Tag: comedy

Posted in comedy

The Ice Cream Van

Posted on by ladyilaria

Saying ‘No’ is something I find difficult. 

There’s times I know I should say no, even have to say no and still…nothing.

Not so long ago a bloke knocked on my door. He was holding a paintbrush and had a strange look in his eyes. He said he was painting yellow squares on peoples houses and could he paint ours? I knew I should say no. but I just couldn’t. And before I knew it a strange sound had escaped my mouth. It wasn’t a yes but it didn’t sound like a no. Before I knew it he’d put up scaffolding and was painting the bricks yellow. I stood there with a cup of tea watching and knew it was too late.

I think my neighbours shared my problem in saying no too, their houses were also painted yellow. A constant reminder of our weakness.

No no no. 

Not as easy as it sounds. 

This isn’t a recent problem though. Saying no has always been an issue, it all started way back when I was little Ilaria. 

Let me tell you all about the ice cream van fiasco.

Villages are rife with gossip and the talk of the village I grew up in was that my errant father, The Italian, was now an ice cream man. Juicy gossip indeed. He didn’t pay maintenance but he had an ice cream van! This was better than new school shoes and heating.

When most kids in the village just had crappy unbranded choc ices in the freezer we had fancy Magnums and Soleros. I thought this made us posh. 

We’d seen him and his van a few times but not for a while. He’d disappeared for months, to heaven knows where. He said this new job was a great way to meet women, so maybe he’d run off with an ice cream lover. 

Turns out The Italian would charge my Mum for the boxes of ice creams…and not just what he paid for them. He’d charge her the full ice cream van price.

A Sunday night was usually us kids sat with wet hair watching The Darling Buds Of May whilst tucking into a Magnum my Mum couldn’t really afford.

This Sunday was different though. 

We were settled down with our chamomile teas with the candles on getting all cosy in preparation for the school week ahead. The Darling Buds of may had just started. We heard an ice cream van tune, THE ice cream van tune, a bit of swearing in broken English and bits of Italian and a thud against our garden fence. 

My Mum pulled back the curtains and muttered ‘Oh crap, it’s The Italian’ under her breath.

I ran to the window and immediately put my hand over my eyes, this didn’t make it go away but at least I couldn’t see it for a moment. This was embarrassing, I hope none of the Brownies see this. 

With our hair still wet and our baggy nighties on we pushed our feet into wellies that were too big for us, my Mum was always getting us things to grow into. I’ve said it before, she’s lovely but very stingy. We went outside – this didn’t feel nice but it was kind of exciting. We didn’t like the Italian but he did have an ice cream van, plus, we were running low, so I was kind of glad about his timing. My Mum’s purse wasn’t though

The fence was all smashed to bits and he didn’t apologise. 

My little sister said to me ‘Maybe he’s bought another pet with him?’ 

I’d been waiting on a pony or a monkey for a while, but all he’d bring were confused cats and guinea pigs that were ready for death. One time a rabbit, but an ugly one with red eyes. 

Instead he just opened up the window to the van and stuck his head out. His beard had grown since we’d seen him last, and a new medallion necklace hung from his neck.

I asked him if he was going to say sorry for breaking the gate. He explained that if you have an ice cream van and are Italian then you never have to say sorry. 

My sister and I rolled our eyes at one another and she whispered ‘He’s a twat isn’t he?’ 

She’d recently got a telly in her bedroom and would wake up and watch all sorts. Mainly the filth on channel 5. That must be where she’d heard the word.

In normal circumstances my Mum would have told her off but in this case the word was so accurate. In the right context swearing can be fucking brilliant. One day I’ll learn how to do it like she did.

My brother sighed and loudly asked if we could have an ice cream.

The Italian replied ‘Well-a that-a all-a depends on your Mamma’ 

My Mum gave him a look fit for a crime documentary and said she’d go and get her purse.

The second she went inside it all felt very awkward. We didn’t like the Italian and he didn’t like us. He knew we didn’t like him and we knew he didn’t like us. So what on earth was he doing here?

To fill the silence I asked how the Mr Whippy machine worked. He looked at me with boredom in his eyes and said ‘It doesn’t’.

More silence.

He then says ‘Allora, get in the van’ 

A very creepy sentence, even with bits of Italian thrown in.

Surely I should’ve just said no but this wasn’t really a question. The Italian would say something and you just sort of got swept along and had to do what he wanted.  I couldn’t say no, could I? 

‘We should wait for Mummy to get back with her purse’ I said, nervously.

He laughed, waved his hand dismissively and said ‘Non badare a lei, andiamo’.

Which basically meant, sod her, we’re going. 

I still didn’t say no. I should’ve said no.

He winked and opened up the ice cream van door. Our wellies squeaked as my sister, brother and I climbed into the van in our nighties. 

It wasn’t magical at all. The sprinkles looked congealed in their tubs, the chocolate flakes were smashed to bits, covering the floor and everything seemed faded. 

As the engine started up we saw our Mum coming out into the garden with fistfuls of loose change. She ran past the broken fence to get us. We waved as we sped off. 

The Italian drove around the village as though he was desperate for a wee. Us kids were swaying in the back, crashing into boxes of plastic ice cream spoons and cones.

The van was knackered and even the music didn’t work. Normally the sound of an ice cream means sunshine and laughter. But not this one. It was a slower version of the classic tune, very fitting for a horror film. Was this how I would die?

We drove around the village for what felt like hours.

He stopped the van and and handed two pretty young women some ice creams. I remember thinking it was strange they didn’t have to pay but we did.

We turned a sharp corner and a squeezy bottle of raspberry sauce splashed all over our faces and nighties.

‘Can we go home now please?’ I said.

The Italian ignored me.

My little sister stood on a big box and shouted ‘TAKE US HOME NOW YOU TWAT’

Silence.

Wow.

The Italian switched off the engine and let out a cough. The slow creepy music stopped. 

He seemed genuinely terrified by this teeny little girl. Wet hair, wellies, nightie, face covered in raspberry sauce and wild eyes. It was a compelling sight. 

He switched on the engine and the music started up.

This was all very overwhelming.

My sister climbed back down from the box and gave my brother and me a thumbs up.

She still, fucking terrifies me.

She was successful though, the Italian drove us home.

Rescued by my little sister. 

I was so relived to see our cottage on the corner with the broken fence. And there was our Mum, so worried and upset. As we got closer her face changed to relief. 

‘My wee babies!’

We climbed out of the van feeling bewildered. The raspberry sauce covering our faces looked like blood. It was like on the news when they find people that have been living underground for years. 

Why didn’t I just say no? If someone says ‘Get in the van’ then no is probably the best response.

Saying ‘No’ just doesn’t come naturally to me. Saying ‘no’ Makes me nervous. 

A time I really should have said no was when my nutty Irish neighbour  approached me with a request.

She’d drink a bottle of vodka and knock on the door to ask me how to use her CD player. 

Fast forward a few minutes, I’m on my hands and knees sorting out wires for her CD player. I say bye to her as she slumps back on the sofa, pours herself another vodka and taps her foot out of time to Fleetwood Mac. As I’m leaving she says ‘I’ll knock on your door in a bit when I want the CD changing’ 

This would be a great moment to say ‘No’ but instead I say ‘Yes, that’s fine’.

That was a long Friday night. With each knock and each CD change my Irish neighbour became more and more drunk…the following week the same request was made and I still didn’t say no.

I justify not saying ‘No’ by ‘Oh, it’s my way of gathering material’ and ‘bad decisions make for great stories’ but really is it because I’m weak and trying to compensate for things that I feel inadequate for?

The ice cream van, why didn’t I say no? Was it because I wanted everything to be okay so took the easier way out, desperate to be loved? 

Nah, I just really like ice cream and danger. My sweet tooth is always getting me in trouble. Just look at the size label in my dresses.

We ran over to our Mum and she cuddled us tightly. This had not been a relaxing Sunday. 

The Italian slammed the van door shut and drove off. The creepy music blasting out. 

My brother looked up at my Mum and said ‘Are we getting that ice cream or not?’

‘Not tonight love. Right ma we cabbage flowers. Let’s go inside. You three need a bath again’

And in we all went to our cottage. 

We’d missed The Darling Buds of May but what a story this would be for everyone at school tomorrow.

Photo taken by Andy Hollingworth (c) Archive

Posted in comedy

The Naked Family

Posted on by ladyilaria

I grew up in a naked family. I thought this was a completely normal thing.

One night, when I was about 8 I couldn’t sleep, went downstairs for a glass of water and saw my Mum stark bollock naked making a papier-mache dolls house.

She looked up at me casually and said ‘hello ma wee toots’ 

Stark bollock naked is probably the wrong phrase. She doesn’t have bollocks. Not physical ones anyway.

The microwaved pinged, punctuating the odd atmosphere and she said ‘ooh that’ll be my lamb chops.  Do you fancy one?. 

I sat on the squishy sofa eating the lamb chops with my naked Mummy and wondered ‘When I’m a grown up will I wear clothes?’

As an adult I strongly admire my Mum’s attitude to many things in life, nakedness being one of them, but sadly I’m not quite as liberal as her. There’s something comforting about layers of clothing. Even as a child I flitted between ‘FREE THE NIP’ and ‘oooh a lovely cosy jumper”.  When my family and I moved from Italy to England I was at school shivering in a cardigan and scarf and said to my teacher ‘Do we have summer in this country?’ She replied with “Yes Ilaria. It’s July, it’s summertime now’

I’ve been a fan of layers ever since. My Mum’s Glaswegian, she doesn’t feel the cold. 

But one day I was feeling all hippie and free. In the safety of my childhood bedroom the real me came out…I wasn’t alone though.

A young lad called Wayne cleaned everyone’s windows in the village. I was convinced I’d grow up to marry Wayne the window cleaner. The way he’d carry the bucket, overcharge the old ladies and whistle a tune as he made the windows sparkle – ‘what a man!’ I’d think. He wasn’t a man though, looking back he was probably only about 15 at the height of my crush.

I don’t think he was an official window cleaner, just a lad with a bucket. He’d clean everyone’s windows every couple of weeks, whenever he could be bothered. He didn’t have a schedule, he just turned up.

And so I was in my bedroom dancing naked. I was in the zone. Tragedy by Steps was playing loudly and my gangly limbs took on a life of their own. Was I a good dancer? No. Did I care? Not yet.

I caught Wayne’s eyes just as Tragedy was ending and Agadoo by Black Lace was starting. The remix from hell. I locked eyes with Wayne and panicked. I covered my nipples with the first thing I found, some toy cooking pans from my sister’s play kitchen. 

Wayne looked horrified and disappeared down his ladder. My beloved Wayne. 

You might be thinking, well why was Wayne horrified? Surely a naked dancing girl would’ve been an exciting thing to witness in such a small village. Well, to shatter the illusion, I was wearing a knitted bobble hat I got from the market.

A knitted bobble hat and a bare arse shouldn’t be a thing.

I think the music also put him off.  He was more into rap and burning stuff.

After that I saw Wayne the window cleaner everywhere. Well, the village shop and duck pond. It was a small village. He pretended to not know my family. For 10 YEARS!

My Mum never did finish that papier-mâché doll’s house. I’m scared to remind her in case she takes off her clothes.

Photo Credit: (c) Andy Hollingworth Archive

Posted in childhood, comedy, Uncategorized

Hitler the Goldfish

Posted on by ladyilaria

It’s 1999 and the fair is in town. Us Passeri kids can barely contain our excitement. Hot dogs, rides, and personalised hair bands. We’ve got weird names – you couldn’t buy an Ilaria hair band in the shops then.

This day ends well. We won a Goldfish and named him Hitler. He had a little dark mark above his lip, hence the imaginative name. We won him on one of those stalls where you win a prize every time. My Mum wasn’t silly, she knew us kids well. We had/have no coordination and we’re deeply sensitive. Anything that required even limited skill was out of the question. 

My Mum guided us over to a stall ran by a bloke who had aged horrifically due to a lifetime of cigarettes and regret. He had a tattooed face, too many piercings to count and an odour that could strip wall paper. 

He handed my brother three darts and said in a gruff voice ‘Throw them at the dart board lad.’ 

‘’You might want to stand well out the way” my Mum said to the fair man in her Scottish accent. It was more of a warning than anything else. She knew what would happen. It’s partly the reason I have crooked teeth, but that’s for another story.

‘It’ll be all right’ he said, naively.

My brother threw the first dart. 

The bloke running the stall lost the last remaining drop of colour in his already grey face. 

The first dart went straight through a teddy bear’s face, the second dart pierced through the man’s discoloured canvas shoes and the third, well, the third one was ripped out of Adriano’s hands and replaced with a goldfish in a bag and the direct instructions to leave and never return. 

After that ordeal we ran over to the Waltzers. My sister and I loved this ride the most. 

My Mum used to say to us that the way the fair worked was that you walked around and looked at the rides and could only go on one thing. She saved a fortune. This particular year we all decided on the Waltzers. My sister and I thought we were extra tough and said the lad working the ride could ‘spin us around as much as he can, we’re well hard’. He really turned that comment into a challenge. Biggest mistake of our lives. About 20 seconds in and we were crying and begging him to stop the ride. I remember at one point shouting ‘Please, I’ll give you my Christmas presents’. It didn’t work…he obviously wasn’t a fan of glitter pens and fluffy slippers. 

My bargaining abilities improved a few years later when I grew boobs. 

We staggered off the ride soaked in tears, nauseous and shouting about taking the man to court. ‘You’re a horrible man’ we said loudly. My mum was in hysterics and had no sympathy for us. She just said ‘Right kids, you’ve spent your pound. Let’s take Hitler home’ . Which must be the weirdest phrase ever.

Adriano spent the whole bus journey swinging the fish around, so poor little Hitler was bouncing off the sides of his plastic bag. He must have been terrified about coming to live with the Passeris 

So that’s how we got Hitler the goldfish. 

He survived a long time considering his background. If you read my blog post Dead Pets, then you’ll know that the Passeris shouldn’t have pets and can probably work out what happened. He died. We woke up and found him in his bowl not having fun. We got over it very quickly – not to sound cruel but he was a sodding goldfish. A psychopath’s pet, that’s a fact by the way. I read it in the Metro on the bus so it must be true. 

Years later we were all having a family dinner and my little sister said “It’s a shame Hitler died”

My brother chipped in and said very earnestly “Well he wasn’t a very nice person.”

Bit of an understatement.

I then went on to say that “I don’t care how much he was bullied, how little pocket money he recieved or how crap his hair was, nothing is a good enough excuse to be that much of a twat.” –

My sister interrupted a little too late and said she meant the goldfish.  

Explaining this to the people we had over for dinner took longer than anticipated. 

Posted in childhood, comedy, social commentary

Brownie Camp

Posted on by ladyilaria

‘Mummy, what happens in there?’ I said, pointing out the window whilst wearing my nightie.

I was six years and 10 months old and very nosey about what happened in the little hut over the road. Little girls wearing yellow and brown would gather there every week for big girl stuff. Secret stuff. 

My mum said –

‘They’re Brownies, when you’re seven you can go’.

 I watched them every week desperate to join in. One week my little brother beat me to the window and instead of just watching the Brownies gathering outside, he stood on the windowsill, pulled down his trousers and had his willy out. It was the ‘willy on cold things stage’. I ran into the kitchen in a big huff and said to my Mummy –

‘Well that’s it Mummy, I can never be a Brownie. They know we’re a strange family already!’ 

He was only five at the time so it was all very innocent.

Not your average problem. 

Two months went by, I was finally seven, and  the whole thing had been forgotten about. I was officially a Brownie. Turns out the things going on in the secret hut were not that exciting. I didn’t get many badges and within a couple of years they all hated me when I announced I was going to a drama club in town.

Soon after joining there was a Brownie camp, we were all off to sleep in tents and eat beans. I’d seen this in the films. 

The first night of Brownie camp didn’t get off to a great start. I wasn’t allowed to attended the camp fire night with songs and marshmallows because I wasn’t eight. I was old enough to wash up everyone’s dinner plates and watch them having a lovely time out the window though. 

A girl that I hated was stuffing her annoying little face with marshmallows. I scrubbed the plates harder. I hated her because she had a pony, a desk tidy and she pronounced spaghetti bolognese as ‘esketti bologs’. I’m sure she’s grown up to be great but she was very irritating. She would try and make friends by having lots of fancy mini rubbers. Mini rubbers that totally won everyone over. She’d have every single glittery gel pen and a biro that had a feather on the end. A total pain in the arse.

To ease us into camping, the first night was indoors on bunk beds. I was one of the youngest so I had to go on the top bunk. The bunk beds were metal and hadn’t seen an Allen key in decades. They were squeaky and I’m a wriggler. One of the older Brownies sighed repeatedly until Brown Owl , the Brownie Leader , asked her what was wrong. She was a posh kid, named something like Portia, spelt properly. Portia sighed again and said – ‘Oh Brown Owl, there is just so much squeaking coming from Ilaria’s bed’

 Brown Owl quickly said ‘Ilaria, no more moving. Just stare at the ceiling and let Portia sleep’ 

I was fuming. 

No marshmallows, having to do the washing up and now this! Sod you Portia. From now on you will be Porsche. For the purpose of this blog your poshness is revoked.

Night two was when the camping went up a notch. We were staying in tents. My mum was worried they wouldn’t feed me because every time I came home from a sleep over at a friends house I’d say – 

‘Mummy I’m starving! Their mum made us share a tin of soup. Share!’ 

So she packed me lots of snacks that I immediately ate as soon as the tents went up. Within the first hours the tent was filled with ants because of my crumbs getting every where. I was made to share a tent with a little girl who had the snottiest nose I have ever witnessed. I was now officially a proper Brownie. I had regrets about joining. 

This doesn’t happen in all the books. It’s songs, sausages and nature. Not washing up, ants and snotty noses.

When you’re a fully fledged Brownie you get to go to big national Brownie event. There’s Cubs, Beavers, other Brownies and the one after Girl Guides and Scouts for when you’re a proper grown up. By that point I just think they should get a shag and stop trying to get badges for knot tying.

On reflection grown up Ilaria has learnt many things from Brownie camp. One major thing being, a badge for sewing doesn’t define you. Yellow and brown is a terrible combination and always carry an Allen key. You know, for just in case.

Posted in comedy, social commentary

Hipsters

Posted on by ladyilaria

 

Coffee served in anything other than a mug. A jam jar, a plant pot, a mason jar, an egg cup, a syringe. The hipsters are taking over.

Avocados. I Had avocados on toast in university in 2010 and nobody cared, Kim Kardashian (insert any other celeb with a low BMI and a big Instagram following) has it and everyone goes batshit crazy, bulk buys them and puts them on everything. I was the original trendsetter but I didn’t shout about it. Come to think of it, why did I bother eating if it wasn’t to document it to strangers and acquaintances. Because I’m greedy, that’s why.

I love a hipster cafe but not everything has to be served on a wooden board and ‘de – constructed’ it’s expensive so can you please ‘construct’ it.

Almond milk, coconut milk, hazelnut milk, soya milk, oat milk. I can’t even slag these off. They are delicious but the concept annoys me, even though my fridge is full of them. It’s as though hipsters just like asking what milks do you have to make a point. A secret hipster quiz that only the hipsterist of places will pass. I was in a brunch place recently and was drawn to something described as a turquoise latte. I excitedly asked the waiter what it was. He rolled his eyes and said it was made from algae but when it’s mixed with a plant-based milk it kind of goes blue-ish. No thank you. I had a tea instead.

I ordered a matcha latte once with almond milk and quietly threw up in a corner. It was so pretty, bright green and had the most beautiful latte art on the foamy top but it tasted of pond water mixed with something dead. I like most foods but this was bloody awful. I’m convinced that no one actually likes them. Having said that, I did take a picture to put on my social media.

What happened to just a normal cup of tea? I say that like I don’t walk into a coffee shop asking for an oat milk cortado. Which I do. But I wouldn’t walk into a greasy spoon and ask for avocado on sourdough bread with a coconut flat white. Some places only sell sausages and Lucozade, which is also fine. Just don’t act like a twat when Sue with a tight ponytail, big earrings, and an apron says ‘You what?’ When you want a goji berry and spinach smoothie with spirulina. She’ll think it’s a yeast infection and recommend a thick cream from the pound shop. Sue is fictional but I know id like her.

Sometimes the best things in life are simple but there’s something lovely in turning the simple into a real event. Why not serve a cheese sandwich on a wooden board, or do yoga whilst playing with goats (this is a real thing.) I kind of like the idea of making the normal into something slightly elaborate. For example, if I ever buy a chocolate bar, I won’t scoff it on the train, I’ll wait until I get home, light some candles, make a cup of tea and put my pyjamas on. If I’m going to have those empty calories then I’m going to turn it into something special.

I’m not a hipster, I just like hipster things.

I’m not a hipster but things do sound better on vinyl.

I’m not a hipster but I do have a blog

I’m not a hipster, am I? okay, maybe I’m one matcha latte away from being a hipster and that’s totally fine because they are stomach-churningly disgusting.

First Published on – https://www.pfmagazine.online/

 

 

 

 

Posted in comedy

The Mega Bus to Hell

Posted on by ladyilaria

I woke up knowing it wouldn’t be a good day. Today I was getting the MEGA BUS. I have an issue with the name. Just call it the bus. There’s nothing Mega about. Unless the next part is Mega soul destroying.

I get on the bus, very apprehensive. After a short while my phone battery runs out, I now have no choice but to to try and avoid the man with gold teeth and a medallion nestled into his chest hair calling me ‘baby girl’. I’m not a girl, I’m a woman. You greasy, slimy creep. I don’t say this, I’m a people pleaser so I just smiled and said ‘Buses ey?”.

That’s another tip when trying to avoid conversation with nutters, act as if you have no personality. It works, trust me.

It all started when I accidentally wore double denim. This took me back to my teenage years. I once wore quadruple denim to a night club. A truly horrifying image. Especially when you add hair straightened to within an inch of its life and a blue WKD clutched between badly fake tanned hands. If that image isn’t scary enough the next one will finish you off…

Within an hour the toilets are already ‘OUT OF USE’. A young woman is desperate to go and the driver says we can’t stop until Birmingham. This is all too much for her and she goes to the back of the bus, squats and covers herself with a jacket. I cant believe I’m typing this…she is pooing into a paper cup.

She then just sat back in her seat and held onto the steaming cup. I looked around trying to make eye contact with someone who would exchange a glance of ‘what the hell?!” I keep looking, searching desperately. No one meets anybody’s eyes. I’ve never felt lonelier. Its moments like these I feel like it really is just me. Why does no one else think this is bonkers? There’s a lady, I use the term loosely, holding a steaming cup of her own shit. Not that it being someone else would make it better. Come to think of it, nothing would make this better. The only would be me being a bit more fancy and just getting the train, which I normally do but I was trying to be sensible so I had more money for cocktails. Cocktails that I definitely need after this ordeal. We’re not even in Birmingham yet and the smell of a strangers shit is burying itself into my nostrils.

There’s no air-con and a bonkers old man wearing a Friends t-shirt keeps pushing the coach windows shut because the draught is hurting his neck. I’ll give him a sore neck in a minute. The Friends t-shirt is a lie, he clearly has none, not with an attitude like that. I instantly regret smiling at him when I got on the coach. I’m pleased I didn’t offer him any of my grapes, that I ate before we even left Manchester. All I have to keep me entertained is a sorry looking apple. The apple’s sorry and I’m sorry. Why didn’t I just get the train? The Virgin speedy train, in London in just 2 hours. Air -con, clean seats and a functioning toilet. That train is a 5 star in the Maldives with an underpaid butler in comparison to this 1 star, shit-scented, Mega Bus to hell. I might sound spoilt and entitled but I don’t think fully grown adults should be shitting into cups, not in public anyway….and if they do, they should at the very least have the grace to look embarrassed.
To be fair to her, maybe she’s had a really bad week, or a bad vintage and just doesn’t care any more. I remember turning 30 during a shift at a Christmas grotto. Whilst dressed as an elf, I ate an entire Paw Patrol advent calendar. A low point. Maybe this is her low point. Something awful must have happened to her because that is a defeated woman!

I finally jumped off the bus in London – dazed, damaged, in need of a gin and to be held. I spent the weekend re-telling the story to friends and friends of friends. I’ve had to tell so many people that I’m convinced it’ll eventually get back to the cup girl.

A thought that makes my blood run cold is that in a couple of days I’ll be getting back on the Mega Bus to come home again. I mean, I could get the train but where are the anecdotes in that?!

Maybe we should all be pooing in cups, she looked strangely liberated. Or perhaps use it as a bench mark for a personal crisis, for example- work was depressing this week but at least I didn’t poo in a cup. A positive spin on a shitty situation.

Posted in Uncategorized

Sunday Crisps

Posted on by ladyilaria

Today wasn’t an ordinary day. Today was Sunday and that meant ‘Sunday Crisps’

I didn’t realise until a couple of years ago that ‘Sunday Crisps’ was something my stingy Glaswegian Mum (or Mummy in our family. We’re not posh, we’re just pathetic) had invented. I honestly thought every family did it.

With all the fat kids running around (well, not running around) it would do the trick.
I’m not a politician but if Lady Ilaria ever becomes Prime Minister then the first thing I’ll do is introduce ‘Sunday Crisps.’

The sugar tax hasn’t really worked, if you want chocolate you’ll pay any amount for it but ‘Sunday Crisps’ could really take off. One fat kid at a time.

I’ll set the scene for you. Candles lit, we’re in our pyjamas and wrapped up in our crotched blankets. The telly is on, Xena Warrior Princess (I still don’t know if that was a man in a dress. Send answers). Followed by Hulk Hogan starring in the nineties classic ‘Thunder in Paradise.’

My mum must have adored us because having caught glimpses of these programmes as a grown up I have to admit that they are truly awful. That’s probably why she sent us to bed so early.

‘But Mummy, it’s daytime’

‘Go to sleep my wee cabbage flowers’

‘But the light is in our eyes’

‘Not listening. Sleep!’

‘But Mummy, don’t you love us?’

‘Not enough to fall for this rubbish. Now go to sleep, I’m watching Sharpe’

It’s okay though, we got our own back.

We asked our errant Father (or ‘The Italian’ as he’s still referred to, only by us. ) for a drum kit. We knew what we were doing. He wouldn’t buy us school shoes or vegetables but was perfectly happy to pay for something that would drive my Mum mad.

We’d found what we considered to be a loop hole ‘Go to sleep kids’ doesn’t mean DON’T play the drums; And by play, I mean bang the hell out of them with our fists until we got bored. We weren’t stupid, we wouldn’t dare pull this move on a Saturday night out of sheer fear that ‘Sunday Crisps’ may not materialise the following day. It’s a wonder we made it past the age of 10 with such smart arse ways, we were cute as a button though. Even I can see that! Everyone but my mum was sucked in my our chubby cheeks, big brown eyes and muddy knees. These 3 things mean you can get away with murder…almost. DISCLAIMER: This will not stand up in court though, sadly

We couldn’t let Mrs E down, she ran the village shop across the road. She was adorable and scary in equal measures. She’d pretend she was all tough but when we moved house she ran over the road late at night and ‘sold’ us a carpet for a fiver because she knew we were a bit skint. She knew about the Passeri tradition of ‘Sunday Crisps’. Mrs E was so patient as she waited for us to make our choice. It would take us forever to choose and seconds to eat. As a grown up I’m desperately trying to turn that into a metaphor for something deep but I’m struggling. A Wotsit is a Wotsit.

Watching my little brother eat the fluorescent coloured, chemical coated snack highlighted exactly why crisps were not a more regular feature in our house. They would send him wappy for half an hour. He’d have what we used to call a ‘mad 5 minutes’ where he’d turn into the cutest possible version of the Tasmanian Devil.

‘Sunday Crisps’ were definitely worth the mad 5 minutes, they bonded us all. I’d like to say we all shared our crisps but we weren’t very good at that.

When I have a baby I’m going to resurrect ‘Sunday Crisps’ and make Sundays special again and a real treat.

Roll on Sunday. I know you’ll all be doing it.

And incase you’re wondering…Walkers cheese and onion were my crisps of choice, Eleonora went for Skips and Adriano went for Monster Munch. Classics

Posted in comedy

Sex Education

Posted on by ladyilaria

Once upon a time, a spotty teenage boy with a flat face confessed to having a massive crush on the school tart. They started going out. This was big gossip. They were known as ‘Bucket and Spade’ …do you get it? She was a tart and he had a flat face. I still laugh to this day. Surely for ‘Bucket and Spade’ to have a happy, healthy relationship then they had to be equipped with all the facts on the ‘birds and the bees’. Luckily, this loved up pair didn’t have to wait long to be educated…today was ‘sex education day’. We were all so excited as we looked at the blackboard and saw the words ‘LETS TALK ABOUT SEX’.

Our form tutor who we all said was ‘kinda fit for an old bloke’ looked like he was on the brink of suicide.  He cleared his throat “Right kids” he croaked. “Shout out slang words for your genitals and I’ll write them on the board.” Brave, brave, stupid man. He began visibly sweating as he wrote the word ‘minge’ on the board. I also looked like a complete twat (coincidently, another word that was shouted out) when I said “In my family we call it a cookie”. I got the fright of my life when I first saw the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street. I still remember the image clearly…he was on a bright pink kids swimming costume.

‘I’m the Cookie Monster, I eat cookies!’ I ran out of the shop screaming. This genuinely still keeps me up at night.

When we were little we used to have a satellite dish for Italian television. One day we were watching a cartoon when an image appeared on the screen of lots of naked people in a jacuzzi. They were having a ‘grown up party because they are in love’ as my mum described it to me. My little sister, brother and I ran upstairs to my mum shouting “Mummy, Mummy there’s a man on the telly eating a ladies cookie!” My mum later explained what had happened to my errant father. Instead of acknowledging the problem with the satellite dish and what his poor little kids had seen he was just very irritated that he couldn’t get it on his Italian satellite dish.

In his thick Italian accent he kept saying “Which channel? I missed this, what time and day?”

I’m sure he’s a massive fan of high speed internet, purely for this very reason. No longer will he need to wait weeks between episodes of ‘Jacuzzi Orgy’. He’ll be able to binge on every single episode whenever he likes…including a soul destroying Christmas special. All online.

My sex education growing up didn’t just come from middle aged Geography teachers and accidental Italian porn. There was a boy at school who had experienced everything. We all thought he was amazingly grown up and cool because he had a dragon tattoo and a moustache. Looking back the tattoo was awful and the moustache needed work. One day he gathered a few of us in the playground to pass on some vital information….this is verbatim by the way…

”Last night I was fingering this bird.”

“Oh my god, who?!” a little short lad excitedly asked.

“No questions!” said moustache boy.

He carried on, all of us looking on in awe.

“All of a sudden I started rubbing this little thing on the outside and she went wild for it.”

He had discovered the clitoris, and in that moment had become a legend in our town. If only he had passed this horribly worded information on to more men, I’m sure they would find women nagged them less.

Despite a plethora of educational sources in my past, ‘Grown Up’ Ilaria is still as confused about sex as ‘Little’ Ilaria ever was. This was never more evident than the time I was working as a Creative Practitioner in a school and was unexpectedly asked to cover the PSHE class. The class with the ever changing name. When I was at school we called it ‘Citizenship Class” then it changed to PACE (no one knew what the hell that stood for). The class that teaches you to write a CV, wash your face and basically to not be an arsehole.

This week was supposed to be sex education week (yes, it really can all be covered in a week, apparently). My anxiety levels soared. WHY ME? I am not equipped to deal with this. My main advice would be “Listen kids, don’t do it till you’re 35” followed by “It’s massively overrated and never, I repeat never worth the expensive knickers and certainly not worth the wax.”

Instead, I walked into the class of virgins and introduced myself as Ilaria (not Miss or Mrs, I was desperately trying to make them think I was cool). I told them very earnestly that they could ask absolutely anything and that no one would laugh. This was a lie. I got them all to write down their burning questions onto little scraps of paper and pop them into a hat. This was so they felt able to ask questions they’d be too shy to otherwise ask.

This would’ve worked beautifully if the little sods didn’t put their hands up and say “That’s mine!” after I’d read them out.

Question 1 – When you grow boobs, how many do you grow?

Answer – usually two. What am I saying? Always two.  We’re humans, not farm animals.

Question 2 – When you get down there, which hole do you put it in?

This question needed answering with care. There are a few factors to consider but the main point is – it isn’t pick ’n’ mix.

I couldn’t bear to read out a third question, instead I just played an educational video from my childhood. He might be terrifying but he sure knows how to write and perform a catchy tune. Teenage pregnancy is high in this country and in all honesty, I blame this guy. Everybody, meet ‘Johnny Condom’.

Posted in comedy

The Sexy Chicken Book

Posted on by ladyilaria

“This train is for York. Please have your tickets and passes ready.”

Mother’s day, an audition in London or a party in another city. These things sound nice don’t they?

Wrong. They fill me with dread. I don’t drive so this involves getting the train. The train filled with mental people. Mental people who want to tell me things.

For example. I get on the train from Manchester to York to visit my family. I’m mentally preparing myself for my Mum’s lasagna. I’ve got a bag of washing stuffed in my suitcase for her to do as soon as I get through the door, she loves it.

I see a tragic looking man approaching me. The key here is to avoid eye contact. This tip is crucial. He sits down next to me. He sighs loudly and then tells me about being made redundant. It’s a long winded story. Why me? There is no advice I can give him. I just say “Oh shit” and then “Maybe view this an opportunity to spend quality time with your family.” He answers back with “My mum’s dead, my wife hates me and my kids have disowned me.”

This man has an answer for everything.

He says I’d be more appealing if I wore tighter clothes. I’m beginning to see why his wife hates him.

I glance down at my watch, only an hour and 10 minutes until I will be in York.

He carries on talking about his shambles of a marriage.

I glance down again at my watch, 45 minutes to go.

My mind wanders to looking longingly into my Mum’s well stocked fridge. That isn’t a euphemism. I’m not an animal. The woman just loves a well stocked fridge. Shelves upon shelves of goodies just waiting to be turned into delicious dinners. She’s an amazing cook but is clueless when it comes to portion control. The words ‘average sized serving’ mean sod all to her. It’s more of a challenge. It’s as if she reads the portion advice and thinks “Bollocks to that.”

Her worst nightmare would be to know that someone was in her house and hungry. In all honesty no one has ever, ever left her house without being deep in a food coma. She is the original feeder. Not a feeder in the kinky sense like I’ve seen on so many documentaries. Always Channel 5.

Channel 5 has a lot to answer for in terms of shaping my once naive, innocent mind.

Back to the over sharer sat next to me. He opens up his leather satchel and pulls out a book. Phew, he’s now reading a book. This must mean he isn’t going to try conversing with me anymore. I look at the front cover and my blood runs cold. This man has gone from a depressed over sharer to a full blown nut job, a mentalist. I won’t go on because I’m not quite sure of the appropriate politically correct term. I’ll tell you what the book is and then you can decide on his title for yourself.

It’s a picture book of women in latex clothing strangling chickens.

The book has so many pages and his eyes widen each time he flicks onto a new one. He’s been gleefully looking at the poor chickens for several minutes when he turns to me and says “What do you think of this one?” I look down to be met with the image of an old lady holding a whip in one hand and an unhappy chicken’s neck in the other. I still, to this day have no idea what the right answer is. If anyone knows then please get in touch. I just say “Ooh, I really need a wee.” I shuffle out of my seat, trying to make the least amount of physical contact with what I can only describe as one of life’s unfortunates.

I go to the bathroom, lock the door and take a long hard look in the mirror. Why does this keep happening? This is not a one off, the week before a woman told me all about her divorce from the ‘Hairiest Arse in Leeds.’ The day before that a man in a woollen suit showed me building plans for a conservatory he was planning to build for his wife and asked me which one she’d like the best. I felt like saying “I don’t know your wife, I don’t care and your suit is shit.” I didn’t say that though, of course. I instead opted for “The second one looks nice. Beautiful suit.” He smiled contently and said “Thank you sweetheart, you’ve made my day.”

My main issue was the fact he was wearing that god awful suit in the height of summer.

Still, it takes very little effort to make someone smile. If everyone did that then the world would be a happier place.

Right, I’ve been in this toilet long enough. Everyone will think I’m having a shit. That’s much more believable than hiding from a man with a chicken strangling fetish. I pointlessly wash my hands and head back to my seat.

He’s gone.

There’s a note on my chair and a KitKat. I eat the KitKat first then turn my attention to the note.

Priorities.

The note reads ‘Thank you for listening to me. I’m going to leave my wife. Take care’.

Chilling.

My first thought is “Why did I eat the KitKat so quickly?” I love KitKats, very underrated. My second is “Where on earth did he get that book from?” Asking for a friend.

In conclusion, my top ways to make sure no one sits next to you on public transport are:

1. Act mental – Note, this will only warn off normal people. The more mental you are the more the crazies will think ‘Yes, she is one of us.’ Use your own judgement here.

2. Avoid eye contact by instantly becoming fascinated with a loose bit of thread on your clothing or the dirt on your shoe. Anything to stop you from locking eyes with the nut job approaching you.

3. Always carry around strong smelling snacks – I’d recommend a garlic, tuna and red onion sandwich with a side of boiled eggs for extra effect.

I hope these tips work better for you than they do for me. Or, just learn to drive.

Posted in comedy

Me And My Recorder

Posted on by ladyilaria

“Carry on like that and you better pray God’ll help you young lady!” shouted my Glaswegian mum as I tickled my younger sister until she was sick. Literally sick.

I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. I annoyed her so much with my constant and frankly, idiotic questions that in the end she got me a kids Bible. I read the whole thing in one sitting. I loved it. As soon I had read the last page I ran downstairs and said “What great stories mummy but do people honestly believe it? You can tell it’s all made up”.

Having said that, I still used to pray before I went to bed, mainly for a glittery pink pencil case. I prayed every night for a week and when I didn’t get one I immediately dismissed the whole idea of God. I gave him a chance and he blew it.

The following anecdote cemented my thoughts on the whole God thing.

I used to play the recorder, I use play very loosely. What I mean is I used to blow violently into a recorder and expect a round of applause. I was terrible at it. For want of a better phrase, I was totally shit at it.

Knocking out classic tunes such as Hot Cross Buns and Three Blind Mice all sodding day was never going to make me even an average recoderist. Everything I played sounded the same.  A constant blend of squeaks, an assault on the ears.

I was so bad that in primary school my favourite teacher looked straight in to my innocent, big brown eyes and said “Ilaria, you’re not very good at this, practise all weekend, play for me on Monday and we’ll see if you’ve improved enough for the nativity play”

Challenge accepted.

I practised like a mad woman for the next few days. So much that I needed to up my asthma inhalers. My mum was not a fan of my ‘music’.

The grown – up me would think “Well sod this” and throw the recorder away and have a gin. The little Ilaria was determined, blinded by the world and partially deaf to the feedback and hints to just stop. Stop Ilaria.

“Listen love, you’re more of a drawing person”

“No mummy, this is what I do now” I insisted.

“I’ll get you some lovely new colouring pencils this weekend” said my mum with desperation in her voice.

No! Im a musician now. I have been set a task. I must master the recorder. I will conquer the recorder and you will not stand in my way by tempting me with noiseless past times.

“But Ilaria, you’re awful at it, love.”

That’s the great thing about my mum. She’s always honest. A big fan of tough love. The woman does not hold back. She has pink hair and a sharp tongue.

In short, never ask her if you look fat in something.

I was momentarily distracted when my mum said we were having spaghetti for tea. But only for the amount of time it took to eat two bowls of spaghetti. That’s right I said two. The days of me inhaling multiple bowls of pasta are sadly/thankfully in the past. My love for the recorder is also dead and buried.

The second the plates were cleared I was back to my recorder playing a hideous, albeit, original  rendition of O Come All Ye Faithful. Being an asthmatic this was a terrible thing to persist with. The recorder has never sounded shittier than when played by an asthmatic kid with a point to prove. I’d like to blame it on my asthma but the harsh truth is that I’m just not musically gifted. I have skills in other things like falling over, eating all the crisps and letting down my parents. These are skills that sadly couldn’t be utilised in the nativity Christmas show. The show really lacked for those things I feel.

I went to bed on Sunday evening feeling out of breath and excited. Surely my favourite teacher would see how hard I’d tried and realise how much the school nativity needed me and my recorder? I knelt down by the side of my bed with my palms together and an earnest look on my face – I’d seen it in all the films. I’d perfected it. I prayed for everything to go my way. Please God,  please. I’ll be your best friend and invite you to all my parties. I really pulled out the big guns. My birthday parties were great. He wouldn’t be able to resist.

Monday morning arrived. I was extra chirpy. A final practise on the recorder, peanut butter on toast eaten and off to school I went. I saw my favourite teacher. Moment of truth. This was the biggest moment of my life to date.

I took a deep breath and played what I considered to be a beautiful rendition of O Come all ye faithful.

I waited.

My favourite teacher looked at me, her grey curls falling over her face.

She’s going to say yes…

“It’s a no Ilaria, you’re not good enough for the nativity play. Maybe next year.”

“Are you kidding?! I turned down colouring pencils for this!”

She shook her head “Sorry Ilaria. You can play the triangle instead” said my formerly favourite teacher.

“The triangle? The sodding triangle?!” I shouted.

That’s it, I thought. God, consider yourself uninvited to all of my birthday parties. Find alternative plans for every October 2nd until I die.

My once favourite, now most hated teacher looked horrified.

And that’s when I secured my ticket to Hell. A special kind of Hell that only little girls who exclude God from their birthday parties go to. It’s not as bad as regular hell, but its still pretty bad.