It's just love

I don't know how you do it

I don't know how you find the time, 

To smile,

And not cry.

How you've gone all this time,

And put up with the worst parts of me,

All of my lies.

You're unbreakable,

Formidable, 

And I'm constantly in awe of the wonder of you.

Yesterday you looked so sad,

I had to take a minute out,

When you weren't looking,

I had a breath,

A tear and came to save the day.

With my words,

My mighty sword.

It's the least I can do for you my love.

Because I'll protect you,

Like sometimes I haven't 

From it all,

The dark places, spaces,

The footsteps that make you stop.

Drop.

Heart beats fast.

It's ok wife, love of my life,

I've got you

I promise.

Hold my hand tighter.

No-one can hurt you now.

I cried through my vows,

I couldn't get a single word out,

And I had practicsed,

When you were at work

And I was home alone,

I'd recite the words we wrote together,

Over and over,

I knew them all.

And when the moment came, 

They got caught in my mouth,

And all I could do was breath,

Breath you in

Breath you out.

So beautiful

You stopped me in my tracks

You do every day

I catch you,

Serious faces

Working faces

Smiling,

Crying,

Laughing,

Loving.

I get to glimpse them all,

Lucky me.

But yesterday my love,

Such sadness crept upon that face 

And shone through your bright eyes

And i was angry

I am angry

I wish I could do more

You get upset when you read my writing sometimes,

You feel my pain

You see it on my face

Yesterday I saw yours and I wanted to make it better

What can I do

How can I love you more

Support you

Fix you

Make it better

Tell me love

I'll do whatever it takes

It's higher stakes

Now I know who I am

And you helped me unravel the road

Saw the good 

Saw the pure

You write me love notes,

You write me poetry

You love me

And it's heaven.

So I write for you,

I write to fight

TO make a change,

To bring you peace

Or give you back the piece 

That he stole

That I stole

The parts that faded away

And faded to grey

We'll make them bright again

Take my paintbrush and go wild

Show me your creative side

Not a white wash

Not blanket approach

Let's do it properly

Create art

Love,

Hope,

Babies and so much more,

I'll do it all

For you my love,

My Sarah,

Who I adore

They don't lurk anymore

I'm having a Fran grump.

Take cover.

I am no stranger to the criminal justice system, this we know.

More than is a healthy relationship and more often than not, leaves me crippled in an emotional mental health heap that usually requires professional help.

I say usually, always.

Alas, upon reading my favourite local newspaper, and one that has been kind to me in the past, I'm enraged.

There have been moments over the past few years, where I have seen an article that provokes my anger and out of care and sensitivity to Sarah, I've let it lie and held my tongue.

Today is not one of those days.

However it began as all good days do.

Coffee, kisses, breakfast, and at least for Sarah, working from home today and me meandering through another fruitful furlough Wednesday....

A little scroll through social media, and for the second time this week, there is an article about a woman being fined £150 for littering, nay, dropping a bit of butty for a pigeon to snack on.

Scandalous.

In Piccadilly Gardens non the less! Because of course, in the armpit of Manchester City Centre, a rogue baguette is what one should focus on, not the spice epidemic, the systematic and increasingly alarming rate of homelessness and poverty, no no, its some poor girls lunch scraps.

Dare I say, £150 seems a little exessive for odds and ends of Greggs delights, especially when paired with the fine assigned to an actual crime - the attempted rape of my now wife, and beautiful partner, Sarah.

Of course, that's not what Manchester Magistrates called it, when the man in question was sentenced back in 2012.

No, it was an attempted sexual assualt, and considering this man was "known" to police, and this was not his first offence, HOW, how, that disgusting bastard got off with the following sentence, I will never ever understand.

"A 7pm curfew, a ban from Piccadilly Gardens for "x" amount of months, and a victim compensation order of £150,"

This is a man who sat opposite Sarah outside the court room, and grinned as he walked in to enter a last minute guilty plea - a guilty plea in this country generally denotes a third reduction in sentencing, which is often not received well when entered at the point of entering a plea, not entering a trial.

The spineless shit.

One would hope, that as per the sentencing guildelines of our so-called justice system, and having been and on the receiving end as such, that a man, who has been apprehened and known to the police for attacking and stalking young women in the city of Manchester on countless occasions, would not walk away from a court room a free man.

We had had a wonderful night out with friends, at a classic student haunt, because, at the time, Sarah was indeed a student.

And as all students do in this fair city of ours, they get the magic bus back to Fallowfield or yonder.

And so, we walked, via a particularly good chinese take out place, through China town and towards the bus station.

Upon leaving China town, we felt a presence and heard footsteps behind us. Holding hands, and said bag of Chinese food, we walked a little quicker, so did the footsteps behind us, Sarah stepped closer to me and we turned the corner at Marks and Spencers on Piccadilly Plaza or whatever the fuck they call it these days and POUNCE.

I was pushed out of the way, bag of chinese food in hand and Sarah was dragged from my grip and into a dark and dingy alcove, with perverted mans hands and breath in places no sick fucks hands and breath should be.

I gathered myself and grabbed the fucker. Sarah had managed to push him off, before said hands could enter places I would chop said fuckers hands off for touching.

Somewhere in between flashbacks to my own trauma, I chased that prick across Piccadilly Gardens.

Now this in itself, is no wonderwoman feat, because in all reality, it should have been the middle aged StageCoach bus driver who had watched the entire ordeal and done NOTHING, and duly seen the pervert flee and done NOTHING.

Sarah rang 999 and I pursued the wannabe rapist.

And there in Piccadilly Gardens, I held him, until the Police arrived on seen, and in my rage I asked him why the fuck he felt he had the right to do this and he looked me dead in the eye and said "because you girls make it so easy,"

He was carted into the back of a police van where they took his details and the police officer who arrested him, told us he was known to them for this sort of thing.

Disgusting.

That a dirty little prick like that was lurking in Piccadilly Gardens and freely.

The policeman gave Sarah some lovely advice, to keep her house key in her hand and should anyone ever accost her again, to poke them in the eye with said key.

However, in this fair city, it would seem more likely Sarah would get done for assualt than this monster for predatory behaviour.

And lo' the defence for this penis pending?

A cultural misunderstanding.

In his country, he told the judge, this sort of thing was acceptable.

Which is fine love.

But you're in Manchester now and the law says NO FUCKING WAY.

Or apparently, slap slap naughty dick, keep it in your pants, stay away from the area and try and behave yourself.

Several months later, and on her birthday non the less, Sarah got a cheque for £20 in the post from the victims compensation. Poor little pervert apparently couldn't afford the compensation order of £150 and was paying in installments.

Well also, FUCK YOU. As when I had a stonker of a victim compensation order to pay and rightly so, "couldn't afford," did not come into it.

As far as the CJS consider fraud and compensation, if you don't pay, you go before a judge and you go to jail.

If you snatch at the pants of a young woman in the dark spots of Piccadilly Gardens however, you can pay in pennies if you like.

I digress.

£150 for feeding / accidentally feeding the pigeons of Manchester seems a little steep, and a little out of sorts with what the real priorities should be for the delgihts of Piccadilly Gardens.

Might I recommend investing in some CCTV perhaps?

Use these fines to make it a safer place?

Because upon charging this bastard, the police told Sarah and I, without doubt, there was no available CCTV footage to show the judge.

I have walked and walked for years and years through the gauntlet of big brother that is the piccadilly precinct and I can tell you, as you fellow Mancs will know, there are fucking globe CCTV cameras everywhere, one in particular, outside Marks and SPencer.

I myself traunched into City Tower to demand the footage, and was told by the police that my vigilante justice would do no good.

Well I can assure you PC fuckwit, if I ever, and I mean ever, see that bastard again, I hope there is no CCTV to show in a courtroom of what I would do.

It took every fibre of my being not to rip him limb from limb when I had him in my hands, but I gave him to you to punish, and you didn't.

And yet, the MEN will continue to report bullshit stories whereby someone had their leg touched on a bus and the world stopped to find the sicko that did it.

Some pervert grabbed an arse or a tit unsolicited and it is disgusting but it has become so unpunished and unchecked that it is somehow unafraid.

These men that lurk, don't lurk.

They wait. They follow. They slalk. They grab. They grope. They leer, sneer, photograph, and ultimately traumatise the women of this city. 

Because for women, and for sexual assualt, and rape there is no justice.

So if you see me feeding the pigeons, you can kiss my fucking arse.

Let's just call it a cultural misunderstanding, because in my country, we love the fucking pigeons mate.

The Fat Shame Blame Game

It's been bugging me.

It's been over a year, but it's really getting under my skin.

The whole "Why the fuck arn't you thin?"


Picture this, you've had your make up done.
Your big sister has done your hair.
You've never looked more beautiful.
Truly. You.

Lace, clinging to breast, bottom, strong arms, feminine wonderment.
The music you chose is radiating through the big oak door that separates you from your one true love.

The Book of Love, Peter Gabriel, you've listened to it 100 times, but today, the whisper that seeps through the door means that on the other side, shes gliding, towards the waiting point, to the finish line, the moment you've both waited for, for, well forever.

It's heaven. It's everything you had hoped it would be.
And then there's a joke
"You should probably ask the diet plan for your money back,"

And the smile on your face falters.
The music keeps playing, and it's nearly your turn.

You look up, taller than you.
Thats the fathers roll.
To stand tall and proud and walk the daugher down the aisle.
And after all we've been through and how much it has taken to get us both here,
In this moment.
I don't want this.

Please be better, just for today.
I did it for you. Could you not just do it for me?

And my glorious lace, suddently feels tight and clingy,
Gripped to all the vunerable places
The makeup doesnt feel enough
The hair feels it should be more
And I'm her again.

And it's you.
It's always you.

The door swings open,
The music loud now,
We walk.
Everyone is smiling.
I'm smiling.
But I'm in shock.
Can they see it in my face?
Smile Fran smile.
Big Barker smile now.
All is well
All is fine.

Practice makes perfect.

He's on my dress
Stepping on the fucking lace drape.
"Come on, you're not on your skateboard now," he whispers with a laugh

I'm not gliding.
I'm falling.
Into the same old trap.
What was I thinking?

That you would be good for me?
When have you ever been good for me?

You used to say all I did was take take take,
But thats what you do.
You take away me.
Who I am.

I've made a mistake.
I dreamt of this moment.
But it's all wrong.

There she is.
Like an angel in white.
If this is heaven,
My grandma was right,
Because it's beauty like I've never seen.
Now I'm smiling,
Really smiling,
Because I'm drowning you out.

It's her,
Its all about her.
She's my future.
She's my family.
And the look on her face says everything I need to hear right now.
I am beautiful.
And the lace, it's mind blowing.
It's - fuck me, that girls going to be my wife.

We stand together.
Locked in love.
The registrar asks parents to stand and offer their support of our marriage.
Her parents creep forward,
So do you.
The lady askes if you will support us in love and happiness.
You say "I will"
On cue
Good work.
And then whisper "you're on your own now,"

It's almost sinister.
Are you trying to ruin this for me?
Is that your way of saying this is it?
You've done your bit
You've done the pain, the shame, and now the walk?

The photographer is floating in and out
He's careful
He's been pre-warned by me
No photos of you
Of us
You told me no
And that if you saw any, you would "sue me until the end of time,"

I should have known then this was a terrible idea
The shame you feel to be in the same room as me
It hasn't changed
Years and years of carrying your conscience along with mine.
No more
Take your Ebendezer Scrooge chains and FUCK OFF.

Take your stupid speeches and cutting remarks and leave.
Get out of my life
Stay away from my wife
Because you have no place here now.

Your speech shocked the people I love and care for
And who love me through and through
You spoke and poked fun at me,
You made a fat joke or two,
You spoke with a tone of disappointment and then one of relief
And everyone in the room felt it.
Everyone in the room saw it.

When people who meet me ask about my family,
I saw we don't speak.
When friends ask, and we grow in trust,
I tell them I broke your heart and you broke mine.
I tell them of things that have happened,
And it becomes a characture,
People can't comprehened it.

And then you stand infront of a crowd of happy faces
And you turn it cold.
And they lurch in anger
And lean back for me

After your speech on my wedding day,
The only thing anyone had to say to me was
"Are you ok?"

You understand how insane that is right?

Needless to say, things improved after you left.

I think it took to see you in your true glory,
On the biggest day of my life to know we have no way back.
To know that you are not me
And I am not you.

But I have to tell you
Your voice is stuck in my head.

Last week we found out our pregnancy plans are fucked.
And I know alot of that is weight related.
And all I can hear is you.
I told you so
I told you so

Every diet day I've had since I got married
It's been you
Bouncing around in my mind

And I defy your voice and think FUCK YOU
I'm perfect the way I am
I have a tantrum, fight back
Settle with my body shape
And plod on in defiance.

No more.

My heart broke.
I'm married.
I'm happy.
I'm hopeful.
I have a family.
I have friends who make my life a wonderful thing.
All we want is a baby.
And we can't.
It's some sort of sick joke.

And I think of you.
I think, did you feel this pain when you tried?
Did your heart break because you couldn't?
Did it break more when you got me?

And what about mummy?
I feel this emptiness, this feeling of failure
And I feel sorry for her,
That she felt this pain too.
That she suffered through months of trying,
Waiting,
Failing.
And I wonder what it was that lead you to me.
Fate.

And then I remember, you've got Fran part two
At the age of 142 might I add.
Your chance at redemption.
Your second attempt.
You should have stopped with the baby making by now.

I pray to god that child is not fat.
Or whatever you guys deem fat is?

Is it trying in DKNY jeans in Harrods and making your daughter cry
Because you told the sales assisstant "I know, she's really fat,"
Is it fat shaming your daugher on her wedding day?
Is it pinching in inch every time you've seen me for the past ten years?

I genuinely can't remember seeing you in the past decade where you haven't mentioned my weight.
Not one time.

It gets a little boring I know.
Blaming you for my problems.
Poor little Fran,
Always looking for the bad guy.

Alas, in this circumstance,
It is indeed you.

I can't explain how much I have hated the body I am
I can't explain how much I have been trapped in mind,
And blamed myself. For all of it.
Ugly inside and out.
That's how you have made me feel.
And I'm old enough to know better.
You're certainly old enough to be better.

I guess we're both still learning.

Call this what you want,
It's a wake up call,
It's an exorcism.

I'm 16lbs lighter than my wedding day, with 3 stone more to go.
We'll get pregnant, we will have a child, and it will grow to be the most beautiful wonderful proud part of our lives.
No matter who what how.
And you won't get a say.

Sarah's biggest fear was that I would bring you into our childrens future.
That you would say things to them, the way you do with me.
She couldn't tell me no.
She was just clever enough to know I would figure it out on my own.

I've had nothing but time in lockdown and on furlough to evaluate my feelings,
And in 2020, the only thing more dangerous that Covid 19. Is you.

Goodbye Daddy.

Puppies at the pound

I have pondered, for some time now, whether or not I will make a good mother.

But more than that, I have wondered, what it is to be a good mother.

I look at my life and the two versions I had, and the first, the less said the better and the second, even more so.

So truly, it scares me, to know myself, who I am and what I am capable of, to think, I could be that version of me, that would be destined to disappoint and destroy.

And I suppose, ultimately, that is what lead me to the answer : yes, I will make a good mother.
The question was never, am I good person. Because good or bad, it's all about love.

Alturism and empathy are two attributes I have tangled with my entire life, yo-yoing from one extreme to the other, but somehow missing the mark and misunderstanding what it means to be either and when the chips are down, and I've bolloxed it anyway, it's usually too late to realise, to know, that you don't have to be either.

Trying to do the right thing, at the cost of doing a wrong thing, results in it being a false positive.
A negative attritbute.
For the sake of good, when the price is too high and is bad for someone, somehow, someway, regardless of intention, is too high a price too pay.

It seems I've spent parts of my life gambling with other people being the cost of my good intetions, warped by a sense of morality and just cause.

However, I seem to have summarised the knowledge and power of that in the previous sentences of this piece.

What then, would it mean for me to be a good mother?

To look only to the future and not dwell on the past? Because my baggage is a-plenty and it doesn't set down so easily, if that were true, I would have been liberated of my demons much time ago.

I think, for me to be a good mother, a good parent, is to know, with all my heart, I will never be like the ones I had.
Not a Bridie, who gives up at the first sign of trouble or misguided prioroty.
Not a Christine who can't tolerate your weaknesses as she's too hung up on seeing them as her own.

Thats the truth of it isn't it?
To take a life, and shape a life, with no impression or pressure to be anything other than loved.
Safe.

My dad keeps saying the same thing to me over and over, that for every time I step out of line, or have done in the past, I should be grateful.
That my parents did their best.
Gave me everything.
They still, in 2020 misunderstand what that means.

Don't get me wrong, I was the first to bite the hand that feeds, there's no doubt.
And bite hard and bite back I did.
Relentlessly.
But it's a parent's job to ask why.
To not assign blame or shame but to summarise solutions and shape ways forward.

I spent my entire life shrouded in guilt, shame and solititude, trapped in a world where to speak up and speak out was not allowed. That to step out and say, was ungrateful.
To have a past that haunts was shameful.
To mention whispers of pain and memory was hateful. Deceitful.

I lived in my own world by my own rules and kept myself safe in the delusion and spun the web so far and wide even I didn't know what was what.
Self preservation doesn't have to have sanity, if anything it's designed to be the exact opposite.

I've spent the past ten years of my life looking at what I did, judging the severity of my actions and I always come back to one spot - my choices were poor.
My judgement was wrong.
My actions were unkind.
And for times throughout my history where this has proved to be the case, it's because I didn't know who I was.
I didn't know what I was supposed to be.
And it came at a cost.

It's a recent affair.
To know now what I didn't know then.
I wrapped myself up in The Barker Baker cloak and that became my identity, but it was flawed and untrue and at times, unkind.
Because authenticity can't exist if you don't own it.

We have trials and tribulations ongoing that have rocked our lives to the core, where getting married to the love of my life feels like a lifetime ago, and the shortest honeymoon period on record, with car crash life events and scars that forge holes in our new life.
It's hard.
But it's happiness.

I teach my students, Maslows Hierarchy and for each time I do, I stare at that damn pyramid and know my place, know myself.

I'm close to self-actulisation whether it's a snakes and ladders game that knocks me back to square one, in my heart, I know it to be true.
It's taken my a long time to get here, but something changed in me just a few short years ago, and I can't explain it, but I found my purpose, my self, my heart.
Maybe it was always there, under the ashes of past Fran fires.

I am happy.
Truly.
Despite the ongoing sagas that threaten our existence as we know it.

I love my job.
I love that I'm still The Barker Baker in it's purest form and I get to teach, and share, and care, the way I should have done the first time round.
I love that my life has become authentic.
It's friendship.
Community.
Charity.
Love and kindness. And I am exactly who I was always meant to be.

Will I make a good mother?
Yes.
Because for every time we try and make a baby, we are one step closer to making a life, that will be so loved, so supported, that none of what's come to pass will matter.
Because for every time I look at Sarah, last thing at night or first thing in the morning, it's love.
It's unbreakable.

February came and went and Sarah looked at me, and said "Oh no, it was your brothers birthday, are you ok?"
And I looked at her, and said "Fine,"
I didn't text. I didn't call.
I didn't begrudge facebook family fun fuck wit time.
Because I didn't care.

Love can be distant, and everlasting, and for me, he will be a piece of my heart and jigsaw that shaped me as I shaped him.

The irony and the undermining feature of course, given that I'm the deceitful barker bitch, is that this entire time, my family have had another person living in their house, masquerading as the new born child.

No care to mention to me. The first born.
The one that took time care and attention to harness from the social services system in the first place.
How they let you have me on a promise of therapy and care and intervention is beyond me and continues to frustrate my brain, even today.

The fact I've sat in my classroom, locked the door and had a very ugly cry and the slightly childish notion that you have replaced me - I know, irrational and childlike, but my heart is broken.

From months of silence, to ask me to speak about my experience, of being your daughter.
You must be mad, or stupid.
Because no matter what story you've spun this time, I won't let another Fran, become another Fran.

The world does not need anymore heartache through mishapen mindsets created by you.

Take some responsibility and know that enough is enough.
Surely one is enough at your age?
Take the prodigal son and call it a day because you're not fooling anyone.

I once took my mothers hand whilst in foster care and asked her to be my mummy.
I hope poor fuck doesn't make the same mistake.
Because guess what, a puppy isn't just for Christmas, it's for life.

So stop buying shiny new things and let sleeping dogs lie.

And this child? Hopefully not with baggage like me? No abuse? No violence? No drugs? No suicides? No blood? No hate? No starvation? No neglect? No broken bones? No stolen virginities?

Let's hope not. Imagine.
A child broken by you.

But strong like me.

Terrifying

Third time's the charm

I’ll be honest,

It’s laughable.

But its not.

It’s undeniable,

Undefinable,

That you would do this.

To me.

Who me?

Who’s that?

The daughter.

That’s fat.

Hi there.

Nice to meet you.

Do me a favour will you Fran.

AUTHENTICATE ME.

Please.

It was you that was the disease.

We did our best

A poor workman blames his tools father.

Oh dearest,

Oh nearest,

You are somewhat beyond belief.

That to throw away the broken one,

And replace it,

Steal its life.

YOU’RE THE THEIF.

Here was me thinking,

Broken hearts on both side.

How silly

How foolish.

Only mine died.

A new child?

At your age?

You ancient old fuck

How dare you

How could you?

Push your damn luck.

Call me!

YES ME!

Whilst I’m busy at work

With my life

With my wife

And disturb my world.

Vouch for me

Tell them

It wasn’t that bad

That you’re the fuck up

And it wasn’t because of dear old dad

Tell them you’re broken

And we tried our best

Tell them you’re the dyke

Who won’t wear the damn dress

The liar and the cheat

We tried to hard to shape

But all you did was cause us

Such pain and heartbreak

We’re victims

We’re crying

We’re dying inside

Because you little daughter

Were so full of lies

Such a fine education

And a fucking ski trip

And all you gave us

Was cheek and your lip

Ungrateful ungrateful

You spiteful little girl

Thank god we get a third chance

To rule the world.

A prodigy

A hope

A new version of you

Improved, removed

And just like us two.

You’re hurtful

And hateful

And didn’t quite fit

So we got a new one

We got a pure one

To try once again

Because we failed with you

Because of you

And it hasn’t sat to well.

See we’re barkers

And we own things

And we like what we want

So vouch for me

Love for me

Tell them

Tell me

That you’re grateful and your someone

And its all because of me

Phone flashing

You’re name

After 8 months or more

Not merry Christmas

Not happy new year

Just do this for me

Pure silence

Pure removal

And I kept it that way

I cut you out

I ripped you out

Because you broke my heart

In the beginning

In the middle

On my wedding day

In the end

You’ll drive me crazy with your bullshit

I’ll go right round the bend.

See what you don’t know

What you don’t see

Is I made me without you

You don’t credit

You don’t get worship

You don’t get authenticity.

I built this

I own this

This love

This is me

And I won’t condemn another to end up cast out of your family.

-          Be nice to meet my little sibling

Pass on a hello from me.

Bee-have yourself!

This is my WIFE's happy face

Is this not the cutest face you have ever seen? Our super duper photographer caught this "OH MY GOD IT'S WHEATUS!" face at the perfect moment.

Those of you who know us, know that we had our low key, low budget wedding with big love and even bigger surprises - in the form of one of Sarah's teenage dirtbag favourites - Wheatus.

I know, I'm good.

Wife material.

In the run up to our wedding, my Friday class were kept in the loop of wedding planning, dresses, flowers, invites, food, social media surprises! I have a beautiful rapour with my students in that, they listen, I listen, they learn, I learn, and it's a never ended circle of growth for all involved.

So when I returned from my annual leave break for the wedding, to hear their group project ideas, we began the class as we always do.

Part of teaching, is including the latest and loudest messags from above, and currently, that is the embedding of British Values; which truth be told, I adore, because despite some teachers finding this a laborious task to add into a lesson plan, for me, teaching digital marketing and technologies, it's a natural point of conversation. Every. Single. Lesson.

In a world of technology, social media, and constant conversation, it's a natural topic of conversation. In the past few weeks we have talked about CyberBullying and freedom of speech, why and how? Jesse Nelson's "Odd One Out," gave us an abundance of theorising and philosphising. Immense pause for thought and unfortunately for the students; the perfect opportunity for me to roll out my new favourite team building exercise a la Legally Blonde - SnapCup.

(actual footage of me in class on Friday)

The SnapCup gets rolled out in times of need, when I notice the students need a lift, and so I put them through the immense social torture of writing down something positive about eachother and then reading it out to one another; and whilst it sounds utterly cringing, and it is, it is also beautiful to see the kindness and thoughtfullness they each put in to saying something kind. In a world where we are not always kind. Especially online.

Kindness is something my students are not short of.

Those of you who know me, will not doubt have heard me waxing lyrical about their latest endeavours, both in and out of the classroom - the BeeHydrated bottles.

BUT, I imagine the majority of you don't know the reasoning behind it.

It is an inescapable message of late, that plastics are killing our planet, suffocating our oceans and plaguing our futures. Single use plastics in particular, have become known for their fickle and disposable nature, reflecting upon our own behaviours of being too quick to throw away and too quick to stop and think, to stop and care.

Cue my digital marketers class 2019.

Coursework project for their portfolios was to design a brand, a product, a launch, a 5 page website, with coding, tracking, analysis, a marketing plan including socials, content, seo etc. It was all bells and whistles, testing their forsight, knowledge skills and behaviours, a test of their communication in a group, their innovation, their problem solving, but primarily, their creativity.

It was designed to be fun and packed full of purpose, as all learning should be.

(although I wish someone had shared that methodology with my teachers back in the day!)

And lo' their resuable stainless steel water bottle was born, unders a different name and design, only after the conversations of democracy, freedom of speech, equality and diversity, did the idea arise - Rainbow bottles.

Why rainbow bottles?

Because they were big, bold, in your face, loud and proud.

I LOVED IT.

They go further, if with my help, they could transform their idea from paper to product, could they do so, not for profit, but for purpose?

What purpose I ask?

They want to create something that will directly feed into the LGBT community, and here in Manchester, after their research of where they would want their money to go, their logic took them to the LGBT Foundation.

BeeHydrated was born.

Rainbow bottles, produced and sold in the UK, designed to reduce single use plastics and to raise positive awareness of the LGBT+ community. To flaunt love and equality in the face of rising hate crime statistics and reports. 

The loop.

Sarah and I got married.

A beautiful day.

The students saw the photos and whilst they adored the happiness and the frivolity, there was treperdation in their voices. Worry.

That even in Manchester, Sarah and I may one day come a-cropper, may be put in danger, may fall foul of the rising tides of hate and become victims.

It's my job. My job, to worry about my students.

To worry about the girls on the dating apps, going on dates with dishy men.

To worry about the boys getting into online gaming wars with dodgy hackers and trackers and trolls. 

To worry about the impact of social media on their young minds, body images, self-worth, validation and hopes.

It's my job to worry.

Not theirs.

But they took it on. They ran with it. And they created a beautiful bottle concept that is rolling out across the UK as we speak, slowly..... and I mean slowly.

Having had my own business, I know what it is to run before walking, to stumble instead of stand.

I know.

I know the frustrations, the headaches, the hurts, the hurdles.

But I also know the joy and the hope and the change.

I was disheartened today, to see some negative backlash against my young ones.

Don't get me wrong, as a consumer, I too find myself wondering what avenue to pursue when pissed off and let down by something, but that's usually directed at my late online shopping, at a corporation that should know better, at streamlined, trained, financed and finessed people and processes.

Those of you who know me, will know my fiery temper, and my lioness approach to protecting things that matter to me.

So it's taken the majority of my will power to remain 110% professional, because actually, what I want to do is shout at the top of my lungs STOP IT.

Stop it.

Yes, you ordered your bottle in 1969 and yes, its 2019. I know.

But holy jesus Manchester, London, Great Yarmouth, Jersey, Newcastle.

3 kids. And maybe that's patronising, but they are.

3 kids have taken a product from a classroom to a webstore that has sold in the thousands, and they are posting the bottles like Father Christmas' elves working overtime on Christmas Eve!!!!!!!!

Working full time in apprenticeships, studying one day a week with me, and outside of that 40 hour week, is the packing, posting, branding, and processing the bottles and dispatching them up and down the country.

Which to any startup would be a mountainous task, this a task that was expecting, a couple of hundred bottles to sell and that be a success, not a couple of thousand.

Cue negociations with printers, for pricing and produciton and fast turn around.

Failed quality checks, poor printing, charlatans taking advantage of the need for speed, re-print, rebrand, resend.

Pack, post, postoffice runs, every single day after work.

Customer service, social media, refunds, complaints, more posting, packing, post office runs.

They say, don't bite off more than you can chew - they ate the whole dam bar.

With just cause. The bottles are INCREDIBLE.

The purpose is INSPIRING.

The 60% profit to LGBT foundation is LIFE CHANGING

Their processes and naivety? - Chidish and expected.

So for those of you lighting up social media - calm the fuck down Sandra.

What have you done today that changed the lives of many, through the alturism and vision and knowledge?

Drive, passion and purpose?

These guys are game changers. I have never known such heart, such drive and hope.

So I'm Postman Fran - posting, packing and legging it to the Post Office daily to get this thing off the ground.

Start small, think big.

And team; you've got this.

And I am so so so so so so so so proud.

What have you done today, to make you feel proud?

Either you read the title of this blog and heard Heather Small singing the absolute M People cracker, or you heard Stevie from Miranda singing her version - either way, you get the gist.

But in all seriousness, where has your pride gone Manchester? London? World?

The profits boomed, the rainbows were waved, the glitter was a-plenty and now the corporations pockets are heavy with pink pennies, the flags are no longer needed and are folded away until next year.

NOTHING infuriates me more than when I see a crumpled, creased, unloved pride flag.
The amount of businesses that role out the half arsed rainbows and drape them over tills and counter tops and blue tack them in windows with their obvious "I've been living in a box for 11 months," creases - quite frankly, it pisses me off.

Because those creases say everything about what pride really is to big business.

It's something they roll out once a year, flamboyant and inclusive, with love and kisses, and rainbow coloured lattes, cakes, shakes, cocktails, bags, bracelets and fluff, and they sell sell sell the idea of love and equality but bank the bucks that don't return to the LGBT+ community.

Corporations dedication to pride is as deep a dedication to Boris Johnsons dedication to democracy.
Both as fickle and shallow as one another.

The logo's emblazoned with rainbow colours are gone, and the dreary corporate branding returns; but in its lack of flair, at least it's honest.

The flags are taken down, the rainbow streets are no more, and life returns to normal.

The fight continues, the movement, the change, the surge and passion for equality, for safety, for kindess and acceptance. So where are you now? With your solidarity and support and your commitment to the cause?

What did you do with your pockets full of profits raised off the back of the LGBT+ movement?
Donated it to Stonewall? In celebration and respect of the 50 years of blood, sweat and tears?
Shared it with the LGBT foundation to educate and promote positive attitudes and raise awareness for much needed issues both in and outside the community?

Or at the end of your rainbow, is there a pot of gold thats fed back into the corporate machine that had a "pride marketing plan" for July and August, but has now moved swiftly onto the Christmas push?

What stops us from enjoying the beauty of pride all year round? Celebrating love and indviduality in all it's forms?
Every day doesn't have  to be a parade, it just has to be MORE.
More care, more dedication, more authenticity, more than just a PR boost, a nice idea, a colourful addition, a self-assuring, conscience stroking move in the right direction.

Why can't primark continue their beautiful rainbow and trans themed clothes line and accessories all year round, to be sought out by those of us who want to share and show our association and adoration all things LGBT+, to showcase our sexuality, pride, gender, love, and hopes in small ways.
A little nod to who we are, who we were and our ability to be out and proud and know that the world is changing and evolving and that in a time where crimes against the LGBT+ community, particualarly hate crimes against the trans community are at an all time high, with a rapid rise over the past 12 months - that support is not an annual opt-in, its a hand in hand, side by side show of faith and hope, that we are all in this together.

Profit or purpose, it requires more than fluff and rainbows once a year.

It requires PRIDE, to show support and respect and dedication ALL year round.
Until the world changes, it has to be more.