Throwback Thursday: Scunthorpe vs Man United

Number 2 in the new series – my first foray into the world of internet dating way back in October 2008. Still internet dating nine years later, still resolutely single. 

Day one of the great internet dating shindig – not a brilliant start I’ll admit but I guess I’ll give it time. The only contact I’ve had so far was from a man who was so NOT what I’m looking for that I almost left a Long Tall Ally shaped hole in the door! And before any of you in the cheap seats starts willocking on that I have to be open to all the opportunities that come my way if I want to find a man well let me tell you I’m down with that BUT a man who has no command of the English language (‘I want meet nice lady’), is significantly older than me, and has several children isn’t really what I’m after, let’s face it.

This interwebby dating malarky is forcing me to challenge my ideas about leagues in dating and where I place myself vs where I place the gentlemen that catch my eye. In a nutshell (*does nutshell dance*) I view myself as being the equivalent of Scunthorpe United or a Sunday pub team (i.e lucky to get any players/will take what they can) and always view the gentlemen as Chelski, Man U or the Arsenal (unlimited choice of players, inundated by offers) and in my head never the twain shall meet!

A couple of friends have absolutely torn me a new one for even mentioning the idea of leagues in the romance world but I surely can’t be the only person to think like that – whether it is actual fact or just yet another myth perpetuated by magazines/media/Marilyn Manson/McDonalds (all those evil things beginning with M!) is unclear but it is how I have always thought. So I’m going to kick back, relax, and wait for the men to come flocking to me (hmm) and then I’ll have to scissors, paper, stone to whittle them down!

Oh Friend!

I have lots of friends (yeah alright braggy, back in your box) but I really struggle making new ones. Sure I’ll wang on at people until the cows come home and am quite good at ‘being social’ but ask me to attempt to make a new friend and I will shrivel inside.

I just never feel very cool and so going from ‘chatty in the office’ to ‘hanging out when we’re not being forced to spend eight hours together’ is never a smooth move for me. I’m such a lamo I can barely bring myself to add people on Facebook. I’m a total LinkedIn pro, however – CEO of a company I’d consider working with in the future? I’ll hit that sucker up with a message and a connection request fo sho muthafuggers but asking someone I’ve met socially if I can add them on Facebook? Paroxysms of fear.


It’s all a bit pathet (which isn’t Sanskrit for ‘really cool way to live’ no matter what Ross Geller says) that I as a fully grown woman am too chicken shit and riddled with self-esteem issues to deal with this. It’s like come the fuck on, pull on your (very) big girl panties and get on with it.

Take the Cool Girl from Twitter (hereafter CGfT) – I asked her advice on something chick lit related (we both agreed we’d like to kick that term in the fanny) and from there started chatting about life. We live in the same city, she works at the same place I used to work, we’re both writing books (She is working on her third! Books one and two available here) and we both like alcoholic beverages. So far so kosher. But oh me oh my I fretted over asking whether she’d like to get together for a drinkie or two. Honestly, you’d have thought I was asking her to marry me or to take one of her children as a slave. She replied with a ‘heck yeah!’ and suddenly the weight was lifted. I felt well… I felt like a bit of a bellend to be honest (I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time feeling like an absolute throbber – note to self: work on this) that I’d worked it up into this mega. big. deal.

So we’ve said we’ll go for a drink when she is back from the continent and I am back from Singapore (oh such jet setters) but of course now comes the real crazy – what if she hates me in real actual non-internet life?!

*Ally slams her head on her desk repeatedly. Fade to black*


Concentration Tongue

After a fairly impressive string of updating every day I woke up this morning and thought “faaaaaaark, I’ve not written a post for today. Oh well I’ll bang one out at lunchtime and it’ll all be gravy”. 

Except I didn’t “bang one out”, I got the concentration tongue out (which made everyone in my office laugh) and did some secret squirrel crafting for a wedding on Friday.

The happy couple are officially hitched but are having a full on ceremony with all their favourite people, dancing until midnight, oh and yours truly overseeing proceedings in the role of unofficial registrar type vicar person. 
Sadly I don’t have a cassock or one of those incense jobbies to swing about, but I do have some beautiful wording and a healthy dose of nerves. I am so honoured to have been asked but also crapping my pants in case I fuck it up. I did a reading at an incredible wedding in January and practiced for AGES to do it “off book”, I was stood up there doing my best reading voice with the right inflections when WHAM… I forgot the next line. 

I wanted the ground to swallow me whole I was so mortified. Now I have the fear that I won’t just fuck up a reading, I run the risk of fucking up an entire ceremony. 

The last wedding I was at for this particular family I cried like a damn baby because it was so wonderful and as a family they mean so much to me. Note to self: do NOT cry this time! 

The last wedding I was at for this particular family I cracked open a bottle of Fireball whiskey, got completely trollied, lost my car keys and fell over and chipped a bone in my wrist. Note to self: do NOT drink Fireball, lose keys, and chip another bone. 

Quite a lot to remember but I know it’s going to be great fun. I have a boot full of jam jars, a folder full of wording, and a camera primed and ready so I think I’m just about all set. 

But just don’t fuck it up. 

Hot Liquid Receptacle

“It’s nice to be important but it’s important to be nice”. So says some smart aleck who probably feels very important regardless because they have a trite phrase that people trot out. In my head those people are all exactly like Patty Simcox from Grease with perky ponytails and twinsets whose farts smell like caramel and who always say fiddlesticks instead of fuck.

I am always a bit wary of people who don’t swear, mainly because I find it so satisfying to drop a fuck every now and then. It’s such a great way of punctuating things, of getting attention, and of well just expressing oneself. A family member once told me that I swear too much and that it showed a lack of vocabulary. I say fuck that, and am pleased that said family member has now joined the realms of those who love an ‘F’ bomb.

But back to the niceties. The non-swearing ‘being a good friend’ and all round wonderful human being chat. I had what can only be described as a ‘friendship disappointment’ the other day, a shock out of the blue which made tears prick my eyes and a lump form in my throat. Don’t get me wrong it also made me rage over WhatsApp to anyone who would listen but the primary feeling I had was of real true sadness.

I felt like a total mug and like I’d been taken for a ride, taken advantage of and made to feel so foolish. I determined that it was because I was too nice and the friend sat next to me disagreed because she thinks it’s impossible. I’m not talking about being Susie Sunshine to everyone you meet and nor was she, she was merely saying that where friends are concerned nothing is too much.

If you’re a friend of mine I would do anything for you let’s get that clear. I’m ride or die, get rich or die tryin’, friends ’til the end loyal, and sometimes that loyalty means I AM too nice. I’m too nice to people who don’t deserve it, who have proved either by their actions or by their complete INaction that they simply aren’t worthy. My problem is that sometimes it takes me far too long to realise it, and even then once it’s realised it can take me an age to pluck up the nuts to do anything about it. I also vacillate wildly between being hurt to the bone as I was the other day, and between making excuses for the other person. They’re tired; they have a lot on; they’re stressed; it’s a Wednesday; the weather is bad; on and on until I’ve excused away their shitty behaviour and leave myself feeling like a bad friend for thinking badly of them. A vicious circle of feeling bad upon feeling bad.

But where does it go? Where does it stop? (watch for the sign of the lollipop…) I don’t want to stop being the friend I am because let’s face it I’m fricking awesome at it, but I also don’t want to be a receptacle capable of holding hot liquid anymore.

Answers on a postcard?


Sunday Sound Off: Kettle Chips?!

It was so wrong it put my head into a total spin. A maelstrom of feelings kicked up inside me and I couldn’t concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing. I couldn’t even start to begin to make it right in my head, and I couldn’t imagine the sort of devil in human form who had done it.

I mean really, Pickled Onion Monster Munch in the low tier? Squares in the shit tier? Do me a freakin’ favour. The so called ‘God’ tier is so wrong I don’t even know where to start. Popcorn is fine in small doses but is no match for a lot of the potato based snacks on offer, and Kettle Chips are too crunchy and cut your mouth. That’s a neggers cheggers from me.

Pombear are the staple of a toddler’s picnic and so might be revered by parents over the world but for me they’re deeply unsatisfying (apart from the quiet time they bring when around fiddly peeps). I’d wipe Walkers off the map below for resting on their laurels and then for going way beyond the pale when they try something new – nobody wants fish and chip flavoured crisps thankyouverymuch.


Nik Naks get a tick, although the Rib ‘n’ Saucy flavour are obviously far superior. Space Raiders taste like cardboard and Hula Hoops are only good for a hangover – they lose points for being too small to fit on my fingers anymore. The crisp chart was bad enough, it caused all the dramz on Twitter and it spilled over onto Facebook and then… then it went too far and they took on the biscuits. *Shakes angry fist at the sky*



As the wonderful Susie M said on Facebook, “It takes a person with absolutely no biscuit etiquette to put a Viscount in the middle tier! It’s the biscuit of all biscuits”. You tell ’em Susie!

A-Z: Confessions

  • I always have to put my right sock on first. If I don’t I have to take my socks off and rub away the ‘sockness’ on the floor before starting again.
  • For a long time I thought that Mauritania was a fake place, like Outer Mongolia and Narnia. I hang my head in shame. I also work in business travel so I hang my head further.
  • I don’t understand how wifi works so I just explain it away by fairies fannying about sprinkling little wifis around the place.
  • I’m great at writing cards but rubbish at posting them. When I moved desks a few months ago I found Christmas cards from 2015 at the back of my drawer. I’m also the type of knob who writes ‘Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 2015′ so it’s not even like I can re-use them.
  • I buy Tatler. My friend Harold always winds me up about this and we once wrote our Tatler profiles – his was ‘Harold, 32, collects fine wine, enjoys rambling in the country with his rare breed dog Luna and has a love of Chomps.’ Mine was ‘Alice, 35, enjoys collecting antiquarian books and pieces of statement jewellery as well as playing parlour games on her weekends in the country.’
  • I love a good G&T, my favourite gin is called Barr Hill and is a small batch gin from the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. This makes me sound like a total wanker but it’s delicious.
  • I call my Dad ‘Popsicle’ and my brother ‘Humphrey Big Bear’. His name isn’t Humphrey, and he’s not a bear, but it has stuck.
  • I keep buying books. It’s fatal if I wander off piste at the supermarket and I actively have to stop myself going to Waterstones. When I was in New England I came home with nine new books and narrowly avoided an excess baggage charge.
  • I’m an equal opportunity flirt. I’ll flirt with anyone and sometimes there is nothing better than a flirt with a cheeky old man. It makes their day!
  • I know I’m hitting a depression when I get sad looking at old people. I imagine them hungry and lonely huddling round a one bar fire and it’s a smack upside the head that I need to start looking after myself.
  • I used to hate the thought of being single, the stereotype of a ready meal for one and no social life. I’ve now realised that is total bollocks, being single means I’m not tied down. Hobo has a lovely cat sitter and I’m free as a bird. Well, one with bills to pay, a job to go to, and the neediest cat in the world.
  • I want to be someone people talk about long after I’m gone. Whether it’s good or bad, philanthropist or dictator, the thought of being forgotten upsets me.


(With thanks to ‘My Life: An autobiographical journal from adventures to zealous plots’ by Mr Boddington’s Studio)