Saturday, 20 August 2016


langdon hall spa, whorrified, marie sutherland, langdon hall, piggly wig gly,

My daughter, Piggly Wiggly's mother, somehow convinced me to spend an afternoon at the spa, which is amazing in about 80 ways, two of the most notable of those being A) I'm a cheapskate and B) I am not of The Pamperers tribe. Really, I'm not. I feel deeply uncomfortable amidst luxury and would far rather sit at home eating Pringles and not wearing pants than pay a complete stranger to rub my weird leg. However, because she is adorable and also because she genuinely needed an afternoon at the spa, I relented. (Plus she was paying, so "Great, what time do you want me to be there?") 

The spa of her choosing was the venerable Langdon Hall which, again, amazing, because after our last ill-fated and obscenely overpriced run-in with elitism I swore I'd seen the last of that place and we were to be there at 2 p.m., at which time the personal massaging would commence. 
"Will I have to be naked?" I fretted. "I haven't shaved in months; I'm a Yeti from the waist down."  
"Don't worry, Mom," my daughter soothed. "It's dark in there. Just relax and enjoy the luxury." 
"I hate luxury," I huffed.   

But here's the thing about luxury: it's very easy to pooh-pooh in the abstract and yet impossible resist once you actually encounter it. (Which, come to think of it, is exactly how my friends probably describe me.) Once I entered that dimly lit room with the heated flagstone floors and the dreamy Hari Krishna soundtrack and those hands, those incredible healing hands of the saints, I became a different person. A person who says things like: "Mmm, these sheets feel amazing, what's their thread count?" and "Perhaps a just bit more craniosacral pressure? Ooh, yeah, right there."  

After the massage it was on to the facials, and then the hot tub and the sauna and a lounge where you get to loll around in fluffy monogrammed robes, drinking coffee and nibbling superior homemade granola and ... what? It's time to pay up and go home? No! Noooooo! I was just starting to fit in here! want another rub-n-tug! Sorry, I meant a massage. This is obviously a perfectly respectable establishment, your majesties. The prices alone are a clue. Okay, okay, fine, I'm leaving. *makes mad scrabble for the free soaps and shower caps*  I'M LEAVING, I SAID! Just let me finish my fucking granola, wouldja ... hey! Well I never. 

MY NOTE: All kidding aside, that was fun. We should do it again some time!
DAUGHTER'S NOTE: Totally! *blocks mother's phone number* Call me!

Wednesday, 17 August 2016


Justin Bieber has belatedly come to the realization that his fans are complete morons. I'm not sure how he missed the many earlier and more obvious signs (the fact that they allow themselves to be called "Beliebers" should have been a clue), but every man has his tipping point and Justin's came when his fans went piranha on his "friend" on Instagram. 

Biebs posted this pic of himself and Sofia Richie, the 17-year-old daughter of Lionel Richie, allegedly just hanging out but everyone knows Biebs doesn't wear belts for a reason. Those pants come off mighty quickly ... particularly when he's in Brazil ... and of course people immediately starting pouring shite all over her. So he did the honourable thing, the only thing a man in this day and age can do since no one challenges anyone to duels anymore, unfortunately: he quit Instagram.
"If you guys are really fans you wouldn't be so mean to people that I like," he intoned.

But apparently the hate continued, and because this entire scenario wasn't ridiculous enough already,  Bieber's ex, Selena Gomez, has now weighed in.
"If you can't handle the hate then stop posting pictures of your girlfriend lol - it should be special between you two only," Gomez wrote on Instagram.

"Don't be mad at your fans," she added. "They love you."

Well, technically, Selena, that's probably horseshit, and furthermore he can't hear you because he's quit Instagram, but surely you knew that? I did mention it quite prominently, early and often throughout this post. Honestly. I literally can't imagine a relationship in which BOTH people are as dim as nightlights. Thank God they didn't breed, is all I can say.

Tuesday, 16 August 2016


act your age, heels, taylor swift,
of the phrase "act your age," as well as 
the many ways one could neuter a person 
without having to go to jail for it.

A certain person who is very lucky to have escaped with his testicles intact told me to act my age today. He's not the first person to say it and he probably won't be the last. In fact, I hear the phrase "act your age" a lot.

I'm not sure whether it's my youthful good looks, my fashion choices or my taste in music that bring on this unasked-for advice, but regardless, my response is always the same: "You do realize I'm 28, right?"

I'm kidding; I'll be 27 in June. What I actually say is "What the fuck does that mean?" 
It's a very effective response that usually banishes the adviser with some alacrity. People often don't back their nosiness up with the requisite cajones, I find. (No, I am not back on the weekday hooch, but thank you for suspecting it. The goal was to lose pounds, not my edge.)
But I will admit it makes me think. I mean, what the fuck DOES "act your age" mean?

Does it mean I should be wrinklier and grumpier?
Does it mean I should I take up crossword puzzles and give up body pump classes?
Or is what they're saying coming from a crueler place? Stop colouring your hair. Stop wearing trendy clothes. Stop getting your nails done. Stop wearing heels that would cripple most women half your age. Stop having fun and start worrying about your mortgage. And above all, just settle the hell down. 

I suspect it is exactly these last few items.
Because what's really going on here is a mix of jealousy, disapproval and women-hating, three things women have grappled with for as long as there've been women and men and this guy.
I've never listened, indeed I listen a little bit less with every passing year. But now I've got the attitude to back it up. You think my pink feathered shoes are ridiculous? Well guess what? You have man boobs. Do I tell you to stop acting your age? You're boring? Your clothes are frumpy? You need to do something about your midsection? Or, perhaps most succinctly: Mind your own damn business? No I do not. 
But come to think of it, maybe I will. Maybe I just goddam well will. Because I let a certain someone out there get away with his testicles intact today. Tomorrow, he might not be so lucky.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *covers crotch anxiously* Er, I would just like to state for the record that it was NOT I who told her to act her age. 
MY NOTE: Oh no need to worry, editor. Everybody knows you don't have testicles.

Monday, 15 August 2016


THIS IS ME ON PARADISE ISLAND, discovering what most men learn at age 18: That at 2 a.m. and with two gallons of rum in your system, just about anything looks 'doable.'
I'm back! Barely five days after poleaxing everyone who depends on me from my boss to my kids to my useless human-shaped-turd editor with my extremely last-minute decision to go on a trip, I am back. The Bahamas were awesome and friendly and lush, but after four days of crashing their church picnics (how I wish that was a lie) and suckling at their bars like an insatiable, stilettoed, bleached-blond rum leech, they decided the future of their liquor supply depended on getting me the hell out of there and fast. 
"Miss, your flight is leaving now." 
"But I'm not scheduled to..." 
"Miss? Your flight. Is leaving. Now!" 

Still, I jammed an awful lot of fun into those four days and I like to think I made something of an impression (several Bahamian women were pretty tickled about my nails, with one of them cooing, "Ooooh, your nails is lovely! Is that the style in America?" To which I replied, and I'm not kidding, "Well it will be once they see this picture of me") on the men, women, lobster fishermen, cabana boys, blackjack dealers and bartenders of the string of 700 islands that make up the beautiful Bahamas.  

I would also like to reassure my boss, who is still recovering from the last vacation poleaxing (please see: Bermuda, motorized vehicles, Marie Sutherland, do not allow), that I came very, very close to respecting his request that I shun anything remotely resembling a moped. In deference to his sage advice, I rented a car instead and drove it around the entire island on the "wrong" side of the road because British heritage and only got into trouble once (on a roundabout, and nothing happened but a lot of honking so who cares?). The moped I rented the next day cost twice as much, but was way more fun. (Sorry, boss. I tried, but it turns out I'm not much good at abstaining. From anything.)

And may I just say in closing: All-you-can-drink cocktails from 10 a.m. till 1 a.m.? Whoever dreamt up THAT concept is a goddam genius. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and get my entire circulatory system cleansed before reporting for work tomorrow. (It was worth it.)