Doing Davina McCall

Earlier this year Jo decided to give a bit of home based exercise a try and hit Amazon for a batch of fitness DVD’s. Soon she had a nice stockpile of programmes to try including a disco dance yourself fit version. Watching Jo desperately try and keep up with this disco dancing American was worth the expense of the DVD on its own.

Eventually the time came when I was sat about on my own one day, Jo off somewhere with the boys and I began wondering what I could do with myself. I thought about what Jo would do in this position and after a big list of cleaning and other jobs sprang to mind, I gave that up and thought about what I would do instead. The answer was simple, I could do Davina McCall.

I popped upstairs and put some shorts and trainers on and fresh with confidence I popped back down and threw in the DVD. A quick look at the menu told me that the boxersize one should suit a man like me down to the ground. Davina looked great and so I looked forward to having a bit of a punch up with her.

The music started and I swiftly worked out what was going on, Davina was supposed like me, the hapless learner and her friend ‘big Tony’ or whatever his name is was the one instructing us. This guy was toned, fit and massive, I guess I’m supposed to think that 3 sessions on Davina’s disc a week will have me looking the same in a month’s time – good luck with that. In no time at all I was learning that boxersize is not the same as Saturday night down Union Street in Plymouth. This dance version of boxing has an altogether different feel. 2 minutes in and I was a sweaty panting mess.

Suddenly I’m being asked to kick as well as punch – what at the same time? Which foot do I lead on? Why have I got to skip in between? It was getting faster and the sadistic trainer wasn’t allowing any breaks for oxygen or water. Davina and her other friends were quite happy occasionally saying “Of course if you can’t do this then just march instead you big girl’s blouse!” No way, if they are skipping I’m skipping. By this point there was a fog starting to form on the ceiling of our lounge as the ocean of sweat from my overweight frame evaporated by the heat I was producing, formed a cloudy rain forest eco system.

During one complicated kick and punch combo I lost all balance and managed completely clear the coffee table of drinks, papers and lamp, no time to stop though I’ve got to skip some more. The floor boards were complaining and next door were calling the Earthquake emergency number asking for immediate aid packages. I persisted though and kept skipping. The words I’d been waiting for finally arrived – “OK now for the cool down!” right I can do this.

The look on that evil gits face as he easily stood there doing the most ridiculous stretches was that of a Bond villain. “I’ll never talk!” I shouted at the screen, “No Mr. Glen – you will die!” laughed the malicious trainer. I held this awful arms over here legs over there stretch for about an hour as Davina remarked how good it was making her feel. I was about to black out as the first drips of rain started now that the climate in the lounge was cooling. We were done; I collapsed in a heap and used my teeth to drag myself over to the TV. Painstakingly I took the DVD out, slipped it into the wrong cover and threw it behind the TV, I figured that this should keep it safe.

I laid there for an hour, pulse slowly returning to it’s proper pace. Eventually Jo came home to find me lying in the middle of a puddle of sweat rain and coffee table debris. Slowly she managed to carry me upstairs, the boys holding my legs. I was thrown in the bath and left there. Several hours later she relaxed when she discovered that I’d not in fact been on the Smirnoff whilst she was out, but had actually being doing Davina. I do feel a little let down though. That was 6 months ago and I still haven’t noticed any improvement on my Abs – surely it should have taken effect by now shouldn’t it?

How long can women remember your mistakes?

Why is it one small mistake can take so long to let go? I didn’t do anything so bad, I wasn’t unfaithful or cruel. I didn’t hurt anyone or steal anything. Yet months later I’m still getting reminded about what a git I am. What did I do? What heinous crime did I commit? I missed a train that’s what!

Well ok there was a smidge more to it than just missing a train but that’s the general gist of it.

The night out was known about in advance, my pass was triple stamped and approved – I was OK to go out and have a few beers after work at the highly attended leaving do of one of our long term bosses. Of course I would catch the last train home – no worries.

Mistake number 1: I let my mobile battery drain out without realising it making me unreachable.

The night went well, I knew I was ok being out and didn’t see the point in phoning for the sake of it so failed to realise my phone was flat. Quite a lot of beer was drunk and so I gradually lost control of common sense.

Mistake number 2: I joined in the rounds of Bushmills.

I’m not a whiskey drinker at all and never ever drink it. Apparently on this night however I decided to give it a whirl.

Mistake number 3: I left the pub in central London (I have learned), just as the last train was leaving Paddington.

Not realising that I had already missed the train I set off home after being re pointed towards the station by a friend.

Mistake number 4: I clearly remember seeing no alternative whatsoever than to sleep at the station once I realised the train had gone.

Here is the sticking point; this is where things started going bad. Since this night I have either thought for myself, or been told, a million different options that were available to me that night. I could have got a local hotel. I could have got a bus back to the office and slept there. There are countless other alternatives. However at the time I remember thinking – ‘there’s only one thing you can do Glen, go and lie down on that corner of floor and sleep’. It made perfect sense, what could go wrong; I’d get the first train home in the morning, shower, take the boys to school and then return back to London. The plan was perfect.

Mistake number 5: It didn’t occur to me to tell Jo what my master plan was.

I think this may be the critical point in why it’s taking so long to get out of this one. Jo was woken at 2 by our little one and realised instantly that I should be home. This was the point where she started phoning my dead phone asking where I was. Message after message went unanswered as she began to imagine all sorts of different fates that could have befell me. Meanwhile I was sleeping like a baby.

When I walked in at 6 it was to the fury of Hurricane Katrina. She had no care whatsoever for how tough a night I’d had, how difficult a journey home I’d had or especially that I was fancying a quick cuddle before the boys woke up. I stood and listened to the endless monologue of hatred that was thrown at me for a while then went in the shower. I wordlessly got dressed, dropped the boys off and went back to work. Why Can’t Jo see that all I did was fall asleep and not phone. That’s it, nothing more. Funnily enough when you are drunk enough to think sleeping on the floor at Paddington Station is a good idea you aren’t necessarily thinking at your most thoughtful.

I do of course accept that I was wrong on this one and agree 100% with the reasons. Undoubtedly I would not accept such behaviour from my wife. However surely I’ve served my time now? Surely it’s time to move it on? Only this very weekend I was reminded of it again.

What is the statute of limitations on something like this? Can anyone help me and let me know when I can expect this to be forgiven? Answers on a comment please!

losing a love

I am racked with guilt, I’m really upset. I think I may have caused someone to completely lose their business purely due to my own selfish vanity.

What have I done? Why, oh why have I let pride get the better of me and drive this poor man out of the passion that his job so clearly was to him? I could have helped him, could have made all the difference. Instead I stood by and let his world cave in around him. What kind of man am I? I didn’t see it coming though, I couldn’t have known. If I had even thought that he was suffering I surely would have put my ego to one side and chipped in. It’s no good though, I’m too late. Mantega is shut! I noticed the signs up this morning as I passed Finsbury Square, it’s gone and it’s all my fault.

It all started in January when I returned to work in that first week of the year. I decided enough was enough, I had to get healthy. In came the gym, out went the bad foods. I remember vividly on that bitterly cold day walking into this amazing bacon emporium and ordering my last ever Mantega bacon & egg on lovely fluffy white bloomer bread. “Bacon & egg - Ketchup n chilli?” my little friend checked, he always did that. Mr. Mantega knew full well what I wanted on my sandwich but he always gave me a little sheepish grin and checked just in case I was in the mood for an upgrade to a Mega. “Yes please,” I replied, “I’m looking forward to it, but I’ll miss you because I’m getting healthy so you won’t be seeing me anymore!” How his face lit up in laughter, I’ll never forget it. My mate knew I’d be back, he knew he could trust me; he knew I wouldn’t let him down.

I did let him down. I never went back. How his business must have suffered without my weekly fix. Without my monthly contribution to his takings there is no way he could have kept up the payments on his little eatery in prime stockbroker real estate. It’s not as if the bankers and dealers were going to be flush enough to come and get their ‘bad boy burgers’ anymore. I should have been more thoughtful. It’s not even as if I’ve actually been good and kept up with the gym or the salads, but I was far to full of pride to go back and admit that he was right. It would have been beautiful too. His little face would have been a picture as he hopped over the counter in his little cycling shorts and gave me a big friendly bear hug, weeping as he reached for the chilli bottle. One Mega (2 slabs of ciabatta, bacon, egg, sausage and cheese) could have kept him open for another week.

I will never be able to make it up to him, never be able to walk into the office with my Mantega proudly held aloft shouting – “YES – I HAVE BACON!” I feel miserable. Good luck my little griddling friend, you were a true grafter, and you loved what you did and worked your backside off to supply us with above average butties for above average prices. I hope you’re OK and will be bouncing back somewhere new soon.

Towing the car

It was a cold early morning in October and I was about to learn yet another lesson about women. I had a lot of driving to do. I had 3 different offices to go to today, these were in Milton Keynes, Bristol and Basingstoke and I was starting from our home near Coventry.

The car I was running at the time was prone to being a bit temperamental so it was no surprise to find it chose today to mess me about. It would not start at all and as we lived at the bottom of a steep hill so a push start was not happening. I had to call in the ‘A-TEAM’. If any of you have ever had a wife give you a tow start I think you may sympathise with how this story is going to go!

The two cars were roped together and the kids strapped into the lead car. Jo was given a clear idea of what was needed, slowly get up the hill and then open it up a little on the main road. Once I was running she could pull over and un-hook – done. This was where I foolishly made my mistake. I forgot to agree a stop signal.

We got to the main road and Jo put the radio on, cranked it right up and threw her foot down. Before we left the village the old Renault choked into life and I started flashing my lights. Jo took this to mean that we weren’t going fast enough and so took it up another gear. By this point I was going a little yellow and so I started waving frantically. Jo waved back to let me know that she understood and slammed the car into 4th. By now we were past the point where I thought I’d trust my brakes to work in time if Jo stopped. I was light flashing, waving, blasting the horn and screaming like a mad man. For 3 miles this 60 MPH nightmare went on, I’d given up trying to stop her and had turned off the ignition to save petrol. Hopefully Jo would take me all the way to Bristol.

Eventually Jo saw a place to stop and towed me into place. Her questioning look as she asked how long this was going to take will stay with me forever.

The World's Greatest Mum

I don’t think that I’m the worlds greatest Dad, I’m not even on the shortlist. Every now and again I get to feeling like I should be though, mainly when confronted by the kind of person who sat opposite me on the train the other day.

To be fair the first reason why she wasn’t on the greatest Dad list was due to being disqualified for gender based misrepresentation. I’m fairly certain that the greatest Mum list is safe though.

I’m not here to preach on how people should raise their kids, I’m sure there are plenty of people who would be disgusted with my own approach. We have all gone off the rail at some point and can look back with hindsight knowing where you went wrong as I’ve detailed before. I’m fairly certain, however, that in this case she probably is just not my kind of Mum.

From the offset I can’t deny I was guilty of judging her a little on presentation; obese, smelly, home made tattoos and very badly dyed bright pink hair. From this first view then, she was going to have to pull a Susan Boyle quality bit of mothering out of the bag in order to impress anyone from the Mother of the Year inspectors. They had 2 of the seats in our group of 4 reserved and she told her Son to sit next to me. I happily got up and let him in by the window. Mum stayed stood humphing loudly. The gentleman on the other side eventually took heed and rose to ask her to sit – clearly assuming she was a lady of class, unused to not being presented her seat in the proper fashion.

Please assume all her spoken words were said brashly and loud.

“I can’t sit down can I? – I’ve got stuff down the other end!”

As soon as she said it she disappeared with no more words. Her boy (probably 10 or 11) stayed put, sighed and put his head on the table. This remained the case for nearly 20 minutes until Mother Earth returned, plonked herself down and started texting with not a word to her treasure. Brooklyn (that may not be his actual name as it was never said so I’ve had to guess) eventually broke the stalemate by pointing out that he was a little on the bored side.

“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Well what can I do?”
“Nothing, like the rest of us – just be quiet!”
“Well can I play on your phone?”
“HUMPH”

Minutes passed and then his time was up and the phone urgently needed back to send another text, presumably a tip for Madonna on how to swing the XXXX courts round. Eventually Brooklyn – who I have to say never put a foot wrong, as far as could se he was a pleasant kid – asked if he could have a drink.

“If you can be bothered to walk all the way down the train to get it you can, if you really need one?”
“Yes please”
“Say ‘excuse me’ to the man then and go!”

Some cash was plonked in his hand and off he went. On his return he put the bag on the table and made his way back to his seat. At this point she picked up the drink, opened it and started drinking it – not once offering it to her boy. He sat down then mentioned that actually he quite needed the toilet, this is in itself a minor irritation for me but always a major one for the embarrassed parent. Mum’s reaction though did catch me off guard…

“Oh for crying out loud, why didn’t you go before you sat down instead of FU**ING everyone about now - go on then and don’t forget to say ‘excuse me’!” At least she insists on teaching him to be polite I guess. I stood, shooting her my most critical stare, fed up by this point of the spectacle of motherhood before me. Sadly I think that she miss-read this to be criticism of her pride and joy who she suddenly became fond of. I’m not going to bother writing the string of expletives she threw at me as you can work them out for your self. Suffice it to say that I am apparently fairly miserable. Thankfully she also chose that point to strop off away from us in a whirlwind of disgust.

I considered myself told. So there you have it all votes are in and you Mum’s reading this need not bother entering because Mum of the Year is already as much a cert as Susan Boyle winning X factor.

The Underground Pensioners Militia

Does anyone else think that there are gun wielding Grannies on the tubes, hell bent on causing chaos for the innocent commuters?

Earlier on my underground journey was delayed by an eternal five minutes. Five minutes may not sound like much but in the baking heat and packed like a sardine up to the armpits of hot and bothered sweaty commuters, it feels it I can assure you. It came as no surprise to hear people start to become irritated and complaining loudly to each other. Soon it was announced that the cause of the trouble was a passenger who had fallen ill and pulled the emergency cord. At this point most of the carriage relaxed into the idea that the reason was fair as long as they were really ill and suffering. We are a truly caring bunch.

One guy near me took it too far in my opinion, repeatedly telling his companion that the individual should be “thrown off the train!”. Thrown off the train, not escorted or helped but thrown off it. I assume, in his opinion, any idiot weak enough to fall ill during rush hour was very much akin to a yoof with a knife or a lager lout stopping the train for a toilet break. In a flash my angst at being crammed onto a train with the 10 finalists from Britain’s got B.O. was gone. I started chuckling. At first it was just a small inward chuckle as I wondered what sorry life this person must have to feel so little for the plight of their fellow commuter. I imagined that everywhere this person went somebody jumped out to hijack his journey by taking the last seat or not getting their ticket through the turnstile on the first attempt.

With my mind being what it is, however, my chuckle soon broadened into a laugh as I imagined a militia of Grannies founded in 1978 by Doris Snacklebottom in revenge for the March 15th bingo incident. Doris had been a regular at the Hammersmith bingo for 30 years without ever winning so much as a single line. Wednesday 15th March 1978 is the date forever burnt into her hate filled brain because Fat Pat from the 3rd table along had brought her daughter with her, and her daughter had brought a friend. The friend didn’t live local, he normally commuted to Stevenage. This trespasser never played bingo and was finding the whole thing amusing. Laughing and joking about the dibbers and dobbers. Then it happened. Doris was getting nervous, she could see her card was filling up and with those two little ducks being called she now only needed 56 and the full house was hers. It happened in slow motion, she could feel it rather than hear it …” Five and six … fifty… s…i…x!”

“HOUSE!” the young lads arm went up in triumph ticket waving manically in the air as he roared in laughter. Doris’ own hand still in mid dob. How did it happen – how did he react so quickly. Doris had blown it, her only chance of winning the house and worse still it was to an imposter, a non bingo lover!

Doris stormed out in a rage and within five weeks of trawling the sunshine directory she had formed the fearsome ‘Hammersmith Hobblers’. Ever since the life of this poor unfortunate young man has been plagued with bad fortune. Here he was now, much older and more respectable but haggard and aged beyond his years with the stress of 30 years plagued travelling. His name is probably something like Graham, Graham Anderson. The first identifiable incident was in 1981 when a masked fiend stood in front of him at the sole working turnstile and wobbled his hand fumbling with his ticket for a full ten minutes. As the hobblers grew in numbers they also grew in confidence and brutality as in 1987 they became armed. By this time the militia were ensuring they got credit for their efforts by sending code words in large print to the Stevenage Herald. Meanwhile Graham tried in vein to call a cease fire, donating triple his winnings to fund a commemorative bench for the long since deceased founding member outside the bingo hall. 1990 saw the first fully organised hit as bingo man was sitting on the top deck of the no. 48. Two seemingly innocent mobility scooters crept across the zebra crossing in front of the bus, suddenly the scooter drivers reached out and emptied their Ouzi magazines straight into the engine bay and then slowly made their getaway! The passengers were stuck for a full 45 minutes waiting for a replacement bus; our hapless friend knew that it was a message for him.

In 2001 the Hammersmith Hobblers joined forces with the Peckham Pensioners and renamed themselves the Incontinent Republican Army. In 2002 they changed it to the Really Incontinent Republican Army. Finally, after a lot of discussion in 2003 they became the Society Against Graham Anderson.

2006 saw their finest hour as 1000 passengers, including our Mr. Anderson, sat under Piccadilly Circus for 2 hours. A crack squad of commandos had forced some unlucky underground staff at gunpoint into pushing their pimped up wheelchairs along the platform. As they raced along they pumped cap after cap into the side of the train, laughing manically as they tried to remember what time matron said they had to be back by.

And so here we are now in 2009 and once again this crack team of aged warriors have struck our friend whose luck had peaked and burnt out at such a young age. No doubt somewhere at the front of our train a little old lady was telling some worried guard that if he didn’t show her some respect she was going to blow his kneecaps to Benidorm. It was quite exciting for a moment, but then the train lurched forward and without a word of explanation we were moving. The whole carriage looked out onto the platform to see the trail of devastation that would no doubt be present. I think we all were highly disappointed to see a middle aged man sat down with a TFL member next to him making notes. The man looked mildly pale. The man did not look like he was about to die. Graham was disgusted.

what wives say and what their husbands hear

What wives say:

I need some new shoes

What husbands hear:

Clear your diary, the next few days are going to be both hectic and expensive!

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What wives say:

Can you put the rubbish out please?

What husbands hear:

The rubbish needs to go out, the garden needs mowing, there’s mess all over the place, tidy yourself up a bit, when are you going to fix that cupboard, are you listening? I said the rubbish…..

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What wives say:

Don’t drink too much at the pub tonight

What husbands hear:

There’s a new ‘Mega Strength’ lager you should try, I bet you can’t drink 5 pints!

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What wives say:

I said “NO”!

What husbands hear:

Ask me again in 20 seconds as I haven’t decided yet!

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What wives say:

Fancy an early night…?

What husbands hear:

I need some new shoes

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What wives say:

Let me know what you are doing tonight – if you go to the pub let me know you will be late please.

What husbands hear:

Go to the pub. At midnight, as you are waiting for your kebab, give me a call and tell me you love me 6 times.

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What wives say:

What colour would YOU like to paint the kitchen?

What husbands hear:

Were you listening when I told you what colour we are having?

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What wives say:

Can you make tea tonight please?

What husbands hear:

Fetch the Chinese menu

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What wives say:

Wasn’t Barry funny tonight?

What husbands hear:

Barry is everything I’ve ever wanted in a man; unlike you.

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What wives say:

You were really funny tonight!

What husbands hear:

I need some new shoes.

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Rubbish dog owners

Why do people have rubbish dogs? I’m not talking about real dogs, retrievers or whatever - working dogs that give a lot of joy to so many. I’m talking about little rat dogs. There’s a handbag dog pressed against my leg on the train right now. A ball of smelly fluff that its tweed jacket wearing owner seems to think is going to give him an edge in life.

I’m a cat man, I love the way they wont fake anything for you – get the food in the bowl or else they will go somewhere else. That indifference they give you most of the time contrasting with being so fussy when they are fed is what makes a cat funny. Dogs I’m not so keen on, though there are always exceptions. I wouldn’t want one myself but playing with some of my friend’s dogs now and again is enough to let me understand the attraction.

The man in front of me though, mid forties, starched hair, tweed jacket, shirt open 3 buttons down and pale jeans, definitely thinks that the pocket rat he has carried on board will at some point catch him some ladies, presumably at Ascot as he appears to be headed. As usual with this kind of dog owner though, he has no concept that others may not share his love of rodents. The first thing he did as he sat down was to ignore totally the fact that the back end of his mutt was rubbing onto the clean pinstriped suit of the old city gent next to him. The look of horror and disgust on the suited man’s face was only enough to get tweed to move the dog slightly over – no apology.

Now he’s sat reading the racing post, there are no ladies around us so the dog is on the floor, forgotten and ignored as it embarks on a new found romance with my leg. I’m far too British and too busy writing to complain though, but if it goes for second base then it will be meeting my size 9 steel toe-capped chaperones.

I think I’ve worked out the answer though – why do they have them? They are not dog lovers, they are not people who take these dogs out every day and play with them and love them like most real dog owners do. They are simply fashion items, a tool to use in order to try and create a personality that someone else might like. I seem to remember buying a kit car once for the same reason. I wouldn’t recommend that approach though - I wound up married!

Camping

After two attempts and with the best will in the world I can honestly say that I am not a camper. I’ve been accused of being camp often enough – but I certainly am not a camper.

Ok I can reduce that a little, I think I can still manage the odd night here and there in summer. My kids love camping, and for a very short period I admit that I thought it was fun too. We decided to try it out a bit first and bought a relatively cheap tent and some extra bits and pieces. A borrowed roof rack (really must give that back) and we were ready to go. This was the year we had a gorgeous early summer, June and July were fantastic. We went for a couple of short weekends and had a great time, the sun was baking, the tent went up a treat and the short walks to the toilets across the star-lit fields were exciting and new.

After our trial period we had no qualms at all about booking our main holiday in the tent. The maths spoke for themselves, even taking into account some extra kit we would need for an extended stay, 5 nights in a decent holiday park by the sea in peak School holiday season with full use of all the parks facilities for £150 was just what we needed. Sadly the amazing early heat-wave passed and if you remember – the floods started.

We arrived at the camp in the dry and in fact the sun was lovely. The tent went up with ease and we were soon unpacked and off for a quick look at the beach. My mood was sky high, the plan was working wonderfully. On return to the tent for some tea I noticed that our nice double air bed was flat. I knew that I’d inflated it diligently and so spotted trouble straight away. In no time at all I worked out that it was leaking air at an unsatisfactory rate. We went for an emergency drive to try and find a shop with some in but to no avail. As night fell we all made our way to our beds, one in a mini ready bed, one in a cot and two on a sinking air bed. Just as my pert bottom felt the ground start to press against it the first sounds of a light shower could be heard pattering pleasantly on the canvas. It was pleasant in a way because a light shower reminds you of how protected you are in your shell, we cuddled up and it was quite cosy.

As the last gasp of air escaped our dying li-lo however, the enjoyable light shower changed somewhat. The torrential downpour that followed crashed against the tent, thrashing the roof about in a manner that instantly told me we should have invested in a better one. The lighting up of the canvas with each flash of lightning could only make us wish we weren’t so close to the car. Each ear splitting crack of thunder made the boys shriek with terror. It was at this point that Daniel sat up in his bed, whimpered and then let fly a volley of sick all over his ready bed. Fortunately this was also the point where Jo remembered that this had in fact been all her idea and that in truth I had taken quite a lot of convincing. Like a true heroine she jumped out of bed and dragged Daniel out of the inner cocoon to sort it all out. The three of us spent the rest of the night huddled in a double sleeping bag on the floor. To be fair the rest of the holiday was OK. The weather never really picked up so we spent the week fairly damp, but the beds were replaced and the thunder did not return

So here I was then, sleeping in a tent 2 years later having foolishly agreed to give it another go. This time booked in for a full week. The first couple of nights passed without incident. The tent looked very misshapen and droopy but otherwise was holding up OK. And then on day three the rain came back – this time accompanied by ‘Hurricane Git’. We decided to get away from the camp for the day so we battened the hatches down, jumped into the car and headed off. We had a quality day driving go-karts in the pouring rain and generally larking about. Returning to the camp we found our tent door flapping in the wind, blown open by the force of nature and rain soaking into the day part of the tent. We double pegged it all back and went for a swim in the indoor pool. When we returned again it was to find that the wind had picked up further. The tent was wide open and the inner sleeping area was soaked. The wind had completely buckled the whole thing - in short the tent was dying.

Decision made, the boys sat in the car with crisps as Mum and Dad de-camped in horrendous conditions. I rang around like a mad man and discovered an entirely over priced travel lodge an hours drive away at Exeter services! Eventually we arrived, showered, warmed ourselves through and went and ate a massive Harry Ramsdens as compensation. Our main summer holiday was over. More importantly, our camping days were over.

What parents say & what their kids hear!

What the parents say:

“Stop hitting your brother!”

What the kids hear:

“Your brother just called you a poo face!”

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What the parents say:

“Come on it’s time to go to School – get your shoes on!”

What the kids hear:

“Hey let’s chase each other round the house for fun”

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What the parents say:

“hmm that broccoli looks tasty – why don’t you eat some with the potato?”

What the kids hear:

“hmm can you flick that broccoli onto my plate as I love it so much!”

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What the parents say:

“Stop asking me for a treat?”

What the kids hear:

“Pardon?”

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What the parents say:

“I said NO!”

What the kids hear:

“Ask me again in 20 seconds as I’ve not yet decided”

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What the parents say:

“If you are really good this week you can sleep over at Grandma’s house on Saturday!”

What the kids hear:

“Mum & I are going out on Saturday to have a nice meal that’s been booked for ages, It’s really important to us so you can do whatever you like this week because no matter how much trouble you cause you are going to Grandma’s!”

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What the parents say:

“You went on that ride earlier remember? It’s your little brother’s turn to have a ride now”

What the kids hear:

“We prefer your little brother and so only he will go on rides, you can sit and watch how happy your brother makes us- if only you were like him!”

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What the parents say:

“Can you just be quiet for 5 minutes so Mum & I can talk and then we will play”

What the kids hear:

“Your brother just called you a poo face”

A Man and his BBQ!

There is no doubt about it; Barbeques are a man’s domain. The BBQ is one of the last few untouched areas where we can continue to dominate and declare ourselves to be the mighty provider. All other areas of manhood are being eroded away faster than the polar ice.

Men can no longer claim to be the big hunter since they started letting women get jobs other than teaching and nursing. Nowadays they are allowed to do almost any job (albeit at a reduced salary), you close your Daily Sport at the building site and pass it to the brickie to your left only to discover that she’s reading Hello; these are scary days. On the bright side, this means that there’s a little extra in the kitty for beer and bacon, or there would be if it wasn’t for the invention of Clinique.

I’ve said before how great it is to be a man, but the fact is that our areas of control are diminishing very rapidly. I’m told they even let women vote these days, so we can no longer declare our selves to be in control of government. With women getting a say in who gets the top job, anyone can get it as long as they look good in a magazine; one day we could even wind up with a female Prime minister and you can mark my words that all sorts of trouble will wind up coming from that!

Women go to watch football, Cricket and Rugby. Women’s teams even stand a much better chance of getting to the top in international competitions than the men’s. Men all over the country are being left alone looking after the kids on a Sunday, making lunch whilst their wives are at the pub – this is just not right.

The Barbie still bucks this horrendous trend though. The BBQ is still a place where only a man may stand. Man the mighty hunter with a big slab of meat and a fire to cook it on. Stood at the fire we can hold our tongs with pride and look back at the millions of years of evolution that has made this possible. Women can busy themselves out of sight doing whatever it is they do at times like this whilst the man stands, chest puffed out as his friends crowd round and admire his work. Often there will be a little bit of rivalry and bravado among the men folk. Young Tom will point out that his brand new Outback Omega 200 at home has an extra stand on the side for keeping cooked food warm on, this is perfectly acceptable behaviour. Tom will soon rue his rash comments as his older peers point out that Gas BBQ’s are just an outdoor hob and women can use hobs; "only a real man can use coal." Here we stand, impressing everyone with our tools in our hand.

As we mildly char a handful of sausages, burgers, chicken and some vegetable kebabs for the ladies we happily stand, sweating heavily in the sun and choking from the smoke, because we know one pure and simple fact; Women cannot do this job. Today the praise is all ours. Today all the guests at this party will be applauding us because this is our domain. This is our world and it’s not getting trampled on by the females. Being the centre of it all and providing the meat for a group of guests leaves us feeling like we are on top of the chain again, the lion of the pride. All of the pressure rests proudly on our shoulders, if we do not cook the meat there will be no food, everyone will be hungry and angry. Man must provide.

We throw our slabs of meat onto a plate and go inside to where a table has mysteriously become over-crowded with three types of salad and garlic bread and cheeses and drinks and homemade sauces and humus and plates and cutlery and potatoes and bread and crisps and dips and four different puddings. No one knows how these things get there – they just do. We manage to clear a small space in the cornerand put the single plate of meat down to the gasps and sighs of all. The man has done his work. The meat is ready. Everyone – eat!

the difference between men and women cooking

Women making dinner for two.

The plan: make dinner in time for husband coming home from work.

1. Come home from work, look in fridge.
2. Take out chicken.
3. Look in cupboard, take out rice and accompaniments
4. Start throwing herbs and spices and things into a pan without measuring anything.
5. Make sauce quick and taste it.
6. Throw in chicken.
7. Boil some water, throw in some rice
8. Set everything to simmer, go and watch The One Show.
9. As husband returns, serve with a beer and chat about the day.


Men making dinner for two.

The plan: make dinner in time for wife coming home from work.

1. Come home from work carrying ingredients in with you from Tesco, you don’t know what’s in the fridge and are not taking chances.
2. Lay everything out on the bench in size order and study.
3. Change everything to be in chronological cooking order instead.
4. Look at the clock and note the time, write list of what goes in at what time, working out to seconds rather than minutes.
5. Get out the frying pan and put in a large dollop of oil, start heating.
6. Read instructions printed from Delia Smith’s website once more and unwrap the chicken.
7. Open newly purchased measuring spoons and start adding the herbs.
8. Accidently add Tobasco which isn’t in the instructions
9. Leave it over heating whilst reading the instructions again, crossing off the first steps from the procedure, re-work the times to adjust for the extra time needed to work out which measuring spoon was which.
10. Add in the chicken
11. Measure rice out for 2 exact portions.
12. Get the largest pan out and fill it with water.
13. Turn on the heat to start boiling the water.
14. Re-adjust times on paper to account for 5 minutes water boiling time lost.
15. mix some beer into the herbs and chicken mix as it’s looking a bit crusty and dry.
16. Delia has not mentioned how black the mix should look so assume it’s ok, add a little more Tobasco for seasoning.
17. Have a look through Nigella Lawson’s book to see if she says how long rice takes, get distracted by puddings and low cut dresses.
18. Wave a tea-towel at smoke alarm to stop it ringing.
19. Attempt to scrape chicken mix out of frying pan, give up and throw whole thing in bin.
20. Shout at wife, who has just returned, telling her to keep out the kitchen.
21. Notice water pouring on floor from the rice pan that has boiled over and gone dry.
22. Throw burnt rice pan in bin
23. Order Chinese, serve on Sunday best plates with a beer, eat in silence.

Facebook Reunited

“Isn’t it sad that we only communicate on Facebook these days?” Is a question I saw on some one’s ‘wall’ yesterday. Well in some ways this was correct; it is crazy the way that even people who live in the same house will have conversations on FB, but on the whole I say no, catch up with today and move on. Social networking sites aren’t killing communication they are simply moving it ever onwards.

350 years ago the fathers of the Dandies were no doubt outraged that their children no longer got on a horse and rode for three days just to ask which way round to fix on their mower blades, but instead started writing it down and letting the Royal Mail do the journey for them. The more progressive Dads would carefully load up their quill with lead filled ink and slowly write back, “wot u like lol!” The times they were a changing though and nothing was going to stop it. Suddenly you could stay at home tending the farm whilst your letter was carried across the oceans all the way to Australia, and with a better chance of arriving safely than if you had taken it yourself. A month later someone would be opening it to discover what your cat had done one day last month.

100 years ago the letter writers were appalled to discover that they were out of date, people couldn’t be bothered to wait for letters to arrive any more, now they were picking up the electric telephonic device and talking to someone right there and then. Instantly a new type of despair was born for those early Fathers, they sat listening to their daughters talking for over an hour to their friend two doors away about whether or not Valentino’s trousers were tight in the latest issue of ‘Good Day to you sir’, or what the latest tunes they have loaded on their gramophones might be.

Not so long ago things changed again as people went back to writing again, but now they could send them straight away by text. A new language was required to cope with this, and so English started to evolve again as teenagers everywhere decided it was ‘book’ not to bother changing the predicted text to ‘cool’, which was so out of date. Texting was swiftly followed by email where you could add so much more info and do it for free (seemingly free).

The point of all this is that things change, technology evolves and so do we. Facebook is fairly rubbish really and the banal manner in which people tell absolutely everyone that they know in an instant that they are “wondering what to do”, has no real meaning to life whatsoever. The innate chat that you get on FB doesn’t kill conversation though – it is conversation. If you were sat next to someone you would just chat about nothing. You would tell a friend face to face that “I’ve had a hard day and fancy a glass of wine”, so why not tell all of them at once? I get to have a small look through a window into the lives of people that I really liked at school but had lost contact with so long ago; I get to have a look at the lives of relatives that I otherwise never ring. You can’t specifically hang out with each other in any great depth, but seeing how they are getting on; looking at how they turned out is fascinating. That small look at how people live is like living in your own Big Brother house but without the entirely ridiculous over the top acting. So I say FB and all its competitors are the future of communication not the end of it, relax and enjoy it because in a few years it will be out of date. For the record, Glen is: “wondering what to write about next…”

"I counted them all out.."

As I lay there a second away from death once more, I pondered on life’s big question. Are men really incapable of listening – or is it just me?

In fact I wasn’t thinking anything other than how I was going to get out of this mess. I’d done it again, somewhere along the way I’d failed to listen to somebody and wound up here, pinned to the floor and wishing I was fireproof. This was 1989 and I was still 17. I’d been given the instruction to fix a faulty communication box and for once I was happy. I’d worked on these boxes before and felt confident. This was a chance for me to have some success and prove that I’m not completely useless, I’ve stated before about my engineering prowess so to have a chance to impress for once was great.

H.M.S. Ark Royal sailed on in the sunshine, I had a toolbox, a mission and I’d not listened to a word of the safety brief we had all been given about working near the flight deck. The faulty box was in the ‘cat walk’ which is the open walkway that runs parallel and just below the flight deck on an aircraft carrier. I bet it’s obvious to anyone reading this – no matter how little knowledge you have of aircraft carriers – that working somewhere so close to where Harriers and helicopters take off, requires some degree of procedure and protocol being observed to keep it safe. I’m sure my young brain spotted that too but failed to take action on it. Excited at the chance to redeem myself for some earlier mess ups, I headed straight out onto the catwalk without following a single one of the rules that were in place. I swiftly fixed the problem but following Navy rule #6 (“if a fault takes only a minute to fix, it can’t have been difficult so make sure it takes 20 minutes”) I sat back to enjoy the sun and watch Harriers take off – very exciting.

Had I once looked directly above my head I truly hope that my immature head would have made me stop and think for a minute, but that is probably a bit too hopeful? I heard a slow droning noise start up and looking to my left and right (but never up) I could see nothing so I ignored it. Suddenly I was pinned to the floor! Directly above my head was the rear end of a Harrier and the ground crew were firing it up. Ground runs are where the jet is strapped down and the engines given a thorough test, and this is what they were doing now. I couldn’t move as the deafening noise vibrated through me and the heat built up on my back. I genuinely shut my eyes and said goodbye to myself – hating myself for being so stupid. It seemed to go on forever, the fierce heat, shocking noise and sheer pressure making my head spin. In real time a few short seconds later it was over, the jets powered down and for once I had the presence of mind to move fast. I grabbed my stuff and ran, I knew full well that the break in the test would only be short and sure enough as I slammed the door back shut I could already hear it firing up again.

I found a quiet room and hid. I hid until the colour came back to my face and the shaking stopped. The problem with hiding so long was that any plaudits I should have had for fixing a ‘difficult 20 minute job’ were lost as it had taken two hours instead. The praise was lost even further two days later, when a similar job further along the cat walk came my way and I had to ask what the procedure was! My confused Chief was not too impressed when I explained what I’d done previously.

So I ask you again, is it just me that never listens, just the young or all men everywhere? Actually don’t bother answering – I probably won’t listen.

When a woman shops

The fashion show lasted for a full 15 minutes. Jo rummaged her way through the vast pile of carrier bags like a child opening presents on Christmas morning. I sat in awe and wonder, certain that she had only said she needed a bra.

Why is it that women can’t go to the shops and just buy what they originally say they need? There is something about a shopping centre that turns a perfectly intelligent woman into a manic bargain hunter, scouring the near identical shops within the lofty buildings that have no identifiable connection to the town they are housed in. It doesn’t affect men in the same way. When we need some trousers we go to the shop we have in mind via Dixon’s, look for the first pair that fit and buy them. 10 minutes in the Sony centre and we are back in the car. Men loath clothes shopping.

It was this lack of understanding of the female urge to shop which caused me to make my mistake on Sunday morning. I thought I had Jo worked out but was swiftly reminded that I haven’t yet scratched the surface of solving the genetic enigma that is woman. “I need a new bra! A white one for everyday use so don’t get excited.” Were the first words she had said to me on return from the shower, dejectedly searching through her underwear drawer. I knew I had to take this on board; I’m an experienced husband and can spot a leading comment when I hear one, and also Jo had her hand raised.

Knowing how long it can take my wife to select a new bra I figured that I would need to allocate at least an hour and a half for her to succeed. Ninety minutes should allow her time for multiple trips between Debenhams and Marks & Spencer, comparing identical bras until she selects the one in Debenhams. Thinking quickly I suggested, “Let’s go to Reading on the train, I’ll take the boys to the cinema while you get your bra.” The whoop of excitement nearly made me fall out of bed as Jo ran to tell the boys, she didn’t want to give me any chance of changing my mind. I suggested the train as it’s quicker and the boys get an extra bit of a treat.

The three of us thoroughly enjoyed Monsters Vs Aliens, so I came out of the cinema feeling very positive. I’d really done well, the boys loved me again and I knew that Jo would love me too. Right now Jo would be waiting – bra in hand – by a restaurant, ready to join us for lunch before heading home. Phoning Jo brought me out of my self-praising with a bump. “I’m just in Next; I’ll be about 20 minutes, I’ll meet you there, can you order me a salad?” What on Earth was she doing in Next? Jo never buys bras in Next, she only ever buys …. Oh no!

Jo arrived for lunch in a hurry. I say Jo arrived for lunch, actually her body turned up but her head was in Esprit. My wife wolfed her food down and took liquid on board like Paula Radcliffe running the Marathon. It was a Sunday and the shops would be closing all too soon. I was handed a load of bags and instructed to take them home, Jo would get a train back later. I turned and put the bags down but when my eyes lifted back up she had already left. I was now worried, I’d seen Jo in shopping frenzies like this before and she was close to getting shopping stroke which is never pretty.

Several hours later Jo was wheeled into the house by a sympathetic paramedic, he smiled knowingly at me. The paramedic’s own wife had needed to be airlifted out of Milton Keynes two weeks earlier. This poor lady had gone into shopping shock at the counter of Shoe Zone; the perfectly fitting, beautiful boots that she had found turned out to have an extra, undeclared, 15% off. Jo was clutching her bags to her chest whilst occasionally saying, “Yes I’d love to get 10% off by getting one of your store cards!” I showed her the ironing pile and her hungry children to bring her back to reality.

Here I am then, two hours later being shown the catch that my mighty huntress has returned home with. To be fair Jo has done well, she has bought some very nice things including some trousers for me. I smile at her and say that I’m proud but instead of giving me a loving kiss she replies, “ I never got chance to get the trainers that I need though – what are we doing next week?”, Oh dear…

Can I really dance ?

Oh no Craig has challenged me to do some more dancing. This time he wants to up the stakes and take it to a whole new level. Craig is a mate at work who constantly gets me into dance-floor related high jinks. Every year at the Christmas party he goads me into joining in with some insane 80’s themed dance off, usually with neither of us winning. His urge to dance with me started nearly 10 years ago when he learnt that I could Caterpillar and do a fair Robot to boot. The Robot dance is Craig’s passion, he really loves it. Add a little body popping into the mix for good measure and he will pass the Electric Boogaloo along the chain all night without ever tiring.

I can’t deny it; this is my dance era too. I’m pretty adept at catching the electric from him and letting it pass across me before zapping it along to the person next to me who usually just mouths something unprintable and turns around. Out of the whole of our office I believe Craig and I are by far the best Robot dancers to hit the floor and our body popping is second to none too.

The problem is that we are also the only people who care. No matter how hard we try to synchronise our Boogaloo we can never encourage anyone else to join in. A few years back there was a walkway joining the bar to the main dance area and we were just about to head along it back to join the others when, as one we decided to Robot along it instead of walking. For some reason both of us felt quite strongly that this would impress anyone who walked by in the other direction and so we both put our hearts and souls into it. I can assure you that if Arnie had seen us that night we would have been snapped up quick and he would have saved a fortune in special effects for Terminator 3. We juddered and slid along the walkway, looking more realistic than C3PO or Robocop, absolute concentration and determination on our faces. Men and women walked past, but instead of the praise, awe and love that we should by rights have been awarded, we got nothing but apathy and sorrow. I distinctly heard one girl tell her friend, “It’s great that that they let them come to these dos isn’t it instead of locking them up like in the olden days?”

When we discovered that we could both Caterpillar the stakes were raised still further. The problem that we have not yet been able to overcome is the complete lack of compatibility in our style. Craig can only Caterpillar moving forwards whilst I can only Caterpillar going backwards. Neither of us have the skills or the timing to be able to overcome this so it always ends up being messy. Time and time again we have ruined an otherwise lovely evening for our colleagues by crashing into each other and several innocent bystanders, tearing posh frocks or hired tuxedos. No amount of quick thinking booty shaking or moon-walking being good enough to calm the crowds down.

Now Craig has dropped another bombshell on me, he wants us to turn professional. We are to start training now, start working on our Caterpillar timing and tweaking our Robot until it is inch perfect. He wants us to audition for next years Britain’s Got Talent!

Craig truly believes that we can compete at that level, to take on Diversity and stop the singers before they even pick up the microphone. Personally I’m not so sure; I think that Simon would buzz us before we so much as whipped off our overcoats to reveal our silver body paint. I think that Piers would say that if we could at least Caterpillar in the same direction we might be worth watching. Amanda would no doubt slip me her phone number whilst declaring that she loved the original Stavros Flately and thinks our tribute act is pretty good as well; one solitary ‘yes’ would not be enough however, so it would be back to the day job for Craig and a life of running from the Paparazzi for Amanda and I. I’m not sure I can handle all that so I think I’m going to have to turn Craig down on this one, although I’m weaker than a soggy Digestive - so I’ll keep you posted!

Meeting Robbie Williams

A few years back Jo and I were lucky enough to get some free tickets to a celebrity packed event from a friend who was working on the show. We both love a bit of freebie action and so were in the car in no time. It was a great day, relaxing in the sun watching a conga line of familiar faces go past, and then drinking in the bar all night noting the different ways they interacted with each other. For instance Michael Douglass and Catherine Zeta-Jones at the next table to us very clearly had family around them and made it quite clear that they wanted to stay undisturbed with them, which is fair enough. Ronan Keating swanked about with a posse of yes men, trying to look cool and credible, whilst most the others just got hammered and joked about with each other.

Being as bad as I am at recognising people it was nice to be so closely surrounded by faces that I knew, genuine A to Z listers. The event was the first All star Cup - a celebrity Ryder Cup golf challenge to be shown on SKY, devised by Ant and Dec and hosted rather ineffectively by Jamie Theakston. Celtic Manor Resort near Cardiff was the stunning location, we’d spent the day waving at the people who we were now very nearly, drinking with. I’d cheered at Sir Steve Redgrave (later to share a lift with and say “All right?” to), Mr. Douglass & Wife, Jodie Kidd and the little lad from The 6th Sense film. I’d laughed at Chris Evans, James Nesbitt and Ian Wright and sat excited at seeing the Man from Atlantis – I’m so old.

Now I was sat getting slightly drunk in their bar. The beer was turning us from normal everyday people who are a little excited at seeing famous people, into fully fledged celebrity stalkers. Jo had fallen in lust with James Nesbitt as had I with Kirsty Gallagher, neither of whom was up for a swap it turned out, as apparently we weren’t on their “Ok to have” lists. Jo found her bladder to be uncommonly small and kept on having to walk past them to go to the toilet, helping herself to a pinch of Mr. Nesbitt’s bottom as she squeezed through the small gap by the bar instead of going around like everyone else. The excitement of a fleeting glimpse of Terry Wogan keeping us going while the next round of drinks were fetched was beginning to take its effect, I heard a whoosh of air that turned out to be Jo at full gallop, she’d spotted Matt Dawson getting into a lift in the lobby. She sprinted across the floor and slid in as the doors closed, emerging minutes later with a smile on her face. I probably should have been concerned but Jo had spent the lift ride pointing out that Chris Evans and Ian Wright had been much funnier than his own pairing and better at golf as well, the much deflated rugby player had mumbled that he was gutted and jabbed furiously at the buttons until the doors opened, he vaulted out at the next stop after deciding to use the stairs instead. There are good reasons why Jo and I get on so well.

The moment we first saw Robbie we knew we had made it! This was the pinnacle of our star spotting lives. Little Rob walked about aimlessly by himself for a bit and then left, returning 2 or 3 times later to do the same. The lager had worked its magic by this point and I think we knew that we were going to have to talk to him about something; something clever that would engage his interest and no doubt force him to invite us out to L.A. for tea. As a group on our table we had been discussing an earlier visit to Stoke that we had been on and the funny looking place we had seen whilst there, in my mind this appeared to be a good place to start. Suddenly I realised Jo had disappeared again, looking about I could see that she was already in full flow telling Robbie how things are. She had questioned him on why he keeps returning to the bar if he’s not drinking and was currently arguing with him about his answer. His poor attempt to suggest that he was looking for his mate being completely ignored by Jo who was instead suggesting that it was because he loves attention. “No I’m looking for my friend!” he foolishly tried to persist, only learn that there is no point interrupting Jo after she’s invested in a bottle of PG and has a bee in her bonnet, “No you just love it, you love getting all this attention don’t you? Will you look up and stand straight? I’m not standing here for my own good you know, OK when we are all quiet I shall continue, now as I was saying…” is how I assume the conversation was going from my own past experience. I decided that Robbie needed some help; a show of support from his fellow man. I went over to them and fully helpfully blurted out, “Have you ever been to Monkey World?”

Mr. Williams looked and stared at me in confusion, apparently he had never heard of Monkey World, to be fair I hadn’t either until a few weeks earlier and even then we hadn’t actually gone in to it. “What?” he asked, “Monkey World – you know monkeys and that?” He shook his head in disbelief, I don’t think he’d ever had a pair of fans quite as rubbish as Jo and I. “Where is it?”, “In Stoke yeah! Stoke - come on yooooo Stoke!” I think my supportive singing of his home town anthem may have been the point where we lost him. Five minutes of being corrected by Jo, followed by some drunken ape talking about monkeys was not the way he had imagined his night progressing. Weren’t fans just supposed to tell him that they love him? I’ll never forget the look on his face as he quietly asked if I minded that he wanted to continue a conversation with the person that he came in with (not realising that we knew he had come in alone), and then turned and practically tripped up the person who was about to walk straight past, hastily starting up a conversation with him instead! I imagine that this conversation had nothing to do with monkeys and probably started with, “Hey I’m Robbie Williams, and you may remember me from such songs as ‘angels’ and ‘let me entertain you’…”.

Funnily enough, we don’t get many freebies given to us anymore since Equity took out that court injunction on the pair of us.

Foot in Mouth Syndrome

Is ‘Foot in Mouth Syndrome’ a genuine medical condition? If it is then it’s a dead cert that I have it. It’s not exactly full blown Tourettes but the inevitability of my left foot finding it’s way into my face has to be called something, perhaps it could be called Toerettes. I think that the probable cure could be a six month stint as one of Chris Moyles’ breakfast show sidekicks. Every time you failed to laugh at his joke or you asked him if he was going to play some music instead of talking about himself, he would press a button and you get an electric shock; some say this cure is already being tested and has been for years.

I’ve always had this affliction, when I was 17 I went to a party and bumped into a girl I hadn’t seen since school. She was looking pretty good, when I knew her before she was always far too skinny for my liking. I genuinely meant it as a compliment then, when I told her that a bit of extra meat on her looked good and that I was glad she had put a few pounds on. The drop kick from her friend took me quite by surprise and completely through the doorway, how was I to know she had only recently come out of hospital having been force fed as part of an Anorexia treatment.

I’ve mentioned before in 'meeting Susan Boyle' how my mouth is more than happy to run independently to my brain. Apparently my mouth is only a sub contractor and occasionally does jobs for other parts of my body or for itself. The ability to completely offend and upset perfectly decent people without any intention or malice whatsoever is a curse that I’ve had to come to terms with. Years ago I asked a waitress how she had managed to get the massive shiner that had blacked out her eye, both the horrified look on my wife’s face and the look of sheer confusion on the waitress’ face failed to register in my head’s firewall so I happily pressed on. “Your black eye? Did you have an accident or caught with your best mate’s man?” The slow dawn of realization coupled with a lifetime’s worth of resentment came as she explained that it was a birthmark, would never mess with a friends man and shouldn’t I consider having a salad instead of packing on some more fat?

I was joking about once, trying to convince a girl that my mate Darren was a much better prospect for her than the man she was already talking too. I figured she should consider it at least. Without slowing to let my anti-mouth filters check on what might follow, I explained quite earnestly that she would be much better off taking Darren home instead of the competition because the competition “is clearly gay”. This one was what I call a double footer because I had no idea who this man was or what things upset him, I hadn’t even noticed him really, I also had no idea what things might upset her. I had no desire to offend anyone, I certainly didn’t think that he was actually gay and nor do I think that it’s something to be offended about if he was, but I clearly should think these things through. My mouth had got me in trouble again and this time it was not going to be pretty. He deflated and just withdrew into himself, she went absolutely berserk. One massive rant later and the picture was clearer, apparently after 3 months of trying to pluck up the courage, he had finally managed to come out to his Sister only a few hours earlier, how on Earth was I supposed to guess she was his Sister anyway?

do Americans have a sense of humour

The sounds of Billy Ray’s ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ pumped from the speakers as the line dancers came crashing to a halt in shock. 1000 American Forces personnel panicked and tried there hardest to disappear. Their worst nightmare had come true; six drunken Brits had found them.

Stood there swaying in a non-existent breeze, I knew that this was going to be true classic of a night out. Gus was going to get the leaving party that he truly deserved. My head is back in Naples again, the two years I spent there being the best fun I’ve ever had. I was 24, care free and with plenty of cash in my pocket that had no use other than to be wasted. There were about 40 of us living in the block 60% of whom were women, 25% were men and the rest were either RAF or British Army and so we never asked them what they were. Absolutely all of them were class though, Oh there were squabbles now and again and sometimes you got fed up of someone but generally they were a real solid crew (I’m not trying to be cool, it’s a Navy term). It’s one of the times in my naval career that I truly felt that I fitted in, that I had real friends that actually cared about me. Long summers of barbeques, beaches and beers followed by winters of Skiing, Spaghetti and Sambuca were the perfect way to use up the last few years of an irresponsible youth. It was also the start of my journey to civilian life. The base, though in the middle of a massive NATO headquarters, was surprisingly un-military. I joined the Navy straight out of school at 16 and so had only ever known this life of orders and order. I’d already had a taste of a slightly more relaxed attitude to life in Harrogate, but Naples took it to a new level; here we completely ran ourselves, here we looked after our own needs and had no need for others controlling our every move. We were being treated like adults and I liked it, there were mistakes along the way, occasionally one of us would forget that we were equal and try to pull rank when something wasn’t going right – myself included, but mostly the Navy rule book was out of the window and unbelievably, it worked! Later on when I rejoined the real Navy I knew straight away that I had lost my military mojo, I could no longer live in that world.

As you will have noticed already I’m not very cool, never mind being street, I’m not even cul-de-sac. I’ve never been the one whose attendance at a party was crucial if it was to possibly be a party. On this base though, in this time I actually relaxed and felt that I could actually be one of the lads, could actually have fun - perhaps even be fun! Not whacky or mad like a ‘Big Brother’ contestant, but just fun. We could dress up in daft clothes, have ridiculous conversations with no point to them whatsoever, and completely fail to impress the girls with our ‘Fast Show’ impressions – I was doing the thing that I should have done when I was 18, I was living the life of a student. The most fun of all that we could have was to wind up the Americans; this was the cherry on the cake.

Gus was cool, fun and a really nice bloke, we were going to miss his agenda free Scottish banter, but his time was up and he was going home the next day. His last Sunday started very early as the sounds of beer cans opening drew us from our slumber. I don’t know whose idea it was, other than it not being mine, but once it was out there we all knew it was right. A quick chat with the girl in charge of stores found us some old seat covers that we could cut up, then we found a couple more girls with Brownie badges in sewing and we set them to task. More girls were dispatched into town (these were the 90’s so it was ok to be Laddish) to find accessories and face paint. The plan was swiftly put into action and in no time at all 6 British forces men had been transformed into entirely historically accurate Red Indians (Native Americans had not been heard of yet).

By the time we had spent a couple of hours getting some lager power inside us we were well on our way. I had a hastily stitched up seat cover on, a plastic axe strapped to my side, war paint on my face and feathers in my hair – had Custer walked in at that moment he would have fainted.

Flamingos was an amazing place, just 400 yards up the hill from our block. It was a full on stereotypical Country and Western cowboy and cowgirl, roughneck club. It was exactly as you would imagine it to be if you’ve ever seen any Clint Eastwood film. The Americans all drove up in their big pick up trucks, stepped out wearing boots, jeans, big shirt, hat and massive belt buckles. The women all wore stonewashed jeans, boots, T-shirts and hats, spitting ‘baccy juice out on their way inside. The clientele were made up of Army, Navy, Air Force, Delta Force, Navy Seals and an endless list of alternatives, and it held at least a thousand. A substantial proportion of the people in there, then, were trained and prepared to kill anything that so much as looked funny at the Stars And Stripes. The feeling of walking into a place like this with 3 drunken British Sailors and two entirely unsteady RAF guys all of whom are dressed as the Cowboy’s arch enemy was to much to handle without laughing.

The crowd stopped and stared, their mouths open. A funnel appeared as they all as one man, backed off and parted like the sea to our Moses. A pathway was formed from where we stood right to the bar, gigantic cowboys that had been stood waiting to order their Bud for ten minutes moving over to let us up front. As we walked along we could not resist bashing the occasional stray on the head with an axe if we felt they were not paying us due attention. It was a fantastic moment that I will never forget as we made it to the bar and ordered Sambuca firewater, not even noticing the exit door was now blocked as the cowboys had now closed in behind us trapping us inside. There was no trouble though, just an endless line of laughing Americans buying us drinks because at the end of the day, they actually do have a sense of humour after all.

Gus was shovelled onto his plane early the next morning still wearing his war paint. Good luck to you Gus – I hope you are still having fun, wherever you are!

the stress of having fun with your kids

Why is it that children make going out and having fun with them so hard; the amount of preparation and running around that goes into a spontaneous afternoon in the sun is unbelievable. Perhaps it is me getting it all wrong, getting stressed about all those things that everyone else ignores, but then I am the Step-Father of the Devil’s spawn so I figure a few mistakes of judgement here and there must be understandable. Finding ways to ensure that my two boys are never left alone in the same room for more that 2 minutes without the T.V. being on, whilst also trying to prepare for an afternoon out, is as challenging as the old chicken, fox and grain across the river puzzle. If I get the solution wrong then I know that at least one of my children will be crying before I get 6 steps away from them.

This weekend the sun was out and after Jo magnificently manoeuvred Daniel to a friend’s house, in order to allow me to take Jamie to a birthday party whilst Jo was at netball, we sat having lunch pondering what to do with the rest of the day. We both agreed that the Sunday jobs around the house could wait; Jo decided that the school work she had been putting off all week could wait a little longer too. The plan we came up with was easy, fun and great. Abbey Meadows in Abingdon is just the ticket for an afternoon in the sun. The park is in a lovely spot by the river Thames, set in a lush surrounding, it consists of open play areas, a playground and one of those water play areas with spouts of water springing up from the ground randomly – great fun. This was one of those nice spontaneous ideas that should be easy to carry out, with the park being only 10 minutes away and the idea being perfect for the boys what could be difficult about it? The idea was quickly agreed and described in full to the kids, smiles all round showed that they understood and were looking forward to it, from here the process should be fast and straightforward, an ideal way to round off the last day of the ½ term holiday.

Ten minutes later and I’d cleaned up the lunch things whilst Jo scoured the house for the growing list of things that we would need, It’s a rule in our house that we never keep anything in the same place for more than a month, and so the usual trauma of trying to locate a towel, swim shorts, sun cream, picnic rug and a bag to carry them all in ensued. Now began the difficult part, now we had to get the boys involved. I looked outside to see Daniel trying to perfect his latest trick, which he had seen on Britain’s Got Talent, currently Jamie was suspended upside down over the sandpit and Daniel was attempting to set light to the rope with a magnifying glass. I called them over with a simple request, a very simple request indeed. In order to proceed with the plan that would result in them having fun, all my boys had to do was pop upstairs, put the swim shorts on that their Mum had found for them, bring the clothes they had taken off back down for spares and then see me for further instructions. I may as well have asked them to solve third world poverty. At the same time as I’m attempting to break down this complicated list of instructions using mime and shouting (an odd mix I admit) Jo noticed that the washing machine was still full of the School uniform that we should have washed 7 days earlier, and so was embarking on getting that on the line in order for it to be dry in time to iron it later. Daniel disappeared upstairs whilst Jamie looked at me blankly and asked for a drink, not the orange drink that I gave him, but just water thanks Dad. Meanwhile Daniel has completely forgotten what he went upstairs for and, after catching sight of himself without his shirt off, has decided that he is Rambo and makes a somewhat deadly attack on Jamie’s drink sending it flying across the floor. I remind Daniel what his mission is and he disappears upstairs again. Leading Jamie into the lounge I find the swim shorts that Jo bought down for him and proceed to try and lever him into them whilst he finds everything in the room more interesting than doing that one simple thing. I just about get Jamie changed as Daniel, having found a play Army hat and hammer among the toys that he was not supposed to be searching through, comes flying past machine gunning his way to victory against the Viet-Cong. Jamie chooses this point to foolishly state that he need the loo, and with a whoop of delight Daniel charges up the stairs and locks himself in the toilet. Jamie point blank refuses to continue with getting changed until after he has been to the toilet and so everything is put on hold until Daniel gets bored.

Eventually we are ready for the next phase of Operation Spontaneous, quite possibly the worst mountain us parents have to climb, it’s now time to face the ‘sun cream ordeal’. Why are we not allowed to just let them burn anymore like our parents did? To a child, spending 5 minutes out of your day getting sun cream on is the worst waste of time imaginable and are more than prepared to drag it out for a whole ½ hour of hell instead, in order to get this point of view across. First you have to choose which child to do first, if we do Jamie first then Daniel is free to wreak utter carnage on the house in a desperate attempt to distract us away from the task. Do Daniel first and Jamie will build his vocals up into a full blown whinge, shrieking like a Dolphin on Helium. Today, Jo swings into attack plan Delta, a second bottle of cream is found and she appears on the flank completely surrounding our foe. I grapple Daniel to the ground, picking up only minor damage to my chin, whilst Jo Gaffer-Tapes Jamie to the drain pipe. While Jamie squeals like a piglet that has accidentally walked into Heston Blumenthal’s laboratory, I get the full commentary in my ears, “Don’t use that much, don’t rub so hard, don’t do my legs, why do you have to do my face? That’s too much; I’ll do my arms, not the face, NO I WONT KEEP STILL”. Eventually I adopt the sitting on his legs with my foot rammed in his mouth method of sun cream appliance.

Later, we found ourselves in the car and after 6 trips back into the house looking for a specific book, or to find the sun hats that both boys had hidden, we declared ourselves ready only an hour after first sparking the idea. We were nearly half way down the drive before the fight boiled over in the back about which route to take, Daniel wanted the fast roads, Jamie wanted the country roads. Daniel threw a swift left hook across the back seat and the matter was resolved.

Finally, one and a half hours after deciding to pop out to a park that is ten minutes away; we dropped the picnic rug and set up camp. The boys ran off and had a whale of a time running up and down getting soaked and laughing like… well like children I suppose as their parents sat rocking back and forth, eyes staring into space and repeatedly chanting “Why?” Mission accomplished.