Tag Archives: love

Trump Towers

After the last fortnight of complete and utter madness in British politics, I feel the need to jump on the bandwagon and wade into the argument up to my armpits.

The trouble is, I think that I may start writing and never stop. Like a stream of furious consciousness that can’t be stemmed; a blog post that you would give you scrolling-finger-RSI just trying to get to the bottom of it. Nobody wants that.

In fact, I can probably avoid that whole shit storm with the following summary of my political and ethical leanings:






There are so many things that enrage me at the moment, that I can only pick a minute portion of them to focus on, or I might actually lose my mind, so I have decided that this post must be on the very real problems facing women today.


Those close to me, will be surprised that this subject has not been covered before now, but I feel that the time has finally come.

Passing Wind, Trumping , Farting, Blowing Off, Cutting the Cheese – call it what you will, it is a fact of life.

Is it gross? Yes. Is it funny? Never not so.

Is it something that happens to anyone who has an arse? Absolutely.

Do women have arses? Yes. FACT.

I have long been known for my prolific wind. It’s something I have always been proud of, from my laddish teens to my embarrassing-mum thirties and every age in-between.

Sometimes I wish my body was not so ridiculously full of air. It can be awkward and painful when you find yourself in a non-farting situation, for there are many rules with farts.

For instance – never at work, never at a dinner party, never in a lift, etc.

Apparently, noise that smells of poo isn’t a ladylike thing to release into the world. Ladylike? This argument makes my blood boil. As if letting one go in Sainsbury’s is gentlemanly?

Never have I found myself in a situation where I needed to adjust my petticoats and do a deep curtsy, whilst gently fluttering my eyelashes, AND do a giant fart.

It irritates me beyond all belief when someone (usually an older man) tells my daughter that it isn’t very ladylike to sit with her legs apart if people can see her pants. Now, I’m not for one minute saying I want her to be flashing her pants all over the neighbourhood, but she is 8. She’s sitting comfortably because…it’s comfortable, not because she gives a toss if it is ladylike or not.

Ladylike, by the way, is defined in the dictionary as the following:

“appropriate for or typical of a well-bred, decorous woman or girl”

It also comes from a time where everyone wore corsets and ate water and got consumption. Oh, and got married at 12 to whoever their father thought would be the best match financially or politically. It is not a phrase that should be relevant to WOMEN, that’s right, WOMEN.

Interestingly, the definition of gentlemanly is the following:

“chivalrous, courteous, or honourable.”

Gentlemen are described as, “gallant, noble, polite”. The word gentleman has evolved and now means a really lovely bloke who is kind and decent and probably holds doors open for you – whether you are a man or a woman.

Ladies on the other hand are defined as, “polished, proper, dignified”. That conjurs up pictures of chiselled, robot like creatures who know their place and know when to cross their legs in public (only at the ankle dear, NEVER at the knee)

Well I call bullshit on the whole thing. I am a girl, a woman, or any other word you want to use to describe my gender – so long as you aren’t using it as a pejorative.

We have so much that is different from men, and we should celebrate our differences every day, but just a few of the many, many things that we do have in common physically are as follows:

Stomachs, bowels, intestines, bums.

Like it or not, this means that we fart too. And, when you get right down to it, us girls have MORE internal organs to squeeze into that body cavity, what with all the wombs (most powerful muscle in the human body, FYI boys) and everything… Surely that means there is less room for gas to be floating around in there?

*Scientific fact alert*

Women and men produce exactly the same amount of gas (half a litre a day approx.) but women just hold it in more. Why? Because it isn’t ladylike…

I have known women who say they never fart. I just really struggle with believing that, but maybe I am blinkered to my own daily guff experience, so I will let their fantasies go unchallenged. What I do find completely shocking is the number of women who say they don’t fart in front of anyone at all. Not even/especially their husbands or partners.

OK, if you’re trying to impress someone on a first date, I can see that the rules of farts might stretch to cover not letting off a stink bomb in Pizza Express. But really – do you want to spend hours a day with someone you can’t trump in front of?!

Whilst my husband is regularly unimpressed by my overactive bottom and I am sure he would rather not have to deal with the resulting pong, he NEVER feels the need to not do them in front of me. Why should he have all the fun? And why would I want to be uncomfortable in my own living room, holding it in to create the illusion that I don’t have a digestive system?

The stench of a morning-after-a-curry fart might not be the thing that sets the mood for a night of passion, but then again, not being able to have sex for fear of farting in the middle of it must surely be worse? And for me, a sense of humour in the bedroom is a bigger must than a sense of decorum.

Someone very wise once said, “If it doesn’t pay rent, it must leave” – a rule I plan to enforce with my children as well as my wind.

To date, the only person I have met who can match me in the noise, length, variety and stench of my gas is my delightful daughter. She is a tiny slip of a thing with the ability to fart better than any BBQ scoffing, beer swilling bloke I have ever met.

She is kind, clever and friendly, has a wicked sense of humour, knows not to do it at the dinner table, loves make up, shoes and notebooks. Any body who wants to be with her when she grows up will be extremely lucky to have her as their girlfriend and will treat her with the respect that she deserves.

They will also have to be fully prepared to pull her finger and if they get past the first few dates, quite possibly mine too.

I have spent a very fruitful (sorry) 20 minutes, googling celebrity fart videos to really highlight the fact that we are all human, no matter how hot, cool, blokey or girly we are. Aside from the fact that it made me laugh until my sides hurt (never not funny…) there are some people in particular who highly recommend farting.

Eva Mendes. Hot? Er, yes. I would…

Whoopi Goldberg – my hero

Brad Pitt – extols the virtues of farting and eating ice cream in bed. Helloooooooo!

Charlize Theron

Cheryl Cole (seriously, look it up)

Jennifer Lawrence…the list goes on.

None of these people would be kicked out of bed for, well, farting.

There is even a video of Hillary Clinton letting one rip, which I have to say looks like it might be a fake – but even if it wasn’t, I know which Trump I would want running America.

Hint: farts aren’t racist, ignorant bigots.

So, in conclusion, women and farting are part of everyday life. If you can’t get your head around that and would rather that women were seen and not heard (or smelt), then perhaps you would prefer to remember that until a week ago, we had a male prime minister who had put his penis into a pigs head. Mind you, at least he wears a tie…

Fucked up priorities might just be why we are where we are at the moment.


Weigh too much information…

I’ve always been the fat girl.

fat molly
Good grief..

Sometimes I really have been the fat girl.  Sometimes I really haven’t been the fat girl. But the fact remains that if you feel like the fat girl, how fat you actually are doesn’t matter.

I don’t know whether I’ll ever not be the fat girl, but I doubt it. And that’s OK.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking for sympathy – it is nobody else’s fault but mine.  Less shite in the gob and more getting off the sofa = not having to shop in Evans.  I get it.  I am a reasonably intelligent woman.

The trouble is, my intelligence usually fucks off to bed at about 9pm on a Friday night, leaving me with a bottle of wine and a “sharing” size bag of crisps.  It always returns on a Sunday evening, usually with a disapproving look, mumbling something about how I’ve ruined it all again.

Having tipped the scales at a knat’s fart off 20 stone in my late teens (and then again in my late pregnancies!), there is no doubt that there have been occasions where I really, really was the fat girl.  I was morbidly obese, on the pill, smoked 20-a-day (that was the level I admitted to my GP anyway) and did no exercise. But boy, did I have fun…

Epiphanies have come and gone and a couple of stone have gone with them.  Periods of contentment and pregnancies where I took every opportunity to “feed the baby” have added pounds back on.

Over the years, there has been a ridiculous amount of weight lost and gained and lost again , but amongst it all, I have never really felt any different than I did back then.

Yes, of course I feel better that I can walk up the stairs without breaking into a sweat.  Of course I am happy to be able to shop for clothes in a much wider variety of places.


For this Supergran costume I had to buy a tartan skirt in a size 18 from a charity shop and sew in a massive panel to make it fit. Yes I am glad that I am so much fitter than I ever was as a teenager.  And yet. I’m still fat.

A stone and a half fatter than my all time low (well, let’s say heavier rather than fatter, because it’s all mostly muscle you know after all my amazing exercise of late…) but a very praise worthy 6 stone less than my all time high. It’s good to remember that, but it’s dangerous too.  So many times I have said that I would NEVER go above a certain mark on the scales again…and yet here I am.  3lb over that mark.

I wish I could be one of those people who are truly happy with their bodies; wearing their stretch marks with pride, as badges of motherhood honour; accepting their fanny aprons as a minor inconvenience for the miracles of life that they have brought into the world, but the truth of the matter is that my kids have done far more mental damage to me than they ever have physical.

My stretch marks are not the stripes of a Tigress.  They are the reminders of what a bloody idiot I was (am), eating pizza for tea every night whilst pouring copious amounts of sugar into my coffee. My thigh biscuits (thank you Tina Fey for this fantastic term) are my own doing as I should just have stuck the many packets of Hobnobs consumed in one sitting, straight down my jeans. Pretty much the only physical thing I can blame on my kids are the 2 c-section scars, which are better hidden by all of my flab than anything in a Where’s Wally book.

fat molly 1
I could eat that cake in one sitting if I really put my mind to it…

I renew my vigour on a regular basis, trying to get myself back down into the “Just Overweight” category and the most recent weapons in my arsenal are a combination of a Davina DVD, a Fitbit and counting calories – all of which work marvellously from 7am Monday morning to approximately 4pm on a Friday.

The trouble with making a real effort for 80% of the time is that I feel so immensely hard done by when that 20% balls it all up.  And that is the danger zone for me.  Because it really isn’t fair that sticking to less than 1200 calories a day all week; stepping up my exercise to red-faced-breathless-ugly-panting-face levels at least 3 times a week and then having a takeaway and some wine on the weekend means I still don’t lose any weight.

Life isn’t fair though, is it.  Life will not turn around to me when I’ve chucked all of my toys out of the pram and say, “Poor Molly.  Sorry that you’ve been working so hard on being really fucking hungry all week – let me give you a free pass for the weekend…”

It’s just not how my life works.  I feel hard done by, ruin it further by ramming a load of crap in my mouth because I feel so sorry for myself and so the cycle begins again. At other times, I accept fully that to get anywhere, I need to be on it 100% of the time, and for a while at least, that does the job.

I would love to be able to blame my fat just on being sociable, but in reality I use food (and drink…) for everything – celebration, commiseration, reward, to show love, to feel loved, rebellion and because, you know, I REALLY LOVE EATING AND DRINKING.

To be fair though, it is a major factor in why I plateau on my weight loss journey *dry heaves at Americanism*. My FOMO (see Mum Tums and Cum post for reference here…) means that a potential “one in the bank” evening spent at home with a jacket potato and salad turns into a “dipping into the calorie overdraft” evening in the pub.

And here is the real reason why I am not unhappy enough with being the fat girl to really (and I mean REALLY) do something about it, once and for all. I am at the age now to know that I will probably never feel like the thin girl, the medium girl or even the slightly chubby girl. After every round of weight loss, there is the sense of achievement I get from knowing I’ve knuckled down and put the hard work in.  I feel great about getting fitter in general – it’s a fab example to the kids and they do tonnes more exercise than I ever did at their age, which makes me proud of them, and me.

But am I going to not go out for that drink or that coffee and cake with people I love in order to achieve that? Am I going to join the gym and go every night for an hour without fail? Am I going to sit in a restaurant eating a salad or not having a starter and a pudding because I am watching what I eat?  The honest answer to that is, probably sometimes – because I really cannot ever go back to the size I was.  Mostly though, I am going to have to accept the plateaus, the small gains and the feeling of never really being able to let go of the reins, because there are so many more important things in life to worry about.

If I was still 20 stone and smoking, then there probably wouldn’t be many more important things to sort out and I am grateful to the fat girl that I really, really was for being that constant reminder of how you can’t overindulge in every area without paying a price somewhere along the line.

The thing that I have come to realise though is that even if I do see a time where the number on the scales doesn’t fall into one of those dreaded orange or red bands on the horrific BMI graph, I will still feel like the fat girl.  I will still sigh at my flabby tummy and still be irritated that my sister got the boobs and the waist and the fucking eyelashes. (Nothing to do with weight I know, but it IS super annoying…)

Being fat is not great for your health, or your vanity, but neither is being a miserable, hungry, party pooper.  Someone will always be bigger and happier with themselves than you, but that girl who you think has the perfect figure feels every inch as fat as you do.  The key
to all of it, is to try and be the best version of yourself you can be, fat or thin and then love that person.

So if you feel like the fat girl – you might actually be (like me at age 20 and 20 stone) 20151122_104007, or you really might not be (like me at age 16 and size 12-14) – embrace it, let it worry you just enough to get a bit of healthy in your life, but don’t let it rule you.

Chances are, you see yourself completely
differently than those wonderful people in your life that you need to celebrate with – and they would rather have you as a happy fat girl than a miserable anything else.

When I got home today, I found a bottle of cider on mybottle doorstep with a big bow on it.  An anonymous gift giver, who obviously saw it and thought of me – l

ittle did they know I was in the middle of writing this post.

“Thundering Molly” is well rounded and medium, and she
couldn’t be happier…