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.