old schoool text

Let’s go back to 2006

When the living was easy.

I’m kidding.

But I’m kind of not.

Remember when you were seeing someone in 2006, and you’d survive on just a few texts a night from each other because the incessant pain the arse that are instant messaging apps didn’t exist. And actually it was insane to think that you’d be in touch with someone all day everyday. Because, you know, you had jobs and shit. Let’s go back to that. When the texts were basically just there to make plans to meet. Not to forge some sort of weird ‘I fancy you but kind of just want a pen pal’ relationship.

Let’s go back to 2006 when, if you were single, that was actually OK. And not everyone you spoke to asked you about your love life before they asked you about you because online dating really wasn’t a thing and you couldn’t just pick up dates thrice weekly so people didn’t just expect that you’d be shagging around. And actually it was sometimes normal to go 2 months without going out with someone.

And when you did go out with someone, it was more normal. Because any mutual friends you had might of just come up in discussion, rather than on your phone, so you wouldn’t have been inclinded to stalk the living shit out of and pre judge the person you were due to spend a night in a pub with. Facebook wasn’t your default for getting to know someone. Face to face book was.

Let’s go back to 2006 when you weren’t required to be contactable 24 hours a day. I remember in those days, I actually used to turn my phone off at night and it absolutely never came out of my bag at work. Now, I feel odd if it’s not on my desk or I leave it for like a whole hour in case I come back to 105 new WhatsApp notifications and panic about the amount of admin required to keep up with it all.

Let’s go back to 2006 when I could only check my Facebook (if I had one) from home so it was kinda fine to not go on it for a couple of days without worrying that the world might implode if I hadn’t shared a bite by bite account of my well filtered dinner. Because I wasn’t rushing home to check it because, well, I was out doing stuff.

Or better still, the fact that only being able to check it from your home PC meant that you didn’t have to deal with people checking it when you were out with them and in the middle of a real-life actual conversation.

Let’s go back to 2006 when selfies weren’t really a thing. And it certainly wasn’t the done thing to send them to other people as a way of flirting with them. Because flirting consisted of talking to someone’s actual face and having an understanding of body language. And, you know, making someone laugh without relying on a gif.

Disclaimer: I’m really pleased gif’s came into our lives because they are the best.

Let’s go back to 2006 when we could explain how we felt without feeling like we needed to use an emoji to do it. What did we actually do before them fucking monkeys came along??

Let’s go back to 2006 and bin our phones for a while. And have a chat. And only photograph the important things and share those important things with the important people.

Not some kid you went to Primary school with who keeps on popping up on your feed.

Now that really could be decent excuse for a #throwbackthursday. *rolling eye emoji*





rickman gif

Things not to do when you’ve got the hump

I hold my hands up. I’m pissed off. No majorly specific rationale behind my feeling of new found humpness, just several shitty things making me feel like I want to stay in bed.

It’s fine.  I’m not about to take on a bus or anything. I’m just cheesed off. Maybe one of these days I’ll go into why. Probs not tho, cos who wants to be reading that sad noise.

I have, however, spent a few days doing that thing when you wallow. Yeah. Dumbest thing to do if you’re blue. But I have and it’s made me realise that in life, when people have the hump we do the stupidest things and never learn that they never make us feel better.

You know, like.

Eat McDonald’s. Because at the time, you’re all ‘I’m too pissed off to cook and I want some comfort food’, but then you’re standing in the queue ordering up a side order of deep fried cheese to go with your meal and you realise you feel more shit than you did when you walked in. Have a salad and go to bed without wondering by how many miles you exceeded your monthly recommended salt intake. And if you’ll have a heart attack in the night. And how shit it would be to die now when you’re so down in the dumps. It really escalates.

Tell you what else you shouldn’t do. Go on Facebook. It does a number of things. Primarily leads you to look at all the filtered pictures of people you don’t care about and what a smashing Saturday night out they are having, whilst you’re knee deep in your fourth boxset, whinging that the ‘large fries isn’t as large as it used to be’. Secondly, it gives you scope to look back at photos of yourself from 8 years ago when you were slim, and on holiday and beaming. Delete the app until you cheer da fuq up.

In fact, throw your phone away in general. Because the phone means talking to people and responding to messages and your far too busy  being shitty to ever answer the 65 new WhatsApp’s you seem to obtain on an hourly basis. My advice. That beautiful ‘turn off notifications’ option. Silence really is bloody golden.

Another good one to avoid. TV shows that involve emotion evoking closing scenes. Normal people can go ‘aw’. People that are in the state of ‘having the hump’ will scream cry into a pillow at one well chosen score to one well timed kiss. Trust. It’s grim.

I’d also say steer clear of Adele. Or Celine Dion. Or Whitney Houston. One bad lyric from them whining bitches and next thing you know you’ve turned your car into a morgue of misery where you flit between Angry Power Goddess to Hot Fucking Mess in the change of a traffic light.

Tell you what else isn’t great to do at the minute either. Read the news. Because one minute your watching the weather and the next minute you realise it’s 2016 and everyone you grew up loving and idolising in  the world of show business has dropped dead at an untimely age. Mood – gone.

Step back from people that irritate you at the best of times. Because when you’re in ‘hump’ mode you literally stop giving a tiny rat’s arse about what they have to say and you’ll probably tell them. Like, straight to their face. And that is just hella awkward.

Finally, I would steer clear of the booze. At the best of times having a little tipple might make you dance, maybe become funnier, perhaps fall over and flash your arse on the Central Line. When one has the hump, one turns into one of two things. Angry Gin Man who wants to throw stuff at pigeons because the mood weren’t great when you started boozing but now you’re a plain arsehole. Or you become Crying Uber Girl who decides to spend the 40 minute journey home looking out a rain soaked window like you’re in a bad 90’s music video slowly weeping at your woes.

Probably whilst listening to Celine Dion. The bitch

LL x




The things all girls are really doing on Tinder

Ah lads. There you are, thinking that the glossy maiden you’ve just swiped is trapped in a tower (block) somewhere, longingly looking at her phone willing it to buzz with one ‘you’ve got a new match notification’. Her face will light up with her phone when she sees it’s you and the conversation will begin to flow.

Wrong. In fact what she, and every other girl, is currently doing on Tinder is quite different. And I think it’s about time you knew.

So here it is. All the things girls are actually doing on Tinder.


Judging you purely on your name.
It’s sad. I’m sorry. But it’s true.
If your Facebook dates back to circa 2005 and your still down as MC Shinzey from your Garage days, we’re probably not going to sleep with you.
Also not a huge fan of Edwin’s.
Maybs that’s just me.

Checking out how clean your bathroom is.
You know them selfies you take of your abs? Or the ones where you’ve ‘well-positioned’ that lump in your grey joggers?
Yeah, we’re just looking to see if you’ve got mould in your grouting.

you nasty gif

Reading your bio like your English A-Level teacher.
A-hem my guy just dropped a comma. NO DATE.
Also, when guys replace s’s with z’s. We’re judging. Proper judging.

Avoiding the filth.
Funnily enough when you’re first message is along the lines of ‘do you fancy a fuck’, we ain’t running round trying to find our corset. We’re having another cuppa in our jogging bottoms wondering why you think it’s OK to say that to strangers.


Longing for you to have a picture of your shoes on there.
Because you may well be pretty, and you may well have a great job and plenty of patter but if you’re rolling round in a Burton tan slip on, we’re not gonna like it.
Yep. We’re that awful. Really are.

Getting overly excited when we see someone we knew years ago on there. 
Cos it’s like the Tinder god’s have brought us together in some kind of weird shitty dating app  fate. Cos we’re girls. So our brain’s work a gazillion miles an hour.

janice gif

Pretending that we swiped right on our ex ‘by accident’.
Not in any way in an attempt to open up the lines of communication with him again to tell him what a turd we think he is. Nope. Not at all. Not even slightly.

When Croydon’s answer to Christian Grey rolls up on there with pictures of flogs and whips like that’s what we’re about. Je.Sus.

blushing gif

Getting really excited when we match a celeb.
Ok, ok  the closest I got was matching the bloke that does the weather on BBC. But still. That counts.

Filtering the living shit out of all of our photos.
And pretending we don’t ever do that. Seriously, if we could Instagram our actual faces we would.


Looking up and realising that an hour of our lives had gone by.
An hour of developing RSI in our thumbs. Of wondering why some people are allowed access to the internet. An hour where we could have actually been nearer finding true love or a lay if we’d left the house like we were supposed to.




Why do we fall for bastards?

“I can’t help it Shell, I’m just a magnet for bastards”, I found myself turning and saying to the woman I sit next to at work. 
“Oh yeah, Grant Mitchell, he’s your type ain’t he” our dearest Shell retorted. Chuckling away. 
Never has someone got me so right. In 9 short words. 
Sums me up. Grant bloody Mitchell. A unit. Fair-weather. Flits in and out of your life. A bloke’s bloke. A proper gezzer. A bastard. But a lovely bastard all the same. 
It got me wondering. Why, when faced with a perfectly nice bloke who does well and is an all round nice guy, do I want to Usain Bolt out of the bar and get my arse straight home? 
Why, when faced with someone who actually replies to your texts and doesn’t want to give me the run around, do I actually see myself growing old alone cos it’s like nothing will please me?! 

Why? Because girls like me love a bastard. 
And why do we love a bastard? 
Ha, here goes. 
Primarily, we love having something to moan about. I’m convinced of it. That’s the root of the problem. 
‘Oh I’ve not heard from him’. ‘Oh he said we’d go out for a bit of dinner last week but he’s gone MIA for a fortnight’. ‘I know I should jog him on but when he winks at me my belly flips’. 
It’s like we wouldn’t be happy with ‘he rang when he said we would, we went out when he said he was free, and it was lovely’. 
Because for girls like me, that’s a whole tub of vanilla that we don’t want to settle for. But why? On paper it’s perfect.  
Because getting the run around is so much more fun isn’t it. Looking at your phone willing for it turn from ‘online’ to ‘typing’ to the point of you getting some kind of angina is so much more thrilling isn’t it? 
Well actually. In a way, yes. Sadly. 
It’s exciting. Bastards are exciting. They keep you on your toes and the element of unpredictable is a real turn on. 
When you’re not sure if they want you or not and they turn round and get in touch it’s a buzz.
So other than the bullocks ‘thrill of the chase’ and our inherent need to whinge, there’s got to be more to why we love a bastard. 

I’ve gone round and round thinking if it had something to do with the dusty corners of my childhood (probably, my Dad was/still is/always probably will be the original bastard) or if I’ve genuinely got a chromosome missing that causes me to run this mill time and time again. To go through the thrill/chase/let down/cry/begin every single time. 
And then I settled on it. 
It’s got nothing to do with the chase. It’s got nothing to do with the buzz. It’s nothing to do with the element of surprise. 
It comes down to one thing and one thing only. 
Girls who love bastards are strong-willed, feisty cows. Firecrackers with very big hearts but they are a bloody handful. And in turn, we need a handful. We need a challenge. We need something to tackle head on. We need the fire. 
But most of all and fundamentally the reason is this. We want to be the one that changes them.
Be the one they settle down for. That they calm their player ways for. That’s the real turn on. That’s the real buzz. 
The thing that does it is the thrill of thinking that maybe one day this bastard will wake up one morning, look at you and think ‘this is me, this is me for good’. 
…& not ‘….shit, name, name, what’s her bloody name’.
That’s why we keep going back. 
LL x

dial up

The painful things kids today will never understand

What a shock, it’s a week before my birthday and along comes another blog referencing how old I feel.

Tradition right?

Well as I turn twenty-bloody-seven next week I thought it appropriate to hark back to yesteryear and all the painful things that us twenty something’s used to have to suffer as kids, that the brats of today will never understand.

Let’s start.

The agony of having to make a £10 top up last you an entire month. And having to draft text messages that were short enough to go into one message so you didn’t get charged a whole 50p!

The worse agony of not managing your 0ne2one balance correctly and being lumbered with no credit for ten days before your Mum would top up again. Kids today will never understand the pain of not being able to reply to the text from a boy you proper fancy because you spent all your credit downloading the new Luck & Neat ringtone for shit brick Nokia.


bro, I can only take incoming calls this week.,

Scratching your favourite CD. Balling. Your. Eyes. Out. Spending a week rubbing it with your polo shirt to try and bring it back.

The heartache attached to dial up internet. Restricted use so your Mum could still use the phone. The slipper to the head when you went over and the phone bill came in. 20 minutes waiting for it to connect. Slow loading pornographic  imagery. Hell on earth.

dial up

Having to convey your emotion without the use of emojis. Where am I?!

Getting so lost because your Dad’s A-Z was from 1979 and you checked that before you left the house because nobody knew what GoogleMaps was.


so, I come out of here and turn right, yeah?

Having to have change to get on a bus.

Having to lie about your age when you didn’t have enough change so you could still try and blag child fare even though you’d been working 2 years. Shocker.

The blisters you’d get from rewinding your favourite VHS. Cos it got hella tangled in the machine when you were watching it for the 19th time that week.


erm, my finger is stuck in the white wheel of death.

The pain of having to actually be home in time for your favourite programme because your Mum was already recording something for your Nan on BBC2 and you had no other chance of seeing it.

Having to wait a whole other week for the next episode because damn box sets didn’t even exist.



Knowing if you missed a film at the cinema you’d have to wait the best part of a year for it be released. On video. That would cost about £20.

Walking somewhere without music. Cos your Walkman was hench and you couldn’t be bothered to carry round 8 CD’s at a time wherever you went.


miss, I didn’t bring any books to school cos I’ve got 8 albums in my bag

Having to have batteries for EVERYTHING you owned. Like now, these kids are going on holiday with one charger and all the entertainment they’d ever need. Us? 18 packs of AA’s just to keep our GameBoy going for the flight.

Having to actually stick to a plan made on a Friday for Saturday night because you had no way of contacting each other in between times. So actually having to be where you said you’d be, when you said you’d be there. Mind blowing.

Having to handwrite entire pieces of coursework. Remember that bump we all had on our fingers by the end of term from our biros. These kids ain’t got a bloody clue!


but, remember these bad boys!

& lastly

The terror of having to talk to someone you fancied on your home phone. In your living room. When your Mum was watching Corrie. Mortifying.