Since I can remember I’ve always given up something for Lent. A small sacrifice for 40 days and 40 nights to mirror Jesus’s sacrifice and temptations in the desert. I know to non catholics this sounds absolutely ludicrous but that’s how it goes.

When I was younger I gave up sweets and chocolate. I had a huge box and if anyone was kind enough to bring these for me I would put hem in my box ready for Easter Sunday.

My perhaps toughest Lent was in 1988 when I gave up Neighbours. The struggle of not knowing what was going on in Ramsay Street pained me. How were Scott and Charlene? What was Mrs Magnum moaning about now? How was Bouncer? It was a long cold hard Lent but thankfully you could not watch Neighbours for about 5 years and pick up the storyline.

Last year I gave up swearing. I think I lasted a day. Anyone who knows me knows I’ve got a potty mouth and due to various stresses and strains that year I actually think I swore more than ever. This year, was going to be different. I was going to make a stand and stay strong.

So, I decided to go all out and give up social networking. No facebook, no twitter and I’d try no swearing again.

Now, facebook I’d gone off for a while. It’s a platform that people use to bitch, moan and boast about how fabulous their life is. I was sick of the public declarations of how peoples life’s were so amazing. Tired of the over sharing. Frankly, if people were so immensely happy why feel the need to share it on a hourly basis? So I didn’t think facebook would be too much of a torment.

Twitter however, a whole different ball game. I heart twitter with a passion you can only dream of. I love the interaction. The cammodary. The peep hole into people’s lives who you admire and forging friendships with people you’ve never met. If I thought Lent 1988 was a killer this is like being in a POW camp. My phone keeps flashing tormenting me with new facebook and twitter notifications

Saturday’s are hard because of football and “Take Me Out” as there’s always so much banter flying around and now “The Only Way Is Essex” back I’m dying to interact with my twitter family.

I’m missing @markbrighty”s football predictions, even though I am so bad at it, and tweeting him about his column and defending my cities honour. I’m missing FF, Kojo’s random trending topics. Saying good morning and night to @jordanstewart3 in Greek. How the devil is @najones kitchen coming along? What trainers has @Perfection7 been buying, his pictures of his dinner (don’t ask!) Whats @EmmaWhizz been up too? Hows @Sonnithepulli? To name just a few.

According to Father George, my Mom and Dads parish priest, Sundays don’t count in lent. I did have a sneaky peek on one Sunday but it only made it worst so I’m going cold turkey until Easter.

Its strange that I miss people I don’t know on twitter more than people I do know on facebook. It’s made me realise that I was becoming some what obsessed with it and would tweet every little thing in my day and a lot of it is a load of old twoodle. That’s why I love twitter ‘cos its so random.

So until Easter Sunday I remain in social networking exile, a twitter quitter. As for the swearing..maybe next Lent.

In the hazy mist of Malibu Mansion that is my head, liver and possible other vital organs today and the sandman luring me like a crack dealer to a hooker, I need the answers to some vitally important questions that effect every man and woman worldwide before I can rest my weary self.

Last night I was out, mainly to see the legend that is DJ Spoony, play at Mono bar in Birmingham. Whilst there I saw so many crimes to fashion that Gok would have had a biatch fit and got out that three way mirror so quick he’d be in danger of 21 years bad luck.

Please can someone explain to me why when you have a gut to rival Jimmy Five Bellies would you shoehorn yourself into a bodycon/spandex dress? Why if your wearing a belt of a dress you wouldn’t wear suitable undies so that when attempting to do a Rihanna dutty gal whine that a complimentary flash of knickers with the added bonus of unkempt bushes was out there in all technicolour HD! If your flexing hot pants and have a camel toe, DON’T leave the house like it…change!

Now, I’m not saying I’m perfect, not by a long shot, but you live and learn and work with what you’ve got. Maybe I’m being unfair and shouldn’t judge or even past comment but..I would put money on it that a lot of people had the same mindset as me as in “WTF”

There were so many blokes in JLS boots and asymmetrical type vests, that I actually thought I was at the auditions for a tribute band. There’s taking pride in your body and having a good physic, one man in there was so hench that I swear he’d been genetically modified, too much.

I get the low slung jeans, flashing a bit of pants or a CK waistband, but one lad in there, his trousers were so low he was flashing his big purple pants so hard that my retinas were hurting by this purple moonie, had a word with MC Ranking who told him to pull up his trousers on the mic…it was a public service announcement.

Fashion aside, this is the main question I need answering. Why why why when R&B, Hip Hop or Bashment is played do girls dance so nasty that they could have a permanent run on MTV Base? I make no denial, soon as them tracks are dropped I’m busting moves like I’m working as a window dresser in Amsterdam. It will be me ripping the piss out the podium dancers saying get me another drink and I’ll school them bitches! My one mates killer dance move is pretending to lick her nipple..I rest my case.

Do blokes look on and think “mmm mmm she”ll be good in bed” by the way she’s shaking her lady lumps? There’s girls singing along and rapping using words that normally they’d only use in an argument or on an adult phone line.

Spoony as expected was fantastic. Night ended however with a trip to Dudley Road A&E as some kind of gas was let off/leaked, haven’t found out yet, as all of a sudden couldn’t breathe properly and was sick. Mono cleared quicker than the away end at Anfield today. Everyone’s outside throwing up and coughing, police had sealed off part of town so bit mad.

So we get to A&E, at one point I thought it was going to be like Monsters Inc put in tent sprayed shaved and given a boiler suit. We wasn’t allowed in in case we contaminated the hospital. How I stopped myself from saying I’m not being funny there’s three tramps lying on seats in the waiting room stinking of their own bodily fluids. One had a shopping trolley with garden tools in it and the other people were off their faces and I was the risk! Quick check over and left gas threat could of to be fair just been methane, though there was no smell, no mist in the air nothing but you know how beer guts can affect some people.

So good people. The Hip Hop/R&B dancing. Is it a mating call for the modern world? The nightclub equivalent of the Haka? If you’ve got a mate who’s planning on going out in a outfit that isn’t doing anything for them do you let them or do you say something? Answers on a postcard

One of my best mates went to an Ann Summers party last week. When I saw her the next day, one of the first thing she said was “you’d be brilliant at hosting them” an opinion shared not just be her it would seem as other friends agreed.

Now its a rite of passage being a lass, that you attend at least one of these parties in your lifetime. We had one at my house when I was at Uni for our football team. The stand out memories are of the lads in our street peering through the windows to see the merchandise, the Ann Summers host spelling penis, penius and one of the girls who we called Chips, because she went with anything, being coaxed to parade through the Uni bar in a leopard print number.

These parties bring out the exhibitionist in some girls, they’re trying on all kinds of outfits which is fine but I don’t wanna see what you’re going to be flexing for your man in those circumstances. Rabbits are flying out the hutch quicker than they can be reproduced, and the girls start disclosing classified information either subtly with their choice of produce, whips, latex and handcuffs equals some S+M lovers etc and they disclose things blatantly too. “I’m going to get some peppermint peckers cos Michael likes the feel of minty breath when I’m performing.”

The Ann Summer’s host apparently is making a killing each night so possibly this just maybe a nice little earner. Here lies the problem. Where do you safely store the ahem produce without your 6 going on 26 year old daughter finding them? What if you turn up to someones house and its filthy and full of women who, no offence meant, look like they’ve done a stint on The Kyle and they’re parading around dressed as a pilot or policewoman and you’ve got to say “Sharon, you look so sexy it will drive your Graham so crazy that his few remaining teeth will drop out when he sees you like that!” when truthfully you’re thinking WTF?

What qualifications do you need? I might go undercover to one to see exactly what you have to do, I can spell penis so I’m one step ahead of the woman who ran ours at Uni. I’m off to tweek my CV whilst eating my chocolate willy that my mate bought me.

One of my mates last night tweeted that guys don’t want to hear about their girl’s Ex, singular or plural, as they quite frankly don’t give a damn. It got me thinking, do we disclose too much information when it comes to our pasts?

Personally I’ve found its a topic that always comes up in conversation, people like to know what they’re dealing with. It’s a bit like cars, one previous owner, few miles on the clock, exteriors a bit rusty etc. I think past relationships shape the kind of relationship you want and how you act in a relationship.

Dating is like going for a job interview. You need to be punctual, dressed appropriately and be ready to disclose your dating CV. Why did you leave the last job, how long were you with the company etc. So its hard to brush over the case of the ex.

When I was at Uni I had a very brief encounter with a footballer. It wasn’t because I wanted to be a WAG. I was working with the club producing a promo video for them, initially I wanted him to come and coach our ladies football team and maybe we could get to watch a few matches. I’d always loved football and was no different from the majority of the country putting players on pedal-stalls. For years I was convinced I’d marry David Platt bless my deluded football socks.

It was simply thee worst date ever. He was arrogant and vile, his team mates were not much better. The highlight of the night was one of the lads walking home in Ray Stubbs coat. That night the pedal-stall was sent crashing back to reality, and the rule of no ‘ballers came into effect

There’s always something nice and smug about the fact that when I recently got a friends request on facebook from my first proper love who incidentally broke my heart, he’s put on the timber and has lost the little hair that he had. There is a God!!

The biggy is the 9yearer. How do you not mention it when we’ve got a daughter together? How do you say what factually happened without the bloke doing a Usain Bolt? How much do you disclose to ensure that if you like them you’ll see them again?

Maybe its cos I’m a bit nosey, but I want to know my bloke’s past, maybe its an insecurity thing in me that I want to know that I’m his PB in all areas and maybe that’s why we over share info on the Ex Files.

How things have changed in the dating world. There use to be a time in my not too distant past that if someone liked you they would take your number then call to ask you out which as technology advanced, calls were replaced by text.

Nowadays with the plefer of technology at our fingers, wooing your intended can happen in all kinds of ways. Not only can a phonecall or a text cut it but you could be poked, tweeted or bbm-ed, incidentally thats not an abbreviation for a sexual position that Gary Glitter favors, into dinner, a drink, bed ultimately.

It was always going to be weird for me dating again after coming out of a 9year relationship and going back into the wilderness. Was the protocol the same? What were the new do’s and dont’s? What had changed? I finally recieved the answer to this a few days ago in full technicolour.

A lad who had I knew in a professional manner texted me the other night after not hearing off him for a while asking whether it was OK to take me out sometime. After being reminded by my mate that a girls got to eat and seeing how long the swapped baby storyline was dragging in ‘Enders I said why not. So we talked throughout the day, well when I say talked we actually texted, hearing each other voices now-a-day’s is one of the highlights of the date it would seem.

He then asks me to send a picture to him so I jokingly send a picture of a clinically obese woman with elephant ears for a clevage. More chit chat throughout the day. So imagine my shock when I’m sitting at my parents with my daughter about to have dinner, and I recieve a text off the saids lad willy!

How does one prepare themselves for such a situation? Did I miss that lesson in General Studies? I’m guessing thats the one exam Ashley Cole passed with flying colours.

Now I could understand if I’m been doing a Jason Manford and been sexting him but nothing could be further from the truth. How does chatting about your day lead to blam he’s a picture of my willy. To make matters worse he’d taken it outside cos for the split second I looked at it there was plants in the background and blue sky!

So the picture got deleted. My blackberry felt violated and I had to ring up orange customer care yesterday as it wasn’t working properly, I now know why. My dad has the same phone as me can you imagine of he’d have opened it or wost still my 6 year old..lovely conversation to have round the dinner table. Thankfully there was no bangers and mash on the menu that night or I would have gone hungry.

What I’m struggling to understand is does this behaviour normally get him the result intended? Chit chat texts, can I take you out text, more chit chat texts, picture of my penis text, I do, they lived happily ever after? Note to yourself, take my silence as you need to change your gameplan, it doesn’t work.

Surprisingly a text of have I upset you came, so to speak, 12 hours later then an apology, go tell it to Judge Judy! Is this what I have to look forward to, instead of flowers a picture of my penis, this is why Interflora started their business, you’re meant to say it with flowers not your genitals!

My one friend said to me, I told you that phone was going to get you into trouble. I don’t see how getting a picture of a cock from a cock is actually my fault. Do I give off a “send me a picture of your manhood vibe” I wonder? For now I’m going to answer no and if it happens again by a different bloke, though at present I’m scarred, I’ll head to C4 production and ask them to put me on a documentary.

If there was any doubt that football is still very much a man’s world than the whole Gray Keyes gate has underlined it in big red pen.

As a Villa fan I’ve been bought up loving Andy Gray both as a player and assistant manager for us. I loved it when he got the big gig at SKY, marvelled at his tactial explaniations with his magic pen and tuned in religiously to Andy Gray’s Boot Room.

Working in and around the beautiful game for years I’d heard stories from various sources regarding some of Gray’s “allegeded” comments and conversations and to put it mildly they left me with a bit of sick in my mouth.

However, it is Richard Keys I actually found more offensive. His defence on talksport was as feeble as Birmingham’s last week at Old Trafford. The conversation according to the hairy one is no different to what most men talk about in the pub. Difference is Richard, you wasn’t in the pub but at work and therefore should have conducted yourself in a professional manner regardless whether the conversation wasn’t meant to be overheard or not.

Keys had a job that a vast majority of the country would have given their right arm for. To ask whether “you’d smash it” was wrong and disrespectful on all levels. For the record Richard I’m guessing the only place Sian Massey would smash you would be in your face.

To judge anyone in this day and age on their gender, race, religion or sexual orienation is both unacceptable and unbelivable. How is what Gray and Keys said any different from Big Ron Atkinsons comments? Ist’s are ist’s whether its sexist or racist. Big Ron was rightly sacked after his off air soundbite and its only right that Gray and Keys should face the same punishment.

There’s been an argument presented that “Loose Women” do the same every day so how’s it any different? Now, I’m not an avid viewer of the programme but isn’t it a topical show where issues of the day are discussed and the ahem ladies disclose information, sometimes too much information, about their own lives and relationships? They aren’t, I dont think, questioning a person’s ability in a specific role because of their gender.

So Gray’s got more time to play golf and Keys has been sent to Coventry, quite apt as that’s the team he supports. His wife has defended him in a stand by your man manner. I’m guessing if she doesnt he’ll stop having a BSC wax that surely she must have written into her wedding vows.

So now the big question is who will fill their boots? Personally I’d like to see Collymore or Brighty in Gray’s role and Adrian Chiles in Keys, time will tell.

The best documentary ever made! Would have loved to work on this programme. I’m guessing there must have been months if not years of behind the scenes persuasion to be allowed into the community

The part of the gypsy life that ’ disclosed is how they earn the money to afford the weddings and communions? Taking a family with 8 kids to Lanzarote isn’t a cheap thing to do for a hen party, even the mother of the bride got all Spanish-ed up. I actually thought they would come out busting flamenco dresses not hot pants and frilly tops, obviously a part of the Spainish culture I’m yet to experience.

I’ve told my parents that I feel they missed a trick by not spraying me with glitter spray, hiring me a hummer and making me wear a dress that was so heavy that it looked like that she was disabled when she made her way to the altar. As for the outfits at the communion party highlighter pink hooker heels and battyriders surely goes against the catholic ethos? I’m taking notes for my daughters next year!!

So it seems the way forward for me is to find a “traveller” with a curly rats tail who arrives to the church in a white transit or a monster truck,complete with young ginger cousins who at the age of 9 can open bottles of beer with their teeth. After I have been “grabbed” into resistance in the form of sexual assault, who said romance was dead I will then go and pick out a caravan and an  toilet..living the dream.

As for the dress, I’m going one better than the non gypsy girl who had the lights in her dress and a fire extinguisher on standby, I’m aiming for a strobe light and my first dance will be by the Housemartin’s “caravan of love”

I’m totally obsessed with the programme and cant wait for next weeks installment! If anybody has a Big Fat Gypsy Wedding coming up please for the love of God will you take me as your plus one. I’ll get creosoted with Ronseal especially for the occasion!

Finally got my arse into gear and have a blog! A big hello to anyone reading and there will be more to follow