ranting housewife

Whilst perusing yesterdays online Guardian, (ohh, I'm soo down with the kids, me!). One of their lead stories caught my eye. If you haven't read it, then it's probably enough for you to know that the extremist anti-abortion movement has now touched down on these shores. Now I understand that this is an inflamatory issue but I, for one, find this development very sinister. I've personally never had an abortion but I would defend to the death a womans right to have one, if only because the alternatives to legalised abortion are too hideous to contemplate. I don't think you need to have watched Alfie (the Michael Caine one, haven't seen the one with Smarmy Law) or Vera whatever it was called to work this one out yourself.
What pro-lifers fail to understand (and never seem to mention) is that these decisions are never taken lightly, when was the last time you spoke to a woman who gaily mentions her abortion as if it were a barrel of laughs? Not to mention the thousands of unloved (and probably neglected) children who would be born, should this bunch of misanthropists get their way.
I realise that the pictures of foetuses they show are disturbing and rightly so. But I'm convinced that the aim of this far-right movement is to keep women in line and this is just another way to punish females for achieving some semblance of equality. Why else would these groups issue death threats and harass abortion clinic workers and doctors. Perhaps it's because in their eyes, "life is sacred". Yeah, I'm still trying to work out the complexities of that one, aswell.

I should confess now, I used to be one of those atrocious ladette types. You know, one of those ones that the Daily Mail sermonises on and which always seem to be accompanied by a picture of Sara Cox and Zoe Ball innocently enjoying a few beveridges with gobs open and legs akimbo. Not that I think this is a bad thing but I wouldn't want you to tell my sprogs, I'm supposed to be an adult now, you know. As any self respecting ladette knows, an essential part of the experience is pretending to like football and so, appropriately, I used to attend home football matches (oh alright, if you must know, it was Arsenal , I can hear the groans from here). This education, (yes, I even took the trouble to learn the offside rule, a feat that even some linesmen can't manage) has come in handy over the years, my first husband was an arsenal fan, so's the current holder of the hubby title. Even the first man I fell head over heels in love with (earning the priviledge of deflowering me to the soundtrack of the Cure's Disintegration) was an Arsenal fan and funnily enough quite a lot of my subsequent boyfriends were. As you can imagine, this has left me open to some ridicule. A friend of mine (rather uncharitably) used to wonder aloud, whether I had a billboard at Highbury, (well he is a Leyton Orient supporter, they probably allow that sort of thing at Brisbane Road). But lately football lost some of its allure for me, most games just don't seem very entertaining and while I found the "Special One" and his grey dreamcoat amusing for the first season, it's rather old hat now. As is his lack of grace, very appealling in a man, being a bad loser (anyone watching the Chelsea v W Brom match will know what I'm getting at here). Add that to the fact that you are never more than three feet from someone that Rio Ferdinard has tried to lure into his deluxe kingsize and, well need I say more?
In addition to all this, I'm a cricket widow. Every summer weekend, me and the sprogs are left to fend for ourselves whilst hubs pretends he's Beefy Botham (the similarity is alarming and I'm not talking about his skills with the bat or ball). So in an effort to honour my vows of betrothal, I've spent 2 years swotting up on googlies and the meaning of LBW (he'd better not trade me in for an airline stewardess after all this). Actually, I quite enjoy watching the cricket but not half as much as I enjoy Rugby Union. But that's a story for the future and part 2 of this epic, my friend. Right now I need (and I really do) to catch up on some beauty sleep, before hubs decides he wants to emulate Beefy in ways that don't involve whites and little red balls.

As I may have previously mentioned, I loathe James Blunt (and Coldplay for that matter. Namedropping one of my favourite bands does not excuse you, Chris Martin and as for you Mac Mcculloch, you've been demoted from your previous godlike status for your participation in the praise of this onerous bunch of morons). I think it's safe to assume that some toady A&R man somewhere has decided that Bloody James Blunt would be a big hit with a certain demographic (female, still fertile, middle class). And feel free to assume that I fit that demographic (for middle class, read, lumbered with a mortgage) although I won't confirm or deny your assumption. It's not fully clear to me why, having reached a certain stage in life, it should be assumed I would want to listen to this drivel. Of course, scientists have proved that different individuals hear things differently. Which explains why when I play my Jesus and Mary Chain albums, I hear subtle melodies and the world weary, plaintive harmonies of the Reid brothers and all my hubby hears is noisy feedback and whining drones. But this still doesn't explain to me the attraction of Bloody James Blunt. A friend of mine tells me that it's good music for "dinner parties", but why, whilst chowing down on your nigella inspired morrocan roast lamb, would you want to listen to the musical equivalent of an enaema. The melodies are turgid in the extreme and the lyrics, well, "you're beautiful, it's true". Not exactly inspiring, is it?
No, my friends, if it's great lyricists that you're after, this fair isles' greatest include (the much underrated) Billy Bragg, Morrisey and of course, Elvis Costello. Whilst on the subject of the great Declan McManus, if you should ever entertain anyone who believes that Herr Thatcher was the best thing that ever happened to this country. Try kickstarting your gathering with the great mans "Tramp the dirt down". That should really get things swinging!

I should confess, right here, that on those blissful Tuesday mornings when sproglette is with the "shiny happy people" at pre school and sprog is at the institution where they learn how to wear hoodies and the correct techniques for happy slapping, that I indulge in 20 minutes of mindless Heat perusing. It occured to me whilst browsing through this bible to low culture that not only is it really badly written, "Mischa Barton: She has trouble with door handles"!! (you can bet the entire staff scratched their heads and wondered why everyone laughed, when Chantelle asked Barrymore what a gynaecologist was). But they seem to be on a mission to make sure that every celeb conforms to a certain shape, make and model. I mean, you've got 4 pages of "stars" wobbly stomachs and then some Britney belly bashing (gosh, is she up the duff, or has she just really eaten too many pies) and just to cap it off, they've devoted a few pages to pointing out just how emaciated Girls Aloud and Anna Kournikova are. Now I don't mean to be flip, (my nan died in Auschwitz, so I really am trying not to be) but isn't this what Hitler was trying to achieve? I guess next week, I'll just buy Closer.

Well, now that I've finally plucked up the courage to pen this blog, I suppose I ought to introduce myself. The ranting housewife bit is pretty self explanatory, I am just that, a housewife, but what a housewife!! I'm pretty representive of most of my ilk, 2 sprogs, one an adolescent and one of the common garden pre school variety. Yeah I know, big age gap, well that equals long story, for another time maybe. Of course when I say I'm just like most housewives, I do have some quirks that set me apart. For a start I don't appreciate the music of James Blunt, (hereafter to be referred to as bloody James Blunt) and I'm fed up of discussing the sprogs with all the other mothers I know. For those of you yet to delight the earth with the fruits of your loins, just remember your sprogs are fascinating only to you and your fellow pro-creationist, never to anyone else (rant over). Back to the point, I'm one of those "bloody guardian reading librials" that the Daily Mail warns you about on a weekly basis and because I live a life unfettered by a proper job, my current addiction is Jeremy Vines lunchtime radio show. This means I spend quite a lot of my lunchtime shouting at the radio, which is (probably) quite annoying for my neighbours, so before they slap an ASBO on me, I'm going to start ranting on my blog instead. I'll be regularly briefing you on my opinions on Jezza, articles from the gruniad/observer and because I'm one of those strange females who appreciates good music (my favorite radio show in my teens was John Peel), I'll be giving you the benefit of my current listening essentials. What more could you ask for, dear reader?