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

You Said You Loved Me

You said you loved me
When we feasted our eyes it was love at first sight
I could barely see you with my shitty eyesight
And your dodgy white dentures gave me a real fright
And we would have looked better in the fog at midnight
But you loved me.

You said you loved me
When you first held my hand and you squeezed it too tight
When your teeth met my neck, left a blood stained love bite
When you tackled my bra strap with all of your might
When it twanged in your face, knocked you out for the night
But you loved me.

You said you loved me
When your hand slipped down under the strap of my pants
And I kicked your man bits and made your goolies dance
When you couldn’t stand up for your sausage smashed stance
And you looked like strictly dancing with your shit prance
But you loved me

You said you loved me
When you staggered to bed with your bits all aglow
When you’d had your Viagra and didn’t I know
That you’re such a hot bloke that your prick would melt snow
And your ego would bloat as your bits start to grow
But you loved me

You said you loved me
When you left me next day in a state of undress
And said you’d had enough sex a vicar to bless
And you lied, you are pie in the sky, I digress
And I know that you’re famous, you don’t want a mess
So I pick up the phone and I go to the press

And you don’t love me now….

Boris Johnson!

©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

Chatroom Queen

Before the advent of Tindr and Snapchat
In a time when Facebook was not even an embryo
In Mark Zuckerberg’s pre-billionaire mind
And Instagram not even a glimmer of a concept
(I shudder at that thought!)
There were the internet chatrooms.
Ah Yes!
Thieves of regulated sleep and purveyors
Of illustrious one-night jaunts
And illegitimate kids a plenty
Illicit affairs of the QWERTY variety
Where one miniscule postcode typo
Could leave you meeting your lover
In Leeds and not the Loch Ness.
The dirty perverts would be loitering
Hiding behind
seemingly innocent sounding names
like Annabelle and Lolita
and there were no Androids or iPhones
for selfies of the kind where
you didn’t need lipgloss, mascara
or a Botox pout
but a genital Brazilian was
a fashion statement
and genitalia were a figment of
the digital imagination
And I would bide my time
Until the anonymous men would flock
Like mosquitoes around a virgin’s blood
Me with my labels
Juicylovejugs,
Whorezilla
Wombinator
I would hit on the cocky desperadoes
BigDick69
Dreamboy666
And other such delectables
Assessing whether the Price was Right
Win a dreamboat luxury yacht
Or a pint of lager and a packet of crisps
Down at the old Bull and Bush.
If you were lucky,
The Generation Game,
A millionaire with a pacemaker
A paper bag and bang
You were rolling in the cash
And having a tit and bum job.
(to raise your odds with the living squad. )
There were always the knobheads
Full of cocky bollocks
“If I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me”
ME: “in a body bag”.
“I’m not a photographer but I can picture me and you together”
ME: “in a suicide pact”
“Are you a magician, because whenever I look at you, everyone disappears”
ME: “cos they were wise and got the fuck out”
“Are you religious?
Because I swear you’re the answer to all my prayers”
ME: “In the church of Satan”.
Yadda
Yadda
Yadda
For hours I would listen to
Disintegrating men sobbing over their love-bite ridden
Cheating ex’s
Before the advent of the fashion
Of the desparation
Of the proles
To splash their banal drama
Over primetime t.v.
The real weirdos would ask me for
My lacy knickers!
Not even laundered
But infused with the juice of
My unspeakables.
A quick rub with an old bit of cheese
And a smitchen of W40
Could have earned me a tidy twenty quid.
The pinnacle of my chatroom nights
Living my best days while
The drunks collapsed, inebriated
Slavering over their keyboards
With their goodnight message
Fuckimfuckedcanttypenighhhhhhhhhhhhhzzzzzzzzz
I met them all
As they cried into their microwave meals for one
Tears defrosting the frozen chips
As they looked for mummy to clean their nappy,
As they wanted to know what ‘I am wearing’
And I’d tell them they were crotchless
And not the granny variety
As they fantasised over my schoolday showers
And imagined a garden of a virgin flower
I saw it all
And nothing was a shock
For my sex education
Was born in a chatroom
In a hot seedy bedroom
Somewhere in the suburbs
With the dial-up tone
The signal
For hot, steamy action
Back in the 90’s
Living my best life.

© Sarah Drury poetry