Arse Awareness

Have you ever done something or said something that has made a complete and utter arse of yourself?


You have so.

I’m imagining the scenarios right here. Right now.

Some of you are a disgrace to yourself.

I feckin’ know it.

I can see you all. Hear you. That daft joke you told. That time you thought that demonstrating twerking to your boss in the middle of a meeting would lighten the atmosphere.

Ach, you know what I mean. Now and again we let our hearts take over from our heads and just do it. Like a cosmic sort of storm where the stars explode in our mind and we don’t think. Till afterwards. Then we go, wtf!

Sometimes it’s when we’re standing in the shower later on the next day that we go, ‘I didn’t, did I?’

Sometimes, there’s alcohol involved.

Sometimes there isn’t.

Sometimes, you can hardly ever imagine getting to a place where you can live it down. Whatever it was.

Sometimes, because of who you were with, there’s nothing to live down. Because, you know, the person you were with and said all that stuff to is just as big of an arse as you are.

Which is amazing and liberating in my book.

And no fecker need ever know. ‘Cos the two of you are closet arses. Keeping your arsedom to yourselves.

Except if you have a blog.

Then you’ve got a post!

My god, is there anything that is sacred to the blogger? No, seriously, is there?

There was a time I could make an arse of myself and the only people privy to it were those at the time. Never did feel the compunction to share arse awareness with the world at large and flaunt my smalls to all and sundry.

But I have a blog. You’re on it. Right here, right now.

And arses are the future. Did you know that it is not possible to save the planet without baring your arse? How else are we gonna reproduce without getting our knickers off and revealing the….well, you know what’s under the lilac scants!

Some of you might know I have a sister. I have two actually. But the one who’s at least as much of an arse as myself is Veronica. We’ll call her Sean ‘cos that what my eldest christened her when she couldn’t get her infantile tongue round her name.

And it’s stuck for all the kiddies that came later. And now we all just call her that. Quite cute actually that you end up with a whole other name because some two year old, twenty odd years ago, coined a moniker in their own inability to say the right thing.

I like that.

It makes me think that getting it wrong somehow gets it right. ‘Cos Auntie Sean has just suited my sister to a T all these years down the line. She loves it. All my crew call her that. Anyone who knows her intimately now calls her that.

Except me.

I call her an arse.

I’m entitled.

She calls me that too.

Two cheeks from the same mould, so to speak.

Now, you’re curious.

What the feck did arse one and arse two get up to that warrants a blog post?

What, like I’m gonna tell you?

Ok, that’s just mean. And I’m not mean.

I’ll say this.


You’re at your sister’s seven doors away. Your two youngest are there. Because they’re staying over with their cousins. Because they love doing that. They’re decked out in face paints. Because, kids. Mess. Bilateral equation. Fun. No inhibitions.

Me and my sis. And whiskey. Grouse. Pepsi Max. Large glasses. Fifty years of loving the arse off of one another. No inhibitions. Kids. At heart.

And the kids are the least of your embarrassments. ‘Cept, we weren’t embarrassed.

Even when the kids came in and looked at us like, ‘What are you doing? No, seriously, what the hell are you both up to?’

I will justify the following with the fact that all of my family are artistic in some shape or form. I said ARTISTIC. (Spelling is everything in the land of getting your facts right and not being undermined or misunderstood.)

Suffice to say that, for reasons of artistic awareness (that was the reason!) we decided to enact various scenarios from our lives. The actual and the possible.

That is the only reason I ended up on the floor with tears in my eyes. She doesn’t half pack a punch, my sis. Well, it was more of a shove really.

And that was when the kids walked in and rolled their eyes. Didn’t bat an eyelid, mark you. They’re very artsistic too. I said, ARTISTIC! They get that arsedom rules on the planet of understanding. And whatever boat floats your boat to get you there is sailing on the next tide.

Did you know that arses float?

Like buoys in a sea where you need a landmark, something to steer by.

And my sis is just the bhoyo to guide my vessel.

Needs to rein in the enthusiasm at times. Could do with some impro lessons and slightly less reality.

Our kids think we need new knickers. Ones big enough to cover our arses.

I would tend to agree. But, what’s done in private no one needs know about.

‘Cept if you have a blog.