Nobody will complain as we're all too busy napping

I was horribly shocked last weekend when my husband and I discussed what time we'd be leaving for a Stone Roses concert in Manchester.

Stone Roses
Stone Roses

We were both terrifically excited about going. This was to be my first stadium concert but, more importantly, we’ve both been Stone Roses fans for many, many years.

In fact, I can remember my first rave, in a field somewhere outside Winchester, having a marvellous time with Fool’s Gold (a light intro to the band’s wonderful catalogue).

Well, I say rave, but on reflection I think it was in a marquee, which seems awfully nice when I consider some of the more grimy places I ended up dancing through the night in the early ’90s.

So perhaps it was my first outside party that I’d had to drive to by following dodgy directions, rather than a rave per se.

Since then the Stone Roses have inspired many wonderful moments. They’re the ultimate road trip music if all the passengers are into them.

And who hasn’t been readily amused by a newcomer to the music warbling ‘I wanna be a dog’? Admit it, we all know someone who has fallen down that particular well. If you’re not a fan, the actual lyrics are ‘I wanna be adored’.

When I heard tickets were on sale, I bought some immediately. It was one of those moments where I shut my eyes to the overall cost (the tickets, the travel, the hotel, the food, the alcohol, the new trousers, new shoes and eye liner) and pressed ‘proceed to checkout’. And then there was the service charge too – a whopping £7.50 each.

And what did I get for that? Two e-mails. The first telling me that my tickets weren’t ready, the second telling me to print them myself.

But then came the discussions about the travel plans and leaving two hours earlier than I’d anticipated in order to get a ‘nap’ in at the other end.

How old are we? Where has the energy dribbled away to that once had me driving to London to dance all night? Or halfway across the country for a date?

In the 20 years since Fool’s Gold came out, so much has changed. But I guess that’s why Ticketmaster can get away with its high charges. No-one is going to complain, as we’re all too busy napping.


Talking of dire television, I also happened across Love Island, which is turgid beyond belief.

How these people would want to date each other is beyond me.

In the clips which I saw, they all came across as spoiled and shrieking. But hey, perhaps that’s just me.

I was very sad for Miss Great Britain though, who was stripped of her title after reportedly having sex with a fellow contestant on the island.

While it’s the perfect example of ‘no sex please, we’re British’, it does also beg the question quite what Miss Great Britain should be doing? Baking scones, perhaps? Waving a flag?

Or making a lovely cup of tea while conquering the world and enslaving other races?


I was pretty grossed out to come across a TV programme called 100% Hotter this week.

This little gem is a makeover show in which girls (maybe they do boys too?) are rated on their look by strangers, scrubbed up by experts and then re-rated with the simple premise that they’re made ‘100% hotter’.

Thus a 4/10 aims for 8/10 etc.

How destructive is this type of trash? Why do we need to judge one another on looks alone?

It made me feel sick to the pit of my stomach that this show exists – and that I was sat there glued to it like a brainless idiot.

And the worst part?

I now have coconut oil drenching my hair as recommended by the hairy stylist in the show.