Ecoutez, mes enfants. In other words, listen up kids. Cos here’s something a wee bit different from the Word Up blog HQ for the New Year. It’s not a blog as you know it, it’s a phog. Yep, a phog. See, I’ve been torn between writing up a storm about the merits of being a
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Category Archives: Me, myself, I
A seasonal ditty to be sung to the tune of John Lennon’s Christmas classic “Happy Christmas (War is Over)”. Altogether now… So this is business And I’m about done Another year over Tax return still not begun And so this is business Not always much fun But my very own dear one Sometimes tricky to
I love a good swear word, so I do, ya ***t. Yup, I’m a big fan of the Glesga vernacular, splattered as it so often is with spectacular swearies. Okay, sometimes the sheer scale of the effing and blinding is right over the top – 19 mentions of the “c” word in one short paragraph
I am a leader. Apparently. I am a leader amongst women. Yup. Hey! Don’t knock it. This leadership stuff is rather intoxicating, I’m beginning to see the appeal of rampant megalomania. And anyway, I s’pose as a captain of industry (ahem), I am a leader of sorts. But as a sole trader “take me to
I’ve got the blues. The bad language blues. Not the effing and blinding variety, feck no. That would be hypocrisy of the highest order from one who indulges in foul-mouthed badinage on a woefully regular basis. Nope, the bad language getting my goat is jargon. I’m talking about the strands of language used in niche
It swept over me this week. That sinking feeling. You know the kind, the gnawing sense that something’s really, really wrong. I’m not talking about losing the car keys or misplacing my specs, tho’ such activities may indeed occasionally upset the equilibrium of the Word Up world. No, I’m talking discombobulation, with bells on. But
The engine of this usually energetic entrepreneur is stuttering and threatening to stall, but I’ve just got to keep motoring. I’ve got to admit it, this wee wrangler of words is very nearly out of gas. My burgeoning business is going great guns but the operator is running on fumes. I’m whacked, knackered and a
Sshhhhhht! Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve got a confession to make. See, I’ve been completely and utterly undecided. No, not about the big vote, I’ve been completely and utterly decided on which box I will be placing my X in long since. Nope, the vacillation, the dithering and the procrastination causing all kinds of angst
Man the barricades, sisters, we’re talkin’ ‘bout a revolution round here. Never one to shy away from a righteous cause, or the advancement of womankind, I’m volunteering my services as a fully-paid up revolutionary. This will come as no great surprise to anyone who knows the paternal background of this particular sole trading adventurer and
Forgive me fashionistas, but I’m all of a fankle. Being bang on trend just ain’t my bag, baby. Unless you count being hopelessly and happily stuck in some strange late 70s vortex where Fred Perry polos and Bass Weejun loafers are de rigeur, that is. See, for me, getting all dressed up just don’t feel
