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Scouse bird with a vodka dependency and an acute sense of social observation. Always self deprecating, always blunt. Follow me on twitter WARNING: Non-scousers may not understand language of this blog.
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Monday, 4 May 2015
Tuesday, 19 November 2013

Be Spontaneous

I've been invited by lastminute.com to write a blog about being spontaneous.

I like to live my life by the Dr Pepper slogan; what’s the worst that could happen? I’m not even gonna get into the whole YOLO thing. I’m not talking about “OMG I just ate 6 packets of crisps….YOLO!” – that’s not living life to the full, that’s living life to obesity. You do only get one go around (at this point in time anyway if you believe in reincarnation) so it’s your duty to experience and learn as much as you possibly can from life. I’m 28 and I reckon I’ve got more life experience than most people twice my age because there’s not a lot I’ll say no to trying (any lad reading this has just automatically thought ‘yeh she’s into anal her’ - dirty gets).

One day, a few years ago, I was coming out of a really bad relationship. I came home from the gym Sunday afternoon and thought “Fuck this shit, I’m getting off.” I went on the computer an booked a flight and hotel to Paris and rang me mum,

“Muuuummm, can I have a lift the airport?”


“Er, now?”

I heard her rolling her eyes down the phone, like actually heard them rolling, but she agreed; she’s used to these kind of antics from me. People always wonder “Weren’t you scared going away on your own?” No not at all, there was loads to do there and I could do it whenever I wanted to. It turned out to be the best cure for a broken heart ever; the men are so forward there. You can’t walk down the street without men whistling or telling you how fit you are (but then that’s just a normal day for a Scouse bird isn’t it?), I even had an ambulance pull over so the paramedics could wind down the window and tell me how beautiful I was. Needless to say I got home and got rid of that gobshite who was messing me round once and for all.

That wasn’t the first time I’d been away on my own. When I was 19 I booked a holiday with my mates and they cancelled at the last minute because they’d been to Paris and decided they couldn’t afford the trip to Zante anymore. I thought “Screw you guys, I’m off!” and went alone. I took going out clothes in case I made friends and loads of books if I didn’t. I went for tea on the first night on my own and came back to sit on the hotel balcony. Two lads from Stevenage were staying in the room next door, we got chatting and they said “Wanna come out with us?” They’d already met a brother and sister from Birmingham and the 5 of us had a ball for the rest of the holiday. I think even now it’s deffo in the top 3 holidays I’ve ever had, it was such a laugh. We were out til the sun came up every night, sneaking into other hotels an jumping in their pools til security came and shouted Greek profanities at us…just general mischief making.

Then there’s the Mexico chronicles. There was the time we went on the Pirate cruise and ended up going partying downtown with the Mexicans. I mean their actual job description is Pirate of the Caribbean, how could we not? We ended up in some dive karaoke bar drinking 90p bottles of Budweiser and singing the only songs they had in English - Simply the Best and Like a Virgin.

And who could forget that the first night of my holiday I got drunk and went to a tattoo parlour, in a club, by the toilets. Well I obviously can’t forget cos I’ve got a tattoo on my wrist haven’t i?

Then there was the time I went skinny dipping with a fit Geordie lad at 5am in the sea and the hotel security guard started chasing and swearing at us. GAWWWD, security guards ruin all the fun!

Of course being spontaneous doesn’t all revolve around travelling; sometimes you have to take time out to enjoy your own city. I happen to think, sorry KNOW, that I live in the best city in the world. There’s nowhere quite like Liverpool, I love the bones of it.

One day this summer I was drinking in the back garden with my mate Lizzy. I was in a long term relationship which I was desperate to get out of but felt bad because there wasn’t any real reason other than the fact I just didn’t love him – I’d realised we had absolutely nothing in common and it was fast turning to resentment. In the same way other relationships taught me what I don’t want in a man, this taught me that just not being certain things wasn’t enough; he taught me what I do want in a man. Me and Lizzy made a list: he had to be tall, intelligent, ambitious, same sense of humour and loyal….anything else was negotiable. Then the drink ran out.

We decided to go on a last minute night out (you know they’re always the best…see spontaneity is boss!), I had to lend her clothes and shoes because we weren’t prepared. We went for a couple of cocktails and then decided to go the Sir Thomas to meet my mate and missed him by literally 2 minutes. We decided to head to our favourite haunt Moniques and this is where it gets interesting…

When we got there we met up with a couple we know who were already out. As I sat down one of his friends came over who was already out with another set of mates and we got introduced. I said ‘hi’ an carried on talkin to me mate like the snotty bitch I can sometimes be (who isn’t sometimes? I was havin a no man zone night and actually thought ‘He’s too good looking, clearly a gobshite.’)

We got talking later on and I suddenly realised he was ticking all my boxes….like all of them, even the negotiable ones. We were getting on so well! Moniques closed and we headed to Garlands, the lads couldn’t get in cos they were wearing polo shirts *rolls eyes* so we ended up in Passion AKA the arse hole of Eberle Street. We chatted some more, I explained I had a fella but it was imminently ending (that old chestnut, but no seriously I’d already tried to finish it a few weeks earlier….it was deffo happening). It got to about 5am and we piled outside. It was light out and the middle of July so still quite warm. I decided I wasn’t ready for this night to end “Lets go the offy and go the Pier Head”

So flouting all the public drinking laws we got a bottle of Glenns (the fun vodka) and sat on the Pier Head, messing about, talking. It was amazing. Probably the best night out in my own city I’ve ever had. I climbed into bed about 8am and broke up with my fella later that day. He moved out the next.

I ended up having a whirlwind romance with the lad I met but it turns out my initial impressions were right and he was in fact a gobshite. I got my heart all kinds of broken but would I change it for a second? Hell no. I regret nothing, we parted as friends (cos of my overwhelming soundness) an I wish him well. Through gritted teeth ;). Everything that happens in your life, good or bad makes you who you are today and I happen to like me dead loads.

Think you’re as spontaneous as me? Tell me all about your spontaneous stories, tweet me and I’ll RT my favourites or comment on this blog post or Facebook post. Share this blog with your mates and get them to share theirs as well.

Also lastminute.com are running a competition to find a spontaneity champion who will win £50,000 worth of travel experiences, all you have to do is record a 60 second youtube video saying why you should win. Enter here http://lovelivinglastminute.com/?intcmp=mainhpb_banner_marketing_spontaneity_microsite !


Scouse Bird

Saturday, 9 November 2013

An Open letter to the farce that is Blue Inc

Dear Blue Inc,

Let me set the scene: A few weeks ago my friend and I woke up one Sunday morning. I was hungover and we decided to go to town for a roast. I was in the middle of a crappy break up and I said to her “I really feel like getting away for a few days, like to London or Barcelona. I just want to get away from everything.” We were strolling through Liverpool One that afternoon when one of your representatives stopped Lizzy and encouraged her to enter ‘The Face of Blue Inc’ competition – all she had to do was get people to vote for her and the prize was a trip to Barcelona. Wow, ‘what a coincidence’ we thought, it was fate, she had to enter.

I have a social media following of around 200k and Lizzy and I have both got friends with in excess of 20k twitter followers each who have been promoting her profile. Not to mention her family and friends. All in all she's been exposed to over half a million people so she’s been getting her votes fair and square. The people of Liverpool like to get behind one of their own. I mean take Chris Maloney, he was shite and still managed to make it to 3rd place in the X Factor! This is beside the fact that Lizzy is actually drop dead gorgeous and thoroughly deserves to win first place.

There was one girl 'Tammy' who entered the competition and suddenly within one day she managed to come out of nowhere and overtake Lizzy. She had more votes than she even had followers at one point and was boasting all over twitter than it was letting her vote multiple times. You investigated and found her to be cheating and her votes were reset down to 139 instead of over 1100. Obviously there is a way to cheat.

A similar thing has now happened with a male contestant 'Chantiman'. His votes were climbing at an UNBELIEVEABLY fast rate and he has only a couple of hundred followers. Lizzy, along with several other people emailed you with proof that he has created fake Facebook accounts to vote for him and that he was likely buying votes, but after over a week of you saying you would ‘investigate’ him, nothing happened. Not only this but his ‘fans’ (who are most certainly him creating fake accounts judging by the way they all speak in the same broken English) have been slandering Lizzy all over her profile and going after her on twitter. This ‘Chantiman’ posed as several different people including ‘Jonathan Big Brother’ (who implied he was working for Blue inc and left her sinister messages saying he was watching her carefully) and Chantelle Hogg (who was using an American porn stars picture and claiming it was really her). These people implied all over Lizzy’s competition profile page that she was cheating, buying followers, photoshopping her photo etc etc to win. When we pointed out that other pages had received similar abuse but Chantiman’s page hadn’t, all of a sudden some fake accounts popped up and started slagging Chantiman off. This ‘Chantelle’ then tried to blame Lizzy for these accounts. Then the race card was brought into play, all of a sudden everyone was apparently being racist towards Chantiman. I condemn racism, sexism, homophobia and discrimination of minorities of any kind (apart from Wools) but there was no racism whatsoever.

Eventually Lizzy’s dad managed to contact the actual managing director (I believe) of Blue Inc who was furious that this had been allowed to occur. Within an hour of that phonecall Chantiman’s page had been removed. By this point he’d managed to buy over 2600 votes – seriously mate, just BUY a plane ticket to Barcelona.

On twitter Chantiman started tweeting about racism. The next day Lizzy received an email saying that she was being removed from the competition due to ‘dialogue escalating on a matter which is now damaging the competition for all concerned’. Since then Chantiman has been gloating under his own @iamchantiman account and some other fake ones he’s created such as @groupies4ever & @pmslcheater – all in the same broken English Chantiman favours.

This has made an absolute farce of the whole competition. Not only have you allowed a 40 year old mentally unstable man harass and bully a 17 year old girl, you have also disqualified an innocent girl who was mature enough not to rise to the abuse. On top of taking her out of the competition to win the trip to Barcelona you actually e-mailed her the bad news while she’s away for the weekend in Paris with her mum, effectively ruining that holiday as well. We’re going to London next week, she has some puppies you could kick if you like? Or perhaps you’d like to set fire to her beloved leopard print collection? Ruin something else for her?

The competition is a joke and so is your company. Soz. Aba. Yous.


Scouse Bird.
Saturday, 10 August 2013

Ludascouse - Yeah

Watch out my outfits ridiculous
In the club lookin so conspicuous
Rowww I'm a woman who's on the prowl
If you feel "bird me up" ready
I can milk you dry now
If you wanna play games
Imma tell the truth
I'm a crank so ill take scissors to all your best suits
Gimme your card an pin an ill have bags of new clothes
Now bend over to the front an kiss my shellaced toes
Me fella works for jag an I take his dough
Gotta head to KG for gorge foot patrol
How you like me now? Cricket bags I got over three hundred thousand
Lets drink, I'm the one to please
Scouse Bird fills bras with double D's
Me an me birds hit the floor an we leaves em dead
Cos we're fitties in the street an freaks in the bed
Sunday, 14 July 2013

Braggers, liars & blaggers - an anonymous guest blog


Whatever you want to call them, we've all rolled our eyes
at their tweet, status or - god forbid they're ya mate or relative- their text. Those people who no matter what they're doing or who they're with, life is AMAZING. (p.s if you haven't rolled ya eyes at someone, you're that annoying turd who everyone goes "oh ere we go", and forwards the offensive statement to a bezzy who's also a bitchy hater).

So, here I am, not perfect by any stretch, slagging people off, they're the reason I deleted Facebook, I just couldn't bear any more status's about someone's "propa gorjus baybee" (who resembles everyone else's potato) reaching an "amayzin" milestone (like everyone else's potato), or someone who's "gorjus fella who's me world" brought a bag of treats home from the asda, so he's "the best fing that's ever append to me". Such status's would be acceptable, if you didn't already know, her baby should have made that milestone MONTHS ago,  and her fella was a serial cheat and their entire relationship began the night she fell pregnant, with several episodes of changing her fb status to single. 

That leads me to, the question - why do people polish turds? Golden glitter on the poo & all tha!? I won't lie, I have done it once or twice myself, mainly for the benefit of a boyfriends fat greasy ex who looked like Rick Waller in drag (no offence Rick love) who slagged me off after seeing me in a dark car, where she served us at a drive thru of a certain stinking chicken shop. 

But I don't mean that kind of bragging, I mean people who make the most average activities sound out of this world, or describe their baby as the next Albert Einstein. Let me give you a few examples of a "polisher" and a "fly"
Polisher : awwwwwwwww had the most amazing night with my one & only love him loads
Fly: awwwwwww babe what yas been up to?
Polisher: just had a proper lovely walk down the beach the sunset was proper gorgeous yano
Hang on a minute "babe", you went to seaforth in ya fellas fiesta.

Or another baby related one

Polisher: can't believe my special little princess can use the potty!! Proud mummy!
Fly: awwwww babe!!! Made up for ya our Lilly Mae / Lilly Ella / Ella Mae / Ella Rose/ Rosey Lilly has just learnt to stand up! Mad how fast they grow can't believe it.

A. Why can't you believe it she's 4 it's about time she stopped shittin er pants
B. don't refer to yaself like that 
C. Sort ya kids name out
D. Why can't you believe it, she's a kid they actually grow yano? 

Now, here's a few real life examples of people who I call my friends. One poor flower was in an intense 6 week relationship with a serial cheat, every next status was about how happy she was and how lucky she had been to find someone sooooo special and perfect. I swear down these status were posted simultaneously whilst crying down the phone to me after being stood up AGAIN. I was speaking to another friend one time when she said "just enjoying breakfast then off for a nice day shopping" turned out she was in Yates bootle on her way the Asda on a Thursday morning....is it just me or does that sound more like a reply you get off someone sat on a table somewhere sunny and fun? A real favourite of mine is people who constantly refer to their  "perfect" life/partner/baby prodigy, yet every second status is about how overcome with depression they are and how much they "hateeeeee a certain someone" because they've "finally seen someones true colours!!!!" I know someones who once caught their fella of 1 year texting another girl, been devastated & rang me upset, yet the next day for the benefit of facebook, she posted a picture of the brand new phone & clothes he had bought her because "he's my perfect soulmate, my babe, my world". She skipped the minging lying grovelling pig part out of THAT status.  Another mate, in a very serious but bang average  long term relationship, was once seen referring to a night with her boyfriend as "random and amazing" first of all her night couldn't have been any less random, she's got a clingy toddler and needs to schedule a babysitter weeks in advance, not to mention her OCD for planning & the amazing she referred to was tea somewhere in L1 courtesy of a vouchercloud discount. 

Now that leads me smoothly on to the phenomenon that is "date nights" & referral to said nights via status, tweet or text. E.g "can't wait for a fab little date night with my one 💖💕💖" . Can ANYONE explain to me what this is supposed to achieve or represent? The saying proper gets on my tits! One mate text me once & said "can't see you tonight Hun me & (insert boys name)are having a little romantic date night" evidently I asked her "aww what yas up to?" Only for her to respond "just having a take away and some sweets with a nice film" I thought fuck a duck how lucky am I? Me and my fella are always having date nights! 

I sound like a bitter arl hag with no mates, I'm actually happily settled with a genuinely nice lad and a good circle of mates, it just so happens that I've got a keen eye for those who love the b.s, and I'm a bit of a fuckin bitch. Anyway, going to have a cosy night on me lovely sofa with me gorgeous fella, while enjoying a few wines and some of our favourite goodies. 

Nah, fuck that I'm going to  reactivate Facebook and refresh me twitter feed, whilst being sat in a comfortable silence on me little couch next to my moody kite fella with nothing but a bag of Doritos and Haribo between us.  
Friday, 5 July 2013

Personal training

Have you ever met a man you absolutely cannot lie to? I have, and it's not even me fella. Lying to me fella is easy;
"No babe, the cats haven't been licking your food." 
"I've got no idea how match of the day got deleted off the Sky plus box" 
"No babe, if the fella from the diet coke advert ever responded to my twitter stalking and followed me back I wouldn't be thinking of him every time we have sex." 
See? Piece of piss. The fella I cannot lie to is Craig, my personal trainer.

It all started when my yoga place unexpectedly shut down. I was recommended to try Olympus Gym on Hatton Garden in town as they offered hot yoga classes. Craig popped up and tweeted that if I wanted results I should come and see him for PT sessions. I'd tweeted about a week earlier "there's 110 calories in a banana and only 55 in a vodka diet coke, make smart choices" which he'd replied to saying that alcohol reduces the body's ability to break down fat by 73%. I informed him that it also increases your ability not to give a shit by 74% though.

Naturally I was suspicious of him, I knew he was goin to try and tear me and vodka apart. And he did. Home wrecker.

Coming down the stairs into Olympus gym I'm always greeted by Craig standing at the bottom waiting, with an evil grin on his face. And it is evil. One of the pre-requisites to being a PT is being able to derive pleasure from other human beings suffering. I've never seen him eat, he just feeds off sweat, blood and tears. He calls everyone "flower" in a gentle, friendly tone, but don't be fooled. Tell me he's nice when you've experienced leg day. I never knew I could get emotional over split squats. 

While I'm warming up on the rower he'll pose the dreaded question, "So what did you get up to this weekend?" And I swear, it's like he knows. Out of my mouth comes tumbling the truth bit by bit, "Well I had my cheat meal like you said."
"What did you have?"
"Burger and chips and chocolate cake"
"And I had 2 glasses of prosecco. I know you said I wasn't allowed any alcohol but I had like 2 jugs of water so that probably cancelled it out"
His eyes widened.
"And a vodka."
"And they didn't have slimline tonic so I had to have full fat tonic"
"Are you kidding me??"
"And a steam boat"
"I'm gonna kill you. 20 burpees right now!"
"I had a quarter pounder meal at maccies in the day too. I know you said it was only one cheat meal I'm allowed not a cheat day so that was like me starter.!" (Muahaha didn't tell him I had chicken nuggets as well though)

Don't get me wrong, he's a hard task master but he gets results. Even with a weekend away in France which included a massive alcohol and carb binge I managed to drop 11.5 inches from my upper chest, waist, abdomen, bum and ham arms in just 2 weeks. I mean I had reservations on whether or not I'd be able to stick to it after the first session which largely included me rolling around on the floor like a slug screaming "No more!!! Please no more!!!" He even has what I call Fergie time and Fergie reps. You'll count 12 reps in your head and he'll insist you've only done 9 the cheeky scoundrel.

But credit where it's due, I'm closer to being sexy for mexi than I have been any other year. I reckon another dress size and ill be happy. This is now even more important as some skinny waif of a Scouse bird informed me the other day that her an her fella are stayin at my hotel in Mexico at the same time as me and as you know scousers are magnets for other scousers on holiday. Abs need to get on my belly right now.

See picture for typical conversations with Craig.

If you're into pain an suffering and that Craig is on twitter @craigm_pt and he trains at @olympusclub_spa


Scouse Bird

Wednesday, 3 July 2013

Guest post - The Cocky Horror Show

Guest post by Elissa Corrigan @misselissac

There is a pattern emerging. Men keep showing me their penises. Now, some would say that I shouldn’t complain, but what I’m talking about is a display without good reason. Penis without provocation and I have had ENOUGH. 

Let me start by opening the debate and this question is strictly for the girls. Have you ever seen schlong with out ever asking for it? Recently, I’ve had the displeasure of viewing three unsolicited ding-dongs. And surely that’s not normal? In fact so troubled by this quota of unwanted appendages, I began questioning myself, is this something I’m putting out there? Have I got something inadvertently tattooed on my forehead that says: I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours?

The first time was on a recent jaunt to Spain. Imagine the scene- I’m in a rustic restaurant quaffing a crisp glass of Chardonnay, sitting on a gorgeous mosaic terrace, surrounded by trails of Petunias and Geraniums, basking in the balmy evening sunlight.

I’m in deep in conversation when I’m rudely interrupted by a guttural drunk in a Diadora tracksuit and his dollymop wife arguing like they were on the set of Jeremy Kyle.

It was hard to hear but I managed to deduce; the chav-tastic wife ‘Irene’ was irate with her hammered hubby’s behaviour after getting them ejected from a restaurant down the road. I watched open mouthed as she roared at him, her dentures clicking like castanets and pointing her sovereign-clad finger in her pissed up partner’s face.

Except he was bladdered and oblivious to her bawling. So the rowdy hag was left with no choice but to stomp off back to the direction of her hotel leaving her hiccupping other half to fend for himself.

I accidentally caught his glazed eye. He began meandering his way toward our table, coughed a rainbow of germs in my direction, pulled down his shell suit bottoms and give the plants next to us a watering of his own like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was the foulest creature I’ve seen all year.

About a week a later, I was returning home late at night when, 10 metres from my apartment, I came upon another bloke performing this unattractive ritual: peeing in a doorway. I was stepping into the road, tutting and muttering to myself, giving him and his ever-increasing sulphurous puddle a wide berth, when he turned around, swinging his pathetic piece in the air like Saddam on Youtube, and yelled out at me to “Suck it.” Bloody diabolical if you ask me, but I wasn’t in the mood for a fracas. Not that night. 

The final straw came when I was having my nails tendered a few months ago and I was sent a picture of a penis. That really was the wrong side of enough. I decided to teach this gobsh*te a lesson.

But first some background info that later becomes very important. I’d been on two dates with this guy- let’s call him J. No sex, no fondling, no kissing even. Actually, you couldn’t even call them dates; we just used to hang out. God knows he tried his luck in the usual gentlemanly way; dinners, champagne, chocolates and flowers but I wasn’t interested and no amount of gifts was going to change that.

You’d think he would have got the message when I never returned his phone calls but I guessed he must have a lower IQ than the number of his limbs. Instead he decides to send me a snap of himself stark bollock naked in his bedroom mirror and qualified his actions by saying: “This is just in case you never get to see me naked.”

Now I am as far removed from a prude as they come, but really what is this phenomenon whereby men have to branish their bratwurst around. Am I being stupid by not marvelling at the self-exposure of these pathetic strangers? Ten years ago you would never have heard of this, let alone believe it. If it’s not being wielded in front of my face, then it’s being pinged to my mobile. I am astonished when I think about it. It’s a disgrace, disrespectful and a pollution as well. Is this acceptable behaviour? Keep it in your pants FFS!

Revenge ensues. Firstly, I text him back saying: “That thing will never be put anywhere except the palm of your hand and possibly the occasional Watermelon or Russian sex doll.”

Secondly, I called my best friend, V. I showed her the photo and after a serious bout of laughter, we decided right then and there, it was just not on and we would make an example of J.

We reasoned, he was obviously so pleased with his nether rod, and so willing to show it off then why keep it hidden? What harm could it do if we shared it with a few hundred relative strangers. We would let it his phallus flourish.

Not only did we post the picture on Facebook and tag this awful cretin - making it instantly appear on his profile - but we also tagged 50 of our mutual friends, so they could join us in our mocking, no scratch that, our sharing.

As you can imagine, as soon as J got wind of our scheme he was utterly distraught. Such was his mortification that he deleted his account all together. But really what do you expect when you send a pic of pecker to a manipulative witch like me?

I can tell you it caused quite a stir and some of the jibes left on the picture were hilarious. Try these on for size. “It looks like Jeremy Beadles withered hand”, “I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil” “Has that guy got an inny?” – Everyone was in unison, it was a grow-er not a show-er. Actually it was just a SHEOWER.

The desired effect, you may conclude. You may be right.

This was a life lesson he would never forget. Harsh, but necessary.  But on a wider scale our actions should serve as a warning to anyfella who’s toying with the idea of forwarding a picture of his precious piece. THINK AGAIN.