Motherisms: Feat. Politics, Driving and Poets …
I’m still at close proximity to Mum. Which means I just can’t help interacting with her …
I know. It’s Valentine’s Day, I’m so sorry. It is now as inevitable as Death, there is no escape from its cellophane-wrapped clutches. BUT, don’t worry if you don’t have someone to say something nice to you, or someone to buy you a fake pearl/bad watch/silk boxers/teddybear. Remember you always have your friends and family, who love you. Why not say something nice to them, as well as your beloved? These are all the nice things mum and I have been saying to each other over the last few months …..
LA Lesions ….
Hello, I’m here. Hollywood, Los Angeles, named after me, maybe even by me. Historians just don’t know and I can’t remember.
I’ve been wanting to come here for years, for years before that, I thought I was better than America, but during those years I also thought those ‘Delphi’ hummus dips you get in every corner shop in London were quite good when actually now I realise they are revolting. I knew nothing.
America, welcome to me. Happy to be here.
Beverly Hills hit us like a naff old cloth. We’d had to move from our little Spanish paradise in Laurel Canyon for a week as the owners were hosting their friends wedding party. So we had consulted airbnb again, my boyfriend was keen to stay in Beverly Hills and I had imagined Beverly Hills was Miami, and everyone there was Eddie Murphy – so I don’t know why I wasn’t more averse to staying there.
It’s Mothers Day! Yes mum, Dignitas hasn’t taken you yet. So let’s quickly get out some more of your weirdness while we can, before they come and wheel you away x x x x
It was that time of year again, the waning sun burning a deeper, hotter orange, setting earlier, weighed down by the load of summer.
It’s the festive period! Oh yes, and it hits us with a bang …..
Motherisms: Mum Gone Wild …
It has been a fair few moons since our last dose of ‘Motherisms’ but you’ll be relieved to know little has changed …
Agent of Distraction
A few moons ago the universe did something pretty funky. Venus was in Pluto, the Sun was in retrograde, the stars had aligned and got me an agent; my own personal Charon to slide me down that dulcet river of advertising.
I’d always hoped my agent would be a short, balding, Jewish man, in New York, but beggars can’t be choosers. I have a kismet bulge, who, as a mystical buffer I assume to be proficient in telepathy and other forms of subversive communication. My kismet bulge did however, say she’d just call me to get in touch.
From this I deduced that all I had to do for my life to miraculously change, for gold to rain down from the happy heavens was, wait for her to call me and get me a job. I waited, and one week later she called me.
How To Spend Summer In The City …
Choosing to spend your summer in London is like choosing to spend your life with a manic depressive. There will be days when the clouds lift and you let yourself think “maybe it can always be like this.” We start dreaming of what our children might look like, laughing and playing in the sun, we lie in fields of bluebells, we drink gin and tonics in a can and it tastes like ambrosia.
Then, all of a sudden comes the storm, it’s pissing with rain, someone’s shitting on your from a great height and you’re drunk and alone.
And your beautiful children are two wet cats.
Maybe it was something you said.
Don’t cry sweet prince(ss), blow your nose, drown your cats and read this …
Motherisms: Kings Ginger and Crimbo …
It was a big day for Jesus, it was a big day for everyone, it was certainly a big day for mum. Christmas is upon us again.
Career Girls, The Unorthodox Guide To …
Career girls, they’re young, they’re smart, they’re pretty, they’re successful.
Career girls are pretty great.
It’s been a period of review for me according to the stars, who always give me the most reliable life advice, and what better place to end that period of review than down in Devon, with mum, who’s always ready to give a review ….
Fashion Week From Outer Space: Area 51 ½
They cometh twice a year, the visitors from planet Fashatron 22b. They travel from a galaxy far, far away to reach their sacred destination, Fashion Week, Mecca of the Space Peacocks, a microcosm on earth exempt from reality.
I had been called upon to disarm the Rulers of Fashatron, the most worshiped of the Space Peacocks. As part of a small clique of ‘fascientists’ (not to be confused with fascists) I am able to distinguish a Space Peacocks humanoid façade from a true earthlings. Their thin suit of epidermis covering all matter of horrors beneath.
I’m a really brave girl so I can totally handle it.
Make Poverty Hysterical (or mildly less agonizing….)
Poverty is the zeitgeist, it is just so. fucking. now.
So, ever the prophet of what is ‘in’ I have of course, been poor for years.
Fortunately I’ve had just enough sporadic bouts of wealth to make sure I don’t end up sleeping in a doorway on Mare Street; but who knows what the future holds. Much like segways, being poor can have an eccentric mystique, but it can also be quite hard to handle.Here are some truths on the realities of poverty, and how to do it well.
15 Ways To Leave Your Lover ….
If you have been embroiled in a love malais this may help you. Once an admirer of la doleur esquise, I am now jaded by it. As a sage fishwife once said to me “all this romantic melancholy is well and good, but it doesn’t butter the parsnips.”
This how to leave, taking pain in your stride and butter those parsnips …
How To Play The Game ….
I’m starting to worry about myself, more than normal; because normally it’s ..
“Why is the light so bright? Maybe I have meningitis ..”
“Why am I so hungry? Maybe I have tape worm.”
“Why is this eczema so bad? Maybe I have necrotizing faciitis.”
I’m worried because it appears (though I am sweetness and light most of the time,) I am angry at the world. If I was 16, this would make me cool, a rebel, a lone wolf if you will. I’m 24 going on 68, so it makes me bitter and slightly immature.
A Guys Guide To Girls …
Think you have women sussed and then all of a sudden you have your nice Afghan rug pulled from beneath your feet?
Think it’s a waste of time even trying to understand women?
Think there’s nothing to understand?
Think you have women sussed and you’re standing on solid ground?
Think of women as mysterious (ahem) spirits, I am the buffer, the Ouija Board if you will, between you and the other side.
Don’t be scared. Grab a glass and sit down ….
“You’re not telepathic” …
You don’t need to be. Let’s say you did 10 things today, one of them has fucked her off. Bear in mind it could be the one you think she doesn’t know about.
If she talks like a baby …
… advise her to see a therapist, and ask if her mum’s single.
If she thinks it’s funny to fart and burp in front of you all the time …
… throw your drink over her.
If she has friends that are only gay men …
… she’s self-engrossed.
If she has friends that are only straight men …
… she’s insecure (and probably a little slutty).
If she has friends that are only girls …
There’s no point trying to pull the wool over a woman’s eyes …
…. She can see when she’s been fleeced.
Girls have heard it all before …
It has always been assumed that women are the ones susceptible to flattery. That with a few sweet nothings women are left in a state of nirvana, itching to take off their knickers. In reality, for the most part, women are rather dubious of compliments and even find it uncomfortable. Men however, thinking they are superior to such whimsies are very susceptible. Be careful, it leaves you wide open to manipulation.
During an argument, don’t say …
… “My mother would never have done that.” Because, well, here’s hoping there’s a lot of things your mother never did.
Women with healthy relationships with their fathers are ….
… rare and wonderful creatures. Cherish them.
If she’s on date 1 with you ….
… it doesn’t mean all that much, she’s scoping you out.
If she’s on date 2 …
… she’s already made up her mind as to whether she likes you or not. She does.
DISCLAIMER: Make sure she’s aware these are dates, otherwise it could end up a little embarrassing, for you.
Man up and try being a gentleman once in a while …
… hold doors open, offer a woman your seat, help a woman with her luggage. It will do wonders for your character and you never know, if you stop acting like a slob, maybe the girls will too.
Take a hint …
… otherwise you force girls to be unpleasant, and in the other respect, obvious, and girls would rather be neither.
Do at least try not to stare at other women when with your wife/girlfriend ….
… everyone (except you) finds it awkward. Especially the other woman.
If you work out ….
… please god for everyone’s sake, don’t wear tight gun-grazing tops. We are not impressed.
If you’ve got a tattoo …
… don’t roll up your sleeves/wear shorts in winter so we can see it. So. Lame.
Playing games is for dum dums…
… if she likes you, she likes you. No amount of not calling her will increase that, and visa versa.
Inside every woman is ….
…. a scared little girl. So give your mum a hand once in a while.
Smart women tire of stupid men …
…. as stupid women tire of smart men.
Nice guys don’t finish last ….
They just have to play the (really) long game.
You can however be too nice …
… A woman wants someone she knows would fight for her life, not plead for it.
Be honest ….
… a woman’s optimism should be her grace, don’t make it her down fall.
Feminists are …
… better in bed.
Put yourself out there …
… the worst she can do is tell you to go back from whence you came, and there’s probably someone else back there waiting.
“A man wants to be a woman’s first love, a woman his last”.
Guys like to know how many if any loves there were before they entered your life, girls are less concerned with who and how many have come before them, but who and how many come after.
Threaten or throttle …
… unless she has a knife. Or you’re a fuck.
If you think she’s special ….
… make her feel it.
Don’t ever underestimate what a woman is capable, no matter her past or present situation …
… she will always prove you wrong, for better or for worse.
If she doesn’t have a sense of humor about herself …
… she doesn’t have a sense of humor.
When we’re in love ….
… we’re all as mad as each other.
We’re not here for very long, might as well be nice to each other while it lasts; as a wise man once said, “60% of the time, it works every time,” much like karma.
Oh, and, my word is gospel (don’t tell Jesus). x x x x
A Girls Guide To Guys …
Men are from Mars, women have penis envy. You’d think with those truths we’d have them all figured out, but we don’t.
Or, we didn’t …
I have observed both sexes at all ages, compiled the data, ignored the anomalies and uncovered the facts.
The following are a few little pearls all women should have floating around in their consciousness (if you don’t already) …
Guys who like cats …
… Like bitches.
If he doesn’t like Woody Allen …
… He’s stupid.
Men who have read a book called ‘The Game’ will try and get you on a ‘Yes Ladder’ …
… Don’t. It’s not as positive as it sounds.
If you like him …
… he will disappoint you. That’s just the way it is.
If he doesn’t have a job …
… Wait until he has one. Poverty is not romantic, especially when you can’t afford candles.
If he trims his pubes …
… He has too much time on his hands.
If he shaves his pubes …
… He is deranged.
If he gushes about how much he likes you on the first date …
… odds are he won’t like you that much by the third, because he likes his idea of you.
If he plucks his eyebrows …
… He’s depressed.
If he’s married …
… he’s married.
Don’t go out with men with addictions …
… addictions are more costly, time consuming and destructive than another woman. His existential agony is not romantic. Well, it is, but it’s not conducive to a nice time.
If he irons his jeans …
… he’s repressed, and probably a sadist.
Smart women are suspicious of good-looking men …
…. As smart men are suspicious of smart women.
If he never seems to be on Facebook …
… He’s always on Facebook. He’s a lurker.
He dumped you?
He’ll come back for more. It is but a matter of time.
If he has more female friends than male, it is not adorable …
…. It’s a sign he’s either a bit of a slag, or slightly flaccid.
A man of great words is fine …
… A man of great deeds is better. Never believe the hype.
If he has long hair …
… he’s not free, he’s having an identity crisis.
Inside every man …
… is a scared little boy. So stop looking for daddy.
Guys who go in for dramatic PDA are drunk, or attention seeking whores …
… Next time, open your eyes and check where his are.
If you’ve set your sights on the man you want to spend the rest of your life with, don’t sleep with him before he’s fallen in love with you …
… but if you do, be a little bit shit in bed. Otherwise he’ll find you frivolous and intimidating.
If a nice guy is nice to you …
… He MAY not be depressing. He may just be nice.
Don’t chase a man …
It’s unnatural, and naff.
Stay calm …
However great you think he is, he’s just a human. And all humans start off as bum holes. You started off as a bum hole. Let that put your situation in to perspective.
This is all science, so 100% accurate and no room for error. It is verbatim.
Motherisms Feat: Cinnamon Ravioli …
Last week I went down to see mother, it had been a tough fashion week and I needed to feel looked after, cared about; with the perpetual lack of a boyfriend in my life, mum is still as good as it gets.
(Sorry mum …)
I have had a Norse Myths and Legends CD stuck in my computer for quite sometime now, it means it makes a whirring, crunching sound every time I turn it on … Mum looks at me quite alarmed and says ….
“Is it making cheese?!”
Mum wants to watch Breaking Bad on my Netflix account, I find it remarkable that she knows what either of these things are, and that she is now light years ahead of me in tv series. I tell her she can use my Netflix account ..
Mum: But hang on ….. won’t they get suspicious?
Me: Who mum? The C.I.A?
Mum: Well, yes, with your track record …
Me: Yeah, I can see the headlines now … ‘DAUGHTER LETS MOTHER USE NETFLIX ACCOUNT.’ It’ll be the ruin of our family name.
Mum: Your family name, maybe …
I’m trying to help mum watch bloody Breaking Bad on my Netflix before I go for a swim, after many attempts at trying to mentor her through it, and watching her click on the wrong thing over and over again, she finally bursts out …
“Oh for Gods sake! I wish I was a bloody tree.”
Mum is talking about her nightly audiobook routine of listening to Jeremy Irons reading Brideshead Revisited …
“He’s just brilliant, half a page and I’m fast asleep, I do worry though, if I ever met Jeremy irons I would just slip in to a coma.”
We are reminiscing about the building of the house we lost, we get on to the subject of ‘Builders Tea’ …
Mum: I remember when I gave Morley Airs his first cup of tea with us, he spat it straight back out and said “Whats that maid?!” “It’s Earl grey Morley …” “It may be but I don’t like it.”
Me: Good story.
Mum: Oh Fuck off.
Mum has been informed there’s a prostitute in South Molton, she has also been informed you can find her online, mum finds this fascinating …
Mum: Harriet says there’s a prostitute in South Molton, I’m going to google it.
Me: I look forward to you having that on your search history.
I go back to watching University Challenge …. minutes later …
Mum: P. r. o. s … prostitutes South Molton …. google search “south Molton escorts …” obviously they’ve interpreted ‘prostitutes’ in the broadest sense …. ah here we go … South Molton prossies …
Me: You’re going on it?
Mum: Yeah …
She starts reading out the names and descriptions …
Mum: Curvy and sensual … OH MY GOD! Sweet Jesus …..
I’m now laughing …
Mum: “Fuck my arse” ….. OH charming!! Get it off! Turn it off!
I’m now in hysterics …
Mum: Oh how horrible. South Molton used to have a lovely old prossie next to the chip shop, where if you have thruppence, you could go upstairs.
Me: Ah, the good old days, when you could get a prossie with your potatoes …
My old school has decided to put Latin back on the GCSE syllabus, I am jolly pissed off about this as I am currently trying to teach myself …
Mum: Anything sounds clever in Latin
Me: Why do you think I’m learning it.
Mum: Ut is ‘in order to’ … I’m going to get the car keys “ut” go to Tescos.
Me: Wow mum, that sounded really smart ….
A poem I’ve written is doing rather well, mum reads it …
Mum: It really is very good, completely strange, though very, very good … but then you are at a slightly oblique angle to reality all the time ..
Me: I’ll take that as a compliment, I’ve decided to take everything as a compliment. It’s doing wonders for my self esteem.
Mum: Good for you darling.
We’re in the car …
Mum: I sent a rather stoned and cheerful email to the battered wives charity shop volunteering my assistance …
Me: That’s nice of you ..
Mum: Yes, well, problem is, they’ve replied ….
It’s the Barnstaple fair, we drive through late in the afternoon as they’re finishing setting everything up with lots of barriers and metal fences, though there’s no one there yet ….
“Oh yes, hold back that crowd! It’ll be an evening of riotous activity, they’ll be staggering about without their shoes on before 11pm.”
Mum’s trying to lure me in to watching Montalbano …
Me: No mum. No way. It such a waste of my brain.
Mum: But it’s young Montalbano, young Montalbano’s very tasty.
Me: No. Still no. Just because he’s not fat and bald doesn’t mean he wont give me brain rot.
Mum: Quite right, bare that in mind in real life too darling.
Mum is making supper …
Mum: Getting very creative here …
Me: Please don’t get too creative.
There’s an advert for Viking cruises on television …
Mum: That’s what I should be doing with some grey miserable bastard .Circling the planet catching ecoli.
Me: I think it sounds fantastic.
Mum: It’s a plague ship darling … and probably full of prossies.
The fireworks are going off for Barnstaple fair …
“Hezbollah are closing in on North Devon Leisure Centre …”
I’m flicking through the tv channels, I get very excited at the amount of history programmes on ….
Me: Fire of London then The Battle of Trafalgar …That’s our saturday night!
Mum: Sounds good, though no Montalbano?
Me: No, not even the young one.
It’s Sunday and we’re parking the car, I’m reading whether we have to pay ….
Me: Monday to Sunday … that’s everyday!
Mum: Every minute of your bloody life. Cooking meth is definitely the way forward.
It’s a bit later and we’re cooking supper, I am watching an announcement from UN Secretary Genreal Ban ki-Moon to my old school as I hear …
“Oh fuck! It’s the cinnamon not Tumeric!!”
A few minutes later ….
Mum: Here we have vegan cinnamon and mushroom ratatouille …
We are on the subject of life skills, I am trying to persuade mum to do something creative with her life, this was her response …
Mum: One day I see myself becoming a drug dealer … Working with little kiddies …
Me: Jesus Christ mum, it’s like living with Frankie Boyle.
I have to put this in:
This is from a phone call I had with mum a couple of months ago, for the few days prior to it I noticed mum was sending me fewer and fewer kisses in her texts, I had been wracking my brains trying to figure out what I could have done wrong (without actually asking), then ….
Mum: You’ll have to call me back darling I haven’t got much credit … That’s why I haven’t been sending many kisses.
Me: What? Mum, you don’t pay per kiss.
Dear Mother, the cinnamon and mushroom ratatouille was delicious, I don’t know how you made it work, but you did. I shall come for a severely extended visit very soon x x x x x
Motherisms Feat. Vajazzling …
Having had the sensation recently that London had worn away my funny bone, I decided it was time to head down to Devon for the weekend for some regeneration. This is in the wake of my mother discovering life’s daily grind has worn away her hip bone, and will require some sort of robotic replacement.
The following is a summary of the sunny Sunday afternoon …..
We are at the beach getting a coffee, sitting and watching the masses. Mother spots a baby wearing a bib and says sanctimoniously and only half joking …
“You never wore your bib in public”.
We are sitting upon the cliff edge reading the Sunday papers, mother remarks, I assume in response to me donning a rather nice pair of floral shorts …
“After my hip replacement I’ll have to vajazzle my crutches for the beach”.
I wash my hands with some cheap, indescribably pungent peach handwash, I feel my mother should experience the stench …
Me: Smell that ..
Mum: Good god! That’s incredibly strong. It’s terrible!
Me: I believe it is “atomic peach”.
We are going past a house with some particularly appalling net curtains. Mum looks at them and says …
“If I were prime minister, I’d charge them, like a new window tax, they can pay for their hideous paranoia”.
Mum points at, from what I can see, is just a hedge …
“That’s where I got our chainsaw”.
I am a saint, and have recently given up sugar. Having eaten two tones of Turkish Delight in 6 months, my teeth had mysteriously started to hurt. I want to buy some coconut water, to further purify my soul …
Me: I’d like to see if they’ve got some coconut water.
Mum: I know why you want that, it’s the sugar.
Me: It is not the sugar! It’s the isotonics.
Mum: Whatever. I don’t care. Drink what you want. Some people drink their own urine.
We are driving back from the beach. Mum obviously has vajazzling on the brain …
Mum: What is vajazzling, I hear a lot about people getting vajazzled.
Me: I don’t want to talk about it.
Mum: Is it just covering yourself in Sworovski crystals?
Me: Um … Yes.
Mum is reading a restaurant review by AA Gil aloud …
“With virginal rice … that could only have been exciting if we’d shoved it up our arses. NO! NOSES! Sorry, noses”.
Mother is reading another review by AA Gil, and applauding him for his genius (because he says the same stuff she does …)
Mum: Ahhh but I shouldn’t like to meet him. You should never meet your heroes. They’re always a disappointment …. No, not always.
Me: Who wasn’t?
Mum: Leonard Cohen. Funniest man alive. Totally, totally cool.
I have given mum some food made by The Grocery, which has she devoured with relish.
Mum: That place is seriously good. You should open a branch on the beach in Devon and manage it.
Me: I can’t imagine anything worse.
Mum: No, quite right. Get someone else to manage it. We’ll just sit on the beach and bitch about people.
A man on the radio says “He refused to give officials information”.
Me: I thought he said “he refused to give a fish-horse information”.
Mum: What a magnificent creature that would be.
Me: A bit like a sea horse.
I am admiring the David Hockney postcard I sent to mother. I then spot someone else has sent her one, my Godfather …
Me: Oh, I see Jocq sent you a David Hockney as well.
Mum: Everyone’s sending me David Hockneys. I am having to fend them off!
I look at the two postcards for a minute and then remark.
Me: Mines bigger.
Mum is talking about her hip replacement again …
Mum: I’m having a heart transplant.
I laugh …
Mum: A hip transplant, whatever is it, I have to have a new body part.
Mum: Yes, robomum. I might ask them to give me a pair of those spring legs while they’re at it. You know, those blades? I wouldn’t need a car, I could just leap to the beach. They should just give all old people those blades, let them spring in to the sunset, and have a heart attack.
Mum has a “new” car. It is shooting along the motorway …
Me: Yes, this is good. It doesn’t sound like it’s struggling going up hill, which the other one did.
Mum: Well, that one had an enormous crack in the exhaust pipe. You can get it fixed.
Me: Yeah, I would assume most people do.
We are driving to the train station, we don’t know how to use the radio in the “new” car …
Mum: Let’s play ‘Spot the Next Dead Animal’ to alleviate the boredom.
Me: Ok, I guess pheasant.
Mum: I guess badger.
There’s nothing for about three minutes.
Me: There aren’t any dead animals.
Mum: Hold tight, The Killings Fields are coming up …
I lose interest and possibly start inspecting myself in the wing-mirror …
Mum: AH! DEAD ANIMAL!
Me: It was a pheasant.
Mum: It was a pigeon.
Mum: Well, I saw it first.
We pass some hideous wind turbines, mum says wistfully …
“We should vajazzle the pylons. What a wonderful word, vajazzle. What does it mean? Where does it originate? The Vajazzled Pylons of North Devon …. hmmm … PHEASANT!”
There is some rubbish on the side of the road. Mum is horrified.
“Where is your head at to just throw your rubbish out of the window. There should be patrols to shoot them. I’d man one. Get out of it, go home and take your trans-fat packaging with you”.
We are listening to the constant robotic apologies for the delayed train that, it turned out, was because of a bomb scare in Dawlish.
Me: Why’s it delayed? Because it’s sunny?
Mum: Sun on the line darling.
Mum is quoting a line as we wait patiently …
Mum: “If you want someone you don’t have to talk to, bring me Lady Jane”…
Me: Lady Jane Grey? The Queen?
Mum: No, this is Bob Dylan. Lady Jane …
Me: So, she was still queen, she was queen for nine days.
Mum: Yes, but Lady Jane is also a term for marijuana.
Mum: Oh. Yeah.
I don’t want to leave the car and go on the platform because I am seated and basking in the warm glow of the setting sun …
Me: But I have this lovely radiance here.
I look to mum, who has no sun in the drivers seat.
Mum: Yes, you see why I want to move? I have been cast to the shadows and it’s no fun.
I have found a ‘To Do List for 2012’ I responsibly/optimistically drafted at the beginning of the year and am reading it to mother. It contains … Read more, get showreel cut, more writing, more money, relearn piano, try stand up, learn the basics of Latin ….
Mum: Will you add “Give yourself a break, just calm the fuck down, love mum”.
Mother, my funny bone is fully regenerated. I couldn’t bare to tell you, partly because I couldn’t bring myself to utter it and partly because you just throwing it around was amusing me greatly but, the definition of “vajazalling” is …
“To give the female genitals a sparkly makeover with crystals so as to enhance their appearance.”
I think you’d struggle with the wind turbines ….
Motherisms: Olympic Special …
It’s early August and there’s a party feeling in the air … the Olympics has arrived in London and down in Devon, mum’s about to have her hip replaced.
But before my mother is turned in to a cyborg I went down to spend some time with her.
We are with my Godmother in her hotel room, as we wait for her to get ready for supper we watch some athletes come out ….
Mum: Ah! More beautiful boys, just in time!
Me: That’s a girl mum.
It’s the next evening and we have just had another lovely supper with my godmothers, mum is obviously chuffed with her unwavering group of friends and says …
“You see darling, the older you get, the less you have to put up with people who bore the shit out of you. And I’m bloody old”.
Mum on the subject of Wayne Rooneys “geriatric prostitutes” …
“Rooney’d go a bundle on me”.
We’re having supper with a few friends and have drunk quite a lot of wine. I can’t quite remember why I was stereotyping Italians and shouting “I gotta getta ma pasta”, but I was …
Mum, outraged: What?!
I repeat: I gotta getta ma pasta?
Mum: Oh! Thank God. I thought you said “I gotta getta ma pants down”.
Hungarian wins gold in gymnastics …
Mum: Oh fantastic! Ex-communist state you see … he’s hungry!
Me: Mmm …
Mum: He’ll buy a huge house and a bullet proof Landrover now.
Mum: He’ll need one …
Mum goes down a friends drive and tuts ….
“Someone’s brambles need a trim”.
Mother is on the phone to my Godfather, this is what I hear …
“Oh right, so you’re both trollying about starkers?”
“Are there any other nudists?”
“Aren’t they cold?”
“Are they attractive?”
“No, didn’t think so. Very selfish activity”.
Mum is admiring another Olympian with a rather fantastic profile, if you like a giant conk.
“He’ll get fat though … big meal, big car, many prostitute”.
In order to succeed in my desired career, I have been told I need to be veiner, or at least brush my hair … I have heeded this advice and am preening myself in the mirror …
Mum: What are you doing?
Me: Working on my vanity …
Mum: Don’t work too hard.
Watching the mens 100 meters heats, there is a minute Japenese guy in with herds of gigantic adonises. As it turns out, the little lad’s pretty speedy …
“Look at the Japenese guy go! GO!! GO YOU BEAUTIFUL FAIRY!!”
We are watching Morse, mum has her operation on the brain …
“Old people are a lot like children, but at the same time, you know with children it might get better, with old people it will only get worse … now, turn it up, there’s bound to be a body before we leave”.
Mo Farrah wins the 10,000 meters … as we watch a number of close ups mum says …
“Beautifully shaped head …. Just look at those bones!”
Usain Bolt wins the 100m, mum admires his physique as we watch him run again in very slow motion…
“Fucking poetry in motion man.”
Bolt is shaking hands with the crowd, a mascot is chasing him arond the track brandishing a miniature golden mascot at him …
Mum: What the hell is that?!
Me: A mascot.
Mum: Oh my God! Get rid of it Bolt! Knock it out!
We are driving around the moors trying to find the riding stables, but out of the few signs that there are, none of them indicate towards our destination. We have gone around in a giant circle twice already, it’s only 9am ….
Mum: Imagine how exciting it would have been when they turned all the signs around to dupe the Germans!
An american athlete has just missed out on an opportunity to run in the finals, distraught, he is herded towards an interviewer, we do not approve …
Mum: It’s all this reality tv. This sentimentalising of everything. They want to see you cry. Cry for the public you poor bastard, otherwise we’re not interested!
The weather comes on ….
Weather man: Wednesday it will dry up, brighten up, heat up.
Mum: Just in time for me to go to hospital. Great!
We are in the car on the way to the train station, mum starts indicating left, but keeps going straight on …
Me: Are you going left?
Me: That’ll dupe the Germans.
I’m sorry I didn’t get to watch the rest of the Olympics with you mumma, it would have been a much more pleasurable experience I’m sure. I’m also sorry I’m not with you for the operation tomorrow but I am, as is everyone I know, sending you all my love and can’t wait to see you marching along the moors again x x x
Motherisms – Festive Special …
Yes, hello hello little mice.
As routine as disappointment, but hopefully less disappointing it’s time for another round of Motherisms! Wahey!
Mum has just picked me up from the station, we are in the car. (FYI – neither of us would be considered as religious) …
Mum: I’m starting to get very angry with Richard Dawkins.
Me: I got angry with him years ago. It’s this arrogance he has I don’t like.
Mum: Me too, all atheists have it. How does he know, think you’re so smart Dawkins then how come the more physicists learn the less they understand fractals?
Me: Er .. yeah.
We are going past houses that that have been engulfed by luminous inflatable “santas” and epilepsy-inducing fairy lights, mum looks at them and says …
“Smells, bells and all in Latin. That’s what Christmas should be.”
I am with my friend Jack and mother, we get on to the subject of my birthday ….
Me: Not many people have the same birthday as me.
Mum: Stephen Lawrence had the same birthday as you.
Jack: Who’s that?
Me: The poor kid who was murdered.
Jack, mum and I are now talking about the Frozen Planet polar bear debacle …
Me: I can sort of see why they’re a bit miffed, but I don’t understand how they can value it as something worth spending time complaining about.
Mum: Exactly. And more to the point, if a parent polar bear sees a predator they eat their babies.
Me: Polar bears eat their babies so the predators can’t?
Me: How does that make sense?
Mum: It just does.
We’re watching the choir sing carols at Kings College on television …
Mum: Look at that stained glass, it’s to die for.
Me: Mmm …
Mum: We used to go tripping in there, great place to go tripping.
I force mum to go to Midnight mass with me as I feel I should have experienced it once in my life. There is a moment where everyone is told to turn around, shake hands and say “pleased to meet you” to each-other. Having completed this ritual with a few parishioners I turn to mum as people are starting to hug each other. I am verging on a freak-out …
Me: Well, I can say “pleased to meet you.”
Mum: It’s “peace be with you” darling. And no, this is all alarmingly tactile and Christian, I’m not used to it.
Later in Midnight Mass I have confused what I am supposed to be doing – asking for a blessing not taking holy communion. I realise this after I’ve drunk the wine. I run back to our pew, damned for sure.
Me: I drank the wine! You didn’t tell me I wasn’t supposed to drink the wine! Oh God.
Mum: I’m sure he’ll forgive you. Jesus was pretty big on forgiveness.
Completely out of the blue ..
Mum: I’m ashamed to admit it but I just love Happy Feet. If I ever go ga-ga and put in a home, will you make sure that’s on a loop?
Me: Yes mum.
We’re in the car, obviously not the most flattering lighting for me …
Mum: You’re very pale and spotty.
Me: Thanks mum.
Mum: Well darling all London girls are.
Me: No they’re not.
Mum: Let’s not focus on that.
We’re peeling vegetables for Christmas lunch. Dancing In The Street is on the cd player.
Mum: Now this is a good funeral song.
Me: Oh God! I thought I might at least escape your death on Jesus’ birth.
Mum: Nope. Sorry. No one’s stopping this party.
I am in charge of stuffing …
Mum: The stuffing’s awfully presented.
Me: It’s artisan stuffing.
Mum: Fuck off.
Christmas lunch is finally cooking, it’s time to take mums friends dogs for a walk …
Mum: Right! Let’s go dogging!
I look at mum in amused horror. She’s already turned to talk to the cat, in a baby voice …
Mum: That’s right Bob, we’re off dogging!
I am now in hysterics.
Me: You know dogging has two meanings …
Mum: Oh yes. No, I do. Dogging’s quite big in Devon, people leave their boots on trees. Paul told me.
I am tidying up …
Mum: Did you hear they’d changed the voice-over woman on Master Chef who sounded like she was having sex with vegetables.
Mum: Now they’ve got a man who sounds like he’s having sex with vegetables. I blame Nigella.
We are watching a Christmas University Challenge ..
Jeremy Paxman: What quotes itself as being “gossip, fashion, and sex for the contemporary woman.”
Mum: A Kardashian.
Another University Challenge …
Jeremy Paxman: Name the city highlighted in red …
Jeremy Paxman: Beijing.
Mum: Nearly there darling!
I am trying on an odd cardigan …
Me: I don’t understand why they’ve cut off half of the back of it.
Mum: Who cares, you’ve got a great bum.
Me: Wow. Ok.
Mum: And it’s Nicole Farhi.
I’ve told the maintenance man to turn on the taps so the boiler doesn’t explode, mum doesn’t trust I have or he has, having driven off five minutes ago, she forces us to return ….
Me: I do wish you’d have a bit more faith in people.
Mum: Yes, well it’s never been justified in the past.
I put on Frasier …
Mum: I just love Frasier, if I ever go ga-ga and put in a home, will you make sure this is on a loop?
Me: Yes mum.
Mum’s reversed, not entirely concentrating. She accelerates to drive off. There’s a crunch ….
Mum: What’s that noise?
Me: We’re attached to the fence.
I had the most wonderful time mother, I’m sorry we argued on Christmas Day, but I’ve done some research and it turns out everyone did. We’re normal!
Motherisms, Feat. Daughter …
Twenty-five years ago today I arrived on this planet with no idea what it had in store for me, or what the hundreds of other little people on it had in store for me. With no notion of what an idea even was, the sole thing I knew was my mother. So, fresh out of a week in the womb, what better day for some Motherisms ….
We’ve had a birthday bottle of wine, I am rather pissed in the shop …
Me: I need dried fruit, then I wont bemoan the lack of chocolate.
Mum: You can have chocolate.
Me: Not today! As of today I am an icon of health, albeit a completely trollied one.
I stride off towards the figs.
Mum: Darling, do try not to look like a mad person.
My mother is talking about what I should do with her flat when she dies ..
Me: Must we always talk about your demise?
Mum: We’re not talking about my demise, we’re planning ahead.
Bob Dylan is on, we’ve had an arduous day ….
Bob Dylan: The answers my friend …
Mum: Are blowing in the wind? Yeah, sorry Bob. Not good enough anymore.
Kingsford The Great hits the nail on the head as usual …
“It does not matter what you do, as long as you behave honourably to those who love you.”
Mother is talking about me possibly being a boy …
Mum: I thought you were a boy for a while, then you weren’t. Still a tenacious little thing. Survived that car crash. I think it’s why you’ve got anxiety problems.
Me: Because of the crash or because I survived?
We are at lunch, it is time for dessert and my mother is eyeing the trifle suspiciously, the waitress comes over …
Mum: Does the trifle have sherry?
Waitress: Let me check ……… Yes it does.
Mum: I’ll take it.
I had been upset to the point of anger earlier in the day …
Mum: How’s the rage darling?
Me: I’ve moved on to apathetic dessolation.
Mum: Impotent despair.
Me: It’s the same thing.
Mum: Sounds better.
In regards to me wanting to be a writer, it is later in the day of rage, I have gone full circle and am back at rage ...
Mum: “What do you want to say?”
Me: ” A lot. Mostly I want the people who have fucked me over to be aware that, though I may not have said anything, I know what they’ve done. And make them laugh while I’m telling them.”
Mum: “Riiiiiiight …. You need to make a list of these people.”
Me: “How’s that going to help what I write?”
Mum: “It wont. It’ll help me track them down.”
Mum about our old house ….
“Now the garden looks like a horrible little park in Woking. The weeping willow has gone, just nasty little conifers in situ.”
It’s pissing with rain, we are zipping across the hills, my mother shouts over Bob Marley ..
“Go crap car! Go!!”
About a friend of mothers who watches an enormous amount of Inspector Morse while they work …
Mum: I love her but I do wish she wouldn’t, she’s distracted enough already.
Me: Maybe it distracts her from her distractions.
Debating whether we should do the Euromillions in the hope of aiding our imminent financial crisis …
Mum: Euro millions, we should do it, I’ve won it before.
I look at mother in bemusement.
Me: You’ve won it before? The Euromillions?
Mum: Yes, £2.75.
We’re listening to the radio, the sugarbabes come on …
Me: What does that even mean?
Me: “We’ll rastafi gonna be down low.”
Mum: Only God knows darling, and even he’s not sure.
A pissed old man reverses his old 4×4 for us with verve ….
Mum: That’s what I love about Devon, it’s wild. It’s where the fairies and the gypsies live ………..
We keep driving for a few seconds then mum points ….
Mum: … and there’s where Rupert Harvey pissed in the tank of the kamikaze car, got us all the way to Iddesleigh somehow.
Me: Okkkk …. What’s the kamikaze car?
Mum: Long story, his father was an authority on dromedaries.
A woman of around 90 walks across the road …
Me: Watch out! Old woman wandering.
Mum: She’s the same age as me!
Me: She’s got a good 20 years on you mum.
Mum: Is that what I’m going to look like? I want to die.
The adverts come on ...
TV: Tampax with pearl extract. Pearl, by Tampax.
Mum: Oh wow man. That’s going to make me buy it.
Me: Mmm … complete with sea creatures.
About the self- sustainability of the house we lost …
I was prepared for the apocalypse but it came from another direction.
We stride in to the cinema full of gusto, ready to watch Jane Eyre …
Mum: I will have one human and one over sixty.
Ticket man: It’s not on ’til tomorrow.
Mum: Righty ho … See you tomorrow ..
Mother bemoaning the pit falls of writing, again …
Mum: But you wont earn enough money doing it. See, in my day, if you were in a relationship, you were a unit and usually got a house.
Me: Times are not so simple now mother, you can’t just expect a house. We asked for equality, we got something in-between. We’re stuck in a horrible sort of limbo.
Mum has stopped listening …
Mum: AA Gil’s very good in The Sunday Times …
About her friend taking her in his Porsche Boxster …
“Incredible thing. Like a giants ejaculation.”
Need I say more ….