A trip to the Seaside

 

Ok I missed June blogging as I spent a rather bazaar Month trying to see if after five months off the booze I was now ‘cured’. Surely by now I had a stunningly clean liver, I was detoxed, refreshed, redeemed and ready to rock on again.

 

Errr that’s a No, it seems Irene hasn’t changed one bit and within a few mouthfuls of Gin tasting/guzzling she still seems very fond of:

 

• Telling no one in particular accidentally stumbled upon in person whilst out, out,  to fuck off, stop applying your make up with an emulsion roller, you’re prettier without half of Superdrug on your face (cringe)
• Playing Russian roulette with phone and texting random ‘friends’ to fuck off –(apologies to you all again, you know who you are)
• Slouching all over husband before telling him to fuck off and stop moving his shoulder before vomiting all over it (thank god and long live the VAX)

 

I asked Rob once I had sobered up, ‘What the fuck is wrong with me?’ He looked at me so dumbfounded like I had just asked him why sheep don’t shrink in the rain, ‘It’s just not you anymore he said’,  So I am back on the straight and narrow and put the past four weeks down to a badly exercised Winehouse experiment, proving without a shadow of a doubt, getting hammered doesn’t agree with me.  Irene is officially back in the bloody recycling box.

 

So what have I been up to in the past hotter than hot, few weeks…..except working, that’s a given……….Drumroll……….Conwy of course.

 

We all know THE hot weather law, it clearly states, that as soon as a beam of sunlight hits the end of mischievous weathergirl Laura from GMB’s  Lambert and Butler fag, shirts come off, bikinis adorned, women waxed, pruned and plucked (men no need to shave it’s your world don’t forget), disposable BBQ’s bought, 41% ‘beef’ burgers bought and off to the closest beach we go.

 

Of course I have to moan so as it’s my blog, here goes:

 

Conwy

Well you know what pisses me off and ruins public beauty spots like Conwy Morfa Beach……the fucking Public…that’s what……take your shitty farm food leftover buffet back home with you when you’re done!!  Don’t leave it half-heartedly buried in the sand like the shittest cache finding game ever, protruding not enough for the seagulls to spot it, but just enough for me to stand on it, leaving me huffing, tutting and hopping like an angry three legged buffalo on my way to the sea to dodge the bloody jellyfish and cool my trotters down. Pffffft.

 

Jellyfish

WTF is going on in the Sea??? There’s some serious alien/steroid body building cross breeding going on in the depths and these motherfuckers now have blue protruding veins, bulging biceps and Love-Hate-fuckyou tattoes on the back of their uneven lumpy heads?  Available now in shit brown, opaque white, toxic blue and polluted purple with a hint of magnificent mercury.

 

Ice Cream Van

Like many other families when we have the grandbabies with us, we like to park our carcasses no more than a 100 meter distance from the ice cream van so we can securely bungee cord them to the van for regular rebound brain freeze topping up every 5 mins or so of a slush, a screwball or a pearl cone,  but what’s the score with these newly acquired Costco callipo’s?  Mr Whippy, I know times are tough but these youngsters are confectionary experts and can taste test the difference between their hobnobs and their notnobs??

 

Signs – Wasp nest ahead -beware

Don’t you just bloody love a National Trust warning sign to get the inquisitive overactive mind thinking?  Oh yes, Wasp nest AHEAD but without any directional support sign is the equivalent of saying snipers in the vicinity?? Or worse, like going for a wee in the car park toilet block and seeing a sign on the back of the door saying pee carefully folks, we’ve rigged one of the loos with plastic explosives!  Ridiculous!

I digress but If I happen to find or should I say stumble upon a wasp nest by the beach it will most likely be game over for me.  I envisage my children finding my bloated corpse floating out to sea with my face frozen with a ‘come get me you motherfucker wasps’ snarl.  Oh the shame.

 

Amusement Arcades

Now my dad has more grip in his arthritic fingers than the claw machines in the amusement arcades on the pier, so much so I think the kids would have more of a laugh if the machine wasn’t switched on. Now there’s a thought?  The fruit machines are rigged to pay out on the 30^th of Never and every other coin (including the fake monopoly ones) appears to be glued down on the 1p coin pusher (is this even still legal tender), refusing to spit out the red winning tickets so the couple at the rewards counter who share the same set of teeth don’t ever have to part with their goody stash – Such a fabulous time to be alive ha!

 

Conwy Mountain

When its hot there is no more stunning place on earth than the top of the Mountain, trouble is I would take the car to visit the loo if I could, but joking apart all it takes is a little effort, a National trust defibrillator, around 15 mins of CPR and you are drinking in those incredible views in no time!

 

Joking apart Conwy is my happy place and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

 

Happy heatwave one and all.

 

Love

 

Sue xxx