The Shit that has Just Hit the Fan

(‘the Fan’ being a metaphor for my life, and ‘The Shit’ being the life that happens in and around said fan/life)

This year, if you follow the Gregorian calendar, which I am trying to distance myself from coz I’m so fucking hipster, I have made a rather large (but if you’re me, colossal) change to my life.

Actually two changes, the second of which I will mark thus; *BIG CHANGE NO.2*.

For the first time since I was 18, which was only 5/6 years ago but seems like aeons, I am going to move… home. Oh and btw you’re gonna have to put up with loads of long-winded, precarious and quite frankly pretentious sentences if you wish to read further, I mean hullo I’m going to be explaining myself and trying to poke fun at my own misery at every twist and turn- it’s grrrrrrrrr8.

Home is not the same home I left to go to uni and, spiritually, Manchester full-time. That home has been and gone like lots of homes I have inhabited (woe is me). This home, however, is my home, that has been my home since I was born, albeit mainly at weekends, and it has a certain gravity about it. It is my grandmother’s home, and it was my father’s and late uncle’s childhood home. I’m missing the point here. O nostalgia; longtemps longtemps, Oú va le temps.

That’s my pretentious goo oozed, right there ^

I feel terrible, and excited, and scared, a little confused, a touch mad, and I think hopeful. I think. If you’ve been reading these writings from my mind then you’ll know all about stuff. Also if you know me you’ll know because I am basically an open book, with a secret compartment that houses a smaller, darker, leather bound volume that NOBODY has access to except sometimes me and even then it only sees the light of my mind for about 5 seconds and I put it the fuck.back.

So this year I got hit by a car (lol) and I was soooooo pissed and then when I got better I just got pissed in a drinky way, and went to councelling and tried CBT (like with a person not a computer what even is that) and am on some sik meds. I’ve already wrote about my CBT experience if u wan kno bout it, it was bangin’. So I will write no more here. Even though I am without a doubt more enlightened about the experience now than I was even at the time, but I’ll be ridiculously more enlightened about it next year which makes me think there’s no point ever discussing anything with any relish because you’ll just feel embarrassed and oh so immature about it down the line.

We’ve got onto the motorway of this piece now, the big heavy carved heart, leading to some pretty slapdash junctions and those kind of roundabouts that don’t even have a garden or sculpture in the middle. *BIG CHANGE NO.2* I have, for the past three years, had a fantastic partner, a really compassionate and laid back individual who coped with my outbursts and could even calm me down. And I was calm. Until I realised that, hold the fucking phone, I’m STILL not happy. Turns out that life wasn’t about finding ‘the one’. ‘The one’ would turn up 10 years too early. For me anyway. I’m not fine. And what I’m doing isn’t fine; using a human being with his own life to sort out as a comfort blanket. Like a steady boat, anchored in a treacherous sea, I was stable. But then, off the boat, out there, past the waves and the whale shit and the seaspray, there’stuff. That I might like. Or detest. But I might SOMETHING. And that’s too much something for me to ignore.

And so, I made the extremely selfish* brave** realistic*** decision to end the relationship. It was and is difficult. I don’t want to let go, and it’s hard to bear the thought of my life without my Fox. I feel incredibly lonely much of the time, even when I’m in good company (except when I got some class As, which isn’t healthy really, is it?). But I felt lonely anyway, I felt lonely cuddling and watching *insert HBO series* in our cosy bed. I feel like an absolute bellend. And a user. Lest we forget a slag. At least I’m more aware now that the me that feels these unfriendly things must evolve into the me that thinks I’m bloody spectacular. At the very least I’d like to be the me that doesn’t hate itself.

*if you’re me

**if you’re some other people

***if you’re the better half of me

There’s that awful cliché, ‘it’s not you it’s me’. Surprisingly apt in this situation, and yet I still lose sleep over whether he really believes it. It’s not a belief it’s a fact, but facts differ from human to human to tree to root to pine marten to egg.

(I’m not sure how to link this so I’m not going to, you only need to know that it’s related and hopefully you’ll deal with it)

Bae2K15 Polly got me to make a list of goals, short term and long term. Here’s a little peek, maybe some of these apply to you:

1 month-

-better sleep pattern

-exercise regularly (shit son I got a titanium ankle)

-write to schools for experience

3-6 months-

-Feel motivated to do and learn again

-be more confident around roads

1 year plus-

-Pay off overdraft (sept 2016)

-Start PGCE or Go travelling

If I live at home, rent free, and have some alone time i’th’ills to contemplate what it is to be, and how it feels to be 23 and not have all the answers (My dad hit me with that zen bomb) then these goals are so much more achievable. This is what I thunk and I think I’m right in thunking still.

(Can we just hold up and think about how ‘thank’ is completely unrelated to ‘think’ and ‘thunk’? Unless ‘thank’ IS a colloquialism somewhere, a past tense, past participle of ‘think’…)

I wasn’t treating myself fairly. I’ve got to admit, getting married and having a family and a sturdy house, that is not me and it might never be, but it had some certain appeal because it looked like the shiny happy people that were doing that were shiny and happy. And they smelled nice. Alas, the deep pit of despair I had dug and filled for myself had to be addressed; I had a chat with some good friends and I was like, yep, time to get into that pit and splash around in the possibly toxic algae that had formed over what felt like aeons of suffocating neglect.

Some people are those people that want to be in love, and thrive from the intricate support network they weave around each other. And it works, and they feel successful and really bloody happy, thank you very much. I want to be in love. But for the first time since I was 16, I looked into myself and I was upset. It is clear to me that I sought out relationships to fill a void, and not addressing that gaping hole for over seven years had been destroying me (sounds a bit drastic I know but I live in my body and my head and it’s proper wank sometimes) I see no life for me without anxiety, no matter if I had one amazing human being who loved me or 20,395,000 people who hung onto my every action like a fucking goddess and kissed my toes as I sauntered through life.

I am mad, I’m actually crazy, I know it! Ask anyone, I’m a nutter. I can barely control my emotions and self-hatred with a nice concoction of drugs and therapy. The week before my period who knows what person animal or inanimate object will feel the vitriolic wrath of mybadself. Hmmm, I thought, not a great foundation for a dependable partner. And I realised then that I can’t have anyone depending on me. The decisions I make from now on need to be made for me, yes it’s selfish, I’m not alluding that I am any other way. But theres SELFISH and there’s selfish. I think I’m the latter. Feel free to correct me.

I cried whilst I wrote this, and I cried when I expressed my needs and regret to Robert, and I cried just before when I hoovered the flat. I cried because what I am feeling is true. Homer Simpson hit the nail on the head when he said ‘It’s funny cos it’s true’. And also when he said ‘hehe look at this country U.R.GAY’. Except in this case, it was sad because it was true. Just in case you got confused.

It needs to be said; people who don’t sympathise with mental illness can fuck right off. Depression makes people voluntarily take their own lives! Death is often a welcome release from the torture of living in one’s own mind. Have you ever seen Woody Allen’s ‘Stardust Memories’? The opening scene is hilarious and poignant as it perfectly demonstrates what it feels like to be in the head of a depressive…

It’s hard to admit because people often take it the wrong way, but much of my life is spent wishing I weren’t alive. Often I’m completely lacklustre. Having social anxiety disorder doesn’t help; all I want to do is mope or sleep or read or write and even though my socialising meter is depleted HEY GUESS WHAT make all the plans possible with everyone AFRICA because if you don’t talk to people + go somewhere + crack jokes + booze then you’re day is wasted Africa so what are you waiting for???!

Steering us wonkily back onto the course of whatever this piece of writing concerns, yeah- I had to get myself out of a relationship because it was soooo typical of me to have great people around me and still feel like shit. I like the people I try desperately to keep around me. However, I don’t like me and I can’t for the life of me understand why all these intelligent, charming, kind, beautiful people want to share little pieces of their lives with me. A dialogue with myself goes rather like this:

“You’re shit Africa. Remember that one time when you nearly achieved something? Ha but then you gave up, cos inevitably you would be a failure, remember that?”


“Good times.”

^true story. Admittedly I wrote much of this drunk but I was sober right now when I wrote this part. Perhaps this piece screams WHITE FERRERO ROCHER-EATING FEMALE SEEKS PITY AND VALIDATION FOR POOR CHOICES MADE IN LIFE I don’t know I’m not you.

So there we have it. I have explained myself, to myself (and you) for myself (not you, although I hope it might help or at least make you feel like you’re not the only mad person who’s ever lived). I feel much better now, ta-ra!



Most people who happen upon this blog will not know me well enough to know that I have an anxiety disorder. And those that know me will, generally, be surprised to hear that I am diagnosed with Social Anxiety Disorder. It’s complicated.

In a week’s time, I will have had my last session of CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) with a lovely therapist named Polly. It has been fucking wonderful, distressing at times and deeply rewarding. For anybody who struggles with achieving happiness or contentment, or maintaining sound mental health, I can’t recommend it enough. Unfortunately, mental health is not top of the agenda in our society and in many societies across the world; thus, we have a disparity between services available and people suffering. And a record number of people in the UK are turning to anti-depressants. Blackpool had the highest prescription rate in 2012/13. No shit Sherlock!

Events that I initially considered to be unfortunate have in fact revealed themselves to be extremely beneficial. Yes, I have some metal in my ankle. But if I didn’t suffer a little I would have never gained such speedy access to private mental health treatment, and for that I am extremely lucky because it has changed my life unimaginably.

So I’m not really sure where I’m at here, as per, but let me hit you with some knowledge- I chat a lot of shit. Where my mind is at various points of the day, let alone the month, is anyone’s guess. I have written, typed and verbalised many ideas and opinions that, actually, aren’t me. And I don’t know why! Well, I do. But anyway… a few months ago, after being on some BOLLOCKS SSRIs (Citalopram, it’s wank) for some time, I decided they weren’t the answer for depression, anxiety or negative thoughts. That was a absolute bollocks. At that point, I must have had some mad rush of adrenaline after recovering from the hit and run, I dunno. But they do work IF you find the right one for you and IF you have talking or meditative therapies alongside.

I started on Sertraline a few months back, because my councillor suggested that it would be a good idea, to help get my head back in the ZONE. In my ZONE. And today I was two days late collecting my prescription. And GET THIS I chatted loads of bile, felt really down on myself and am still a little convinced that nobody likes me. Coincidence? Sure sure my brain has got used to having enough serotonin or whatever the fuck they do, so I guess it was withdrawal blah blah blah but actually yeah.

‘Is this going anywhere?’, I hear me cry!?

Ummm Oh yeah. So I’m not really sure where I’m at here because it is SO. BLINKIN. DIFFICULT. to keep track of what is going on in my mind, especially when I lose a thought in the silent abyss that fills the gaps (it’s like getting put on hold; pretty sure that’s the meds)

Please don’t think that I think that I’m some messiah of depression and that I think I can cure you of your anxiety. I can’t, and it would be great if somebody telling you ‘Oi! The way to inner peace is to love yourself’ actually BOOM made you the most content person ever, but unfortunately we don’t learn things from hearing them once. I’ve heard Rupaul say ‘If you can’t love yourself how the hell you g’on love anyone else’ *at least* 30 times and it STILL hasn’t sunk in.

I believe we’ve all been let down by the education system, been moulded into anxious little beings who struggle with the concept of happiness. We see it as something achieved outside ourselves. We have been educated that gaining wealth, possessions, praise, friends, lovers, medals, diplomas WHATEVER will bring us happiness and fulfilment. But they don’t.

With each year that passes and each book I read and each meditation I try, I have realised that only inner peace and love can give you happiness. If you are not compassionate to yourself it’s so difficult to be so to anyone else. Conversely, somebody who detests themselves until they are deeply unhappy will set out to do the same to another human/humans. Sometimes there is hatred inside and it makes me angry. I hate myself, and it drips out until it pours and in the aftermath I’m ashamed and brimming with regret.

Polly told me today to be compassionate to myself. To take my time, live in the present. And to draw up a plan of how I’m going to cope when I feel the self doubt lurking. Realistically, you can’t stay in therapy forever. There aren’t enough affordable therapists, for a kick-off. There’s homework and crying and appointments and… stuff.

I’m terrible at linking my writing together despite most of my degree directly pertaining to that very study, the study of writing, writing in English. So I’ll end on a few points (in colour!1!!!) that I think it will be helpful for you if you are like me, or you might think it’s a load of vague hippy bollocks if you’re even more cynical and unhappy than I am…

  1. Don’t strive for perfection, perfection doesn’t exist. If you can be bothered, strive for excellence, and if you can’t that’s fine too.
  2. Be kind to yourself. And you’ll find yourself acting like a cunt less and less. Eventually, you will love who you are and be friends with yourself and never be a cunt to anyone ever again.You’ll be like Jeremy Corbyn!
  3. Be more like Jeremy, but not Clarkson or Kyle. NEVER them.
  4. Good vibes reverberate.
  5. Understand that equality means different things for different people, and act accordingly (not related to above ramblings, just sound advice whilst I’m capable)
  6. Put you Christmas decorations up whenever the hell you want if it makes you happy.


Living on the Ceiling

Disclaimer: This Post is wholly unstructured due to it’s/my nature. Build up of ideas and offshoots creates jostling inside brain, thus inhibiting brain function

Today I’m writing not just for myself (90% me) but for others who may come across my musings who also struggle with the jumpy little demon known as ‘anxiety’. He lives in your chest and he pokes at your head with his nasty red trident, and touches buttons in your control room that really don’t need to be utilised right now but he’s going to do it anyway so you just start crying because you can’t handle it anymore ARGHSHFUCKSAKEYOUDON’TLOVEMEHOWCOULDANYONELOVEMEI’MAFAILURE???!11!!!

It really is ridiculous what a person with anxiety will worry about.

You might find it hard to be on your own. Likewise, you might also find it hard to be around people.

It’s like living in a cage, and everyone thinks you’re so amusing like a funny bear, and sometimes you are but then you sink into your corner ashamed and worry about who secretly can’t abide you and all the ways you embarrassed yourself.

There are so many triggers for anxiety; everybody’s different.

Take, for example, my rude awakening this morning. The culprit: a fly.

It’s hot and windows need to be open.

At approximately 0600 hours I am abruptly awakened by the fly, buzzing near my ear. I wave it off.

But that isn’t enough, because I haven’t actually seen the fly leave. There will be no more sleep for me. There is the tiny possibility that the fly has actually entered my ear, and is laying it’s disgusting, evil fly eggs in a nice comfortable wedge of ear wax. It’s possible I’VE HEARD TALES.

This will, in the scenario my brain is creating, probably be followed by days of discomfort, and a visit to a&e where a doctor has to extract the fly and it’s larvae with a tweezer-like implement. BUT… OH FUCK…

WHAT IF IT WAS A WASP? (One of my many phobias…)

I didn’t see what it was and it might be my arch-nemesis, the wasp.

And I’m at a&e again in the scenario in my brain (because I can’t get a appointment at the doctors because the secretary laughs in disbelief when I try to explain what the problem is) and they look into my ear and the nurse gives the doctor a look like ‘ooooooo shit.’ and it angrily stings the fuck out of my inner ear as they try to remove it.

This *obviously* ridiculous scenario plays out in my head for an hour or so and I admit defeat, I don’t get no more sleep, and try to think of something else. But last year I saw this nightmarish Asian hornet on France, it was truly FUBAR and so I have to get up because, fuck that shit.

I tend to arrive here in these blog ramblings, the point where I announce that there is a point to this anecdote and say, ‘well, not really a point’. I forgot what I lerned@uni, really it’s an example that only maybe a fifth of you will really nod your head at and sigh, ‘yep’. A lot of you are probably thinking, ‘wow, freak!’ or maybe that’s just my super-paranoid mind thinking that everyone dislikes me at least a bit and suspects that I’m exaggerating.

Things are looking slightly up (maybe at a 100 degree angle but, you know, slow and steady)

At the minute I am seeing a counsellor, because as I have written previously the ‘drugs don’t work’ for me; whilst removing depressive thoughts, which is nice, they fail to suppress my anxiety and that’s really what I need. She’s a lovely Mexican lady, and it REALLY helps to have someone to offload all these feelings on to once a week who will not be offended/bored/amused by what comes out.

Anxiety really is a nature/nurture illness. I know that it *must* be a chemical inbalance somewhere in my brain, because SSRIs (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors) have helped with some symptoms (and made me when inebriated). Not only that but, really, it’s fucking ridiculous how often I worry and the multitude of things that occupy my anxious little mind.

On the other hand, people’s experiences as a child definitely have great influence over your expectations and actions as an adult. I’m not the expert by a fucking country mile, but any of you who are like me and have not yet sought out talking therapies, I 100% recommend it. You don’t have to tell anyone else, and if you don’t like your counsellor you can switch until you find a nice one (I’m just happy to have someone impartial watch me cry and talk about my feelings regardless tbh)

Although, as my counsellor conceded, I’ll almost certainly never be rid of anxiety, I have noticed already that I can be a lot calmer in certain situations and less reactive than I would have been two months ago. There are some aspects of my condition that I have finally shed light on. Understanding that it’s important to keep yourself happy, for example. I’ve a long way to go, and am STILL so scared of asking certain people and institutions (work stands out particularly) to give me what need, rather than always trying to appease them.

One big change for me has been reducing alcohol intake. I no longer glug to get gatted (well, except on occasions where I get too excited/nervous and go way overboard- but that’s now biannually). It’s quite difficult, as I have depended on alcohol in the past, and I still crave a pint when I’m feeling lovely and happy and also when I’m feeling like a god-damn trainwreck failure. But I’m doing well so there’s one big middle finger to my misleading mind.

So I think I’ll probably conclude here, with something, because I could ramble on and on about this for another few thousand words and that’s just boring and also it will make me feel really self-indulgent and I’ll get paranoid that you think I’m the most self-centred person you’ve ever come across (I’m already thinking it). To sum up:

Fellow anxieters, breath deeply, drink some water because you might not have drank enough water today and your skin might go dry and you might get cystitis, and remember: it’s okay and totally normal to put your needs first sometimes, because, after all, if you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gon’ love someone else?

Amens if you like.

The Theory of Negativity

Too much bad thoughts… must… get… zen…

Some happy news that makes me ungrumpy and disanxious:

MY CAST IS OFF (WAYYYYYY) and I can walk!! Albeit like a zombie, but still- walkingIt’s great. Massively underrated. Also, I started to use some colours. Just to give it that ‘amateur’ vibe.

And so, I can once again try working on the part of my brain that just aches to create negative vibes. Often in order to get angry, but sometimes it just does it to stop me from trying to do anything with my life because, hey, what’s the point. Being pretty immobile for the past 7 weeks, having an operation and weird foreign objects being forced into my body, and I guess just the shock of being hit by a car had me pretty down. Oh and the election. Let’s not talk about that.

But I suppose we all have to learn to stop feeling sorry for ourselves and enjoy life, because (as far as we know) you only live once. Besides, there are millions out there who have to deal with worse shit than you (and me, I’m cushty)! Let it gooo, let it gooooo…

It is easier said than done though. I am an extremely anxiety-laden person and, like many of you, or unlike many of you, have frequent bouts of depression. And I have come to the conclusion that the drugs don’t work (Richard Ashcroft said so), and neither does feeling so devastatingly sorry for yourself. You end up in a terrible cycle of negative feelings, and the strain tightens in your chest and you lash out, and then you feel more negative about yourself and then the tight feelings get worse and then you think bad things– oh look a kakapo!

But then you remember that the little green treasures are a critically endangered species and you blame them because they can’t fly anyway so what the fuck are they even doing, but then you feel bad about yourself because it isn’t their fault; they were getting along just fine until we came along and buggered New Zealand up with our big stupid feet and ZEAL FOR DESTRUCTION.

The way to end the predicament is to accept the situation and move on, and if you care about it donate to a conservation charity or whatever, but you can’t do anything unless you raise enough money to fly there and basically devote your life to the adorable little aves, and if you’re like me you don’t have enough money to do that let alone the self-confidence, so why are you even worrying? (Btw, this was an extended metaphor to show how even the slightest distraction can mutate into an evil negative thought– pretty avant garde stuff)

This is obviously a ridiculous example, but in essence it’s more or less the gist of it. So, I will try promise to be less negative, for myself and for others, and less serious (I think I am that too much sometimes?) and to drink less, because I get mad crazy and it’s not a good look. Incidentally, the fractured ankle has helped loads to drastically lower my alcohol consumption- I’m pretty fockin’ teetotal right now. Oh and less reactive, Christ tonight I need to CALM. DOWN.

Lo, you have reached the end of this soul-searching, enlightening and massively time-consuming endeavour; well done! Congratulate yourselves! Yolo, It was shit. As per, I’m not certain if the above text what I wrote with my fingertips makes much sense, or has a conclusion, or even a hypothesis.

Anyway here’s some mingin’ pictures of my scar (ew!) and broken shit (ew!!) and a whole lot of dead skin (fuck that!!!), Chronologically arranged for your convenience! Shit ma leg looks like Golem’s now, yyyuk!

IMG_20150401_135739 IMG_20150513_142223 IMG_20150514_075448

 kthxbai 🙂

Gettin’ Down on Friday

It’s Friday night. I’m on the couch getting down, and not in a sexy or dancey way. Just emotionally.

I got down with salt and chilli tofu; disappointing. I am loyal to a chinese take-away which has an M20 postcode.


Anyway… being stuck to this couch like a sloth to a Cecropia is getting tiresome, and somewhat torturous as the view outside my window is the precise patch of road where I got done over by some madman fuck-loon in a car. The effort required to relocate my backside, followed by imminent boredom and resulting in a great need for distractions puts me off transporting myself and my tools. So I don’t. I’ve never been a great planner, and being plunged into a time in my life where the mere act of making a cup of tea results in an abrupt realisation that ‘you gotta drink that fucking tea in the fucking windowless kitchen you made it in motherfucker’ YES I’ll admit that I am struggling to adapt to this ‘planning ahead’ business when it affects every part of my miserable bastard day!

(Just to clarify, I know that it could be worse but just let me whine and have done with it!)

I will share with you, whoever you are, the things that are making me feel less than hopeful at this time, and you will read if you want to or grow so tedious with my self-pity that you seek out some other web page that feeds your need for recreation and who can blame you, certainly not I. Especially not after that ridiculously long and syntactically alarming sentence.

So Number one concern: It has been nearly a month since *the incident* took place, and the only time I have been contacted by the police was three days after and not a peep since. This is worrying as CCTV footage is deleted after 2 weeks typically, so fuck knows if they got their grubby mits on it! my eyes are opened, metaphorically, people! There is no such thing as justice: ‘Justice’ happens when people decide to work efficiently in their professions. Justice means something different to different people. It does not adhere to an ideal.

Number two: This is a bit embarrassing for a hardened northerner to admit- but- well, I thought more people would care MORE about me. Like, I have loads of friends and acquaintances and family that do care and it’s lovely but I suppose you doubt your importance to others when the fruit baskets and ‘get well soon’ cards don’t come flooding in. Yes I know, QQmoar.

Number three: Being anxiety ridden since I were but a young lass, WHAT IF I GET A BLOOD CLOT??? How do I know? How do YOU know?? I wish doctors and nurses would lay off the ‘possible side-effects’ shit because it don’t do us no good.

Finally, in at Number Four: Where is my aptitude for making the best of a bad situation, where is my capacity for genius?? I expected to be half-way through a novel by now, or to have had an epiphanous wave descend on me and- BOOM! I know what I will do with my life and it shall be good. But this hasn’t happened. Up to now I have with my precious free time read through the Chronicles of Narnia, watched Rupaul’s Drag race, Gogglebox and various curiosities on iplayer and played the Sims 2. Alas, earwax.

And so, though I have forgotten what intentions I had when I set out on this venture to craft yet another self-centred post that is bloggy (Yes I am painfully paranoid about how you perceive me, but not enough that it deters me), it is done and I see that it is… mediocre. However I feel slightly less lonely and pent-up than I did prior to this *mess* leaking out from my fingertips. So I suppose you have served your purpose (a big thanks to me, too) and that this is farewell, and let us never speak of this mess again. Adieu.

Retail Therapy

I feel as though I need a break from talking about my ankle (to everybody, not just WordPress) but I still have some form of 21st century narcissistic personality disorder so the topic of this post right here will be my job in retail- bod at *popular discount supermarket*- and some of the things that make me feel truly thankful that I am unable to work for a good long while.

Ditching‘ unwanted items- I will find you. And I will kill you.

As above, but with frozen/chilled goods. Because a stinking cod is just what I want in my area at the fucking till.

‘Can you tell me where the *insert item* is?’ That’s funny, I thought there were only 5 FUCKING AISLES in this store.

‘Have you got this in stock?’ ‘No sold out.’ ‘Can you check in the back then?’ 😐

At the till- ‘Oh shit I’ve forgotten my card’ WTF, moron.

Customer watches you tidy shelves; then proceeds to tear apart shelves for later dates. WHEN ARE YOU PLANNING TO EAT THAT, BASTARD??

‘These used to be 40p’ care/10?

‘You’re always changing this store around’ Yes. It’s all me.

Runs into store through exit doors after closing- ‘…But my son just wants some cake’ And I just want to give a fuck but you can’t have everything.

‘It’s always a mess in this store’ You’re a mess.

When the customer can see you’re doing something, but will come to a standstill and impede you anyway.


‘Oh no I’ve forgotten the milk’ Well why didn’t you wait until I had already scanned your items OH WAIT U DID.

‘Are you paying cash or card?’ ‘Just let me pack first’ I didn’t let anyone else pack I’m not about to let you fucking waste my time.

‘This was in the reduced section’ Yes, because nobody would ever dump something in the reduced section that wasn’t reduced.

‘I know this item is £7.99 and I will have to call the manager if you want it taking off your bill ‘ Customer- ‘Can you check anyway’ OLOOKIT’SSEVENFUCKINGNINETYNINE ‘I don’t want it then’

‘I spilled something on the other side of store’ kthxbye.

‘YOU’RE NOT OPEN CHRISTMAS EVE??’ How will you ever cope with this mere mountain of shite you have just purchased.

‘It’s nice to see a happy face!’ Do not fuck with me 🙂

After asking when you finish, ‘Oh that’s not too bad then’. It is always bad.

‘Excuse me I have some items to return and therefore have the god-given right to force myself upon you despite an ever-growing queue of customers.’ Die.

‘I need to return this item’ ‘You’ll have to go to a till then’ ‘But there’s a queue’ Oh, woe.

‘I want to speak to a manager’ Believe me, they don’t care either.

‘I need to buy 50 bottles of prossecco and I need you to combat this need logistically’ Go find boxes.


Don’t let anybody tell you that the few decent people you deal with make it all worthwhile. They don’t. Maybe they vaguely replenish your ever-dwindling faith in humanity. I dunno.

If you need retail therapy, this helps:

I got hit and runned from

(WARNING- appalling use of the English tenses and pronouns in this article)

It’s nice that, in England, we can cross the road wherever we want. Except when you think it’s fine to cross the road, and then, uh-oh, somehow it isn’t, even when you are 5 meters from your front door.

Traffic stops behind buses. This is normal. Buses are often big. And slow. And they stop. A lot. At specific places, called bus stops. And when you want to cross the road after alighting, off one of these bus contraptions I mean, it is recommended to go behind the bus, as one can assess the situation of the traffic on the side of the road closest. When a car is stationary, behind a bus (because, as I mentioned earlier, buses are big and slow and stop a lot) and it has it’s lights on and everything, a pedestrian can step out tentatively and gingerly poke his/her head round to assess the situation of oncoming traffic.

After these steps have been taken, and especially once it has been confirmed by one’s own eyes that the traffic one is already standing in front of is stationary, one can normally cross safely to the other side, thus allowing the first car to resume its attempts at overtaking a stationary bus.

However, even though your eyes are functioning perfectly well, one must not assume that other people are making full use of their own two eyes. Even if these ‘other people’ are responsible for a vehicle weighing perhaps 1 or 2 tons, a vehicle that if driven over a persons foot is certain to crush said foot, a vehicle that has a body, can you adam and eve it, made of metal. Metal is a material which is typically hard. And a not-hard metal wouldn’t be very useful on a car. Human bodies are, though astonishing and splendorous, rather squishy compared to metal.

So let’s say some people can’t be expected to meet the bare minimum guidelines for, say, driving a car. I don’t drive, but I thought the BIIIIG WINDOW at the front of the car was, like, for looking out of. When it’s dark and a car’s lights are on, a pedestrian can’t look at you but you should, theoretically, see them. And this helps a driver to not accidentally or on-purpose-ly mow a pedestrian down, because

1. Your lights are making them actually MORE visible and

2. You must be able to see right in front of your car because blind people aren’t allowed to drive. Which isn’t even discriminatory because, you know, they can’t actually see.

I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point, whatever that: point: is; There were three little pointy things there but it was none of them so go back and read again if you are still unsure because I wrote, like, loads and if it’s all for nothing you can fuck off.

SO I stood before this stationary pencil-dick for a fair few seconds (I’d say 4) and even poked my head round the bus which I was FUCKING LIT UP AGAINST!!>?!?!? to see if there was a risk of getting mowed down. I assessed, I think, I THINK, quite fairly that I was not going to get mowed down. And then I was howling in pain and rolling off the side of a big metal thing, followed by some confused staring-after of the heavy brum-brum object, and concluded by a profound and sickening feeling of confusion, but actually probably not concluded there because I think I also felt any faith I had in humanity seeping out from every pore as two more cars DROVE THE FUCK PAST.

Enough of this upper-case emphasis! Some old ladies rather unhelpfully enquired loudly from their car if I was okay, as I dragged, nay, clawed myself back behind the bus. I shouted ‘no’ and the disbelief continued. Until some nice blokes (of varying races I might add for any fascists that might have access to this blog- unlikely for many reasons) helped me to the side of the road and called my boyfriend and got me a can of cola and then I felt like maybe there were some moral people left in Manchester.

Some time passed in a&e, and now I’m looking forward to at least 6-8 weeks out of work (yay!) on SSP (yay!) and just two weeks pay from work (yay!)- no matter how long I’m off sick for (big yay!)!!!!11!

Despite this unfortunate, stressful and painful situation, I feel lucky, because I realise that if I had to get hit by a car in my lifetime, a broken ankle is a pretty good deal. I will list here some more reasons for feeling lucky:

  • NHS- Spent just 1 and a half hours at Wythenshawe Hospital a&e which included being seen by a nurse, having an x-ray, being seen by a doctor, and having my cast put on. Whatever anyone says, we’re fucking lucky to have the NHS.
  • I’m not dead
  • I watched ‘girls’ (a HBO series which you should deffo watch if you haven’t already) the night after and the song playing at the end of the episode said ‘Think of all of those that have it worse than you- there is no curse on you’ and I was like GET A GRIP AFRICA.
  • If anybody recognises that song please tell me what it is.
  • Great family- my pensioner grandma waited on me hands and foot.
  • My shoe is fine (although favourite jeans not fine, cut to shit so that they could be manoeuvred around my throbbing cankle)

I Hart, Africa

That is I- Hart, Africa. Africa Hart. That is who I am and that is the person sat in my bed writing this, to you; if you are sat in your bed reading this, it is me you are listening to.

Or maybe I am reading to myself in my own head and actually, really, nobody (that’s possibly you) is interested. Perhaps it is a self-indulgent self-help shower of shite.

An attempt, by me, to appease I, Africa.

And certainly not you, you.