“They’re very good, sweetheart, but a little rude.”
“What’s rude about them, Mum?”
“Well, the one about zipping it up. And the one that goes: ‘Don’t look at my tits, look at my feet.’”

Mrs Terry has gained access to MySpace. I am unhappy about this.

Although I’m a potty-mouthed, rock and rolling girl with a Northern accent so broad you could fall into it, Mrs Terry is a very nice lady. The worst word I’ve heard her use is “bugger” and then only when I was being threatened with expulsion from school. She says baaarth instead of bath, is always beautifully turned out and had servants in her formative years.

Mr Terry on the other hand is a 6ft 4 bear of a man, a rough, tough construction worker who’s covered in burns and scars. In his formative years he was beaten up by the police. He says he deserved it though. The worst word I’ve ever heard him utter is “no”, in relation to: “Dad can I have a pony/piercing/money for Reading festival”. I managed the latter two myself, incidentally.

They are both quite broad-minded old birds but there is something excruciatingly embarrassing about your parents hearing any but the most vanilla tales of your love life, even via song. Ginger Tom are currently working on an EP with the working title Songs my Dad Must Never Hear. The title track is a rousing stompalong of a number called Rebound Rollaround. It is a true story. A story that should come with a PG rating of Pa! GoawayandlistentoNeilDiamond instead.

My parents have only seen me playing in a band once. My previous band, The Schla Las Las, encored with a cover of Add It Up by the Violent Femmes. “Tell me sweetheart,” said my dad after the show: “Why can’t you get just one fuck?”

I guess the embarrassment is all in my head, not in theirs.