At 33 weeks pregnant I went into premature labour. Completely clueless about pregnancy and babies – and having previously having had a miscarriage – I remember asking the doctor if my baby would survive. About 15 hours later and following shitloads of pain and screaming Bean arrived and was taken straight off to special care.

I wasnt able to see her for another four hours and when I did she was in an incubator with what felt like a billion wires and tubes attached to her. I can’t explain how fuck awful the next three weeks were. I was sent home, without her after three days, and spent the time going back and forth to the hospital at all times of night and day to see and feed her.

Fathers day happened in the middle of this and in addition to the card and mug the staff gave to each dad – paid for by themselves – Bean gifted her dad the Stereophonics album You gotta go there to come back (yeah, I know, jeez). This was on in the car every journey to and from the hospital. This track stood out. The girl in the song, a free spirit and a bit of a rebel, was what I hoped Bean would get to be if she wanted to and if she ever got out of the hospital and start her life properly.

After three weeks she was allowed home. Little did I know she’d refuse to sleep for at least 18 months and I’d try and get through the days on around three hours sleep. She’s eleven now, completely crackers, bright, funny, confident, sarcastic and absolutely rocks my world.

I call this Bean’s song. Happy Christmas Sorren Cerys O’Neil  xx




When I was 14 I gained a WSM (wicked stepmother) and a sister EXACTLY 10 months older than me. Both are lovely splendid people. At 17 I mostly lived in a house with my sister, four boys, two dogs, two cats, six rats, two ferrets and a snake – our neighbours hated us. There were a number of house rules – the person nearest the wall had to write the last line of The Bill on it, toast had to be pinned on the other wall, and the bathroom had a log chart for recording shape, size and consistency of your poo. Every Monday night in the house was 70’s disco night. Fuelled by £1.26 a bottle sherry from the Kwik Save and 20 proper fags instead of the usual rollies, me and my sister would dress up in 70’s clothes and the boys would join us to watch our amazing dancing. Every week without fail the sherry would lead to the boys dressing up and dancing too. We made a 70’s mix tape (yes tape, I’m old) and favourites included Bye Bye Baby, Silver Lady and I Will Survive. But the song we loved the most is the one below. We had a dance routine and everything, and the loudest applause from the boys was always after this song. Sadly 70’s disco nights ended when me and my sister drank the six bottles of sherry we had bought as Christmas gifts in one evening, and something terrible occurred. Don’t ask me to tell you what, I’m taking that one to the grave. When I hear this song now it makes me do a massive smile and reminds me of all the good times with my sis. That made it sound like she is dead, she’s not, we still share good times.




I have a wonky brain. It behaves ridiculously and is a massive twat. The grown ups don’t call it wonky, they call it severe depression, OCD and severe anxiety (the OCD should really up it’s game if it wants to play with the big boys and be severe). This means I cry A LOT. I cry on buses, in the office, in the supermarket and even at gigs – although the gig stuff is usually related to overwhelmingly ace music so that’s OK I reckon. I couldn’t stop crying last night because Bean wore her wig for the first time in ages and I hate that I can’t fix her hair for her. Most of the wonkiness is because I am terrified of dying and leaving Bean, so I’m scared of lots of things – being in a car with a new person driving, London, lots of people in a small space and not knowing where the fire exits are in the cinema. This is where the OCD comes in, it’s about the obsessive irrational thought of dying. I do things that I think will stop bad stuff happening, a bit like I am trying to change fate. So I have to walk on the left, I count backwards at traffic lights (don’t ask it’s beyond bonkers) and I hoover every day. As long as I do these things, I can combat death. Obviously I really know that this is a load of bollocks, but so far I can’t stop it. I’m really good at hiding it, like really good, never trust me with anything because I am clearly a devious cow. I see a very bossy man who is going to fix me, he wears amazing suits and so far he’s doing good cos the crying has reduced lots, although that’s probably because I’m off my tits on meds most of the time. I’ve had more not wonky days than wonky lately, so less hiding in bed with a bottle of red and more doing the fun stuff like skateboarding with Bean. Oh, actually I like hiding in bed with a bottle of red whether I’m wonky or not, so scrap that one. Anyway, music is super important to me, I have music on at work, at home and I leave music playing when I go to sleep. What I listen to when I’m wonky can sometimes be different to what I listen to when I’m not. I have playlists on spotify called wonky and not wonky, and I do that really stupid thing of listening to sad stuff when I’m sad. There is one song that sums up the wonkiness for me and it’s my go to on a shit day. It’s important to me because the wonkiness is part of me, I’m not ashamed of it, I don’t understand it, but that’s OK. This song is my comfort blanket on the wonky days.