That time we went dahn sarf.

As is my usual M.O, this has been written over several days and weeks and is therefore confusing. It’ll feel a bit like time travel. It’ll feel like you’ve flitted  back and forth through your wardrobe to Narnia half a dozen times. I apologise in advance. Just go with it. I’m not saying it’s worth it but it’ll at least give you a reason to stare at your phone for a few minutes thus avoiding human contact.

Tuesday (Now two weeks ago, FFS!)

We’re just back from a long weekend dahn sarf looking at art and eating. I love the idea of an art gallery or museum but find them overstimulating and can only tolerate about an hour of going ooh that’s lovely or worra load of old shit before curling my lip, yawning, needing the toilet and heading giftshopward or caféward.

The giftshop at Tate Modern however yielded a lovely read in the shape of a biography of Grayson Perry. I’m a huge Grayson fan and feel like we’d get on like a house on fire and become great friends. I also think that about Johnathan Ross. I had a Twitter exchange with him in the days when only six folk had Twitter accounts and we all spoke to each other and Johnathan and I regularly (once) batted witty repartee back and forward.

Grayson’s biography is what I’d describe as a charming book thus far (I’m only at the prologue!) and captures the zeitgeist of  growing up in the sixties very well in my snooty opinion.  It’s made me yearn for the Encyclopaedic Books of Knowledge that alphabetically lined a white gloss painted shelf in our living room when I was wee. I can still smell that shelf. I devoured the books and used to read them for fun. I wasn’t like the other girls. I was bookish. They suited my enquiring mind perfectly. I even learned the history and rules of lawn tennis from those books. That stood me in good stead, didn’t it? I’m a lardy couch potato. I’ve never used a tennis racquet in anger, or participated in any competitive sport, but never say never. Although I clearly just did. Three times.

While we’re loosely on the subject of my expert theoretical knowledge of tennis, there follows a summary of the highlights of our long weekend, set against the background of tennis match scoring.

But first some context. Prior to the London trip, in my usual penny wise/pounds foolish style, I cashed in my Tesco Clubcard points and exchanged same for 30 quids worth of Zizzi restaurant vouchers. I don’t know why I did that; I don’t like chain faux Italian restos. It’s just carbs innit? There’s nae meat. Regardless, armed with my thirty quid worth of Zizzi vouchers, off we went to London. First class if you please! I had gin at 1pm! Then felt hungover by Birmingham.

Arrived at the hotel at teatime, mysteriously starving despite having eaten everything off the trolley on the First Class Virgin carriage, and with the Zizzi vouchers burning a hole in my pocket, we set off smugly to Zizzi. I know, I know – all the lovely places in London to eat and we went to Zizzi. But HELLO. VOUCHER. Stereotypical Scots innit? But I’m happy to throw a hundred quid upwards at perfume and snake oil face creams. It’s ridiculous. 

So in to Zizzi we go, and OF COURSE sat behind the woman with the loudest laugh on the planet. Nevertheless, on we ploughed through the menu. We each ordered some overpriced carbs – me tortellini, she a weird gigantopizza – together with some extravagant cocktails and a lemony dessert that tasted of disappointment and was so tart it made my face go inside out, much to Mrs T’s annoyance every time I ate a spoonful. “Don’t eat it then!” But by Christ I was determined to eat it, mainly because my tortellini amounted to five pieces and I’d scoffed it in about three minutes, after which I got the terrible pizza horn but couldn’t have a bit of Mrs T’s because it had anchovies on it.

The bill duly came, not that I was worried because I was armed with thirty quid of Zizzi vouchers! Ha! Yes! I’m triumphant! I’ve thirty quid of vouchers for Zizzi! Take that London!

My jubilation was interrupted by the waiter:

“these vouchers are for Pizza Express”

Me: (thinking everyone’s a bloody comedian) “Hahahahaha!”

Waiter: “No. They are. Look”

And sure as a cat’s a hairy beast the vouchers were in actual fact for Pizza shitting Express.

Fifty quid for a mountain of fucking carbs and two desserts of disappointment.

Me, whining:”But…but…I don’t like Pizza Express”

Score: Fifteen Love London.

Wednesday. With carb bloat. 

Off to the V&A today to see the Undressed exhibition armed with our two for one voucher. (Again, penny wise pounds foolish). I hadn’t checked the weather so sailed out on to the streets of London in Converse and a short sleeve summer frock only to find that it was raining. Heavily.

Mrs T: Did you bring a brolly?

Me: Eh no. I didn’t even bring a jacket. 

Mrs T: You want me to go back and get your jacket? 

Me: Yes please

*interval while jacket is retrieved*

Me: Thanks. 

*dons jacket. Hood won’t stay up. Gets crabbit*

Me: Actually I kinda wish I had my brolly. 

Mrs T: you want me to go back for it?

Me: Yes. Yes I do. That would be lovely of you. I’ll sit in that nice dry cafe over there and have a cappuccino. 

*interval while brolly is fetched*

*Mrs T returns with brolly*

Me: Thank you but the rain’s stopped. 

Score:Thirty Love London

*Schlep to tube station*

Me:You got the Oyster cards?

Mrs T, clutching at pockets:  Oops. They’re in my other shirt. 

Me: Oh for fucksake. 

*Cough up tube fares*

Arrive at V&A

Me: Good morning my good man. We’re here to see this fancy exhibition about pants. I think you’ll find we only need pay entrance fee for one since we have this two for one voucher we cleverly downloaded off my internet. 

It’s here somewhere…

*Rummage in handbag…*

*Further rummage…beads of sweat forming on top lip*

*Look accusingly at Mrs T*

Me: Did you…

Mrs T: Eh no. You had it. Did you pick it up off the table in the room? 

Me: No. No I didn’t. 

Forty Love London, you bastard. 


In a state of post holiday bewilderment I spent today thinking a) it was Monday and b) wondering why I didn’t see any evidence of that purveyor of mediocre baked goods Gregg’s in London.

We’ve decided we need to lose weight. The taller and therefore relatively and arguably less rotund Mrs T has purchased a bike. The courier won’t deliver it here for some reason which is insane. We’re not in Macchu Picchu. The bike, when it arrives, has only three gears. “I’m 43; I’ve no need for a bike with twenty odd gears. I wouldn’t know what to do with them all”. This whilst poking down a Cornetto. 


Woke up at 4am annoyed about sweet potato and the pointlessness of it. 

Whilst reading an article on incest today ( I didn’t seek it out; I came across it during one of those down the rabbit hole internet reading sessions that you start by googling something dull like ingrown toenail treatment and end up succumbing to clickbait with titles like I gave birth to a giraffe) I encountered the loveliest new word: consanguineous. I sighed with pleasure when I read it, and tried it out for size a couple of times to a nonplussed Tucker (who incidentally has taken up a delightful hobby – eating Audrey’s (the cat) meat and her shit. Literally eating cat shit. I can barely look at him.

 I can’t wait for an occasion where i can use the word consanguineous. I might have to resort to bringing up the subject of incest at some point. You might want to avoid me for a few weeks until I’ve moved on to another word.

I got bored with the tennis scoring thing you’ll notice. 

Still. Consanguineous. Phwoar.

Tigerbaps’ Ten T’internet Tips. 

1. Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet – especially if you’re consulting Dr Google. You probably don’t have cholera or consumption. 

2. One is not, as far as I’m aware, required by law to like or comment on every single bloody Facebook post or wish every bugger happy birthday. Nor is it a crime if someone i.e. me doesn’t reply to your comment. I have a job that requires my full attention between roughly 9am and 5pm which means that I’ll  miss that picture of your sandwich you posted at 1pm. But that’s okay because repeat after me FACEBOOK IS NOT REAL LIFE. 

3. Never EVER read the comments on the Guardian website especially if they’re under any vaguely political article. The people who leave such comments are cobbled together from the bits left over when Jebus made the world or whatever. They’re like malware on your laptop. The purpose of their existence is merely to make you despair at life and want to move to the Bladerunner Off-World Colonies without so much as a lifetime supply of Heinz Tomato Soup. 

4. There is much fun to be had by Internet shopping. By all means send for that blush pink sateen bomber jacket but don’t come crying to me when it arrives and you try it on while sucking in your stomach and you resemble an inflated whale bladder. It’ll end in tears;  a messy fankle of fifth-generation Jiffy bags and sellotape and a trip to the Post Office – and nobody I repeat nobody needs that kind of negativity in their life. Step away from the ASOS sale, girlfriend. 

5. Never attempt a Nigella Lawson recipe you find online. I’ve made her “Aunt Lily’s Scones” and I doubt the existence of an Aunt Lily, whose scones leave a soapy aftertaste. Lawson is just an advanced artificial intelligence being –  a hoax to distract us from the real issues like Brexit, Dutch Elm Disease, Acid Rain and Bowie’s death. She’s the Royal Wedding of the Internet – popping up when the peasants are revolting. 

6. Instagram isn’t real either. OBVIOUSLY I’m not going to post an unfiltered picture of me legs akimbo in my dressing gown, picking my toenails while watching Big Brother. And neither will anybody else. Their lives are not fabulous and that’s not their real house – it’s a pretend kitchen in Homebase that they’ve strategically placed themselves in and taken a picture of themselves chopping a plastic carrot, smiling. Just like you, they’re firing off a request for a repeat Prozac prescription as we speak and trying desperately to guess their partner’s email password in the hope that they can uncover some infidelity and go “SEE?! I BLOODY KNEW IT! BASTARD!” and skip off into the sunset with Shayne the fitness instructor with buttocks you could crack walnuts on. 

7. Google (with the exception of Dr Google -see 1 above) is your friend. A simple googling of a thing will prevent your Facebook friends from rolling their eyes every time you share a “Facebook will steal your soul unless you copy and paste this status to your wall and sit in a bath of baked beans for a fortnight”

8. As soon as you read this, nominate a person, preferably a worldly one with a black heart like yours who’s been around the block a few times and is on the most part unshockable, and give that bitch a key to your home and the unlock codes to your iDevices, and strict instructions to delete your browsing history/bookmarks/shortcuts  in the event of your death – even if it means they have to barge through POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape to get in. Don’t be that guy whose virtual legacy is more embarrassing than that time you highfived your doctor when it turns out her hand was only on its way to scratching her nose (for example). 

9. Actually, as a postscript to number 8 above, just get them to burn your house down, especially if following on from number 2 above you have Tesco Bags For Life full of gimp masks and French Maids’ outfits. 

10. If like me this is your life: 

Remember you can simply do Edit/Mark all/ Mark as Read. Boom. You’re welcome. 

I’d insert my favourite gif here of Obama doing a mic drop but I’m afraid there’s a cup of tea here with my name on it. 

Okay it doesn’t technically have my name on it – it says coffee slut which is close enough.