Hello!

Hi I’m Mary, a freelance writer from darkest Lancashire coming up to my eighth year down south. I am gradually coming to terms with the lack of decent gravy and having my accent used to comic effect at meetings and social gatherings.

In addition to my main job as a marketing and PR consultant, I provide freelance copywriting services and creative content for publications and businesses. My main activities are for The Metro and Yell – you can take a look at my published work here.

Thanks for visiting my website!

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Three solid reasons to stop eating meat this year

I’m a meat eater – not a particularly dedicated one, but a meat eater. I can’t identify as a vegetarian or vegan because while I don’t like the idea of hurting or killing animals, I do rather like the taste of meat, eggs and cheese.
I’m not alone – the majority of people in the UK eat meat. But it seems that increasing numbers are turning to vegetarianism (up to 12% of people according to one source, although other sources put the figure closer to 2%).
So apart from the difference in diet and taste, why else is there a reluctance towards going vegan?

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Mark Zuckerberg wears the same t-shirt every day: I think he’s missing out on the joys of frivolity

Mark Zuckerberg wears the same colour T shirt every day. Why? He says, ‘I really want to clear my life to make it so that I have to make as few decisions as possible about anything except how to best serve this community.’

In short, to allow for maximum simplicity and clarity in his life in order to dedicate as much of his time as possible to helping others. Jesus would approve.

Mark Zuckerberg wears the same style t-shirt every day

Mark Zuckerberg wears the same style t-shirt every day (Picture: NYT)

Every minute Mark Zuckerberg selflessly plucks from his grooming schedule is a minute we all benefit from – had he been a little more fastidious about his wardrobe in his youth, say, spent ten minutes getting dressed instead of one, who knows how long we might have had to wait for him to cast aside his mortal vices in favour of connecting us all to the people whom we didn’t really know or like in high school? Perish the thought – we’d still be living out our lives with social contact limited to the people whose company we actually enjoy.

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Three amazing war stories for Remembrance Day

Tower of London Poppies

Tower of London Poppies (Picture: Flickr)

We remember the two World Wars – and other wars – through the stories passed down from generation to generation.

Most involve severe hardship and physical and emotional trauma, some involve incredible luck or feats of bravery, and all help us to remember the brave men and women who willingly – and unwillingly – suffered for the future of their countries, at war and at home.

As WW2 veterans dwindle in numbers, it’s crucial to keep their stories alive, and to keep the horrifying reality of war closer than the glorifying propaganda that could so easily take hold once more. Continue reading

Five compensatory advantages of Movember

john cleese tash copy
November has gradually become synonymous with hundreds of thousands of patchy moustaches sprouting across the UK at a bristling pace. If you’re anything like me you’ll find your booze budget seriously endangered this Movember as you struggle to shell out to your various furry-lipped friends, but it’s worth it for a million moustache progress selfies a day, free reign to pass comment on all shapes and sizes, oh, and the potentially life-saving research it enables.
tash tash copy

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Five alternative uses for killer heels

Killer heels are always in fashion, because having two raw bloodied steaks instead of feet is fun and attractive. These sadist heels come in a variety of colours and styles but only one height: vertiginous and nosebleed-inducing. All killer shoes come with pain factor 1000 guaranteed, for your own good, because if you are not cross-eyed with pain then they’re not sexy enough. Whilst hobbling around the dancefloor in a London nightclub this weekend in a classic pair of killer heels, in order to distract myself from the raging red mist obscuring my vision, I came up with a list of alternative uses for my killer heels in order that I never have to wear them ever again.

Could be put to much better use as ballistic missiles

Could be put to much better use as ballistic missiles

1. Weapons. I am constantly short of deadly weapons, despite the fact that our country is continually churning them out and sending them overseas to various rich dictators who probably have fewer enemies than me. I feel that my killer heels could be put to much better use being launched at my enemies, either flung into the air as lone diamante missiles, or bundled up with several other pairs into killer-heel-boulders, set on fire and rolled down distant hills in the vague direction of people I don’t like. Continue reading

Mediocre beasts and how to avoid them

JK Rowling is penning a screenplay for a new film series of her book Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, which featured in the Harry Potter series.

The book is a fictional encyclopedia of 75 magical creatures, ‘written’ by fictional magizoologist Newt Salamander (the grandfather of Luna Lovegood’s husband, Rolf), with advice on where they can be found.

This is all very well, but we all know that dragons can be found in caves and monsters under our beds – what about the mediocre beasts, the ones we could really do with avoiding?

Guinea pigs

Guinea pigs are dangerously stupid and generally inclined to getting eaten, stepped on or buried by the dog. The only reason they have managed to survive the evolution process thus far is because they’re fluffy, hopeless and permanently surprised-looking, and humans take pity on them. Pretty easy to avoid – just leave the cage door open, wait 24 hours for them to notice, then watch as they waddle around the garden in a slow, blind panic until they get eaten, stepped on or buried by the dog.

Cute but essentially useless

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Death by flat-pack

wardrobe 1

What’s worse than building a wardrobe and two chest of drawers with no prior DIY experience? Building a wardrobe and two chest of drawers with a rolling pin and a mini screwdriver, during a heatwave. As a wise friend pointed out, purchasing flatpack furniture is symptomatic of extreme masochism, and my stifling hot bedroom made a fine stand in for a whips n’ chains torture parlour as I wrestled my furniture into being last week. Continue reading

The royal delivery: a preview

Kate Middleton Polka Dress Pregnant

Kate and Wills have been very generous with the global media, always smiling graciously for the cameras at a multitude of formal and informal events, and only launching a single lawsuit despite multiple invasions of privacy. We’ve seen a lot more of them than we expected over the past year or so. However, I doubt that this leniency will extend into the events in the delivery room this July, which is why I’ve outlined my personal expectations for the royal birth.

6pm. Kate arrives at the St Mary’s hospital’s maternity ward with sister Pippa and mother Carole, walking unaided and citing “mild tummy pains – please don’t make a fuss.” The nurses whisk her out of her nude LK Bennet Sledge heels and into a bespoke Alexander McQueen hospital gown, her personal hairdressers tease her mane into a ‘birthing chic’ bun, and she is guided ceremoniously into the royal birthing suite, complete with warm fluffy towels, a selection of post-birth outfits and a new set of hair brushes.

7pm. As the royal contractions begin to gather momentum, Prince Philip arrives on scene, hands Kate a small white glove embroidered with the letter ‘Q’, and apologises that the Queen cannot make the birth as one of the corgis has had an incident involving its tail and a careless footman. While the footman is being tortured and executed the Queen will be thinking of Kate and “can’t wait to meet the new heir. God speed”. Sweating slightly, her uterus contracting rather inconveniently every few minutes, Kate keeps up a bright patter of polite enquiries after Prince Philip’s health, until he gradually becomes bored and wanders off to find a nurse to sexually harass.

8pm. The contractions have reached full-swing now, and Kate is managing splendidly, only snapping once at Pippa to “Close your bloody Macbook and stop blogging about my contractions. Waitrose readers aren’t wild about your recipes, they’re not going to want to hear about my chuffing cervix.” She is wrong – the attention of the entire UK is fixed on her cervix right now – but no-one in the room corrects her as they don’t wish to receive a royal duffing up.

9pm. Kate is starting to look rather pink and is frequently asking the nurses for more drugs. Mother Carole is at her side, knitting a gender-neutral yellow baby-gro with a crown and a question mark on it. Charles and Camilla make an appearance and tell Kate that Wills is on his way in the helicopter; could Kate possibly hold the heir in for a while? Kate lets out a stream of unladylike expletives and Charles and Camilla wander off to find a new hospital ward to open.

10pm. Harry saunters into the suite with his jeans on back to front and a blonde Sloane on his arm. He grabs two plastic chairs, slides down next to the bed with his giggling companion, and says, “Sorry I’m late, I did try to call but the nurse thought I was a radio DJ and put the phone down on me. How’s it going old sport?” Kate responds with a polite snarl, and through gritted teeth forces the question: “Where. Is. Your. Sodding. Brother?” Harry gives a sudden start then looks almost thoughtful for a second but it soon becomes apparent that his blonde girlfriend is feeling him up under the bed. Kate resumes her contractions and tries to ignore the blatant foreplay now occurring by her bedside.

11pm. Wills’ helicopter lands on the roof of the hospital where a group of savvy photographers has gathered in anticipation. Wills strides politely through their flashing lightbulbs, privately wishing immediate painful death on them and all their families, and makes his way towards the Royal maternity ward. En route he encounters Prince Philip flirting with a pretty Thai nurse he has cornered. Wills rescues the nurse and steers his grandfather towards the suspiciously quiet royal birthing suite.

11:10pm. The baby is breech, Kate has passed out from trying not to make a fuss, and the doctors are urgently performing a royal Caesarian. Wills strides over to the bed, glares at Harry who is now noisily fornicating behind the curtains, and takes his wife’s hand. Carole has put down her knitting. Pippa has closed her Macbook. The room waits with bated breath, and the occasional giggle from behind the curtains.

12am. On the stroke of midnight the third-in-line to the throne is born. Kate is awake, pink and gazing down at her little bundle of joy. She decides to call her baby girl ‘Mary’, after one of her biggest fans. The Queen Skypes from the palace to send her well-wishes, amidst agonised screams and vague grinding noises in the background. Kate inquires politely after the corgi’s health. Carole attempts to curtsey via webcam. Harry has been chucked out of the hospital, but calls to say congratulations; the nurse hangs up on him again.