Skip to main content


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 wand to make PPE fall from the sky. We suddenly forget that we’ve had three chances to join the EU scheme to bulk-buy PPE, or galvanise our own textile industry… instead we rely on goggles from school chemistry labs and teenagers running 5k around densely populated parks so that their heroes don’t wear a dinner ladies uniform on an intensive care unit. And I wonder, how have we got to this place? 

I’ve cried twice this week. The first time with laughter as my Nan sports a new fringe that she’s cut with a butter knife in her kitchen making her look like Joe Exotic. Second, later on in that FaceTime, when she sings a refrain from Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll meet again’ and I realise all I want to do is squeeze her and listen to her moan about CSI Miami. But today, I am crying again, and this time it is with rage. The rage that Boris Johnson skipped five COBRA meetings about Coronavirus. The rage that there are unknown thousands of mothers, fathers, aunties and grandparents dying in care homes looked after by staff with nothing but a badge and the tenacity of warriors to see them through. The rage I feel when Priti Patel says “I am sorry if people feel there have been failings” after 19 NHS staff died from Coronavirus.

I look around my community and I see that this mountainish inhumanity isn’t new. Think of the families of Sean Doherty, Philip Herron, Brian Sycamore, Chris Gold, Robert Fowler or Christian Wilcox who know the darkest deepest weight of this government’s failure to protect.

I think of Laura, skipping to her car, hoping the only collapse she will see tonight is that of The S*n newspaper. She was born 15 years after Hillsborough but cites women like Anne Williams and Margaret Aspinall as the inspirations for her bravery to wear her mask and blue overalls. Her son, Noah, is beautiful. You can hear his laugh four doors down when she squirts water-guns at him in the summer. He is far from the “illraised, ignorant, aggressive and illegitimate” child that Boris claims are the product of single mothers. Noah has only made Laura upset once and that is when she caught him eating wallpaper because she couldn’t make it to the food-bank that day. Noah doesn’t understand why sometimes he has to go to bed with a grumbling tummy or why Mummy is begging to wear protective clothes that make her look like she is about to kidnap ET. I, for one, will never understand why our heroes cannot afford to raise heroes of their own.

I fiercely admire Laura with my whole soul: a woman who will still fight a pandemic under the leadership of a man who has attacked her parenting skills in a £275,000-ayear column and not let it get her down. Coronavirus has shown that magic isn’t at Disney anymore, it’s in the spirit and tenacity of nurses like Laura who refuse to let shit pay, exhaustive hours and poor protection stop her from paying the NHS car parking fees to save the lives of strangers. Every time Laura is on shift she plays every key worker role from cleaner to counsellor, from makeshift bed electrician to Google translator as she sits in front of the tears of a first generation immigrant promising it will be OK.

And today I sit in front of the teary eyes of my Mother promising her too that “it will be OK”. Wishing for exactly the same thing as Laura or Matt Hancock, but knowing that only one of us has the power to make these wishes come through.

I'm not paid for my writing so if you enjoy what you see and want to help me become skinny, shattered but a little less skint, then you can buy me a coffee here and I'll love you forever:

To keep updated with my blog posts follow my social media. Sending love...
Instagram: ellishoward7

Twitter: @ellishowiee


Popular posts from this blog


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’s in t…


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 I’ve got a valid rea…


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, there…