The Edinburgh festival is over for another year and so with it the 24 hour anxiety, constant low level depression and neurosis, which frankly is a relief especially as I wasn’t even performing this year. Instead we embark on one of my favourite months, September.

The Edinburgh festival is over for another year and so with it the 24
hour anxiety, constant low level depression and neurosis, which frankly
is a relief especially as I wasn’t even performing this year. Instead we
embark on one of my favourite months, September.  No, it’s because for the first time in a long time it’s got us Brits in a bit of a tizz. Some of us have actually got genuinely annoyed at the thought of his State visit. Some of us might go on a bloody march! Some of us might sign a petition or post something on Facebook, or read something that someone else posted and get jolly upset about it! Yes, that’ll show the Pope and all those…Cardinals…and… Bishops… and other frocked folk. Let’s face it when it comes to extreme action, we Brits aren’t exactly flying the flag. In fact we’re very much the opposite, extreme action like extreme views just isn’t very British is it? We only have to glance across the Channel to see what might happen if we did. It’s all fine food and drink, rigid employment laws and banning burkas. Here in Great Britain we may have strong opinions, we just choose not to express them. When the French banned the hajib, here in Britain our response was, “That’s a bit much isn’t it?” Extreme views just don’t sit well with us Brits. When we went to war with Iraq we were really pissed off! “How bloody unfair and undemocratic to go to war without the support of the UN! We’ll go on a march and get really cross. We’ll show that Tony Blair. Honestly, who does he think he is…? I’m sorry, what’s that? We’re still going to war? Hmm, oh well, I am still cross about it but I’ve got to pick up the kids from school at 3.30pm and a Question of Sport is on at 7pm. I really love Sue Barker, she seems like such a lovely woman.”

Politics have always been tricky, it’ so hard to talk about anything political without an ensuing argument. I’m always in awe of comics who manage to make politics funny. I can’t help but rant, which frankly is not funny just annoying. In my family we expressed our opinions by shouting, yes shouting and whoever shouted the loudest won. It wasn’t about clever arguments or any actual political knowledge, just volume. Over the years I’ve alienated many a person with my inability to put my opinion across rationally and dispassionately, “YOU WILL AGREE WITH ME YOU FACIST!” doesn’t go down well at dinner with your girlfriend’s family. Still, if you really want to split a room just tell them you’re a feminist. I tried that on stage more than once and honestly it freaks people out. It’s like admitting you like watching porn at work, even other people that do it, will pronounce that it’s weird. Unlike French and Italian women who will proclaim their Feminist politics from the roof tops, “We are Feminists!” they cry, “We believe in equal rights for women!” In Britain I speak to like-minded, liberal, politically motivated women who seem to shrivel at the mention of the word. Yet none of them can come up with a rational explanation as to why they don’t like it, “No, I’m not a feminist, I don’t like that word, I don’t want to be labelled.” “But you believe in equal rights for women at home and in the work place, equal pay, rights to child care.” “Erm…yeah I just don’t like that word. I prefer other words like ‘pencil’ or ‘terracotta’ or “Buble”. One day I hope to be Mrs Buble, not because I like Michael Buble you understand, I just really like the word, ‘Buble…’” Right, well that makes perfect sense then.

However, with the arrival of the Pope I have really enjoyed hearing people, who otherwise don’t engage in political debate, become passionate and yes angry about the Catholic Church’s stance, not just on protecting Paedophiles, but on a whole host of issues including contraception to prevent HIV, women in the clergy and homosexuality to name but a few. It has also been refreshing to hear Catholics, speak out against this archaic and frankly Medieval institution . My Mother and even her best friend, who are good strong Catholic women with a powerful faith have no time for the Pope. Both incredibly supportive of their gay children and grandchildren, both feminists in their own way, both horrified by the spread of HIV/AIDS In developing countries; when asked by their priest what prevented them getting close to God, they replied, “The Church.”

Wouldn’t it be great if all of us with opinions about the Pope’s visit gathered together on Saturday. What if we didn’t stay in and watch Saturday Kitchen or Football Focus, or nurse our hangovers with another pint, or head off for our weekend shop? What if we ALL met at the arranged rendez-vous and made it clear to the Pope and the Catholic Church how we as individuals feel and how the head of an institution that protects men who ritually abuse children is not welcome in our country. What a difference we could all make…

I would honestly go but I’m rehearsing all weekend. So, for now I’ll just tell you how bloody cross I am about that awful Pope.

The Edinburgh festival is over for another year and so with it the 24 hour anxiety, constant low level depression and neurosis, which frankly is a relief especially as I wasn’t even performing this year. Instead we embark on one of my favourite months, September.

I love September not just because it signals the end of the Edinburgh festival, but also because…no actually that is why I like September… well that’s kind of ruined my point…lets face it September signals the end of our Summer, which frankly is quite depressing. Alright, lets not agree to a suicide pact just yet. Instead why don’t we take a fond look back on the last few months; the sunshine in July (can’t actually remember if we had any), the long days in June (at least 2 of those) and of course my tan. Yes, it really has been rather good. So much better than other years, no real strap marks or peeling skin just a really good, even tan. Now I don’t know about you, but that makes life seem a bit better, doesn’t it? I’m sorry did you just say you wanted to punch me in the face? Hmmm interesting…

Look, I know for ‘health’ reasons we’re not allowed to tan, or sun bathe, or get brown, or look brown or wear brown clothes. Ok maybe you can look brown. It’s just that if I’m outside in the sun, unless I cover myself from head to toe whatever skin is exposed tends to go a bit darker. So shoot me! (Stop there because I know some of you would like to.) This year I have suffered a record amount of abuse, for no other reason than I have managed to go a bit browner than the average Brit. At the beginning of the summer it started with people innocently saying, “Oh you’ve got such a lovely colour, you cow! I’m so jealous.” But very quickly turned to, “I wouldn’t want to sunbathe next to you, you absolute BITCH, I hate you and your stupid tan. I would love to repeatedly give you a dead arm whilst inflicting your smug face with a Chinese burn you absolute arse hole!” My Mum can be very direct. Even my girlfriend spent most of the summer in a mood about the colour of my skin, “Can you not stand next to me.” “Why?” “Your tan is annoying.” “My tan is annoying?” “Yes and when you stand next to me it’s even more annoying.” “How can my tan be annoying?” “It just is, you’re making me look white.” “You are white” “Well you’re making me look whiter than white” “Maybe you need to stop washing with non biological detergent and start using soap.” “Do you want me to punch you in the face?” “No.”.

What people don’t seem to understand is that I may have a tan in the summer but in the winter I look yellow, anaemic and generally unwell. I see my friends with their white skin in the winter and they look so annoyingly pink and healthy, like one of the Famous bloody Five. Whereas I have to suffer 9 months of every year listening to people say things like, “You look so tired are you not getting enough rest?” “Have you been ill?” “Are you anaemic?” “Look at those terrible dark circles!” “You should take vitamin B supplements.” “Have you thought about wearing make up?” “I am wearing make up” “Have you thought about wearing more make up?” SHUT UP WILL YOU! THIS IS JUST HOW I LOOKI!

I don’t know what the answer is, I just know that despite the abuse, I like my tan. However, I’m acutely aware that it’s beginning to fade and so with it my special powers to irritate the hell out of everyone I meet. Very soon I’m going to look yellow and dead and that’s not good. Maybe I should go down the route of fake tan. I’ve been to Oldham so I know it doesn’t even need to look natural or suit my skin tone. I saw one bloke who looked like he’d abandoned his fake tan and just got to work with a tin of Ronseal and a brush. You may laugh but you only need one coat and it doesn’t run. Fact. Hang on, I’m sure I’ve got some in the shed…

I don’t have kids, don’t get me wrong I’m not a kid hater, in fact I like kids.

 They’re so much more honest than adults, you know where you stand with a 5 year old. If they like you they’ll let you know, but if they think you’re a bit of a twat then they won’t spend 20 minutes talking to you whilst looking over your shoulder.

The problem with wanting kids when you’re a woman in your 30s is that most of the things I try and focus on in my life, like writing, performing, spending time with friends and family etc are deafened by the sound of my biological clock. I’m sick of people telling me that I’ve got plenty of time. “Don’t worry, you’ve got ages till you have to think about getting pregnant. You’re still young” I’m 35. “Oh… no, you’re buggered then.” I’m resigned to the fact that I’ll probably have to think about adoption because by the time I get my act together my womb will be like scene from a Spaghetti Western. By that I mean tumble weed not full of Mexicans.

The fact is if a woman wants kids then that is pretty much all she has on the brain. Just going to the cinema with a friend can get awkward. “What film do you fancy going to see?” “Dunno, don’t care.” “Well we could see…Inception or …” “I don’t care, I don’t bloody care? Can you get me pregnant? Can you? CAN YOU GET ME PREGNANT ARSE HOLE? NO? THEN SHUT UP!!” Ok, I lied when I said that was my friend, it was actually my girlfriend. She’s quite sensitive at the moment.

Obviously I have friends who have kids, and of course I love the little nuggets, but for some reason unknown to me, they think I want to come to their kids party. “Molly is going to be 3 on Sunday and she’s having a party we’d love you to come” Why the hell would I want to come to a 3 year old’s birthday party? I’m 35, not 5. Unless you’ve got a punch bowl filled with gin I’m not coming. What is it with adults going to kids parties and hanging around watching them play? “Ah, look they’re playing!” “It’s lovely watching them play together.” No it’s not it’s boring. BORING. These days there are more adults at a kids party than there are kids. Isn’t that just a little bit creepy and weird? When I was growing up, if I went to a party my Mum would drop me off. Yes, that’s right she left me at my friend’s house. That’s normal and then she’d pick me up at the end of the party. Dear God, she wanted to get rid of me! If someone had asked my Mum if she’d like to stay she’d have said, “Why?’ “To see your daughter play and have a glass of wine…” “I see her play every day and I have wine at home. Goodbye.”

Another thing I don’t get is kids’ party food, I remember when it was hula hoops, Smarties and iced gems. Now it’s pitta bread, olives and humus. For crying out loud give them some chocolate! “My daughter actually prefers tzatziki to sweets.” “Really then why is she face down in the sugar bowl right now?”

The truth is that I clearly can’t cope with the responsibility of having a kid. So, for now I’ll settle for our house cat, yes we have a cat. He’s not alive you understand, he’s stuffed. We have a stuffed cat. He’s really no bother at all and if nothing else, we get to watch him being dry humped by an over confident squirrel every other week. Maybe I should start with a goldfish…

“It must be great being single!” These words are nearly always uttered by a serial monogamist who has been in back to back relationships since they were 7 years old.

 I confess I’m not single, but I practically have a degree in it as I didn’t start dating till I was 25 years old. I know, I know I have no I idea what the hell I was doing before then. I mean my life was so uncomplicated you’d think I’d have done something worthwhile with my spare time. For heaven’s sake I could have written a book, become a successful stand up comic or at least learnt a language. But no, I seemed to have focused my attention on eating my body weight in cheese whilst simultaneously trying to figure out why the eczema on my face was making me resemble the Elephant woman. Yes I see now that I’m allergic to cheese…

So, due to my many years in the wilderness I often think I have more empathy for my single friends than other people. In fact I’ve always considered myself to be a pretty good wing man. In case you don’t know what a wing man is, I’m that special friend that will help you engage with the opposite sex or the same sex or whatever. Unfortunately, I’ve recently discovered that I am in fact crap at this. When it comes to discretion I have about as much subtlety as a brick to the face. It would seem that I have little to no control over the expressions that appear on my face. I think I’m looking upbeat, casual, approachable, so that any man that might want to chat to me, or my friend will feel confident to do so. The reality is that I have adopted the face of a constipated shot putter after my third disappointing throw.

I also have a terrible habit, as soon as someone tells me not to look somewhere, I will look. Couple this with no sense of direction and you have a disaster waiting to happen. I was out in a bar recently with my single girlfriend and I was doing my best to look casual (we’ve already established how that looked.) Meanwhile my friend had spotted a guy that she liked and decided to adopt the subtle clock strategy. Needless to say, I had no idea what the hell she was going on about, “Ok, don’t look now but that guy I like is at 6 o’clock” “Where’s 6 o’clock?” “Behind you… I just told you not to look!” “Sorry… I can’t see him, where is he now?” “ Ok…he’s at 3 o’clock’.” “What? Where?” “No that’s 9 o’clock you idiot!” “ I don’t know where 9 o’clock is?” “He’s at 20 past 8, no 3 minutes to 4, he’s at 17 minutes past 7!” ‘Where the hell is he?” I’m now spinning around on the spot, I look so obvious people are looking at me just to see if I’ll fall over. “YOU IDIOT! HE’S OVER THERE!” “Oh, I see him…don’t worry I’ve got this…Excuse me mate my friend over there…hang on! where are you going? COME BACK!” We haven’t been out again since.

It’s just as well that fate has been kind to me and despite my general incompetence I am now extremely lucky to have the love of a good woman. She’s always there for me, through thick and thin, even during shot put practice and not many people can say that. (Or would want to…)

I have an unfortunate disability in that I have no spatial awareness.

 I just don’t have a clue about distances or weight, or indeed any other unit of measurement. I’m just clueless. This isn’t helped by the fact that as British people we haven’t quite figured out if we use metric or imperial units. Are we pounds and ounces or kilos and grams? We drive miles per hour but we fill our tank with litres of petrol, on top of that we measure the efficiency of our engine by the gallon. What the hell is a gallon? Is it more or less than a litre? I’ll be honest with you, for me a gallon is just a lot of fluid. As a kid I would use the word ‘gallon’ all the time, “Oh yeah I drank about a gallon of coke yesterday!” I was showing off, I did not drink a gallon of coke. Where the hell would I have got a gallon of coke from? When you buy bottles from the supermarket they’re in litres anyway! Chances are that I actually drank 330ml of coke. A can. That’s all. I had a conversation with a comic about my car. “How many miles to the gallon does that do then?” “I dunno” “What are you a 1.4 litre engine?” “Errr…yeah?” “ So it goes about 60 miles to the gallon?” He might as well have asked me the theory of quantum physics. I was clueless. Now, If he had asked me the same question in bottles of coke I might have had a better chance of guessing.” I’d say my car goes about 60 miles per 10 bottles of coke.” A lot of you are thinking that doesn’t make any sense. Of course it doesn’t make any sense I have no idea what I’m talking about. That’s the point!

We also measure distances in both miles and kilometres. Which one are we? Let’s commit to one and be done with it for heaven’s sake. My problem is I know roughly how far a mile is but I have no idea how long a yard is. When my sat nav tells me I have to turn left in 200 yards I start to panic. What does that mean? It doesn’t sound far, is it further than 200 metres, does anyone know? And if so, how long is 200 meters? Ironically whenever anyone asks me for directions my standard response is that it’s 100 yards away. Mainly because I have no idea how far a yard is and 100 yards sounds generic enough in terms of distance. “If you go down here it’s about 100 yards on your left” “Great and the swimming pool” Oh yeah that’s also 100 yards… “And Liverpool?” “Liverpool I suppose that’s about 100 yards?” “And from here to a black hole floating in a space time continuum?” “About 100 yards” “You have no idea what you’re saying do you?” “No…”

The thing about us Brits is that we hate the idea of being European, despite the fact that we ARE. There I’ve said it, we are EUROPEAN. Why can’t we just embrace it? I blame Nigel Farage, it’s idiots like him who think driving on the left hand side of the road represents a sign of ‘genius’ in a nation. No Nigel, it just means when we leave this country we’re more likely to go round a roundabout the wrong way and yes I am talking from experience. I want to be like my Mum, she’s Spanish and she understands metric perfectly. Kilometres, metres, litres, grammes…she knows what the hell she’s doing. Unlike myself, who still equates a metre ruler as being the same size it was when I was 5, which makes it taller than me. I’m guessing I’m wrong about that too.

So, the next time you’re at the supermarket buying 3 fluid ounces of butter, 6 grammes of carrots and a kilo of orange juice. Think of me… (that is right isn’t it?)

I’ve just come back from a lovely weekend away in Cornwall. “Have you been? You really must go…” Yes, I actually have been saying that to people.

There’s something about holidaying in England that is quintessentially unique. On no other holiday would I consider staying in a B&B with a shower with no water pressure, breakfast that took over an hour to arrive and a car park so small that people had to climb out of the boot of their car to get out, and all of this without complaining? It’s England for heaven’s sake, what do you expect? At least we had a view of the sea, not that we could see it behind the thick net curtain that covered every inch of our expansive window.

I feel like this holiday has aged me, I’ve never been to visit so many ‘gardens’ before. I mean I like a plant as much as the next person but we spent 7 hours looking at green things over two days. It’s not even the looking, I like looking, looking is easy. You glance at one side of green things, and then you glance at the other side. I can even feign looking interested and making the right noises “ooh what lovely hydrangeas!” But then they expect you to read about them. No one tells you about the reading! They should have a warning sign before you enter, “Are you middle aged? Do you like plants? Are you easily intimidated by lots of reading? If you answered ‘yes, yes, no’ then this is your perfect day out! If not, there’s a pub down the road.” By the end of looking round the Eden project I felt like I’d finished the plant version of War & Peace. I mean how much information do I need about the cross pollination of a begonia? I get it, they’re flowers, they’re pretty – is there anything else to look at? No.

Of course you can’t holiday in Cornwall without a cream tea. Now the thing I’ve learned about the Cornish is they think everything is Cornish. We were told that we were drinking Cornish coffee despite the fact that I’d already seen her empty out a packet of Kenko into the coffee filter. Anyway, there I am having paid £4.50 for a cup of tea, a scone, a pot of jam and what can only be described as three pints of cream. I don’t even like milk but I’m watching myself spread clotted cream on a scone thinking, “I hope I don’t run out of jam.” It’s not like when I’m at home I find myself with a couple of pieces of bread thinking, “Now, do I want ham & cheese in my sandwich whipped cream?”

I’m just hoping that when I do hit middle age, which lets face it isn’t far off. I won’t suddenly decide that Capri pants are a good idea. I have never seen so many pairs and so many different colours. Women in this country cannot get enough of them and if they can get a stripy top to match, well they’ve reached fashion Nirvana. I was having a real laugh about this until my girlfriend pointed out that I was wearing three quarter length shorts and a blue and white striped t–shirt. It’s all over people.

I had to distract myself from my impending future fashion faux pas by going for a walk. I really do love walking. As a kid I can remember being taken on walks with my parents and spending the whole time thinking, “What’s the point? We’re only going to walk back again. BORING!” Now of course I can derive real pleasure in just walking, looking at the view, smelling the sea air and of course meeting people along the way. Ok, I confess I hate that bit, mainly because I’m not sure of the rules. I grew up in London so I still feel extremely uncomfortable saying ‘Hello’ to anyone I don’t know. I mean if I was to start greeting people on public transport, chances are I’d be sectioned. But I understand that this is the country way. My girlfriend is completely at ease greeting strangers, having been brought up in the Shires, she’s practically a hobbit. “Hello” she says, “Good Morning!” she greets perfect strangers and they reply, “Hello!’ “Alright there?” I think to myself, this looks easy I’ll try it. I walk on ahead, clear in my mind that I shall greet the next walkers who pass me. I see a man walking toward me, he looks a bit grumpy…hmmm, maybe I shouldn’t say “Hello”…maybe I should wait to see if he says “Hello” first. Yes I’ll do that… He walks past me and I hear a cheerful, “Hello!” as he greets my girlfriend. “Hello!” she says. I suddenly hate walking.

And now I’m back home I miss the sea air, the late breakfast, the beautiful countryside, the shower with the water pressure of a burping tap, the cream teas and of course those badly dressed middle aged women. If only every holiday could be this English!

Note: the author of this article is actually hoping to go to Cuba next year should she ever get enough money together. If not expect another blog about The Lake District, Dorset or Norfolk…)

I have recently purchased a pair of green Nike high top trainers, the kind a teenage boy would have worn back in 1986, or currently an under weight bloke sporting a pencil moustache in skinny jeans and a pork pie hat, or me: a woman in her mid thirties suffering some kind of mid life crisis.

I can’t even blame the shameful purchase on shopping alone because my girlfriend was with me. She’s the buffer that stops me buying a series of different coloured v-neck jumpers and yet she encouraged me to get them. Apparently I’m not trendy enough and I have to stop dressing like a middle aged Mum on her way to pick up the kids form school. I’ll have you know that that is my ‘going out look’ and has always worked for me… Ok its never worked for me, what’s your point? Besides, I figured out that being cool also means you’re a bit of a gullible twat. Have you ever shopped in All Saints? Am I the only person that refuses to buy a pair of jeans that looks like someone has been painting and decorating in them? What’s with the paint on the jeans? My girlfriend has tried to explain this look to me, “Jen, you don’t get it, the clothes are distressed.” So would I be if I spent £100 on a pair of jeans with paint on them. “Jen, you don’t just shop somewhere because of the clothes it’s about the whole experience and All Saints have a fantastic shop fit.” I’m sorry what? “The design of all their shops is very stylish” It might be really stylish but as far as I’m aware I can’t wear the shop fit. Who the hell talks about this sort of stuff? “Love your jeans” “You think these look good? You should have seen the shop fit.” “Did it have an urban feel which juxtaposed chrome and low lighting with silver cow hide rug?” “Yeah”  “Amazing” “I’d love to chat but I have to go and decorate my house…”

Then of course there are the shops that are so expensive you don’t know what they’re selling. Do not under any circumstance enter a store that looks like this, they are set up as a trap to humiliate people with no money. People like you and me…ok maybe not you but definitely me.  As soon as I walked into this shop I knew I’d made a mistake. There was just an emaciated woman sitting behind a counter listening to German Electronica and a 6 foot glass jar filled with lemons in the middle of the room. “Can I help you?” The woman can tell immediately that I’m not a real customer, she’s looking at me with a disdain so acute my breathing is embarrassing me.  “No, just browsing” I’m not browsing because the shop is empty; I’m desperately trying to figure out what the hell this woman is selling. “Nice lemons…” “They’re not for sale.” “No of course not, who’d buy lemons in a shop that sells…” She doesn’t say anything… I’m panicking, how can looking round a shop be this stressful? Finally I notice a rack of clothes. “Ah you sell clothes! Great…” I pick up a white shirt from a rack of exclusively white clothing; it’s £130 and wouldn’t have fit me when I was 10. “We only do one size” Really cause it looks to me like you only do one shirt. I place it against me, I’ve seen women do this in shops and I feel confident with this gesture until I realise that the shirt only covers one third of my upper body. I put it back, I can feel the woman’s eyes boring a hole into the back of my head. I know that she knows that I’m biding my time till I can legitimately walk out of the shop without looking like a complete loser. But what she knows and I haven’t quite acknowledged is that the status of loser has already been firmly fixed as my title. I spin round in what I think is a confident manner and address her.” I don’t suppose you have that shirt in yellow do you? “No” “Shame|” I stride out of the shop with my head held high only to trip on the pavement directly outside the shop. She either hasn’t noticed or she is so malnourished she hasn’t the strength to lift up her head. I pick up my pace as I head back towards normality, now where the hell is Primark?

As a typical British person I find meeting someone for the first time can be a bit of a social nightmare.

I remember back in the day when shaking someone’s hand was greeting enough, then somewhere in the nineties someone decided that we needed to become more European and start kissing each other. This was a MISTAKE. Why? I’ll tell you why, because we don’t know what the hell we’re doing. We’re not French; they’re all about the kissing and the hugging. Dear God I wouldn’t be surprised if the men cup each other after a few wines.  It’s the same in Spain and Italy they love to kiss each other, it’s NORMAL there plus they know exactly how many kisses they’re supposed to deliver. We on the other hand have no idea, is it one or two kisses? Does anyone in this country have a clue? Every time I meet someone new I have to make a split second decision as to how many kisses I’m going to give him or her. I like to go in for one and then let my head hover in case they’re going in for two. This technique is far from fool proof because if I let my head hover for a fraction too long then we’re face to face and it looks like I’m trying to snog them. “Sorry about that… I was waiting to see if it was going to be two or one….ha ha obviously it’s two…so shall we do two…no? Ok…” I get penalised for not being presumptuous!  Then what exactly are you supposed to be kissing? The air, their cheek, their ear? Yes I said EAR. I hate to admit this but I have accidentally kissed more than one strangers ear. In an attempt not to look like I’m trying to snog said person, I’ve over compensated with the second kiss and moved too far round only to find my mouth on their ear. So not only is their ear slightly damp but I have deafened them with the sound of what should have been an air kiss. Could someone just shoot me in the face right now?

My mortification doesn’t end there, somehow I have managed to make shaking someone’s hand just as awkward.  If there is any  hand shaking to take place you can bet a fiver that I’ve just come out of the bathroom having washed my hands but without drying them properly. Yes I’m the person that dries their hands on the front of their trousers before offering my hand with the words,“Hi, sorry my hand’s wet…don’t worry it’s water…it’s not…you know …wee…” Because obviously that’s what I’d normally do, just hold my hand under a stream of my own urine and then shake strangers hands.

So, if we haven’t met yet and I kiss your ear, accidentally head butt you or look like I’m trying to lean in for a French Kiss lets just shake on it. I’ll bring a towel.

For years I naively believed that men were far more competitive than women. From a young age my Mother explained to me the complexities of the male ‘ego’. Ah yes…so very complicated.

Basically I had to let my brothers beat me or something overwhelmingly tragic would occur to them in later life, like learning that they’re not the best at everything or heaven forbid, how to lose graciously. But maybe my Mum was right, after all you know what it’s like when you’re a middle class white man, there are so many hurdles to jump and barriers to face and…hang on a sec. I should never have let them beat me at squash when I was 12! Damn them!

Still, despite the obvious nagging resentment between myself and my brothers, it simply doesn’t compare to the competition I experience from my sisters. Yes I said ‘sisters’ mainly because I know it’s annoying but also because I have three brothers and I’ve always wanted a sister…that’s a different story.

I blame trashy magazines, apparently I can’t name them but they’re usually about 99p and have headlines like, “Cheryl Cole loses 2 stone from her head. Is her hair anorexic?” Probably, or at least her frontal lobes. Ok, that was harsh so maybe I’m competing with Cheryl Cole or at least her hair, which unlike her personality actually doesn’t seem that limp, lifeless…I can’t help myself. Back to the magazines. The fact is I don’t want to see big yellow circles around D list celebrities thighs and back sides. Mainly because if there was a photo of me in a bikini they’d have to circle my entire body, including my head. I’m also not interested in the latest diet or how to get thin, stay thin, eat yourself thin, eat thin people to stay thin….you get the idea.

We don’t just compete about weight or how young we look, it’s also about our jobs, our partners and now, our children. I’ve had to suffer competitive Mums and I don’t even have kids. Yes I’m barren, well I’m not barren I probably could have kids if any of that spermy stuff found its way up there. It’s just that I’m not using my womb in the way God intended, I’m actually renting it out as a gymnasium to some local street kids, they were complaining that they didn’t have anywhere to hang out and be themselves so I said, “Ok, ok you can use my uterus” You’d think they’d be happy with an X Box.

Competitive Mums are the worst, I have a friend who has two kids and hanging out with her Mum friends is one of the more painful experiences I’ve been forced to undergo without swearing or becoming physically violent. They come out with bilge like, “I’m so proud of Henry he’s already talking and he’s not even two.” Yeah right, he just threw up on his chest, if that’s talking then my cat’s fluent. “I actually gave Molly a rattle but she hasn’t used it and I heard that if a child delays pleasure it’s a sign of genius” I wish I had a kid just so I could’ve said, “Yeah kids are so complex, there was a whiff coming from Charlie’s nappy yesterday and he was looking at me with a funny face and I thought what is he trying to tell me? Turns out he’d had a sh*t. I think he might be a genius.”

Life’s too short and the truth is I don’t want to be in competition with anyone mainly because I have incredibly low expectations and I don’t like to be reminded there’s something better out there. The truth is we’re not all following the same road and as women we’re not one big homogeneous mass. One person’s success or happiness doesn’t detract or add to my own. I’ve got my own path to follow and yes there will always be thinner, more successful, happier people out there and to them I would say, “Could you please not rub it in!”

It has been drawn to my attention that on occasion, Ok on more than one occasion, Ok several occasions, that I’m actually quite annoying.

As if!

Do I look annoying..I mean….what the…? Alright maybe I am a bit. Apparently I have an extremely irritating habit of explaining something three or four different ways when the first time was sufficient. This has led more than one friend to shout, “You’re BORING me!” halfway through a bout of verbal diarrhoea. I have to explain to them that it’s not my fault, it’s actually genetic. There isn’t a single person in my family that has the ability to respond succinctly. There are times in conversation where I’ve had to get my sleeping bag and set up a drip because the story has gone on and on and on…I remember watching The Neverending Story as a kid and feeling disappointed that not a single member of my family was involved, just some kid on a flying Muppet.

I also manage to lose anything and everything, if it’s valuable or important I’ll lose it. Wallets, ipods, cameras, shoes…yes SHOES. I think I must be the only person that has bought two pairs of shoes and left them on public transport . I know what you’re going to say, that’s irritating for me but it doesn’t really affect anyone else. Wrong. I remember being asked to be a bridesmaid at my friend’s wedding. It was being held in Wales, so a group of us got a train up together. It was only when I arrived that I realised I’d left my bridesmaid dress on the station platform. Happy Wedding thingy!…what dress? You wanted me to wear a dress..? I don’t think I got the memo….is that no to jeans? Arse.

More recently my girlfriend has informed me of my most annoying habit, wait for it….I leave cupboard doors open. I never close them. I walk into a room open all the cupboard doors and then leave. To be honest I have ignored her nagging I mean objective observations for some time now. It was only when she decided not to close any of the doors I opened that I understood how irritating I really am. Every single door was open, including cupboards I have no reason to open, like my girlfriend’s for example….oh yeah and her Mum’s cupboards.

It was at that moment that I realised EVERYONE is annoying! In fact there are very few people who don’t irritate me. Women who put their make up on in public get on my tits, anyone who ends a sentence with, “You know what I mean…?” or starts a sentence with, “I’m not being funny but…” chances are you’ve never been funny mate and I’m sorry but if you’re eating chicken out of a box we can’t be friends. As for my lovely girlfriend, well she’s annoying too. Yes she is! For example I’ve never been in a car with anyone who has no idea how to use the gears. She’s in first when she should be in second, she takes corners in third and she never and I mean never uses fourth gear. What is that about? She also gets really upset if I mention she needs to go up a gear, she starts screaming something about ‘back seat drivers’ and what she’d like to do with them. Just so you know it usually ends with her running over my face repeatedly, stabbing me in the eye with a windscreen wiper or throwing me out of a moving vehicle at 70 miles an hour (probably in third gear). So I have to come up with new and innovative ways to get across what I’m saying without invoking her wrath. I’ll be honest with you they’re pretty ingenious, only the other day I was telling her about the time I came ‘fourth’ running the 60 meters sprint when I was 9 ( I actually came first but my egos not that big…still have the medal….) or how my favourite sitcom is Blackadder goes Fourth…yes FOURTH!!! She hasn’t cottoned on but then to be fair she hasn’t moved up a gear either.

So, I’m going to embrace my annoying habits and rename them as interesting quirks and I’m not being funny but that’s how it’s going to be from now on, you know what I mean?

Now where did I put that box of chicken?