JUST A ROADIE

Apologies for my conspicuous absence from this blog - it's starting to look a bit dusty and unloved in here - like myspace. My excuse is I have been busy rearing my baffling, ever-moving, testosterone-fuelled child, who DOESN'T WANT TO and then WANTS TO DO IT MYSELF and then MUMMY I NEED HELP every five minutes until a new circle of hell is formed with me at the centre of it, crying and eating Tunnock's tea cakes.

When it comes to demanding, unreasonable behaviour, it's a truth universally acknowledged that children are worse than any rock star. They want this colour plate, they want that colour grand piano, they won't perform (ie. put their socks on) unless the room is 21ºC and filled with Diptyque candles. My friend, who works for an events company, recently met Beyonce, whose entourage consisted of her Mum, bodyguards, and a person who went by the title 'Ambience Coordinator.' This person's job was presumably to ensure flattering lighting, plug in the odd Ambi-Pur and make sure nobody drops a stinky 'Sacha Fierce' in her vicinity, which when you're a billionaire megastar is probably par for the course.

But Beyonce is a breeze compared to any child under 5. They don't just want an ambience coordinator. They want a PR, a manager, a bodyguard, a photographer and an intimate wiper. Someone to carry their stuff, someone to clean up after them, someone to fix their stabilizers, someone to pay for the bouncy castle and someone to read them a story after a day of unforgivable excess and frankly embarrassing behaviour at a family fun day. They demand pink milk like Charlie and Lola, then leave it festering by the telly. They treat you like crap and hit you and stick their hands up your skirt. They even bother you in the night, coughing and spluttering, demanding room service and Calpol cocktails and asking you to leave the light on. ANIMALS.

The other day I read an interview with a woman called Julie Cafritz, who in the late 80s was a member of seminal New York punk band Pussy Galore. This is a woman who has seen it all, then gave it up to bring up her kids. Here's what she had to say:

'One of the things I could never fathom is why anyone would be a roadie. The pay was no good, and you spent your time doing other people's shit. With children, it's like a lifetime of being a roadie. Sippie cups. If you don't have that shit, they yell at you. And you don't get paid. And you try to plan for every variable in as small a package as you can. I got everything in this little bag, and if you don't have something, it's trouble. In between being a roadie for my kid, real work--being a real person--becomes hidden. Because your children have no interest.'

Spot on, Julie. That's what I am. That's what we all are. Whether we're rock stars or rocket scientists in our own lives, to our kids we will forever be humble roadies. Right down to the over-dependence on alcohol and exposed bum cracks.

Anyway, I'd better go. Beyonce - I mean, Louis - needs his baked potato carved into the shape of a swan.

Amen to that

A few weeks ago Tina Fey's Prayer for My Daughter was all over the internet. This elegantly conceived wish list echoed the hopes and fears parents have for their children. In fact, it struck such a universal chord that it's probably being turned into a fridge magnet right now.

So here's my heartfelt version for sons, which may, if it's lucky, manage one re-tweet from @Gazbot23 of Slough. Enjoy.

A PRAYER FOR MY SON, AGED 4

May a tattoo of Tweety Pie smoking a joint never grace his drinking arm.

Lord, may he never snap after playing Grand Theft Auto 247 and shoot a prostitute outside an off-licence.

When he is asked if he wants to buzz deodorant/graze magic mushrooms in a park in Paisley/ smoke a bifter with cocaine in it on the way to school, may he look upon his father, who has a brain like Swiss cheese, and say no.

Guide him and protect him and lead him away from being a sex pest. Please let him grow out of sticking his hand down my cleavage and smelling it because he thinks it’s like a bum. And, also, stop him from trying to molest shop dummies in New Look, for it embarrasses his mother when she is shopping for £3.99 espadrilles.

Let him get a job which doesn’t include any of the following: fire juggler, painter of Celtic-themed pavement art, accountant, bomb disposal expert, aerobics instructor, roofer, Farmfoods ambient replenisher, bounty hunter, tabard-wearing charity representative, lion tamer, didgeridoo player, unsuccessful writer of ‘funny’ articles.

If he decides to join a band, may he be the sober(ish), shy, self-effacing bass player and not the twatty lead singer with the warty genitals and coke bogeys.

When he gets a girlfriend, please let her be a nice sensible type, and not a thick-as-mince 25 stone McFlurry-scoffing VD-riddled skank with a neon thong and a penchant for wild unprotected sex in car parks.

If he is gay, may he take his Mama out all night, get her jacked up on cheap champagne and show her what it's all about.

Please Lord, if he is successful, lead him not into the temptation to say the phrases 'going forward', 'PDF that to me' and 'get that to me for close of play.'

If he does get his skanky girlfriend pregnant, let him not choose the names Maldives, Ibrox or Aldi.

And finally, if he is insane enough to have children of his own, may he not expect me to help, because I plan to be on a cruise ship in the Aegean, lying insensibly under the All You Can Eat buffet as a swarthy deck hand called Spiro mops the hummus off my orthopaedic shoes.

Amen.

How To Throw A Kid's Party

I went to a children's party yesterday, which is why I look like this. This time, the hosts got it right - lots of adults, abundant booze, children of similar ages, and a raffle in which I won a bottle of home-brewed gin which could remove a stubborn Ben 10 sticker from a wardrobe door. But oh, it could have so easily gone the other way. That's why before you throw a kids party, you need to observe these simple rules.

1. DON'T DO IT FOR THE KIDS

Children's parties are not about kids. They're about parents needing to Get Out Of The House. (Unless you hold the party, in which case they're about Totally Destroying Your House). When you're a parent, you'll do ANYTHING to get out of the house. ANYTHING to avoid that deadening, crushing feeling of being inside at 2 in the afternoon doing a Zingzillas jigsaw. So don't expend too much energy on entertaining the kids. Pass the Parcel is genocide with added sellotape, musical statues are boring as fuck (oh, look, Finn moved! Zzzz) and nobody gives a flying one about where the donkey's tail is. We just want our kids to go and play in another room so we can strap the wine box to our faces like a horse's nosebag.

2. SAY NO TO SELF CONSCIOUS HOMESPUN BUFFETS

Did you make these biscuits? They're delicious...where did you get the recipe? Oh, I just found it on the internet. Really? Wow, I just made Nigella's Scrummy Yumptious Smuggle cake - hope I don't poison anyone- HAR! Oh, I'm sure it's wonderful. Everyone's made such an effort. Have you seen this swan carved out of aspic and these cupcakes decorated with angel spit and this homemade vegan onion bhaji in the shape of the birthday girl's face?

Remember, party thrower - before you get all red in the face and start 'making' the buffet - it's not 1953 anymore. Nobody has time for this shit. Go to Asda, buy 60 packs of salt and vinegar cartwheels and stick em in a bucket. Job's a good un.

3. GET THE GUEST LIST RIGHT

Remember that dreary cow at your NCT class? Don't invite her. Or anyone who says things like 'Oh, Mordecai can't have anything with eggs, chocolate or joy in it.' Instead, invite loads of hot dads and drunken mums with low self esteem, and maybe the guy in the Co-Op, just to mix things up a bit.

4. DON'T TALK ABOUT PARENTING

Whenever someone starts to say 'Amelie has been teething' or 'We're having a terrible time with Amstrad - his tantrums are awful', get an air horn and let it off inches from their face. Then, pass around conversation flash cards with the words 'Sex', 'What I Really Think of The Father Of My Child' and 'Weird Perversions' written on them. Pour vodka shots into their eyes and then watch the fun begin.

5. IT'S CALLED A 'GOODIE' BAG FOR A REASON

Goodie bags need to be packed to the gills with a) dangerously bouncy rubber balls b) arse-achingly annoying squeaky things and c) enough sweets to cause diabetes in rats. There also needs to be a warm, squashy shop-bought piece of cake in there, wrapped within an inch of its life in cling film - a piece of dirty, dirty cake you can steal from your child while he/she is getting busy with a packet of Haribo. The goodie bag is no place for rice cakes, Organix snacks, Ella's smoothies or FRUIT. Put fruit in my (I mean, my son's) goodie bag and I will punch you in the canteloupe. OK? OK.

MOST MISGUIDED FAKE TV SPIN OFF MERCHANDISE EVER

I was passing dusty old lady department store Watt Brothers in Glasgow last week, when I chanced upon this.

I mean, where do I start? Perhaps 'Sex 'IN' The City' is the tale of Kerry Bagshaw, who lives on a council estate in Rotherham and is really looking forward to watching Dancing On Ice on her cheap brown dralon sofa. What other deeply inappropriate merchandise lurks out there? The Sex On The City Haemorrhoid cushion? The Sex Of The City Walk In-Bath? The Carrie Breadshaw Bread Maker? (Actually, the amount of yeast infections she probably got, that's maybe not so outlandish.) Proof, if needed, that Sex And The City has jumped the shark, while wearing a faux Slanket.

hsgssssss vsgsggj;\jdjffmfhjnnjdjshyjkllllllkefjhdjhhhwwwvvxvvbxbbbbbbbb

HJJDNFFKGKKLTKKKLKKUILFJMJFHHFHUGYEHHDBKK44444JGHJTKGJJJGJTJTHV BBBBBBBBBBBY7BWTWTWUHBVJ GBBBBBBVVVBBBGFBBBVVVVVBVVVBHGBBBBHHHHHHFDGHHNNIBVJTIBJIJIHJIJOJIJIOJJJOOOOOJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFDDGSGDHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJFDDGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.................HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHB GGDDSGGGHHCHHJJCKJYGFR VXXVXVXVVXBXBXXXBXX XBBBBBXBXBXHWAHyyzzb5gg555555zmmbb b bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbnhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhvgsgsgsbbbbbxnxnnxnnmnhhsshshshshhabbgavvggggsgssshdsejhgghbhhdhdhhhd

The Neverending Tidy

Do you want to hear my personal theory on why Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the gas oven? Because I bet Ted Hughes never did the washing up. Bet he was always wandering around in his chunky knit jumpers, thinking up eerie metaphors about hawks, putting out his fags in the butter, and one day she just went apeshit. You want some dinner, Ted? Want some fucking dinner? Here you go. If only she'd had cBeebies and £3.99 Pinot Grigio, she'd still be alive today.

But even if that wasn't the reason - and let's say, to avoid being sued by Ted Hughes' estate, that it wasn't - I'm definitely beginning to understand a little better why Sylv so pointedly chose a domestic labour-saving device to end it all. Surely her depression must have been exacerbated by what I like to call 'The Neverending Tidy'. The daily, grinding, eternal odyssey of crap jobs that need doing all the time, the picking up and straightening up, the mountain of washing, the fluff under the sofa, the jam on the telly, the perpetually full sink of jolly plastic dishes with congealed tomato-based shit on them. When a woman first embarks on the Neverending Tidy, fresh faced and wet behind the ears, she foolishly thinks that she is 'getting things done'. Ha! Then, she sets off on her long, lonely journey, which takes in such fantastical places as Cillit Mountain, Swiffer Island and The Scary Drawer of Doom. She grows older. Her faces gets vinegary and resentful. Her tights go baggy at the ankles like Nora Batty.

The strange thing is, throughout her lifelong trek, there are no men to be seen. Just odd socks, stray toys and spillage upon spillage. When she becomes weary she drinks from the Blossom Hill Waterfall and smokes the mysterious herb of Silk Cut. Occasionally, she may meet a wise old crone who will look after the kids for 5 minutes while she goes to the shops. But her bunioned feet will keep taking her on the pointless, circuitous route around the house, tidying and tidying until the carpet is as worn out as she is. After years of this, she may one day request that her husband takes the rubbish out and will attain official 'Nag' status, a position that will render her unlovable and the butt of 'her indoors' jokes for the rest of her life. The children will grow older and leave home, but still she'll carry on her endless quest, picking things up and wiping things off. Then, one day, she'll bend down to get some annoying crumbs just out of reach of her J-cloth and....DARKNESS.

Fucking hell, I need a cleaner. It's either that or Gas Mark 6.

Weekend at Bernie's

Even if you work in an insurance office eating biscuits and chatting to people called Pat about their grumbling ovary, you get 4 weeks holiday a year. So why shouldn't it be the same with motherhood? When my amazing free press trip from Gatwick to Barbados was cancelled this week (don't fucking ever ask about it or ever say anything nice about fucking snow ever again or I will poke your eye out with a biro) I decided I needed a rest from the grind of waking up too early and constantly wiping up shite. So husband and child were packed off to see my brother in London for a few days, leaving me to take a long swim in Lake Me.

Turns out Lake Me is a polluted swamp of drink, debauchery, bad food, bad TV and sitting around for long periods in a pair of manky bed socks tweeting about Homes Under the Hammer. ('The fireplace needs to be replaced and the carpet is damp!! LOLZ :)'). Without my responsibilities I have no moral compass. I'm lazy and I'm greedy and I leer at 18 year old boys on the bus. I very rarely bother to brush my hair. I am a monster.

On day 1, I emerged from my scratcher at 10am, fiddled with my new phone, wrote a few choice words about vaginas for a magazine, watched 8 solid hours of daytime TV (including back to back episodes of Coach Trip from 2001) and went to the pub.

Day 2, I got up at 11, interviewed Katie Price's fanny waxer, went for a coffee with a friend, ate an entire packet of ham, went to a friend's house, scoffed 2 pizzas the size of my head, and tipsily fell over on the ice.

Day 3, I got up at 11.30, wallowed in the bath for an hour, met a friend for lunch, went shopping, got dressed up to the nines, got absolutely hammered on vodka and lemonade, went to a club and got propositioned for a threesome by a mortally drunk Swedish man. Refused this request for some bizarre reason, and fell into bed at 4.30am, too drunk to find my pyjamas.

Day 4, I got up at midday, found myself in a hole of post-debauchery despair, had some toast, watched a Lindsay Lohan film, ordered a massive curry for one and worried that I would die alone with Come Dine With Me still playing as my corpse festered on the sofa.

Bloody hell, it was brilliant.

OH MY GOURD

This is Gourdon, the very flat headed pumpkin I hacked into existence the other day, which received zero interest from my child whatsoever. Louis couldn't give a shiny shite about pumpkins, probably because they're vegetables. Come to think of it, I would probably have had more enthusiasm from him if I'd carved a giant Laughing Cow triangle into a ghost, or whittled a bag of oven chips to create McCain's Haunted Home Fried Castle.

As I was scraping the stringy, genetically modified guts out, never had parenting felt like a more perverse and thankless task. But I'm getting quite attached to old Gourd. I like his lopsided, pointed teeth and his deep, mournful eyes. In fact, he's the only root vegetable who listens to me round here. I tell him everything - my deepest desires, random thoughts. I suppose you could say he's my sounding gourd. (sorry). The problem is he's going mouldy, and has developed a coat of rather dashing ermine fluff, so I'm going to have to put him in the compost before he starts to stink. It's a shame, really, but I'm thinking maybe I could strike up a meaningful relationship with this guy instead:

He's a bit of a hard nut, and pretty hairy, but....phworrgh.

MOST DRAMATIC BUS DRIVER IN THE WORLD

The other day I crossed the road with Louis, in front of a bus sitting at the stop. We got on, all smiles, unmaimed.

Driver: So is that how you teach your kid to cross the road?

Me: Pardon?

Driver: What kind of a way is that to cross the road? I could have hit you!

Me: Well you've got eyes. Don't you look out of the windscreen before you set off?

Driver: Aye! But that's not the way you teach your child to cross the road IS IT?

Me: (getting angry) Don't you tell me what to teach my child.

Driver: I JUST WANT HIM TO LIVE!

Eh? I got off in disgust and stood there patiently waiting for Judgy McBusfuck to depart - then got Louis to give him a little wave, just to show that despite risking his life in front of a stationary vehicle, at least my child had manners. Still, you've got to admire this guy's zeal. He could have a sideline doing parenting classes from the cab of the bus, shouting 'DON'T GIE THE BABY BUCKFAST!' and 'STOP SMACKIN THAT WEAN ITS EARS ARE BLEEDIN' through the little holes in the plexiglass. Supernanny, looks like your days are numbered...