Sunday, April 30, 2006

Easily Pleased

Have only just been awakened, and looks like it may be the last time tonight.

Massive lie-in until 10.00am this morning. Completely un-interrupted sleep the previous night.

Leisurely stroll hand-in-hand with Favourite Daughter to her morning ballet class. Kiss her goodbye whilst ignored in favour of far more interesting ballet friends.

Saunter *alone* to very good local Italian deli who sometimes put tables out and let you pretend you're in the Sopranos. One cup of bloody excellent coffee, quick scan of the Saturday paper. Just me. Twenty minutes. Proprieter asks after offspring (once a person establishes that you have children, this becomes the sole topic of conversation for the casual acquintance. Which is as things should be). I try and chat. His English is not brilliant, my Italian non-existent. He has such a 'mama-mia' type accent I often wonder if he is actually Italian - he sounds like one of those 'foriegn-type' characters they occasionally wheel-out on Eastenders. On the occassional time I watch it.

Full-pace run along dance-hall - 'Da - deeeee!' - good-byes to all concerned. A walk into town. Hand once so tiny it would only grip my little finger now holding mine like any normal-sized person.

'Firty. Stawbry dink from supermarket then look in chaddy shops.'

The charity shops are great. Shunned them for years. Wherever I lived, whether I was a student, rich or poor. But they're ace. Go into FD's favourite (RSPCA - she thinks the lady with the white hair is a bit weird, but quality of the kit seems to override this).

Immediately notice DEMPSEY & MAKEPEACE THE bloody MOVIE on VHS. How brilliant? That's not the first thing you see when you walk into HMV.

I laugh. First because it's just such a funny thing to even exist. Secondly because I have a younger brother. His girlfriend works in HR, is very level-headed and seems very much in control of her life. He, on the other hand, is no stranger to lap-dancing establishments and will happily spend a mortgage down-payment on an overly-powerful car that he is barely capable of controlling. He is a loose canon.

We often have them over. I refer to them as Dempsey and Makepeace. To my missus. Not to them. I have to explain it. She is much younger than I. 'Oh yes', she says, 'that is funny'. She does not smile.

FD finds nothing she immediately covets, and so we walk home hand-in-hand. Talking non-stop. The sun is shining. Sky blue. Birds singing. She points out all the things you see every day but never really notice. This is nice.

Home. Favourite Son - 'aaaaaaaahh' - impressively deft all-fours run-up and then scooped-up to adult level to plant big-kiss (fortunately he has decided to forego the teeth for now).

Tired Mam has lunch ready. FS devours in about three seconds flat and looks at me as though I'm Next. FD claims to be too tired. I cannot argue, and we snuggle on the sofa. About four pages into the Review section, I notice FD is fast asleep. The sun hits us both, and the repetitive white-noise from the washing-machine is impossible to overcome. We both fall asleep for the next three hours.

As, I'm told, does FS. His 'push-chair' - which is slightly larger than the mini cooper my mam owned when I was his age - has a 'bed' option that allows him to nod-off in the sun-trap of our backyard.

This is the longest, dullest post ever. Suffice to say, Mr & Mrs Tired even had time for a little cuddle (literally), there were murals drawn in chalk in the back yard, the house was full of laughter.

FS and FD in bed at sensible hour. TD and TM watch Don't Look Now for reasons beyond comprehension.

Despite night-terrors, all has been quite tha-neet. Maybe I'll even sleep.

A good day, for no reason. I shall delete all this.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Time Is On my Side

Fixed. Please ignore all previous posts suggesting the ineptitude of the multi-billionaires who are responsible for this rare opportunity to the world at large to spazz out their least interesting thoughts.

I would delete previous entries regarding their lack of support, but they are far too funny in their impotent rage. Goodnight.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

For Fucks Sake

I post the previous after getting son (oh, he has asthma now) to sleep, and recieving from daughter the most throat wrenching bear-hug known to man (from her, not me - this isn't that sort of emo blog. Yet) to be informed yet again that I've posted at four in the afternoon.

It's two in the bloody morning and I have a real job. I'm not fucking tapping away because I've run out of wank material and Trisha isn't on yet (I have never seen Trisha, have no idea what it is or when it is on. I have heard people I dislike talk about it).

Donna - you've attempted to offer some advice (and dissappointing lack of insults) - can you get back to me? Or any of the other two-hundred fuckers who drop by each day for no reason I can fathom. At least say hello. Or I'll find the rest of your IP address, and then say that your blog is a bit pants too. Then you'll be sorry.


'Someone' beat me to it. Perhaps we have awakened a sense of mutual wrath in each other. Stuff it. Wasn't the best story anyway. Nor is this.


Many years ago, I worked in Media Sales. I know. I became quite important, to the extent that publication editors would buy me drinks - stuff the appreciation of publishers: this was the true watermark of success. Everyone in the empire loved me - credit control, journalists, page-planning, subs ... the lot. Even ad-design, and those fuckers love no-one (three years at university to essentially learn how to use PhotoShop and then get a job where they would utilise one-tenth of that meagre skill only to be talked-down-to by twats like me. For four quid an hour).

Everyone in town new my name. Everyone that mattered. By that I mean motor dealers, estate agents and the owners of divan-, soft-furnishing- and carpet-emporiums. I know.

I work in an office populated by more-than-averagely attractive women. They also love me. My suits are 100% wool (aside from a rather natty linen job I save for the summer to really devastate them with my total amazingness), designer, and cost far in excess of the weekly (and I suspected monthly) salary of the excellent ladies on our reception. My ties are Italian, pure silk. Shirts are Yves Saint Laurant. All-in-all, I wear more than the data-inputter earns in about ten years.


One morning on the way into work, I stagger out of the taxi that I get into work instead of the bus ( I could get the bus for one hundredth of the cost but when you're SUCH A FUCKING BIG DEAL you don't really like to do these things) I decide to - in an ironic manner - dash into the Somerfields near my place of work to purchase some hilarious things-that-normal-people-eat goods for our morning snack.

Whilst I examine shelves full of Kelloggs cereal bars (whatever the hell they are), some slack-jawed cretin asks me where the bleach is. As if I, who with a single copy-writing error can alter the financial status of one of the regions most highly-regarded restaurants (Tureen of Dick if you must know. It's right next to 'u' on the keyboard, could of happened to anyone. They proofed it) would care one jot about such things.

Then it hit me.

To the casual observer, the Omnipotent Master of all Businesses Within his Publication's Footprint and the Regional Somerfield Store Manager were totally indistinguishable.

As they should very well be. To this day, I have no idea where the tampons are. Or anything else for that matter. Information probably far more important than anything I learnt in advertising sales.


Thursday, April 13, 2006

Second Intermission

I doubt anyone is actually interested in the results of my Biffo/Rose critique, but the sheer enormity of the fall-out is making me think that there may be some mileage in insulting 'celebrity' bloggers and cutting-and-pasting the results. Maybe I'll get a book deal!!! For a really pitiful advance!!! And really shitty residuals!!! That no fucker will buy!!! Because why would they; if they're web-literate, they can read it all online. If they're not, then chances are they couldn't give a shit anyway. Brooker, Blyth et al : honestly, have you even sold enough of the things to pay for a Kings Cross tit-wank (not Blyth obviously).

Anyway. Next, whilst I consider my next move: FIGHT!

Friday, April 07, 2006

Don't Be Shy

I am delighted to be recieving any comments at all at this early stage - please don't delete them. Good people of super-Ceefax, please feel free. If anyone thought they were being a bit rude and thought better of it, please do your worst - I am made of sterner stuff than most.

Assuming no-one has gone to the trouble of checking it out themselves, more on the man Biffo very soon. (It's Friday night, give me a break). Suffice to say that I've had many hits from his forums, but quite why this would be I don't know because he's locked that out to all but his best mates as well. Oh dear.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

5.42 My Arse

It's two o'clock in the sodding morning, sleep is a distant fantasy and everyone EVERYONE but me is deep in slumber until the minute I put my foot on the first of our flight of stairs and then all hell breaks loose.

I'm the one awake - I have to deal . O.K.

But to be then told that, when I get a spare moment inbetween this to write a rubbish story about my Mam potentially having traces of my semen on her hand, I'm doing all this at the down-time chill-out hour of HALF PAST FUCKING THREE IN THE AFTERNOON OR WHENEVER THE FUCK THEY AND I MEAN THEY RECKON IT ACTUALLY IS WITH THEIR ONLY ONE DOLLAR A YEAR FUCKING SALARY OH REALLY BECAUSE WHEN YOU HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO ACTUALLY FUCKING BUY AFRICA THEN A LITTLE THING LIKE THE TIME IS PROBABLY SOMETHING YOU CAN SNAP UP LATER.

It's either two in the morning and I've several more requests for my company before I am late for work, or it really is five in the afternoon, our hemisphere is affected by some sort of catastrophy so acute it has not only blocked out the sun, but has also knocked PAUL O' GRADY off our screens.

At this late (or early hour) I really don't know what to think.

What Time Is It?

Not in the Flavour Flav sense, but in the pocket calculator-to-Ceefax sense. BIOS is fine, Windows clock O.K. Yet posting time from Blogger is hours out of date.

Hate for anyone to think that my-middle-of-the-night efforts (not those, they've already been spurned one time too many) would be mistaken for late afternoon student-listlessness.

Monday, April 03, 2006

A Story About Wanking

I am fourteen. It is ten past eight in the morning, I am in bed. To recline much longer will result in my being late. However.

I am fourteen.

The Beast of Gristle torments me. To ignore it will result in day-long torment. As a school colleague had recently said with remarkable matter-of-factness, "It's always a shame to waste it".

(I would like to point out that this is not the same colleague who unzipped his flies in the library to show his reading companion the majesty of his adolescence in a fit of miss-placed pride - NONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WERE ME).

I set to work. Must quell the beast. Must cast out its demons. Must do so fairly quickly or shall miss school bus up huge hill and then be be punished by huge banger on end of fork just like at start of comic-book-intro to Grange Hill.

Despite the pressure, am doing quite well.

To interrupt the narrative for a moment, some background is required. We were a comparatively large family in a comparatively small coonsill hoose on a not well-regarded coonsill as-tayte. My unlucky-in-love-and-judgment mother was on her second alcoholic-I-work-hard-eight-hours-a-day-so-if-I-want-to-drink-myself-spastic-for-the-remaining-sixteen-then-I-will husband. Except he'd long since excused himself from the eight hours non-drinking bit as well. Things were grim, but our mother was proud and strong. Working three part-time jobs a week, and single-handedly bringing-up four children, she brought about the time that ended my daily shame, ridicule and embarrassment.


Oh the voucher. The voucher that entitled you to the most basic meal off the already-basic menu. That entitled you to no pud. That was handed to you at the start of the day, already dog-eared, and that you then had to redeem at the canteen till in view of all your peers. That may as well have been a neon sign reading "My Parents Are Dossers and Pykies" floating above your head. That was FUCKING PINK. It bloody was you know.

But it was gone.

A glorious, unspoken morning bond developed between me and my mam. Just prior to my putting on my coat and leaving the house, she would wordlessly had me my dinner MONEY. I've done this, she would wordlessly say. For you.

He's a wanker, I would wordlessly say. And in this silent moment, we both know it. I love you.

As previously mentioned, I was running a bit late this particular morning.

Mam busts into room. "You're late", she says, oblivious to the fact that at this point I was ironically early. "Here's your bloody dinner money". She was in rush herself for one of her half-dozen jobs.

Faced with the sight of my mother, red-faced and flustered at the final lap of my self-appeasement, my testicles retreated into my stomach and I became limp as a Rich Tea dunked for too long. No mental image of Vanessa Paradis was strong enough to overcome this. I resigned myself to a day of troubled throbbing and got dressed.

Down the stairs to the front hall, where my coat always hung. Whilst reaching for it, Mam emerges from kitchen.

My Mam: Are you sure you're O.K. to go to school today?

Me: ...

My Mam: You don't think you might have a temperature?

Me: ...

My Mam: Only, when I gave you your dinner money just then, your hand felt a bit clammy.

Me: ....................................................................................

A difficult decision. The certainty of a day off schoool without having to intentionally pretend to be unwell, weighed against the immediate need to put as much distance between me and my mother who - I suddenly realised - having given birth to me, must also have a vagina. JUST LIKE VANESSA PARADIS.

I grabbed my coat and ran.


I'm knackered, so those of you (ie: me) panting to hear the result of my feeble Paul Rose baiting shall have to wait. However, to say he is a fragile man will be putting it lightly. Hope this whets the appetitite.

The extent of the damage I seem to have inflicted makes one wonder at the power of super-Ceefax. Honestly, they're just words and pictures. If someone wants to send hugely insulting mesages to Tired Dad, I'd be pleased. I am not Tired Dad. Tired Dad is some words.

Language is the medium by which we communicate. Language is also what guarantees that we will always be distant from one another.

Next: A story about wanking.

Saturday, April 01, 2006


Dear Tired

Thank you for your valuable input on the Scaryduck forums. Keep it up!
Alternatively, if you don't like what you're reading, you might want to go off quietly and do something better.

I haven't got time for customer relations, so...AC

What a gent! No whining other than a general suggestion on the forum that I may be suffering from a mid-life crisis (20 years too soon but he may be right). Hats off to the duck - having suffered an unprovoked attack of some vitriol, he's still alreet.

Quick note on blogging etiquette:

Unlike many in the 'community', I have real friends and am not looking to find any here. If something is pants, it will be noted. I will -probably- not be providing links in the hope that people will link to me and that I can then persue a pretend relationship with such people for the hits. The world is generally selfish, unfriendly and rubbish. I shall not pretend this 'slightly-quicker-than-ceefax-but-no-more-useful' version is any different.

I am anxious, though, that this not turn into a 'well-known-blogger' attack forum.

With that in mind, Mr. Biffo.

The last time (for now) I shall post in this manner.

Can't remember the url of the top of my head, but easy to find I should imagine. Sub-headed 'Bafta-nominated screen writer' or some such. The word 'legend' is mentioned. Fuck me. Brings to mind a twatty 22-year-old trainee recruitment consultant who insists upon having 'BA(Hons)' printed after his name on business cards.

Wouldn't be so bad if he'd written Edge of Darkness or something. My Parents Are Fucking Aliens on CiTV? Not even series originator? On CiTV??

Benefit of the doubt, thinks I. Before reading several posts of such life-sapping banality that I begin to doubt that the gentleman is a professional scribbler at all. Hence the following - inevitably - late-night post on his comments thing:

Tired Dad said...
Could you send me a list of the half-dozen people who may find this interesting? Perhaps - easier for you - could you just save it for when you see them in the pub? And well done for locking comments for non-bloggers. Scaredy cat. Afraid anyone other than your six mates will find you less than fascinating?

Mild by previous standards. But the reaction is inversely spectacular. Find out more soon. Late, I'm tired, favourite son has croup and I will not be sleeping any time soon.

Not what this will be about

But, every now and then, I read the occasional blog.

Sometimes quite late. When I've not had much sleep. And I feel a bit ill-tempered.

One of the many pleasures of the internet is that, unlike television, those that you percieve to have offended you can actually recieve information on the subject. Calling Jeremy Clarkson a twat whilst watching TopGear is a very unsatisfying experience - he can't hear you, and you look like a mental.

Blogs however ...

Very late one evening, I am reading scaryduck. Often banal, but has quite often made snot come out of my nose with mirth (a very hairy nose, according to favourite daughter). The duck is in something of a slump - tedious anecdotes for days on end, topped-off with a hugely self-congratulatory post about the fact that he's managed to get something or other published in the Guardian, and isn't he great.

Good for him, I would normally think. But after four days of no sleep, I fire off a comment. I no longer have any record of it. But it was very rude. And insulting. And contained the phrase 'puffed-up little twat'. I can't find it now - he's deleted the entire post and all comments.

But he replied by email.

Tune in tomorrow for more.

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