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Showing posts from April, 2020


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