My top ten telly programmes of all time – kinda


I was having one of those flicky nights where no matter how many times I hit the remote control, there was still nothing to watch on TV. There are more channels than ever before and I went through every one of them – twice – in despair.

So I did what any 49-year-old would do. I bemoaned the state of modern life and started talking about “When I was younger…”, only to have Mr 50 Sense join in – what? This was my monologue – and start his own trip down memory lane which ended up with a “Guess the theme tune” from YouTube.

There were so many great TV shows that I’d forgotten about and bring back a wealth of memories. If I were on a desert island, here’s my top ten (and a bit). Continue reading “My top ten telly programmes of all time – kinda”


15 signs you’re getting old


My mam once told me that she wakes up and she’s 18. Then she tries to get out of bed and she’s 80. I know what she means – some days I wake up and I still feel I should be heading off to sixth form. Which is why I spent a half hour squealing on the swings in the local playground last week. (It was Mr 50 Cents fault as he was pushing me too high.)

So how do you know when you’re getting old? Well, I’ve discovered that there are some subtle signs to watch out for… Continue reading “15 signs you’re getting old”

How to become a journalist


No doubt you’ve seen the Facebook post from former English teacher Abi Elphinstone on failing the SATs tests and telling children all you needed were “ideas + passion”. It was the subject of one of my infamous rants on how ridiculous a message it is. Tell children they don’t need education and can get by on “ideas + passion”? Nonsense.

It got me thinking about my own life and want I would tell my younger self if I could go back in time.

And it would be to learn to type.

Continue reading “How to become a journalist”

Feminism’s true winners – men


I rarely get a seat on my morning – or evening – commute. I join the train late in its journey and the seats are all filled with businessmen, heads down looking busily at their phones or bashing away on their laptops, legs spread wide and elbows at sharp angles.

It never bothers me usually – but then comes the period. And when Keith Moon is belting out his greatest hits on my ovaries and I’m desperately clinging onto a pole trying to stay upright and I’m praying for the drugs to kick in, I hate feminism.

Continue reading “Feminism’s true winners – men”