You's have to love dem footballers

Class

Abbey Crouch knocked back from The Playground

Then returns to the club with Alex Gerrard, and what do you know - they stroll right in:

I wonder if there were any Pancake lovers on the door?

Diet advice from the Daily Mail! Again.

Crap marketing techniques for writers, by writers

On Christmas Day, I jokingly asked for suggestions for the new kindle I got for Xmas via trusty old Twitter:

What with authors being a clever sort, all them words and everything I thought they'd just roll their eyes and think 'what a sarcastic cow'.

But no. Even though I'm new to Twitter I got got a wealth of suggestions even from those who don't follow me.

So I thought I'd try to drive the point home again:

But still the pleads for me to buy books came, with a joking 'Well since you ask!!??' One suggested a famous author followed by a pseudo-modest 'but you could always try mine too'.

Then I thought I'd try a little something else:

I drowned under Tweets from these.


Of course you have every right to say I asked for it - and of course I did - but I do despair of a writerly world where sarcasm and good old taking the piss aren't recognised by today's social commentators, albeit ones who make their views known via (from what I can make out) mild bodice rippers and unrecognised and unrequited literary crushes on James Bond.

Good for you, Robbie. Good for you

#jft96

Darwin Award contenders

I'd have left them there. 'Elf 'n safety, someone!

Even if Brad DOES wear Angie's knickers....

...I still would

Home in time for Casualty.

You remember I went out with The Diet Coke twins on my birthday?

I had such a 'great' time I wrote a big many thousand words post on the subject, here.

Yeah, happy birthday.

Well I tried my darnedest to get out of meeting for an Xmas meal (this constituted of me moaning 'I don't want to go', The Awd Feller going 'Well don't go then' and me 'Oh but I have to'.) but I still went.

Both Diet Coke Twins were adamant Liverpool would 'be hell' on the weekend before Xmas (it wasn't) so we HAD to go somewhere 'out of the way'.

We ended up in a nigh on deserted eaterie with the heating on full blast, so much so my make up slithered down my face and my hair plastered itself to my scalp.

I was slightly late, and the already arrived Twins had two glasses of - yes, friends, you guessed it. It might be Xmas but the unmerry revellers eschewed the temptations of full fat Coke because that would be TOO BLOODY MUCH.

I ordered a LARGE glass of wine, I knew I'd need it.

The presents were again a bit rubbish, the food ok, the conversation shite.

The primary moaner spoke of:

Redundancy.
The things you have to do before you can sign on these days.
Her cat being a bastard.
How she has to go to the toilet more than us because of her diabetes.
How her shoes were stained because of the rain.
The problems she had finding 'this place'.
Her Xmas dinner consisting of a precooked chicken from Asda ('I got one from Iceland last year but it was shite'), bag of frozen Asda ready to cook roasties and Asda's gravy granules. Plus there's frozen veg but 'I fucking hate carrots'. (She's a BIG fan of Asda)
She hasn't been out since my birthday.
She didn't go on the works night out 'because it was in the night time'.
Her arm's sore because of her flu jab.
She believes in legalised euthanasia.
Margaret Thatcher is a bitch.

The other one:

Suggests for a stress free Christmas we all need to 'limit (going to) social events'.
How her works Xmas diner was rubbish. The parsnips weren't cooked properly.
She got up at the crack of dawn that day to go to Ormskirk to 'pick up the meat'.
Someone's already written a novel with a similar plot to the one she's writing. (I say writing a novel, she's done one chapter and started the second).
How town is 'hell'. (again, it REALLY wasn't)

Anyway, I was home in time for Casualty. Not that I watch it.

Happy holidays, people!

Why has Steven Gerrard....

...got that weird crease across his forehead?

And why hasn't anyone spoke even spoken to him about it?

Where's the Liverpool Echo when you need them?

Going solo at Christmas

I saw a newspaper headline the other week, something to do with the 'lonely' 280k people in the UK who'll be on their bill this Xmas.

It told of how sorry you need to be for them, you MUST force down the corners of your mouth in pity and assure them 'Well it's only for one day' and shake your head behind their backs, these Billy No Mates, what Freddy Few Friends they must be!

When people ask me what I'm doing for Christmas, I tell them the truth - I'm spending it at home with The Awd Feller. Those with big families who enjoy a busy festive period pretend they're envious, with strained mouths come out with 'Oh, lucky you. I've got to make the dinner. God, I wish I could have a bit of peace and quiet'.

Songs For Me Nan...this feller's a Billy No Mates, not us flying solo (or duo) this festive period

Lying gets. I know 'oh the poor things' is going through their minds, as the horrified micro expressions flicker on and off.

But they shouldn't bother with all this feeling sorry for us business. The truth is, firstly, we actually have a roast dinner - can you believe it, you don't need about ten people in the house to do make and eat food. I know! It's mad, eh?

Secondly, we actually - shock, horror - enjoy being on our own. Don't get me wrong, it'd be nice to have a close family who enjoy good times and laughs, but we don't. My brother is a terrible braggart who tells of the flash holidays he's been on this year and his new car, and as for The Awd Feller's siblings - oh, just don't.

I have friends who are on their bill this Xmas, spending the day quietly and without self pity. So please don't bother feeling sorry for us, because we're fine.

If you're going to have sympathy for others, express it to: victims of domestic violence, people who haven't got anywhere to live and those relying on Food Banks this Christmas. Oh, and Chris Maloney. And his Nan.

Opinions wanted!

I can’t be the only one who has people in their life always ready to give their opinion, whether asked for it or not. 

In fact I know there's plenty of them out there. 

Take my wonderful hairdresser the lovely Liz, who's been through some personal issues lately, she and her boyfriend had to move in with her mum for a while while her new business got on its feet and she’s had problems conceiving which has caused her bad upset. Because of this she’s put a bit of weight on.

She was doing a client’s hair the other day. Let’s call the said client The Cow.

‘Are you pregnant?’ The Cow asked.

No, I’ve put a bit of weight on that’s all.

‘Really? ‘cos I was saying to John the other day wasn’t I John, that Elizabeth’s stomach looks quite big I wonder if she’s pregnant,’ trills The Cow, turning to poor John who sitting in reception like an (embarrassed) nit.

I’m having problems getting pregnant, so no. I wish.

‘Are you sure? Because you look pregnant to me.’

I can’t have children.

‘You must be though, just look at you….’

On and on she went.

Jesus. Talk about liking the sound of your own voice and digging yourself deeper into a hole as you blurt on.

I told Liz I’d have stabbed The Cow with a pair of scissors but she insists that would be unprofessional and bad for business.

Then yesterday I put a picture of the actor Chris Noth on my Facebook page, mainly because he’s hot.

One Facebook Friend (different from the real world friends I have, even the crappy ones) started on about how she hated Chris, that he made a pass at her friend years ago when she interviewed him.  

So? I said. 

Man asking woman out on date shocker. That’s awful.

‘But…the cheek!’ She raged.

Oh bugger off. 

The STUPID things people in my life have said about the Connecticut shootings

The horrible news from Connecticut yesterday brought with it the inevitable stupid comments from people in various countries not America giving America advice on how to fix the problem.

These are from my Facebook page:

"Time for change United States, time for change. Sympathies to the families who lost their children in the Connecticut massacre. So horrible." 

Sod the adults who died, then. Who gives a monkey's arse.

"There is something sadly wrong with some people." 

Well, der. A feller doesn't go into a school and shoot a lot of people if he boasts  of excellent mental health.

"So now Mr President please take ACTION!!!"

This person lives in Leeds. In YORKSHIRE. President Obama is NOT YOUR PRESIDENT.

"Here's Obama's chance to bring in new legislation on gun possession/ control and become one of the great presidents."

Posted by someone in Greece, of all places. Again, NOT IN AMERICA.

"Wish aliens would invade and melt every weapon of destruction on earth."

Aliens. Very much part of the debate over gun legislation and right to bear arms. Am ashamed to say this was written by a Scouser. 

"There is no excuse, allowing any fucking wanker to be allowed to carry guns is a shitty shitty, shitty thing. As a constitutional right, the right to bear arms is wrong, if you disagree, I couldn't give a rat's arse."

Yes, but you live in Surrey. Knobhead.

"WTF??? Why would anyone kill innocent children??? I'm totally shocked and speechless!!! My thoughts & prayers go out to all the families effected by this cowardly act!" (Germany)

The shooter died too. He's not lying on a beach somewhere thinking 'Job's a good 'un.'

"Thoughts with families affected by school shootings USA. May the children R.I.P. X" (Liverpool) 

Again, sod the adults.

"At the end of the day.... It's kids... In schools... What the hell reason do you think you have...."

Sorry love. The shooter won't be answering you on this one. Because he's bloody dead. 

A friend of mine went out into town last night, and tweeted how much he was enjoying himself. He got some tweets in reply, bollocking him and telling him he shouldn't be posting. When he asked why, he was told 'you disrespectful dick head'.

He lives in Liverpool, is NOT AMERICAN.

Social media facism at its best.

Workplace banter

In the warehouse he works in, Keith a pal of mine was talking with his buddies about meeting famous people. 

"I've met Lenny Henry, he's a lot blacker than I thought. He looks light brown on the telly!" blurted Dave from the canteen, well made up with himself. Then, without a breath, "and I've had a piss with Ken Dodd." 

Liverpool FC *sort of* choose the wrong kid to visit in hospital

Football is...

Just an excuse for men to spend time with each other, and hug.

Discuss

McCartney-gate

When I was out last night in Wirral (yeah, I know) I got to talking about music. It's often an emotive subject is music, blokes in particular seem to think they are experts simply because they have a penis. Seriously, I was at an event once where one man said - I kid ye not - women couldn't appreciate rock music properly "because you don't have enough testosterone". Another said women didn't 'get' music - "all you do is dance to it while we stand there, appreciating each note".

FABULOUS.

God bless you, my little cock rockers!

However, the person spouting nonsense about music last night was, I'm ashamed to say, someone of my own gender. She was FUMING that Paul McCartney 'thinks he's Kurt Cobain'. This was in reference to McCartney having the brass neck (shock, horror) to perform with the remaining members of Nirvana.

I sat on my hands to stop myself slapping her. I didn't want to break a nail.

At the gig (see, I know the lingo), as far as I know, Paul didn't do any Kurt Cobain impersonations, nor did he sing any Nirvana songs. He doesn't want to be Kurt - because he's PAUL McCARTNEY. You know, the bloke from that little known popular beat combo who've had no influence on anyone at all, The sodding Beatles.

Yes, THE BEATLES. 

  

Jobs for the arty farty boys

I went to a meeting on Thursday, an arty farty funding conflab. I was a bit fed up it was that particular night because The Awd Feller and me had a bottle of nice red planned, but duty's duty.

I got talking to one bloke, he seemed all right but when a man from a certain funding agency turned up he forgot our conversation with a speediness that'd leave Mo Farrah for dust. I got the back of his baldy head after that.

I peered over his shoulder and what do you know, quelle surprise, he has a funding application in his greasy mitt and wants advice off funding man on how to fill it in. That gave me a good idea about how the meeting might go.

I was right too.

Everyone whinged. It was like the Olympics for whinging, actually. Not enough arty-farty money to go round so let's all have a whinge, shall we? That'll show those Tories.

The high (or low?) point was when one bloke suggested we ask Dept X for money for a 'feasibility study'.
Oh, please. And who would carry out this feasibility study? Not you or your mates, by any chance?
A major case of jobs for the boys, but no one else seemed to notice. In fact, people were nodding.

Given that the Hillsborough Panel's report came out in September, and people outside the city are starting now - thank God - to reassess how they think about Liverpool, you'd think the arty-farty lot would fall into line wouldn't you?

The stereotypes of scrounging scallies and whinging scousers are being rubbed out elsewhere but some are determined to keep on flogging that old nag  of a horse until it breathes no more.

I've always been of a mind that arty-farty funding is a luxury. You don't need a grant to write a book, paint a masterpiece, record a song, whatever. When women I know are relying on Food Banks for tampons and sanitary towels each month it makes me fume that people want money for a 'feasibility study'.

PISS OFF.

Crap mates. Happy frigging birthday

It was my birthday last week.

Nice one, me.

The Awd Feller made it a top event, with a nice meal and wine (obviously) and some of my mates came up trumps too.

Note I say some. SOME.

A small number of my mates are crap.

The two crap ones really out-crapped themselves this year. They forgot about The Big Day until the weekend before, so sorted a mid week meal out. (I say meal - to me, fish pie in a gastro pub isn't a birthday meal exactly, but I'll let that pass.)

The presents were ok, one mate put more effort in than the other but that's by the by.

What really pissed me off was:



I was home by 8pm. 'Didn't expect you home this early', The Awd Feller says, annoyed he has to turn Sons of Anarchy off mid-episode (I can't stand that show).
'You and me both, lover,' I reply, with one poxy glass of wine in my belly.

(An example of cat pee. On my mate's rug. Which she told me all about. On my birthday)

One mate told me all about her problems, exactly the same way she does every time I see her. They are:

I hate my job.
I hate my brother.
My car's costing me a bomb.
God I'm old.
I can't wait to retire.
I'm tired.
I'm skint.
I have to be in work at 7.30 tomorrow morning.
My cat pissed on the rug.
My diabetes is giving me gyp.
The doctor's given me sleeping pills.
I hate Christmas.
My legs hurt.
It's cold.

The other crap mate was late, stuck to Diet Coke, and had her eye on the clock because she'd only put enough in the parking meter until 7.30pm. Yeah, she was bloody driving.

Actually, now I come to think I'm made up I was home by 8pm, at least I didn't have to put up with their shite for that bloody long.