Today is immensely sunny - so hot that my son informs me that if I were to sit on the sun I would get sunburn - this is a revelation and I thank him for his ready advice. He also wonders why his mum goes red in the sun and I explain it is because she is Irish and has freckles.
After work - I sit happily in a traffic jam listening to a bluegrass cover of Highway to Hell and decide that relocating to the Caribbean would be a really great idea. Logistics and money are not to be held up as reasons to banish this great idea.
I make it home and have to drag the kids into the garden. The power of Dinosaur Kings is truly mighty.
I have learnt from my mistakes earlier in the week - and now I stick sandals on their feet. Stones, thorns, sticks, slugs...there are many dangers to the feet of young children. I know this now. After my son managed to stand on every thorn between our garden and the playground down the street. So we clamber up the well constructed (cheers Chris!) wooden climbing frame and launch ourselves down the slide repeatedly. This is hard as I tend to get wedged half way down the slide and Fintan asks "Is your bottom too big daddy?".
"No. The slide is too small." I remind him.
Later - after spells in the wendy house - crammed up against the red plastic roof - feeling like the adults in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Later still - we venture into the "secret garden" which is actually the really dangerous bit next to the garden which leads to the canal and is full of nettles in a wall ten foot high.
Stupidly - I encourage Fintan to "grab a big stick and follow me!" as I wade in armed with a tinder-dry puny stick in one hand and a baby in the other. Declan is delighted. "Wahhhh!" "Wahhhhh" clap hands.
"Yep Declan - it's water. Brown dangerous canal water. Imagine it's the Med or something."
Fintan tells me that if we fall in we will drown unless we have armbands on. He's probably right. It reminds me of the river in Ank Morpork and that river only exists in my head.
Needless to say - wading through a thicket of nettles in flip flops with two kids is the stupdiest idea ever. I sting myself to pieces. Fintan tells me trees are made of metal and we spend the next half an hour looking for dock leaves for my brutalised bare legs.
We head inside. I crack open a bottle of Spitfire and settle in to watch Glastonbury from the comfort of my sofa. I'm jealous. In another lifetime - that was me. Sitting in a pile of noodles for ten hours in a big field near some standing stones as random bands rocked in front of me. I never went hungry though - that Glastonbury - I believe to this day that I absorbed those noodles by the power of osmosis - through my butt cheeks. Honest. Honest to god I did.
I will stay up late tonight - to catch Snoop and reminisce with the missus over glasses of wine. I may even decamp to the Wendy House, light a bonfire, play guitar badly and stay up til dawn. What do ya think? Sound good?
Friday, 25 June 2010
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Never let the baby drive through the bear enclosure - ok?!
It wouldn't be an Arnold holiday without at least one visit to a foreign hospital and some other random disasters thrown into the mix. For those who know us - I doubt many would be surprised if our entire family got obliterated by a freak meteorite shower or slowly eaten to death by a previously unheard of form of deadly skin fungus. Unlikely things just seem to happen to us. We are like "weird sh*t" magnets. Mega-attractors.
So - the holiday started well. A few last minute shopping items to get in town - some shorts for me - sun cream etc. Things start badly in the car park when Sarah reverses straight into a really large concrete wall at pace (Sarah disagrees with the "pace" statement - claiming that only the back window actually imploded with the impact). So that's ok then.
After the obligatory slow motion expletives that follow any crash - I decided to take over the driving and we make a hasty exit from the car park. Helpful passers-by and fellow road users wave frantically and point out the obliterated back window and the shards of glass flapping uselessly in a trail behind us. I have no time for such dilly dallying - this car is taking us to the airport in the morning. Window or no back window!
Needless to say - the turnaround is too tight on the windscreen and we wave goodbye to it at the garage and walk back into town.
The omens aren't looking good for the holiday. We take the clapped out banger to the airport - the one with the carboard holding the glove box together and the dashboard warning lights awash with reds and oranges so it's lit up like the cockpit of a 747 before take-off. I do the manly thing and reinfalte the soft tyres and we are ready for holiday.
The South of France is beautiful. We race past vinyards and beautiful medieval towns and there is a deep yearning in me to drink beer and wine and sit in the sun.
The kids love the pool and the slides. I get stuck on the pool slides like some sort of embarrassed beached whale - but a few tips from other holiday makers and we realise that the dad's have improvised with sun tan lotion to grease themselves up before launch. (There's no way I'm gonna be left for dead by no three year old ever again on that slide!).
Day two and me and my mate (his family came on holiday too - just to make sure we didn't get into too much trouble!) - me and my mate have drunk enough wine and beer as we light a BBQ on the campsite - to impress the girls with our daring feats of climbing. I make it to the top of the tallest tree I can find. There is an ominous creak and I weigh up the possibility of certain death as the tree collapses. A Darwin Award beckons. The kids are delighted - waving up at us and yelling "higher higher!". Our wives are laughing - but there is fear in their laughter. This could be a trip to casualty - they are thinking. We survive with mere flesh wounds and grazes to show for our antics.
Day four - a Sunday - why is it always on a Sunday? And we have to take the youngest to the docs with a cut. Sods law - all the docs are still sleeping off the misery of Uruguay France nil nil. Using my best broken French - we make it to Perpignon hospital and steer our way through the French medical system with random shrugs and the phrase "Je n'ai pas Le EC11".
Day five and it is a dull day. So we drive like the clappers to a safari park a hundred clicks distant and take the hire car into the lions den. Hire cars can go anywhere! Again - there is a moment of utter fear when the baby - Declan - sitting in Mum's lap - accidentally opens the passenger door of the car just as I've come to a halt slap bang next to the really big angry looking bear a foot from said passenger door. "Bing Bing Bing Bing" alarms in the car, Declan claps his hands wildly at the big angry bear staring at us. The kids in the back smack each other in the head with McDonalds balloons and a tiny red light in the Ford C-Max tells me "La porte - la porte!". Holy crap - the baby's just opened the door in the bear enclosure!
Luckily - the bear hasn't become quite attuned enough to "open door alarms" and he misses his opporunity for a full and fresh dinner.
From then on - I let declan sit on my lap and drive through the lion enclosure. It is clearly - a much safer option.
And then - as quickly as the holiday began. We are back home in Blighty. Well - except for my wife's phone - lost randomly in the passport entry queue at Manchester airport. We get back just in time to watch the world's crappest match of football ever. My friends ask - where is Algeria? North Africa. But the real question is - where were England. Where exactly?
So - the holiday started well. A few last minute shopping items to get in town - some shorts for me - sun cream etc. Things start badly in the car park when Sarah reverses straight into a really large concrete wall at pace (Sarah disagrees with the "pace" statement - claiming that only the back window actually imploded with the impact). So that's ok then.
After the obligatory slow motion expletives that follow any crash - I decided to take over the driving and we make a hasty exit from the car park. Helpful passers-by and fellow road users wave frantically and point out the obliterated back window and the shards of glass flapping uselessly in a trail behind us. I have no time for such dilly dallying - this car is taking us to the airport in the morning. Window or no back window!
Needless to say - the turnaround is too tight on the windscreen and we wave goodbye to it at the garage and walk back into town.
The omens aren't looking good for the holiday. We take the clapped out banger to the airport - the one with the carboard holding the glove box together and the dashboard warning lights awash with reds and oranges so it's lit up like the cockpit of a 747 before take-off. I do the manly thing and reinfalte the soft tyres and we are ready for holiday.
The South of France is beautiful. We race past vinyards and beautiful medieval towns and there is a deep yearning in me to drink beer and wine and sit in the sun.
The kids love the pool and the slides. I get stuck on the pool slides like some sort of embarrassed beached whale - but a few tips from other holiday makers and we realise that the dad's have improvised with sun tan lotion to grease themselves up before launch. (There's no way I'm gonna be left for dead by no three year old ever again on that slide!).
Day two and me and my mate (his family came on holiday too - just to make sure we didn't get into too much trouble!) - me and my mate have drunk enough wine and beer as we light a BBQ on the campsite - to impress the girls with our daring feats of climbing. I make it to the top of the tallest tree I can find. There is an ominous creak and I weigh up the possibility of certain death as the tree collapses. A Darwin Award beckons. The kids are delighted - waving up at us and yelling "higher higher!". Our wives are laughing - but there is fear in their laughter. This could be a trip to casualty - they are thinking. We survive with mere flesh wounds and grazes to show for our antics.
Day four - a Sunday - why is it always on a Sunday? And we have to take the youngest to the docs with a cut. Sods law - all the docs are still sleeping off the misery of Uruguay France nil nil. Using my best broken French - we make it to Perpignon hospital and steer our way through the French medical system with random shrugs and the phrase "Je n'ai pas Le EC11".
Day five and it is a dull day. So we drive like the clappers to a safari park a hundred clicks distant and take the hire car into the lions den. Hire cars can go anywhere! Again - there is a moment of utter fear when the baby - Declan - sitting in Mum's lap - accidentally opens the passenger door of the car just as I've come to a halt slap bang next to the really big angry looking bear a foot from said passenger door. "Bing Bing Bing Bing" alarms in the car, Declan claps his hands wildly at the big angry bear staring at us. The kids in the back smack each other in the head with McDonalds balloons and a tiny red light in the Ford C-Max tells me "La porte - la porte!". Holy crap - the baby's just opened the door in the bear enclosure!
Luckily - the bear hasn't become quite attuned enough to "open door alarms" and he misses his opporunity for a full and fresh dinner.
From then on - I let declan sit on my lap and drive through the lion enclosure. It is clearly - a much safer option.
And then - as quickly as the holiday began. We are back home in Blighty. Well - except for my wife's phone - lost randomly in the passport entry queue at Manchester airport. We get back just in time to watch the world's crappest match of football ever. My friends ask - where is Algeria? North Africa. But the real question is - where were England. Where exactly?
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
How to get frisked by a lady viking and other interesting facts...
Flippin' eck. Things I have learnt over the last few weeks.
Never climb to the top of a castle battlements with 2 four year old boys with a penchant for running wildly in random directions who think they are probably dinosaurs. This is not good when there are sheer drops down 100 foot and only a metal barrier somewhere near the top of their heads to stop them. This must also be a big worry for Time Bandits, Hobbits and Sleepy and Bashful.
Never attempt to light a barbeque when it's so windy even the fire-lights blow themselves out.
Never also use a giant "for sale" sign as a windbreak-cum-fanning device for the bbq. A few minor burns later and I have learnt my lesson. I think.
So - last Friday - I headed off to mate Mal's wedding in sunny Sweden. And quite literally - I was flying solo this time. Leaving my wife and kids to fend for themselves in Blighty whilst I did my best to sink at least ten barrels of Swedish beer whilst doing my Swedish chef impression at the bar. As a hint to future tourists - these impressions don't necessarily go down as well in practice as they do in your head.
Malmo is a pretty cool place in the summer. Like Paris chucked into a mix with Eastern Europe. And the wedding was ace. A true cultural experience.
So we all pile in to the church - English contingent on the right - Swedish on the left. And the groom loitering around outside looking absolutely terrified. Then again - the best man wasn't far off. Odds on the lads fainting at the altar were pretty high. Ahhh, weddings are such relaxing occassions. And here's where it all goes a little European...
I was busy pointing out to the mother of the groom that it was traditional for wives to be at least twenty minutes late. And then the father of the groom was joining in..."yeah - they made my wife drive round the block twice just so she was proper late!". So there's a definite tradition here. But no...in Sweden the bride and groom walk up the aisle together. Where's the fun in that? Where's the amusement in watching your mate sweat and peer nervously over his shoulder for half an hour. Like a condemned man waiting for the firing squad.
Still - my good buddy Dom and I gave it our best shot in the "singing hymns in Swedish" stakes. As he pointed out - being half Polish Half East Yorkshireman gave him an edge in the linguistics stakes. I on the other hand quickly became unstuck - and following the lead of the best man and groom - adopted the classic "lip synch" silent singing approach. "Rhubarb rhubarb...hurdy gurdy rhubarb rhubarb".
Wedding over - we got down to the serious act of drinking champagne in the sun in the grounds of a beautiful pig farm (yes - a pig farm!). Although - as one of the guests pointed out as we first arrived. They look like cows! Cows on a pig farm?! Is that allowed? Again - the Swedes seem pretty chilled - so perhaps this wasn't a problem for them.
After a meal of lamb at the pig farm (the pigs had clearly bolted! - pigs after all are very intelligent - have you read animal farm?). We enjoyed no less than 12 speeches over the whole wedding (well - things did get a little hazy - but it was around and about twelve). The groom's work colleague, the brides best friend, the brides cousins, the brides father, the best man, the brides uncle. And every single speech was absolutely cracking. Where do they go to learn to speak so eloquently in public like that? And in a foreign language! Still - the best man lived up to British tradition - although I'm not too sure if "Willycopter" translated so well into Swedish. Sometimes there's just no translation for a word...thank god there were no actual demonstrations to explain it (as far as I'm aware).
In my capacity as "Dance canary" - which primarily involved staggering between the dance floor and back to my mates if a good tune came on...we managed to catch the last air guitar minutes of "Livin' on a prayer" before following up with a bawdy circle-hugging finale with "Come on Eileen".
I woke the next day feeling strangely and vaguely ok. I had perhaps forgotten about an incident at the hotel with a fire extinguisher and some of the details surrounding the Bohemium Rhapsody re-enactment a la Wayne's world on the bus on the way home. But..I shall never forget the detailed full-on pat down from the blonde female security guard at Copenhagen airport. Wow - that kinda thing just never happens in Britain. Next time - I'm gonna hide even more change in my jeans pockets!
Never climb to the top of a castle battlements with 2 four year old boys with a penchant for running wildly in random directions who think they are probably dinosaurs. This is not good when there are sheer drops down 100 foot and only a metal barrier somewhere near the top of their heads to stop them. This must also be a big worry for Time Bandits, Hobbits and Sleepy and Bashful.
Never attempt to light a barbeque when it's so windy even the fire-lights blow themselves out.
Never also use a giant "for sale" sign as a windbreak-cum-fanning device for the bbq. A few minor burns later and I have learnt my lesson. I think.
So - last Friday - I headed off to mate Mal's wedding in sunny Sweden. And quite literally - I was flying solo this time. Leaving my wife and kids to fend for themselves in Blighty whilst I did my best to sink at least ten barrels of Swedish beer whilst doing my Swedish chef impression at the bar. As a hint to future tourists - these impressions don't necessarily go down as well in practice as they do in your head.
Malmo is a pretty cool place in the summer. Like Paris chucked into a mix with Eastern Europe. And the wedding was ace. A true cultural experience.
So we all pile in to the church - English contingent on the right - Swedish on the left. And the groom loitering around outside looking absolutely terrified. Then again - the best man wasn't far off. Odds on the lads fainting at the altar were pretty high. Ahhh, weddings are such relaxing occassions. And here's where it all goes a little European...
I was busy pointing out to the mother of the groom that it was traditional for wives to be at least twenty minutes late. And then the father of the groom was joining in..."yeah - they made my wife drive round the block twice just so she was proper late!". So there's a definite tradition here. But no...in Sweden the bride and groom walk up the aisle together. Where's the fun in that? Where's the amusement in watching your mate sweat and peer nervously over his shoulder for half an hour. Like a condemned man waiting for the firing squad.
Still - my good buddy Dom and I gave it our best shot in the "singing hymns in Swedish" stakes. As he pointed out - being half Polish Half East Yorkshireman gave him an edge in the linguistics stakes. I on the other hand quickly became unstuck - and following the lead of the best man and groom - adopted the classic "lip synch" silent singing approach. "Rhubarb rhubarb...hurdy gurdy rhubarb rhubarb".
Wedding over - we got down to the serious act of drinking champagne in the sun in the grounds of a beautiful pig farm (yes - a pig farm!). Although - as one of the guests pointed out as we first arrived. They look like cows! Cows on a pig farm?! Is that allowed? Again - the Swedes seem pretty chilled - so perhaps this wasn't a problem for them.
After a meal of lamb at the pig farm (the pigs had clearly bolted! - pigs after all are very intelligent - have you read animal farm?). We enjoyed no less than 12 speeches over the whole wedding (well - things did get a little hazy - but it was around and about twelve). The groom's work colleague, the brides best friend, the brides cousins, the brides father, the best man, the brides uncle. And every single speech was absolutely cracking. Where do they go to learn to speak so eloquently in public like that? And in a foreign language! Still - the best man lived up to British tradition - although I'm not too sure if "Willycopter" translated so well into Swedish. Sometimes there's just no translation for a word...thank god there were no actual demonstrations to explain it (as far as I'm aware).
In my capacity as "Dance canary" - which primarily involved staggering between the dance floor and back to my mates if a good tune came on...we managed to catch the last air guitar minutes of "Livin' on a prayer" before following up with a bawdy circle-hugging finale with "Come on Eileen".
I woke the next day feeling strangely and vaguely ok. I had perhaps forgotten about an incident at the hotel with a fire extinguisher and some of the details surrounding the Bohemium Rhapsody re-enactment a la Wayne's world on the bus on the way home. But..I shall never forget the detailed full-on pat down from the blonde female security guard at Copenhagen airport. Wow - that kinda thing just never happens in Britain. Next time - I'm gonna hide even more change in my jeans pockets!
Friday, 28 May 2010
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...
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...
Thursday, 20 May 2010
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!
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!
Saturday, 15 May 2010
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!
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!
Monday, 10 May 2010
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.
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.
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