You call it a kiss, l call it treason.

Now, after a lengthy absence (moving house, birthdays, blah blah) l was all ready to regale you with tales of DIY fails (four fingers attached to a tube of Superglue instead of two wardrobe doors attached to the wardrobe), end of term antics (passing out head first into a kitchen sink), romance (trying to seduce the rather young and ginger telephone engineer with tea and consequently spilling it down his trousers. Unintentionally, of course.), and other random nuggets of that my entertain you (discovering a remarkable likeness of myself as a slavering sabre toothed dinasour in one of my pupils' sketchbooks). However, having had a few days free from standing at the front of a classroom and postulating on the theory of evolution (or, How You Can Spin An Owl's Head Until It Flies Like A Helicopter) and the like, l am feeling the need to clamber onto my soapbox for a short while.

The thing is, over the past year l have begun to lose my faith in humanity.

Maybe l still hanker after fairytale romance, perhaps it is my Christian upbringing, or indeed a fundamental inherited morality, but l truly believe in fidelity. However, l am beginning to feel like a Victorian virgin clutching onto her iron chastity belt whilst all her friends are testing out vibrators on their noses at an Anne Summers party. Gay or straight, married, affianced, with child or not, it appears that all around me are indulging in some extra curricular entertainment of the sexual kind. Without guilt or remorse.

Now, don't get me wrong, l have not been in some kind of bubble for the past 30-odd years, imagining that celebrities and royals were the only ones caught with their toes in someone else's mouths. My parent's divorce was due to a dalliance on my mother's behalf, l myself have swapped saliva with another's boyfriend, and my recent heartbreak had everything to do with a drunken misdemeanour of the naked kind. However, in each of these cases both inanimate and animate objects (the cat) were thrown, curses of leprosy, plague, and boils invoked, and many tears of remorse and pleas for forgiveness uttered. Thus the infidels acknowledge that their actions are heinous, and become the villains of the story. I like this kind of logic.

Where my brain starts to have a slight meltdown, other than trying to install a printer driver 12 times onto my laptop which then informs me of a 'Fatal Error' 98% of the way through which results in a 'Fatal Error' of the hammer-through-the-keyboard-type, is the view amongst my peers and other acquaintances that infidelity is another badge to be collected and worn, albeit invisibly, on their chest. That it is is somehow an accepted course of action when one is a little bored, or had a little too much to drink. Something that is to be laughed off. Something that is as inconsequential as throwing all your clothes off and swimming across a river to 'rescue' a gnome from a garden on the other side. Maybe not the best analogy, but you get the point. It seems that while lip service is paid to faithfulness, in reality the majority of people are grabbing a handful of forbidden flesh in the broom closet.

So, l remain disappointed and disillusioned. Maybe l have missed an important Public Announcement at some point in my life. Did the Prime Minister suddenly issue a White Paper for polygamy? Are we all allowed several partners at once? With no comeback? Do we need to start rewriting the fairytales? Is Prince Charming about to be found knocking one off over Skype to one of the Ugly Sisters? If so, l have one hell of a lot of catching up to do. Starting with that BT Engineer.

Behind the picket line.

There are many occasions in life that find me enthusiastically screaming and shouting until my voice is hoarse. But only one that is done so naked. The others tend to involve me hurling various obscenities from a muddy sideline and/or pub stool, drunkenly caterwauling my way through some rock anthem whilst holding onto a confused stranger for dear life, or attempting to get the attention of a long-fantasised-over rock star amid a crowd of several thousand knickerless ladies who have all had the same idea. Quite frankly, I embarrassingly lose any remaining self respect or inhibitions and throw myself full force (l nearly wrote full frontal, a Freudian slip if ever there was one) into the moment.

You would think, then, that political marches, tree-top living, oil-tanker ambushes and the like would be right up my street. All that banner waving, chanting and general raucous behaviour should really appeal to someone of my  antagonistic nature. But it doesn't. Not in any way. In fact, whenever I happen to chance upon a march of any sort I hot foot it in the other direction. Apart from the time when I ended up heading a procession in Seville. In a car. In 35 degree heat. Police were banging on the windows, protesters were attempting to tie banners onto the wipers, and, I, fearing for my life and attempting to mime a wrong turn, ended up half suffocated by a map. Not my finest moment.

My general antipathy towards protests, however, does not prevent me from joining the masses when l feel it is required. I just avoid the chanting, refuse to wave a banner, and generally get through the whole ordeal with a flask of whisky. Marching against the Iraq War - TICK. Marching against the hike in University Fees - TICK. Marching against the changes to Teacher's Pensions - I remain undecided.

School is currently a political hotbed, with groups of teachers huddled on the corners of every corridor, rumours of strikes, tactical union membership changes, and the possibility of school closure fuelling every heated whispered debate. The militant protesters are on the hunt for new recruits, and are zealously evangelical about the horrors of the coalition government, placing hand drawn posters of the Education Minister as Satan with the Prime Minister as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in everyone's desk. One such vigilante appeared in my classroom with fire in his eyes as he spouted the Law According to NUT. He left a couple of minutes later with posters staple-gunned to his nipples. Much to my pupils' amusement.

I think it may be the hours of my childhood that were spent listening intently as a preacher after preacher proclaimed the Word of the Lord, Death to all Sinners, and How Tambourine Playing Saves Your Soul. It could be that I was forced to spend my Saturdays performing badly choreographed dance routines in the street to entice more foul-souled shoppers to redeem themselves the following Sunday morning. Perhaps it is the days spent memorising whole sections of the Bible ( I still know Psalm 1 by heart, should it ever appear on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire), or that I spent a weekend hiking in horizontal rain carrying a chicken that subsequently caught pneumonia and whose neck l had to then attempt to break with a log, or that l frequently got my mouth washed out with soap if l so much as tapped my foot to 'Like a Virgin'. Whatever the cause, try to convert me and you will find that I stand there with my fingers stuck in my ears, shouting 'Anarchy in the UK' approximately 0.5cm from your eardrum. And a leaflet staple-gunned to an intimate part of your anatomy.

Instead, l prefer to come to my own conclusions. I like to know all the information, and take a balanced approach. So l have read a lot this weekend, formulating arguments, and deciding what my plan of action will be for the week ahead. As l delved into the labyrinthine tunnels of information that the internet holds, l stumbled across all the Bills that Parliament are currently debating. There are the usual suspects - Education, Welfare Reform, Asylum Seekers, but there are some anomalies. Ones that have not reached the headlines, for reasons that will become apparent.

1.) That the Royal Mint should produce commemorative coins for the Olympics that weigh 1 Kilogram. Is this a subtle ploy to win the war against obesity, to succeed where Jamie Oliver has failed by filling the pockets of the nation with overweight coinage? Nonsense. They need to produce commemorative coins that can only be used when you have collected all five parts from your box of cereal, and stuck them altogether with super glue.

2.) That people who have removed or attempted to remove snow from public places are immune from prosecution. I am not sure how clearing snow could be construed as a criminal offence, unless you had access to a snow plough and destroyed several neighbour's gardens and flattened a pet llama in the process, and l am not sure what unfortunate event would have led to an M.P realising that the law still existed. However, I, for one, am in favour. I suspect that being arrested and convicted for clearing a snow drift would hold no kudos in the prison system.

3.) That local bowling greens should be protected from local redevelopment. Obviously put forward by someone who enjoys spending an evening bleaching and starching white trousers to within an inch of their lives, and then donning them to roll a few balls about on a small piece of grass that has been trimmed with nail scissors by a member of the local OCD help group. Build a house on it.  Look at the French, all they need is a bit of gravel and a bottle of red wine to enjoy their ball rolling.


So there we have it. One one hand, our government are sailing our pensions down the river, on the other, they are saving our bowling greens. I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies. Now, where is that picket line again?

Unforgotten.

Tomorrow it will be three years.

The date is a scar, the loss remains poignant.

I sometimes wish that l could

Feel the weight of you in my arms

Smell the warmth of your skin

Watch you sleep.

I often wonder

What your future would have held

Whether you would have had my dark eyes or his green

My offbeat humour or his sense of injustice.

I know that

Everything l had would have been yours

That love and pride would have consumed me

But that l didn't have the strength to give you them then.

Cherished as my first, you maybe my only

Always remembered, a shadow ever loved

Irreplaceable.

Tomorrow l will shed your tears

Flowers on an empty grave.

"She Must Try Harder"

Reports. Currently the bane of my existence.

Even you are not a teacher (and presumably most of you have not been born with unfortunate desire to spend the bulk of your waking hours coercing those hormone saturated little buggers into seeing further into the distance than which of their friends is currently posting pictures of themselves pouting at a camera on the Book of Faces) then l am sure you will remember the dreaded day that your report card would land with a doom laden thud on your doormat, or, worse still, when you would have to physically place the wretchedly thick envelope in your parent's hand. The day when you found out that your Science teacher had clocked every single time you had attempted to reshape your eyebrows with a Bunsen burner. That your English teacher had not considered the collection of notes to your best friend about how much you longed for Gregory Smythe to finally touch your breasts appropriate practice for your 'persuasive writing' coursework. That your P.E teacher thought that your attempt at creating a new sport, 'Netty', a combination of Netball and Rugby which generally resulted in broken noses, split lips, and your opponent suspended on a goal post, was less a moment of sporting genius than an example of not-so-subtle revenge on the school bitches. As a child, l generally spent those days hiding behind curtains or under sofa cushions until the inevitable tornado of my mother's anger had calmed. At least enough for her to have stopped searching for vacancies at the local nunneries.

But now, the power is my hands. Whilst the task of report writing is tedious in itself, particularly when it involves filling in an A5 sheet for over 330 pupils in the space of three weeks when 'Copy and Paste' is VERBOTEN by the powers above, l do truly take great pleasure in being able to praise those students who have worked hard, and to write derisory comments about those who l have had thoughts about setting alight since the start of the school year. The hardest to write about are the ones who l can't actually remember having ever taught. Even when l look up the photo, l could swear on my life they have never set foot in my classroom.Which is either a sign of the early onset of Alzheimers or that the child has spent a entire year of art lessons disguised as a table leg.

It doesn't matter whether the report you are writing is good, bad, or indifferent, every teacher has to learn the art of communicating their true thoughts and feelings in a phraseology and language that is subtle enough to pass muster by not only the school management, but also the parents themselves. Indeed, writing, "Little Johnny apparently loses the ability to control his hands the minute he picks up a pencil" or "It is a shame that the effort that Gertrude puts in to the application of her drag-like make-up is not translated into her use of paint" is likely to end up in an unfortunate court case, and an irate bull-dog of a father eating your liver for breakfast. Neither pleasant nor desirable, nor a good career move.

So, instead, you use phrases such as the following: "She has made huge progress this year" (Transl: She has mastered the ability to draw a straight line); "He is often distracted in lessons" (Transl: Every lesson he spends more time looking at girl's breasts than his work); "To improve she must use neater pencil marks" (Transl: Her work looks as if she has shoved a pencil in her nostril and attempted to draw with it); and, "He does not put his full effort into achieving his full potential in tasks" (Transl: Despite taping a pencil to his fingers, sitting him facing a blank wall, and forcing him to listen to Cheryl Cole on repeat, he still refuses to do any work whatsoever). The last one is not true. Honest. At least, it was System of a Down, not Cheryl Cole. And his ears only bled a little.

In fact, my parents have kept all my report cards, and  l recently re-read them in a completely different light. In my mind, l was a pupil beloved of all my teachers, even my History teacher who took every excuse to 'jokingly' knock me on the head with a hardback book. According to these reports, it is lucky that l escaped school with my limbs intact, and without ever have been hung from a gym ladder and repeatedly beaten with a hockey stick.

On that note, l am going to stop being distracted by memories of Gregory Smythe and the overwhelming stench of his father's Old Spice, cease listening to Frank Turner on repeat and dreaming about Dave Grohl, and am definitely going to finish writing these damned reports.  See Ma? I am trying MUCH harder.

 *Okay, just ONE more listen...

And the winner is....

I must make a confession. One month ago l committed a crime more abhorrent than any l have committed before. At least, not since l eliminated an entire nest of mice with a glue gun and glitter. But that is another story. No, this was much worse.

 I had a moment of empathy for Gwyneth Paltrow. *If you need a vomit break, please go now*

Yes, for a brief moment l felt l had a millimetre of common ground with that smug, Madonna-befriending, yoga-mat toting, macro-whatever diet munching, wife of the whining Chris Martin. Specifically, her nauseating Oscar moment.

Now, it was not that l had a significant wardrobe oversight, and wore a corset designed for an ample couple of breasticles as opposed to a couple of enlarged nipples. Either eat some meat, Gwynnie, or invest in a gel bra. Nor did l subject millions of viewers to a sobbing,  rambling, rather desperate 'speech' that resulted in the same millions of viewers reaching for the nearest bottle of morphine to numb the pain.

I did, however, receive my first ever sports award. As one who was always chosen last for the team at school, this was an overwhelming event. So much so that l guarded my shield fiercely for the rest of the evening, growling and baring my teeth at anyone who dared to come near. It was my bedfellow for the night, and remains so to this day. I may even buy it a special red velvet cushion. Apparently l am supposed to give it back next year. I may emigrate instead.

But it must be my year. For a couple of days ago, l received another award, from the lovely Frisky Virgin herself.

This is a dangerous award for someone who enjoys a power trip as much as l. The reason l became a teacher was the opportunity to meld young minds on a daily basis. It still amuses me to 'embellish' certain information within the classroom, and for it to be returned, often verbatim,  in 30 pieces of homework. If you ever bump into someone in a few years time who is convinced that flamingos only have one leg, or will argue that polar bears are Grizzly bears that have been interbred with the DNA of a chameleon, it is likely they have been taught by myself.

But l digress. This award means l have the power to change three (only THREE?) things to make this world a better place. Realistically, it would take me years to get this world ship shape and bristol fashion, but l suppose l have to start somewhere.

1.) 'My Bad'. Anyone uttering this phrase should be placed in stocks and have soiled nappies aimed at their open mouths with giant catapults. I have no idea where this phrase originated, but it is usually said in an offhand, abrasive manner that implies an apology that is absent of any sincerity whatsoever. But that is not my main bug bear. It is that it makes no sense. My bad what? My bad cooking? My bad piano playing? My bad smelling fungal infection? Either finish the sentence properly or learn how to apologise in the correct manner.

2.) Caravans. In this day and age, l see no point to caravans. They are a somewhat unsatisfactory compromise between tents and hotels. Flimsy walls, uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, an inescapable 'toilet' odour, minimal cooking facilities, and cold showers. They cause more traffic jams than any other vehicle. When parked en masse they distort the natural order of nature. They need to be annihilated. I suggest employing teams of ninjas to push them off the cliff tops on which they are perched, one by one. This should send out the appropriate message.

3.) Bad tattoos. Admittedly, this may be subjective, but since l am currently wearing the Overlord cape l am making the rules. Any persons found with tattoos on their chest, calves, thighs, neck, face, fingers, breasts,stomach or buttocks will be forced to wear plasters (band aids for you American citizens) over said body art, lest it be offensive to the Overlord's eyes. There shall also be restrictions on the subject matter. As this list of banned items is rather extensive, and includes everything from names of children to dolphins, all tattoo artists will be appointed by her Overlord, and will be required to submit all designs for approval. It should be noted that anything deemed 'Celtic' will automatically be burnt and a scream of frustration will be heard across the land.

Small changes, but not insignificant.

Oh, and apparently l am supposed to pass this award on too. So, lucky subjects, here goes. Although it will do you good to remember the afore mentioned story of the mice. I have glue guns and glitter a-plenty for those who forget who the TRUE Overlord is.

Have fun:

Mr Condescending

For Everything, A Reason

Left Alone With A Full Moon

Sarcastically Bitter

The Barreness

You Don't Need A Cock To Rock

Packing Pandora's Box.

I have moved house countless times in my life. So familiar is the task of packing and unpacking boxes and bags that l think l could take it up as a profession. Indeed, l would not be surprised to hear that the staff at the local supermarket think l have developed some kind of cardboard fetish, or that l am attempting to reconstruct the Eiffel Tower in my back garden. My house is starting to resemble either an illegal sweat shop, or the hovel of a sculptor. The boxes may even be starting to reproduce.

Some of these house moves have been ones of joy, and others have been performed under duress and amidst floods of tears. Some have involved a convoy of cars filled to the brim with boxes, some with merely a suitcase and a toothbrush.

All have had their moments. The family cat escaping from its basket in the front of the car and scaring my mother out of her wits. Swinging a van sharply around a tight corner to hear a mirror smashing against a set of drawers which consequently meant l was picking shards of glass out of my knickers for weeks. Trying to pass off the 'buzzing' sound in one box to a friend as an electric toothbrush, which was awkward and embarrassing for us both.

The impending move is bitter sweet. Packing away objects that were part of a different existence. Re-reading old letters. Sorting through books and films that provoked week long discussions. Knowing that these memories may never be unpacked. The joy of treasured moments, and the sadness of the loss.

However. There is often a moment when, sifting through your belongings, you re-discover a long lost love.

Turn up the volume. Grab some bubble wrap. Leap about in your slippers. Enjoy.

Diamanté, tight leather trousers and excessive hair gel.

I apologise in advance for the Euro-centric theme to this post, specifically for those of you who hail from lands further away than, say, Azerbaijan (No idea if that is a real country? It IS. I know, l was surprised too. And had to Google the spelling.). However, l suggest you read on. It will be a cultural enlightenment for you. Honest.

One Saturday night every May sees me seated in front of a television screen for 4 hours solid, wearing a Union Jack leotard and cape ensemble, complete with tattoos of Our Royals on each butt cheek, waving a flag in one hand whilst sporadically cramming themed snacks into my slacked jawed mouth. Not, as l am sure you would naturally infer from my description, to watch a Royal wedding, nor to support our hard-working but ultimately trophy-phobic sports teams. No. It is SO much better. It is the Eurovision Song Contest.

It is the night when 25 out of 43 countries that come under the currently drooping umbrella of Europe send their best singers to compete in a song contest. One song, specially composed for the night, and voted for (hopefully) by the rest of the continent. Considering the hype, you may suppose that the prize is something breathtaking. Perhaps all the money the IMF has to offer. But no, they win the honour of hosting the event the following year. With all the expense it incurs. Although, on reflection, that may be why Greece put forward a duo of a  rapper whose speech seemed hindered by the fact that his tongue had grown into his cheek and a manboy who had a voice with emotive qualities of a horny peacock attempting to seduce a reluctant hen. Using a vuvuzela. Attached to a loud hailer.

But l digress. For those of you unfamiliar with this whole event, here follows a brief breakdown:

Two presenters - Usually ex-singers or presenters who have been dragged out of a cupboard somewhere. Fake-tanned, botox-ed, and hair dried to within an each of their lives, and told to 'be funny'. They aren't. Ever. They inevitably make you want to do what you did with your Barbie and Ken, ie., remove their limbs and replace them in the wrong holes, tie them together head to toe, and put them in a piping hot oven. Or was that just me?

Performers - A selection of Europe's finest musicians, apparently. Which may be why the charts are dominated by artists from the US of A. From guitar strumming, checked jacket wearing octogenarians, to teenagers bouncing across a laser-lit stage wearing enough diamanté and neon to blind an astronaut, to those 'alternative' kids who wear cheap leather and lots of angst ridden eye-liner but at the end of the night like nothing more than a cup of tea and a hug from their mum. Each of them giving their all on a stage with a backdrop of flashing lights, cheap graphics, and a crowd of flag waving, badly dressed (think sandals and socks) Europeans. They perform songs of the quality that make you feel like you are being aurally abused, whatever the genre they choose. The staging and costumes are the standard of your average infant school talent show - all glitter, glue, sugar paper and staple guns. They can be split into three categories. Either the countries are going for the straight female/gay vote by sending out their hunkiest young males wearing unrealistically tight trousers that will rip at the hint of a lunge and enough hair gel to rebuild Japan. On the other hand, the straight male/gay female vote is won by placing a selection of nubile young females on stage who wear dresses that, what they lack in material, make up for in adhesiveness. The third category is the nationalist vote, which can only be won by singers who had hits centuries ago, sing about 'the good ol' times' in their national language, and who, when the camera pans backstage, have their hand up the skirt of one of the afore mentioned young ladies.

Crowd - As described above. Oh, also, they can't dance. Or maybe that is unfair, perhaps moving two seconds behind the beat, one leg in the opposite direction of the other, whilst waving ones hands manically counts as dancing.

Commentator - An Irish comedian who bitches about outfits, presenters, performers, and crowd like xenophobia never existed. Basically, like the majority of the UK population, pretends disdain about the whole event whilst secretly obsessing about it, knowing all the statistics, and phone voting for Jedward to a loss of over £100. Don't judge me. I love the fact they can't even jump in time.

Representatives - After the performances have taken place each country nominates someone (usually a minor celebrity) to give the results of the votes in that particular country, They have one minute to do this. Without exception, each one attempts to catch the eye of a movie producer in that time. Women with hair the height of the Eiffel Tower, men with over-plucked eyebrows. This will be their one moment of fame. Literally. The next time they receive that much attention will be when they are trying to sell incontinence pads on the local shopping channel.

Add in some fireworks, and there you have it. This is what passes for entertainment in this eccentric continent.

You need it n your life.

But as a word of advice, stay away from the themed snacks. Apparently roast beef, Camembert and schnitzel pizza followed by Edam, paella and beetroot flavoured goulash does nothing for your digestive system. Who knew?

P.S - Azerbaijan won. That's how l know it exists.