I write about cars and play guitars… and rhyme, apparently.

Welcome! My daily grind consists of talking about tyre tread and engine torque – but worry not, there’s still plenty of time for rants, bitching and millennial improvisation.

Rebecca When I’m Posh compiles personal thoughts and musings in unapologetic blog form.

For more information, please see About.

The Southern Rail Train Strikes – a poem


It’s quarter to eleven
And I’ve just got home. I left the house at seven
This morning, two and half hours before work, in the vague hope
Of finding a train that will take me anywhere near London. But nope,

It’s strike day so here I stand, a sheep in a flock.
I’m bored now. Conductors or no conductors – who cares, they’re all a bunch of cocks.

In a gift from the Gods, I still get a seat.
You’d expect for all this time and money I would consider that a given, and not a fortunate treat.
Today I sat in declassified first-class. Surrounded by the posh bods in their suits and their papers that weren’t free.
But then I bet they don’t get to see
The joy of the Rush Hour Crush. You: dark haired attractive man with a handsome face.
Me: sitting in First Class feeling very out of place.

London Bridge is where we’re due,
We’re already late, and then I have to trek through
The frankly ridiculous new concourse that has just been built.
I tilt
My head and just follow the crowd,
Wandering through unfinished building works, because while we can’t travel unaccompanied on a 30 minute train, it seems that that’s allowed.
The new platforms feel a bit like an airport, with individual boarding gates. Maybe I’ll disappear
And jet off to somewhere that isn’t bloody here.

My normal journey takes 3 stops on the Victoria line.
But from London Bridge, the journey takes twice the time,
Through 10 stations and one interchange. And that’s if I have the attention
To get on the Northern line in the right damn direction.

The commute home is worse. Today it’s a power failure at Forest Hill
which means I will
Be stuck here for half an hour more. I don’t want to be the one that cries
But there’s not even a McDonalds at this crappy station so I can’t get my usual of a double cheeseburger and medium fries.

My feet hurt. I don’t wanna stand around anymore.
I’ve given up caring if it’s uncouth to just sit on the sodding floor.
I normally laugh. It’s like that episode of Friends you’ve seen a hundred times,
Yet every time you watch, it never fails to surprise.

Today in my bag, I have my MacBook Air.
It’s worth over a grand and completely unnecessary to my daily life but I don’t really care.
There’s also my iPhone, car keys and probably an old lipstick.
Yet the most expensive thing I carry is my Southern rail ticket.

It’s worth more than my first car. Thirty treatments for my hair.
Or more than three more MacBook Airs.

Apparently it’s also worth more than my time at home.
My time alone.
My time in bed. My dates with my girls. The chance to go out for dinner or go to the gym
Or even to entertain the idea of going out with him.

Work closer to home, they say. And I would. I have done.
Three years in locally owned businesses was fun,
But there’s no success in security, and I’ll never get my Audi R8
By staying at home and hanging out with left-over school mates.

Next week we have a work quiz.
Not that I’ll do very well, but in this biz,
It helps to show face and play the games.
Plus I have an aptitude for excellent team names.
But now, my evening will be spent checking my phone
For my cancelled route home.
Leaving the party early to schlep to London Bridge
To stand on a platform and stare at a board with nothing more for company than a Marks and Spencers sandwich.

I can cope with delays. I’ve learned to control my seething,
And I’m lucky my bosses respect my organisational skills more than my time keeping.

But if you had a friend who you had to call
Every minute until they arrived, with fear that they wouldn’t bother turning up at all,
Your only way of getting home
Relying on this one friend who never answers the fucking phone
Who wouldn’t know the word reliability if it hit them like a train,
You’d understand the uncontrollable and insufferable pain
Of commuting to London again and again.

£3,396. For all of this.
A train that’s never there, and when it is, it stinks of piss.

Tonight I got home and sat on my bed,
The “We are sorry to announce” woman still playing round and round my head.
Yes I’ll keep complaining with almost every tweet,
But allow me my rage for dealing with this shit.
So before it all starts again tomorrow, here concludes my tale.
Of lives being ruined by sodding Southern Rail.



Why you should go on a solo organised holiday

Coach trips aren’t just for your Nan anymore – fun, modern tours let you see the world with no more planning than how much spending money to take

You know the feeling – you flick through your favourite magazine, see an article about this year’s must-see destination, jump onto Thomas Cook and search for a package deal for two. Only problem is, you’re single, your friends are all out of money slash annual leave and, while your mother would be more than keen for a week in a Seychelles, it’s not the free-spirited summer hols you had in mind.

Lots of full-time workers are now embracing their inner students, using sabbaticals, job breaks or redundancies to grab a backpack and travel across the continent. Why go for a week when you can go for six? Just you and the open road with endless possibilities.

But what about those looking for a simple two-week break to tick off the experiences from your Lonely Planet travellers guide? Or those, including myself, who love the idea of being a free-spirited world explorer, but don’t quite have the guts (or the expertise) to organise a solo trip around the world?

Cue the rise of the Solo Organised Tours.

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Typecast – Why It’s Fine To Only Date Your ‘Type’

cookie-cutter-497133_1920What do you say when you’re asked what your “type” is? Do you say you don’t have one? Or do you sum it up with one generic point that draws you into your date of choice? The fact they’re over 6ft tall, for example, or with a shining head of ginger hair? What’s the cookie-cutter kind of guy that you look for?

The brainy English comedian Dave Gorman came up with a very interesting theory on this. Our fantasy shag, man or woman, is normally a vague indicator of our type. If you fancy Megan Fox, that correlates to a confident, glamorous brunette, while Kiera Knightly lends more to the classic English beauty. On the flip side, Channing Tatum would be a chiselled pretty boy, while Harry Styles et al, apart from a slight paedophilic disposition, would indicate a bit more grunge and a bit less hairbrushing. And if your guy of choice fits somewhere along the line of best fit from your List Of 5 Celebrities You’re Allowed To Sleep With, they’re normally a match.

I knew a guy that specifically fancied curly haired blondes with big noses – and good for him! When he got a new girlfriend, people would say ‘Oh yes, she’s soo his type’, and she could sleep soundly knowing that she ticked a good percentage of his dating boxes. Any other woman would be greeted by the friendship group as “She’s not very ‘him’…”

And yet, we’re constantly being told to ‘push our boundaries’, to ‘step outside our comfort zone’, and to look for the hidden gem we’d normally ignore.

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21 Things Men Still Haven’t Learnt About Tinder


You don’t have to be a playboy loving lad to know that Tinder probably isn’t the best and most reliable route to love in the modern era. Us millennials love a quick swipe – it’s as simple as online shopping, with all the flirt of Friday night drinks but with the luxury of Sunday night pyjamas. It’s shit – but we love it.

I, like a lot of people, missed the original hype of Tinder when it was released back in 2012, as I was already shacked up. Even now when I speak to my girlfriends, they all say they’ve missed out on the joys of mobile dating, with many unsure of how the app even works.

So to satisfy the boredom of infinite Netflix and pizza nights, I bought into the swiping sensation of Tinder.

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The Man Behind the Suit


I have a new love of my life – Harvey Specter.

Well that’s not entirely true; he’s been the love of my life for 3-4 years now, for being the lead legal genius on the TV show Suits.

He struts around in his tailored Tom Ford three piece, his perfectly in-place quaffed back hairstyle, his “I don’t give a shit attitude” but with the brains and the beauty to back it up – this dude has it down.

He lives alone in his glass-fronted Manhattan apartment, jumping in limos and making millions of pounds in multinational legal issues. Boom.

(On a side note, it’s on Netflix. So go watch it. Now.)

Series 5 has just come out and of course I’m streaming it from America. It carries the same thread – Harvey and his sexiness solving cases all over New York, with bucket loads of charm and suave sophistication at the same time.

But what’s really striking me about this season is one of the main story lines focused around my new future Mr Becky.

“It’s not bragging if it’s true.”

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Not All Heroes Wear Capes

Panic not – this isn’t a blog about my infinite love of Thor. Although he is the best hero around. Dur.

mr n squareWhen we’re growing up, we’re always encouraged to find a ‘role model’. For some reason, apparently Wayne Rooney was a big role model of my generation, as were the wealth of scantily clad popstars with no bras. I do see what the tabloids are always saying; that the pop culture figures could be a bad influence to young, impressionable fools like us. But I have grown up with a selection of people that I would class as my ‘role models’. People to aspire to. People to look up to.

Some of them are predictable – Fearne Cotton for her amazing career and awesome life aspirations. Victoria Beckham for raising a beautifully well rounded family without the drama that most WAGs put themselves through, and creating a worldwide fashion career from a below-par singing job. Hayley Williams from Paramore for simply owning her orange hair and becoming an indie sex symbol in the process.

And then some are a little more personal.

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Comparison is the Thief of Joy

I really need to learn to stop comparing myself to others.

comparison2Everyone posts their happiest and most amazing photos for everyone to see. I do exactly the same thing so I don’t know why this surprises me. Every photo is edited and filtered and changed to make us look the prettiest, the funniest, like we’re living the best life imaginable, surrounded by friends and cocktails, and to give everyone the impression that we really are “living the dream.”

I know it’s silly and I know it’s skewed and I know it’s the whole “don’t compare your outtakes to someone else’s highlight reel”, which is oh so true and oh so accurate, but on the days when I’m not living my own highlight reel, I can’t help but be envious of others.

Not just in a FOMO kind of way – I do enough cool stuff that my days are full of excitement without having to drag myself to yet another sleaze bar and indulge in more expensive drinks.

But I just wonder about me. More than I should. Which is annoying, because for the first time in 21 years, I’m actually super duper happy with myself. My hair looks amazing, I’m slim enough to fit in a size 12 skinny jean, I have disposable income to treat myself to awesome days out and a killer job that will allow me to rule the world by the time I’m 30 – but compared to the rest of the world, sometimes that’s still not enough.

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Without Life’s Ups and Downs, You’re Dead


By the way… Happy Birthday to Rebecca!

Big cheers all round! This month marked a year of Rebecca When I’m Posh! Thank you to all my thousands of readers and the tweets, favourites and shares that I’ve been given across the web.

And gosh, what a year it’s been. Having my blog has already allowed to write for two huge online magazines, Elite Daily and the Huffington Post, as well as getting a permanent job on a glossy local magazine. It’s also given me the chance to vent about things that piss me me off, discuss things that I’m passionate about, and share some things that I’ve learnt. I’ve honed my writing style and learnt about SEO and crap like that. Not bad for sitting in my room in my pyjamas and rambling on the internet.

I’ve had some wonderful times over the past year, most of which featured in my reverse-bucket list the other week.

But I wanted to take a moment to discuss the not so great days of the past year.

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Promoting What You Love

I suddenly realised that I’ve been being posh ol’ Rebecca for nearly a whole year now. Mini whoop!

promote_what_you_love_instead_of_bashing_what_you_hate-238705My life is unrecognisable from this point last year. I’ve met new people, I’ve seen new places, I’ve experienced some of the greatest things on earth. Which is totally cheesy but I’ve genuinely done quite a lot of cool stuff. I’ve written lists and made goals and really embraced the “Get Up And Get Shit Done” approach to life. And it totally paid off.

And yet, I still find reason to complain. It’s human nature to slag off what we hate instead of praising what we love, but when I go for drinks with my girlies and we’ve had a few glasses of wine, the bitching and whinging and in-depth analysis of everything bad that’s ever happened to us comes out. It’s always easier to remember the bad things than it is to appreciate the good stuff.

So here is my Reverse Bucket List. Things I’m thankful for. Things I appreciate. Not just from the last 12 months, but the list of amazing things I’ve done and totally forgotten about and need to appreciate a lot more. If you’re one of my old friends reading this and realising I’ve missed something totally important and awesome, please add it to the comments – the more awesomeness the better.

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Dear Future Husband…

Brooke Nipar/Courtesy of Epic Records

Brooke Nipar/Courtesy of Epic Records

Pop superstar and controversial singing queen Meghan Trainor has just released her new single, ‘Dear Future Husband’, which is already topped to hit the Top 40 of the British single charts. After a string of already edgy chart successes, talking about men’s hatred of skinny bitches and men’s love of lying, so now she’s taking things into her own hands by telling her men exactly how she wants them to behave instead.

During her latest pop classic, she tells her man to “Take me on a date, I deserve it babe, and don’t forget the flowers every anniversary,” as well as the very real confession that chivalry will always help boost success in the bedroom department.

While I can already sense that this is going to erupt in feminist outrage, demanding that women can have whatever they want and shouldn’t need no men to open doors for us in the first place, (which, for the record, I one million percent agree with and stand for), I can’t help but preach Miss T for an amazing and totally justified approach at tackling the charts.

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