Cidertini's with Mexican Dave and the Morris Men Massive

We are in deepest Worcestershire and it all feels decidedly like the script for Leaving Las Vegas - if they upped and moved the whole gig to a strange village on the river Severn.

Johnny Depp has been replaced by my buddy Simon and a gang of us wearing Sombrero's, thick Mexican moustaches and drinking "Cidertini's" from straws. We invented the "Cidertini" after a few hours drinking local homebrew cider in the village. It's your standard vodka, scrumpy cocktail for the more refined yokel drinker with access to Martini glasses and plenty of free time. The straw is a necessity, otherwise our rather dashing gaucho moustaches get too soggy and eventually fall into your drink.

The kids - all nine or ten of them (headcounts are over-rated) are in their element. They also have fake moustaches to go with their cowboy hats and neckerchiefs and we are busy bashing the bejaney out of a pinata that we have hung from a variety of trees in the garden of the house we are renting. At some point, for reasons unknown, Simon is about 50 foot up the tree. A lone Mexican in sombrero and multi-coloured poncho. But this does not give him any additional Pinata hitting abilities.

We eventually kill the pinata and play a few games of hide and seek and 52 bunker (Blocky 123, twenty twenty - take your pick depending on your playground geography). The garden is about 4 acres apparently, which means there are plenty of places to hide. I team up with Caitlin, mainly because the adults have decided that playing hide and seek next to a massive thirty foot wide fast flowing river is a recipe for disaster otherwise, and we enjoy a number of Blocky 123 victories. I forgot just how much I liked playing stupid games in a field.

Within the grounds, there are chickens and a duck with a weird round helmet "growth / ball" on his head. As the scrumpy kicks in, we surmise that he must be some sort of maverick stunt duck, or a member of a strange duck cult. We find some plastic eggs in their hen house which really confuses us. The kids want to cook them (the eggs not the chickens) but we put them back. Being city folk, we wonder if the chickens lay more if they see plastic eggs but cannot be bothered to google it. Let nature have it's little plastic egg mysteries...

We walk along by the river, taking note that the "high flood" mark against the garage in town is about six foot above our heads. The garage itself comes straight out of Deliverance - dilapidated ancient pick-up trucks rusting out front. All it needs is a man with a banjo and a small child whose mumma is his pappy's sister and we are there.


We pass a small tudor house - all wattle and daub and rustic timbers. There is a blue plaque up against it (I love a blue plaque). Apparently, Oliver Cromwell stopped here for a quick beer / coffee / chat with the locals after the Battle of Upton. I love this place. This place is a timewarped gem. This is the village from midsummer murders, this is the village from Hot Fuzz. This is England at it's most uniquely insane.

We hope it doesn't rain to a Biblical level as we wander into the world's largest ever Morris fest. We had no idea that we were at the centrepoint ground zero of "Morrissing" when we booked the place in Upton upon Severn. But we are. And it is absolutely delightfully bonkers.

The village has about five ancient 16th century pubs along the riverside and high street. Ye Olde Anchor...the Swan... the Little Upton Muggery. Outside each pub are what looks like the equivalent of "patched" biker gangs armed with wooden baseball bats (cunningly disguised as Morris sticks) and metal tankards for ale clasped to the side of their outfits by caribiners. Imagine what would happen if you crossed all the Sisters of Mercy, Hawkwind and Fairport Convention fans in England, exposed them to the hallucinatory effects of ergot poisoning (this happened alot in medieval farming communities back in the day) gave them access to several barrels of real ale and cider and let them make their own costumes, songs and dances up.

The effect is staggeringly mental and a heap of fun. There is a Morris parade through the village which is interrupted by a hefty woman in a Nissan Micra who takes a wrong turn and nearly takes out the "Dartmoor Border Morris" team mid dance. A tense three point turn ensues which threatens to ruin the vibe of the Morris group led by a tree (yes a tree).

By the river, the kids are mesemerised by the Morris dance-offs (I kid you not! They were awesome) and within a few hours all our children were shaking their plastic Mexican maraccas and banging drums in a giant hypnotic Trad session in the Swan pub. Literally, the music seemed to whirl and carry on for ever, like the pied piper leading everyone towards ultimate oblivion.

We eventually dragged the kids free from the Piped Pipers clutches and headed back to our pad for more fun and games. Needless to say, this ended with Simon, Sanjib and I sitting in the hot-tub with our recently purchased metal drinking tankards (full to the brim with Cider), watching "Kung Fury" - a high quality movie about a Miami cop travelling through time to prevent Adolf Hitler from getting to power. Except his cop partner is a dinosaur called "Triceracop" and his main help comes from Thor and some vikings.

We leave the crazy of the village behind and return to the reality of school runs and homework on Tuesday. The bank holiday truly felt like a wildly wacky and wonderful diversion from reality.

Today we go to the zoo. The sun is splitting the stones and the lion's for once can sit out and sunbathe. We have our picnic in the "secret" picnic spot by the Chinese garden (no - we did't eat it in the red panda enclosure).

And when we get home we fill up the new paddling pool and the kids go crazy. First thing they do is stick the plastic slide INTO the pool. Then they line it up with the climbing frame slide to make some sort of assault course and then they roll in the "grass that has now become mud" until they look like swamp people. Literally, they look like the kind of street urchins you see on Oliver Twist.

They shower, I BBQ some chicken, I warn them not to roll in the mud in the garden because they just had a shower. They jump off the wendy house into the mud in the garden. I give up. And Sarah pours me a Gin and tonic. The sun is shining, I just burnt my thumb on the hot coals in the BBQ (again) and we are listening to the 8th rendition of the Jurassic Park theme tune on the speakers in the garden. I never new it had been covered by so many many many instrumentalists... despite no subliminal messages from DJs Fintan and Declan at all... for some reason we elect to watch Jurassic Park the movie before bed time.

I'll let you know how it goes...

Balloongate trauma, renovating the Pantheon Irish Stylee and the inevitable slide into a muddy ditch by half of my family

I walk in the door with Sarah. We've been shopping for essentials. Milk, Bread, Wine, Strawberry Splits and Rocket Lollies.

I dump the shopping in the kitchen and we begin to pack away the lollies before they melt. Caitlin comes running into the kitchen. Nana has been looking after her whilst we were doing the "big shop".

She's very excited and has demands.

"Er...Daddy..."

"Yes Cutie Pie..." (I call her this to disarm her, it throws her off her game).

"Blow my balloon up Daddy". She gives me a smile and jumps up and down with excitement. Her pigtails bouncing as she does. Ahhh so cute.

"Er...but this balloon looks broken..." I say. This is the well worn balloon she has been asking me to turn into a dog since Fintan brought it back from a laser quest party on the Friday.

"Blow it up Daddy".

"Ok". So I take the crickled up red balloon and begin to blow. I'm getting nowhere however hard I puff. I soon realise this is because there is a massive hole in it. It looks like a long red tongue lolloping from my lips.

I look over and Nana is telling Sarah a funny story that happened whilst we were out.

"So - Fintan and Declan found something in Caitlin's potty," she said between laughs. "Nana Nana, there's something red in Caitlin's potty. It's on the poo and sitting in her wee!" Apparently this was the most comical event the kids had ever seen in their lives. Even Nana was finding it stomach-splittingly funny herself.

I look up from my failed balloon blowing. Caitlin looking forlornly at me. I catch the end of Nana's story.

"So I took her balloon out of the potty, gave it a quick wash and gave it back to her..."

I stare at my mother-in-law in horror and spit the balloon out of my mouth. I run for the stairs three steps at a time and begin to rinse my mouth out with an entire bottle of Colgate mouthwash and then move on to squeezing tubes full of toothpaste into my poor compromised mouth. I feel like I'm living that scene from the crying game. (I'm sure it's the Crying game...if not - you get the idea).

I compose myself in front of the mirror, shake my head and wander downstairs. My entire family are now laughing at me. Apparently this is very funny.

"Who washes a poo-soaked broken balloon and gives it back to their child?" I ask - still in shock. Nana is laughing so hard. But between choking laughs she says she didn't think anyone would want to blow up an old balloon.

Silly me - what other possible function and activity would I use a balloon for?!

I take myself back to a happy place before balloongate. The week before in Rome with the family. We stayed a Gelato's stroll from the Trevi fountain in a beautiful apartment block with orange trees and lemon trees and a small fountain in the courtyard. Turtles (God knows how they got there) sitting trapped but apparently happy in the fountain. Eight in all. Although one never moved much and stayed pretty firmly stuck to the bottom of the fountain from what I could see.

I carried Caitlin around the entire Vatican including the Sistene Chapel - skipping the massive 2 hour queue by taking the worlds most boring tour guide. I can never take those minutes back but sincerely hope that if there is a purgatory - that tour guide will be forced to listen to the sound of her own voice for eternity. Trapped within it. The most impressive thing for me was Emperor Nero's 22 tonne purple marble bath. Wow. That must have taken about a week to fill up.

We explore the Colosseum on the Saturday which is more lively. And then bask in the warm spring sunshine as we cut a path through the ruins of the Forum and back towards the Pantheon. The Pantheon blows my mind. The worlds largest unsupported dome for centuries - millenia. So long in fact that they had to wait til Brunelleschi came along before they got anywhere close. We stand inside the temple / church. (They built it before Jesus was born). There's a large hole in the dome letting the sunlight and the elements in. Bright light against the dark shadows of the ancient building.

Sarah looks at this. "I wonder if they put a carpet down when it rains. Maybe they should cover that hole in the roof. You could slip on that marble".

A wonder of science and engineering. Possibly one of the greatest feats of architecture on the planet and Sarah wants to put a carpet on it and cover the roof. Thank God they never had a stable or garage for their chariots - or she'd have wanted to convert that too. Its the Irish in her! If she sees a garage. They have to convert it! It's practically the law!

We eat our bodyweight in Pizza and sink a few gallons of Chianti over the course of a few days. Bringing home Italian cheese and a bottle of wine each night to consume before disco time and bed (the kids took to breakdancing across the smooth parque floor of the apartment to Noah and the Whale, Bowie, Madness and the Cure).

Over the Easter holidays I manage to amaze myself by scoring my first goal in competitive hockey for 20 plus years for Chester 6s. I continue to tell my family that I am playing at an international level. With 3 members of the team playing for Wales and England. I fail to tell them that this is over 65's internationals! No need for detail. Ah the joys of a mid life Crisis and retaking up Hockey after a 2 decade sabatical! Later I referee the boys in their "animal magic" hockey match. This makes for an interesting match when you have no whistle, no clue what you're doing and 20 kids to chaperone round a pitch! Still - apart from Declan getting his hands smashed up with a hockey stick - it all goes swimmingly.

We attempt Cheshire Ice Cream farm over the weekend along with the entire population of Manchester and Liverpool and Wales combined. It's proper busy but the toffee ice cream cone takes the edge off of the pain. Fintan falls over on the farm by the Llamas in a tractor divot filled with mud and water. Caitlin quickly follows suit - leaving Declan as the sole winner of the "Can my family not fall over in the biggest muddy puddle" competition.

We go home and dream of tractors, chickens and red balloons. 99 red balloons..circling a potty.

Caitlin enters her "Pink" Piccasso phase...

Friday night. Long week at work. January is taking it's toll on us all. I speak collectively on behalf of my family and every other family who just about survived Christmas and are in the throes of readjusting to waking up again and having to function without cheese, crackers, wine, Guinness, Port, Cheese, Crackers, Quality street, Cheese, Turkey sandwiches, spicy Mexican cheese and Elf being on repeat for an entire month. No cheese. No wine. No Elf. No fun. January proper sucks. (Except for Flash Gordon - which takes the edge off of Saturday morning!)

I walk into the living room - summoned by Caitlin's strange whine / caterwaul that indicates that the current television programme on the Cartoon Network is not to her tastes.

I stare at our nice newish grey material sofa. It is now coloured in pink.

"Caitlin why did you do this?" I ask her. Trying to stay calm. Trying to reason. Apply logic.

"Grrrrrr....." she kind of growls at me and hides her head behind her hands.

"Caitlin. Our couch is pink! You coloured in the couch!" I am getting angrier the more I say it out loud.

She beings to cry. Huge chunky sobs, calculated to pull at the heartstrings and deflect her ambitious attempt to create a new look for our living room.

"Seriously Caitlin. I cannot believe you did this! Why Caitlin? Why?" I feel like the guy in platoon. Sinking to his knees, gun raised in bewilderment as his Nam buddies fly off in their chopper.

I realise that my Five Why's approach to the pink sofa incident is doing no good for my root cause analysis. Sod this Lean Six Sigma approach on the three year old. I am going to Defcon 1.

"Caitlin. No Tv. That's it!" The foot goes down. I am the dad in Inside Out. This dawns on me and I feel like a sad predictable pixar character of a dad.

She has now escalated her sobs to "hyperventilating until I pass out" levels. This is a cunning bluff. But I am falling for it. She peeps up from behind her hands and the buried head in the pink sofa. I relent and give her an Ipod. This allows me to technically remain faithful to my removal of all tv rights.

She looks at the Ipod like it's a lame dog that should be put down and points at the Ipad with the dead battery.

"I want the Ipad!" she sobs. And here come her demands. "Team Umizoommeeee!"

"The Ipad has run out of battery Caitlin. It's broken!" I say.

"Your phone?" she tells me.

"I don't have Team Umizoomee on it.." I plead. I am trying to negotiate with someone with many many years more expertise in this field than me.

"Download it! she orders me!

"I can't, I need to upgrade to IO9" I tell her. She stares back blankly. This is crazy jibber jabber. She has no need for the intricate details. She has needs only for the now. For Iphone.

She begins to cry uncontrollably. I pick her up and cuddle her. I sing her my faithful "I can sing a rainbow song" badly and eventually place her back down on the couch again.

Sarah comes in to inspect the damage. She is on her way out to pick up one of Declan's friends for a sleepover.

"At least she didn't draw on the carpet," she says. Trying to take some single element of positivity from the whole disaster.

"Oh Crap," I stare down at my feet and don't know why I didn't just cover the floor with my body, or a small child or a large bowl of cheesy Doritto's and dips.

The light coloured carpet is now pink. Streaks of pink. Everywhere.

Sarah marches over to Caitlin and like some horrific never-ending Groundhog day meets Twilight episode we begin the interrogation again.

"Why did you colour the carpet in pink Caitlin? Why?"

This morning I finally got my revenge. And it's definitely best served cold....

A faint dusting of snow overnight was just enough for my needs.

I got Caitlin covered up like the Michelin Man before releasing a barrage of sustained snowball attack on her and her brothers. Oh revenge is sweet. However, I think I lost out overall. Somehow Fintan and Declan managed to plant at least 3 litres of compact iceballs into my jeans pockets, where they slowly melted...and Caitlin took her first snowball inside and said to us:

"I love this daddy! I will keep this in bed with me forever," as she held it in her dainty cold hands.

It was a tough job breaking the news about what happens to ice when it gets hot. I thought she would have copped on from watching Olaf melt in Frozen for the millionth time but apparently not. And lo..the shock and hurt began once more...

If you're bored. Here's a visual summary of 2015. It was mega!

Christmas at Chester Zoo is jazzed up by a few plants Sigourney "the-ten-foot-blue-avatar" Weaver brought back from Planet Pandora

The family goes black and white

We take New Yawk for our ten year wedding anniversary

I am the lone Englishman in Edinburgh...a sad pathetic figure of a man...as Ireland win the 6 nations and Scotland and 50,000 Irish on tour go bananas in celebration!

Jez gets married in Cornwall! And we run aground...literally...

And I hit 40! Boooom!!!!!