And then Gordon Ramsay came along and made everything horny again.

You know how I wrote a while back about the beauty of the John Lewis ad? Well…

Gordon Ramsay did a spoof version. And it’s hilarious. I’d say Google It, but unfortunately I can only find this:

Damn you Channel 4.

Now, anyone who has known me long enough, knows of my stalker addiction knicker wetting love of admiration of cookery skills for mild love of Gordon Ramsay. I absolutely LOVE this advert, I found it fucking hilarious. The Mr and I were all confused when it first started, wondering if John Lewis had tried to out-do themselves by creating a sequel (please don’t, John Lewis, I can tell you now it would not be a good idea).

I, personally, would love to have Gordon Ramsay boss me around in the kitchen (maybe while I flounder around with a big piece of meat Christmas ham), and obviously, I started tweeting about it.

And then this happened.

To say I damn near wet myself is an understatement. But yes, there may have been a moment or two taken to refresh my knickers.

Obviously.

The Mr and I both have crushes on Mr Ramsay; he, a healthy man-crush; me, a dirty, fuck-me-sideways, say-my-name-and-make-me-call-you-daddy, I-want-to-hump-you-senseless kind of girl crush. In a pair of FMBs.

I still stand my ground about what I said, re Gordon Ramsay. “He’s going to make sure he does the job properly. And then will want to do it again, just to be sure. And then, probably again, just to prove a point.” You know it’s true, right?

And then, as if to prove my point, the fucking awesome Kat of 3 Bedroom Bungalow tweeted this.

As if I wasn’t laughing hard enough, The Mr then suggested I “slap him with a piece of bacon”. Cue “laughing til I nearly puked” and The Mr reduced to hiccups.

Needless to say, Mr Ramsay hasn’t tweeted me yet (mind you, the real heckling hasn’t started yet, though I’m hoping to not go down the same route as #TweetMeStephenFry). Maybe I should tweet him while wearing an awesome push-up bra, super cleavage and maybe a photo of my arse.

Win.

I Love Cbeebies.

Truth be told, I actually love the Cbeebies presenters.

That’s a lie.

I love Sid Sloane. In fact, I “heart” Sidney Sloane.

I <3 Sidney Sloane.

I wasn’t even hopped up on painkillers, but on Thursday night I had a dream that Sid and I were fighting in battle. With weird Samurai Dungeons and Dragons style crystal studded ninja axes. They were pretty cool.

Anyway, I nearly beheaded Sid by accident, and I was OBVIOUSLY mortified. So by way of apology, we decided to make out. Only, I’ve just had a tooth extracted, haven’t I? So making out would be REALLY gross, right?

So I gave him a back rub instead.

FYI Turns out Sid has a lovely back. Who knew?

Anyway, I admitted on twitter that I fancy Sid Sloane. And I’d give him a back rub ANY DAY. I wouldn’t even charge him for it. However, I’m wondering if I should tell him I’m not a celebrity stalker.

Funnily enough, Sid hasn’t accepted my friend request on yet. I think it’s because I asked not to tell him , but it turns out .

I reckon he did it because .

You and me Sid, you and me. Everyone just watch this space.

So I’ve officially “Made It” as a Mom.

I always knew that having 2 boys, I was going to encounter all manner of incidents and accidents from an early age. Their 3 uncles are big, solid blokes; two of them big time rugby lovers, the other a hardcore bmx biker (who, for once, has no broken limbs at present.)

So, I guess on Monday when Isaac decided to lunge at the corner of the coffee table, I wasn’t in the least bit surprised.

The thing that did surprise me, was the amount of blood everywhere. He’d cut himself just above his eye, and needless to say my overactive imagination likes to picture what the scene MIGHT have been like, had he caught his eye squarely on the corner.

*pauses for effect, and also to choke back a bit of vomit*

Whisking him upstairs to the bathroom, I was secretly pleased that the dripping blood somehow missed the cream carpet (who in the hell has kids and cream carpet?), and dripped only on the red carpet. I have no idea how, because by the time we got upstairs (at which point he was just looking at me like I’d lost my marbles and what the hell is wrong with you woman?) his face was COVERED in blood. A split second passed where I wondered whether to run back down the stairs to grab my iPhone, snap a photo and tweet/facebook the evidence, but the blood was kind of pooling in his eyes a bit, so I thought best not for now.

He still wasn’t crying.

He was lying there chatting to me casually, taking the time to point out the hand towel had fallen on the floor.

I cleaned him up, cleaned him again (did I mention there was a lot of blood?), took him back downstairs and calmly called my mother. Who, hiding the panic in her voice, advised I take him to hospital.

Now, it’s a bank holiday Monday. The kids are all off school. I have Isaac and Noah with me. I call D and tell him to just meet me there. We arrive and it suddenly occurs to me I have no idea where I’m going. What department do I want? Well…he’s cut his face…so maybe…take him to theatre? But it’s not serious so maybe….X-Ray to check his eyeball won’t fall out? Or is there a doctor anywhere who can just have a look at it and tell me I can just take him home again? Yeah…suddenly the calm mom has been replaced for a brain-dead dumb-ass mom without a clue. My coolness had just pissed itself out the window.

I suddenly realise I’m babbling this out loud to a random stranger in a hospital uniform, who tilts her head, looks at Isaac, then Noah, then me and says “Yes, dear, you’ll be wanting to take him to A&E”. She’s clearly aware I’ve lost my marbles, and so gives me the directions to A&E six times (end of the corridor, signposted, it’s on the left. That’s it).

D arrives shortly. And Isaac has ripped the first plaster off his face. (Yes, first plaster.) The initial assessor has a look at the cut and tells me they would like him to stay in hospital until seen by a further doctor or nurse. We’re informed the waiting time is around 3 hours. Oh. Fucking. Joyous. Times.

I’ve got all manner of crap in my bag to keep them entertained (iPhone, iPad, iPod, Steve Jobs’ phone number, crisps, snack bars, fruit juice, nappy bags – what? Things can get desperate sometimes.) and some clever person has put back-to-back kids films on the TV monitor. We’re bloody lucky in that we only had to wait an hour and a half.

4 different nurses look at Isaac’s wound, all proffering different theories and ideas. The last nurse suggests gluing the wound back together. Isaac is completely indifferent, since he has his mitts wrapped around my iPhone. Note to self? Create a second page of apps for The Smalls. It’s just good sense.

I hold Isaac’s head in a vice grip, and The Nurse #4 sticks the tube of glue right into the wound above his eye. Like, Omg she’s got it in the wound, omg she’s surely going to lose the tube in there wtf and Isaac why are you laughing? This is not funny and now, omg, she has glued her surgical glove to your face OMG YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE A RUBBER FACE AND THERE GOES ANY FUTURE MODELLING SWEET JESUS WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME GOD WHHYYYYYYYYYYYY.

Isaac continued laughing until she was done. In fact, he continued laughing and smiling right up until I put him in the car and tried to reclaim my iPhone. THAT was a pretty fucking stupid thing to do, as proved when he lashed at his own face and opened his wound. Before we had barely even left hospital grounds.

The humongous plaster The Nurse #4 had given me suddenly looked quite appealing.

All in all, he seems to be fine. He’s completely un-phased by his battle wound, and of course, the plaster I put on it that night is nowhere to be seen the following morning.

How he has any eyebrow hair left is beyond me, and how he didn’t scream with pain when yanking it off is also a mystery. He’s opened the wound again since the first time, but I’ve found a plaster that pretty much takes all hair with it when removed. So I’m thinking he’ll be deterred for another day or so, much to his disgust.

How NOT to vlog. Probably.

You know when you have a video to do and you just have no idea? Yeah, well, this is it.

In fact, I’m pretty sure that this is proof that I have no cares about the limits of my blog.

Ah well.

Edited to add: So….IS poo timeless?

Once again, I blame The Bloggess

Every so often, I get bored and wander off on to random sites. Every so often, I get brave and wander on to The Bloggess’ site. And more often than not, I come back with a ton of pointless crap, which never fails to have me laughing so hard, I’m left wondering if I need to wipe down the sofa with Febreeze.

The latest site? Yes That Can Be My Next Tweet. It’s basically a page which “generates your future tweets based on the DNA of your existing messages.” I need say no more apart from the following:

~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~

Hunger. I think is absolutely BRILLIANT. I’d feel better about sniffing dildos. Oooo are you?? :D Hi!

Ahhh I won’t each much. Ahhhh ok. Kinda doing that, my arse clench far more freely.

Princess Pee Pie would you might stick a bit small town.

Is the people who you give birth like…5 minutes ago and other that’s a girl dancing to continue.

My tongue is showing me this: I NEVER EVER cry at the word naked”… Hah! ‘Zactly.

So wait…is it so well in a string of course. My tongue is also about a hole, but for me.

Omg – you’re mistaken. Or…er… Are you might just belched like a…um…

I am a small town.

Beautiful Tomorrow I’m in. Er – there’s no no no no no, trampoline GOOOOOOOD.

Working with doing that, my arse clench far too many posts?

You’ll have to say. ; WOW those asking, I’m having an AWESOME train track.

It’s a Pervy Weird Dildo Sniffer. This is why I NEVER EVER piss into the time to play with ranks and?

Cor I’ve scheduled for that did a little. *crosses fingers, toes, hair, arms and sniff them.

I know I am SO MUCH Gin soaked chiffon? I’m pretty sure you’re not what you give it all for easy giggly!

What the…THREE BOOBS?? Yes I don’t you SHITTING ME? *vomits up laughing so yes!

But I deserve a great place to get on? …maybe… I’ve lost without pissing myself.

Then the giant tampon that back, just like to the difference comes when you have to comment* Can you want.

I’m a plug on sofa* Damn. I’m sorry, but I just try out your link. OR, I just belched like to drool.

Afternoon lull.

It makes me about sniffing dildos. Oooo are you : Oh god for that, dammit. It’s a bit small town.

OMFG I’m in. Er – SQUEEE!!! Enthusiasm on your link. OR, I lost without their stuff. OM NOM NOM.

~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~

I’m not sure if it’s wrong that I can justify each and every one of those tweets. Apart from maybe this one:

I swear to start. How are the people who post puffs pongs of a string of puffs.

I…I don’t even know.

I love you, The Bloggess, but seriously, You will receive a cleaning bill. And readers if you’re going to visit the site, you might want to go for a pee first. Just saying.