Monday, 25 October 2010

Not Like They Use To Be

We’ve all heard the phrase ‘they don’t make them like they use to,’ and it was just this week I heard myself repeating this phrase, thus rendering me official past it. I thought I was past it anyway, no longer can I go out four nights on a row and not suffer a hangover. I still go out, but by god does my head feel like I’ve just been battered with an angry trannie’s stiletto.

I was referring to the corn-flavored snack, Monster Munch, when I said the above phrase. The beef ones are my flavour of choice, but then you all knew that. My obsession with beef monster munch is like Jordan’s obsession with fame, desperate and cheap. You see they just don’t seem as big as they use to, either the monsters have got smaller or my hands have got bigger.

I then started thinking just what other things aren’t what they use to be like? Top of my list was good old British Television. What ever happened to the days when you could pop you tele on and Cilla Black would come on your box? I use to love Surprise Surprise. I’ll let you into a little secret; I use to dress up in my mum’s dresses when I was 7 and totter around the house in high heels singing the Surprise Surprise theme tune in a scouse accent.

Before I move onto my next topic I would also like to state for the record that I would like to see the following programs brought back to our screens; Challenge Anika, Brookside, Soldier Soldier, London’s Burning, Fat Friends, Smack The Pony, and my channel 5 favorite, Naked Elvis.

Next on my agenda to bring back would be the old cartoons. Quite frankly Pepa Pig gets on my tits and Dora the Explorer is nothing more than a common tart. How else would you explain her waking up in different countries at 7 in the morning? Quite frankly I think it’s disgusting. It should be called Dora’s Walk of Shame and screened post watershed.

Whatever happened to the innocence of Button Moon? And where have the Moomins gone too? I blame the Teletubbies for cheapening kids tv, it’s never fully recovered after Tinky Winkie’s sex tape scandal. My all time favorite kid’s show was Sooty. I think he may have been a great inspiration for me as a child as many men have made me feel like Sooty in my later years.

Next on my hit list has to be pop music. Since Steps vanished all those years ago there hasn’t really been any decent pop music about. Kylie has tried and just about managed to scrape a half decent album together, but let’s face it, she doesn’t give us dance routines we can all copy and perform on a Saturday night after sniffing a bottle of poppers and downing 5 Sambuccas. Where did B*witched disappear to? What happened to all the pop bands that use to grace Smash Hits magazine and Top Of The Pops magazine? What happened to those magazines? The only real decent pop music that has been released in the past 5 years is the amazing Disco Defenders album by Alcazar, and that didn’t even get a proper release.

Last on my list of things that aren’t what they use to be are Prisons and the UK justice system. I know I have ranted about this before but this really gets my back up. I would love to track down the person responsible for making the justice system completely unjustifiable. I would rip his head off, in a public place to gain mass media attention, and then shit in his neck. I have no doubt I would only serve two weeks in a prison that could easily be mistaken for a holiday camp and be made to attend an evening course in papier-mâché. I would then quite possibly be given a new identity and have my mortgage paid for and given enough money to travel to the Costa Del Sol twice a year.

Whilst I remember there is one salvation in the world of television entertainment in days gone by and that is the release of all Victoria Woods work on DVD this month. To celebrate have a browse through her back catalogue on the amazon link box below.

Now before I go if you have anything to add, anything at all that you feel isn’t what it use to be please email your thoughts to The best ones will be added very soon.

Now in the words of my here Sooty, ‘Bye Bye Everybody, Bye Bye.’ 

The Sweet Tune of Memories

It’s surprising how a song can take you right back to a point in time when you least expect it. Sitting in a bar down in the Falklands I suddenly found myself transported back to 2001; sitting on the number 4 bus in York with my first love and his sister.  Some clever spark had put Shakira, Whenever Wherever, on the jukebox. It wasn’t for them to know that this song choice would suddenly give me flash backs like out of a horror movie but I did have the sudden urge to scold them with a hot tea or coffee the next time they’re unfortunate to be on one of my flights. You see the bus driver had put this song on full blast just as I was in the middle of a blazing row with my ex.

It’s not just Shakira that haunts me, although she is the only recording artist that I would happily burn at the stake for crimes against music, Natasha Bedingfield also holds memories for me. Any track of hers from the Unwritten album takes me back to 2005 and over to Cyprus. This is my summer of obsession with a man named Craig, another one who turned out to be an absolute twat.  It wasn’t just his persistent playing Natasha Bedingfield that got on my tits but his firm belief he was worth more than anyone else. Also the fact he’d openly said I was much fatter than anyone he’d normally go for didn’t really do much for my opinion of him, especially as I was only 11 stone.

Don’t get me wrong, there are also many happy memories hidden in music; just one beat of anything by Booty Luv brings a smile to my face. It also makes me long for a bottle of rose wine and makes me want to mince around my forgotten friend’s apartment laughing at jokes that only we would get.

Play Alcazar and you’ll soon see the real me. Anything by Alcazar makes me want to party. Alcazar is my obsession and holds no hidden meaning apart from a good time. One particular song of theirs called Shopping has quite possibly the best lyrics of any pop song; ‘you broke my heart and I go shopping shopping, you broke my heart, I put your name on a credit card and I go shopping shopping.’ Obviously written by someone fresh from the Paul McCartney school of music.

Any funky house track reminds me of my one true love. I can see his dance and his beaming jokers smile. I can smell his Star aftershave; it takes me back to a time when I was in complete ethereal love. It brings mixed emotions of comfort and love, but it also reminds me I no longer have that love anymore.

Perhaps the most embarrassing track I can ever listen to is the song Naked by Louise, formally of Eternal. The very thought of the song sends shudders up my spine and transports me back to the world of an awkward fat teenager. To be precise it takes me back to a drama lesson in 1999. As part of my drama project I thought it would be perfectly acceptable by my peers to perform an extremely camp dance routine to it, a routine that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Steps appearance on Top Of The Pops.  After this, in my opinion BAFTA award-winning performance, there was no denying I was gay. This song outed me and scarred me for life.

Perhaps the most special album I own is the supreme Ghosts by Siobhan Donaghy. If ever I feel down and need music to be melancholy to this is my album of choice. What makes the album even more special to me is the fact that so few people own it. It makes me feel lucky to know I’m one of few who have ever had the joy of Miss Donaghy’s velvety vocals caressing my ears. The song So You Say holds a deep meaning to me. And although I like to think the album was wrote specially for me, I would like to share it with you. You can purchase it from amazon by clicking on Ms Donaghy's photo below or via this link Ghosts

Feel free to share what songs take you back. Email for your choice to be featured in a follow up article.

Wednesday, 20 October 2010

Would Like To Meet

WLTM . . .

No one could say I don’t lead the life of riley. Working one day a week for a fantastic wage is more than acceptable one thinks. Especially when the other six are spent either on the beach in a remote tropical island or groping over sexed solders in the Falklands. I even find time to write these little witty columns for your amusement.

However, just recently one has been feeling like something is missing, like having a Jack Daniels without coke and ice, or Geri Helliwell without the smell of desperation. I’ve been looking for what has been missing; my Jean Paul Gautier make-up, a Victoria Wood DVD from my collection, a pair of Aussiebums, my designer stubble and charm? All there present and correct.

I did however have a Eureka moment; I actually had it whilst I was surrounded by a platoon of extremely hot army boys with more muscle than a seafood casserole. You see I was sat down in the NAAFI bar with my gorgeous MacBook, I think it makes me look like Carrie Bradshaw, when I was looking at old photos and suddenly I came face to face with my ex boyfriend for the first time in 18 months.

I have been single since I found myself climbing through his window; it’s a common enough situation to find your self in after ten Sambuccas. I have enjoyed being single, it’s nice to not have to answer to anyone. But, just recently I have found myself missing having that special someone to come home too. Maybe I’m an old romantic, I do like sending flowers or coming home to find that a bath has been run for me, with lit candles and a nice bottle of red wine.

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m down here in the Falkland Islands so far away from home and being with someone here would make it that little bit more comforting. Either way I think it’s about time I found myself a nice gentleman friend to settle down with in Manchesterford.

Now I’m not desperate at all, I’m quite happy to wait for ‘the one’ to come along and sweep me off my feet, but in the mean time if you have a single friend, feel free to give them my number. I don’t mind too much about a little bad breath, and I’m not to bothered about a sense of humour or a little body odor. The use of all limbs is also not essential; neither is having all of your own teeth. I also will not hold a history of mental health problems against them. One thing that is essential however is a pulse, but like I say, I’m not desperate. . . . 

Tuesday, 19 October 2010

I've never been in the army but the army has been in me, part four.

I’ve Never Been In The Army But The Army Has Been In Me, Part 4.

As you all know I like a drink but I am in fact now in fear that my liver is going to give up any minute. This is of course due to the price of the vodka down here in the Falklands. With vodkas at 22p in the Nafi bar you can get pissed on two pound. Although, I think that 22p is taking the piss a little bit, two weeks ago it was only 19p. I blame new labour.

Now I truly believed that there would be no way of me outdoing myself in the humiliation stakes, especially after that unfortunate experience with the sea urgent, however it turned out as I was wrong. My friends will tell you I never drink vodka, it does something funny to me that sends me more psychopathic than a Z list celebrity on a reality tv show, mentioning no names, Vanessa Feltz.
Now I’m not sure if it was all the testosterone in the air from the suqaddies that made me go a little loopy, or the fact that despite me waiting patiently in the showers for six hours for an unsuspecting squaddie to turn up I’d left disappointed and more shrivelled up than Geri Halliwell’s showbiz career. So, I decided to take things into my own hands, literally.

Downing half a bottle of Malibu I thought the appropriate course of action was to pull my senior’s pants down before rubbing his cock.  I wouldn’t call this a particular satisfying sexual experience, would you? This took place just shortly before I had vodka spat in my face and just after I’d vomited from smoking too many fags. The conclusion meant I was still moist but not perhaps in the way I would have liked. It also left me with the niggling feeling that my p46 could be shoved under my cell door at any moment.

Fortunately this happened two days ago and I’m still without my p46, actually, I have just received my roster telling me that I will be down here in the Falklands until way into January and I’ll be spending Christmas and New Year down here. Hopefully they’ll be lots of festive activities, such as the emptying of squaddies’ sacks, full of presents of course, and some festive games such as soggy biscuit (please google for the rules).

I would like to say that I learnt from my intoxicated experience, however this morning I woke up with vomit in my sink and a very scared looking penguin in my room, again.

Monday, 26 July 2010

Little Miss Gaydio

Handbagsnbotox went live on air last week on the fabulous Nicksy show for Gaydio. You can now listen to the clip of the show below. Smashed flaps & dinks n snax were the subjects of the day.

Last week I had my first little taste of a life in the media (my stint on ITV show The Grimleys is not included, even Amanda Holden leaves that off her C.V) with a little interview on Gaydio. I was there to promote and discuss my smashed flaps & a case of mistaken identity. I really did have a fantastic time in the studio with Nicksy, although I was flabbergasted at just how gay I sound. I think Nicksy used some sort of voice alteration software as I’m sure I normally sound quite *ahem* butch.

I left the station feeling like my celebrity status had slightly increased and I admit after a few bottles of TriBecca wine after the interview I acted like any Z list celeb. Now the evening is surrounded by a haze of alcohol but I do remember karaoke being mentioned at some point. Now I’m not sure at what point I lost my jacket on the evening; before or after I lost my dignity, regardless of which if you find it down Canal St please return it to handbagsnbotox Towers.

I once again feel like I must apologise to anyone who saw me in such a state, I would also like to apologise to the lady stood at the bar buying a Sambuca, you’re right; you don’t look anything like Michelle McManus. I must also apologise to the taxi driver who took me home, he was Muslim and he got a full rundown of how I worked for Ethiopian Airways during the Hajj last year so therefor I was practically his brother.

I must further extend my apology to the taxi driver for realising I’d got no money on the way home and so I asked him to drop me off at the bottom of my road, presumably so I could run off from him. Stupidly I’d forgotten that in such a state I couldn’t run further than the kerb. He actually followed me up the road to my house, fortunately I did have a twenty pound note I’d left on the side for such eventualities. As you can imagine things like this actually happen quite allot to myself.

So there you have it, my short lived life in the media. I’ll now go and throw myself on the scrap heap along with Vanessa Feltz and Michael Barrymoore.

Mind you I could always be a wag…….

The Smell of Desperation

You know that smell I mean, the lingering smell of cat piss when the neighbourhood moggy sneaks into your porch and decides to piss on your welcome matt. No matter how much shake and vac you put down the smell just doesn’t shift, lingering in the air like a curdled shite. Actually it’s not the aromatic scent of cat piss that has been lingering around my house recently but the pathetic smell of desperation.
About a month ago one of my friends convinced me that I had been single longer than what was acceptable (only 14 months) and that I should do something about it immediately. Well I’m not one for online dating after hearing all about Jason who is tall, dark, 25, lives in Castlefield and is hung like a donkey actually turned out to be Bernard who’s 63 and lives is Grimsby.

Basically I just don’t think online dating is safe, well not for my victims anyway. Regardless of this I decided to sign up to Gaydar, which can hardly be described as a dating site; more like a cattle market for cocks. I also downloaded Grindr on my iPhone which is the equivalent to a Sat Nav for sex.

I’ve not been on the dating game for so long that I just have no idea how to play it cool. As soon as I’m asked what I’m looking for I can almost hear my victims UGG boots running for their lives down Canal St as I reply ‘a husband, a Labrador and a house in the country.’ By my own admission I am one of those desperate fools that jump in feet first, that’s why I’ve found myself in more disastrous relationships than the annoying bitch that is Geri Halliwell. It’s also why I’d never do speed dating, my ego couldn’t take being rejected by 30 men in 30 minutes.

My most recent pathetic outing was with the boy who was the subject of my Dating Disaster blog. Only this time I didn’t even go on a date. Last week as I was preparing to leave work when I received a phone call from an unknown number, cautiously answering the call I was greeted by Lee on the other end who was obviously a little intoxicated. Now considering I hadn’t heard from him in six weeks the call did catch me a little off guard. He asked me if I wanted to meet up for a drink on my way home from work; part of me wanted to tell him to fuck off but the other part of me was desperately hoping that the physic I went to see the week before was right and that I was going to find the man of my dreams any minute and it would be someone from my past. I decided that 6 weeks was a sufficient enough time frame for him to be considered from my past.

Against my better judgement I rushed myself into town, however , as I was sat on the tram on my way to meet my long lost dream man I received a text from him telling me he couldn’t be bothered waiting and he was off home. Now I don’t mind admitting that I actually laughed out loud at myself. Never have I been so desperate or pathetic, except for the time I climbed through my ex-boyfriend’s window. So once again I’m giving up on the dating game and deleting my Gaydar profile immediately. No more dates for me at all, absolutely not; well not unless you can set me up?

Thursday, 8 July 2010

Who Is She?

Now it’s not unusual, as you all know, for me to make a complete and utter twat out of myself when under the influence of drinksnsnax; if there was an Oscar for the ‘Biggest Tit in the World’ I would win it year after year with no exceptions. I’m sure that if I tried to sue Jack Daniels for my bad judgement after two glasses of their delicious liquor that no judge in the land would find them not guilty.
It was a lovely recent little Saturday evening that I found myself once again acting disgraceful. As some of you may know the lovely Nicksy of Gaydio has been a wave of support for Handbagsnbotox, and the delicious Northern DJ has mentioned my blogs on air a few times whilst succumbing to my demands to play Angie Brown at regular intervals.

You can imagine my sheer delight when as intoxicated as I was I spotted Nicksy in Cruz101. Marching straight over to him I introduced myself, only he said he had no idea who I was. Obviously I knew he was lying, so after a few ‘fuck of Nicksy I know it’s you stop being a cunt’ later, my new gentleman friend took out his ID to show me his real name.

This is the moment that most normal people would have taken a step back and realised that this man called Andy was telling the truth, he wasn’t my favourite DJ, however, it only spurred me on. You see I was convinced that I was now in the presence of a real diva; that Andy was his real name and Nicksy was his showbiz name. Well all the greats have them, Lily Savage, Cilla Black.

After pleading for an autograph and continually telling him I used to love waking up with him in the mornings, on the radio that is, he realised the only way to shut me up was to ply me with Sambucca. Several dances to some old gay tunes later and my Nicksy doppelganger kissed me. I was flabbergasted and disgusted knowing that the real Nicksy was married, fearing a front page scandal on the Anglers Times I quickly pulled away. Asking my Nicksy about his marriage he said he was now divorced but had three kids; I couldn’t tell you who was more shocked, me for hearing about the kids or him as I knew he was married.

It wasn’t to matter for long anyway as he soon disappeared. The following day I received a few text messages from a guy called Andy and I wont lie, it did take me a while to realise it wasn't the real Nicksy, the real Nicksy was in fact 2000 miles away oblivious to the previous nights fuck up. However me and Andy did carry on chatting and he seems like a lovely bloke. In fact we've been chatting for a few weeks now and are off on our first date on Saturday, so as chat up lines go I don't think mistaking someone for a radio personality is a bad idea.

Just for the record I’d like to apologise to Nicksy’s husband Danny for nearly causing an online domestic via Twitter. I promise I will never try to make a move on anyone I think may be your husband ever again. As for Nicksy, we will ever meet………

Sunday, 20 June 2010

Confessions of a Dating Dilemma, Part Three

So I stayed over that night leaving first thing in the morning in a mad panic to get to work on time. Several texts were sent throughout the day, just the normal kind of thing, followed by a phone call that evening with an arrangement to go out the following night.

The next day, as I’m so poor till I get my first wage from my new job, my phone was cut off. I know, how council, so I had no way of texting him. I still assumed that we’d be going out that evening though. As the time passed by I thought I’d pop home for a shower after work instead of going to meet him straight away. I used a brillo pad and some wire wool to try and scrape of the scent of desperation. Anyway, time passed by and he didn’t get in touch so I phoned him to see what was going on; he’d decided to have a night in with one of his friends but hadn’t let me know. Even though I’d only met the lad once my blood boiled, I wasn’t to impressed and had the smallest of bitch fits, so small in fact I’m sure it wouldn’t even make it onto the bitch fit metre.

So a few days passed and heard nothing so I deleted his number, you know that thing you do to stop yourself from sending any drunken messages only to find yourself going through your inbox to hopefully find a message from them that you've missed. Just then he popped up online and I found myself apologising for slightly over reacting on the Wednesday to which he said he hadn’t even given it a thought he’d just been to busy with work. Call me an old fashioned type of girl but I think if you like someone you’ll always find time to send a text. Anyway he said we’d speak later that night, but yes you guessed it, we didn’t.

The next time I heard off him was three days later when he phoned me from Spain whilst he was on holiday to ask me where the gay bars were as I’d been to the resort a few times before. I’m sure the neighbours heard my jaw hit the floor. I honestly couldn’t believe his cheek. Not even a polite ‘how are you?’
Fast forward a few days and once again we were chatting on line and he said he’d like to meet again but was so distant you’d need a telescope to see him to, I told him bluntly to delete my number and that I couldn’t be arsed with game playing.

So you see, I am a complete disaster when it comes to dating. I am a self confessed compulsive over thinker; I analyse every little meaning and word. I will never get my head around why people feel the need to play games or lead each other on. Maybe it’s a downfall of mine that I tell people exactly what I’m thinking, maybe I come across to strong sometimes or rude at others.

That’s the second lad in two weeks I’ve met and told to delete my number, I don’t know what it is with gays these days, I wish they’d try and be a little more straight. And before you say I’m high maintenance I beg to differ, I’m just very expressive.

Now who’d like to take me out?

Sunday, 13 June 2010

Confessions of a Dating Dilemma, Part Two

Jean Paul Gautier make up applied I hoisted myself into a little yellow t shirt, even though I know I’m no longer slim enough to wear such articles of clothing. After carefully placing a bulldog clip just above my arse to pull back my love handles I decided I was ready to go. I didn’t plan on taking my t shirt off anyway, I was positive this was just a date and there’d be no funny business, well that and the fact I’ve have stretch marks all over my stomach which looks like I’ve had a tattoo of the A-Z.

Climbing aboard the tram to the other side of town I felt the nerves starting to get me. It didn’t really bother me though as I knew that after a large glass, who am I kidding, after a bottle of Blossom Hill the nerves would subside. Well I wasn’t disappointed when I met this lad; let’s call him Lee, because that’s his name. He was tall and handsome and had an amazing arse; you the not the type I mean, could crack Brazil nuts between perfectly formed cheeks.

Relaxing back at his place he revealed his hot tub in his garden where he’d made plans for us to have a quick dip, I quickly suffered a mild panic attack after realising I didn’t have my tankini to hand. I could also hear the police helicopter over head and was certain I’d make the 6 o clock news after being mistaken for a beached whale. Two hours of small talk later we went for a cig at the back door where he then pounced on the back of my neck, kissing me with such a force that made my knees buckle. It was a lovely time. As you know it’s been a long time since I’ve kissed anyone and this was well worth the wait. It was gentle but passionate, his delicate plumped lips slowly moving from my lips to my neck.

As the steam was rising from my sling backs I took another glug of wine before he suggested going up stairs. Well I didn’t need to be asked twice. I felt an awkward moment as it was revealed we were both wearing the same pair of Aussiebums; his arsed filled his out perfectly, I could only pray that he couldn’t see the scaffolding that was holding mine in place.

You don’t need a running commentary of what happened next, but if you would like one feel free to phone my 0901 number where calls are charged at £1.50 a minute. Well after the bedroom frolics we went back downstairs where I polished off another bottle of wine before getting in the hub tub. Just then he dropped a bombshell ‘I’m not a big drinker.’ It was like a dagger through my heart. I knew immediately it would never work......

Part Three coming tomorrow.

Friday, 11 June 2010

Confessions of a dating dilemma, part one

Confessions of a dating dilemma
I can’t bare it. It’s true; I’m completely hopeless with anything slightly related to dates or relationships. In fact the slight suggestion that I could possibly meet a suitable suitor sends me into anaphylactic shock. This could quite possibly explain why I haven’t been kissed where I wee in the last 11 months, or anywhere else for that matter.

After a little persuasion from my best friend Nikkie, well I find it hard to say no when I’ve been head locked and there’s a distant smell of petrol wafting over from the shed, I found myself signing up to a dating website. Now I use the term ‘dating’ loosely, it was Gaydar; it’s actually more like a cattle market for cock. Anyway I signed up, using photos that I could actually get sued over due to the trade descriptions act and this is what happened…..

After typing in the Manchester chat room ‘anyone looking for more than just shag?’ I was literally overwhelmed by the one response. As it turned out I actually quite liked this lads profile and personality, before you know it we were chatting on cam on msn and no you dirty bastards, it wasn’t cam sex. We arranged to meet the following day even though I obviously had no intensions of meeting him at all. Anyway, the next morning I got a text asking if I was still up for meeting, surprisingly I found myself biting the gusset and saying ‘yes.'

Now surely it’s not just me who then goes into panic overdrive, just how the fuck was I going to make myself look presentable for my date? Immediate body grooming commenced. Now it would be fair to say I’d somewhat let myself go, in fact the cast of Robin Hood had currently set up residence in my own Sherwood Forrest. Even though I had no intentions with sleeping with him on the first date I thought it would be for the best that I got my lawn morrow out, avec weed killer.

This problem solved, I then turned my attention to my slightly hairy back & bum, now I normally get this waxed but under time restrictions I decided to Veet. Now it is with this experience that I encourage anyone else thinking of doing the same to seriously rethink. After smelling my hair burning I then jumped into the shower to realise that my arse was also burning; a lesson to everyone out there to read the instructions on the label first. Out the shower I caught the site of my now patchy and hairy back in the mirror, however, undeterred I decided to carry on and get ready for the date; my burnt flaps in tow.

More to follow tomorrow……

Thursday, 27 May 2010

About Mikie

As some of you know, is about to get a make over. Here is a little sneak preview of the about mikie section of the site. I also want your sugesstions as to what you'd like to see on the new site so please leave your comments below. Just incase you're wondering who is in the photo with me, it's my sister.

In 1985 a child was born with bigger lungs than Dame Shirley Bassey and with equal horrendous dress sense. Struggling to grow up as a queen – drama queen that is – Mikie needed a creative outlet. Attending the same drama class as the 90’s Coronation Street kids, Mikie was sure he’d become a star. However, after a brief stint appearing in appalling ITV show The Grimleys and then Cold Feet, Mikie realised that he had enough drama in his own life without creating more on screen.

Turning his back on the theatre Mikie went on to become a sales assistant in Manchester’s very own gay beauty salon. After a few skin peels and a bit of Botox himself, he soon realised his skin was too good to be kept confined in Manchester so took to the skies as a Trolley Dolly. With more mince than Sainsbury’s, Mikie worked his magic up and down the aisle serving tea and coffee for British Airways, FlyGlobespan and AirAtlanta. Whilst travelling to glamorous destinations such as New York, Toronto, Cape Town and *ahem* Chad, he made a quick 9 month stop over in Cyprus where he earned his keep as a distinctly average hotel singer.

After studying English, Drama and Performance at Salford University he now works as a freelance writer and alternative agony aunt for whilst also writing his first novel ‘Growing up a Queen.’ Now settled back into Manchester, after several restraining orders that prevent him from going south of Birmingham, Mikie spends his spare time watching Victoria Wood repeats, avoiding the gym and boasting about his praise from Sara Cox, Boy George, Eamonn Holmes, Pam Ann and his all time favourite, Dr Christian from Channel4’s Embarrassing Bodies.

Thursday, 20 May 2010

Where is the Class?

Through years of working in the service industry it has come to my attention that just like happy moments in EastEnder’s, people with class in England are becoming extinct. I would just like to point out to the man, dressed in a suit who walked into the restaurant where I worked, who wanted a table for one but proceeded to sit himself down on a table set for eight people that you’re what I call, a pretentious prick. I am all for self confidence and believing in your own capabilities, I do draw the line though at believing in your own self importance. ‘I’m sorry sir but that’s a table for eight and you’re clearly on your own; would you mind moving to a smaller table?’
‘I beg your pardon. Do you not realise I come in here all the time.’
‘Sir to be quite honest I don’t care where you cum but you’re not doing it on a table of eight.’

Picking up the phone, ‘Hello Red Café (did you see what I did there to cover up where I work, I bet you’ll never guess where it was) Mikie speaking how can I help?’
‘I’ve just noticed that you have a voucher online for a buy one course get one free but my printer has stopped working, can I come in and use yours?’
‘I’m very sorry sir but we don’t have access to the internet on our office computer.’
‘You’re telling me I can’t use the voucher?’
‘No sir, I’m saying you can’t use our computer but should you bring a voucher in we would be happy to process that.’
‘’I’ve just told you my printer isn’t working, I come in that restaurant all the time. Get me the manager, I’m not having someone tell me I can’t use a voucher.’
‘To be quite honest sir the manager is a prick who couldn’t care less. I’d also like to point out to you that the voucher is an offer not a basic human right. If you’re that desperate to save a few quid though sir Pizza Express is next door and they have a set menu for a fiver.’
‘What’s your name.’
‘Bye sir.’

I would just also like to point out a few other things that aren’t acceptable as far as I’m concearned;
• Not leaving a tip when you have paid for your bill in Tesco vouchers. This is completely unacceptable and just leads me to believe you’re a cheap cunt.
• Asking to have your sauce on the side only to then dump it all over your meal choice anyway. What was the point in that? You’ve just created an extra pot to wash you dick.
• Walking straight into the restaurant and sitting down even though there is a big bloody sign saying ‘please wait here to be seated.’ I’m very sorry but I wouldn’t just walk into your house off the street and sit myself down whilst you’re cutting the labels out of your Primark top.
• Letting your children create lots of mess and then not cleaning it up or leaving a tip. As far as I’m concerned this is the worse you could do and should carry the death penailty.
• Replying ‘Yes’ when I’ve asked if you’re ready to order followed by two minutes of silence whilst you continue to look through the order. At this point I am imagining taking the sharpest knife in the kitchen, chopping your nipples off and serving it as a side order to your children who haven’t stopped screaming since you arrived 30 minutes ago.

Perhaps the worst customer I’ve ever had is a lady on a flight from Dublin to Toronto who I served in the economy cabin. I know, shocking; I normally do business but the poor lad who had done economy the day before had caught rabies from a set of false teeth left on a passenger meal tray. This lady who was travelling with two small children let them run wild up and down the isle. I’d asked the lady (tramp) to keep the children sat down as they had knocked two drinks out of my hand, her response was ‘my children can do what they like whilst I’m paying your wages.’
‘I’m sorry darling but I wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning for what you’ve paid for your ticket. May I remind you that you’re in the economy cabin and I would hate to scold your children whilst I’m walking up and down serving tea.
‘This would never happen at British Airways.’
‘It’s funny you should say that madam as I use to work there too. Besides madam we were cheaper than BA, that’s why you haven’t got a life jacket.’

I realise that sometimes we can all be a little rude whilst not paying full attention to a situation, but providing that you leave me a 10% tip I’ll normally let you off. For those that make any of the fatal mistakes as mentioned above, be warned, I could be working in a restaurant near you soon.

Tuesday, 18 May 2010

Seats For Take Off

Last Friday saw the launch of HAWCS, as you know it is a charity I support with all my heart and was founded by a woman that has been a massive inspiration to me throughout my life. This lady, Sharen McBride, is true evidence that one person can make a difference. Instead of simple seeing suffering and then thinking someone else will change it as so many of us do, Sharen set out on a four year journey to educate herself and make a stand and create HAWCS. I’ve never been as proud of anyone as I was of Sharen last Friday evening. Habitat and Wildlife Conservation Society is now official up and running. The night was a real success and saw charity patron Katherine Kelly (Coronation St’s Becky Granger) making a special appearance. The amazing singer Angie Brown also delivered a show stopping performance. I’ve been a massive fan of Angie Brown for years and I did not waste this opportunity to get close to her. So close in fact I think there may now be a restraining order against me. I urge you all to take a look at to see just why I am so dedicated to this charity, no doubt after a quick read, it will touch your hearts too. needs you!

A brand new will be launching very soon. It is looking absolutely amazing and I’m very proud of what has been achieved. As the blog is now growing into a mini site there are obviously going to be some changes. Handbagsnbotox was always intended to be a platform to showcase my own writing talent (it was actually all Sharen’s idea; the same lady as mentioned above). As I have been trying to promote myself I have stumbled across many other talented writers, there for handbagsnbotox is inviting you to write a guest column. Initially the columns will go live every Wednesday with increasing frequency depending on response. A new feature on the site will be a weekly product review, it can be a product of any description as once again this will be chosen from your suggestions. The first product to be reviewed will be ‘A Beginners Guide To Acting English’ by Shappi Khorsandi. If you would like to get involved please write your reviews in no more than 400 words and send them to

Adopt A Gay

Well not quite. But I do want your cash; one whole British pound to be precise. As my 1970’s computer is basically melting before my very eyes I’m asking you to donate just £1 so I can purchase a shiny new one. Cheeky I know but £1 is not a lot to ask considering I’ve provided you with over 40 camp and quirky unique blogs. Look at it like the Blue Peter appeal if you like. I need £700 and so far the totalizer has reached £11 from your donations. It’s also my 25th Birthday creeping up round the corner so just think of it as buying me a very cheap drink. You can donate by pressing the donate button opposite or if that doesn't work for you click here to make a donation also through paypal. 

Once again I’d just like to thank you for all the support has received and ask you very kindly to please go and view

Thursday, 6 May 2010

The Alternative Election

I’ve been finding all this talk of a hung parliament all rather exciting. Well that was until someone piped up and told me that it didn’t mean there would be an auditorium full of well endowed men in loincloths. To me that was the most exciting part about it. The first televised debate was also a highlight; I soon recognised though that if I wanted to watch three white, straight and middle aged men tear pieces out of each other I could go to the local working men’s pub any night of the week.

To be honest I haven’t really been swayed by any of the manifestos that are on offer from any of the parties. I mean who cares about nuclear weapons? Who cares if Dorris at number 14 can afford her gas bill this winter? Who cares if little Tiny Tim can’t afford school dinners? Not the Conservatives and not me. I think I speak for everyone when I say there are much more deserving matters that need to be brought to the public’s attention.

For a start if I was made prime minister I would make it illegal to be ugly. I would provide Botox and skin peels free for the over 30s. I’d fund this new initiative by selling all the hot tubs, Playstations, and other luxury items currently found in UK prisons on eBay. Any money left over from this would go towards giving Anthea Turner a new identity; that poor woman has had more public scrutiny in her life than what John Leslie would get at a hen party.

I would also ban medical testing on animals and start a nation wide campaign to adopt a rat and by rat I don’t mean Ashley Cole. Instead I would use prisoners of the most horrific crimes for medical testing. At the end of the day the average cost to keep a prisoner in a state run jail is over £25,718 a year. I think a little bit of medical testing is the least they can do to earn their keep. It’s not as if Ian Huntley deserves to be alive is it? Rather test on him than a poor innocent monkey.

Next on my agenda would be to nationalise the high street resulting in a ban of Primark, low hung jeans and use of baby buggies at peak times. I think this would be beneficial to all and would eventually lead to the word Chav referring to a dress phase that ended in 2010. I would also ban any tailors from making clothes larger than a size 16, forcing fat people to slim down. This in turn would save a fortune on replacing dented pavements.

So please remember that in this election, the most important one for decades, to vote, the only party that knows what you really want, what you really really want.

Monday, 26 April 2010

Monkey Buisness

As some of you know I've been very busy helping with the launch event for HAWCS. It's an amazing charity which aims to prevent endangered species from going extinct. Have a little read of this press release I prepared earlier. If it sounds like your thing then please feel free to buy a ticket or make a donation, I'll be eternally grateful if you do. If you don't I curse you to a life of Primark wearing and Lambrini drinking.

Habitat and Wildlife Conservation Society (HAWCS) launches on Friday 14th May 2010. HAWCS is a registered charity believing that without the preservation of habitat there is little point to conserving a species. HAWCS aims to promote the intrinsic value of wildlife and its habitat. It is the hope and belief of HAWCS that we can help in preserving the rights of the indigenous human and animal population to co-exist as they have for generations in a sustainable manner.

A fundraising launch evening will take place at The Place Hotel, Ducie Street, Manchester Centre. Guests will be greeted by the charities patron Katherine Kelly, Coronation Street’s Becky Granger. Music will be provided by Angie Brown and Manchester’s very own soul singer Victor Haynes, plus flame-haired Celtic rock-out soul songstress Mirren Leask. During the evening fundraising events taking place include a raffle with prizes such as £500 worth of medical aesthetic treatments, special occasion hair and make-up from Bricktop Salon worth £400, dinner for two and Manchester UTD memorabilia plus many more. We are also proud to display a unique Photographic Exhibition by Kirsteen Leask, providing an insight and understanding of Habitat and Wildlife that HAWCS, with your help, strives to protect and conserve.

HAWCS first overseas project is based on the island of Sumatra, Indonesia. Sumatra possesses a rich biodiversity of mammallia that are endemic to this island and an exclusive list of species that are under the threat of extinction. This threat is due to extreme exploitation of Sumatra’s natural resources. Illegal logging, mining and deforestation for the plantation of Palm Oil tress have seen 80% of Sumatra’s natural forest already destroyed.
Just some of the species which are endangered and facing extinction include; Sumatran Tiger, Sumatran Elephant, Sumatran Rhinoceros, Sumatran Sun Bear, Hairy-nosed otter, Malayan Tapir.

HAWCS aim to work both within the UK and the Indonesia island of Sumatra to develop education programmes for UK and Sumatran school children, educating the importance of protecting endangered species and conserving biodiversity. The charity will fund visits to UK based zoos who are involved in conservation projects in the wild. HAWCS have established links with a Swiss charity PanEco who have an established medical quarantine centre for the rehabilitation of displaced wild Orang-utan back into the wild. HAWCS will strive to work with the Indonesian Government of Sumatra and along with other NGOs to discuss the protection and conservation of their National Parks.

If you would like to purchase tickets or see any further information regarding the event please go to

Friday, 16 April 2010

Fucking Political Correctness

So many things that make me proud to be British; Chavs, Primark, the highest teenage pregnancy rate in Europe, ridiculous benefits system and now ladies and gays the over use of political correctness.

It would be nice to call a spade a spade. In this political correctness gone mad society though one would fear upsetting the masses and prefers now to refer to such an item as an agricultural tool for digging. Now this may seem crazy, I completely agree; however it now appears that the word Gypsy is now politically incorrect. We must now refer to such people as nomadic people of Egyptian decent, as one newspaper referred them this week.

It’s the little words that I love, little words like cunt. Everyone knows if you call a man a cunt the type of man that you can expect him to be. Now ladies and gays one has to waste effort using multiple words when one would suffice.

Just recently a little scandal at a certain University made my blood boil. An openly gay student had to attend a disciplinary meeting to discuss the use of his word faghag; it apparently referred to gays in a negative way. The student was forced to apologize to all staff that had been offended by his comments. The man who made the complaint is gay. I’m baffled. Perhaps this very same man would like to stage a protest outside ‘QUEER’ bar on Canal Street for their use of what was once a derogatory term for us gays. I would like to say to the man who complained that being called a ‘fag’ would be the least of your worries if you were to meet me. I could think of a few more words that could be used to describe you, like cunt, twat, and wanker.

Just last week the government of Britain again made superior judgment in the trading standards case against Joan Higgins. I applaud them for the use of such little common sense and a superior waste of time. Joan, a 66 year old pensioner from Manchester, was arrested in a trading standards sting. The grandmother sold; wait for it, not drugs, but a goldfish to a 14 year old boy. The pet shop owner was fined £1000 and forced to wear a tag for six weeks. It really is beggar’s belief. I’d just like to say to the trading standards officer that I think you are a stain that has been caused from the orgasm of male masturbation on to nylon clothing.

Saturday, 3 April 2010

Confessions Of A Teenage Crush, Part Three.

The night of our play came and we were the last directorial piece to go on, which I think is fitting to my diva status that I should be in the headlining act. Sure enough as expected there were gasp from an unsuspecting audience when I planted the kiss on my class mate. The night passed without a glitch and M truly made me feel like a star with all his praise, it was a bit silly really as playing a Northern puff was hardly testing my acting talents.

Soon after our masterpiece of drama M was cast as Sebastian in Cruel Intentions. He had to share the lead with another class mate and performed on alternative nights. His new role in my eyes meant he had gone from second year student to Hollywood heartthrob. As you can imagine I donned my denim splashed jeans and went to see Cruel Intentions every other night for a week.

As the end of the college year approached so did my seventeenth Birthday which brought with it a night I will never forget for the rest of my life. All my class mates went to Bar Risa on Canal Street to celebrate and in attendance were the lovely M and a selection of his beautiful friends. I was wearing a hideous green shirt from H&M that my best friend at the time, and still is today Mirren, had persuaded me to wear. As the Archers Alco pops were downed I decided I would tell M all about my true feelings.

Just after I’d spotted Anthony Cotton and the lady who plays Fizz from Coronation Street and told them how great I thought they were, they were very polite considering I was completely off my tits and no doubt the smell of amyl nitrate was following me, I was dancing with my friend Chantelle when she accidently wacked me over the head with a bottle. The force was such that it saw me with my head between my knees for the next half hour on the stairs. All I needed though for such a recovery was a blast of Sugababes ‘Round Round’ and I was back on my feet.

Another hour later and I don’t know if it was the hit to the head or the 10 bottles of alcopops but I suddenly felt very queasy. My night in shining armour M dragged me down stairs and into a toilet cubical. As I muttered in my drunken state how much I loved him, he said in his velvet voice, ‘what do you want me to do?’ Ceasing my opportunity from the build up of a three month crush I stuttered the words ‘kiss me.’

Just for a split second I thought we had a magic moment. Whether is was my knock to the head or not I believed as I looked into his eyes I saw something there. A twinkle of hope that he just might like me the way I liked him. However, before M had the chance to kiss me, which obviously he would have done as who couldn’t resist a sweating overweight queen with poppers down his top. I spun round and projectile vomited anywhere but the toilet. Our moment was ruined. I the fat faggot had vomited in front of my idol. My life was ruined.

Shortly after that eventful night I dropped out of college and never completed the course. I lost touch with M and was to never see him again. What was to come in the 18 months after that night on June 3rd would leave me a shell of the confident and popular person I was that night……

Friday, 2 April 2010

Confessions Of My Teenage Crush, Part Two.

Back at college I’d started to feel even more uncomfortable, instead of fitting in and just being one in the crowed my new status of being an at ease homosexual meant that I was now given every camp part that was going in my Drama diploma. It infuriated me that I couldn’t play a normal part. Looking back on it now it’s no wonder I didn’t get to play Romeo in my newly acquired gay uniform.

One of my last projects at college was to be in a play directed by one of the second years. As the casts were decided fate must have been looking down on me that day as I was put into a cast that was to be directed by M. I’d noticed M before and had spoken to him very briefly. I was in ore of him. This was an actual living and breathing gay man who seemed to have no problem at all fitting in the world, popular and breathtakingly stunning. I followed M around like a lap dog and he was soon to be my teenage crush.

M had a sense of style that I’d never seen before. Unlike me who didn’t have a clue about style at the time it seemed to ooze out of his every pore. M’s chosen directorial piece was Hushabye Mountain by Jonathan Harvey. I quite simply loved it. I had no idea at the time that there were plays written by gays for gays, real drama, not just soft porn, which I had still yet to discover. I immediately went out and bought everything I could that had Jonathan Harvey’s name attached to it, partly because I loved Hushabye Mountain and wanted to see what other delights he had written, but more importantly so I could talk to M and impress him with my new found knowledge of Gay Literature, which up until then started and stopped at a monthly copy of Attitude.

M was the first person I had befriended after coming out which is why to me our friendship was so important, he was also my first gay friend. He seemed to have real knowledge of the world and I would hang on his every sentence, soaking up all the knowledge he had to offer me. As rehearsals got on the way it soon became big news in my year that there was to be a gay kiss in our play, perhaps what was even bigger news is that it was between me, queen of the year and a poor unsuspecting sweet straight lad who was so uncomfortable with it but was to polite to say. We discussed how we could do the kiss tastefully, when all I was thinking about was how much I wanted to pounce on M and practice some distasteful kissing of my own.

To add to M’s profile he also had beautiful and witty friends. They all seemed to speak in a code language to each other which only made me admire him more. I’m sure it wasn’t their own language but their wit and intelligence was no match for the lack of my own. Even still M and all his friends were nice to me, me the fat faggot had beautiful friends, which made my heart melt for him even more.

I was even invited over to his house for drinksnsnax which for me was like being handed a golden ticket to go to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. I can’t really remember the night I went to M’s other than that I thought his student digs were amazing and cool, but then again he could have lived in a kennel and I would have thought it was one up from Buckingham Palace. All I remember from that night was that I took a bottle of Taboo and drank most of it and fell asleep wishing that M would turn over and plant the kiss of my life on my lips. He never did.

Part Three tomorrow......

Thursday, 1 April 2010

Confessions Of My Teenage Crush, Part One.

Hard to believe I know but I haven’t always been a gorgeous stream lined homosexual. There once was a time when I was hiding myself underneath 19 stone of lard. Although in the summer of 1985 I popped into the world screaming with a set of lungs that no doubt Miss Shirley Bassey would have been proud of, it took me another 17 years to truly realise the diva I was.

I was lucky enough to live in Manchester home of Canal Street and Boddingtons Bitter and fortunately for me Sheena Simon School of Performing Arts which was slap bang in the middle of Canal Street. It was at this safe haven that I came bursting out of the closet to all my class mates. I don’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing that no one seemed to bat an eyelid. It was actually met by laughs and generally banter and comments such as ‘fuck Mike, we thought you’d already come out.’ Such was my diva like ways I guess there was just no closet bit enough for me to hide in, that and the fact that my weight would surely have buckled any closet I chose to climbed into.

I was so desperately unhappy back then, I’d spent years of being the ‘fat faggot.’ Instead of trying to blend in I over compensated for my insecurities and self hate and was probably the loudest in my class. I was also experimenting with my look back then and you could hardly miss someone walking down a corridor that was 19 stone, had bright blue hair and was no doubt singing a chorus with my friends from a well known musical number. All that Jazz was always my choice.

At this time I started to go to Canal Street more and more, I really don’t know why as it was like Japanese torture to my self. I lived in hope that a boy would approach me but they never did. I’d go home and simply stand in front of the mirror and look myself up and down and think of all the ways I hated myself. It was after one of these staring competitions with my self that I decided something really had to be done. I longed to be able to fit into a pair of jeans and to stop wearing horrendous Adidas tracksuit bottoms; they clearly didn’t fit in with the image that I wanted. My plan? To starve myself.

In the next six months that followed I didn’t eat. I would have a yoghurt every other day followed by a session of plugging my fingers down my throat to stop me from taking in a single calorie. I’d have ten Embassy number one for breakfast, ten for lunch and six Archers alco-pops for dinner. It’s a shame I didn’t realise that there was 10 spoons of sugars in each bottle. The cigarettes suppressed my hunger and if I ever felt faint I’d simply have an energy drink. Hunger pains became my friend. The weight soon started to fall off and the positive comments fuelled my determination. My addiction with food only stopped when I met my first true love, but by then I had lost eight stone in six months and had covered by body from head in toe in stretch marks. Unbeknown to me this wasn’t to be the last time I had such an addiction with food.

As I finally began to slide on my first pair of jeans the euphoria travelled up my body with every inch they went up. As I fastened the buttons with ease the euphoric feeling continued to travel to reach even the last hair on my head. These weren’t just any jeans, these jeans said ‘I’m here, I’m queer.’ Dark denim with white paint splashed stripes down the front accompanied by a shirt printed with the New York sky line. If I was to have worn the same shirt just two months before they would have used enough material to print the sky line from every major capital city in the world.

Part Two coming tomorrow....

Friday, 26 March 2010

Confessions of a Temperamental Waiter

It’s true I’m back being a waiter. These finely manicured nails of mine were not meant for serving over priced tea and coffee in a branded chain restaurant, they were made to serve tea and coffee at 36,000ft for a dodgy airline with a low safety record.

Perhaps the worse thing of all in my new position is that I can no longer get away with scolding ugly and vile people by simply smiling and saying ‘Opps Turbulence.’ Instead I have to put up with the council masses trying to redeem their Tesco vouchers on a steak and chips.

It’s not the first time I have been waiter, well I say waiter, what I really mean is a man who takes orders forgets to put them through the till, spends all my time skiving on the fire escape and running to my locker every two minutes for a swig of Gin&Tonic from a can; an ingenious invention from the folk at Marks & Spencer. You can also buy Harvey Wallbanger and Vodka and Tonic.

You see I don’t mind serving you as long as you don’t ask for a glass of tap water. Automatically I know you’re cheap and won’t be leaving a tip, consequently you’ll be waiting a lot longer for your food. Also people when I ask you how you like your steak it’s not because I care, it’s because I have to ask you. In all honestly you’ll get it however the chef can be arsed to do it as he’s been in the kitchen since 8am and it’s now 9pm, he’s lost the will to live and is contemplating gassing himself in the electric oven. Nor people do I want to listen to your life story when I’m asking you if you’d like more drinks. I really couldn’t give a shit that your son has just got into Oxford and you’re popping into Selfridges to get him something extra special. In fact madam looking at the photo you’ve just shown me of him may I suggest a muzzle?

What’s that madam you want fries instead of salad? Of course you can, not a problem you fat bitch. Whilst I’m at it why don’t I nip back to Primark and exchange your top for a size 18 as you’re obviously a little uncomfortable having squeezed your back fat in a size 12.

I’m sure you’ll agree that clicking your fingers at a waiter is one of the rudest things you can do, a sure way to make the blood boil. Yet Ladies and gays this happens to me at least once a day and my response is always the same; sorry sir, but it takes more than that to make me cum. Generally they look baffled to what I’ve just said as I mince away.

‘Thanks love, have a nice day.’ No tip. ‘Tight bitch.’

Ladies and Gays don’t forget to click onto the banner on the top right of the page and vote for HandbagsnBotox in the best entertainment category for the Bloggers Choice Awards. Some more exciting news is to follow and you will soon be able to write to me in my new column ‘Dear Blanche’ for the new look when it launches next months. One last thing you tight bastards, click on that donation button at the side of this page and help me buy some more Rohypnol. It doesn’t matter how many times I spike my own drink no one seems to want to take advantage. Also don't forget to click on that follow button, make me look popular.

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

Three In A Bed...

Now you know I’m not one to be a bitch but after bumping into my super stud ex who had a six packed, bulging biceps and an even bigger bulge some where else I couldn’t help but smirk after seeing he now obviously keeps his six pack in the fridge. Now he hasn’t put on a little bit of weight, he’s fucking inflated like a hot air balloon. He’s obviously eaten the contents of Charlie’s chocolate factory, the Umpa Lumpas must have feared for their lives.

Its fare to stay we didn’t have a very amicable brake up on the account that he cheated on me for several months behind my back. We have actually spoken since and become friends courtesy of FaceBook. It wouldn’t be fare of me to reveal his name so let’s call him Gareth, because that’s his name. He was a compulsive liar and money grabbing twat. I was a young naive seventeen year old when I met him and worked hard to pay off his credit card. He was very generous, buying me gifts with my money, that sort of person you know.

It would be fare to say that there was a point that I found myself crying into my Chinzano and lemonade whilst playing my Chicago soundtrack. I know the soundtracks not very sad but I found it helped to smash up his Titanic collection with a beat.

When I bumped into him last Manchester Pride my eyes almost exploded at my first sight of him in four years. He’d turned from a straight acting macho man to a vile camp obese queen. I had heard on the grape vine that the person who he had cheated on me with had put him in hospital several times. I don’t condone violence but there was something so bitter and sweet about that.

Several times we’ve bumped into each other and he’s felt the need to boast where he’s going on his holidays. The fact that I’m cabin crew and have travelled the world had obviously escaped him. Just recently, this morning in fact, I bumped into a mutual friend of ours who told me he was going to Australia today for two weeks. It was followed by a statement that he hadn’t paid for it. Needless to say I wasn’t shocked at all. Now he had told me he was going down under several times, which is fantastic and good for him, however, the way I have been brought up you should never brag or boast about something you haven’t earned.

Just a few short months ago messages were also exchanged that he was deeply sorry for what he had done to me and that if he wasn’t in a relationship he’d love to fuck me again, shortly followed by pictures of his cock, I have to admit I returned the favour. I’ve met his new fella he’s no oil painting at all, more of car crash, but still no one deserves to be deceived like that. Which leads me to this statement; once a cheat always a fucking cowardly bastard money grabbing wanker of a twatting cheat. Just for the record I wouldn’t touch him with a shitty stick and yes I do feel like I’ve had a lucky escape.

Don’t get me wrong I’ve not always been an angel. Hard to believe I know. I have cheated once on a partner but at least I had the sense to do it whilst I was a twelve hour flight away in Cape Town. I’d like to say I regret it but I don’t, the sex was amazing, and so was the wine and my boyfriend at the time turned out to be cheating on me too.

I think I’ll give relationships a miss for the minute, however if you know anyone who wouldn’t mind a fling let them know where I am, it’s been a while since I’ve been flung.

Now ladies and gentlemen I ask you to please go and click on that big shiny BloggersAward banner on the top left hand side of this site and take five minutes to vote for Handbags’n’Botox in the best entertainment category.

Friday, 5 March 2010

Confessions Of A Cart Tart

It’s not all just tea and coffee at 36,000ft you know. The glamorous life of a flight attendant still exists, as long as you don’t work for Ryan Air. It can be hard work perfecting that mince up the isle, pouting and saying ‘you fuckoffee sir’? Listen carefully the next time you fly. Rules have always been made to be broken and onboard that is exactly what happens. Well sometimes if you’re doing a four sector day you have to spice things up a little don’t you? This can be achieved with a little Jack.

Us trolley dollies are drama queens that’s why we’re so good at pretending that everything is fine when we’re hurtling through turbulence in a metal tube. You ever heard that famous saying, ‘only worry when the cabin crew look scared’? Well it’s not that we’re not scared, it’s just that we’ve painted false smiles on our faces and helped ourselves to a couple of brandies to steady our nerves.

You see the job of a trolley dolly would be the best in the world if it wasn’t for you, the passengers. As any crew will tell you all passengers leave their brains at check in when boarding a flight. Why bring a 10kg case on board and try and bang it into a 5kg luggage rack? It clearly doesn’t fit. If you were a size 18 you wouldn’t try and squeeze into a size 8 dress would you? Mind you I have done a few night flights to Ibiza where it’s clear a few Chavs have got dressed in the dark, into their Primark finest.

Perhaps the most annoying question asked by any passenger is ‘Where are we?’ ‘Well madam, if you just look out that widow you’ll see a cloud with a sign post for Alton Towers.’ I have absolutely no idea and I’m not going to ask the captain as he’s put himself on oxygen to help himself get over his hangover. His wife has left him after finding out that he’s shagged every Galley Bitch there is he got a bit worse for wear last night, don’t worry though he’s not flying the plane, we’re on autopilot!

A personal favourite of mine, whilst flying for a long haul low cost airline a passenger was over heard complaining to a colleague. ‘This airline has ruined my holiday,’ the response; ’really sir, well this airline has ruined my life’! Not much he could respond to that.

Another one of my pet hates from passengers is the constant observation that ‘this would never happen on British Airways.’ You’re right of course madam it wouldn’t; you wouldn’t be going anywhere because they’re on strike! May I also remind you that you’re not flying British Airways you’ve chosen to fly low cost you cheap bitch, now please step behind the curtain and go back to your economy seat, where we will shortly be serving you with the choice of Chicken or Beef PotNoodle, served with a plastic fork and stale bread roll. Now Fuck Off!

As for the shenanigans that occur down route, well now that would take me all year to tell you. Especially if I was to tell you about the time when I got pushed a round Cape Town in a supermarket trolley, went skinny dipping in Cyprus, woke up in a recycling bin in Toronto, missed my flight home from Vancouver, woke up naked next to the captain in Frankfurt, or when the Finish solders came for a day round the pool in Africa. I’d love to post you the pictures but I fear I’d never get an airline job again if I made them public. Instead, I will explain some of the cabin crew lingo for you. Happy flying!

Don’t forget, you can leave your comments by pressing on the ‘Leave a Comment’ button below, and can become a fan of the blog by pressing the follow button on the right hand side.

Cart Tart Talk
The Flaps are smashed – I was partying till all hours and I’m hung over to fuck. I can’t possibly serve another tube of Pringles without projectile vomiting, can also mean I had sex last night and can’t sit down.

Can ya bare it? – The famous words muttered a 1000 times a day when it all gets too much

Drinks&Snax – Alcohol and cocaine.

Dragon Wagon – Person in charge.

Night stop – A chance to get pissed, fall asleep in a recycling bin and vomit all the way home across the Atlantic tomorrow.

Immediately if not sooner - Normally talking for a need of alcohol.

Thursday, 4 March 2010

Vote for Blanche

As the general election campaign gets under way, and as I don’t feel like I can trust a single one of our politicians to go to the shop and give me the correct change, never mind running our country, I thought I’d start up my own political party and ask you lot to ‘Vote For Blanche.’

First and foremost I would make it my mission to fire Dev Alahan from Coronation Street and place him in front of a court for crimes against drama. I don’t think a single person wouldn’t agree that he is the most appalling actor to ever be on prime time television. I would also burn Shobna Gulati at the stake as she recently said in an interview about Dev, ‘he’s a fantastic actor and brings something new to every screen.’ She’s obviously on crack.

Secondly on my political manifest would be to ban every company in the world from using foreign call centres, in particular Virgin Atlantic and AOL. Just two of the most awful call centres I’ve come across. After being on hold for 30 minutes you finally get to talk to Sabina who is Queen of the lost tribe of ‘Camel Toe,’ in deepest darkest India. Straining to hear her down a phone because she only learnt English that morning and she’s still not sure of this alien technology as she sits there in a loin cloth.

Thirdly on my agenda would be to ban PRIMARK. Most of you already know how I loath this store. I understand that some people need cheap clothing, I have nothing against this, but I do object to walking down Market Street and seeing a cloud of smoke at each entrance to PRIMARK from the 50 teenage mothers that loiter outside. I also don’t believe they’re entirely ethical, and I think if you’re going to use cheap labour we should use the criminals in prison instead of giving them laptops and gyms….

Which brings me onto my forth statement if you elected me to run our fine diverse country. Make prisons, prisons. I don’t think it is a punishment to be locked away and be given fantastic education opportunities, personal tuition, that should be for the middles classes. Nor do I believe prisoners should be given televisions, internet access, game consoles and gyms. My gym membership costs me £38 a month and it is a privilege that I can afford it, it’s not a rite. Our prisons are fast turning into a Butlins style resort; it certainly has no deterrent not to reoffend.

Second to last on my manifest would be to ban the Jeremy Kyle show. Instead anyone of the scrotes that apply to go on it would be rounded up every Saturday morning and shot at dawn. It would be a lesson to all Chavs out there that this is what will happen if you continue to tuck your track suite bottoms into your socks.

Last but no means least I would ban Geri Halliwell from ever attending another awards show. After her public display of desperation at the Brit Awards I think the kindest thing to do for her is lock her in a white cell, along with the deluded cunts that run our country at the minute and actually think they’re doing a good job. Oh and that’s another thing, I would do away with political correctness.

So followers and readers of Handbags’n’Botox, I ask you and urge you, to stand up for all things classy and camp and at this years general election ‘Vote for Blanche.’

Wednesday, 3 March 2010

Moan about men…

A little website got me thinking and inspired me to write this blog; believe it or not it was called Now I’m sure you’ve all moaned about the normal little things, like when your hubby leaves the toilet seat up or when he leaves his crusty boxers on the floor, but I ladies and gays, I have lots of things to get off my chest about my ex’s.

Well apart from the fact that they were all knob heads, they all also had their own way of making my blood boil and leave me reaching for the vodka.

Take my first fella for e.g., let’s call him Gareth, because that’s his name. I was only 17 when I was with him, he was 24. It was a whirlwind romance with the aftermath of a tsunami. He was gorgeous, massive muscles and beautiful. He was very loving, so much so that he liked to share his love, specifically with a lad called Rob behind my back for six months. He was also a compulsive liar. I kid you not, one day he went shopping to ASDA, when I asked him where he’d been, he replied, ‘KwickSave.’

Next came the first of my three Scottish boyfriends, Craig, he was stunning; unfortunately he was one of those pricks who knew it. We were holiday reps at the time in Cyprus. I was desperately unhappy over there and planned to come home several times, each time he persuaded me not to leave. At the end of the season he wrote me a lovely little letter to say that I was just ‘a means to an end,’ almost like a toy just to pass the time. He’d also said to one of my friends that I was a lot fatter than the normal men he goes for, ladies and gays, I was 11 stone.

Next came another Scottish boy that was also called Craig, I should of heard the alarm bells. I met him on New Years Eve, he lived up in Elgin. Every time I returned off a flight from Cape Town at work I’d get straight onboard another and go and see him for a few days. After only a couple of months I paid for him to move to Manchester. I found him a job, paid his rent and did everything for him. Then one night whilst I was intoxicated in a little bar called ‘Hollywood’ a stranger came up to me and said ‘Mike I’m dead sorry you and Craig have split up.’ This was news to me, but in the hours that followed I found out he’d been shagging his colleague. Two hours later I boarded a flight to Toronto where I got over that man by getting under the next.

Now the third one, another Scottish one, he really was sweet and beautiful. I still have a lot of love for him, although we’ve not spoke and seen each other in nine months. We split up through circumstances. He wasn’t any of the above, a genuinely nice person who if I could wave a magic stick I’d make everything better between the both of us. The only thing that made my blood boil about me and Derek was that he was deaf. In the middle of an argument he would simply switch his hearing aids off so he didn’t have to listen to me, and as you can imagine, he could sleep through a bomb blast.

I’m sure my ex’s would say I have lots of annoying qualities, but until they discover I write this blog I won’t worry about it too much. There are just a few of my own I can think of, like smashing up boyfriend number one’s Titanic collection, climbing through boyfriend number 4’s window, actually the list is pretty endless. Now who would like to take me on a date? Low maintenance and only four previous owners…..