Door blippin, Cave Flippin', Dino Trippin', Dinghy Whippin' Summer 2012

Today I stood at my front door for 2 minutes blipping it with my car keys and wondering why nothing was happening. This is a first for me and a worrying sign. However - let me know when they invent a door blipper device and count me in.

So it's 6 months since the last blog. And 6 months since Caitlin was born pretty much. Anyone would think there's some sort of direct correlation between sleep deprivation and the ability to blog. I do believe it has had a detrimental impact on my higher cognitive functioning. I mean - surely I know how to open a door? Apparently not.

I can't really blame Caitlin though. She's a dream baby. Sleeps for twelve hours at night - smiles when she wakes up and generally chills for the day. She is living my ideal life.

I think it's just a logistical thing. Takes time to get used to. I'd forgotten totally about sterlising bottles, winding babies, cleaning baby puke off your shirt. But it comes back pretty fast. The main rules are:-

a). Never wind a baby wearing a suit (unless it's made of paper. And wearing a paper suit is just a bit weird).
b). Never utilise the "nappy close range sniff test" to avoid a nappy change. This is Nappy roulette.
c). Always hold the baby when the football is on.

I'm not sure where to begin with the highlights of the summer. The Olympics, Euro 2012, the incessant rain? Well - there was the epic ten mile march into Phoenix Park, Dublin to witness the Stone Roses rock the city. Never before have so many middle-aged people attempted to recapture their Madchester Youth with such wild abandon. I never thought that day would happen. The Stone Roses reformed. So it was a bit special to see them. To be honest - they could have strapped a microphone to a chimpanzee and I would have sung along. According to some reports - this is exactly what happened. But not in my books. They were awesome.

Later in the summer we headed off to the South of France to somewhere in the mountains. Despite having 2 sat navs in the car (that consistently pointed us in opposing directions) we did manage to get about and see a bit of the countryside. The lowest point (in our adult eyes) was the world's officially sh*ttest dinosaur theme park / attraction ever. Sarah walks in and jams her leg on a rusty nail at the entrance.

"Are you ok Sarah - are you ok?!" I ask. "Didn't you see that big post there?" I can be really dumb sometimes.

"What do you think?" she manages through gritted teeth.

"Smile by the T-Rex with the kids"...I think Sarah is making strange victory signs at me with her fingers. How bizarre.

"You had a tetnus jab lately?" I ask with concern. Sarah tells me where to stick any possible jab.

We push the buggy over rocky terrain more suitable for a four wheel drive. every hundred or so yards in this forest there's a crappy half-arsed looking dinosaur made of cardboard and bits shadrag found in the tip. There aren't words to describe how bad it is.

However - the kids think it is the most awesome dionosaur theme park ever (it's also the only one they've ever been to either).

The prehistoric swamp has inadvertantly drained away to reveal dinosaur heads on metal poles. Fintan falls over and cuts himself and Declan is scared by the dinosaur roars emanating from a muffled speaker.

We leave and head over to the main part of the attraction - the caves. Apparently - these are some of the most awe inspiring caves in France.

"Is it safe to bring kids down?" I ask the French woman at the till.

She looks at me blankly. So I dig up my best GCSE French from the dusty shelf at the back of my head.

"Le Cave - C'est Dangerous pour les enfants?" I admire my ability to communicate as if I am an actual local. Perhaps she actually thinks I am French? That's how good I am.

She looks at me. Looks at Fintan and Declan who have just knocked a full pint of orange juice over themselves, looks at Caitlin asleep in her buggy and says.

"Non"

"Okay then kids, Sarah - let's go..."

The cave guide takes about thirty of us down into the cold gloom. We are in the middle of the group and immediately I start to pap myself. (To pap oneself is a technical caving term you understand).

I am holding Caitlin in my arms. Holding her tight. Like her and my life depended on it - which come to think of it. They do.

Fintan looks pretty scared but I try to remain dad-like and breezy.

"Wow Fintan look at all these steps going down..." I say cheerily.

725 steps later and I feel like I've been to hell and back. I can no longer feel my arms (they are shaking too much with adrenelin). It turns out that cave safety in France might not quite live up to the standards I'd been expecting.

The rusting, wet metal handrails and stairs led down, down and down into hell. Okay - so the views were spectacular. With sheer 100 metre drops either side. But not great when you first discover your child may have a fear of big dark cave-like spaces and a severe case of vertigo.

As a family we opt to stay at the first cavern as the rest of the group move on. I shout at the guide.

"We Remainee ici!" and he nods.

Are we going to be found dead in a few days time. Does the group come back this way? I don't know. We only have one baby bottle and 2 chocolate biscuits to sustain us. And just when it couldn't get any worse. The lights go out. They're on a bloody auto timer. Luckily the emergency exit signs flicker in the dark (even caves have emergency exits - astonishing!).

I put my phone light to my face and do my Blair Witch impression to raise our spirits.

"Josh! Josh!" I scream in comedy fashion. This doesn't help. So in the end we feed Caitlin her bottle at the bottom of the cave and wait for their return.

Twenty long minutes later they come back and we head up and out. Never has daylight been so welcome.

Later in the summer we head to Alton Towers. Declan takes me on the scariest ghost train ride ever and loves it. He then walks past Sid the sloth from Ice Age 4 and has a freak attack. Honestly - I can't work him out. That boy could sit through the Exorcist totally unfazed - but show him a man in a disney character suit and he's petrified.

Later that night the kids breakdance in the hotel lobby to a Robbie Williams impersonator standing in a giant pirate ship. Which is a hard thing to do - but impressive to behold.

Later still - we head to Center Parcs for a mini reunion with friends from Uni. I'm not sure how it happened but Simon's Yogic balancing on the pool table and the ensuing forehead carpet burn injury was a highlight. Only topped by reliving my youth on the gun games in the arcades, Simon winning the Disco dancing competition with his best Irish jig and plunging headfirst down the "lazy river" in the pool and wondering where exactly all your children had gone. Lazy river = danger!

And last weekend we manage to cram in crabbing in Anglesey, epic fire making and dingy rides in the Menai Straits (If you want to see Funny - imagine Chris in a dinghy with 2 kids when the engine cuts out - repeatedly. Never has one man persevered with a dud motor for so long and for so few...)

What more could you want for a summer?

Until the next time...just do it...

Pimp my ride - Rolls Royce Gangsta Bling stylee, Millwall lose again and a baby is Born - give it up for Caitlin the tiny yellow baby!

It's Saturday - Fintan's just drawn me a great picture of a castle in a jungle on top of a hill surrounded by giant roses; Declan is still asleep and baby Caitlin is chilling in her Moses basket nearby. This is definitely a lull before the nappy storm begins... Anyway - since having a new baby has temporarily blown my ability to blog right out of the water. I've decided to carry out a pictoral blog update of the last few months. Here are the highlights:- Storm Troopers now being used to police Chester....I told him "these aren't the kids you're looking for" and Fintan and Declan moved along...

Millwall go on an unprecedented losing run that lasts pretty much at home from Christmas to April 2012. Any visit to the match by my good self is a surefire certainty to jinx our chances...

A Dalek! It's always good to meet a Dalek at least once a month for a pint.

If you're gonna turn a Rolls Royce into an armoured tank - this is how you do it...Duke of Westminster styleeee... - things got slightly funky when the kids tried to drive it.

Hooray - a bottle of champagne is born (must have been painful!)...no...Baby Caitlin is born! Needless to say - we just left Sarah at hospital on the Sunday afternoon and were just getting the kids settling in for bed when Sarah called. "My waters broke!" she told me as they began wheeling her down to surgery for an emergency C section. Being a calm and organised sort of chap I replied in a reassuring and appropriate manner. "Oh Sh*t! I've got to go Sally - we're having the baby!" I said and promptly ran out the door of the house only to find I'd locked myself out the house and had no keys. Still - luckily the Spurs match was on, so the roads were empty and I made it to the hospital with a few minutes to spare (I'm sure they would have waited for me?). And the rest as they say is history...

Darth Maul Ikea bed death match, neanderthal axe wielding safety moments and lion king drumfests

This week I mainly filled an entire skip with rubbish every evening. If I'd known just how addictive and cathartic this process was - I'd have hired a skip years ago.

Old mattresses, rubble, a sink, bits of wood that Chris was going to burn on our barbeque this summer (but Sarah banned us), half broken chairs, a chipped piggy bank. As I've said to my friends many times over - my DIY speciality really lies in the demolition end of the DIY market. And even then - I'm not that great.

This explains why I ended up taking a hammer, then a power drill and finally a rusty half-blunt saw to the wooden Ikea double bed that had been the cause of at least 8 known incidents of "bed corner toe" - which is where you walk into the bed in the middle of the night and stub your little toe against a bed frame that is a typically Swedish, quirky eight inches longer than a standard double bed should be. I'm sure no one usually complains that they're sleeping with something that's Swedish and 8 inches too big - let alone my wife. But in this instance - it's been the source of a multitude of obscenties and "F*ckin' bed!" moments in our household. So good riddance to the evil feckin thing!

As I saw the frame in half and jump up and down on the boards with my considerable strength and bulk (ahem) - the wood splinters up and gashes my arm nastily. There is blood and I end up doing the manly thing and cleaning it out using the alcohol rubbing gel by the sink (kills 99.9% of all bacteria!). I am now bleeding and enjoying some masochistic DIY pain. I launch the bed into the skip and head to work.

That night I return from work and show Declan and Fintan my DIY war wound. I can't help myself - and tell a small white lie.

"Daddy had a fight with Darth Maul in work today..." I say casually.

The kids look at me wondrously (I think).

"Really daddy? Really really? You're not pretending?" asks Fintan. Fintan's no push over - this smells a little too rum even for a five year old.

"Yeah really - look - look at all that blood and the scabbing and the bruising," I say. "Do you want to touch it? That's where the light sabre hit me." (I get away with this - although if they'd been more astute - they'd be wondering if a lightsabre would inflict this sort of injury - there's no obvious signs of burning or cauterisation around the wound whatsoever).

"Did you kill Darth Maul daddy?" Declan asks me with a serious look of consternation on his face.

"Do you want daddy to have killed Darth Maul?" I ask - hedging my bets.

"Yes" - I say - "Well - maybe..." I'm not sure if telling my two year old that I brutally slayed a Sith Lord during my day at the office is really that good for his mental wellbeing.

"Well - maybe I just injured him...I think he ran away." I add.

"No daddy! You killed him! You killed him!" Declan is now adamant on this fact.

Fintan comes over and whispers.

"Did you really kill Darth Maul?"

I am torn between briefly being a Jedi Knight with some Kudos - or back to being just an ordinary bloke who went to the office, ate a spicy Mexican tuna sandwich at his desk for lunch and didn't really do anything more dangerous than watering his cactus (the spikes can really prickle if you water too close).

"No - No I didn't Fintan..."

"Oh. Ok."

Later in the week when I walk in the door - Declan is upstairs on the landing with a lightsabre. "Daddy - did you kill Darth Maul with a blue or a green lightsabre?"

"Blue lightsabre I say..."

And so the lie continues....

Luckily yesterday we were more down to earth. At the World Museum in Liverpool. I end up colouring in a dinosaur mask during the "dino workshop" and chronically underestimating exactly how realistic the new dinosaur exhibition would be for a two year old. I guess a giant thirty foot animatronic T-Rex roaring at you would leave you somewhat in fear for your safety. So - we didn't dally there too long. A quick session looking at Nemo in the aquarium and things were back on track.

I should have known - but it was the Samauri swords that had the kids interest most piqued. As these were the closest thing in the museum to lightsabres.

At one point I stupidly picked up the replica stone age hunting axe that neanderthal man used and gave it to Fintan to play with. Then Declan made a grab for it.

"Let's put that back shall we? Look - over there - there's a giant meteorite - let's try and lift it!" Meteorites are stupendously heavy. I can vouch for that now.

I have no idea how the baby girl is going to fit into this whole macho arrangement - of axes, swords and general boisterous mayhem. I have a distinct impression that within weeks - every pink toy in the house will have been surrupticiously commandeered from the nursery and into the boys rooms to be used in one of their games of toy soldiers.

I can only imagine...

We finish the weekend with the Lion King theme tune on full blast - you know - the one that opens with "AHHHHHHH ZABADAWINGAAAAAAA.....!!!!" and then Simba gets lifted up by the monkey. And hammering on the African drums I bought the kids a few weeks back. We are finding a good rhythm and I run into the playroom to grab some maracas and a tambourine (I am the Linda Macartney of the ensemble) and we belt out a few more. I lose the kids at "Under the sea" from the Little Mermaid and decide to wrap things up (well - Sarah reminds me that it's the kids bedtime and banging on a drum and shouting isn't good for getting them nice and relaxed for bed).

I am still holding out a faintly ambitious hope of buying a Hammond Organ for the house (just imagine the sound on one of those things!). But - this may well be something that requires delicate negotiation (and possibly some hint of extreme musical recording talent within the family!)

I'll keep you posted...

The airport queue of unending horror and the day I sprayed my body half orange and got a pedicure

2012 here were are! But how did we survive Christmas and New year? Well something like this...

The Friday before Christmas and there's a snowstorm in Manchester just large enough (ie three large fluffy flakes) to shut the airport for a miniscule window of two hours and leave us stranded in Switerland. Possibly if not definitely - the worlds most expensive country to buy anything other than a flugelhorn or a mountain goat.

We queue resolutely and patiently for a transfer and miracle of miracles - we're transferred onto a heathrow flight leaving in 30 minutes. So - Becks and I peg it through security and passport control and celebrate with a well earned large red wine at the boarding gate (I actually remortgage my house to pay for the drinks - but we're so chuffed to be making it home after all). And then they go and cancel all flights out of Zurich due to a "supposed" storm that was on its way but hadn't actually arrived as yet.

Four and half hours later and we're nearing the front of officially the longest queue I've ever been in in my entire thirty six years of existence. By hour three the airport is issuing emergency rations of water and a nice man with a beard is shouting at us to "give it to the people who really need it." Then comes the food crates. Police with hands twitchy by their gun holsters look warily at the baying crowds. It's like something out of a UN food drop in the third world.

To our left an elderly man passes out before our eyes and Becky runs over to get the attention of a medic - anyone in charge. Behind the man who has possibly just died in this queue - an irate man is shouting and wagging his finger. He appears to want the possibly dead man to be dragged to the side to allow the rest of the queue to step over him and book their flights.

"So this is how the apocolypse feels..." I wonder to myself. Lord of the Flies in an airport. That's what we lived through.

We get to the front. Having looked after a bunch of teenage American kids for a short while whilst their teacher tried to get them home safe to Boston. They were having a worse time than us. This was their third day of trying to get home - originally from Florence (and that didn't even include them getting caught up in the gun rampage that killed two guys in Florence whilst they were half way up Brunelschi's great dome - and no - that's not an innuendo).

We find our bags back in the arrival hall - in what can only be described as "Bag Armageddon". It's a Bag graveyard. Thousands of bags piled sky high. We ask one guy how long he's been looking for his luggage..

"Three hours," he says forlornly.

Luckily Becky has a pink bag and somehow we find both our bags in literally five minutes.

Next day - we get home. Exhausted and ragged. And then we're off to the Panto in Crewe. Snow White!

The "Buttons" of the show was incredibly funny - but the strange thing were the dwarves. a). They were kids wearing masks. and B) they changed the song and C) - they had different names. No longer do they sing "hiho hiho it's off to work we go". Clearly some sort of embargo on that tune. Nevertheless - the kids screamed their heads off - and we laughed pretty hard too.

And before you could say "Santa's got himself stuck half way down the chimney" - it was Christmas Eve. So - we duly dressed Declan as a giant Star above Bethlehem - and wrapped a tea towel around Fintan's head and headed off to the Christmas Eve mass. Within thirty seconds - Fintan and Declan had run up to the front of the altar and were busy stripping all the straw from Jesus' manger and feeding it to the plastic donkey besides it.

"Stop that Fintan. Declan - put the straw back. Now!"

"Ohhhhh...." they cry in unison.

Back at home - we sprinkle magic reindeer dust outside so Rudolph and Santa can find us easily and it's off to bed.

The next day Santa brings us Star Wars At-Ats and toy fire stations and ambulances and as dutiful parents we spend at least 3 hours assembling lego racing cars before they are taken apart in a matter of three seconds.

Fintan holds up the random lego pieces and says...

"Can we build it again..."

We wonder whether Job would still have such patience if lego had been invented back in the day.

One of my presents is a night at the Hilton hotel and Spa near us whilst Grandpa and Nana babysit.

So a few days later - I find myself at the Hilton. Sarah and Chris are there - a surprise present for Chris as well.

"Hello," we say.

"Hello," says the receptionist, "So will you be taking your pedicure before you check in. You are down for 11am."

Chris and I look at each other. Chris nearly collapses.

"Woah! Woah there! Pedicure? Pedicure? We're men. Hang on a minute. Pedicure. What about a manly massage or something."

"No Chris. No Tom. You're having a pedicure - it'll be nice. You'll like it." Say the Sarahs.

We look at each other dubiously.

"Ladies. Your massages are due right now - here are you robes and towels."

Chris and I look at each other and mouth the words all men use in times of great duress and panic. "Bar..."

We get the Hilton to open the bar early for us as hotel guests continue to traipse up for Breakfast.

By 11am we've downed three pints and the Dutch courage is within us.

"Let's do it!" Doobie do it!" and we head in for our "Manly foot massage / pedicure".

We head into the Spa and these friendly ladies start scraping our feet and then massaging them.

"So - do you get many blokes doing this?" we ask.

"Some...."

There are ladies having pedicures who are laughing at us in the corner. They are drinking champagne.

"Can we have a drink?" we ask.

Duly - two beers arrive and we feel slightly better.

We have a good laugh with the ladies massaging our feet. In fact - we have such a laugh that the girl having her pedicure with her mum actually falls off her chair.

"Would you like the only for men laquer applied?" the pedicurist asks us.

"You what?" we say.

"Nail varnish? Is it bloody nail varnish?" Chris asks. "Behave - I'm not having that."

"Look I bet David Beckam has this done every day - come on - you gotta try everything once.." I tell him. And with beer on our side we get our nails painted purely to "strengthen them for footballing reasons only..."

I've never laughed more in my life.

After the massage we spot the fish in the corner.

"Can we have a go with them?" we ask enthusiastically.

"Yes. No problem."

And so - we immerse our feet in a tank full of Garruda fish for ten minutes. They pack quite a pinch at first. In fact - the girls before us left screaming and refused to put their feet back in. But we're made of sterner stuff.

Like little tiny electric shocks. It's weird. Not exactly relaxing. Just odd. We wonder if we will emerge with stumps for feet.

We track our wives down in the "relaxation room" and duly gatecrash and ruin the entire relaxing ambience by crashing down on the giant bean bags to drink our beer.

"Get out! Get out! You're ruining the ambience!"

We end up having to haul the girls to their feet cos they're just way too pregnant to get themselves upright from a bean bag these days.

Downstairs - there is an offer on a spray tan - only £17.50 for a can of spray tan.

Chris weilds the demo can at me menacingly.

"Yeah - go on..." I say - full of beer bravado.

Seconds later my right arm is a strange mahagony brown colour and it's not coming off. Chris is in an absolute fit of giggles - as is the receoptionist.

The receptionist composes herself and explains to me that "you better wash that off your hands - it won't come off."

Which has Chris in even bigger stitches. I look like an oompa lumpa who has only been half dipped in luminous orange.

Later I go swimming - half man - half oompa. But strangely - I begin to quite like the tanned zebra effect. I've had an absolute ball - I may be a bizzare shade of orange and have the shiniest toe nails in the land - I may have spent half the day in a fancy dandy brown robe - but - I feel good.

Life is good...

Mexican Table ninja assassins and other journeys into Adventureland...

On the scale of eventful months. Its been eventful. In which - Sarah ends up in hospital for a few days and gets put on bed rest for her and the baby, and I stupidly attempt to take the kids to Disneyland Paris on my own. My cardinal error was not informing all the authorities - the fire, air and sea rescue and ambulance services that I was entering France. It is a well observed fact that a member of the Arnold family cannot under any circumstances go on holiday without at least one visit to casualty.

Flying in the face of such certain odds, I set forth with the kids from Chester train station. Stage one. Get to London in one piece. A mini bag of Jammee Dodgers prove my saviour on the train. Ten points to Branson for that sales gimmick!

I trek from Euston to Kings Cross with Fintan carrying his mini backpack full of dinosaurs (you need at least thirty seven for a journey of this magnitude). I point out where I used to work to Declan who shows absolutely no interest until I produce a fruit shoot from my bag.

We meet up with "Nana Market" and take a double decker to the South Bank.

"Look kids. The Houses of Parliament!" I try to explain about the gunpowder plot a little. No reaction.

"Look - the River Thames!". Nothing. Tough crowd.

We get off at the South Bank and walk past a bunch of thirty years olds skate-boarding badly whilst trying to look cool - and the kids go mental.

"Look Daddy! Wow! Look at that! That's awesome daddy!"

We stand next to a big sign that Uncle John designed for the Olympics and take some pictures. Tourists look at us weirdly (we are standing next to the London Eye at this point and for most people - signage doesn't tend to float their boat quite as much as iconic landmarks).

We get back to the hotel and we have a "picnic" in the room, followed by bouncing on the bed for three hours.

And then we're off. The next morning we hit the Eurostar and three hours later we're at Disneyland Paris. And we're alive. I double check that I'm still in possession of two children. Check. Two kids.

By now - I feel surgically attached to the massive black ruc-sac on my back and the Mclaren thats glued to my arms with a child inside. Our ability to subsist relies on every carefully picked object placed inside that bag. Nappies. Haribo. DVD Player. Power Adapter. Ipod. Colouring Books. Crayons (for me). This is a greatly packed bag. Until I get to the hotel and realise that in my panic - I've packed only one jumper for each child. And it's about 2 degrees outside - with a thick fog sweeping in and threatening to turn us into giant icicles. Oh well. As long as I keep food off of them. They'll look as good as new. By day two - we are harboring small alien lifeforms in the fabric of their tops and ketchup is layering upon chicken nugget which is layering upon fermenting milk stains. By Thursday we'll have created a nicely rounded French Cheese.

The park is ace. Declan literally has some form of mental overload when he sees Woody and Buzz Lightyear at the parade. He manically shakes his head back and froth (like a victim in Scanners before their head explodes). And he points in gobsmacked awe!

"BUZZ LIGHTYEAR!" he screams for all his worth. Fintan waves frantically at Peter Pan and Goofy.

This is ace. I'm loving it. And despite the immense crowds. So far - I haven't lost a child yet.

We shoot the crap out of the Evil Zurg on the Buzz Lightyear ride and whilst we cruise around the "its a small world ride" I explain how "mummy used to work in Disneyland Paris - she worked on the potato cart". They don't seem overly impressed. Perhaps this is a right of passage for all Irish women.

Day three and I'm feeling pretty damned confident with this whole looking after the kids on my own in a foreign country malarkey. We begin to integrate with society fairly quickly and by lunchtime we are ordering "Le Royale" from the restaurant in Adventure land and are practically multi-lingual.

We meet Sanjib and Liz and the kids and things are going swimmingly. The sun has come out and its practically a heat wave. Eighteen or nineteen degrees. Which is pretty remarkable for Autumn. The kids are laughing - we are jesting - the families are catching up and all is happy in the world.

We stop at a Mexican-themed restaurant and that's when the giant heavy wooden table contrives to fall on top of Fintan's leg. I stare in horror. The Disney waitress stares in horror and offers us ice. Fintan freaks out - which is fair enough cos the table is really heavy. I take a look and get that gut-awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. A Mickey Mouse plaster might not cut the mustard here. A large chunk of leg is bruised and bleeding and I know whats' coming...the medic at the Disney site doctors stares at the injury and gasps.

"This will need at X-ray at once!" he says seriously. And I'm filling in accident forms and wondering quite how I explain to my wife how I managed to let a really heavy table land on our son and break his leg.

"Hello Sarah. Now I don't want to panic - Fintan's okay - but we just need to go to Casualty with the nice Disney man and get his leg seen to..."

"WHAATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT?! What the *&! The table fell on his what?!" Well - you get the picture. All in all - she took at well...I think.


Three hours later we're in a Paris casualty and Fintan is sitting on his hospital bed waving his free Mickey Mouse cuddly toy at the Doctor. In pigeon French I manage to say...

"le Tableuex - Kaput...Leg / Jambon - Le Garcon est ma pere!" and do my best mime impression of a table falling on a small boy's leg (we are after all in the great city of mime - the founding nation). What I think I may have actually said in translation was:-

"The table fell on the Ham and that boy is my father!"

An hour later. We are whizzing back to Disney - back stage - behind the scenes - where it all happens. It's an intriguing netherworld. Musicians sucking back on their last Galloise before they enter the happy fray once more.

And most importantly - there are no broken legs.

I look down at Fintan and smile at Declan.

"There are easier ways to earn a fluffy bloody toy guys. Much easier!" and we laugh as we head back for another two days at the park!

Swim like a Brick Son! Drive that Train Pa! Get out of the Duvet Cover Dad! Now!

I haven't blogged for a few months as I've mainly been eating Tolberone and working hard. But - I'm slowly weening myself back off the hard triangular stuff and coming back down to earth.

It's been eventful. Way back at the end of August in a far flung distant memory, we went to the South of France. The highlights included:-

1. Racing around the campsite on an oversized go-kart with Declan riding "side- car" on mine and Fintan in another.

2. Not explaining to Declan what happens when your two year old "side-car" pilot decides to lift up the handbrake at speed.

3. Going to the local beach...the main advice being..."drive down the beach and choose a nice spot by the sand-dunes...if you go too far and you see that no-one's wearing any clothes - well - that's the nudist part of the beach...if you go really too far and you get out and there are only men wandering around without any clothes on...you've gone to the nudist gay part of the beach". As it turned out - we went to the bit of the beach where it mainly blew 3 tonnes of sand into everyone's butt cracks and generally stuck to any and all areas of exposed flesh where suncream had been applied. We might as well have covered ourselves in treacle before we set off. Honestly - I'll never get the hang of beaches.

Towards the end of the holiday when Declan was getting a little more adventurous around the water (adventurous and stubborn is probably the more accurate term) - we had out first mini drama of the holiday (no family holiday is complete without a drama of some sort).

We were sitting by the pool watching Declan (who had up to that point shown an absolutely healthy fear of deep water) lean over and fall head first into the pool and then do his best impression of floating face down and not moving. The "Play Possum" instinct had kicked into overdrive.

Before I could shift a single toe and dive in and save him - Sarah had launched herself straight into the water (sundress and shades still on) and dragged him out.

For a brief moment I had considered jumping in to rescue both Sarah and Declan but decided that having a giant lump bellyflop on top of you was probably the last thing you needed in these sort of situations.

So we dragged him out and he coughed and spluttered and looked at us and said "I sinked Daddy!" In fact - he spent the entire day telling everybody he met just how brick-like he was in a water situation.

Fintan mainly explained that it was ok because he could have swum to the bottom and rescued him if Declan wanted. So even Fintan seemed to take to the "Brick" usage for Declan. For the rest of the holiday we tied an inflatable spider man rubber ring and two layers of cotton wool around him just in case.

I mainly enjoyed teaching the kids the "art" of making BBQ fire. This involved the three of us sitting around the sizzling meat as flames started licking up this rather blackened looking Olive tree by our chalet. Although I don't think this French cycling bloke was too impressed. He set up his tent and campfire just next to us and every night when he returned from his bike-riding exertions, every night he washed his clothes and hung them up proudly on his improvised washing line strung between the olive trees. And every night I created more bitter smoke and fire than was practically sensible even for a gas BBQ in the middle of a French tinderbox. And every morning he set off for his cycle with the acrid stench of BBQ'd chicken embedded in his jersey. Oops.

Still - what a holiday. I highly recommend any holiday located within a vinyard. Even if there was the collapse of all society - you'd still be within striking distance of at least ten thousand gallons of red wine! Wahoo! Easily enough time to hold out til everything settled.

Last week we set off to Llangollen so my father-in-law could drive a massive old steam train for the day. A small percentage of the Irish population travelled over to watch the special occassion - and most of us ended up on the train being driven by Frank. Which was quite a novelty. We sat in the "first class" carriage and I handed out "fingers of fudge" to the family whilst we waited for Hermione, Harry and Ron Weasley to turn up. We contemplated whether it was actually possible to call a finger of fudge "a fudge" and decided that it was humanly impossible. And then Sarah's brother Andrew and sister Karina encouraged everyone to stick their head out the moving train in turn whilst they took pictures.

Now - I don't know about you - but apart from a love of the fairly solid association my head enjoys with the rest of my body - I've also seen that episode of The Young Ones where Vivienne sticks his head out the train and gets decapitated. And I was keen not to watch that in real life. It was only when we actually went through a tunnel about a second before Sarah was about to stick her head out - that they finally stopped that game. And there I was relying on the sensible one to help me out (aka Deborah!).

We got to check out the footplate / hotplate (whatever they call it where the driver stands with all the coal and the furnace) which was pretty impresive and insanely hot.

"Flipping eck that's hot," I said to the Train man supervising Frank my father-in-law.

He stared at me in much the same way as a swimming instuctor would stare at a grown adult pointing out that the wet watery pool he'd just got into was "rather wet".

After that I attempted to sound vaguely knowledgeable about pressure certs for the engine and the grade of coal that worked best on this engine (Polish or Russian coal is best - although the Welsh coal is the ideal grade).

Before we knew it - we were rattling back to Llangollen and running down the empty carriages in delight. Andrew and I stopped off in the original Flying Scotsman bar carriage (wow - it must have been something in its day) and by 5 we were home and sinking a few jars and glasses of wine.

A pool tournament ensued - the highlight being after twenty minutes of play when Sally my mother-in-law attempted to pot the stripes using the black ball.

"I didn't know we had to use the white ball to pot them..." she told us through fits of giggles.

Later still - after waiting nearly seven hours for our take-away to turn up. I demonstrated my unique "putting a duvet cover on a duvet" technique. This (especially after a few jars) involves physically climbing inside the duvet cover to find the corners. And until someone invents an easier way of doing it - that's the way I'm gonna carry on doing it. All I'm gonna say is - hats off to those guys in the hotel industry and all those nurses. What a job - in and out of covers day in and day out. How many are accidentally zipped or buttoned up inside them to die a tragic death - we'll just never know...never...

Cowpat minefield buggy rallies, the F1 car battle of great trauma and the African drum fest of much tranquility

Three weeks ago we're making slow progress as we traipse across a giant field full of Declan-Sized cowpats. Things are made slightly more complicated by my brave yet foolhardy attempt to wheel a buggy across the field towards the "Pageant of Power!".

"Don't jump in the cowpats Fintan! Dirty Dirty!" Sarah hollers.

"Where are the stanks? Want Stanks!" Declan declares from the luxury of his mountain buggy. This is extreme off-roading for a buggy and I cringe every time I hit a rogue cowpat. Some of these are way too fresh and squealchy for my liking. But mysteriously - there are no cows. Up ahead I see a line of food stalls - their delights wafting towards me. I know what I'll be ordering...Fillet bloody steak and chips! Payback for the cow mines dotted every yard across the place!

We head into the enclosure. This place is brilliant. The noise is bonkers. I feel the urge to shout really loudly at my kids just because I can. The roar of engines and the distant hum of RAF helicopters whoomping towards us drown out everything.

Fintan jumps into a helicpopter and gets strapped in - ready to fly. Declan is a bit more suspicious and remains firmly emplaced in his buggy seat. Next thing we know - there's an almighty "KABOOOOOOOM!" and the kids nearly crap themselves. They look at me for confirmation - is it a friendly kaboom or a bad kaboom.

"Tanks! They've got tanks!" I shout at them manically. It's like being a kid all over again. All those hours spent with my toy soldiers blasting the crap out of them every weekend (the odd skirmish with my pet dog Maisie gave some of my Fusileers realistic amputations and war injuries) were about to realised in a truly humungous scale. They were re-enacting an entire battle in the field one over.

We race over to see a bunch of soldiers running across a field firing at a tank. Smoke everywhere and the thump of dummy rounds. Up ahead - RAF helicopters drop flour bombs (rather than flower bombs - which may or may not have been a more symbollic token) onto the forces below. The kids are mesmerised.

"Stanks daddy! Stanks!" screams Declan in delight.

"They're tanks Declan. Tanks. Not Stanks!" Fintan corrects him.

"NO FINTAN! STANKS! NO FINTAN!" he roars back.

These kind of arguments can actually go on until the end of time itself - so I nip it in the bud and we head over to these kid-sized Landrovers. I plonk Declan in next to Fintan and off they set. Wizzing across the field - leaving their "driving instructor" aka a terrified fifteen year old boy - to steer them back on course and away from the giant duck pond in the middle. Next we take on the kids rollercoasters and the fun-house before we head over to the racetrack and watch the classic cars hammer the gas and race round the track. The noise is immense and the kids are loving it.

There's a display area for the classic cars. I spot a classic Ferrari and a few F1 cars on display. And there's a large number of one-off antiques that have the kids enthralled.

"Chitty Chitty Bang Bang!" Declan grins as he stares at a 1918 classic that is about as long as a train and shaped like a missile. It looks stunning.

I turn my back for a split second and next thing I know I hear Declan shouting "Roary the racing car!" as he attempts to clamber into the priceless F1 car on display. I make a dive for him and manage to stop him clambering fully inside. Declan senses he is losing his opportunity and in desperation he clamps his wee little hands around the F1 wingmirror.

"Noooooo Declan....not the wing mirror! Let go!" I plead as a crowd gathers. None of the crowd look bemused. They look worried. Worried that an irresponsible dad has lost control of their kid and let them run amock amongst probably the worlds most highly valued assembled collection of historic cars ever seen.

"NOOOOOO Daddddeeeeee!" Declan moans as he hangs onto the car wing mirror for dear life. This is his only chance to drive Roary. Of this he is sure.

"Let go Declan!" Fintan joins on. My little deputy sherriff!

Eventually - I peel him off and we move on to to look at the racing boats - before finally we head home - but not before Fintan jumps in the police-car driving seat, presses the onboard police computer and begins pressing the buttons randomly. I look inside the cop car. It appears that he he genuinely connected up to the police network. For all I know - he's just sent out an APB to set up a roadblock on the M56.

"I think we should get out of here...he's turned it on..." Sarah whispers to me.

We smile at the nice policeman showing the kids how to don riot gear and we do a runner (not before Fintan "arrests" himself and demands to be put in the back of the police van. We duly oblige).


The week later - my sis is up with John and Lula. It's just amazing to see them again. We have an action packed time of it. Conwy castle, fish and chips looking out on Conwy harbour. It's perfect. And the next day we're off to Liverpool on the train.

We head round the maritime museum at Albert Docks - on the top floor they have an African Slavery section because of Liverpool's involvement with that historically. It's very educational. But the most amazing part - was the re-created African village and the African drummer dude in the corner of the village.

John and I surreptiously wander over to the guy playing his drum and Gazoo. We grab ourselves a drum and begin to hammer out a beat. I feel a bit of a malco but the guy soon gives us a hand. Sarah and the kids wander over and soon the whole family is sitting with an African drum between their legs and we're hammering out a funky beat to the main guy's lead. After five minutes we start to get more confident and he adds a few alternate rhythms. Declan is going mad for it and Fintan has somehow grabbed two more drums and is trying to play all three at the same time. Like a crazed "Animal" from the muppets.

We're beginning to slip into a happy trance when our lead drummer begins to sing. It's beyond mesmeric and I could truly stay there all day in this happy little drum bubble. But eventually we leave - to make African masks and to head outside and clamber over HMS "The worlds tiniest warship ever" which is having an open day in Liverpool.

The naval officer says it's okay for Fintan and Lily (Chris joins us half way through the day) to steer the ship and there's nothing to worry about - they can't break anything. But then as Fintan grabs for the big red button below the ship wheel - the Naval officer panics and updates his line..."They can press anything - except that button..." he adds. And there is fear in his eyes. I wonder what the button does. And urge fintan to press it for a laugh...but he doesn't. Shame really.

The day ends with a Vulcan fly-by to mark the anniveray of the Liver Building (100 years or so?!).

"Spaceship Daddy" Declan screams.

"Wow - it was a real spaceship daddy!" says Fintan beaming.

Tanks, Warships, Vulcan Bombers - is there no end to the military delights the North West will lay on just to keep my kids happy....?!