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.



Not giving give a fuck.

I can’t remember the last time that I truly gave a fuck. I wish I could, but I can’t recall it.

Sometimes I wonder if I have ever given a fuck, or if I’m truly emotionless, in every sense of the word.

I’ve sailed through life never seeking anyone’s approval; my own is sufficient, for if I can’t trust my own judgement, how can I trust anyone else’s? Rhetorical question that I don’t seek an answer on to be honest.

Some people spend their whole life seeking the approval of others, why? I sometimes, fleetingly for a moment, wish I gave more of a fuck, but as much as I try to, I simply don’t.

I’m like Marmite; you either love me or you don’t. And that’s how I approach people in my life too. I either love you or I don’t give two flying fucks about you.

You hate me? Water off a duck’s back – it may hurt those around me, but me? I couldn’t give a fuck. My skin is as thick as a rhinos; I know I should feel some type of emotion, but I just don’t.

You don’t like what I say? Your problem, not mine. I’m as real as they come; so what I may dye my hair, shove every cream on my face to hold back the years and plaster myself in makeup, but underneath all that, when you strip back the layers, what you see is what you get.

Someone recently remarked that I must give a shit sometimes. No is the answer; you see it’s not my fault that someone doesn’t like me, the problem isn’t me, it’s them or you if you’re reading this and hating on me. You see I see you as reading this as a fan, so if you’re reading and hating, then what does that make you? Anyway, my point is that if you’re reading and hating, then it’s not my problem; it’s yours – go figure out why you’re hating on me but still reading.

I’m not a Philosopher, Counsellor or Psychiatrist so I can’t pretend to understand when I just don’t give a fuck. The only thing I do give a fuck over, is when someone close to me takes something to heart, but me? Nah, life’s too short to mull shit over from the mud slingers. Trust your own judgement.  I always have and only on a very few occasions have I been wrong in my 35 years.

I saw something last night that made me laugh out loud on Instagram so much that I nearly wet myself laughing as it’s so apt.

“You can be the ripest, juiciest peace in the world, and there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches.”

How goddamn true is that? I say fuck em.  Don’t be a people pleaser. Don’t lick that arse. Just be you and if they don’t like you, then that’s there issue. There’s usually reason for it, jealousy is the number one factor – pathetic but again, their problem, not yours.

So on that note, lovers and haters, I’m off to enjoy the rest of what’s left of my day and hyep you guessed it, I’ll not be giving a flying fuck!


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.

I’m not saying I necessarily hate you. I just don’t like you.

We all know that one person.

That one person who’s just too nosey for their own bloody good. Too nosey, too interested in peering over the garden fence peeking at your grass and providing you one too many tips on how to improve your grass, when really they should just concentrate on watering their own grass, never mind giving you bloody advice.

Whether I attract these people, I just don’t know. But what I do know is that I know an abundance of these fuckers. Now I’m not saying I hate these people, I’m just saying that I don’t necessarily like them.

These are the people who (in my experience), are the ones providing advice on how to rear your children, when theirs are obnoxious little brats. They’re the ones spouting how their other husbands or wives would never cheat, when in actual fact, they’re shagging half of the local village and they’re the ones who’re congratulating you on your recent job promotion, offering tips on how to climb that next career ladder when in reality, their own careers never even got off the ground ten years ago, never mind fast forwarding to present day.

These are the people who boil my piss. More often than not, I simply can’t hold my tongue with these fuckers and because they’re so caught up spouting their shit, they fail to recognise my often sarcastic and lack lustre response.

Take my forthcoming nuptials to the love of my life. The love of my life is Wayne and for those that don’t know, he’s the most cracking chap you could ever manage to stumble cross. Hot, witty and very laid back, my husband to be is the hottest potato around. This bride won’t be late for her wedding let me tell you. Anyway, I’m deviating.

My point is, is that I’m already sick of these nosey arsed people telling me to do this and that on our big day. Fuck off is what I’d like to say, but social etiquette and being British, prevents me from indulging in this somewhat vulgar behaviour.

If one more person tells me where I should be going for my hen do, what colour scheme I should have for a summer wedding or how I should fashion my mane of wild hair, I’m going to take their golden little nuggets of advice and tell them to ram them where the sun doesn’t shine.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against advice being shared with me – in fact, I love it.

What I’m against is nosey little fuckers sharing their fuckery with me. It’s not the advice being shared that irks me, it’s generally the nosey fucker sharing it, that irks me.

I always liken myself to Marmite – you either love me or hate me and this is how I view the world. I either love you or I potentially hate you. And by potentially hating you, really I mean, I just don’t like you. Or your fuckery.

Dedicated to my cousins Laura Dutchak and Tamara Dutchak, who totally understand my lack of tolerance for all fuckers and fuckery related crap.

Dickheads. They’re everywhere.

Yes you read correctly, I said dickheads. As in plural.

Once the choice word for my 15 year old self, this word has made its’ sneaky little way back into my vocabulary. Along with f*cker, but let’s not go there.

Dickheads, see you, are quite literally everywhere. If they’re not on the road doing 30 on a 60, then they’re in Sainsburys (we’re not posh enough around our parts to have a Waitrose), walking slowly around – usually right down the he middle of the aisle, so you can’t overtake them.

I have a problem with dickheads. A big whack off problem to be precise. They get in my way. Patience isn’t a virtue that was applied liberally to my being when God created me. I have to bite my tongue and not spill the contents of my mind, thereby verbally abusing them and running the risk of not getting banged up as a result.

Thick people, they come under the dickhead category too. I’m not talking about people who aren’t educated to a certain standard here, often they’re the ones with the common sense that educated people lack. I’m talking as a whole about ignorant gits.

Take the other day at nursery when some dickhead blocked me in as it was more convenient for her. I mean WTF? It’s 8am, it’s peak drop off and you want to block this mofo in? What are you, a dickhead? Yes you are and so, I told her. I mean you’re either thick or a dickhead to do that to someone at the best of times, however, with my short fuse, she should thank her lucky stars I didn’t key her car.

So it seems dickheads are everywhere.

Whether people are born dickheads or they acquire this behaviour, shit knows. In fact actually I’m lying; they’re born with this affliction. I know dickheads of all ages and it doesn’t matter if you’re 12 or 72, if you’re a dickhead, you’re a dickhead and nothing’s gonna change that.

I thank god everyday I wasn’t born one; because if I had been born one, I’d probably be the biggest dickhead around.

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