Call me Olympian - Velcro Olympian - Drunk Velcro Olympian

So - it's been a loooooong week. So let's go back to last Saturday. Chester races - Roman Day.

It's hot. The hottest day of the year so far. The weather man says it's gonna be 29 degrees.

Like some sort of ancient wagon train making their way across middle america - so we set off from Sarah and Chris' house with our wagons (mountain buggy / Mclarens / Bugaboo's) laden to the max with the essentials. Beer (cold beer), ice (to ensure the continued coldness of the beer), picnic consisting of superheated tuna sandwiches (we must not waste ice on sandwiches - never!), quavers, strawberries and grapes, wine - much wine, champagne (well - why not?), beer - did I mention beer? Oh and the kids.

Fintan sits shotgun - riding on the front of the buggy with Declan crammed behind him. I stumble forward under the weight - two for a tenner deckchairs slung over my shoulder.

The wagon train wanders past a sentry post of Roman Soldiers - Fintan doesn't even bat an eyelid. We trek to the centre of the race course and like Christmas Turkey - we begin to roast.

The day is interspersed with spectacularly random bets (the jockey is Irish, the trainer is Irish, the Horse is Irish, the colours are Irish etc) and are quids down. But the highlight of the day is surely the free bouncy castle and "Velcro Olympics Assault course" for the kids. By the end of the day we manage to convince the spotty teenager in charge of safety - that it is in his best interests to let Chris and I race each other over the assault course. Four year olds gasp as two drunken idiots launch themselves at full pelt through the assault course. I nearly have him at the second hurdle - but after that - it's game over. I can only manage a pathetic treble roll out of the assault course padded tunnel and land off the side of the matts. This is a painful lesson in stupidty.

The next day I notice I have seriously sunburnt feet. I always forget the feet. Always!

The rest of the week - I am offshore again at the crack of dawn on Monday (boy those morning flights kill me!). And on my return I am the walking dead. Succombed to some sort of deadly man flu. I call the doctor on Wednesday for an appointment. The friendly receptionist informs me that there is an appointement in 2 weeks time - in June.

"I'll be dead by then! What's the point in an appointment then?" I demand angrily.

She is unimpressed. I am almost tempted to actually die just to teach her a lesson and prove my point. "There - vindicated!" I'd have on my Gravestone.

A tonne of antibiotics later and I'm getting better (I know you care!). Until today - today was rather rubbish - my chest no longer feels like I am breathing through glue - but my nose won't stop bleeding. This rather freaks Fintan as he thinks he has trodden in it (it's all over the floor). Lucky for me my wife is an expert in this sort of emergency.

"Stick your head back and it will stop". An hour later I am drowning in a constant flow of blood down my throat.

"On no - sorry - try sitting forward and pinching your nose - maybe that was it".

Ahhh - what joys does tomorrow hold? Self lobotomisation? Death by Umbongo? Who knows. Who knows...

Just how bad is it to forget your wedding anniversary?

Today it is sunny. Today it is hot. Today I am listening to the greatest home-made compilation CD in the world as I head to nursey, drop the kids off, and steam down the A55 towards the border - and beyond - into the great valleys of Wales and into work.

Back in Black - AC/DC nicely moving into Led Zepellin - Houses of the Holy and onwards taking in a rare remix of Fools Gold and on towards a gloriously chilled cover of Toots and the Maytals Pressure Drop and the grand finale by way of Muse. As I drive to work - the music blaring, window down and me nodding my head like the Churchill dog - as I grin to myself - I finally realise what I have become.

I have become a complete and utter Dad. The metamorphosis is complete. I am Sad Dad - with proper Sad Dad music - and I quite like it.

I have a wedding in a few weeks in Sweden - and I'm thinking of warming up my repetoire of dance routines this weekend. Because tomorrow night - me and the missus are out on the town - out on a date - wahoo!

I could start with the classic "Bez" - two steps forward - roll head - glaze eyes - shuffle backwards - and repeat. I may also attempt to "twirl" my lucky wife on the dancefloor this weekend if I get a chance. But these are early days - it takes many decades to perfect the "seamless Dad twirl".

So - I will stick with my signature Dad dance of late - the "Butt dance". This involves a booty-like butt wiggle and bump and grind on the dancefloor whenever Beyonce or Black Eyed Peas come on.

Recently - I am proud to see that my son has taken this tuition on board. He now sports a classic Butt dance routine whenever I stick the stereo on full volume.

And the reason for this great adventure - this "date" (a rarity with kids!). Well - Lisa at work bumped into me outside the toilets (I wasn't loitering - honest), we got chatting about Ashes to Ashes - Is Gene Hunt God? Are they in Purgatory? Are we real? If you glue a badger to a tree in the woods and it dies and no-one see's you - is it really dead - is it really your fault? And just as we were parting company she reminded me "it's your weddding anniversary this weekend isn't it?"

Wow. Thank God someone in my life remembered - cos neither my wife nor I did. So - Lisa - thank you. Everyone should have their very own personal Lisa for moments like this.

I'll let you know how it goes!

I spent the night with a crane driver called Andy - and I quite enjoyed it

Yep - it's true. I spent an entire night on top of a Crane Driver called Andy.

Luckily - there was a thin layer of plastic (no - it's not what you're thinking!)and 3 inches of mattress separating our bunks. Ahhhh - the joys of a shared cabin on an oil platform! Although - I will say - we did enjoy Outnumbered on the tv for a while and then entered into quite a learned debate about the differing offshore regulatory and safety reigimes employed around the world (yep - sad I know!).

After which point - I felt sorely tempted to utter a quick round of "Good night John Boy, Good night Ma, Good night Jim-bob" Waltons style - but thought the better of it. Not always a good move in a confined cabin a million miles from home. With the refrain from duelling banjo's ringing in my ears - I fell into a groggy sleep - courtesy of the world's crappest head cold.


Up at the crack of dawn yesterday and 12 hours later - on a chopper to BBQ central at my mates house. For a birthday party for their one year old. Of course - as soon as I hit the beach - I called Chris from my phone to reserve me his finest burger...he'd put one aside for me. There's loads! No fear!

I rested easy, safe in the knowledge that my burger was safely removed from the eating frenzy. I lumbered up to their house 2 hours later - bags in tow - and joined in the celebrations.

I went up to my wife and told her what I had done the previous night. Yes - I had slept with a crane driver the night before. "That's funny - So did I!" she said.

Ahhh - it's good to see the humour still thriving in our marriage. Without humour where would we be? Would Ronny Corbett ever have gotten married? Would I? Or maybe I'm getting that confused with alcohol. Without alcohol - definitely - no-one would get married, get together, get pregant, get into trouble. Imagine how organised life would be? Just imagine!

We sleep over. Our four year old next to me - the baby on the floor with mum! Half way through the night there is an almighty thud. It is the four year old rolling straight out of bed and lying face down on the floor still asleep. And now there's the missus shaking me and asking me why I'm holding onto a pillow instead of our son. Ooops. Easy mistake to make. Imagine if that pillow had fallen from the bed? Imagine the damage that could have been done to it. Pheweee. Close shave.

So we swap places and I sleep with the baby on the slowly deflating airbed on the floor. Does anyone actually own an air bed that doesn't deflate within at least one hour! I think it's some sort of inherent failure mode built into air bed design. B*stards!

Still - I sleep well. Dreaming of Miss Hoollie and singing a Balamorey song in my dreams. (Long story - but I'm not a weirdo!).

Today - a breakfast of kings at my mates house - and I'm in charge of the kids at key moments. Needless to say - only a trapped finger - a brush with the oven and a wrestle with a dinosaur later - and we are all well.

And the FA Cup is on in 2 hours...and the League one play-offs to boot! Oh yeah!

I never did get that burger though!

Surving Monkey flu and other great trauma's - things I learned this weekend

It is actually possible to survive on one hours sleep over the weekend and not spontaneously die of "lack of sleep" - but it is not recommended. At one point I think I started hallucinating about being asleep - only to find that - arse - I was still awake but in some sort of sick loop of anti-sleep nightmare. Kids and their temperatures eh?

Stupidly - I wondered how things could get worse. And bang on cue - at about 2am on Saturday night - my wife began her bout of turbo vomit. This sounds selfish - I mean - it was the rest of the family getting sick - not me. But the thing is - it's a known fact that man-flu is particularly brutal on well - men. So. I was right to be in fear for my life. Luckily I'm made of stern stuff. It'll take more than a dose of Outer Mogolian Monkey Flu to knock me off my game.

And that's why I was racing around the garden most of Sunday being attacked by a four year old with a "joker soaker". In the old days they called them water guns - but even guns containing water seem a little bit un PC these days. One minute you've got yourself a water gun - the next - you're upgrading to a water cannon you nicked off the police at the South African world cup...it's only a matter of time before we progress to bin bags full to the brim with a gallon of water and launched from an intricate trebuchet device I put together in the back yard in my spare time.

And so today - we awake way behind schedule and I realise that I have the strange pleasure of waking the baby up. It's such a weird occurance - I feel I should get out a video camera or something. But no. That would be wrong. So together we wake him and get him ready for his busy day ahead. Today - the baby thinks - today I shall mainly grin alot and smile and see if I can ram both fingers really far up my nose. Ahhh - such simple pleasures.

As I get out the car at nursery and carry the baby in - the four year old holding onto the bags with one hand whilst he protects the scratch on his left palm (now covered in a Mr.Bump plaster - the money the Hargreaves estate must have made out of that one!). Well - he suprises me with his wise comment for the morning:-

You must only ever cross the road with an Adolf.

An adolf? I ask.

Yes. An Adolf.

Are you sure you don't mean an adult?

No daddy! An Adolf!

So...there you go - only ever cross a road with an adolf. If you haven't got one - you better go and get one quick. That's the law.

What a balls up - the great British election and other objects - down the crapper

So...the big news of the day...the big news on everyone's lips is...should I pick the Bob the Builder ball out of the toilet? The half flushed toilet? Ok. So - my son just crapped on it (don't ask! - but somehow his younger brother put it there whilst he was in mid contemplation). I could probably deal with that ok. But then he let rip with a full-on rocket cannon of urine - just to make sure it was fully soaked.

I'm sitting in the study at the time - looking up car service garage numbers (such is my insanely mundane life) when I hear those key words that are a dad's worst fear.

"Don't worry. Daddy will get it for you."

Even if the little one booted his football or launched his favourite dinosaur into the world's most populated minefield - this phrase would still be pronounced with great flourish. Like dad's are suddenly immune from IEDs and dog sh*t. (Which reminds me - since when did dad's get the job of washing ten tonnes of dog crap off the buggy wheels without the benefit of a bio-suit?).

So - I retrieved said ball and it was whilst soaking it in 100% industrial strength Domestos that I realised that the ball was a sodding sponge ball! Dear God - the crap was embedded! Seriously - I'd like to say "They don't pay me enough for this Sh*t" - but actually. No-one pays me. No-one pays any of us. That's just life. And hey - that's probaby no bad thing really.

And as for the election. A hung bloody parliament! Well there goes the nation for the next twenty years. Greece is probably just a precursor for the giant sh*tstorm of financial armageddon headed our way! And we don't even have a bloody legit prime minister! Crap. That's just about the worst possible outcome in the world ever. We might as well get Jimmy Saville to run the country!

And so - with the balance of power for the entire nation hanging in the balance - the family did the only thing it could do in these times of great uncertainty - we headed to the pub for a few swift pints (cravendale for the kids - Black bear for dad - and stella for the wife cos she's dead 'ard).

Back home and a quick blast on the climbing frame (yes it is still standing!) and I'm mesmerising the kids with Nick Jr as we speak. I start with the Clangers and hope that Bagpuss will have the desired effect and send them into a dead sleep. But no. Somehow the old Skool tv does not hold them. Does not exude the same transfixing power as it did on us.

I flick to Roary - and Peter kay sends them on their way. God bless you Peter. God bless yer! You fancy a job as PM?

Popquiz hotshot - clean the house or go on a bender?!

So - a day in lieu - a day of rest for yours truly - a day away from work! Wahoo! All those 25 hour days slogging away - weekends spent staring at computer screens, absorbing strange transaction codes and getting excited about strange maintenance processes and routines for compressors sitting somewhere dark and lonely on the deck of an oil platform...... those days have borne fruit. What great wildness awaits me?

I could go on a bender (not literally - although I guess I could if I wanted). I could hit The Bridge Inn at 11am and make my way into town - a quick pitstop at Harkers, then on to the Victoria and a dark corner to brood over a pint of bitter and the paper. And then - my god - can it be true? The races are on - the bloody races are on and it's Ladies day. And everyone knows what that means...the gutters shall be running full with the shoeless and the half stilletoed ones, the girls who've had ten too many...crawling down the pavement, spewing as they go...their pals laughing at the sight and getting their camera's out quick so they can post the picture on facebook that night.

And the lads - spivved up to the eyeballs in their Next suits usually reserved for their court appearances and funerals. And they're looking good - and they've won big on the last race and they're gonna fight and they're gonna pull and it's still only 4in the bloody afternoon! Simple days - I wish I was still one of them.

It is tempting to join the fray - to jump in feet first - but - and here's the weird bit - without your mates there - without your friends and family there - it'd all be a bit pointless. And there-in lies the most depressing lesson you'll ever learn. There's sod all point in taking a day off with hopes of high jinx - unless you've managed to get all your mates to do the same! This is a shock that soon hit me as my friends one by one got jobs all those years ago - and those crazy days of sitting in the pub all day became a nostalgia to glimpse through a haze of time.

Even at the races - I'd miss the kids wrapped round my neck and smacking me in the face with a yoghurt pot. I'd miss sitting on a packet of quavers and drinking warm beer on the grass in the centre of the race-course. I'd miss the strange contentment. But - I wouldn't miss changing a bulging stink-arse of a nappy whilst holding a winning betting slip in one hand and a baby wipe in the other. And I certainly wouldn't miss getting the two mixed up. So I guess - some things - you can do without!

So instead - I just spent 3 hours willingly and with no actual prompting (that's gotta be worth something later?!) - cleaning the house. Yep. Radio full blast - The Cult - She Sells Sanctuary - Elbow next...and it almost doesn't feel like work. It's actually ok (kind of). After a while - I begin to feel faint and realise this is a typical male reaction to domestic chores. I consider sitting down - but like a bloody hero - I soldier on. And - I am done. One house - fully clean. Fully spick and kind of span (hide things in cupboards and glue them shut - that's my secret!). And here's the werid bit - now it's ready for the cleaner to come round and clean it. Seriously. I'll never get my head around that. Never.

Right - I'm off to iron my socks now...ok - that's a lie...town here I come! Wahooooooo!

How many times can you disassemble a climbing frame?

The answer to that question is well over ten million times in one afternoon. The secret is to gather as many workman's tools as possible into one area, randomly distribute them around your garden, rip open all related packs of nails, washers and bolts provided and empty on an uneven surface (preferably near thick foliage); DO NOT READ ANY ASSEMBLY INSTRUCTIONS WHATSOEVER (this is a sign of weakness) and begin random construction at once. The only other added ingredient is an afternoon's supply of beer.

In such a manner I proceeded with firstly my wife and then my mate Chris - to build a scale replica of Noah's arc. Half way through erecting the third set of V frame timbers - half way through - I began to worry. Had someone started coralling elephants, Zebra and Wildebeest outside in the front garden? If so - they were in luck.

Now - my forte is pretty much demolition. Actual bona fide construction and me don't go together - but there must have been some powerful DIY pherenomes in the air this bank holiday and some managed to wash off on me. As such - I was able to mash up one drill head before my mate quickly took the power hammer drill back off me. Drills and Tom don't go together. In fact - there was a vaguely iffy moment when my wife added a new plug to the black and decker and handed it to me. Sensing a cunning plot to knock me off, I duly handed it over to my mate (he being pretty decent at the whole banging and hammering malarkey). We needn't have worried - even after we spilt two stella over the power leads and socket - it still failed to kill us!

And so...at 9pm last night - the climbing frame was erected. Man the hunter - man the great builder of things had won again.

The kids ran out to admire the handywork. They raced outside - weary and tired having waited all day for their playground to appear. And what did they say - what did the little four year old monkey tell me?

"But the slide is green. I'd like a blue one!"

Six hours hard labour. Reduced to a blue or a green slide. Typical. Bloody typical.

We head inside. Our jobs done here. We sink wine and eat pizza and wonder if life can get any better. The next day I will feel like I just wrestled a hungry panda for the world's last stick of bamboo. But today - today I feel good and even the wrong coloured slide can't put me off my game...

How to ensure a good night's sleep...

So...I've finally worked out how you get a decent nights kip. All you have to do is take your baby in for an operation...knock 'em out with a tonne of anaesthetic and away you go. They actually sleep like...well...a baby. And this makes alot of sense - there was a guy I knew at work who swore his grandparents used to put his dad to sleep by waving his head over the gas fire and giving him a quick whiff. I dunno about that though - sounds a little bit fishy to me. I hasten to add - the fire wasn't actually lit at the time - I mean - that would be just plain stupid.

So Thursday was a pretty stressful day really - carrying the little one over the sky bridge linking the two parts of the hospital...handing him over to the theatre staff. It goes against all your natural instincts.

There's only so much loitering you can do in a hospital just outside the theatre before they call security. So the wife and I headed downstairs for a cuppa and the nicest slice of toast I've ever had. It's like they soaked the toast overnight in sunshine and warm butter. Holy crap it tasted good. And the marmite - 25p for a portion the size of a gnats arse - but it was worth it. I need to invest in marmite shares some day. Seriously - it'd be worth my while. As long as I take my annual share pay outs in product.

We tried distracting ourselves by reading the Sun - it seems that there are plots to remove Page 3 "models" from the Sun if the Lib Dems get into power...this could turn out to be the decisive factor for the electorate. And Gordon - poor old bumble Brown - you can't call an old granny a bigot. It's just wrong on so many levels.

I had visions of Malcolm Tucker storming into the press office and literally ripping the head off the nearest person within reach. F*ck filled phone calls to Gordon telling him to get his sorry arse over to the bigot grannies house pronto to clean up the mess. "If the election was a colostomy bag of filth - you just filled it to the brim and f*cked it! You sick perverted scottish dwarf!" Sadly he doesn't exist - so we'll just have to make do with our imaginations.

Oh to be a fly on the wall...

Anyway - I was still on my fist sip of tea when they came to get us. The little one was coming round...is it bad to want to finish your cup of tea? Still - I did the right thing - downed it in one and we raced back to Theatre - wild with giddy delight that all was well. Why were we even worried in the first place - what could possibly go wrong? (Hmmm - hospitals are never a good place to go over the fine print before you sign the disclaimer for your son's operation!)

A few blood soaked tears (literally) from the baby - but apart from that - he was in fine form. Within half an hour he was rattling the metal poles on the NHS cot like a lifer in Strangeways - smacking his cup of milk along the bars and hollering at the other kids. Never has the sound of a gurgling screaming baby throwing random toys out the cot felt so reassuring.

Tom Arnold's Dumb Luck? The Arnold's great luck! With this kind of seamless form - no doubt England will win the world cup and I will be able to retire by this time next year...well - we can always dream eh?!