Let’s talk about weight, baby


Ok, I know it’s hard to believe, but beneath the layers of mouthy bravado, pretty terrible language and penchant for Peroni, I actually do have some girly traits.

And in between actually fake tanning and actually reading fashion blogs, I worry about girly stuff too.

The kind of stuff all women worry about. Are my eyebrows even? Am I fertile? GAH DOES HE REALLY FANCY ME?

But another thing we all worry about is our weight. And so do I. A lot.

2 years ago I was larger than I wanted to be. I won’t use the word chubby, or fat, but I wasn’t that happy with what I saw in the mirror and what I read on the scales.

I was a size 16, well I told myself I was a 16 but that was normally due to the fact that I blamed H&M’s terrible sizing when clothes didn’t fit. I was probably bigger if I’d allowed myself to wear trousers with a button and a zip.

At my biggest I weight 13’8 and it transpired, over one Sunday lunch, that I weighed more than my 6’3 father. It was time for a change.

With the help of an online personal trainer and some bloody determination I started to notice a change. My clothes were looser, my face looked thinner and I felt happier.

But the biggest change of all was, that I no longer knew how much I weighed.

Like so many new age trainers, he pushed me to take photos to monitor my progress not to weigh myself. As much as I hated having a permanent record on my phone of me in my gym pants, it helped. I could see a change.

After that, I felt like I needed one final spurt. I joined The Body Coach and started to see the most dramatic results of all. And not on the scales. I still hadn’t bloody weighed myself. It was like a revelation.

By not obsessing with what was on the scales, I was trying harder, not loosing motivation and could see this as a change of lifestyle not a ‘diet’.

Honestly. No bullshit.

I was wearing different size clothes, I was noticing things begin to fall down.

I’ve kept it up. Put a bit back on, lost a bit, avoided the gym for a while and then found the want to get back into shape again. A normal approach to healthy living.

I’m a size 12 now. I’m happy. I have a waist. A while back, I bought a size 10 top that didn’t stop me breathing. I’d finally cracked it and got a body I was happy with. Only took 27 years!

I went to the doctors this week and was asked to weigh myself.

According to the BMI scale I’m one pound off of morbid obesity.

I’m 27 now so have a thicker skin that I did ten years ago, fortunately.

As the doctor told me all that I need to shift a stone or two to become ‘healthy’ and that my risk of diabetes was increased. I found myself obsessing about the number on the scales all over again. I genuinely Googled a bloody juice cleanse.

I couldn’t help but think of my 17-year-old self who would have seen those scales, heard those words from the doctor, gone home, cried and only ate carrots until I fainted.

So I decided to do something a bit untoward. And show you my before and after shots.

Granted, it’s me in my pants. Granted, it’s me with more of my bits on show than I’d ever deem acceptable on the internet but there’s a method to my madness.

I want my 17-year-old self, or any other woman out there for that matter who is obsessed with loosing a pound here or a pound there, to see these. And realise, that weight really doesn’t always matter so much. It’s how you look, but more importantly how you feel.

On the left hand side I am a size 16 (cough probably 18 cough) and 13 stone 8. On the right  hand side is what I looked like the day after the doctors.

I am fitter than I was then, I am a size 12 and I weigh….

Wait for it. …

14 stone and 8. glorious pounds.

And no, I haven’t got them the wrong way round!



Proof. The scales don’t tell you all you need to know.

So. Now I’ve gone and put pictures of myself, in my pants, on the internet, you can do me a favour in return.

Don’t let the numbers dictate your progress.

Remember muscle weighs more so if you’re lean you’ll be heavier.

Know your body.

Trust how your jeans feel.

& bin those bloody scales.




Let’s give our brains a break

Do you ever walk into the kitchen and think ‘what the fuck did I come in here for?’ or leave the house and loose complete sense of where you parked the car?

Do you ever find yourself having some ‘downtime’ in front of a TV programme only to realise you haven’t actually taken any of it because you’re answering work emails, or running in and out keeping an eye on the cooking or the washing or…more than likely, you’re on your phone…on Facebook?

Thought so.

Ever thought why?

The minute we wake up in the morning, it’s on. Like donkey kong.

We’ve got 17 minutes to get ourselves out of the door, leaving ourselves 9 minutes to make the 10 minute journey to the station, to make the train that will get us to work just on time. We get on the train and juggle between checking our work phone to pre-empt the shit storm we are about to walk into, and checking our own phone to see if anybody put anything ground breaking on Instagram whilst we slept. The morning at work is a flurry of meetings and forgetting that you actually need the odd five minutes to have a wee. We eat lunch at our desks, hurried, whilst trying to do our Ocado order, sort out our banking and catch up on the news in 15 short minutes. We get heartburn trying to reply to the 85 new WhatsApp notifications we have. The afternoon follows the pattern of the morning and before you know it we’re running home, to try and get to our gym session before the shopping arrives, leaving ourselves approximately 8 minutes to shove something in the microwave, have a shower and get to bed before we do it all over again.

And we wonder why we can’t remember where the bloody car is?

Our brains are full. To bursting. And if we’re not careful we’ll all be in mental institutions pre-50. And I’m not laughing.

We are living in the immediate age where if it doesn’t happen now, it doesn’t count. You must be glued to your phones to reply to work emails immediately, to react to friends news and photos instantly, to reply to potential suitors straightaway before they find someone else.

For crying out loud, we even watch TV now in a condensed hour every week by watching other people watch it for us. What are we doing?!?


Can you just watch the news for me please? Cheers.  (pic-



It’s time to give our brains a break.

I took a 5 day bank holiday weekend this week. I went to bed on Wednesday night and my brain wouldn’t sleep. I tried to work out how I would catch up with 15 mates, do 6 loads of washing, write 4 blogs, pluck my eyebrows, and do the weekly shop to fit in around the plans I’d already made and whilst giving myself some time to sit down.

My head hurt and it was all my own doing.

Sod this, I thought.

I called time on rushing. Called time on the need for it all to happen now and decided to chill the fuck out this bank holiday.

On Thursday I got in the car with one of my best mates. We drove to the Kent coast where we were so far South our phones thought we were in France. I turned mine off. I stood in the sea for a while. I went for a coffee and didn’t rush it. I sat and stared into space for like a whole hour. I just looked at the sea.

I well and truly blew the cobwebs off and didn’t spend the whole day thinking FUCK – I need to stop relaxing because the shopping’s due and the ironings piling up and I’ve got to work late and try and see my mates.

I. Just. Stared.


I stared and made a pact with myself. That September is the month that each day, I will give my brain a break.

If stuff doesn’t get done, so be it. If stuff getting done will get in the way of me giving myself even half an hour of time to just stop, it just won’t get done.

I’m going to stop over committing to plans which mean I rush around like a prat worrying about being late.

I’m going to turn my phone off for at least 3 hours every day. And those 3 hours won’t include time that I’m asleep. I’m just going to stare out the bloody window on the train. I’m going to start looking up some more, not just down at my phone.

I’m going to enjoy TV in my own time, I’m going to cook nice dinners again, I’m going to cancel work drinks to go to the damn gym.

I’m going to make some me time.

And some time to give my brain a break.

Before it bloody breaks on me.

LL x


Lady London is 100


To be honest, I feel about 100 most mornings, but alas it is not I that is 100.

But the blog.

The blog is 100 posts old.

100 posts of me wittering on, moaning, listing and genuinely ranting in a vague attempt at making someone somewhere mildly chuckle.


I’ve just checked and since moving onto the WordPress site one year ago….one small year ago…my site has been viewed 65,000 times.

So this is a little blog of thanks.

At 1,000 views I kinda thought my Mum and my mates where just refreshing their screens to help me out.

At 5,000 I kinda thought that maybe people on Facebook were starting to like what I wrote.

But when 25,000 individual people read my post about Tiger Tiger in January, and shared it on social media 8,000 times I kinda realised I didn’t have that many mates and strangers were reading it.

People at work began forwarding me my own posts to read and once I stood behind a bloke on the train who was reading some of my rambles.

I know it’s still small fry but it’s my small fry and for making it tick along I want to say cheers.

This week also marks a year since the Metro went ‘alright, we’ll give you a go’, and my little words went nationwide.

This is a good week.

So watch this space.

It’s been a bit quiet on the Western front of late but that doesn’t mean to say I haven’t been beavering away.

ol’ is going to go through a little bit of a overhaul and the Blog Book….yes, you heard, the Blog Book will be landing, in editions, starting in September.

I’m hoping for it to be bigger, and better, and something more and more of you will keep coming back to read.

But for the time being, cheers.

And to keep you entertained, here’s some of the best bits…just incase you’d missed one.


The One Where I Wished I Was In Friends 

The One When I Joked So Hard About Being Single Then Got A Boyfriend In A Week

The One When I Trended On Metro Above The Chuckle Brothers For Two Whole Days

The One Where Croydon Went Nuts & My Local Pub Loved Me

The One Where I Called Out Southern Rail 

& last but not least

The One Where Carol Voderman Tweeted Me. 



boxpark croydon

9 reasons we are too excited for Boxpark Croydon

The crates are going up! I know right, I walked past the station yesterday morning with a Monday blurry eye and perked right up at the fact that Boxpark is finally on it’s way. Let’s not mention the fact that I thought it was due to happen last summer. It’s finally coming!


And why are we all so bloody excited. Well I’ll tell you why.

  1. Err, for starters it is actually going makes us cool as fuck. Croydon is finally going to be on the map – and not for high crime rates, riots or people that still think wearing Adidas tracksuits on the street is OK. Side step the obvious gentrification and just wallow in people no longer backing away when you say you live in Croydon. Finally.
  2. The influx of bearded men is going to sky rocket. And for the women of Croydon this is an exciting bloody time. Because it’s a known fact that temporary structures that  house ‘pop-up’ shops and restaurants are a hot bed for hot men with hot beards. The number is doubled when said structure is made from crates. Don’t ask me – it’s science ok. It’s bloody science.
  3. MEATLIQUOR yo! Yes, you heard me right. Meat fricking Liquor is coming to Croydon. And hopefully for at least 6 hours nobody will really realise so we won’t have to queue up for 17 weeks like we do in the West End. Get that burger in my face immediately.meat-liquor-logo

  4. Our Uber bill is going to fall through the floor. Because the novelty of having this here will run until at least Christmas. Which means all us commuters will just come home on a Friday night at a normal time, and hang out with the rest of the hipsters and be able TO WALK HOME. Ok, worst way we’re going to have to hop on a tram. But still. HELLO CONVENIENCE.
  5. The Breakfast Club. Because, you know what I don’t mind lining up for an hour for a full english if I go there in my PJ’s. Making me get dressed to schlep to Soho on a Saturday morning to line up for sausages was never going to happen. But now, I’m all over that shit. Can you imagine the brunch dates. Behave.
    breakfast club

    Hey pancakes. Every day

  6. The Cronx. Oh yeah….apparently now we’ve got our own craft beer company because we are just all of the snazzy. And they’re going to have a bottle shop & bar that serves grilled sandwiches. Incase you’re looking for me between now and March – that’s probably where I’ll be.
  7. There’s going to be other places to go on a date night other than Bugattis in South Croydon. I know right. The boys of Croydon Tinder behold and get to know that you can know suggest somewhere else for date 3. Phew.
  8. We won’t have to make arrangements ever again. Long gone will be the days of ‘so if we catch the 19.45 from West Croydon, we’ll be in Shoreditch for 20.30, can stay for a few hours and catch the last Overground because we live in the sticks and are skint. Hello to days of ‘hello mate, see you in like 5 minutes, let’s go for Fish, Wing & Ting’. Wahoo.
  9. Wine & Deli. If you live in Croydon then you’ve got to have been living under a rock to have missed Brgr & Beer in Matthews Yard. Well the geniuses behind that have come up with yet another hold-the-motherf*ckin-phone plan. Wine & Deli. Yes. Wine and small plates.Literally. Cannot. Even.

    bgr and beer

    these guys tho picture courtesy of the


See you there kids

LL x


I drunkenly deleted Tinder – and guess what, the world didn’t explode.

I know right, you might be reading this as a fellow single girl and thinking ‘hell, bitch be crazy, she’s never gonna get laid again’.
And to be honest with you, in my hazy hungover state, I had all of the never-gonna-get-laid-ever-again-anxiety. It seems to be the only gateway into anything remotely romantic/attention giving in this day and age and whilst pissed from post work drinks, I’d deleted the lot. Bosh. Gone.

Like so many twenty-somethings, my dating life of late has fallen into two categories. Category 1 – nothing. Category 2 – online. I’ve tried everything from Tinder to Badoo and the only long term thing I’ve managed to get from it is RSI in my thumb from all of the swiping.

I’d got to the stage this one Wednesday evening when I, half pissed, got on the train and looked at my notifications. I’d had 16 new Tinder messages since leaving the office. I opened my phone and before my next stop I could have signed myself up for dates to last me through to the following Monday, if I’d so wished. Yes, some of the guys I’d been chatting to were funny. On message. They were attractive. In their filtered pictures. But it dawned on me that I had no interest in going to meet any of them.

I’ve done a year & a half of the leg work. Of answering the exact same questions every single time I match someone new. Yes I’m 27, yes this is what I do for a job, no funnily enough I don’t fancy a ‘bit of fun’. It’s the same cycle, day in day out. One out of 10 you have the initial conversation with actually follow through to the next day, and only one out of 10 of those ever transpire into a date. By which point, you’ve probably dedicated about two weeks having banter with a guy behind a screen, you psyche yourself up and only one out of the ten you meet you actually have a spark with.

It’s hard work. It’s admin heavy. And I’d got tired.

So, I developed drunk woman fierce independence. You know when out of nowhere you’re Beyonce and can take on the world because you’d had a bottle of Savvy B? And I deleted the lot. In one fail swoop, I kissed goodbye. I was going to meet someone that I had a real life spark with, that conversation flowed easily with, that I didn’t have to hunt out in a bar whilst holding Tinder open because I’d forgotten which one of the 5 guys I’d been talking to that week I was going to meet.

I woke up the following morning, remembered what I’d done and for about 12 seconds actually regretted it. ‘Well how am I ever going to meet anyone now?’ was the first question that popped into my head. And the fact that I asked myself that made me not re-download them immediately and pray to the iCloud gods that they’d saved my chat with fit Greg, 29 from East Ham before I lost him and our potential future together for good.

I’d fallen into the online dating trap. The one that makes all single people think that nobody meets in a normal arena anymore.

‘Sod it’ I thought, I’m going to give it a go and prove the trap wrong. And off my home screen they stayed. Lost was a few potential good dates, long gone was Greg from East Ham and I was left sitting there actually fully watching a TV programme rather than having the weird sex chat based distraction.

To be honest, the first day or so was odd. It felt strange not to pick up my phone and just have a random flirt on a Monday just because I could. I saved all of the phone battery because it wasn’t constantly buzzing with notifications of another match, another two weeks of chatting, another not great date. But to be honest, I felt a sense of freedom from it all.

I wasn’t checking to see if someone found me attractive enough to muster up the energy to swipe me. I wasn’t constantly on the hunt for the next half arsed attempt at a date. I wasn’t thinking I should keep Friday nights free in case someone was to ask me out.

I want this story to end with me going ‘and then last Friday I walked into the pub, it was 1999 again and a bloke with a glint in his eye asked me for a drink and now we’re married’.

It obviously doesn’t. But I‘m approaching things a bit differently now.

care less about it all. I’ll make an effort to hold a stare over a bar again. I’ll smile back. I actually notice people’s winks or nods in pubs or on the train because I’m not staring down at my phone when my mate goes off to the loo or I’m in between stops. Staring down at my phone answering yet another message from yet another stranger.

I’m not obsessing on how long it’s been since I went on a date, or got laid or had a flirt.

I actually a feel a bit more confident now I’m not paraded in front of randoms for them to judge me purely on how I look.

And you know what, if I stay single for another couple of years so be it. But I’m hell bent that the next time I fall for a guy it will be a bit more real. In real time. In real life. With his real face.

Not the face he wanted me to see. The face that was actually 5 years old and filtered to fuck.


Screen Shot 2016-07-06 at 10.23.31

The dramatic & emotional stages of being a Southern Rail customer

Hold your hands up. Who travels to and from work via Southern Rail?

Oh hey!

Now hands up – who’s come hella close to commiting near murder at least 75 times since Christmas.


So let us unite and appreciate the trials and tribulations of being a Southern Rail customer. Here they are.

The emotional stages we all enter daily.

1. Joy
The National Rail app is showing no delays. No cancellations. No yellow warning signs. Today is going to be a fabulous day.

2. Disappointment
When you arrive at the station to realise that said National Rail app has lied to you like a cheating husband and you are in fact delayed. So delayed. Again.

can't even

3. Pity
For the poor man on the station that has to dodge literal bullets when he announces that yet again he is sorry for the delay to the service. But Barry, who was supposed to be driving your train, decided to take the worlds longest dump, so you’ll be late for work. #lackoftraincrew

4. Claustrophobia
When you finally get on said train, and your forced to spend the entire journey invading the personal space of someone who apparently has never been introduced to a tube of Colgate.

5. Fear
That this will be the day that your boss presents you with your P45 on arrival at your desk as this is the day that she’s finally had enough of your bullshit tardiness.

6. Bitterness
When at lunchtime you check your bank balance and realise how much a month you are spending to not get anywhere on time. Ever. Thanks Southern. Thanks for that.


7. Dread
When 5pm rolls round and you know that if you’re lucky you might be at home in time for the News at 10. Perhaps. Maybe. Probably not.

8. Concern
For the welfare of your liver. Because every time you get to Victoria and see that you’ve got yet another 45 minute wait for a train, you have no other option but to go to Weatherspoons and ride this shit out.

9. Hope
When your train actually gets a platform announced. Is tonight the night? The night that I get home in enough time to actually cook myself a dinner rather than walking straight through the door and straight into my bed.

10. Rage
When you stand on said platform next to said train for 20 whole minutes waiting for Barry to get off the loo and open the doors for you.

11. Deep Rooted Sadness
When you sit down and count up the amount of minutes you’ve wasted today alone on waiting for trains. Time that could have been spent writing your memoirs. Or spending time with your loved ones. Or like Barry, having a dump.


12. Suicidal Tendencies
When you read that they are about to cancel 350 trains a day & pretty soon you are going to have to move to the North to escape this shit.

LL x


True Love


This photo was in a bunch we found when we cleared out my Nan’s house recently. It’s from my grandparents wedding day. And when I saw, it I cried.

Not like dirty blubbing just a little damp eye and a lump in the throat.

They would have been married 70 years next year. Which is mental.

But they were a sterling couple. A couple that waited for each other whilst there was a war. A couple that knew they couldn’t be in touch all day every day but had to rely on one letter a month. A couple that knew real skint. That knew real fun.

That knew real love.

I do often wonder that if a couple that were so meant to be, like they were, met in an age like ours – would they have made it?

Would today’s temptation have drawn Grandad to stray and the plethora of options on her phone, made Nan question if he was really the one?

Because, even now, when faced with ones that you think are the one, there’s always a question. Always another option.

I don’t think loves changed. Or compatibility. But even a couple like my Nan and Grandad would have struggled today.


In today’s world, if Nan didn’t get a reply from a text in an hour, let alone wait 6 weeks for a letter to make it home from the trenches, she would have jogged Grandad right on. I’ve done it, and I quote ‘well if he can’t text me back in one whole day he aint worth my time’. Really?

In today’s world, we can’t wait 5 minutes for a level of commitment let alone 5 years for the other one to go off and fight a world war.

Nan wasn’t glued to her phone, seeing when Grandad was last online or checking his Snapchat and realising that she wasn’t the only girl he was flirting with. There’s a high chance she was going to a dance here and there with another boy. A chance he was walking another girl to their door. But they still chose one another. And that’s because those innocent indiscretions wouldn’t have been tagged on Facebook.

They didn’t have instant access to phones so if they made a date for a Saturday night, they committed to it. They looked forward to it all week. They didn’t make plans with someone they met two days later as they seemed a better option and they could easily sack the other one off via message. There was a sense of loyalty that seems to have gone down the pisser these days.

But most importantly what they had was based on just them two. Not late night texting that can get misconstrued when one person is more pissed or tired than the other. Not a relationship based on selfie taking rather than just enjoying the beauty of someone, in the flesh, on a normally lit Saturday night. Not something that was based on paranoia that every time the other persons phone beeped it could be another romantic interest or another Tinder match. It was based on talking. And dancing. And falling for what was right in front of them, not on their screen.

Because they were them. And because it was real. And they were the best couple (literally no bias) that ever lived, I will hold on and believe that even if they met on Happn in 2016 they would have made it because they were truly meant to be. But I think they would have struggled. Got distracted. Ballsed it up along the way.

So just a bit of food for thought for us all.

We need to make sure we don’t miss out on the real thing.

Just because there’s too many options.

LL x



A little story about worry

So here goes.

Time to talk about something that would normally stay in the dark deep box of stuff that Jo wouldn’t necessarily put on a blog. Like, ever.

But sod it. Rather than worrying about what people think about it, I’m just going to write it.

For those of you that know me well, you’ll know for a number of years I’ve struggled with anxiety. I used to worry about worrying about worrying about stuff that nobody else would ever consider to be something you would need to worry about.

I’d have panic attacks daily, sometimes twice, sometimes thrice and things like going to work, or straightening my hair or getting out of bloody bed stopped being those things that were easy.

I’d worry about everything..

I worried so much about how I came across that I genuinely wondered why my mates were my mates.
I worried so much about how I looked that I genuinely wondered why I ever had a boyfriend, let alone one that was actually quite nice to me.
I’d get myself in a state about going to a family BBQ because I would spend the whole time worrying that everyone would think I was a knob.
I spent a LOT of time worrying that I was a knob. That was a big one.
I’d worry that my bus was going to crash. That I’d get the sack, every day. That the chicken in the fridge was almost certainly going to kill me. That the bloke on the bus was staring at me because I looked like a troll.

I  got some help, I got a diagnosis to stop me feeling like a lunatic, I spoke to some people but  it never went away. Not properly. Not until recently.

Now, without going into a load of detail, in the last year I’ve finally had some proper things to worry about. When your family’s health and well-being is put in danger, you finally realise what worry should be. What worry was saved for. And that thing wasn’t the size of your nose or your arse or your boobs.

And as shit scared as I have been at times, it put my old worry into a bit of context.

Out of nowhere, I no longer worried about walking into a pub in case people were wondering who the Wicked Witch of the West was. I stopped worrying that I was going to loose all my mates and money over night. I realised that getting myself in such a state about my belly that I’d have a panic attack was literally fruitless. People’s lives, health, that’s what mattered. Not my hang ups.

hey girl, I'm feeling fly tonight

hey girl, I’m feeling fly tonight


On Monday I had a little celebration. It was exactly 365 days since my last major panic attack.

I had a bag of Malteasers, a cup of tea and decided to write this.

Because I know a lot of people are where I was 3/4 years ago. When they thought that worry was gonna control them for the rest of their days and they would die alone and in a house with some cats because everyone would run away from the bird who had a panic attack all of the bloody time.

And I suppose I just wanna say it’s going to be alright. Something massive will happen and from an outsider looking in, it will be the thing that tips you over the edge. But actually, it’ll be the thing that saves ya.

Because it’ll make you realise what you should worry about in life.

And that thing isn’t what’s in the mirror, or in the fridge, or on the bloody bus.

LL x

If you need a little bit of help with the worry thing, then click here for some tips x


Honestr : The New Dating App. #2

So you remember last year when I wrote that blog about how different things would be if we were forced to be honest when online dating? You know, when I said I wanted to develop a new app called Honestr? Well here it is…

Anyway, it dawned on me that there was one question I didn’t quite cover in enough depth.

The question we all get asked a million times over.

“So, what you looking for?”

I’m pretty sure 85% of the guys on these apps would quite like a response similar to “a quick bunk up and a bacon sarnie” but I thought it was about time I supplied you with a Honestr answer. 

And dare you all to be this brutally honest next time you’re asked.

“What you looking for then babes?” Says Jamie, 27, from New Cross.

“Well” says Jo, 27, from Croydon “honestly, here’s my not completely exhaustive list” 

1. I’d quite like to meet someone that is completely open to and willing to dance round my kitchen to the Prince Greatest Hits on a semi regular basis.

2. A relationship that is quite heavily centred around the savage piss taking of one another.

3. A bloke that is quite open to having to sleep between old towels once a week when I’ve fake tanned. And is kind of OK to waking up next to someone who smells like biscuits once a week.

4. Someone who will turn a complete blind eye to the amount of hummus I eat in any given week.

5. A man who will not challenge the fact that, when driving, I turn into a really angry version of Adele.

6. Someone who will have an equal level of love for British gangster films and not tell me that it’s a bit “blokey”.

7. In a similar vein, someone that’s ok with the fact that I love a pint.

8. In a very similar vein, someone who’s ok with the fact that I probably won’t even wear heels at our wedding. 

9. To meet someone that’s fine with the fact that when I wake up I often look like Bam Bam from the Flinstones.

10. But most importantly someone who is perfectly capable of having just a good a night at a 5 course fine dining experience as they would be getting mistake drunk on a Saturday afternoon in Weatherspoons.

So, in short Jamie, not a great deal. You? Bunk up and a bacon bap? 

Thought so.


Croydon boy

25 things you need to know when dating a boy from Croydon

Ah Croydon boys. You’ve got to love ’em. They are a law unto themselves and a real individual breed.

However, if you’re not used to them (or you aren’t from Croydon), they can take some adjustment. And if you’re dating them, even more so.

So here’s a little fail safe checklist of things you need know if you’re going out with a bloke from The Cronx.

  1. You’ll never mean more to them than Palace do.
    Until he’s ready to marry you. And then you’ll be on an even footing with the Red & Blue army. Before this point, don’t you even dare try and suggest that he sacks off a home game to ‘spend quality time’ with you. He won’t. And he’ll hate you a bit for it.



  2. If you can’t get hold of him for any reason, but need to talk to him urgently, just try walking into Riley’s.
    He’s probably there. Taking pool ever so seriously. And ignoring his phone.
  3. He’ll probably still live at home.
    At least until he’s about 25/26 anyway. Because he was born in Croydon, he’ll die in Croydon and in between times staying at his Mum’s is cheap as chips and he still gets his washing done. She’ll be quite accustomed to making two bacon sandwiches on a Sunday morning for his lady friend ‘he met in the pub’.
  4. Ask him what he did for a Saturday job as a kid.
    He either worked in Sainsbury’s (probably Selhurst Park to be nearer Palace) or in any one of the 18 phone shops in the Whitgift Centre. He probably still knows a bloke that knows a bloke that works in one so will hook you up with a good phone contract.


    The joys of a Saturday job Image:

  5. He’ll know a lot of ‘blokes that know blokes’
    Who will be able to get their hands on anything from trainers to 50″ TV’s to joints of meat.
    Don’t ask any questions. Just leave it. Relish in the cheap nature of your Sunday lunch.
  6. He’ll wear a long-sleeved Ralph Lauren polo shirt on at least two of your first four dates.
    Smart Cas, mate. Smart Cas.
  7. His first date suggestions with either be The Treehouse (esp in the winter and the fire’s on), going out in Wimbledon (fancy init) or going to Westow House in Palace. Standard Croydon boy chirps.


    Classy little drink, babes.

  8. Getting him in a pair of shoes will be like pulling teeth.
    If he can’t wear his trainers to the pub, like fuck is he going. He’ll wear shoes when taking you for a nice dinner. Or to a funeral. That’ll be all.
  9. Talking of which, he’ll often offer to ‘take you for a bitta dinner’.
    Not ask you if you’d like to go for a meal, or try out this new restaurant he’s heard about. Bitta dinner it is. And that could be anywhere from the Savoy to Mexican Monday’s in Spoons.
    Bitta dinner babe.
  10. He’ll have grown up drinking in Blue Orchid and Lloyds No 1 Bar which means his ability to down a Smirnoff Ice is world record breaking. 
    milan bar

    Let’s go Lloyds, drink Smirnoff Ice and dance to Sean Paul, mate. Image:



  11. He’ll also know every UK Garage song that was ever released from nights like this. If you want a laugh, watch him sing all the words to an Artful Dodger track one of these days. Quite heart warming.
  12. Due to the savage nature of his early life drinking habits, he’ll be able to back Jager-Bombs like there’s no tomorrow.
    Don’t think this makes him a functioning alcoholic, he’s got a decent job and a nice car babes, he just learnt to drink shots like a champ in Walkabout.
  13. Don’t get offended if you’re doing a ‘bitta shopping’ in the Whitgift Centre and a few girls pass him and smile/smirk/hurl abuse at hi.
    It’s Croydon. Everyone’s slept with everyone.

    croydon girls - comso

    And if she looks like this, don’t cry. He was young, drunk, and lonely at the end of the night in Tiger Tiger. Image ;

  14. He’ll go out on what you might class as a ‘lad’s night’ about three times a week. Because all of his mate he’s known since he was 16. And they live down the road. So they just go out – all. the. time. And get carried away. And forget to come home.
  15. If you ever see his year book from school, he will look a reject from Blazin’ Squad. Don’t dump him for it. He was young, and naïve, and at the time having tram tracks shaved into your head was the done thing.


    Meet you at the crossroads, babes. Image:

  16. He also would have had a moped. Or a a Ford Escort. Or a Ford Fiesta. Or a shitty old Golf the minute he turned legal.
    If he had any of the latter 3 he probably lost his virginity in it. If he had a moped he probably tried to loose his virginity up against it.
  17. He also probably had a ‘tag’.
    No, not an electronic tag (although, not completely unfeasible) but like a tag that he would graffiti on his school books. Or on his pencil case. Or on like, trains.


    But bruv, where’s my sharpie at? Image:

  18. He will call everyone babe.
    Not just you. His mum, his boss, his dog, the postman. Everyone is babe. It doesn’t mean he fancies them more than you. It’s just a natural filler for him.
  19. You know you’re special if he’s got another nickname for you. Croydon boy’s love a nickname.
    Bubs, Moosh, Treacle. Pumpkin. Those ones will be saved just for you.
  20. Talking of natural fillers.
    Fuck is also one. They just say fuck like there’s no tomorrow. They often just say it to fill a silence.
  21. He will have got stoned in South Norwood lakes as a teenager.
    It’s like a Croydon rite of passage.
  22. If you want a laugh ask him if he ever owned an Avirex jacket as a teenager.
    Go on. Ask him. See his face. Ha.


    I worked 18 double time shifts for that jacket, man. Image:

  23. Also ask him how many times a week he goes to the chicken shop and/ or Nandos.
    Double whatever his response is to get the actual truth. If you learn nothing else from this list, learn that they love a bitta chicken.
  24. Sometimes they revert back to being a teenager.
    And try and get you to go Valley Park for a date night. ‘But babe, we can go Frankie & Bennies and go to the pictures’. Except it isn’t a fancy Warner Bros. cinema is it anymore? And basically you want to take me for dinner on an industrial estate, babe. Nah.


    Cheeky calzone and a night at the pictures, moosh. Ah come one, it’ll be like old times. Image;

    25. Make sure you never slag Croydon of in front of them.
    They are loud and proud about The Cronx. Don’t ever let them hear you rinsing it. Or they’ll never take you for a bitta dinner again.