Shem Douglas's Blog

My parents always told me that if I haven’t got anything good to say, then don’t say anything at all. This has been one of the main reasons I have stalled in writing a blog post for a while. Chatting pure breeze is all well and good, but I have to give a shit about the breeze in which I chat! It has to make my head buzz, make me shout out loud and hit caps lock on my keyboard in a furious sweaty frenzy. I also have been preoccupied with writing a new novel (because apparently, I enjoy self-flagellation of writing stories that may or may not stir unsuspecting members of the public to voluntarily poke sharp objects in their eyes.) But today, on Dr Martin Luther King Jr Day, I find myself moved to scream, dance and throw glitter onto my computer screen!

The first school project I ever completed at primary school was on Martin Luther King. My friends went down the route of writing about dolphins, baby seals or their favourite football team, but I wanted to assert my ‘blackness’ on the entire class by narrating ‘my people’s’ struggle with as much subtlety as Oprah… at a Black Lives Matter march… dancing to reggae! I memorised his I Have a Dream speech, I drew a picture of him with felt tip pens and I borrowed/stole a framed art print that usually hung in the sitting room of my parent’s house… because visual aids are key!

Everything about MLK made me so proud of my black skin. The civil rights movement in America along with the parallels of what it meant to be black in a predominately white Britain, was poured into my ear like a bedtime story. Instead of “…and they lived happily ever after…” my father substituted fairy tales with real life. “Don’t forget that we have to work 10 times as hard to get the same opportunities as our white peers… know your history… understand the struggle… oh and Jesus was a black man!”

I grew up loving my blackness. Even when I was being called a black jack, black bitch, or black bastard. Even when I was told to go back to my own country. Even when I was asked to move on a public bus. Even when I was reprimanded for having ‘a chip on my shoulder’. Even when I was rejected by a crush because “black girls were ugly.” I found pride and strength in what some saw as an unsightly weakness. I wore my loud ‘black is beautiful’ t-shirts. I won a public speaking competition discussing racism. I wrote my university dissertation about the black diaspora in Britain. I longed to open a black interest bookshop. And when I write, I insist on harnessing as much flavour, attitude and punch as my grandmother’s rice and peas with curry goat!

You see, there was a time when all I used to stress about was getting my homework diary signed in time for Monday morning registration at school. There was also a time when trivial shit pissed me off like when U2 decided to impregnate everyone’s iTunes account with an album nobody actually asked for. But now it’s like my worries and fears have tripled in frequency and intensity… and I wish it would all just slow the fuck down.

Being black and proud doesn’t seem to mean shit to the ‘leader of the free world’ Mr Trump, who is openly racist and shrugs his shoulders. Loving my melanin doesn’t matter to those folks who believe that Brexit gives them a platform to be vile bigoted individuals. And loving the skin I am in is just stale, tired rhetoric when we are all living a racial nightmare that pisses all over the brave efforts of those who came before us. Yet, somewhere amongst the confusion, lost hope and the twisted notions of the growing minority, I hope that there’s another young black girl out there who is dying to tell her classmates all about MLK and why his story is more relevant today than ever before.

So, here’s the scenario. It’s apocalyptic Thursday. Zombies are outside your house (because you accidentally turned on the hall light and attracted them you moron!) You have a whole 30 seconds to decide on the ending for your ‘choose your own adventure’ story, before it all ends horribly with a smash and grab job of your brains. Do you A) Assume the seated lotus position and pray to one of many gods in the sky? B) Hum a school hymn that has inexplicably entered your head, whilst clutching a spatula and waving it precariously in the air so it makes you feel like you’re actually doing something? Or C) Grab a baseball bat, grit your teeth and try to batter the crap out of the zombies at an attempt to flee to freedom?

Does silence in a contentious situation really help… or is this planet too far gone with abhorrent acts of injustice to try and Gandhi ourselves out of it?

Before I could understand the formulaic wizardry of my A, B, C’s, I’ve been unapologetically loud. As my older brother would sit still and do as he was told, as a baby I would be thrashing around the kitchen cupboards pulling out bottles of bleach, emptying medicine cabinets and playing with scissors. I didn’t have the words to express myself so instead I demonstrated it with being a little shit! If it was dangerous and noisy, then I was fully prepared to have a surreptitious adventure. As I got older my volume continued to gain momentum. My loudness was now accompanied with words that formed opinions that carried an attitude which was spoken with (some!) intellect and often countered with humour. My consistent voice may have pissed off everyone who had ears, yet I still wasn’t prepared to alter something that was intrinsically me for the comfort of others.

Although I can stand tall and unflinching to my instinct in speaking certain truths whether good, bad or straight up difficult to hear, it is this personal trait that makes it so hard for me to understand why others stay silent when faced with adversity. 

The first time I noticed the blunt gong of silence from others in a horrible situation, was when I was about 9 or 10 years old. I was bullied one summer by a group of Asian girls who found delight in chasing me around the back lanes and alleyways of my council estate I lived on. They threatened to beat me up and insisted on chanting ‘black jack’ at me. When it all kicked off my friend was with me and I would like to think that she wanted to help me but she just wouldn’t. “I don’t want to get involved,” she said. So alas I continued to run and hide on my own praying for the summer to be over.

Another time the sting of feeling isolated in a toxic situation occurred was when a lady on a bus aggressively screamed “Black bastard” at me. My only crime was that I stood up for a fellow black person who was being racially abused by her. However, when the lady decided to flip her lunacy on me, not one person sat on the busy bus offered any help or asked me if I was ok. Not even the gentleman I initially tried to help. I just sat there shaking with anger and staring out of the window trying not to cry in public. The same thing happened on another bus when an old white lady asked me to move because she didn’t want to sit next to me. Everyone who saw the drama unfold remained silent while I was made to feel embarrassed for being black.

In recent years with the explosion of social media becoming the platform we use to power punch our opinions and brain burps, I have noticed a familiar pattern. When I address race related subjects, the response from my friends is like I’ve suddenly told a horrendous story about an unprovoked attack of punching my dear nan in the face! (This has never happened!) The awkward silence is intense. Sharing a post about institutional racism in the police force or subconscious racial bias in relationships attracts silent gasps of crickets but nothing more. I can however share something online that is completely absurd and borderline offensive dressed up as ‘banter’ and have likes, shares and comments all day long.

Now I know my friends aren’t assholes. I know my friends have opinions. I know my friends have my back and support me. So why the deafening silence?? Yes, the subject matter maybe confronting and hard to swallow, but being passive amongst the madness is fast becoming the biggest copout.

Big things are happening. Big bad horrible things are going on in the world where staying silent because ‘you don’t want to get involved’, or you feel that voicing your opinion is counter-productive somehow is honestly just baffling. I do believe that once upon a time silence had the power to maim ignorant folk who will never understand you. But with the twisted shit we are living through in 2017, where you have white supremacists freely strutting around like you owe them something, your silence is losing its power if you opt to always remain passive. How can you be silent about things that matter?

Now I’m also not suggesting that we all go grab our pitchforks, banners and become freedom fighters! Waving a spatula in the air humming the hymn Lord of the Dance is futile. Words have power but intelligible passionate words have the punch. Because you see, I’m coming from a lonely place where banging on about inequality that directly affects me and my black skin, is greeted with an orchestra of awkward coughs and shuffling bums on pleather seats.

If I was to choose my own adventure I would go with option C. Grab the baseball bat and at least attempt to fight the good fight. Who is with me?

It’s been roughly a month since my book was unashamedly thrown out into the world like custard pumped from a Bugsy Malone splurge gun.

It has officially been the most stressful time of my life since wearing a pink dress to my brother’s wedding! In this time, there have been high highs… and low lows. I have laughed, screamed… smiled so hard I had chronic facial pain, drank a lot of vodka, pissed off my loved ones with irrational bratty behaviour and I have wanted to throw up with all the nerves. Yes, one small book has gifted me one hell of an education this past month. There’s been nuggets of wisdom I’ve picked up along the way that have smashed my ego into teeny tiny pieces as was as enlightened me, so I figured I would share them with you now!

One

Oh, you wrote a book? How uninteresting.

Just because you spent the guts of 2 years lobbing yourself into publishing a book from concept to completion, does not mean that anyone is now obliged to give a shit! The fact of the matter is this: you are the only person who really gives a shit. There are millions of books out there written by far more interesting, well established individuals than you, so your attempt at harnessing some interest is already wildly disadvantaged. You need to graft harder than Wile E Coyote to have even a smidgen of chance to register on people’s radar.

Two

Lip service. Lip service everywhere!

People will offer to help you promote your book. People will get super excited for you and your book. However, people will let you down. Relying on friends and friends of friends to hook you up is a dangerous game. Be prepared to do your own legwork because nothing is certain. In the end my attempts at pushing my book came from me, myself and I alongside unlikely but wonderful people who I never imagined would help me.

Three

People will show and tell you what you want to hear. (More lip service.)

You may have a shed load of followers on social media and another gazillion friends bigging you up, sharing posts, saying how fantastic your book is, but talk is cheap my friend. People have their own lives and shit going on that doesn’t revolve around your heart bleeding all over a novel. Also, people are lazy. Saying they will buy your book post haste or leave a review online is never the gospel truth, so be prepared to roll your eyes and scream to the heavens “why does everyone hate meeeeee?!” at least twice daily. 

Four

You are not going to be on Forbes rich list for being an overnight literary legend.

Get your head out of the clouds/your own arse hole. Yes, dream big and reach for the stars like S Club 7 told us all to do back in 2000, but also get a grip of yourself. Self-publishing is hugely satisfying knowing that you have control over every aspect of your book, but there are also no 'get rich quick' loopholes to emulating E L James who wrote Fifty Shades of Grey. (I'm sure her healthy bank balance takes the sting out of knowing her books are truly terrible.) Coz she's the exception to the rule, and let’s face it honey, most of us are just the rule amongst millions of other rules trying to flog a book. Write because you WANT to and you love it. Do not see writing as a glamourous, entreprenuerial project and certainly not because you want to retire to a yacht in the Caribbean. 

Five

You cannot Jedi mind trick the outcome of your book... and if you have a plan then, HAHAHAHA you're a brave fool.

Your novel is written. It’s published... and you’ve promoted it within an inch of its life. It’s now kicking about on the internets for everyone to get their grubby mitts on. From here on out you have no control over the general public’s reading or buying habits. Your book might get picked up by someone influential and it goes viral amassing to a giant spike in sales, or you may pummel your life savings into a PR team and still your Amazon reports insist on mocking you and everything you stand for. I was interviewed on a national radio show with a legendary broadcasting veteran who has approx 130k listeners to his show. I received only 3 extra sales that day compared to the day before where all I did was tweet something ridiculous but ‘hilarious’ about a banana! You can't plan how well your book will or won't do. There is no sacred algorithm to book sales. You just have to roll with the unpredictability of it all, celebrating your breaks and crying through the madness.

Stressing about something you can’t control is futile. I learnt the hard way after numerous headaches over unrealistic expectations. I defined my success on sales and marketing strategies instead of throwing my hands up in the air (and waving them around like I just don't care), over the biggest achievement of my life thus far... writing a god damn book! My little book is actually doing ok, and there is still a leap in my chest when I see a copy of it or someone tells me how much they've enjoyed it, yet I was carrying on like an insufferable power hungry mutant! Because of my short-sighted mindset, I spectacularly screwed myself before I even began this journey.

It wasn’t until I had a call with my mother last week that I calmed myself down a little. She let me rant like a petulant child and then she said this, “You need to stop this sooner rather than later because you’re ruining this fantastic moment in your life. I don’t know anyone else who has written a book and I’m incredibly proud of you. So, enjoy the feeling of being a published author and stop worrying about sales, promotions, who said what and other uncontrollable forces… now go have a cup of tea!” Bloody hell, mums are great.

So the thing is, I don’t watch Game of Thrones. Yes I am that teeny tiny percentage of the entire global population who not only didn't watch Love Island BUT has never watched a full episode of GOT because it stresses me the hell out!

It’s like a smorgasbord of complete mad shit you can never ever watch with your parents in the same room. The violence makes me so uneasy that I can’t see past the horror to appreciate any of the story. I tried to watch an episode a few years ago and I had to leave the room because it was all kinds of NOPE! Not even when my friend try to coax me back with shouts of “…but Shem, there’s loadsa boobs!” did I want to put myself through the trauma again. So, I decided with no factual reference except memes, hearsay and cryptic Facebook status’ littered over my timeline, to accurately surmise the main characters of a show that I know zero about. Because ya know it’s the internet… and I have opinions and CAPS LOCKS TOO DAMN IT! Jolly good.

Jon Snow

He knows nothing.

Was killed but came back to life.

OMG he’s a zombie then right?!

Or Jesus?

He potentially might save them all if he bends the knee or some shit.

 

Daenerys

She has pet dragons because she’s an independent woman and can do what the hell she wants!

She’s some bad ass queen of some place.

Probably gets her breasts out a lot for no logical reason except… tits.

Ridiculously attractive so I want her to ‘win’ this game of thrones.

 

Tyrion

Looks like he would be fun at parties.

He will make you feel smaller than him with his sassy one liners, which is impressive as he’s very small.

 

Cersei

She’s mentally unhinged and loves the drama.

Likes to have hugely inappropriate sexual relations with her brother.

She seems like she would set you and everything you stand for on fire just because she can/might be irrationally hungry.

Daenerys probably thinks she’s a dick.

 

Joffrey

He has a face that everyone wants to punch.

He looks like your bratty cousin who nobody likes because he’s a twat and cries for attention.

He was king until someone killed him for being a douche.

I would 100% watch GOT just to repeatedly see his stupid face die.

 

Sansa

She had to put up with Joffrey’s shit.

She’s probably been through some shit.

And now she’s become all bitter and shit.

 

Arya

She’s a cute tiny ninja who is on a mission to kill everyone who pissed her off.

She probably would kill me for calling her cute.

I would wanna be her friend just so she wouldn’t kill me.

 

Hodor

He was massive and held a door?

 

Jamie

He bangs his sister Cersei because incest is best.

Everyone hated him to begin with but now they love him.

Maybe it’s his new haircut.

 

Bran

He’s paralysed and can see weird shit.

He’s basically Professor X from the X-Men.

 

Littlefinger

He fancies young girls but that’s fine as GOT encourages madness like paedophilia.

He looks like a sneaky bastard but I still like him because he was in Queer as Folk in the 90s and that show was awesome!

My family are from an idyllic island in the Caribbean called St Vincent. The weather is sweet, the music is even sweeter and the food is unbelievable! The island attracts honeymooners and loved up couples, however I do not ever see myself skipping hand in hand with my girlfriend on the beach. On this tiny island homosexuality is illegal with a potential consequence of up to 10 years of imprisonment. A place where my parents speak so fondly of and has inspired my latest book, is one of 72 countries that still discriminates against same sex relationships. A place that is part of my heritage and cultural DNA outlaws something that I cannot control nor wish to control.

The Caribbean islands are known to be historically and culturally homophobic. Being black and being gay is just not something that you want to promote. (And by ‘promote’ I mean act like a completely decent human being who just so happens to fancy the same sex. Outrageous I know.) Especially when locals have been known to take the law into their own hands with disgusting acts of violence against the LGBT+ community.

When I was 18 I would frequent a bar in my local town and dance til sweaty o’clock in the morning to RnB, Hip Hop and Dancehall music. It was back when people still could smoke inside, so at the end of the night my damp clothes and moist hair would reek of cigarettes. One of my favourite songs at the time was called ‘Chi Chi Man’ by a Jamaican group called T.O.K. It had a primal, racy beat and made everyone lose their minds when the bassline kicked in. At one point of the song, those who owned a lighter would ignite it and wave it around in the air. A gesture that I presumed was showing appreciation for the song as we all excitedly screamed “CHOOOOON!”

It was only a couple of years later that my veil of naivety slipped and I realised that the song I was so enamoured with was an anthem about burning gay men. ‘Chi Chi man’ is Jamaican slang for a gay man. Here are the some of the lyrics:

“From dem a drink inna chi chi man bar
Blaze di fire mek we burn dem!”

Translation: Some guys minding their own damn business are drinking in a gay establishment… so just for fun let’s start a fire and murder them all. Sound.

Pennies. Dropped. Everywhere. Now the lighters in the air made sense and I wanted to throw up at how stupid I was.

The thing is, sometimes I am distracted by privileges that have been bestowed on me. The country I live in, my upbringing, my education, my job… It’s strange to think that I take for granted the autonomy of my own life and because of that I am naïve and innocent to certain ugly truths. I’m fortunate to have grown up in country that somewhat embraces the minority. Female, black, gay… Pass me an ‘other’ box and I will tick that shit all day long! It’s taken a long bloody time and we’re still not there yet but at least I don’t feel like I must tuck in my ‘gay’ for fear of corrective rape or being lynched from a tree. It’s all too easy for me to forget that the freedom to be who I am, is a pleasure that is not afforded to those living in the 72 countries that still outlaw homosexuality.

One day I would love to return to St Vincent and decide that the only reason I am not skipping hand in hand with my girlfriend on the beach is because I might get a stitch from too much cardio, rather than the fear of what others will say or do.

Absolut are running a campaign partnered with Stonewall, to celebrate 50 years since the decriminalisation of homosexuality in Britain. The project includes people from the 72 countries locking lips with pride. Check out the campaign here and use the Snapchat lens #kisswithpride where £1 will be donated to Stonewall. Do it!

 

So, you’ve just been introduced to a new person and now you’re assessing how to continue. You’ve ninja’d yourself around the awkward formalities of a firm hand shake or overly affectionate for a first meeting hug. Or if you’re like me, you may just throw in a sassy air kiss or become panicked altogether and lean in for some heavy petting. Then the inevitable question comes…

“So, what do you do?”

You stare blankly for a moment trying to think of a tantalising response that doesn’t make your job sound as exciting/satisfying as peeling dried PVA glue from your hands. Maybe if you dazzle them with buzz words ripped from an article you read on The Guardian, then you can get the pretend nods and “Oohh that sounds so interesting” lies out the way.

“I’m a freelance online copywriter. You know… words and stuff… on the internets… I sometimes write them… and urmm… stuff.”

9 times out of 10 if I’m with someone super awesome who knows my strange social habits, they always excitedly jump in with, “She is also a writer!” I then cringe so hard my face collapses with mortification.

The thing is, the words “I am a writer” sounds as credible as a 6-year-old playing sheep number 2 in a nativity school play, declaring that they’re an actor. Everyone with a smartphone and an opinion is a bloody writer. Whether you’re banging out inane crap in 140 characters or less on Twitter or penning a masterpiece on a MacBook in a trendy coffee shop. I’ve been writing fictitious stories, poems and plays since I was about 10, which basically means that I’ve been telling lies for approximately 24 years! In the last few years I’ve taken my writing a little more seriously by forcing my words on the unsuspecting public, yet I still feel like I’m going to get busted by the fraud squad any minute now. 

Now I know I can write and I know people enjoy my rhetoric of rambles… and It took me a long time to reach that conclusion. Now I’m not storming the Bastille with my musket and crossbow, bragging at the top of my lungs that I’m a literary genius… because I ain’t! I can string interesting sentences together, and if that makes me an ego-maniac then so be it. I do however struggle with being affiliated with the statement, “I am a writer” as my vocational calling in life. We as individuals are taught from day one to be confident, to have opinions and to be proud of ourselves. BUT we are also programmed to not be too confident, have TOO many opinions or be TOO proud of ourselves. Because then you’re labelled an arrogant asshole and will potentially have online trolls chasing you around the playground/internet with a stick dipped in dog shit.

So, you play it cool. You tuck in your achievements, titles and accolades for fear of being TOO anything.

One day I hope that my self confidence in my abilities will finally appear and stick. And when I’m asked, “what do you do?” I can positively punch someone in the face with, “I am writer damn it!” without throwing up in my mouth a little at my bold, slightly aggressive statement. But right now, I’m just going to nervously stutter through my job title, and continue to misjudge whether to go in for 1 kiss or 2!

 

So, here’s the thing. January sucks… but then it usually does! For example: Everyone is obese/Googling “do I have gout?” due to zero self-control and dignity over the festive period…

Folk are not drinking alcohol/trying out some new 30-day fad that usually ends in ‘ism’ or ‘oxify’ to prove to their Facebook followers that they have hidden depths to their personality…

And generally, we’re all broke because the month of January appears to last roughly 14 years without a payday in sight.

Oh, and this year a certain asshole became president and made me want to set myself on fire every time the BBC breaking news flashes up on my newsfeed. Either someone super famous, talented and amazing has died... or Trump has now decided to issue a 24 hour violent purge of the entire LGBT+ community.

I spent this morning reading the comment section of some pro-Trump article where it escalated from hating all Muslims to boldly stating that it was black people’s fault that we were stolen from Africa and forced into slavery. Like... I mean... I can't.

At this point (after I picked up my phone that I had somewhat aggressively lobbed across the room and into the wall) I decided that there just HAS to be something ‘good’ in this dismal month of January. So, before we hit up February here’s what I figured… hold tight my friends… life is ok BECAUSE…

One – You don’t need to leave your house because it’s cold as feck outside! The relationship with your sofa and pizza stained onesie is the only true relationship you need to maintain right now. You also don’t have to make up elaborate lies as to why you can’t socialise... because everyone is hating life just as much as you right now.

Two – It’s award season so you get to oohhh and aaahhh over controversial movies and discuss at length with a work colleague who doesn’t give a shit about your opinion, why a best actor nominee is the wrong choice for an Oscar… because Meryl Streep probably should win everything.

Three – February is so very nearly here! So, you get to re-do your January with a little more prep, a healthy glow from your new whimsical vegan diet, and less of a fucking attitude. Ideally speaking.

So here’s the thing. Trump is the President-elect of the United States. Some of you may have cheered but I’m fairly certain that many people cried real tears. I soaked up an entire 24 hours of wallowing and reading numerous articles that made me want to strap on a proton pack and take to the streets on an ill-fated crusade. A whole 24 hours I will never get back. I mourned for the loss of humanity and basic common sense… and then I wrote a childlike ditty on par with a nursery rhyme... all about my feels…

So after I picked up my toys… I, like everyone else on the planet had to suck up the fact that it is what it is. No matter how much I still have pyrotechnic tendencies whenever I see Donny Trump’s stupid face. 

Just like Brexit I am appalled with the outcome. However, what has rendered me completely dumbfounded is the notion that some folk genuinely do not think that supporting Trump has ANYTHING to do with being a racist cockroach. Now you can throw your chat and ideology ripped from a well versed textbook of ‘how to win arguments but piss off the entire planet’ at me if you like… but anyone who can’t see that Donald Trump is a platform to projectile vomit hate, deserves to be repeatedly spanked with the DVD box set of Roots… and then bitch slapped with 12 Years A Slave.

Those who voted for Trump and to leave the EU handed uneducated, patriarchal enablers a splurge gun to attack those who are considered ‘other’. Whether that’s the LGBT+ community, ethnic minorities, Muslims or females. People are running scared. It’s a fucking disaster movie but Will Smith is missing in action… and Bruce Willis isn’t here to kill the baddies or drill a hole in an asteroid to avert a global catastrophe.

You can dress up the voting demographic and their intentions as much as you like. “Something something… the NHS… something something immigration laws…” The one true absolute I believe in is thus… Trump and Brexit tapped into the fear and hate bubbling inside most individuals. We all want change but instead of a grown up conversation between both sides of the argument… we were left super confused and then gifted the power to make a monumental decision based on the following:

Presidency election: Vote for some mad man with shit hair, no experience, who wants to build walls, grab pussy and possibly have sexual relations with his own daughter… OR some woman who just isn’t Trump! Oh and she's bezzos with Jay-Z and Beyonce so must be cool right…?!

Brexit: Vote to stay in the EU for reasons nobody really understands… OR to leave the EU because I hate my Polish co-worker and Mr Patel who lives two doors down from me is incredibly annoying. Jolly good.

We all played ourselves and now we all have to deal with this fractured dystopian climate. So if you voted for Trump or championed leaving the EU, please do not avoid the obvious to make yourself feel better.

Do not tell me that racism amongst Trump and Brexit supporters is a misconception. Do not tell me that hate crime directly after the results of the votes was a glitch in the Matrix. Just please PLEASE do not sit there and tell me that disdain for minority groups played no role in this tumultuous cluster fuck I like to fondly refer to as 2016.

When I wrote the first blog post, I was a mere mother of one. I thought it was sooooo hard at times! Fast forward 14 months and I now have three children and I didn’t even know the meaning of hard! So here’s part two, the struggle is real!

Plan for my morning: I wake up and after a relaxed breakfast where everyone eats their food politely. I dress my girls in matching outfits and Aidan like Prince George. My sister and I head off to the shopping centre to buy early Christmas presents because I’m so organised and it’s September. The girls are in their pram together and people will approach me and ask me how possibly am I doing it all?! “Is he yours too?” they’ll ask. I'll just smile and say something humble! We'll come home, all three will nap while we batch cook healthy nutritious meals for them and I catch up on my admin.

What actually happens: They all wake up at the same time, all starving. Aidan throws his bottle across the room and then screams cos he can't find it. He must have his blue blanket, soother and bottle in his hands at all times. Nothing else will do! The girls also scream for their bottles but when I go to feed them they act like its poison. I change all three nappies but nobody is going to get dressed today, least of all myself. Short respite where I try to make myself some breakfast, big mistake. Huge! They can sense this… never turn your back and show your weakness! All are now screaming/crying and nappy changing starts again. I leave them for one minute and Aidan has lovingly bitten his sisters.

Plan for dinner: (in a 4* restaurant) Aidan will sit in his fancy high chair and eat the €10 bowl of soup he's been given. He'll stay there for the duration and other diners will compliment me on my beautiful child. I'll say "I have newborn twins also" and they'll shower me with praise. The girls will stay asleep the whole time so Niall and I can eat in peace.

What actually happens: Aidan sits in his high chair for approx 6 minutes. The rest of the time he's trying to cock block a man on an expensive date. He chooses not to eat his overpriced soup, preferring instead to eat only bread and the Liga biscuit I brought. He wanders around the restaurant with different family members apologising to other diners throughout the day and pulling him away. There's soup in his hair, all over his clothes and he's developed a love for banging spoons on the table. The girls are awake the whole time and we eat our dinner with a baby each. They are also covered in soup.

I've drank two large glasses of white and we leave the restaurant vowing never to eat with them again until their graduations. Aidan waves goodbye to everyone, they wave back.

Plan for night time: Before I say anything about this, nine times out of ten Aidan sleeps 8-7.30ish (smug mother) so he's actually grand. But there is always that one out of ten nights...

Aidan goes to bed at 8. The twins will sit in their pillow, take 6 ounces each in 15 minutes. They close their little eyes and hold hands while they sleep in their cute onesies. Niall and I will drink wine and sit there, knowing we’re superior to every other parent! They all sleep throughout the night and we all wake refreshed and ready for a day spent together.

What actually happens: Mayhem til the AM!

8pm - Aidan goes to bed.

10.30pm- Niamh takes half her bottle, falls asleep.

10.45pm- Fianna wakes, takes one ounce, stays awake and squawks for 30 minutes.

11pm- Niamh wakes, wants the rest of her bottle NOW. Niall tries to feed her. POISON! She cries for half an hour, finally sleeps.

11.30pm - Fianna wakes, wants the rest of her bottle.

12am- Niall and I aren't speaking. We fall asleep.

2am - Aidan wakes. Cries to get into the bed.

2.34am - Niamh wakes, she's in the bed.

3.15am - Fianna wakes, FURIOUS that she's the only one not in the bed.

3.16-7am - All the kids sleep soundly, warm in our bed. Niall and I still aren't speaking!

Plan for writing this blog post: The girls will stare adoringly at their mother as I pen a masterpiece of hilarity! Aidan will sit and read his book. He's soooo advanced! I will smile and look at them thinking how #blessed I am.

What actually happens: Bitch please!!! Chaos ensues!

I often say with a disgruntled tone and a twisted judgemental grimace, “how is this still a thing?” And by ‘this’ I could mean a plethora of subjects that piss me off on a casual Thursday. So as I endure what can only be described as jetlag from hell coupled with the inability to decide if I’m hungry or simply bored… Stay with me and my musings, as I try not to vomit or slip myself a rohypnol…

One – Donald Trump

This requires little explanation. But seriously… America. WTF?! It’s like a bad joke that has got waaay out of hand and I kinda feel like I’m owed an apology.

Two – Brexit

Remember that one time the idiots in charge decided it was a great idea to let us vote on something nobody actually understood? And then racist folk rejoiced as it apparently gave them a platform to tell everyone who wasn’t white and British to ‘piss off back to your own country!’ I’m still incredibly embarrassed by my country. The state of you!

Three – Shite Music

If I hear another lazy repetitive beat mixed with a classic tune (ripped from an era when musicians actually had the skills to give us an intense eargasm) I may just shake my fist in the air and moan about it some more. I realise how old I sound but if the vibe doesn’t make me wanna get down like some sweaty hooligan at a Will Smith concert… then I’m not interested.

Four – Celeb Gossip versus Real News

What do Cheryl Cole’s suspected baby rumours and Kim Kardashian’s latest attention seeking escapade have in common? They both share the exact number of fucks I give about them… which is zero. Bigger things are going on in the world yet words like ‘contouring’ and ‘butt implants’ have filtered into everyday discourse. Who do I need to speak to about this?!

Five – Black People and Police

I. CAN’T. EVEN.

Six – Mass Shootings in America

From January up until about 5 minutes ago when I checked a truly depressing website tallying the amount of gun crime in the US, 484 people have died because… guns. The worst part is how desensitised we’ve become when we hear about such atrocities and roll our eyes when people change their profile pic with the hashtag “Pray For *insert another country/state/cause/person here*”

Seven – Girls versus Boys

Why are girls still indoctrinated with the gospel of having to be careful on a night out, but boys aren’t told to not rape? Rape culture is a thing and we need to not only educate our daughters, sisters, friends about sexual assault but start hammering home to the fellas that consent is paramount and a basic human right. 

Eight – Free WiFi… Everywhere!

How are we still here?! Why am I still having pangs of anxiety when I’m abroad because the hotspot signal is as effective as AOL dial up from 1997? Or when I’m on the Tube/plane and desperately need to play Solitaire with internet connection without having to pay for some app... whilst traversing perilous dangers of clickbait ads for the pleasure?! GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT WE WANT! FREE STUFF DAMN IT!