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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.

Intolerance to people.


I’ve said many a time that I’m not a ‘people person.’ I’m not particularly arsed that I’m not patient or intolerant of people; I am who I am and I make fuck all apologies for it.

As I grow older, I’ve developed such an aversion to bullshit that my eyes are rolling in my head before my mouth actually engages. I can sense bullshit from a hundred metres, sometimes I don’t even have to hear it; simply observing behaviour without words being spoken aloud is enough to make me chunder in my own mouth at the utter shite that some people spew.

It’s not just BS that gets on my nerves, it’s people who don’t possess a moral compass that grate my gears too. Like greedy people. They wind me up to high heaven. Your come-up-ance will arrive one day sunshine, is what I always think. Those horrid little fuckers who trample all over other people’s feelings wind me up – just who the hell do you think you are? Dragging your negativity and shit into somene else’s life…. just how low can you stoop?

I used to use public transport all the time to commute to and from work. If you’re not a people fan, then public transport isn’t for you (nor is customer facing jobs but that’s another story in itself). Selfish, rude and incredibly irgnorant people frequent these modes of transport I’m sorry to say. Once I sat on a 6.45am train that stopped at Bradford (shithole central as I like to think of it as). So I’m sat minding my own business, working away on the train, when some absolute moron comes and sits next to me (the train was empty I have to note), smashing a cornish pasty into his face. Now I’m not adverse to a pasty myself, but at 6.45am? No fucking thank you. So I told him to fuck off in no uncertain terms with his pasty and sit down the other end of the carriage.

My point is, is that people are often rude and ignorant, without even being aware of it. It’s like poison, it eats away at them and consumes them.

 

Mate, I’ve bigger balls than you. Dickhead.


I’ve said it before, I don’t class myself as a ‘Feminist’ in the true sense of the word, rather, I seek equality for the sexes (I dunno what you call that, but that’s my crusade).

However, there’s a kind of a caveat to that; when a bloke puffs his chest out, re-arranges his balls (small though they are I noted), I’m inclined to yell “Mate, I’ve bigger balls than yours. Dickhead.” Seriously, what’s the deal? Are you asserting the neanderthal in you? Are you showing me your dick? What? What’re you doing? I’m happily married thanks and don’t need a ‘hit on,’ if that’s what it is. Really dickhead, if you wanna go down that route, I’ve bigger (metaphorical) balls than you mate and don’t feel the need to assert my equal ‘womanliness’.

All I can think (seriously), is that you’re threatened by me. So you try to intimidate me. Uh er dickhead, you messed with the wrong vagina wearing gal here dude. I’m not intimidated, I’m humoured! Humoured that you think that by rearranging your cock and ball sack, I’m going to be put somewhat out in my place – seriously dude, I’m wetting myself.

I hope your Mother’s pleased with how you’ve turned out, cos if you were my son, I’d be kicking you to timbuckbloodytoo and back, you rude, fucktard, cock womble, ball grabbing, probably have a small penis, dick face. How dare you think you can intimidate another human being with your sex? Arrogance that’s what you are personified.

Mate you’re a tosser is what you are. And I’m stood here, laughing my head off at your ignorance, arrogance and sheer stupidity and I’m not alone, along with my female and male compatriots.

Female, male or somewhere in-between, (I don’t care what you label yourself as frankly), you ain’t bullying this gal. So like I say, I’ll continue to wet myself laughing at you and remind myself of the cockwomble that you are.

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!

 

Be a human first.


Always an avid people watcher, I can’t help but analyse the words, actions and behaviour of the human race (sometimes I lament way too much some would say, but that’s another story, for another day).

Watching how people react in particular scenarios amazes me. Sometimes I almost want to pat myself on the back, for I could have foretold the outcome before it even began to unfold. At other times I’m dumbfounded; literally blown from under my feet, I often can’t believe what I’ve witnessed.

Now as you’re probably sick of hearing me say, I’m not really a people’s person. I’m not particularly empathetic nor am I tolerant, but observing people is a hobby. In the 20 odd years that I’ve been people watching (or at least aware of my doing it, for I’ve probably done it since I was a small girl), one re-curring theme that propels itself forward, is the need for humans to label one another.

“You’re a knob”, “You’re a bloody Feminist”, “You’re a narcissist”, “You’re a woman, what would you know?” “Pah. Men are complete morons”, “You’re Catholic, of course you’d think that”, “You’re 21, grow up first”.

Why do we, as humans feel the need to label one another? Is it a reflex, protective primeval instinct? Why can’t we just treat each other with basic respect – be a human first? Before labelling one another, let’s just try and be basic humans first and foremost.

What does being a human encompass?

Well for me it’s treating another homo sapien as you would like to be treated yourself.

Being kind (something that perhaps I need to work on myself), respectful to others views and opinions (you can still air your own, but in a tolerant manner and one that does not hurt or harm another), and empathetic towards others feelings (again I need to work on this, as admittedly sometimes I’ve the tact of a gnat on a hot evening when you’ve slathered your lips in lipgloss) are what I think are the basics. Of course there’s a ton more and of course, the human nature would perhaps wish to sit and argue the toss over what’s deemed the most important…

Just why is it so hard to exhibit the above and just embrace one another? It’s a rhetorical question that no doubt has been asked for thousands of years and will continue to be asked until the end of time.

I’m not saying don’t label, all I’m saying is be a human first. Refrain from apportioning blame, shamelessly calling people out, slinging accusations around on ones’ personality traits – stop it. Stop it and be a human first.

Think the next time you wish to first label. How would you wish to be treated?

Be. A. Human. First.

 

 

 

 

Another year gone Mummy….


2.50am, 2nd March 2011 you were beckoned to Heaven to become an Angel.

Our world stopped. Tick tock, Tick tock, the silence suddenly became so deafening.

Filled with bleakness, panic and a void, we’d only ever known the strength and love of you our Mum and of Dad too. A quiet, steely strength, you were the anchor of our family ship.

The life and soul, you’d light a room with your presence. Never one to shout and scream, you quite literally held the patience of a saint.

Never one to complain, you always put others before yourself. Upon reaching you at hospital at 11.30pm on 1st March, on seeing me enter that little room, your first words were, “Jen love, what’re you doing here, you’ve work tomorrow?” Hours from death and you were more worried about me than yourself – your love for us children was your only thought, not what you were about to face – your love never waived, we were never second only ever first to you.

When you died, a piece of us died with you. A void swept in; shock overcame us and time stood still. It’s been 6 years now and not a day goes by that  I don’t think of you, wish you were here or long one last time, to hug  and smell your skin, the way I used to as a little girl.

You’re still with us, I know for certain. I know you were there on my wedding day last year, the sunbeam on the photos when there was no sun demonstrated your presence. Last year you also missed the birth of your 4th grandchild, your first Granddaughter, Isla’Rose. A little beauty, I know that you’ll be the proudest Grandmother in Heaven and each night, you’ll be looking over your beautiful grandchildren, ensuring their safety as they dream of all things sugar and spice and all things nice…

Harry asked me the other day whose Mummy Nanny Marilyn was and I explained she’s Daddy’s Mummy. He then asked me where my Mummy was and I told him that Nanny Karen is a twinkle twinkle in the star and he asked if you ever spoke to me.. My heart broke but I was determined not to cry – you’d laugh and cry at my beautiful and funny little man – he quite simply has no idea how much I miss you.

I wish you could join us from Heaven once again, if only for one last time for larger than life family meals to meet the newest members of our ever expanding family. You’d adore Wayne and Ross – they’d never tire of your never ending feeding! Your grandchildren you’d adore and you’d relish being able to enjoy looking after the munchkins of a weekend and whilst we worked, baking and cooking with them all – you’d have them domesticated before they even went to school!

Dad, Dave, Ric, Jolene, Maffu and Baby Jayne miss you terribly Mummy. Time may distance us but our hearts never will. You’ll be pleased to know that we’re all as close as ever and together, we always ensure that your memory is kept alive.

Dave undertakes his climb to Everest’s basecamp later this year; please watch over him and keep him safe as  he climbs that bit closer to Heaven won’t you?

Another year may have passed Mummy and yes the void is still there, the pain is still there (sometimes it’s as raw as the day you were beckoned) but I can still feel your warmth, hear your infectious laugh and feel your arms around me – our memories never fade and a piece of you is will always be with me xxx

 

 

 

 

Looking back and looking forward.


I look back a lot.  And I mean a lot. Not in a negative, self critical type of way, but one full of nostalgic memories and I smile whenever I think of the past.

If I were taken to Heaven today, those close to me would know that I’ve lived a happy, fulfilled and contented life. I’ve been graced with an amazing son and husband and I was born into an amazing family with wonderfully loving parents and siblings who would move heaven and earth for me (and who I’ve had more scrapes with as children and adults than the average clumsy 2 year old).

My earliest memory is sat in my highchair, eating a Mr Men yoghurt – how I remember that I don’t know, but I do. I remember Mummy tucking me in to bed as a small child and I remember Dad spending hours brushing my long blonde hair – no one bar Daddy could brush my hair!

Years later, Dad would hold my hair whilst I was sick from drinking one too many jager bombs, slumped on the bathroom floor crying that at 30, I was back home; no home of my own anymore, no boyfriend and only a shite job to look forward come Monday morning.  Little did I know, that that experience alone of being 30, single and boyfriendless, living at home with my Dad and my brother and sister, would help shape the person I am today.

My childhood was happy, very happy. I remember fondly Mummy warming my school uniform on a cold winter’s morning in front of the fire in the dining room as we ate breakfast and forcing me to drink a cup of tea to ‘warm’ me up before we’d leave the house and wait for the very cold school bus. As I got older, I’d help Mum get my younger brothers and sisters ready; Mum would be running around with a flannel in one hand and a hair brush in the other and we’d laugh as as all ran around the house, chasing each other!

Primary school was ace. Mrs Pascoe our primary teacher had an inability to shout and Sister Patricia was a deathly white shade who looked on the brink of death, but whom had a heart of gold. Sister Monica our Headmistress was a kind lady who was followed by the enigmatic Mr Woulfe, who we were permitted to call ‘Frank’ his shortened Christian name, upon touching french soil when we went to Lourdes in 1992.

I laugh when I remember Gypsy horses  running amok on our school field and Mr Woulfe would chase after them with a huge staff – often a cigarette in the other hand, all 20 chubby stone of him chasing these horses, whilst Mr Webdale would try and strike the fear of god into us all by yelling his head off and turning into a beetroot during the process. Of course we ignored him as the whole school cheered Mr Woulfe on as if he were some athlete running the 100m sprint – a very exciting time for us primary children!

I remember being told off by Mrs Coddinton for chatting too much (not a lot has changed in 25 years) to Laura Kilbride and Laura Grantham and then she’d smile and tell me it was ok to talk, but only in situations that permitted it (I still try and remember this advice when I go to open my mouth and some shite comes spilling out, but by then, Mrs Coddington’s words have long since failed me).

In Mrs Rhodes class, I sat next to Marc Chikhani and I’d yell at him for trying to steal my pencils and god forbid if his arm became too close to mine – Marc probably still has nightmares over my space issues all these years later! I remember sat with James Foster waiting for the BBC computer to be wheeled in and load and him threatening to wipe imaginary bogies over me whilst I sat threatening to dob him in – over it, all memories that I can remember as though they were yesterday.

Chrissy Allan our years’ heartthrob took me to his football formal when we 10 and that is when I first had my fragile little heart broken, when on the Monday morning after the said formal, Robert Cubbon greeted me off the school bus to tell me that Chrissy had chucked me for the beautiful Louise McPherson. Years later at uni, I’d accompany Chris to another football formal, only for me to end up blind drunk, falling down a set of escalators in the hotel and embarrassing him by my whole body ending up on his best friend’s face in the taxi, propelling me onto Ryan’s face…  Needless to say Chrissy never invited me to another formal ever again….I guess I got my own back for him dumping me 10 years before!!!

Then there were the Mum’s that would help with school trips – Mrs Gornall, Mrs Packham and Mrs Chikhani I remember vividly; they’d put the fear of God into you with thier fiece gazes, but they were the kindest ladies that parents could rely on to whip us naughty little children into shape!

Some of my best memories have been with my brothers and sisters. It’s fair to say that all 6 of us are very different indeed. Forever bound by blood, we’re a tight little unit – we may not agree on each other’s political, religious or social ideologies, but there’s nothing we won’t do for one another. There’s so many amazing memories I have, that I could literally write a book but my favourite memories are Christmas time. We’d bound downstairs at our Grandparents house, Mum & Dad as excited as were and it’d be a free for all – all 6 of us diving under the tree! Even as adults now, we may not wake together Christmas morning, but we always open presents together and it’s still as manic now as it’s ever been!

I’ve the best of friends that a girl could ask for Emma Howells and Helen Timms ( I still can’t grow up and call them by their married names), are the best. 3am What’s App conversations with Helen when our boys were babies were standard and that girl single handedly got me through night feeds and the crippling loneliness that accompanies them.

Emma always has and always will have my back. There’s no one as fierce as her (she was fierce well before Beyonce made it cool), no one with a more cutting mouth or witty comeback – inseparable since we were 11, my teenage years were the least stressful a teenage girl could have when you’ve a best friend who laughs her way through everything. Emma, Helen – dudes I love you both and I love how our 3 boys adore each other too.

They say that cousins are your first best friends and that’s so true. Nige, Laura and Ryan Dutchak have always been like 3 further siblings and not a lot has changed as adults! Nige married Tamara who is like another sister and Laura is Godmother to my baby boy – there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this motley crue and their amazing little kiddies who we love.

And there’s my husband an my son. My world.

My husband as I’ve said before, is a 14 year old boy stuck in a 38 year old’s body. Outgoing and funny, he’s the life and soul of any party and has taught me that the biggest gift you can bestow on yourself, is to laugh at yourself, lots. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t make me laugh; even during my labour, I was laughing even as I cried – the best birthing partner ever! My Mr Potatohead and Actionman all rolled into one! We’ve had so many fun times and he’s made me laugh so much that I’ve almost pee’d my pants at times. The most horizontal and laid back person I’ve met, Wayne is like a beacon of light – the light never fades or dulls, it shines on drowning the darkness as it approaches. My happiest memories of him always include Harry; wherever one is, the other isn’t far behind. It was love at first sight for Wayne when he first met Harry and my favourite memory of them is Wayne holding Harry to the window when he was 2 days old and telling him the world is his oyster and he can do what ever his heart tells him too.

And there’s the absolute love and joy of my life, my darling, my baby, my son, my Harry.

Harry is just the most perfect little boy a Mother could ask for. There’s been so many amazing memories with our son, it’s hard to pick only a couple out. The first time he walked was a truly amazing memory as we both witnessed it and Harry was proud as punch (I even managed to capture on camera too!). As a little baby, he was always laughing and smiling and I remember you only had to blow raspberries and he’d crease himself laughing, full on belly giggles rocking his little body.

These days, Harry’s growing into a beautiful, headstrong, independent little boy. It doesn’t seem like two minutes since we were leaving him in the baby room at nursery with Melissa and Kavita (who were like 2nd mothers to him) and these days he’s now obsessed with his best friends, ‘Franks’ Frankie and Freddie with whom he’s spent his nursery life with – Mummy doesn’t even get so much as a look in these days!

As I look back, I look back with fondness, happy to have a mind so enriched with fun and happy times. Teachers and school friends who’ve sharpened my moral compass, best friends who’ve seen me at my best and my worst and a family that would rival the Brady bunch. A family as hard as diamonds – throw the weight of the world at the, and still they come off without a scratch.Parents who me to love, to be independent and speak my mind – to stand up for those who aren’t as outgoing as me. My husband and son who light up my world – never do I see dark day with clouds with them, only the sun fighting to come out from behind them.

My beloved Grandad always told me to never look back, “Looking back Jenny, it only means you won’t see what’s in front of you.” Perhaps in some cases, but in my case, it means I embrace the memories from the past and look to the future to continue to enjoy happiness and the memories that it will bring.   Life so far has been good and fun, sprinkled with some sadness but from the sadness, I embrace the fact that life’s short – I embrace the past and look forward to many more happy and fun times ahead – each memory has impacted upon me greatly for me to remember them so vividly.

We’re a long time dead after all, so best to embrace the past and the future and to live life to the happiest.

 

 

 

 

 

My little sister, Jolene.


It was 18th February, 1988 and I was 7 years old.

Finally YOU arrived. I’d waited since 1983 for you to arrive and I was delirious when Dad called from the hospital that cold, foggy evening and told me that finally, my dream had come true – I finally had a little, baby sister – my little sister, Joanne.

You were the sweetest little baby that anyone could wish for – beautiful, sweet natured and you barely cried. Always wanting to follow me around, you were like my little shadow! Quiet, you’d sit on the sofa, often sucking your thumb, cuddling your comfort blanket and then you’d be gone – off upstairs you’d take yourself and you’d have climbed into bed, all of your own accord.

Always thoughtful and caring, you were a little worrier from the get go. You’d say your prayers and beg that each night, Mum & Dad, and your brothers and sisters would all be ok.

In the 29 years that I’ve had the honour of calling you my my little sister, you’ve always been there for me. Together we’ve travelled to the furthest corner of the world, lazed on beautiful beaches, drank so much jager that you’ve had to be the one that’s the voice of reason, cried together during our darkest moments, walked down the aisle with me and of course, being the best baby sister ever, shoved me into your size 8 clothes when I’ve needed that extra shove!

Today my little sister, you turn 29. One more year in your 20s before you hit another amazing milestone in your life. Our life hasn’t always been easy, but you make life so much more fun and you take the best of bad and sad situations and make the best you can. Your little laughter lines around your eyes are testament to how you spend your life and whilst yes, at times, you can be a pain in the arse, you’re my little sister and I love you to the moon and back.

Happy birthday my darling little sister, Jolene xxxx

 

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 love my husband because…


I’m really not into public declarations of love, mainly because I think it’s a bit sickly to be honest but also because sometimes you don’t want to ram how good you’ve got something, down other people’s throats as I totally appreciate that not everyone’s lives are roses and all that shit.

On this occasion, however, I’m going to make an exception.

I fucking love my husband because today, after a late night all round, when our little boy started yelling his head off when he woke, my husband almost jumped up out of bed and the first words I heard him utter were “let’s let Mummy sleep as she’s really tired.”

A day of Harry emitting Satan like behaviour as he’s tired from a late one last night and having every cartoon shoved at us known to man and Wayne’s nipped out to collect us dinner. This, despite the fact he’s torn cartilage in his knee and finds walking unbearable, never mind driving and he’s not grumbled once today.

I love my husband because simply, he’s the dog’s bollocks.

I hate to disappoint ladies, but “Mr Perfect” doesn’t exist in your world – only mine as I’m lucky enough to have bagged this mofo.

If Carlbserg made husbands; mine would be the very handsome and witty fucking blueprint.

Thank you God, I bagged him!

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