PASS IT ON…………..



In the early hours of a quiet February morning, just as the sun was appearing over the trees to shine through the window, I held my beautiful and so loved Mum in my arms as I kissed her for the very last time.

Stroking her lovely face I told her that it was time to let go.  She sighed and peacefully slipped away to a place without pain, without sadness and without fear. She had lost her brave battle with cancer and the world suddenly became a much emptier and lonelier place for me.

I miss her every single day, she was not only my Mum, she was my best friend, my mentor and my guide. She was incredibly funny, hugely kind hearted, strong, compassionate, stubborn, and at times, excruciatingly frustrating, but she was my Mum. She truly was one in a million and I adored her.

Later that morning as I sat on the garden wall, kicking my feet against it and watching the world go by, I wished with all my heart that I could once more be a child, to have my time with her all over again.  To smell her perfume, to have her dry my tears and tell me everything would be grand.  I remember feeling so angry as village life carried on as normal, I wanted to scream at everyone and ask them how they could continue going to work, school, shopping, laughing and living when my Mum had gone.  It was for a short time as though she had never existed, as though there was nothing to show for her having been here except for our heartbreak as a family.

It took me many months to realise that this is what life is all about. The world carries on regardless.

It is what we leave as a legacy that is the measure of our existence.

We are born and then we pass – in between we live.  How we live that life from the beginning to the end is so vitally important, not only to our families and ourselves, but to those whose lives we touch by just merely ‘being here’.

My Mum did leave a legacy.  She left wonderful memories of her kindness, compassion and her love of life, not just for me, but for everyone who met her.

She was a legend.  Who else could inform her family two days before Christmas that there would be an extra guest for Dinner.  We all excitedly wondered who it could be and more to the point, where on earth Mum would fit him in amongst the ex boyfriends/girlfriends/Husbands/Wives, current boyfriends/girlfriends/Husbands/Wives and the cantankerous old sod without a family borrowed from a nearby Nursing Home.   We weren’t in the least bit surprised or disappointed to discover that it was ‘John’ the BIG ISSUE seller from outside our local Morrisons, that was to be the guest of honour.

In Mum’s world, no one was ever excluded.

She once travelled on a bitterly cold day in to Town to buy thermal underwear and socks for John, telling him they were old ones that belonged to Dad so he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable in accepting an expensive gift.  In her haste to make sure he wouldn’t die of hypothermia whilst selling his magazines, she bought them three sizes too small and forgot to remove the price tags.  He knew, but didn’t spoil the pleasure she felt in the belief that she was helping him, although he did liken his curled up to toes to Aladdins carpet slippers and his vest to a second skin!  That same Big Issue seller, having heard that Mum had passed away came to her Celebration of Life service as he wanted to say goodbye to the one person who had truly believed in him and had shown him a kindness.

My mum was the woman who danced between gutter and pavement with her shoes in her hands after a night out, the woman who possessed the Stare of Imminent Death for anyone who dared to upset her children, the woman who chased her son around the house with an ornamental ceremonial sword after she mistook him for a burglar when he came home drunk late one night.  She was the woman everyone turned to for a hug when times got tough.  Her courage knew no bounds.

She was also the woman who passionately believed in something called PASS IT ON. 

You show a kindness to just one person, with no thought of reward or favour for yourself, but only to ask that the kindness be passed to another, and so on.

Can you imagine the impact that this could make in an hour, a day or a week?

Could I ask that today you consider carrying out one act of kindness to another and say this is for Sheila  to start the ball rolling for the biggest game of PASS IT ON that my Mum could ever have imagined.

Remember, by simply just being here you are already making a difference to someone, somewhere.  That is proof of how much we are all valued, even by those we have yet to meet.

Please PASS IT ON… memory of my beautiful Mum


She did exist, she did live and she did make a difference.

Gina x


She is the sadness at the start of each new day but a beautiful memory by its close.

She is the gentle breeze that carries her perfume and the sunshine that warms my face.

She is the emptiness in my heart, yet the miracle of life in my grandchildren.

She is the stillness of night, the flutter of wings, the snowdrop, the crocus and the Rose.

She was my best friend, my guide, my light

She was my Mum.

© 2020 Gina Kirkham



Chapter 34


When I arrived back into work a few days later, we were told that our Unit would be disbanding, as due to changes and restructuring we were all needed elsewhere.  I was being posted back to my old Section with Dave Jennings as our Patrol Sergeant and as much as they tormented me, I was really looking forward to being back with the lads.

I was up to date with my paperwork, but the rest of the Unit were staying put to clear everything up before we made our moves.  Taking the keys to one of the Patrol cars, I headed out towards the Town Centre.  We’d had reports in that a male was touring the area on a pedal cycle dealing drugs to the local kids and the Sarge had asked me to take a look at it.  We didn’t have much to go on, just white male, early to mid-twenties wearing dark coloured tracksuit bottoms and a hooded top.   Well that clears that up then, how hard is this going to be considering 99% of our naughty boys wear this type of stuff as a uniform.  In any Town Centre you can see the Catwalk of Shame being played out around the benches, litter bins and local McDonalds outlets:

“Ah, here we have Tyrone wearing this seasons’ latest addition to the LaCoste range.  As you can see Tyrone has pulled his trousers down so that you can also see his boxer shorts to their full effect.   Tyrone will now give a little twirl to demonstrate that there is ample room for both, oh yes Ladies and Gentlemen, BOTH hands to fit neatly down the front for a little cosseting and jiggling when required.  

Yes, thank you Tyrone – Tyrone that’s enough now, I think they’ve got the idea.  ………..”

Musing the latter and having a quiet little giggle to myself, I spotted a not-so-rare Scallybird, whizzing through the precinct on his mountain bike.  I say whizzing, he was fast but he was also very wobbly.  As he stopped at the traffic lights, I pulled alongside him and pointed towards the layby.  Scallybird obviously didn’t want to hang around and quickly took a short cut onto the pavement, around several shoppers and was just about to cycle off into the distance when he suddenly came to a grinding halt.   I watched in amazement as the back end of the bike lifted into the air, spectacularly throwing Scallybird over the handlebars and depositing him face down on to the pavement with a resounding ‘whump’, followed by the sound of crashing metal onto concrete.  Abandoning the police car I ran over to where he was now lying prostrate and gasping for breath.

Standing over Scallybird, wielding an extra large baguette was one Mabel Rimple, a genteel 83 year old retired school Ma’am who had courageously taken it upon herself to ram her red tartan Model 6963 Stafford 4-wheel shopping trolley into the path of Scallybird’s bike, thus hindering his escape.  She had also delivered several blows to his head with her trusty baguette judging by the amount of crumbs stuck to his hair and the rather droopy bend to her bakery product.  Looking down at Scallybird I recognised him as one of our regulars.

As I shouted up for assistance, Scallybird started to protest;

“Arrrr hey Miss, I ‘aint dun nuffink, yer just picking on me ‘cos I’m black……”

Rolling my eyes, I wagged a finger at Scallybird;

“No Jerome, you are not black, you are white with a sun tan, we’ve been through all this before – I treat everyone the same so don’t start with that sort of behaviour or you and I will fall out…….”

Spitting on his finger and rubbing at a dirty mark on his trainer, he grinned;

“Hee hee, fookin’ gets ‘em everytime that one…. ‘cept you Miss….”

Jerome started his little jiggling dance as they all do when confronted and then, just as he was about to place his hands down the front of his LaCoste trackie bottoms, I spotted a rather large bulge, just to the side by his front pocket.   Jerome stared at me, I stared at the bulge and then at Jerome.  He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and antsy….I knew I had him, he was definitely carrying down his trackie bottoms.   I was sure that I’d got our drug dealer.  Way to go Mavis!

Derek arrived just in time to help me do a proper search of Jerome, taking his jacket from him, Derek asked the standard safety question;

“Right lad, you’re going to be searched now, is there anything you want to hand over before I start, any sharps, anything that might endanger me, anything you shouldn’t have……….?”

“Nah boss, nuffink…I ain’t got nuffink on me….swear down boss…I’ve got nowt….”

Looking him straight in the eye I challenged him;

“Nothing on you Jerome, I hardly think so…..if you’ve got nothing on you what’s this then?

Smirking in a know-it-all sort of way, I leant forward, grabbed hold of the rather large sausage shaped bulge through his trackie bottoms, and with my thumb and fingers gave it a hefty squeeze;

“Fooking ‘ell Miss…that’s my willy..………..”

Embarrassingly enough, I could confirm that it was indeed his appendage – it was probably the only truthful comment Jerome had made in the last ten years – and if I wanted to be nit-picky about it all, in a different sense to the one that I had meant – Jerome had been carrying….only it had been a rather large erection rather than the packet of drugs that I had anticipated.

The disappointment must have been written all over my face for Jerome to suddenly take pity on me.

“Ah hey Miss, snot all fooked yer know…..I nicked the bike from outside the Aldi if that’s any ‘elp to yer, that’s why I woz gettin’ off like………..”

Thank you Jerome………..

(c) 2013 Gina Kirkham





“I’m actually doing quite well here, week 8 and I’ve not been sent home.”  I looked over at Norma who was crashed out on the sofa in the communal lounge, one leg stretched across the faded teak coffee table, the other tucked under her.

“Sent home, why on earth would you be sent home?” she grinned.

“Don’t look so surprised, I’ve never been away from home before and I… well, it just seems I’ve taken longer than everyone else to find my feet and then there’s the little incident with the curtains and of course there was Tim..” I tailed off into an embarrassed silence as Norma jumped up, knocking a half drunk mug of tea from the table.

She bent down to pick it up.  “Never been away from home!  Oh come on, you’re kidding me.  How old are you?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.  “Well, I went on a Brownies camping trip once, but it was a disaster, I hated every minute of it.”

I watched her scrub furiously at the wet patch on the carpet with a tea towel, pausing to wipe her nose with the back of her hand.

“Bet you were a right little goody two shoes for the Brown Owl, all sweetness and light, volunteering for everything.  A little Water Sylph or a Fairy Fire Lighter!”  She began to snigger.  “Yep, Fairy Firelighter – you’re good at that!”

I couldn’t help but laugh, she was right.

“it was because of the volunteering Norma, that’s where it all went wrong.”

She looked at me quizzically, waiting for me to expound.

“Well, we had to pick what chores we wanted to do, Pixie Cook, Elf Washer Up, Sprite Wood Collector, get the gist?”  I waited for a response, when none was forthcoming, I ploughed on.  “They were all crap and boring and when Brown Owl said La Trine Duty I nearly fainted with unadulterated pleasure.  It was so very French, couldn’t help myself, I squealed, jiggled a bit and stuck my hand in the air shouting ‘me, me, me..’…”

A loud snort came from the chair behind me.  I bit my lip.  “Yeah, yeah Melvyn, how the hell was I supposed to know?”

He pulled a face, “French not your best subject at school then Mave?”

Norma hid behind her tattered edition of Cosmopolitan to laugh, but her shaking shoulders gave it away.

“Glad you both think it’s funny, but can you imagine what it was like spending a whole week digging holes and emptying portable toilets filled with everyone’s poo and wee AND about four tons of San Izal bog paper?”

Realising they were probably too young to remember what it was, I tried to explain.

“It was toilet paper, sometimes called wet-bum-shiny-surface as it didn’t actually soak anything up, just slid right across your nether regions wipe after wipe.  It was ruddy useless!”

That just seemed to make things worse, Norma was hyperventilating and Melvyn had lost the power of speech.

Indignant I picked up my book.  “It was a lesson learnt, what more can I say, it put me off anything remotely French – even Sacha Distel!”

They both stopped laughing, looked at each other and simultaneously shouted “Who?”

To be honest I really couldn’t be bothered explaining.


I shoved an errant turquoise sock into the drawer and slammed it shut.  Socks, regardless of fancy colours had no place for a night out in Town.  I had a choice of a nice little polka dot dress, a woolly jumper with jeans or my dressing gown.  I slumped back onto my bed and stared at the ceiling.  Was I really ready for a drunken class night out?  My horrendous relationship with intoxicating liquor was legendary, hence my preferences for orange juice or soda water.

I had a mathematical equation for this anomaly;

Me + Alcohol + High Heels = FLOOR

I could still remember the ensuing hangover when I was fifteen from a run-in with several bottles of Babycham at a family party.  After several sausage rolls and a pork pie had failed to mop up the excesses, I’d somehow managed after a bout of hiccups and a loud burp, to vacate my entire stomach contents into my Nan’s handbag, destroying a packet of Embassy No.6 ciggies, a bingo pen, a pack of Fisherman’s Friends and her pension book before staggering off to the toilet.  Once inside the cubicle, my stiletto heels had failed to take purchase with the wet floor and I was a goner; wedged between the toilet seat and the wall.

This had been my very first indication that I was double jointed, and although not natural, my legs could go behind my head without really trying.

I shuddered at the thought of ever getting THAT drunk again as I zipped up my dress and checked the mirror.  Smearing a good slick of Coral Blush lippy on, I smacked my lips together just as Marj knocked on the door.

“Ready Mave?”


“You’re having a laugh girl, no alcohol on a night out!”  Norma barked at me in utter disgust as she dragged her stool up to the bar.

“Oh come on, orange squash, you’ve got to be kidding?” wrinkling up her nose, Marj raised her eyebrows.

Their derision was not hidden.

“Look girls I don’t drink, it sends me sort of funny, I like to have my wits about me.”  I took a swig of my OJ just to prove a point.

Marj grabbed my hand and took the glass from me.  “Here, have a go at this.”

She shoved a pint of White Lightening Cider towards me and waited.  I tentatively took a sip.  Mmmmm not bad.  It was like lemonade with a bit of a kick.

So here I am, six pints of White Lightening Cider later, dancing on a nightclub table with Norma, Marj and the gang cheering me on.  Amid screams of laughter, various insults and shouts of encouragement, which include Come on Mave give it a bit of Tina Turner to Look at this lads, Mave the Rave’s giving it some welly, all just audible above the persistent bass beat of the music, I gyrated, bounced and wobbled, my confidence soaring.

It was bound to end in tears.

Having not quite earned myself the bladder capacity of a two humped camel, I was taken short.

“Norma I need a wee, look after my drink for me.”  And with that I staggered off to find the loos.

Once in the brightly tiled washroom, I took my place in the queue, hanging on to a nearby door frame as nausea washed over me.  I’d clearly overdone the pop again.  Whispering never again under my breath, the click of a door lock gave me an available cubicle and I disappeared behind the door.

Five minutes later I stood, or in reality, hung over the washbasin.  Squinting through an alcoholic haze I fumbled around the low level basin for the hot tap, finding instead a rather squidgy bar of soap.  Clasping it firmly in my hand, I pulled.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re feckin’ playing at?  Hands off..!”

Dropping the soap, I stumbled backwards.  “Jeez you women round here have deep voices, must be all the pints you drink..” I wiped my hand on my dress “… bet you’ve got a hairy chest too!”  I sniggered at my little joke.

Come to think of it, I had as much right to the soap as they did.  Indignancy rising, I pointed my finger at the blurred silhouette with an exaggerated stabbing motion.

“Don’t you dare mess with me little Miss Testosterone..” I let a hiccup escape but held back on the burp for fear of once again producing a technicolour yawn. “… I’m Ninja trained – so watch out!”

There, that’ll teach her.  I’d had all of six martial arts training sessions and was good to go.  I could take her on.  The closeness of my adversary meant I got a rush of hot breath mixed with the smell of fresh lager as she spoke.

“Maybe if you were English language trained you might have read the sign on the door too, you stupid bint..!”

In the silence that followed I heard the sound of a trouser zip hastily being pulled up.

Within seconds I was roughly removed from my hand washing duties by  Security, who took great delight in marching me through the Club, past Norma, Marj and the boys and out through the double doors.

As the cold night air hit me, I suddenly became acutely aware that washing ones hands in the Gents Urinal is apparently not cricket in this neck of the woods…..

….nor is insulting a grown man by comparing his Wang Doodle to a squidgy bar of soap!


(c) 2015 Gina Kirkham

Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Primark Thong


Agnes wasn’t very impressed with the way her Victory Bunting was hanging.  There was most definitely something amiss………..


Beryl wondered if there was something else they should have trimmed before Opening Night……..


Susan sure knew how to present a well balance pair……….


As he looked  along the line, Albert had an uneasy feeling that he had gatecrashed the wrong PE class…….he couldn’t see his best mate Rupert anywhere…….


Horace had a sneaking suspicion that Martha was really called Arthur……….


As Sybil regaled them with the horrors of her accident, Douglas found himself strangely drawn to Marilyn’s frilly foo-foo ………


Prince Dwayne was just a tad upset……..Mater and Pater had after all had 9 months to come up with something original………!


After saying ‘hello’ a few times, Agnes was quite upset that the caller had hung up without speaking………..


This wasn’t quite the ‘boob job’ Marjorie’s had been expecting when they had promised her a pert and perky lift……….






I can see the light… it’s getting closer…. oh I’m fading fast…”  Bob swiped his hand over his forehead dramatically feigning a swoon.

“Very funny, you wouldn’t be laughing if it had happened to you….” I slammed the kettle down, slopping water over the sides. “…it was a near death experience, a real proper one, I thought I was going to die. I was distraught!”

I gave him my best hurt feelings look, hoping to elicit at least some sympathy.

“It was your disgustingly shabby underwear that gave the paramedics the best laugh Mave…” he spat crumbs across the table as he waved his bacon batch at me. “…where they actually grey when you bought them?”

Blushing, I peered down the front of my shirt. He had a point, my bra had definitely seen better days.  The underwire was poking through the middle and a runner on one strap had broken giving a rather quirky lopsided look to my nellies.   I couldn’t even begin to imagine how my knickers had stayed in place as the elastic had started to perish on them weeks ago.

“Oh all hail Bob, the expert on women’s lingerie.” I snapped more from embarrassment than anger.

“Ah you may jest my little plum pudding.”  He wiped his chin with the back of his hand.  “Now take for example Primark knickers. They’re always at least one size smaller than it says on the label AND they shrink in the wash too. I have it on good authority…”

I quickly cut him off mid-sentence, dreading what was going to come next.

“Jeez you perv, what the hell do you get up to on your days off?”

Smirking, with one hand on his hip, he sashayed around the table before ending with an over-exaggerated pout and a subtle slut drop.

“You’d be amazed at what some of us wear under our combat pants on a night shift darling!”
I ran my fingers along the rail, watching the bright colours sway on the hangers.

I was braving the Lingerie Department in Primark. Knickers, G-strings, thongs and tiny shorts littered the floor where excitable teenagers had stretched lace and elastic for fit, admired, coveted and then discarded them before moving on to the Nightwear section for all-day pyjamas.

Holding a nice size 10-12 thong up to the light I could see I was going to have to bow down to Bob’s superior knowledge of women’s underwear.

It was absolutely miniscule.

I held it against me, pulling the elastic to its full extent as I caught a fleeting glimpse of my own rear end in a nearby mirror. It certainly wouldn’t take a genius to know it definitely wouldn’t fit my curvy butt. Well not without an awful lot of huffing and puffing and several indentations left on my thighs at the end of the night. There was also the distinct possibility that a pair of scissors would be needed to remove them at bedtime.

Size 14-16 wasn’t much better, in fact it looked pretty much the same as the 10-12’s. I furtively looked around before allowing my fingers to settle on a hanger which bore a label that screamed SIZE 18-20. Sneaking them down in front of me to check for fit, I began to realise with unfolding horror that these not so little beauties would be the only ones that could respectfully accommodate my very ample posterior, survive a bit of shrinkage in a 40-degree wash and not give me a deep vein thrombosis in one or both of my legs.

I surreptitiously stuffed several pairs into my basket and wondered off to join the checkout queue.

Absent-mindedly turning each pair over, I folded them so the size labels couldn’t be seen. I couldn’t believe I’d been reduced to buying knickers that resembled a deflated parachute. The only thing worse than the paramedics seeing my shabby faded grey undies would be for them to know I was wearing size 20’s to cover my hippo ass.

I inwardly cringed imagining them laughing over a mug of tea and a garibaldi biscuit.

The label on the top pair refused to be hidden, peeping out from behind the lace edging, mocking me…. and that’s when I had another one of my wonderful epiphanies.

I’d cut the labels off when I got home then even if I had another near death experience, no one would ever be any the wiser as to what size grundies I was currently clad in.

Mentally patting myself on the back for such a stonkingly good idea, I was in the process of allowing myself a smug moment, when my thoughts were suddenly broken by the dulcet tones of the Cashier.

“Next…. drag yer basket down ‘ere will yer.”

Now it was at this point I suddenly got a tremendous urge to explain to Miss Cashier No.3 why I had seven pairs of lacy black thongs in my basket and an even bigger urge to explain away their size.

As I shoved the basket onto the counter, and before I could even concoct a plausible explanation, I watched Miss Cashier No.3 pick up the first pair from the basket and check the label.  Scratching at a rather large, make-up encrusted spot on her chin, she inspected her fingernail, stretched her arm out to its full extent and swung my black lace, size 18-20 thong around her head.

In a voice that was loud enough to wake the dead, she bellowed across the store.

“Code 2, Code 2 Maureen…how much fer polyester thongs size TWENTY….”

Every head in the queue seemed to swivel towards me. One or two ladies looked me up and down and tutted loudly, either in disgust that I was big enough to wear a size 20 or that I could actually wear something that looked like the gusset from a pair of tights with the legs cut off.   The only guy in the queue who was proudly holding a T-shirt with the slogan Cool Dude emblazoned on the front, began to tremble and clack his false teeth whilst wiping sweat from his top lip with a crusty, creased handkerchief.  I watched in utter embarrassment as his beady eyes went from the thong, which was still being ceremoniously waved in the air, to me, back to the thong and then back to me.

My eyes darted back and forth between the thong, the cashier and the queue, before I indignantly announced in my best plummy stage voice. “Actually they’re for my Nan, you can hang suet balls for the birds from them you know, it was in the Homes & Garden magazine, she’s got lots of trees for them to hang on!”

Miss Cashier No.3 was by now stuck in a mannequin pose, thong still pinched firmly between her fingers with a look of absolute disbelief on her orange tanned face. I knew I would have to expound as she definitely wasn’t going for it.

“Don’t you see, if they’re massive you can fit bigger balls in them….lots of balls, the more balls the merrier….”  I waited for her to give a nod of understanding.

Nothing was forthcoming, just a slight twitch of one of her pencilled in eyebrows.

Oh shit, I couldn’t believe I’d just said that!  What a pathetic excuse for wanting to purchase seven humongous pairs of black lace thongs.   What was more, her loud announcement had revealed to all and sundry that they weren’t even pure lace, they were the awful sweaty-gusset-polyester type.  As I rummaged in my purse, I had to quietly concede that for 50pence a pair there must be some trade off on quality somewhere along the line.

I grabbed my carrier bag and turned to leave, only to find Mr Cool Dude waiting for me. He licked his lips and made a final defiant clack of his false teeth as he leered out of the corner of his mouth,

“Tell yer what love, it’d be more than balls for the birds hanging off them if it were me.”

Recoiling in horror, I had a sudden mental image of a set of dentures hanging from the gusset of my newly acquired knickers.  Hastily sidestepping Mr Cool Dude I burst through the doors and out into the street, my Primark bag slapping wildly against my left thigh as I ran to the car park.

Sitting in my car I had another little peek at my spoils.  Huge they may be, but they were rather pretty and VPL’s in my combats would definitely be a thing of the past….

……but more importantly….

……I could have as many near-death experiences as I wanted now, if I had to almost die, I would at least be wearing a decent set of frillies!

Gina Kirkham

Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Polyester Thong ©️ 2017




First full book review


I knew after the first chapter that I was going to love Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Polyester Thong, and after the fourth chapter I knew you had written a seriously good book.  I was hooked and became very anti-social yesterday so that I could spend as much time as possible with my new friend, Mavis Upton.

It is hard not to sound like a sycophant, because often when asked for honest opinions, we don’t always give them; preferring instead to say how they are ‘wonderful’, ‘fabulous’, and ‘the best thing ever’.

However your book is all of those superlatives and more.

I love the way you start at the end of Mavis’ career and write by reflection.  It works so well in this book.  The way you link your chapters is spot on and your style of writing makes the book flow and therefore, it is easy to read.  You have brought the characters to life, not just Mavis and Joe, but the supporting cast too.  Your clever use of pathos and humour provides the book with balance.

The childhood stories about Christmas were so beautifully orchestrated, I could almost taste the chocolate pudding that had to be scraped from the ceiling.  I couldn’t contain myself with laughter when Ella told Mavis on the telephone that the hamster had ‘shat’ in the bath.  You ended that chapter with an excellent punch line.

Poor Petey.  How the hell did he ever pass his training, let alone his Probation.  Little Amy having to look after her siblings.  I could almost wipe her tears Gina, so real was your writing.

I loved the bald ‘druggy’ nutter in chapter 24.  The line ‘death to the infidels’ had me howling with laughter.  The whole chapter was hysterical, as was chapter 33, Captain Corelli’s Ukulele.  I was guffawing the whole way through the book.  Your Characters are believable and your storyline is sublime.  Whilst I was reading it I could see the visual pictures in my head, which make it all the funnier.

The story of Mavis’ Mum had me in floods of tears.  You made me feel every emotion she was feeling and my heart was breaking for her. Again you managed to weave laughter into this emotional piece by sharing her Mum’s sense of humour, which never left her even in her darkest hours.  The way you developed Mavis and Joe’s love story was brilliant.  It is easy to see why she fell for him and he for her.  The farting scene is hilarious.

If I carried on quoting everything that made me laugh or cry, we would be here all day and I have to start making amends to friends and family for cancelling lunch dates and the quiz night in favour of Mavis.

Gina, you really have penned a superb book which should be snapped up ASAP so that everyone gets the chance to share Mavis’ story.  It is a Policewoman’s Bridget Jones……if its not snapped up for film rights, I will eat your police hat, the one with the ‘unmentionable body part’ drawn inside!

I am honoured to have been asked to read it.  I wish for you to have all the success you deserve.  Now I can’t wait for book number two…!

As Mavis would say ‘faarking fantastic’……….


First Draft Chapter Reviews:
Couldn’t wait any longer, skived in the stationary cupboard and read the preview of Gina Kirkham’s book ‘Handcuffs, Truncheon and A Polyster Thong’…… Laugh out loud brilliance!
Loved it!! I’ll have to buy some panty liners for when I read the whole thing. Absolutely brilliant, so witty & cleverly written, love, love loved it!!! My boss wasn’t best pleased when I went missing for a good half hour though!
I have a wet patch on my chair and I was gutted when I got to the end….I need more!!!
It was illustrative, engaging, hilariously funny and most of all very, very real. I can honestly see this on WHSmiths bookshelf and being bought by yes okay, Bobbies, but also the “average Joe/Joanne” who want a good, light read, with lots of laughs. I love, love, love it Gina, you go girl!
Got to say really love it so far. Look forward to reading the rest.
It’s so funny and once I did start reading it, I didn’t want put it down.
Books really have to keep me entertained in order to do that!
From the moment I started reading I realised I had fallen in love with MAVIS UPTON, she is my kind of woman – this is in one word, hilarious. I could envisage every moment and feel every emotion, it feels true. Poignant at times, emotional and sometimes scary. This is the reality of being a Police Officer but with a very lighthearted edge. My only disappointment was that I had been asked to review three chapters – I was left wanting more, not next week, not next month but now!

(c) 2015 GJK



Sometime during October 1988, whilst wearing a pair of dayglow pink legwarmers, kicking leaves and pushing a tricycle, actually it wasn’t any ordinary tricycle, it had a bin on the back for found treasures for my daughter, I suddenly decided that I wanted to follow a lifelong ambition to join the Police. Just like that, an epiphany, a marvellously wonderful, exciting idea. As I trampled through another pile of leaves, carefully avoiding a rather large doggie deposit, but wheeling the bike through a smaller, squishier one, I began to meticulously plan my new career………

It truly never occurred to me that being a single Mum of a little girl, having lived quite a privileged and sheltered life AND being a blonde……that any of these factors would have any serious impact on my dream. After all, regardless of sex, status, creed, religion, quantity or quality of brain cells or hair colour, this was a time of equal opportunities. .

I had a passion, an idealistic idea to give something back, to make a difference.

My chosen career was to take me on a long journey of self-discovery.  There were times of tears and heartbreak, fear and trepidation, anger and frustration but above all there was always laughter.  I had the honour and privilege throughout those years of working with and being the proud work-mate of so many courageous, brave and dedicated colleagues.  These colleagues also had as a much needed necessity,  a quick wit and a great sense of humour in the face of much adversity!

Upon my retirement after having sadly said goodbye to what had been a huge part of my life, I suddenly had another wonderful epiphany – this time it was to put pen to paper (or fingers to iPad) to write a book.

I needed an alter-ego for my adventures and lying in bed one night staring at the ceiling and contemplating life as I knew it, MAVIS UPTON was born.

MAVIS is a delightful, crisp loving (any flavour), big knicker hating, thirty something blonde with a big heart, who one day whilst wearing Dayglow Pink leg warmers, had a wonderful epiphany to join the Police………..does this sound a little familiar?

For Mavis, as it was for me – it was not always plain sailing.

HANDCUFFS, TRUNCHEON and A PRIMARK THONG is a humorous and sometimes poignant look at the life, loves and career of an every day girl who followed a dream.


(c) 2013 GJK