Confession – I was a Sun newspaper Page 3 STUNNAH.

I was a Sun newspaper Page 3 stunnah.

There. I’ve said it.

Clearly, I have no shame. Though I do believe that I can justify this sudden and shocking revelation on the basis that my mother has always said Confession Is Good for the Soul.

Ahhhh the memories…(of course, the wags amongst you – those this side of the pond who understand the significance of page 3 – will be saying that should more properly be the mammaries…).

I know, I know, you want an explanation. Maybe even the nitty gritty details…? 

Ahhhh, confession may be good for my soul but digression is not so good for you, dear reader, not when there are vital details awaited. In fact, I can feel your irritation with my prevarication…

So….

The story’s true beginning is sometime in June 2002. Perhaps it was the 13th of June, my birth date, a potential day of excess and rejoicing (at least for me) – though for the record I do accept that the precise date will forever be a matter for joint bemusement.

…WARNING. And before I proceed any further I feel that I must warn the sensitive males amongst my readership. The following contains scenes of a graphic and biological nature. WARNING…

As expected, July followed June, and as usual we decamped en masse and en famille to anywhere but Scotland. In fact it was to an 8 berth caravan in deepest, darkest, slate-mining, miserable Wales – but that doesn’t really matter.

One day, in the middle of that holiday – the holiday that Robert saw, in the raw, my Mothers full moon derriere – the holiday that I forgot to pack any clothes for myself – the holiday that middle boy managed the fantastical feat of pissing a four foot high parabola of wee, hitting his sister who was sitting in the third row of the big car and all whilst I was tanking along the motorway at 90 mph… Yes, it was in the middle of that holiday, whilst miserably chugging through the miserable Welsh countryside in a miserably slow steam train on the way to the utterly damnable and miserable Blaenau Ffestiniog slate mine, that I turned to my husband and said If I didn’t know any better I would think that I were pregnant and that he responded, saying Don’t be so bloody stupid. How could you possibly be pregnant.

Thus are our moments of idle abandon casually forgotten. And so it is that the baby of this house is ostensibly my immaculate conception. Or – speaking somewhat less sacrilegiously – a product perhaps of coital amnesia. The consequence of me, or he, or both actually managing that miraculous feat of procreation whilst deeply asleep.

Fast forward to the pharmacy isle of good ole Tesco’s, sometime in late July 2002 and the purchase of a home-testing kit. Thence to the 3 minute wait for the single blue line to confirm that I was suffering phantom pregnancy symptoms. And to the final twin blue lines screaming loud and clear – Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

I remember Rs face as he peered at the stick.

Eh? Whits this? What? Youve got it wrong. This is faulty. Do another test.

Silence.

How the f*** did that happen?

To which I, disgusted, not-so-calmly responded (shouted really) – well, if you don’t know after 4 wains, you’ll never bloody know.

And if you have read this far, dear reader, you are bemused. Nay, I have conned you. Where are the sordid details of page 3-dom you are pursuing…

Dinnae fash. I’m coming to that. Bear with me. All will be revealed…
(to be continued…)
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10 thoughts on “Confession – I was a Sun newspaper Page 3 STUNNAH.

  1. Even I know what Page 3 means.

    This oughta be good.

    It has been so far anyway…

    “If you don't know by now…” It helps, when you're relaying snippets of irritated conversation, that I used run with a Scottish girl that could be mean as a cat box…when she wanted to.

    Hahahaha

  2. Hahahaha glad you are acquainted with us Scottish wummin and hell cat tendencies.

    I am enjoying remembering all this stuff.

    Sure reminds me what a truly fuc*ed up and wonderful strange life I have had so far!

  3. Truly immaculately fuc*ed I suspect rather than theologically immaculately unfuc*ed (why do we bother with the * ?). Yes. You have had your moments even if you slept through them.

    Actually I didn't mean to say any of that. What I was going to remonstrate with about was Blaenau Ffestiniog. My paternal grandmother was reputedly from there. I say reputedly because although I've had the house pointed out to me by my Father my brother says there is no record of it. But then that's Wales for you.

  4. Haha Graham! Immaculately fuc*ed – I do like that. Though baby does look suspiciously angelic at times of course…
    And you can remonstrate all you want. That Welsh place was just the pits. In the rain. And the sooty smut. And with a bad case of morning sickness…lol…

  5. Brilliant. Just brilliant. You capture the interactions with Robert so well and I love your mother's full moon derriere.
    I want the next installment Yvonne, but I also want you to string it out because this is such fun to read.

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