Why the Tesco advert is no "class slur."

Is it really being questioned why Tesco took out adverts to apologise for their horse burgers in the Sun and the Mirror rather than the Times and the Independent?

Is it really a slur on working classes? If you buy Red tops you are poor and eat value burgers, but if you are rich then you don't and you read the Times? Or do they assume that, actually, readers of the Observer wouldn't mind eating horse anyway, being far more likely to pay for Zebra steak in a restaurant where you get to cook it on a lava hot rock, and zebra isn't that different to horse? 

Did the men in slightly more expensive suits than the managers and debate whether or not the FT was viable? (Probably would have been a good idea considering the absolute hammering the share price has taken.)

Come on, now.

What do you hand over every time you stand at the check out of your Tesco Extra, Express, or Garage? The Clubcard. The Clubcard which has allowed Tesco an unrivalled database to scrutinise your spending habits. 

I'd say if you had access to this you'd find the papers that Tesco advertised in, THEY were the ones that appear the most in the same shopping basket as their horsemeat burgers. Tesco and their marketing millions may have used the information they have spent millions of pounds over the last 15 years and done what any business with a bit of common sense would.
Who resents what most?
 It's no slur on the working classes and certain quarters* need to calm down and get off their soap boxes. *twitter.

Have ALDI issued an apology yet? I can't wait to see where they print it......

Lazy Parenting - Shit Trainers

Trainers. Not something I wear particularly often. I don't do sport than involves trainers as necessary equipment. I'm kidding, of course.
I don't do any sport.

But back in the halycon days of my teenage years, the mid 90's, trainers were an essential item for thethrice weekly humiliation session commonly known as PE. Let's face it, PE isn't a REAL subject anyway. Led by two SADISTS (teachers) we had to wear hideous green large knicker type things, polo shirts and (the dreaded) trainers. My chubby frame and new bouncy bosoms meant me and the other "Big dinners," as Miss Smith referred to us, instantly hated this whole *exercise* thing. .
The real issue here is not about PE lessons. I can only hope nowadays that the lessons are more enjoyable. I certainly hope the uniforms are better. I have no doubt that today's resourceful youth can find that there are still enough places that you can discreetly have a sly contraband cigarette on cross country "runs."

The real issue, is shit trainers.

My parents didnt think it was important to have "name" trainers. But then it wasn't them having their plastic clunky trainers laughed at in the changing rooms. Sneered at for not having the right stuff, I didn't feel I belonged.  I begged for better trainers. I thought I wouldn't get picked on so much and I would instantly become COOL.
But I was 13, and knowing then what I know now, well. Isn't hindsight twenty quid a lorry load?
I asked my parents. A lot. I did get a horrendously flammable hideous shellsuit though, and for a while thought I was pretty damn cool in that. (they were fashionable then.)
Reasons ranged from:
There's no difference, apart from a bit of sewing!
People don't know the difference between Nicks and Nike, anyway.
Air Max? Inflatable? What if they BURST?
They ARE Reebok, sometimes they just spell it differently!
to
No, you're not having them. They're too expensive. ( I know now this was probably the real reason. Plus, as grown ups, they knew in the scheme of life your trainers shouldn't matter this much. But they DID.)

It extended to clothes too. I wore the Naffco54 jumper, even though I knew that the fashionistas choice was never, ever going to be from Kinross Sunday Market. I drew the line at Joe Biggs though.That's just taking the piss. I remember Nicky Osbourne lending me her Joe  Bloggs  hooded t shirt in Aviemore and feeling the BIZZNESS

Fast forward 18 years and I find myself with my 8 year old daughter, and my Dad, in a well known high street sports shop. As I look for a pair of trainers suitable for my daughter to ruin, or lose, he turns to her, and says,

"You pick ANY pair of trainers you like, I'll get them for you."

All these feelings from years ago come back in a flash.

HE JUST SAID WHAT?

Suddenly I am a very stroppy pre teen and consumed with JEALOUSY.
As he sits with her and gets her feet measured, and she tries on ten pairs of brand name trainers, I seethe. My father (who is the most wonderful man alive,) is not famed for his patience. HE would never of afforded me or my sister the luxury of trying on different pairs. Once we found one that fitted that was it. My sister and I became very adept and saying the ones we didn't like didn't fit.
But no, suddenly he has the patience of saint.
The curse of the SHIT TRAINERS is broken.

Hardcore partying: the Jubilee.

If there is anything more British than a right Royal Knees up then it's the chance that the skies will open and the weather will be miserable.

Hello Jubilee Bank Holiday Weekend.

James May's Bun Launcher

It says a lot about the Great British Public. In just about every city and town, as a nation, we are still out in force. Armed with nothing but grim determination, bunting and sausage rolls, we WILL celebrate. Even if it results in kids with colds for the rest of the holidays and suspected cases of trench foot. 

The precipitation has somewhat hampered the Lazy Mum's participation in local festivities today. 

(And before I get any more decidedly republican emails, this isn't a discussion on the monarchy. It's about attempting to do something with the kids on a bank holiday weekend. Four days is a LONG time. )

Lazy Mum is hoping the weather clears for the Bun Throwing later. 

Managed to catch a glimpse of the contraption that James May has come up with: it looks like a big length of tubing: almost like a mini cannon. Keen to see how far it launches the buns - and if it shoots them with enough force to cause injury. 

I was about to say I was now going to brave going out, but the clouds have opened and it's pissing down. 

Even the promise of a Gazebo cannot tempt me. 

It's cold and it's wet and children will be present. Therefore, large amounts of alcohol (which would help add some sense of fun to the occasion) are strictly off limits. Instead we must sit in the rain and have enforced - fixed-grin-fun punctuated by time checking and packing up the car at the merest inkling of another bloody down pour.

Nothing better than a Bank Holiday Weekend. With a sofa, and a duvet. 

A Great set of Buns for the Jubilee

The best thing about the Royal Jubilee is the sense of Occasion. I’m not even sure that an upper case “O” is enough to convey the huge amount of preparations currently going on: or the huge amounts of bunting absolutely Everywhere. There’s bunting. And there’s bunting on bunting. And then……

(The bunting though. Nice bunting itself I like, but there is horrendous tacky pictures, banners and plastic junk all over the place. It’s really not required. The country should be celebrating itself, not the ability to import the cheapest of tat.) However: I digress.

Amongst all the pomp and pageantry, the soldiers in bearskin hats, the horse and carriages, eccentric England has always had a fine line in quirky traditions.  And Bun Throwing, this particularly regional tradition is one of the more bizarre.

Since the 19th, the Royal town of Abingdon Upon Thames has been marking Royal Occasions (marriages, births, coronations and so forth) in a unique “Bun Throwing” event. The Town Councillors gather on the roof of the recently refurbished County Hall in the centre of the town, and throw thousands spiced buns down to celebratory throng below in the Market Place. The County Hall  contains a Museum dedicated to the history of Abingdon (also home of the MG motor car.) In their cabinets are some dried buns from many Bun Throwing’s through the years.

There is also “Throwing Buns” an aptly named café right next to the county hall, which contains a wealth of information on the cake-y craziness. I have to admit it's a particular favourite of the Lazy Mum, nearly daily a variable faction of yummy, slummy, lazy mums meet to come to terms with another day. The coffee and cakes help soften the blow.*The Buns* as called affectionately is a real oasis of quirky loveliness slap bang in the centre of Abingdon. 

And here I was to find the only non tacky piece of Jubilee merchandise, and something celebrating all things unique, handmade and eccentric. It’s this (available to order HERE.)beautiful girls dress. Something beautiful, unique and unusual. I’m so against the tat. Throwing Buns cafe has again got the tone just right. And this gorgeous dress by Mandmade is made by hand in Abingdon itself. 

This year sees an attempt to solve the age old problem of the Mayor and dignitaries not being able to throw the Buns very far from the top of the magnificent County Hall. The council invited James May the charmingly eccentric Top Gear and maverick  "Man Lab" to come up with a solution. Mr May is most likely fretting over last minute detail - or it may have all fallen apart - as this is written so the results are awaited with baited breath. His contraption is set to be displayed in the County Hall after the Jubilee and will also feature on his popular Man Lab TV series. 

The essential checklist for a day out with children.

Planning a day out with the kids? Are you braving the delights of a theme park, historical place of interest or other "family friendly" or even "educational" day out?  Whilst a day out may require the organisation and fine attention to detail of a military operation, our essential checklist  will ensure your day runs smoothly.

• Huge amounts of cash for over inflated entrance fees. Some bigger attractions will cost over £100 for a family of four. Tremendous. Still, the sun is out and you are determined to be GOOD parent and so you grit your teeth and........
• A fixed grin. You're going to need it. Especially when handing over aforementioned cash just to GET IN.
• A picnic. This is, of course, assuming your chosen venue lets you bring in food. Not like The Pleasurebeach in Blackpool who SEARCH YOUR BAGS to check for contraband sausage rolls. Dont bother making a gourmet al fresco delight, cheese sandwiches and crisps will do. There is a strong likely hood they wont be eaten by anyone other than you anyway.
• More huge amounts of cash for food and drinks. You may be lugging round a backpack of fruit shoots and 23 rounds of sandwiches, but the kids wont want them once they've seen the food concession. Be prepared to pay a fiver for some awful chips. Each.
• The patience of a saint. You may be queuing for some time, in baking heat, with impatient,thirsty, hungry and tired children. Remember, you're having FUN here. 
• Another huge wad of cash for tat. there's bound to be a souvenir shop, and you might as well just give them the SHIRT OFF YOUR OWN BACK NOW.
• Baby wipes. In multiple packet for wiping hands, faces, snot, and your ladygarden when you've queued for the public "conveniences" for half an hour to find they have no loo roll.
• A hip flask. For moments of stress.
• Sun cream.Sun lotion and hats. Especially necessary in abundance if you happen to be ginger, Scottish or other unfortunate. Use SPF Dufflecoat and soon you'll be able to almost tell where your white sock stops and your leg begins. Still, it's a step up from blue.
• A supermarket multi pack of bottled water. Freeze half . The frozen ones will keep the other ones cold, and you'll have paid less for six bottles than you will for one out etc. See: multipacks of crisps.
• More money for a takeaway on the way home.  After such a fun filled day, your bones will positively GLOW at the thought of cooking.
• Calamine lotion/aftersun/ paracetamol. For all the bits you missesd.
• Alcohol. Self explanatory
• A note to self: never ever do this again.

So on that note, I am off to pack the car and go to Island Farm Donkey Sanctuary Country Fair and Miniature Steam Rally in Brightwell-cumSotwell , Oxfordshire. I've actually got much higher hopes for this one than the examples I've used above, it's a great place.  There is a whole host of things that make me feel as old as visiting a Garden Centre: but I secretly enjoy them. You can't beat the adrenaline RUSH you get win when you win a dusty bottle of Blue Nun at a Tombola Stall.  There's also a Wild West re-enactment from the Portsmouth Wild West Association which I am genuinely excited to see. There's something terribly liberating about seeing grown adults play about in fancy dress, especially when  they are good at it. I'd love to have a go. (Just don't tell anyone.)

The point I was trying to make was......

I'd really like to try all your favourite recipes.Whether it be the type you throw together but have a basic staple list for, suitable for last minute changes with on hand substitutions. And don't forget the expert technique of "Hmmm. That'll taste nice with a bit of that in there, quick and easy but never compromising on taste.
I say that. I cooked oven chips this evening. Really, really couldn't be bothered to actually peel potatoes. Or peel carrots, so it was accompanied by beans. In my mind baked beans qualify as a health food. Additionally, tomatoes are a fruit and that being one of your five-a-day completely validates my nutritional theory.

Let's also disband with the laziness temporarily to try out some of your dishes that require a bit more care and attention. Roast Potatoes area the lazymums main obsessions and we'd pit ours against some of the best. Vegetarian, vegan or carnivorous, send them in - we cant wait to try them. They'll go up on the site too so you can share your tasty treats.

Child friendly dining - Fact or fiction?

Sunday Lunch time, quite a few years ago. Sitting on a slightly worn sofa in  a country pub nursing the remnants of a hangover from the previous nights frivolities. There's a Bloody Mary in one hand and a pile of newspapers heavy enough to challenge even the strongest of paper boys just in reach of the other. Enjoying the peace, I order a Sunday Lunch, which is enjoyed at a leisurely pace whilst supping contentedly on a couple of glasses of a cheeky little red. Sated, I amble home and have a nap.

At least, I'm pretty sure that's how it went. Maybe the pub not as quaint, more plain shabby, and maybe the roast potatoes were CRAP. Maybe I'm looking at days gone by through rose tinted glasses.
I LOVED eating out. I still do.We'd scout out places we'd heard good things about - an exemplary roast potato, a  proper, home made meaty burger, we'd drive for miles on the hope of finding something really special. You may notice the tattie fixation here. I'll write more on that sometime soon. 

Ha. Those days are GONE. Gone, and they aren't coming back for a long, long time.

Venturing out of the house with children, is, at  best a bad idea. Taking them out to eat is an even worse one.

Remember upon the advent of child number one, when you still thought that your life wouldn't change. "No," you'd say, relaxed by the assurances of the dog eared baby manual, "it'll be FINE. We'll just take the baby with us. You know, it's a BABY. They're just going to have to fit in with US."

For the first few weeks/months, this actually seems to happen. You are lulled into a false sense of security where upon your little bundle snoozes soundly through starters, mains and dessert. You won't risk the coffee though (breastfeeding) and Gina Ford dictates it is time for a feed, so you pop the carseat back in the car and home you go. Lovely.

Don't get used to it. It doesn't last. There's something about the sound of  a fork hitting a plate that will wake even the soundest sleeping baby. Meals will now be consumed at breakneck speed, in turns, whilst one of you holds the baby and the other snorts their dinner whilst trying to mentally locate a pack of antacids at home. One of you will settle the bill whilst the other straps the screaming baby in the car, and  you'll realise all you've done, if you actually managed to finish your meal, is pay for a very large dose of indigestion. I'm not even going to talk about that feeling you have when you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole, screaming LOUD baby in arms. No one likes crying babies in public places. It may be a fact of life but we all know the feeling of  the disapproving looks wondering what you've DONE to make that poor child cry so much, when you'redoing your level best to distract them (god knows where their bottle has gone) because believe it or not, you don't like the damn noise either.
There's a fifty fifty chance that the staff will either be indifferent or coo over your baby and get   in the way of you trying to sneak to the bar for a top up of wine. The over enthusiastic staff are the worst. Incessant face pulling and silly voices can scare even the hardiest of babies. And no wonder. Id think someone was completely off their tree if they came over and spoke to me jumping about, playing peep-o and putting on ridiculous voices. Sometimes a particularly grandmotherly type will whisk your baby away to show her friends at a nearby table, and I'd use this opportunity to wolf down as many pommes frites as I possibly can.

Weaning comes and you'll ask the waitress if they can kindly warm the bowl of mush you tipped in from a jar earlier and is now sitting proudly in your changing bag. Really can't let all that tupperware you bought go to waste. Yes, it seemed like a GREAT IDEA at the time, to prepare a million and onelittle pots of pre pureed veg but the sad fact is that your little one's uneducated palate really does seem to prefer the processed gloop from a jar. You can't comprehend this. Especially when you have spent ages pureeing and peeling mpre vegetables in one afternoon than you have eaten in the last 6 months, your little darling dines on delicious organic prduce whilst you sustain your ever decreasing energy levels with a no effort, taste or nutrtional value frozen pizza of questionable quality.

That, my friends, is what you now mistakenly think of still as a TREAT. If this is your reward for trying to get a break from the cooking. I'd recommend getting a takeaway. Every time. 

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