Tuesday, 3 December 2013


The other day, my six-year-old found an antiquated travel iron, still in its box, in the sideboard.
“Mammy, can I play with that boat?” he asked, studying the picture.
Now I am the first to admit that basic object recognition has never been one of my son’s strengths, but in this case, the explanation is simpler. The fact of the matter is this:


Ironing is pointless. Ironing is neurotic. Ironing is boring. Ironing is a pursuit carried out by maniacs like:

  • The Amish
  • Pingu’s dad (Listen up, you featherheaded chump, nobody in your family wears clothes, even, so why the fuck are you ironing?)
  • Anthea Turner. Atrocious Freak.  

Oh look. Pingu's dad is using a wicker basket to store linens. I'm guessing he must have seen the show where Anthea Turner tells everyone how "wicker baskets are good for storage". Wow Anthea! We didn't know that!

Perhaps what I’m trying to say is this, folks. If you happen to be one of those people who irons a lot, but especially if you ever iron hankies, socks, sheets, duvet covers, or for chrissakes, your leggings, you are basically dead to me. Ditto if you are one of those 'ironing martyrs' who likes to post pictures of their Ironing Pile on Facebook. Aaaaaaaaargh. Just do the ironing then. Or don't. *wipes specks of foam from the corner of mouth*

I should probably add that I’m not as skanky a slag as I sound. (Unless by ‘slag’, you’re thinking of someone who has had a lot of boyfriends. Cos I've had a lot of boyfriends. No, seriously.) But just because I don’t iron, it doesn’t automatically mean that there are humongous horse-sized cockroaches galloping across my kitchen, or that I store bags of excrement in my freezer, or that a lack of feminine hygiene has made my vagina die.

The truth is that I spend a considerable proportion of my life doing housework. And I hate every single minute of it. Sometimes, when I’m taking out the bins and I get a little bin jus in my eye, I actually want to die. But if I didn’t do the housework, my family would be breaking out in boils, nobody would come to our house, and my mother would go totally utterly apeshit. Again.

Ironing on the other hand, well, there’s no functional advantage to eliminating clothing wrinkles, and all you’re really doing is trying to achieve perfection. Which is not good for you. So for fucksakes, just quit. Please. 

On a more magnanimous and forgiving note, cos I love y'all really, I have heard that hot-ironing the gusset of your knickers vaporizes all those pesky candida spores, which is useful information if you get raging candida, unlike me. Ahem. 


  1. When I saw 'ironing' in the title my heart sank. But fuck me, by the time I'd finished reading I wanted more. Is there nothing insert mundane and tedious you can't make fucking funny?

  2. I. Hate. Ironing.

    But I will iron the gussets of my knickers from now on.