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! 

I can’t concentrate.

I can’t concentrate.

I’m tired, I’m ratty (I feel this, no one’s actually confirmed this) and can’t think straight. I’ve a lot on at the moment and I feel like I could actually sleep for 10,000 years. OK so a slight exaggeration, but you get me don’t you?

Today is my middle sister’s birthday and I have to confess, I almost missed it. Last year I missed a few people’s birthdays (one being my Dad – my Dad! How the hell I forgot that, I’ll never know) and a few people got arsey about it, yeah I get it, but my life doesn’t revolve around you, it revolves around our soon to be 2 year old, Harry and my husband to be is nearly 37 but stuck in the mindset of a 14 year old boy. Oh and paying the not so little mortgage we have.

So this year I thought I’d be organised and write all birthdays in my diary – and I’ve still forgotten. I’ve forgotten to check my diary and if it wasn’t for Facebook reminding me, I’d have forgotten once again.

I’m putting my lack of concentration, tiredness and all round mardiness down to trying to juggle Mummyhood, Fianceehood, our forthcoming wedding (not long now!), a demanding full-time job (which I love so I’m not at all complaining) and being a domestic goddess (unsuccessfully as our house permanently looks like a bombsite since we let go of our last cleaner).

I’ve never felt so tired trying to juggle all this (thank god the studying finished in December to give me a break). If I’m not collecting Harry from Nursery or his beloved Grandparents, I’m trying to amuse and play with him whilst cooking dinner and playing with the dog. If not this, then I’m trying to find bunting for the wedding, or decide upon which toilets to hire in for the day, trying to juggle maid of honour and bridemsaids dresses or I’m failing miserably at trying to maintain a decent looking house in case anyone pops by.

With all this whirring around my head, a forthcoming Audit at work, worrying if the cars service or MOT has run overdue seeing as I miss everything else, I barely have time for 2 minutes to myself. These days having a wee on my own, in the privacy of my own en-suite feels like a smug day at the Spa. I just can’t seem to concentrate so I’m perpetually caught up in what I can only describe as a whirlwind of everyday life.

Even when I’m sleeping, my mind is off on one!

It may seem like I’m complaining; far from it (though the haters will no doubt disagree -go jump off a bridge is my advice to whatever sarky shit you’re thinking), i just sometimes wish there were two of me! Life would be so much easier – me 1 could whirl about doing the doing whilst me 2 could simply think. If only life were that easy!

Well off I trot; I already feel somewhat calmer for this somewhat calmly approached rant and well, it stops me ripping the nearest persons head off in any case. I really should write more, maybe when Harry’s a tad older I’ll have the time – maybe I’ll even wrote a novel. My little man is so terribly independent (takes after his Mummy) and soon he’ll realise there’s a whole world out there to explore and he won’t rely on Mummy & Daddy quite so much. Until then,  the whirlwind of my life will continue!

In the words of Christian Grey, Laters Baby!




Refusing to go to bed.

Over the last few days, we’ve interrupted Harry’s routine. The result? Almost disaster, I’ll tell you what.

Before Harry arrived, the one thing that I promised Wayne we’d do, would be to ensure that our baby a) had a bed time routine and b) knew that he or she would have to stick to it (by and large I mean by this, I’m not some sort of Nazi after all). Anyway, Harry’s always had a routine and has always, barring from a few exceptions such as teething, stuck to it. Sometimes he’s even been known to take himself off up to bed ahead of his usual time.

So as I say, the last few days for one reason or another, he’s gone to bed in excess of his bedtime by about an hour. Well Holy Mother of God has this affected him, has it.

The night before last, the Christmas tree went up and we didn’t feel it’d be fair to send Harry to bed until we’d finished – he did have to pop the fairy on top after all. After a little fuss, Harry went to bed, but it wasn’t without some persuasion and bribery shall we say.

Last night his beloved Aunty Jo and Uncle Ross paid a visit – I wish they hadn’t to be honest. I love seeing them, I love them as individuals, I do, I do, I do, but god, they caused havoc (I mean that in a nice way Jo & Ross if you read this). At the mention of Uncle Ross coming over, Harry undertook laps around the house, giving any long distance runner a run (excuse the pun) for their money. Was Harry excited they were coming to visit? Oh just a tad.

Laughter, tickles and lots of shrieking followed and by the time they left, a few hours later, Harry was revved up like a 90s teen off their face on Speed at a rave. Ace.

Two attempts at settling Harry to bed, were an absolute failure to say the very least. “Mummy, Mummy”   the arms were around my neck trying to strangle me in Harry’s attempt not to be put to bed. The second was Wayne trying to let him ‘self settle’. What a load of bollocks that is; if they don’t pass out from a sore throat at the bellowing, then you probably will from the incessant wailing emitting round your ears and banging migraine that ensues. That didn’t work either, so back downstairs he came. Another bottle of milk , Disney Cars for about the 56th time this week and a laughing Harry sat smugly in his Daddy’s arms (he’s totally learn how to play us off against one another).

Third time’s a charm right? Nope you’d be wrong there. The whole family wrapped up (we were all in pjs by this point), we loaded the car up and went for a family drive in the freezing cold. Just what you need during British wintertime.No sooner had we set off and before the warmth could kick in, finally the munchkin fell asleep….

I guess my moan or rant or point or whatever you wanna call it, is that really, don’t fuck with your kiddie winkles bed time routine. You’re basically holding yourself to ransom and ultimately you become the victim of your own success.

Tonight we’ll be back to the usual routine; tea, playtime, bath and then a story, followed by a bottle of milk whilst watching ‘In the Night Garden’ – I hate that bloody programme with a passion, but Harry finds it hilarious so as long as he’s happy, Mummy’s happy.

Tonight I will not be the victim of my own success.

Why I just love Simon Cowell.

I love Simon Cowell. I don’t mean by this, that I’m in love with him before anyone gets carried away now, I’m just in awe of him.

Ok so he thinks wearing the highest waisted trousers ever known to man are cool and he wears his chest rug with pride, but he’s worth like gazillions so I won’t even get started on the whole cuban heel thing to propel him those extra few inches.

So you’re probably thinking it’s the zeros in his bank account that I’m loving, right? No it’s not actually but if he were to offer me a few quid, then I wouldn’t say no. But anyway, back to my love for Simon. I love Simon because he’s honest and he’s brutal. Not brutal in a bitchy kind of way, but in a truthful and admirable way.

Take these beings that stand in front of him on X Factor claiming to be the next Mariah or Beyoncé. They’ve not just rocked up of their own accord have they let’s be honest? No. They’re there because they’re a product of society’s inability to say “You’re shit, don’t bother wasting anyone’s time, you’re simply not good enough.” 

Not enough of this shit is said frankly. It doesn’t have to be delivered in an obnoxious manner, I’m just saying that sometimes in life, you need telling you’re up to scratch.

Simon, in my opinion, does this. He tells it how it is and people don’t like this and take offence. This is precisely why I love Simon.  How can you take offence at the truth for crying out loud?

Often people don’t like the truth. I’ve been told often enough I’m a bit blunt. I wouldn’t say I’m blunt; I deliver the truth and that’s what people don’t like about me – I don’t care to be honest. If you don’t like hearing the truth, this says more about you than me but let’s not go there.

If Harry ever says “Mummy, I want to be a pro footy player” and he’s in the unfortunate position of having two left feet, I’ll be straight on to him telling him to give it up. Some might say I’d be shattering his dreams and oh what a terrible mother I’d be; I say mind your own business nosey parker, I’m not about to set my son up for a catastrophic fall.

There’s another problem here and we’re of the generation and times when you’re reminded you can be anyone you want to be. With the best will in the world, I’ll never be the next Beyoncé. I can’t sing for shit and as much as I think I can move my hips as well as she can, I’m 34 with a post baby body that never has time to smash the gym, so it’s never gonna happen is it.

Still, there’d be some fuck out there telling me to excel and I can achieve my dream of being Donny’s answer to Beyoncé. So there I’d be in front of Simon Cowell, being told to stick to my day job. And rightly bloody so.

There’s nothing wrong with taking a leaf from Simon Cowell’s book and being honest if you ask me; just as you don’t want to see a 50 year old woman in hot pants, you sure as hell don’t wanna see me breaking glass as I shriek my head off and crush my backing dancers as my hip goes on me mid performance.

Sometimes the Simon Cowell’s of this world just have your best interests at heart.

And they’re there to save you from yourself and the ludicrous thoughts that some of us pretend to be something we’re not and that’s why I love Simon Cowell.

Just stop there. I already don’t give a f*ck. 

Do you ever just wake up, get your shit together and think “Stop right there, I already don’t give a fuck”?  I do. All the time.  It’s not that I can’t empathise, really I can. I just can’t empathise with stuff that I find irrelevant.

Take Social Media for example, Facebook is the pits for this type of unnessary shit.  I can’t be doing with the shit that people post on there like “Oh has anyone got the number for blah blah cos I’m a lazy chuff who’d rather post on here than actually Google”. What is this shit I think? I’m literally screaming this in my head, rather worryingly, to myself. “Stop right there. I already don’t give a fuck” I think for the the first time that day.  I then flick to Instagram and see someone’s tea from last night. Instantly I’m raging. I mean why the fuck do I wanna see someone’s non existent salad that looks like a fart would blow it away, given the chance? No thanks, if I wanted to see one, I’d seek one out. I don’t wanna be faced with it on my Instagram and be reminded of my own fatness and reluctance to shed a few pounds, thank you very muchly. “Stop right there. I already don’t give a fuck” for the second time in less than 10 minutes.

So then just before I join reality, I flick to Twitter. And it’s at this point I feel like slashing my wrists with a butter knife. Some one liner about forgiving and forgetting flicks up. Really? Do you know the ins and outs of my life? No, I thought not. And with some of the shit I’ve been dealt with over various things, forgive and forget, I most certainly will not. By this point, my blood’s almost boiling and I’m not even out of bed – what the hell is that about? “Stop right there. I already don’t give a fuck” I think, or rather scream at myself.

And then you get to work. And the shit then really starts hitting the fan. I used to, until recently, work for a large bank. At one site I’d work at, there’d be this one woman who was in the process of leaving her husband (she’d been leaving him for 10 years) and so on my weekly visit, she’d insist on making me endure an update. “Stop right there. I already don’t give a fuck”.  Oh for fucks’ sake was always on the tip of my tongue, either pack your bag and be done with it or do us a favour; put up or shut up as you’re draining the niceness from me having to listen to this repetitive crap.  I never said anything as I know I’m the least tactful being ever, but the thought was always there.

Tomorrow I’m not going to review any of my social media and save myself the criminal thoughts and potential jail time after reviewing the crap that’s on there. I’ll no doubt be faced with another human being tomorrow though, and at least once during us conversing, I’ll think “Stop right there. I already don’t give a fuck”. I bet you.

Mutton, dressed as Lamb.

I’ve just read an article about women who’re borrowing their daughters clothes to wear. I can’t help but think that this is a bit sad and pathetic really.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for looking after myself but I think a line needs to be drawn when you start wearing your kids’ clothes. For one, saying that out loud, just sounds plain wrong and secondly, nobody wants to see mutton dressed as lamb, do they?

I’m not saying that when you reach a certain age, you should begin dressing and behaving like a granny. No, far from it in fact. What I’m saying, is that with age, comes grace, inner beauty and a level of self-respect. Just because you’re ageing, doesn’t mean you have to dress all fuddy duddy, but sometimes lowering your hem and letting your dress out will do you more favours in the long run.

Let’s be honest or rather, brutal here. Most of these women who try to emulate their younger selves (or compete with their teenage daughter) look a mess. Even though women are looking great as ever thanks to hitting the gym and botox and the rest of it, no amount of any of these enhancements are going to turn the clock back and make you look like the 19-year-old you were in your prime.

My thoughts? Give it up. In the words of Coco Chanel, a woman should be classy and fabulous.

Dressing in your kids’ clothes or clothes that are inappropriate for your age is just wrong and sad and you should be slapped for thinking that it was ever a good idea in the first place. So if you’ve any thoughts on doing either, don’t.

Instead, remember to be classy and fabulous. And if you see me ever donning Harry’s dungarees, you’ve my full on permission to slap me, hard, in the kidneys.

Instantly disliking people.

What is it that makes you instantly dislike someone? 

There’s a number of people I’ve had the misfortune of meeting, whom I’ve taken an instant disliking too.  Some would say, that I don’t really like people and at certain stages of my life, I’d agree.

Some people just instantly wind me up. Whether it’s their face, their attitude (possessing shit ones) or just their whole demeanour, some people I just can’t bear to be around. 

I can’t stand over bearing people, so sometimes I wonder if they’re the ones with the problem, or me. I can’t stand obnoxious loud mouths; the moment I stumble across one, I feel my inner bitch bumbling away, ready to make an appearance. 

These people make the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. It’s like I’ve a detector that can sniff bullshit from a hundred miles away.

For example, take a number of ex work colleagues. Twelve and a half years I worked with some of them. I should be awarded a bloody medal, for some of them were utter arseholes. 

Take this one girl I worked with. Instantly I took a disliking to her before I’d even met her. Why? Because she was a bitch. Plain as. She’d speak too and treat colleagues like shit. Not only that, but she was sleeping with another (married) colleague, whilst with her long term boyfriend, appying no discretion at all. Morally loose, not my cup of tea thank you.

Take another colleague. The first encounter I had with him was by email when I sent him a spreadsheet. He pinged the mail straight back, declaring the cursor should be the box “A1”. If said rule was not adhered to, the mail would be deleted without being read any further. What the actual f*ck?! Instant dislike that was to be carried out right up until I left the business. That along with his rank attitude made me want to email “f*ck you” right back.

Maybe it’s me and not them. But I suspect not.

I’m under no illusion that people instantly dislike me (in fact, I know full well), however, it’s water off a ducks back with me. 

And that’s what makes the world keep turning. People will continue to act like dicks; no one gives a flying shit whether they’re liked or not I’ve found. 

And neither do I.

Washing dirty laundry in public.

Washing dirty laundry in public..

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