Hello. My name is Helen, and I am an over-sharer. To put it in technical terms, I suffer from Awkward Sharer Syndrome (ASS). Yes, I am the person at the party who misjudges the flow of the conversation, and tells an embarrassing story that creates a fog of discomfort, silencing the room. 

I should see it as a gift, really. As a comedian, it's my job to make people laugh with stories of my humiliation and failure. But sometimes I forget that I am not on stage, and people don't want to hear about the time I fanny-farted in a yoga class. Especially when I just met them 90 seconds ago in the queue at Sainsbury's.

My ASS can flare up at any time. Just the other day, I was chatting to a teacher at school about the importance of teaching my son to get his P.E. kit on by himself. She explained that trying to single-handedly get 30 four year-olds dressed was proving difficult.

Most people would smile and nod sympathetically at this, and that's what I did. But because of my ASS, I then added, "Oh God, you poor darling, what a FUCKING NIGHTMARE!" This was followed with a huge laugh that died away as I noticed all the other kids and parents staring at me, and the teacher looking horrified. Damn you, ASS.

It's never my goal to create a weird atmosphere, or to scar people forever. It's like a strange compulsion, one I've learned I just have to live with, and possibly turn into a career. I live life on the rollercoaster of shame - it may be bumpy, it may induce nausea, but it's never dull.

So if you feel like spicing up your life with a bit of ASS, here is my seven-step programme for over-sharing.

Step One: Have a normal conversation with a human.

Step Two: Enjoy the conversation. Maybe even make the person laugh.

Step Three: Get too confident. Make a reference to something stupidly awkward, e.g. sex, bowel movements, or youthful drug taking. Other options include totally misjudging the other person's political bias, and excessive swearing.  

Step Four: Soak up the awkward silence as the other human stares at the ground in horror.

Step Five: Laugh weirdly and blush. Exit.

Step Six: Be wracked with shame. Lose sleep. Find yourself literally shuddering every time the incident comes to mind, which happens about 18 times a day.  

Step Seven: Repeat for the rest of your life, until you actually die of embarrassment.

BONUS POINTS: Write a blog about it, so the whole internet knows about your ASS problem. Cheers! 

A new episode of The Scummy Mummies Podcast is released every fortnight - listen free via scummymummies.com or  iTunes. We're on Facebook and Twitter - @scummymummies. 

Guest blogger, podcast regular and stay-at-home dad Steve Hill writes:

A long time ago in a village far, far away, a young boy really wanted to see Star Wars. He was the only child at school not to have seen it, and as such faced constant ridicule from his peers. So it was with some relief that he finally persuaded his father to take him to the local picture house for the big event. 

However, he was horrified to discover that Star Wars was not being shown, but had been replaced by a bingo night, a fatal mix-up that would heap more derision upon him, and tarnish his relationship with the film forever.

That boy grew up to be an embittered journalist (and popular podcast guest) who once attended a party with Luke Skywalker, and watched him awkwardly eat a meat platter. 20 years after the bingo fiasco, by way of misplaced redemption, he took his father to see the remastered film - the key differences being it was actually on, and he was doing sniff on his own in the bogs beforehand.

Nowadays, Star Wars has become so ingrained in popular culture that watching it with your children for the first time is a cherished rite of passage. The experience is particularly intensified by the whole father/son narrative, so I was looking forward to one day sitting down with my own young Padawan (not his real name), and watching the wonder fill his innocent heart. Sadly, this privilege was stolen from me at a fourth birthday party in south-east London when I discovered my son bathed in the glow of a 50" TV, caked in popcorn, gleefully giggling at the robot dumpster scene with a number of other children, many of them in a state of undress.

I'm not sure what I had planned, but it definitely wasn't this. Whisking him into the car, I attempted to erase his memory with a Jedi mind trick, but the damage was done. As the saying goes, you can't put toothpaste back in the tube (God only knows, I've tried.) The incessant pestering began immediately, and eventually I had to dust off the box set and do it properly, plastic "light-saver" in hand, cut-price Skywalker figurine perched dead-eyed on the coffee table. Naturally, the boy fell asleep before the end - it's a long, boring film.

Carelessly, on the second viewing, I forgot to divert his attention from the incongruous close-up of the scorched remains of Luke's Aunt and Uncle.

"What's that?" he asked, quizzically.

"It's the only family he's ever known, charred beyond recognition by the forces of evil," I didn't reply.

The Empire Strikes Back swiftly followed, and the key moment of the entire trilogy passed without comment. In fact, I had to pause the DVD and explain [SPOILER] that Darth cocking Vader is Luke's cocking Dad. 

"How odd," the boy replied, understandably.

The Return of the Jedi (aka "Turn of the Jedix") is now established as a firm favourite. I recently discovered him in his room watching the entire thing on YouTube, only emerging to inform me: "Luke said 'I know you still have good in your heart' but Darth Vader was still cross," and that, "Queen Lillipos has got some of the force, but not as much as Darth Vader." 

Further analysis continues on a daily basis, and the main issue seems to be why Vader joined the dark side. Current theories include, "Maybe because they had more people and a bigger ship," and, "Because he put the mask on." 

The boy has also shrewdly interpreted the subtleties of the film's title: "I know why it's called Star Wars - because there's stars and wars." Mark Kermode, eat your heart out.

For obvious reasons, I won't have the prequels in the house. Their existence is currently a well-kept secret, although now school has started it can be only a matter of time before some little scrote spills the beans and I am subjected to that fresh hell. The boy is aware of "the Christmas one," presumably referring to the forthcoming Episode VII as opposed to the much-maligned 1978 Holiday Special. 

By his own admission, he "can't stop thinking about Star Wars," and apropos of nothing will shout from the back of the car such insights as: "We thought Darth Vader killed Luke's father, but he was Luke's father." And of course there are the spontaneous bursts of song: "Star Wars, wonderful Star Wars, der der der der…"

It's becoming an obsession, and frankly it's exhausting. On the up side, one press of a remote control buys several hours of low-level parenting: I Am Your Father, and I'm pissing off upstairs for a long bath while you watch this guff again. 

Plus, it has set a new benchmark for paternal affection. The other day, in a rare moment of clarity, the boy turned to me and said, "Daddy, I love you more than Star Wars." Bingo...

A new episode of The Scummy Mummies Podcast is released every fortnight - listen free via scummymummies.com or  iTunes. We're on Facebook and Twitter - @scummymummies. 

The Scummy Mummies' sons started school this week. It's all new for Ellie, who has some clear ideas about how she will manage the whole thing. But having done it before with her eldest child, Helen is here to provide a reality check...