The Gnome Handbag of great division, JLS Groupies in the midsts and rockin the birthday sing slam world

We land in Dublin despite the epic fog in Liverpool and Karina is there to greet us off the plane.

Fintan runs up and gives her a big hug.

"Karina? You know? We got you a bag for your birthday - it's a suprise!"

"Thank you Fintan that is so lovely..." says Karina.

Is there any way to erase her memory - to take it back? My only option is to bring on an immediate concussion. I consider slamdunkin' her into the ground - but this is probably not the best approach. She is dead 'ard and will likely pulverise me if I attempt this.

Instead we head out for a family dinner where the great present is officially revealed.

"Oh My goodness! Gnomes! A Handbag! Gnomes on a handbag" Karina is dead chuffed.

Andrew, her brother looks on in abject horror. Shock has settled in.

"We bought her a handbag? With feckin' gnomes on it?"

"Yeah - I was kinda angling for a playstation 3 but I got outvoted!" I tell him sombrely.

"Wait til we tell him the price," Sarah whispers to me and giggles. This is very funny.

"A feckin' gnome handbag? What's the world coming to?"

Indeed.

The following day - we meet Karina and her friends down the Dropping Well pub for a few jars. Half way through the night we begin an impromptu sing-off. Karina's friends begin with a sweet rendition of Happy Birthday to Karina. We reply with "Ding Dong the witch is dead! The witch is dead!" and join in with our very best munchkin impressions for added comedy effect.

They reply with a loving, heartfelt rendition of "You're beautiful" by James Blunt. And we slam them into the ground with "Who let the dogs out! Wooof wooof wooof woof!"

I've never had an impromptu sing slam in an Irish pub before but it's great fun.

Victory to the family is assured and as Andrew neatly sums it up - "however great your love for karina - our hate is greater!" Of course - in reality - that's not true - but the McGrane's if they are one thing - are a family of great messers!

In an attempt to redress the economic balance and pump some much needed euro wealth into the stuttering Irish economy - I do my fair bit - and order an excessive amount of the black stuff at the pub. The next day I will suffer - but I am happy in the knowledge that my dedication to improving the Irish debt situation will surely pay off.

We fly home on the Sunday - a family of hacking coughs, flu and general illness. At some point in the week Declan vomits everywhere - but it is a phlegm induced vomit and we feel good about that. Sarah goes away on a work course for the week - to somewhere remote and northern (Yorkshire I think). She calls me from the hotel that night after a few glasses of red.

"Sooo....guess who I've been talking to at the bar? Go on...guess?"

"Er...I dunno...Ronaldo?" I ask stupidly.

"No JLS! JLS!" She is hyper -excited. I need to talk her down. She is turning groupie on me.

"JLS!!!!" She giggles again.

"I told them they were very nice boys. They'd done very well for themselves."

"So basically - you talked to them like a grannie would?" I say.

"But they're so cute!"

"Ok - now here's the plan. You go back there and you get them drunk and bring them back to your room. We sell the story to the red tops and away we go!" I joke.

"Don't worry. I'm already headed back to leave my room key under their door!"

I am pleased she is having a good time. And mainly I am pleased because this means that when I eventually meet Kylie at some random five star hotel in Outer Mongolia - her on tour - me just loitering or waiting for some giant gas pipeline to be built. Well - then I will strike. I can sleep with Kylie with no fear of a come-back.

"Remember JLS! Remember JLS!" I'll tell her. Remember JLS!

Nursery are jealous. Girls at work are jealous. Boys at work scratch their heads and ask "Who are JLS?" Becky at work points out one little flaw in my plan...What if Kylie doesn't want to sleep with me?

"Are you mad?" I tell her. "Why wouldn't she?" There is an eerie silence. Hmmmm. I may need to work on that part of my plan. But I have time. Plenty of time...

Sarah calls the next day. "I just had breakfast next to JLS - they are amazing."

I fully expect the new fanclub to open from our address by next week.

In the meantime - Fintan has his customary injury-related trip to Casualty on Wednesday. The school call to tell me he's gone flying - hit the playground hard and bit his tongue and left a big hole in it. There is blood and shock and trauma. But by the time we get to casualty he has perked up and I read the Gruffalo to him approximately a thousand times before we are seen.

They check for bits of tooth inside his tongue and then he gets the all clear. Apparently - stitching a tongue back together can lead to high levels of trauma in children and is not the recommended approach for healing. I sigh a giant sigh of relief.

We walk back past the labour ward and I show Fintan where he was born and where mummy works. And then we eat alot of chocolate.

By the time Sarah returns at the end of the week I am a walking half dead zombie. But the kids are alive - albeit rather scruffy by the time we get to the end of the week. Luckily I had remembered all of Sarah's key instructions and written them on my hand on Monday.

"Feed the Kids!" was top of the list. "Pick up the kids!" was next. But actually - if you got the second one wrong - then the first was irrelevant. But I ran out of hand by then.

And today - Sunday. I have my first bath in roughly ten years and listen to the Duck radio play Paul Young and soothing eighties hits. For a short period of time I am at tranquil peace and my body doesn't ache quite so much. I get out of the bath and look out the window. The canal besides us is totally frozen. And the trees outside are caked in thick frost. It looks quite magical. And out of the bare trees - a small white feather floats and flutters in the still air - and swirls in the morning sunlight. And it reminds me of Milly. Perhaps it is a little hello. I say hello back and then we get on with the day....time to play monsters and chase the kids round the house...again.

Explodo rocket wheel-barrow munition-death and mump badger Wagner fightclubbing

"You know Daddy. Someone tried to blowed up the King."

"Is that right? The King?" I say - mildly confused.

"Yeah - and that is why we have fireworks Daddy."

"Wow Fintan - you learnt alot today at school. Do you know who tried to blow up the King?"

"Yeah. Guy Fawkes. He's in heaven now."

I was wondering exactly how school was gonna cover up the torture and subsequent excruciating death - but the "he's in heaven now" solution seems to hold up.

With exactly this sort of highly educational background we set to work on Saturday night with enough weaponry (I mean - legally available fireworks) to sink the Bismark ten times over. Collectively - we have a couple of hundred quid's worth of serious firepower to send up into the night sky.

We place all the kids and sensible parents inside the conservatory - they are cold but safe. Sarah lines up a front row of seats for the kids just like we're at the cinema.

"Guys...I'm not sure this is a good idea..." says Sanjib.

"You what?" says Chris.

"Eh?" I ask.

"We're far too sober."

It's true. Lighting fireworks after only a few beers has clouded our judgement. I have filled the bin from the toilet with water and brought it outside for a start (Just in case a stray rocket hits one of us slap-bang in the face). This is far too risk aware.

"Sarah!" I yell indoors. "We need more beer!"

We move onto a wine and beer chaser combo and this livens up events. Steve comes over from across the road and we give him some lighter fuse to play with.

Sensibly - Chris assembles all of the fireworks into the garden wheel barrow. Sanjib momentarily questions the sense in four men lighting fireworks in the pitch dark using nothing but a pin-sized LED that Chris holds in his mouth to light our path.

I issue out lighters and we test-light them. Check.

We hammer a few rockets into the ground and away we go.

"On the count of three lads..." I warn them before utterly ignoring my advice and instantly lighting my fuse.

"You said Three! You said Three! You B*stard!"

"There's no time...run! Run...F*ckin' run!"

And lo - the fireworks 2010 in-house extravaganza is underway.

We soon realise that walking away from the badly angled firework without turning back is a necessity. This will save our face from third degree burns.

We stand in the cold biting drizzle-misery and congratulate ourselves on our efforts.

"These fireworks pack a fairly decent punch eh?"

"Yeah - well I didn't even touch anything less than a five on the Bangometer," says Chris sagely.

And there-in lies the key. Every firework worth it's salt has a Bang-o-meter. 1 to 5. What a flipping great job - rating fireworks on the Bangometer. It is a job my mate Chris was born to fill. One day - one day I'm sure he will. If only he could master Mandarin.

It's early in the night when the first near miss strikes. A rogue rocket - blown off course by a freak gust of November wind and a badly planted plastic rocket launcher whizzes off into the nightsky in a trajectory roughly directly in our path. Four middle aged men stand holding beers failing to move as a lit rocket lands centimetres from the giant F*ck off Wheel barrow filled to the brim with enough firework explosive to leave a small hole in the ground where Chester used to exist.

Typically - we play the incident down..."Woooooahhhh...that was close...right...the kids want Catherine Wheels - quick - hammer some into the Climbing frame - we're losing them...we're losing them..."

Later that night - I feel invigorated with the sheer unadulterated joy of blowing things up for the sheer hell of it. We head indoors and set up an impromtu kids disco before discussing the merits of Wagner winning X-factor and whether a thirty foot super-sized toxic anenome could ever defeat a giant squid in a fight. I miss these conversations. And wonder if a Mump badger (if it ever existed) would truly beat a Polar Bear in un-armed combat. Perhaps we'll never know.

By Wednesday - Declan is hooping and coughing like Dot Cotton after fifty ciggies and Sarah and I end up tag-teaming in bed with him for the next few nights. Does anyone know when I will stop having to go to bed with a bloody child roll-out-of-bed protector attached to my king sized bed? There is nothing - nothing more confusing than getting stuck on a giant barrier every time you try to get out of bed in the middle of the night. It's like a stair gate - but in your bed. It's a flippin' nightmare!

Seriously - if only someone would invent the inflattable air bag carpet. Just a millisecond before the baby falls out of bed - the carpet senses and automatically inflates to protect the fall. Could make the carpets fairly pricy - but it would at least ensure a quiet nights sleep.

In the meantime - feedback from the book is positive. One of the girls at work even reported back that her hubby switched off Match of the Day to finish Dumb Luck. Can there be a higher accolade? Can there? Surely not. Surely not.

The Weekend of accidental bed wanderings, Cankles McGrane and the Duvet of Doom

Saturday morning and I stagger down the stairs and slump on the couch with my sister-in-laws and friends who've come up for the press launch the previous night.

"Boy I feel crap. But what a great night! How good was that?!" I say.

"Yeah. It was amazing."

Everyone agrees it was a roaring success.

I smile to myself. Happy in the knowledge that for once I didn't make an utter idiot out of myself. I go so far to tell everyone.

"Yeah - and I didn't make a fool of myself."

This is where my sister-in-law points out one little faux pas.

"Hmmmm...except for the bit where you wandered into my bedroom at four in the morning and tried to get me out of Declan's bed."

"Aha! I tried to get you out of Declan's bed! OUT OF BED! Not INTO Bed! Although - to be honest - alot of girls would be throwing themselves in my way for that kinda action..." I narrowly avoid a Vulcan death grip.

Later that night I ask is she has "Cankles" - I never heard of this before - but "Cankles" are when your calf and ankle combine together into one giant indecipherable mess. I have never feared for my life so. Specially cos it just isn't true! I was just messing.

The girls get their own back during the day. Fintan convinces me to get inside his dinosaur duvet. I park my hangover and get in.

"Get in daddy! Get in the envelope!"

"It's a duvet Fintan - not an envelope."

"No daddy. It is an envelope. Fold it up and post it!" he states solemly and he proceeds to roll me like a piece of dough inside his duvet - in the living room whilst Strictly Come Dancing is on. Up and down inside his dinosaur duvet.

"I can't move Fintan. My arms are trapped. What happens next?"

"Attack!!! Tickle him! Attack him! Sit on him! Sit on the envelope!"

And out of bloody nowhere an entire McGrane family and Jez and Michele and my bloody one year old (traitor) jump on top of me and tickle my feet mercilessly whilst simultaneuolsy squeezing the breath from out my lungs. I don't think I ever laughed so hard.

And later - we play the Wii and I've never seen an entire family attempt to beat the crap out of each other with so much vigour! Funny. Very funny!

But back to Friday. We've rented Bishop Lloyd's Palace for the press launch cum booze-up for Dumb Luck. Bishop Lloyd died about four hundred years previous and his pad hasn't changed much since then.

Ceilings fifteen foot high, a ten foot wide fire-place that stretches into space. Even the mantle piece is higher than yer head! And wood pannelling was obviously de rigeur back in ye olde medieval days.

The Mcgrane Massive and Jez and Michele work their magic on the venue and it is transformed into a bona fide crime scene - police tape, dead body and murder weapon - all present.

As people arrive we direct them towards the booze and then the crime scene and ensure we capture their mugshots. Needless to say - this is gonna be blackmail of the highest order. If only one of them becomes a superstar then we're going straight to the red tops...(maybe).

We dress Chris as a policeman and DCI Richards is born. Chris - being a method actor of the highest calibre - instantly takes to the role.

The problem is - he's wearing a yellow Bob the Builder tabbard last worn by Fintan in 2009 and his policeman's hat is designed to fit a three year old. Every time he raises his arms or moves his head he loses circulation in his outer limbs.

I read a section from the book and this is when I realise that doing my world famous "Irish" accent in a roomful of Irish people may not be a good idea.

I think I get away with "Tree" instead of "Three" - and maybe they never noticed my "Feckin' this" and "fecky that's". I get home. My father in law asks me to put on a pair of moon boots he just found and suggests we head towards the canal to fetch some concrete.

The following day my hangover cure begins in earnest - by 11am I've consumed the following:-

3 ice lollies - (one pinneapple, one blackcurrant and one orange)
2 pieces of bacon
1 fried egg
2 ibuprofen
3 teas
23 baked beans
Bread (lots)
2 Swizzles Manard Drumsticks (meant for Halloween)
and a slice of Victoria Sponge Cake

It works. I feel fantastic by 2pm. And celebrate by steaming round the Grosvenor park on their toy railway with the kids.

All too soon the best weekend I've had in a very very long time is over and reality gets in the way temporarily. Until the next time...

The bottle of sparkly pear deadliness, what is a Boop? and life inside yer mum's tummy...

What a massive week. My publisher arrives late Sunday. And we crack open a few beers. Then we crack open a few more. By Midnight we have progressed to the really dodgy bottle of red we got for free with our last take-away curry. The label informs me that it is a red wine - after that - yer on yer own.

Perhaps it is made from dingleberry? Or the crushed bodies of a thousand beetles? It tastes sweet - cough syrup with a kick. But it's either that or a bottle of sparkling pear wine that's been sitting in the garage fridge for the last five years - waiting forlornly for a chance to be drunk. The wallflower of the vineyard. Short of every other bottle of wine spontaneously vaporising across the known universe - this baby is gonna remain firmly undrunk. But...never say never...so there it remains. I'll keep you posted on that one - out there somewhere is a date with destiny - I can sense it. This worries me. Slightly.

So the big day arrives - as I launch myself on an unsuspecting public. My publisher informs the police to expect a crush - cops on horseback and kitted-out in riot gear are ready to beat back the mobs of screaming fans. First day of the Chester Literature Festival and I'm opening it with the New Writers slot. No pressure then.

I arrive at the St Mary's Centre in Chester. It's pretty cool. It's quite obviously a church. Or an ex church. Ornate ceilings, stained glass windows and a funky sofa chair at the front where I guess the altar once stood. This is to be my writer's chair. I will impart great knowledge from this chair and try not to look like Ronnie Corbett on it (It's the same chair! Honest! Nicked from the Two Ronnies circa 1979).

There's a respectable turn-out. Friends and family and random strangers. I worry about the random strangers - they look a nice bunch. But how will they react?

I stand up for an hour - regaling the crowd with witty (ahem) accounts of my early writing career and interspersing it with snippets from the book. I am careful to avoid any of the overly profane paragraphs for fear of corrupting the ears of the young toddlers running around the front of the venue. (In Chester, all children are made to run around outside old churches to pay their keep - it's a local tradition. Like Morris Dancing. But for kids).

It's a buzz. I love it. If ever there was a moment when I realised I could do this for a living - it was immediately after when we all set off the pub at 3 in the afternoon. At last - my ideal career!

And then it's back to reality - the cult celebrity-status high of Monday is replaced by the sad anonimity of every day normal life by Tuesday. Ho Hum. Everyday life can still be quite amusing though. On Saturday morning at 7 am downstairs on the couch with Fintan it began like this.

"Hey Daddy - what is this?" says Fintan as he pulls something from the depths of the couch.

"It's Mummy's Bra" I say.

"Is that for her Boops?"

"Er..well...yes...they're for her Boops..."

I am not about to get into a conversation about the correct pronounciation of Boobs. That way can only lead to further complications.

Later that day, my mum comes up from London and we take the kids to the Zoo. Declan hollers at the Elephants but is non-plussed by the Komodo Dragon. Fintan informs me that "Dum Dum is sad because we are leaving the zoo." Dum Dum is a forty foot giant Easter Island statue made of fibre glass. He also lives in Night at the Museum. When we get back I tell Fintan that Nanna Market is my mum. And I lived in her tummy once.

"Yes. And I lived in mummy's tummy and then when I grew up, then Declan lived in Mummy's tummy."

"That's right Fintan. That's exactly right!" I say. Proud that he understands the rudimentary points of reproduction and the family org chart. (I don't think they call them that - but I do).

"Living in mummy's tummy. That's disgustin'!" he tells me.

Hmmmm - I suppose it is. But it still beats living in a hunk of pink goo with a giant needle in yer neck and getting farmed out as dinner for a bunch of sentient robots. I leave that out. Perhaps the Matrix is for next week's night night chat.

The "Scatalogical Constant", journey's into Radio Stardom and the merits of a Tramp Entourage

Another blur of a week. The only constant in my life is the scatalogical constant. The Scatalogical Constant is like Faraday's Law or Boyle's Law but messier. This week - on Monday - it began like this.

"Daddy! Daddy! Come quick! Daddy there's something on the carpet!"

"What is it?" I shout from the kitchen where I am busy disposing of his brother's nappy in an industrial compacter.

"I think it's a poo daddy...or a slug."

"Don't touch it!" I yell. Trying my best to wrestle the nappy into the bin. One touch from them - and you're a gonner - like a bite from a zombie in 28 days later.

I get back to the living room and inspect the damage. It's all very suspicious. The 2 kids stare at me with innocent angelic eyes. Sadly for Declan he can't talk - so his brother has a clear advantage.

"Declan did it," Fintan proclaims and wanders off to dissassemble the "Tower of Doom". Rule one of playclub. Never. Never disassemble the "Tower of Doom". It makes an Ikea flatpack house look easy to put up.

The next day - my books arrive from the publisher. I rip open the box with the kind of anticipation I last had when I was a five year old on Christmas Day. I wait an extra forty seconds whilst Sarah runs for the camera to capture the moment. I open the box and stare at my babies. Fousands of 'em. Well - not quite. But alot. The shiny red and white cover with the graffitti sprawled all over it and the dead body with the bottle in it's head...and the blood spattering across the getaway car. It's a work of genius. Looks brilliant. And it's in my hand at last. There it is - in Black and White. Now I just have to set those babies free to create bedlam and panic amongst the book-reading masses. Can't wait!

I call lot's of people and tell them the news.

"It's in the British Library! They've got an electronic copy! How good is that?!"

The thought of being an electonic copy at the British Library fills me with great literary pride. This is how JR Hartley felt in those Yellow page ads. Kind of.

I go to bed content and ready to take on the world.

I have to delay that a bit to take the kids to school / nursery and go to work. But when I get back...then I will take over the world and begin this great adventure!

Later in the week I'm on Dee Radio. I rock up early and warn myself not to say anything stupid on air (which can be difficult for me - sometimes just opening my mouth is all it takes).

The DJs are dead nice and I relax. Being in a radio studio is pretty cool. I am tempted to press buttons but decide against this. Suddenly - Gavin the Dj says "thirty seconds to go" and I realise this is it. I'm on air. To a local listenership of 35,000 people.

Ok that's not too bad - I only make a fool of myself in front of 35,000 people. And some of them will still be asleep.

We talk about maintenance on oil rigs and I worry I will send the listeners into a terminal coma. Luckily - we soon turn to the matter at hand. My upcoming book launch and opening new writer slot at the Chester Literature Festival. I tell the DJ that Dumb Luck will be a crime series - so in ten years time - it'll replace Touch of Frost on a Sunday night. He laughs and I safely steer myself through the interview without swearing or pressing any big red buttons (although I do accidentally turn all the lights off when I try to "buzz" myself out of the studio immediately after). Doh!

I'm on a high! The only minor bum-note was my inability to get them to play either something by the Stone Roses, Elbow, Led Zep or Plan B. Instead - my out-tro is "Relight my Fire" by Take That. Not quite rock 'n roll - but I let it pass.

Looks like I'm taking to this media life like a bear does to crapping in the woods. I'm a real natural...(hmmmmm...maybe not). Next step is my first phone interview on air - with a radio station in Dublin.

I would ask my people to talk to theirs. But I don't have any. Next step - get me an entourage. They need to be cheap. Possibly free. And look glamorous and literary. It's either that or I get the three vagrants who hang around the offie near the city centre and smell of P*ss. This is more of a Whitnail look than I'd intended, so is a real fallback option of last resort. Or failing that - I'll carry on as is - with two little monsters hanging off me instead.

Supa Lion Pitch invading, the Deadly Flying Falcons and how to vomit your stomach contents through your eyeball

So Sarah and I went posh at the Chester races. This meant that I wore a suit and an ironed shirt and made an attempt to rub off the gravy stain on my tie - and Sarah wore a dress. Sarah's sister would have been along for the ride as well but she was too busy vomiting up her entire body through her nostrils. Oh how we bemoaned her fate - safe in the certain knowledge that she had succombed to one of nearly two million deadly viruses brewing inside of our kids - just waiting to attack some unsuspecting rellie when they visited. Oh hindsight is a wonderful thing. But 48 hours later and a conversation goes like this:

"herghhhhhhh.....erghhhhhhhh....ugghhhh...sperghhhhhhh...."

"Stop moaning...stop yer moaning Tom - you'll wake the kids..."

"Oh my God -I think I'm dying Sarah...erghhhhhhhhhhh"

"Try to moan less...can you try to moan less?"

If you could suck yourself into a blackhole of vomit - then I was swirling in it's Event Horizon - perpetually trapped in a vomit loop of doom for the whole of Sunday night. Things were made only marginally worse when Declan somehow ended up in the bedroom with me (whilst Sarah was wrestling with her own inner vomit turmoil). That bit of the night went something like this...

"Erghhhhh...get off me Declan...go away...I'm dying...back to bed...back into bed..."

"Come on! Come on! Ghhhhhhhhh Ghhhhhhhhh...WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Which roughly translated means - Get up Dad - it's 4 in the morning for crying out loud! It's time to get up and watch the flashing box again! Need TV...need milk...I NEED MILK GODDAMMIT!"

Having never died (to my knowledge) I have never experienced Hell - or purgatory - but I have a feeling that I came pretty close to it that night.

But the races themselves they were great. The RAF parachuted in from three thousand feet which was a bit flash and the cast of Hollyoaks put on a fashion show. It woulda been more interesting the other way round - but that's the way life goes.

One of the lads from the RAF Falcons, who but ten minutes earlier, had been hurtling out the sky at terminal velocity was sipping a glass of champagne next to me and attracting the attention of an entire gaggle of tidy looking women. I myself stood idly sipping my booze and wondering why these girls seemed to be overlooking me. I asked my wife what the big attraction was... just because I couldn't jump out of a plane under enemy fire, land on a target dropzone with pinpoint accuracy and take out an enemy with relentless precision...but could they sit at a desk for nine hours and type on a keyboard? Could they drink a combination of wine and beer at the same time and still write with competence. Oh - Oh? They can? Crap. Well that's me out of a job.

Post the removal of my entire internal organs and stomach content over the week I was secretly rather looking forward to this weekend.

And Lo Fintan and I set off at 8am yesterday for the big smoke. Headed into the wild craziness - the beast that consumes all who enter it and spits out raw husks where humans once stood (yeah - you ever tried commuting there for longer than a year?!) - and so we boarded the Virgin Voyager - destination London.

I came armed with provisions to make the SAS proud. Travel Connect 4, a glo in the dark T-rex to assemble, a dinosaur magazine to read, 250 milligrames of yer finest jelly beans (orange, lemon - no marshamallow), DVD player, an array of DVDs including but not limited to Dinosaur Kings, The Land before Time, Barney (that purple b*stard!), Wallace and Grommit and Flash Gordon (I'm slowly converting him to the classic stuff!).

I met my Dad at London Bridge at midday and there we surprised my Grandad by running up to him and telling him we were off to the footie. Now - I did have some advice from Deborah my sister-in-law in Ireland that running up and surprising anyone over eighty is not medically advisable...bah...what does she know?! At which point my wife pointed out she was a Doctor. Either way - four generations of the family were gonna walk on the pitch at the New Den, get photographed with the team at 3pm kick-off and then watch a cracking match before meeting the man of the match and having their photo taken with him and getting the match ball. For any Millwall fan it's almost unheard of to be offically invited on to the pitch - usually we just run on and wait for the cops to chase us off. So this was something really special. 125 years of Millwall - from humble beginnings from a Jam factory team on the Isle of Dogs to the accolades and trophies we know today...ahem. Cue tumbleweed!

Either way - what a day - met all the Millwall legends and then the Director came down to ask my Grandad how he'd managed to support the club for eighty five years without losing the will to live. The answer lies somewhere between pigheaded stupidity, wondrous unquestioning delusion / devotion and a compulsory lobotomy that every fan of non premiership teams suffer as a matter of course through-out their life - still - wouldn't change it for the world!

So now I'm off to check out the new Kindle the missus bought me and see if I can download my book on it yet. Not far off...and then the world will be mine! All mine!

B-Boy wibble dancing, apple splatting cider mash ups and sing-clap malco-ordination issues

Well - last weekend was pretty special. My Sister, her hubbie John and my niece Lula came to stay. Seeing as they live in Bali these days and have been away for the last nine months. This was great. Ten pm on Friday night and we're dancing round the kitchen like lunatics as some funky seventies number blares in the background. Lula is dancing like a dainty fairy (and clearly not asleep), Fintan is breakdancing like a B-Boy legend (I taught him that) and Declan is whirling around in manic circles like some sort of midget dervish.

At one point I get down on the kitchen floor amongst the dead flakes of shreddies and crunchy cornflakes and kids biscuits and attempt to swim across the floor with Declan. It's a small floor and my breakdancing looks more like a stranded whale with learning difficulties flapping on a shiny laminate beach.

Either way - we have alot of fun and sink a fairly substantial volume of red. The next day after 3 milliseconds of sleep I am up. I am being dive-bombed with kids and the attack is relentless. Like the battle of Medway. Brutal. Real brutal.

We go outside and play "apple splat" to kill time. Apple splat is one of the great autumnal sporting past-times. All you need is a tree - apple trees tend to work best for "apple splat" but "plum splat" is equally rewarding. Find some sort of bat-like hitting device. I choose Fintan's bright red digging spade. And then get the kids to bowl you an apple. This can get tricky. It's best to teach them to understand the phrase "Take cover" "Duck!" "Incoming!" and how to dive to the ground in a split second.

The game was going pretty well until Lula recognised the apple supply as the secret stash of apples she had collected just the day before for "fairies that live in the garden. There are four hundred of them." For a short while it looked like I was gonna be accountable for the mass starvation of an entire enclave of rare fairies living in Chester. But luckily I was able to call her bluff and explain that they already spoke to me and were "really full already." Probably hammered on cider if truth be told.

After that - we managed a walk down the canal to the pub beer garden. Pub beer gardens with playgrounds are the best. The sun was blazing down on us, the kids were happy and we actually managed to have an adult conversation for a whole ten minutes before any child fell over and hit it's head. This is truly a miracle.

During this time I learnt that my sister and camping with bears definitely don't mix. Although if you ever get the chance to hear the funniest story about a baked potato, a tent in Yosemite and a bear - talk to my sis and John. Seriously - I nearly gave myself a hernia I laughed so hard.

And then - as quick as they had come - they were off again and there was a little vacuum where we had all been having fun and catching up all over again. No more talk of snake attacks on the way to nursery or walking to five star restaurants through paddy fields. Nope - back to reality.

Still - what with sis and I now being potentially the greatest writing dynasty since the Bronte sisters took up a quill (I look pretty good in a bonnet) - there's alot to look forward to over the next year. Two books out and who knows what next?

And Tuesday - I never even mentioned Tuesday. Sarah and I head out for a hot date to...Rock Choir. When I say this to people - they look confused / bewildered / and generally feel sorry for my wife.

"But singing is cool. And it's like a bunch of people singing rock songs. How much fun is that?" I tell them. I turn up and realise that I am the only bloke there. Even if I was Barry Gibbs they still woulda put me in the Bass section of the choir. It's good fun - but I really struggle with multi-tasking and am thrown by the requirement to sing and move my legs AND clap at the same time. I have new found respect for all the actresses in Sister Act. Sarah is pretty good at it and even seems to know what an octave is. I thought it was a type of olive. We leave and both of us sound like Clint Eastwood after he just smoked a cigar.

Which lead us to Sunday night...Sunday night and somehow I'm watching "attack of the fifty foot worm" on Backyardigans. And the sad thing is. Fintan's not even watching it now. But it's quite a good episode.

Right - I need to surgically remove Fintan from marble run which he has fallen in love with and take him up to bed. It's his third day at school tomorrow and he needs to be fresh and lively for it. I was thinking of breaking the bad news to him - "only another four thousand seven hundred and forty five days til you finish school son..." but I think that might be a tad cruel for his first week...you think?