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I discovered today, as I attempted to maintain some level of decorum at the beach with the ASBO dog, that some weight loss over the past 6 months would have been a prime idea.
51 year old body, which has been put through its “gin paces” gets its first exposure to the outside world. And it ain’t lookin so good let me tell you. It is SO true that not only white fat looks much worse than brown fat, but fat that has basically got a mortgage, a full on contract and been resident on your body all winter, is not only like something off a bad Holby City scene, but bugger me once that blubber gets moving there is NO stopping it!
Spencer of course took his first dip (accidently) and then produced one of his Jurassic sized shits bang smack in the middle of the beach. He then proceeded to do a lap of honour which involved flat out gallop, wiping out a couple of really really nice older people, spraying sand and pebbles everywhere, children screaming and then he finishes off by having a good old roll in the shingle.
I am screaming at the feckin useless teenagers (my children)
“Get a bloody poo bag, NOW!”
They can’t move for laughing.
So I start my hunt. My turd hunt. Oh the glamour.
His turds may be massive but they are like commandos on that bloody beach. Totally invisible. Now, can I just give you some perspective here re- my embarrassment. I am in a bikini. There are bits of me that are STILL moving from my first pursuit of the fucking dog, I have a Sainsbury’s bag and no glasses on looking for a monster shit.
Shit eventually spotted and retrieved. Quite a lot of dry heaving took place. Always a classy sight that. Then I look up and to my horror I see that the bastard dog has spotted a child with an ice cream. I know how this ends. Or at least I THINK I do.
This kid was savvy let me tell you. He bolted that ice-cream pretty damn pronto, however he has a baby wipe covered in the ice-cream. Oh shit fuck bollocks. I can see another £15,000 trip to the vet to wrench this from the dog’s stomach. But I’m broke at the moment, so off I went again, Usain Bolt would have been proud of my sprint start, and I caught up with the bastard hound and infront of the entire family I shoved my hand right down his throat and I pulled that chocolate covered baby wipe which was past his windpipe and on its way to labrador oblivion.
What was totally unnecessary was my scream of triumph.
“Oh yes! Oh yes! I got you little………………………..” STOP. Emma. Stop. Small children, lovely family, having a picnic. You are white, fat, still in motion and you have just retrieved a piece of their property from your dog’s gullet by losing most of your hand and wrist for a good 10 seconds . And. you. are. still. on. their. feckin. blanket.
Time to go home. The clampets leave. The beach breathes a collective sigh of relief.

Oh dear. Broke my biggest personal rule. Never EVER do anything that you think is sensible or safe unsupervised. It never ever ends well. Mummy’s taxi heads off to pick up Child numero deux from sleepover numero 5 (rolls eyes) in the pouring rain. Now, I don’t know whether any of your have noticed that apart from being mildly pissed off that at the height of British Summertime we have the heating on full blast and I am seriously NOT rocking the drowned rat look, but there is more. There are all sorts of seeds, blossom and other shite that is all over the car at this time of year and most of it seems to have found its way under my windscreen wipers. Now most normal people would deal with this BEFORE they set off. But oh no, not me. I have to wait until I am on the main lane through the village where most of the people who voted me in as ‘Village Idiot’ (a title I am hugely proud of and have managed to hang on to for over 10 years now……… yeah I need to think about that for a bit……) I digress, so, I have the wipers on full blast and all that is happening is I am making some really cool stripes across the ol’ windscreen. Very pretty but also not very clever when you actually want to see where you’re going. So, little miss sensible pulls over at the side of the road and jumps out to clean under the clogged up windscreen wiper. All cool right? Of course fucking not! I have left the beast in drive so the second I get out of the car, it leaves without me and starts heading off down the lane driverless. Shit fuck bollocks and a lot of serious panic! Emma is in hot pursuit of her car which is careering down the road and gathering speed. As luck would have it there are a load of cyclists coming from the other direction who all stop as they witness the perfect moment that I manage to get back into the driver’s seat, put the car in park and put the handbrake back on. Window down, signal to the cyclists that all is well and I am fine. But they are laughing so much that they decide to stick around to see what happens next. Has anyone ever tried to clean their windscreen wipers without actually turning them off? It’s not only feckin impossible, but it is highly amusing to any spectators who have worked out that if I had a brain I would definitely be dangerous. They also come off quite easily. So, one windscreen wiper down, dignity has done a runner and I have to go home to borrow the beloved’s car. You couldn’t bloody make it up

So there has been a little bit of confusion as to who Spencer is in my story. Spencer is our infamous dog. I say infamous because the git has a string of criminal convictions. He has an ASBO for shoplifting from the village shop (I kid you not) and has been banned from our local pub. Believe it or not, it was not for the absolutely stomach churning moment when he appeared from the field at the end of the pub garden whilst all the happy diners were enjoying their lovely Friday evening meal in the July sunshine, with a live rabbit in his mouth. I did, of course, apologise profusely to every one whose kids were screaming in distress and their parents were trying to comfort them whilst gagging on their burgers. Rather stupidly I thought it would be a good idea to try and catch the fecker, but this is his favourite game and to everyone’s horror rather than amusement a display of 49 year old woman, body seen better days, lumbering after an extremely nimble labrador who could outrun a New Zealand winger any day of the week, was just too much. I, of course fell several times, mainly over the dog, perhaps a couple of kids too, it was a carnage. Some lovely young lad took pity on me and joined the chase but to no avail and Spencer ended up dismembering said poor rabbit very publicly, very noisily and very very fucking slowly. It was pure agony. Not for the rabbit, sadly that had gone to the rainbow bridge (or so I tried to frantically to tell the onlooking screaming children), no, the agony was all mine. This could NOT get any worse……………… could it? It was when the wretched beast returned to our table looking seriously sheepish and guilty to then regurgitate Flumper, WHOLE, into my handbag……………… I left, very quickly.

But no, that was not the reason he was banned. Things did get worse. Our lovely local landlord, who has given Spencer and I more chances than we deserve, let that one go. He was, however, getting rather sick and tired of having to stand on the patio of his wonderful establishment, and shout down the pub garden with his gorgeous Scottish accent,

“Emma, get your feckin dog out my kitchen!!!”

So, with Spencer just loving his Friday afternoon shenanigans in the pub garden, I took it upon myself to plead for his stay of execution and get one more chance. Quite rightly, the landlord said that he could have one more chance if I kept the bugger on a lead.

So, a gorgeous August Friday evening presented itself and Katie and I headed off down to the pub with Spencer all suited and booted (well collar and lead) and ordered our first delicious bottle of crisp, cold Sauvignon Blanc. 3 times. In the first 15 minutes. 3 feckin times that dog pulled me off the pub garden bench backwards. I was like a bloody enormous ladybird on my back, flapping about trying to get vertical again. If I actually had stomach muscles and a waist, it might have been more elegant, but on all three occasions I needed assistance. Very bloody glamorous. So, my dear friend suggested that, rather than trying to hold this evil beast myself, every time a plate of cheesy chips came out, I should tie him to the table. This sadly was Spencer’s and my undoing. For the next plate of bloody chips that came out saw 40kgs of dog, begin to drag 2 fully grown women, an entire table and benches all connected and the contents of the precious bottle of SB across the pub garden. It was unbelievable. We made it about 10 metres until the whole shebang became dismantled and we all ended up in a heap on the floor with Spencer, finally free, with only a now detached bench flying behind him to beg for the chips. Katie and I were on our bellies on the grass, the table and ONE bench were upside down and the bottle was smashed.

I do totally understand Spencer’s ban. Although, we did get a huge round of applause from some visiting people who thought we were the pub entertainment. It has been hard to explain it to Spencer who is still sulking as shown by this photograph of him last night basically trying to boil his own head. This dog needs a blog all of his own. I have merely scratched the surface of the embarrassment this dog has caused me over the years.

Ok, so the whole wifi joke has gone down like a feckin lead balloon. Note to self, ensure said teenagers have engaged sense of humour rather than sense of entitlement when playing silly prank that has ended both their worlds. There was less drama when I stole both their GHD’s for a laugh………………

Anyway, sod this for a game of soldiers, Spencer and I decided to leave the building and go for a walk with Spencer’s boyfriend, Filby and my friend Helen.

I like Helen.

Helen also has teenagers and is going through the menopause. Helen is also certifiable and as it turns out needs the same reconstructive surgery as me, as we both discovered when we got chatting about our menopausal plight. I always forget that Helen is a nurse so, how shall I put this, “says it how it is”.

I was complaining about all my teeth gradually falling out when Helen, with no fucking warning at all, announced that her vagina fell out the other day………………… Now, this happened whilst I was in the middle of that large puddle of mud which some kindly person has put wooden planks over so that you can avoid getting sucked in by the foot deep “quick mud” that quickly engulfs you and swallows you whole. Well, they hadn’t quite factored in two middle aged women, one with an external vagina and the other with no pelvic floor who then proceeded to begin to laugh until the tears ran down her legs and then slipped spectacularly with one of the planks seemingly attached to one of my wellies, and considering that I am the only feckin wife in the village who hasn’t been taken skiing this easter holiday, did a pretty feckin impressive parallel turn on one wooden plank and landed on my back in the freaking brown squelch. Far bloody cry from a breathtaking whoosh in Verbier!

The only bonus that came from this total mess was that the fact that I had definitely wet myself was totally disguised by the fact that I now looked like I had totally shat myself.

But Helen and I were not peturbed. Oh no. We are made of stern stuff, and besides, what more could do wrong now that we were off the beaten track and free to talk wildly and loudly of random urination and vaginal prolapses, oooh and we managed to sneak in a few tips on how to get out of sex with our husbands too. My suggestion of quietly mentioning yeast infections just as the beloved starts slipping off his pyjama bottoms was a bloody winner the other night. He totally overdid the gagging, but hey, whatever works. Helen liked it too, that’s her kind o’ lingo.

So we were merrily chatting away, about life, love, teenagers, smoking weed (the fact that we were going to start) when my fucking dog disappeared. Now, this can only ever mean one of two things : He’s rolling in a huge pile of fox shit or he has found something dead to eat. We retraced our steps and sure enough, the fucker had got an entire skeleton and was doing a bloody good impersonation of a reckless forensic pathologist and was running around all over the field with this vile looking spinal column and skull in his mouth. Off I go again. Will I ever learn……..

“Spencer! You feckin bastard dog, SIT SIT, oh you freaking bastard put that down!”

Spencer gives not a bloody hoot. Off he goes with me in hot pursuit.

“Come back here you shit bag, feckin bastard dog!”

I notice out of the corner of my eye that Helen has had to hit the ground. I think she is in fear that she may just lose her entire vagina completely if she stays standing up whilst watching this ridiculous spectacle.

But I have to get this disgusting thing off my dog or he will eat the whole bloody lot and then need £30,000 worth of stomach surgery. So I continue with my chase. Helen is of no bloody use whatsoever, as she announces from her sitting position that she too has wet herself. Something has to give. I can’t do this for much longer, literally every piece of my being is in some kind of motion. Then it happens.

One stray bramble. That is all it took. Boot caught, Emma’s upper torso and legs flung forward, wellies remain well and truly fixed to the ground and I perform an international quality accidental rugby tackle on Spencer and down the pair of us go.

The silence that follows such an extraordinary vision is pretty magical until you realise that part of that silence is because Helen has not only lost the ability to stand up but has actually stopped breathing with pure hysteria.

The good news? I got the dead body off the dog.

I, on the other hand, am covered in cuts, bruises, mud, pee and as it turns out, for posterity, a nice smear of cow shit.

This holiday just gets better and better……………..

Ok, so the whole wifi joke has gone down like a feckin lead balloon. Note to self, ensure said teenagers have engaged sense of humour rather than sense of entitlement when playing silly prank that has ended both their worlds. There was less drama when I stole both their GHD’s for a laugh………………

Anyway, sod this for a game of soldiers, Spencer and I decided to leave the building and go for a walk with Spencer’s boyfriend, Filby and my friend Helen.

I like Helen.

Helen also has teenagers and is going through the menopause. Helen is also certifiable and as it turns out needs the same reconstructive surgery as me, as we both discovered when we got chatting about our menopausal plight. I always forget that Helen is a nurse so, how shall I put this, “says it how it is”.

I was complaining about all my teeth gradually falling out when Helen, with no fucking warning at all, announced that her vagina fell out the other day………………… Now, this happened whilst I was in the middle of that large puddle of mud which some kindly person has put wooden planks over so that you can avoid getting sucked in by the foot deep “quick mud” that quickly engulfs you and swallows you whole. Well, they hadn’t quite factored in two middle aged women, one with an external vagina and the other with no pelvic floor who then proceeded to begin to laugh until the tears ran down her legs and then slipped spectacularly with one of the planks seemingly attached to one of my wellies, and considering that I am the only feckin wife in the village who hasn’t been taken skiing this easter holiday, did a pretty feckin impressive parallel turn on one wooden plank and landed on my back in the freaking brown squelch. Far bloody cry from a breathtaking whoosh in Verbier!

The only bonus that came from this total mess was that the fact that I had definitely wet myself was totally disguised by the fact that I now looked like I had totally shat myself.

But Helen and I were not peturbed. Oh no. We are made of stern stuff, and besides, what more could do wrong now that we were off the beaten track and free to talk wildly and loudly of random urination and vaginal prolapses, oooh and we managed to sneak in a few tips on how to get out of sex with our husbands too. My suggestion of quietly mentioning yeast infections just as the beloved starts slipping off his pyjama bottoms was a bloody winner the other night. He totally overdid the gagging, but hey, whatever works. Helen liked it too, that’s her kind o’ lingo.

So we were merrily chatting away, about life, love, teenagers, smoking weed (the fact that we were going to start) when my fucking dog disappeared. Now, this can only ever mean one of two things : He’s rolling in a huge pile of fox shit or he has found something dead to eat. We retraced our steps and sure enough, the fucker had got an entire skeleton and was doing a bloody good impersonation of a reckless forensic pathologist and was running around all over the field with this vile looking spinal column and skull in his mouth. Off I go again. Will I ever learn……..

“Spencer! You feckin bastard dog, SIT SIT, oh you freaking bastard put that down!”

Spencer gives not a bloody hoot. Off he goes with me in hot pursuit.

“Come back here you shit bag, feckin bastard dog!”

I notice out of the corner of my eye that Helen has had to hit the ground. I think she is in fear that she may just lose her entire vagina completely if she stays standing up whilst watching this ridiculous spectacle.

But I have to get this disgusting thing off my dog or he will eat the whole bloody lot and then need £30,000 worth of stomach surgery. So I continue with my chase. Helen is of no bloody use whatsoever, as she announces from her sitting position that she too has wet herself. Something has to give. I can’t do this for much longer, literally every piece of my being is in some kind of motion. Then it happens.

One stray bramble. That is all it took. Boot caught, Emma’s upper torso and legs flung forward, wellies remain well and truly fixed to the ground and I perform an international quality accidental rugby tackle on Spencer and down the pair of us go.

The silence that follows such an extraordinary vision is pretty magical until you realise that part of that silence is because Helen has not only lost the ability to stand up but has actually stopped breathing with pure hysteria.

The good news? I got the dead body off the dog.

I, on the other hand, am covered in cuts, bruises, mud, pee and as it turns out, for posterity, a nice smear of cow shit.

This holiday just gets better and better……………..

Thanks for joining me!