Thursday 9th January – Farewell Madison, and thanks for playing.

Yes, I’ve seen the news.

Yes, I know 50% of the folks are livid about Madison (or whatever her name is) and Harry jacking in their jobs as royals, and yes the other 50% are livid about the bullying and ‘no-fair’ treatment that Madison has been subjected to by Britain. 

As a whole.

Like, all of us.

And since one of my uber favourite hobbies is laying into the royals, I should really have an opinion on this.

But the fact is – I don’t.

We all know that Harry does stupid stuff.

He is literally Prince-Does-Dumb-Shit.

But that’s chill, he’s Diana’s son and we forgive him because, like most rogues, he’s charming, mischievous and frankly, a little bit naughty.

Love that.

When he first said he was planning to marry that Z-list starlet chick, I just figured he was doing it to vex his Nan and Grandad.

Total jokes.

And probably, knowing Prince-Does-Dumb-Shit, he was only doing it to vex his Nan and Grandad.

But then, as is often the unintended consequence of doing dumb shit the whole fiasco took on a life of its own and bish-bash-bosh, before we knew it there was an intriguingly flamboyant African chap explaining about love (actually) to the assembled congregation of St George’s Chapel, Windsor.

Obviously, being British, the majority of the aforementioned congregation had slipped into airplane mode during this rather unsightly, emotionally charged jibber-jabber as we prefer to keep all of the four letter words nailed safely behind the bedroom door where they belong.

Harry looked anxiously preoccupied.

But the reality is, knowing Harry (and I think we do) it probably wasn’t the colorful, Kenny Everett style preacher grinding his gears, it was probably the wedding night ahead.

He was wondering if it’s true that when you take a match and light a lady’s Bedtime-Farts on fire, whether their bush really does go up in flames too.

I don’t know Harry, why don’t you give it a try. It can’t be worse than the Nazi themed party you threw a few years ago.

He’s such a rascal.

Anyway, moving on and he knocks her up.

Cool.

Whatever.

Then they spent some money on a flat.

Okey dokey then.

Now they’re off to the US.

Perfect, send us a postcard.

Ever since the first moment that Our-Kate walked up to the assembled group of Harry, William and Madison, smiled warmly and chirped “Well, if it isn’t my two favourite people” – Madison was doomed.

Miss Madison arrived in the UK in her dreamy, fairytale carriage believing that she was going to be the star of The Windsors: Season One. 

Laboring under some illusion that since the 10th century the United Kingdom has been waiting for nothing more than a true Hollywood nobody to come over here and glam us all up she has tried, and failed miserably at getting our attention.

The truth is, nobody has bullied Madison.

The truth is, nobody gave a tiny rat’s behind about her.

And that wasn’t the glittering Home-Coming-Queen-Spectacular she was expecting.

Well, welcome to England love.

The marriage of Harry and Madison stands no chance whatsoever but in Harry’s defence, you only get married for the first time once and he has, as ever, caused his family some sleepless nights, headaches and gritted teeth, so that should make him happy.

He’ll piss about in LA for a bit, and then he’ll be back.

Without whats-her-face.

Which is cool because I’ve forgotten her already.

Tuesday 31st December – From me. To you.

So, how did your 2019 go?

Did your naive and deluded expectations of about dinner time on 31st December, 2018 come to pass?

If they did, well, check you.

Congrats.

Here in The Single Mum House things were about what you’d expect if you throw a slightly neurotic, emotionally unstable menopausal forty-nine year old and a hormonal, boundary smashing, Insta-Addicted teenager into a three bedroomed terraced house together and leave them to it.

Yep, as ever, we endeavoured to live down to expectations.

But hey, it’s better to be an honest sinner than a fake saint.

So, as the new decade begins, I want to say thank you.

Thank you to the friends and family who remain, as ever, my constant support system and to the readers, from Newport Pagnell to Australia, who took the time this year to get in touch and express how much they enjoy this diary.

Each and every one of you have in some way helped, supported or encouraged me this year and, from the bottom of my heart I wish you a wonderful New Year’s Eve.

With a peaceful and successful 2020.

And may politicians, celebrities and Windsors continue to do dumb shit.

Otherwise I’ll have nothing to write about next year.

Thursday 12th December – Britain does Brexit: The Final

It’s that time of year. Strictly Come Dancing, The X Factor and now, Britain Does Brexit.

The telephone lines are open – the public vote is live, lines close at 10pm and calls will be charged at your provider’s standard rate.

Make sure you have the billpayers permission though.

Brit fans have breathlessly whittled our finalists down to two remaining front-runners, Boris ‘Village-Idiot’ Johnson and Jeremy ‘Creepy-Beard’ Corbyn.

The semi-finals, screened on BBC1 last week, (catch it on iPlayer if you missed out) gave our finalists the opportunity to sing their songs live to the nation and wowza, it was a dazzling affair.

The Village Idiot’s song, whilst pretty much only consisting of one line, does have a catchy, repetitive, can’t get it out of your head quality that really has been ear-worming its way into our voter’s ecstatically low functioning consciousness’.

Get Brexit Done.

And the fans are mad for it.

On the other side of the studio aisle we have Creepy Beard and his frantically feral fandom.

And what Creepy-Beard’s tune lacked in structured lyrics, it totally made up for in it’s ability to change direction, reinvent itself and leave our audiences unsure what had actually been sung.

Creepy-Beard sure knows how to leave a crowd on a cliff-hanger.

We might possibly not get Brexit done.

And the fans are mad for it.

There has been a total downer section of the voting public who keep droning on about what the contestants stand for, other obviously than the getting, or the not getting of Brexit done, but here at ‘The-Show-Must-Go-On’ Towers, we feel that focusing the public attention on actual politics or, worse still, the economy is just a bit of a snoozer.

It won’t be thrilling, it won’t be celebri-tastically-awesome and the optics of dreary stuff like the actual running of a country by the people and for the people just don’t translate well to Instagram or Snapchat.

And the fans definitely aren’t mad for that.

Rumours are circling that democracy would be much better served in the future if voters could really get inside the lives of our contestants and it’s true, it’s had to argue with the success of Love Island in terms of engaging votes and electrifying the viewers.

So cameras inside the homes of our contestants next season please.

Does Creepy-Beard have a particular brand of rain mac that he favours when scuttling about in the bushes behind primary schools?

Or is he more of an everyman, Primark cagoule, equal opportunity social nuisance?

Does the Village-Idiot practice the imbecilically alarming leer in front of the mirror of a morning?

Does this explain why he permanently looks like he’s been beaten the shit out of by the hair-fairy?

Is looking into the mirror and doing two things simultaneously just too much of a stretch?

See, the voters know almost nothing about the contestants sex lives or even their feelings and quite frankly, the competition is the weaker for it.

Knocking out some merch would probably be awesome too.

Boris could launch a range of iPhone covers, travel coffee mugs and t-shirts with ‘Saw it. Pinched it. Spent it’ on them and Jeremy could go with something like ‘I’m Rubbery. You’re Glue’.

Because you know what?

The fans would be totally mad for that.

And ultimately, it seems that that’s all that matters.