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The ramblings of Mrs. Hoolihan

My rants on life and everything in between. Desperately trying to remind myself that it's just not worth the jail time.

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Acts of stupidity

The ‘Thunderbolt’ moment.


I’ve not really ever encountered many ‘thunderbolt’ moments in my life, but recently I had one and it hit me hard. Very hard.

Sadly I’ve come to the realisation, that the old clique of ‘A leopard never changes its spots’ is not only true, but absolutely and absurdly spot on too.

If someone doesn’t behave how you’d like them behave, then sadly, don’t waste your energy or time in trying to change them. There’s only you that will end up with a headache and a heavy heart.

I’m rather judgmental of people; I make my mind up immediately whether you’re an arsehole or not – it’s quite easy really – you’re either nice or you’re not. I’m usually right about people, but on this occasion, for once, I concede I was wrong and I’m fine that I was wrong – my pride doesn’t get in the way one bit, I’m human after-all and humans make mistakes.

The person / people in question aren’t arseholes as such before you go judging me; they are in fact,  good and decent human beings, they just lack thought and appreciation. I just thought that circumstance would change them but it hasn’t and I’m sad for them. Sad for them and sad for me. And sad for what could have been.

There’s only so much you can try before you throw the towel in and declare you can’t be arsed, but for me, there’s only this option – a leopard doesn’t change its spots. No amount of good will and positive thinking will change this, no amount of silent yelling in your head at that person and no amount of regret in your heart can either. So save yourself the headache and heartache and walk away.

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m walking away with my self respect and dignity in tact and I’ve learnt my lesson – no second, third, fourth or fifth chances; we’re done and I won’t ever make the same mistake again – in a parallel universe somewhere, all is calm, all is serene and everyone is happy…..

 

Even if I had a pocketful of fucks, I still wouldn’t give you one.


Even if I had a pocketful of fucks, I still wouldn’t give you one. This rationale is simple; as the years have  gone by, I’ve gone full circle in how I view the world.

When I was younger, I held zero tolerance for people and their general fuckery. You pissed me off, that was it, we were done. Forgive and forget? Hell no. Then a series of unfortunate events led me to change my mind. With this came along a period of reflection and ultimately resulted in me reassessing life and in turn, people. I became tolerant to people’s shit. I say tolerant, this isnt strictly true. I just learnt to let people’s shit, their attitudes and their general fuckery wash over me like a wave. Forgive? Yes possibly because I thought life was too short to do anything other than forgive.

Recently, I’ve been reassessing (once again). A series of unfortunate events (out of my control, unfortunately), have led me to come full circle, once again. No longer will I tolerate shit attitudes and being treated and spoken to, like shit.

Once again hardened, by the fuckery of human beings, forgive and forget has become something that quite honestly, is unobtainable for me. The problem lies with me you see, for being stupid. I was stupid enough to think that human beings could be tolerant towards each other.

Whether it’s in your personal life, work life or generally being a human being, I’ve learnt that people can be horrible, vicious and destructive creatures. Regardless of whether they’re trying to destroy your relationship, sabotage your career path or generally being a dick everyday, people prove that they really can display their best presentation of  what fuckery is.

No longer tolerant of shit, I’ve decided fuck it, those human beings who can’t prove themselves to be decent people, can fuck right off. Those who can behave like decent humans, I’ll continue to move heaven and earth for. But let’s make one thing clear here, forgive and forget is longer an option – once you’ve crossed me, that’s it, your card’s marked and then you fall into my category of “Even if I had a pocketful of fucks, I still wouldn’t give you one.”

Once you’ve fallen into the category of “Even if I had a pocketful of fucks, I still wouldn’t give you one” you’re not leaving it. No amount of apologising (if you’re decent enough to recognise your behaviour) will change my mind. Just like the devil, you’ll be banished from my consciousness, forever. I may have to deal with you in some capacities, but in essence you’ve fucked it.

Before any mofo thinks about crossing me in any capacity of my life, they may wish to think about the consequences of their actions because this human being is taking no shit, once again – gone is the nice girl and it’s safe to say that resting bitch face has returned.

Just remember, cross my path in the wrong direction and you’ll be straight in the “Even if I had a pocketful of fucks, I still wouldn’t give you one” category and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself when you realise what a momentous prick you’ve made of yourself.

I’m feeling sorry for myself. 


I’m ill and I’m feeling sorry for myself.

Whilst I have a cold, my husband has man-flu. Whilst I’m coping, he’s ‘dying.’

We went out to celebrate one of our BFFs birthday last night and ended up home and in bed for 10.30pm whilst our mates partied on.

This am, I’ve played my snapchats back my mates sent downing shots and generally being fucked and I’m laid in bed feeling for myself that my ears are blocked and I can’t hear my own voice (probs no bad think you haters are thinking) and my voice sounds like Estelle in ‘Friends.’

However, for the moaning I’m undertaking, my friends have woken rougher than I have, so I’m ever so slightly smug that I’m not the worst one laid in bed this am.

On that note, I’m off to stuff my face with  Lemsip before our little man arrives back  from his sleep over at his Uncle Ric and Aunty Alex’s – I dare say they’re feeling worse than me anyway! 

Bastarding baby gates.


Last night I tripped and fell over the bastarding baby gate in our hall way. Ironic you may add for a woman whose recently completed a gruelling health and safety course in Construction.

Anyway, it occurred as I climbed over (as I always do), being nearly 5ft 10 it’s easy enough seeing as I’m way too lazy to open the damn thing. So I straddled over it and it wasn’t locked, so it flew open and I’ve fuck all idea what happened at this point and  so I’m not sure what body part became entangled but it resulted with me smashing my knees up, landing on my left, smashing my wrists and foot and somehow, hurting my face ( I don’t recall smashing this, but let’s be honest after minimal sleep Saturday post hen do number 2 and less than 4 hours sleep), anything could have happened.

Wayne, of course, laughed his head off at me following this noisey commotion and instead of picking me up from the floor, where I was pretty much star fishing by this point, he left me in a heap. Today, I ache like a mofo. With less than 4 weeks to the wedding, my Maid of Honour has berated me and although she hasn’t said it aloud, I can literally hear her calling me a fucking moron (Monica from Friends mark 2, I’m certain she’d wrap me in cotton wool and lock me in the loft until the big day if she could have her way).

So the moral of today’s rant is this. Don’t have fucking  baby gates – they’re a trip hazard and dangerous to real-life, grown human beings. Small people simply need to learn that bit quicker and so asap, I’m going to risk assess the whole bastarding baby gate scenario with Harry and introduce him to the world of being a careful bastard. God help me.

 

 

 

Day 1 of wanting to kill myself.


I’m no skinny minny, but I’m not a fatty either. I don’t look in the mirror and cringe – as a rule I’m rather happy with myself day to day. The only time I’m not happy is when I have to put a dress on (working in Construction means that this rarely occurs during the week) and then I start lamenting how I really shouldn’t have smashed the last bag of crisps.

It’ 8 weeks and 3 days till we say ‘I do’ and I need to drop a stone. 1 WHOLE STONE.Drastic action has been taken. With the support of my cousins, we’ve joined ‘Slimming World’; if it kills us, we’re losing in time for this wedding.

So here it is, day 1. I’ve read my literature and I’m determined to do this. With the diet of a pre-pubescent teenage boy, I’ve to also look past the aesthetics and re-educate myself when it comes to food.

This is going to be one, long and painful journey so forgive me now in advance of the amount of whining I’ll commit. It’s not a diet I keep telling myself as I stride past the plate of Oreos on display, but rather a change of lifestyle…

God; give me strength.

Since when did Facebook become Google?


Since when did Facebook become Google?

This is my burning question, that has been bugging me since 8pm last night when I happened to have a news feed full of the most stupid and basic of questions. “Anyone know where I can buy Egyptian cotton white linen from?” “Anyone know of a Chinese in West Bessacarr that delivers between 7 & 8pm only?” “Anyone know of a good holiday I can book?”

What the fuck? Are these idiots for real? Do they live in the real world? No, no they don’t. It would appear that they live in a world where merely the action of trying to think independently, would appear to hurt their tiny pea brains.

Besides littering my news feed with their ridiculous questions, that Google could quite easily answer if they bothered to type their question in along with their desired location, I just can’t quite get over how thick they are. Do they not know that it’s quicker to type into Google than post a long-winded and laborious update on Facebook?

No doubt in writing this blog, there’ll be a number of folk reading this thinking I’m tearing strips off the general population and that I’m angry person, filled with nothing but hate and anger. Well I’m not, just to clarify.

I simply get irritated at the sheer thickness of some of the human race.  Those who post this type of shit, along with those who post those irritating updates that are ‘coded’ but really aren’t, inviting everyone to ask them what’s up, wind me up. Along with those who fail to have a sound grasp of the English language – don’t get me started on this bunch of fools, almost push me over the edge.

Tip: Next time you feel like posting some crappy on question on Facebook, don’t. Scrap it. Tell me about how wonderful your day was, or alternatively, if it was shit, tell me about that – give me something to laugh about, but please for the love of god, keep your shitty little questions to yourself or even better, Google them and save Facebook from being quite literally a dumping ground from all the crap in the life.

Rant over with.

This one time I did a half marathon.


This one time, I did a half marathon. The Great North Run to be precise.

I don’t know what I was thinking if I’m honest. I think I was having mental thoughts as I’d been through a lot in my life at that point; I’d recently lost Mummy, my long term relationship had ran its’ course and I was 30, single and back living in my childhood home.

My family is all a bit sporty, apart from me. So when I heard myself agreeing with one of my brothers, Richard, that I’d undertake this exercise, I genuinely thought I’d lost the plot. You see I’d agreed to this half marathon two weeks prior to the event and as an act of generosity to surprise my little sister, Joey, as Richard has Kenyan blood in his veins and was planning to sprint off and win this thing.

Never run 13 miles with no training. The first 4 or 5 miles were piss easy, the crowds carry you through and you’re emotional reading everyone’s t-shirts with their reasons for running. “Running for Mummy” read ours, and I was a wreck as people ran past me and slapped me on the back in acknowledgement and support.

We ran and ran and then I did something rather stupid. I stopped. Or rather Jo made me as she needed to pee. Now don’t get me wrong, she didn’t literally do a Paula Radcliffe on me, but metaphorically speaking she may have well have. Once I’d stopped I couldn’t get moving again, it was as if my legs knew what my brain had failed to engage, which was with another 9 miles to go, they simply thought “fuck it”.

Somehow I struggled on, on my own as Jo had run off and left me on my jack jones (so much for sisterly love) and I ran, or rather half walked the rest of the way, literally crying until I hit about the 9 mile marker. When you hit this spot (or there abouts), you run through a really run down council estate. At this point I was walking, very slowly as my hips had started to seize and my trainers were rubbing like a bugger. As I walked the mile or so through this estate, I couldn’t help but be completely overwhelmed by the sheer generosity of the people who lived here. Clearly not a wealthy area by any means, the community were out in their droves, offering bucket loads of mood enhancers from satsumas to biscuits and jelly babies. Human beings financially very poor but with the biggest hearts – offering what felt like an absolute lifeline; that’s something money can’t buy. Nor can it buy humility.

I’m not sure if it was the humility that so moved me or the fact that the hard end in sight wasn’t too far away but I sprinted the next 3 miles and then hit a massive wall as I approached the last mile stretch. Mentally and physically knackered, I felt like I’d been hit by a ten tonne truck. Never, ever again I thought am I doing this – this is my own stupidly at its’ best. I stopped where I was and even the sight of the British Army’s finest couldn’t spur me on. Stood crying my eyes out and feeling very sorry for my sore little self, my little brother ran up to me from the side lines (having crossed the line somewhat an hour or so earlier) shouting at me spurring me on. Well in that moment, I turned in to the biggest cry baby the North East had probably ever seen. I was paralysed and couldn’t move I hurt so much and if it hadn’t been for my brother running alongside me in the spectator area, there’s no way I’d have crossed that finish line – 1 mile or not to go.

But I did cross that line and I did finish it and second only to delivering Harry into this world, it’s my second greatest achievement. I swore I’d never do a half marathon again as it took me close to a week to be able to walk properly afterwards, and nearly destroyed me mentally, however four years later and I’m contemplating doing it all over again.

Don’t do it I hear you yell and you’d be well within your right to shout that, but me being me doesn’t ever learn from my mistakes!

Tip though Jenny from your 2011 self, please train, like a bitch to save everyone a shit load of earache and whining and another blog moaning about how you one time did a half marathon….

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