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Everybody loves a good Agony Aunt. From the sexually frustrated and confused teens that write to Dolly Doctor asking what exactly the white stuff is on their undies, to the uptight yuppies that spend lazy afternoons writing to The Good Weekend’s Modern Guru to question whether it is socially acceptable for a 41 year old woman that drives a Suburu Forrester with a “Kings School” sticker on the window to key the Audi of a “Scotts” mother after a particularly nasty run in at a rowing tournament.

I say have a nice glass of Pinot Griggio, spend the afternoon shopping in “Mozman” and then rub her husband’s balls with your Jimmy Choo-clad-tootsies at the next Starlight Foundation Charity Gala you all attend. She can always get her car re-sprayed but a good ball rubbing will sting that stuck up bitch forever.

So ANYWAY..when I had the chance to snap up the services of  weekend Agony Aunt SawHole,  from Woogsworld’s Saturdays with SawHole for an honorary guest post edition of Celebrity Scrapheap I took it with the same gusto that Lindsay Lohan would a session at the spray tanners. Bah Boom-tish! SawHole had her guest post cherry broken over at Good Golly Miss Holly a couple of weeks ago and is now fast becoming the town bike of the blogging world.

I gave SawHole free reign to pick whichever celebrity she wished, with only 1 condition. That she tear that mo-fo a new asshole.

Enjoy biatches and hos.

Celebrity Scrapheap # 8 Matty Johns
SawHole speaking. SawHole, you ask? Yes, I am a modern day agony aunt who normally resides at Woogsworld. However, Mrs Woog has thrown me out of home again (something about the theft of vodka), so Mummy Diaries has offered me a safe haven.

So today I have been asked to share my opinions, of which I have many, about the celebrity who gets my goat the most. Orginally, I planned to go for the departed and disgraced David Jones CEO, Mark McInnes, but then recalled Australia’s Freedom of Speech Laws are not absolute and bloggers (even try-hard ones like myself) who fuck up court cases get taken to spanky town by our legal system. Could you imagine Mummy Diaries and SawHole in a correctional facility? I think not, unless it is like the LA system where you are stuck in a cell for 14 minutes and then let go. We could then have lunch at the Ivy and go shopping down Rodeo Drive. Well at least my friend MotherGay could help us sell our story to maybe SBS4.

So I was left with my old favorite, football commentator, Matthew Johns. Note: I call him Matthew, not Matty. What is he – a four year old? I met Johns about 10 years ago when I was doing my best impersonation of a journalist. Someone in the sport department had organised a photo story about the birth of one of his kids (no, we were not there to take that kind of birth pic). So I marched up to the hospital to be greeted by Johns, standing there looking like a cross between George Costanza and Matthew Broderick. Johns grunted at me and spoke entirely to the (male) photographer. It was clear he believed all journalists were men, or should be men. However, I needed something from him for the story so I said: “Congratulations, it must have been a big day for you all.” He looked at me as though he had just stepped in dog shit and said: “Yeah.” There’s not a lot you can do with one word in the newspaper world. Luckily his wife, who had just given birth, was far more forthcoming and I managed to get something. So the story here is, SawHole does not forget, especially one who incurs her wrath. Matthew Johns was officially on my shit list.

So fast forward a decade or so and Johns gets himself embroiled in a sex scandal. For those who missed the sordid details, here they are: http://www.abc.net.au/4corners/content/2009/s2565007.htm . After this, Johns went into hiding after Tracy Grimshaw gave him a hiding on national television (see Matthew some journalists are women). So he took his shameful arse and went home. To his credit Johns did not say he was going to rehab, he was just going to hang his head in dickhead shame. Fast forward a few months and I now have the Matty Johns Show infecting my television once a week. Thanks to Channel Seven, Matty and his good blokes brigade get one hour a week of prime airtime to advocate for a football code which has seen some of the biggest slights against women. Yet again another reason why I only watch Foxtel, ABC and SBS. Really is it too much to ask for a boofhead free zone on your television? I am a Kerry O’Brien type of girl.

The Matty Johns Show made its way into our house during the time when Uncle was staying with us. Uncle used to delight in seeing me run past his television pretending to hold a crucifix at Johns’ head. He became tired of the act after he had seen it 15 times but I did state in the beginning that Matthew Johns and Tony Abbott were banned in our house.

So my point about Johns is once a dickhead, always a dickhead. Which is why I wonder why Seven approached him to anchor a show. However, this was the same television station which grabbed Matthew Newton to host X Factor just days out of rehab. Seven must be counting on some redeemed ‘hero’ factor. Puhleezzz. Footballers are not heroes, nor are the sons of television megastars.
SawHole is not amused. Matthew Johns, it is you and I, pistols at dawn.

With Best Regards,
SawHole www.woogsworld.com

I am kinda divided on the whole Cougar thing. I see a lot of these so called Cougars coming into the restaurant I work in, wearing skinny leg jeans, peep toe heels and looking strangely like Dina Lohan during a night on the turps. They wink at the male waiters and cackle loudly at their tables like horny school girls as they discuss their personal trainers and what specific “body parts” they are working on with them..you fill in the gaps. They clearly are.

One part of me thinks “you go girlfriend you get your groove on”. The other part remembers how Stella ended up in real life – back in America with a Jamaican immigrant husband who ended up being gay and taking half of her hard earned money.

Me thinks this Cougar thing really is just one big marketing sham – designed to make late 30′s to late 40 something women buy more Loreal Age Perfect. Spend more time in the hairdressers, at the manicurists, injecting themselves with botox and collagen and buying expensive designer threads.

You see when marketers spot a gap in demographics, they create one to fit. Like tweens. That gap in between being a kid and a teen that now spends millions a year on Hannah Montana merchandise, dream about snogging the Bieber and are way too young to be rolling their eyes so severely back in their heads at their parents.

Or perhaps it’s just that after years of giving, to your husband, to your kids, to EVERYONE, it feels good to reclaim a little for yourself, including a bit of 20 something tooshie.

ANYWAY..where am I going with this?

Well today’s guest post on the tender subject of Cougars comes to you courtesy of the lovely Emma from Mommy Has a Headache, who has also achieved the blogger’s dream of getting a book published, namely the hugely funny expose on how the first year of motherhood REALLY is – Cocktails at Naptime. And if anyone knows how badly you need one of those, it’s me.

I have this English friend – Christine – who is the same age as me, which is …don’t make me say it…okay FINE…which is nearly fourty, who I met up with recently in London. Now she is cute, gamine, sexy, has a killer pair of cat-like eyes and a marvellous off the wall sense of humour.

Now I hadn’t seen her in six years and a few things about her had changed. Her long blonde locks were a godawful shade of burnt orange for one thing (attributed to home dye job gone awry) which didn’t do her ruddy complexion any favours, but beyond that it was clear that she was suffering from much more than a ‘bad hair day.’ In short she was in the throes of a full blown bout of the disease known as ‘Pattinsonitis’ – a disease that affects an estimated 75% of all desperate housewives nearing forty.

Early symptoms of Pattinitis: kissing his face on posters, having fantasies of making him hot cocoa

I first found out about her passion for the vampire faced Rob Pattinson when she started stroking his face in a magazine.

“I want to mother him,” she said, caressing the shiny celebrity mag while we sat in a crowded commuter train.

“Okay WTF?” I said. “How long has this been going on?”

“I’ve had a crush on him for about six months. At first it was really hot and heavy. I was even thinking of going to LA and, you know, casually running into him in a bar.”

“Keep your voice down,” I said, because we were getting a few weird looks.

But she didn’t hear me, lost as she was in a dreamword. “I knew what would happen. Rob would be so sick of all those skinny young American starlets throwing themselves at him, he’d appreciate my earthy British sense of humour. We’d laugh at the superficiality of Hollywood, the trappings of fame and how you couldn’t get a decent pint in LA. We’d have this, you know, instant connection. And before he’d know what was happening …”

“You’d be shagging him senseless in his penthouse suite?” I whispered.

“Fine,” she said, slamming her magazine shut. “Laugh at me. I’m over it now anyway. I really am.”

“Good,” I said, although I must say I wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced. But a few hours later, after we’d talked about her hubby and kids she clocked some hot young man selling earrings at Brick Lane Market and while she fingered his baubles she told me, “I find myself being attracted to very young men these days.”

I said, dragging her away from the earring seller, “Well, why not?”

To which she replied, “But I’m not sure if younger men would be persuaded to fondle someone like me with all this sag and cellulite.”

At that point I replied, “Are you INSANE? Let’s leave aside for a moment the fact that your hair is currently an unfortunate shade of Ronald McDonald red – you are gorgeous. And I can assure you that you’d have no trouble getting that earring seller or even Rob frigging Pattinson into your boudoir. This isn’t about sex you know, it’s about wondering whether you could still make some hot young man fall in love with you.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she said, sighing wistfully.

And that’s when I had a Carrie Bradshaw moment! An insight, if you will, into the whole ‘cougar’ phenomenon. Older women lust after men in their early twenties, not for the marathon sex sessions they can supply (after all who really wants to go to work bowlegged?) but because they have the sort of underdeveloped, penis driven brains and hard hot bodies that can make women of shall we say ‘a certain age’ feel desirable again. And if one happens to fall at your feet you can feel like you’ve achieved some transitory petty validation of your sexiness before kicking him to the curb. Which is fine by me – as long as you know that’s what you’re doing. And listen Christine ….a word to the wise ….. if you really want to shag Rob sort your bloody hair out.

So what do you think about my theory, have I hit the nail on the head?

Emma Kaufmann is a funny crazy chick who blogs over at www.mommyhasaheadache.blogspot.com She wrote a hilarious book called Cocktails at Naptime: The woefully inadequate guide to early motherhood with fellow blogger Gillian Martin which is out in Australia and New Zealand in October. Check out their website at www.cocktailsatnaptime.com

Tiger Wood’s ex-wife Elin Nordegren has given her first interview since receiving her 100mil divorce settlement, admitting that she’d been through hell since finding out that Tiger had been banging the entire cast of Edward Penishands and the LA Lakers Cheerleading squad.

“I’m so embarrassed that I never suspected – not a one,” she is reported as saying. Full story here

You know, just as Oprah has “Aha! moments” – you know those extremely annoying epiphanies that really, really rich people have about life when they have nothing better to do than ponder their own “personal strength” and “guiding inner lights” – many a gal out there has had an “I never suspected” or “wish I could have known” moments. I promise I will now stop with the overuse of quotation marks in this post.

I’m sure if I asked my own mother what her “I never suspected/wish I could have known” moment was, she would probably reply that it would have been great if my father had informed her of his penchant for show tunes, Edith Piaf and Queen, prior to 16 years of marriage and 4 children being catapulted out of her humble pachanga. Although if you saw my mother’s pachanga believe me it’s anything but humble. More like an angry fat tabby cat that growls and spits abuse at the very mention of rompy-pompy.

Similarly, I would have loved to have known, prior to sprawling on Curl Curl beach and sunning myself, that she would emerge from the water with what looked like a giant see urchin caught in a bundle of seaweed exploding from her bikini bottoms.

What is it about women of a certain age that they suddenly think their privates are in a wax free exclusion zone? It’s like men that walk around with comb overs and ears that look like Grugg have taken to hiding out in them, thinking that they have Harry freakin Potter’s Invisibilty Cloak on them.

LIKE THAT SHIT IS NOT INVISIBLE YOU FARKING LOSER. GO BALD WITH DIGNITY MO FO AND THE WORLD WILL BE A BETTER PLACE WITHOUT YOUR ASSAULT ON THE EYES AND INTELLIGENCE OF THE FEMALE POPULATION.

On another similarly explosive rant I would like to share that I would have like to have known that the 24 year old stripper that stole my virginity in the back of a Bronco, was in fact 35 and married with two children.

I mean granted I should have picked up on the fact that he had a face like a crocodile skin handbag and that he took his wallet into the bathroom with him when showering after our sordid sojourns (so I couldn’t find out his correct age, address or stumble upon the Pixifoto of his 4 year old daughter)

And technically I could have said No and held on to my special flower for someone more deserving, but when you are 16 and dating a man that gets about in fake tan, hot pink G strings, pants that have press studs down the seams for easy rip-off-ability and takes you out to nightclubs on school nights, playing the virgin card gets old fast.

But still MO FO YOU COULD HAVE TOLD ME KAY?

So maybe I do need to see a psyche about my unresolved virginity issues.

Now – what was your “I never suspected/I should have know moments??”

Ps…here’s your Flog Yo Blog Friday list..enjoy finding some great new blogs

For the most part, I try to make this a mummy blog without too much kid or mummy shite. That’s because I work off the basic understanding that most people just aren’t that interested in other people’s children. Unless they are like your nieces or nephews and even then it’s like “Really..first in the athletics SNORE..COMA…carnival?? Yes I agree, they are totally SNORE..COMA advanced for their age to be blowing raspberries at 3 months old SNORE..”

Although this rule seems to be negated in the case of the Brangelina “Check out their individual fashion style!” kids who everyone seems to have an absolute obsession with. Maddox and his crazy mohawk. Zahara..in her pretty dresses..Oh she’s so freakin girly! Shiloh the tomboy and lesbian in waiting and fark who are the other ones? Oh yeah…Pax why did they confuse me by getting another Asian kid??

And of course readers of Dooce totally contradict my point because the success of that blog is based totally off the premise that people cannot get enough of Leta (please more photos of her reading big bulky books!) and Marlo the C-razy baby. Possibly that’s why she has like 1 zillion readers and I have like 150.

ANYWAY..so in this case I am going to break my own rule because I have a baby that puts me through the wringer and I need some help. And I figure Mummy Diaries readers are the best ones to dish it out.

Right so about 2 weeks ago I realised that I had a major problem on my hands. Connor was not going to sleep unless he was being fed on the boob to sleep. What started as a harmless habit when he was a newborn had turned into one big “OH MY GOD I HAVE CREATED ONE BIG BOOBY SUCKING MONSTER WHO IS WAKING UP ALL NIGHT DEMANDING MY BOOB LIKE IT’S SOME SORT OF BABY VALIUM”

Like he knows it too, looking at me like “I OWN YOU BIATCH AND THOSE FLAPJACKS YOU CALL TITTIES..”

And after countless nights waking up every hour on the hour, I realised that I needed to try and teach him to self settle and decide to try controlled crying.

Only problem was I only actually researched the proper techniques last night and found out that for the past two weeks I had been doing it wrong. Instead of letting him cry for 2, 4, 6 minutes etc I had been letting him cry for 10 minutes at first.

After reading some crap online about controlled crying creating bad psychological side effects in babies, I start to feel like crap that I’ve scarred him for life.

SO ANYWAY…he has improved somewhat. He is getting to sleep by himself, without too much crying.

HOWEVER…he still wakes up at around 12pm (at which time I feed him a bottle as he’s pretty much weened), then he wakes again at around 3 or 4am, crying and carrying on a real treat. It takes about 30-60 minutes to get him back to sleep. I’ve refused him the breast, instead offering him a bottle and cuddles to get him back to sleep.

But it’s happening every night. AND I’M TIRED. VERY, VERY TIRED.

Can you tell me if you have had a similar situation and your absolute BEST advice. Hear me your BESTEST EVER advice.

There is something about going to the country that totally refreshes your soul. You leave the city an angry, bitter and jaded woman and return reinvigorated with a zest for life that screams “I am going to write that novel/open a restaurant with locally sourced produce/only eat organic/get a chicken coop in the backyard so the kids can experience a bit of country life”.

It takes about 5 minutes after speeding back through the “Welcome to Sydney” sign for you to realise that you might not do any of those things and the chicken coop especially seems to be a ridiculous idea because lets face it, up until this point every pet you’ve ever owned has perished under your care.

But that feeling, even if fleeting, is amazing.

Despite our road trip getting off to a rocky start, with a family squabble erupting as we pulled out of the driveway, our trip to Beechworth went relatively smoothly.

The weather was cold beyond belief. In fact I now realise that every time I have bitched and moaned about how cold Sydney is, I totally need someone from country Victoria or possibly Tasmania for that fact, to drive up here just to give me a few slaps to the head. Because I now know what cold means. It means you can drink as much champagne as you want at night, cause the next morning upon exiting the house you will feel totally fresh and awake.

It means that shovelling comfort food into your mouth daily, like Lamb Shanks, Burgers and chips and Vanilla Slices is your GOD GIVEN RIGHT. Because damn it, your body is going to need all of those extra kilos to stay alive.

Here are a few photos from our trip..

It’s Celebrity Scrapheap time again and over here at Mummy Diaries I’m feeling extra feisty, extra nasty and ready to spit fire out of my nimble fingertips.

Can you blame me? I’ve just spent 4 days on a family holiday with my mother, brother, Noah and Connor that involved driving from Sydney to just over the Victorian border to a lovely, lovely town called Beechworth. The 6 1/2 hour car drive took us about 10, given that we had about 2 stops at McDonalds for the kids to eat and play, 3 pee and fart breaks for my 38 year old brother who has the bladder of a 70 year old man and intestines of a rotting possum and a 1 hour stop at Gundagai RSL club to eat cheap bistro food and drink cask wine. I kid you not, you know you are in for an all class experience when the bar chick offers you wine from the cask. For a fiver. Giddy-up locals.

More on that next week though as today is all about revealing who gets the highly coveted role of Mummy Diaries Celebrity Scrapheap inductee # 7.

The scrapheap is usually reserved for celebrities that can only be described as HOT MESSES. Ones that forget their panties or go on 3 day benders that end with their car being run into a gutter, their Valium, Vicodin, Xanax and prostitute spilling all over the road and them howling at the moon like freakin Teen Wolf.

Today however, I am dedicated this post to a special type of a scumbag. Cessnock’s Labor MP Kerry Hickey. Because when a politian farks up, they fark up real good. It’s in their blood, they only know how to fark up HUGE.

If you didn’t catch the story today here it is in a nutshell:

Cessnock MP Kerry Hickey has affair with parliamentary research officer Stephanie Hesford. Their tawdry rompy-pompy sessions land her positively up-the-duff.

She gives birth to his daughter Bridget.

He visits her in the hospital and takes proud picture with his daughter who is now 6 months old.

Seems peachy right??

Wrong. In fact this is one big juggernaut from wrong-town.

You see Hickey is married and Stephanie is in a long-term relationship with her boyfriend David Kuta who believed up until recently, when he came home from work to find Hickey lying in his living room partially dressed and cuddling Bridget that the baby was his.

Why shouldn’t he? He had no reason to believe otherwise and the scum bags had decided long ago that instead of coming clean and ruining Hickey’s career as an MP, that it was A-OK to allow Kuta to go through life believing this baby was his while supporting her financially.

To top it off, Premier Christina Kenneally has dismissed this as a private matter and believes Hickey should be allowed to run for office again in March.

Read the full story here

After I finished devouring my Mighty Angus Burger at McDonalds this morning while reading this story, I was seething. Not because I felt ripped off that I had been duped into believing I was sinking my teeth into a gourmet piece of prime beef and was $8.45 poorer, but because bitches like this make me angry you know?

Cause bringing a child into this world and leading it to believe it’s father is one person when it’s another is despicable.

And convincing some poor, unsuspecting mug that a baby that he loves, cares for and provides for is his, when it’s actually some greasy, sleazy politician’s makes you one big C#nty Ho-bag. Without a conscience. You selfish, farking cow.

Am I being a little judgmental? Maybe. So sue me. But you could have chosen to raise your child as a single mother, not deceive another person and your child just to collect a paycheck.

You give women, single mothers and the child support system in general a bad name.

And what’s more, a lying cheating man that’s prepared to deceive another bloke into caring and supporting his child, while cheating on his own wife should not be allowed to stay in politics. Because that is the definition of dishonesty.

Today you are on the Scrapheap. Get the hell out of my sight.

Please weight in on the conversation…am I being too harsh?

By the way..I’ve discovered a great little blog hop over at boobiesbabiesandablog called Fark You Friday. You will notice I now display the rather attractive button on my site. It’s a chance to say a little Fark You at the end of the week to people or inanimate objects that deserve a great big flogging to the balls. I’m taking part because the Scrapheap really is like one big love-cuddle of Fark You every Friday. And because I have an anger management problem. SORRY.

Devoted readers of Mummy Diaries – you know who you are..big shout out, love and massive respect to you all mwah, mwah – will remember reading a guest post by the lovely Tenille from Help!mum last week.

Never one to be a selfish blogger, I promised that I would return the favor as soon as I could locate the funny in the dark and gloomy recess that is my tired brain.

It took a few days and then BAM! POW! PRESTO…one morning while on the toilet engaging in producing a very size-able bowel baby – where I might add all of life’s great questions are answered…(what do I want to be when I grow up? what is the meaning of life? How can celebrities get away with not wearing knickers while not getting even a smidge of fanny sweat on their dresses??) it came to me.

To read all about it – master of suspense am I (insert evil chuckle here) head on over to Help!mum here

Ohhh hang on a sec..before you run away..Mummy Diaries may be a little scarce this week. I’ve packed the ferals up into the vomit wagon and we are headed off on a road trip to the country!! Yaye. Am I freakin glutton for punishment or what.

Ohhh one more thing..Connor Clingy-Cry-Pants actually slept through a night. What?? I hear you saying. Hell froze over, pigs flew and I ate my hat all in one day. Fark I feel like a new woman!! I now have the energy to shave my legs, poonanie and might actually give my husband some sweet, sweet lovin’….

So Montana Fishburne, daughter of Hollywood veteran actor Lawrence Fishburne is releasing a skin flick. Apparently she has seen what it has done for Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton’s careers and wants a little bit of the ahem..action. She wants a career as a respectable movie star and thought that opening the door to her coochie could open doors for her in Hollywood.

NOTE TO YOUR TRASHY ASS YOU DUMB FARK.

When you were like, growing up in Hollywood didn’t anyone ever tell your sorry ass that when you have super-famous movie star parents, you don’t need to release a sex tape to get an audition or two?

Case in point 1: Jaden Smith

Famous mega-movie star dad Will produced Karate Kid simply so his son could play the lead role.

Back in the day nepotism in Hollywood was hush-hush..remember when Tori Spelling claimed to have won the role of Donna in 90210 by auditioning under a pseudonym? These days it’s a given that if your parents are even remotely famous you are guaranteed your own reality show (Helloo Leave it to Lamas), perfume or fashion line.

You don’t need to fark a whole steam train of men to get there.

You see, here at Mummy Diaries I’m all about keeping it real.

If you have fake boobs don’t piss in my pocket and tell me they’re real when you are sporting a pair of titties on your chest so hard they could crack open a Crown Lager.

Don’t post a picture of yourself online Terri Hatcher looking like a soaked chihuahua in the rain, showing us your fantastic forehead wrinkles to prove you haven’t had Botox when you and I both know your eye sockets have been pulled back so tight you look like an angry Siamese cat in a wind tunnel. Ahem Kylie Minogue.

And when you tell your kids you have eyes on the back of your head, the amazing thing is, you really mean it. I’ll admit, from one mother to another, that’s almost enough to make me staple the skin on my face to the back of my head.

And likewise Montana, don’t act like you want a career in Hollywood when what you really want is a whole football team and the cast of Glee barelling their way through your poor tired pachanga.

Be a porn star. Go for your life. But like the mighty queen and one of my personal heroes Jenna Jameson..you own that shit girlfriend.

Today my friends you are on the Celebrity Scrapheap. Have fun bitaches.

So I apologise if you are not a fan of reality tv, because my next post is really not going to mean fark all to you, but since I am a 30 year old mother that cannot exist without my daily fix of reality, I am going to go ahead with it anyway.

Besides if you are not already watching this show, you need to seriously reassess your life, get pay tv and start recording this little mother-farkers. Seriously the kids can do without a bath tonight. Put them to bed stinky, get out a tub of Cookies and Cream Ice Cream (I recommend Coles Brand but there are plenty of good ones on the market that should hit the spot) and GET WATCHING.

Here is my tribute to one of the best women on reality tv right now and quotes that you should incorporate into your everyday vernacular.

Kelly Cutrone from The City.

Did you really think I watched this show for Whitney Port? She’s gorgeous and all, but the real jewel in the crown is the wise cracking owner of fashion PR co People’s Revolution, Kelly Cutrone. I can only dream of the day when I have a boss that comes out with some fantastic pearls of wisdom as these:

“So, the last guy that broke up with me was like, ‘You wanna know what? If you get your own TV show, you should call it Kell On Earth. Because that’s what it was like living with you.’ And I was like, ‘I really wanna cry, but I have to run upstairs and go trademark the name so I can get my own show on Bravo.’”

“Do your best and become as successful as you can because the more powerful you become, the smaller the other person gets, right? So it’s like the bigger you are, the better you become, the less power other people have over you. The best thing to do is to always compete with yourself and not to compete with others. The only thing you can control is your own performance and what you’re doing to yourself and with yourself. You also have to be careful about how you handle it, because you never know. That one cunt-y person could become the new Editor-In-Chief. Sometimes the nasty person wins. That’s why it’s always good to compete against yourself.”

There’s more..you can read them at: Gems from Kelly Cutrone

Who’s your female inspiration right now?

As if our house was not packed enough, my brother is also staying with us at the moment. It means I have to put up with the kind of things you would normally expect from your brother at age 12, but not at age 38. Like belching loudly, swearing, teaching Noah inappropriate things to say at Pre-school (“See ya later Buckethead” yelled to teacher upon exit of classroom.) and farting the most disgraceful bombs of methane you could ever smell.

They are so bad that you really want to get your Swiss Army knife out and cut your arms in spectacular emo fashion, just to feel. ANYTHING other than the swishing of bile in your stomach that’s slowly rising up your esophagus threatening to project itself onto your carpet.

As a 12 year old, he thought it was absolutely hysterical to hold me down, place his buttocks over my face and fart on it, thankfully now he has the good grace to at least move a metre or so away from me before letting it all rip.

Since he arrived I’ve been subjected to seeing him in his underpants on numerous occasions, which is almost as traumatic as witnessing your Mum having sex in the shower with her “toy boy”, listening to his stories of sexual conquest..all of which I believe to be totally made up and have barged in on him sitting on the toilet. Thankfully the stench that escaped through the slight door opening and the perching of yet another WW2 Nazi Germany novel on his lap prevented me from seeing his manhood slapped against the porcelian bowl.

He has forced me to join the local gym where I am accosted each visit by the pungent smell of men’s BO, when in actual fact I would be much happier sitting on the couch watching endless episodes of Man Vs Food and dreaming about eating challenges that involve newborn-baby sized Burritos and fries smothered with Monterey Jack cheese sauce.

He is somewhat responsible enough that he looks after the children for me on the odd occasion however a pair of Connor’s shorts are now in the bin after he dressed Noah in them, resulting in Noah looking like one of the Marching boys from the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras in tight hotpants, totally ruining the elastic.

But by far his most endearing trait is his penchant for calling hot women “Slice”. As in a juicy slice of pizza that he’d like to sink his teeth into. Yes I know he seems to be taking sleazy tips from the Mark McInnes School of Seduction and Chivalry. Not as bad as a fart to the face but just as icky.