Carpet Smurf-aggedon, Cali-Toilet-violations and the heavy-weight lifting champion of Venice Beach

 "I'm not kidding Dad, Mum's gone bananas this time..." says Declan.  Torn half between comedy and fear.  

"So what exactly happened?" I ask again.

"I mean, I don't quite know dad, but the carpet is now painted blue..." he says, trying to contain the laughter.

"Ok - well - I'm sure it will wash out," I suggest.

"It won't...mum already poured bleach on it..."

Ooof, I think.  I know the carpet salesman said you could  pour bleach on it.  He didn't exactly let on what the effect would be.

"And the worse things is dad...she hasn't even noticed that the dog is painted blue as well!"

"Shit!  The dog is blue?" Bloody typical, I think.

Days later when I return from my work trip.  I survey the damage (which Caitlin had cunningly hidden underneath the porch door matt).

"Woooooahhhhh..." I say.  I definitely wasn't expecting it to be that bad.  But it is exactly as Dec had pointed out. 

It looks like someone detonated a bomb in a Smurf village. Carnage. Blue streaks across a size-able patch of the living room.

"Look," I tell the kids.  The important thing is no-one is hurt.  Everyone has their health.  It's just a bit of carpet I say.  I am secretly quite relieved.  Now I feel less rubbish about the whopping great holes around the fire place where I accidentally over-stoked the fire beyond maximum capacity and sprayed hot coals onto our apparently indestructible carpet.

Turns out - hot coal tends to melt cheap carpet.  Soon we shall have a carpet of very many technicolour wonders (just like Joseph's Dreamcoat) as we stitch together and cover up the floor in various random rugs and door matts.  

Daisy seems none to bothered by her brush with the blue paint and there is a blanket-wide denial of any involvement with this.  Turns out Daisy thought the paint could be food and investigated too heartily.

Lately though I have mainly been living my alternative best version of me lifestyle in California with my sister and Fintan along for the ride.  And what a ride!  We packed more action into a week than The Fast and the Furious cross-bred with Mission Impossible. 

I learnt many things about myself.  Some of them deeply prophetic.  For instance...

"Yo Tom - you really need to check out our new Japanese toilet - it's amazing," sis tells me. 

"Hmmm...is that ok?" I mean ensuite toilets are quite personal items.

"Yeah - go for it Tom," 

So I Go for it. "Oooooo...."I say.  A heated seat.  This is the weirdest yet greatest thing my butt has experienced in a long while. 

Things go along as expected until I take a look at the control panel.  Yes - a flipping control panel for a toilet.  This truly is an experience!  I randomly press an icon which seems to show an upside down rainshower.  The next few seconds are indelibly etched into my mind palace of unusual new sensations.

At first I feel intense violation.  I am being violated! I think, as a rapid fire wall of warm water fires up my butt.  Reeeelaxxxx I tell myself.  And after a stern talking to, I start to embrace the warm fuzziness.  I briefly contemplate why exactly butt-holes can feel spice? And then start to panic.  I've been there for about 2 minutes and the water cannon is still on rapid fire speed.  I give it a little longer and start to worry about the water drought in California.  I am using up all their precious resources!  

I'm getting anxious now.  If I get up - will it fire straight up all over the bathroom?  I cannot risk it.  So I press another button.  The water does not let up.  

Shit - what do I do?  I am in fear now.  This is beyond awkward. 

For fear of actually dying on the crapper, I make my bold move and raise my butt-cheeks an inch.  The water column subsides.  I raise it another inch. It stops.  Dear God.  Relief courses over me.  My arse cheeks are wrinkled with their over-bathing.  I have the arse skin texture of a ninety year old man!

 

Later that week, after a full recovery, we head out to Malibu beach. We hire bikes and cycle along the famous boardwalk on the beach.  Past a gang of young hipsters in actual legwarmers and spandex (no shit!) roller dancing to classic showtunes from a massive boombox; past a man on an e-skateboard holding his pet micro-dog in his hands; past cool kids on their e-bikes with a strong waft of weed circling over them as they cruise by; past lithe fit joggers in skinny tops and on towards Venice beach and the iconic outdoor gym and basketball court. 

As it happens, there's a crazy lady singing Korean love songs (or possibly she's a Seventh day Adventist trying to convert us - we are not too sure) right by the basketball court.  This is not what we see in the movies.  

Fintan is keen to head towards the famous GOLDs gym - home of multiple Mister Universe and Olympia's.  And where ARNIE works out.  He will surely recognise a fellow muscle-man!

We cycle up and head on in.  The place smells like muscle and my hockey socks after a particularly intense hockey match - and if I forgot to wash them for ten days.  I am mainly mesmerised by the giant golden Dumbells ahead of us as we pay for a one day pass.

"Holy crap - they look heavy," I say.

"They're the heaviest Dumbells in the world dad," Fintan tells me.

Being helluva tough - I think this is merely a challenge. I try lifting with all my might.  My eyeballs threaten to pop out my head a bit like the bad guys in Raiders of the Lost Ark at the end. And still - it doesn't even budge a micro millimetre.

"Dang - that is heavy."

"It's the world's heaviest Dumbell.  Of course it is.  150 Kg! That's 330 pounds dad!"

Fintan then amazes me as he actually manages to lift one about a cm from the bench. 

"Don't lift it!" I yell out loud.  I am genuinely worried he might burst his entire body and explode.  But he has it. 

Fintan puts in a session whilst I sit on a comfy leather chair and watch a tonne of beef-cakes with biceps bigger than a small child lift crazy heavy weights.  At one point, She-Hulk actually sits in front of me.  She is awesome. And could surely bench me with her little finger.  I feel totally out of my league here as the stand-out "fat dad" who has accidentally wandered into an alien landscape. 

We cycle back to Malibu pier and eat Wetzel Pretzels and ride the Pier roller coaster - which is actually more exhilerating than it looked from the beach. 

Through-out the week - we have a total blast.  We hike deep into mountainous valleys (with names like Rattlesnake Canyon) and paddle in secret watering holes as blue sky and hundred degree sun beats down.  We see rellies in Montecito and have a really special afternoon and evening with them.  We sit and chill at a listening party in Ojai organised by Uncle Jon.  Which was truly special under the nightsky with acoustic Brazilian guitar and a mesmerising Columbian DJ set.  I mainly struggle with my inability to sit cross legged or quietely.  But love it all.  Just beautiful. 

Fintan eats his first Snow Cone, despite his Monsters Inc advice never to eat a yellow snow-cone.  We eat Taco's from a food truck and swing and hit in a baseball batting cage.  We eat buttered popcorn at the Ventura showing of Barbie (Ryan Gosling is so good as Ken) and swim in Sarah's pool only a matter of feet from the small but deadly Black Widow spider living happily by the pool steps and nurturing her small white sacs of babies.  

"Would it kill us if it bit us?" we ask.

"Hmmmm...maybe Melvin (the dog) but not us.  But it would hurt," says sis.

So we carry on chilling in the pool until I achieve full zen and become one with the inflatable avocado and fall asleep on it for at least an hour. 

Coming home, the jetlag is a shocker. Fintan is now officially living his new life as a vampire, based on his sleep patterns back home.

The holiday has given me time to reflect on all of the fun this year.

 Way back around April we enjoyed a magical mystery tour of Liverpool. Which was a total blast and ended with us in the Cavern sinking a few jars (Caitlin mainly fell into a boredom coma) and THEN at the Eurovision Song Contest Fan zones by Albert Docks.  The comedy highlight was security refusing to let us in with a back-pack even though it was searched and contained no bomb. Until we renegotiated with them and they agreed that if we took everything out of the bag and carried it in, then it was fine. 

So in we trudged, the whole family laden like pack mules with all our soft drinks, coats, packet of cards, mentos, packet of plasters etc.  Stepped a yard inside the fan zone and promptly put them back in the "illegal" bag. 

Coldplay at the Eithead blew us away. Whether you think you hate them or actually hate their music or not.  I defy you not to love their live show (unless you are a serial killer or death metal fan).  A truly uplifting blast of colour and joy. 

And the following week - we go mad for Madness at Delamere forest.  Declan and Fintan right at the front with all the Fez-headed chunky fifty year old dads reliving their long lost youth.  Another true nostalgic wonderful night. 

What's next - hopefully a bloody well deserved break.  But I will let you know!

Riding with my boyz... in the back of the Neon Pink Disney Carriage and Strictly Drunk Dance-off Magic

Many of you (when you have followers numbering less than ten but more than five - you can use the word Many with true authority) will be wondering...did Tom die? Where exactly did he go?  I've not seen him back at work since Covid.  This is awkward... 

As someone far more famouser than me once said "I am very much still alive!".  That was either Oscar Wilde, Beyonce or Leo Sayer. 

Quick recap.  The floppy haired Wurzel Gummidge impersonator who'd been moonlighting as PM is finally gone.  Liz Truss (Liz who?) managed to shag an already defunct economy within approximately 3 seconds of becoming the new PM, no-one can be bothered to die of Covid any longer because the entire country is officially on strike.  Dogs, Cats, Train drivers, Civil Servants, Nurses, Teachers, Ambulance drivers, even the aardvarks in Chester zoo are manning a blazing oil drum as we speak and protesting at the shitshow of a government.   I just remortgaged the house for a lump of coal and sold my children just so we could pay for some leccy.  There's a horrific war in Europe and we are currently 90 seconds to midnight thanks to the loon in charge of Russia. 

On the upside...  I'm a celebrity was pretty good this year.  

If I get back in my HG Wells time-machine and check my Iphone pictures I can just about remember that the Autumn highlight of 2021 was seeing the wider family along the Welsh borders near Haye-on-Wye.  We mainly learnt that Daisy nearly shits herself if she hears a shotgun go off.  This is not good when you are staying in a massive old house in the deepest Welsh countryside.  The Welsh tend to fire warning shots at rabbits and Englishmen every few minutes.

Sis had booked a magical ancient old manor house which wouldn't have looked out of place in a Bronte Novel.  Which meant, I was rather disappointed when the wife failed to come down for supper, at Evensong, in her low level boddice-popping outfit.  And she was pretty gutted I hadn't transmogrified into Colin Firth in tight leggings. 

Fintan and Dec played some classical sonatas and waltzes on the harpsicord whilst we danced around the main ballroom.  

I rode my first ever pommel horse indoors, whilst wearing an assortment of headwear.  It was great to chill with sis and enjoy meeting up at last.

Against all odds, we found ourselves in 2022 and vowed it would be better than the two previous years.  I can now report that it too was fairly shit - pockmarked with brief moments of joy before slipping back into total misery.  It made the Fields of the Nephilim gig I saw with Simon seem positively tree-huggingly upbeat. 

I fulfilled a twenty year New Year's resolution and finally visited Barcelona with the family.  

Yes - we arrived at the airport without face-masks and then landed in Spain and had to put them on (like the Covid bug has some sort of inbuilt super ability to respect international borders?).  

Gaudi blew us away.  His park, his bonkers wibbly wobbly houses and holy shit - that Cathedral. Genuinely, walking into the Sagrida Familia made me cry.  The shafts of coloured light blasting through the walls.  It felt like I'd walked into a giant version of the Mos Cantina on Mos Eisley built by a crazed acid-fuelled madman.  To think on such a scale...through time....and into history.  What a guy.  Getting flattened by a tram outside though...that's a real bummer.

Near the end of 2022.  We tick another item off the bucket list.   

The weekend before we set off for Blackpool there were headline stories basically alikening Blackpool to Beirut but with a worse drug problem and shitter buildings.  But there’s nothing that some penny arcades, bright lights, candy floss and shit-tonne of alcohol can’t hide.  Blackpool is basically the 90 year old great gran at the wedding with the pink lipstick smeared over her drooping face, the face powder slapped on so heavy to cover the cracks, wearing the see through mini-skirt whilst dancing on the table with a handful of wedding cake in one hand, a bottle of Aldi prosecco in the other and a cigarette dangling from her gob.  Just before she tries to snog the groom and then deck all the bridesmaids.

Our air b n B previously operated as some sort of hostel / knocking shop / slum circa 1958.  But we are all very excited.  

"Top of the Tower!!!!" I yell in excitement as we leave our house and walk through an alleyway littered with broken glass and crap.

"Kids - we are not to walk back through this alley later tonight," I warn them.  We all agree.

Walking down the windswept seafront.  You have to admire the beaten majesty of the place.  It must have been stunning in its heyday (back before tv was invented and Charlie Chaplin was still cutting edge).

A mile away, we spot the great Blackpool Tower.  It's genuinely thrilling. 

We trudge towards it.  An army of kids running ahead of us.  Beanie hats and wolf hat wrapped down around their ears against the arctic northern cold. Grown-ups plodding along behind.

And then we're there. We get in the lift and make our way to the  Blackpool Tower Ballroom.  Strange music that reminds me of the Ballroom scene in the Shining drifts towards us.

I open the door and am not prepared for the inside. We all gasp.  

This would be a Ballroom Dancers wet dream.  There are 70 year old men in sequins dragging other men in spangly tops.   There are young glamorous couples doing some fancy cha cha cha moves and twirling each other about like extras in Dirty Dancing.  And the building itself.  It's like finding a gleaming set of crown jewels buried in a sack of shit. 

We go to the bar and me and Steve order many pints. 

We head upstairs where Lucy and Sarah have found a good vantage to view the spectacle.  

"Look at them... is that a throuple?  I bet he's shagging both of them..." I suggest.

"Look at that guy.  He's amazing!" I say.  He is middle-aged, well built and wearing a classic Yorkshire flat cap and tweed waistcoat.  The epitome of coolness. 

"Noooo....." we all shout out from the balcony. Spitting out our beer. He walks off the famous Strictly dance-floor, feels for a table and then grabs his white walking stick.  I feel truly humbled.

After a few more trips to the bar.  Us grown up parents decide to surprise the kids.  

"I'm well nervous.  This is scarier than I thought..." I say.

"I can't do it..." says Sarah.

"Come on!  It'll be fine..." but I feel like the wallflower hovering at the side of the dancefloor at the school disco all over again.  All the other couples look semi-pro.  Some are even just semi everything judging by their tight lycra trousers. 

We shut our eyes and, rather like Nemo's dad as he joins the Turtles on the Pacific Jet stream, we find ourselves joining the throng, whooshing along and waltzing our way counter clockwise as a man who has recently magically appeared from within the bowels of the Tower on a giant Wurlitzer serenades us with a sprightly waltz.

The kids are half gob-smacked and half beyond embarrassment as we roll off the floor.  The floor itself is surprisingly springy.  Like a running track cross bred with a muted trampoline. 

"Wooooo!" we are exilerated as we leave the floor.  Taking our bows from the couples having their afternoon tea in fits of giggles at our complete ineptitude. 

The day gets better.

"Declan...get in the carriage..." I demand.

"No dad...no..." says Declan.

"I want to get in Dad - can I?" says Caitlin. Fintan and his mate Oliver look on with casual disinterest.

"But why not Dec?"

"Because it's a giant pink Disney carriage being drawn by a horse down the main road.  It's embarrasing dad!"

"Come on...it'll be fun.  When else are you gonna get the chance to sit in a horse drawn carriage like a Princess?" I suggest.

"Exactly.  A princess!" he says.

We fail to negotiate with the Horse owner and get in anyway.  By the end of the trip down the road and past all the Illuminations....we are all converted.  Giant neon pink horse drawn carriage is the way I shall travel everywhere from now on.  Period. 

We wander into the arcades and blow at least two thousand pounds in 2 pence pieces before heading down the pier for officially the worst kids entertainment show ever (bonus being they served beer).

To top if off, we head to the Pepsi Max Big One and the rollercoasters with sore heads and a shabby three mile walk on the Sunday. 

At one point I scream the F word repeatedly for two minutes as this ride loops me up, down, sideways and inside out.  I feel bad.  Frankie is besides me and only young.  She appears totally unphased and demands we go on it instantly again. 

We rock up to the last big ride of the day.  We watch it whizz by and the boys and me stop in our tracks.

"Shall we give it a miss guys?" I mean - the Wallace and Grommit ride is looking a little more my style right now.  But no - Frankie is insistent. 

I genuinely feel that I might die of fear.  It's not like I'm young these days.  Last time I was here was with Nottingham Uni when I was 21.  And my mate Mally thought he was gonna die then.  How I laughed at his displeasure.  And lo - here I am in his shoes. 

I survive.  We drive home and I know that I have a new found love for this shit-tip. This great city.  Blackpool.