So, we all know that there was once a mum who lived in the south of England. We know that she was married to a Keifer Sutherland lookalike. We know that in her household, nobody ever listened to a fucking word she said, or ate anything she cooked. We know that she has PCOS, which she is currently trying to kick the crap out of its carb hating/insulin resistant ass. We know that she tries to do this by sometimes #shabammingtheshitoutoflife.

Well, today’s story finds her on her way to #bodycombattheshitoutoflife. Except she arrives at the gym to find she *dramatic gasp* hasn’t shaved her armpits…

She is faced with several choices:
1. Turn around and go home. There is no place for female body hair in the gym.

2. #bodycombattheshitoutoflife with her arms pinned to her side. (That would be well worth filming surely.)

3. #bodycombattheshitoutoflife at the back of the room, and hope she isn’t mistaken for a gorilla during any of the punching move busting.

She scratched her head, and thought: WWGGD. What Would Germaine Greer Do?

Well, she’d probably not be at the gym for a start. She wouldn’t give a shit who didn’t like her wobbly, insulin resistant ass-she’d change it for no fucker.

If she did go inside, the woman mused that Germaine would probably strip off to her bra and knickers, and march in there all pubes blazing, plaiting her leg and armpit hair as she went, while singing ‘cast off the shackles of yesterday’ as per Mrs Banks from Mary Poppins fame.

She’d probably use her bikini line hair to make a rope to gag anyone who passed comment on her hairy status.

She definitely wouldn’t wear any makeup, and definitely wouldn’t suffer the same the woman once had, of going to a spin class with last nights makeup on, and getting to the car to find most of the mascara residing just under her eyebrows, and salty sweat streaks running through her foundation.

But, as the woman was a disgrace to feminists everywhere, she chose to ignore #WWGGD What Would Germaine Greer Do? And she went home. Oh well, at least it saved the double whammy embarrassment of possibly letting out a bit of wee during a round house, plus being mistaken for a gorilla.

On her way home she was telephoned by the Keifer Sutherland lookalike.

“Guess what just happened?????” He said, sounding horrified.

“What dear, it sounds terrible,” she replied.

“A client just said ‘you remind me of someone. Someone famous,’ and I said (probably with a swaggy point and a wink) I know, is it Keifer Sutherland, I get it all the time (probably a smirk in there at this point) and she said ‘no, I was thinking of DONALD Sutherland-his father’…”

The bit of wee that didn’t get to come out at body combat, then escaped at that moment, during massive amounts of giggling and snorting that ensued…😂😂

The moral of the story? Invest in a cap sleeved gym t-shirt so that you can indulge yourself in never shaving your armpits while having the added benefit of not being mistaken for a gorilla while basking in your own hairiness. And also, that at a certain age, you will come to resemble the father of the celebrity you love that everyone mistakes you for, and it will be really bloody funny to your younger wife…!!    

In a city in southern England, there lived a woman. She was the wife of a Keifer Sutherland lookalike, and slave to the role of parent, except, hold on: Not today she wasn’t, because she had just dropped her children off at nursery!

Skipping to the car, shouting ‘FREEDOM’ in random strangers faces, she was ready to Braveheart the shit out of life. She was on her way to the gym, in a bid to regain some of her former body, which had slowly been destroyed by children, and making poor food substituions, such as wine instead of water, and Netflix instead of vegetables.

Skipping to the car, she could feel the pounds melting away already-plus, surely the burden of trying to be a good mum weighed her down by at least 3 stone? She was sure that if she weighed herself, that three stone would also have just fallen right the fuck away!

Anyway, today, she was off to try Sh’Bam-yes, she had no fucking clue either. In the car, she discovered that she could listen to the actual radio, with nobody moaning over the music, and nobody threatening to dump on demand, if they didn’t get to listen to the Horrid Twatting Henry audio book. What’s this? she mused, Radio 1?! How novel, she thought! Except she was expecting Chris Moyles, and was disappointed by the replacement-of course, she had been caught in a time warp, and had forgotten that it had been five years since she had listened to the radio with nobody screaming in her face, and Chris Moyles had fallen off the edge of the planet.

She became disheartened by the choice of music the newcomer was playing, and she suddenly remembered that Radio 1 had very strict rules about the type of music they played-the first being the song had to be less than two minutes old, the second being it had to have no staying power whatsoever.

But what was this? Outkast?? Hey Frigging Ya=TUNE!!!!!! The mum was definitely in the mood for Sh’Bamming the shit out of life now, forget Braveheart. She was going to shake it, shake it , shake it like a polaroid fucking picture. Outkast! She still couldn’t believe it! She also remebered that they were responsible for the legendary lyrics: ‘I know you like to think your shit don’t stink, but but lean a little bit closer, see, roses really smell like poo poo poo,’ which is actually a metaphor for LIFE, is it not? (Fact: original lyrics are ‘smells like boo boo boo’, which apparently means poo? Confused much? There’s entire forums dedicated to debating it, who knew!)

She further skipped into the gym, and found that Sh’Bam was a glorified Latin-American dance class, with lots of gyrating, hip thrusting, and boob wobbling-there were a few jumps thrown in, just to test the pelvic floor of the mainly postnatal women in attendance.

The mum’s dreams of shaking it like a polaroid picture were shattered into a million pieces, when her pelvic floor didn’t meet Sh’Bam standards, and she let out a bit of wee.

The moral of the story? Do your fucking pelvic floor exercises.

*I update this kind of ‘series’ on Facebook if you fancy following it there!*