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Showing posts from 2020


Stay alert, go to work, don’t go to work, stay at home, home is where the heart is, live laugh love, eat pray love, love Tennis, play Tennis, from Wednesday you can play Tennis for twenty hours a day if you like, unless it’s with someone from outside your household, actually no, Dominic, Dom, scrap that, you can choose one person to be with outside your household, so what I’d suggest doing is holding open auditions to see when it all comes down to it, who’s really worth the hassle? Is it Mummy or Daddy? Is it your fella or your weird Uncle? Is it your Grandmother or your side-piece?   A mess. I do not need to be reminded to stay alert — I’m a kid who wears a mustard shirt, sports a tinsel fringe and wears white socks on the streets of North Liverpool. I am a brother who watches his big sister wash her face after four night shifts of watching people die and cry for their loved ones goodbyes while her face is cracked with the combined dents of stress, sweat and face mask


It’s Wednesday morning and it’s the fourth night that I can’t sleep properly. I’m having nightmares of Carole Baskin dipping me in sardine oil, memes of influencers screaming “Chanel, Chanel, she’s an African Grey and she’s gone towards the canal”.  Or, even worse, the stark realisation that my Mam might be a secret part of the illuminati and she’s cooking up world dominating vaccine in our shed. Who am I kidding? We haven’t got a shed. And the only conspiracy theory me Mam’s interested in is who is smuggling hair dye in the street because her roots, they are as white, weedy and offensive as my legs in football shorts. She’s gonna kill me for that. I want to dive into something that isn’t politics so I take The Guardian’s advice and download the Headspace App - the free version though coz ain’t no way am I spending my money on some middle aged man whispering into my ear about releasing my sacrum to the sounds of Dolphin’s whistling in the Atlantic .   I give up after t


This is NOT a new blog post. This is a script for my latest VLOG which is live now on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Thank you & enjoy...  The typical Friday routine includes trying to squeeze into a pair of Topman jeans I bought two Easter’s ago and sneaking a squirt of my Dad’s Issey Miyake, but today, today is very different. Now, my voice is usually taunted as being eerily similar to Paul O’Grady or a seal in the throes of passion (as some kind person said on Twitter) … but today it is full on Ray Winstone. My faux fur slippers are firmly planted and I stare at my Mum in her eyes, rooted in my conviction and say, “Mum, Mum it’s going to be alright”. Now, my Mum is a woman who has moved continents, thrived after multiple cesarians and would definitely pick the higher offer in The Chase. She’s the type of woman to speak even when her voice shakes, and it is shaking, so are her hands, and so is our future, as our nation’s Health Minster makes pantomime wishes for a magic wan


I want to start this blog on a huge note of gratitude! The response to my last blog, WE ARE NOT IN THE SAME BOAT ,   overwhelmed me and I cannot be more grateful for your reads, shares, thoughts and coffees. This is an incredibly lonely time for the planet so to feel seen and heard is the kindest gift you could offer.   It’s Monday night. My voice is usually taunted as being eerily similar to Paul O’Grady or Mariah Carey in the latter part of 'Emotions' but tonight… it is full Ray Winstone. My faux fur slippers are firmly planted and I stare at my Mum in the eyes, unwavering, and say “ pass me the fucking remote Chez ”. Getting the remote off Cheryl is difficult at the best of times, but when she’s planted with a bottle of Budweiser and a playlist of Karen Carpenter and Gladys Knight, it is a job for another Oceans heist film. My grey Sharpei, Blu, her bodyguard and my nemesis, shoots a discerning look which says " don't fucking try it lad "  but tonight


It’s a Thursday evening, it’s 8 o clock, and I’m honouring the only social commitment I’ve got... clapping for our NHS and front line workers!! My mum throws her voice ( maybe this is a Scouse thing but it’s impressive and terrifying in equal measure ) telling me to get my  "skinny ass outside" . I’m unsure whether I’m about to hail the best public institution Britain has to offer or have a bare knuckle fight with her… maybe it's both? I rock out into my front path with gusto to let her know I’m not scared, just incase she had any ideas. I'm styling her PJ bottoms and my Dad’s oversized fleece. I’m hoping I look like a gender non-confirming activist like RuPaul, Eddie Izzard or Madge from Benidorm, but judging from the stares of Number 72 I conclude I just look a  fucking mess . Our claps are well spirited, my hands are as red and raw as Cilla Black in her prime, our whistles and shouts are even louder than ones Holly Jervis or Jennifer Holliday could muster, and it


I feel like the internet is forcing the brain out of my head. Meme by meme, tiktok by tiktok, conspiracy by conspiracy, Tory pundit by Tory pundit, I am slightly edging further and further away from sanity. We as humans are conditioned to purpose. We are hardwired for connection and belonging. When that is stripped from us on a physical landscape, we look somewhere else, and whilst I wrestled with COVID-19 symptoms I, along with most of the world, found my connection and purpose in the internet . I preface this whole article by saying — there is A LOT of joy to be found on the internet. Outside of the Karen's and the incels and the trolls, there are dogs and military service people being reunited with families, there are hidden talents being unmasked and there are old people singing childhood songs. But, lurking dormant, there is a fear that is prevalent in this pandemic. There is an onslaught of fake news that breeds off of our collective fear, there is sensationalist media,