An introduction to my Mirandaisms

I am Miranda (not the sexy Kerr kind). Not by name, but definitely by nature. For those that have never watched the comedy show, I’m an embarrassing, overly excited disaster area to all those that know me.

I cannot even begin to recall the number of times I’ve been stuck in situations so cringeworthy that sudden death has seemed like the most painless and sensible solution.


This blog is designed to help me pour my heart out, as a form of counselling I suppose. I’m hoping that an embarrassment shared is an embarrassment halved, but then I’ve always been a wishful thinker. So here goes…

Families and weddings. Who’d have them??

Every woman dreams of getting married and somehow, through all of my faults and disasters, I got married last month to a man mad enough to want to spend the rest of his life with me.

Given my track record, I was very worried about embarrassing myself. In the weeks building up to the big day, I envisioned the gasps as I fell over down the aisle, got his name wrong, or ripped my dress to expose my knickers to all the guests.

As it happened, I forgot my own name during my vows and popped my dress during the speeches, but it was a fairly well run event. I reigned in my inner Miranda and behaved, for the most part, like a normal human being.

When I woke up the following morning I was fairly pleased with myself….until my brother called me.

His day had ended quite differently, and our wedding photos from the latter part of the evening consist of my dad checking my brother’s pulse as he lay sprawled on his front over a table, lights off, in a part of the venue that was sectioned off to guests….with an inflatable banana stuck up his bum.



Couldn’t get much worse, right?

Wrong. Because as I answer the phone and listen to his apologies, the phone call takes a turn where I suddenly realise he is apologising for something else entirely.

It turns out our videographer had taken people aside throughout the evening to record surprise snippets for our wedding video. Their favourite memories, how we met etc. All very lovely.

Except, as my brother kindly informed me once he had sobered up, he decided to announce on camera that his favourite memory was of him weeing in my mouth.

Yep, that he had urinated INSIDE my mouth in my actual lifetime.

Now, let me clarify? We were children, very young children. We were sharing a bath and it was traumatic. Still is. Unfortunately, through his drunken haze, he was unable to tell me if he specified this was a childhood incident on camera. I of course am too mortified to ask the videographer, so can only wait in anticipation until we receive the DVD – our lasting memory of the day.

Thanks bro, the male version of Miranda, your sorry phone call totally makes it ok….NAAAATTTTTTT!!!!

Miranda trashes love

Miranda goes to a wedding.

It’s a lovely affair. She wears a beautiful lace dress that she rips down one side throwing herself round a guest’s waist as she parties to a Whitney Houston classic.

She spends half the night on the dance floor, bare foot, continually grabbing the bride roughly by her elegant wedding dress as she battles crippling bouts of toe cramp. She is ordered to go and sit down, but she refuses because Dolly Parton has just come on and she knows every single word and move to 9 to 5.

She then gets out her camera to make herself useful and films the bride’s throwing of her bouquet.

It is caught, much to everyone’s delight, by the biggest romantic in the room. A girl who can quote every line from The Notebook and vows to press her favourite rose from said bouquet as a beautiful memory of the day. She really does love love.


Miranda simply must go and congratulate her. Off she limps, disabled by toe cramp, phone in one hand, and the other holding together her dress.

The music is still quite loud, still playing Beyonce’s Single Ladies.

“Congratulations,” wails Miranda in her high-pitched, over-excited tone that thankfully only surfaces at weddings and roller discos.

The girl, beaming at this point, shows Miranda the bouquet and shouts over the music, “It’s fake!”

Miranda is shocked. The bouquet, made up of beautifully plump ivory roses had looked so real.

So she grabs a rose, and starts tearing it up over the edge of the dance floor. She is now very confused because it feels very real as well. She smells the shredded rose, and it smells real.

She looks up confused at the girl she has accosted who, looking equally perplexed, shouts, “I said it’s fate, not fake!!!”

Ahhhhh. Well that’s awkward. Has she now altered fate by tearing it up and throwing it on the floor? Should she glue it together? Go home? Avoid human contact for the rest of the night?

Miranda gets married herself in three weeks. I sense there being enough material to write a book. Bad times!

Warning to fellow pale-skinned twats reaching for the oil in the sun

“Isn’t the weather amazing? So nice to see the sun out,” is the starting point for conversations all over England right now.

Well, yes it does beat rain, but I would like to point out that the sun also presents a range of problems for people like me who have inherited the pale-skinned Irish gene.

My biggest problem isn’t my milky white skin, it’s my inability to accept the fact that I’m a pale person. After two weeks in the sun, I do manage to pick up a nice colour, so I cling on to that and refuse to accept I’m as deathly white as my reflection portrays for the other 50 weeks of the year.

But the sun is a little bastard and likes to punish me for my ignorance, hence my lack of enthusiasm when it rears its cocky little head.

Last bank holiday I took a little road trip to Durdle Door, an amazingly stunning beach on the Dorset coast.

It was to become the hottest day of the year, but when I left the house at 7am I found that hard to believe. Impossible, I thought, so I poo pooed the idea of bringing sun cream.

“I never catch the sun in England,” were my exact words as we left the house for the long drive down.

What I did pack however was a bottle of Garnier Ultimate Beauty Oil, for moisturising purposes. I’m sure you can see where this is going.

Within a few hours I was lying on the beach sweating it out, not an inch of shade in sight, liberally spraying myself with oil to stop my skin drying out.

All good. No feeling of burning, still so white that my skin was reflecting the sun like a snowy piste.

After 5, maybe 6, hours we decided to head home. As we pulled up after the 2 hour drive back, I realised something wasn’t right as I peeled myself off of the leather car seat. My skin felt radioactive, like a vat of acid had been poured over me.

Every movement hurt and as I got I undressed I winced with the pain. Don’t even get me started on the ordeal I went through getting into the shower.

Yep, like the twat I am I had overdone it and returned home looking like a human prawn.

Naturally the bright red sunburn wasn’t even, and the solid pink and white stripe down my arm resembled a drumstick lollipop. This got worse and worse over the course of the night as my skin continued to fry itself.



4 days. 4 days I suffered with the pain, unable to have even a duvet over me. The fridge became a storage cupboard for after sun and soothing potions.

After that I was left with limbs that looked like a snake had shed its skin on to me. Sexy I was not, flaking all over the house, leaving a trail of skin and destruction. I think I must have peeled about 50 layers of skin every 24 hours.

Turns out the beauty oil worked in the same way cooking oil would work on a little baby chicken before you stuffed it inside a roasting hot oven. I had effectively cooked myself.

So yeah, the sun is nice I suppose, but you won’t see me in it, or at least you won’t recognise me under my wallpaper paste-like, thick, factor 70 sun block.

Although I fly to Marbella at the weekend, and it would be rude not to bring a little bit of dry body oil for round the pool…..wouldn’t it?

How not to deal with wetting yourself

Looking back, I can see that my Miranda side developed a long time ago.

In fact, looking back, it is probably fair to say my childhood was one perpetual embarrassment.

Sure, everyone had a few awkward moments as a child…my mate fancies you etc etc.

But, not everybody suffered as regularly as I did. Here is just one of those moments, straight out of a Carry On sketch.

Growing up, my best friend’s parents owned an amazing apartment in Brighton. They were much richer than my parents, who at that point had already divorced, and I think they felt sorry for me. Needless to say, I played on their pity and as a result was treated to endless weekends in their apartment by the sea.

On one of these weekends, I was sporting my then favourite jacket – a sexy black bomber jacket with bright orange lining, sold exclusively by Kempton Market and made out of gloriously shiny, and probably highly flammable, material.

I loved that jacket.

Up until the point I got caught short in it.

My best friend and I had been playing in the huge communal gardens which were overlooked by her parents’ apartment. We had been annoying them as usual and so had been banished outside to wait for them, before we all left together to grab fish and chips.

Obviously I decided I desperately needed a wee and, lacking all rationality, decided I couldn’t possibly risk annoying them further by returning to the apartment and should instead pee outside.

Problem is, I did then, as I do now, have a fear of nakedness so at the age of 10 went to great lengths to prevent myself flashing my bum. Instead I crawled into a bushy area and decided to remove my bomber jacket, and wrap it around me to shield my arse from god knows what – the birds? The brambles?

My aim clearly wasn’t what it should have been, and coupled with my desperate effort to keep my bum hidden as my bomber jacket slid down, I managed to piss all over my beloved bomber jacket.


Cue panic and more irrational thinking.

I decided there was absolutely no way I could go back to the apartment and fess up to her rents that I had peed on myself, and besides that I couldn’t face having to go out without my ridiculously cool bomber on. Plus it’s breezy by the sea, you need a coat.

So I rubbed it against a tree.

Of course. Because that would work, right?

I was hoping it would dry it off somehow, but what actually happened was the moss from the tree transferred on to the jacket. All over the jacket.

So I now had a urine soaked, moss covered jacket. But did I give up? No.

I confided in my friend and insisted we run down to the seafront to wash off the moss with a bit of sea water so I could wear it to dinner. Dutifully, my best friend complied and off we went, racing to get back before her parents left the apartment to collect us.

It probably goes without saying that I dangled the jacket just as a wave came crashing in, and soaked my jacket.

But did I give up on that jacket? You bet I didn’t! I still rocked it to dinner.

That dinner was an interesting one, particularly when my friend’s mum insisted on continually sniffing and asking what the strange smell was.

Yes, I smelt like a mixture of urine, fishy sea water, and moss, but I like to think that was all beside the point.

The point was, I may have smelt like a pile of shit, but I looked bloody awesome.

Vive la bomber jacket!

Fings what I inherited

I’m going to throw some names out there-

Goldie Hawn and Kate Hudson

Gerry Hall and Georgia May Jagger

Melanie Griffith and Dakota Johnson

Pearl and Daisy Lowe


If you’re up on your celeb knowledge you will know they are all mothers and daughters.

If you’re up on your eyesight you will also know they are all ridiculously hot.

Not oh you look quite nice when you wear that new Mac lipstick and bother to blow dry your hair hot.

I’m talking BAM! Sex in your face hot.

Mother Nature at her finest, gifting daughters model looks, gazelle-like limbs, and Disney-esque hair.

What lucky women they are to inherit such wonderful things from their mothers.

I too have a mother, and she is very beautiful and I love her, but I’m no Daisy Lowe.

I think something in the DNA must have mutated when my mother and father bred because I seemed to inherit everything that Daisy Lowe didn’t.

A small list….

HAYFEVER. As in don’t take me outside in the summer months if you expect me to stop sneezing long enough to have a conversation.

GRASS ALLERGY. Linked to the above. Picnics on the grass are great fun until someone notices the giant red welts all over my legs and reacts with a, “What the fuck is that?”

HEAT RASH. Get it every time I go on holiday and get much the same reaction as I do with the grass allergy. Clubbing in Ibiza was always fun, surrounded by tanned boho chic as I scratched madly at myself in a dark corner.

AFRO. People who don’t have a clue what I mean by this and tell me they also have a “natural wave” need to get a grip. Again, on holiday, my hair turns into a frazzled afro. My friends once dubbed me the Nutty Professor as I swanned around Puerto Banus and asked me to never leave the apartment again with my hair down.

BLINDNESS. Can’t see without sticking contact lenses in my eyes. Combine this with the hayfever and I probably mention my contact lenses about three times a day in the summer months.

BACK PROBLEMS. I can shop for about an hour tops before I start clinging on to mannequins for strength and looking like an urban Quasimodo.

PALE SKIN. I’m half Irish. My skin is naturally blue. I basically look like a ginger smurf in winter, then a crispy human prawn in the summer when I attempt to tan.

THIN HAIR. My dad is pretty damn bald, luckily I’m not, but my hair is so fine that when I twist it into a “sexy” bun, Loreal advert-style, I’m left with what looks like a small furry Malteser on the back of my head. Use a doughnut, say all the people with thick, luscious locks. Cheers, not enough hair to cover it, now kindly fuck off with your advice because you don’t know the suffering!!!!

NO WAIST. It is what is says. I have no waist. Just broad shoulders and an unusually wide rib cage which narrows to slim legs. Basically a Dairylea triangle and I’m not even edible, so what’s the point?

INVISIBLE TOES. Baby toes so small you have to keep checking they haven’t fallen off when you’re wearing flip flops. And an accompanying toenail so small you have to use a toothpick to apply varnish.

A LACK OF RHYTHM. I can’t even co-ordinate myself in an exercise class if it involves more than one move. I’m currently persuading my fiancé to hold our first dance at the wedding with me sat on a chair so he can dance around me and distract from the fact I can’t even sway to music.

UNCONTROLLABLE URGE TO CRY AT EVERYTHING ON TV. Gogglebox, athletics, Eastenders, anything. If it involves people winning, losing, dying, living, being reunited with loves ones, or falling in love, I will be right next to you with my head in a box of Kleenex. I was inconsolable this week after watching a crocodile be killed for food. “Why? Why do we eat animals? I’m turning vegetarian,” I wailed, shedding serious amounts of tears.

ARACHNOPHOBIA. Can’t even get a glass over them for fear I will put myself in striking distance. I once scrubbed my skin until it bled after a money spider landed on me. Neurosis.

FEAR OF DOGS. Depends on the dog. If they jump, lick, bite, or bark, and are bigger than a Yorkshire terrier, it’s likely I will hate them, so don’t bother laughing and telling me they’re friendly because as their owner you are bias and I already don’t trust you.

FEAR OF HORSES. Just do not come near me with a horse ever, unless I am armed.

FEAR OF PEOPLE DOING UP MY ZIPS. If I have no hands free, sure you can help do up my jacket, but stop the zip before you reach my neck otherwise we are gonna have a problem.

FEAR OF HOUSE PHONES. If you need me, ring my mobile. Can’t handle the not knowing element when I hear the dreaded tone of the house phone.

AN UGLY NEED TO WIN. Prior to ten pin bowling recently, I was caught practising my technique in the kitchen with the aid of a YouTube video. Literally anything I do gets turned into a competition. Christmas games this year ended up with most of the family wishing I would go to bed and stop sucking the fun out of it. Every point won by me was matched with fist shaking and air pounding, and every point lost was met with a pause for an official appeal and accusation of cheating. Shit went down.

I could honestly go on and on…and on.

So I would like to say, thanks mum and dad for raising me and making me such a catch!

Luckily they also passed down a brain and the art of self-deprecation so I could write this, so hey ho! It’s not all bad.

Being pregnant in Paris

Every woman knows that feeling where your feet are aching so much from your ridiculously inappropriate walking shoes that you would give anything for a sit down.

I open with that line to excuse what I am about to share.

First, I will set the scene.

We were in Paris. In Paris, you walk….a lot. Taxis are expensive and you have no idea where you’re going anyway, you can’t pronounce a single road name to direct them because GCSE French taught you to say La Rochelle and that’s pretty much it, so you just walk.

After a couple of days, putting your fashionable and impractical ankle boots on is like trying to slip an elephant foot into a ballet shoe. It hurts.

So when you get to the Eurostar station to head back to London, you’re very much in need of a seat.

Particularly when your fiancé has timed it all wrong and you have hours to wait at said station.

When you realise every seat is occupied, you slowly turn into what I can probably only describe as an animal.

You start off in prowling mode, slowly walking through the rows of chairs, ready to pounce at any opening. When nobody stirs, you get desperate.

Your yearning for a seat becomes all-consuming. This is what I call the hunger stage. You hover around the weak and vulnerable looking sitters and stalk them, hoping to scare them into flight. Nothing.

At this stage, so weak are you from your “seat hunger”, you decide you will sit pretty much anywhere. You eye up floor space outside the toilets and justify ways in which it would be acceptable to lie down there. Perhaps laying a jumper down first will make it ok?

But then, oh sweet joy but then, you spot what can be used as a makeshift bench. Not low enough to take the weight off your feet, but sturdy enough to rest your bum against to relieve some of the pressure.

Fellow travellers are using one end already so you move fast through the crowd and then swoop in for the kill.

Victory at last.

But then, as women will also understand, you need yet another wee.

“Yes dear, I know I only went at the hotel, but I need to go again and in an hour just as we board I will probably need to go again, and then as soon as we get into our car at the other end and it’s an inconvenient time, I will need to go again,” I snapped.

So what do you do? It’s too busy to ask your fiancé to save your seat, but the wee needs to come out so badly that there’s no saving that either.

Well, naturally, you go through various options and come up with the most sensible one.

You pretend you’re pregnant.

Don’t judge me.

Nobody would move in and take the seat of a pregnant woman, would they? Even if they did, on pregnant woman’s return they would get up and give it back, right?

So while sat down I began rearranging my oversized coat to create a convincing pregnant bump. I then warned my fiancé to go along with me being pregnant and off I went.


I cupped my pregnant belly with one hand, and used my other to do the standard pregnant back hold. I then waddled off to the toilet, slowly and dramatically enough for everybody around to realise I was oooop the dooof.

I continued in character in the toilet while washing my hands, just for continuity purposes, and then back I waddled. I could see my seat was still free, and felt a burst of pride at my ingenuity. My fiancé was looking at me with that look he gives when I do things and force him to play along with things that he believes are mentally unstable, but I cared not because there was my seat.

I lowered myself down, wincing because the fake pregnancy weight was straining my back, and then job done.

Until I looked down at the huge dent in my puffed up swing coat and realised using air as a fake pregnancy bump was far less reliable than an old fashioned cushion.


Wedding hair trial for the socially inept

Google and general life experience tells me that weddings are quite important to women. It is their chance to be a princess for a day bla bla bla.

The other day I had my wedding hair trial. I thought maybe I’d have that princess moment and realise what all the fuss is about, because up until now I’ve been all about the marriage and the wedding is just something that has to be done to get there.

From research I discovered that most hair trials go like this…


Despite my best intentions, and a trip to Peckham for hair extensions, my bridal hair trial ended like this…


Weddings are just way too serious.

Eat your heart out Conchita.