Mon 22nd Dec
The train home for Christmas is always exciting and full of seasonal cheer. Once you’ve got over the jostling for space, elbows in your face and pensioners with bad attitude who are clearly sitting in your pre-booked seat and must MOVE, dodgy hip or not.

My little sister is waiting to greet me at Chester station. At first I don’t notice her as she is wearing some kind of cunning disguise. A Santa disguise.
Sam, my folks’ six-stone bundle of Labrador fun, is accompanying her. He is wearing reindeer antlers at a jaunty angle, tied under his chin with a ribbon. Apparently they drove to town dressed like that, even stopping for petrol on the way.
‘Mazing.

Get back to Terry Towers, and within the first 30 minutes Sam has stuck his tongue in my mouth, bitten me on the elbow and broken my dad’s toe. He is a BAD DOG, but oh, so very handsome.

Tue 23rd Dec
2pm My sister heads off to her work Christmas lunch. She says she’s not planning to drink very much and will be back around tea time.

2am My sister is standing outside my parent’s bedroom calling for our mum. She’s fallen down the stairs outside Rosie’s, Chester’s premier nitespot, and has a cut on her head and blood down her dress.
You can’t buy class like that.

Wed 24th Dec – Christmas Eve
Mrs Terry informs me I have a moustache.
I like to pride myself on being hair free and carefree so have never considered facial hair a problem area. Mrs Terry begs to differ. So offended is she by the sight of my ‘lustrous and flowing’ lip hair that she offers to pay to have it removed and even drives me to the salon.

It really bloody hurts but at least I will wake up on Christmas Day ‘tache free

Thurs 25th Dec – Christmas Day
Wake up with a moustache. A rash moustache.
A bad reaction to the wax has left me with a fine coating of red pimples all over my upper lip.
Mrs Terry chooses today to relate that when she first fell pregnant with me my dad wanted her to abort.

It is unclear whether the sight of the rash has prompted this outburst.

Fri 26th Dec – Boxing Day
The red ‘tache has gone and been replaced by pulsating white-heads. I look pestilent and refuse to leave the house.
“Don’t squeeze them,” advises my mum.
“Of course not, Mum, I’m not stupid,” I reply

Sat 27th Dec
I have squeezed the spots.
Catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror in M&S and realise that the combination of red scabs and industrial strength foundation I’ve been forced to slather on make me look as though I’m hiding a shaving rash.
I look like a tranny. And not a very convincing one.

Sun 28th Dec
A peaceful day.
The dog was driven into a biting frenzy by the hits of Michael Jackson, Mr Terry wore a false nose and glasses combo all day for reasons known only to himself and Mrs Terry brought out the crackers and Christmas pudding (mysteriously absent from Christmas Day itself – it subsequently transpired she’d forgotten where she’d hidden them) out.
In Terry Towers terms, a quiet one.

Mon 29th Dec
Back to the ridiculous, loveable, unpredictable mess that is London. No wonder I love it so, it’s a home from home

One of my many duties is looking after our MySpace page. Imagine my delight last night to discover a message in our inbox. Imagine my rage when the message attempted to poach our drummer. “Hi, this is a message for Staz. We’re the B*** B*** and we’re looking for a drummer. We can’t afford session fees. Would you be interested?”

Like WTF? This is the band equivalent of approaching someone who is clearly on a date and saying: “Hey Babe, lose the zero, get with the hero”. In their partner’s face.

Drummers are very hard to find. Good drummers more so. To find a great girl drummer is nigh-on impossible and I guard mine ferociously. However, I am a fair lady so I did tell Staz that another band was trying to get their hands on her.

But not before I’d checked that my band whipped their arse. Musically speaking of course.

I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand I’m pleased that he’s taking care of himself although I’m not sure how steeping his feet in PG Tips will soften his tootsies. On the other, I have an old fashioned view of male grooming, to whit: they can do it if they really must but not in my face thank you very much.

I confess to being a hypocrite. This morning I harvested errant hairs from my eyebrows, slicked my hair with coconut oil in the hope of a glossy coat, scrubbed my face before masking it up, scythed my legs and underarms, painted my toenails and sorted out my bikini beard. Not necessarily in that order.

But there is something about male grooming that I’m not quite cool with. I will never be able to go out with a man who blow-dries his hair. Okay, okay, I will never be able to go out with a man who blow-dries his hair again.

I concede that men should use moisturiser on their face but serum is a step too far. Clean nails are good, buffed nails are unacceptable. A haircut is grand; using hairspray would be a deal breaker.

But why should I, who like to think I’m liberal in so many ways, have these throw back feelings about what makes men, men, and women, women. I would scratch out the eyes of anyone who said I couldn’t have equal pay/rights/status as a man, although I’m aware this means I’ll be keeping my nails sharp for quite some time. So why am I uncomfortable with men having the same beauty entitlements as women?

Could it be that in this still male-dominated society, women, myself included, feel we have to use our feminine wiles: our soft, scented skin, a flick of our glossy manes, a purse of our shiny lips, to get ahead? Is a man getting in on this act unfair?

Perhaps.

But my other housemate bathes once a week. I’m not quite down with this either.

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.

From my review, you may presume that I didn’t see any bands. You’d be wrong. Not only did I see many bands, I actually played in one. This could come as a surprise. It was certainly a surprise to me.

My life a few years ago was pretty wild. I played in an all-girl rock and roll band that was fairly big on a certain scene. For a while, it was not uncommon for me to go out in one city and wake up in another. People would come up and chat to me, making it evident that I had had quite a considerable talk with them in the recent past and I wouldn’t have a clue who they were. For a long while I’d greet everyone as Doll, Mister, or Chick, as I had no idea of their name.

But times have changed and I’ve tamed my ways. It was, therefore, with considerable surprise that I found myself on stage, live on the radio, playing with a band that is not my band at Glastonbury. I’m not entirely sure how this happened, although I suspect the sun beating down on my cider filled brain was involved.

So, if you see any footage of the Ralfe Band playing on the Worthy FM stage and wonder when they got a girl in and why the girl is shaking a pineapple, wonder no more. It’s me. And I’m not quite sure how I got there either.

To be honest, George isn’t even really sure what Legionnaire’s disease is.

But why, George? Why? I hear you cry. Mainly, I fear, because I have the will power and resolve of a damp tissue. But there may be other factors. Let us examine the evidence.

Tuesday
Make wild oath detailing a week off the sauce. An oath that I now admit was made with a hangover. Quite a killer one actually.

Wednesday
Day two of the new, booze-free me. Make wholesome plan to see friend who’s been alcohol-free for six months after work. Friend blows me out at last minute. Go home in rage but do not reach for bottle. Weird about the house listlessly instead.

Thursday
Band practise day, the big test. Can I spend three hours in a room playing rock AND roll without other stimulation? Yes, of course I can!
Drummer cancels. Buy three Cobras on way to practice and supplement with five after.

Friday
Oh my God, my head. I honestly thought I might throw up this morning. Right, that’s it, back off the sauce. Have a meeting scheduled for 4:30pm in the pub, normally my favourite kind of meeting, but manage not to drink a thing. Have to go home at 8pm though when the strain gets too much. More late-night weirding about Terry Towers wondering just what it is one does when sober in the evening.

Saturday
Friend’s birthday boat trip. When I arrive everyone is drinking Pimms. I opt for tap water like a perfect saint-like person. After the trip, the party hits the beer. I have a Diet Coke then am ‘accidentally’ bought a JD and coke by a pal. It’d be rude not to, right? Five later my head really hurts. Go home, early.

Sunday
Too busy to turn around let alone think about having a boozey treat.

Monday
Today. Another crazy busy day. It’s now 10pm and I’m still AT IT. Honestly, it’d be nice to have a glass of delicious red to help my creative juices flow and send me off to the land of nod later. But I won’t because I’m ashamed of my pathetic behaviour. Out of a proposed seven days off the sauce I managed five.
Actually, that’s not so bad is it? And almost a personal best I reckon. Maybe I do deserve a little reward for all my hard work. Now, if only we had some in…

The film’s called the Viva Voce Virus. I’m not really sure what it was about although a place called Gay Andy’s and some lesbian vampires seemed to feature quite heavily. My lack of understanding may be because I’m unfamiliar with the gay roadtrip genre but it’s more likely that I’d partaken too heavily of the free sparkly before the film started.

Thinking back, I was already a tiny bit tiddlypops when I arrived at the cinema due to drinking at my pal’s birthday bbq prior to show time.

And I’d gone to the bbq straight from a boozey lunch with the boss of my former record label.

Come to think of it, I’d actually woken with a hangover, so I guess I was just topping up my toxins.

Reader, I’m having a week off booze. Starting TODAY. Seriously.

I don’t want to incur the wrath of Morag and her drunken blog but I have started to fear for my insides. I have given up booze before now, once for Lent and once because my kidneys were beating a frenzied tattoo against my back and I thought I’d do them a month’s kindness. Also, I’d behaved like a twat of such magnitude on one terrible evening of which we will never speak again, that I shamed myself into a little time off.

It was utterly tedious.

The trouble with boozing is, it’s bloody brilliant. I have done some things I’ve regretted when three sheets to the wind, mostly men, but I’ve also had some of the best times of my life. The little drink demon who says: “Ok, you can come back but this time you’re sleeping on the sofa,” is also the demon who says: “We’re driving to Florida!” And goes through with it.

However, I’m going to shun booze at band practice, my friend’s birthday boat trip, and the studio opening I’m going to where the alcohol will be free.

I’m going to enjoy quality sleep, alone, be white of eye, pink of lip (rather than purple stained from wine excess) and fresh of thought.

I’m going to be rather smug and perhaps a touch patronising all week. And next Tuesday I’m going to tell you all about my sober week. Breakfast martini clutched in shaking hand.