Sweating The Small Stuff..


“..and since strong women sweat, we created new Sure Maximum Protection anti-perspirant”

I know, I know, it’s an advert and it really shouldn’t bother me – it’s just an advert. I know all of this, believe me, I know.

But, it does bother me.

It bothers me a lot.

Have you seen it? The new ‘inspiring’ Sure for women advert which will make us all rush out and buy more deodorant, and apply it immediately because of all the rushing and shoving people out of the way with our big strong arms we’ve done to get to the shops before they sold out?

Because finally, oh sweet baby jesus, finally someone has realised that strong women like us –  we sweat, you know.

*Cue hard hitting, empowering visuals of women holding babies, wearing powersuits, loitering around the gym and exposing their armpits in a dank grey warehouse. *



I get it – women are strong. I know a lot of strong women; largely because I used to volunteer down at the local judo club, but mainly because I happen to know a lot of women who I find inspiring. I can confirm that at least 99% of those women sweat. (I’ve still not figured out whether one of them is in fact a strong woman, or a very pretty man)

I know a lot of fragile, anxious women too.  They sweat as well. In fact, probably even more so because they’re so nervous and stressed from all the worrying they do.

The problem I have with this advert is that people are heralding it as an important U-turn in advertising for women. No longer are they being told that they should buy a deodorant because it will make them feel like Keira Knightley riding a white horse across a beach and smell like an angel has kissed their armpits. No. As one positive reviewer put it:  “I’m being told I should buy deodorant because I’m a human, I work hard and I sweat…that’s why I would buy this deodorant.”

Well, quite frankly, if you need to be told to buy deodorant and further still, reminded that you’re human in the first place then you’re exactly the sort of idiot that need this kind of faux empowering bullshit.

It’s not a powerful feminist message. It’s a deodorant advert. About armpits. And sweating. 

I understand that companies have to invest a lot of money and creativity into their advertising campaigns in order to stave off competition and generate interest in their brand, I understand that completely – and hey, look, it’s working because I’m moaning about something that I’ll probably buy anyway because I, Karen Bevan, am a Sweaty Betty.

I’m sweating just typing this.

Sometimes, on a hot day, I even sweat brushing my teeth – or sitting still. Use that in your next bloody campaign.

It’s the wording that I have a problem with: “…and since strong women sweat…”

I guess promoting a brand that’s centred entirely around the excretion levels of sweat glands, is always going to be a pretty tough market to keep interesting, so I salute them for that.

But, I can honestly say that I admire the no frills campaign adopted by Corsodyl mouthwash recently, much, much more…

“Corsodyl mouthwash: Clinically proven to treat gum disease”

Because there really is no point in trying to sex up & inspire people where gum disease is concerned.

Believe me, I’ve tried




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These Boots Were Made For Walking…

Sorry to post this so soon after breakfast, but as some of you may or may not know, April marks the start of Bowel Cancer Awareness Month & it’s a cause that’s very close to my heart after my Dad sadly lost his battle with it back in 2000.

Cornwall was his favourite place in the entire world, and he had always dreamt of moving our family down there, as he was never happier than when he was out cliff walking and taking in the beautiful scenery of the South West coast – a far cry from staring into the Dudley cut counting the discarded shoes and broken kids bikes whilst trying to dodge the dog shit.

Plus, they have really nice pasties, which I think helped.

So, in a fitting tribute to my Dad and a bid to raise money for Cancer Research UK to help other families and sufferers of this disease, in September of this year I’m going to be walking the entire 300.1 miles of the Cornish Coast line in 14 days from Morwenstow to Cremyll. I haven’t worked out the itinerary yet, but i think that averages out at about 20 miles or so per day…

…and I need your help. At the moment I’m doing this alone, but I would really like someone to do it with me and am looking for one or maybe a couple of people that might be up for joining me as it would be nice to have some company to stop me going mental, slipping off the edge of a cliff like Barry in Eastenders, or to help fight off the advances of an amorous bear. If they even have bears down there, I’m not sure.

But, largely I’d like someone to accompany me because my internal compass is fucked, and I still genuinely get lost as often as a kid in a supermarket. So I need a buddy with legs as strong as an Ox to keep me on track, push me forward and remind me that a diet that consists entirely of Cornish Ice Cream is not sufficient sustenance for this type of challenge.

It’s also likely that you will be called upon to give me a big slap around the face if I start to get drawn towards the local pubs and their delicious pints of Rattlesnake cider, like a Pirate lusting after a mermaid at sea.

I understand that it will be difficult because of the time it takes and you all work very hard, but if you think you might be up for it then please do get in touch and we can get planning/hoarding plasters.

Bowel Cancer is the second biggest cause of cancer death in the UK after lung cancer – prominently in men –  and it’s about time I got off my selfish ass and did something to celebrate the life of Papa Bevan, the most hilarious and generous person that has ever walked this earth; not forgetting all the other family members or friends that have sadly been affected by the biggest C-bomb of them all.

Hope you can join me!

Thanks for reading.



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Reasons To Be Tearful: #1

Yesterday, I had quite a horrible moment when I thought I had urinated a fish. An actual fish.

Imagine my surprise when i dismounted from the lavatory, glanced across to the bowl as I washed my hands and saw a dead fish lying there floaing at the top of my toilet water.

Needless to say, I was shocked.

In my confusion, I blinked twice in a cartoonish manner similar to Wile E Coyote clocking his own TNT strapped to his foot – just to check I hadn’t stood up too fast and was imagining things.

 No, no. It was definitely a fish. I’d just weed out a fish. 

I furiously flushed again. Confused. Embarrassed, but mainly just wanting to remove the evidence of the fact that my bladder appeared to be turning in to an aquarium. And not even a very good aquarium.

In the end, I settled for covering its lifeless body with tissue paper, unable to even give it the dignity of a viking burial in such a limited space of water.

I didn’t tell anyone what had happened at first. I kept it to myself out of equal amounts of shame and fear. It was exactly like the time I thought I had contracted Tapeworm, but it just turned out to be a potato skin – only a thousand times worse. Because, at least I eat potatoes, there’s rationale there. But I don’t even like fish, so just how the hell did it get in there? Whole?

Perhaps it was the work of a viscous tide and a cheap swimsuit on the South Eastern coast? I wondered. But, I haven’t been swimming in about 15 years – let alone in the sea.

So it couldn’t be that.

Perhaps I’d eaten a tin of sardines in a late night drunken stupor? And the memory of the act had just presented itself via the cruellest flashback ever; by slipping right out my back passage without me noticing.

Was that even what a sardine looks like?

I mulled over numerous reasons why this might have happened, and why the hell it was happening to me. Googling every possibility (carefully clearing my cache afterwards) and becoming continually frustrated that NHS Direct was of no use whatsoever for the second and only time I’ve turned to them for advice. The only similar printed evidence I could find of this happening before was a news article about a man that had got an eel stuck up his bum.

I’d never felt so alone.

 Not as lonely as a man who sticks an eel up his bum – but still, very alone.  

It wasn’t until it came to light that some of my nephew’s fish had died that very morning that it all just clicked in to place.

Of course, we have a fish tank – and what had presented itself to me that morning was nothing more than the frivolously discarded vessel of a once loved pet that had been resigned to its watery coffin; the toilet.

It was so obvious. What a waste of time.

Thus is the life of a chronic hypochondriac.

And also that of an idiot.

Sad face.


Fish not to scale. Toilet not a true representation of our bathroom.

Fish not to scale.
Toilet not a true representation of our bathroom.

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Or not – as is more often the case.

And I’m not talking about the Charlie Sheen school of winning here, because if having a very public breakdown, banging 7 gram rocks and successfully hiding porn stars in your cupboard is ‘winning’ – then I am very much losing at that too.


And not just because I keep most of my clothes in a suitcase, therefore the only porn star I could potentially keep hostage is Bridget the Midget.

No, what I’m talking about here is actually winning shit – you know, things, stuff, cold hard cash, glorious shallow material goods that make you really happy for about 20 minutes until the novelty inevitably wears off. Like, Michael McIntyre DVD’s. Cocaine – and hamsters. In my defence, the little fucker bit me and he came with a 24 hour guarantee, so he wasn’t exactly in it for the long haul anyway.

Some people are, much to my dismay, born lucky. You know the type I’m talking about. I am not one of these people. I suppose you could argue that I am lucky in many ways, I’ve not had a bad life so far, I have amazing family and friends, I’m in relatively good health and I’m doing my dream job. Ok, so maybe I hate where I live, and yes, perhaps at one point I may or may not have been sharing my bed with rats – and so what if the wasteland that is my love life makes Anne Widdecombe look like a slag?Not that I count myself unlucky in love, you understand – I’m just lazy at it.

God, that makes me sound like I’ve got about as much sex drive as a narcoleptic prostitute, doesn’t it…


What a way to sell myself, eh.

I’m unlucky in the sense that I never ‘win’ anything exciting, and god knows I put the time and effort in. My dedication to entering This Morning’s ‘Midday Money’ competition instead of attending college is testament to that; so is the fact that a few years back I had to have my landline phone removed from my flat because of my poverty inducing unhealthy obsession with phoning up the late night interactive TV Quiz show ‘The Mint’. Although, as I remember, I was always very careful to enter the competitions under the pseudonym Jessica Bevan out of sheer embarrassment that someone might discover my dirty little secret.

In hindsight if I was ever lucky enough to have won, then by a cruel twist of fate I’m almost certain that my actual, physical, breathing, living self would have had a very difficult time cashing in this fictional Jessica’s useless cheques.

And for those of you that don’t know me very well, I don’t think it’s even worth me going in to the whole depressing story about when I thought I’d won £96,520 on a scratchcard. All I’ll say is, if you do ever find yourself in the same situation, it’s probably wise that you don’t go phoning up your friends and family telling them that you’re going to pay off their debts and take them on a massive holiday.

You definitely shouldn’t stay awake all night looking at boats you can buy and clinics where you can get a nose job and your ears pinned back.

And if possible, do try and avoid promising your sister that you’ll pay for her to get her tits and teeth done.


Ninety-Six Thousand, Five Hundred and Twenty Pounds.


That number is etched in to my soul.

This inherent greediness is just another side of my personality that I loathe. To the point where it’s better if I avoid going to the Dogs or Horses with my friends, because I – and they – know all too well that if they win and I don’t, no matter how pleased I am for them, my bitterness will always far outweigh it. The congratulatory words coming out of my mouth never quite match up to the look on my face that’s almost certainly screaming: “I am going to knock you down in the car park and steal your wallet when we get out of here.”

I’m just a sore loser I guess. I want it to be me.

I want to be the girl holding the ‘Big Cheque’ in a Foxy Bingo advert. Me.

Not you, Alison from Stoke-on-Trent.

The reason why I was prompted to write this is because today I’ve entered yet another, probably fruitless, competition to win tickets to an intimate gig with Biffy Clyro that’s being hosted by Absolute Radio. As always, I really, really want to win it.

But, when you consider the fact that the below is pretty much the extent of my current ‘winning streak’, I won’t hold my breath for nailing this one either.

  1. At Primary School, I once ‘won’ a raffle for a place on the School float for the Wordsley Carnival celebrations, which turned out to be a chance for me to be paraded around the streets of our town, in an unforgiving leotard whilst members of the public lobbed loose change and coppers at us.
  2. Another time, I was sent a DVD in the post, a little prize as the result of a giveaway from a website I couldn’t even remember signing up to. That’s good, right? No. It isn’t – not when the DVD turns out to be Steve Martins diabolical remake of The Pink Panther.
  3. I won a bottle of Bacardi at a pub in Exmouth, about 2 months after I’d moved back home 165 miles away from the area; and again,  couldn’t even remember being at the pub let alone entering the competition.
  4. And finally, not forgetting the time I went to the pub quiz with my new workmates and I won a Fray Bentos pie and a vibrator.

i can honestly say I’ve never felt lower than the moment I loaded my rucksack with the pie and the vibrator and left the pub, saying my goodbyes and muttering the words “Don’t judge me” –  under my breath.

So, I NEED YOU to send me your lucky vibes please! Lucky dust, most positive thoughts, whatever it takes so that I can go to this gig.

Or, just take me with you as your plus one if you win and I don’t.

Otherwise, I WILL wait for you in the car park, and I WILL knock you down for those tickets…

Mark my words.


x x 


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Today is our second anniversary. Here I am lying in bed listening to you bang around in the next room. I’m flinching at the sound of every crash and thud, and my eyes are squeezed tightly together – partly in a vain attempt to somehow block out the noise, and partly out of sheer frustration. Even the muffled sound of your voice through the wall is annoying me at the moment.

When I first moved in, I never expected things to be like this two years down the line, but I think it was time that I was really honest with you –  I’ve been going out of my way to avoid you lately.

I’ll come home, and if I can see that your car is here then I’ll turn around, walk back down the road and wait until you’ve gone out. I know it’s cowardly, and I know it’s childish but sometimes I just can’t face talking to you. There have even been times this past year when I’ve felt that working nights was a blessing because I wouldn’t have to see you when I got home. Just the other night, I heard your car pull up outside the house so I turned off the light and pretended to be asleep. I’m  only 27; I shouldn’t have to live like this…

I don’t want you to think that I’m writing this letter to get at you. You’re a good man at heart and you’ve put up with things from me that no one else would. I’m indebted to you on so many levels. But, I just need to tell you that sometimes the things you do infuriate me. You can be so inconsiderate at times.

Take today for example, I’m off ill from work and all I want to do is sleep – but there you are, sat in the corner of the room in a pool of screws and bolts like a robots miscarriage. I’m not entirely faultless here; I guess I never told you I was feeling unwell so how could you know? But, this is a two way relationship after all and it would just be nice if you took the time to ask before you went ahead and did these things.

I know I’m not the easiest person to live with, and I’ll be the first to admit that I’m unreliable, horribly irresponsible and I can’t deny that I haven’t tested your patience these past two years – even if we don’t always see eye to eye on things.

But for once, I just need you to stop and actually listen to me…

Changing the lock on my door to a combination code does not mean I’m going to stop annoying you by forgetting/losing my keys. You see, it’s not the lock that’s broken – it’s my brain. I’m just going to forget the code instead. So, unless you’re happy to pay for me to have it tattooed on my wrist, let me spraypaint it over the wall, or you’re willing to go all out and have me chipped – then I suggest you get the hell away from my door with that bloody drill and let me go back to sleep.

Your loving Tenant,

Karen x

P.S – I’m probably going to be a bit behind on next months’ rent – again.

If these walls could talk, they’d tell you to piss off too. 

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Cause That’s How I (Chicken) Roll…

I’ve realised something about myself this week. Something horrible and slightly disturbing, that I can only assume normally comes to surface after your past life regression therapist reveals that you were once that god forsaken horny German divorcee, who plied an impressionable Klara, the housekeeper, with Liebfraumilch, until visions of getting your filthy mits on her ‘Liebfraumilch’ and promoting her to the role of new wife were very much achieved. Fast forward four years and you’re naming your fourth child Adolf.

You know who you are Alois Hitler, you know what your penis did…

On my walk home from work on Monday, I had a fleeting thought about popping in to the 24 hour Asda to let Darren know about my weekend. It was at this precise moment that I realised I’ve become a female version of Alan Partridge; but more pathetic. At least Alan had his own en suite, and a big plate – I’ve only got a shared bog and a bowl.

You see, Darren is not my friend. Darren is in fact the guy who works the night shift in the electronics department in Asda, who I appear to have developed an unrequited friendship with. (But little does he realise, I’m the customer and I’m always right – so it definitely is a friendship.) What I initially mistook as shyness in his demeanour, I think might actually be fear. The midnight creeping of nocturnal shoppers does attract a mass of ‘colourful’ characters to say the least, so it would not surprise me if Darren found my bleary eyed ramblings to be somewhat uncomfortable, disconcerting and only very occasionally – threatening.

 May I just point out that the previous comment is in no way meant to be interpreted as ignorant social commentary in regards to the ethnic communities that populate New Cross – it’s merely an unfortunate coincidence that most of the shoppers I’ve seen have the sort of eyes that scream “I’m only here so I have an alibi.”

Let me explain what led me to think Darren would give a toss about my weekend.  It all began with what started as a typically disappointing week which rapidly escalated into an all too familiar theme of my life. It was my brother’s surprise 30th Birthday party last Saturday and I wanted to buy him a present. Obviously, I had glorious delusions of grandeur that involved personalised decanters, speeding around formula one racing tracks or spraying Champagne recklessly over ourselves like a Kanye West yacht party – but in Dudley; and definitely not in any unlawfully sexual way that would bring shame on the Bevan family name. Unfortunately, living unhappily nestled like a piece of forgotten popcorn in the bosom of a Barclays overdraft as I do, this was never going to happen –  so I settled on buying him a computer game, book or a DVD instead. He likes all those things so I couldn’t really go wrong – or so I thought. I hold Darren entirely responsible for the inevitably disappointing gift I purchased. You might argue that perhaps if I knew my brother better then I wouldn’t have to rely on the knowledge of practical strangers for ideas of what to buy him  – you might also want to shut the fuck up.

You and your bloody logic.

At first I picked up a book which had some sort of warrior on the front; my rationalisation was that the cover reminded me of the final scene in ‘The Legionnaire’ and my brother is a fan of Van-Damme (who isn’t?) therefore he would definitely love this book. Right? No. Darren was not impressed. After 45 minutes of deliberating gift ideas and fighting the urge to upturn every single one of his stock trolleys if he turned his snotty little nose up at one more thing I pointed at, he finally persuaded me to purchase a PS3 game. Too tired to argue with his blatantly weak sales persuasion tactics of “I dunno, he probably hasn’t got it”, and too embarrassed to openly recognise the stupidity in my decision to rely on his opinion about the taste of a man he’s never even met – I went along with it. Let me break down what happened in the next few days in a few short sharp sentences.

Card declined, feel bad. Remember train tickets home are pre booked, feel worse – want to cry. Realise you can’t go home empty handed, tell Darren to keep it to one side, walk home  – sit on bed and sulk. Wake up late, go to bank, beg for money, get rejected – feel bad. Cry at bank, beg for money relentlessly, get money – feel better. Run (read: fast jog) to work, drop MP3 player down toilet – pre flush – feel bad again. Get nice voicemail about a job opportunity, feel good. Get free cake, feel even better. Get horrible phone call from bank, feel bad again. Ask for an advance at work, feel grateful and happy. Borrow money to buy present, collect present that night, walk home – feel content. Wake up, pack bag, walk to work safe in the knowledge that money is on the way. Get anxious about money, shamefully ask about money, get assured it’ll be transferred that day, feel good again – thank people a little too enthusiastically. Leave work, check purse, count last £4.50, spend on train ticket to get to station. Get on train, laugh at people getting bollocked by nutter, snooze, snore a bit probably, snooze – feel groggy. Get picked up by lovely big sister and spend evening with lovely mom. Sleep. Wake up on day of party, have excellent time with family and friends, eat meat, drink excessively, feel lucky. Find out brother already has game, curse Darren – move on to pub for evening. Offer to buy birthday drinks – feel generous. Card declined. Realise bank have stolen advance, cry in despair, in middle of the pub – feel like a twat. Drinks sponsored by various beautiful people for rest of night – feel like a twat still, but a drunken twat. Be loud and obnoxious. Pass out. Wake up, feel rough, remember have no money – feel complete and utter despair again.

And Breathe…

So this brings us to Sunday. Whilst I did feel terrible that at the age of 26, there are paperboys who have a higher disposable income than me, I knew that as long as I could borrow enough change to get home from Marylebone station, then I could easily last the next 5 days without any money because I remembered that I had 15 left eggs in fridge. Now, maths isn’t my strong point, but even I can rustle up a simple equation that leaves me with:

 15 eggs / 5 days = 3 eggs per day / 3 meals per day = 1 egg per meal.

And on the days when that equation just didn’t seem alluring enough, I could always rustle up a three egg omelette instead.

Plenty of people in the world have existed for much longer and on a lot less than 15 eggs and eternal optimism, so I might as well just get on with it. I mean, I’m not even entirely sure I actually have  pelvic bones, so I’m not exactly going to waste away. And while we’re over here peering into the bright side of life – at least I know that the ‘Card Issuer Declined Diet’ always works. (That’s patented by the way, and before you get any ideas – so is my ‘Chilean Miners Diet’ plan)

I’m fully aware that I’m a bad dresser and incredibly scruffy – but    Sunday was the day it really hit home. I don’t own any posh trousers or a single pair of smart shoes and with a job interview pending on the Monday morning, my mom took one look at my feet and uttered one of my all time favourite Babsy quotes: “Look at the state of your shoes. Your Dad would be turning in his grave – if he had one”. The next thing I know, we’re up the Shopping Centre and she’s treated me to a new pair of said shoes. Trousers. I needed trousers. I’ve only got one good pair of jeans left – and I say good in the loosest sense of the term possible. All my other jeans seem to have slowly disintegrated at the crotch over time and evolved into some sort of homemade chaps. For a long while, I persevered with them, but having to colour my legs in with black marker pen every morning was becoming rather tiresome and despite being petrified to walk up stairs or accidently stride too wide – I was convinced the permanency of the marker pen was very close to becoming a shite and rather unexplainable tattoo.

“Oh, what’s your tattoo, is it tribal?”

“Err, no – its Melanoma.”

Babsy came to the rescue once again, treated me to a posh pair of trousers and even subbed me a few quid for my train home. God love her. I felt a little choked as I got out of the car at the train station that evening, life was so much easier when you just wore whatever your mom put you in – even if it was a knee length pair of flowery Culottes; which I secretly loved! As we sat in the car, mom forced me to put my new shoes on – I think she was worried people might think I was a missing person loitering wild eyed around the train station. And as I sat with my feet disrespectfully resting on the dashboard we laughed heartily (well I did) about the time she nearly disowned on the spot in Totally Uniform because when I took my trainers off I gassed out entire families  quicker than a bunker at Birkenau. Ahhh, memories – they made me feel nostalgic, happy and determined to prove to my mom that she did actually raise a fully functioning human being.

I woke up Monday morning, and my feelings of optimism quickly faded. It was raining, and I’d miscalculated my eggs. I only had ten.  I know, woe is me. Not even my posh new trousers could cheer me up. Just as an added insight into the lavish lifestyle that I lead, these trousers were only £6 and yet I still refer to them as my ‘posh’ trousers; just imagine the state of the rest of my wardrobe. First problem – it’s raining off and on. Before yesterday, I didn’t even own a pair of shoes with a full sole in, so an umbrella is pushing it. By now, the change I had left over from Sunday meant my pocket was not so much burning, but maybe tepid with the heat of the £3.36 I had floating around in there. I couldn’t risk walking to the interview, because I’d probably get soaked, but its ok I thought, I’ll safely transport myself and my two eggs there by the luxury of the train; and I’ll still have £1.66 to tide me over for the rest of the week. Easily done.

To cut a very long story short, the eggs and I made it in and out of the interview unscathed; my dwindling optimism however, was in rapid decline. Let’s just say that as soon as the word ‘Paedo’ left my lips upon entering the building – I had a feeling I wasn’t quite in the right mind frame. I promise you that the context it was used in makes much more sense; I just haven’t got the time or energy to explain.

This brings me back to that fateful Monday evening when I really wanted to go and tell Darren all about the present mishap and overall ridiculous weekend – and that’s when the Alan Partridge syndrome kicked in. Darren wouldn’t care that my brother already had the game, and what was I expecting from him even if he did? A free game? A written apology?

 A hug?

Four months ago, I graduated with a masters degree and had my whole future shining brightly ahead of me, so since when did I become the girl that treats casual shop assistants like long lost family members? Now i’m scared to death that if I could afford to get buses, I’d be the one that lingers by the driver’s window discussing The X Factor like it’s world politics and then utters: “Thank you driver” in a creepily sing song voice as I arthritically step off it.

Boris Johnson, you beautiful ginger bear, your unyielding insistence for inflating public transport prices in London, just may have saved my mental health.

 Loitering around the grand doorway of Asda, my mind triggered back to the £1.66 I was lumbering around town with me. It was 11pm on Monday night by now (please note that I don’t finish work until 10 – I’m sad, but I’m not that sad) which for me means it’s ‘WHOOOPS’ rack night and luminous yellow stickers are literally the only thing I can see. I’m like Vin Diesel in the film Pitch Black when I’m in a supermarket. Sometimes the ‘WHOOOPS’ rack is a bountiful feast of various rejected items all spearheading towards the end of their shelf life. Trodden on crisps, smashed up soup, or if you’re lucky – rotting fruit. (The ’WHOOPS’ rack £1 Challenge is also a specialised diet plan that I am in the process of patenting)  But on this day it had surpassed itself – there was a whole shelf dedicated to Smartprice Chicken Roll for just 20 wonderful pence. 20p for crying out loud, for a pack of reformed meat slices – what more could a girl want?

Millions, apparently.

As I stood there, my arms full with 6 packets of Chicken Roll piled clumsily on top of each other, I suddenly had a personal crisis. I could do the right thing, buy the 6 packets of chicken, and be able to have eggs for breakfast and then equally spread my  Chicken Roll out between dinner and tea up until payday – and still have enough left over for an emergency apple later in the week if my body starts to sweat sulphates.

Or…I could spunk my last £1 on a scratchcard, win big and still have enough money left over for not one, but maybe two celebratory Freddo’s.

Tricky. Maybe this is it, I thought – maybe this is when life gets good? I could be one of those stories that you read in the paper and feel equal amounts of jealousy and disgust, when a woman has spent her last £5 in the world on scratchcards instead of Christmas presents for her 8 disabled children –  and WON! I could be that woman!

 I could even imagine the headline…

“Girl Snubs Ham For Big Stake”

Imagine. Beautiful.

 One day…one day. Alas, as I looked down at my arms and then looked up and caught my reflection in the refrigerator mirror, I realised that day was not meant to be today. Oh no.  And so I shuffled over to the self checkout, my arms heavy, laden with meat and my heart heavy with moral defeat. (My soul destroying scratchcard addiction is something we’ll address in my next post)

But, four days down the line… and I know everything’s going to be ok, because today is when life gets good; albeit briefly.

For, today is the day that the micro-pigs come and visit us in the office, and I defy anyone to be sad on tiny pig day.

Today is also Pay Day.

Thank fuck for that.

I’ll see you same time next month no doubt.

Kaz xx

Oh and if you’re wondering – no, surprisingly, I didn’t get the job.

Best served within the next half an hour


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And So That Was Christmas…

I hope you had fun? I did, and according to my chin; maybe a little too much fun. Let’s just say – if Carlsbergs made diets…I probably drank it.

You see, one of the downfalls of having an elastic face – despite the obvious dating constraints – is that yes, whilst I can fashion my head into a convincing square shape, I also retain every morsel of drink and food that passes my lips, straight into the depths of my chin. Like a Pelican. An irritating, mouthy, cider swigging Pelican.  Think, Tracey Emin at a very specifically themed fancy dress party…

Got that?


Now think of Tandem Paragliding, with Lembit Opik…naked; and he’s behind.

You’re welcome.

Anyway, so when it hit midnight last night, and I found myself tapping at the door of the long since closed local pub, asking them what we could get for £16.43 – specifically – only to emerge 5 minutes later with what at the time felt like a decadent picnic hamper. Although, in hindsight it was more of a generic Friday night in for a 12 year old – but with less drugs than Skins would have us believe they’re snorting/ramming up each other’s arses these days.  So as I glanced down, grinning at our armfuls of miniature cheap wines in various shades of health defying urine, bottles of cider and 2 wham bars, I realised it’s time for the inevitable short-lived January detox.

This consists of my strict 5 day detox routine of warm water, lemons, tuna and grapefruit; money permitting. From the offset you’ll notice that one key ingredient is imperative to the success of the detox. I’m very firm that I must not be exposed to any joy in life whatsoever at this stage. None at all. Much like how I imagine it would feel to be Stephen Hendry’s wife. Smiles and joviality being strictly prohibited and being forced to watch endless frames of snooker whilst repeatedly shining his balls with my special white glove…

This then leads me nicely into my strict 2 day weekend re-tox. It’s a wonderful system where I then welcome every beautiful chemically enhanced and previously banished toxin back into the boundaries of my body. If my body were a Shakespearian play, Juliet would be my liver, and cider my Romeo.  ‘For never was there a tale of more woe, than this of Karen, and her ability to say No.’

It’s easier for me to liken it to that, than the Comedy of Errors that it truly is.

It always appears to me, as a pretty thankless task; a means of keeping the wolf from the door so to speak. Or the wrist from the drip. Or the bed from the winch – or whatever pointless metaphor you want to insert here about my inevitable slow death. Basically, if I pretend to be a semi functioning human being during the week; then I have earned the right to be back at my George Best by the weekend.

And that, for me – well that’ll do pig. That’ll do.

I did have a point to writing this, but I’ve strayed tremendously far away from it – like the secret love child of the Never Ending Story and Homeward Bound.

Anyway, I wanted to write about my new year’s resolution being ‘to get a hobby’ – because I can’t find one I like. And if I do find one I like – I find something wrong with it. I’m a hobby based commitment-phobe. After working nights for some time now, I’d forgotten what it was like to have evenings off – so when the Christmas holidays came it was actually like all my Christmases’ had come at once. (I’ve never had the opportunity to use that sentence before – and I don’t think I’ll use it again, it didn’t feel right.) However, working nights seem to have institutionalised me somewhat and I have completely forgotten what I used to like ‘doing’ – so I just went out and drank a lot; which is no bad thing. But I’m sure there was a time when I liked things that weren’t irrelevant comments facebook and I still had the ability to express my delight without using a cartoon thumb. I could use words – and sometimes, even facial expressions.

So if you have any ideas – let me know. But please don’t suggest walking or jogging or running or any of that shit, because for one – none of those things are hobbies; they are transportation. Essential transportation methods – each useful in their own special scenarios. And two – I’ve already told you I have a stretchy face, and chances are that the sweat I thought was dripping down my face when I was out jogging is actually just a massive flap of skin. Or my eyebrow. God knows – but I don’t wanna risk it.

Like I say, if you have any input then let me know! Oh, but they have to be free. I like free.




P.S…please help, so that I can stop googling Mara Wilson. I hate her. But I can’t stop looking at her.


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