Read All About It

I can CATEGORICALLY CONFIRM that the St Helens Reporter should be immediately absolved of any association with the Leveson Enquiry. Insinuations that my phone was hacked, that my bins were rooted through or that friends have been approached to divulge salacious details of my squalid past are total and utter fabrication.

I HAVE got mahoossive teeth. Betty IS worryingly bald. That wallpaper DOES make our house look like a nursing home.
This is where the accuracies between my life and that of the together-looking charlatan in the picture start and absolutely bloody end. Somebody definitely didn't do their homework.

Firstly: an i-phone? On maternity pay? Er...hello?
Sure, my 'two yoghurt pots attached by a piece of string' don't rival the coverage offered by Vodafone, but their monthly minutes allowance is beyond generous.

Secondly: "warts and all posts"?
Yes, I am incapable of resisting the urge to squeeze and dig at every blocked blackhead and pulsing pore on my grease glazed grid. I've endured more than a handful of scuffles with my aggressively inflamed haemorrhoidal tormentors. My fungal nail infection is rife, my nasal hair is wildly unkempt and I've recently befriended the most long standing of my verrucas, Pauline.
But WARTS? Don't be so disgusting.



Thirdly: "a creative outlet"?
Creative = artistic, inventive, resourceful, innovative. Listen mate, if you're going to write a review - it'd be a bloody good idea to read the bugger first. You'll find no 'creativity' swinging round this joint. I pride myself on offering a daily shot of mind-numbing moan, peppered with a tedious monotony of repetitive whinging.
I could only be more impressively British stood muttering in a queue.

Finally: "not a particularly maternal person"?
This, to be fair, is correct. But. Having frequently nestled my three month old daughter in my handbag as a fashion accessory, having once head butted the Tooth Fairy after a late night disagreement about an incisor,  and having purposely spread wholly inappropriate rumours about the private life of Thomas The Tank, I believe this may be a slight understatement.

So there it was. Me and The Poop in the media.


There was no dogged pursuit of the sordid truth; no tenacious drive to delve into my private life; no gritty excavation of the sordid past I strive relentlessly to hide.

Just a wholesome caricature of 'mummy done good'. A balanced, rational image of normalness and acceptability.
Silly buggers.

A scene of calm, restful family life (once the hypodermic needles, prescription drug spillages and recreational explosives had been airbrushed out).