How Much Is That Bloggie In The Window?

Recently, Isaac has started asking if we can get a pet.

I have tried to argue that he is very much our family pet already (more so than a human child, in fact, since he prefers eating off the floor, has strange sleeping patterns, and leaves hair everywhere), but he is having none of it, and desperately wants us to add an actual animal to our family unit.

While we have not yet made any firm decisions either way, there has been some debate between us as to what kind of animal we should get if we decide to cave in to his demands – and, as far as I am concerned, pet owners (in the UK at least), tend to fall into one of two main categories: dog lovers or cat lovers.

Of course, there are exceptions. Some people, who like their pets to be as dull and low maintenance as possible, keep fish. Others, who prefer something smaller, fluffier and more restrained than a cat or dog, focus solely on the rabbit/hamster/guinea pig section of the pet store (but this tends to be a habit most of us grow out of once we reach adulthood, and no longer crave things which are ‘cute’).

Then, finally, there are those people who are more than content to remain single for the rest of their lives, so they buy themselves a snake or tarantula. These people are not to be trusted under any circumstances, and should be regarded in much the same way as those who enjoy cricket, or have more than three children.

Anyway, the majority of pet owners tend to be either ‘dog people’ or ‘cat people’, and whilst you may very well enjoy the company of both, you will always have a preference – meaning ownership is generally restricted to one or the other. This is partly because the two are very different animals, which suit vastly opposing lifestyles, but mainly it is due to the fact that, if we have learned anything from the cartoons, it is that cohabiting cats and dogs will invariably end up clawing the living shit out of each other (then, after each battle, the cat will walk away unscathed like nothing happened, while the dog will lie dazed on the floor with little birdies tweeting around his head).

Anyway, I already have two children, so I have no need for further violent skirmishes around the house, thank you very much, and that means any future pet ownership will need to be restricted to either a cat or a dog, not both. And, before we go any further, I will make one thing perfectly clear: I have always been a dog person.

Growing up, my Mum bought the family a little Yorkshire Terrier, a breed she had always been fond of, and, even though in hindsight he could be a right little twat at times (indeed, from recollection, his pedigree name might very well have been colossus bellendium, despite the fact that sounds like a spell from an adults-only version of Harry Potter), at the time we loved him dearly.

Then, once my wife and I were married, but prior to having children, we decided to test whether we could be responsible parents by getting a dog first, and having suffered a number of setbacks via a local rehousing charity (one couple changed their minds about giving up their dog, and another was sadly run over and killed before we could meet him), ‘Bexley’ entered our lives.

In short, ‘Becks’ (as he was originally named) was a mongrel of questionable parentage, but there was definitely a mix of Labrador and Retriever swimming around his DNA, and once we had decided to change his name to ‘Bexley’ (on account of the fact the family having to re-home him – due to emigrating – all turned up at our house wearing Manchester United shirts, and I flatly refused to have a dog named after the then United star, David Beckham), he quickly became a cherished member of our family.

He was energetic, friendly and adorably clumsy in equal measure, and everyone who met him instantly loved him. It broke my heart the day he was put to sleep, and I do not mind admitting I sobbed like a little child holding him in my arms at the vets that day. I’m filling up even now just recalling how horrible it was to say goodbye, despite it being a few years ago, but he had a good life with us and lived to the ripe old age of sixteen, which is good going for a dog of his size.

So, despite being attacked by an Alsatian when I was younger, I have always been firmly entrenched in the ‘dog’ camp, and this is for four very good reasons:

1. Dogs are (generally) lovable, loyal, and fun to have around, and they are always pleased to see you. Cats, on the other hand, spend most of their time scratching viciously, and literally don’t give a shit about you or anything you do. They aren’t even grateful when you feed them (compared to dogs, who wag their adorable little tails to show their appreciation), and, if you don’t tend to their every whim promptly enough, they simply fuck off and live with someone else. Cats have no loyalty whatsoever.
2. I despise losing stuff that I have paid for, so I could never own a cat knowing the chances are it would be likely to disappear at any given moment (if the local Facebook posts are anything to go by, a cat goes missing in Sandbach every fourteen seconds). I’m pissed off enough when we lose the TV remote, so imagine how irate I would be losing an actual pet I had devoted my time to.
3. While I would argue that dogs are usually more adorable (both in terms of their appearance and bumbling thick-as-shit attitude to life), it always seems to be the ‘cat people’ who use phrases like ‘fur baby’ and ‘forever home’. Apologies, but I could never mix with people like that.
4. You can never blame a fart on a cat.

In fact, so far as I can tell, there has only ever been one advantage to cats as a species – they occasionally dispose of a pigeon or two, and pigeons happen to be one of the only animals I dislike more than cats.

I will, however, qualify my disapproval of cats with two exceptions:

Firstly, I have always been fascinated by ‘big cats’ (by which, I don’t mean the fat lazy kind, but rather the wild animal variety), and the highlight of any trip to Chester Zoo is seeing the lions, tigers, jaguars and cheetahs. In fact, if pushed, I would say my favourite animal of all time would be the cheetah, because, like me, they are sleek, fast, and can only run for around a minute before they need to take a lengthy nap. Well, at least I used to consider myself to be like a cheetah, but then lockdown happened, and nowadays I would find myself far more at home in the rhino enclosure (slow, cumbersome, and horny).

Secondly, we appear to have involuntarily ‘adopted’ a cat called Daisy, and I’m rather fond of her. Well, I say adopted, but we had no part in the decision, as she has essentially taken it upon herself to start living in the hedge in our front garden (see previous comment about cats doing whatever the fuck they want). I’m sure she goes home to her actual owners occasionally, but, most of the time, as soon as I set foot outside our front door, there she is to greet me. And, so help me, she’s adorable.

While not possessing the tail-wagging capabilities of a dog, Daisy always seems pleased to see me, immediately comes over for a fuss (despite the fact we have never fed her), and has not once tried to claw my eyes out – like every other cat I have had the misfortune to meet. Daisy may take the form of a cat, but she possesses the heart of a dog.

I should also stress, we only know her name is Daisy because someone near to where we live posted on Facebook a few months ago that they would like whoever is feeding her to please stop (it wasn’t us), and the picture was definitely her, since we had noticed her around the street for some time. Until that point, we had simply referred to her as ‘slutty cat’, because she didn’t seem to care where the attention came from, so long as she was being admired. See, I told you she’s like a dog.

I even made up an entirely original song for her:

Slutty cat, slutty cat, why are you such a slut?*

*any similarity to a song performed by the character Phoebe in ‘Friends’ is entirely coincidental.

However, even though I am now rather fond of Daisy, I know she is not ours and, more importantly, I know that if we ever bought a cat of our own we would almost certainly get one of the ‘total git’ variety, rather than one like her.

So, if my wife and I do ever succumb to Isaac’s pleas for a pet, we will be getting another dog (although not a puppy, we’re not that stupid), and I think I’m nearly ready to consider doing so, after years of mourning the loss of my dear old friend Bexley.

Until then, we still have Isaac, who is occasionally rather adorable himself.

Thanks for reading x

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Blog Geldof

“It’s Christmas time, there’s no every need to be afraid.”

Happy New Year, everyone. I hope you all had a great Christmas, with much love and laughter.

Before the joyous memories of yet another festive period fade into the utterly bleak shitness that is January, and while fans of my Facebook page might have seen some of what follows already, here are my fifteen festive highlights from Christmas 2019:

1. ‘Northern Christmas Eve’

Like many couples who have young children, every year we face the challenge of dividing our time between visiting my family in Cheshire, and my wife’s family in Norfolk. What we tend to do is alternate ‘Actual Christmas’, so the boys get to spend 25^th December with my family one year, then my wife’s family the next.

This year, it was the turn of the latter, which meant we celebrated ‘Northern Christmas’ on Sunday 22^nd December (it’s exactly the same as Actual Christmas, only we have roast whippet for dinner instead of turkey*) and, thankfully – despite his hectic schedule – we managed to persuade Father Christmas to do a dummy-run to my mum’s house a few days before the main event.

*joke.

As a result, the boys eagerly placed their sacks in front of the fireplace before going to bed on 21^st December, and awoke the next morning to bundles of presents. Well done, FC, you fucking nailed it, mate.

Just look at those little faces.

2. Vomiting Gnomes

Following Northern Christmas, we returned to Sandbach on Monday 23^rd December, to spend one night at home before heading to Norwich for Actual Christmas / ‘Norfolk Christmas’ (Norfolk Christmas is exactly the same as Actual Christmas, only with funny accents and incest*).

*another joke.

Prior to our long journey on Christmas Eve (Actual Christmas Eve, not Northern Christmas Eve – stop me if this gets confusing), I decided to treat my car to new tyres (for safety, as the front two were looking particularly battle-worn, a bit like some of my pants) and a wash (because it was covered in shit both inside and out, which is not like some of my pants).

While Kanye was having his well-earned clean (I like to name my cars, and my current motor is ‘Kanye the Kuga’, because he’s big and angry-looking, like his namesake), Isaac decided to put on the ‘Schmebulock’ mask he had received from Father Christmas the day before. For those of you who have never watched Gravity Falls (which, for a kids’ show, is actually very watchable), Schmebulock is a gnome who vomits rainbows. Obvs.

Unfortunately, it seems the delightful Albanian lady who was tasked with cleaning the insides of Kanye’s doors has never seen Gravity Falls (I suspect the humour doesn’t translate well), and when she opened Isaac’s door to be greeted by a goblin puking multi-coloured fabric, it would be safe to say she damn-near shit herself.

Hilariously, however, once she had composed herself, she mistakenly assumed he was dressed as Father Christmas, and very sweetly asked in broken English: ‘Do you have a present for me, Santa?’

To which Isaac rudely growled ‘I am NOT Santa! I am Schmebulock, the rainbow-vomiting gnome!’

In other news, I need to find another car wash from now on.

3. Colour-blind Violence

Continuing with my youngest son, and his penchant for being a bit of a twat (although, so help me, how little material would I have without him?), when returning from the car wash, Ollie suddenly howled in pain, after which the following conversation ensued between us:

“Ow!”

“What’s up, Ol?”

“Isaac punched me!”

“Isaac, why did you punch Ollie?”

“I saw a yellow car!”

“Where?”

“Well, it was yellow-ish.”

“What colour was it?”

“Red.”

4. Ruminant Bathing

When you arrive at the in-laws, and there’s a large, stuffed giraffe in the downstairs bathroom (wearing shades)…

5. Glitter Warfare

… not to mention a strategically placed Christmas decoration, which is only ever likely to injure (blind) the one person in the family who is over 6’ tall:

I didn’t take this personally.

6. While Shepherds Groped Their Flocks

At (Actual) Christmas Eve Mass, my wife wanted to get a nice photo of the boys in front of the church nativity scene. Naturally, Ollie tried to smile sweetly, while Isaac gravitated at alarming speed towards the nearest ovine rectum:

7. Record-breaking parkrun

On Christmas morning, I braved the cold to take part in a special festive Norwich parkrun. And, not only did they smash the attendance record for Norwich (over 1,350 runners, compared to last year’s 800-odd), but it was officially recognised as the second-highest attendance at a UK parkrun ever.

Needless to say, the date/occasion brought out the very weirdest in people (even aside from the fact they were voluntarily running on Christmas morning, and mostly live in and around Norwich):

8. Fruit Farming

Isaac is astonishingly naive about where food and drink originates from:

“Mummy, what animal does blackcurrant come from? It is a pig?”

9. Making Your Mind Up

When your Mother-in-Law asks if anyone would like some Bucks Fizz, you make a joke about her whipping her skirt off, but she doesn’t get the Eurovision reference and thinks you’re asking her to get undressed.

10. Ollie’s Good Deed

Nothing funny here, but it was certainly a highlight.

Over Christmas, Ollie accompanied my in-laws onto the cold streets of Norwich to help feed the homeless. He enjoyed making hot drinks and doing something worthwhile, but (as hoped), it really drummed home how unfortunate some people are, how lonely they can be at Christmas, and how lucky he is to have a family and home around him.

We were immensely proud of him.

11. A Slip Of The Tongue(s)

I suspect my in-laws may not thank me for the following two paragraphs, but they really made me laugh.

Firstly, at one point over Christmas, my mother-in-law (who I love dearly, and I’m not only saying that because she will read this), clearly intended to describe someone as either ‘mardy’, or ‘whingy’, only she got mixed up and called them a ‘minge’.

Meanwhile, I don’t know whether I missed my father-in-law informing everyone that they had both been woken in the early hours by four of their six grandchildren wriggling around the bed, but the first I knew was him saying: ‘Honestly, I was like a maggot when I got up this morning.’

Well, we’ve all been there.

12. Isaac’s Further Education

I suspect Isaac ever attending University may well be a pipe dream (and I don’t say that purely on the basis he thinks blackcurrants come from pigs, although it doesn’t help his case), but on a family walk between Christmas and New Year, we happened to pass the University of East Anglia, and he asked me what the funny-shaped building was.

Having explained what a University is, and that this is where Mummy and Daddy met, I asked Isaac what subjects he thought Mummy and Daddy had studied.

“Dunno.”

“What does Daddy do for a job?”

“Lawyer?”

“Right. So, Daddy studied….?”

“Boring stuff.”

“Close enough. And what does Mummy teach?”

“Boys!”

I then asked Isaac what he might study if he went to university, and he looked confused. In an attempt to help him, I queried what his favourite subject is at school.

“Lunch!”

I wouldn’t mind, but he never eats anything.

13. Happy Families

Once my brother-in-law and his family arrived after Actual Christmas, there was a day when all six grandchildren on my wife’s side were together, and they began playing ‘Mums and Dads’ upstairs. Being the two eldest, Ollie and his first girl cousin were Dad and Mum (Isaac later informed me that Ollie was called ‘Bob’ for some reason), and the others took varying roles for the rest of the family.

Naturally, not being one to conform to usual stereotypes, Isaac decided he did not want to play a child, and instead dressed as the family dog:

After a while, ‘Dad’ was reading a bedtime story to their daughter (Grandchild #5), and proudly exclaimed she had ‘gone to sleep’, which panicked me as I was nearby and was under the impression a mid-afternoon nap might, for want of a better phrase, ‘fuck with bedtime’, so I asked Ollie to check his cousin hadn’t actually nodded off. Isaac then took it upon himself to explain:

“No, Daddy, it’s just a game! Ollie is the Dad, then there’s Mum, the children and their pet dog!”

Then, as if I needed clarification – bearing in mind his outfit – he leaned toward me and whispered: “I’m the dog.”

14. Life’s a Beach

On New Year’s Eve, we had a family outing to the beach.

On arrival, Ollie sat himself down in the cold sand to write some emo prose about the crashing waves, while Isaac busied himself ensuring not an inch of his body remained sand-free by the end of the day.

Eventually, the boys did play together and, along with one of their cousins, built an impressive sand fortress – complete with moat.

Of course, having spent an hour or so playing ‘normally’, Isaac then decided to create a separate ‘seaweed castle’ by himself.

And, when Ollie suggested they could use that seaweed in the moat, because ‘it will look like water’, Isaac – in typical fashion – responded with: ‘no, it’ll look like seaweed’.

15. Addressing the Elephant in the Room Photo

Finally, to end the day (and, indeed, the year), we took the children to a nearby park, where my sister-in-law noticed Isaac and his cousin playing beautifully together on the see-saw. However, when she tried to take a photo of the moment, I ruined it by getting myself stuck in a springy-elephant in the background.

***

Well, that was Christmas 2019 in the Middle-Raged Dad household.

Thanks for reading x

Another Blog In The Wall

On Tuesday, I attended Parents’ Evening at our boys’ school.

Now, you might think this is not a particularly big deal (and certainly nothing worthy of a blog entry), since dozens of parents were there, and no doubt many of you with children have attended parents’ evenings yourselves in the past – if not already this academic year – so my ‘achievement’ is certainly nothing special.

However, please bear in mind the following:

1. My wife was away on a school trip for the first part of the week (she is a teacher herself), so I was attending parents’ evening alone for the first time;
2. Because my wife has been a teacher for many, many years (while still looking as young as the day I married her*), she usually does all the talking at parents’ evening, since she knows what to ask – and, more importantly, what not to ask;

which leads me to….

3. I am often uncomfortable in situations where it would be wholly inappropriate to default to my defence mechanism of trying to be funny, so I will usually panic… and then default to my defence mechanism of trying to be funny.

*well recovered, that man.

My naivety when it came to attending parents’ evening alone was apparent well before the event itself, as I received an e-mail a couple of weeks ago confirming the online booking system was open, and since my wife had warned me to reserve the appointments quickly before all the best slots went, I went immediately to the site to ensure I had my pick. After all, the earliest I could get to school would be 5.30pm, and the last appointments were around 6.15pm, so with two sets of teachers to meet, I had little room to manoeuvre.

Fortunately, there were plenty of slots within my window of availability, so I initially selected 5.45pm to speak with Isaac’s teacher, and 5.55pm for Ollie’s. I then panicked, however, that this would cause issues with collecting Ollie from football training (which was due to finish at 6pm), so I cancelled those and moved everything slightly earlier to 5.40pm and 5.50pm.

Such is my indecisiveness, however, and the fact that I was under strict instructions not to fuck this up,  I decided that the earlier appointments probably made little difference, and perhaps it might be best if Ollie missed football training this week. I could then take both boys with me, and Ollie could (hopefully) make sure Isaac behaved while I was meeting their teachers. I therefore cancelled the re-arranged appointments, and re-re-arranged them back to 5.45pm and 5.55pm.

Naturally, I then doubted this decision, and having questioned why I would leave the appointments so late, particularly now that football training was no longer a factor, and I could potentially be home in time for Eggheads, I re-re-re-arranged the appointments back to 5.40pm and 5.50pm.

It was only when I logged in to my e-mail account later that day, I realised I had received messages every time I had changed my mind, so my inbox looked like this:

19/09/2019      13:15     Parents Evening – Appointments Booked

19/09/2019    13:16   Parents Evening – Appointments Cancelled

19/09/2019      13:16      Parents Evening – Appointments Booked

19/09/2019   13:17    Parents Evening – Appointments Cancelled (again)

19/09/2019    13:17     Parents Evening – Appointments Booked. You sure this time?

19/09/2019   13:17   Parents Evening – Appointments Cancelled (What the fuck is the matter with you?)

19/09/2019     13:18    Parents Evening – Appointments Booked. Cancel them again, and we’ll block you from our system, you indecisive prick.

Ok, the latter e-mails didn’t exactly say that, but I had to pray the system was fully-automated, and the school would not discover how much I had messed around and changed my mind, because the office staff would then surely mark me down as some kind of moron for future administrative challenges.

The main thing was, the appointments were reserved, as I proudly informed my wife over dinner that evening (omitting to mention the many e-mail exchanges I had triggered via the online system). My bravado was, however, short-lived.

“What times did you go for?”

“5.40 for Isaac, and 5.50 for Ollie.”

“What?! Why have you only left five minutes between them?”

“Because I don’t want to be hanging around, and can be home by 6pm.”

“Why do you need to be home by 6pm?”

[whispers] “Eggheads.”

“What?”

“I thought Ollie might go to training, so I’d need to pick him up.”

“No, you’ll never get there in time, because the teachers are always running late, so now not only will you have to tell Ollie he can’t go to training, but you’ll miss the second appointment because you’ll still be waiting for Isaac’s teacher, and that means you’ll then have to wait until the end of the night to see Ollie’s teachers.”

“Sorry.”

“Idiot.”

Once my wife had calmed down (which was a full week later), I asked her for some pointers on the questions I should ask while at the appointments, because I had only managed the following list:

Questions To Ask At Parents’ Evening

Isaac

1. Is he this much of a prick at school?
2. Has he hit anyone?
3. Could you have a word with the catering staff, and tell them to stop giving him ketchup, baked beans, or tomato soup, as it’s costing us a fucking fortune in white polo shirts?

Ollie

1. Does he ever shut up?
2. He claims he hasn’t been in trouble for talking since he started back in September, and I’ve warned him that, if he has lied to me, and has been in detention just once, I’m going to properly bollock him. So?
3. Could we possibly speed this up? Eggheads starts at 6.

Needless to say, my wife was less than impressed with the list I had prepared, so she gave me a few genuine issues we wanted addressing; and, as I walked to the school on Tuesday evening, I received the same piece of advice from her via WhatsApp that I give to both boys daily when I drop them off at their respective classrooms:

Don’t fuck this up

As I arrived through the gates, and collected Isaac from his after-school club (Ollie had gone to football training in the end, since the mum of one of his teammates had kindly offered to give him a lift both ways), I realised I had a few minutes until my first appointment in the ‘Infant Hall’, so we went to his classroom to have a look through his books (which the children always display, for parents to check what they have been working on).

Having made encouraging comments about how much his handwriting was progressing, and how wonderful the portrait of his friend was (I’m not sure which kid the portrait was of, but if it was a genuine likeness, the poor boy has not been blessed with good-looks), there was just enough time for him to show me where he sits on the carpet each day – and for me to feign interest in front of the puzzled parents around us – before it was time to return to the Hall for my appointment. I was, after all, determined to finish speaking to his teacher on time, in order to make the second meeting with Ollie’s teachers by 5.50pm, so I could boast to my wife later in the evening when she got back from her trip.

Sadly, as I played the future conversation with my wife over and over in my head (and each time it concluded with her apologising and admitting I had been right to book the slots I had – then offering ‘sexy time’ by way of apology), I neglected one crucial point:

I have never been right in our fifteen years of marriage

So, when Isaac’s teacher finished her current appointment at precisely 5.40pm, and I strode over to her table with all the arrogance and confidence of a man who was about to win his first ever marital dispute, I was shocked to notice a couple sit down before me. I then had to walk back to the ‘general seating’ in the middle of the hall, like a man who had just been rejected by a lady in a bar (a walk which, in my younger years before meeting my wife, I was all-too-familiar with).

Generic photo from Google

Not only that, but the rejection was repeated every few minutes, as one set of parents would leave, and I would rise from my seat, only to notice someone else sit down first. Needless to say, this meant the clock reached 5.50pm, and I was now late for my second appointment with Ollie’s teachers, so when I spotted a brief gap between parents who all had appointments before mine, I quickly explained to Isaac’s teacher that I would need to go to the Junior Hall and come back later. After all, I didn’t want to leave and then have her wondering where I was.

Thankfully, Ollie’s two teachers were on time, and I listened to what a superstar he is for a few minutes, fully aware that this was probably lulling me into a false sense of security before meeting Isaac’s teacher. I had booked the appointments in this order for a reason, as I wanted the bad news first. Sure, Ollie still chatters too much, but that’s only because he appears to be under the gross misunderstanding that his verbal diarrhoea is of universal interest, and his teachers have now learned to ‘tune him out like white noise’, so the feedback was generally very good.

One down, one to go.

It wasn’t long after I returned to the Infant Hall before it was my turn to meet Isaac’s teacher, and, fortunately, his feral behaviour at home still hasn’t made its way into the classroom. In short, he is apparently a joy to teach, and is actually quite shy and reserved in class (I did ask whether she’d mixed her notes up, and we were discussing the wrong child).

As with the first meeting, I chatted, made appropriate eye contact, smiled / looked interested at the right times, and, most pleasing of all, didn’t make any stupid jokes (to my knowledge). Both boys were performing well at school, and I was performing well at parents’ evening. The male contingent of our family was smashing it.

So, as the second appointment started to wind down, I allowed my mind to wander back to thoughts of bragging to my wife about how I had coped perfectly well without her. I was so close to not fucking this up, and could almost smell the sweet scent of victory.

It was only then, as I thanked Isaac’s teacher and stood up to leave, I noticed the hole in the crotch of my trousers.

So very close.

Blog To School

Last Tuesday, our boys returned to school – Ollie into Year 5 (which, for anyone unfamiliar with the English education system, is the penultimate year before leaving for Secondary School), and Isaac into Year 1 (which, for anyone unfamiliar with the English education system, is the point at which you no longer give a shit).

Look, when your kids start primary school in the ‘reception’ class, even the battle-hardened among us, who have been there before with elder siblings, have a few concerns (even if, unlike the first time around, we care considerably less); but by Year 1, most parents have lost interest altogether. So long as your child doesn’t set fire to anything, attack anyone, or use one of ‘Daddy’s Angry Words’ when addressing a teacher, there’s very little else which can go wrong.

Then again, most parents don’t have an Isaac.

As you may have gathered over the last few years of my blog, Isaac is not like ‘normal’ children. Admittedly, I would argue there is no such thing as a ‘normal’ child, and any so-called expert who says otherwise is a moron, but even allowing for some variation between kids, Isaac is uniquely odd. It’s one of the reasons we love him so.

As an example, Ollie recently tried to trick Isaac with the old ‘What do cows drink?’ conundrum (where the recipient is supposed to be fooled into answering ‘milk’ rather than ‘water’), but Isaac – having paused only briefly – shouted ‘Sausages!’

See what I mean?

Anyway, while we therefore had a few concerns about Isaac returning to school last week, the good news (for me) was that my wife will be doing the morning drop off on Mondays and Tuesdays this year, so the responsibility of escorting our youngest – and most untamed – child to his new teacher, was entirely hers.

As a side point, every single one of the teachers I have met at our boys’ school is delightful (which is, in itself, rather worrying, as I don’t think I could handle thirty little children every day without drinking heavily and calling at least one or two a ‘fucking dickhead’ every once in a while), and I always feel bad when a new teacher suddenly finds themselves responsible for either Ollie’s nerdiness, or Isaac’s brutal savagery.

I have genuinely contemplated leaving notes in the boys’ bags at the start of each academic year, along the lines of ‘Look, we’ve tried to be good parents, but somewhere along the line we clearly screwed up, and this is what we’re left with – sorry’ but my wife won’t let me. Besides, despite his demonic tendencies at home, Isaac appears to be the model pupil at school, so they never believe us when we say we have previously considered performing an exorcism.

Anyway, as my wife was responsible for the first school run on Tuesday, I gleefully trotted off to work nice and early, and made a mental note to check my phone shortly after 9am, just to make sure the rest of the family had survived the ordeal. Sure enough, when I checked at 9:05am, my wife had messaged to say both boys were safely within their respective classrooms – although it was Ollie who had surprisingly created the bigger issue, by insisting on taking in a large stack of ‘contracts’ he had drawn up for the football team he has created for his year group.

As I mentioned in last week’s blog, it is perfectly clear to all but Ollie that no one gives a shit about his stupid football team, but rather obliviously he has still recruited most of his year to take part – even allocating some of the non-footballers among his peers  either coaching or physio roles, and rather chauvinistically setting up a ‘ladies’ team for the girls (even though I could name quite a few who are better footballers than him).

Oh, and if this wasn’t nerdy enough, he also took his Rubik’s cube into school, too. Honestly, when I was at school, I was studious, skinny, wore big glasses, and seemed to have based my hair style on that of my mother, and even I would have picked on Ollie.

Still, he’ll realise in later life that geeks have better job prospects and attract nicer partners, so I’m sure it’ll work out for him in the long run.

Even better than the first drop-off going well, Isaac apparently came skipping out of class at the end of the day, saying he had enjoyed a ‘super, super time!’ (which was uncharacteristically camp for Isaac), and describing his new teacher, who we shall call ‘Miss X’, as a mixture between Miss Lovely from Horrid Henry, and Miss Honey from Matilda. Even if you are not familiar with either character, you can gauge their personality from the names they have been given. In short, Isaac seemed besotted with his new teacher.

(NB: Just to be clear, I am only referring to his new teacher as ‘Miss X’, because it would be inappropriate to use her real name. Her surname does not begin with X, and to my knowledge she is neither a Bond-villain, nor a dominatrix).

Anyway, much as I was relieved that the boys had enjoyed a good first day, I was still acutely aware that it was my turn to do the school run the following morning, and any success from the day before could easily be undone after a few minutes of Daddy being in charge.

As a result, I made a point of getting the boys ready for school extra early (pretending we had to leave the house in ‘FIVE MINUTES!’, when actually we had a comfortable fifteen before needing to depart), and we found ourselves in the ‘junior’ playground in good time – even accounting for the fact Isaac insisted on riding his new bike all the way, and the fact that Ollie was trying to prove he is grown-up enough to walk to school by himself, while simultaneously trying to cross the road in front of a car.

So far, so good.

Then, things took a bit of an awkward turn.

Having safely dropped Ollie off in the junior playground (and, when I say ‘dropped off’, I mean ‘shouted at to explain that I was leaving, and he should under no circumstances see that as a green light to start behaving like a twat’), Isaac and I headed around the school building to the infant playground, and stood outside his new classroom.

It was at this point that I started to ask Isaac about his new teacher, as she is not someone my wife and I have had previous dealings with (she has never taught Ollie), and with a name like ‘Miss X’, I was intrigued to meet her (no, wait, that’s not her real name).

More importantly, I needed to speak to her about the reading book Isaac had been given to start the year, as he was finding it quite tough. Ok, he’s not an enthusiastic reader at the best of times, but you find me one five-year-old who can happily flick their way through Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment (joke – it was actually The Canterbury Tales).

As we stood outside his classroom, next to a couple of mums who were chatting away to our right, I asked Isaac whether he wanted me to speak to Miss X about his book, or whether he would rather do it. Being naturally quite timid at school (in direct contrast to the Tasmanian Devil of hatred and violence he is at home), he asked if I would speak to her.

It was at this point I noticed the time was already 8:55am, which is when the children are usually taken into class, and since there was no sign of Miss X, I looked at Isaac and quipped, “well, if your teacher ever turns up, I’ll happily speak to her.” I may have also tutted while looking at my watch.

To my horror, one of the two ‘mums’ to our right then approached me and introduced herself. “Hello, I’m Miss X, can I help at all?”

Damn it.

Yes, I had been so preoccupied with ensuring our two boys made a good impression at the start of their new academic year, I had completely ignored the fact it was far more likely to be me who made a mess of things.

Fortunately, I think Miss X only overheard part of what I was saying about Isaac’s book, because if she did catch my harsh comment about her tardiness so early into the school year (which was particularly uncalled for, bearing in mind she was already outside her classroom well before I had arrived), then she did not let on. And, if she chose to ignore my rudeness and not react, then she is even lovelier than Isaac described.

After we had resolved the issue with the book, and she had moved towards the classroom door to start ushering children in, I quickly asked Isaac why he hadn’t warned me that was his teacher stood next to us.

“I thought you knew.”

“How would I know? I’ve never met her before!”

“Oh, yeah. Oops.”

I swear he did it deliberately….

Thanks for reading x

The Twiggles and The Bloggles

Before the boys went back to school on Tuesday, we decided to spend last week visiting my in-laws in Norfolk and, unlike our main summer holiday in Northumberland (which Mother Nature seemed hell-bent on fully submerging during our stay), we enjoyed a week of glorious sunshine.

While we were there, my in-laws treated the four of us to a day out at Norfolk’s premier forest-based adventure park, BeWILDerwood, which is essentially a woodland activity centre, filled with tree-houses, mazes, rope-swings, bridges, and slides.

When I discovered we would be spending a day with the boys at BeWILDerwood, it would be fair to say my reaction was somewhat mixed. On the one hand, I like adventure (some would say ‘Adventure’ is my middle name, but it’s not, it’s James), the activities looked like a lot of fun, and it meant I got to spend some quality time with my boys. On the other hand, while I do like adventure, I love napping more, and a day at BeWILDerwood also meant I had to spend some quality time with my boys.

Most importantly of all, however, was the fact that, following our recent glamping weekend in the New Forest, where I was bitten by every fucking insect known to man (and, for which, I am still suffering several weeks later), spending time in the woods was way down my list of priorities. In fact, as far as priorities go, it was somewhere near shaving my gentleman’s potatoes with a rusty hacksaw. Still, I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so off we went.

Having arrived nice and early, in order to beat the queues for the boat ride (which takes you from the main entrance to the park itself), we collected our wrist bands and managed to board the second boat of the day.

Here, we were greeted by our driver, ‘Riley’, who regaled us with tales of the ‘Boggles’ and ‘Twiggles’ supposedly living in the woods, pointing out the various tiny houses and communes which the owners of the park had constructed either side of the riverbank. It would be fair to say Riley was very theatrical, which the kids on the boat loved, but I found irritating within seconds. That said, his boat steering skills were second-to-none, and a few minutes down the river we were safely moored up at the main park.

Once we had gathered our bearings, as well as making a mental note of the various ‘story times’ for later in the day, the boys clambered around one of the smaller assault courses for a bit, completed the ‘sky maze’ (which we would have finished far sooner, had we not allowed Isaac to lead the way), and then set about doing some ‘den building’.

Ollie, naturally, had his own very precise methods of designing a camp purely from logs and sticks, which inevitably resulted in a den that made Boris Johnson look stable, while Isaac – in typical Isaac fashion – quietly went about his business on the opposite side of the forest clearing to his brother, and I think the results speak for themselves:

Ollie’s ‘den’

Isaac’s ‘den’

Having opted for an early lunch (again to beat the queues – which happens to be one of my favourite things to do on a day out), where Isaac spent more time crying than eating, because he only had three bags of crisps and wanted four, my wife then overheard the finest example of parenting we would encounter all day, as a frustrated father barked at his child “Look, I’ve paid forty quid for you to come and play here, so go and fucking play!” Lovely.

Continuing the theme of obnoxious families (as a general rule of thumb, if our kids are some of the best behaved in any given situation, the other parents need to take a long hard look at their own offspring), I then encountered the most revolting brat I have seen for some time, which bearing in mind I was playing with Isaac at the time, is really saying something.

As Isaac clambered up a sloped wall via the rope and footholds designed to assist a child’s ascent, a mouth-breathing little shit appeared at the top of the apparatus and shouted down at Isaac to “MOVE!” because he wanted to slide down the ramp the wrong way. Worse, as I politely pointed out that this perhaps wasn’t a very good / safe idea (in case his much larger father happened to be in the vicinity, ready to punch me for challenging his son), the kid snarled at me and slid down anyway, nearly knocking Isaac flying off the wall.

Grinning in my direction at his achievement, I satisfied myself that the boy’s parents were not in fact nearby, before growling at the kid “do that again, and I will break your fucking ankles, you little turd”, which seemed to go unnoticed, but certainly made me feel better.

Still, as he wandered off (no doubt in search of another child to pick on), I did notice he was singing Starship’s ‘We Built This City’, so although I still thought he was an obnoxious little shit, at least he was an obnoxious little shit with some taste in music (oh, shut up, it’s a classic and you know it).

After lunch, it was time to listen to a story about ‘The Boggles of BeWILDerwood’, ably narrated by frustrated drama student, James, and his team of puppeteers. In fairness to him, despite being highly irritating (which seemed to be a pre-requisite to work there), James had the crowd of children captivated for at least half an hour, and once he had finished, he invited them all back later in the afternoon for the ‘Bouncing Bubble Party Parade’. I had no idea what this meant, but I had a feeling it would not be my particular idea of fun.

In order to be suitably dressed for the occasion, the boys decided they wanted to visit the ‘create your own crown’ area, where children were ‘encouraged’ (albeit, not by their parents), to design a resplendent headdress for the afternoon’s procession out of a variety of brightly-coloured craft items.

Naturally, Ollie took great care to meticulously recreate the colours and badge of the ‘football team’ he has established at school (which he is adamant all of his classmates are obsessed with, even though it is perfectly clear to everyone bar him that nobody gives a flying shit), while Isaac attempted to stick as much tinsel and glitter to his headdress – and himself – as possible. Our children summed up in one arts and crafts activity, folks.

Having just arrived back to the storytelling area with seconds to spare, my wife and boys joined the Parade behind ‘Mildred the Crocklebog’, and gleefully marched around the woods for ten minutes, while I busied myself locating a bin to dispose of the soggy ice cream cone Isaac has insisted he would eat if we bought it for him.

‘Mildred’

By this point, the wee I had been needing for the past hour was reaching critical urgency (the pressure on my aging bladder had eased slightly when the boys and I went down a large slide a short while earlier, but I suspect that is only because the slide was very steep, and I cannot rule out some wee having leaked out mid-descent), so I decided that once the parade was over I would go in search of the toilet.

Naturally (and I could not be using the term more sarcastically), there only seemed to be two toilets in the entire park – which, bearing in mind it was a long walk between them, and kids tend to leave their decision that they need the toilet until the last possible second, seemed a little foolish* – and so it took me ages to find my way.

*although, I guess, the assumption must have been that since the entire park was woodland, at least the boys (and some men) would relieve themselves up – or behind – the nearest tree.

(NB: I found that image on Google, just in case you think I had either asked my wife to snap me taking a piss, or, worse, I had photographed a stranger myself).

My particular situation was not helped by the urgency with which I needed to urinate, mixed with increasing frustration that the little map of the park I had been given at the main entrance was about as useful as an inflatable dartboard, so I only just located the gents (and emptied my agonized bladder) seconds before I suspect I would have passed out through pain. Which, bearing in mind that would have almost certainly meant doing so inside the toilets, with ‘the beast’ partially, if not fully, released to the viewing public, it was an outcome I was pleased to avoid.

However, because I had half-jogged the latter stages of my dash to the toilets, in a frantic panic to reach them in time, I could not fully remember the way back to my wife and boys, and so I had to once more consult the useless map of pointlessly-named regions of the park.

Thankfully, having passed through the seven levels of the candy cane forest, through the sea of swirly-twirly gum drops, and finally through the Lincoln Tunnel….. no, wait, that’s a line from Elf. Still, it might as well have been like that, for all the use the fucking map made, and by the time I was eventually reunited with my family, it was almost time to visit the toilet again.

In fairness, though, we had a great day, and best of all I avoided being bitten by any more flesh-eating insects. And, ultimately, if you can go for a nice family day out and avoid being eaten alive, that has to be considered a win.

Thanks for reading x

 

Don’t Let The Bed Blogs Bite (Part III)

What follows, is the concluding chapter in a trilogy of blog entries about our recent glamping holiday in the New Forest. If you haven’t read the first two installments, then you had better catch up using the following links, and the rest of us will have to wait until you get back….

https://middlerageddad.com/2019/08/02/dont-let-the-bed-blogs-bite-part-i/

https://middlerageddad.com/2019/08/09/dont-let-the-bed-blogs-bite-part-ii/

Up to speed? Good. Let’s see how the trip concludes….

***

Sunday 28th July 2019

My decision to leave the containers of left-over Chinese takeaway next to the sink last night, rather than wash them up, turned out to be a bad idea. Not because we were suddenly infested with bugs and woodland creatures (even though, by all accounts, we were), but because I awoke this morning to my wife’s scowling face, which she usually reserves for those occasions when I’ve really fucked up.

“Why did you leave the takeaway containers next to the sink last night?”

“Erm, partly because I was tired and lazy, but mostly because I thought if any bugs came in, they might be tempted to eat the leftovers rather than my dangy bits.”

“Well, just so you know, I got up in the night to look for the bite cream, because I’ve been attacked again, and in the dark I accidentally put my hand on your sticky beef…… why are you sniggering?”

“You said you put your hand on my sticky beef.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

“I know.”

Following a quick breakfast (ate mostly in silence), I decided it was about time I braved the communal shower block – because, after two days of glamping, not to mention a beach visit on a hot summer’s day, I didn’t want to end up smelling worse than the farm animals just down the lane from our lodge.

Having gathered only the bare-essentials (shower gel, shampoo, towel, hairbrush, body butter, exfoliating cream, rape alarm), I headed off through the forest and down the country lane – bidding good morning to the goats, sheep and pigs as I passed.

When I arrived at the shower block, any relief I experienced at the discovery that there were two individual showers, both with locks on the doors (rather than, for example, a shed containing one of the owners armed with a hose and menacing grin), was overshadowed by the subsequent realisation that neither of the windows were frosted glass. This meant that anyone of my height or taller (or, indeed, any local pervert with a chair/ladder/trampoline at their disposal), could quite easily observe my ablutions.

Not to be dissuaded (I really needed a shower), I convinced myself that, if I faced the back wall of the cubicle at all times, then at worst it would only be my arse on view (or, heaven forbid, online), rather than the infinitely more-embarrassing prospect of my ‘gentleman’s sausage’ making it’s debut on http://www.glampingshowercam.co.uk (don’t click the link, I made it up – I hope).

Facing the back wall at all times posed a problem, however, as it transpired the shower only had two settings, which it fluctuated between regardless of whether I moved the dial or not: boiling hot or freezing cold. As a result, I spent more time spread-eagled against the wall like I was being hosed down in prison, trying to avoid having my skin frozen/burnt off, than I did actually washing myself.

***

Our plan for today was to take Isaac to Peppa Pig World, as he has been begging us to for ages, despite the fact he hasn’t watched the programme in years, and has actually been twice before (even though he claims he cannot remember either occasion). In fairness, our first visit was when he was only two months old, so I’ll allow him that particular memory-lapse, but the last time was only a couple of years ago.

Nevertheless, he thoroughly enjoyed himself, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen him as happy.

The weather was again glorious, which meant that, aside from going on all the rides, the boys also got to play in the water park for an hour to cool down – while I consumed not one, but two strawberry milkshakes from ‘Daddy Pig’s Big Tummy Café’. I don’t care if I looked manly or not (I almost certainly didn’t, as I never look manly anyway, so I doubt a large pink drink with a straw improved my ruggedness), I would genuinely consider moving down here for those bad boys.

As Isaac has no patience whatsoever, he immediately struggled with the concept of queuing for rides, and my wife had to distract him for the duration of each. On one particular ride, she challenged him to a game of ‘I spy’, but when she spotted ‘something beginning with F’, and Isaac looked towards an overweight lady and shouted ‘is it FAT?’, we decided to try silent queuing for a bit instead.

It was only as we approached lunch, and I started subconciously scratching my arm in a queue, I realised I have been bitten quite badly (presumably overnight), so any smugness/relief I had previously enjoyed at avoiding the insects in our lodge, was immediately replaced with genuine sympathy for my wife’s suffering thus far, together with even greater self-pity.

Before leaving, there was just enough time for us to try a few of the bigger rides in the main Paulton’s Park site and, unsurprisingly, Ollie was scared by most of them – whereas Isaac was utterly fearless (and now wants me to take him to Alton Towers so he can go on Nemesis).

By the time we arrived back at our lodge this evening, the bite on my arm had become unbearably itchy and sore, so I have covered it in cream (insect, not clotted or whipped) and I only hope it gets better by the morning.

(addendum: little did I know at the time, the bite would later become infected, necessitate a visit to hospital on the first night of our main holiday in Northumberland, and still be irritating the hell out of me as I typed up my diary notes nearly three weeks later).

I’m now so scared of being bitten again (I have this evening discovered two more on each arm, one on my shoulder, one on the back of my neck, and three on my throat – which means I’m not shaving any time soon), I just prolonged my pre-bed wee for far longer than would be medically advisable – to the point I developed stomach cramps.

When my wife questioned why I was doubled-up on the sofa, and I explained that I didn’t want to go to the toilet in case I was bitten on the unmentionables, she offered no sympathy whatsoever, and merely suggested that, not only would the offending insect need to have an incredible aim to strike such a small target (bitch), but the worst of the side-effects would be some mild swelling, and this doesn’t usually bother me in that particular region. Charming.

In the end, I did manage a quick visit to the toilet (when the urge/pain became unbearable), which I achieved while wafting my hands around in front of me to hopefully keep any hungry little critters away from the baby-maker (while being extra careful not to stray too close to the stream, lest I accidentally piss on my own hands). And, I now have to admit, urinating by candlelight does have one advantage: if I stood close to the lantern while ‘exposed’, the shadow I cast on the opposite wall was rather impressive to say the least. I looked like a fucking tripod.

Monday 29th July 2019

Well, I think (and I use the word with some hesitation), my wife and I avoided any further bites last night – presumably because we both wore trousers and jumpers to bed, which also had the added benefit of us losing about three stone in sweat – but the ones we do have are becoming unbearable.

We’re essentially now taking it in turns to berate each other for scratching, and I suspect – if it were not for the fact we are heading home today, and I have a lot of driving to do – we would genuinely consider taping oven gloves to our hands to prevent this (we get a lot of our ideas from Friends).

Having packed the car, I went to settle up with the ‘honesty shop’, and had the misfortune of bumping into Becky (real name, Vicky):

“Going home today?”

“Yes, just settling up, then we’ll be off.”

“Enjoyed your stay?” [asked with no sincerity]

“Loved every minute.” [replied, with similar insincerity, while scratching the most aggressive bite on my arm]

“Good. Just add up what you owe, and there’s an ‘honesty jar’, which you put in your money and take any change you need.”

“Oh, is that what ‘honesty jar’ means? I assumed you were after our darkest secrets. Good job I didn’t share that time I put on one of my wife’s dresses and insisted she call me ‘Susan’!”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

***

Well, we’re home, but we decided to detour via Stonehenge on the journey, as Ollie has wanted to visit for a while (he studied it at school, and obviously shares his mother’s love of history). Plus, I suppose as far henges go, it’s not bad.

As with most historical features in Britain (we have a few), the place was swarming with tourists when we arrived, and I was slightly (read: very) infuriated by the fact the queue for those with pre-booked tickets was actually longer than the queue for the disorganised chancers who had simply turned up on the day with no planning whatsoever. Look, if we don’t punish these people with long queues, how the fuck will they ever learn?

Then, on the bus ride from the ticket office (I don’t want to sound unimpressed or uncultured, but who would have thought a circle of rocks would be so popular that it requires a fucking bus transfer to get there from the car park?) I became intrigued by a conversation taking place next to me, between an American and a cockney:

American: “I hope we find out who discovered it.”

Cockney: “Discovered it?”

American: “You know, the person who found the rocks.”

Cockney: “They weren’t discovered, mate, it was built.”

American: “Built? You mean someone actually put the stones there?”

Cockney: “Of course it was built, mate, it’s a henge, innit?”

I don’t know who disappointed me more.

***

In summary, for a (mostly) free weekend away, we had a good time, but if you were to ask me if I would be dashing back to sleep outdoors in the New Forest any time soon, my answer would have to be a resounding ‘Hell no’.

Thanks for reading x

Spaghetti Blognese

My wife and I don’t always agree on everything – but one thing we do agree on, is that Italy is at the very top of our ‘countries we would both like to visit, that neither of us have ever been to’ list.

Say what you like about the Italians (unless you happen to be Prince Phillip, in which case you had better stay quiet), but there aren’t many things they do badly – except, perhaps, pop music, and choosing sides during a world war. They look good, they sound great, and most things they turn their perfectly bronzed hands to they excel at: food, art, cars, football, architecture, the making of the love*, riding a moped without a helmet…. as a nation they are just so damn sexy.

*this is an educated guess, as I have never slept with an Italian.

In fact, Ollie’s current topic at school is ‘Italy’ (which is actually the reason behind this week’s entry, but we’ll get to that in a bit), so I just asked him to name something the Italians are rubbish at, and the best he could come up with was ‘knowing when to run away from a volcano.’ I think that speaks volumes, really, don’t you? According to my nine-year-old, the last time the Italians were truly shit at something was a little under two thousand years ago (although, in fairness, we didn’t let him stay up for Eurovision this year). In contrast, I don’t think we Brits could last two thousand minutes without badly fucking up something. And we don’t have volcanoes to contend with.

Anyway, I don’t wish to appear uncultured, as I do appreciate Italian art and architecture to an extent (well, at least as far as my 1996 A-grade in GCSE Art will allow), but my two main reasons for desperately wanting to visit Italy are firstly to watch a Serie A football match (just don’t tell Ollie, as he’s been pestering me to take him to Juventus ever since we got back from Barcelona a couple of years ago) and, secondly, to eat their food. All their food.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Chinese and Thai food as much as the next man (assuming the next man really loves Chinese and Thai food), and given the choice of a meal out I would always opt for a curry; but Italian is the one cuisine where I could happily order most of the menu and not be disappointed. Apart from tiramisu. Tiramisu is shit.

Shit

Such is my admiration for Italy (and I say this without ever having visited, so I suppose the reality may disappoint, but I doubt it), around a decade ago I took a course of Italian evening classes to try to learn a bit of their language. I’m not sure what I hoped to achieve from this, as languages have never been my strong point, but the classes took place at my wife’s school (so they were not only convenient, but I got them for half price), and I suspect deep down I was just desperate to make myself a little sexier. And, yes, I know what you’re all thinking, ladies, ‘how on earth do you improve on that?’, but even Adonis-like specimens such as myself can strive to better themselves. Anyway, I promptly forgot everything I had learned within around a month of the course finishing, so the whole exercise was entirely fucking pointless.

Honestly, I can’t even remember how to count to ten in Italian now, and it frankly scares me how little I retained (particularly when this was pre-fatherhood, so there was no excuse for my brain turning to mush). Then again, over the course of twelve weeks, at no point did we ever cover ‘food and drink’, or ‘saying something sexy to make women go weak at the knees’, so arguably it was a waste of time anyway. Why would I ever visit Italy for a week or two, and need to ask someone when their birthday is, or the best way to the library? I can’t even count to ten in Italian, so what the fuck could I hope to achieve in one of their libraries?

Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, Ollie’s topic at school this term has been Italy (following on from Ancient Rome and Pompeii last term) and, to conclude their time in Year 4, on Wednesday the class created their own Italian cafe, so they could cook for their parents as a treat. How delightful (said with only a hint of sarcasm).

Having been split into small groups a couple of weeks ago, the children then set about creating their own menu (from an admittedly limited range of options suggested to them by the teachers), and Ollie’s group decided to serve margherita pizza, followed by panna cotta with strawberries. Ok, perhaps not my first choices from an Italian menu, but still perfectly acceptable, and I suspect the children were restricted by what the teachers knew how to cook in the first place. Besides, when the alternative dessert option was tiramisu (which, as we all know, is Italian for ‘creamy work of the devil himself’), Ollie could have done a hell of a lot worse – pun intended.

Then, to save the expense/hassle of each child having to bring a vast array of ingredients into school, each group divided the shopping list between them to lessen the burden, and Ollie was given the task of sourcing the following:

‘00’ flour

Mozzarella

Cornflour

Whole milk

Ok, the list could have been easier, because we only had one of those ingredients in the house at the time (cornflour, for anyone who is curious), but when I spotted that one girl’s parents had been lumbered with ‘gelatine leaves, vanilla pods and yeast’, I decided not to complain too loudly. At least two of our ingredients didn’t necessitate a trip to sodding Waitrose.

Now, had the meal itself been a disaster, I would have felt sorry for Ollie and his classmates, as I know how much effort they put into designing and running ‘Café Italiano’, but equally it might have made for a funnier and more entertaining blog entry. As it happens, however, the event was a complete triumph.

When we arrived, the classroom had been emptied, with all the desks moved outside next to the playing field so we could dine ‘al fresco’. Each table of four then had place settings, and generally speaking there were two children plus an adult each per table, but Ollie and I were sat with a couple of boys whose parents couldn’t be there. Oh well, at least that meant I didn’t have to make polite conversation with a parent I didn’t know/like.

Once seated, the teacher came round with water for everyone (I did think about jokingly asking to see the wine list, but then stopped myself when I realised she was probably quite stressed, and therefore not in any sort of mood to be dealing with dickhead jokers like me).

While the drinks were being served, and some late comers were still being seated, one man spotted his daughter returning from the kitchen/classroom, and went to greet her – at which point she immediately burst into tears right next to our table. It transpired that she wasn’t expecting either of her parents to be able to attend, and was so overcome with emotion when she saw her father, she started crying with happiness.

Typically, at the same time, my hayfever must have flared up, because my eyes started watering too (shut up). It was like one of those videos you see on Facebook, where the little child doesn’t expect Daddy to make it home for Christmas, because Daddy is in the army and stationed somewhere like Iraq or Afghanistan, but then the Santa Claus in the grotto pulls his beard down and there’s Daddy and everyone cries and…. Fuck it, I’ve gone again.

Anyway, soon after, Ollie returned from the kitchen with our first course of margherita pizza, and I have to say it looked and tasted far better than I was expecting:

While tucking in, one of the ‘Café orphans’ nearby sat down with his starter of ‘freshly baked ciabatta with olive oil’, and, having taken one bite, commented on how strong the olive oil was. Upon hearing this, a child at the table behind him, who was enjoying the same starter, piped up with ‘well, it is extra virgin, after all’, and I damn-near spit my water everywhere laughing.

Once the first courses were finished, the children disappeared back to the kitchen to fetch either their mains or desserts, depending on what second course they were offering, and Ollie presented me with a particularly lovely panna cotta, complete with strawberry compote:

Again, this looked and tasted better than I had anticipated, and when Ollie didn’t particularly enjoy his, I even finished it for him (using the argument that I didn’t want him to get into trouble for not eating his lunch, when actually I was just being greedy).

As it happens, because my expectations of ‘Café Italiano’ had been low, I had already eaten a quick lunch before leaving the office, and secretly confided this in Ollie – while phrasing it in such a way as to not hurt his feelings. I needn’t have worried, however, as he then told me he had scoffed a roast gammon dinner in the school canteen about half an hour before I arrived, so clearly neither of us had much confidence in the café’s success.

More fool us, because the whole event went very well, and I even jokingly asked the teacher where the tip jar was situated because I was so impressed. Of course, I then immediately regretted making another joke, when she loudly announced to all the parents that they would indeed be accepting tips, and people started glaring at me.

My attempts to quickly distract everyone with some exotic sounding Italian didn’t work, either, as it transpired one of the parents spoke the language far better than me, and immediately started directing me towards the fucking library.

Thanks for reading x

Billy Blog Hat

One of my strongest memories of primary school (well, other than hating it for the first term, and being forced to wear the shittest uniform in the history of primary school education – it was predominantly brown and yellow with, rather inexplicably, a huge eagle on the front of the jumper), was learning to read via the ‘Roger Red Hat’ series of books.

Bizarrely, most of what I learned at high school and university has since evaporated from my brain (presumably because it was of little practical use), and nowadays I struggle to remember events from the week before, but I can still clearly recall that the books featured Roger Red Hat, Billy Blue Hat, and Jonny and Jennifer Yellow Hat (who I think were twins), and they all lived in the ‘village with three corners’.

In fact, having just checked online, it turns out the series was known as ‘One, Two, Three and Away’ (which rings no bells, whatsoever), and other than the fact Jonny is actually spelt ‘Johnny’, I was pretty much spot on – even down to the fact he and Jennifer were twins. Just look at the fucking state of them:

Initial reactions:

• Roger is an overly-dramatic, beret-wearing tosser;
• Billy needs to stop the hillside manspreading;
• Johnny should rethink his wardrobe choices, as the ‘off-the-shoulder dungarees’ look is just sooooo Deliverance. 

I have to say, I don’t remember Percy Green, who is mentioned as a fifth character in the series, but what has really surprised me, looking through the list of books apparently released over four decades, was the number of truly disturbing titles available:

1. Jennifer Yellow-Hat and Mr Brown’s Goat – let’s just pray ‘goat’ isn’t a euphemism;
2. No, Percy Green! – I might have to track down a copy of this, to see what the hell Percy did;
3. The Big Man and the Little Mouse – hey, it’s not the size of your mouse which matters.
4. Stop it, Percy Green! – Christ, what’s Percy done now?
5. Stop, Cried Alex – this is genuinely the next book in the series, so I can only assume Percy Green did something unspeakable to poor Alex;
6. The Donkey went to School – Well, it was the 1980’s, and the Village with Three Corners does look pretty ‘rural’, so this should come as no surprise;
7. Jennifer Yellow-Hat Went Out in the Sunshine followed by Jennifer Went Out in the Dark and then Jennifer Yellow-Hat Went to Town – like all great trilogies, I’ll wager the second installment of ‘Jennifer Went Out’ was the shittiest;
8. Roger, the Stick and the Old Man – I dread to think what went on here *glances down the list, to check for future releases entitled ‘Roger Receives Life in Prison for Murder’*;
9. Percy Green and Mr Red Hat’s Car – a tale of juvenile theft/joyriding, or a sinister child-abduction? Perhaps we’ll never know, as the next release was ‘Crash! The Car Hit a Tree’, quickly followed by ‘A Funeral in the Village with Three Corners’ (ok, I made the second one up);
10. The Old Man and the Wind – standard. Happens to the best of us, pal;
11. Jennifer in Dark Woods – she’s out again. I hate it when they ruin a perfectly good trilogy with a dubious spin-off release later on. Anyone remember Alien: Resurrection? I’m starting to think there was something sinister about Jennifer;
12. Sita Climbs the Wall – I wonder if Sita was Mexican, and this was a terrifying premonition of Donald Trump’s presidency;
13. When the School Door Was Shut – they were really dragging the barrel in the later series, weren’t they?
14. The Big Man, the Witch and the Donkey – a bit ‘specialist’, but each to their own (plus, C.S. Lewis’ lawyers may want a word);
15. The Little Old Man and the Magic Stick – put it away, little old man.
16. Dancing Ann and the Green-Gruff Grackle – erm…. fucking what?!
17. The King of the Magic Mountains – I suspect the author was on heavy medication by this point;
18. The Horse that Flew in the Moonlight – yep, she was.

Anyway, before those of you who didn’t grow up with these books get all judgemental, they formed an important part of my childhood, and helped me learn to read. In hindsight, some of those titles (none of which I remember), may also explain why my own writing can be so obscure, but that’s not for me to say.

Sadly, not only did the series apparently finish at some point in the 1990’s (which I initially assumed to be when the author passed away, but it turns out she died in 2014, at the ripe old age of 93), they are no longer available for today’s youth, so I have been denied the opportunity of re-reading them with Ollie and Isaac, as a fond reminder of my own childhood.

Instead, my boys – like many other children around the country – have been subjected to a new gang of delinquents, known as ‘Biff, Chip, and Kipper’ (cue parents developing a Vietnam-style nervous twitch, at the very mention of those names).

Whatever you may think about the ‘One, Two, Three and Away‘ books, at least those children had normal names, and, to this day – despite having read most of the series – I’m still not sure which of Biff, Chip and Kipper is the girl. Not that it matters, necessarily, because the parents should be investigated for giving their children such ridiculous names in the first place (I was just relieved to discover ‘Floppy’ is the dog, because no boy needs to go through adolescence with that for a name).

As I was reading one of these books with Isaac last week, slowly losing the will to live as he struggled over the same word he had already read seventeen times, it struck me that this series is no better than the ones we had as kids.

In the end, the more Isaac read, the more concerned I became about the story; so I ended up photographing each page, in order to illustrate the various issues I have with this particular title, which is simply named ‘Spots’….

• Why has Kipper surrounded himself with the angriest looking toys I’ve ever seen?
• What has he done to that bear to make him so mad?
•  Why is Dad’s ear purple?
• Why are his sideburns a different colour to the rest of his hair?

• Why do Biff and Chip have matching 1970’s jumpsuits on?
• What kind of shopping list comprises apples, bread, dog food and a doorbell? I can only assume they shop in Aldi;
• Who buys a ‘terraced houses’ calendar?
• How does Dad not spend the remainder of the book in hospital, being treated for third-degree burns?

• I would be dubious of any doctor who turned up with hypodermic needles sticking out of her fucking handbag;
• Is that a picture of George Michael on the girl’s wall?
• What’s the fox grinning at?
• What have the bear and the cat been up to, in order to look that guilty?

• That is one truly awful dressing gown, Mum. She looks like a stick of rock for fuck’s sake. Or a 1970’s deckchair.

• Look how smug Dad is, serving a breakfast of what appears to be hotdog, lentils, and a bottle of Lucozade – together with a giant bowl of what I sincerely hope are grapes and not green olives;
• Does the newspaper say ‘Dagenham Post’? If so, I assume the headline ‘New Disaster Horror’ is all about the horror of living in Dagenham;
• Those sideburns really make me uneasy.

• Is the man holding the dog up so it can see over the fence, or has it jumped?
• What has the man done wrong, for his wife to glare at him like that? (Experience tells us, when he asks her later, the answer will almost certainly be ‘you know‘);
• Is it because he appears to be staring at Mum’s knickers on the line (assuming they aren’t Dad’s)?
• Speaking of mum’s knickers (there’s a phrase I never thought I’d type), how heavy are they that they require four pegs to hold them up, if a bed sheet only needs three?
• Only a moron would hang the bed sheet like that, dragging it across the lawn where Floppy has presumably left lots of ‘treats’ lying around – and I don’t mean that bone.

• On behalf of men everywhere, I resent the suggestion we never go to the supermarket; and that, on the rare occasions we do, we try to pay for our weekly shop at the ‘basket’ checkout with a fucking cheque book;
• In Dad’s defence, what’s the point in sticking the ‘8 items or less, Cash only’ sign half way down the aisle?
• Is it just me who finds that hammer a bit sinister? Plus, I was right, they evidently do shop in Aldi.
• Has he dropped the frozen turkey on yet more grapes? Mum will be shitting through the eye of a needle at this rate;
• The bloke behind Dad needs to sort his waistline out, particularly if he’s going to insist on wearing double-brown. He looks like Bungle from Rainbow without the head on.

• How old is that TV?
• Why is it switched off? Is it because Dad is too lazy to get up and turn it on, or was he watching something mucky before the rest of the family walked in?
• Who did Mum’s make-up, Stevie Wonder?

• Dad seems pretty pleased about contracting whatever illness the rest of the family had. Either that, or he’s brewing a Dutch Oven under the covers;
• Someone needs to tell Mum to look in a mirror and sort her face out;
• This family is terrible at catering for the sick. You want soup when you feel unwell, not chicken, potatoes, and a bottle of wine;
• Why is Dad’s ear no longer purple? It obviously wasn’t a birthmark at the start of the book, so what happened? Had he slept in some Ribena the night before?

And the book ends there, so clearly no one gives a shit what happens to poor Dad after he gets sick, and I also resent the fact the moral of the story appears to be ‘men don’t understand how difficult women have it.’

Sexist pigs.

Thanks for reading x

Bloggy Kids

‘THE SCHOOL RUN’

A Short Play

Dramatis Personae:

‘Daddy’ 

A tall, good-looking man, who is struggling with the pressures of early middle-age, and who regularly overuses the words ‘fuck’ and ‘Nobhead’.

‘Ollie’

An eight-year-old boy, wiry, over-emotional at best.

‘Isaac’

Ollie’s younger brother, four. A feral wolf child, with the face and hair of a pretty little girl, but the empty black soul of a malevolent demon.

***

Narrator:  The following play is based on real-life events, which occurred in a small town in Cheshire, in January 2019.

ACT I

[The lights come up on a Living Room. Daddy enters stage right, wearing nothing but an ill-fitting towel. He is wet, and the impression is that he has just exited the shower. He looks harassed and hurried]

Daddy:  Why are neither of you ready yet?!

Ollie:     I’m ready!

Daddy:  You’re not wearing socks.

Ollie:     Oh, yeah.

Daddy:  And you’re still watching that idiot play FIFA on YouTube. For the final time, turn it off. I said I wanted you both dressed and ready by the time I got out of the shower. Don’t do this to me again!

Isaac:     Do what?

Daddy:   Get me stressed and make us late.

Isaac:     Can I have more cereal?

Daddy:  No! You’ve already had two massive bowls and we don’t have enough time… or milk. We’re leaving the house in less than ten minutes and I have no clothes on yet. Do you want me to do the school run in just this towel?

Isaac:      YES!

Daddy:   Shut up. Look, I’m going for a shave, and I want you both ready to walk out of the door by the time I come back downstairs.

Ollie:       Ok.

[Daddy quickly exits stage left, clutching the small towel at his waist to save exposing himself as he takes the stairs three at a time. Both boys remain motionless, with Ollie staring at a laptop screen, and Isaac watching Scooby Doo on the television]

***

ACT II

[The lights come back up on the Living Room. Both boys are in exactly the same position as they were at the end of Act I. Daddy rushes in stage left, now wearing a suit, and hurriedly straightening his tie]

Daddy:  What the HELL?! Ollie, turn that laptop off NOW. Isaac, turn the television off and find your hairbrush. Ollie, put some fuc… put some socks on NOW.

Isaac:      I can’t find my hairbrush.

Daddy:   Get Mummy’s instead then.

Isaac:      Ok, Geoff.

Daddy:   Stop calling me Geoff. Ollie, why are you crying?

Ollie:      You shouted at me.

Daddy:   Do you know why?

Ollie:      No. I’ve not done anything wrong!

Daddy:  Really? How about ignoring me and making us late for school yet again? How about not getting dressed before watching those stupid videos on YouTube? How about leaving your cereal bowl there for Isaac to trip over? We have the same conversation every fu…. We have the same conversation every morning, and, for once, I would like to arrive in the school playground without worrying that I might collapse at any given second. Go and get your bags, brush your teeth, get your shoes and coat on, and wait by the front door. We’re leaving in two minutes!

[Ollie runs off stage left, sniffling loudly. Daddy quickly brushes Isaac’s hair, then struggles with an orange ‘bobble’ as he tries to style it into something resembling a ponytail. At one point, when Isaac isn’t looking, he silently screams ‘FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK!’, then punches the table next to him. He rubs his knuckles, evidently in some pain]

Daddy:   Right, that’ll have to do.

Isaac:     Does it look ok?

Daddy:  Erm, sure. Now, go downstairs, put your shoes and coat on, brush your teeth, and wait by the front door.

Isaac:     Ok, Geoff.

Daddy:  Stop calling me Geoff!

[Isaac leaves stage left, followed shortly after by Daddy, who is still rubbing his knuckles]

***

ACT III

[The lights come up on an entrance hall and front door. Both boys are now wearing coats. Daddy is putting his shoes on]

Daddy:   Right, have you both brushed your teeth?

Boys:      Yes

Daddy:   Both of you?

Boys:      Yes!

Isaac:    Actually, I haven’t.

Daddy:  Do them. Now!

[Isaac dashes to the side of the stage]

Daddy:   Ollie, have you got your swimming kit?

Ollie:      Yes.

Daddy:   And your £1 for swimming?

Ollie:     Yes.

Daddy:  Guitar?

Ollie:      Yes.

Daddy:   Drinks bottle?

Ollie:      Here.

Daddy:    What about the permission slip for your school trip?

Ollie:      Hey, that rhymes!

Daddy:   Shut up. Do you have your permission slip, or not?

Ollie:      Yes. It’s in my pocket.

Daddy:    Is there anything else you need?

Ollie:       My Match Attax.

Daddy:   Balls to your Match Attax. Is there anything else you actually need for school?

Ollie:      No. I have my Match Attax anyway, I was just saying.

[Isaac returns from the side of the stage]

Daddy:   Isaac, have you got your school bag?

Isaac:     Yes, Geoff.

Daddy:   I asked you to stop calling me that. Do you have your drinks bottle?

Isaac:     Yes.

Daddy:   Have you both got your snacks for breaktime?

Boys:      Yes!

Daddy:   And do you remember what you’re having for lunch?

Ollie:      Roast chicken dinner!

Daddy:   Correct.

Isaac:     I’m having a packed lunch.

Daddy:   No, you’re not.

Isaac:     I AM!

Daddy:  No, you’re fuc… you’re having chicken dinner, remember? I asked you half an hour ago and you agreed. You said you love chicken dinner.

Isaac:     I hate chicken dinner! I want a packed lunch!

Daddy:   Tough. We’re late, and I haven’t got time to make one. You’re having chicken dinner.

[Isaac now starts to cry]

Daddy:   Please, Isaac, we discussed this. I don’t have time to make a packed lunch. You told me you love chicken dinner. It’s just chicken, potatoes and veg.

[Isaac suddenly stops crying]

Isaac:     Yay! I love chicken dinner!

Daddy:   You little f-

Ollie:      Can we play a game?

Daddy:   What?! No! We need to leave, NOW.

Ollie:      Can we play a game on the way?

Daddy:   No. Look, I have a splitting headache, I’m stressed, and you two have again been no help whatsoever. He’s been up since 5.45am, you’ve both spent the past hour fighting –

Both:      He started it!

Daddy:   – I don’t care. You’ve both spent the past hour fighting, and I’m sick of it. We’re leaving the house and you’re going to have to run because we’re VERY late.

[Ollie opens the front door]

Ollie:      Erm, Daddy….?

Daddy:   What now?

Ollie:       It’s raining.

Daddy:    Oh, for fuc….. right, put your hoods up. I’m just going to swap my coat for the waterproof one.

[Daddy quickly changes coats]

Daddy:    Ok, now can we leave?

Ollie:        Hang on. I can’t find my pound for swimming.

Isaac:       I don’t have any shoes on. And I need a wee.

[Daddy starts to turn purple, and the stage lights fade to the sound of a scream]

Daddy:     FUUUUU-

THE END

Blog Relatives

Well, it’s now officially 2019 (not that anyone was claiming it was unofficially 2019 prior to midnight on 31^st December, mind), and I would like to wish you all a Happy New Year.

I don’t have many wishes for the coming twelve months, but I would like to increase my audience, to edge me nearer to that lucrative book / film / YouTube / adult entertainment deal. Seriously, I’m not that fussy (except, perhaps, in the last category), just so long as I can earn enough to bid farewell to my shitty commute.

To put things into perspective, I now have nearly 700 followers on Facebook, so it would only require each of them to encourage 100,000 of their friends to sign up, and I would then have a fan base roughly equivalent to the population of the United Kingdom. I’d be content with that.

I am less popular on Twitter, however, where I have approximately one-tenth of the followers (so each would need to recruit 1,000,000 friends to achieve the same result, which I accept is a bit of an ask), and don’t even get me started on Instagram. No, seriously, I haven’t got started.

I wouldn’t mind so much, as I am hardly active on Twitter, but I’ve just checked and the three most followed people are seemingly Katy Perry, Justin Bieber and Barack Obama. Really? Sure, they can all dance, but two of them are as thick as mince (and if you can’t decide which is the odd-one-out, frankly, so are you).

Anyway, the main thing is, you are here – which makes you very special to me. And, until someone tells me otherwise, I’m still here too, so let’s crack on, shall we?

I have said before that my family – particularly our two boys – are an almost constant source of comedy material, and the Christmas period was no exception. If we add in my wife’s family (of which there are frankly dozens), it is no exaggeration to say our festive period was a smorgasbord of hilarity.

Here are my six comedic highlights of Christmas 2018:

Motherscrubber

With three adult children, two daughters-in-law, and three young grandchildren all invading her house for Christmas, it was inevitable that Mum was going to struggle to keep everything pristine for the few days were we there.

Our mum is so house-proud*, but she dealt with the shit-storm of wrapping paper with her usual aplomb (and massive bin bag); however, later in the evening, she was clearly agitated as she dashed to gather cleaning products from her kitchen.

*©Madness/Sony/ATV Music Publishing (not that they will read this)

It transpired that, in the corner of her lounge, there had been a spillage – which had lightened her beige carpet to a shade between ‘Barley Twist’ and ‘Desert Wind’ on the Dulux Paint Scale (the latter not to be confused with ‘Dessert Wind’, which is something I suffered with following my second helping of cheesecake an hour earlier).

As the scrubbing intensified throughout the evening (occasionally interspersed with brief periods of ‘letting it dry’), it became clear the stain was not shifting, and the carpet had apparently been bleached.

This, naturally, was terrible news to everyone (although it did at least mean Ollie, Isaac and I were innocent, as none of us possessed anything likely to cause such damage), and Mum was obviously upset. Christmas was on the brink of being ruined.

Enter my wife (wait, I’ll rephrase that), who nipped to the kitchen shortly afterwards, and on her return burst out laughing. It transpired that, when she placed her foot in a particular spot near to the affected carpet, the ‘stain’ vanished. Yes, mum had spent at least an hour – and several litres of Mr Muscle – scrubbing what was nothing more than a patch of light reflected off a nearby shiny gift.

Isaac: Child Genius?

Christmas would not be complete (for us, at least) without a family quiz, and since I forgot to bring anything with me this year, I had to search online for something suitable instead.

Unfortunately, we were already well into my choice before I realised it was clearly created by – and aimed towards – Americans. I know this because:

1. The ‘Football’ round referred solely to the NFL;
2. The ‘England’ questions all related to our royal family and Harry Potter, as if we have nothing else;
3. The ‘History’ round only dated back a couple of hundred years, and refused to acknowledge any major event outside the US.

Nevertheless, we persevered, and eventually stumbled across a geography section which featured countries other than America (and I’m talking actual Europe here, not just Canada and Mexico).

One of the questions was ‘Which country hosted the first Winter Olympics?’, and after a few mutterings around the room, Isaac burst in from the kitchen, shouted ‘France!’ and then buggered off again triumphantly. I still don’t know how he got it correct, but have a feeling it’s the only country he knows other than ours.

Stockport: Capital of Indulgence

I was born in Stockport, have spent half my life living and working in the area, and I’m an avid supporter of Stockport County – all of which makes me suitably-qualified (and perfectly entitled) to admit certain parts of Stockport are rough.

For example, Edgeley (the home of Stockport County), does have some nicer areas, but these are largely surrounded by a desert of shit (not to be confused with a dessert of shit, which is also something I suffered with following my second helping of cheesecake).

Castle Street, the main shopping area in Edgeley, is honestly so run down and nasty, you could be mistaken for assuming the American military had recently swept through looking for WMDs.

To illustrate my point, here is a picture of war-torn Iraq:

And here is a picture of Castle Street, in Edgeley:

See?

Anyway, whilst walking down Castle Street on Boxing Day, prior to County’s victory over neighbours Altrincham (which, conversely, makes Kensington look a bit dodgy), I encountered the greatest vision of couldn’t-give-a-fuck indulgence I have ever seen.

A young-ish woman (I say young-ish, because it’s often hard to tell in Edgeley on account of the fact most women are grandparents by their late thirties), resplendent in fluffy white dressing down and slippers – which she presumably received from one of the fathers to her children at Christmas – was drinking, I shit you not, a large pot of double cream like it was a can of coke.

Bearing in mind this was around 2pm, and she appeared to still be in possession of her senses, there is no other explanation than she had effectively abandoned what little etiquette remained – and couldn’t care less. I had to applaud her (albeit mentally, as she was probably armed under that fluffy exterior).

‘Explicit Cooking and Other Stories’

This Christmas my wife and her siblings (together with the three of us daft enough to marry them), agreed to swap gift ‘hampers’ per couple, rather than individual presents.

However, when it came to exchanging them a few days after Christmas, my direct sister-in-law (by which I mean my wife’s sister, as opposed my wife’s brother’s wife, who is my wife’s sister-in-law, but I still refer to as my sister-in-law too – clear?) immediately apologised for one of the gifts in our hamper, warning that it was intended for me, and should not be opened in front of the children.

Here it is:

As a keen cook, and purveyor of all innuendo, this book is a joyous gift to me, and I very much look forward to gobbling…. nope, can’t do it, sorry.

However, the anecdote does not end there. Whilst discussing the book between us all a few hours later, and immediately after someone had joked “I do enjoy a bit of cock”, my mother-in-law entered the room (following an entirely unrelated conversation she had just finished with my father-in-law in the kitchen), and announced ‘….to quote your father….’

I laughed so much, I swear a little sherry escaped out of my nose.

Isaac: Child Model?

Whilst shopping in Norwich’s Chapelfield Mall a few days after Christmas, Isaac asked whether he could go into the Norwich City FC store; and so (despite the fact he has no interest in football – and if he did I would far rather he support Stockport County) my wife took him in while the rest of us waited outside.

A few moments later, we all heard the tapping of glass, and turned round to see that Isaac had somehow managed to break into the window display, and was proudly stood with all the mannequins waving at passing shoppers. He, naturally, found this hilarious.

The Unorthodox Mixer

Shortly before midnight on New Year’s Eve, I announced to the room that I was going to the kitchen, should anyone want their glass filling ready for Big Ben.

My mother-in-law, having initially declined, then decided she would like a glass of port – in a particular glass (which was kept in the conservatory), with a splash of the ‘cloudy lemonade’ she informed me was in the fridge in the utility room.

Already on my way to inebriation, and conscious that my in-laws have a tendency of using the words ‘conservatory’, ‘dining room’, ‘kitchen’ and ‘utility room’ interchangeably, I tried to memorise my instructions and set off, like a shit episode of Challenge Anneka.

Having located the glass and port, I then searched both fridges for the ‘cloudy lemonade’, and having found nothing more accurate based on that description, returned triumphantly with this jug:

In hindsight, I can see this is less ‘cloudy lemonade’, and more ‘you’ll be needing a course of antibiotics’, but bear in mind I was slightly drunk, in a hurry to make it back to the lounge for midnight, and I only had the light of the fridge to guide me at the time, you can hopefully understand my error.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is that lesser-known mixer, ‘gammon fat’.

Fortunately, I queried my decision before pouring a healthy splash into the port, and was promptly ridiculed by all in attendance.

Thanks for reading x