SPOILER ALERT! Sherlock Finale!!!


There you go, that’s your warning. This blog is jam-packed full of Sherlock spoilers from last night’s finale – which, as far as I’m concerned has been the peak of 2017!


So like my previous special edition reaction blogs, I’m just going to bring you a couple of Twitter’s Sherlock highlights.

So, not that it’ll surprise anyone, but I dedicated the whole of yesterday to prepping for what I already knew was going to be an earth-shattering episode.


Because, really, when it comes to Sherlock, I get just a little bit excited…


I take it rather seriously.




Just in case you aren’t a complete Sherlock stalker like me, you might not have heard about the episode being leaked the day before airing. I have never experienced temptation like it, but it was without a doubt worth waiting that extra day and watching Sherlock with the rest of the world.



So, right from the start, ‘The Final Problem’ was the scariest motherfucking piece of television my shaking white ass has ever managed to sit through. It’s safe to say I WILL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN!



Firstly, we must take a moment to appreciate the most wondrous character on this goddamn earth! Mrs Fucking Hudson.



And last night brought a whole new level of Hudson sass.



And will we ever really forget Mrs Hudson vacuuming to heavy metal?

What is a good detective without an exceptional villain? This world would not keep turning if it were not for the one and only Jim Moriarty. And you’re lying if you weren’t secretly over the bloody moon for the brief few minutes we all thought that beauty was back from the dead.


And we must honour the best TV entrance on this friggin’ earth! There really is nothing like a bit of Queen.


Not to mention even more hints at Moriarty’s favourite extra-curricular activities…

Now Eurus – is there really anything more terrifying than the thought of being locked in a confined space with this nightmare?


And yet somehow at the end we still felt sorry for her.

Got to have just a brief little side mention for surprise appearance of Mycroft’s heart.


And can we really forget what happened to heartache Molly Hooper?




So after being on the verge of a panic attack for 90 minutes, and undergoing a nerve-breaking level of stress, we got our closure.




And we all shed a tear when Mary brought us all home.



Now it is without a doubt that the whole world was both in shock and mourning after last night’s heart-racing episode!


If you weren’t wrapped in your shock blanket, rhythmically rocking back and forth, muttering JohnLock, then the episode must already have killed you.

Obviously there were a few highlights, moments to remember, as well as some good old internet banter.



However, even Sherlock isn’t perfect. And as always, there were a few plot holes. But when you’ve got Martin Freeman’s magical smile and Benedict Cumberbatch’s man candy cheek bones who really gives a fuck?!



And those who waste their lives crapping out needless criticism, well…




And we can’t really go blaming the writers and cast, they did warn us after all.



I have one final thing left to say – Motherfucking Thank You!


Here’s hoping it’s not the end.

So if you’ve liked this blog please share, like and comment on it!

You can see more of my posts by clicking here.

And head over to my Twitter and Facebook pages for more.

Peace Out Biatches xo

New Year, Not So New Me

2017 Biatchessss!

So, it’s a new year and a not so new me. I hope all your New Year’s Eve plans were much more successful than mine. Somehow, my cretin ass managed to completely forget it was even New Year’s! I have never in my life been as confused as I was on December 31st : staggering through a club when suddenly, everyone started counting down and then giving one another Dyson facials. In the meantime, being a drunken turd, I just didn’t understand what the fuck was happening.


New Year’s Eve comes with hundreds of crippling expectations. What we all expect to be an extraordinary night – we kiss Prince Charming, and all our dreams burst alive with the sparks of a thousand suns – will ultimately simply end up being: average. However, this year, something that can only be described as a miracle occurred. After gargling Strongbow Dark Fruits from sun up to sun down, I spent my New Year’s Eve with some of my best friends and it’s needless to say it was one of the best I’ve had so far.

(The top ranking New Year’s being the year where, in a drunken haze, we accidentally flooded the entire upstairs floor of my best friend’s house and saw midnight whilst frantically hair-drying the carpet. Or when my 15 year old, feral self, drunk-dialed all my Dad’s employees – that’s right, classy is my middle name.)




So, after spending January 1st searching for your soul at the bottom of a Golden Nuggets box and remaining in your blanket burrito for the best part of the day, you should now have recovered from your ‘New Year, New Hangover’ coma and be attempting to function as a semi-adult. I’m sure you’ve also got a never-ending list of New Year resolutions which you will probably complete about 2.5 of and only for approximately 1.5 months – but you know you’re awesome so that’s all that matters. I, too, have been sucked into this cringe-worthy fad and have decided that this year I will lose my sodding puppy fat (can you still call it puppy fat when you’re 20?). By this time next year, I will have banished my fucking thumb-knuckle-triple-chin and shall be giving Cara Delevingne competition in more than just the eyebrow department.



This obviously entails exercise and avoiding my usual ‘deep fried makes me feel alive’ mantra. So, if you live in Cardiff, keep an eye out for my sweaty, slip and slide, blubber-bum plodding its way to the gym. And if you do see me – just so I can see who actually reads my blog – please yell ‘motivational’ abuse at my feral face. If you see me with a goddamn Chicken Cottage in my hand it is imperative you hit me with such a savage tackle that I hit the floor harder than Madonna at the Brits – that’ll help get this chunky monkey into gear. Please and thank you.


Another little New Year’s Resolution I’ve got is blog related!!!!!


So, this year there will be much more variety in the content posted on my page. There will be a mix of posts, short videos, and branching a bit into YouTube. Some pranks and just a little bit of sharing the love too – we’ll see where the year takes us. I’m also going to be making my blogs shorter, so I can post more often as well as keep up with current events and shit – so yeah, get psyched!

Just one last little shout out, this blog wouldn’t be possible without my awesome editor, Sofia Pritchard, who has been working to keep it grammatically sound. My useless ass can’t spell for shit – so just a little New Year’s appreciation there!


Hope you’ve enjoyed this little catch up, if you haven’t already, you can check out my other posts here.

Also make sure you follow my Twitter page and like my Facebook page to keep up to date with everything going on.

Stay fresh, stay ream, and never snort chilli powder.

(Actual real life pictures of me)

Peace out bitches xo

Whats New

OMG HEY! Remember me? Yes I know, it’s been a month since my last blog, and that of course means I am a terrible human being.


Merry Christmas to those of you that haven’t been caught up in the Grim Reaper’s teenage temper tantrum. I’m hoping that those of you who have survived the 2016 culling are so morbidly obese from Christmas that your genitalia will never again see the light of day, and you can now use methane sprouts to heat your house for the foreseeable future.


So what’s new with me?




Well, other than enduring a stampede of RoyLAD’s horrific Christmas-themed dad jokes, I went and did something rather idiotic.

Somewhere, deep within the crevices of my feral mind, I thought that dying my hair blue would be a smashing idea: you can see where this is going.




Long story short, what I thought was semi-permanent dye, was not. I looked like a Smurf had cum on my head. I could have starred in a “Where is the Blue Smartie now?” Buzzfeed article.



I now faced spending Christmas looking like Marge Simpson’s and the Cookie Monster’s secret love child.




So rather than channelling my inner Avatar, I decided to try and dye it back.


It was really successful, if by successful you mean an absolute ball-busting train wreck.



I now looked like I’d fallen out of a 1980’s pop punk band with my ’50 shades of wrong’, fucking purple travesty.



So naturally I thought ‘fuck it’, let’s cut it all off – because that’s a normal thought process…

And now we have this.




That’s right, I am now the beacon of all lesbians, Ellen can kiss my ass, I AM THE NEW MOTHERFUCKING QUEEN OF THE RAINBOW!




So yeah, nailed it Luce.


What else is new?

Well, I have been entrusted with a life.

Introducing Poppadom (Poppy for short).



Somehow, we have managed to find a living being that exceeds my desperate need for attention in every possible way. When it comes to my sweet potato, needy is a bloody understatement!




Consequently, I am not her owner, I am her bitch.



But even though she pisses everywhere, and when, in the presence of a bacon sandwich becomes a level of feral I’ve never quite experienced before, it’s all still okay because, let’s face it, she’s a fucking chick magnet!





And now I am happy to say she has officially been initiated, Poppadom is now one of us.

(I’m not even a little sorry, eyebrows on fleek!)



So, that’s what’s new with me. You can expect more blogs in the near future, and keep an eye out as there may even be a video or two.

If you want to see more of Poppadom check out this little video; I have far too much time on my hands. Click Here.

I would love to see some comments from you guys. Like and share like crazy and let me know what you think of my rambling blogs!

Check out my other blog posts here.

And get your ass on my twitter to see my never ending thoughts on the 2016 purge, please do not panic too much, I am still alive after all. Click Here.

Keep up to date with everything blog related on my Facebook page here.

And if you’re ever having a bad hair day, just remember you could be me!



Peace Out Bitches xo

My BADASS Birthday Blog – 20 Epic Fuck-Ups From My 20 Years Of Breathing


I know, I know. I am late. I am sorry – If you really want someone to blame, it’s the person that created wine. So, just in case you didn’t know…It’s MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY (and Alex’s), but really we all know it’s all about ME.


So for this very special birthday blog I’m just going to walk you through 20 of my most feral fuck ups (or at least 20 that are PG enough to post online) from my last 20 years – prepare yourselves.



Let’s start at the beginning shall we, you’re 11, chubby and you look like a foetal Willy Wonker.

So, obviously, my extreme desire for attention was present from birth. Somehow I thought it would be extremely funny on my last day of Junior School to create an Afro out of my broken Bieber bob. Little did I know that that day I was destined for greatness and that I, Lucy Sheriff (and Alex because its unfair to chose between twins), would be crowned HEAD GIRL. There was a roar of admiration (A.K.A laughter) when I strutted my frizzy hive up on that stage. And I can promise you, I have never seen a person regret their decision more, than my head teacher when she called my name and a sexy mother fucker, looking similar to the hot stuff below, stood up.


It was my Afro picture that represented our school for the following year and I have to say I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE PROUD!


Now, if you’ve read my earlier blogs, you will know that as a child I looked more like a young Ed Miliband than anything else; this fetching look continued well into my hormonal years.

This led to some très cute nicknames. It was on one fateful trip to Thorpe Park, that I was christened with my very first nickname that was set to nitro boost my sex appeal. After about 10 minutes of my friends thinking I was ignoring them, they tapped ‘me’ on the shoulder, only for a very confused Mexican man to turn around. And here was the birth of José. A beautiful name that highlighted all my womanly features. After a little help from RoyLAD, it was later agreed upon that Dave was also a spectacular alternative. But at least it was better than ‘Lucy the Lesbian’, or ‘Leslie’ for short and later just ‘Lesbian’ #OnlyGayInTheVillage – worst part being I fully embraced that name!



So, if you have read my other blogs, you will know that I have a twin – Alex. Growing up we would get ourselves into all sorts of SHITuations. Literally. When we were about 8 we had a dog called Jakie and we used to put his poop down the manhole in our garden (classy I know). One day after Alex had just put the manhole cover back on, we started play fighting when I then heard a scream. IT WAS LIKE HELL HAD JUST GONE AND SUCKED HER RIGHT UP. Suddenly the cover had come loose and all that was left of Alex was her head and a single foot sticking out of the manhole. She was literally surrounded by shit. I AM A TERRIBLE HUMAN BEING. Most sisters would run for help: it’s a 6 foot drop, she could really hurt herself. I, on the other hand, laughed so fucking hard I peed myself, and I just left her there. Eventually my parents came out to find her desperately trying to avoid a free fall into a pool of our dog and neighbours’ shit whilst I howled with laughter on the floor with a rather unsanitary trouser stain. Sometimes it really surprises me that Alex still loves me.



So, we lived in a village, where there is FUCK ALL to do. Me and Alex were about 12, and I decided it was a fucking great idea to make a couple more rope swings. So I hung one up in our garden and obviously made Alex try it first. Somehow, she went from standing, to literally hanging from a tree by her foot within seconds. Being a pubescent teen, her boobs were practically in her nostrils and she was shamelessly flashing me, our nosy neighbour, and Jesus. This time I tried to help her (‘tried’ being the operative word). I used garden shears to cut the rope but I hadn’t planned how I would catch Alex. She fell, smacked her head on the concrete and eventually opened her eyes to the pathetic sight of me crying, begging her not to tell Mumma Sheriff and RoyLAD – Self Preservation Society. History is known to repeat itself, and well it goddamn did.

A couple of weeks later Alex made yet another fatal error in agreeing to try another one of my death swings. In hindsight I really should have assessed how far away the thorn bush was. Within minutes Alex had a 3 cm thorn embedded in her leg. She had to go to hospital and got all high, and I watched Emmerdale and got to eat her fish fingers for tea – once again I motherfucking nailed it.



Living somewhere with so little to do meant I was forever trying to entertain myself. So naturally this meant forts, dens and camp outs. But, once again, my corn beef brain just doesn’t process shit properly. I must have been the only 10 year old who nearly got their family evicted because she decided to use the railway line as a sledging track… Twice. I also must be the only person who after that experience then goes and builds a camp out on Private Property and nearly gets fucking evicted again. Lucy Sheriff, making great life choices since 1996.



I played a lot of football growing up – if you’ve seen my other posts and have seen me in a tutu you will understand why. I’ve had my fair share of injuries, but when I was about 12 I was kicked in the face – HARD. My jaw dislodged, swollen face, and I couldn’t even swear about it! So, obviously RoyLAD, being the LAD he is, decided that the most appropriate course of action was to give me an ice pack and go to the pub to watch the Liverpool game. 4 hours later, when I finally went to A&E, my concussed ass sat itself down and attempted to eat a sandwich to the harmonic background tunes of a nurse cursing at my father and something about child abuse. But patience has never been my strong point and eating ALWAYS has. In a frenzy of hunger and lust, I managed to pop my own jaw back in whilst ramming a cheese and pickle triangle into my face. The nurse ran in to see me crying, bleeding and smothered in pickle. From this I learnt two very important lessons:

1 – Nothing comes between RoyLAD and football

2 – Food solves EVERYTHING!



Growing up in the middle of fucking nowhere does not mean I did not experience aspects of gang-related crime. Only difference is that, once again, I am the cause of my own misery and my gang rival was a middle-aged farmer. This turf war lasted years! And I have to say, there is nothing better for your cardiovascular fitness than being shot at by a fucked-off farmer because you, once gain, crushed his crops. And there’s nothing better for his cardiovascular fitness than chasing you around the woods every few days. #InsideCountryFile



Tattoos are something I love. But, once again, my inability to think even the simplest task through means I now am now a part-time Kiwi and a keen member of the Illuminati. If you don’t know what I mean, you need to get your ass over to my Tattoo Throwback post!



Brain farts have been a continual problem throughout my life. It’s not as if I chose to be a complete spanner – it simply comes naturally.

During first year I had one of my best friends come stay. After trees falling on his train, tinder creatures and 3 bottles of wine, things started to get messy. So, I wrote my address on his arm and the next thing I know we’re in a bar casually (and loudly) insulting everyone around us for being ‘Too Hipster For Hampshire’, in Wales. It is at this point that my brain becomes a black hole with an aftertaste of tequila. Suddenly, it’s 4am and I wake up in bed, naked. I hear my name being yelled and it is at this moment I realise… I Fucked Up. I am alone. My friend is not here.

I ran out of my flat in a bra and trackie bottoms to be met by 4 members of another flat (it was a really great introduction), holding one limb each of my clothe-less best friend, whilst he insisted his name was James because he ‘didn’t want to get arrested’. His name has never been James. He then proceeded to violate my poor shower tiles and scare the crap out of my flatmate by crawling into the wrong bed, just to then pass out in my hallway. So if you think forgetting the one person you had to look after, leaving them smashed in a strange city until they had to ask a homeless man for help would be the only way I could fuck up within those 48 hours – you would be so very wrong!

When we woke up it is fair to say we were both hanging out of our feral asses, though one of us more so. I went to lectures and when I returned there was just the remains of a broken human being. Long story short, within 5 hours we had called an ambulance because I had managed to get my bestie so drunk I had induced a viral flu and he was unconscious. NOW I REALLY GONE FUCKED UP. But it does not end there! The saga continues, after spending all night in A&E (he was fine in the end, by the way), I went to football. 10 minutes into the game, I came down with the same flu, subbed off and passed out under a pile of coats – so if you ever want to come visit me at Uni, well just don’t, because it’s clear I can only look after moi (and even that’s only a part-time occupation).


FUCK UP #10.

Again, if you’ve read my previous blogs, you may have heard this story mentioned before. I talked recently of the horrors of Odds On which has led to some shit life choices. There’s nothing better than being held down on a chair whilst your mate’s earring, sterilised in Vodka and Lemonade, is rammed through your ear! Especially when it take 3 attempts. Not that this experience has ever stopped me from doing it to anyone else…



Some of my life choices are quite frankly legendary (and not at all over the top!)! Just like after the Lash when a slightly inebriated Math’s Fresher decided it was okay to put his podgy hand up my skirt. So naturally, rather than yelling or hitting him, I smashed a canvas painting over his head and made him try and eat his way out – I’m not even sorry.



A main skill of mine during Fresher’s was the art of projectile vomiting – sexy, I know. This skill progressed as the year went on and eventually I had not only thrown up in nearly all of the Senior members of Ladies Football’s house, but I would always wake up after most socials covered in the not-so-cute version of a VK . Chunder Champ really is an understatement!

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Sometimes however, I lack serious class (and Polish Vodka destroys human souls). Only I could managed to chunder on the bottom of the bride’s dress at her reception, for her then to have to attempt to sweep it up whilst I’m carried to bed. It was 11.30. This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to represent Britain. To the beautiful bride, if you’re reading this, I love you and please forever have my apologies – I really am a stain on humanity!



This beautiful trait also runs in my family. I returned home from University last year to be woken by a strange woman in my room. Naturally I freaked the fuck out, only to go and see Alex passed out on the floor. After I got her into bed, she was asleep for all of 5 fucking minutes before she rolled over and threw up all over me! LORD, PLEASE TAKE ME NOW, I AM FINISHED WITH THIS EARTH! Now a nice sister would try and help her. I am not that sister. 10 hours later Alex woke up covered head to toe in her own disgrace and I woke up clean and dry on our sofa.

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But of course, this shit streak doesn’t end there! No, we’ve still got to consider Post-Lash antics. Because what better way is there to wake up after a HEAVY night of diminishing your own self-respect whilst dressed in a bed sheet and oven gloves, than by your landlord and an electrician whilst you’re BUTT NAKED in bed? I would have said ‘I’m sorry’, but I was too hungover to form human words, all that came out was a sound closest to a whale’s mating call and one single tear.

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But these kinds of antics started way earlier than Uni. I mean who else do you know who has woken up in their underwear in a cold bath with their best friend surrounded by Vodka and Nutella (THIS IS NOT A SEX REFERENCE) whilst Sam Smith played beautifully in the background? Just to then walk into college late, in their pyjamas, still drunk and then fall asleep in their first class. Only to wake up, find everyone staring at them, PANIC, and yell ‘Stalin’. I don’t think I was even in History.



And alcohol made my already bad habits so much WORSE! It’s no secret in my village, that cute, little, childhood Lucy loved nothing better than running around in just a pair of shorts pretending she was one of the Lads – I looked like fucking Mowgli. So this lasted until I was about 12, only joking, until 11 and then I had my pre-bra crying fit in M&S (don’t understand? better read my other blogs!). But, it was not long until my inappropriate stripping began again! But many years trapped beneath a T-shirt meant my pastey ass skin was so pale it was a risk to the human eye, ‘White Like Moonlight’. I was like something you attach to your bike before riding at night! I wish I could say I didn’t do this anymore, or that I never do this in public, but that would be a lie!



And how many times can you say you’ve been carried out of a party by your belt for underage drinking under the watchful eyes of a mighty fine policeman, only to arrive hungover and in full cretin mode at a fair the next morning to find you’re working with this same beautiful human all day? And he definitely remembers you.



And alcohol has got me in some other rather peculiar situation…there was that guy…yeah let’s not talk about that… And then there was prison eyes… but again… let’s not talk about that… And then there was the snail shell incident… but yeah… I’m just going to stop now…*shivers*



Let’s just say if you’ve got someone who will willingly get in and crash a trolly with some chick who says she knows you, who will kiss a middle-aged man in a gay bar just to get a free drink, and who wakes up with an eyegina tattooed on their wrist – then you must be blessed. If you don’t, then you better hit follow!


So there are 20 of my most cretin moments (at least 20 that I am willing to publish online). I am now middle-aged and therefore will be retiring from any fun, all happiness and future smiling is now cancelled.

If you’ve liked this Birthday blog hit Like! And make sure you follow my Facebook, Twitter, Instagram pages and add me on Snapchat!



Instagram: @LucyFuckingSheriff

Snapchat: lsheriff

And sign up for email notification!

If you didn’t see my post on the Facebook page, there will be no Thursday blog, so see you motherfuckers on Sunday!

I’m going to go take a paracetamol and comatose myself in bed – NO HANGOVER WILL DEFEAT ME!

Peace Out Lads xo


Written by Lucy Sheriff

Edited by Sofia Pritchard

Feral Fresher

Morning/Afternoon/Evening People!


So, just in case you haven’t realised, IT’S NOT THURSDAY! One can only profusely apologise for this WiFi-related fuck up, and confirm that it, most likely, will occur again.



So, my darling subjects, this fine week I sorted my house for my final year, and it got me thinking about how fast this is going, and how I have no job prospects planned, or any marketable skills, and I did not cry… So this week, I’m going to do just a little throwback to my year as a feral fresher – it’s fair to say I exceeded all expectations as to how low my level of dignity could fall!

Prepare yourselves.


So it’s September 2015, your shit-hot-vanilla-ass has just moved into the Ghetto. You now live with a bunch of random people who will eventually become your Blue Prison family – honestly, I feel for them, they had no idea what they’d been let in for.



There is something rather sacred about the Freshers flat bond, there are few people in this world who will teach you how to make a direct debit whilst holding your hair back over the toilet – which is cleaned twice a week and meets a standard you will never again see after leaving halls!

Your room is exceptionally small, but you have an assortment of posters so it’s all okay. The walls are like paper, but no sleeping salsa is going to wake you up because your bloody bed is the size of a cat box so the only thing you’re going to be spooning is last night’s take out.



The extreme lack of space does mean if you’re like me, a recovering cretin, hygiene isn’t always the #1 concern.




Other than your new family, your first year at Uni is simply a fight to survive 365 days as a sports fresher. Never before have you ever been so afraid of someone just 1 year older than you! But these guys will soon become your people, and the cause of every disgusting decision you live to regret.


Everyone knows Wednesday nights are where it’s at! Why dress like an ordinary human being and have a quiet few down the local, when you can wear an outfit that is 90% cardboard and sky rockets your sex appeal, whilst eating an onion and chanting profanity.



And when else are you going to get your ear pierced in a bar with a stud sterilised in Vodka lemonade and still consider yourself one of the leading minds of your generation – yeah, I talking about me.

And where else is it completely acceptable to hate another university simply because they’re inbred (or so I’m told)?


And never before will the words ‘Odds On’ fill you with so much terror that Tena Ladies would actually come in handy – for those who don’t know, Odds On is a game in which lives are destroyed and wars are started.



But you’ll do it all because no one wants to drink the Bitch out a frying pan.


But these nights of calm discussion over a pot of tea and digestives do have some feral, Feral, FERAL effects – I apologise in advance.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger – right?

And it really is nice when someone finally recognises your skills.



And I never said that Freshers is safe, you’re going to acquire some cracking post Lash injuries.


And even after all this, somehow – every so often – you actually make it to a lecture.




Not that you’re ever in any fit state to actually do work.



Because anyone who has done that disastrous year will tell you, all available time MUST be used for sleeping!


Freshers is the one year that is going to fly by as you desperately try to convince yourself you are a responsible, functioning adult.




And every so often you might class it up.





But really you’re just a kid who’s lost in ASDA for a year.




So that’s it for this week’s Throwback, hope you enjoyed it, parents, I hope I made you proud.

If you haven’t hit follow, well you’re exactly the same as 90% of my viewership so get on that!

Also get over to my Twitter page and my Facebook page – because what else have you really got to be doing?



If you haven’t read my other posts you can check them out here.

Lastly, my domain name may be changing – exciting I know – I’ll keep you all posted!

Forever be Feral, and remember only certain types of roundabouts are in playgrounds!

Peace Out Cretins.


Written by Lucy Sheriff

Edited by Sofia Pritchard



Sup Lads, Ladettes and Alex.


Thanks for coming to check out my blog! If you clicked this link by mistake please don’t leave! (I’m going to tell people you love it anyway, so you might as well stay).

For all of you who spent your Saturday night getting shamefully drunk, necking on with people 45% less attractive than you, and, probably on your course, just to then go and late-night chunder-burp on yourself, I’ve got a cute little twin thing planned for your feral ass.

So just in case you haven’t had the pleasure of reading my other award winning, bad ass blogs, I am a twin. Most people know this. Might be because I talk of literally nothing else. EVER. So my twin sister is called Alex, she’s okay, her music taste is below average and she can’t cook for shit, but she’s mine. So for today’s ‘Sunday is a bum day’ blog I’m just going to walk you through the life of having a walking, talking reflection.



No.1 – There is a very high chance you were mixed up during infancy. Even when ‘rents physically put bloody labels on you (shout out to RoyLAD and Mama Sheriff), there is still a very real chance that I am actually Alex, or spent a period of my infancy as Alex, and then Lucy, and then Alex again, and back to Lucy – but don’t let that fuck with your head now.

No. 2 – You have double the baby photos, just pick out the best Jedward look-a-like photo because no one’s got a fucking clue which kid it is anyway.

This could be me.


Or this could be me.


Or maybe it’s Alex.

Or maybe it’s Alex, but everyone thought it was me.

Or maybe it’s me pretending to be Alex. You see how much fun this is?!


However, with some pictures it doesn’t exactly take a genius to work out which Satan’s spawn I am…




So looking like a shit Madam Tussaud’s wax-work of the real deal does have its perks. It’s all about compromise, and plenty of Blue the Bear back scratching. Put it this way, neither of us were ever grounded when we had better plans, we’ve got a living, breathing substitute. But constantly swapping does get you in some sticky situations.




And like all siblings, we fight. But, just imagine how hard it is to have the ‘No, you’re ugly’ fight wHeN yOu LoOk ThE FUCKING SAME! Physical violence is far too lower class for British thoroughbreds such as myself… therefore Alex never tried to bite my nipple off… and I never got a 3cm thorn stuck in her leg…we never spent hours locked in a bathroom yelling “Okay fine hit me back then!”…Nope…Never.

(For all those concerned my nipple made a full recovery – no, I’m not going to prove it!)

But at least you have one person in this world who will never get offended no matter what you call them.





And being the same age means the sibling rivalry is even worse! Especially as you’re going through puberty at the same time. This inevitably leads to one of you stood crying in the middle of Marks and Spencer because the other one is getting their first bra and your tits still look like Hershey’s Kisses. (And lets just say it wasn’t Alex.)


But at least I tamed the brows first!



So, eventually you hit those awkward ‘I have spots but I’m going to cover them in so much foundation my face looks like a shit caramel rice crispy cake’ years, and you start trying to forge your own identity (Or some Dr. Phil shit like that.)

You go from this.



To this.


Inspirations springs from the strangest of places…

“Do you belllliieeevvvveee in life after love”



And if you’re ever going to date a twin, more specifically my twin sister, you’re just going to have to get used to the fact that more than once you are going to wake up, roll over and find your girlfriend spooning the slightly more feral version of herself, because even at 19, nightmares are still scary!



And you’ll have to get used to the fact that sharing a womb means your girlfriend and her sister have absolutely NO boundaries.

And she will tell me everything about you…I mean EVERYTHING!



But also as a DNA Divas you are born being the one person that their future husband, children or prison officer can palm their drunken ass off too without feeling the slightest bit of guilt.


(I want to make it ABSOLUTELY clear this is NOT  a sex reference!)


But really you’re lucky enough to have been born with your very own Jack, you love them enough to try and save their life, but you’ll still push them off the float at the swimming pool.




And even if every so often you wish you chewed through their placenta, they’re still your favourite fucking person on this earth!




Shout out to Alex, wishing she was as cool as me since 9 months before 22/11/96.




So, as always, if you like what you’ve read hit follow! And SHARE! Putting a real push on sharing this week, if you like it – spread it! (unless it’s Chlamydia, then you can keep that one to yourself, okay?) Seriously, though people, let’s get this out there!

Also, if you didn’t see earlier this week, I now have a Facebook page! So if you haven’t Liked it, well what have you been doing with your time really, because it can’t have been that important! Check it out here!

As always you can check out my other posts here. And if you haven’t seen this weeks limited edition extra post, well, I kind of just want to give you a hug because your week must have sucked!


That’s it for this week’s posts, be fresh, be ream and always add salt to boiling pasta.

Peace out Bitches xo



Written by Lucy Sheriff

Edited by Sofia Pritchard



Throwback Thursday #3 – You’re really going to wear that?

Fuck’s sake are you really back again? JK, after yesterday’s limited edition you clearly can’t get enough.

So tonight I’m heading off to the theatre to go watch Mamma Mia – I’m a classy bitch, I know. So for this week’s Throwback Thursday, I thought it was rather fitting to review all the horrific costumes my parents, and later I, thought somehow looked flattering…

WARNING. These photos have an extreme, euphoric effect upon the human brain. So please do try to control yourself, I know I’m a sex god but honestly no one likes a stained sofa cushion.

From the top, shall we?


So obviously when your parents dress you daily in shit like this…


…when it comes to fancy dress, nothing is off the cards.

And when you’re a goddamn cherub of a J-Lo, is there really a way for you not to look hella cute?


At a young age my parents made all my decisions for me – and they followed the handbook to a T.

Firstly, it is absolutely essential that when one has twins, one must dress them exactly the same at all times! (Even if this means you must put name labels around their wrists – yes, parents, I’m talking to you).



And on the Rare occasion you do dress them separately (in dresses…oh, how I love dresses) they Must, I mean MUST, have the ‘cute, twin, hand holding’ picture. Every. Single. Time. Even if they were trying to pull each other’s eyebrows off moments before.



If you want to ensure MAXIMUM emotional scaring upon your children, you must definitely enrolee them in Ballet. Especially if they have absolutely no co-ordination and look like a pregnant platypus learning to walk – Demi-plié, anyone?



So up until this age, it is far too easy to blame my inability to become a famous child actor on my parents insistence on dressing me like a drag queen Barbie, but by ten, it became clear that my own fancy dress choices were not much better…

I look like I just ripped a nasty fart



And my determination to wear absolutely ANYTHING but ordinary clothes was clear well into my teens – let’s just say, I didn’t go on a lot of dates…



Plus, the Cadet Uniform didn’t exactly complement my Angelina-Jolie-Organic-Wheatgrass-in-the-Ass-Calendar-Spread body.




By now I was well and truly responsible for my wardrobe choices, and at about 14 I decided I was far “too cool” for fancy dress – hence the all too original, fuck-me-that’s-unique, “Cat” outfit.




But the school play dragged me off my white girl pedestal and showed off all my incredible, intricate acting skills, as I starred as the no. 1 main role – Moving Building 24.

It was not until I was on stage that I realised my hat DID NOT fit, I literally couldn’t see shit, I then proceeded to trip up those stairs and bounce around like I’d pissed myself for 20 minutes to a song I did not know the words to. (Future acting career? I think so!)



But this was not my only role in this fine West End production (In demand, I know). I also showed my true colours as ‘Prostitute 13’. Although to be fair, I look more like that mate’s mum that is always in her dressing gown, with her hair curlers falling out, and a suspicious stain down her front.

3rd from the right



But you see, I must be the centre of attention at ALL times, so of course when I came to take a bow I made sure I was centre stage… And totally didn’t bend over a little too far. And flash the entire audience. And this was not the show my Granddad came to see. Front row seats. Nope… Not at all.




At least now I’m at Uni I can make sure I get my fancy dress God Damn right (With a little help from CULF). I aim for sexy, saucy and fucking irresistible – and I have to say, I nail it every time!



Did I mention I’m single?



But this kind of exceptional decision-making is not just isolated to me, no, this shit runs in the family.




But when you’re raised by these fucking fruit loops what can you expect?



And you end up just sodding like them.


What can I say, Lucy Sheriff – making everyone proud since ’96.


So, just a short throwback today, don’t want to tire you all out after yesterday’s excitement.

If you like what you’ve read, get your ass over to my other posts and devote more of your precious minutes to a legendary cause. You can check them out here.

If you haven’t already liked my Facebook page then what the hell are you doing with your life?! Take a peak here.

I just want to leave you a quick thought after all the electoral drama the last few days.

People, please, we’ve cried ourselves to sleep once already, now it’s time To Chill The Fuck OUT!

Peace Out Baby G.


Written by Lucy Sheriff

Edited by Sofia Pritchard

Special Edition – Trump Dump!

Surprise, surprise!

Are you ready for a Special Edition blog post? Exciting, I know! Well, once you’ve gone and changed your underwear (twice), get ready for the ride of your life!

So, if you haven’t already heard, America gone and fucked up.




Yes, it’s true. Things have taken a turn up ‘Queef Street’ and somehow the traffic cone has gone and got him himself some power.


Last night it was all still a joke, no one honestly thought dear Donald could possibly win! This really is the definition of MATNB Regret (Morning After the Night Before).


But for those who know me, you know that I FuCkInG LOVE twitter! (like, on a psychotic level). So you know that today, for me, Christmas goddamn came early! Twitter has been lit for the last 24 hours! So, for this Special Edition blog, prepare for some of the highlights of possibly the worst political move in history. (Got to laugh while we can, right?)


For a start, is there anything on this earth easier to rip the piss out of than a luminous, orange-dildo of a man, reflecting his vibrant glow off the walls of the white house?





And let’s face it, we now have a Troll Doll for a world leader!



I mean, seriously. This guy’s hair is the shit you find clogging up your hover! Only this time we can’t just flush him away! I mean, he really is the Maybelline tide mark of humanity. Not to mention, is it really possible to trust a man without eyebrows? (#Lucy’sBrowsForPresident?) He must have been the all-natural, organic, poster child for Roald Dahl’s Oompa Loompas, and the basis for every ‘man next door’ horror film ever made! And please don’t even get me started on his policies.




As Brits, it is within our nature to be overbearing, nosy, and just plain arrogant. We put our nose in where it ain’t wanted, then our shoulders, and arms, and legs, and set up fucking camp there (marshmallow, anyone?). And I can’t lie, it’s been fun watching this unravel from across the pond.



But we must remember that we ain’t exactly God’s gift. At least not all the time that is.

 *Brexit sniggers in the background*



But overall, dear David was a mere shart in comparison to the orange shit stain that’s about to go down.



Supposedly, one of the major Redneck selling points of Trumps ‘Campaign’ was his immigration policies. Seriously. If you wanted rid of Bieber that bad, you didn’t have to go and make Canada the only sodding option. And now it appears, deep down, you all want to join him, I mean the bloody Canadian Immigration website crashed when the vote came in! (And I was like Baby, Baby, OOOOO *Sex noise*, like)




But it wasn’t just the ordinary American Citizen that gave twitter more action than a Kardashian this fine afternoon – everyone’s hitching a lift on this band wagon.





And it goes without saying that this major, historical, fuck up will have some long-term impacts…


But on a serious note – imagine if it was here… (actually let’s not get into Theresa May (being inside Theresa May – now there’s a scary thought)).

But really, it’s all fun and games until it isn’t. People are scared, and afraid, and who wouldn’t be. Someone with such backwards, horrific policies should never have gained power! And it is down to all those with a sense of decency in them to stand up for the morals and values they believe in. It may not be our country, but we share this world – okay, lecture over.




Overall, it’s safe to say some people are angry…



And this could just be The Matrix, or Black Mirror, or 1984…




But we’ve just got to accept that this has happened.



And everyone’s just got to find a way to get through the next 4 years.




What can we say USA?

We may not say we love you, but we’re definitely fond of you in a guarded, awkward, British way.

We will pray for you.





So, if you like what you’ve read hit follow, if you’re a cute American chick with an accent looking to immigrate, you should know I’m related to the Queen. Probably. And I have a couch.

If you don’t follow me on Twitter, I say it once again, you’re missing out!

If you haven’t read my other posts, check them out here!

For all those internally crying, there will still be a Throwback Thursday post tomorrow so pull your shit together! For all those externally crying, I hear Donald’s hair moonlights as a Cleanex.

Peace Out Lads xo

I now realise how creepy desperate this Snapchat looks.



Written by Lucy Sheriff

Edited By Sofia Pritchard

You Know That’s Permanent, Right?

Okay, okay… Alright… Please control yourselves… Okay, seriously. Enough! I know you’re excited it’s Sunday and therefore, obviously, blog day – but honestly the cheering and applause, it’s just too much.


Okay! So, this week I went and got another tattoo. It’s safe to say that my track record in the aesthetic body mutilation department ain’t exactly top notch.

For a start, piercings, well they have never loved me – flashbacks to the gag worthy lip piercing. So very Jeremy Kyle…



But then there’s my tattoos…

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

Okay so you’re 18, fit, fresh and fem… (*raises eyebrows*)… and about to start uni.


Introducing Fat Lucy



You’ve gone through the damn sexy phase of too cool, too ream, Henna tattoos.


(Ummmm Yummy, that Muffin Top)

And now, even though you’re already the definition of bad ass (in a kind of Hugh-Grant-vanilla way), you decide to step it up a notch and get your first real tattoo!

You find a cute lil design, get it all sized up, spin around 5 times, defeat a zombie, kiss Brad Pitt, and suddenly you’re a teenage sex icon. Somehow you believe this small black stain guarantees you are going to spend your Freshers week horizontally “getting to know people”.




Unfortunately for you, this is also what the whole of fucking NEW ZEALAND thought…





That’s right, my first bloody tattoo was an accidental shrine to the fucking Kiwi’s! Now don’t get me wrong, I love all things New Zealand, but when you whip out that tat with my southern-English-I-fucked-the-Queen accent – you don’t exactly get girls melting into a pool of hairspray and fake lashes on the floor. Just questions, lots of questions – really sets the mood.

So after that shit stain, I went for something more obvious for my second tattoo. Or at least obvious to anyone who has ever studied English Literature. At my college. In my class.

So for those who don’t know, my favourite poet is T.S. Elliot, and my favourite of his poems is ‘The Wasteland’ – so I chose to get a quote from this on my arm. In all seriousness, this went pretty well…




…except that they forgot the quotation marks… and the author by-line… and that every time anyone sees it, I have to explain what it means and am consequently met by the patronising “oh okayyyyy” and this glazed over, words but no sound kinda face.




So then I intended to take a break from tattoos for a while, but then I went to this magical place.




So imagine you’re me. You wake up in your all too classy hostel bottom bunk bed feeling rather motion sick, you definitely don’t recognise one of the voices on the bed above and in a gag worthy moment stumble with all your grace, dignity, but not your clothes to the bathroom. After reviewing the previous two days alcohol consumption all over again, you notice some pen on your wrist. You try to wash it off. And scrub it off. And claw it off. And then it all comes back to you…



If I was anything, I was not alright!

So, yep, I now had this on my wrist.


The mother fucking Eyegina. Don’t understand what I mean?

Let’s do a comparison shall we?



If you haven’t seen my earlier blogs you are not going to understand that reference. But in short, my vagina eyes now match the (with a bit of physical manipulation) vagina on my wrist.

Exhibit A:



So after yet another home run, I thought it’s about time I got it damn right.

Yesterday I got the first section of my half sleeve done, and I have to say – I motherfucking nailed it! (or more, George, my Lad of a tattoo artist nailed it).



After about 600 VK’s worth of money and THREE HOURS of awkward chit chat about the weather and Donald Trump (the obvious go-to topics) shit has now gotten real!




There are still a few more hours to go, but do not fear (I know you were) the Eyegina is here to stay – everyone needs a good story.

So that’s it on the tat front for now, but knowing me, this ceasefire can’t last long, tequila is far too powerful.

If you like what you’ve read – or not – hit follow! And like the link that brought you here, I’m needy and the notifications make my tummy all warm.

If you haven’t read my other posts, well we can’t be friends anymore… unless you do… please do.

You can check them out here

And if you’re not following my Twitter, well, you’re missing out!

I will leave you with one final question.

Does it count as abuse if it looks cute as fuck?



Forever be dignified, peace out bitches.




Written by Lucy Sheriff

Edited by Sofia Pritchard

Throwback Thursday No.2 #ItsaGoatsLife


Happy Thursday Everyone!

So todays Throwback Thursday post is out a few hours later than normal, this is 100% not because I was sideswiped by the power that is the fruitilicious VK and have been dying in an alcoholic coma, wrapped burrito style in my duvet all day…

This weeks post is a throwback to what my hung over ass spent its summer doing.

So here begins the chronicles of the big nipple. Enjoy.


So 10 weeks.

No phone, no internet, no washing machine, no oven, no shower, NO TOILET PAPER – piece of piss right?

Flash back to June 2016.

So After packing 4 spare pairs of tweezers (#ProtectTheBrows) and what would later prove to be far too little underwear I got on a plane that was more like a cattle truck and began the small, little, tiny journey to Asia. This only entailed a day and a half of smelling like armpit, peeing incorrectly (somehow) and eating my first of roughly 140 meals of rice – Big Up the rice!


The first thing I learnt as soon as I got out of that flying compressed fart box? Humidity ain’t the one!

I would spend the next three months looking like something that clogs up your drain. My head had its own atmosphere for fuck sake! Give me a couple of competitive, testosterone fuelled midges and we could have had another space race going down! Not to mention that after going a summer without conditioner, in the end my hair was a lost cause, even pubes are softer than that shit.

And lets not even started on what humidity does to makeup. Just imagine a clown who dreams of being Alice Cooper. (Bit of a niche reference that one.)

This is the before, you really don’t want to see the after.

The heat does have its advantages though, the suffocating sauna air creates some interesting and exotic plant varieties…

Organic farming is good right?


So my village was pretty rad.

I was lucky enough to have the most god damn beautiful house ever! Goats fucking at all hours in the room next door took some getting used to, but the views made up for it. (Views as in scenery, not the view of goats fucking – that’s just weird, go wash your brain out!)

Sadly for me, the mosquitos also loved the stream by my house, as evident by my legs. And arms. And back. And Ass, literally they bite you everywhere! (Seriously I mean EVERYWHERE.)

It became quickly evident that it does not matter which culture I am in, I am still a messy shit! The little furries living under my bed agreed with this, and lovingly proceeded to spend 10 weeks stealing my underwear. Nothing better than waking up to the sound of squeaking in your bed…and on your pillow…and in your hair.

 It’s no secret that I was not fond of these little guys.


Rabies is a huge problem in Nepal, so naturally we were not allowed to touch any animals.

So therefore I definitely did not adopt a kitten.

Introducing Peanut

Or a dog.

Introducing Kaide


Or a bird

Introducing Horlix – He was an asshole – fact.


Or Ever Touch Them


ANd nOne oF THeM evEr PIsS oR ShIt iN My baG… OR MY SHOES…OR MY BED… EVER.

However, not all animals were blessed with my obsessive and overbearing needy love.


Especially not the big ass snake we found in our toilet, nothing like a python to stop you mid flow.

So the toilets were certainly different.

I’ve never before gotten an empty bladder and a work out at the same time that’s for sure. Lets just say when you go down with D&V there ain’t no ‘Bums and Tums’ Zumba class on this earth that can rival that kinda sesh. And this is coming from the winner of “Most Poops in a Day” (The magic 23, RoyLAD and Mumma Sheriff you should be proud) – Over sharing? Most likely.


So we were sent to Nepal to do aid work, but really we all know I was sent there to be a god damn fashion guru. Renowned for my figure flattering frocks, I was an Icon. As a leading trend setter, I paved the way sporting a backwards cap at all times (no matter how much of a nob I looked), and the sexy ‘trousers tucked in socks’ combo. I was a fashion goddess – Calvin Klein eat your bloody heart out!


Adding to my ever growing sex appeal, monsoon season meant every day was a wet t-shirt day. And my ability to rip every item of clothing I had meant I was always winning.

Get your flops out for the lads


In all seriousness for a second, I had an absolutely incredible Nepali family, I love them to pieces. They welcomed me into their home, treated me as their own and I’d do absolutely anything for them! Including letting them rub butter all over me…don’t ask.



My group? Well they were okay I guess.

Lies. These guys are too rad for words, there ain’t many people who will spend their morning braiding your hair only to go and spend their evening searching it for lice – I was lucky, NC5 was the elite!

Even if it did take us 4 attempts to make a pyramid…
And even if we can’t plant rice for shit…
And even if we were all sick from day 1…
We’re still fucking awesome.

Overall I got to spend my 3 months of freedom from Uni taking part in awesome projects, with awesome people, helping awesome people, in a fucking awesome place.


And it was AWESOME.

(As was my leg hair.)

And I can say we experienced it all, even if we didn’t get to go to the tourist sights.



(But I do have to say I feel truly bless to have had this incredible opportunity thank you to everyone involved. The projects we worked on are having a wide and sustainable impact, and the people we met inspired me more than I could ever have imagined – this was a once in a life time experience.)

Okay, that’s enough cringe.

If you’ve liked what you’ve seen hit follow! My grand total of one followers (aka me) is rather overwhelming and time consuming, but I think I could handle a couple more.

If you’re hard core procrastinating head over to the home page to check out more of my posts – I promise you wont be disappointed! (and if you are, how about you keep that one to yourself, okay? yeah? cheers bae)

Exciting news – I now have an editor, as of next week no longer shall I inflict my horrific spelling upon innocent eyes! Sofia Pritchard, welcome aboard my dear!

Additionally, if your interested in the projects I took part in or how to go about getting involved in aid work please contact me below (or on the contact page).

That’s it for this Throwback Thursday, I hope I shared just a little of my exceptional wisdom, most importantly being:

“All you need in life is a good old ham sandwich”

Peace Out Lads.