Love, Honour, and Fuck That Shit


Liberate Tutemet


(I always wanted to start a blog with “OK, so….” just because it’s so fucking frowned upon. Job done).

First up: a confession. I pinched the title from a story. But it’s my own story so I ain’t gonna be suing the arse off myself. Actually – I might do that. I’m weird.

This is about marriage and what it IS and what it should be and what it IS THE FUCK NOT….

….at least…to me. These are my eyes and they see weirdly. They can also cry if they want to. And so can my soul. Whatever and wherever the Hell that may be.

Marriage to me is nothing to do with godstuff. It’s nothing to do with vowing some meaningless shite in front of a shitload of leathered guests who’ve essentially only turned up because they have a particular affinity with free fucking food and ridiculously big fuckoff…

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Liberate Tutemet

I met some eyes and stared a while;
For in their sadness: mine.
I was the sponge who soaked their sobs;
Their weeps and cries and whines.
When wetness over, tears the foe;
I dried my soaking-sponge.
When he was dry, his tears now mine;
I listened to his tongue.
He told a story rich but poor,
Of past and present true;
Where hurt was bare, love had no chance;
No nights or days to rue.
Then soulful power followed us,
With prose and hopeful song;
With care and early promises
Of love forever long.
Six decades passed and still we loved;
Addicted to each other;
Those eyes I met again and stared;
Across the ‘planes- my lover.
When time was done and days were up;
We lay and linked our hands;
A burial of hearts embraced;
Now hidden ‘neath the sand.

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For Bookywook day….why King Lear is my fave…. it’s not a book, exactly…but it’s IN one…😂😂😂😂😂

Liberate Tutemet

I’ve been asked a gazillion times, “Why the tattoo?” – Well, I went on a little Lennon-pilgrimage where I happened upon beautiful graffiti.  There were beautiful words painted in Beatlesome spots by Lennon fans, to remind him that he LIVES. Lyrics written by him, and repeated by die-hard fans decades later. And that’s when it hit me: this sudden EPIPHANY of “Why the FUCK do I not have any Shakey written on my body?” I OWE him.

The ink of choice was an easy decision. It’s the most beautiful, powerful catalyst of a quote, from a woman who doesn’t realise her own strength of character. She knows her Dad, though, and is pretty likely to have an idea of the banishment that’ll happen if she tells the truth. She contemplates hushing, but like ME, she can’t lie. Nor can she keep quiet. It’s impossible. And by the tragically unhappy end…

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We Have Such Sights To Show You


Liberate Tutemet

So – you’re a movie buff. Me too. But for those of you still in the filmfreak closet, here’s a way you can quote your favourite lines ALL….DAY….LONG….and nobody need ever know (unless you want them to – I assure you, it’s a great pulling technique if you want to gather yourself a nice, smart movie geek).

Technically, any flick with a half-decent script is a quotemine, so this list is compiled with that in mind; to show you just how easy it is. Quotes you didn’t know you knew, lines from films that are usually overlooked when it comes to “Best Quote” lists. It’s especially thigh-slappingly amusing trying to crowbar a line into a conversation at work. With a customer. On the telephone. And yes – I have. Many times.

So fly, fly – engage in a little of your own project mayhem that only the true enthusiast…

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Liberate Tutemet

“Linda Maaaaaaary!” yelled my Scouse-Irish-Catholic mother who was an utter hypocrite and hated being known by her full churchy name of Patricia Anne Veronica. Sounded like a bloody nun so of course, me being me, I used to prefix it with Sister – just because it sounded so niiiice next to Patricia. This was assonance and I didn’t know it.

“What are you hiding? I can read you like a book”.

Apparently, everybody always could – except me. I had no idea who I was.

I’m not one of those womb-writers who’s been at it since conception. I haven’t always wanted to write. But this: I’ve always written. And because I always did, everyone else decided that’s what I was going to do. I denied it, of course – and then went and wrote about my desire for people to drop the subject.

Having my father for a dad helped…

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Here’s how it goes:

There’s a girl. The girl looks half decent. And by decent, I mean that she has female parts- the sum of which apparently, in the minds of many, equate to “you flatter me enough and I will fuck you”. For she has no brain, you see. Not a cell. She can’t have – she’s a girl.

She’s an Aileen or a Lisa or an Anna or a Kate – she’s everywoman.

She befriends some geezer on social media, due to mutual friends and/or common interests. Said geezer knows exactly how easy she is, for she has flickingly long hair. ASKING for it, she is. She MUST be – he’s sure he saw some cleavage in one of those selfies of hers.

After precisely three seconds, the “you’re gorgeous” comments come flooding into her inbox. She must simply love hearing this because, after all, she occasionally wears lippie. And women only wear the stuff when they’re on the pull, right?

She ignores this, and because she always gives people the doubt’s benefit, continues on her merry way putting the universe to rights and annotating aforementioned social media outlet with every single thought that pops into her bonce. But even though (and perhaps BECAUSE) it’s a beautiful bonce, surely she must be tired of all this CULTURE she seems to relish so? She needs a good bangin’. That’s what she needs. HE will TELL her what she needs.

POETRY, though? Damn.

She likes a book or two? Hmm.

He sees her cleverness as another IN. Let’s use that, he thinks. I’ll tell her how smart she is – bet she’s never been told that before. She won’t see past my crafty ruse or crack my code, he thinks.

The lame-arsed twat then proceeds to TELL her those alarm-bell words:

“You’re actually really smart”.


As in “I am surprised that this is so. Because you’re soooo pretty/beautiful/a mere girl”

Dumb Dude’d presumed otherwise. And SO dumb is DD that he doesn’t realise that  telling her how smart she ACTUALLY is ACTUALLY says more than a shitload of ACTUAL steaming hot horsepoo about his shitty little dungself, actually.

(You can save some time by avoiding telling someone they are ACTUALLY really smart. Just chase-cut and tell ’em they look downright dense. Brevity is the day’s order, after all).

Back to this particular gobshite.

He had clearly expected her to fall *into his arms, for so fucking flattering was his fucking flattery that she just DAMN her brainlessness!

*onto his cock.

But alas.…he must resign himself to her choice of unfriending or blockery…she has an amazing brain and the BEST ears. Ears that have served her well.

And why?

When a bloke tells a girl they’re actually really smart, their smarty-pants bullshit horsepoo filter sieves through the crap.

When a bloke tells a girl they’re actually really smart, what she actually hears is that you, sir, are not.