Women's weeklies. We love 'em

Great to see some fighting talk from Lucy Jolin on the newly launched Journobiz (www.journobiz.com) this morning.
She gives an expert opinion on how to write for women’s weeklies – and lambasts those who look down their noses at such titles.
Preferring to eke out a living writing worthy but dull features for papers nobody I know reads, there are plenty of writers who consider such titles beneath them.
I couldn’t agree with Lucy more.
A magazine came back to me yesterday (hurrah) to commission three stories I’d sent over.
The first was about a father determined to raise awareness of a condition that claimed his son at 19. The second was a letter from a woman to her sister, telling her how proud she is that she has overcome all the obstacles in her life to become a mum and businesswoman. And the third was a woman who has faced so much grief and trauma in her life, it’s a miracle she’s still here, let alone raising shedloads of cash for a children’s charity.
Now according to some, these magazines and the stories in them are ‘cheap, trashy and sensationalist.’
Utter nonsense in my book. Try telling that to the people mentioned above. Or to the woman we reported on a few weeks back who is now having surgery for a terrible disease she bravely discussed. She’ll show you the letters of support she’s had from all over the country and tell you about the friends she’s made since the article appeared. Oh and she can also describe the first holiday she’s been on in years after the magazine footed the bill.
Perhaps it’s a class thing.
I happen not only to identify very strongly with the women in these mags but also admire many of them greatly.
Oh and as they pay oh hundreds of pounds a page, I’m glad I do!

'Cos mums are heroes' (Even Kerry Katona*)

Mother’s Day. The one day of the year you can take your children out and not have people look at you like you’ve weed on your trousers - in front of them.
Sitting down to Sunday lunch in a country pub, however close to the cosy fire your family is, you’ll often feel a distinct chill in the air.
Scrutinised like you’ve at worst just committed mass murder and at best tracked a hefty dose of dog mess into the carpet, the atmosphere can make you decidedly ill at ease.
So what is it about your presence that so often proves so unsavoury to the other diners?
You’ve taken your children along.
If you were venturing into a three-starred Michelin eatery with two screaming toddlers then I’d understand the frosty glares.
But when it’s a cheap and cheerful place – often even with its own resident bloke in a bear suit or woman dressed like the saddest clown you’ve ever seen - you’ll still feel like the girl picked last for netball.
When we ate out with our girls in the early days, they were without fail their usual unobtrusive selves – no tantrums, no tears, no running around and no filling of nappies – they saved that for when they got home. But still people seemed offended by our blatant show of fertility.
Not that we ate out often. Once in a blue moon more like. The stress of the disapproving glances became a bit much for me. I’d really liked to have literally stuck two fingers up at all the snooty onlookers. But of course I didn’t want to make things more unpleasant than they already were.
These days I’m past caring. Children are people too!
I’m reliably informed there’s now a British Association of Non Parents, which claims to campaign for the rights of childfree couples.
I’m baffled as to what it is they could possibly do.
Perhaps they go on placard waving missions to Wacky Warehouses and ring up ITV to complain about Dancing on Ice being recommissioned.
Whatever it is, there’s evidently an increasing army of eager new recruits and judging by our reception in certain restaurants, they’re fighting dirty.

* Leave the girl alone. I love her.

A letter from an agent

Dear Shirley,

Thank you for sending your proposal for ‘Working title’

You write a good marketing proposal but ultimately I need to see the writing. Without taking away any of the heroism that Derek displayed, there are many more victims with their story and many unsung heroes in every kind of situation.

A book such as Derek’s has to be really good to rise above the rest. Much will rest with how Derek has written his experiences, his observations and his feelings.

Good luck with the project and should you care to send a sample of Derek’s writing, we would be most interested in reading it.

Yours sincerely

(Dictated by agent and signed in her absence.)

I was encouraged by this letter. Derek had been getting jumpy that anything was ever going to happen. He has been in all the papers again this week. There is a bit of a local backlash and it’s getting him down a bit.

Dave read it and said nothing except: “Well it’s a bit dismissive.” Thanks Dave. See I prefer to take it as reinforcing the earth shattering conclusion that you do actually have to provide an agent with a sample chapter or three to get any decent feedback. Still it's not an outright 'no' and that's good enough for me at this stage.

This isn’t the first agent to reply. My initial contact asked for a synopsis by email. Some 20 minutes later, I was jumping out of my chair, punching the air and shouting f*** at the top of my voice as her reply plopped into my inbox.

Thanks for approaching us with your excellent proposal.

Let's have a chat tomorrow morning.

All best

I couldn't settle all night after that. I watched Nanny McPhee cuddled up under a duvet on the sofa with Lauren and Hannah, but even powerhouse performances by Emma Thompson and Colin Firth, not to mention Angela Lansbury, (loved her since Bedknobs and Broomsticks) couldn't keep my mind from wandering to dream of an impending literary success.

I dutifully rang the next day but she wasn’t in. For some unknown reason and going against the habit of a lifetime I left a message that my synopsis concerned a ‘gentleman’ who’d been in the news. I felt a proper nana, as Hannah would say. Gentleman ffs.

I needn’t have worried. Turned out this agent was painfully posh (please tell me they're not all like this) and actually she’d read the proposal too quickly, googled Derek and when she found out he wasn’t maimed, was no longer interested.

A letter to the friend I've lost

Post edited - oh ok removed - awaiting publication in a paper, thank you very much.

Short story: She had no shame

‘Come on love, it’ll be fun, move your arse!’ Mum coaxes. She’s laughing but I pull a face. I don’t want to go.

Squirming with embarrassment as my mother entertains more drunken women at another 40th birthday party is not my idea of a good time.

I’d rather be at home with my music. One day I want to go to college, but it’s been a struggle.

We had to sell my clarinet when Dad lost his job and the tuition fees are out of our reach.I still study, but now with a clarinet borrowed from school.

“Your talent would shine if you were blowing down a bog roll, Amy” Mum told me with customary aplomb. Dad will be at the party too. He’ll have his T-shirt on, emblazoned with the initials BLUFF – Big Lazy Ugly Fat F*cker – and I’ll wish for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

I remember that Mum even asked me to wear one once: Mini Ugly Fat F*cker it said – MUFF for short.

Okay I could see it was funny – but it really wasn’t very nice was it? I wouldn’t be seen dead in that bloody T-shirt.

But I still felt bad when Mum’s eyes glazed with tears as I told her to get lost. As we head for the party, I picture the scene that awaits us.

Mum’ll enter the room, dressed like a lollipop lady, to the sound of Right Said Fred’s I’m Too Sexy.

She won’t be alone. There’ll be a burly bloke squeezed into schoolboy shorts and tie, and no more, at either side.

The women will whoop and laugh appreciatively – like they’ve never seen an overweight man with his top off before.

I’ll look elsewhere as the tipsy party-goers snap away with their mobiles at the ample bellies on display.

Then I’ll smile to myself, thinking of them the next day, cursing at the blurred images they’d failed to nail.

What a joke, I think.Oh yes, the jokes. They always go down well. “How dirty do you want me to be on a scale of one to ten?” Mum’ll ask.

“Ten,” someone will yell, before an “eleven” follows from the back of the room. “Sixty-nine” Dad shouts before anyone realises he’s part of the act.

That never fails to raise the roof. “The oldest ones are the best,” Dad laughs, winking at us, with a twinkle in his eye – obviously having the time of his life.And so it always begins. The rude jokes come thick and fast.

Mum bats off hecklers with a swift rebuke. It’s men who call out, insulting her, mocking her weight.

And she fires back: “If your c*ck is as big as your mouth, I’ll see you later.”Listening to the bawdy repertoire is no place for a 16-year-old girl. How’d you like it if you heard your mum utter a gag with the immortal lines: “Can I smell your fanny? No? It must be your feet then.”

Sometimes she picks on someone in the audience.“Boy you’ve got big hands,” she says: “Bet they make your c*ck look small.”

While the women roar, all the men, except Dad, squirm in their seats.It hasn’t always been like this. Dad worked in a factory. He’d been there since he left school.

He was a union man through and through. But those days were gone. I never understood why – something to do with China, but I didn’t get the full picture. I don’t think Dad did either.

Mum had a job in the supermarket in our village. She worked school hours and was always there to pick me up.Then she would listen to me playing the clarinet and we’d plot my future of world domination as an international performer.

We researched scholarships to music college.Still I knew where I was needed. There was no way I could go. I needed to stay and bring a wage home. Mum lined a job up for me at the supermarket.

“You should be on the stage Shirl”, enthused Mum’s colleagues. They were in stitches as she recounted her saucy tales. She had no shame.

Other people’s mums were cross if they swore. My mum sat on the sofa, farting and giving herself marks out of ten.“Mum..” I’d begin, gearing up to ask her for a pack of crisps or a biscuit.

“Mum’s arse!” she’d answer – years before Jim Royle was on the scene.And so, when Dad was made redundant, she did go on the stage.

She continued to work in the supermarket, she continued to pick me up from school, even when I insisted she really didn’t have to. All the time the bookings for her act Lady Muck were mounting up.

She had a regular slot at the community centre down the road on Friday nights. Other days, without fail, after I went to bed she tapped away at ‘gags’ on the computer.Dad was proud of her. He went on loads of courses – how to be an IT consultant, how to be a cost management consultant, how to be a herbal drinks consultant – but he couldn’t go the distance.

“Consultancy’s just not for me love’, he sighed and we couldn’t disagree. But he needn’t have worried. Soon he was needed in a supporting role for Lady Muck.

Mum was featured in our local paper: “Roly poly mum cleans up” ran the headline.It was the talk of our school but I didn’t care, I wanted a ‘normal’ mum – one who got cross if I said “f*ck” and one who didn’t look tired all the time.

Last year she won an award. A national arts promotion body gave her £3,000.She was featured in a tabloid. ‘Check out girl licks the competition,’ screamed the headline – and there was Mum, dressed as a lollipop lady, with her cheesy grin filling most of page eleven.

Then people were telling me how proud I must be, I tried to ignore them but it was getting harder. She was still my mum and I loved her – even if she was the female equivalent of Chubby Brown.

Now she’s stopped typing away while I’m in bed. I suspect she’s lost interest. She even went away for a weekend last month.She went without Dad. When I pressed her on where she had been, she mumbled something about ‘an appointment’.

I’m worried sick; Mum’d never had a weekend without Dad and me. I’ve told her she should enough times – she could go away with her mates from work, but she shrugs and says she sees enough of groups of women in her ‘night job’.

’What’s happening to our family? I begin to suspect something is wrong and tonight will be her last gig.

Now I feel guilty, guilty and selfish, my mum has been working herself into the ground to keep this family together.But she loves performing. She says it’s like a drug.

“I may not be Julie Andrews but I am Lady Muck’, she says.“Are you coming or what? Hurry up slowcoach,” she chides as I silently carry her stage gear to the car.

We don’t speak as we head to the venue. No doubt it’ll be another Working Men’s Club, perhaps it won’t be a birthday party after all, maybe it’s a hen night.Those are even worse – women in grotesque costumes made out of bin bags, L-plates and pictures from porn magazines, with snaps of their own heads stuck on by their so-called mates.

But we take a different turn. We head into the city and soon we’re in the ‘arty’ quarter. We pass the music shop that bought my clarinet.I’m pleased to see it’s no longer in the window. ‘At least someone’s enjoying it,’ I think.

And then I forget about the clarinet. We’re stopping outside the TV studios and I am gripped by a strange fear: “Oh God no, Mum’s going to audition for Big Brother, or even worse The X Factor –she wants to be the next YMCA girl.”

“What are you doing mum?” I ask, panic rising in my voice.“You’ll see, now hurry up, we have to meet Dad. He’s gone into town to get a new T-shirt done but he said he’d see us here.”

We are soon outside Studio Three and here’s Dad, waiting. He pulls his T-shirt out of the carrier.It says PAF on it. “Proud as F*ck”, he explains gingerly. “Had enough of BLUFF. Sorry ‘bout the language Amy,” he says.

“I’ve got you one too.”Then he produces another bag – Tony’s Musical Supplies it’s from – and here’s Dad beaming, as he unwraps my clarinet.For a split second I’m lost for words, I just can’t take in what is happening.“This is for you sweetheart,” says Mum softly. “This is what it has all been for, there’ll be no more Working Men’s Clubs for us.”

I take in the sign on the studio door: “Dirty talk with Lady Muck”.Mum tells me she recorded a pilot last month. “Went down a storm,” she says. “They’ve commissioned a 12-week run – it’s going out at 10pm on a Saturday night and I’ve got soap stars and singers as special guests.

“They’ve paid me a few grand up front – and I’ve contacted that music college you’ve set your heart on.It’s enough for the first term – my fees for the series will pay for the rest.

“Where do I change?” I ask for the first time in my life.

Twelve stories in 12 months

There I've said it. That's my target. A short story a month until December. Then I'll have a collection. Its name? 'I wish my wife was this dirty' We'll see.

Short story: Ann Summers party

Still a work in progress. Please don't read it if you are offended by swearing. :-)

Ann Summers party
The last time Alison was at an Ann Summers party, she disgraced herself with one of the gadgets. It was called an ‘Orgasm Feast’ and one look had made the room full of women shriek – whether out of nerves, horror or lust, no-one could really say.
She’d sat on its little gyrating ‘bullet’ as it jigged about and buzzed across a chair.
None of the other party-goers had been brave – or was it drunk – enough to give it a go, especially in Jackie’s front room while on-lookers chewed reduced fat sausage rolls and swigged back tumblers of Lambrusco.
Either way, Alison liked to stress she was fully clothed and only doing it for the laugh. She wanted to say ‘only for the crack’ but held herself back in case she caused more outrage.
Trouble is, she’d laughed and sat a bit too hard – breaking the whizzy plastic ball into tiny pieces and landing herself with a bill for £40.
Some of the girls at the party, Alison included, had laughed until they cried.
But Jackie, whose party it was, couldn’t see the funny side. She was disgusted at her friend for ‘making a show of her’ – especially when she was surrounded by girls from work.
“How could you?” she whined.
“I bet this lot’ll tell Mr Wilkes what a stupid mate I’ve got and have a good laugh about it behind my back.”
“Well holding an evening of edible c*ck rings and see through nighties is hardly the way to go to get in with your boss in the first place, mate, ” Alison answered.
There’d been another Ann Summers party at Jackie’s since. Alison wasn’t invited.
But tonight all had been forgiven. Here they were the two of them, at Alison’s house, getting ready for another one, this time at Lauren’s place.
Lauren was also a regular. She’d lost five stone in the last 12 months. As her weight diminished, her collection of ‘fun stuff’ had grown.
“No wonder Gary always looks so knackered,” Alison said as they headed through the door.
“Stop it. You’d better bloody behave tonight Missus,” said Jackie, smiling as they headed for the car.
“Oh I’ll be fine,” said Alison.
“Sometimes though, I think I’ve got tourettes – how many times have I won the rude alphabet game now?”
“Dread to think. Hope you’ll let someone else get a word in tonight.”
“Yeah, so long as it’s a filthy word,” Alison laughed.
Also at the party was Shirley, an old mate from when Lauren was a Saturday girl at Somerfield, who’d never been to such a party before.
Then there was Penny, a girl from Jackie’s work . She was getting stuck into the wine, as her mum Sue, looked on disapprovingly.
Gina, who was new to the area, had been invited by Lauren as she knew her from Superslimmers.
She surprised the girls she hadn’t met before by announcing she was six months pregnant.

Jackie nearly choked on her Chardonnay.

“Jesus, you can’t even tell,” she whispered to Alison.

Even Lauren looked surprised.

“No wonder you haven’t been losing any!” she said.

“Have you heard that joke, I’d rather keep the bus seat to myself than make the fat girl standing up cry?” added Jackie unkindly.

“Oh that’s lovely, a little brother or sister for Josh,” Alison told Gina, ignoring her friend’s catty laughter.

“You must be so pleased with how he’s getting on.”

“Yeah, he’s just started a new school, he says it’s great,” said Gina.

“He loves English best, says his teacher’s great – really in touch with the children, not standoff-ish like some of the others he’s had.”

“It’s so important…” Alison started to tell Gina. She wanted to say it’s so important that kids loved language, but was interrupted by Lauren.

“Sshh!” said Lauren – “They’re gonna start the games in a minute.”

The hostess’s name was Muriel.

A stocky woman with red hair cut into a bob, she had a white blouse covered in badges awarded for her excellence in sales. But she said she wanted to be an undertaker.

“I like working with people,” she shrugged by way of explanation.

For a minute, this revelation stopped the conversation dead.

Then there was uproar.

Raucous comments about ‘stiffs’ began, followed by peals of laughter. Muriel was forced to call the house to order.

“Who’s played the rude alphabet game before?” she shouted, holding her right hand up, palm out, like Simon Cowell opposite a tuneless wannabe.

“Not me,” slurred Penny.

Sue looked at her like she’d just sniffed a particularly rancid smell, then she chipped in “I have.”

More giggles followed from the rest of the girls. Except for Penny who looked like she was about to cry.

‘Shut up mother!” she snapped, her face reddening.

“Well,” began Muriel, “It’s quite simple, I’m gonna show you all a letter on a card and you have to call out a rude word beginning with that letter.

“Whoever shouts out a winning word first gets to keep the card. Whoever has the most at the end has won the game and will get a prize.”

Everyone nodded. “Sounds easy enough, but it’s all new to me,” said Gina.

“A” said Muriel, holding up the card.

"Arse" shouted Alison, beating a couple of 'arseholes’ and one 'arousal’ into second and third place. Somebody shouted ‘arse bandit’ but everyone ignored them.

“Arousal? That’s hardly a dirty word,” sniffed Alison.

“It is in our house,” laughed Shirley.
The game continued apace through Alison’s offerings of ‘b*ll*ks’, ‘c***’ and ‘dildo' , while more wine was sipped and the laughs got throatier.

At 'f' the general consensus was it should be 'f*ck' and Alison’s suggestion of 'fisting' caused some confusion.

"What's that?" Asked a couple of the girls and when Alison explained they looked distinctly unimpressed.

“You should have pretended you didn’t know,” said Jackie, sensing the mood changing.

Muriel made a mental note not to promote the ‘anal probe.’

And so the game went on. Alison was gripped by the urge to shout dirtier and dirtier words, then immediately lower her gaze and mutter 'sorry' more than once.
Looks of horror and bewilderment abounded, not to mention a few choking sounds, as Alison offered: "j*** knob, lezza, minge, nuts, orgasm, p***flaps and quim” in machine gun-like, cathartic succession.
Lauren decided to pretend she didn’t know her – quite a feat when she’d invited her into her home for an Ann Summers party. More worryingly, Jackie also appeared to be making out she wasn’t with her.

‘Uh-oh’ thought Alison. “Looks like I’ve blown it again’

Then Jackie laughed.

“Look, I know you’ve got a competitive streak but this is ridiculous,’ she told her friend through gritted teeth.

By the time Muriel got to ‘t’ ( most of the girls shouted ‘tits’, while there was a solitary 'tw*t' from Alison), she was romping ahead. At ‘v’, people seemed a little stumped except for the rather obvious 'vagina'.

Alison cried 'vulva' triumphantly before apologising profusely and taking another gulp of wine - not to mention preparing herself for a very loud and a little jerky 'w****r'.
Alison sensed the atmosphere worsening. Nobody likes a smart arse. Dirty looks were coming her way. "But I work with work with words!" she protested.

It didn’t wash. The other women had made a mental note that she was a pervert.

Nobody wanted to talk about work and they weren’t really interested in Alison’s excuse for a foul mouth.

“If you were my daughter, I’d wash your mouth out with soap,” said Sue as Penny shot her another embarrassed glance.

“Mother, honestly” tutted Penny.

But Sue was unrepentant.

“You must have been dragged up,” she scowled.

“I can’t see my mum at an Ann Summers party,” Alison told her, laughing.

A rather muted Muriel congratulated Alison on her victory.

“Can we see the Rampant Rabbit now?” Asked Sue.

Alison’s prize was a pack of cards with blokes in various states of undress.

“We’ll have hours of fun with these. We can play 'guess the year' the pictures were taken, ” she said.
”Judging by the straw hat and the handlebar moustache it was the same year the Village People made it big, ”added Alison, in a fruitless attempt to thaw the icy atmosphere.

Everyone was looking at her.

She couldn’t make out if they were disgusted or baffled by her behaviour.

Jackie could – they were disgusted.

“Time to go,” she announced.

“What d’you mean?” protested Alison, ‘it’s only nine o’clock.”

“Yeah but don’t you remember you’ve got work to do?” mouthed Lauren, raising her eyebrows.

“Spose I could make a start on all that marking,” she answered, grabbing her coat from a kitchen chair.

“Still Josh is such a good boy Gina, I won’t have much to put right, I’m sure.”

“Can’t wait for parents' evening,” giggled Jackie as they headed for the car, a trail of open mouths behind them.