Scummy Mummy Does Mexico

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As holidays go, I am all up for experiencing new cultures and meeting new people, but If there were a ‘class’ system for holiday makers, then the vile creature we met on our pacific getaway would definitely be ‘steerage’. This Scummy Mummy was of the ‘ Jeremy Kyle Show’ ilk, donning her best Primark leggings and serving ‘Polyester Kaftan realness.’

We were introduced to her at Gatwick North terminal, when she declared to the entire folk at Gate 27, when the softly spoken gentleman at the lecturn politely invited all passengers requiring special assistance to come forward;

“My daughter has autism!, My daughter has autism!”

To which the gentleman swiftly replied “Can she walk unaided?”

“Yes”, said the scummy mummy, who was then met with the response;

“Then she doesn’t require special assistance….now sit down!”

I have full admiration for those that care for people who are a little less fortunate and have problems with everyday life, however I don’t imagine even her daughter would want the embarrassment of her mother declaring her diagnosis to the 300 people waiting to board the Dreamliner.

I had nothing to declare, except the 100ml bottle of Paco Rabanne, purchased moments before in Duty Free, but unlike Scummy Mummy, I kept that to myself.

Upon being turned away, she then concocted an affliction of arthritis in her left knee, rendering her suitable for speedy boarding. Bitch please….I have rheumatoid arthritis affecting my entire body but I have waited my turn like everybody else. The only visible affliction she suffered,was loving food that little bit more than she loves Pilates. Nevertheless, she boarded the plane and disappeared from our lives… until we got to Puerto Vallarta

“Coach number 1!” the nice TUI rep pointed out!

We grabbed ourselves a drink and made haste to the comfort of the fully air-conditioned bus to cool down our sweaty bits after being pelted by 35 degree heat, dressed in our full superdry travel clobber courtesy of our North Terminal spend up!

As the bus filled, I spotted Scummy Mummy loitering, daughter in tow, who now, through no fault of her own and without formal introduction was known as ‘The girl with Asperger’s”. A total shame that, although we discovered her name some time later….she was defined primarily by her disability…owing to her mother’s shameful attempt to get one over the ground staff at Gatwick.

“Oh no….shes getting on our bus”, I observed.

In her crumpled polyester and newly painted nails (the Mexican flag…..natch), she sat two rows in front…..great!  When the TUI rep boarded the coach and handed out our welcome packs, and  our invite to the respective ‘Welcome Meetings’, there commenced the ‘Been here, done it all before’ performance.  You know what I mean right?….that annoying person who has been to the same place many times before and decides to make it abundantly clear by interrupting and correcting the tour rep, who is busily trying to do his job.

Our 1st stop is the ‘Royal Decameron’….our hotel… What luck? However as soon as he announced this…I heard the Scummy Mummy let out a definitive ‘Yessssssss!’

Oh no!, we thought, how can this be? How can Scummy Mummy be frequenting the same 4 Star, All Inclusive complex as us. Im not one to judge (I am), but she hardly seemed the ‘high- flying business woman’ type. I even considered at the Airport, whether she was at the wrong gate, or whether ‘The Sun’ had extended their £9.50 holidays to include the Caribbean.  This aint Great Yarmouth Yarmuff love!  All I could think was she must be raking in the PIP and Carers allowance payments.

On the coach she had an altercation with the couple sitting behind her, who had kicked the back of her seat.

“I have just had a kid kicking me for 12  f**king hours on a plane, now sit down properly and stop f**king kicking me”,  she shouted. (Unnecessary)

As we got off and checked in and went our separate ways, I was glad that the complex was vast and had 650 rooms, the chances of seeing her again were pretty slim.

Wrong

There she was at the welcome meeting again, enlightening everybody on all the trips and excursions that she has been on every year with ‘Aspergers’.

“Don’t go and see that show…the singers all mime”, and “Don’t use this taxi company, because they try and rip you off”.

At the end of the welcome meeting…co hosted by the illiterate potty mouth, the poor TUI rep took no bookings for any trips, thanks to the intervention from ‘Benefits Britain.’

The Hotel had 8 blocks, with 8 pools and around 10 restaurants and where did they put Scummy Mummy?…..in the same section as us of course, that was until she played the ‘arthritis’ card again and was moved to the ground floor…..every cloud has a silver lining.

We went back to book the trips. The ‘Rhythm of the night’ tour was extremely popular and we heard Scummy Mummy say that she wanted to do that on Monday….so we booked to go on Tuesday. Turns out it was so popular that it was fully booked on Monday so whilst sipping our welcome ‘Margerita’, on the boat, my eyes soon   fixated on the polyester whisperer!

In a desperate attempt to steer clear, the husband and I positioned ourselves on the boat’s bow, like Jack Dawson and Rose Dewitt-Bukater from the film ‘Titanic’.  As we sipped on our drinks and headed for the island, we couldn’t help hear the confessions of the plagued mother who was telling everyone that cared, that her daughter had paid for her trip from some compensation she had received.  Where there’s blame, there’s a claim!

Call me cynical, but I couldn’t help thinking that this was their way of paying for holidays. Scummy Mummy would  douse the floor with cooking oil in Sainsburys, and send her daughter down the aisle to fetch the Doritos and Beef Jerky, who would then unknowingly fall flat on her arse.

Everywhere we turned for two weeks, there they were!  Scummy Mummy exposing her cellulite and fat rolls to the entire beach, causing a mass exodus wherever she parked herself. (Every time her mobile went off…we all thought it was reversing). Poor Megan …yes we finally found out her name… spent the entire holiday in the hotel reception, stealing the high speed wifi (you had to get up really early to buffer before Megan had set up for the day), and playing with the strap on her swimming shorts (small pleasures).

We left them in Mexico, they were there for 3 weeks….must have been some fall.

 

 

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Keeping It Real With Kathy Beale

Keeping it Real

Thursday night….a school night..and there I am ‘twatted’, (drunk that is…not a Welsh person’s name).

I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since Christmas Day, partly because the situation hasn’t arisen, and also because I’ve been dosed up on steroids, and the new medication for arthritis (Mincer’s Hip).

So I really needed a good night out and a chance to let my hair down with the husband and a few friends. Feeling like hermits in recent weeks, just the thought of leaving the house gave us the opportunity to have a good pluck of those eyebrows and trim our bushes. The hair on my chest was longer than the hair on my head!

Karaoke at the Rose and Crown…yes I know…true to stereotype, but I do like a good belter and since giving up smoking, Im sounding more and more like Gary Barlow every day..so it would be rude not to get smashed and bang out a few crowd-pleasers to our adoring fans.

Our friend Kerry arrived and we made haste into town without so much as a warm up drink, (we had no mixers). We were shortly joined by Rick, Ross, Katy and her mate…who I’m ashamed to say I was too drunk to catch her name.. I’ll call her…erm.. Lesbian.

You always know when Ross arrives that it’s going to be a messy night, and true to form we downed a few shots along with the obligatory Vodka and Diet Cokes, and started to form our own band. Rick had brought his air guitar, Kerry threw some shapes and we all lip synced for our lives to everyone else songs. The husband and I also had a good go at murdering George Michael. (I realise how terribly insensitive and premature it is to say that….but I meant ‘Don’t let the sun go down on me’)

Half way through the night we were treated to an elongated interval of ‘Play your cards right’. When  the 14th contestant still hadn’t won, it was time to disrupt proceedings by setting off the fire alarm with my super vaping e-cig. The Manager came round with the search committee, looking for the culprit and promptly challenged me on whether I had been vaping directly under the fire alarm.

“Of course not!”, I confirmed …as I peered through the cloud of smoke… like Diane Fossey in “Gorillas in the Mist”

Nevertheless… my plan seemed to work and the air-guitar was go again!  A bit of Girls Aloud, Steps and some 80s nostalgia, that only I seemed to know the words to, because everyone else is like…12 years old.

At the end of the night the music stopped and we were sat pondering which taxi firm to order, that would take us home,via McDonalds,when suddenly our saviour … Kathy Beale arrived to our rescue. Obviously not the real Kathy Beale, but we’ve seen her there a few times and…well..she bloody looks likes her. Kathy said she would take us home via McDonalds in return for an apple pie….you can’t say fairer than that. (Albeit we were a little wary as we knew Kathy had ‘previous’ for ‘looking after men’ in cars)

While Kathy fetched the car from the car -park we sat and observed a pikey couple having a lover’s tiff. I think he’d tried to grab her…this was in Hemel Hempstead…not Appleby Horse Fair.

We honoured our promise of  apple pie for Kathy Beale and also a large meal each, 20 nuggets and mozzarella dippers ..you don’t like to be rude. We sped home, said farewell to Kathy, ate our food and collapsed where we sat.

The next morning, the flashbacks started to come through and we vaguely recalled the Eastenders star taking us home, when the realisation suddenly kicked in. My husband had left his phone in Kathy Beale’s car.  How would we find it? We didn’t know who this lady really was, or where she lived but I was suddenly transported into the 21st century.

Within 30 minutes of realising our loss, and with the help of modern technology…we had found Kathy Beale (real name Sarah…huge disappointment), and the phone was safely returned. The ‘Find my iPhone’ app took us to her house and we instantly recognised her car, we had managed to find her on Facebook via mutual friends and got hold of her phone number.

She came to the door in her best dressing gown with bed- hair like ‘Linda La Hughes’ …all of a sudden she didn’t look like Kathy Beale anymore.

Needless to say we got his phone back and returned home to enjoy our hangovers.

 

 

Source: Indépendant.co.uk

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An Official Pardon From Hedgehog Heaven

Harold’s response to Confessions of a Cold-Blooded Hedgehog Murderer

For 9 months now, I have been lapping it up in Hedgehog Heaven….my life on earth cut short by the new occupiers of number 77, who innocently carved me up with their new flymo. I just wanted to let the culprit know that I forgive him, Im in a better place now. After all,  I was a lonely little fellow on earth and now I have loads of hedgehog mates.

It was a very quick end, I didn’t feel a thing, and there were left over biscuits with me in my bag for life,so I didn’t go hungry. When I stepped into the light, I was met by Miss. Tiggywinkle, and fed a feast of worms and snails…not that shite dog food that the Geezer-bird at number 78 kept subjecting me to.

As for the makeshift home that the toilet attendant built for me at number 76…it had a leaky roof, and I had to walk for miles to go to relieve myself, because if you shat on her lawn , she would post notes through the door of my human parents or send her son, the village idiot round to blame it on their cats.

So please don’t feel guilty..as you have sent me to a better place. I am touched that you have remembered me and shared my story across the world. I was just a lonely little hedgehog…but I have seen how far across the world my story travelled in the 7 hours after posting and all the comments it received showing genuine concern for my welfare and all I can say is Thank you….

Oh….and…. Don’t Cry for me Argentina……..

Harold gets global coverage after 7 hours.

             

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Confessions of a Cold-Blooded Hedgehog Murderer

I am a bad person with a dark secret.

Last year I murdered a Hedgehog. Not my proudest moment…nevertheless it’s time to confess. (ooh, Im a poet and I don’t know it).

Arguably It was manslaughter, I mean, I didn’t  plot to massacre the flea-ridden shrew, so I imagine I could have my sentence reduced in the absence of a calculated conspiracy.

It all started when we moved into our new home last May, a lovely leafy area, advancing to a 3 -bedroom house, little garden and it’s very own hedgehog… a real one! How lovely, we thought, with very little consideration placed on the fact that we have 4 cats.. a potential nightmare for “Harold”, we’ll call him.

Harold had brought the community together, and for the last 4 years had been fed and watered by the previous occupiers of our house, coupled with our neighbours on either side. Christine at number 78 had let him into her house on occasion  and fed him pedigree chum, and Lynne at number 76 (the toilet attendant), had crafted a little wooden hutch so he could seek shelter on cold nights.

Harold was loved.

The first two weeks in our new home, we kept the cats inside so that they could get used to their new surroundings before we set them free to roam their new neighbourhood, but before long it was time to let them out. You may think you can see where this is going….but the cats had absolutely nothing to do with the death of Harold. I am completely to blame.

You see, the previous occupiers had let the garden go a little bit and on the  first ‘dry day’ I decided I would cut the grass. A day I will regret forever. The grass was getting on for 8 inches in length (not quite 8 inches….I know exactly what 8 inches looks like).  So out of the garage came the fly-mo.

With the lawn-mower powered up and strimmer at the ready, I began to hack through the thicket with haste, so I could get back to season 4 of ‘Ru-Pauls’s Drag Race.’ I was surprised at what a good job I was doing …with the £39.99 ‘Homebase bargain purchase’, and had lovely straight lines of  ‘crew -cut’ grass.

After I emptied the first load , I continued on the third line of my landscaping master-piece, when all of a sudden I hit a snag. The sound of the blades working harder to cut through the obstacle, combined with a sinister and aggressive juddering of the fly-mo, could only mean one thing.

I daren’t look down and stood silently for -what felt like 5 minutes -calling my husband for moral support as I remained frozen in the assumed position.

Yes….I had mowed down Harold in cold blood. He lay there motionless and a little (a lot) worse for wear as he took his final breath. As I said, Im not proud and I felt a wave of guilt sweep through my body.

“Shit – the neighbours”, shouted my husband. “We’ll have to dispose of the body” he said.

He was right, Harold was the epitome of community spirit….and his body lay cold in the half-hacked grass in full view of each one of our neighbours…What would they say? What would we tell them?

We had to act fast…no time for a ceremonial burial… and we couldn’t draw any more attention to ourselves..there had already been sufficient commotion to generate concern, and my husband was now an accessory.  So Harold’s final resting place was  the wheelie bin of number 80 (we don’t know them), encased in a Tesco Bag for Life.

That was the end of it…or so we thought. Bin day wasn’t for another 6 days…I wouldn’t rest until he  had gone, for fear of his homicide being traced to us at number 77.  That Friday morning I breathed a huge sigh of relief as the Hedgehog hearse arrived to take Harold away…but this still wasn’t the end.

A few nights later, I saw Christine leaning over our fence attempting to summon Harold with a tin of dog-food…this continued night after night for about 2 weeks. When this stopped, Lynne knocked on our door to see if we had seen ‘the hedgehog’…she was worried that she hadn’t seen him for a while.

Karma – I was being punished for my crime, with constant reminders from our neighbours, confirming how much Harold was adored, this only added to my guilt. Of course I had to play dumb…and blame the cats.

“They must have scared him off” , I suggested. Little do they know that within 2 weeks of joining the neighbourhood, I had killed their beloved communal pet.

So …the truth is out.

             

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Your blog or your wife: A lesson from Bob and Shirley

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Bob and Shirley had been married for 16 years and to all their friends they were a happily married couple…with 2.4 children a beautiful home and ‘artex ‘ ceilings to die for.

Bob ran his own building firm and Shirley was a domestic goddess.. they holidayed twice a year and enjoyed fine wine and gourmet dining…what could be better?

However Shirley was missing something in her life, she hadn’t been intimate with Bob in months, as Bob had just started writing a blog which took up all of his free time. When Shirley retired for the night, Bob was still busy pinning his favourite posts, liking stumbles, re-tweeting and sharing.

Bob was addicted to blogging….he’d finally found his niche and had read around 426 articles on “How to make money from your blog”. His intentions were in the right place…he just wanted to get enough followers to be able to earn some money and buy Shirley the conservatory that she had always dreamed of.

One evening when the children were at Tae-Kwon-do, Shirley slipped into her finest Ann Summer’s negligee  and danced seductively behind the laptop, where Bob was busily editing a post on “How to replace a drywall’.  So consumed by getting the post finished, so that he could share on social media before the  8 pm deadline when the traffic on Twitter was notoriously more difficult to get any re-tweets, he didn’t notice her advances.

Shirley decided to confront Bob and asked him directly…..”why won’t you sleep with me?”

Bob was too tired, he had worked all day and he just had to get his post finished. This went on, night after night, week after week until a massive row ensued.

When Shirley threatened to leave Bob, he finally agreed that Shirley’s idea to go and see a marriage counsellor was a good idea, aside from the fact that he could then write a post about his experience and engage with other bloggers in the same predicament.

The marriage counsellor advised Bob to take some time out and socialise with his friends, away from the computer to alter his mind-set about  “Bobthebuilder.com” and refocus on becoming intimate with Shirley. Bob agreed to this, and as a compromise, Bob went for a night out at the “Bloggers Unite” convention. Still a tenuous link to his addiction, however, it took him away from the computer and ..well…small steps.

Bob really let his hair down with the computer geeks and Dad bloggers and one Jåger bomb led to another.

That night Bob came crashing through the door, steaming drunk and called out to Shirley..

“You …upstairs now!”

Shirley’s heart started to race and she practically fell up the stairs ripping her clothes off as she ran. Bob was right behind her and they made haste to the bedroom. By this time Shirley was naked and ready to partake in Bob’s newly- found assertion.

Without making it to the bed, Bob demanded that Shirley do a hand-stand at the end of the bed.

Wow!, thought Shirley, this marriage  counsellor deserves an OBE for services to sexual activity…not only has Bob been cured of his reluctance to become intimate….but now he wants to be kinky…..my prayers have been answered.

Shirley hadn’t done any form of acrobatics since the honeymoon 16 years beforehand so performed her hand-stand aided by her husband. As Bob approached her, he pulled Shirley’s legs apart with one hand, while he held his mobile phone in the other. With legs akimbo, Bob buried his face deep between Shirley’s thighs as her hands took the weight.

Shirley began to cry….not through sadness but from relief. For so long she had wandered whether their sex -life was finished forever.

“What’s the matter?” mumbled Bob, his face still buried in Shirley’s loins

“I’m so happy’ exclaimed Shirley, “I can’t believe that we are finally going to have sex!”

Bob pulled away suddenly, “Sex??” he asked, “Oh no, sorry we’re not having sex” he affirmed. “I met a blogger tonight from Queereyeforthestraightguy.com and he said I would look better with a Goatee, I was just trying to take a selfie so that I could be sure and pingback.”

Moral to this story: Have fun with your blog, but don’t let it take over your life ……he says

The Modern Nativity

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Mary had only known Jozef for 6 months, they hooked up one Wednesday evening after both swiping right on tinder earlier that day. Mary was in the doctor’s surgery waiting  for a letter confirming her whiplash injury entitled her to renew her disability claim, and Jozef was taking a comfort break from a 4 hour session of Grand Theft Auto on the X Box.

They met in Olly’s bar in Hemel Hempstead as it was happy hour  from 8 -11pm. After 12 Jaeger Bombs each, they realised it was love at first sight. Shortly after their date, Mary passed out on the cab journey home ,so Jozef made do with a large chicken kebab and cheesy chips in place of a night of passion.

Over the next 6 months they grew closer. Jozef stayed over 3 nights a week (he would have stayed more often,  but as Mary was in social housing, she was careful not to risk losing her housing benefit). Staying at Jozef’s was more difficult, he shared a house with 7 other men- not an ideal set-up, but his uncle had offered him a fantastic opportunity in his car-wash business near the magic roundabout and he was struggling to find work in Poland.

One Tuesday morning, Mary received a friend  request on Facebook, from Angel Gabriel. Mary didn’t usually accept requests from randoms but this guy looked  awfully like a Spanish barman she had spent the night with in Kavos, back in the summer. (She usually holidays in Yarmouth, but thanks to the pay-out from Injury Lawyers 4 U, she treated the girls to a fortnight in Greece).

Lo and behold, Angel wasn’t the Spanish guy from Kavos, but the Health Care assistant from the doctors surgery in Warners End. Angel had been trying to reach her mobile to discuss the results of her recent smear test, but since trading her iPhone 5 in at CeX for the latest model, Mary’s sim was blocked and she hadn’t managed to get to Bovingdon market to get it unlocked.

Angel tells Mary that she is with child,  it will be the son of God, and she is  already 7 and a half months pregnant. (God had really wanted a virgin , however realised that in 21st century Hemel Hempstead this would have been unrealistic if not impossible).

Absolutely flabbergasted by this revelation, Mary began to cry.- It’s true that over recent months Mary had started to put on weight, but she’d put that down to over-indulging in Dominoes ‘2 for 1 Tuesdays’ and the plethora of cheap chocolate she had stocked up on when the new Aldi opened. With little over a month to prepare for the birth of her baby, Mary sobs uncontrollably. Angel tries to comfort her, assuring her that everything will be alright. “It could be worse- Sonia Jackson didn’t know  she was pregnant until she gave birth on Dot Cotton’s sofa”, he explained.

Later that evening Mary told Jozef the news that she was pregnant through ‘immaculate conception’ and that he wasn’t the father. Jozef was angry and even considered taking Mary onto Jeremy Kyle to take a lie-detector test. After further consideration he realised that meant they could be granted a flat of their own  so he decided to stick by his woman.

A week later, Jozef proposed to Mary in Chiquitos and hid the engagement ring inside her enchilada . As he couldn’t afford a diamond ring- he managed to set up a crowd-funding page and raised £65 for a cubic zircon ring instead. Mary was overjoyed and instantly accepted and they agreed to raise the son of God together.

With little funds, and ccjs preventing both from obtaining credit, Mary and Jozef trawled through Schpock and ‘Free and Cheap in Hemel Hempstead’ and managed to acquire second hand clothes and a cot, all from the kindness of strangers. The money that Jozef saved from replacing fags with an e-cigarette allowed them to stock up on nappies,  and there was always the food bank if things got too tight.

The Angel Gabriel warned that they must keep the immaculate conception a secret, but Mary was an ‘over-sharer’ and one freudian slip on instagram and she had given the game away. News spread far and wide and the couple were invited onto Alan Carr’s chatty man, The One Show and even a special edition of ‘Benefits Britain’. The line of questioning was all very similar. “Is he really the son of god?’, “Will he save humanity?”, “Will he be having the MMR vaccine?”

On Christmas Eve, Mary was busy nesting and finding homes for all the gifts they had been sent by various charities and celebrity sponsors, when she suddenly realised they had no pickled onions for boxing day, so she summoned Jozef immediately.  Rather than walk to Aldi in Grovehill, Mary suggested they take Jozefs car to Tesco as they had a good deal on  Prossecco, and it was double club-card points on Christmas Eve.

In a quick turn of events, on the way to Tesco, Mary’s waters broke so they headed to the hospital. At Hemel Hempstead General, they were turned away…the A&E department had closed down along with the maternity wing a number of years ago so they headed to Watford.  Stupidly, Jozef had not put any petrol in the  Nissan Micra so as soon as they hit the dual carriageway towards the M1, the car gave an almighty splutter and came to a stop outside the Holiday Inn Express. Mary had always wanted a water birth, and with no time to waste, Mary checked out the hotel on trip advisor. After discovering it had 3 stars, she booked a room with a double bathtub via the app.

Since learning of her pregnancy, Mary had watched all the available episodes of ‘One Born every minute’  on catch up, so was clear on what to expect. Later that evening,without gas and air nor epidural, Mary gave birth to a beautiful baby boy who they named Jesus (after the mexican waiter at chiquitos where Jozef proposed). Jozef updated his followers throughout the birth via Snapchat and updates on Twitter.

Shortly after the baby was born, Mary and Jozef were visited by three wise men bearing gifts. (The Hotel Manager, a Fitness Instructor from the hotel spa and the Night Porter). The first brought a packet of B&H Gold, the second a Toblerone, and the third a large poinsettia. They quickly made their apologies for their hasty choice in gifts, but understandably it was late on Christmas Eve and the only thing open was the Shell Garage.

Mary had been through quite an ordeal, having only found out she was pregnant a short while before and then forced to give birth in a hotel bath to the Messiah, and so a few days later, it came to pass that she was suffering with post-natal depression.

At her 1st session of cognitive behavioural therapy, her counsellor helped her to explore her feelings and come to terms with her troubles.

The couple were now very much in the spotlight with a wave of media attention and the odd troll on social media, which only contributed to Mary’s symptoms. Mary and Jozef were now reality star celebrities.  Not only did Mary have a newborn baby to look after, but she also had to carry the burden of raising the son of God- all while trying to lose the baby weight as quickly as Rochelle from the Saturdays did.