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.


Monday, 1 July 2013

Identity theft

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.

One of the strings to my bow is that I'm a landlord. Well landlady. I was sat in the hairdressers yesterday gettin drenched by the work experience girl washin me  hair (arr if you're readin this girl, bless your cotton socks, soakin people is a rite of passage and you did a fab blow dry) when I got a call off a number I didn't know. I pay all my bills on time and I don't have any mad exes that I'm tryin to swerve therefore unknown numbers don't really fill me with fear an dread, so I answered. It was the next door neighbour for the property I rent out.

"Hi Scouse Bird (he used my real name like, I don't call round to collect the rent in a Coleen mask or anything), I've got a bit of a problem with your tenant."

Shit. "Riiiight?" I had visions of slanging matches on the street, domestic abuse, music blasting til all hours & them turning my old gaff into a brass house.

"Yeh they've committed identity fraud on me, opened all sorts of credit agreements an now they've done a bunk"

FUUUUCCKK "What??! No that doesn't make sense, she's spent loads doin the house up, she's completely redecorated, why bother doin that if they're just planning on gettin off?"

"They've bought loads of phones and computers an I don't know where they got the money. I mean, they could've just gone out for the day though."

"Hmm ok. Well there's not a lot I can do about it, alls I can suggest is calling the police an let them investigate."

"Right ok see ya"

I'm not sure what he wanted me to do, make a citizens arrest? Either way, I carried on gettin my hair done (I was goin out for a cheat meal that night to Byrons) and sat there dreading the thought of havin to find another tenant. Be assed. About an hour later he called again.

"Hi Scouse Bird, I've just seen them come home. They haven't done a bunk."

Thank fuck for that "Right, that's good. So what actually makes you think it was them anyway? Is it just that they bought a computer?"

"Well yes. What it was, someone phoned pretending to be from BT an i gave them access to my computer, I fell for it hook line and sinker. Now they have all my details. Only next door would know I have a computer."

"Yeh John* that's a pretty common scam that, I think they just assume every house has a computer and try their luck."


"Yeh. I've had someone blaggin they're from Microsoft ringin me. An I've heard of one hoax where someone rings pretending to be from BT sayin they'll cut your phone line if you don't pay there and then and ill prove it. Then when you hang up they stay on the line and mute it so when you pick up the phone again the line sounds dead. Then they ring you back 10 mins later and say 'see, we cut your phone off'. So they're dead clever John* - I don't think it's them next door like"

"But...what do I do?" 

I actually felt dead sorry for him. I don't think there's any quick fix to sort out having your identity stolen. I just told him to contact the credit reference agencies and the police and be vigilant in future.

So yeah, be careful everyone - identity theft is proper arly.

*name has been changed to protect identity. the irony.

Scouse Bird 

Sunday, 14 April 2013

Being Scouse Bird

Well I’ve now just past the 1 year mark of having the Scouse Bird account. I’ve already alluded to what a roller-coaster ride it’s been in the 2012 round up but new things happen all the time. 

It’s not all plain sailing, I have my share of critics and haters which I have to deal with and it’s very hard to keep a level head and to not to get caught up in all the hype. On the one hand you do get people calling you a celebrity and treating you like a celebrity which is very strange cos on the other hand YOU know you’re not and no one would even look twice at you walking down the street. To be honest I’d hate all that anyway, I find the attention quite embarrassing at times but it is what it is. As for the hate tweets, well it just comes with the territory really doesn’t it? The higher you climb the more people will try and bring you down. I just ignore them...occasionally one will get to me and I’ll go to write a reply and then think “Hang on, am i actually assed what they think? No.” and delete it. Why give them attention?
The way I see it is that Scouse Bird is a character, I’m just her creator. I write her. I’m no one special or famous, I’m not more or less Scouse or perfect than the next girl walking down the street. She is though. She’s the epitome of Scouse. She’s a little bit of me now, a bit of me from the past, a bit of my friends, a bit of my enemies, a bit of celebrities, a bit of overheard conversations - she’s like a patchwork quilt of the whole city. I’m not her in the same way Brendan O’Carroll isn’t Mrs Brown or Ricky Gervais isn’t David Brent. In a way she doesn’t exist except in our imaginations. Even I talk about her as if she’s another person, I don’t say “I think this” i say “No I don’t think Scouse Bird would think this”.

This brings me on to the Circle of Sheow. Most people love it and appreciate it for what it is - a superficial critical assessment of an outfit or a shoe, but some people genuinely take offence to it and call it cruel. It’s critical not cruel and magazines have been doing it for years, it’s not a new concept. Right, here’s how i see it - I make sure ‘Scouse Bird’ is never personal, she never attacks people’s looks or weight, NEVER, she also makes sure to show as little of the person as is possible while still demonstrating the point she’s trying to make and she NEVER shows the face. I’ve had people create captions for pictures they’ve snapped and sent in which are making fun of people for being fat or whatever and i’ve explained there’s no chance I’m using them. Now if i put a picture up saying a shoe is horrid or a dress is vile some people do then take it upon themselves to go personal with it and leave nasty comments, I’m not there to censor or police that - that’s up to the individual. Someone suggested I have a responsibility to stamp out bullying the other day...I disagree. I’m not pro-bullying, far from it, I’ve been bullied myself in the past, it’s just 1. I don’t see the Circle of Sheow as bullying, it’s one isolated comment about something extremely superficial which like or not we all do. We all make comments to our friends when we’re out like ‘look at her shoes’ or ‘state of that, wtf is that she’s wearing’ and I see Scouse Bird as someone people recognise in themselves or in their mates. I get sent in about 20+ circle of sheows a day. I don’t use most of them. and 2. When exactly do I get this responsibility bestowed on me exactly? Was it at 10k followers, 50k followers? Did someone come along and go right that’s it now, you can’t say what you want anymore because someone might get offended? Because I must have been hungover and missed that. I’ve been doing ‘circle of sheow’ pictures of kitten heels etc since the account started, it’s only now I’m hearing dissent (and mostly off Facebook users *rolls eyes*). It’s not me personally sitting here dishing out judgements, I’ve worn enough dodgy outfits in the past to be in the Circle of Sheow a few times myself (and have actually put myself in there once) and I’ve as much chance of anyone as being snapped and sent in to Scouse Bird. I frequently change my outfit 3 times before I leave the house nearly having a breakdown over whether Scouse Bird would like it or not - I’ve created a monster! I’m frightened of her. In every one of us, like it or not, there’s a fashion critic - no one knows best, we all have our own personal style. If it makes you feel uncomfortable then I urge you to press the unfollow button, go free my crank.

So what’s next for me and Scouse Bird? Well there are new offers coming in all the time and I feel a bit like I’m spinning plates in the air, and I love it! I’m always busy (which means I have to say no to a lot of things) and I don’t often get time to chill out and do nothing (and even when I do I get fidgety) - she’s literally changed my life, even though it’s like I’m working 2 full time jobs at the moment. I do have one very big project I’m working on at the moment which hopefully I can make an announcement on in the next couple of months BUT I don’t want to jinx it - when I know, you’ll know. But it’s VERY VERY exciting indeed. Dream big! And haters, you can shove it up your jacksy, I’m not arsed what you think ;-)

X O X O 

Scouse Bird

Friday, 8 March 2013

Under the hammered

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?”
“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.


Scouse Bird
Saturday, 23 February 2013

The moment I wake up - my love affair with makeup

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
Sunday, 10 February 2013

Marilyn Monroe was NOT a size 16

~I’m all for people having a healthy body image, but there’s one phrase that gets wheeled out at every available opportunity and certified as fact (by people who quite possibly want to make themselves feel better and/or are ill informed) that Marilyn Monroe was a size 16. Let’s face it, she wasn’t. She has curves, I’ll give you that but can somebody please watch ‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes’ or ‘Diamonds Are a Girls Best Friend’ and tell me she’s anything but absolutely tiny? I mean she makes Jane Russell look big and you’re not telling me she was a size 20. Come off it.

I’ve seen several experts from the fashion industry say that at some point she may have been a size 16 but that’s much more like a modern day 10-12 and actually for the most ~part she was no more than a size 8. Don’t be holding the woman up as a shining beacon for a healthy bigger body image while you’re stuffing your face with crisps and chocolate and spilling out your Primark leggings. That’s NOT a healthy body at all. You’d have to be about 6’5” or something for a size 16 to be medically healthy – I used to be there and trust me it was not healthy. I’m not suggesting it’s wrong to be a size 16, if you’re there and you’re GENUINELY happy about it, then g’wed girl but that Marilyn would’ve shopped in Evans or Simply Be if she was about today is quite simply…bullshit.

Now don’t think I’m preaching to you from a pair of size 6 skinny jeans, I’m not! I’m pretty tall and normally range between a size 12 to 14 depending on how well I’m doing on the salad graft (and it IS a graft) – I don’t consider myself to be fat. Even when I was 2.5 stone lighter than I am now I was still a size 12, that’s just my frame. It’s taken me many years to accept that, but accept it I have. Don’t get me wrong there are some days when I feel bloated and think I look aesthetically inferior to a sack of spuds but every girl gets that bloated feeling. Norassed, it passes. What I strive to be is in the healthy weight range. I eat right with the occasional fall off the wagon, I used to exercise a lot but I’ve moved house away from the gym (badly need to get back there or join a new one) and it IS a struggle to maintain that balance when there’s scones and kettle crisps and lazy days on the couch calling my name – but I don’t want to get to my mid 40’s and be faced with a plethora of health issues just cos Domino’s keep texting me with their special offers (the bastards). So I graft to be healthy - Every. Single. Day

It seems to be more acceptable now to pick on images of the really skinny and say it’s unattractive but shock horror if someone says it about an overweight person. That's also not attractive because it’s just not how we were designed to look.
Size is all relative to height. If I was shorter and kept the same proportions I probably would be a size 8-10…..if someone is a size 16 and really short they ain’t gonna be looking anything like Marilyn Monroe so don’t use that as an excuse to fall down the cakey rabbit hole girlies. If you're not happy with your body then why not make it your goal to get healthy not to starve yourselves to get skeletal or give up and eat yourself into type 2 diabetes. Marilyn Monroe was gorgeous and a stunner, a 50’s version of Beyonce or Kelly Brook – she IS what we should aspire to be - womanly. I saw a twitter user say regarding skinny girls: “Only a dog wants a bone.” And I love that. I’m not saying that everyone MUST get fit and healthy, nor that it’s easy (it’s definitely not) just don’t be using ‘MM was a size 16’ as an excuse to trick yourself into feeling sexy when you’re actually miserable/unhealthy. 

~I think there is a definite, if sometimes imperceptible switch towards a better body image in recent years. We don’t want the unhealthy skinny, nor the unhealthy fat, we want the nice curvy, ‘something to grab’ in between body, and since the Olympics especially, the fit, athletic body. Well pretty much all of us that is, apart from Katie Price – My first thought was ‘You cheeeekkkkkyy bitch!” when she had the nerve to call Kelly Brook a heifer this week. Yes love you may have the hips of an 8 year old child but you’ve got a face like a smacked arse and Kelly is still considered to be one of the most beautiful women in the world. Get back in the kennel Jordan. Soz aba you.

Happy salad grafting girls xx