And so…YOU’RE GONNA write another story. Flash fiction? A novella? You don’t know – having not yet decided (and you’re buggered if you even know WHAT the fuck it’ll be about).

And so, you’ll begin a sentence with ‘and so’, firstly: just because you CAN – and secondly because the rules are supposed to be fucked with. Let those modifiers and participles dangle, bay-bee…if you LIKE the sound of ‘em, let ‘em swaaaaay.

You also like to see sticklers shudder when they see you giving a big YES to one of their no-nos. It would be worth mentioning at this point that BECAUSE you refuse to adhere to the laws and destructions, neither can you not employ double negatives.

Also this: the subject’s not THAT important to you. The theme, the structure, the characterisation….it’ll all just COME together as it always does; as it has done many times before. You have SO many fucked up notions inside your little noggin that whatever needs to come out just WILL. The stranger the order of events, the clearer it is to you. You think differently because you ARE different, damnit – and it shows in your writing.

There SHALL, of course, be swearing in this little story of yours – there *has* to be. You think it? You say it. You don’t listen to your mother who begs you to refrain from fuckery and cunting-twatness just so that she and your father can ‘ave a read of wot you wrote, like.

Furthermore, there is a distinct lack of fuckgivery when it comes to the voice of the piece:

I T S A Y S H E R E that thou wilst not changeth tense or play keys-in-the-middle with third and first and second person. This rule is like a very red flag to an extremely pissed-off bull, fed up with wackily-dressed humans in Mickey Mouse ears. The bull must gouge. You fuck with it, it must gouge.

And so….(again)…you decide to change it. Mix it up. Do the opposite; swap it around a little.

It was quite jarring, and deliberately sudden, but THIS is exactly what she decided to do. ^^Right at this ‘ere very juncture. She preferred to write weird shit anyway (not that she actually had any choice in the matter); and what could be weirder than a deliberately annoying piece of crap that fucked with grammar and rules and all that shit? She’d been BORN a pain in the arse and would DIE a pain in the arse – this Opposite Girl from Opposite World. And so, O-Girl would always ensure to find a way to be different – in small ways, ways of such starry bigness that they were of astronomical proportions, and in whatever the fuckotherways she could determine. And that included self-referential verbal diarrhoea in the third person.
And she would. She did. It’s what she did. It’s ALL she did.

And so….I decided to mix it up. First person now. Is all this flipping-about annoying the shit out of you yet? Good. I like to do that.

The first rule of writing is that there are no rules. Just get the fuck on with it. Write in your own voice, using whatever accent and whichever volume you so desire. Then crank it up a little higher.

And so….you write.

And so do I.

In Mum’s Words (Or: What It Means To be Irish and Scouse)



I am delighted to have a guest writer this week —my mum. Here she is:

My dad, James Joseph Rossiter: one of my earliest memories of my dad was him getting up at 4 o’clock every morning and lighting the coal fire in the kitchen (now called the living room) then going out into the back kitchen and getting a cold wash – even in the winter. Then he would bring me and my mum a cup of tea in bed and then leave to go to work, after resetting the alarm clock for the rest of us to get up at 7.

Then, he would knock at the other houses in the street to wake the neighbours up for work, which they paid him 6p a week for. (Not many people had alarm clocks in those days). He would get a tram to the Pier Head, change over to a boat, get off and then walk to Cammell Laird shipyard in Birkenhead. He would arrive home about 8 (or half 8) when we all had dinner and he went to bed about 9. He never once complained about work, even though he used to come home very tired.

Weekends were the best because he used to tell us stories about his life in Ireland. He was born in Wexford and had 2 sisters (one died at birth) and he had a few brothers (I forget how many) and he told me that he was lucky because he had shoes. He would walk 2 miles to school bare-footed, then put his shoes on and when it was time to go home he would take them off and carry them home. He didn’t mind because some of his friends had no shoes at all.

One day on his return home he heard his mum and dad crying. He was going to have a baby sister but his mum died giving birth, along with the baby. Dad was only 7 and he had to grow up very quickly. So by the time he was 14 he was helping his dad on the lifeboat. Grandad was quite famous and he was honoured by the King for saving so many lives.

There was a lot of trouble in Ireland, and Catholics couldn’t get work, so dad joined the Merchant Navy. He was in lots of battles in the war and one of the tales he would tell us was when they were in the middle of the firing line, the captain would give all the crew a drink of rum. They had no guns on board and that was supposed to make the men brave (it didn’t work).

One night their ship was torpedoed and the ship that picked dad and his brother up was also torpedoed—the same night. The sad thing was, Dad and his brother were holding onto the same piece of wood but his brother died and dad was saved. When, years later, if it thundered in the night, I would run into his bed and ask him to tell me how he was saved for me. He would tell me and I would fall asleep and he would carry me back to bed.

It was only years later that I realised how much it must have hurt him to tell me of the night his brother died in front of him. He must have really loved me. Yet I was the cause of so much worry to him and Mum (but that’s another story).

It was during that battle that Dad got shrapnel in his head. They couldn’t operate because it was too near his brain. It made him colour blind and he was thrown out of the navy because they said he couldn’t read the coloured flags. No compensation – or compassion – was offered in those days. When my poor mum asked for assistance she was told “he hasn’t lost a limb” so he wasn’t entitled to any help. But he still walked to the docks every day looking for work and that’s how he ended up in Cammell Laird’s.

Meanwhile on his shore leave from the navy in Liverpool he stayed in the sailors’ home and used to go to dances at the Catholic Club, Atlantic House. It was there that he met my Mum, who was a volunteer from St Anne’s church. She made the guests feel welcome with cups of tea and found them places to stay. She also helped with their shopping and writing home to their families (a lot of the men couldn’t read or write).

Dad took her home to Wexford to meet his Dad and family but only his sister Anne stood by him because he had “married a foreigner”. She was English – and as I said there was a lot of trouble in Ireland at the time. But he loved her and that was all that mattered.

Dad came back to Liverpool where he lived for the rest of his life – dying at the age of 83.

My Mum – Jane Rossiter (nee Dunwoodie): Mum was born in Liverpool, one of 14 children (only 4 survived). Her Dad was Scottish and very strict but she loved him. He was a painter and decorator so he was lucky to have work – but he died when my Mum was about 13. She then had to go to work so she was put into service in a big mansion right by Sefton Park. She started as a cook’s assistant – the cook liked her because she never complained. She had to clean pans with sand and have everything shining. She learned a lot from the cook and when she was allowed home one Sunday a month to give her Mum – my Nanna- her wages, the cook would give her little treats for her brother and sister.

Later on, Mum became the “lady of the housemaid” and this was a step up, although it meant more work. Sometimes in the middle of the night the bell would ring and the lady would say, “It’s too hot – open the window,” only to change her mind and summon my mum back half an hour later. But she was happy because she had a place to live and good food because the servants had all the leftovers from upstairs (the people upstairs always had plenty of food and the cook was a very good cook).

Another of Mum’s jobs was to iron the daily newspapers because this stopped the ink print from getting on the nice white sheets when they read the papers in bed with their breakfast (also, the master and the lady of the house didn’t like creases in their papers). When the master and lady went out together, Mum was given the key to the jewel case to mind because the mistress said Mum was the most honest person there. She never even took a sweet from the sweet tray until she was offered one. And it was only at Christmas that the maids were given sweets or fruit. The servants were given time off for church on Sundays and one or two nights off until 10 o’clock if they had any voluntary work to do.

Mum used to help with the church plays and help in Atlantic House where the sailors came in if they had no home in the port. Sometimes they would need help letting their families know they were back home safe. That’s how she met Dad.

When she told the lady of the house she was getting married she was told she would have to leave service, because no married servants were allowed. She was given a dinner service as a wedding gift. And so, she set about looking for somewhere to live. Landlords had notices in their windows saying, “No Irish,” so it was hard going. But luckily there was an old man in the church who needed someone to cook and look after him so mum moved into his house. It was filthy and bugs were walking up the walls but it was a place she could do up and clean.

On Dad’s next leave, they got married in St Anne’s church on Overbury street. As they stood outside church, the military police called for Dad – he had overstayed his leave and had to go back to his ship at once. They said, “There’s a war on, Missus.” What a way to start married life. Mum’s wedding dress was made out of parachute material but she said it felt like silk. She was just so happy to be married.

After a few years, the old man in the house died but the landlord said mum had taken so much care and made the house clean that she could stay on and rent it. This was 47 Cardwell Street, Liverpool, where Mum and Dad went on to have four children: Agnes, John, Me (Pat) and Jim.

Years afterwards, I learned from my Godmother, Auntie Kitty (who had Alzheimer’s and thought I was my Mum), just how much my parents had done for the neighbours in the war. If anyone died, their family would come and ask my Mum to lay them out, clean them, and prepare them for burial. She also collected food and would make big pans of soup for everyone (lots of people had no pans because they’d been donated to the war effort).

Auntie Kitty would ask about my Dad, “when is Jimmy coming home”? He was the life and soul of the air raid shelters with his mouth organ. And I never knew any of this while Mum and Dad were still alive, so I was thankful that Auntie Kitty thought I was my Mum. I really missed Auntie Kitty when she died. She loved Mum and Dad so much.

MY STORY: Life was very hard for Mum and Dad but I never heard them moaning. Mum cleaned other people’s houses every day – except Monday, which was washing day. There was a wash-house where she would go with a pram piled high with laundry. They had big tubs that the washing was put into and the ladies used to scrub the washing on a washboard and put all the things through a mangle to squeeze the water out. Then they would hang the washing on big pull-out driers to dry. After that, you would see all the mums pushing the clean things home, very tired but happy.

Mum had so many good friends there. The same people went each week at the same time, as you had to book your place. As I said, life was hard but everybody was in the same boat.

I was the third of three children but I was always ill. Doctors couldn’t find out what was wrong and poor Mum and Dad had to pay every time I fell ill (I still have the bill from when I was born – the midwife cost 10 shillings).

Anyway, by the time I was 7, I was quite ill but I still went to school. I hated it. One of my problems was that due to lack of oxygen I would faint, and one of my classmates would be told to take me and we would both have to run around the school playground 3 times to “sort me out”. You can guess I wasn’t popular with the class – everyone was waiting to see if they would be the one that got picked. Sometimes I would just suddenly fall asleep and one particular teacher – Miss Giles – would come along and hit me with the edge of the ruler on the back of my leg. That really hurt.

One time, as punishment for coughing, I was told to stand behind the piano in the class and not to move until I was told to. The result was that I didn’t come home. Mum and everyone else were looking for me. When they asked one of the girls from my class when she had last seen me, she told them “in school”. The police had to go and get the school caretaker to open up the class and they found me still behind the piano, crying.

All the headmistress (who was a nun) said, was that I was silly for not going home. But don’t forget – I had been told not to move.

It was around that time that I went into the children’s hospital in town and when they couldn’t find out what was wrong I was sent to Alder Hey hospital. From there I was transferred to Leasowe hospital over the water. I remained there for almost a year and that was a happy time for me. We did have schooling while we were there but it was good – and nobody shouted at me if I coughed or fainted. They taught me how to dance and read and knit. The nurses were very good but I had so many infections that I got used to them and the nurses would make me laugh. But it must have been very hard for Mum and Dad because it was only visiting on Sundays and they had to get two buses and a boat across the Mersey to visit me.

They had to bring some eggs and fruit to help out on the ward. The poor things had to sit in the cold by the bed because the whole of the big window was folded back so that we could breathe the sea air. The patients were used to the cold and we could snuggle up under the blankets but I bet the poor visitors were glad when the hour was up!

One Christmas, two of us were chosen to go to Liverpool in an ambulance to see a pantomime. The nurses lent us their capes, and we had a ride through the Mersey tunnel. It was the first time either of us had been through it and we had a great time.

Just after that, we were both transferred to Fazakerley Hospital in Liverpool for the same operation -to remove half a lung. It was only an experiment but they had to try and help us. My surgeon had never done it before but he had a top surgeon to teach him what to do. That was Mr Sutton, who had operated on the King.

My Mum told me that he (Dr Van … something … his name was very long so we called him Dr Van) sat by my bed for four days until I regained consciousness and she said the first thing I said to him was “you hurt me!” Mum was mad at me but Dr Van laughed and gave me a big hug. The last I heard, he was a chief chest surgeon in Belgium.

After six months lying on my back (nowadays patients are only in for a week) and then learning how to walk again I went home and returned to school. Mum and Dad were told that I might only live until I was about 14. It must have been terrible for them – all that worry.

When school heard this, they decided it wasn’t worth teaching me anything so I was given the job of sorting out the cupboards and cleaning all the windows in the long corridors outside the classrooms. I remember once I was caught chewing gum, and the punishment was to stick it on the end of my nose and go into every classroom and get the teachers to sign that I had been there. I have never chewed gum since.

The good thing that came out of all that cleaning and window washing was that later when I married and took cleaning jobs (so I could take the babies with me), I was very good at cleaning.

I still remember the fun we had. My friend Mary Johns and I had a lot of freedom because she was the same as me and we both needed the same op. And everyone thought we would die soon. Sadly, my friend did die a few months after she went home. But I am now the proud mother of three great children who have done well, and I have six wonderful grandchildren. So much for dying at 14! After spending two years in hospital, love has always pulled me through.

I am very lucky to have had a family that loved me, but I regret the worry they must have had with me being ill. My sister put her wedding off twice waiting for me to come home but in the end she married at 18 when I was in Leasowe hospital. My eldest brother missed a lot of school because he had to come with Mum on all my hospital appointments and I remember my younger brother had to wait outside the wards on his own because children were not allowed to visit.

But when I did come home, everyone spoilt me.

A few more memories from my childhood!

At home in the kitchen we had a big black grate with a high mantelpiece, and a brass rail running along under it that was used to dry small things on. It had a fire grate in the middle and on the right it had a big black oven – Mum could get the heat just right when she made bread in it. Mum was a fantastic cook. I used to clean it with a black polish called ZEBRA and it used to shine.

Dad made us a long fork at work and we used to make toast with it in front of the fire. Toast has never tasted so good.

Anyway, while I was in hospital Mum would say every time she came to visit, “wait till you come home, I have a big surprise for you.” I was away for a long time but at last the day came when I could see my surprise. I walked into the kitchen and there was a new modern tile grate. Mum and Dad had got rid of my black one. I cried my eyes out and hid behind my Granny’s big chair and wouldn’t come out for ages.

Poor Mum and Dad – I must have really hurt them, they thought they were doing me a favour by not having to clean my black grate. I never did get to like the new one.

Before I went back in hospital for my op I had another surprise – a good one. It was my birthday and poor Mum and Dad thought it may be my last. The street had arranged a party for me, and all the neighbours brought tables, chairs, and all kinds of things out into the street. Each family had tied different coloured cotton around the spoons, knives, and forks so that they could get them at the end. We had fish paste sandwiches, cakes, jelly – and lots of singing and dancing.

The big surprise at the end was a man who came on his bike with an ice-cream fridge on it. He had come from Sefton Park and his Dad worked in Cammell Laird’s with my Dad – and all Dad’s mates in work had paid for ice creams for everyone, even the grown-ups. Nobody had much money or many things but there was so much love from everyone we were the richest people ever.

I had some good times in hospital as well as the bad. In the ward upstairs was a boy named Ron. He had been born with only one heel – the other leg was dead straight and the two doctors were going to make him a new heel so he could walk properly. Anyway, we must have been horrible children because when we played together we used to kill flies so that we could bury them and sing hymns by their graves.

Another time all the children were playing out in the snow when I saw a nurse in the kitchen watching us. So I threw a snowball at her through the open window and of course the other children saw me and joined in. Just then, Matron walked into the kitchen and WHAM! A snowball hit her on the side of her face – she was not pleased. You can imagine the mess in there and because I was the one who had thrown the first snowball I had to help clean it up (which I didn’t mind). But the nurse who had been in the kitchen thought it was great fun and used to give me a wink every time she saw me. Only downside, I was quite ill for the next few days – must have been all the exercise. Ha ha!

Anyway, one day we overheard the doctors saying that me and Mary would both be getting transferred to Fazakerley hospital in Liverpool for our operations, so we ran away and went to play on Leasowe beach (not far from the hospital). We wanted to stay in Leasowe – we loved the nurses because they taught us to dance and how to do envelope corners on the beds and let us help them when Matron wasn’t around. The police soon found us because we hadn’t realised that on the back of our dresses in big letters was LEASOWE HOSPITAL! Ha ha!

We cried when we left, we missed the Irish dancing and square dancing but most of all, our friends, the nurses. I realise now all the dancing was for exercise but we loved it.

Back home, things went on as normal. Mum and Dad went to work so there was nobody in when we got home from school. My sister was at work and didn’t get in until about 6 o’clock. We didn’t have a key so my brother John used to climb over the back wall into the yard (we lived in a terraced house with a long entry at the back) and open the back door for me and my little brother Jim to get into the yard. We would then find the kitchen key which would be hidden in the toilet in the yard. There were no toilet rolls in those days, only squares of newspaper on a nail, and that’s where the key was hidden.

It’s funny thinking back – if we needed to go in the night we would have to put a coat on and wellies if it was raining. It didn’t bother us then but I would hate to have to do that now.

Sorry – back to my story.  Sometimes Mum would forget to hide the key and my brother John would break a small pane of glass from the back kitchen window and put me through the hole so I could open the door from the inside and let us all in. When Mum came home from work John would say “our Pat got in through the window again” knowing I wouldn’t get into trouble because I was sick. If she had known John had broken the glass he would have had a smack. I saved him from a good few smacks! Ha ha!

And of course, it would be me that was sent for the new piece of glass and putty. And Mum became a dab hand at putting new panes in.

Another funny thing I remember Mum telling us was that when my sister Agnes was small she tried to get rid of John. It happened like this: all the houses had a hole in the back wall so that a bin could be slotted in. The binmen would come and lift the bin out, empty it and slot it back in until the next week. Well, one day there was a loud banging at the front door and when Mum opened it there was a big strong binman holding my little brother’s hand, and he said, “Is this yours, Missus?” She nearly died of fright. Turns out John had been pestering my sister and she had put him through the bin hole so that he would be taken away with the rubbish. They ended up the best of friends until the day he died.

Once, when I was in the girl guides I went camping for the weekend, to Wales. We set up camp in the grounds of a Monastery and had a great time eating and singing around a camp fire. There were four of us to each round tent and we were given rules: no making coffee or eating in the tents. Well, on the Saturday night we sat in the tent telling ghost stories. One of my friends was terryfied (I know I’ve spelt that wrong). We had smuggled some biscuits in and we made some coffee. Pat French, one of our gang, had brought a little calor gas stove which she hadn’t told the Guide Captain about so we were sitting around eating and drinking when a big shadow of a man appeared outside. Well, with all the ghost stories etc we were all scared so I got up and opened the tent and threw a mug of hot coffee over him. The camp soon woke up with all his screams and us shouting. Turns out it was one of the monks from the monastery checking all the tents were closed and that all was safe – oops! Guess who never went camping again!

My brother John was in the scouts and his best mate was Bob Lacy. They were always up to mischief but got on well with everyone including one of the young priests that used to help in the scout troop. One night, we were all having dinner and listening to a play on the wireless when there was a rapid banging on the front door. The young priest was there as red as a beetroot and told Mum and Dad that they needed to go over and see the parish priest NOW. It seemed John and Bob had set a trap for their friend (a bucket of milk on top of the scout hut door so it would fall on the young priest when he opened up). But the parish priest opened up instead and the milk went all over him. When Mum asked, “how do you know it was our John?” the priest said, “by the way the knots were tied.” Our John was the best in the troop and had won the area award a few weeks earlier. They left the scouts after that.

Once, it was all over the wireless that two schoolboys had found a dead tramp on a bomb site in town. The police came to our house and we were told the boys were our John and his friend Bob. They hadn’t told Mum and Dad because they were frightened because they had been sagging from school. I don’t remember what happened after that.

My brothers and I used to visit my Granny (Mum’s mum) and each time I went she would give me a big glass jug and money and tell me to go to the side door in the local pub and ask for “Granny’s medicine.” They would fill the jug with beer and I would try not to spill any on the way back to Granny’s. Thing is, for years I believed it was medicine (I must have been soft).

Another thing I remember was … I had a friend named Janice, who lived a few doors away. She was deaf and we would go off together and I would help with the language. We got on great. One night, we were in her house as I was giving her mum a perm. She had a brother, Kenny, who was asleep on their sofa while I was doing his mum’s hair, and for a laugh I put a few curlers in his hair while he was asleep, and carried on with his mum’s. Next morning, Janice called for me and she was laughing her head off. I had forgotten to take Kenny’s curlers out and his hair had turned out better than his mum’s. He went mad and had to go to the barber’s for a very short haircut.

Another time, his mum fell asleep while she was smoking a ciggie and set the house on fire. She was saved but the bedroom was a write-off. Her husband had been killed in the war and she had raised two children on her own. My Mum gave her our double bed and mattress and went to get a cheque so she could buy us a new bed which would take her twelve months to pay it off at so much a week. She got the cheque but the bed took almost a month to arrive. In the meantime me and Mum had to sleep on the bedroom floor. We didn’t mind, at least Mum had a husband and I still had my Dad.


Dad had a very bad chest and used to sleep in the middle room, almost sitting up. Once, he had been off work ill for about two weeks, with no wages coming in. It was near Christmas and a few of his mates from work came. His friends had had a “whip round” (a collection), and they had about £10, which was a lot of money then.  Well, before we let them up to see him, we had to tell the men that Dad was very proud and would be hurt if he thought it was charity. So they said that a big ship they had been working on was finished and said that Dad had worked so hard that this money was a thankyou from Cammell Laird’s. He was made up with that and I’m sure it helped him get better.

None of his friends had realised how far away Dad lived from work, and while some of his mates moaned about the tram or train being late, they had never heard Dad moan about how long it took him to get there.

Another time, I remember one of his friends had come over the water to see him, and they were both sitting by the fire. My sister came in and said “Hello, Dad,” and for a laugh I said, “He’s MY Dad,” and she twigged on to what I was doing and said, “He’s MY Dad!” I said again, “He’s MY Dad,” and this went on for quite a while, poor man was baffled. He butted in, “Be quiet, I’m both yer Dads!”

His friend got the joke and nearly choked with laughter while he was drinking tea. I used to love him coming because I would go down to the pier head with Dad on the tram to watch him get on the boat home to Rock Ferry (near Birkenhead). In the evenings, either Mum or I would do Dad’s sandwiches and put them in his lunch bag for the next day, and we would feel the bag to see if it was full. Well one day, Dad came home and said, “Guess what I had for dinner?” Mum and I looked at each other and said, “A block of wood.” Turned out both of us had felt his bag and thought the other had done his lunch, oops! Instead it was a piece of old wood Dad had brought home for the fire the day before and had forgotten to take out of his bag.


Another time we opened a tin of corned beef and did his butties. Next morning Mum called to me from the back kitchen, “Pat, where is the tin of Kit-e-Cat for Tinker?” (Our cat.) I know the label was off but I’d put it by the sink. Oh no! I had given it to Dad. We were waiting for him to go mad when he came home but he said, “Where did you get that corned beef? Best I ever tasted!” We never told him what we had done.

Mum told me about the time Dad came home on leave, his ship had been to India and he had swapped his suit for a nice striped one made by a tailor there.  Well, he wore the new one and when he got off the boat it was a long walk home and it was raining. By the time he got home the new suit had shrunk and his sleeves were halfway up his arms and his trousers were halfway up his legs. He looked like someone out of a circus. Mum wasn’t pleased because she had to go and buy new clothes for him to go back on the ship with.

Another time, Dad had a lucky escape from death. His ship had been torpedoed and sank so he and all the crew were getting picked up and taken to another port to pick up a new ship. Dad had been drinking and was arrested as he was so drunk, and was put in a local lock up for the night. Of course he missed his ship and all his mates were killed when the ship they were leaving on was sunk. It was The Hood. There is a lot of information about how many were killed but never a mention of all the merchant navy men on it going to crew a new ship.

It didn’t put him off going back to sea, he got a new ship the next week. Also he was getting paid again. (When the ships were sunk the crew’s pay stopped immediately.)

My Biggest Regret:

My Dad always talked about his home in Wexford and he would tell us about his friends, and the thatched roofs on the houses, and of old men – and sometimes old women – sitting by their front doors smoking pipes. His sister Anne was still alive and lived in the same house that Dad had lived in (76 The Fayth). He hadn’t been home for 40 years or more, and my husband and I thought we would give him a nice surprise, so we arranged a week’s holiday in Wexford for him. Mum couldn’t go so he went by himself.

We went to the boat to say goodbye and waved him off. The boat went to Dublin and from there he would get a train to Wexford, and his sister said she would meet him at the station. We met him off the boat a week later expecting a very happy Dad. But the first thing he said to me was, “Oh, Pat, Anne’s gone old.” It made him realise he was old, too. Turned out that when he got off the train he was met by an old woman (Anne). She still lived in The Fayth but only downstairs, so Dad had had to find a hotel for the week. No thatched cottages anywhere. All the places he once knew were gone – even the church he went to was closed. Poor Dad. We had broken his dreams. He knew things would have changed but not that much.

So, anyone reading this: I would ask you if you know anyone who dreams of going back to their home again, just let them keep their dreams and think of how sad it is when all they dreamed of is gone.

Enough of the sadness.

When I was too ill to go to school, one of Mum’s friends would let me help her in her shop just at the bottom of our street. It was a sweet shop and I loved it. Her name was Kay and she had been bombed out of her house and made friends with Mum, who’d told her about the shop on the corner.  The owner had been killed and his family didn’t want anything to do with his shop, so Kay got it very cheap. It needed a lot of work doing but there was plenty of wood around on the bomb sites so neighbours helped to make new counters for her, and Mum and friends helped to clean it. Everyone loved Kay’s shop and by the time I was at school she was well established. Anyway, as I was saying, she let me help – and I loved putting sweets in little bags and learned how to weigh sugar and put it in 2lb blue bags, and sometimes she would let me add up the money in the till. I learned more in her shop than I did at school.

On a Wednesday, she would lend Mum a £1 note to help her until payday and Mum would pay it back when Dad was paid at the weekend. Another thing about Kay’s shop was that Mum joined her “sweet club” and paid 6 pence a week and when Christmas came we used to get sweets and lots of different coloured lemonade so that was a big help.

Another shop was Mike’s – he was Irish like my Dad and they had gone to sea together so they stayed great mates. He even turned up at dad’s funeral even though we hadn’t been able to get in touch (I don’t know how he found out about it – must have been from the newspaper). Anyway, Mike used to make his own ice cream, the best ever – and he was one of the few shops to stay open on a Sunday. If we needed soap or soap powder he would wrap it up in newspaper and say, “Hurry home with it,” because it was illegal to sell things like that on a Sunday. You were only supposed to sell cigs and newspapers.

He was the only person we knew who had a phone so if we were out or going to be late home we would ring him from a payphone and he would go and tell Mum and Dad so they wouldn’t worry about us.

As I’ve said before we were so lucky to have such good friends and, thank God, Mum and Dad, seems everyone knew them and everyone remembers times when they helped others out. I am proud and happy to say our three children are the same, none of them have much money but I know they all help others in different ways.


When my brother John was in the Army, I wrote and told him that Anthony Newley was coming to the Liverpool Empire and he sent money home to buy tickets for Mum and me. It was a great show and I talked Mum into taking me round to the stage door. When we got there, police were holding arms to keep the big crowd back and I was small so I ducked under their arms, dashed into the theatre, and knocked on Anthony Newley’s door and went in.

He was sitting there taking his stage make-up off and he said, “Hello, my dear,” then he took my hand and kissed the back of it! I thought I was in heaven! haha! I was so excited that I forgot to get his autograph. When I came out Mum was going mad – she thought I was going to get arrested! I didn’t care – Anthony Newley had KISSED MY HAND!! Haha!

When I told the girls in school no-one believed me because I didn’t get his autograph.

A few things I have made a mess of!

One of the people I worked for used to ask me to sort her food cupboards out and throw out anything that had gone off, e.g. cake, biscuits, or any bad fruit. Anyway, one day, she came home and spent ages going through her cupboards. When I asked her what she was looking for she said, “My jar of truffles that I brought home from France.” Yes – you guessed it. I’d thrown them away thinking they were plums gone bad. Oops! Another thing she used to do was leave dirty jugs of water in soak by the sink. She came home at lunch time one day (she was a headmistress) to check on a jug of gin she’d left out (she broke a lid off the bottle before going to school and had put it by the sink). Ha! It was now in the river Mersey because I had washed the jug.
This was the same person who told me off when I was teaching her granddaughter shapes, because I told her about a diamond and apparently I should have told her it was a rhomboid. So next time I was teaching her granddaughter to add up using playing cards I said, “where is the 2 of rhomboids?” I hope she got the message.

I was so annoyed at the way I left that job. I had taken ill with kidney stones and was rushed into hospital at 3 in the morning. When I didn’t get to work on time she rung my husband up to complain that I should have rung to say I wouldn’t be there. She told him to put her house keys through her letter box (yes, I had a set of their keys because they often went on short holidays and I used to mind their dogs). Her daughter came to see me once in hospital but couldn’t help me get the job back. I can’t say I was sorry because I got a better one when I recovered. But I missed her two grandchildren who me and my husband used to mind sometimes. Last I heard, they went through a few cleaners and Nannies but they didn’t last long.

One of the last things she said was maybe it was a good job that I left because her granddaughter was starting to talk a bit common, copying off me. (I used to tell her stories and when I read books to her I would make up funny voices and pretend to eat sweets or cake from pictures on the pages). She must’ve been glad to get rid of me! Haha!

Back to my childhood: I remember some of the people that used to visit our street. There was a man that came in the summer with a horse and cart, and on the cart there were chair swings and the price was a jam jar or a penny, and we could feed the horse with little bits of carrot. We also had a man who used to come on a special bike with a grinding stone on the handle bars and he would sharpen knives or scissors or axe heads.

Everyone in our street had an axe. We used to go to the park and chop up any old or fallen trees to bring home for our fires, because coal was very dear – 3 shillings a bag. We also had a milk man who used to ladle the milk out of a big silver milk churn into jugs for us. There was a dairy not far from us and we would see the cows being taken to Wavertree park in the morning and coming back at night. Also with pubs on 3 of the 4 corners of our street we had the fantastic cart horses that came with the beer. They had shiny brasses and the carters loved them—so did we. We only had one car in our street and I don’t ever remember it moving so it was safe for us to play out, but if my Mum and Dad knew what we got up to I think they would have gone mad.

There were two bombed-out houses at the end of the street and we played in them for hours. We would sometimes get up half a staircase and one of the bedrooms had a single floorboard left and we would dare each other to walk across it. I did it a few times but some of the lads were chicken. We would see how many bricks we could take out of the upstairs rooms before a window frame would fall out (the glass was long gone). We didn’t think of any danger but now it makes me shudder to think what could have happened.

Then of course there was the rag-and-bone man. He would come along shouting, “Any rags and bones?” And depending on what you gave him you would get a goldfish, or money. Well, one day my brother John came in with a goldfish and a big grin on his face. “I’ve always wanted a goldfish,” he said, but Mum asked, “what did you give him for that?”

“Oh – my school pants,” he said. Mum went wild, she had just bought them on a cheque from Freemans in Wavertree road. She ran like mad after the rag-and-bone man but the horse was a lot faster than mum. So she made John go to school in his old patched pants for the rest of the term. He never gave anything else to the rag-and-bone man. And I don’t remember what happened to the poor goldfish.

Another thing I remember is when Mum would come home from the wash-house on a Monday, all hot and bothered after working so hard, she would ask me to take a few “Steri” bottles (sterilised milk) back to Brady’s shop, and the money on them was enough to get 4 penny lolly ices. Brady used to make his own and I have never tasted anything as nice. Steri milk is not as nice as fresh milk but it makes great rice puddings and lasts longer than fresh milk. Looking back, I had a great childhood, not much money but lots of love and laughs. And I think you can still get Steri.








“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 me with my denial. When I was ten, he found an I HATE MY DAD note of mine. This was the start of the YOU-MUSTN’T-WRITE-IT’LL-GET-YOU-INTO-TROUBLE crap. And I believed this horseshittery; my brain of a decade not realising he was just thinking about himself. Didn’t talk to me for a fortnight, either. Rather than employ a little introspection and find out why his daughter detested the shit out of him, he sent me to Coventry – a place I visited far too often. And whilst I was there, I wrote tales of paternal detestation on West Midlands paper.

And I hid the lot. Sometimes, I’d even shred the stuff – once the words were OUT of me, there was no need for me to keep any of ‘em.

High School was appallingly bad – well, at least the first one was. There, I was bullied for being too pretty and having Jaggerlips and being too fucking smart (but surely, if that latter bit had been true then I’d have had a good comeback).

I particularly enjoyed Latin class – but each time I tried to enthuse to my father, all he’d do was have a fucking go at me for my Dave Lister accent. I’m FUCKING SCOUSE, DAD. I’M GONNA OMIT THE T. OK?

Crappy parenting was the bible of my life. Dad in particular would sit and PRAY that nothing would happen to me and my two brothers, without actually doing anything to protect us. Cut to: me, aged 14, getting pissed with scally schoolmates and brainbanging to student music on art centre Thursdays.

I dunno – maybe praying worked for the first year, when nothing happened to me during my wannabe-mosher phase. But by 15, Dad’s god must have stopped listening by the time I was taken advantage of by two lads from the year above. I use that ghastly euphemism because you say “rape” and you say “victim”. I was never a victim. I was pissed. I couldn’t remember it.

Until the day after.

At art class, I knew something wasn’t right —and it wasn’t just the too-much-Merrydown feeling. So, I checked my soft bits, as y’do. Blood. Told the teacher. The teacher told the headmaster.


Me: Bundled into a police car. No shit.

Me: On a living autopsy table. Tweezers pulling out my short and curlies and photos being taken for medical journals. Swabs, evidence bags filled with the clothes I’d been wearing, a bit of prodding, and a lot of whispering.

There’s a shitload of cuts, they said (kind of). So they showed me in a mirror. Fuckshit! They were right. I saw purple bruising on my inner thighs and hold-her-down marks where they’d grabbed my arms.

I started -continued- to remember.

I felt like shit – I’d betrayed my Catholic Parents and their god by way of pre-marital fuckery. Not that I REALLY knew anything about that – all I knew was how to fool around. I remember asking my dad at age 9 what a virgin was, only to be told that it was “a man who has not lain down next to a lady.” Wow, dad. Just wow (at that particular juncture, I freaked out about the fact that my male cousins and I had laid next to each other in a fucking tent the weekend before).

I was a harlot. So I wrote poetry about harlotry.

Dad blamed a —GASP!— sexually adventurous friend of mine, and because I was knocking around with her, I must be the same, right? She’d been there that night, so the bizzies called her in to give a statement.

Turns out she’d heard me calling for help, when I hadn’t heard myself – but as she’d been busy round the back of the art centre getting some consensual action, she’d presumed I was having the same kind of fun and ignored me.

They called the lads in. They’d heard I was easy because of who I knocked around with. So, seeing me, pissed as a fart, they’d gone for it, kecks down. I guess I was asking for it, huh?

They took my statement as I dictated to WPC Carter. With my upside-down eyes, I watched her write….and I watched her make grammatical error after grammatical error. The only way I could put it right was to come home and write my own version.

Then they called me back. They asked me about my own fooling-around adventures. Made me describe in front of my parents what a blowjob was. They wanted a fucking MIME of it, too. CLEARLY, this would have given the lads just cause to do what they did. If they could prove I’d given some lad a beej, then those two lads were perfectly within their rights to do what they did. Out of the mouths of the local constabulary: “You LED them on”.

They were clearly right, because I’d been somewhat gothly-dressed. Fishnets, more of a belt than a skirt – totally my fault. ASKING for it.

Dad brought in a tape recording he’d made THAT NIGHT. He’d taped me reading the newspaper, with the intention of playing it back the next day to SHAME me for daring to get pissed. The cops listened. They realised how leathered I was and therefore how non-consensual the event. But it didn’t matter. The head of the school – according to my mum – was a Freemason and had cop-connections. Didn’t want the scandal on his school. (I’m still unconvinced. Maybe he was just a twat).

Rape Crisis were about as much use as something that’s no fucking use at all. They persuaded fucked-up and fucked little young me to drop the charges. It was apparently in my best interests because I was Just.Too.Young to cope with THE STAND and being cross-questioned.

So the two lads walked (one of them also walked into a knife a year or so later in an entirely unrelated park incident).

I knew they’d never see it, but I wrote to them nonetheless:

That which lives inside is this: recoiling, recalling. Falling.
When did you decide to decide my fate with your parasitic tryst?
You gave them a brush to tar me with so that I’d be blamed for what you did.
I don’t want revenge. I want nothing but love in your life
So you can REALLY SEE
How your bit of fun affected me
I wish you nothing and I wish you ALL;
PAIN? I don’t, but ought to.
The only way I know for best revenge?
For revenge – I wish you DAUGHTERS.

I was kept off school for about six weeks, during which time the bullying continued – this time, at my house. We were pelted with stones and eggs and there was a brick through the window. All this for my blowing of the whistle.

SLAG and SLUT were other things that I was, apparently. Eventually, I went all Tyler Durden on the cock of the school – and punched her fucking gobshite face in. Not all of the blood on my shirt was mine. But that, too, was my fault. And why? Well, according to the father, despite the fact that (until now) I’d not gone all the way with a lad, I was a nymphomaniac. Right. Thanks again, Dad.

The bullying got too much for my parents, and I couldn’t keep on making people’s faces bleed. So I moved across the water from Liverpool. Started a new school. And because I was halfway through my exams, I chose to stay back a year because they couldn’t match my subjects up. My new school didn’t do my language of choice so I wrote a Latin letter of complaint to the council (as best you can do with a dead language), which was my own crappy way of trying to keep it alive.

There was a bit of hushery amongst my classmates…why is she older than us? Why is she here? Is she that STUPID she has to stay back? And when an entirely new set of bullies realised I was a libraryload smarter than them, that just coaled their fire. Dad made it clear that I wasn’t allowed to actually come out and SAY what had happened to put me there, because that’s purely SHAMEFUL.

But paper actually put out the flames. Books fanned me into existence.

I found Shakespeare. I was nurtured by an incredible English Lit teacher who just KNEW what made me tick in beats of five-by-two. I read Chaucer without having to have it translated for me – I’d found my own rhythm. FINALLY! People who spoke my language!

But there was a problem. I was a straight-A student. This confused the shit out of me – being equally good at everything meant I didn’t excel at anything. So, when it came to University, it didn’t come to University. I didn’t go. I had no fucking idea what I wanted to do. Critiquing the crap out of Orwell wasn’t gonna get me a day job. So I went home and wrote sci-fi  stories whilst applying for interviews in any fucking field going.

Forensics and I had a brief dalliance simply because I fucking love science (pretty sure this had something to do with the living autopsy I’d had at age 15). I could HELP PEOPLE, I thought. But life in the bacti-lab was no fun, and aside from a guy’s thumb – kept pickled in the fridge – I never actually got to see anything dead. YAWN. Wrote a horror short about the experience, entitled RIGID DIGIT, but no … I wasn’t a writer. I refused to be a writer.

I dabbled in journalism at Radio City and qualified in the subject whilst I was there. Did a bit of vox-popping and radio production, a touch of tape-splicing, and a thumbful of twiddling. Whilst I do have a great face for radio, its audio-visage wasn’t appealing to me so I fell into critique. Ended up working for a shall-remain-nameless rag. Told it like it was. Was asked to tailor my style to that of their own house: arse-kissery for the sole purpose of shitnosing not-very-important people. Sorry – but if a play blows, I’ll supply even more fucking air to propel its little house down.

Was asked (again) to write (a lot) less like me and instead use someone else’s voice. I resigned; I couldn’t be mortar to a house whose unimaginative bricks had already fallen.

Didn’t stop reviewing, though. Loved it. Daily trips to the flicks (it was cheap back then) resulted in wonderful rants. But friends kept telling me to write my own stuff. I can’t, I’d say. I have no imagination, I’d say. I’d rather just get a movie and perform an autopsy on it, I’d say. Get it on my little wordy slab and explain its anatomy. Describing why a film is so utterly fucking watchable (or turnoffable) was the only thing at which I was any good.

Spat my dummy out. Again. Read a bit more Orwell. Ate a bit more Shakespeare. Headached through A Brief History of Time. Wrote some stories. Poed some poems. Drank in JB Priestley after he’d imbibed a bit of Jung……and then went and wrote a 15,000 word ‘essay’ about my own little time theories.

And then … after receiving my review for his spec script, a super-bad badass screenwriter told me I was a better writer than he’d ever be. And – holy fuckballs: I believed him. And I believed in myself for the first time. I went home, dug out the unshredded, and read. I then proceeded to desk-bang my noggin to knock out the stupid. It worked.

So I started writing … and, slowly, offers started coming in. Publishment, Screenwords, editing gigs, all of it. And after decades of denial, I finally accepted that this part of me should be allowed out. And now she’s out, here she shall stay.

So – why do I write? It’s simple: I was asking for it.

Slight Monsterage Is To Be Expected


The monsters from our past continue to fuck with us as they’ve made sure to leave us with a charming visual, which plays on a loop inside the screen of our minds. But they only stay inside your head if you LET THEM. They have no power unless you fear them….and the circle must be broken.

Monster once begat monster begat monster, with the abused becoming the abusers. But some people DO break free: they’re the gods amongst us.

This: Two brothers. One beat his wife, the other did not.

The first was asked “why do you hit your wife”?…and he replied “because I saw my father beat up on my Mom”.

His sibling was asked, “why DON’T you hit your wife”? – and he gave the same answer.

Don’t let them win.

Look under the bed and see that they’re not there.

Climb ONTO that bed…..

…..and sleep.

Nothing can harm you.

Sonnet 119


Sonnet 119
Across a pond a televisual church;
Displaying Armageddon unforeseen;
Our continent with theirs united: merged;
When British eyes ‘came glued to godless screens.
We fell at once into our chairs and pews;
As unbelievability unfurled;
A sermon painted in horrific hue;
An unprophetic evil unforetold.
A pestilential fever plagued glue-eyes;
Whilst fire and brimstone spoke destructive psalm;
And as this story true yet not devised;
For us to bear: a cross, to offer: alms.

Yet as not concrete-steel nor God protect;
So hopeless was each prayer and genuflect.

Sonnet 911


Two planes: our past and future would converge;
One outcome proving difficult and rare;
Four aeroplanes took flight while death emerged;
A five-walled building torn apart by air.
Into a field appeared the scythe of woe;
Aluminum and alloys razed a pair;
And those who should be allies proved the foe;
With perpetrators underground in lairs.
Political decisions at the root;
Retaliating badness’ voice was spoke;
And heard: a falling body, found: a foot;
Relations parted hearts – forever broke.

Horrific by the number, lies dispersed;
Impossible to sum by mournful verse.

Who was he?


I’m really glad everyone’s bummed out about his death; it means he touched us.

This is just a cross we have to bear – so fucking WHAT if we’re a bit miserable today? That’s nothing – it’s the least we can do, considering he let us borrow him for a short while.

Maybe somebody somewhere will seek help knowing that this great man was just like us; a man who quite possibly would have given all that he had, just to BE like us in some small way.

He had me at Nanu Nanu when as a wee sprog, I just kind of fell in love with him. It wasn’t his delivery or his madcappery – it was the EYES – his FUCKING eyes. They sucked me in – and I stayed there, hugged by his hairy teddy bear arms.  I soaked up every emotion he ever conveyed through that screen of mine.  And he OWNED it.

For me each performance was the greatest thing he ever did since the last.  Because of him, I was a Dead Poet until I was Awakened.  He said Good Morning to me and Hunted me with Good Will. Each performance was his finest – he gave ALL of his everything in a visual encyclopedia of acting classes that we get to keep.

But there came a time when we had to give HIM back.


Did we HAVE to?

Maybe we didn’t. Maybe somewhen, somewhere, somebody could have prevented this.

So who was he? All I know is who he was to me. He was Mork, he was Garp. He was Keating and Sayer, and a fucking GENIE, for Christ’s sake.

He was Jakob – and he was a liar. All actors are liars to some extent, right? They show you what they want you to see? They take on these roles where they portray someone else? Well, we didn’t get to see the character of HIM – he hid himself; he lied to us.


I do imagine there’s no heaven – and it’s NOT easy to do. But instead, I’ve invented a little place in my own crazy head – an imaginary rehab where actors go for the ultimate recovery. (This is the shit that keeps ME sane).

And in this place, there’s a party going on. It’s a party for Supermen, whose worlds were stages. Here, it’s some kind of other-worldly Labyrinth; Phil Hoffman is there being truly awesome.  Peter Sellers walks on his knees and talks about this being the war room, so you can’t fight.

Seems like he fought his entire life.

Back to the party.  James Gandolfini is the Man Who Wasn’t There, and Michael Clarke Duncan towers eighteen feet over everybody else. James Dean doesn’t say much but looks pretty fucking cool, while Phil Hartman does incredible impressions of everybody else.

And Christopher Reeve stands up, and walks over to Robin Williams to welcome him home.

Wilfred’s Men


A poet’s shattered soul reacts to crumpled men with words intact;

Recalling lies as glory folds, one verse – yet many stories told:

Our Wilfred said they’d cursed through sludge, towards their distant rest they’d trudged;

And Wilfred’s men had lost their boots but limped on, blind; deaf to the hoots.

There, Wilfred saw a hanging face – as death came to his writing-place;

So we could read -at every jolt- of gargled blood to our revolt.

If Wilfred knew – if he could see -dead men survived by poetry,

What would he say – and would he be surprised his words adored by me?

Adored by age, revered by youth; for otherwise-unspoken truth.

If he were now – if he were here, would Wilfred to the world endear?

Or is it likelier he’d see: arms being sold; cash weaponry?

And then the fight to stop it all, this great divide as countries fall?

Perhaps for now, hypocrisy – humanity’s mobocracy:

And as he rhymes of this or that, he’d write: Manus Manum Lavat.


The Details Don’t Matter


How do you even begin to write a story?  All I can tell you is what works for me.  Just today, for example, my publisher asked me to write a short story for inclusion in an anthology, of which the details don’t matter.

Start at the end, or end at the beginning. As long as there’s a decent middle, this thing will wrap itself up nicely regardless of chronology.  You’ll find yourself at the END at precisely the most opportune time.

Before long, you’ll stop asking questions, cease pulling it to pieces, and find yourself lost in your own pen (or i-pad, being that it’s no longer 1833). You’ll stop worrying about the mechanics of the thing and SUDDENLY….you realise you’re finished.

Consequently, I reckoned it might be nice to take you along for a ride in my little thought-process vehicle as I write the thing.

My brief is this: When? 1910.  Who? Well, my protagonist has to be a chick and she has to be aged 20. (Oh – and she also has to bump someone off).

Niiiice: the black-and-white era means that my story can remain uncomplicated by unrealistic forensic technology and computers beeping EVERY goddamn time they get a DNA MATCH within three seconds of the sample being run through the database. (Note to CSI producers – you know what I’m talking about – knock it off).

Whilst I forbid myself from getting bogged down with tiny weeny particulars, I never quite know how things are going to turn out until I start writing – hell, I don’t even know what I’m THINKING until my fingertips spell it out for me onto whatever device (or quill and parchment) is nearest at that particular moment.   And before too long, there comes another moment when everything just starts to flow and fit.

First: the name.  Joan?  Margaret? Nah.

(I did also mess around with a Beryl and an Enid, but quickly binned them off because I just wasn’t…y’know – feelin’ it). Hmmmm…..EVIE! Yes: Evie. Perfect.  And now – to see how her story evolves.

Here’s Evie. She’s 20. It’s 1910. I SERIOUSLY cannot be arsed dreaming up creative ways to crowbar-in the inconsequential specifics so I’ll just state them as FACT. Just go with it.  You can imagine her for yourself anyway. That image in your mind’s eye right now? THAT’S her; the details don’t matter.

She’s a bit of alright, don’t ya think? I mean – for a lass of that age to be out on the streets alone, she HAS to be a bit of alright or nobody would want to buy her wares. (Wait – did I not already mention her habitual hookery?)

Let’s start again: It’s 1910.  We meet Evie, a 20-year-old prostitute (don’t feel sorry for her – she’s a killer, remember?  She’s probably a slut, too – it’s right there in the job description.  Although….she has to make money SOMEHOW, I guess. OK – let’s not be too harsh on her).

She kills a dude (except he probably wouldn’t have been called a dude back in 1910, but whatever). He’s a punter – and the set-up is the obvious guy-treats-hooker-like-shit-hooker-gets-revenge one. 

Keep reading. You still with me? Good.

So Evie’s with this bloke – he’s had her before. MINTED, he is. Absolutely MINTED – he always seems to have his entire fortune upon his person, being that his wallet is two-planks thick. She and he are in a bedroom. (Well – I say bedroom, it’s more of a skanky cupboard at the back of an old Edwardian boozer). There’s a blanket-covered crate thing pretending to be a bed, so technically it’s a bedroom, ok? Stay with me, people.

He asks her to try something new. Demands it, in fact.  For the purposes of the story, it doesn’t matter what IT is, that’d just be word-count padding. In any case, she doesn’t fancy it, so he flips his lid.

“You WILL do it”, he yells, as he kicks something irrelevant across the room.

She has a plan. And at this stage, this plan of hers comprises the simple “no” approach.  It rarely works, but she’s gonna try anyway.

“On yer bike, guv’nor” she says. (I’ve watched “Oliver” more than once – does it show?)

He forces himself on her, and we’re appalled. So, now, we’re WITH her.  We ARE her. We forget our prejudices about her dodgy career choice, and we want him OFF us. He has to die.

We ARE her.

So – how do we do it? Let’s look around the room.  As he slaps us across alternate cheeks, our rapidly-flipping head allows us to see various objects dotted around the room. But we’re STUCK. He’s ON us. He’s heavier and stronger than we are – fucker. SHIT! How are we gonna get out of this?

OK – deep breath. The easiest way out would be to simply allow him to do what he wanted to do in the first place. But we can guess that he’s already past that point – doesn’t WANT it any more. He’s ANGRY now.

We can’t throttle the bastard – we’re too weak.  Also: tiny hands, damnit. We could reach for the blunt object (doesn’t matter what) that’s at fingertip-reach upon a neighbouring crate. We might consider the SHARP object that we’ve rather astutely stashed within our undies earlier that day just in case it ever came to this. We pick one – and, despite our supposed fairer-sex weakness, we succeed. The details don’t matter.

Aaaaand he’s OUT. We’ve taken him out. He’s not restin’, not stunned. He is no more. Murder, manslaughter – you decide.

Evie goes home to her London flat (we don’t need the “journey” section) and pops into the kitchen to make a sweet, calming cuppa. She swigs – just the once.

In 1910, our female protagonist, aged 20, takes the money she’d emptied from her would-be-killer’s wallet not ten minutes ago. She walks into the only other room in this, her London flat – and stuffs it under a cot mattress.

“This is for you”, she says as her eyes bleed saline onto her baby’s sleeping eyelids.

“There was nothing else I could do….but this is for you”.

Evie kisses her tainted finger to enable transference of lip-to-cheek.

“You can’t know how. You won’t know why. The details don’t matter”.











This is NOT the official review, by the way……but I just experienced THAT moment. Y’know, the one where you watch a movie containing some of the GREATEST fucking artists ever….and they’re all on screen together an’ stuff…but you end up trying to poke out your own eyeballs (earballs too, maybe).


 I’m referring to “Grandfathers Do ‘The Hangover’ “, of course.  I can’t even bring myself to type the actual, hideously crowbarred, I-see-what-you-did-there title. There is a time and place for puns; movie titleage is not it.

We have Michael Douglas in leftover Liberace orange-face, being…well – Michael Douglas. Then there’s Morgan Freeman who, apart from one inspired little bit of inebriation, leaves me otherwise MEH….De Niro IS, of course, doing his “I’m really THAT fucking awesome that you can’t take your eyes off me ” thing….which is always good. Boring, but good.

But….and I feel horribly filthy even saying this, what with his being the GOD of everything ‘n’all….Kevin Kline just ain’t right. I feel like I’m cheating on him; I mean – bugger ME!! He’s OTTO, for fuck’s sake!!! He’s The Pirate King! He’s Dave! He’s Bottom! He’s Cole fucking Porter!!!!! (I could go on….). I must go and partake of some nifty little self-flagellation to atone for these thoughts…….

So….anyway….the story – such as it is. There’s this bloke, played by Dougie baby. He’s getting on a bit, and is about to get hitched to a 32-year old (a stretch – I know).

Unimaginatively, his three mates join him in Vegas for his utterly ghastly and extremely chavtastic stag bash. And we can guess the rest as soon as we see him perving over Mary Steenburgen. Yeah: there’s Mary as a kind of jazz singery thingymabob, who sounds more than a little like Snow White with her sitting-on-a-sex-toy singing voice.

Kev’s role? A sixty-something geezer, whose missus has given him (along with a blue pill and a condom) the green light to do whatever it is that usually stays in Vegas, in the hope that when he returns to her, he’ll pork away and fuck her blue. (Ok…it might not have been put *exactly* like that, and I realise that I *may* be channelling Otto a little bit).

But – YAWN. What a travesty of a sham of a mockery of a waste of a *Kevin. He’s just too fucking awesome for such a lame-ass role.

(*Often found myself wishing he had a cooler moniker).

It’s definitely not going down in Lin’s most-quotable movie list, being that I can’t recall any memorable lines; despite having only just watched the fucker.

This film should have been good. It should have been either amazeballingly awesome or awesballingly amazesome. Sadly, it was neither. All it was? A load of leftover one-liners from the Bucket List.

So. Erm…yeah. Do I have anything good to say about this movie? Erm…There’s Curtis Jackson in a nice self-parodying cameo, and that guy is well fit. Nice gnashers.

That’s it.

Oh fukkit – this IS the official review.

GiveMeALobotomyToRemoveThisFromMyGreystuff rating (out of 5):