THE MAMMOIRS

Now then you ‘orrible lot. What the hell is occuring? It’s been a good couple-o months since I got my blog on hasn’t it eh? And wowza what a crazy couple of months it’s been. Not long after my last post I bounced about in Glasto fields, threw my first official #GIRLvsCANCER fundraiser and a […]

Put bluntly, cancer treatment is a load of old bollocks. Not only is your body being battered in a bid to banish this little life-threatening beast, it completely kicks the crap out of your mental health an’ all. Sure the inevitable OH-MY-FUCKING-GOD-AM-I-GOING-TO-DIE thoughts weigh heavy, however, it’s the cumulative effects of the loneliness that toys

When your day’s been an absolute shit show who doesn’t mentally do a Dorothy, click their metaphorical heels and envisage themselves indoors? There really is no place like home eh gals and guys. But what happens if you catch the cancer and your new full time J.O.B becomes survival? In the blink of a barely

As your gurl Yonce so wisely warbled – “I pay my own fun and I pay my own bills” – that’s right lovers, I’m an independent lady. From flipping burgers at Fulham Football Club in order to fund my weed habit at the ripe old age of fifteen (sorry Mum) to a thirty-something rude gyal

I’ve never been a big fan of my boobs. If you can even call them that. They’re more of a nod to a boob, a flabby-nipple-type situation, a goodwill gesture. I hate the way that my tummy protrudes further than them when I’ve had a large lunch and the fact I’ve never been successful in

Within two hours of being told of the tumorous little twat there I was, sat in my local pub surrounded by 12-15 of my friends and family being plied with prosecco. Mother Mahon remarked – “I tell you what Lol if love and support could cure it babe you’d already be well”. If only it