Shit Mum

WARNING: SWEARING ALERT!

Yesterday was a tough day where I felt like a totally bad parent. I felt like rocking with a teddybear, sucking a dummy and banging my head on a wall!

I must defiantly admit it
I didn’t think as a mother I would be so shit
A northerner, a salt of the earth working class brit
But I’m about as patient as a toddler who’s been asked to sit
Through twenty episodes of Coronation Street with a lip that’s bruised and slit
But I’m building him up for a spell at her Majesty’s in the nick
When he’s fifteen years and a bit.

I think I’ve just had enough
I didn’t think as a mother it would be so tough
I didn’t think the days would be so dreary, nights so rough
I never knew CBeebies was such torture til I’d had enough
Of Mr fucking Tumble and his Makaton special stuff
I want to get the fucker into everlasting handcuffs
Let’s see him last five minutes in this ruff and tumble neighbourhood.

I think I need a fag
I didn’t think as a mother I would lose my rag
I didn’t think I’d turn into a bloody vicious nag
Thirty years ago I was a stunner, a looker, a stellar shag
And now I’m looking rougher, like a no fag, no shag, hag
And I slob around in PJ’s like a degenerate, depressed bag
With my Primark/Lidl/Aldi/Iceland cheap ass price tag.

I know I’m no Barbie doll
I didn’t think a mother’s life would seem so bland and droll
I didn’t think I’d end up with the amusement shortfall
Playing games of banging heads against a council concrete wall
Wishing I could stab a knife into my bleedin kid’s football
My kid acting like a gangsta when he’s only 5 foot tall.
Saying no she don’t live here when the hard debt collectors call.

I didn’t think that as a mother I would be so shit
I didn’t think that as a teacher I would be so bad at it
I always thought that I would be a Supernanny big hit
But now I’m slumming, tunes a hummin, leggings that my arse don’t fit
My kid’s a screaming, social worker’s looking at my home pit
And making snotty comments about the mess and bloody state of it.

But I try my best, each shitty day to be a better mum
But it’s hard when you’re bipolar and the moodswings always come.

©2019 Sarah Drury

The Birds and the Bees

How do you have sex mum?
How are babies made?

Then I glance at my phone
And see my son has been asking our friend Google Home
And our Google friend is no holds barred
He says the penis goes inside the vagina
And I gaze at these robotic, grown up words
And wonder if it isn’t a little bit absurd
That when I was twelve I was getting my sex education
From wanton fumblings in the toilets
At the local park
Stinky fingers behind the bikesheds
And ‘you look at mine, I’ll look at yours’ beneath the blankets on my bed
From the slutty porno Playboy centre spread
from the hormonal, spotty schoolboys I’d mislead
from the x-rated porno prose that I’d misread
from the 18 rated movies which I’d be dead
if me mam found me putting such filth in my innocent young head

And Google Home hasn’t done a bad job
If you’re thirty with a mortgage
And missed your sex education classes at your grammar school
Although google seems to think that it’s only same sex relationships that are cool
And lesbians, gays, and every queer in the nation
Are taking a sexual copulation vacation
And who knows, one day there will be negative ramifications
if Google stays straight

I pride myself on being a progressive mum
I have been letting my son be himself since the very first days I wiped the poop from his bum.
And I’m eager to see him become a young man
There’s been no puritan technology ban
No degrading Wonder Woman in favour of a testosterone fueled Batman
No forcing him to be less Autistic yet no forcing him to be in the disabled clan
I’ve always taught to hold up his little Autistic head and scream ‘I can’.

So I ask him
Son, how are babies made?
“The penis goes into the vagina and the man ejects sperm”
And I have to smile at the ejects bit
As though the word ejaculation isn’t a big hit
And I wonder if the sperm would miss their target
If they would be all redundant in the baby making market
And maybe this way it could be a new contraceptive
Maybe the men could be a little bit deceptive
And maybe the women could remind them
About condoms and STD’s
Hey Google, maybe you could just
Add a little bit about popping a little condom cap
On artful todger’s tinkling tete
To prevent the global baby threat
And keep the nasty diseases
To be the property of the dirtbag whose teaser pleases.

My son got the nuts and bolts main bits right
And I praised him for his knowledgeable prowess
At twelve he would have wiped the sex ed floor with this progressive lioness
He can bandy around the word penis like a consultant gynaecologist
But still pisses all over the toilet floor
and I wonder if that’s a kid thing
or will I still be mopping up the pee when he’s twenty-six or more?

I know what comes next
And I hear him talking in whispers to his friends in the next room
Oh son, you’re only 12 but you’re growing up way too bloody soon
I don’t mind you asking Google as long as you always ask me
I will tell you the important little things that Google doesn’t choose to see
Like how girls might fancy girls and boys might fancy boys
And some might fancy both and some might just want relationships with sex toys
And the world is a spectrum and we don’t fit in relationship shaped boxes
And diversity is the wonderful thing that makes the sexual world spin on its unpredictable axis.

So, son
Come to me
I will tell you the story of the birds and the bees
I will tell you what you should know, what is real, not nonsense whispers polluting the summer breeze
I’m not embarrassed
Don’t you bleedin’ well be.

©2019 Sarah Drury

Shout Out to the Perfect Mums

I’m far from a perfect mum. I hardly ever wear make up, slob around in my pj’s, swear like a trooper and feed my kids McDonald’s fodder. So here’s a tribute to the other Stepford wife mums!

Shout Out to the Perfect Mums

Shout out to the perfect mums
Long bleached hair in pristine tousled curls
Face firmly fixed with your 100 quid foundation
Diamonds on fingers and dripping with pearls.
Lipstick, mascara, misrepresenting a nation
Of mums with faces of yesterday’s slap
Running mascara, like the legs of a spider
Lipstick smeared like a hospital trauma
Basically looking like a pile of crap.

The perfect mums in their 4×4’s
Gleaming metallics and pristine doors
Valeted everytime little Portia drops her dried fruit treat
No Happy meals of Burger King
Or nothing remotely good to eat.
Not one sign of a Mars Bar as it will rot her precious teeth
And Kettle Chips not Walkers Crisps
For us working class are beneath
The perfect mum.
A Stepford wife
A crazy robot fantasy wife
A healthy wife, a wealthy wife,
A look at you like you’re shit wife.

Shout out to the perfect mums
In their tailored designer Gucci suits
And Vivienne Westwood leather mules
And Dolce and Gabanna Chelsea boots
Which feel like walking on broken glass
With your nose in the air
And your notions of class
And don’t you know your ideals are crass?
While we real mums
We don our Primark pyjamas on the school run
A pair of Asda slippers gracing Our grossly swollen feet
From standing in the queue at the Job Centre
Universal Credit is noone’s Friday treat
Who gets dressed up for the foodbank?
The politicians and the Royal obsolete!

Shout out to the perfect mums
With their reward charts and positive reinforcement
While I am calling cops
To control my kids, the law enforcement.
Porsches for birthdays, horses for Christmas
Privileged kids with no idea of lack
While my naughty kid has to make do
With a few lumps of coal in his Santa sack.
Mini meals of quinoa, asparagus and olives
Drinking smoothies of coconut and kale
Annabelle Karmel’s children’s classics
Not Asda ready meals going cheap in the sale
Or mechanically churned up hotdog meat
Gut churning staples of the working classes.
Beans on toast or egg and chips
Feasts for the Universal Credit masses.

Bring on the Happy Meals,
Bring on the burgers
Bring on Ronald McDonald
And his underpaid workers.
Bring on the Burger King
Bring on the fries
Bring on the screaming toddlers crying out their eyes.
Bring on wardrobes from Primani
Bring on yesterday’s makeup
Bring on Jeremy Kyle
And cut that bloody cake up.

Shout out to the imperfect mothers
Making it through each goddam day
Struggling with their pitiful pennies
Until hallowed Universal Credit payday.
Hands up to beans on toast
And bacon, egg and chips
Hands up to chippy dinner
Mum’s a chip pan whizz
And donner kebab for tea.
And super noodle nights
We’re not the perfect mums
For really whoever is?

We will never have botox lips
Or liposuction hips
Champagne for dinner
Caviar on canopies
Holidays on grand cruise ships
But we are here and we are real
With our daytrips to Cleethorpes
And picnics in the park cos its free
Dreams of being the perfect mum
And sipping on ice tea
But its three bottles of Lambrusco
And a Chinese takeaway for tea.
And we don’t need no grandiose
It’s the little things
That make us
happy.
We are
Happy.

© Sarah Drury Poetry

Holiday Time in the Land of the Curvy

Holiday Time in the Land of the Curvy

Its holiday time in the land of the curvy
It’s big girls’ vacation to Benidorm
Me and Janet and Brenda and Mabel
Are sunning it, keeping our bazookas warm.
Our lady bits hiding behind pink bikinis
Designed to hold nuclear weapons in tow
The spillage is starting to pillage a village
Four twenty stone women with tans in full throw.

We’re living the high life, an all inclusive
Including the men that we’re planning to shag
Laviciously drooling o’er pert Spanish butts
Whilst knocking back cocktails and puffing a fag,
Four twenty stone women, that’s eighty in total
Planning to shag some poor, young ten stone bloke
He’ll need to upgrade his medical insurance
And knock back ten whiskies and five lines of coke.

Its cocktails all round as we top up our tans
All smothered in lotion like pilchards in oil
Poor Janet is sizzling like sausages frying
Her tits are well done and her butt’s on the boil.
I remember a time when my boobs fit in B cups
My bum was a peach and my figure alight
Now my boobs are two missiles, my bum is a planet
And when the boys snigger, I put up a fight.

The buffet’s all free and we fill up our plates
As we pile up paella and omelette and chips
As we down several jugs of inclusive sangria
A moment on lips means a life on the hips
The hygiene is dodgy, the cleaning is splodgy
The cleaners do nothing, sod all gets done
We’ll be hogging the toilets with germ fucked tummies
And popping the pills for our poor old sore bums.

Nightime we strut like a pack of proud peacocks
Crammed into wee garments as small as a condom
Butts bursting out, boobies packing some clout
G strings so long they’re mapping tube tracks in London.
And I feel like I’ll score in my hot Chanel perfume
And the guys will fall dead at my je ne sais quoi
And perhaps if I’m lucky I’ll lure in two guys
And the three of us will have a menage-a-trois

But the holiday’s gone, at the airport we are
And we’re packing our butts into Barbie sized chairs
And the stewardess offers a packet of peanuts
And a shitty sandwich made of boiled egg and cress
The plane is so heavy its stutters and splutters
The pilot announces we’ll have to get off
So we’re left on the runway in shit Benidorm
Hungover and deep fried and had enough.
Fucking Easyjet!

© Sarah Drury 2019

Fat Club

Fat club

My tummy was hanging like a butcher’s apron
My arse was saggy like an old bin bag
My tits were touching my belly button
And my chin was wobbling like an old, sad hag.

So I decided to go to Fat Club.

I walked through the door to be greeted by
Ladies of stature and ample size
Wobbling all over the meeting room
They looked at me without a hint of surprise.

I was home.

Home with the ladies all big and bold
The sisterhood of the more plus sized knickers
And bras like hammocks with boulders in
With the chocolate munchers and cream cake pickers.
Dreaming of tiramisu and crème brulee
Fantasies of a cream trifle orgy
Swimming around in a sea of toffee
Indulging in passions, pseudo-sexual glory!

Weigh in time!

One by one the victims were called to the scales
Like prisoners waiting their turn to be hanged
The suspense, so intense, no pretence was allowed
Would I have gained a pound? Would I end up harangued?
And the ladies they waited, they twitched in their chairs
As they looked shit scared with their faces like death
And they learned of their fate, if they’d put on weight
Or lost a few stone from smoking that meth.
And it was my turn now, so I stepped on the scales
And I shit myself as the verdict was revealed
And the woman she looked with a face like a fart
As she waggled her finger, my fate was sealed.

Rabbit food!

And I sit here and munch on my lettuce and cucumber
Cherry tomatoes don’t taste like a cake
And the low fat yoghurt tastes like puke
And the slimming world meals are a real piss take
Its only week one and I’m starving to death
As my son stuffs a pizza and gloats like a dick
And my stomach is grumbling, resilience is failing
If I eat much more salad, I’m going to be sick.

So, to fat club I’m giving the middle finger
I’ll continue to fill up my plus size bra
And my stomach can flourish in its lycra knickers
And my tits can wobble near and far
For I don’t need to be like a string of piss
I am fat, I am proud, and I’m a fucking star!

© Sarah Drury 2019

Primani

Primani

Let’s hear it for Primark!
That cut price clothing behemoth
Where people flock and shop with shock
At ridiculous bargains, eyes agog.
Fill yer baskets, fill yer baskets,
Baskets like plus sized body bags
Shove it in, yer jeans, yer shoes,
Yer jim jams, yer panties, yer bags of rags.
Come along to the glittering golden
Universal Credit shopping paradise
Clothe your family of ten and your neighbour’s kids
For less than a McDonald’s, a bargain price!

The tired mums, red blood eyes,
suffocating their pushchair kids.
With three sleepsuits, a batman suit
and a bra with cups like jam jar lids.
The well toned teens, with their Adidas shoes
Strutting their stuff like like a pack of hyenas
Preening and posing and prancing and dancing
Like a bunch of pricks at Manchester arena.
Lairy with the arrogance that they will not
Have to take back panties that are not looking hot
For they are parachutes at a plus size twenty
Yet still don’t cover your whole lady spot.
Thinking they are James Dean or Marilyn Monroe
Hanging round the fire doors, smoking dodgy fags
Thinking they own that gangsta shit
With their £5 jeans in their cheap paper bags.

Bags, bags, let’s hear it for the paper bags!

Be careful when you step outside
With your Primani bags in the pissing down rain
A satin camisole and six pairs of silk stockings
Will go stumbling and a-tumbling down the stinking council drain.
At least you have the satisfaction of knowing that
You have a paper bag as big as a tent
Which will come in handy when you’re made homeless
From the ludicrous amount you’ve overspent!

Shoplifters looking innocent while they secretly gloat
As they stuff cans of Lynx down their rip of Nike pants
Until 20 tubes of mascara fall from their coat.
And the guards they come a running, the fucking pedants
And they leg it out the doorways like Sonic on speed
They won’t even make enough to score a joint.
And the police are coming quickly to arrest the dodgy fuckers
No bang for their buck, that’s not the point!

Security guards too busy singing poor renditions
While the dodgy folk make off with pickings of all kinds.
As another karaoke king ignores the exhibition
Of the policemen nicking wankers and slapping on big fines.
And the guards turn a blind eye and drink their pissy cuppa
Cos they’re busy watching YouTube on CCTV
Ordering Chinese takeouts on their work walkie talkies
Slavering at the thought of their Friday night tea.

While the queues are ten times bigger than the crowd for Take That
Kids screaming, posers preening, lads in gangs of rip off Nike
Folk stampeding wildly and they’re squashing shoppers flat,
Posting shit on facebook and then checking for the likes.
Photos of them shopping and their eyebrows are on fleek
Lynching other women if you see things in your size
Premeditating prospects of a cheap lacy thong
And keeping out your eye on the government funded prize!
Anaesthetized men being dragged on leashes
Following their primani-drugged women like dogs
With ferocious spending habits like blood-letting leeches.
Buying lacy bra sets and kitting out their sprogs.

And the posing, pimping Primani Queens
Resplendent with their golden hair extensions
Pride in their appearance, nails on fleek
High maintenance women with film star pretensions.
Hitting the shop for their Friday night cash splash
£20 budget just to buy their shoddy rags
For their boozy, shmoozy weekend Bacardi bash
Buying wisely, cheap, hoping for a Friday shag.
For when they’re pissed up in the street and a fit young lad they meet
Then throw it all away when the fallout’s underway
From your binge-pissed, gin kissed, night on the tiles
And your greasy chicken kebab is coming right back up to play.

Label’s with names like ‘Rebel’ for kids
Should really say ‘designed for little naughty shits’.
Fashion straight off the streets of a gangland paradise
Complete with Gangsta attitude and parental advice
Though I don’t think the imitation knuckledusters
Are particularly nice.
‘Atmosphere’ for our princess eligibility
The oppressive atmosphere at your local boozer
After ten pints of Stella and the drama of infidelity
And coming worse for wear with the mountainous bruiser,

Clothes that last as long as a box of chocolates
At a Weight Watchers’ failures’ anonymous meeting
Where the pounds have piled on and the poor duration of
the chocolates in the box is momentary, fleeting.

And I hear that Birmingham they have built a Primark paradise
With cafes and Disney, spread over 5 floors
I see spending sprees, I see solicitors’ fees. I see financial wars on couples
I see women kicking husbands out the council house doors
A beauty salon with the logo – ‘Duck and Dry’,
Should really be renamed to ‘fuck it up and cry’
Buy yourself a painted face for under a measly fiver
Look like a slap faced whore, gang banged by Crayola
Eyebrows painted like two copulating slugs
Foundation thick and moist like sticky marzipan
Lashes like you’re trapped in a spider’s web
Is it worth it just to look like a drag queen man.
Glam in a can, beauty down the pan.

So goodbye to Versace
Ditch Dolce and Gabanna
Shove it, Chanel, in a rough and ready manner
Get down to Primark
Be the next Primani Queen
Bollocks to Vivienne Westwood
Her prices are obscene!
Primark! Primark! Retailer of our hearts
Its only cash
But its cash we splash
With our hard earned pounds we part.
Let’s hear it for
PRIMARK!

© Sarah Drury 2019

Student Night

Student Night

Its student night down in Man Poly bar,
A girl with clothes no bigger than
a postage stamp with the queen in horror,
at these wanton bitches who’ve gone too far.
A girl with a skirt that skirts the definition
Of skirt, silk knickers on full display.
A sheer blouse makes excuses for a bra,
Breasts that plea for the light of day.
Standing to attention in a military style,
Enticing the trouser soldiers to come out and play.
Face painted, cheeks tainted, warpaint regime,
Slapped on, plastered, L’Oreal.
Lipstick staining, snogtime training,
Spider lashes, face from Hell.
Hair on point, that perfect barnet,
Hairspray choking, asthma killer.
Student starving, money all gone,
‘Cos she paid for a titjob and botox filler.

The lad is lairy, beer filled, cheery,
Looking for a shag if he digs for gold.
Using, musing, cruising for a bruising’,
Waiting for tequila shots to take their hold.
Long hair, short hair, alternative or goth,
Parading his affiliation on the heavin’ dancefloor.
Big boys, small boys, good boys, bad boys,
A label doesn’t matter when you know the score.

The drink flows freely like a river of oblivion,
Pints are necked and class doesn’t matter.
Snakebite, shots and dodgy cocktails,
Wallets getting slimmer and the tills getting fatter.
And volume doesn’t count when you’re trying to get laid,
Though you better love your pecker if you’re going for the latter.

Their bodies writhing to the pulsing beat
Heaving, breathing, seductive moves.
Girl watching boy watching girl watching him,
Trying to get some intimacy in between the grooves.
And a hand that gets too friendly and a girl who stands her ground,
And an incident that in reality is hard to prove.

And the night is getting older and the noise is getting louder,
And the joy is getting manic and the anger getting frantic,
And the boy is getting desperate for a screw for the night,
And the girl just wants a moment where her life could be romantic.
And I know these stereotypes are a little bit sexist
But these were long gone times and the craic was fantastic.

And she thinks of student nights and she thinks back very fondly,
She thinks how irresponsible they all could be.
But a good drink, a good shag, a good time had by all,
And she never had it better, ‘never did any harm to me’.
And the memories caress her like the times that she scored,
and the laughs and the tears and the comradery.
The nights she lost at Man Poly Uni.
In the days when she played and her conscience was free.