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?”

“When?”

“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 !

XOXO

Scouse Bird

Watch out my outfits ridiculous

.

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.  

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.

Elissa 

I'm a shit blogger. No posts on here since April! Although still loads of beauty/lifestyle ones under reviews on www.ScouseBirdProblems.com like. I do solemnly vow to blog a bit more on here, even if they're short and sweet.

Last Saturday night a few friends and I attended a charity ball in aid of the Dental Mavericks at the Hilton as volunteers helping out with running the auction etc. I’d found out Chris Maloney was gonna be there and already I’d envisaged us in a mad scrap like the scene out of Bridget Jones when Colin Firth and Hugh Grant go through a window. I’m not dramatic honest.

Anyway we got there early for the briefing, CM my arch-nemesis came in and started introducing himself to everyone, I made sure I was otherwise engaged tweeting etc. Soz lad, without telling you who I am there’s no way in good conscience I could shake your hand. Besides I might catch gobshite-itis. No one needs a dose of that on a Saturday night.

After all the glam, rich people went in for their dinner, we were sat about in the bar having a couple of drinks and a bit of food while we waited for our cue later on for the auction. Gotta get these people nice and drunk before you hold an auction. Advice I should have heeded. Having not eaten all day, a couple of glasses of wine had gone straight to me head, so it wasn’t the wisest time to head over to ‘just take a look’ at the silent auction of signed photographs. I spotted a signed Audrey Hepburn picture which would look amazing in my make up room alongside Marilyn Monroe & Ingrid Bergman so I thought “Okay, it’s gonna be expensive BUT it’s for charity, and I do love her, and I’ve just paid off my credit card and most importantly, I’m drunk. I’ll bid say £150, everyone’s happy.” I filled in my details for the super posh man who was running it and then he handed me over the bidding card and said “Just put your maximum bid there.” It was only then that I flew into a blind panic when I saw the reserve price was £700. Oh god, I can’t back out now, the man is dead posh and I’m at a posh ball, he’ll know I’m poor and a fraud and he’ll judge me and look on me with pity! I best put £701 and hope all these rich people outbid me. I deffo won’t win. As we all know, alcohol mixes well with most things, except decisions.

I heard no more about it and relieved at my lucky escape I later egged me mate on as she bid up to a grand to go on Rossie’s breakfast show on Radio City but got outbid at the last minute. She’s starting up her own business at the mo and I’m pretty sure she would have been getting divorced if she’d won.

Anyway back to us sitting in the bar. We were perched on a couch thing eating our steak when who should walk past, back from (I assume) a ciggy break but dun dun dun, my arch-nemesis CM. “Oh haven’t you’s got a table?” The shame! No we’re volunteering for charity actually, we’re not loaded or getting paid to be here. My mate told him who I actually was and he just looked at me an went “But WHHHYYY??”

Me: Cos ur horrible.

I then went onto explain the contents of my other blog about CM explaining my beef with him and obviously went into actual details.

He said “Well alls I can do is apologise for my actions, I must have been going through a bad period in my life. But I’m not gonna stand here justifying myself to you.”

“Sound. Best of luck.” And carried on eating my steak. What an anticlimax, I wanted drinks thrown an all sorts. It was like an awkward scene from Desperate Scousewives. Am I convinced? Hmmm not sure. But as far as I’m concerned he apologised for the offence caused to me personally so that’s that.

Other highlights of the night included:
• meeting Atomic Kitten which was more emotional for me mate cos he’s a die hard fan of Kerry Katona, loves the bones of her.
• Wearing a necklace containing John Lennon’s DNA. Felt pretty damn scouse after that.

So anyway, Monday rolled around and I was in work, typing away, minding my own business when I got a phonecall.

“Hi, you attended an event on Saturday night?”
“Yes….”
“You’ve won a signed photograph of Audrey Hepburn.”

Oh shit. Fuck. Twat. I burst out laughing down the phone to her and said “Oh my god I am in so much trouble, me fella is gonna kill me” I had to think quickly, I got my diary out and started organising delivery for the day I knew he’d be at work and I’d be home. I’ll just hang it up in the make up room, he’s not very observant, he’ll never even notice. It’s my credit card, I don’t get statements, no one has to die here.

I quickly started googling Audrey Hepburn photos to see how much I could flog it for on ebay…turns out I could maybe actually make a profit on it if I ever decided to sell. In the end I’ve decided to keep it cos I love her loads. I had to break it to me fella this morning and I’ve sold the situation to him by sayin it’s like investing in shares, it’ll increase in value, plus it’s all for charity! He’s not speaking to me now though. Oops.

Could be worse babe, it could’ve been shoes. Again.

X O X O

Scouse Bird

Some people are shoe people, some people are bag people. I like shoes and I like bags but my great love affair is with make up. It’s getting to the point where I really think I missed my calling in life as a MUA. Imagine just doing make up all day every day – heaven!

I have tons of the stuff, everything from Maybelline to Mac, Collection 2000 (doesn’t get used) to Chanel – it’s a luxury I don’t think twice about splurging on. Don’t get me wrong, I was recently almost reduced to tears at how beautiful my friends real Louboutin collection was but the average girl cannot just simply drop a grand on a pair of shoes at a whim – but £50 on a new foundation? No problem! It’s the designer gear we can all afford, at least every now and again. Every girl should feel the buzz that comes from strutting through town with an array of designer bags on her arm (in the crook of the elbow of course). Grey Goose lifestyle on a handbag vodka budget.

I’ve been to get my make up done professionally a couple of times and I know people I can rely on to do a fantastic job but truth be told I very rarely get my make up done by a ‘trained professional’ because I ENJOY doing it myself (I say trained professional, the amount of girls now who’ve been to a demo day at the MAC counter and now reckon they’re boss, setting up Facebook business pages with wonky eyes all over the gaff is ridiculous. They look like they take their inspiration from Picasso rather than Peaches). It’s like the adult version of ‘art class’. I get my palettes, my brushes and I can express myself on a blank canvas. Do I want natural (answer normally no), dramatic, gothic, 50’s, glamorous? Do I want it to be all about the eyes or the lips? Do I want glitter (always)? I can let my creative side loose.

As with most things, unless you’re some sort of child prodigy, doing make up well is a skill that needs to be learnt. I remember looking back at pictures of a night out after my first dalliance with black eyeshadow and I looked like Uncle Fester from the Addams family, smackhead eyes I called it. I was scared of black eyeshadow for a long time after that – I’d look at pictures of glamour models rocking the dramatic black look and start shaking and crying in the corner. I never wanted to look that much like a wool ever again.

Probably one of the hardest things to learn (other than sticking your eyelashes on straight and perfecting an even eyeliner flick – which is NOT like riding a bike, you can definitely get rusty unless you constantly practice your technique) is the smokey eye. A few years ago when Benefit released their smokey eye kit, including a handy step by step guide to creating the look, I felt like a mysterious new world had finally been unlocked for me. Their safe, neutral pinks and browns and plenty of practice gave me the confidence and skills required to pull off the smoke well. Now the make up world is my oyster and I’ve developed the 60 second smoke technique (patent pending ha) for having fab Scouse eyes every day - even when you’re late for work. NB Those who are still drawing their eyebrows on wonky need not apply, requires good hand to eye co-ordination.

When MAC first opened in town I was overjoyed, like a Scouse Bird at a footballers party, I was in my element. Everyone soon cottoned onto it though and now I dread going in because I know I’ll have to wait at least 15 minutes while the staff are either serving some wool who doesn’t know her pink from her coral and is gonna look a show no matter how much she buys (you can buy all the make up that MAC can make, but if you look inside you, see you’re a wool through and through, you can accept that you’ll never be a damn scouse fitty), or they’re talking about who’s copped off with who the weekend before “Oh Louise I was a proper sheeeooow yano, I slobbered on his shoulder!” – Listen Louise, never mind that, I want a lippy and I want it NOW! Thank god for Illamasqua opening opposite.

If you ever go to New York one of the things you absolutely MUST experience is make up shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue and Barney’s. I was served by two of the most overly dramatic camp guys I’ve ever met in my life (and I live in Liverpool, the city home to Pink & Garlands) and they had me wanting to buy the whole make up counter, which I very nearly did. “Oh hunny that colour looks FABULOUS on you!! I am sooo jealous! This colour was made for you!” Eyar here’s me credit card, just take it, it’s yours!
Scouse Bird 4 make up 4 eva IDST xx