Phoenix Fights

Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….



The last entry! I made it! Whoop, whoop!

What the hell will I blog about now?! Probably all my woes, fears and mind monkeys again, you lucky, lucky lot…

Re this last challenge, I don’t think I could listen to a song sung by a divine choir of angels trained by Marvin, Whitney AND Gil himself all day without getting sick of it, but ‘I Think I’ll Call It Morning’ comes very, very close.

Gil Scott-Heron the self proclaimed ‘bluesologist’ tended to be known for his poetry and more political tracks around racial inequality, all of which I love, but this song is, to me, is Gil at his happiest, and it almost always lifts my spirits.

Ah to be happy and talented enough to write something like this, what a gift that would be….

A beautiful man, beautiful lyrics and a fitting end to this challenge.

A song of hope.

Thanks for listening x

I’m gonna take myself a piece of sunshine
And paint it all over my sky
Be no rain..
Be no rain..

I’m gonna take the song from every bird
And make em sing it just for me
Bird’s got something to teach us all
About being free, yeah
Be no rain..
Be no rain..

And I think I’ll call it morning
From now on
Why should I survive on sadness?
And tell myself I got to be alone
Why should I subscribe to this world’s madness?
Knowing that I’ve got to live on
Yeah I think I’ll call it morning
From now on

I’m gonna take myself a piece of sunshine
And paint it all over my sky
Be no rain…
Be no rain…

I’m gonna take the song from every bird
And make them sing it just for me
Cause why should I hang my head
Why should I let tears fall from my eyes?
When I’ve seen everything there is to see
And I know there is no sense in crying
I know there ain’t no sense in crying
Yeah I think I’ll call it morning
From now on
I’ll call it morning from now on, yeah

Cause there ain’t gonna be no rain
Be no rain
Be no rain
From now on…



Hmm. I don’t currently have a ‘best friend’ so am going to plump for a song that I have (literally) hit the floor for with many a bestie over the decades.

Don’t groan or roll your eyes with derision! I’ll wager that you’ve all done this dance, no matter how hard you’ve tried to block it from you memory.


It’s the one where you sit on the floor wedged up behind your mates/bloke/girl you fancy/boss at the annual Christmas party/best man at a wedding, then made a show of yourself by pretending to row, whilst some geezer (probably that Robin Thicke) grinds his willy against your coccyx.

I know it’s cringy and embarrassing, but I love this track and have absolutely no shame in admitting that I am an out and proud old skool soul/funk ‘rower’ and probably will be as long as I’m able to drag my ass up again without (a) showing my drawers, (b) dislocating my hip, or (c) throwing up on the person in front of me.

Altogether now!  I defy you not to get your groove on!

I said, oops up-side your head, I said oops upside your head… 🙂

P.S. As this dance never made it out of the UK (no wonder) here is a very typical video of it being done at a party.  Rules are:

1. Everyone has to be drunk and/or join in.  Preferably both.

2. At least one person has to be out of synch or better still, get the moves totally wrong.

3. At least one person has to make an absolute show of themselves, like the old dear on the back who is very nearly losing her boob tube 🙂





I didn’t have to think about this one for very long at all….

I seriously cannot stand ‘Blurred Lines’, to the extent that I cannot bear to feature the video on my blog, so this slightly lame parody will have to do.

OK, Where to start?

The sexist/rapey/female objectification themes, are to my mind, the least offensive thing about it.

It’s the sheer fucking #SMUGNESS of Robin Thicke’s face throughout that makes me want to put my boot through the TV screen.

It’s not even that good a song.  I doubt it would have sold in the volumes it did without the video and subsequent controversy and press coverage.

In fairness, I actually used to like his music, and own his first album which features a couple of really great tracks, but I kind of got an inkling that he was a bit of a #tosser after seeing him perform (well mime to) ‘Everything I Can’t Have’ on breakfast TV one morning.  There he was dancing around, then suddenly he hissed to the backing band ‘C’mon boys, get into it!’.   It was then that I noticed that they all ignored him and continued with set, stony expressions on their faces.  Hmm.  He must be a right #dickhead to evoke that kind of response from musicians, given they would presumably want to avoid pissing him off and/or not working for ITV again.

Then ‘Blurred Lines’ and that video came out, pretty much confirming my suspicions.

I wasn’t shocked by it. I’m a grown ass woman and have seen a bit of tit before.  I just thought it was #pathetic.

Q. What kind of man has to pay women to trot naked around him and his (fully clothed) buds in order to feel good about himself?

A. The same kind that needs to write about the (alleged) size of his dick on a wall, while smirking and nodding at it.


What. A. #Twat.

As for you Pharrell, what were you thinking?  Lucky for you that you came up with ‘Happy’ and redeemed yourself, otherwise you’d be on my shit list and at the mercy of my poisoned pen too.

Going back to Biggus Dickus, the third and final nail in his coffin was his notorious appearance at the Grammys, dressed as #Beetlejuice, grinning lasciviously as Miley Cyrus ground her tiny, spotty boys bum against #thebeast, whilst brandishing a big foamy finger and sticking her massive tongue in and out like a salamander on speed.

Urgh.  #creepyunclerobin.

Not that his sleaziness was restricted to performance, you understand.  What followed then was a series of rather public indiscretions, one showing him groping a fan’s bottom in the reflection of the mirror behind them whilst being photographed, which resulted in his long suffering wife, Paula, finally kicking him to the kerb.

So what does he do?

Apologize?  Offer to go to counselling or see a shrink?  Speak publicly about his appalling behaviour and his plans to remedy it in the hope of getting his marriage back on track?

No.  He wrote a song called ‘Get Her Back’, featuring such lines as ‘All I wanna do is give you that thing’ (#obsessedwithhiswinky), ‘Keep her satisfied’ and ‘It’s so hard.’

It’s all I want, I want, I want, I want.  My dick, my dick, my dick, my dick.  I swear he’s like a dog in a man’s body.

No ‘I’m a two timing prick’, ‘I’m heading for a full blown midlife crisis’, or ‘I molested a minor’ lines featured in there at all.

Paula, if you take this jerk back, I don’t think anyone of our sex will ever forgive you!

No room for blurred lines here, you need to channel big Dolly P and go for a D.I.V.O.R.C.E.

I know you want it.

Maybe even as much as I do. 😉


P.S. As for his hashtag abuse, don’t even get me started…





I had to think very hard about this one…

As some of you may know, being HSP, along with a lot of other shit, I have a very low embarrassment tolerance and as a result of this, I’ve had a lot of songs sang at me, rather than to me.

Allow me to explain the difference.

When I was teenager, one of my biggest hates was seeing ‘old people’ (ha!) trying to be cool when, to my mind, they were NOT, so Saturday night TV in the 70’s was particularly painful viewing as people with prime time shows like Bruce Forsythe, Lulu and Cilla Black did just that every pigging week.

This came via a variety of mediums, such as by singing their own groovy theme tune (urgh), their own versions of chart hits (unforgivable) or, worse still, duetting live with said chart topper (NOOOO!), all accompanied by unnecessary ‘yeah’, ‘whoos’ and ‘baby’s and, of course, obligatory dad dancing.


The memory still makes my scalp prickle. 😦

And at these times, I would try and disguise my acute discomfort, leave the room and lock myself in my room before anyone noticed, but my evil fucking sister would immediately tune into my agony, turn up the volume to max then chase me up the stairs, pass me, then block my bedroom door, singing along to the cringefest into whatever microphone-esque object was at hand, gyrating madly, as I fell to my knees, curling into a ball, fingers in my ears, howling ‘NO! Mum! Dad! TELL HER!’

She particularly liked doing this to the theme to a programme about the Guinness Book of Records which was utterly heinous, and I had to train myself to be out or locked way safe about five minutes before that programme started, such was my aversion to this innocent, happy ditty.

So much for ‘at‘.  I will spare you any video clips.

To‘ wasn’t much better. Being such a fucked up individual, unused to love, I have been unable to appreciate a lot of heartfelt, romantic gestures such as being serenaded without resorting self defeating tactics such as mockery, sniggering and jeering, so whilst I’m sure it happened more than once, my brain has, for once, saved me and locked such memories in that rusty old filing cabinet marked ‘Not to be opened under any circumstances whatsoever’.

But I see one dog eared old file that has slid out of the bottom file and onto the floor.


On the plus side the song is ‘Moving‘ by the incomparable Kate Bush, which I love (along with the rest of ‘The Kick Inside’) but the memory of my second boyfriend singing it to me at intimate moments whilst gazing into my eyes (with emphasis on the line ‘Give me life, please don’t let me go’) still makes my bum hole clench with embarrassment.

In all fairness I don’t remember mocking him.

Much. 😉

But I do remember freezing, rictus grin on face and waiting agonisingly for it to be over.

Jaysus, and I wonder why I’m a spinster…

Sorry Steve, I hope your at home now with someone who appreciates your romantic soul so much more than I did…



This is ‘1901’, the fourth single from Birdy‘s debut album, aptly named ‘Birdy’.

I didn’t know what it was about so I looked it up on Wikipedia and it’s actually a cover of a song by a band called Phoenix, and, according to lead singer Thomas Mars, it’s about early 20th century Paris.

Wut? Really?

Mars said, “Paris in 1901 was better than it is now. So the song is a fantasy about Paris.”

This seems a mite pretentious, and quite how he’d know is anyone’s guess (unless he’s a frigging vampire or something), but anything Birdy takes on sounds quite beautiful to me, plus her video shows that girl who plays ‘Trixie’ from ‘Call The Midwife’ and some beardy bloke falling out, which is much more easy to relate to.

Ah young love…(rolls eyes heavenward)…



I used to go to some of the legendary UK DJ Norman Jay’s club nights back in the day, and this floor filler featured regularly on his playlist.

The great Earth Wind & Fire did a version of it on their ‘Gratitude’ album, but even they can’t top this version.

Truly joyous.

I defy anyone not to get up to dance when they hear this!

Enjoy x



I was conditioned from a very young age not to expect too much from romantic love.

My mother’s favourite hobby was watching old black and white movies, especially the one’s that made you cry. You’ll know the kind I’m talking about if, like me, you’re in your 50’s. Films like ‘Lassie Come Home’, ‘Casablanca’, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, etc. but in hindsight, the ones she was really into were tales of doomed love.

Read into that what you will, but I’m guessing that my Dad wasn’t exactly her Prince Charming. Fair enough. A man who is hardly there at all and when he is, treats you like an unpaid servant wouldn’t exactly give anyone butterflies. A big fat bruiser of a bloke. wanders around in a grubby torn vest, burping, farting, eating with his mouth open and snoring away on the sofa is hardly anyone’s version of love’s young dream.

Anyway, when I was a kid, watching weepies with Mum on a Saturday afternoon when everyone else was out, snuffling away into fistfuls of tissues, red eyes locked onto that black and white TV screen was probably one of the few things I was able to share with her.

Notice I say ‘share’ and not ‘bond’. Because I never felt any closer to her. I think she was so locked into her own misery, she didn’t have room for me or mine, but there we sat, me on the sofa, her on the chair, in our own world of pain, silently mourning the lack of love in our lives.

Our favourite weepy was without a doubt ‘West Side Story’ which I still can’t watch without hyperventilating with grief, and the song that always get’s me just there is, of course, ‘Somewhere’.

Mum and I knew that Tony and Maria didn’t stand a chance, and nor did we. That if there was a ‘somewhere’ it wasn’t for the likes of us. As far as she was concerned, ‘somewhere’, along with handsome husbands, nice houses, posh cars, new clothes, boxes of chocolates, holidays abroad, and pretty much anything a young girl might dream of was strictly out of our family’s league, something she never tired of telling me.

And whilst I bucked hard against her prophetic limitations and set out to prove her wrong, my ‘Tony’ still eludes me.

Maybe next time around I’ll get it right and come into my teens loved, confident and with hope in my heart and the belief that anything is possible.

But for now, cake will have to do 😉

Here’s the last scene for anyone in need to have a quick bawl! x