I can't get no sleep.

I am shite at sleeping. I know to look at me it doesn't seem like that. “There’s a girl who sleeps like a log and eats like a horse” And shits like one too most likely.

But surprisingly I don’t sleep very well at all. When you don’t sleep you get to discover the hidden elements of the night you couldn't have imagined existed. For me this has been Classic FM – the amalgamation of Mozart and the middle class. The presenters sound like they've been found by someone going into Harvey Nicholl’s with a net and some caviar.

Munching your cardboard Lidl cornflakes to the sound of John Sushi – being brought into the small hours of the morning with Margarita Taylor. Nothing screams private education and polo like having a cocktail or a Japanese delicacy as a first name.

If that was to happen in my family I’d probably have been named Battered-sausage Adams.

Mmmmm... Battered sausages.

There’s something so soothing yet gravely intimidating about individuals who use the words, ‘whom and alas’ without being ironic. I can’t even read the word alas without picturing images of Dumbledore going all wise on Harry’s parent-less ass. But that probably says more about how my mind works than the general consensus on the word ‘alas’.

The reason I’m so aware of the obvious difference in class between myself and the Classic FM presenters? I’m currently residing on the upper Lisburn Road. Where the grass is green and the trust funds are pretty. I think they can smell my labeless scent when I’m walking down the street. That or I just look like a busty tramp – which incidentally would probably be my rapper name. 

Busty Tramp – keeping the flow tight and the necklines low.

Again I thank you for persevering with my filth riddled ramblings. Keep ‘er lit. xo