Well I finally found out what all the hullabaloo was about from last week. Apparently the Daughters of the American Revolution have now split into two factions, those that are stay at home mums and those that want to go back to work.
Each group looks down on the other. One Go Back told me that the Stay at Homes are 1950s throwbacks, all Laura Ashley prints and Boden wellies who have excess body hair and smell of vanilla pods, spend time teaching their children to sing happy birthday in Cantonese and have all the go getting drive and ambition of a stay at home dad. Bit uncalled for that last comment I thought.
The Stay at Home view as told to me is that the Go Backs are self obsessed pop and go Epilady using breast milk expressing child abusers. Who is right and who is wrong I cannot and dare not say, they get nasty round here. If I take sides I could get a Filipino nanny thrown through my car window or a freshly baked cup cake lodged where the sun dont shine. All very unpleasant.
But it has got me thinking. Should I go back to work? I have always been upwardly mobile. I used to live in a valley and I now live on a mountain.Surely at the age of fortycough I still have something to offer. Of course it would mean the end of this blog.
What do you think? Basically this is just a desperate cry for attention. Other blogs get loads of comments. Is there anybody out there actually reading this? If you are wont you please write something in the comments section of this blog. Anything, email, female, male mail,hate mail,blackmail or Rik Mayall I don`t care. I also welcome stalkers. Time for a dry sherry I think.
Tuesday 30 March 2010
Thursday 25 March 2010
Pipe Smoke and Mirrors and a Clerical Error
This morning I inadvertently dressed up as a bishop. Black trousers, a jumper of ecclesiastical purple with white shirt and black jacket. This impression was further reinforced when I stopped outside Zurich Cathederal to enjoy a contemplative puff of Scrotum`s Old Fandangable Ready Rub with my new cheery wood pipe.
Before I was eventually challenged by a passing Papal Legate and had to leg it I had conducted two baptisms, heard 17 confessions and done a roaring trade in Holy relics and Papal Indulgencies. I may have made some of that up but I certainly had an uncanny resemblance to a man of the cloth and there are a group of North Koreans out there who are blissfully unaware that their souls are in mortal peril.
All this would not have happened if the wife allowed mirrors in our home. I am not for one moment suggesting she is a vampire but it would be nice if I could leave home safe in the knowledge that I don`t look like an extra from Father Ted. It is worth reflecting on the subject of mirrors for a moment.
Ok, moving on. We are enjoying balmy spring weather here and the residents are out in force. Down at the playground the gangs were out last night, the Sunny Mountain Street Mother`s Mafia on one bench and the Daughters of the American Revolution on another. I sat alone on the rocking horse, gently swaying back and forth, watching. I think they have come to tolerate my presence by now. I wouldn`t go so far as to say that I have been accepted but at least they have stopped throwing things.
Anyway, out of the blue there was a kerfuffle on the Daughter`s bench. Two mothers rose and squared up to each other, Miu Miu handbags swishing menacingly. There were shouts of "fight!" (ok that was me) and "leave it, she`s not worth it" and "Won`t somebody think of the children!".
As quickly as it had started it fizzled out. One group of Daughters headed off up the hill while the rump stayed on the bench. I strained my ears as hard as I could and picked up fragments of conversation..."bad parenting....bitch....that`s it now...why is He listening in?". At that stage I decided it was wise to make my exit.They had a nasty glint in their sunglasses. I will use all my powers to find out what happened but there is undoubtedly a split in the ranks of the Daughters. Tee hee. I have missed this over the winter.
Post Script: Snooker Report: Wednesday 24 March 2010. Big J, our very own Rab C Nesbitt, had been in the pub since last Thursday so he wasn`t at his fighting best last night. Philthy, who hails from Essex and gave up his job as an armed robber of sub Post Offices to pursue his dreams, performed like a man who had been taking secret snooker lessons. Like a Mayfly enjoying a brief flirtation with life before the inevitable oblivion, he played with aplomb. I was playing with a piano leg. It was the only cue like object left by the time I arrived, but that in no way takes anything away from the his first ever thingy.
Some independent commentators have suggested that my game was badly affected by playing against the wind, with the sun in my eyes, a septic finger and a touch of the vapours but I said no. So hats off to Philthy, well done mate. All the lads in Pentonville Maximum Security Wing must be proud.
Before I was eventually challenged by a passing Papal Legate and had to leg it I had conducted two baptisms, heard 17 confessions and done a roaring trade in Holy relics and Papal Indulgencies. I may have made some of that up but I certainly had an uncanny resemblance to a man of the cloth and there are a group of North Koreans out there who are blissfully unaware that their souls are in mortal peril.
All this would not have happened if the wife allowed mirrors in our home. I am not for one moment suggesting she is a vampire but it would be nice if I could leave home safe in the knowledge that I don`t look like an extra from Father Ted. It is worth reflecting on the subject of mirrors for a moment.
Ok, moving on. We are enjoying balmy spring weather here and the residents are out in force. Down at the playground the gangs were out last night, the Sunny Mountain Street Mother`s Mafia on one bench and the Daughters of the American Revolution on another. I sat alone on the rocking horse, gently swaying back and forth, watching. I think they have come to tolerate my presence by now. I wouldn`t go so far as to say that I have been accepted but at least they have stopped throwing things.
Anyway, out of the blue there was a kerfuffle on the Daughter`s bench. Two mothers rose and squared up to each other, Miu Miu handbags swishing menacingly. There were shouts of "fight!" (ok that was me) and "leave it, she`s not worth it" and "Won`t somebody think of the children!".
As quickly as it had started it fizzled out. One group of Daughters headed off up the hill while the rump stayed on the bench. I strained my ears as hard as I could and picked up fragments of conversation..."bad parenting....bitch....that`s it now...why is He listening in?". At that stage I decided it was wise to make my exit.They had a nasty glint in their sunglasses. I will use all my powers to find out what happened but there is undoubtedly a split in the ranks of the Daughters. Tee hee. I have missed this over the winter.
Post Script: Snooker Report: Wednesday 24 March 2010. Big J, our very own Rab C Nesbitt, had been in the pub since last Thursday so he wasn`t at his fighting best last night. Philthy, who hails from Essex and gave up his job as an armed robber of sub Post Offices to pursue his dreams, performed like a man who had been taking secret snooker lessons. Like a Mayfly enjoying a brief flirtation with life before the inevitable oblivion, he played with aplomb. I was playing with a piano leg. It was the only cue like object left by the time I arrived, but that in no way takes anything away from the his first ever thingy.
Some independent commentators have suggested that my game was badly affected by playing against the wind, with the sun in my eyes, a septic finger and a touch of the vapours but I said no. So hats off to Philthy, well done mate. All the lads in Pentonville Maximum Security Wing must be proud.
Tuesday 23 March 2010
Cry Havoc and Let Slip the Dogs
And so it begins, my annual battle with dogs. Don`t get me wrong, I quite like dogs. It is the small minority of irresponsible dog owners that I have problems with. Recently a dog has been coming into my garden, digging up the bulbs and using the lawn as an al fresco toilet. I identified the dog`s owner as Shiela, the Street`s resident dyslexic atheist. Entering her garden I noticed a sign saying "Beware of the God", was this the dyslexic or atheist in her I wondered.
Anyway, I explained to Shiela as nicely as I could that I wasn`t happy. Her response was that it was only natural for dogs to roam around and do what came naturally. I said very well then, in that case every time the daughter wanted to take a dump I would bring her round and let her loose in Shiela`s garden. After all it is only natural for kids to roam around and do what comes naturally. Bingo. She was speechless.
Triumphant, I decided to make the most of the warm weather and take the bicycle out for the first spin of 2010. I had forgotten that the route into town is infested by dog walkers. Picking my way gingerly through the throng I finally hit an open stretch with no dogs in sight. Whistling a merry tune I was bowling along when suddenly out of the undergrowth a dog swerved out in front of me. I slammed on the breaks.The dog bounded up and started to jump up and lick me. I must say he was a very nice dog but I was annoyed that I had nearly had an accident. Seconds later an old man in a dirty old mac shuffled out of the trees and ambled up to us. "He likes you" said the owner. "Be that as it may my good man" I said, "You should have him on a lead, we nearly had a nasty accident". "Oh he is only doing what dogs like to do " said dirty old mac man.
Well, those words were like a red rag to a bull. Almost the same excuse I had received from Shiela this morning. I decided to apply a similar retort to the one I had so successfully used on Shiela.
"How would you like it if my young daughter leapt out of the bushes at you, panting and jumping all over you and nuzzling your crotch, eh?" I said. By the strange look that came over dirty old mac`s face I realised that he would like it very much. Mmmm, so this line of attack doesn`t always work. Sicko.
Giving him my best tut and roll of the eyes I pressed down on the pedals to make a dignified exit. My gears slipped and I came crashing down on the crossbar. "Oh that must have hurt" said dirty old mac man. It did. I still have tears in my eyes. Must go for a lie down with a cold compress. I think we might have to get a dog as I don`t think I can father any more children now.
Anyway, I explained to Shiela as nicely as I could that I wasn`t happy. Her response was that it was only natural for dogs to roam around and do what came naturally. I said very well then, in that case every time the daughter wanted to take a dump I would bring her round and let her loose in Shiela`s garden. After all it is only natural for kids to roam around and do what comes naturally. Bingo. She was speechless.
Triumphant, I decided to make the most of the warm weather and take the bicycle out for the first spin of 2010. I had forgotten that the route into town is infested by dog walkers. Picking my way gingerly through the throng I finally hit an open stretch with no dogs in sight. Whistling a merry tune I was bowling along when suddenly out of the undergrowth a dog swerved out in front of me. I slammed on the breaks.The dog bounded up and started to jump up and lick me. I must say he was a very nice dog but I was annoyed that I had nearly had an accident. Seconds later an old man in a dirty old mac shuffled out of the trees and ambled up to us. "He likes you" said the owner. "Be that as it may my good man" I said, "You should have him on a lead, we nearly had a nasty accident". "Oh he is only doing what dogs like to do " said dirty old mac man.
Well, those words were like a red rag to a bull. Almost the same excuse I had received from Shiela this morning. I decided to apply a similar retort to the one I had so successfully used on Shiela.
"How would you like it if my young daughter leapt out of the bushes at you, panting and jumping all over you and nuzzling your crotch, eh?" I said. By the strange look that came over dirty old mac`s face I realised that he would like it very much. Mmmm, so this line of attack doesn`t always work. Sicko.
Giving him my best tut and roll of the eyes I pressed down on the pedals to make a dignified exit. My gears slipped and I came crashing down on the crossbar. "Oh that must have hurt" said dirty old mac man. It did. I still have tears in my eyes. Must go for a lie down with a cold compress. I think we might have to get a dog as I don`t think I can father any more children now.
Friday 19 March 2010
Education Cuts, Education Bruises and An Education in life
This morning it was off to the daughter`s school for a parental visit. As you know I have experience of the little darlings from my trip to the zoo. I still haven`t got my wallet back. So before setting out I checked to make sure I had packed everything I might need, Mace spray, Taser and hip flask of Old Bloke`s Finest Sippin Liquor.
When I arrived kids were all strangely subdued and glassy eyed. I suspect their teacher, Frau Ning, had slipped Rohyphnol into the morning milk. She`s not stupid. Normally there are at least two adults there, the teacher and Vlad, her Spetznaz trained close protection officer. But the teacher had dispensed with his services this morning in order to create a good impression.
The register was taken and we all learned which kids had been taken into custody over night.
Then the children led us round proudly, if somewhat groggily, showing us parents the work they had done. The straight jackets in the naughty corner were covered in ribbons, the water cannon, riot shields and batons in the teachers room had a light sprinkling of glitter and the gibbet gently swinging outside the entrance had been buffed up to perfection.
Then it was arts and crafts time. I was put in charge of the bucket of feathers and glue with orders to keep a close eye on things. Now I am not a professional and I think that was asking too much. Half an hour in little Razor came up to me and said there was a phone call for me from the Prime Minister. I marvelled at the No 10 Downing Street telephone operator`s abilities to track people down. While I was gone the little class swot Maisy-May got tarred and feathered. How was I to know, I was set up. No recall to British politics and the pre election fray for me sadly. Gutted.
Well anyway its over now and thank goodness. I have feathers where the sun don`t shine but all in all it was a very enlightening experience. I`ll send the wife next time.
Wishing you all a pleasant weekend.
When I arrived kids were all strangely subdued and glassy eyed. I suspect their teacher, Frau Ning, had slipped Rohyphnol into the morning milk. She`s not stupid. Normally there are at least two adults there, the teacher and Vlad, her Spetznaz trained close protection officer. But the teacher had dispensed with his services this morning in order to create a good impression.
The register was taken and we all learned which kids had been taken into custody over night.
Then the children led us round proudly, if somewhat groggily, showing us parents the work they had done. The straight jackets in the naughty corner were covered in ribbons, the water cannon, riot shields and batons in the teachers room had a light sprinkling of glitter and the gibbet gently swinging outside the entrance had been buffed up to perfection.
Then it was arts and crafts time. I was put in charge of the bucket of feathers and glue with orders to keep a close eye on things. Now I am not a professional and I think that was asking too much. Half an hour in little Razor came up to me and said there was a phone call for me from the Prime Minister. I marvelled at the No 10 Downing Street telephone operator`s abilities to track people down. While I was gone the little class swot Maisy-May got tarred and feathered. How was I to know, I was set up. No recall to British politics and the pre election fray for me sadly. Gutted.
Well anyway its over now and thank goodness. I have feathers where the sun don`t shine but all in all it was a very enlightening experience. I`ll send the wife next time.
Wishing you all a pleasant weekend.
Thursday 18 March 2010
How To Get Black Balled In One Easy Lesson
Last night was my weekly unescorted release into the community. My carer made sure I had everything I needed. Bus fare and enough for a choccy treat,check. Piece of paper in breast pocket with my name and where I live written on it, check. Gloves securely sewn onto elastic and into the sleeves of my jacket, check.
Yes it was snooker night with the special needs care in the community lads.
My first game was against Four Points aka Philthy, who pulled off some brilliant shots but then quite unexpectedly started to play on my side. With two people playing against nobody it was not a close game but I didn`t like to say anything. He was very excited about his new brown seude shoes and kept looking at them admiringly. I don`t think this really helped his game. Sadly he had forgotten to take the shoes out of the box and had to hop around the table but the locals know him down there by now and are quite understanding, bless him.
Next up was Big J,the Bill Werbeniuk of Pot Bellies Snooker Club. Tragically, due to health service cuts, he has been forced to self medicate with 30 pints of Special Brew an hour. If he hits and sustains his beer peak he can be a devastating player. He didn`t. When he finally reached the peak last night he immediately fell right off the other side. Such a waste. So that was 2-0 up for yours truly.
Finally, it was Blind Jon and his formidable new cue, Satan`s Todger. He was also enjoying a 2-0 score line at that stage. His confidence riding high because of a recent award at work for the high standard of his packed lunches, he promised to be a dangerous opponent. Blind Jon is a fine player trapped in the body of a Liberal Democrat and despite the fact that I was playing with a bent cue and a ruptured spleen the young pup was taught a lesson in the dark arts of snookerocity.So a very satisfactory 4-0 night for me. Is it smug in here or is it just me?.
Then we all went back to our institutions and were strapped in for the night. Just want to wish Blind Jon bon voyage. He is off to Snooker Camp for a month.
Yes it was snooker night with the special needs care in the community lads.
My first game was against Four Points aka Philthy, who pulled off some brilliant shots but then quite unexpectedly started to play on my side. With two people playing against nobody it was not a close game but I didn`t like to say anything. He was very excited about his new brown seude shoes and kept looking at them admiringly. I don`t think this really helped his game. Sadly he had forgotten to take the shoes out of the box and had to hop around the table but the locals know him down there by now and are quite understanding, bless him.
Next up was Big J,the Bill Werbeniuk of Pot Bellies Snooker Club. Tragically, due to health service cuts, he has been forced to self medicate with 30 pints of Special Brew an hour. If he hits and sustains his beer peak he can be a devastating player. He didn`t. When he finally reached the peak last night he immediately fell right off the other side. Such a waste. So that was 2-0 up for yours truly.
Finally, it was Blind Jon and his formidable new cue, Satan`s Todger. He was also enjoying a 2-0 score line at that stage. His confidence riding high because of a recent award at work for the high standard of his packed lunches, he promised to be a dangerous opponent. Blind Jon is a fine player trapped in the body of a Liberal Democrat and despite the fact that I was playing with a bent cue and a ruptured spleen the young pup was taught a lesson in the dark arts of snookerocity.So a very satisfactory 4-0 night for me. Is it smug in here or is it just me?.
Then we all went back to our institutions and were strapped in for the night. Just want to wish Blind Jon bon voyage. He is off to Snooker Camp for a month.
Monday 15 March 2010
Girl Power!
Waking this morning to the soul stirring sound of birds singing their little hearts out I flung open the bedroom window and gulped in the soft mountain air, noticing too late the neighbour and her two teenage daughters at their kitchen window directly opposite. They stared right back at me. I must remember to buy some pyjamas.
Moving on. People often ask me how I find time in my busy life as a Dummy (daddy who takes on the traditional role of mummy) to maintain a blog. Its easy, I simply neglect other things. The house is a tip and daughter has not eaten a sqaure meal since early December.
Infact, I can see her out the window trying to shimmy up to the bird table, desperate to get at the food. So cute, up she goes, oops, slips back down. She looks confused but has no idea that I have greased the pole. I don`t want the neighbours thinking I am a bad parent.
But she is happy. At least I think she is, she is not talking to me at the moment. I must have done something wrong, its either that or lockjaw.
Anyway,I treasure our precious father-daughter moments. Just last week were sitting watching a cop show in a companionable silence. Suddenly, the daughter pointed at the screen and announced that when she grew up she wanted to be just like one of the women on telly. "Ah, a detective" I replied. "No, the other one" said the daughter. I looked at the screen. The other woman was a lap dancer.
I nearly choked on my absinthe. Over my dead, cold body. With hindsight maybe I over reacted. In the last few weeks alone she has said she wanted to be a super spy, a pony with a rainbow mane and the leader of the Liberal Democrats. All silly passing childish fancies I know but maybe I am letting her watch too much telly?.
Well thats all going to change. My daughter will only have positive role models, both male and female, from now on. There is no reason that she cannot try to be anything she wants to be. Living in a female dominated household (the only time I get to pee standing up is at the snooker club) I have come to recognise that women are better at pretty much everything except throwing, catching and scratching.
And in her mother she already has a role model who, when sober, can be inspirational. I have decided I need to do my bit, to give the daughter a rounded education. So with the benefits of my vast experience I will teach her all the essential secrets of the male world: how to bowl the googlie, the lbw and off side rules, the difference between a ruck and a maul and how to get your conkers super hard . If she wants to pee standing up so be it, I`ll buy her a Shewee for Christmas.
So now that I have a plan we can concentrate on her actual career. This is obviously going to be as an opening bat for the English Women`s Cricket Team and England`s first Winter Olympics downhill ski gold medal winner. She can play conkers for Germany. If at first you don`t succeed, live vicariously. Thats my girl.
Moving on. People often ask me how I find time in my busy life as a Dummy (daddy who takes on the traditional role of mummy) to maintain a blog. Its easy, I simply neglect other things. The house is a tip and daughter has not eaten a sqaure meal since early December.
Infact, I can see her out the window trying to shimmy up to the bird table, desperate to get at the food. So cute, up she goes, oops, slips back down. She looks confused but has no idea that I have greased the pole. I don`t want the neighbours thinking I am a bad parent.
But she is happy. At least I think she is, she is not talking to me at the moment. I must have done something wrong, its either that or lockjaw.
Anyway,I treasure our precious father-daughter moments. Just last week were sitting watching a cop show in a companionable silence. Suddenly, the daughter pointed at the screen and announced that when she grew up she wanted to be just like one of the women on telly. "Ah, a detective" I replied. "No, the other one" said the daughter. I looked at the screen. The other woman was a lap dancer.
I nearly choked on my absinthe. Over my dead, cold body. With hindsight maybe I over reacted. In the last few weeks alone she has said she wanted to be a super spy, a pony with a rainbow mane and the leader of the Liberal Democrats. All silly passing childish fancies I know but maybe I am letting her watch too much telly?.
Well thats all going to change. My daughter will only have positive role models, both male and female, from now on. There is no reason that she cannot try to be anything she wants to be. Living in a female dominated household (the only time I get to pee standing up is at the snooker club) I have come to recognise that women are better at pretty much everything except throwing, catching and scratching.
And in her mother she already has a role model who, when sober, can be inspirational. I have decided I need to do my bit, to give the daughter a rounded education. So with the benefits of my vast experience I will teach her all the essential secrets of the male world: how to bowl the googlie, the lbw and off side rules, the difference between a ruck and a maul and how to get your conkers super hard . If she wants to pee standing up so be it, I`ll buy her a Shewee for Christmas.
So now that I have a plan we can concentrate on her actual career. This is obviously going to be as an opening bat for the English Women`s Cricket Team and England`s first Winter Olympics downhill ski gold medal winner. She can play conkers for Germany. If at first you don`t succeed, live vicariously. Thats my girl.
Nummies Au Naturel
Waking early on Sunday I saw that the glacier in my garden had started to recede. The small family group of itinerant Sami reindeer herders who had been living by the shed had packed up and headed north. I will miss those evenings by the fire but I found the Lapp dance I was given very disappointing. I wonder if reindeer crap is good for roses?.
Could this be the start of spring?. Listening hard I could just make out the sound of the birds coughing down by the chemical factory, and lo, was that the unmistakable first flush of spring down at the playground, milk laden breasts bursting through nursing bras and into the life giving sun, signalling the start of this year`s al fresco feeding frenzy?.
After our traditional Sunday morning breakfast of whatever is left over from Saturday night I agreed to let the daughter go down to the playground. When I woke up again after a couple of hours I decided to go and check that she was ok.
The playground was infested with tots and mothers. Oddly, members of the rival gangs, the Sunny Mountain Street Mothers Mafia and the Daughters of the American Revolution seemed to be getting along well and talking animatedly about something. As I approached it all went quiet and the botox brigade turned my way as one. I didn`t think it was possible to frown disapprovingly after poisoning your own face.
"Hi" I said, stubbing out my Capston Cork Tip. " Just come to see if everything is ok. You cannot be too careful these days. There may be Catholic priests in the area".
That didn`t go down well and you could have heard a baby drop, which it did, but that was not my fault. There appears to be a nest of Papists that I was hitherto unaware of. Even the Hindus,Protestants and other assorted God botherers seemed to take offence.
"How remarkable that you let your daughter come down here on her own" piped up one disgruntled runt. I recognised her, this was recent addition to the street New Dawn who moved over here with her traveling salesman husband, Non Dom. Despite being here only a short time she has risen through the ranks quickly and now heads the Daughter`s National Security Agency, monitoring potential threats to a wholesome American way of life. She has me down as a real and present danger to everything that is decent and wholesome.
Even though I have given up religion for Lent I thanked the almighty for what happened next. An older kid, must have been 6 or 7, walked up to his mother and said "I want nummies". The mother obligingly whipped out her equipment and proceed to feed the fully fledged freak.
There was a collective eeww of facial expressions and undisguised panic in the eyes of those mothers with older kids. They moved like a herd and started to shield their offspring from the sight and usher them away. So much for the sisterhood, ha, but at least the heat was off me.
Could this be the start of spring?. Listening hard I could just make out the sound of the birds coughing down by the chemical factory, and lo, was that the unmistakable first flush of spring down at the playground, milk laden breasts bursting through nursing bras and into the life giving sun, signalling the start of this year`s al fresco feeding frenzy?.
After our traditional Sunday morning breakfast of whatever is left over from Saturday night I agreed to let the daughter go down to the playground. When I woke up again after a couple of hours I decided to go and check that she was ok.
The playground was infested with tots and mothers. Oddly, members of the rival gangs, the Sunny Mountain Street Mothers Mafia and the Daughters of the American Revolution seemed to be getting along well and talking animatedly about something. As I approached it all went quiet and the botox brigade turned my way as one. I didn`t think it was possible to frown disapprovingly after poisoning your own face.
"Hi" I said, stubbing out my Capston Cork Tip. " Just come to see if everything is ok. You cannot be too careful these days. There may be Catholic priests in the area".
That didn`t go down well and you could have heard a baby drop, which it did, but that was not my fault. There appears to be a nest of Papists that I was hitherto unaware of. Even the Hindus,Protestants and other assorted God botherers seemed to take offence.
"How remarkable that you let your daughter come down here on her own" piped up one disgruntled runt. I recognised her, this was recent addition to the street New Dawn who moved over here with her traveling salesman husband, Non Dom. Despite being here only a short time she has risen through the ranks quickly and now heads the Daughter`s National Security Agency, monitoring potential threats to a wholesome American way of life. She has me down as a real and present danger to everything that is decent and wholesome.
Even though I have given up religion for Lent I thanked the almighty for what happened next. An older kid, must have been 6 or 7, walked up to his mother and said "I want nummies". The mother obligingly whipped out her equipment and proceed to feed the fully fledged freak.
There was a collective eeww of facial expressions and undisguised panic in the eyes of those mothers with older kids. They moved like a herd and started to shield their offspring from the sight and usher them away. So much for the sisterhood, ha, but at least the heat was off me.
Thursday 11 March 2010
Oh Fudge Where Art Thou
I had a Facebook friend request this morning from Stomper, a kid I knew at school. He used to boast that he was a Neo Natel when what I think he meant was a Neo Nazi. Clearly he was not the brightest button in the box and currently works as a speed bump in Leeds.
It always puzzled me how someone with the IQ of a stick of liquorice and the body mass index of Jabba the Hut could claim to be a member of the master race. I do rememeber I used to enjoy winding him up by pretending that I was Pakistani. Praying 5 times a day was tough but I dropped 2 dress sizes during Ramadan.
Anyway,I declined his friend request but did find on his site a link to an old school chum, Fudge. Fudge was very quiet and very very fat. It must have been terrible for the poor chap. Teachers can be so cruel. The main thing I remember about fudge was his ear wax. He used to have amazing formations of the stuff, stalactites and stalacmites even. He let us queue up to shine a torch in his ear so that we could marvel at the natural wonder that was Fudge`s ear. And he never even charged us,a missed business opportunity as he would have been minted and had the run of the tuck shop.
Well I wont take you any further down memory lane just now, mainly because it is blocked by a bloody great snow drift. Yes it is still snowing here. Its been such a long hard winter here that the starving garden birds have unionised and now hunt the cats. And still no sign of Missy Biggs, the street`s smallest mother. I hope to God she has been taken in by a family of friendly hedgehogs and will emerge snuffling if a little flea ridden in the spring. When will this winter end!?.
It always puzzled me how someone with the IQ of a stick of liquorice and the body mass index of Jabba the Hut could claim to be a member of the master race. I do rememeber I used to enjoy winding him up by pretending that I was Pakistani. Praying 5 times a day was tough but I dropped 2 dress sizes during Ramadan.
Anyway,I declined his friend request but did find on his site a link to an old school chum, Fudge. Fudge was very quiet and very very fat. It must have been terrible for the poor chap. Teachers can be so cruel. The main thing I remember about fudge was his ear wax. He used to have amazing formations of the stuff, stalactites and stalacmites even. He let us queue up to shine a torch in his ear so that we could marvel at the natural wonder that was Fudge`s ear. And he never even charged us,a missed business opportunity as he would have been minted and had the run of the tuck shop.
Well I wont take you any further down memory lane just now, mainly because it is blocked by a bloody great snow drift. Yes it is still snowing here. Its been such a long hard winter here that the starving garden birds have unionised and now hunt the cats. And still no sign of Missy Biggs, the street`s smallest mother. I hope to God she has been taken in by a family of friendly hedgehogs and will emerge snuffling if a little flea ridden in the spring. When will this winter end!?.
Wednesday 10 March 2010
Surprise! Dummy
If my hangover is anything to go by then the wife`s surprise birthday party last night went very well. I had told her that we were going out for a quiet dinner. But in actual fact I had arranged a surprise party in the Münz Bar, inviting the coolest and most interesting people we know. Sadly they were all too busy to come.
In the end it wasn`t too bad and after eight beers I stopped yearning for a swift and merciful death and the assembled motely crew of drunks and deadbeats, many of whom must be kept away from matches and are not allowed scissors, became strangely interesting. Granted, it was interesting in a wild life documentary sort of way rather than a why dont you come over for dinner sometime kind of way.
This morning I slithered out of bed and oozed my way like a toxic spillage down stairs, every movement and sound an ecstacy of nausea inducing agony, muttering "I will never ever touch alcohol ever ever again". I know full well that if I had a pound for every time I have said this I would have been able to buy my own brewery by now.
After I had packed the daughter off to school I decided to go for a walk to try and clear my head. Down in the town I had a look around in Tony Broccoli`s Clothing Emporium. I think I must have dozed off while standing next to the window display because when I came to a woman screamed. She apologised and said she had thought I was a shop display dummy. How we laughed. Bitch.
But this is not the first time this has happened to me. I remember in London, trailing after my then girlfriend around yet another boutique, I found a nice quiet corner and went into catatonic shut down just to dull the numbing boredom. When I moved to scratch my nose I startled a woman who screamed. She also informed me that she had thought I was a window display unit. This is now troubling me. Am I really so hard to distinguish from a mannequin? Do I have the skin complexion, personality and presence of a shop dummy? If I stood starkers in the window of H&M with a SALE sign around my neck would anyone notice? and do I want to know the answers to any of those questions?.
In the end it wasn`t too bad and after eight beers I stopped yearning for a swift and merciful death and the assembled motely crew of drunks and deadbeats, many of whom must be kept away from matches and are not allowed scissors, became strangely interesting. Granted, it was interesting in a wild life documentary sort of way rather than a why dont you come over for dinner sometime kind of way.
This morning I slithered out of bed and oozed my way like a toxic spillage down stairs, every movement and sound an ecstacy of nausea inducing agony, muttering "I will never ever touch alcohol ever ever again". I know full well that if I had a pound for every time I have said this I would have been able to buy my own brewery by now.
After I had packed the daughter off to school I decided to go for a walk to try and clear my head. Down in the town I had a look around in Tony Broccoli`s Clothing Emporium. I think I must have dozed off while standing next to the window display because when I came to a woman screamed. She apologised and said she had thought I was a shop display dummy. How we laughed. Bitch.
But this is not the first time this has happened to me. I remember in London, trailing after my then girlfriend around yet another boutique, I found a nice quiet corner and went into catatonic shut down just to dull the numbing boredom. When I moved to scratch my nose I startled a woman who screamed. She also informed me that she had thought I was a window display unit. This is now troubling me. Am I really so hard to distinguish from a mannequin? Do I have the skin complexion, personality and presence of a shop dummy? If I stood starkers in the window of H&M with a SALE sign around my neck would anyone notice? and do I want to know the answers to any of those questions?.
Tuesday 9 March 2010
Barbie Girl
Today I have been pondering age. I am considered something of a blue sky thinker here on the street. Unfortunately its cloudy most of the time. Well, today is the wife`s birthday. Happy birthday the wife!. She shares her birthday with Barbie (I mean the doll and not the erstwhile head of the Lyon Gestapo 1942-44). Having a bit of time on my hands this morning I decided to learn more about Barbie the doll.
It appears that the older market is now catered for. You can now get a Bifocals Barbie. She comes with large print copies of Home and Garden and The Lady magazines. Then there is Bingowings Barbie and finally Divorced Barbie, who comes with Ken`s house, Ken`s car and Ken`s boat.
Anyway, it is cold and snowy here, so cold it makes your teeth hurt. The drifts are up to knee height. The word on the street is that Missy Biggs, the smallest mother on the street, has not been seen since the snowstorm. We have been asked not to use snow clearing machinery or burn garden rubbish before checking whether Missy is underneath. Or did I just dream that?. I think I may be going snow mad.
However, I know for a fact that I have picked up a repetitive strain injury from cleaning. Nearly three years of being a house serf, buffing,scrubbing and polishing has left its mark. My shoulder is giving me jip and its playing havoc with my googlies. My cricket career may be over before it got started, a bit late I know but I really felt that this season was going to be mine for the taking. How did it come to this and why don`t we have a cleaning lady?. I used to brief packed lunchtime press conferences in Downing Street, I now pack lunches in my briefs on Sunny Mountain Street.I need legal representation.
Anyway, am taking the wife somewhere special for her birthday this evening. I have excavated one of my old suits and shaken the mothballs out. If you stand up wind you can hardly smell anything.
More tomorrow.
It appears that the older market is now catered for. You can now get a Bifocals Barbie. She comes with large print copies of Home and Garden and The Lady magazines. Then there is Bingowings Barbie and finally Divorced Barbie, who comes with Ken`s house, Ken`s car and Ken`s boat.
Anyway, it is cold and snowy here, so cold it makes your teeth hurt. The drifts are up to knee height. The word on the street is that Missy Biggs, the smallest mother on the street, has not been seen since the snowstorm. We have been asked not to use snow clearing machinery or burn garden rubbish before checking whether Missy is underneath. Or did I just dream that?. I think I may be going snow mad.
However, I know for a fact that I have picked up a repetitive strain injury from cleaning. Nearly three years of being a house serf, buffing,scrubbing and polishing has left its mark. My shoulder is giving me jip and its playing havoc with my googlies. My cricket career may be over before it got started, a bit late I know but I really felt that this season was going to be mine for the taking. How did it come to this and why don`t we have a cleaning lady?. I used to brief packed lunchtime press conferences in Downing Street, I now pack lunches in my briefs on Sunny Mountain Street.I need legal representation.
Anyway, am taking the wife somewhere special for her birthday this evening. I have excavated one of my old suits and shaken the mothballs out. If you stand up wind you can hardly smell anything.
More tomorrow.
Monday 8 March 2010
Sorry
As a public service the police have asked me to publish the following post. Currently they are hunting a gang of international cheese smugglers. Here is a picture of Inspector Knacker with two suspected members of the gang. They were later released without charge as the police could simply not figure out how they moved the cheese wheels around without arousing suspicion.
The next picture shows a suspected cheese mule. These often unwitting innocents are forced to swallow many packets of cheese wrapped in condoms to avoid detection
Police in the UK have found that the end product is often cut or grated and is being sold quite openly to children as young as 37.
If you have any information that can help the police please call the Cathedral City PD.
The next picture shows a suspected cheese mule. These often unwitting innocents are forced to swallow many packets of cheese wrapped in condoms to avoid detection
Police in the UK have found that the end product is often cut or grated and is being sold quite openly to children as young as 37.
If you have any information that can help the police please call the Cathedral City PD.
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