Tuesday 31st December – From me. To you.

So, how did your 2019 go?

Did your naive and deluded expectations of about dinner time on 31st December, 2018 come to pass?

If they did, well, check you.


Here in The Single Mum House things were about what you’d expect if you throw a slightly neurotic, emotionally unstable menopausal forty-nine year old and a hormonal, boundary smashing, Insta-Addicted teenager into a three bedroomed terraced house together and leave them to it.

Yep, as ever, we endeavoured to live down to expectations.

But hey, it’s better to be an honest sinner than a fake saint.

So, as the new decade begins, I want to say thank you.

Thank you to the friends and family who remain, as ever, my constant support system and to the readers, from Newport Pagnell to Australia, who took the time this year to get in touch and express how much they enjoy this diary.

Each and every one of you have in some way helped, supported or encouraged me this year and, from the bottom of my heart I wish you a wonderful New Year’s Eve.

With a peaceful and successful 2020.

And may politicians, celebrities and Windsors continue to do dumb shit.

Otherwise I’ll have nothing to write about next year.

Thursday 12th December – Britain does Brexit: The Final

It’s that time of year. Strictly Come Dancing, The X Factor and now, Britain Does Brexit.

The telephone lines are open – the public vote is live, lines close at 10pm and calls will be charged at your provider’s standard rate.

Make sure you have the billpayers permission though.

Brit fans have breathlessly whittled our finalists down to two remaining front-runners, Boris ‘The-Fridge’ Johnson and Jeremy ‘Creepy-Beard’ Corbyn.

The semi-finals, screened on BBC1 last week, (catch it on iPlayer if you missed out) gave our finalists the opportunity to sing their songs live to the nation and wowza, it was a dazzling affair.

The Fridge’s song, whilst pretty much only consisting of one line, does have a catchy, repetitive, can’t get it out of your head quality that really has been ear-worming its way into our voter’s ecstatically low functioning consciousness’.

Get Brexit Done.

And the fans are mad for it.

On the other side of the studio aisle we have Creepy Beard and his frantically feral fandom.

And what Creepy-Beard’s tune lacked in structured lyrics, it totally made up for in it’s ability to change direction, reinvent itself and leave our audiences unsure what had actually been sung.

Creepy-Beard sure knows how to leave a crowd on a cliff-hanger.

We might possibly not get Brexit done.

And the fans are mad for it.

There has been a total downer section of the voting public who keep droning on about what the contestants stand for, other obviously than the getting, or the not getting of Brexit done, but here at ‘The-Show-Must-Go-On’ Towers, we feel that focusing the public attention on actual politics or, worse still, the economy is just a bit of a snoozer.

It won’t be thrilling, it won’t be celebri-tastically-awesome and the optics of dreary stuff like the actual running of a country by the people and for the people just don’t translate well to Instagram or Snapchat.

And the fans definitely aren’t mad for that.

Rumours are circling that democracy would be much better served in the future if voters could really get inside the lives of our contestants and it’s true, it’s had to argue with the success of Love Island in terms of engaging votes and electrifying the viewers.

So cameras inside the homes of our contestants next season please.

Does Creepy-Beard have a particular brand of rain mac that he favours when scuttling about in the bushes behind primary schools?

Or is he more of an everyman, Primark cagoule, equal opportunity social nuisance?

Does the The-Fridge practice the boyish grin in front of the mirror of a morning?

Does this explain why he permanently looks like he’s been beaten the shit out of by the hair-fairy?

Is looking into the mirror and doing two things simultaneously just too taxing?

, the voters know almost nothing about the contestants sex lives or even their feelings and quite frankly, the competition is the weaker for it.

Knocking out some merch would probably be awesome too.

Boris could launch a range of iPhone covers, travel coffee mugs and t-shirts with ‘Saw it. Pinched it. Spent it’ on them and Jeremy could go with something like ‘I’m Rubbery. You’re Glue’.

Because you know what?

The fans would be totally mad for that.

And ultimately, it seems that that’s all that matters.

Friday 6th December – We want Bond Power. Not Girl Power

Let’s talk about sex.

Well, more specifically, gender.

I’m all for the liberty and freedoms associated with folk deciding to utterly disregard reality and take a Fantasy Football style approach to their gender.

For loads of years there’s only been just the two genders and, despite the legacy arrangement having been a roaring success in terms of keeping the species going and humdrum stuff like that, I can totally see the problem.

People have the right to be different.

They’re all special snowflakes.

They’ve got a right to be amaze-balls.

They’ve got to be iconic.

They want everyone shouting ‘Do You Sister’ as they swagger down the High Street.

Admittedly, at some point Homosapienly speaking, options will soon be exhausted in terms of the fundamental limitations of every one of the 7.53 billion snowflakes all being uniquely amaze-balls and iconic but that’s a terrifying, post-apocalyptic spectre of a shit-storm that we can discuss on another day.

Today I shall confine myself to the gender of one particular iconic and amaze-balls special snowflake and I’ll admit, since the initial news broke that he might have mysteriously turned into a chick, I’ve been sulking up a storm.


Hell no.

Not happ-nin.

So, at the risk of stating the obvious, James Bond is a man.

James Bond is not in retirement.

James Bond is not giving his 007 codename to a bird and James Bond will not be following Doctor Who into the Tampax aisle of the local ‘Choose-Your-Gender’ corner store.

And this is not just me being racist at women.

The character of James Bond was created in 1953 by journalist and author, Ian Fleming and has survived quite successfully since then without any interference. Had Ian Fleming wanted his creation to be a woman, he was quite a smart guy and was no doubt competent to have ‘Eeny-Meeny-Miney-Mo-ed’ his way through that totally binary decision all by himself.

And since he went with a man for his novels, I for one, think we should respect that.

The James Bond franchise has been globally successful for decades and it’s doing just fine. It doesn’t need gender realignment, doesn’t need to get festooned in sparkly bits and it won’t be made fabulous by being smothered in ‘Girl Power’.

It may very well be that there are a lack of sexy, butt-kicking, poker playing, gadget using, Aston Martin wrecking roles for women in the movies and if that’s the case maybe its time to get your thinking caps on and create something original.

Of your own.

Stealing somebody else’s work and barstadising it to fit some weird ‘Women-Are-So-Terrified-Of-Men-They-Have-To-Squash-Them-Entirely-Out-Of-Existence’ narrative is not only the exact opposite of female empowerment but also so tragic I just want to burst into tears right this very second.

Shock newsflash: some women still actually like men.

Some women want a man who might, at any moment, hurl her against the wall and ravish her or give her a lift to Asda really, really fast in a sports car whilst making wry comments and shooting her sexy glances.

Damn it, we want Bond.

We want James Bond.

So I move that, along with the essentially British NHS, we take the necessary precautions to protect our boy and do whatever we need to do to ring-fence his manhood.

We need to protect the penis.

Before it’s too late.

NB* ~For the benefit of any Dukes who may be reading this, I said ravish, not sex traffick. Age of consent and permission being the pertinent differences.