Sho Nuff Yes I Do

Category Archives: Real Thoughts From Inside My Brain

If you’re ever asked the question – as I often am – “how do you be a mum and stay cool with your faced paced ‘life’ ‘style’?”  I simply point at my MomBag© and that tells them everything they need to know.

You’ve heard of hip-hop? You’ve heard of Chap-Hop? Then welcome to my world, the crazy world of Mom-Hop©!

 

Mom-Hop© is for all us Moms out there who are just a little tired of being stuck in our little boxes – you know, the box with ‘Just A MOM’ written on it – and put back on the shelf. Time to show them a dynamic, new you. Time to show them that your music taste is just as eclectic as theirs – from Coldplay to U2, Paul Simon to Nickelback. And you want style? We’ve got MomBags© of it!

You’ll see us in supermarkets carrying all the ‘kit’ a Mom-Hopper needs – NOTEBOOK, PEN, GLASSES, TISSUES, MUESLI BAR, HRT – and suddenly…WHOA! What’s this? Is that Mom ‘beat’ ‘boxing’ ? She sure is! Time to drop a MOM-BOMB!!

You see Mom-Hop© isn’t just a musical attitude. It’s a way of life. I might wear a polo shirt under my neckerchief but I can rhyme ‘statins’ with ‘potato gratins’ just about any time I please!

 


You don’t want me on your team. I can’t throw a punch or a ball. I can’t kick, scratch, slap. My hands are too clammy for a Chinese burn.

 

I run like I’m being attacked by bees. I dance like Missy Elliott covered in itching powder.

I’m a pacifist and I cry when I’m in pain. And polite? You betcha. Humble to the point of being craven. I’m writing this at five to nine on a Friday night. I’m DULL. I’m Wings playing in a deserted nightclub, Rothmans and a Diamond White. No class.

 

But.

 

But.

 

By some miracle I am 2 years sober. More than that. It’s been 818 days since I last had a drink or a smoke. That’s 19,632 hours I’ve spent with the stark regard of my own sobriety. It’s frightening. It’s like sitting in a room with mirrored walls closing in on you. Hi, I’m Daisy Pearce!

For realsies I’m not going to wang on about it. If you know about drink problems you’ll already know that cutting it out is the easy part. It’s living sober that is the killer. So much clarity! So MUCH FUCKING TIME.

Check out this weird fucking picture depicting Old Father Time I found :(

Check out this weird fucking picture depicting Old Father Time I found 😦

It astounded me how much free time I had once I stopped being pissed up on booze or hungover off of booze. So much. I started ‘doing’ yoga. I have become so adept at contortion that my life should, by all rights, be one long sizzling dick-fest. So I ‘do’ yoga. I also ‘do’ meditation and I ‘do’ mindfulness. I walk, wank and write. Still I’ve got time on my hands. Fuck. Alcohol is the great eater of hours and now I’m tying knots in the days. Learn French? Non. Cook? Don’t mind if I don’t. Eat. I can caine a pound of halloumi in less time than it takes you to say, “Thats the second one you’ve had today.” I have a lovely round broad face thanks to my cheese love. A big round face like the moon rising over the edge of the cheeseboard. I love cheese.

 

So, I’m sober. This is what happens. Moon-faced and incoherent. Thanks a lot lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely booze.



Interpretive Dance is like Kryptonite to me. All that bodily expression and urgent sincerity make me want to hurl myself into the fucking sun. I’m so British. It’s like a disease.

 

So imagine my bafflement when I found a flyer for a local group called The Naked Truth Dance. Imagine me reeling around, clutching my hand to my forehead bouncing from lamppost to lamppost like Benny Hill in a pinball machine. Imagine the dawning bafflement on my face when I read the words –  “Dance out your deepest secrets in your most primitive form”.

Talk about striking fire into my heart. It’s like a blade of ice. Jesus Christ. I’m sweating just thinking about it.

SWEATING.

The only time I’ve come close to something like this was when I was eating yoghurt in my pants and I started retching. And in case any of my exes are reading this then yes, I’ve still got it. Still got it. PLAYA.

If this makes me sound like a misanthrope than you’re probably right. I’m not fond of people with their toenails and their opinions and their stupid flapping mouths. I don’t like them coughing and thinking and colouring things in with highlighters like pedestrian apes. Imagine – imagine – them dancing without clothes, telling you their darkest past(est) like a drunk at a party who you can’t get away from, limbs blurring, breathing their halitosis all over you. Like a house of mirrors glimpsed in a heat-haze.

StockUgh. People.

Then it got me thinking. Do I even have any deepest secrets worth dancing out?

Of course.

Of course I do.

(1)   That time I once stole a pen from Argos

(2)   That one time I put a bee in a cup and shook it then ran away.

(3)   When I used to turn the thermostat up as a kid so it would feel like I was on holiday.

(4)   I once broke a cup at work and hid it back in the cupboard without telling anyone

 

These are my truths. Deal with them, people. Deal with them or I will dance them for you with all my tits out and bush and everything.


You know what I love? Hip Hop. For every misogynistic, homophobic, teeth-grindingly unimaginative asshat of an MC (Chris Brown) there is a perpetually inventive, beat driven shamelessly ego pumped styler out there ready to take the Mic (Kool Keith).

I can’t rap. I think we’d both be a little more comfortable if I get that out there now.  For all my homegirl ghetto credentials (I literally failed my Maths GCSE like, twice) I’m no better at lyrical alchemy than I am say, unicycling or cooking pancakes. In fact I’m so bad that my long awaited rap odyssey (‘Urban Street Tough’) failed within the first five minutes with these lines;

“If it don’t rhyme, it ain’t a crime,

You want me to do time?

Shutup! You’re lyrics aren’t any better than mine.”

Then I beatboxed a solo for twenty minutes while a girls crotch gyrated inches from my face and hair.

 

So I’d pretty much given up on hip hop until I read this tweet yesterday from Original Gangster, Homie, Bodycount Banger and star of the HBO drama Law and Order, Ice T:

ICE T ‏@FINALLEVEL 3 Sep

People are always shocked when they find out I don’t drink, smoke weed or get high….. I always felt it COMPROMISED my hustle.

 

This is so mindbendingly brilliant I keep getting drawn back to it like a Goth to eyeliner.

IT COMPROMISED HIS HUSTLE. I think we can all learn a lesson there and that lesson is don’t do anything which compromises your HUSTLE. From anal sex to making jam, from Downton Abbey to Compton, from double denim to strikes on Syria, here is the world’s most brilliant excuse for anything at any time in any place ever in the world, like ever.

 

With that in mind I’m sharing with you some trinkets I recently picked up for very little cashmoney, yo.

wpid-IMG_20130903_230850.jpgSo fresh it’s mountain fed and purer than triple distilled Vodka this real silver necklace consists of three dinky little charms – a heart, a cross and an anchor. So Love, Faith and Sailors. Whatever. This cost me a BITCHIN’ TWENTY FIVE PENCE-INGTONS.

wpid-20130826_183412.jpgScarf so scarf good for a laugh, the more you eat the more you barf. This scarf was 50 CENTS (PENCE) at the Rottingdean Car Boot Sale. Where all my bitches be at.

wpid-IMG_20130903_231214.jpgA tin a tin, good for keeping things in. I’ve put the tiny still beating hearts of mice and hamsters in there in their barely congealed juices but you could use it for earrings or biscuits too! Tin (Of Small Rodent Death)  Fifty Pences

wpid-20130826_183249.jpgLiterally the most gangster thing you’ll see hanging off a set of doorkeys. The chamber flips open so you can load another tiny pea sized rounds. I conceal it in my sock. Twenty penks. (pence)

wpid-20130826_185214.jpgSilk rose. Put it in your hair or on your bookshelf if you are borderline pretentious and care about how your books are displayed. I HAVE TOTALLY PUT IT ON MY BOOKSHELF.

wpid-20130904_095720.jpg“A Knife, A Fork, A Bottle and A Cork, that’s the way we spell New York.”    Dillinger was of course wrong here, but what isn’t wrong is this art deco Disney New York City badge which is less a fashion accessory and more a MASSIVE hint to the cosmos that I’d like to go there one day and bask in it’s unparallelled weirdness.

I’m out homies. Peace.


“Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman,” sang Tammy Wynette, the woman who won the prize for Having A Name Which Sounds Most Like A Sanitary Product® in ’82 and ’84.

(Last years winner was Flo Rida, pictured at the award ceremony below)

flo-rida

I’m off point. So Tammy thinks it’s hard to be a woman does she? She’s not fucking wrong. But what she failed to mention is that sometimes it’s hard to be anything. Sometimes it’s hard to be a badger. Sometimes it’s hard to be an atom. Because the key word there is sometimes. It’s so vague it’s almost ethereal. Like a mist. Like an insubstantial ghost. Like a fart trapped in a trouser leg. Sometimes.

I’m not a fan of advertising, and not just because Bill Hicks tells me it’s alright to hate ‘em. I’m not a fan because the snooker playing Hoffmeister Bear from the eighties used to freak me out to such a degree that I’d have to blow into a brown paper bag for the duration of the ad breaks.  Thanks a lot, advertising. One thing I’ve noticed though, is their use of very vague, non-specific words which appear to tell you something scientifically proven which has been discovered in tests and polls which might offer you answers but in actual fact reveals very little that is tangible. Much like that last sentence.

Hoffmeister Bear Ad – Trigger Warning

Take any advert for any beauty product ever. BUY THIS, WOMEN!! YOU AREN’T YET GOOD ENOUGH!! BE YOUNGER!! SORT OUT YOUR HAIR!!! YOU CALL THAT A COMPLEXION? YOU LOOK LIKE GANDALF’S CROTCH!!! YOU’RE SHIT!!! WOMEN!!!!

It’s hocus pocus snake oil salesmen nonsense, and the advertising industry is stinking rich because of it. Of course it is. I buy crap all the time. I buy things I’m lulled into thinking I need because somebody is an eel-like contortionist when it comes to language and YES I’LL TAKE TEN OF THEM. I used to buy anything which was ‘scientifically proven’ because it’s SCIENCE, and SCIENCE is never wrong, right kids? And Proven is such a solid, grounded word. Essentially what ‘scientifically proven’ reads like – at least to a lab rat like me is – ‘This Really, Really Works And Science Has Proved It’ when in fact it may as well be endorsed by Beaker from the Muppets. It means nothing.

beaker

Those brand taglines? Mean nothing. ‘I’m Loving It?’ Nothing. ‘Just Do It’. Nothing. ‘Washing machines live longer with Calgon’. Uh-huh. Nothing. It’s sick how much we buy into this – so much so that an entire industry thrives on it and prominent advertising spaces sell for mega bucks. A thirty second advert in the first half of the Superbowl costs nearly Four Million Dollars. If any eccentric millionaires are reading this and want to film themselves doing something absolutely FILTHY for the fill thirty seconds in unflinching eye watering detail with über surround sound then please, please, please…

…Just Do It.

 

 


You ever worked in the hospitality industry? I have. I’ve dealt with the tits, twats, prats and gits which make up the 90% of the general public which doesn’t include my friends, family and YOU obviously, darling.

The very best thing about having to serve people relentlessly on a day-to-day basis is the free floating dread you get about having to go into work every day for low wages and long, anti-social hours. That and the tips, right?

Still, I forgot myself for a moment the other day. It was hot and I was sticky. (I don’t ‘do’ heat in the same way fish don’t do, you know, ‘breathing air’ or Jedward do ‘calming the fuck down for five minutes’.)

The heat got to me and in a fit of pique I wrote to the manager of Bills incandescent with sun-fuelled rage that I had been charged a couple of quid for a glass of soda water.

wpid-IMG_20130801_211215.jpg

I know, right? Fucking loser. You should see the email I sent. Ugh. I literally don’t know what to do with it. It is poisoning my inbox every time I look at my messages. I’ve had to call a young priest and an old priest to dispose of it for me. In my defence I was in a filthy mood, but still. Yikes.

Still the guy from Bills sent me back a BRILLIANT response. If you’ve ever worked with a hostile, overbearing individual in any capacity you will recognise immediately what he is doing. A reply so ripe with charm and politeness that you cannot possibly find fault with it, even though – and here is the important bit so listen up – even though he is being deeply and sincerely sarcastic. I’ve done this and I suspect you have too. Teeth grittingly polite with an implied FUCK YOU so barely concealed it’s made the front page of Vogue.

I am LOSING IT in this monstrous heat

I am LOSING IT in this monstrous heat

“Please accept my sincere apologies for failing to charge you appropriately for a soda water.”  It begins. “Clearly we have charged you far too much for such a simple drink. Simply not good enough and we must do better.”

Already you’re thinking alright mate I get it, don’t go over the top.

“I have reviewed with my team in Lewes the correct way I expect any non-menu drink request to be charged. In this case a degree of common sense was needed and we clearly didn’t deliver that. I’m so sorry for letting you down.”

That last bit is my favourite. As though I’d suffered a compound fracture of moral responsibility.

“A briefing and coaching session for our front of house team has taken place in light of your experience.” He agonises, with a degree of self flagellation which even martyrs think is excessive,

“Thank you for providing me with this opportunity. I will be keeping a close eye on their abilities with this in the future.”

Touche Scott, you brilliant man. I’m sorry I behaved like a complete twathat over a can of soda water. If I’m honest with you, I thought it came from a soda gun. I didn’t know you used cans. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU USED CANS. I’m sorry you even had to indulge my shitty complaint. If I ever meet you we will go for a drink.

You’re buying, right?


Soon, some more charity shop bargains but for this post at least, something I really hate. More than freeform jazz.

 

It’s that quasi-faux-meditative-hippy bullshit that’s been doing the rounds on Facebook and Tumblr since 1827. You know the type of thing. Some blurry shot of a lotus flower and scrolling across it, the words;

‘Learn to kiss the rain, so that you can dance with the storm’

or some such utter ballbags. The sort of twee piddle which even Hallmark have rejected for being ‘utter, vacant dross’

226624_533015963423182_2019130288_n

The one which really upsets me – the mark of a true asshat, is ‘dance like there’s nobody watching.’

Really?

 

REALLY?

 

You need to have that spelt out to you? The only time ‘Dance like there’s nobody watching’ is the answer to something is when the question is “What can I do to make myself look a tit?”

(Now I say this as someone with an overtly sexual approach to dancing which can make some people (everyone) feel uncomfortable. As anyone who has had my crotch in their face while Prince is on can attest to.)

Dance like there’s somebody about to burn your house down. Dance like you’re being attacked by wasps. Dance like you’re being judged by a po-faced panel of Dickensian workhouse characters. Dance however the fuck you want. Unless you’re Lady Gaga here is a truism – far less people have an opinion of you than you think. Least of all your dancing. I couldn’t care less. I walked past a man on the bridge yesterday dancing to a busker with some INCREDIBLE moves. It was like watching Bez dancing through a tide of treacle. Like Marcel Marceau miming a puppet being crushed by a wave of doom. It was so good I backtracked to see him again. He wasn’t just dancing like no-one was watching, he literally wasn’t aware anyone else was there. Possibly not even himself.

stones

Here’s my point.

This postcard caption micro-wisdom isn’t being cosmically transmitted to you by some hippy in the patchouli scented bowels of San Fransisco after some hours of transcendental meditation. It’s probably being written by an account manager called Graham in an office in Dunstable. He probably has flakes of sausage roll pastry on his chest and drives a Punto. Graham is probably using the Random Feelgood Bullshit Generator© like this one just here which I have invented for free using my brain to do the thinking and my fingers to type each letter. Just to prove that any old gold plated twat can come up with this.

 

Instructions for the Random Feelgood Bullshit Generator© are as follows.

 

Pick a number between one and ten. Done that? Good. Now pick another. Done that ? Good.

 

Now pick your first number from Column (A) and your second from Column (B). Put these two together and you have your Randomly Generated Feelgood Bullshit thought for the day. Get it on a blurry watercolour of a fucking orchid or something. Make it into a print. Get it tattooed. That’s right. Get it tattooed.

 

(A)

1) Learn how to dance in the rain…

2) Give yourself a hand to hold…

3) Make each day beautiful…

4) Pick a snail from the path of life…

5) Build a shelter from the rain…

6) You can learn to build a bridge…

7) Count each footstep…

8) Watch a butterfly take flight…

9) Let your problems float away….

10) Love like you mean it….

 

(B)

1) …because you are YOU

2) …because life is a million colours

3) …and let the bad times disappear

4) …like you have all the time in the world

5) …and you will find you have no limits

6) …because you are stronger than you think

7) …and you can dance beneath the rainbow

8) …and then love like it will never end

9) …and you will be happy

10) …as if you are full of golden light.

dog