50 Signs of Sexist Asda

14/52 - Value

So, what in the festering staggerment of a rat-nibbled, fuck-strewn turd, do we have here? That’s right, it’s a good reason for me to stand aside from my sewing machine over at Kraken Kreations thanks to a lovingly provided press release from Asda in conjunction with some PR company called 72Point. You see, tin-stacking, lout-creche Asda is running a baby and toddler event (don’t ask, I don’t care) and in an effort to pimp it like crack cut with talcum powder its commissioned a survey of 2000 victims. The result is 50 Signs of a Mum (yes ‘mum’, because men still play no part in conception or parenting apparently). It’s a list, a list of 50 ways in which the public can spot a mother in public, much like a Tory spotting a benefits claimant before pissing on them. You want me to share some of these signs with you? Oh, I bet you do, kraken lovers. I bet you do:

They own lots of comfy shoes: And there I was thinking I wore comfy shoes because I’m an ugly, frigid, hairy, joyless feminist, not because I once pushed a tiny, purple human from my screeching minge. Thanks for letting me know, Asda! Want me to bring my stilettos to the shoe bank at the back of your car park?

They say ‘sugar’ and ‘fudge’ instead of swearing: No we don’t. We say ‘fucking, pissing, shitting, bastarding, cunting bollocks’, especially when we see surveys commissioned by arse-patting trolley monkeys.

Bigger pants are more comfortable: Is that during a particularly heavy and clotty period or is that all of the time?

They have strong opinions on schooling and education: Really? Well I don’t remember whether Kraken Junior is in Cherry class or Ash class but I do remember to educate her that we’re never ever shopping in Asda again because it thinks I, her mother, ‘has a cupboard dedicated to medicines’.

They don’t get queasy at the thought of poo, wee or sick: Ah, you’ve got me there Asda! Now that I’ve watched a midwife stitch up the ragged, gaping hole that was once my vagina I like nothing more than collecting turds. In fact I’ve asked the council if I could roam the street with a wheelbarrow, collecting those white curly ones, just for the fun of it.

They always have a pack of wet wipes to hand: Well I got fed up of having to wipe myself on the curtains after having a wank.

They can’t leave the house without asking everyone if they’ve been to the toilet: Yes, because I never leave the house without asking my 52 year old husband if he needs to shake his snake. I mean, why bother putting on mascara or, fuck forbid, heeled shoes when I could be obsessively monitoring Conjugal Kraken’s kidney output.

They go out shopping for the day and only return with stuff for the children: That’s right, in the seven years since spawning Kraken Junior I have only ever entered shops to buy items for HER. Not once have I bought myself a sandwich, a t-shirt, a lipstick, a coffee or those pesky high heeled shoes that keep refusing to succumb to my uterine activity. In fact, the pile of books that’s teetering over in there in the corner were bought by the Tome Fairy, the Tooth Fairy’s younger, sluttier sister.

They always have tissues in their handbag: No. No they/ we don’t. Now, I have tampons and sanitary towels in my handbag (super plus and extra long with wings) along with a copy of Mosquito Coast by Paul Theroux, assorted blister packs of anti-depressants, a spare pair of knickers (small, uncomfortable ones), a writing book, pens and a purse but no, no, I don’t have tissues. Will a sleeve do? Is that mum-ish enough for you?

They jiggle the supermarket trolley as if it was a buggy when they’re in the supermarket: Well, Asda, I wouldn’t know. That’s because the supermarket shopping is done by my husband – a MAN –and he does it in Sainsbury’s. In fact the only thing I’ve seen him jiggle lately is his cock. I’ll tell him to go to one of your stores the next time he wants to do it, shall I?

They have mum nights out: What in the conurbation of stool water is a ‘mum night out’? Seriously, I ask because I have never knowingly had one, not unless my rum has been spiked with rohipnol by a rogue baby and toddler group before forcing me to talk about breastfeeding for an hour. And if I were ever to be invited to a ‘mum night out’? I’d fucking shoot myself in the throat. FACT.

They know all the words to irritating pop songs: Well this mother doesn’t. She does, though, know all the words to the toilet-splattered fuck bucket that is Asda’s survey about mothers. In fact I have committed them to memory which is why, from here on in, I’d rather forage for greening bread in the gusset of a tramp with IBS than ever darken an Asda supermarket again. If Asda wants my business from here on in it’ll have to stop treating me on the basis of my maternal output. Now pat my arse, Asda. Go on. I dare you.

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Ched Evans

Ched EvansFor fuck sake, I can stand it no longer. You see, I more or less retired from The Kraken Wakes a few months ago when I launched my online shop Kraken Kreations (check it out if you want to see a side of the Kraken that you never imagined) but recent events have conspired to drag me out of retirement by my ankles, much like uber-twat Dapper Laughs chatting up a girl in a club. These are not any events though. Shit, no. I’m not talking about David Cameron’s latest bonfire of the benefits or the way in which ITV refuses to broadcast intelligent programming. I’m talking about the King of Events. I’m talking about convicted rapist (oh, and footballer) Ched Evans.

You don’t need me to tell you why I’m writing about Evans, the giant, festering, maggoty sore on the arse of modern society. Not unless you’ve been living inside a dishwasher that’s on a permanent cycle. Just in case you’ve had a momentary lapse of outrage, though, let me remind you that until he was jailed in April 2012 for raping a woman, Evans was a footballer (I hope I never have to turn that ‘was’ into an ‘is’) for Sheffield United Football Club. After two and a half years of serving his sentence, during which time I dare say he hoped that what befell him in the showers wouldn’t be what befell his victim, he snuck out of the prison back door to protest his dead-eyed innocence. So far, so bleak. Until, that is, this week when SUFC, allowed him to start training with the team again making the original definition of ‘fucked up’ look like a range of tea cosies.

I barely know where to start with this. Seriously, I almost didn’t write this blog post because my rage is greater than the speed on my fingers on my keyboard, and said rage exists on so many levels that I’ve created a new unit of measurement.  So what is it that makes my eyes spin in my head like a wind turbine? The fact that SUFC are happy to have a rapist in its ranks? The fact that for certain sections of society football is more important than one of the most violent crimes in humanity? The fact that Evans has shown no remorse towards his victim or her family even though her life has been crushed beyond recognition?

Yeah, they enrage me. In fact, as I write this I’m mentally kicking Evans so hard in the cock that he’s ejaculating through his fillings. Yet what enrages me even more is the cataclysmic level of cowardice that seeps from every pore of the footballing world. You’d expect a violent, raping, consent-ignoring, self-serving, unfaithful, glory-obsessed bucket of cooling vomit like Evans to try to weedle his way back into football. He forced himself into a woman’s vagina so why should football be any different?

What I didn’t expect is the insufferable silence that has come from the game of football ever since. Look at it this way: the entire nation is debating the injustice, ignorance and insensitivity of letting Evans back into football. Yet no one of note in the world of football has so much as squeaked about it. There are no debates on Match of the Day, there are no columnists fretting about it in the nation’s sports pages, there are no Twitter loving footballers or commentators breaking cover and denouncing or supporting the Devil’s pact currently held between SUFC and Evans. It’s as if someone turned out national sport into the Marie Celeste.

Why? The likes of Gary Lineker and his overpaid fuckwitted chums will drone on for hours about the state of a free kick but when it comes to an issue of such magnitude that it affects every person in the country (because we call have mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, wives or girlfriends) they keep their flapping gobs shut. The same goes for managers and coaches on repeat-play during press conferences, the financial backers, the kit providers, the team mates…

Cowardice, do you think? Yes. Cowardice. Everyone in football who has an influence on the sport yet is keeping their mouth shut on this issue is a festering coward. That they remain quiet while Ched Evans plays football (even though his victim is probably weeping into the tattered remnants of her once-hopeful life) doesn’t just make them cowards. It makes them a national shame. Every one of them wears their shame on their chest, a badge telling the world that little light rape is just fine as long as it doesn’t affect the league tables.

Well, you know what? Ched Evans will slip silently back into the footballing ranks over my dead body. The footballing establishment may be willing to sacrifice the wellbeing of their daughters or wives for the sake of Ched Evans but I am fucking well not. I will scream and shout about this in the very same way that Evans supporters have chanted about his ability to rape from their piss-riddled terraces. If Evans is the man who committed the crime of rape, the footballing world is his accomplice. May they all rot until our society is free of them.

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It’s not so much a goodbye…

Beware the Space Kraken.

Right then, Kraken-lovers. I have a nadge-worth of news for you. You have to prepare yourself though. Those of you who love me may have to be sedated while those of you who hate me may invert yourselves with joy. Ready? I’m scaling down my blog posts. That’s right, instead of hollering the word ‘fuck-nugget’ at  t’web several times a week I’m now only going to do it as and when I feel enraged enough to stab at my keyboard like a meth-addled woodpecker.

Here’s why: I’ve opened my online shop Kraken Kreations and to cut a short story even shorter it’s taking up a shit load of my time, so much time that I’m now swearing at my sewing machine rather than the online world of cyber-knobs. You see, Kraken Kreations is the product of the hundreds of hours I spend in my sewing shed creating home and fashion accessories. It started as post-breakdown therapy and has now morphed into a teeny tiny business, one which I hope will pay enough to keep me supplied with rum. I reckon it’s my one stab at becoming a productive member of society again (a thought which made Conjugal Kraken strain his gusset with mirth). It may at last lead to my world domination or it may lead to me being repatriated into my local psychiatric unit. Watch, as they say, this space.

Course, The Kraken will live on and if you want to check out my products for the love of fuck do so. You’ll love ‘em, not least because I am now a one-woman campaign against the ditzy bloody print. Not only am I using fabrics so bright that they shit mercilessly over anything dainty and floral, but I’m using patterns that do actual damage to actual eyes. In other words, they are grown up designs for grown up people – mainly women – who are sick of being told that tampon bags should be discreet. I’m even sewing swear words on some of my goodies and am so open to commissions that my gynaecologist has broken into a sweat. Laptop cases, totes, toiletry bags, sky pockets, bunting, iPad cases, sports bags, stuffed birds, lightening bolts… whatever you want, just let me know.

Anyway, what was I saying? That’s it, The Kraken Wakes will now be The Kraken Dozes While Waking Occasionally When ITV Patronises Her.  So when I do post from here on in it really should be worth the wait.



Posted in Personal, Uncategorized | 6 Comments


The Dark Side of the Loom - first version

For the love of fuck, does Kirsty Allsop ever shut up? I ask because, like a foghorn from the darkness, she insists upon blarting her withered opinions across our cultural ocean with the regularity of an IBS sufferer who’s eaten a deep fried Mars Bar. And this time she has gone too far. No, not because she has resurrected her argument that that women find housework therapeutic or because she today announced that women should eschew university for childbearing. It’s because I’m a sewist for a living and, as the self-styled figurehead for the crafting masses, Allsop is making my career look like Martha Stewart’s stool water.

Let me explain. I’m about to open my online shop Kraken Kreations where I’ll sell my outrageously bright and wild geo-print accessories for the home. I’ve turned my sewing hobby into my sewing career in a one-woman campaign to bring an end to the ubiquitous and terminally offensive ditzy print. Believe me, if I wanted to surround myself with dainty flowers I’d find a flux capacitor and go live with Enid Blyton. The problem is that for me, and thousands of other women who make a living from a needle and thread, Kirsty Allsop has somehow finagled herself into the role of Chief Crafter and every time she announces that women should stay at home she’s tarring us with a brush formed from her patriarchal bristles. In one breath she’s telling the nation’s women to ditch degrees for dummies and in the next she’s giving crafting lectures to those of us who want to turn their hobbies into careers. Thanks to this dual role of hers, the distinction between the two groups is terrifyingly thin and every time Allsop claims to represent us women who have the vision to create businesses from hobbies it gets even thinner.

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Time to Grow Up

pic marriage childFor the love of fuck, kraken-lovers, you know much I adore Facebook but there are times when I want to track down Mark Zuckerberg and tie him to stake forged from mousemats before driving sharpened chip forks through his scrotal delights. That’s because in recent weeks Facebook has been infected with one of those cyber postcards complete with vintage image and an alleged truism. Now there are some people who will no doubt claim that what I am about to rage over is “just a bit of fun”. Thing is, I’m laughing like roadkill as it takes its last breath because at the heart of this postcard is the reason why there’s a 19 per cent pay gap. That’s right, it’s the bilge that reads, “Your husband will always be your biggest and oldest child who needs the most adult supervision”.

Now, if you have put this on your own timeline and also consider yourself a friend of mine I’ll be optimistic and assume that you’ve perpetrated this heinous act with a sense of humour/ irony/ sarcasm because you are inherently understand why it is the verbal equivalent of chaining women to a family sized bottle of Domestos. However, if you don’t fall into that category and have posted this card seriously, with an indulgent giggle while patting your husband on the knee, this would be a good time to step away from the blog because I am about to take you down. And when I say down, I don’t ever really intend for you to get back up again.

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