Your Essential Airport Survival Guide



Your holiday starts at the airport.

The nervous poos, the people watching, and the mad dash to your gate to join the Spanish invasion.

Each one a huge warehouse filled with other humans. But fear not. Airports need not be scary, let us hold your hand and guide you through them.


It’s massive. It’s confusing, and if you have a late flight back, the last thing you want is a game of ‘where’s the bloody car’ to colour your already darkened mood post-Malaga. Best thing to do is gaffer tape a traffic cone to the roof – job done.


Once you’ve shuffled around the stupid winding pathways of the pre-queue like the condemned, pick a desk and run to it. This can be a squeaky bum time as your main bag is weighed. Too heavy? Looks like half of Heathrow will see your thongs, then.


If you have elderly family with you, this will be hilarious – I mean a very confusing time for them. It’s best to tell Uncle Roger to remove everything, but expect him to moan himself into a coma in the process. Pass through the metal detector and breathe a sigh of relief – yes you do – as you collect your case knowing full well the most dangerous item in your luggage is that copy of Fifty Shades.


If you want perfume that costs the same as a third world nation’s defence budget and enjoy being pestered by pretty people, this is for you. It’s the one-stop shop that you CANNOT avoid.


This is a British airport institution. They stock every book that has ever been written, and they have every magazine published since 1485. You will not be left wanting in this Pandora’s box of travel consumables. So many sweets that you get a toothache from looking. Avoid the self-service tills – they can seriously make you lose your shit.

Pub Grub? Diarrhoea-inducing fast food? Jamie? Maybe a plate of meat/taste free slop, made by pygmies high up in the Andes? It’s all here. Be prepared to wait…and wait…there’s a lot of hungry souls here, demanding to be fed like cattle in a barn.

Be mindful of your fellow traveller here. Too much food will turn your bottom into a toxic cloud factory, and nobody likes a farter.


This sucks. Nothing can make this time pass quicker. Read your overpriced nonsense, fall asleep on your partner’s shoulder, or stare at the departures board until your eyes dry up and stop working. Oh – and good luck finding seats together, it’s like a Sainsbury’s car park mid-morning on a Saturday…all the time.


As soon as the gate is announced – run like Linford. You can’t miss it, it’ll be where the queue snakes back to the runway and is thirteen people wide.


Now go, drink, eat and burn.

Bon voyage.

Jason Moody for Pf Magazine



Oo La La Ménopause


How Do French Women Master The Menopause?

According To The Daily Mail.


According to Helena Frith Powell of the Daily Mail, they just have to spray themselves with Evian water and wear sexy underwear. I’d like to see how they fit the trusty Tena Lady, like a paddle board, into the widest part of their thongs!

Yes Ladies, along with having more sex, not talking about it, and sage & thyme supplements you too can say au-revoir to those hideous night sweats, daytime hot flushes and mood swings of the bunny boiler variety. Just reading that article had me in a hot flush, and unlike the civilised French ladies, I didn’t shut up about it. I ranted about it to anyone (mostly male) who were stupid enough to inquire as to what I was reading and writing.

The article continued; Actress Agnes Jaoui, 53 states, “It’s very important to French women that we don’t stop being sexy at 50. Even if we’re having a discreet hot flush.”

A DISCREET hot flush? According to Helena, who moved to France 18 years ago, none of her friends have ever, “suddenly ripped off their T-Shirts to cool down…” Funnily enough Helena, I may have flapped my T-Shirt a little but I, an English Rose, have not ripped mine off either.

The wonderful example in this impertinent article, championing the ageing sex goddesses of our European neighbours, is none other than Brigitte Macron. She is applauded for her costume of leather trousers and stiletto heels in the classroom. One of the many French women refusing to ‘equate to her more mature years…’ I’m suspecting it wasn’t an Evian spray she was carrying in her purse when she went all extra curricular behind the bike sheds with a young Emmanuel. In this country, we prefer twin set and pearls to avoid a heap load of trouble like that.

Did you know that those French belles are more open to HRT than us Brits? Did you also know that our use of HRT plummeted when a major 2002 study linked it to breast cancer? You might look sexy in your frilly knickers and ‘at it’ like rabbits, but guess who’ll get to be at it for longer?

So, apparently, sex isn’t linked to fertility in French culture. I can’t help but wonder which of the above ‘cures’ is the one that kick starts the old libido. It’s like they’re telling us to ‘get over it, and get on with it’. Which is as infuriating as telling someone with depression to cheer up. “Age is no barrier to sexiness…the menopause has little or no bearing on a woman’s desire to be attractive (and attracted to) others.” Hell yes they are. With age comes, not even greater beauty and sexual fulfillment, but a plastic box with the days of the week written on it, useful when your memory starts going and you don’t want to forget to take your happy pill. Or the tablet that keeps your thyroid balanced; or the one that stops that gastric reflux spewing out when you’re lying on your back.

To a culture that commands a silence of voicing the menopause to your other half; where sex and sexiness is such a priority you’d risk your own good health; where school teachers have relationships with their students and dress in an alluring way which fosters that relationship; I say. What a load of bollocks. I will keep my big, comfortable knickers; I will shout about the menopause from the rooftops; I won’t have sex; and I will continue to hide my spreading midriff under baggy, unattractive clothes and revel in the pleasure and comfort that being 50 finally affords me.


Lisa Ives for Pf Magazine


Comedy Monologues

The Monologues of Clementine Close ~ Shaz


Image courtesy of Elsie Bell_Art

Have you ever strolled down a street and wondered what goes on behind the net curtains and closed doors of the resident’s houses?

Well we invite you to join us as we glimpse inside this fictional street, with its back to back houses and secret entries, and introduce you to the ordinary and extraordinary people who live there.

Meet Shaz…



I had another loose dog shit posted through the door again last night.

I almost trod in it when I snuck downstairs for a sneaky muffin. Oh, I know who it is. It’s those teenagers off the estate again. They’ve got nothing better to do with their time; haven’t given me any peace since they found out about me being a dancer at Diamond Lil’s.

I’ve had all sorts sprayed on my fence: slag, slut, tart, and someone even carved ‘dolly-mop’ into the front door. I had to look it up. I can only assume that the culprit was either an extra on ‘Ripper Street’ or the ghost of that Victorian police inspector, Frederick Abberline, has taken up joinery.  

I wouldn’t mind but I’m none of those things. Yeah, I shake my arse around a bit and slide up and down a greased pole in a thong and tassels but I don’t let anyone get too close.

I take my art-form very seriously; I always take time to choose a theme for my performances.

I do a smashing, ‘I’ve come to polish your ornaments,’ act where I start off in a frilly tutu and pinny and finish off with a ‘Dance of the Seven Veils’, using some specially dyed jay-cloths and a belt fashioned out of gold-sprayed curtain rings.

And I’ve won prizes for my, ‘Sorry Mr Mechanic but my Mini has broken down and I can’t afford to pay for the repairs’, routine where I shed my overalls and dangle upside down in steel-toed boots and a thong fashioned out of woven jump-leads.  

To be honest, I like to believe that I’m much more than just an exotic dancer, I see myself as an ‘artiste’, like ‘Faith Bacon’ or ‘Tempest Storm’ plus I reckon I offer a reasonable counselling session to my regulars as a side-line.

Take old Willy from the assisted flats. He comes in every Tuesday after he’s picked up his pension, for a ‘Bishop’s Finger’ and a private showing.

He’s always saying what a considerate listener I am, especially when his wife had her stroke – said he didn’t know how he’d have coped without me. He’s got a whiff of piss and radishes about him, but he’s a good sort.

Mind you, I always ask him to leave his cap on, cus the light casts a shadow over his face, which means I can’t see the crusts of dribble on his chin. I find it a bit off-putting when I’m gyrating over his knees and trying not to sit on his flannels. I’ve never been good with dubious stains, they’ve been known to make me ‘heave’ in mid performance.

Oh, we get some odd balls too. There’s a regular who comes in who we all try to avoid. He wears one of those deer stalker hats and a leather jerkin. Smells like a rusting door hinge and always tries to cop a feel as we walk past. I think he does those American Civil War re-enactments down on the common. And I only know this because I had a bit of a ‘run-in’ with him. I was boogying to a bit of Gloria Gaynor and he started fiddling about underneath a holdall he had on his lap. He was making me feel a bit uncomfortable, so I enquired what he was up to and the cheeky bugger asked me if I’d be willing to polish his Springfield Musket.

As you can imagine, I gave him ‘what for’ and the bouncers came running over cus they could see there was a commotion. I expected him to get thrown out, there and then, but turns out it’s his gun, and he’s got a bit of a thing about watching the girls shine it up with a piece of silicone cloth. Luckily, you get so you can spot the strange ones.  

Course, I hadn’t planned to work in a place like this. I mean I’m professionally trained you know – went to the Royal Ballet School. Well, I did for a year until they kicked me out when they found the stash of donuts and bottle of Absinthe in my locker. They were pedantic about diet there; expected you to survive on a lettuce leaf and a gob-stopper, and alcohol was treated like the eighth deadly sin.

I suppose, when I got chucked out, I should have headed for the cruise ships or back up north to Wigan, but the honest truth was I couldn’t face the disappointment on my family’s face. So, I found myself here and as I said, it’s not that bad, not really. I’d even go so far as to say I enjoy it. I’ve got so that I can just close my eyes and let myself succumb to the rhythms of the music. I forget about everyone else and go into a world of my own. You just have to make sure you put Vaseline on your inner thighs though, cus those steel poles have a tendency to chafe.

They’re a lovely bunch of girls backstage, and I’m lucky cus I get on really well with the big boss; granted he struts around the place giving it all the, ‘Charlie Big Potatoes’ but he looks after his girls and has a heart of gold.

He’d be off like a shot, sorting out those teenagers on the estate, if I told him what they were up to. It’s tempting but I guess I’ll just have a word with their dads, you know, next time they come into the club.

Jules Garvey-Welch  for Pf Magazine

The copyright for these monologues belongs to Jules Garvey Welch. They must not be performed or published in any way without the permission of the author. 

lisa8The Monologues Of Clementine Close ~ Beryl


A Statement From Ms. Meghan Markle (Unedited Version – Not Approved By Kensington Palace)


Thank FUCK my father won’t be attending my wedding, I mean our wedding. I have always cared for my father, so much so that I’ve not flown out to be with him after his recent surgery and health scares. This was a very difficult decision to make but one that has come from the heart. My main reason being the generous British people have forked out enough money on the wedding and I thought a private jet to Mexico would be pushing it. Though I could still make it? (Ms Markle summons a Royal aide who whispers in her ear). At this point the bride-to-be becomes very animated. “Apparently Prince Andrew has the fucking jet so I can’t now can I?!”

Anyway, back to my statement. I hope my father can be given the space to focus on his health. Due to our closeness I’ve decided to issue this statement rather than speak to him in person, plus like I totally lost his number. Daddy, please for your princess, stop eating KFC and McDonald’s for Christ’s sake, maybe just on a weekend or something. Or a special occasion, like on Saturday. Have a Zinger burger while you watch James Hewitt and/or Paul Burrell walk me down the aisle. The final decision hasn’t been made yet, although it would have if Elton hadn’t entered the fucking ring, but I’m not being upstaged my no Queen y’all!

Moving on…

I would also like to thank everyone for your generous messages of support. This includes my half-sister who sadly broke her ankle on the way back from the mail depot after sending me a beautifully poignant token; a piece of paper with cut out newspaper letters spelling out “Die Bitch Die.” It also had delicately spattered blood droplets to which fragments of bone are attached in a regal pattern. And some spit.  It’s something that resonated with me in a way I’ve not experienced before; it’ll be treasured for eternity, once it’s back from forensics.

Please know how much Barry and I, sorry Henry, no Harry, oh for Christ’s sake what the fuck is his name anyway?! Can’t be doing with that my real name’s Henry but everyone calls me Harry or whichever way round the fuck it is! I mean who does that?! [Ms Markle temporarily forgets her Christian name is Rachel] then says to her newly appointed lady in waiting “get on this straight away, I want to double the merchandise revenue so get every damn thing the same but with Henry and Rachel on it, speak to that Kate’s mum and dad, they do party stuff and all that shit don’t they?”

Anyway, back to what I was saying, please know how happy the er…ginger prince and I look forward to sharing our special day with a bunch of guys we don’t even know, but who I now consider as family; family to me, means everything. God save the Queen. Just to clarify I don’t mean Elton.

At this point a Royal aide pops in to ask Ms Markle if she wants any marshmallows ordered as James Middleton has got “an awfully good offer on.” Hell yeah, I want as many as he can do with all combinations of names and flavours, I’ve got to milk this as much as possible before the divorce. Oh, don’t put that bit. Just put have a nice day at the end. Now will someone get me a goddamn quarter pounder with cheese?! Who have I got to sleep with round here to get what I want?!

The irony appears lost on Ms Markle.

Jackie Union


Jackie Union for Pf Magazine


humour spoof

Reader’s Stories ~ I Always Knew I Was Different



I always knew I was different. I always had the sense I was never going to fit in. School proved this to me. On my very first day, I was harassed and tormented by a gang of girls, who eventually marched me to the toilet and held my head down the pan, and then flushed. When I got home, my Mum asked what had happened, I couldn’t dob the girls in, so I told her it had been raining – it happened to be the hottest day since records began. I managed to use this excuse a further three times that term alone.

Year by year, the bullying got worse. I just found it hard to make friends, and would often spend time alone at the back of the class. Break times were the worst. All the other kids would be laughing and joking, while I would sit alone and knit. On one, particular day, it was lucky I was knitting, because the scarf I had finished before double science was all I had to wear on the walk home. From that day forward, my Care Bear vest and pants were a constant source of amusement. The fact that I was much taller than most kids did not help matters. I would receive the usual insults, lanky prick, Giraffe girl and many more I don’t wish to recall. I immersed myself in my school work and my part-time job as an ice cream hut clerk at the nearby amusement park. Even there, I wasn’t safe. Once more, my vest and pants would haunt me. This led me to being fired from my job. I remember the conversation with my boss.

“You’re a sweet kid,” she told me. “And I have no good reason to fire you…but those pants, c’mon Emma.”

I had reached my lowest ebb. I didn’t know where to turn, or who I could talk to. Even my pen-pals were tiring of me, telling me that my letters were ‘as much fun as dental work’. I had reached the very bottom, and in my darkest hour, I questioned myself and my life. I wondered if this life was really for me. I wanted to end it all. So, one cloudy Friday afternoon, I decided to apply for a job in Tescos.

School came and went. I waved goodbye and headed into the adult world, my bullying days far behind me.

I was wrong. I had not anticipated how cruel the adult world could be to a sixteen-year-old. After an unsuccessful attempt to learn the tills and accidentally calling a woman fat, I was put into the warehouse. This was a male dominated environment and very intimidating as a result. Surrounded by young men and entering a new phase of my own sexual awakening, I should have blossomed. This was a time to be curious and grow. But I was still a lanky twat who looked like a broom and the men I worked with were about appealing as a backstreet enema.

I ploughed on. Marking my card and taking home my pay month by month. The weeks turned to months, and they turned into years.

My twenties passed me by like a London bus. I made a few friends, but eventually these friends married, left the country or died.

By the time I was 25, I had got nowhere. Aside from a drunken snog at my cousin’s party with a forty-eight-year-old divorcee, I had not made many inroads with the opposite sex. I was pale, like a bottle of milk left out in the sun for two weeks. I still suffered from acne and my hair was as greasy as a mechanics pocket.

Before I knew it, I was facing thirty and wondering what in the name of Cadbury’s had I done with my life.  Mum had now shacked up with a barman from Hull and moved to Tenerife on a whim. We still spoke on the phone once a week, and now and again she would send me rude postcards and I would forward on her post. She said she was happy, and then out of the blue, she was dead.

I got the call from Spanish police. She was at a karaoke bar and drunkenly slipped from the stage and impaled herself on an upturned chair during a lively rendition of ‘Winner Takes It All’ by Abba.

Without my Mother, I had nobody. My Dad had left us when I was four, and the last I had heard was that he was living as Maureen on the Isle of Wight.

But my life was about to change; I was about to change. Everything was about to change.

I found out on social media that my school was having a reunion. I really shouldn’t have entertained going, but something inside me told me I should. What could go wrong? It would be a room full of people who despised me and would relentlessly brag about how fantastic their lives were; I instantly signed up.

The day came, I was so nervous. I wondered what all the other people would be like now. I pulled up at my old school and headed for the sports hall.

There were loads of people I recognised. None of them said hello. I made my way to the makeshift bar and ordered a drink. The girl serving me smiled. It was the same girl who had flushed my head down the toilet on my first day. Her name was Samantha and she had five kids by five different men. She told me how she hated her life, still hated me and wished she could start over – which was nice. I returned many times to the drinks table that night.

While having a wee, a voice came from the next cubicle over.

“Have you got a light?” asked the voice. It was husky, alluring. I was instantly drawn in by its smoky tone. It was not a voice I recognised.

I said I didn’t smoke and quickly pulled up my pants and left. I was about to leave the party and return to my shitty life when the voice spoke again. She was tall, with messy black hair and a lip ring. She looked like the lead singer of a third-rate indie band…she was beautiful.

Half an hour later, we were making out in the middle of the sports hall. This was all I ever wanted. But she was a girl. Everyone stared at us, but I didn’t care. Me and my Care Bear pants had come of age.

We exchanged numbers but she never called, despite the dozens of messages I left. I was desperate for her to call. Could this really be happening again? Had I done something to annoy her? I worked over our brief tryst over and over, I had just been myself.

I felt rejected. I felt like a discarded piece of fruit. The kind you buy when you’re hungry and in the supermarket, and when you get home, you have no intention of eating. I was a kumquat.

Misery and low self-esteem was a hungry beast, so I decided to head for the shops and buy a bucket load of ice-cream and some cheap wine.


Fate touched my shoulder.

Then someone did touch my shoulder. I turned around and my heart danced the samba; it was the girl. She undressed me with her eyes and threw the clothes to the side. I picked up my ice-cream and imagined her covered in it. It was cookie dough, I imagined it would be quite nice, if a little lumpy.

She explained that she had lost her phone after leaving the hall after getting into a fight with three Russian defectors outside Aldi in town. It sounded so plausible.

On that day, in that corner shop, my life turned around. I no longer felt alone in the world. I banished all the bad stuff to the bin of my mind and closed the lid.

I was a lesbian.

In the ensuing weeks and months, she showed me things I didn’t have a dirty enough mind to imagine. We quickly fell in love, adopted a cat and rented a flat above a chip shop. Our days were filled with drinking in pubs that stank of pretension and desperation. I became a vegan too, and with her guidance, stopped eating anything that had a soul. She introduced me to a world of loud music, hairy men and bad body odour. I knitted her a scarf. She told me it was ok to be a lanky, spotty twat.

“We’re all ugly in this world,” she said.

She has given me love, a new sense of confidence and a thicker skin. I don’t mind when passers-by throw rotten eggs at us now. It doesn’t matter. This upsets her though, as eggs have souls. I once questioned her thoughts on food and she didn’t talk to me for a week.

I have also recently joined her band. They’re called the ‘Sarcastic Fantastic’. I have never been so happy.

So, this letter is for you, my little lesbian love.



This story was shared with us through Jason Moody.

Jason Moody


Lazy sod. Husband. Writer. Brentford FC fan.