Phoenix Fights

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













I did my age old trick today,and bailed on meeting up with someone.

And I think he’s pissed off with me.

We had planned to go to a market about 15 miles away and I had suggest going early, but he wanted to play it by ear as it’s Sunday and he wanted a lie in.  So, by the time we arranged a time, and I got on the road, the traffic was hellish.

Presumably down to Christmas shoppers.

Fuck people, it’s mid November!  What’s the rush?

So I’m sitting there, getting rather irate as I go into the old ‘first, second, horn’ routine as Homer Simpson would say, and the ‘let’s cancel’ dialogue starts to play out in my head.

Well I say dialogue, but it’s more of me justifying it and the other me agreeing, so it’s not exactly a debate.

It’s that ‘bad parent’ colluding with the ‘child’, as Aunty C would say.

It’s goes something like this:

Child me:   Look I’ve been sat in this traffic for half an hour and was meant to be there by now, it’s going to take me at least another hour, I’ll only be at the market for a couple of hours, then back on the road to face this hell again!

BP me:      You’re right, it’s a total waste of time!

Child me:   And the amount of petrol I’m spunking away!  I’m not working y’know and can’t afford to waste money like this.

BP me:      That’s a very responsible attitude.

Child me:   David won’t mind, Anna is with him; they won’t miss me, and I would have felt like a bit of a gooseberry anyway.

BP me:      And imagine if you couldn’t get a parking space? They might all be gone by now, it is nearly afternoon.

Child me:   I know!  This is all David’s fault, so he can’t blame me for not coming!

BP me:      Also, your old boss doesn’t live that far from there imagine if you bumped into him!

Child me:   I’d sooner not thanks.  Do you think he will mind?

BP me:      I doubt it, but give him a call and see what he says.

So I do.  And of course he says don’t worry about it, the market isn’t all that and he’s fine with me turning around and heading for home.

Which I do.

But by the time I get back an hour later and make a cup of tea, I feel like a right lemon because I’m sat there thinking ‘What am I going to do with the rest of my day?’

As if I’d stayed in the car and toughed it out, I would have been there by now, wandering around with Dave and Anna, having fun and a bit of banter, scoffing street food and probably finding a few bargains there to boot.

I drop Dave a text asking him if they’re having fun and I’m met with stony silence.

He might not have got it.

He might be busy.

He might not have a signal.

But I don’t think that’s the case.

I’m puzzled. Why would he care? It’s not like I’ve left him on his own like Billy-no-mates, he has his girlfriend to wander around with so I haven’t sent him there alone on a fool’s errand then stood him up?

Then the penny dropped that maybe it’s not that simple.

Sometimes couples get bored with one another or they have a spat, and seeing an ‘outsider’ can break that divide and bring them back together.

I hadn’t seen Anna for ages and maybe she was looking forward to catching up with me.

Maybe my view of myself, i.e. a sad old tag along to their perfectly united two isn’t quite how they see things?

Maybe they, shock horror, actually enjoy my company?

Plus, the biggest realisation of all is that when I do this I make myself dispensable because in the end, people don’t expect me to turn up, miss me when I don’t, or think to invite me to anything again.

Or if it does occur to them, they dismiss it because they think I will cancel yet again.

And I wonder why I end up lonely, when the reason is that I do this all the time, i.e. if the person i am meant to be meeting is not alone, I think it’s OK to bail.

And now I’m sat on the sofa bored, wondering whether I can face another 9 hours in front of the TV alone.

I get it now.

I know this is down to my illness and that when I’m having a bad spell, everything is an anti climax and that’s what makes me have such a ‘can’t be bothered’ attitude.  But on the rare times that I have forced myself turn up against my will, I’ve usually surprised myself and had a good time after all.

Lesson learned.

I forgive myself.

But I’m going to try really hard not to do this again.

Then, they’ll miss me when I genuinely can’t make it.  And hopefully, keep inviting me to stuff.

Namaste x



Today, for the first time since my rather traumatic retreat in Italy, I went to attend a formal yoga class.


I had decided to do this because my home practice was uninspired, ad hoc and always being interrupted by the postman, plus if I’m going to teach this for a living, I’d like to do lots of different styles before I decide what it is I want to teach rather than have it dictated to me.

I set out in good time (unusual for me) and got there early, which was just as well as the studio was packed.  

I then made myself very popular by holding up the queue by paying with plastic whilst everyone behind me was trying to appear patient and Zen like, when they were in fact bristling with suppressed frustration and impatience whilst the poor little pixie on the desk stared at the bank machine willing it to get a move on, whilst minutes ticked by, closer and closer to the start time, which I have to admit, did bring a wicked little smile to my face.

It was going to be yoga Jim, but not as I know it.  

It was going to be the kind of yoga class I used to go to.

The other tell tale sign was when I clapped eyes on the teacher.  

As soon as I saw him, one (rather uncharitable) word popped right into my head and stayed there for the duration of the lesson:


As in, the kind of teacher that ends up shagging his students.

A bit like my old ‘Guru’ probably, but younger and more attractive. 

But with a flaw.  

They usually have a minor flaw these guys, just one tiny thing that stops them from being model perfect (biggish nose, slightly receding chin, not very tall), so they hurl themselves into their practice, and work until their bodies are Greek god like, then, and only then do they feel that they are entitled to plunder their salivating, hero worshipping, downward dogging customer base.

And shaggers usually teach competitive yoga.  

Not deliberately you understand, but their classes nearly always attract gym nazis that wear tight ‘Sweaty Betty’ lycra, a stony ‘I’m better at this shit than you’ expression, and have a very determined air about them as they crowbar their poor bodies into the most excruciating contortions, usually before they are ready to do so.

So this was going to be quite a challenging class.

Bring it on.  I’ve spent so many months practising in a body-kind, gentle, responsible fashion, it will be kind of nice to tax myself a bit again.

Pretty soon some mystical cum ‘chill out’ music fills the air, and as the practice begins, I realised that I can’t understand a single thing my heavily accented teacher says, and certain tossers that insisted on breathing very loudly and theatrically didn’t exactly help.  

And as I was at the back of the class, I couldn’t see what he was doing either.

But you know something?

It didn’t matter.

Because I just followed the others and, if nothing else, in the last couple of years, I’ve learned to feel free enough in any yoga class to do my practice at my own pace, leave out the bits that don’t suit me and not participate in the inevitable ‘pissing contest’ when it comes to headstands, lotus’, back bends and other such difficult poses.

A few of the ‘show boaters’ did cast me a few puzzled glances on noticing me breaking from protocol, as if waiting for me to grab a yoga belt and start flagellating myself with it in shame and contrition. 

But the teacher said not a word, nor did he have to come over and correct me at all.

And I was one of the few people who wasn’t trembling with excessive effort as I transitioned from pose to pose.

But I enjoyed it.

It wasn’t perfect; old Shagger didn’t ask about injuries or tell us to go at our own pace, I couldn’t hear a bloody thing of course, and the person inches in front of me had the most minging feet. 

But I loved the thing I’d been missing most of all.

Practising, breathing and chanting with others.

Because I’m far from perfect either, and whatever style we practice, and however seriously we take it, and whatever reason we do it, we are all on the same journey, whether we know it or not.

And it was nice to share mine with someone other than two very mischievous, intrusive, bombastic cats and a horny postman.

So, as that other muscular, showboating shagger used to say, “I’ll be back”…..

Namaste x



You know those times you wake up in the morning and think ‘What the fuck am I going to do?

I rose this morning to that familiar refrain and the first thing I saw was this amazing piece of work.

Ash Beckham talks about our ‘closets’ where we hide in the dark and clutch our unacceptable truths to us, like the ticking bombs that they are.

I live in such a closet; only trouble is that mine has white walls, a sitting room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, a full fridge, central heating, all mod cons and I don’t want to leave it.

I tell myself I’m going to do this, that and the other and carve myself a life outside of these walls, but I’m starting to realise that I’m creating story lines to hurl at people from my past so that they don’t sneer and laugh at me. Little do they know that I’ve barely done shit about taking anything forward really.

I look like a yoga teacher so as long as I’m not challenged to do a head stand in the pub, they’ll buy that.

I’m a great cook so why wouldn’t I monetize it? Surely any fool without a job would?

I’m a writer, so surely must be working on a book? That my friends, is something I can’t hide behind, unlike this blessed, anonymous, life saving blog.

The only thing I’m truly, truly embracing is my ‘extra’ work.

Because I can show up to a set, be made up as and be someone else for an hour/day/week and hell, when you’re as terrified as I am of going back out into the big wide world as yourself, what’s not to love here? Shame it isn’t paying anything yet….

This isn’t the story I wanted to write, and I KNOW it’s not the one that you want to read.

I wanted to start 2013 at ‘only way is up’ level and graduate in December 2013/January 2014 with flying colours, a great job, a loving partner, a career/careers and clouds of ticker tape, having totally sorted out my shit and prised that massive fucker of an orangoutang off my back. And whilst there has definitely been advancements, realisations and mini successes, I’m not entirely there yet.

And that ape may not be digging it’s claws in quite as hard, but it’s doing something infinitely worse.

It’s cuddling me. Stroking my hair, gently holding me to it saying ‘Stay here with me where it’s safe. Live for the moment, that’s what all the good ‘self help’ books say don’t they? You’re not ready yet, let’s hunker down with a mug of tea and watch TV. You’re worried about money? Let’s not think about that right now, it will all come right in the end.’

I know I should be writing about my successes and making this blog a more inspirational read, but I swore to be honest and authentic on here, no matter how many readers it might cost me, and this is where I am today.

Wondering if I actually like doing anything that I say I do, and if so why don’t I get a move on and use it to make something of myself?

As a matter of fact, who the hell am I anyway?

I’m not sure, it’s too fucking dark in here, and the monkey notwithstanding, I know I’m on my own.

So this is my ‘hard’ conversation with you. I’ve inched forward slowly in something of the things I claim I want to do, but when it comes to doing them for real, I really scared that I might be making it all up and have no intentions of doing any of it.

Clutching my own fear filled grenade.

Waiting for the courage to open that fucking door already.





If anyone asks you if you’ve seen me, I beg of you my love, be discreet….

You see whilst you are and will always be my first love, I have to confess that I am now, alas, for the meantime, committed to another.

Committed to an intractable, demanding, inflexible creature that expects me to work like a dog every single day, takes everything I say as set in stone, will not allow me to make amends, and the pressure and strain is all encompassing and absolutely unbearable.

And if I make a mistake?

No mercy.

And if I do not give this monster enough?

Then I am made to feel as if I have fallen short of expectation.

Where as you, my beloved, my precious one, take me as I am, and love and appreciate me no matter what I offer you.

Be it a sentence, a song, a poem from my heart; a hateful rant, a story of hope, a tale of terror, tears or things that once were, you accept each word as a precious jewel and make me feel that I can do no wrong.

You ask nothing of me, and in return, all I want to do is lay my bounty at your feet and please you.

Whereas this voracious beast only serves to remind me why I am wary of commitment and turns the most pleasant, pleasing, life enhancing thing in the world into a dreadful, loathsome, tiresome chore.

But rest assured my love that come December I will have no more to do with this cold tyrant, and be yours again exclusively.

Until then, promise that you will not forget me?

Missing you.

Au revoir mon amour x





Yes, its me, Ms Tardy for the Party, as per usual.

What I am late for this time?  

Well pretty much everything actually.

Advancing in my yoga, setting up my business, my hideous fledgling novel on ‘na noo na noo’ or whatever they call it (and only three days in too!) and of course, achieving my aims and resolutions for this year.

And only eight weeks to go.

Of course I have realised that my advancement relied and relies on so much more than mere box ticking and that advancements, especially spiritually, have taken place that I never thought possible.

I also finally realised that I’ll never totally beat this condition; it is a part of me that I will always have to manage, make allowances for and nurture myself in it WITHOUT letting my FEAR rule me or allowing myself to hide from the world.

From a financial aspect, 2013 has cost me greatly, as I have not earned anything, not claimed any benefits and have gradually eaten away at my savings, but without this time away from the rat race I might not even be alive, so whilst I am poor I have much to be grateful for.

My main hurdle for the latter part of 2013 is to do those things for myself that only I can do, but for some reason deprive myself out of fear, self loathing, self protection or whatever.

I haven’t done an update for a couple of months and when I tried to today, I realised that I had let a lot slip AGAIN and am sat metaphorically on the school bus feverishly scribbling down my homework.

But I can’t explain how hard it it to motivate myself and get past my terror of ‘I don’t know what’ when I am for the most part all alone, and can get away with hibernating without anyone getting on my case about it.

But I can, must, WILL keep trying.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow…..

I will hold off doing a proper update until the end of the year, when, I hope to have a gleaming school report, resplendent with gold stars!  Or big, splatty inkblots more like….

Thank you for your patience and big love to all xxxx





Yes folks, I’ve committed to writing a 50,000 word novel in a month.

I know!

Gulp.  I can barely tear myself from the TV to write my blog most days, and I LOVE doing this, oh God, what have I done?

Also if I enter into the true spirit of this and literally start something from scratch, I have no idea what I’m going to write about.

AND 15 hours of Day One have already elapsed!

Still, me being me, there is no way I’d ever do it without something like this, and it will keep my mind wandering in and out of paranoid, panicky hell, so I can only do my best.

Need to earn money NOW, a new company to set up, yoga to do, baking to bake, blogs to blog and stories to fake, how did I get so busy?

This was never part of the plan; when WILL I get time to watch ‘Real Housewives’ and ‘Strictly’?

Let’s hope whatever I produce is out of this world…..

Sorry, that was lame, let me assure you that no matter how much time I have to dedicate to this novel, I won’t write shit like that for you ever again!

Wish me luck xx


Daily Prompt: Pep Rally GOOD OLE MRS RIGHT-NOW


We all know someone who could use a pep talk… so write them one!

Have you ever stood by and watched your best friend sell herself short on some useless guy/girl?

Have you ever let them share the inevitable unfolding drama day after day, week after week, with half of you trying hard to be a friend, to listen honourably and be patient, when the other half of you is silently screaming ‘What did I tell you?  WTF?  Why are you still doing this?!’

Have you ever watched someone you love in the throes of terminal bad relationship addiction whilst knowing in your heart that it can, and will only end badly?

This is my pep talk to my beautiful, big hearted, pocket rocket of a friend, ‘Perri’; I only wish I could share it with her.


You’re still seeing him, aren’t you?

I know you’re deliberately not telling me about it because inside you feel like a fool, and you know i see through all your bullshit bravado, and think I’m going to scream ‘Told you so!’.

But I won’t.  What good will that do either of us sweetie?

To be honest with you, I don’t entirely blame him.  He’s a user, you’re a martyr, you found one another, the attraction was overwhelming, you locked together like magnets and now you’re tight in the coils this most unhealthy, unholy, unsavoury of unions.

And the sex, coupled with your need to mother, tripled with your love of being the perpetual victim, compounded with his overpowering Oedipus complex means that you could be in his life and, more to the point, at his service for a very long time.

Much to your detriment.

You get upset when I tell you to end it, and accuse me of not liking him.

I don’t know him, Perri!  I only know what you tell me….

Adnan may be a six foot two slab of intense, scowling, burning lurve, but he has some serious issues.  And I speak as someone in the ‘takes one to know one’ position.

The most exasperating thing of all is that you know that he’s done this before, as your predecessor is now stalking both of you, totally heartbroken and hell bent on revenge.  

He tells you that he’s finished with her and she’s only a friend now, but that’s what he does.  

Seduces older, grateful women past child bearing age, tells them that he wants to marry and have children one day so he cannot commit, works on them until they are totally besotted with him, tells them he loves them, will always love them so that they cannot, will not finish with him.  In the meantime he keeps scanning the horizon for a better offer, in the safe and certain knowledge that if he never actually meets a potential wife, he has a couple of options on the side as a back up and will never be lonely.

That said, if she does rock up, young, eligible with a body to die for and a belly full of eggs, you can bet that he’ll drop you like a well sucked, dried up old orange and kick you to the kerb.

Not entirely though.

He’ll want to stay ‘friends’ because he still cares for you in his way. So he’ll keep in touch, drop by occasionally for dinner and give you a reason to cook and set the table as opposed to having a lonely TV meal on your lap.  He’ll be smart enough to fuck you occasionally just to keep you wanting more, then go back to his juicy young missus, safe in the knowledge that you’ll welcome him with open arms if it all goes wrong or she’s having an off night or on her period.

Unless he finds another younger version of you, that is.

Or should I say ‘when’.

Perri, you have to walk away.  Now.

It’s not like I don’t get it. I’ve been approached by the Adnan’s of this world before now, but instead of looking like a long, cool glass of water on a sultry day, to me, they look more like a poisoned chalice full to the brim with danger and misogyny.

Seductive, sexy, self assured and absolutely 100% all out for themselves.

So apart from the occasional dalliance over the last 30 odd years, where I’ve briefly used their body, and then done the kerb kicking thing myself, I’ve always sidestepped such Lotharios.

Because I would never let anyone like that have power over me in that way.  Hell I don’t let anyone have power over me, so men like that have no chance!

Me no likey.

That’s not to say that I don’t sometimes envy you the sex, the passion, the excitement, and the luxury of being held in the arms of another.  But the risk far outweighs the pleasure as far as I’m concerned, so NO, I don’t want to be fixed up with his friend from the dry cleaners!

This guy really has it all, you know?  And old friend/lover who welcomes him with open arms and a nice home cooked dinner whenever he deems to see her, you as his main fuck buddy and overall support system, AND a young Iranian woman to date and check out apropos to her potential as his future wife.

And you?

You wait in the wings and tell yourself you don’t want him permanently, encouraging him to find Miss Right and sneering at that old lady for her anger, clinginess and desperation, because you’re so much more sophisticated and emotionally mature than her, and want to meet an older guy to settle down with anyway.

But guess what?  He won’t let that happen, because he wants to keep you on board for as long as he needs you, and whilst you’re getting some from him, you might kid yourself that you are, but you won’t be looking elsewhere.

And when that day comes when he has had enough of you, you’ll be too old to meet anyone else, and guess what?

You’ll have morphed into her; furious, defeated, desperate, well past your ‘sell by’ and willing to keep him on any terms, and then and only then will the penny drop and you’ll finally realise that you’ve been had.

And don’t tell me that you’ll end up being friends with him and live happily ever after.

Honey, it’s not possible to be friends with someone you have this amount of chemistry with.

Cut the cord.  Delete his number.  Change yours and walk away from this.

Whilst you still can.

Because you, my bright, beautiful, passionate friend, deserve so much more than being some arsehole’s good ole Mrs Right-Now, and should be free to meet some lovely silver fox who’ll wine, and dine, and totally spoil you rotten.

Peel Adnan off your hide like the leech he is and walk away.

As there is no loneliness quite like being second best.

Love Sista xx

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Do you ever find yourself totally taken over by one thing, one person, one incident, one insult and let it become your entire world?

As an example of this, whilst women are meant to be good multi taskers, I seem to be totally incapable of the art of balance and perspective, and am very easily coaxed down a hollow in search of that elusive something I must have and no other.

Especially since the advent of t’internet and the oh so addictive search engines, I can while away hours, no, days searching for the name of a song I heard on the radio, a pair of boots I saw in a magazine, a recipe for apple cake, a cashmere scarf or a vintage pair of book ends on eBay.

Especially if there are more sensible and important things that need to be done.

Like getting a job or setting up a business.

This handicap of mine also has a more sinister, dangerous side.

Any negative encounter or experience, be it a curt rebuff, a slight, an accident, a let down, a sneer, the tiniest of rejections and my world will suddenly be falling down around my ears.

I can be pootling along, relatively at peace with the world, minding my own business and something will happen, and then that ONE THING will suddenly totally eclipse everything that was OK, good, or downright lovely, and my whole world will be tainted by a horrible, dark, sticky, contaminating cloud of hideousness that will cause me to sink to the ground in despair, then grab me by the hair drag me down said hole like a rag doll.

‘There is no point in resisting’, it silently seems to say, ‘no one will miss you anyway.’

The last time this happened was  one Saturday.  I was having a perfectly pleasant evening chilling in front of ‘Strictly’ with my cats, when a neighbour caught me unawares and pretty much forced her way into my flat to discuss some outstanding, rather contentious issue.

As you might have guessed, I don’t like people turning up unannounced and interrupting my favourite programme.

Nor do I like this woman.

She has something of the ‘smiling assassin’ about her, and whilst I conversed with her and her lessor-of-the-two evils companion in a fairly amicable manner, by the time she left, I felt defiled, tainted, railroaded and hugely outraged that my territory had invaded.

I let her in!  How did that happen?

It happened because of my cursed British politeness of course, and because we live in a shared community, so to a greater or lessor degree, it’s better that we get along with one another.

So when she rang my buzzer, I was not really able to cry down the intercom BEGONE, WHORE OF SATAN!’

But I kind of wish I had.

Because after they left, I slid down a sticky, stinking slope of despair and got really paranoid about it.

She just came in.

Just like that.

Knowing I didn’t want her there.

Smirking and nodding with hatred and scorn in her eyes.

This is MY HOME.

And then I had to drink in order to get to sleep.

So I woke up the next morning feeling really shit after mixing my meds with booze.

These ‘one thing’s seem creep up on me and mess with my world ALL THE TIME.

The other week, some rather odd woman at one of my Meet Ups totally blanked me when I addressed her cheerily, directly and very publicly.

She may have been distracted, shy, or just plain rude, but I felt exposed, rejected and very, very humiliated.

And whilst she is one of the most bland people I have ever met, I made that encounter my all for the following three days and nights when I took to my bed and thought about ways of not being here anymore.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t and don’t desire her company or friendship.

It’s the fact that I’m shit and even she knows it.

My obsessive focus on that one thing, be it to the greater or lessor extreme is extremely debilitating as they stop me getting on and making any real progress in my life, and Aunty C (my counsellor) is always giving out to me about it.

‘Seriously what is that person to you?’ she’ll rail at me in frustration, Do they honestly matter enough to get you in a state like that?’

‘I know it was rude of that company not to come back to you about that job!  But would you honestly want to work for someone with manners like that?’

‘So you friend is ignoring you!  Get on with your life, and when she comes crawling back, you will be her equal, not some needy sidekick!’

And when I waste time searching for that elusive thing/information/must have item, she’ll accuse my ‘bad parent’ of allowing my child to run riot’ presumably whilst she’s watching Jeremy Kyle, gorging on Hob Nobs whilst swigging gin or something.

But both me and ‘my parent’ find it so hard to prioritise, balance things out and find/maintain perspective though.

So the other day when some stupid twat hit my car, the third time it has happened this year and at NO TIME my fault, I had to chant to myself, mantra style ‘It’s just one thing, just one thing, not everything’ and remind myself of:

My health

The roof over my head (well for this month anyway)

My cats

My friends

That loaf of freshly baked bread cooling on the hob

The Ceilidh dance just a week away

Those beautiful skeins of burnt orange silken yarn, sat in a duck egg blue shopping bag on top of my dresser.


And that time, at least, I kept the Horseman at bay.

But he waits patiently as his horse tears at the turf restlessly with it’s hooves, for the next opportunity to take me down.

As the next thing is invariably just around the corner.

So I will count my blessings, hold my nerve and above all, try and keep my head.

After all, it’s just one thing my soul maybe feeling….

Namaste x




‘Khalil Gibran once said that people will never understand one another unless language is reduced to seven words. What would your seven words be?’

The first thoughts that entered my head on reading the above challenge were:



What does that mean exactly?  

Cussing my woeful lack of erudition and unable to look around the class for clues re what everyone else was doing, I quickly googled the quote and found this:

Turns out old Gibbie wrote this book called ‘The Prophet’ which is made up of 26 prose poems, delivered as sermons by the protagonist, a wise man called Al Mustapha who is about to set sail for his homeland after 12 years in exile on a fictional island when the people of the island ask him to share his wisdom on the big questions of life: love, family, work and death which he delivers by way of these ad hoc one liners.

Which would explain why it’s so frigging long.

I did start reading it with every intention of (a) finishing it (b) learning something from it (c) getting something useful for my post, but by the time I’d got a third of the way through it, I kinda wanted to slap the beard off of him.

Whilst The Prophet had it’s critics (noo, really?), it also had some very influential fans including John F Kennedy, Indira Gandhi and even the Beatles, but let’s face it, they were on a lot of gear at the time, and would have found meaning in a copy of the Yellow Pages had someone handed it to them mid spliff…


And even if you were happily off your tits, you’d never want to be stuck in a corner with Khalil at a party, as he’d nail you to the wall with his homilies and insights, and you’d end up slamming your cocktail stirrer in your eye in order to have an excuse to go to casualty and make good your escape….

But he MEANT WELL, lots of his insights are valuable and seven does seems to crop up quite a bit.  That said, seven is a bit of a magic number overall, all tied up with spirituality, searching, reflection, work, completion and redemption.

Think about it: we have the seven virtues and seven deadly sins, the seven voyages of Sinbad and of course, the seven wonders of the world.  In numerology seven represents struggle whilst in search for the truth, and there are seven colours of the rainbow.

In the bible, Job Chapter 7, he says “Is not all human life a struggle?”, and poor Detective Mills had to work through Se7en murders with grumpy old Detective Somerset before achieving an extremely unsatisfying outcome when some bloody fingered nutter handed himself in, and then finding his wife’s head in a UPS box as a final conclusion surely added insult to injury….

I mean the only one who doesn’t suffer is God himself as seven represents his perfection, sovereignty and holiness, exception being Craig David in ‘Seven Days’ where ‘he was making love by Wednesday and on Thursday and Friday and Saturday then chilled on Sunday’, the smug twat, but for the rest of us it’s all a bit of a grind….

So I guess the question is, if restricted to only being able to grunt a maximum of seven words at each other like cavemen (yes I am going to take this challenge that literally), which ones should be used in order to make our days with one another tolerable, or at least marginally fucking bearable?

Here, at long last, are my recommendations:


This has to be numero uno.

It can be used during disagreements when you want the other person/people to back off, as an introduction when meeting new people i.e. ‘We come in peace’ a la Mr Spock, and just as a general appreciation when all is calm and bright accompanied by a happy sigh. It would also be good for breaking up others who may be fighting over something, which leads me to No. 2….


2. BACK!

In truth I’d have preferred ‘Fuck off!’ but that’s two words, and like ‘Go!’, sounds rather aggressive and final.  If this strange seven worded world is populated by people like me, there would need to be at least one that will be able to facilitate a little space for one as we all need a bit of time on our own, plus a way of getting someone to fuck off if they are getting on our nerves, and ‘Peace’ guy isn’t around to calm things down.

Plus if accompanied by hand gestures, it can mean either get back or come back, so can also be quite ingratiating and welcoming.


As in try and understand how I feel/my position/what this is for/why I/we/they did this.  In other words, think beyond your own feelings and try to come to peace with what was done, why is was done, and what is going on for you right now.


And before any of you accuse me of being all ‘Khalil’ after taking this piss out of him so mercilessly (had to be done 😉 ) I do think the idea of going somewhere and sitting down quietly to gather your thoughts, think about what has happened, how you might do things better or differently and, if you can, meditate and touch base with the Almighty (whichever one you use) is a good one.

Church/mass is meant to facilitate this for us.

Unfortunately for me and many others, the Catholics made it a boring, joyless duty, plus my church was lousy with sniping, carping, gossiping old hypocrites so I bucked against going as soon as I was old enough to not be scared of my parents anymore.

Now I am an old bird, I try to pray on my own regularly, either before sleep, on waking or just yelling stuff out loud to the man upstairs (doesn’t go down very well in a queue at my local Sainsburys), and I would happily gather with like minded folk in the spirit of contemplation, community, acceptance and fun were such a gathering to exist.

‘Pray’ could be used as an instruction e.g. ‘Go and pray you little shit!’, a way of letting others know you’re going off somewhere to pray, and an appeal to gather together and congregate when times are tough and people need support, or when there is something to celebrate.


Of course.  Do I really have to explain this?  Didn’t think so! 😉


Which doesn’t just seem to be the hardest word, it IS.  Especially when you have a vast vocabulary at your fingertips and can wield words like Indiana Jones handles his whip, but even without being limited to the top seven, it always comes back to this one.

As no other word does the job it does, or benefits the sayer and the recipient quite the way ‘Sorry’ does, both for menial issues like standing on someone’s bearskin, or more major ones like deliberately being an utter shit to someone you love.


I told a lie; trusting is harder than saying you’re sorry.  But it’s essential as far as building communities, letting people in, fostering love and giving people the benefit of the doubt.

For the record, I don’t trust anyone.

I think everyone is out to get me in one form or another, that my nearest and dearest wouldn’t care if I died tomorrow and would, and do, use what they know about me in order to control me to the benefit of themselves.

But I’m off my fucking rocker, and I’m learning very slowly that giving people a chance is much less frighening then believing that the whole world is against me, hardening my heart and hiding away.

So there they are; the seven words I would choose if so limited to that number.

I might even go out for dinner tonight and test them out, Dice Man style:

Waiter:     ‘Good evening madam!’

Me:           ‘Peace!’

Waiter:      ‘Right…..’, retreating rather nervously

Friend:      ‘Can I have one of your chips?’

Me:            ‘BACK!’

Me:            ‘Understand?’ after I’ve stabbed her in the back of the hand with my fork.

Me:            ‘Sorry…..’ as the police arrive to escort me out of the restaurant, and my companion hides under the table….

Thank God for our beautiful languages and extensive vocabularies, how did we survive as a species with such limitations?

Though in some ways I think we were better off back in the stone age, despite being so limited, where we had to work harder to make our societies work, knew everyone in our community and families lived and stayed together.

And words, as we all know can be twisted and used for less than honourable means than honest communication, so a world without the press and politicians would be worth living in a cave and chewing on the arse bone of a giraffe as far as I’m concerned, so maybe Khalil Gibran does have a point.

Pass me a bearskin and a nice big club; I’m going to get dinner started…..

Trackbacks & Pingbacks

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Daily Post: Pottymouth Blogging – TO ‘C’ OR NOT TO ‘C’


I think anyone who reads my blog would say that I’m a dyed in the wool, 18 carat, fully licensed, bone fide potty mouth.

I also hope that they would say that I don’t do it for shock value, to impress (for the record, it’s not big or clever), or to be ‘down with the kids’.

My blog is an anonymous, online journal and whilst I don’t go out of my way to offend anyone, it is my diary, my sanctuary, the place where I can record my innermost thoughts, so whilst every now and then I might curb my tongue when interacting with individuals if I think I’m going to upset them, I think that I’m entitled to say what I please in my own journal.

It’s my voice.

Of course I don’t use it every day, in every post for every subject/category.

I don’t say ‘Here’s my favourite f*cking recipe for falafel‘ or ‘F*ck me, I nearly got into a fr*gging headstand by myself today’! as that would be (a) inappropriate, (b) entirely gratuitous and (c) really rather silly.

That said, if something would come out of my mouth accompanied by profanity, that will be the way I write it.

But why do I feel the need to swear?

Dunno.  I’ve always been unhappy, plus my Dad swore a lot for as long as I remember, and I learned that my aggressive use of bad language made me seem more formidable than I actually was, thus saved me a number of times from a good kicking in the playground, so I suppose it’s always been a habit that has, on the surface, done me more good than harm.

I’m not entirely sure who I’m trying to convince of that, you or me, but it is what it is now.

Plus being born with an inner core of fiery, molten hot anger probably hasn’t helped matters.

But I ams what I am, and that’s alls I am….

I know without a doubt it costs me followers; I was also told by someone that one of my ‘let rip’ posts was too critical and that I should ‘parody’ or ‘lampoon’ instead of lay into, but that is her voice, not mine and I want to stay authentic.

Plus a lot of people seem to like my ‘Basil Fawlty’ moments as ex of mine used to call them.  My kinda people 😉

For those of you who find swearing offensive on religious grounds, whilst I respect your opinion, I can say hand on heart as someone who considers themselves spiritual, I do not think that God gives a flying f*ck about people using colourful language.

Actions speak louder than words, as they say, and it sadly tends to be the most striding, self declaring ‘religous’ and ‘devout’ folk who hold their hands up in horror when confronted by smallest profanity that judge, condemn, discriminate, carry the most hatred in their heart, and hence do the most damage to their fellow man.

Just because my mouth is dirty doesn’t mean my soul is.

Well it could probably do with a boil wash twice a year or so, but that is another story 😉

Can you swear and still be a good writer?

Ask Bret Easton Ellis, Irving Walsh or James Elroy.  Whilst these established potty mouths may not be your cup of char, no one can deny their success or talent.  If being sweary wasn’t who they are, they wouldn’t be so f*cking good at it.

What would offend me more than their profanity on the page would be if they substituted their f*cks for ‘flips’ or ‘fudge’ under politically correct duress as that would sound totally stoopid and, dare I say, inappropriate.

Note the use of ‘f*cking’ there, utilised because sometimes it is the only word that packs sufficient punch to get your feelings across when you feel totally passionately about something.


I’m sure you’ve all sent that ‘How to use the F Word’ poster above, and joking aside, it is probably the most versatile swear word in the English language.  Indeed I would go so far to say that it is now a largely respected and generally accepted part of 21st century parlance.

And there are others that I, for one, cannot and will not do without, especially when a name or an issue can bring them to my lips within a nano second:


Kanye West Radio 1 interview and subsequent Twitter hissy fit – Tw*t

David Cameron/EDF nuclear energy strategy – B*stards

Miley Cyrus doing/saying anything – *W*nker

Paul Hollywood – Tit

Prince of Wales implying that he doesn’t want to be King – Bollocks

Piers Morgan – C***


Yes, that brings us to the much vilified ‘C’ word; and I don’t mean columnist.

I don’t tend to use this in my blog or indeed in life, but sometimes the person or situation does call for it.

I’m not fazed by c*** and don’t shy away from it, but I doubt if I will ever use it casually (in the way that my nephew and his friends do when they call each other it with genuine affection), and tend to keep it in reserve for maximum effect.


Well just think; if c*** becomes the norm like f*ck has, WTF will we use to replace it?

Take my advice and if it feels comfortable and you feel impelled to use profanity in your writing, then give yourself permission to do so.

As for the ‘C’ word, treat it  like that dress/suit/heels/pair of jeans that you spent a small fortune on that still wrapped in tissue paper in the back of your wardrobe.

Keep it for ‘best’. 🙂


‘Be yourself; everyone else is already taken’

  Oscar Wilde


*Wanker is normally a term reserved for the male of the species, but when it comes to MC, I’m prepared to make an exception.