The Nursery Incident

We take Favourite Daughter to nursery for the first time.

We’ve not been in the town long. Tired Mam does not know it at all. I barely knew it half my lifetime ago.

We take what we believe, on the advice of the few people we know, to be the best option.

The woman who runs it is enormous. In a 'you’re going to need a bigger boat' way.

I’ve no problem with the larger lady. Quite like it, in fact (away from the point. And TM would now stress she is not among their number). But, you know. The sort of ‘I get hungry. I like food. It tastes nice. I’ll eat it if I want to. Why should I not? Life is ace. I’ll do other things I want to as well. Because I can. And do you know what? When I’m dead, I’ll be just as dead as you when you’re dead’. Those sort. They’re always happy, and you just want to be around them.

Better that than some normal-sized woman who doesn’t shut the fuck up about their weight.

Anyway. She wasn’t one of the happy ones. And she stunk. Whatever.

Probably glandular.

FD’s first day. The first time in her life she has been without us for any length of time.

We deposit her, kiss her goodbye, and wait in a separate room for nervous parents and drink coffee in case anything goes immediately wrong. As if it would.

After a few minutes we hear hysterical screams. Of several children. It sounds like blind panic. We shift in our chairs. We ourselves do not panic. This must be normal.

The door busts open. Free Willy has FD under her arm.

‘It’s no good,’ she says. ‘She’ll have to go. We are not equiped to cope with this.’

I look at FD’s face. She is not upset, even though there are tears running down her face. She is FUCKING furious about something.

‘Erm. What happened?’

‘Well. All I said was it wasn’t time for playing with the toys anymore and it was story time now and time to be quiet. She went mad. Started throwing stuff, shouting and that. All the other children were so scared, they all started crying. I had to take her out. I’m sorry, she can’t stay.’ Said Free Willy. We held our noses.

Put a child in a room of fascinating new people. Of interesting new toys. And then tell her to sit quiet whilst you stink them out with your shit story, BO and sense of failure. I’d have kicked-off too.

FD was in a bad temper anyway. Hadn’t had much sleep. Don’t know where she gets it from.

SHE WAS EXPELLED ON HER FIRST DAY!

Tired Mam almost died with embarrassment.

I almost burst with pride.

Enchanted Dad

Oh Christ, I think, he is actually going to do it again. Please fucking don’t. Honestly. Don’t make me do anything I will regret.

It is an unreasonably early hour of Saturday morning. Being a Saturday morning, I – like any single right-thinking man in the world – am a bit worse for wear. My hair is ‘tousled’. I am unshaven. I have black bags under my eyes. I probably smell the way a public house smells at 9.30 in the morning (anyone who has worked in a pub, ie: everyone, will know this smell). I am probably scowling. No sleep plus some booze = ill temper.

I am in a ‘leisure’ centre. I put it in inverted commas because, to my mind, they should be named ‘exertion centres’. I am lounging in their café-bit. A bit cross. The coffee is shit, and the whole place is thronged with screaming kids who seem to think that their one-and-only purpose in life is to fuck me off and spill my not-very-nice coffee over my newspaper.

There is a large room, just off the café, where my daughter attends her ballet class. She is in there now. Each Saturday, I walk her here. I wait. She emerges. We chat. We go to the Italian Deli for lunch. We visit the shops. She pretends she is Mummy – a girl-about-town.

But for now, I wait. The room she is in has no visual access save for an A3-sized piece of reinforced glass in the door. I normally wait until she is happy, kiss her and say goodbye. After about ten minutes or so I sneak a peek to make sure a repeat of the Nursery Incident does not take place. And then leave her. It is her time.

Don’t you fucking dare, I think.

Obviously, I am not the only one awaiting the end of their daughters’ class. There are many mothers. And being tremendous mothers, they take full advantage of this – probably the only fourty-five minutes a week they get to do exactly fuck all – and use it to their full advantage. They natter. They laugh. They cock the occasional ear to screams of agony, but if it lasts for no more than ten minutes they do nothing. They are seasoned professionals. They have coffee and adult conversation. Only broken limbs will get them out of their seats at this point. Rightly.

But this fucker.

He brings his daughter each week. Good. Makes a bit of a show. Says ‘hi’ to all the staff, none of whom know him. Nods and smiles at everyone he can make eye contact with.

‘Look. I am a father. I am actually holding hands with a child. My child! And she’s a girl. Oh yes! That explains the ballet costume. I ACTUALLY take her myself. Well………..It’s the least I can do. And do you know? I ACTUALLY enjoy it!’

Wanker.

He deposits her – ‘Now, do your very best, but remember, you’ll always be Daddy’s best’ – a bit too loud and glances around to make sure everyone has heard him.

He then sits down with his coffee. Takes a sip. Makes a ‘hey, pretty good coffee’ face and starts to pretend to read the fucking Independent.

Twenty minutes ago.

After ONE MINUTE, he gets up, and peers through the glass in the door for a minute. Finally drags his eyes away and subjects the whole café to a ‘isn’t it all wonderful’ look and sits down again.

Shakes his head. Oh The Wonder Of It. Pretends to read a bit more of the fucking Independent. Sighs. Looks around him. Shakes his head in a ‘it’s no good, I just cannot help myself’ manner and false-wearily gets up to go and peer through the window again.

Peers with enchantment. After a while drags himself away and subjects the whole café to his oh-the-wonder-of-childhood looks.

It is now.

He has done this a total of six times.

I cannot stop STARING at him.


Oh Christ, I think. Do it once more. Just do it.

The mothers continue to natter, taking their much-needed break

I am not fantastic, as has been pointed-out to me recently. But I do this. I do many things. I’m not world-class. I am horrible sometimes. But I tell my children I love them All the time. I say ‘well done’. I say ‘I’m proud of you’. I talk to them. I play. I do not ‘take an interest’. I am fascinated. I love them, and I’m sure that, in a million different ways I am hardly aware of, they KNOW this.

I do not wank about it in public.

He starts to get up AGAIN

Oh you cu

I launch myself across the café. I have him by the throat, a bunched-up fistful of his Gap sweater preventing me from crushing his windpipe outright. The un-studded poppers of his Barbour jacket scratch my arm as he flails at me with his casual slacks and canvass shoes.

YOU AWFUL AWFUL PRICK. DO YOU THINK FOR ONE SECOND THAT YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON – THE ONLY FATHER, AS YOU SEEM TO EXPECT A SPECIAL MEDAL JUST FOR HAVING DONE A MAN-PISS IN A LADY – IN THE WORLD THAT ADORES THEIR CHILDREN? FUCKING DO YOU? LOOK AROUND. SEE THE MOTHERS OF THE DOZEN OTHER BAIRNS HERE? DO THEY GIVE IT THE BIG FUCKING I AM? FUCKING DO THEY? EVERYONE LOVES THEIR BAIRNS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? EVERYONE. IT’S LIKE A DEFAULT. THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO DON’T ARE TOTALLY TOTALLY FUCKED AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT? THOSE PEOPLE DON’T TEND TO TAKE THEIR CHILDREN TO BALLET FUCKING CLASSES!

GET FUCKING OVER IT MR. FUCKING ENCHANTMENT-OF-FATHERHOOD AND STOP SPUNKING YOUR FATHER-JOY INTO THE UNWILLING EYES OF ALL PRESENT. IT STINGS AND SMELLS FUNNY.

AND WHILST WE’RE AT IT, MOVE YOUR MASSIVE FUCKING RENUALT ESPACE – NO FUCKER CAN GET AROUND IT.


I do nothing of the sort.



Tell you what though. If he had a blog, I’d leave a fairly to-the-point comment.

That’d show him.

How Many Days?

It is (as ever) some years ago. I work for a weekly newspaper.

I am 'out the back' smoking a cigarette.

There is a large brick wall opposite the back door of the building. Upon it, somebody has utilised a can of spray-paint to create the legend 'Johnny Sucks Cock for Rock'.

To accompany this is a portrait of a gentleman with his mouth wide open (I assume this to be 'Johnny') whilst one foot away an unrealistically large penis ejaculates several droplets of what I assume to be sperm directly into 'Johnny's mouth. Not a drop goes astray. Million-to-one.

If I were 'Johnny' I would be fucking furious.

I am contemplating this when Hippy Journalist comes out to join me.

[Not entirely fair. It should be noted that when Hippy Journalist was dumped by Hippy Girlfriend, he promptly had a numer-one-all-over-buzz-cut and started eating meat and could no longer give a fuck about 'the planet' or, indeed, 'peace'. If ever he did. Whatever it takes, I say.]

Hippy Journalist lights hand-rolled and suspiciously fragrant cigarette.

HJ:[By way of 'hello'] I've not been to the toilet in four days.

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

HJ: Don't get me wrong. I've had a wee, but..............

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


I put out my cigarette and went back to work.





Some months later, we actually became quite good friends. Once all the intimate talk had died off. Christ. We're not women for God's sake.

Next: Enchanted Dad. (Suffice to say, it's not about me.)

When is a Twat Not a Twat 2

Lazy blog re-tread I know. Fuck off, I've been sleeping for a change.

Anyway.

You know who I mean. You're walking down the high street, no care in the world. Maybe you have a small person holding your hand. Maybe you have an even smaller person in a pushchair. God fucking forbid you may have both.

And you hear it. From about half a mile away. pumpumpumPUMPUMPUMPUMPUMPUMPUM

Dreadful, absolutely atrocious drum-and-bass, the sort that any drum-and-bass officiando would tell you is actually 'weak', played at Knebworth-volume by a skinny white man driving a super-charged, 'pimped-up' (I believe that is the term) exhaust muffler-removed previously very shit Vauxhall Nova or some such.

And you think You twat.

But if you're me (again, God forbid) you then think Well no. Hang on. Lets not be hasty.

The young man wants a car that looks good and makes a loud powerful-engine-type noise. He wants a spoiler on the back of it. To push the back wheels down when he's doing corners. Because you need that when you are driving a performance sports car. It isn't a performance sports car, it's a shit Nissan Micra, but that isn't the point.

The man obviously wants a very cool car. The man cannot afford a very cool car because he left school at sixteen and decided to spend the rest of his time working in Tesco and smoking really poor soapbar. (I imagine, although will accept that this is a generalisation.)

What does the man do?

Does he accept his lot? Does he say Yes world, you have spoken. I am pants and will never be ace. As a result I shall never have anything a bit cool. I accept this. It is all I deserve.

Does he FUCK. He goes out and gets the best (ie: to you and me actually quite shit) car he can afford, and removes the exhaust muffler. It then sounds like a FUCKING ASTON MARTIN.

He works at Tesco (or wherever, I'm not down on Tesco employees [I just said 'down'! I am so 'street'!]) for a while, and gets some cash together. Not enough to trade-in his Toyota what-the-fuck for a Ferrari, but enough.

Enough to get the windows tinted. To get a fucking big sound system. To put a neon-thing under the car that can only legally be turned-on when the car is static. To buy a full body-pack. To get the whole monstrocity resprayed.

A big, ugly, gleaming, purple (they're usually purple for some reason) FUCK YOU to the world of over-privileged cunts who get something for nothing. To all the people who told them they'd never amount to anything. To the parents who never said 'well done'. To the teachers who looked down at them. To that girl Donna who went off with their mate Darren.

FUCK THE LOT OF THEM says this car. Yes it's a shit car, but I am not shit. Look at the car. It's got FUCKING ALLOY WHEELS! Your car hasn't. I will not be beaten by life. If I cannot afford to buy a conventionally flash car, do you know what? I'm not going to cry like a girl and wish my life was better. Oh no. I'm going to FUCKING make a relatively SHIT car look FUCKING ASTOUNDING. Perhaps not in a good way. But so what. Through not much more than effort of will. Do you hear me world? I will not be beaten.

And if you're me, you see these people driving too-slow down the high street looking not-really-menacingly at the passers-by, and you inwardly applaud them.









Then you meet a couple of them in the pub and realise they are irretrievable twats and wish they were dead.

Woman Repellent

I'm used to it in real life, but when you manage to make perfectly pleasant sounding women disappear without even trying on the internet, then it's time to take a long hard look at yourself.

Which reminds me.

Perhaps three years ago. Me and Tired Mam were in another part of the country. Another time. Things were terribly bad. For a number of reasons. Fuck off, this isn't that sort of blog.

Silence for about fifteen minutes. We are watching the news. And then.

TM: Do you think that one day you'll just lose it and kill everyone?

She wasn't joking either.

Now THAT is a 'long hard look at yourself' moment.

Everything is ace now. So don't worry.

Anyway (HONESTLY, THAT DID HAPPEN! SHE REALLY SAID THAT!) not only does Miss Fluffy Up On High vanish after leaving a few pleasant messages here (comments, whatever) but the equally-pleasant-although-a-bit-odd-but-in-a-good-way Miss Sleepy has now gone all a bit daytime TV Channel 4 Without a Trace.

Sleepy, please drop a line and let me know if you've gone anywhere, or just gone. Email type-thing if you're in secret.

I do not want to be an internet Jack the Ripper.

Actually, Yes – That Does Make More Sense

Me: Favourite Son, do try and eat some of your sushi.

One-year-old Favourite Son looks at his plate as if to say ‘It’s hardly a Fray and Bentos Pie, is it’ but – wisely – decides that it’s this or nothing. Poor bastard. It wasn't my idea. Begins to tuck in.

Me: Favourite Daughter, how are you doing?

FD: Fine.

She is staring out the window with a ‘fuck this’ look on her face.

She is nearly four, you know.

Tired Mam: Look! They’re only twelve quid!

Opposite side of the room. She is on eBay. Shopping. For shoes. Because we don’t have any – what do you call them? Footwear Emporiums? Oh yes, Shoe Shops – around here. This isn’t London you know.

Me: Um?

TM: They’re Milano Blanik! Only twelve quid! From China, mind. There’s no chance they could me counterfeit?

Me: China? Oh no. That is where all the world’s designer gear is ACTUALLY made.

TM: Is that true?

Fuck me. My mind begins to wander.

Sometimes, a kindly foreign-agency will beam something directly into your brain that will make sense of some trivial little bit of nonsensicality that has quietly bothered you for years.

For example. I quite like the film Get Shorty.

There is a scene in which gangster-type character played by Delroy Lindo strongarms film-director-type played by Gene Hackman. Lindo says of Hackman’s filmic output ‘Man, I seen better film on teeth.’

Bothered me each time I watched it. Obviously the screenwriter had constructed a back-story in which the Lindo character was a disgruntled ex-dentistry student forced to watch too many instructional films and had turned to a life of crime to escape. Only to meet a sticky end when he started getting all in John Travolta’s face and that.

Obviously the back story never made the studio cut, but why leave that line of dialogue in? Just confusing.

Yes. I am that stupid.

Last year. It is beamed into my brain. Oh. ‘Film’. When we in Britain say that someone has un-brushed teeth, we say they have ‘fur’ on their teeth. In America they say ‘film’.

Actually, Yes – that does make more sense.

FD: Daddy, what’s this?

Oh. Now. Dinner.

Me: [peering] Erm. That’s seaweed sweetheart.

FD: SEAWEED!! Like at the seaside!!??

Me: Yeah. *sigh* Try it. You never know.

More than ten years ago now. Final year of my degree. I live in a pub. Not in a my-son-the-student-lives-in-the-pub way, but in a I-actually-live-in-a-pub way.

A bedroom. No rent. No bills. Eat from the pub kitchen when hungry. Two shifts per week behind the bar to cover it. Twenty quid a week from manager each week to buy cigarettes. Going rate for anything I work over-and-above the two shifts. I work almost all week.

The days when students still received government grants. I am fucking MINTED. I have not had so much disposable income before or since.

Anyway.

Camp Barman also has a room above the pub. I call him camp. He is in fact a gay. I don’t mean he is generally cheerful. I mean that if you offered to push your willy up his bum-place, he would give the matter some thought.

I am not a gay. I have children and everything. There are no gays in the world with children.

But. We become good friends. But not in a gay way. In time, we run two pubs together. Unsuccessfully.

They were not gay pubs.

It is about four in the morning. I cannot sleep. Ironically, the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins has not had the anti-insomnia effect I had hoped for. (Give me a break – I was a student. I don’t read that sort of shit NOW). I decide to go for a walk.

It was a beautiful city on the River Severn, not too far south of Birmingham. Much of the centre, including the pub where I lived, still original Tudor.

I walk down City Walls Road toward the 24-hour petrol station to buy some cigarettes.

On the footpath is one of those benches for people to sit upon. Usually have a plaque saying that such-and-such-a-person paid for it to be there for such-and-such a reason. They are always in odd places.

On said bench is Camp Barman.

Me: Oh. Hello.

CB: [startled] Hi. What are you doing?

Me: Oh. Can’t sleep.

CB: UM. Me too.

Me: [sensing he doesn’t feel too chatty] Anyway, I’m just going to buy some fags I MEAN cigarettes. See you tomorrow.

CB: See you.

Nothing specific. Just a bit odd. A strange place to sit - panoramic view of petrol-station, shit Italian restaurant and Star Trek memorabilia shop. Same walking distance in the opposite direction gives you the River Severn, flood-lit Cathedral and swans a-go-go. Oh well. His business.

Favourite Daughter throws approximately £400 of Scottish Smoked Salmon onto the floor and grinds it into the carpet with her heel.

FD: Finished.

Again. It hits me.

After 10 years.

Between the bench and the petrol-station was a public-lavatory block.

Actually yes – that does make more sense.

How naïve am I?

I bet he couldn’t wait for me to fuck off.

TM: What are you thinking about?

Me: Nothing

(They both ate most of it by the way.)

Jason Solomons

[Interior. Evening. Lights low. The Observer Review Editor’s office. Editor at desk, unenthusiastically leafing-through journalist submissions for next weeks’ edition]

Editor: Fucking hippies.

[Editor pauses to light a Players Navy Cut cigarette, opens can of Tennants Super and takes healthy swig. Continues leafing through paper.]

Editor: Pufters. Communists.

[Editor stares out of window for a bit. Intercom-thing squarks into life]

Secretary: [Off Screen.] He’s here Master.

Editor: Send him in.

[Door opens. In swaggers Jason Solomons. Checks for reflective surfaces so he can admire himself.]

Solomons: Aight Chief?

Editor: You will address me as Master. This is the last time.

Solomons: Soz like. Catch Trailer Trash? Do I have the Inside or do I have the Inside? The skinny.

Editor: I understood some of what you just said.

Solomons: Did you read it? The Anthony Hopkins stuff?

Editor: Is that a joke? Do you honestly think I would read your tawdry output? That’s what Subs are for. Wish I had though.

Solomons: Why? So you get the skinny? The Inside of the Inside. Trailer Trash see? Cos I hang around film sets all day. Hang around movie stars’ trailers. Get the skinny.

Editor: Do you?

Solomons: Oh Yeah baby.

Editor: DO YOU REALLY?

Solomons: [very quietly] no.

Editor: DO YOU IN FACT DO FUCK ALL, UTILISING THE RESOURCES OF THE GUARDIAN MEDIA GROUP, FUCK ABOUT, AND THEN SUBMIT WHATEVER YOU HAVE READ ON ‘AIN’T IT COOL NEWS’ AND PASS IT OFF AS YOUR OWN ‘INSIDE THE INSIDE SKINNY’ OR WHATEVER THE FUCK?

Solomon: [almost silent] yes.

Editor: WHAT?!

Solomon: Yes.

Editor: Access to the internet does not make you a ‘scooper’. Do you understand? Any prick can read the internet. To regurgitate it word-for-word makes you look a charlatan and the whole editorial staff of the publication look like fools. Suggesting that Anthony – Sir Anthony – Hopkins has fallen-off the wagon after a long and successful battle with alcoholism does not help.

Solomon: I’m sorry Master.

Editor: How sorry?

Solomon: Oh no. Not again. No offence Master, but it smells funny.

Editor: OK. I’ll tell you what I could do. I could let Mark Kermode loose on you-

Solomon: FUCK NO!

Editor: Oh yes. He got on Phillip French last week. Poor old sod couldn’t walk afterwards. Had to give him the week off.

Solomon: Oh Christ! That quiff!

Editor: Yeah, he’s as butch as they come and he means business. I’ll let him play with you for a while – IN FRONT OF EVERYONE - and then I will make it my personal mission to make sure you never get any decent work in this country again. Even if you tongue my arsehole, the best you’re getting is to set the crossword for People’s Friend.

Solomon: [Sobs]

Editor: Or…..

Solomon: [Shapes-up very quickly]

Editor: Or… I can forget the whole thing. No humiliation. No sexual depravity. No loss of your already dog-eared ‘reputation’. And all you have to do …..is DANCE.

Solomon: What?

Editor: You heard. Dance, monkeyboy.

[Solomon begins half-hearted jig]

Editor: CHRIST! DO YOU WANT ME AND KERMODE TO DOUBLE-TEAM YOU?!! DANCE!!!

[Solomon REALLY goes for it]

Editor: [Quiet now, satisfied] My God. You actually did it. I would have had some respect for you if you had not. You are now my bitch for life. Do you understand?

Solomon: Yes Master.

Editor: I mean. Long after I’m dead, you will know that this happened. YOU WILL ALWAYS BE MY BITCH.

Solomon: [Hot bitter tears of humiliation in his eyes] Yes Master.

Editor: Get out.

[Solomon leaves]

Editor: [To himself] Jesus. These journo types cost a fucking fortune and do fuck all. I’d be better-off cutting-and-pasting the whole lot from fan-sites and blogs for nowt. It’s what the bulk of these journo-fuckers do anyway. Save myself a fortune. Then I can retire and get away from these fucking clog-wearers.

[Intercom squawk again]

Editor: Yes?

Secretary: Somebody called English Ranter? Wants to know if he is going to be paid for the quote from his blog you published today?

Editor: Oh for fu – tell him I’m in a meeting. [Waits for line to go dead] Oh well. Maybe not then.

The Mormons

It was quite a nice house actually. Really small, but it was our first place together.

Semi-detached. Not more than ten years old. Cosy. Felt like home. Nice little garden at the back. A shed.

Nice neighbours. And you cannot put a price on that. Would give Tired-And-Big-With-First-Child-Girlfriend lifts in their car if she needed them and when Favourite Daughter arrived would look after her if we were in trouble. Really chatty and nice. Me and Mr.Neighbour had an agreement regarding the mowing of the front lawn (for some reason we sort-of shared a front garden). I know. How terribly suburban.

Due date not far off, so we speak to Inappropriate Midwife quite a lot. We love IM . She is ace.

IM informs TABWFCG that she (IM) has something of a soft-spot for me. Bit inappropriate. In private, TABWFCG retorts by informing me that IM looks EXACTLY like James Belushi.

This is astounding news. She does, I supposed. If James Belushi were skinny, black, and were a woman.

IM was also midwife to our neighbours. She informs us they are Mormons. A bit inappropriate.

I think nothing of it. Worry a bit that Mr. Neighbour has only one wife and may be losing-out a bit.

TABWFCG, however, goes all-out and does some in-depth research on the subject. On the internet and that. So it must all be true.

Apparently they gave-up the multiple wife thing years ago. Oh well. And that:

Oral sex is out of the question. What? What sort of God would give mankind both mouths AND genitals? Is he taking the piss? Has he not tried it? It’s fucking nop-notch; giving or receiving. This is a mistake.

Public displays of affection are out-of-bounds. Fair enough. I’m sort-of married and PRIVATE displays of affection are not the done thing.

No smoking. Christ, I tried to give up once and was BEGGED to start again. Apparently I was a bit crotchety. Imagine.

No masturbation. Come on. HE made us with arms that allow us to reach our genitals with our hands. Honestly. If HE didn’t want us to, he would have made our arms a BIT SHORTER. It’s like that thing with the snake and the apple all over again.

No Alcohol. Fine. So long as I can keep the fags. But you are a bit of a party-pooper, God.

No tea or coffee. Right. That’s it. Fuck off God. You are clearly not British. If I want a cup of tea, I’m going to have one. We built an empire on this stuff. Prevented foreign diseases and all sorts. That is totally out of order.

In sum, I would be quite irked if I lived my life in this fashion only to find that there was, in fact, no reward in heaven and that I was, in fact, just dead. Without ever having eaten-out a lady, had a blowey, smoked a fag, got pissed or touched-up a lady in public. Shit. What a life.

Anyway. We are in the kitchen, which looks-over our back garden. We are in discussion. My Gypsy-Rose-Lee girlfriend has noticed that there is a psychic fair on at one of the local country manors at the weekend. Shall we go. Together. No, we shall not. Why? I’ll tell you why. Because it is bullshit and, unlike all the free bullshit everyone is exposed to every day, we have to actually seek this out and pay for it. No.

TABWFCG: Should I ask Mrs.Neighbour if she would like to come with me? We get on quite well.

Me: If you like.

TABWFCG: But you don’t think she’ll say ‘TABWFCG, I’m a fucking Morman, get to fuck. I don’t have no truck with no witchcraft.'

Me: I doubt it, but you’re the expert on this. If she does reply in that manner, just say ‘Yeah? Well suck my cock and have a cup of coffee.’ That’ll show her.

We both collapse into laughter for three hours.

Or I chuckle a bit. In silence.

TABWFCG: I can’t believe I used to think you were funny.

Whatever. I am now bored. I fancy a cigarette. There is a door from our kitchen to the back garden. I go to grab the handle to open it. Oh good. It is already wide open.

And Mrs. Neighbour is in her back garden. Not three feet from where I am standing. Hanging her washing. She does not notice me. There is no way on earth she could not have heard every single word we have just said.

I decide against a cigarette.

They weren’t terribly chatty after that.

Competition Time

On two occasions now, I have received comments that are so much better than my usual posts that I have had no choice but to publish them on my shit blog proper.

So.

Each Wednesday night, I shall publish a post from a guest blogger.

There are two rules.

You must write as Tired Dad.

What you write must be deeply offensive to the ‘real’ Tired Dad and also amusing. See the post below for guidelines.

Would prefer if they were emailed. Create a fake Hotmail account if you insist upon anonymity. It takes 10 minutes.

I’ll post the best. I know, what a fantastic prize!

Tired Dad: A Life

[Today's post supplied my Anonymous contributer on Tired Dad Comments 12/6/06.]


TD: TM, I'm really upset. I'm obviously VERY clever and VERY talented and VERY funny, but I'm not famous and nobody is giving me loads of money just for being me. What can I do?TM: Jesus wept! For the last time, I'm leaving you, you self-obsessed, bitter little cockpiece. I'm actually leaving the house as I speak! I'm SICK of your petulant whining! GOOD-BYE!

TD: You're right! I am astonishingly handsome and talented, and I've clearly
been overlooked because those in positions of power are too stupid to see what they're missing. What a brilliantly talented man like me should do is start a blog. THAT will get me the plaudits I deserve! Oh, what time is dinner love? Love? Oh, she must have gone to the shops....some time passes.

TD types furiously...TD: Hmm. TM still isn't back from the shops.

Wonder what's keeping her? I need her to make my dinner, what with me being the BIG WORKING MAN round here. No-one else works as hard as me. No-one. Anyway...there! I've written some things. Brilliant things, obviously, because I'm so brilliant. Now everyone will love me! I'd betters start getting some photos autographed ready for my first book deal

....some more time passes. No-one visits TD's blog...

TD: This is intolerable! No hits, and I still haven't had my dinner! I know! I'll start generally having a go at other folk to get myself noticed and get the ball rolling. Then I'll have a book deal and a tv show in no time, and make people realise how generally untalented everyone is compared to me too. Oh this will be lovely!

...some time passes. TD gets some hits!

TD: Hooray! Got some hits. Still no dinner though. Anyway, now to start writing about how fabulous my life is - like how I'm so hard, I bump into people in the street like Richard Ashcroft DELIBERATELY to start fights to prove how tough I am. Or how I'm so brilliant and well-connected, I can toss away media jobs on a whim and have another one within 20 minutes - all done from the pub! Man, how cool am I, eh?

Oh, but wait! I need to make sure I remain controversial and yet in with the "working man". I know! I'll make a sweeping, groundless generalisation about broadsheet newspaper readers being tossers, and keep on making it over and over again!

...some further time passes.Once the fuss about the random slag-offs subsides, no-one visits anymore because TD is actually making himself look like a hypocritical wanker of the first order...

TD: I don't understand! My posts are so witty and hilarious! I mean, I talked about FUNNY PEOPLE AT WORK, how CO-HABITING MEN AND WOMEN SAY FUNNY THINGS TO EACH OTHER and THINGS NOT BEING THE SAME AS THEY USED TO BE. It's all 100% original pure comedy gold! What could possibly have gone wrong? It...it must be other people. Stupid, lazy other people who are still so stupid as to think other folk might have something more interesting to say than me. I'd better do another round of my stinging, painfully witty criticisms to set everyone on the right path. Won't be long now before everyone starts recognizing me for the literary colossus I am, and thanking me for enriching their lives with my thoughts and musings. And maybe my dinner will show up soon too

......jump forward 80 years. TD is in a nursing home by the sea...

Tired Offspring: Now Jimmy, we're off to see Grandad today. You will behave won't you?

Jimmy: I'll try...But he scares me.

TO: I know son, I know. OK, Here we are...

TD: Broadsheets!?! Broadsheets make you a poofter! Coke tastes like chicken these days! I worked with someone once with a wonky eye! Yes, a fucking WONKY EYE! Can you imagine that, eh? Eh? Go on then, laugh! LAUGH, DAMN YOU!! I'm the KING of the INTERNET, do you hear? The KING! I am BEST!!! Where's my OBE, you bastards? Don't you realise I made broadcasting and satirical history

?Jimmy: Waah!

TO: *Sigh* Ok nurse, where do I sign that euthanasia order again?

TD (slowly fading away): ...t...tell that...cow...I...I...want...my dinner...now. I...I'm the big man round here...you...know...I'm...like...ffffuckin' Richard Ashcroft, me...hard...as...nailssssssssss.......

and so, Tired Dad ended his life as he had begun it. Dribbling, shitting himself and generally being an inconvenience to his close relatives. And inbetween he achieved precisely fuckall, because he was too busy trying to make out he was better than others to do anything of note.

FIN.

Terrible Things.

I mean. On the news and that.

But not the whole truth I reckon.

Ooooooooooooooh No.

Just wait until I tell you what I actually think.

I'll really spell-out for you what subtle dis-information you've been fed, you poor cows.

Because you can't actually think for yourselves can you? Oh no.

You take-in every word the papers and ITN News feed you and go 'I am now totally informed. I now know exactly what is happening' and go to bed without question.

You are so foolish.

I shall write a blog about how everything in the media is not entirely gospel. That will open your cow-eyes. About how everything is not as clear as it could be.

That will sort you out, you innocent fools.

I am ace me. I read broadsheet-newspapers.

It's not all as it seems.

Read my blog. About current affairs and the news and that.

You couldn't possibly watch the news and read the papers, and then form your own real opinions could you?

What?

By yourself?

Oh no, let me do it.

Without the internet?

You've actually got your own brain??

Oh no. Listen to me. I will tell you exactly what to think

I'd Forgotten

How shit are you when you begin reading the archives of your own shit blog?

About as shit as me.

The first thing I posted was commented on by a chap called James. In America.

Didn't notice at the time. But I 've found myself with a moment or two to check through this. The spelling is dreadful.

Went to look at his shit blog.

The most recent post on it went as such:

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

the hours of my discontent

i'm basking in the waning hours before i turn 20 years old wondering where the time went and how i spent my youth. i see this as a turning point, a critical decision on where my place in the masses lies.

at heart i will always be an irresponsible teen with a vengance for authority and a tounge for destruction but my weary heart is only growing old and impatient.

gone are those times when we played football after school. never to return are the memories of driving home at 3 in the morning from

Her house hardly caring about the day ahead. Perished are my blonde locks and weeknight woes.

I have to be happy with where i'm at or what good is the now, which is where i'm told i'm supposed to live. and with good reason i think.

it is time to become who i am destined to be in the abstract framework of society and the all knowing eye of God.


I know. Once again, Tired, you are making things up for the purposes of what you believe to be humour.

http://loveiswhatigot.blogspot.com/

Have a look. It's true: somebody actually wrote that. I believe it is still there.

I reply with the following:

Tired Dad said...
I am assuming this is a 'comedy' post.Get over yourself - you're not even twenty. The 'end of youth' stuff doesn't really cut much bread when most of us have grandfathers who are less self-involved and doom-laden than the writings of someone that many - myself included - would still consider a child.I didn't become an adult until I was 31. Enjoy your fucking life. Be honest. What genuine, major, life-threatening concerns do you have at the minute.Do you feel 'a bit lost'? Get used to it.
9:52 PM

James never writes a single thing again. I suspect he took some drugs, fucked some women, got a summer bar-job and started working in P.R.

Amazing. I could write a 'pull-yourself-together' column in a national newspaper!

Everything will be great!

Voodoo? You do.

Last night.

Tired Mam begins reading my rubbish blog.

I'm not entirely happy, but it is the only thing to do. And it is strangely pleasant to have some real-life feedback.

I'd still rather it was my thing though. Never mind.

She is not entirely happy. About a number of things, in fact.

But most of all about Miss Fluffy.

Now. Listen. For those not familiar. Fluff is great. One of the good ones. Doesn't big herself up. Doesn't create some dreadful false persona. Doesn't think for a second that her life is more interesting than anyone else's, that her opinions or stories are somehow justification for her place in the world. She just writes. About her life, her thoughts, her feelings.

So What, you say. Have you not read any blogs? Yes I have. Most are puffed-up pricks attempting to make themselves sound interesting enough to give them the self-confidence to sustain an erection for more than three seconds. Those of you thinking that my own effort is identical please leave comments below. I fucking love it.

But for some reason - I can't put my finger on it - she is different.

Perhaps it is because hers is the first blog I ever read.

I had dragged my family at least four-hundred miles from everything they new. I wasn't worried about Favourite Daughter. She is strong. And she is.

Tired Mam was another matter. She gives people the impression she is strong. Even me sometimes.

But I worry. My family make her stupidly welcome. I have a sister and several brothers, none of whom I have seen for any length of time for half my life. They are good people. They take care of her, make her welcome.

I still fret. I Google. I find the blog of this woman. She has almost simultanously moved with small people to the North. For some bloke. Brilliant I think. Much-needed insight. (I know. As opposed to actually talking to Tired Mam. What am I? A woman?)

Anyway. I read for two years. Occasionally say nice things when I feel they are needed.

She replies on occasion. This is not important to me. The blog itself is evidence of such immense creativity, humanity and honesty that it sometimes feels a privilige to read it. Gay, I know. It sometimes feels intrusive.

I do not need to see photos of her children (they were removed). I do not want to hear about her daily - by the hour - movements at her place of study. Christ. If you wanted a stalker, this was the way to go. Do I say anything? I do not. I have my own life, my own family.

I'm rambling. Anyway.

Tired Mam is reading away. I'm quite pleased and genuinely quite cross all at the same time.

Laughs now and then. No idea at what, so this could be good or bad.

TM: So. This Fluff person? What's that?

I am unconcerned. Explain history and covenance. I am relaxed.

Transpires that whilst smoking cigarette in back yard TM has visited F's website and has discovered she is not ugly. No warts of anything.

TM: Bit flirty, isn't she?

Point out to Tired Mam that if I got a bit cross everytime she got a bit flirty I would have no skin on my knuckles and that every tradesperson in the North-East of England would be very sore.

As if I could take them.

TM: Yes. Well. We'll see. I'm going to sort this out.

I say nothing. Sort it out, I think. By doing what? A WhoIs check? That you don't know how to do? And then getting only Googles' details, because it's all anon?

The whole thing has been a bit jokey of course (wouldn't mention it otherwise) and I think no more of it.

The next day.

Me and two children have lovely day. We'll leave it at that.

Tonight. Fluff's latest incarnation is gone.

I mean. It is like she was never there.

The whole blog.

'We'll see' said Tired Mam. (She is actually quite nice. Sometimes.)

But I had no idea she had this sort of power.

I Can I Can't?

[Interior. Evening. Boardroom of Coca-Cola Corporation. Looks a bit like the war-room from Doctor Strangelove. Designed by Ken Adams don’t you know.]

Chairman: [Lighting a fat cigar with a burning 100 dollar note] Gentleman. I have called you all here today for a reason. Whilst our quest to spread disgruntlement and general unhappiness throughout the world, ironically mocked by our everyone-is-happy-advertisement-campaigns, is going well, I want more. I want a report, and suggestions. No.1?

No.1: [Impressively maintaining his attention whilst being fellated by Christina Aguilara] Well sir, the thing in Columbia is going quite well. I mean, gangs of organized crime actually KILLING any trade-unionists who suggest that pay of our employees should be more than 1 cent a day. It’s brilliant!

No.2: [Listlessly masturbating into the open mouth of Britney Spears. It is clear his heart is not in it] That will be short-lived. Yes, it is causing much loss of life and general destruction, but it cannot go on fo ever. Not if British receptionist-botherer Mark Thomas has anything to do with it.

No.3: I’ve heard that Rob Newman has been sniffing around the gaff. If they both get into it then we are all fucked. No-one can withstand the onslaught of TWO British humourists.

No.2: Exactly. Look what Micheal Moore did to McDonalds.

No.1: Wasn’t that someone else?

No.2: Who cares. We need to think outside the box. Create some sort of low-level tiresomeness that will send ripples of discontent throughout the world. The Columbia thing is too flashy.

No.1: We already invented Christmas. What could be worse than that?

No.3: [A bit red-in-the-face now and short of breath] What I suggest is just some general irratation. The knock-on effect will be huge. What we want –oh for fu- TIMBERLAKE! STOP SQUIRMING, BITCH! IT’LL ONLY MAKE IT MORE PAINFUL!

Justin Timberlake: Sorry Daddy. Only you ram my ass so good.

No.3: Christ, who gave me this one? Anyway. You know that not-very-good Coke we make in our special factory to put into the plastic bottles? Not the good stuff we put in the cans?

[General murmur of concurrance.]

No.3: Why don’t we engineer a situation in which that is as all that is available to the consumer? It’ll drive them mad. No-one likes the plastic bottles of Coke. It’ll force them into buying more than they can actually drink, and it WON’T EVEN BE VERY NICE!

Chairman: Agreed. But we need a test case first. Suggestions?

No.1: The United Kingdom?

No.3: Yes! Genius. [Pauses to grab the back of Timberlake’s head like a bowling-ball and shoots foul, hot grey man-splurge into his eager face] That’s better. Yes. They bought fucking loads of that tap-water we sold in stupid bottles.

No.2: Not for long though.

No.3: For fucking long enough. Question is, who?

No.1: Oh I know. Who’s that prick? Got a really shitty blog in which he criticises other people’s blogs like he’s the fucking king of the internet or something? As if anyone even asked him? He gets dead cross really easily. What’s his name?

No.3: Tedious Dad?

No.1: No, that’s not it. He’s really irratible though. He’d be perfect.

No.2: Tired Cunt?

No.3: No. Tired Dad! That’s him. [Pauses to consult his Blackberry]. Right. Coca-Cola Intelligence reports that he will be going on a much-dreaded shopping-trip on Saturday. To one of Europe’s largest shopping centres no less. This is our chance.

Chairman: [Raising glass of Kristal] Gentleman. To evil.

All Present: To Evil!

[Fade to black]

It is Saturday (this is me now). I’m in one of Europe’s largest shopping centres with entire family in tow. For fun. ‘Fun’ I ask you.

I try and walk at a sensible pace befitting a man. I slip. The whole fucking place is tiled in can’t-walk-too-fast-look-in-shop-windows-slowly-just-look-look-long-enough-you-spend-money tiles. I’m getting a bit fagged-off with the whole thing. I’ve already spent best-part of half-an hour in one of those dreadful ‘Bargain Books’ type places.

Why are they bargains? Because they are shit. The frightful muzak they play does not help.

Me: I have to get out of here.

TM: Why?

Me: Because this fucking muzak is making me feel the way those high-school kids did before they loaded-up and walked into Columbine High.

TM: You really can’t talk like that in public. We’ll have the children taken.

Whatever. I am hot and I am thirsty. I would quite like a can of Coke. A CAN mind you. Not a bottle.

I have been looking for some time. I peer into Woolworths.

Me: I don’t believe it! Look. They’ve only got bottles in there as well! You cannot buy a can anywhere!

Tired Mam: Just buy a bottle. There’s vending machines everywhere.

Me: I don’t want a bottle. I want a can. Anway, they put too much in the bottles.

TM: Just buy a bottle. Whatever you don’t want, I’ll finish.

Me: No. That isn’t the point. Anyway, the stuff in the bottles tastes funny.

TM: Right. Shut up.

Me: Can we go to Poundland?

TM: No.

Me: Why not?

TM: Because you will spend fifteen minutes asking me – in a really loud voice – how much everything is. It isn’t funny. It’s embarrassing.

Me: Are we going home soon?

TM: Shut up. Just shut up.

When is a Twat Not a Twat?

Intro

Fuck this, I think to myself.

I'm on the phone. It is several years ago. I run a monthly magazine. You know. Glossy. 'National'. County-set lifestyle-type thing. Plush, purpose-built offices. Imacs all over the place. Staff. Prestige. It looks like the CTU building off of 24. An 'important city' in the South-West. I regularly speak to Mercedes and Alfa Romeo. Not an Alfa Romeo dealership. Fiat UK Head Office. These people know my name. Fucking get me.

I'm on the phone to the printers. Every last page has been .eps'd and ISDN'd to them. I confirm this.

We tell our advertisers we have a circulation of 80,000. It isn't a bad number.

Printer Lady: Yes. It's all here. Usual print slot, all colour towers available so you can have full colour throughout as requested. Heat-sealed as usual. Bundles of 50 each. Usual print run? 2000?

Me: [pause] Yeah.

In publishing, there is a notoriously vague manner in which distribution and circulation relate to each other. But 2,000 to 80,000 is pushing it to such a degree that Sisyphus would think it light work.

This has been going on for some time. I am no longer playing.

I get up. I walk into the office of the woman who 'publishes' this charade. I'm not looking forward to the conversation.

Not because I dislike confrontation.

But because she has a bonk-eye.

It is difficult to speak to anyone with a boggle-eye. You are never sure which is the good one. I always like to make steady eye-contact with anyone I speak to. But is difficult with this woman. I have to flit my gaze quickly from one eye to the other to make sure I am covering all bases. The resulting sensation is similar to sea-sickness.

Anyway.

The result of the conversation is that I find myself in a bar, in the middle of the afternoon, with some unexpected time on my hands.

I order a drink and find a seat that allows me to watch the world go by. I reflect upon the day's events.

I know now, and sort-of knew then that this was the end of my glittering career in publishing. A shame. I rather enjoyed it. Never dull, always exciting, challenging. And at the end of each week/month there was a thing that you had made happen. But it is no place for those who adopt a zero-bullshit policy. I'm amazed I made it as far as I did.

I feel quite relaxed, even slightly happy. I watch the people scurry about, chasing their own work related goals.

Haha, I think. Not me. Then I think a bit more. I shall have to go home at some point. There will be a conversation. I think about this. Perhaps it will go this way:

Me: Hi.

Tired Mam: Oh. You're home early. Good day?

Me: Not bad. Jacked the whole thing in on a whim. Point of principle and that. How is our one-and-only baby?

TM: Barely three weeks old. I do admire your principles and feel sure they alone will put food on the table. We have no financial concerns at the minute?

Me: Oh no. I feel sure something will turn up.

TM: My word, you are excellent. And really facing-up to your new responsibilities so well.

I light a cigarette. I think about this some more. No, I think. There is an outside chance that the conversation will not go that way. Oh dear.

More thinking. I am resourceful. I have not worked in media sales in this corner of the country for the last seven years to find myself with no contacts at all.

I remove much-hated mobile phone from inside-breast pocket and turn it on for the first time in three weeks.

I begin making phone calls.

After some humiliation and some hello-again-can't-help-old-bean I have secured a new job. Today is Friday. On Monday I start as the new head of the marketing department of a medium-sized telecoms company I used to do business with.

Just like that. I have been officially unemployed for 20 minutes. I order another drink, flushed with my own superbness.

It was, of course, all a dreadful mistake.

Twatishness

I begin by sharing an office with the Sales Director. It is an awful building, in a dingy, anonymous trading estate.

Sales Director is a twat of the first order.

He and his brother, Managing Director, are the existing sons of a once-mighty diesel-engine manufacturer in the South-West. Their Daddy has bought them this silly little company. As both have never had to do an honest days work in their lives, they have no idea what the fuck is going on.

I don't mind too much. I do know what I'm doing, so I get left to my own devices much of the time.

But my God he is a twat. Nearly middle-aged. He prowls the halls, chomping on his gum, rattling the keys to his frankly-horrible BMW, giving it the big-I-am at every opportunity. He is almost universally hated. Even, I suspect, by his own brother.

And yet. We get on. Then, and even know, I am not sure why. I actually liked him. He was disgusting in every regard.

That episode of Friends. When Chandler discovers that the grumpy guy upstairs was exactly the same as Chandler in grumpy guy's youth. A bit like that. I saw in SD every appalling aspect of my own personality unchecked, blossomed and fed by privilege. I could not help but warm to him.

Does this mean he was no longer a Twat?

I did not have time to dwell on this. We moved into new premises. Myself and my small 'team' of marketing staff were to share an open-plan office with the field-sales staff, who also partially answered to me.

And Gareth.

Gareth was a despicable salesperson. He wasn't called Gareth. I called him that because he looked like Gareth Keenan off of The Office.

I know what you're thinking. That's a bit weak, Tired. You can do better than that.

But you don't understand. He looked EXACTLY like Gareth off of The Office. If you worked in an office, and saw him there, you would think someone was winding you up.

That would have been bearable. But oh no. This man would have been crowned King of Twatland.

Example:

I am at my desk, doing something dreadfully tedious with a database. Gareth wanders over, and stands at the end of my desk. He does not say anything. Nor do I. He puts his hands on his hips. I remain silent. He begins to slowly shake his head in a it's-all-down-to-me-but-even-I-can-hardly-believe-it manner.

I say nothing.

He takes in a deep lung-full of breath. Then slowly expels it whilst still shaking his head in wonderment.

I know from experience that he will keep doing this for at least fifteen minutes unless someone intervenes.

Me: What's up then, Gareth?

Gareth: [as if noticing me for the first time] Oh. Nothing. [starts to slowly shake head again] Working on some very big deals my friend. Very big indeed.

Me: Care to tell me about them?

Gareth: [falsely suppresses fake laugh] Cheeky. You know I can't do that.

Me: Why are you here?

Gareth: Anyway. Can't stand about all day listening to you when I've got so much on. [mimes cocking a gun at me] Catch ya laters, yeah?

Me: Um. Yeah.

Example:

Sales Director gives Gareth the task of trawling every trading estate in the local area and securing the contact details of every decision-maker of each company and reporting the results to SD. Not unreasonable, as Gareth's job is, after all, to build sales relations.

Gareth promptly spends a week at home, fucking about with his Xbox.

Upon his return from his mission, he tells SD that he cannot give him a report as the details are in his car. Which has broken down and is at the mechanics.

Each day, Gareth drives into work in his perfectly road-worthy car, parks it in a different trading estate where SD is unlikey to see it, and walks half-an-hour into the office in order to maintain the subterfuge. FOR A MONTH-AND-A-HALF. Then claims the mechanics nicked the report.

Example:

It is late in the afternoon. For some reason there is only me and Gareth in the office.

Gareth: [apropo of nothing] It's rubbish isn't it?

Me: *sigh* Mmm?

Gareth: The internet.

Me: No strong feelings.

Gareth: It's just, once you've looked at it all, it's a bit boring.

Me: What?

Gareth: The internet. I've looked at all of it now. Nothing left. Boring.

Given his vast ability for pissing-about and doing fuck-all, I wasn't sure if he was joking. He seemed very serious. Perhaps he had viewed every single web page in existence. It would explain what he did with his time.

Anyway.

Anyone who has worked for a medium-sized family-owned limited company will know what it is like. Monthly spurious reasons why I was denied hard-earnt bonuses were bad enough, but having to explain to my staff on a monthly-basis that they too had been fucked out of their commission was becoming a chore. The Brothers Grim felt every penny was coming out of their own pockets.

The management-consultantcy agents came and went, each one fired because they did not know what they were doing.

I went on holiday for two weeks. Upon return, checked wage-slip to see that I'd only been paid for half the month.

Oh, we changed the holiday pay policy says M.D. You hadn't accrued enough days.

When did you change it? 10 minutes ago? Might have mentioned before I went.

Two days later, me and two of my brothers pack everything my young family own into a Luton van, and drive nearly four-hundred miles away, never to return. TM and FD follow one day later.

Oooh. That showed them.

Conclusion.

It was a long time ago now, and so much has happened since. Despite the tone of this, I've no real ill-will.

But I do still think about SD and Gareth sometimes.

Sales Director was a TWAT with no redeeming features whatsoever. But I liked him. What does that mean?

I HATED Gareth. He was Mr. McTwatty of Twatsville. If he had walked around with the word TWAT written on his forehead in permanet marker people would have thought 'my word, he's understating the case a little'.

But I think about him now, sitting at home on company time, chatting to his wife, fiddling with his Xbox and playing with his own young son.

I think about his refusal to play the company game. To do whatever he could, often at his own detriment, to fuck them around and do exactly what he felt like. On his terms. To not bend, or break. For anyone.

I can't help but slightly admire him.

But he was such a TWAT.

It is very confusing.

It Doesn't Work.

This is my attempt to post with a recalcitrant one-year old on my lap.

It does not work.

It took me fifteen minutes to do this much.

Next: When is a Twat Not a Twat?

Did You Manage to Eat?

It is 1.30am.

Tired-More-Now-Than-Usual-Mam gets home.

From the house across the street that has, this evening, been mostly full of other young Mams, Chardonnay, nibbles and conversation regarding shoes, fluffy kittens, pretty sparkly things that make them feel all shiny and my total fantasticness in the fields of fatherhood, raw wit and intellect, searing sexual ability and sheer physical beauty - especially compared with their troll-husbands. I imagine.

She enquires about well-being of small people. I reply that both their heads are hanging by a single thread and their eyes have gone all boogly. As such, I have not been sure what to do.

Tired Mam informs me that this was not funny four years ago. And that it has not aged well.

'Did you manage to eat?' She asks.

I pause. This is a hugely loaded question. Did I manage to eat? Did I manage to eat?

It occurs to me for a second that Tired Mam has spent the evening unable to enjoy herself, plagued with mental scenarios involving me and our kitchen not unlike those in that episode of Father Ted when the house-keeper goes away for an evening and both men are found in the kitchen fiercely clinging to each other as all hell breaks loose wailing 'all I want is some tea' and both close to tears.

Did I manage to eat?

She has imagined me putting cutlery in the microwave to clean them. Of boiling flour. Of attempting to peel an onion with a spoon. Of mistaking olive oil for a refreshing drink and downing the lot. Of finally getting something on a plate only to be unable to eat it because I keep stabbing myself in the cheek with the fork. Of eventually being reduced to licking Country Life butter directly from the foil in order to sustain myself.

'Yes, I managed.'


.............



Erm. The thing with olive oil did actually happen once.

What Matters Most is How You Walk Through the Moss

As I looked into the lion's cold black eyes I thought how touching it would be for my blog readers. The lion looked back as if to say "Write about me. Tell the people the emotionally engaging truth about this place. Get Scaryduck to link to it on his blog". I felt a better person as I shot it to bits with an air rifle. Solemnly.

My guide looked on with a bored look in his eye. Although perhaps he wasn't bored, but rather thinking about all the thousands of other stuffed toys that must now lay about the town...

Once cherished toys and keepsakes, now death with an adorable plush face. As I stared into the remnants of the poor, tragic dead toy lion I began to dream. I was transported to a world of happy poor people frolicking in the rubbish fairground. They seemed so happy with their meagre, pathetic rides. It was tragic really. That they would never get to go on a massively expensive holiday to America to ride space mountain and would instead turn red and die from radiation and moss. Still, my blog would offer them comfort.

I looked into the babushka’s fat, wrinkly prole face. Her eyes were filled with sadness and crushing poverty, and probably also radiation. 'Can I buy your grandson?' I asked her. Our guide translated for her and then she replied, in the broken, poor quality English characteristic of someone who has had very little education, never mind been nominated for a (children's) BAFTA award, 'No'.I gave her a shove, partly out of my middle-class white Westerner's anger and frustration, but also out of kindness, because she needed to realise who really kept her stocked in headscarves and beetroots. I went back to the van and pissed on my hands to get the nutrigrains off them, and then waited, taking photos of my bellybutton.

But the woman would not relent. She approached the van and began babbling, close to tears and becoming hysterical. I feared there was something terribly wrong. That the dark secret of the radioactive moss was about to be revealed to me. I clicked onto my special holiday Marillion playlist on my iPod and looked for some crisps in my rucksack.

I made a fist at the sky and slowly released it, symbolising the futility of human strife.

We needed to go. Quickly. It seemed I had run out of crisps completely. But where were my companions? We waited for an agonising two minutes that seemed like an eternity of quite literal time.

It was no good. They had turned into moss by now. I wanted to save them but I was quite desperate for the loo by this stage. I imagined them turning red and gestured for my guide to drive on. As he did a small, tiny, round, circular, small tear formed in my eye as I thought of the tragedy.

I adjusted my scrotum and closed my eyes


[Posted 31/5/06 on Tired Dad comments by Anonymous.]

It's No Good.

The above post was courtesy of an anonymous contributor.

I have been faced with an impossible decision, but have gone with it anyway. It was far too good to languish in the comments of the post below this one.

I was going to draw a line under recent silliness, anxious not to appear like some John Hinckley-type. But anyone who reads it will instantly know that the level of imagination and wit is far beyond anything I am capable of.

Nobody can be offended by it. Anyone who has attempted to put what is in their head into words can only admire it.

Mr. Mystery - please get in touch. I'd like to say hello. Click on the-email thingy if you're terribly shy.