the tube in a hoodie, without it having to match my glittery, jewel embellished tracksuit bottoms and colour co-ordinated trainers. I love the freedom of being bronzer free for a couple of days without being stared at. And most of all I love not being judged on the boldness of my eyebrows. 

Last year I was introduced to the London House Party. Replace the Vodka with Red Wine, the Swedish House Mafia with Mumford & Sons, and swap the Sausage Rolls for Olive Bread and Truffle Oil. I had my best Lipsy dress on, I'd had my hair in pin curls all day and when I got there I realised this was a very different world. We sat in a circle and discussed various pop ups in Shoreditch, where the best place is to "grab a coffee" and who are favourite poets were. My Roger McGough comment was greeted by mixed reviews. After realising where I was from, I got the usual Beatles chit chat, the plea of getting me to say the words "chicken" and "Purple", and to my surprise, I was welcomed into this world of something I'd only ever seen on BBC Four, I was soon making girl friends. Swapping tan tips for Salmon Dill recipes (I just pretended I knew what that was) I guess I can be a mixture of Liverpool and London after all. I recently went back to Liverpool, where my accent was mocked. "You sound like a Londoner now!" I sound exactly the same by the way. 

There's just one issue. London men. They just don't know how to handle a Scouse girl. We are one of a kind. Known for being self confessed "Cranks", many a man in the Capital are flummoxed when faced with the temper and cold shoulder from that of a girl from Liverpool. Men in my home city are used to it. Their mums are "Cranks". And nobody messes with a Scouse mum. All they need to do is take us shopping for a new bag, buy us some perfume and all is forgotten. But London men try and talk through the issue of which they have somehow created, leaving them in the doghouse. Usually it will be something they did 2 months ago and it's just sprung to mind so now you're obviously livid at him. But the London man doesn't know this. He's frantically going through his every move for the past week, apologising for working late, neglecting you for his bi weekly yoga sessions. He thinks flowers are the answer. Can I eat flowers? Can I wear flowers? No babe. Get your Oyster, we're off to Westfield. Not that I'm THAT shallow.... A galaxy and a cuddle will do... 

Monday 1 December 2014

It's Spread.

No, I'm not talking about Nutella. For a change. Proper love that stuff yano. No I'm talking about the evil plague that began in the depths of Shoreditch to Dalston. 

           BOXPARK, Shoreditch.

It started off under control, then before you could say "Fabrics", it spread across Britain like wildfire. The infected stick together in huddles, with their round sunglasses and brogues. Mocking the non diseased, eating street food. If you go to Brick Lane on a Saturday Night you are swarmed by them. Don't get me wrong, some of my friends have this illness but I plan on raising enough money to find a cure. 

The beard that resembles a wicker basket from Wilkos is a common sign. No man should ever have a beard long enough that they have to condition it. The moustache twirl is simply unfortunate. And inexcusable. 

Clinging to their latte from the local abstract Coffee Shop in a side street of Spitalfields, they ride the streets of London on an Antique pushbike like they own the place. A typical job would be someone who works in a Computer type media place making adverts for one of the many supermarkets.

An app for all occasions on the brand new iPhone. And iPad. They will continue to rub them in your face until you just have to pretend that you think their phone is better than yours just so they will stop harping on. 

Their favourite pub displays books upon books, upon shelf upon shelf, complete with board games on the coffee table. Yes, a coffee table in a pub. I couldn't believe it either. If they are proper hipsters, they'll have a dog with them. A Pug with a bowl of water at said owners feet, while everyone fusses over it. The owner pretends not to be assed, but deep down you know they are. Tom, Ollie or Toby will have pug related items on him at all times. A phone cover maybe. A leather Oyster Wallet and satchel, the hipster flits off on the Overground back to its home in Dalston. Where they enjoy bands only they have heard of and a bottle of red wine. Wondering what new place they could "grab" a latte from next. 

Charlotte, Emily and Sophie will usually have a Laura Ashley cardigan, a tea dress from Primark and ankle boots from Topshop. They discuss whether Ollie really wants a relationship with that bitch Jess from Accounts or if it will soon fizzle out because she's such a bitch with big boobs and MAC lipgloss. They have quaint little days out eating Vintage Cookies and wearing very little make up in the process. A quick Itsu for lunch and later an apple for the Northern Line home from work, the hipster girl has exhausted herself from saying "like" and "random" at least 30 times a sentence. Off to Waitrose to pick up a Salad for one. And that cute bearded commuter she passes everyday by the cobblers at the tube station. Or so she hopes. She goes to bed reading her Bronte books, hoping that tomorrow is the day someone has described her in Rush Hour Crush. And she may just wear them kitten heels from Office. Just cos she can. 



Tuesday 25 November 2014

I'm not gona sit here

an moan. Well, I am but like, not much. I don't wanna harp on but I think there's too much pressure to have a perfect relationship, what with the opportunity to cheat being so easy. Tinder, POF and Grindr are an app away and you could have a match on your doorstep within minutes. They say all a girl wants is Loyalty and Orgasms. I happen to want more. But I'm not talking fancy expensive restaurants, having jewellery thrown at me left, right an cenny or being bombarded with love letters all the time. I'm actually quite simple, as many of you know. To give you an idea what I'm on about, I've compiled the following to show you what I expect in a relationship. 

Tracksuits. I do like a man who dresses well. Beckham is deffo on point with his clobber. A nice groomed man to show off wouldn't you agree? But not too groomed, ya don't want a diva. There is a time and place for a suit. And I don't mean Crown Court. A fella looks his most manliest and sexiest to me, when he's got his trackie bottoms on an a hoodie to match. There's a reason why us birds love joggers:- you can see the outline. Nuff said. 

Beards. Not the long hipster beards, no. Can't be doin with them. Too frizzy, sign of pretentiousness and too high maintenance. Fickle with fashion and likely to dump you if he doesn't like your choice of coffee beans. Just a couple of days growth will do nicely. For me to stroke. And bite. It calms me down when I can't cope. 

Junk Food. I'm an ex fatty. I was a size 20. Fine for some, but for my height, it was absurd. Face like an apple pie an legs like footstools. Somehow I lost weight and me boobs stayed massive. Winner. Anyway I'm just showin off now... The gist being, I love me food. I pure love a mazzy big fat scran. Take me to TGI an I'm MADE UP. I love desserts too. Are we fuck leavin before I've had chocolate fudge cake! Don't want someone who's on me case about eating healthy all the time! No TAR! Swerve the salads, give me pure stodge.  

Compliments. Tell me I'm beautiful. Tell me I have nice hair. Sure. Do not tell me I have great tits (I know this already babes)  and arse to match. Do not tell me I'm alright for a ginger and certainly don't try and mimic my fucking accent. You can't do it. And stop asking me to say the word "Chicken". This does not get me hot and bothered. Its embarrassing and not as original and hilarious as you think. Don't then start accusing me of robbing your wallet, shouting "Calm Down, Calm Down!!"

Football. Can't be doin with a fella who doesn't like footie. And his team can't be Man Utd either. Me ma would go spare. 

Chill the Fuck Out. The more chilled you are, the more chilled I'll be. I don't need someone who constantly wants a tear up. Be assed with petty rows over whatsapp either over NOT'IN.

I Like Junk TV. And I like to watch it in my pj's whilst eating Nutella. Leave me be. 

Build. Taller than me. Nice arms. Nice hands. I'm not askin for Zac Efron (unless he's up for it like), just someone who is a bit fit so I at least fancy him.

Sex. Sorry family, you may wanna look away, but yes I do know what sex is. I don't go putting it about yano. But it is vital in a relationship. And so are the handcuffs and vanilla lube. 

Prezzies. A trip to The Disney Store wouldn't go a miss. I'm pretty up front when it comes to prezzies cos ill just tell you what I want instead of dropping hints. Saves the hassle doesn't it? Lipgloss please babes. And theatre tickets to plays I'm  interested in. I'm quite the intellect when I wanna be. An no, not friggin Jersey Boys or Urinetown.

Scouse. It's more than an accent, it's a way of life. My family and friends are scouse. We come as a package. Liverpool is my babe an you skit it I'll have murder with ya. 

Boobs. I love boobs. Big boobs. If you find that a problem then ya bin bagged. I even love me own. Sometimes I just stare at them. I stick me hands down my cleavage when it's cold. Boobs are boss, end of. 


I think I've pretty much covered everything. If anyone's got any questions, send me a SAE to my MySpace and I'll fax you a fact sheet. Tra. xoxoxo 

Saturday 18 October 2014

What it's REALLY like having Big Boobs.

Big boobs run in my family. I have The Gaffneys on my dads side to thank for that. My cousins and I discuss the ridiculous price of DD+ bras on the regs. Girls with average size boobs get to shop for bras at Primark. Complete with undies to match for £4? Go 'ed. However, if I know I'm gona get lucky with a fella, (which lets be honest is abaar every 6 months cos am a born again virgin) then I have to spend £30 a pop for a semi decent one that isn't nude or plain. So anyway I decided to make a list of things that do me head in about having big boobs.

1. The price of bras.

2. Knowin that whatever top you wear, they draw more attention than a sale at Primark on Giro Day.

3. You can't wear office attire without looking like something off youporn. Especially if y'av got ya glasses on. Pencil skirts and blouses are gamble.

4. Men think you're easy. Wrong. I'm a fridge who never cops off, constantly friend zoned and convinced I'll never find my "bae".

5. Women who are slightly less endowed are proper nasty to ya. Ya mates birds constantly watch ya round them. If ya on a night out in a low cut top or dress, girls get all insecure and giggle about you in little covens round the dance floor. Sniggerin behind their clutches from BU. I've been branded a slag just for wearing a vest top. Would you say that to a girl with B cups love? No, probably not. 

6. Titty moisture. Right down the cleave. Sounds a bit sexy? It's really not. It's uncomfortable and vulg. 

7. You have to cross ya arms if you don't want to draw attention to them. This makes ya look like you have a massive cob on. Even if you're feeling proper amazin. 

8. Knowing that if you breast feed, they may drop lower than ya standards do after 6 glasses of Vodka and Cranno in The Raz in a Thursday night. 

9. Before ya vile beaut of an auntie visits once a month, (no, not ya auntie Carol with her HRT an Silk Cut who swindles ya nans pension on the sly) it's sheer agony. If someone is pushed into ya on a bus or in the tube ya wanna just sob into their Kindle Fire. 

10. Running. Instant nob head. Everyone laughs at ya an they KILL afterwards.

11. Sleepin on ya front. Ya feel like ya hovering 3 feet in the air. 

12. Red marks off ya bra fucking EVERYWHERE. Gorj.

13. Crumbs get down there. A lot. I found a dollop of Nutella an some chopped nuts in me cleave last week so I put them on a Kingsmill Waffle. 

I'm not gona sit here and say "Oh God I can't cope with me life cos am a big titted bitch". It is boss like but they're the down sides! On the plus side, I look BOSS in a Hooters top and I get served first at the bar. That's amazin in itself cos I actually can't stand queueing. It makes me want to cry harder than when me socks get wet in the rain. 

Tra babes xoxoxox 

Thursday 25 September 2014

My latest quibble

Is when people think I'm Scottish. Not that I've got a problem with the Scots, I adore them. Their tartan, countryside and  Jimmy Krankie. I'm fond of Lorraine Kelly and I'm almost certain Calvin Harris is meant to be my husband. However it is not me. I am scouse. I don't sound anything like Annie Lennox or Tom Jones.  It's the red hair. That's something I suppose, I thought I was going darker! Perish the thought! 

I suppose there are similarities between Liverpool and Glasgow...the rival footy teams, docks, and penchant for a bevvy an a barney. But anyway, if people don't think I'm Scottish, they think I'm bloody Irish! Again, I love the green island...sorry Emerald Isle....I proper LOVED Ronan Keating when he had spiky hair and a cream suit, absolutely ruining Father & Son on Live & Kicking while the little gay one who looked like a lion sang the harmonies with the other 3 we don't care about. I eat Lucky Charms and my ancestors were Irish. Gypsies, some of them. But I don't feel like me if my accent is mistook for another. I am a Liver Bird. A Scouse Prinny. In London. 

Monday 26 May 2014

The Other Week

The other week, when it was roastin, I went to The Olympic Park. I decided to wear my denim high waisted shorts an a crop top to show off these rolls CURVES. At first I wasn't so sure, but it was roastin, me freckles weren't gonna get any darker sat in me jeggins an hoodie were they?




I know me ass looks like 2 melons in a split Lidl bag, but I thought fuck it, I'm only goin over the road.


It was the longest journey to Westfield EVER. I felt ashamed. Not only were me wobbly bits hangin out, I looked almost transparent. There were people pointing.


 "Ha look at the ginger thinking she an go out in the sun like a normal person!"


Anyway, I went an had a pathetic attempt of "sunbathing" for abar 2 hours an it all got too much for me am afraid. I thought oh I bet when I get in, I'll look in the mirror and I'll have gone a lovely colour.





An I did. In places. I went for the "I leant on the iron by accient" look. Worked well.

The moral is, where were my so called mates to stop me? Stop me goin out lookin like Tina Malone in Blonde Fist? Stop me getting sun burnt? Stop me goin funny in the heat? There should be more Public Awareness about Gingers In Summer. If you see one in the street when its pure hot, just ask them if they need a lie down and some water. Everyone was quick enough to jump on the Homeless bandwagon when it was snowin, so lets do the same for redheads this summer!

Some of us in life can only dream of going to a hot country for a beach holiday. I am one of those poor individuals. So the next time yas are goin away, think of me. And my disability.

Thanks xoxoxo

Thursday 15 May 2014

Post Datal Depression.

Picture the scene, girls. You meet a lad on Tinder (I know, I've only myself to blame) and you are inboxin eachother. Ya avin a boss chat, an ya seem to be getting on quite well. You go on a date in the cool & trendy East End....you show him round Bethnal Green, Shoreditch, an "grab" a bagel on Brick Lane. You're getting on, and neither of you are in a rush to go home. You stop off at a pub filled with Hipsters, City folk and all that malarkey. An then, when ya thinkin "maybe they're not all dick'eads", he takes one look at the 5ft10 barmaid with the tattoos and Dr Martins. An is onto her.


Boss.


Yes, this was me, tonight.


Now what I will say is, on this occasion, I dressed down. Usually I would turn up in something that shows off me "hourglass figure" as me mate Kirsty calls it. I call it too much Cadburys, greed, and lack of self control on the arl chicken nuggets. But that attracts the wrong attention. Hence the cazzies. Turns out this makes me look quite butch. Amay. Not that I'm justifying his obvious lack of both perfect 20/20 vision and decent taste, but maybe I could have glammed up a bit more.....saying that, an I'm not bein funny or anything, but she did look like Adam Rickitt at a Sum 41 gig.


Now as soon as I clocked this bang on behaviour, I suggested we end the date due to time. On the way to the Tube, I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. However, the lad I clocked was half cut, staggerin about an sportin a proper sorry Martina Navaratilova barnet. Unlucky. An he didn't even get on to it anyway. So now I'm sat 'ere with Post Datal Depression, questioning whether it is just better to throw in the towel an go on the arl muff. This will all disappear though when I go on Google later to perve at Beckham to cheer meself up.


Then ya start asking yourself if the world is just filled with nob'ed fellas, and romance has popped its clogs. Destined to be alone forever, with only the internet, a giant bar of Galaxy and feet that deffo look like spatulas, no matter what your mates tell you. This, ladies, and gents alike, is Post Datal Depression. You put on a romantic film, stare at Hugh Grant or Jude Law, an ponder "Why can't all fellas just be nice?" Sayin that, Grant shagged a prozzy behind Liz's back, and Law was at it with the nannie whilst he was with our Sienna!


"But nice men are out there somewhere....aren't they?" Ya desperately shovelling chocolate into ya grid, slatin the pair of them to all ya mates on Whatsapp, "Pair of fuckin beauts eeeeeee shoulda seen her!!!" Feeeewwwwmin, for abar an hour, then ya phone beeps. It's a message off another gorj fella on Tinder. "Oh some proper fitty has just sent me a message yano" an the whole friggin process starts again! Me mates say I'm too fussy. Well shouldn't I be? Why deny yourself the best ay girls? It's what we all deserve. Alls I want is someone to at least fancy me, get me loadsa food and spoon the shit out of me. Whilst thinkin I'm the best thing since Soccer AM.


I reckon it's cos I'm ginger. It's gorrabee. I know I'm a firecracker and a bit quirky, but I'm not a complete bell end. I act like a bit of a divvy sometimes, but c'mon, I'm no Solange Knowles. (Satirical).


Anyway, I'm off to bed now, goodnight babes,


luv yew


xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Tuesday 22 April 2014

Easter, Nobheads, and London Clubs

Do you know how many Easter Eggs I've consumed the past few weeks? No, neither do I I have lost count.

       "Ya not supposed to eat them before Easter! That's terrible!!"

Oh sorry, were you in church on Sunday? No, thought not. Plus, I ate fish on Good Friday so on you. I nearly set fire to the flat cooking it, but oh well.

This past few weeks, it hasn't half felt good to be a Scouser. We had the 25th anniversary for The Hillsborough disaster, which in my opinion, brought us all closer :) It's not about football, it's about us all sticking together, and we did. Plus, Liverpool are top of the league, and Everton are 5th. For the first time in aaaaages, I've seen Reds supporting Blues and vice versa. Isn't that nice tho? There is no room for argy bargy in our city <3 Did anyone go the Charity game yesterdee? If so, giz a geg at ya piccys of Redknapp in his shorts will ya? Ta.



Also, what's been getting raaaaar on me Hackney Wick is when people ask ya if they can "grab" something off ya. "Can I grab a coffee?" "Do you want to grab a chair?" "Yes thanks love, I will, I'll grab this coffee an swill ya grid with it, then grab the chair an twist raaaar round your swede."

I'm on a roll this week. I'll tell ya about the club I went to a few weeks back. It was a Friday night, and me mate suggested we go The Big Chill on Brick Lane. Fuck. Me. I have never seen such a palarver just to enter a bleedin building. They searched AND frisked me, TWICE upon entry. I said "Where dya think we are? 10 Downing Street?" Got in there, and at first I thought the punters were dancing ironically. Turns out they were deadly serious. There were 2 fellas who had so much tan on, they looked the colour of my hair. Twice one of them smiled at me. I laughed at him. Arlass me. They thought they were in a Bruno Mars video, nodding their heads in slow motion and high fiving everytime a girl walked past. £10 for a drink. And there were fucking kitten heels EVERYWHERE. Calling it pretentious is an understatement. I've never seen so many hipster dickheads gathered in one place. The girls hadn't so much as looked at a hairbrush, never mind a pair of straighteners or a set of rollers. Safe to say I won't be going there again, unless it's for research purposes. I am yet to find a place in East London that I like dancing and drinking in. Essex is more my brew <3 And the fella's are tasty too.
                                                                     *



Did I tell yas about when I went to Liverpool Street Station few weeks back and got approached by this little fella in a red polo? Looked like he worked at Wilkos. I tapped in, and he chased me halfway down the platform. "Scuse me miss, you didn't tap in, can I see your Oyster Card?" I said, "I did tap in. Can I see your ID please?"

I swear to God, he had what looked like a blank postcard, taped to a bit of string, with scribbles on. "Staff - Liverpool St Station. "Shall we go find your manager?" I asked. As I led him, he ran off. "Ay mate!!!" I shouted at a fella in a Greater Anglia jacket. "Some little fella just tried to con me!" I explained what had happened and he asked for a description of him. "Small, Asian fella in a red polo" I said. "Well there's only two of us on tonight, and we're both black isn'ni?". He laughed, told me he would turf him out if he saw him again and off I trotted on me train.


                                                                    *



I made a roast dinner with American George, who lobbed the chicken in a pan an put it in the oven. Always remember to use an oven glove when doing this, unlike soft ass Ginge here who forgot it was hot one night and nearly took off her finger prints. Slept with me hand in a bowl of ice water. Don't worry, I didn't piss meself.


Tra xoxoxoxo






Monday 14 April 2014

Gerron This

Me mate Patrick has written a short story abar me. He hasn't done it for a laugh, he's a writer. A good one too. It's boss an I'm a lil Prinny in it too. Well, I'm a Prin in real life aren't I? ;-)

Ya know me, I never take meself too seriously anyway. Give it a read anyway. Hope ya like it. I loved it!


http://www.tenwords.co.uk/2014-a-year-in-stories-week-14-happily-ever-after/

Also, if anyone has any questions ya want me to answer, about London, life, men, whatevs, inbox me on Facey and I'll answer them in a post. Be assed answerin them post by post.

Tra xoxoxoxo

Thursday 3 April 2014

Aarrrrrr.

I know yas 'ave all been waitin on me new post, so I can update you on the Jay situation. Well. I gave him his hoodie back an he was made up. We went for a Cheeky Nando's an he even let me 'ave a puddin'. Worra babe.


"You been writin about me again?" He Cockneyed. "Eeeee nosey aren't ya?" I Scoused. Not only did he lose his bottle, he lost the link to this blog.


He said he was absolutely Schindlers List one night and panicked, hence the text he sent me saying we were "rushing into things". (My reply "Rushing Into Things? You haven't even fingered me yet!" went down a storm with his mates. Apparently I "Mugged him off").He's gorgeous, but simple. He called me a "Sort", kissed me, topped up me refillable Diet Coke and all was forgiven.


Few days later, I went to his. In London, we have little taxi offices. They're Private Hire and you just go in and they take ya right away. None of this waitin for Delta shite. Honest t'god, they didn't have a clue where the address was. Even with two A-Z's an a Sat Nav. Eventually I got there.


"You done another blog about me aintcha?" Oh my life, I swear he's obsessed. He thinks he's got a followin'. I haven't even gorra followin' so why would he? Soz abar me avin no mates. We had proper bants watchin Gogglebox, then we decided to get.......cosy. He put the Radio Channels on expectin some mood music...chillout or some indie. No. Abba, The Carpenters, and a Welsh Male Choir. Could not cope. He kissed me and called me "Right Awkward" in the most London accent I've ever heard. I couldn't stop laughing. While kissing him. I bet that was amazing for his self confidence. 


Don't tell him I'm writing about him, his head will get bigger than his nob. Oh aaayyyyyyeeeeee.


He's nice. He's a Geezer. I'll leave it at that.....Until the weekend.....


And if he flaps after seeing this post, I'll wool him everywhere for bein a little fanny.

Wednesday 26 March 2014

Spring.

It is me week off work and I'm avin a ball. I've been writing, working out and generally being fab. Workin in the bookies 10-2 is killin me off. No, that's not really my job, I'm not telling you what it is. But what I will say is I work in Soho. No, no, nothing dodgy or anythin.


Anyway, when I first moved here, I pictured spending my days off work waltzing about the Southbank, popping to Portobello Market for me bits and waving to the studios where they do This Morning while Holly and Pip interview a woman who's vagina collapsed into itself. But alas, being a grown up means otherwise. I've been the gym, sure. But that is not enough to write home about. Unless you count all the fit fellas that I perv at.


When I go the gym I'm surrounded by gorgeous girls, tanned skin, dark hair, they make everything they do look sexy. I am a completely different kettle of fish. Gingers go red when they run. And no matter what sports bra I wear, the girls always bounce up and down. I get perved at by small Algerian men in Lonsdale, who stare at me while they do chin ups. Can't complain tho ay? A fanbase is a fanbase afterall.


Easter is approaching, which means it's perfectly acceptable to eat an Easter Egg, all to yaself on the Central Line. Just not the additional chocolate bars as well, save them for later with a brew when nobody can laugh at ya. It also means a 4 day weekend. Tubes will be delayed, cancelled and we will be hit with "Rail Replacement Buses". Gorj. Sundays are boring in London as it is, we don't need 2 more added on. Oh well, Good Friday means fish & chips and I'm just gona get dead fat all weekend.


I can't keep up with what bleedin coat to wear either. I've got 5 and can never get it right.


All this aside, believe it or not, Summer is on it's way. I even wore me maxi dress to Sainsbury's recently. My Italian flatmate is having a mare. All his mates back home are on the beach, drinkin Amaretto, eatin ice cream havin an absolute ball. I love Italians. They're like Scousers. They hear a fellow Italian in the street, and that's it. Bezzy mates. They will stand there for ages just talking about Italy. Oh, and just so ya'no, I asked him if Italy has seen the missing plane, and it seems they can't find it either. I'm sure it will all come out in the wash. Last night I was having a "fat day". One of them days where ya haven't gained a considerable amount of weight, but you feel like ya 'ave. And no matter what outfit you put on, you're STILL fat. I informed my Italian flatmate of this, as I solemnly passed him in the kitchenette. He comforted me by saying "In Italy we don't like Skinny Girl. When you hug them it feel like you hug a rock." Little babe.


I need to go the gym again. And wash that lads hoodie. Remember him? From a previous blog? He bailed, fannied out, then came back. I'm seeing him tomorrow. You might think that's too soft, but I want to hear what he has to say for swerving a little prin like me. Plus, free Nandos init? Let's hope he doesn't see this blog ay? And if he does, lets hope it was taken in the spirit it was intended.....

Sunday 16 February 2014

London Men.

I've attracted some right muppets since living here. Southern lads just don't care.


Abar 6 weeks ago, I was on a train from Liverpool Street to Stratford, where I live. (Yano the Olympic place? That's Stratford. State o' me livin there ay? Far cry from me terraced house with me mum an dad!)...Anyway, I was sat in a carriage all to meself, an lad gets on an goes  "Wow. 22nd of January, and already I've broken my New Years Resolution......" Now this was deffo the beginning of a chat up line. I ignored 'im an carried on eatin me Seaweed Peanut Crackers from Tesco. (If ya haven't 'ad 'em before, deffo get some, they sound proper vile but they're better for ya than Galaxy). He waited for me to respond, and when I didn't, he went "Wow, just gona ignore me.....Sorry I'm bein annoying". A few minutes later, he looked at me an went "So have you had a good night?" Blanked. "Okay, there's no need to go silent.." By now, I'm textin me bezzie lad mate getting him to phone me. I answered the phone, told him I loved him and couldn't wait to get to Stratford to meet him and his 4 best mates who were all UFC fighters, got up and walked away. Now, that occasion, I kept my cool. Thinkin back I should have asked him who the fuck he was talkin' to, and I was quite happy on me own until he got on an started "chattin breeze". Cheeky bastard.


A couple of nights later, same place, same train. These 2 young lads got on. Faces only a mother could love. The big muscled blonde started eyein me up and his dark haired mate started whispering to him. They're eyes were burnin a hole, swear down. The blonde kept talking shit whilst looking at me, seeing if he was getting any of my attention. He was in for some disappointment. Talkin about goin to Fabric an his new job as a builder, trying desperately to get a glimpse from me. Then, some gorj City Man got on and sat by me. The gimpy blonde little melt was fumin. Saw me eyein up the competition, and proceeded to tell his bezzie about all the weights he was doin'. Honest t'God, what a little blert.  The City man began to fall asleep with his iPhone 5s in his hand so I woke him up. "Don't fall asleep with that in your hand, you'll get it nicked." I said nudging him gently. He opened his eyes, winked, smiled and thanked me. You should have seen the face on Johnny Bravo. GUTTED. I was in love.


But that's not all! I attract ALL the weirdos. Including a 50 year old  drunk Nigerian Man who claimed he was a King in his country with "so much pussy". He called me a "Motherfucker" all across the Northbound Jubilee. I assured him and everyone else on the carriage that I had maybe fucked a few dads in me time, but never a Mother, to which everyone laughed.


Now in Liverpool, you have two different types of fella. Ones with money and a job, and ones without either.

I've been here a year and I've found in London, there are different types. Let me guide yas through them ay?

  • Cockney Geezers- They think they're Danny Dyer. Support West Ham/Arsenal....call you "babe". They have the same group of mates they've had since school and they go to Ibiza or Thailand on holiday every summer. They get round you by using their "Swagger" and "Charm". They teach you Rhyming Slang and walk funny. Like they've got uncomfortable gential warts. You can usually find them in their local "Battle Cruiser" in Barking, Brentwood, Clapham or Canning Town talking Tits, Footie and more Tits. Gorj, but trouble.
  • Mediahhh Guys- I dated someone last yeah who worked for a TV Production Company. The bullshit he would sprout about who he had met through his job. Dropping names quicker than I drop sluts of a Saturday Night.  Little Mix, Olly Murs, and other nonsensical celebs I couldn't give a fuck about. They normally jump on 5 Minute Fads, New Apps, and faff around Soho in a Hybrid Car. When they list their conquests, they include getting stared at by "The Blonde one out of Hollyoaks at The Soap Awards." Prey on niave girls who will believe anything they say.
  • City Boys- Usually an Office Junior from Ilford, Essex. Early 20s, suit from Zara, an' hair in a quiff. Millin around Liverpool Street of a Friday Night chattin up Hipster Models with long blonde hair, black roots, denim shorts and a Boy London Beanie. They tend to meet their mates and drink around Spitalfields. A couple of them have approached me in the past whilst I've been wanderin to the last train and tried their look. I can safely say they have never been successful.
  • City Men- 28+. Designer suit, watch and scent. Now these fellas 'ave got money. If ya go round Canary Wharf or The City on the last Friday afternoon of the month, you will see them gradually goin' to bars from about 4pm, waiting to chat to a girl they can buy champagne for, then maybe sleep with. Briefcase, loosened tie, and tongue to match. Some of them are married, but it doesn't stop them trying. Sayin' that though, the married ones are usually the ones asleep on the train with nothing but a greasy Maccies an a copy of The Evening Standard. It's not exactly The Wolf Man Of Wall Street like, but the majority of them are decent.
  • Musicians- Anyone who is over the age of 21 and says they're in a band, SWERVE. Loser. Usually means working in a Coffee Shop on Brick Lane or behind a bar in Dalston, clinging on to the band he had always wanted to be in since the age of 12. They sleep around, carry disease and will go on about the "heart to heart I had with Foxes/Carl Barat/Him out of that band" 3 years ago at a pub in Angel". Sports a moustache, skinny jeans and Toms. Serious slags. Keep away.
There's more, but Come Dine With Me is on and I'm shattered. I'll keep yas posted though.


Tra xoxoxoxo


Datin' an tha.

Normally, I have the fella's on me case on a constant. But since moving to London, I have found no fucker wants me. Me ma says it's cos I'm too common for fellas' down 'ere. I've tried eatin' olives an avacados an tha but still, not'in. I switched from Blossom Hill to Prosecco too but even tha didn't work.

Me mates down here seem to think I should experiment with "The Natural Look". I told them to go throw themselves on The Bakerloo. Sif I'm walkin round with only one layer of foundation an no eyebrows to speak of! Anyway, I tried, and the only fellas I seemed to be attracting were borderline Sunday School Teachers and proper little melts from the mediaaahh. I proper hate lads in the Media.....but I'll come onto that later.

So I tried Tinder, yeah, an I got lucky. His name is Jay an he's an Arsenal fan. He's a bit cocky, cheeky an is up for a laugh. He's not one of these uptight fellas who work at Bishopsgate and work you round their schedules consisting of Pow Wow's and business lunches at Wasabi. Nah, he's a grafter. Manual Labour. We we're havin "decent chat" as they say here, and we got on to the subject of the Channel 4 documentary "The Undateables". "Saw you on that the other day" he said laughin, thinkin he was hilar. "Yeah" I replied, "I'd been set up with some little creature called Jay". Soon shurrup didn't he? Then Liverpool battered Arsenal and he realised he didn't have a leg to stand on.

I think he has binned me off for bein funnier than him. Oh well, least I got a hoodie out of it. Superdry one too. S'right.

Tra xoxoxo


Saturday 8 February 2014

The City

London fella's look BOSS in a suit, commuting round Chancery Lane and St Pauls. But unfortunately in Liverpool, EVERY lad with an office job looks like he's on the 79 to Queen Elizabeth Crown Court instead of his all important job at some marketing company on Dale St. I never appreciated a good suit until I moved here. Whenever I'm on Liverpool Street or around Mayfair, I love a good perv at a rich man in good clobber. They make an effort. Designer watch, briefcase and suited and booted. The first time I went to Canary Wharf on a weekday, I was in me element. It was like something out of a film! All the stocks and shares on the screens on the banks, I couldn't cope!


The women though......an am not bein funny or no'in, but they could drag a brush through their hair at least! Kitten heels, black roots an blonde hair snatched back in a bobble, blue eyeliner, smudged mazzy an then they pull out a YSL lippy. 'Onest ta God. They all look shattered too. Sat readin their Kindles on The Jubilee Line, yawnin past themselves! They're all called Tamzin, Emily, Victoria and Sophie. Drinkin red wine in All Bar One, parousin the salads cos they won't ave a butty. Every now and then, you get a woman, done up like the ald one in The Devil Wears Prada. Louis Vuitton bag, Chanel Scarf and Prada Glasses. An I think good on ya love.


If you get a black cab in London, it means ya minted. I've only ever seen people flag taxi's in Mayfair and The City. Basically, that's when I know I have made it. When I can just casually flag a taxi an be all made up with meself.


xoxo



Well, it's been over a year....

since I moved to the Big Smoke that is London. There's things I've had to get used to....


  • It's considered normal to be reading a copy of The Sun in public. The first time I witnessed this, was in my first week when some fella pulled it out his bag. I was fumin. Started lookin round for back up an to see who else was snarlin....but nobody was assed.
  • Kitten heels are a staple in a City Girls wardrobe. They purposefully go shopping for them. Really though, I'm norreven messin.
[For those who dunno what I mean by "City Girls", they're basically Girls who work in The City. Now I've not gone completely mad, I know London is a city, but for some strange reason, theres a part called The City Of London. It's where St Pauls is (no, I know it's not a patch on Paddy's Wigwam or The Red One, but wha can ya do ay?). And Bank. No not A Bank, but The Bank. Basically, it's where all the Suits work. I'll get onto that later].


  • If ya make an effort on a night out with ya clobber, ya from Essex.
  • Men singing to me on a regular basis on the tube.
  • People staring at ya on the tube. When I first got here I was mortified. Nobody gives eye contact in Liverpool without it being followed very quickly, usually from some teenage girl from Anfield shoutin "EEEEEEEE WORRA YA LOOKIN AAA"
  • This also applies to shoulder bargin.
  • Toms. Everywhere.
  • You appreciate Liverpool more once ya away.
  • Scousers are either loved or hated.
  • If you drink Still Water, you're basically a ming. Sparkling, everytime.
  • Hummous is eaten with flat bread and olives.
  • A Waitrose on every corner. Posh me now yano!
  • Lunch is Dinner, and Dinner is Tea.
  • The buses are 24hours. An on the reggers too, even at 3 in the morning!
  • Tubes are every 30 seconds. Which is boss until you go back to Liverpool and have to wait abar half an hour for a chocker 79 to town.
  • Everyone thinks I'm Irish or Scottish.
  • Hipsters fucking EVERYWHERE.
  • "Vintage Shops".....no....it's 2nd hand, stop bein a dick'ed.
  • Avacado's are boss.
               and
  • If ya lose ya Oyster Card, ya fucked.
xoxo