You know you are a blogger when…

Every time you see something even vaguely amusing or unusual, such as an inappropriately dressed shopper in Wal Mart, you either take a photo of it or start trying to write out the moment in your head.
You spend more than 4 hours a week reading strangers memoirs and telling them that they are amazing.

You spend the first minute of every conversation you have with people trying to think of a link to mention your blog against.

You spend the last minute of every conversation you have with people trying to think of a link to mention your blog against.

You actually have no idea whatsoever how to write that book that you have thought of.

Your partner winces every time they go to talk to you, in case you ask them a question about your blog and discover that they haven’t read it for two months.

Your friends won’t tell you anything about themselves – just in case.

Your typing finger hurts like hell, all the time.

You have heard of Wanderlust.

You try and write a “you know you are a blogger” list, because you can’t think of anything at all to write but absolutely cannot stand the sight of a blank page.

Buffing up for the reunion

I seem to have buggered up my plan. I thought I’d timed it about right with my whole return to the gym.


I’m starting to doubt it though.

I’ve organised a School reunion for early August which is set to be a fun night, and I’m quite looking forward to it. The problem is that I initially started to organise it last time I restarted at the gym, back in March. I figured that would give me time to reshape my darts player body into Diet Coke man’s body.

But my one visit to the gym didn’t quite manage to provide the desired effect.

And so the small group of ex-girlfriends who will be attending, will be high fiving themselves and whooping with delight at having got out when they did instead of ruing the day they let a catch like me slip through the net!

Damn Damn Damn.

These women were supposed to be having drunken arguments with each other about who had been my favourite, not making a pact to agree never ever to admit to even know me!

Ah well, never mind at least I can fall back on my hugely impressive and lucrative writing career to impress people with.

Damn Damn Damn.

Help me out here, do women still find it impressive if a man can drink a pint of beer in less than 10 seconds? Will my skills at doing The Robot still get me noticed? If I point out that I have 37 inches of pure Sony wizardry sat at home, will anyone gasp in awe? If I pop into Currys and take a photo of the screen in use, an I pass off a digital photo frame that I have as an i-pad do you think?

It has to be possible to find a way to have at least one of these girls not look too relieved at losing me – surely?


Any suggestions gratefully received because I’m starting to feel under real pressure.

The perils of the office fridge

Just a quick note to talk about the fridge.


Not just any fridge.

The fridge at work.

I just don’t get the fridge mentality of people at work. Why do people suddenly think that anything in a fridge is theirs? Can people really not separate home life from work life? At home you go to the fridge and know that you can use anything in it and so surely this is the same at work isn’t it?

NO IT IS NOT YOU UTTER WASTE OF A BRAIN!

If you know full well you have not bought any margarine or sauce, why do you assume that it’s ok to use other peoples? How hard is it to think to yourself “hang on, I didn’t buy this roasted red pepper humus, and I don’t even know who did, so why am I currently spreading it on my otherwise lifeless ham sandwich?”

What is it with you people? It is not your food!

Salad Cream – oh don’t get me started. If I put a bottle of Salad cream in the fridge at work it will go in two weeks without me ever even opening it. HOW? The most annoying thing about that is that these people, who can’t live without Salad Cream, never put any in for me to steal. If I don’t replace the bottle no one else ever does, how dare they? Why can’t they take a turn?

Any way, I was prompted to write this after noticing this bottle of fizzy wine in the fridge. I just thought that it was the most sensible note I had seen in a long time. I hope it worked.

Football in the workplace

Having enjoyed the World Cup in South Africa earlier this month, I have started to wonder if some of the same values and attitudes can be adapted for my life.


So yesterday at work, I was sat getting a customers VOIP package working (making calls over the Internet) and when the customer said he was happy I slammed the phone down and ran around the office with my shirt over my head. At no point, I noticed, did my colleagues run over and dive on me, or kiss me or anything. In fact all I got was dirty looks.

So celebrating success football style is out then.

I tried once more later on, this time doing a cartwheel followed by two minutes of The Robot when I’d finished building a 2Mb circuit from Docklands to Cambridge. No one was impressed and still no one high fived me in excitement at my work.

I may be in the wrong job (or at least the wrong country).

The Ops director poked his head out of his office and told me to get back in my seat so I ran up to him and shouted that it was Darren who had caused this to happen, not me. Surely he could see that it wasn’t me, perhaps he needs new glasses. I suggested this theory to him, as I followed him around the office stopping him from ignoring me. Eventually I gave up and went back to my seat, spitting on the floor as I did so.

Later, when I failed to get a BGP session (techy data stuff, try and ignore it ladies) up and running with another customer, I blamed it squarely on my boss for not supplying me with the right training and because I was tired after having to do my job all year without anything more than every weekend and quite a few days off. I was pretty sure the customer accepted my excuse, so I went off to have a cup of tea and some chocolate (as close to a cocaine and sex party with some models as I could get).

All in all my experiment didn’t go very well.

I just don’t think the English are naturally team players.

getting motivated

After my disastrous visit to the gym earlier this year (it can be read here), it should come as little surprise to discover that I completely failed to go back to that gym. In fact that was my only visit to the gym this year.




Until last week.



We have moved offices at work and one side effect of this is that we now have a gym joined onto our new building. So I took the plunge and cancelled my very expensive old gym (I worked out that my one single workout in 7 months cost me £140 in monthly fees!).



Somehow I need to reduce that cost per workout, if only there was some way of doing that?



It was with some trepidation that I went to meet Rob last week, for my induction at the new gym. I really don’t like fitness instructors, they are my nemesis. Somehow I knew Rob would be no different. I wasn’t wrong.



“Hi I’m Rob, hey you’re looking in good shape – do you play rugby or football regularly?”



Oh dear – bad start. I’m not being down on myself just realistic when I say that nobody, nobody ever takes one look at me and thinks “He looks like a sportsman”. I just do not look anything like a sportsman (except darts players) and his false start to the meeting was not endearing me to him at all.



As the induction progressed it became clearer and clearer that he genuinely felt that by whooping every few minutes and telling me how great I am, I was actually going to respond positively. He kept telling me that he was here to listen to me and give me the workout that I want, but then not making any effort at all to listen.



I told him I was 39 and he sat down with an amazed bump, a look of utter shock on his face. “My God – no way, you look fantastic for 39, I had you at 35!” Oh dear, I nearly walked out at this line and told him not be so ridiculous. I look knackered for 39, and I know it. I hate going to the gym, the reason I go is because I KNOW THAT I NEED IT. I need to get healthy because I am not, simple.



I got on the cross trainer and set off, as per Rob’s instructions and was immediately told how natural I was at it and was amazing. Rob had literally never instructed anyone ever before who was such a natural on this machine! Really? Was my heart supposed to be pounding quite so much after 40 seconds on the lowest setting? Were my lungs actually supposed to be collapsing before setting any actual resistance onto the machine? I was a natural.



Rob walked away for two minutes and when he came back he just could not believe how far I’d gone while he was away – I truly am amazing. I screamed inside for him to stop, still maintaining some British politeness by keeping quiet and soldiering on, heaving and sweating completely uncoordinated on this devil’s apparatus.



Then I was taken to a cardiovascular area (I have no idea what he actually called it as I was coughing up phlegm and wheezing too loudly after five minutes wind-milling about on the cross trainer). Rob taught me the different stanzas and had me crunching and munching my way through the different sets of “Reps”. I stood and looked blankly as I was told “just do 20 reps on each”, because I wasn’t at all sure what reps were and didn’t want to make a complete arse of myself by jumping up and doing some crummy holiday rep song and dance number in the middle of the gym. In the end I worked it out and got on with it.



“This one you are gonna love! I’m telling you this will be your favourite” I was told as I was forced into a huge contraption and told to squat. Squat? What? I squatted down and waited for Rob to come and help me stand up again. “My fault”, I was told as Rob frantically reset the machine to its ‘pregnant lady’ setting. I started squatting a little more successfully and was again reminded how utterly stunned the whole gym must be to have someone of my calibre among them (I bet they were). I looked at Rob and sternly asked, “Just what is it about our time together so far, that has ever given you even the slightest indication that I would love this?”



Walking, or as is slightly more accurate, hobbling from the cardio area to the treadmills, Rob crossed the line and finally was subjected to some truths.



“Okay so you do 6 cardio’s, doing the abs after every two sets and do two circuits. You are amazing, I’d never usually get people to try two circuits straight off but you can just do it, I know you can!”



Fireworks went off.



“RIGHT, Rob, seriously you need to stop talking bollocks at me now. It isn’t working; surely you must have picked up the signs of that by now. Since the start of this induction you have come out with so many stock lines it’s unbelievable! It’s time to stop. You have not just set me a circuit harder than you would ever put anyone on at all – that is utter rubbish, I’m looking around this gym and really find it hard to believe that I’m the fittest guy here. I don’t need motivating, I don’t like exercise at all, I will never enjoy it but I’m here because I know damn well that I really need to be. Now please, talk to me like I’m a human and let’s get this done!”



Rob faltered for a second before mumbling that he was here to listen to me and that he loved people like me because we are a challenge.



It wasn’t long before he was desperately trying to engage my interest in exercise again, though through the medium of relentless motivation.



On the treadmill I was told that I was a natural walker and asked if I do a lot of walking. I was amazing at walking and managed to walk much faster than Rob had expected. The fact that I nearly threw up twice even though we had never broken out into so much as a jog was not important. My heart rate was in the ‘perfect’ zone when measured, even though it was much higher than the “they are always about 20 out” chart strapped to the machine. He just does not know any other way of being, this is his life.



I was told to wave my arms up to my ears as I walked in order to “get more out of my workout without having to work harder”, and then I was asked if I was feeling good now? I pointed out that I felt like an arse and couldn’t I just work a little harder instead? It was pointed out to me that this is ‘my’ workout and to keep going with the waving because I looked great. I do suspect that this may have been revenge for my earlier outburst.



Even at the end, he still couldn’t stop himself. Rob actually pointed out during the stretches how big my calf muscles are! I’m fairly sure he even gave my fat backside an approving eyebrow wiggle too.



I’m simply the best damn thing to happen to that gym since it opened!



Why then, was I not able to climb the stairs on the way out without having a rest stop? Answer that one Sporty McGuinty!



I went back to the gym today to try my new workout properly. Rob was wrong, I was only able to manage one and two thirds circuits, I’m thinking that maybe I just wasn’t motivated enough?

Enjoying bottoms

I just had to swiftly tell you about something that happened the other Morning.
Arriving at Paddington Station I stood to join the queue to get off the train and noticed two ladies in the seats on either side, waiting.
The lady on the left got eye contact with me first and did the eyebrow wiggle. Quite rightly she had elected not to try and actually start a conversation with me and saying “excuse me” or “can I get out please” counts as practically a full blown relationship in British commuting. The eyebrow wiggle was more than sufficient to relay her desire to step out in front of me.
I wasn’t in too big a rush, and I felt like being a gentleman (also she had nice eyebrows) so I beckoned her out with a warm and hearty wave of my hand.
Before this lady had time to move forward more than a pace I noticed the other lady frantically wiggling her brows at me too and had in fact moved on to stage two, and was nodding her head in the direction of the exit at the same time. Clearly she was in a rush.
I felt it would raise too many questions and discomfort about the grooming of her facial hair if I blocked her, and so I gave her my now customary flourish to beckon her out.
This was a mistake.
Genuinely without meaning it, my beckoning wave finished by me patting the first lady on her bum.
I patted a stranger’s arse on the train!
Thank God it was a lady or I could have been in a lot of trouble.
As I realised I’d done this I burst out laughing. What else could I do? I wasn’t sure she had noticed so I didn’t now want to tap her on the shoulder and point it out, maybe I should have patted the other cheek and then complimented her firmness. Perhaps if I’d said her gluteus maximus was bearing up well, she would have thought I was a doctor and relaxed a little.
Laughing did not help.
The point of realisation and bursting out laughing coincided precisely with the 2nd lady stepping out towards me. She immediately threw me a look of horror and demanded to know (her voice was not one of concern) if I was “alright”. She gingerly stepped out in front of me but kept turning and frowning at me accusingly.
My head immediately tried to work out why she was so sore, and threw two options straight back at me.
Option 1: She had seen the pat and then watched as I congratulated my lecherous achievement with a heartily smug laugh. Knowing that I’d then also asked her to come and stand before me and be judged, would explain her demeanour; especially when she then went without. You can imagine a particularly self conscious woman being gutted to discover that her backside was not nice enough to felt up by some fat perv on the train, she would be looking down at the woman in front to try and work out what was so special about hers!
Option 2: Even worse. I decided that in fact the more likely option (knowing my history at putting my foot in my mouth) was that in fact what I had not seen was her robotic hand. Or some massive facial disfigurement or dramatic eyebrow tic. I just knew that she would have a conjoined twin stuck to the side of her that I had not yet seen. From her point of view as soon as she had stepped out towards me I had started laughing. AT HER! I was clearly, blatantly mocking her mastectomy scars. My imagination can be quite cruel to me sometimes.
Of course, thinking that I’d managed to commit every social faux pas in the book, just made me crease up laughing. I couldn’t stop. I had tears coming down my cheeks as the queue desperately tried to open the doors and get away from me. I had a major attack of the giggles, made more intense by the absolute farcical innocence of the moment. I’d genuinely been trying to be nice.



I am rubbish.

The British F1 Grand Prix 2010

Silverstone Woodcote Corner

After a lifetime of watching Formula 1 racing on the TV, I finally made it to Silverstone for the British Grand Prix.

Well – almost.


I made it to Silverstone for the practice; I didn’t actually watch the race. Close though.

I’m not big on crowds, as I’ve said before, and tickets for race day are ridiculously priced and rarer than rocking horse poo, so I made the decision to go on the Friday and watch the practice. I knew that there would still be plenty going on through the day, and all I really wanted was to see those cars close up going fast anyway. I knew that I would see all of that and more during the practice – I was right.

I’ve wanted to do this for ever – I have no idea why it has taken me so long, why didn’t I go when I was younger? I actually can’t come up with a reason why I never made it to Silverstone before, maybe it doesn’t really matter.

05:00 - I argued with my alarm for about half an hour when it tried its hardest to get me out of bed on Friday morning. I told it to leave me alone but every ten minutes it would kick itself back into life and torment me further. Eventually, just as I was about to press the snooze button once more I felt the short, sharp, loving kick in the back that only a rudely awaken wife can give, and I knew I’d been beaten. I’d have to turn the alarm off and head to the shower.

07:00 – I parked in the Silverstone car park, and decided to apply the Zen method of navigation to find my way to the entrance gates (thank you Douglas Adams & Dirk Gently). I couldn’t see any signs or clues as to where to go, so I found some people in Mclaren shirts who looked like they knew where they were going and followed them. This was going ok until they decided to stop and take some photos. When they get home they will no doubt notice some chunky and bewildered looking idiot in the background, pretending to tie his shoelace (even though he was wearing sandals) and look through his bag for tickets for the ten minutes it took them to get bored and move onwards.

07:15 – Once inside the gates I ran up the banking at Abbey and my heart stopped. There, in front of me was the Silverstone circuit. The place where the first ever Formula 1 Grand Prix was driven, the only true Formula 1 circuit in the world!**

** Unless you aren’t English, in which case it’s possible you might prefer Monaco or Montreal or *insert track here*.


I was transfixed and breathless (well it was a steep bank I’d just climbed) I wanted to kiss it, take it to dinner and then who knows, just go with the flow and see what happens. A smile spread across my face that refused to go away. I was buzzing with excitement and felt like a kid on Christmas Eve while I was waiting for the cars to come out.

Jenson Button

07:25 – I’d just paid nearly £4 for a bacon butty and the smile had flickered a bit. I remembered that I am essentially quite tight, and wasn’t really designed for expensive posh restaurants like this.

I walked around to take things in, checking out the stalls and dying a little each time I did so. As soon as I realised they wanted £10 for a key ring I knew that my boys would not be getting a present today. As the crowds built up and time ticked along I started to feel a little let down. It was going to be really expensive to spend the day here, and those crowds were starting to look scary. In fact something like 80,000 people turned up for the Friday practice and that is a lot of people. My smile was gone.


08:00 – I laughed at the sight at a very stressed Mum trying to get two young and expensively attired children in their Mclaren outfits to just walk. I don’t know how far they had to go or how far they had come, but they had already had enough. To be up so early in the morning dragging fed up kids about with such a long day ahead has to be madness. They were so young too, I’m all for giving your children amazing experiences but keep it real people, this lady was about to endure the crappest day of her life, and she was going to pay through the nose to do so.


08:50 – I sat myself in the grand stand opposite the pits and waited. The Formula 1 cars were not out until 10:00 but for now, Formula BMW (no I’ve never heard of it either) was coming out to play. I managed a grin as the cars motored past me with their engines screaming. These cars seemed to be going really fast and with a little overtaking happening down the straight, even though these were only practice laps, I was transfixed and happy. These are the champions of the future with some really young drivers at the helm.


10:00 Oops trouser change needed…


Out they came and suddenly the world stopped. These cars are amazing. The noise and the smell of them going past blew me away. The speed compared to the previous cars was immediately noticeable, suddenly those other drivers looked very slow. The cars changed direction at the end of the straight like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Glued to the track does not do them justice.

Mark Webber (probably)

Seeing my only sporting heroes flying past me in this way was thrilling. I like Football and Rugby, but my only real sporting interest is Formula 1. I blinked and Michael Schumacher drove past, then Lewis Hamilton and Button. The crowd cheered whenever a Brit went past, which added to the fun. I tried over and over again to take a photo; I must have a hundred photos of an empty stretch of tarmac near where Schumacher was driving. Eventually I managed to get a couple of successful shots, which I’ll show you.


The day went on and I walked around the circuit taking it all in, jumping up and down with glee at the sight of corners that I have seen so often on TV. Copse, Becketts, Stowe, Woodcote and Luffield, to name a few – legends. I tried pointing them out to people, but this nearly got me thrown out of the place so I stopped. Somehow everyone else was so much cooler about all this than me, I don’t know why? I also sat and watched GP2 & GP3 cars practicing and qualifying which (especially the GP2) was almost as loud and fast as the F1 bunch. I saw Porsches spinning around on a special skid pan and idiots bungee jumping from a crane.

Fernando Alonso

Eventually I wandered into the Santander tent and had a couple of free Santander British Grand Prix pens thrust at me. BINGO – that’s the boys sorted!!


Later the F1 cars were out again for a second practice and the same thrill went through me as it had the first. Seeing these cars in all their glory and being able to feel their power was just awesome. Watching them being driven by drivers that I’m so familiar with from television was surprisingly exciting too. Prior to my visit I’d only really thought about the excitement of seeing the cars. It hadn’t occurred to me that the flash of a recognisable helmet flying by would give me a buzz too. The sight of Schumacher, Lewis, Button, Barrichello, Alonso and Webber’s distinctive ‘heads’ screaming past at nearly 200MPH did have an effect though, and soon I was clapping like a six year old at Disney World’s Main Street USA Procession.

Lewis Hamilton

Later, having run out of money for water and feeling like an overcooked pork roast, I decided that I’d had my fill and it was time to go home. As I walked by the Santander tent I noticed that it was absolutely packed to the rafters, and people were spilled right outside it trying to get in. Behind the tent I saw a much smaller crowd. I’m not the quickest on the uptake but with Santander sponsoring the Grand Prix as well as both British drivers I thought “Hello”.


I went and found a spot behind the tent with the smaller crowd and stood. As I waited, I started to chuckle. At no point had anyone said that anything was happening, I had simply seen a crowd and joined it. This is an extremely British thing to do; it’s irresistible to us, like a queue. If you see a long queue in Britain, you have to join it, even if you don’t know what it is for. A long queue must be for something good after all – mustn’t it? So I stood there at a fence watching some security guards stood about laughing at each other. I scanned about looking to see if this was all a jape for TV or something. Exploiting our curious nature by seeing if a fence, a crowd and a man with a radio could keep people entertained for as long as possible.


Just as I was about to give up and tip toe away, a car pulled up.


It was worth it.

Jenson Button

Jenson Button, current Formula 1 World Champion and all round English bloke, was stood there smiling at me (yes, just at me, not just randomly at the crowd thank you). Jenson went into the tent in order to fulfil his duties for his sponsor and I waited excitedly at the fence. When he came out again the crowd went crazy (I guess they were still sore about him singling me out earlier). Jenson went around the fence saying hello and signing autographs. I loved it but no, I didn’t get an autograph, I’ve never seen the point of them at all, I just don’t get it. The only place I want to see Jenson Button’s signature is on a cheque. So I just enjoyed the moment and got some photos, I wondered if the excitement I was feeling seeing him, was the same as what his model girlfriend was feeling seeing me. Probably, I decided, probably.


Still buzzing from meeting my favourite driver (yes meeting dammit, he practically invited me round for a BBQ and a game of Trivial Pursuit).I made my way back to my car.

Jenson Button

My experience was complete.

Maybe I’ll go back again one year and maybe I’ll go for the full weekend. When the boys are old enough I’d like to take them too, but I definitely want them to be old enough to really appreciate it and cope with the length of the day, the crowds and the noise.

For now, I’m happy to have simply seen them practice and then watch the race on TV.

Happy days!

Arguments in Florence

Hello - today I am over at Realbloggersunited.blogspot.com ...

Please CLICK HERE and go have a read about my adventures in Italy. I'd love it if you could go comment there too :-) 

My motto is if you are going to break up with someone - do it somewhere romantic.

The signpost

I honestly cannot remember if I have shared this photo with you before and just cannot be bothered to trawl through every single post looking for it.

And so I’m either sharing this for the first or second time.

Deal with it.

Personally, I think that it is so good it deserves a second viewing anyway, so please make an effort to enjoy it and show some pretence of surprise by its originality.

I walk past this sign every day, it is next to my local train station and without fail it makes me smile every single night.

I know, you are thinking that I’m a bit simple aren’t you? Well shame on you for mocking me because it’s probably medical or something, and you are, therefore, well out of order.

Seriously – this just makes me LOL, ROFL, and indeed LMAO, though so far it has never made me PMSL as that would just dirty.

Please sit back and enjoy some irony with me…

Sports day

                                                       Quick - pick it up and keep going!


Yesterday was the Year 1 Sports day, so all the little 5 & 6 year old kids out on the field having fun.

The best thing about it was that it was fun.

They clearly loved it.

I’m not sure many of them realised that they were supposed to be racing, but they certainly were enjoying themselves – brilliant.

Jamie was great, he really got into the spirit of things, trying his best but never getting upset or forgetting to shout for his team mates. I like how they always have them in teams at this school, rather than solo races, it really sets good values on life I think.

I liked it when Jamie turned and stopped to wait for his friend in a different team to catch up before setting off to run back with him on the return leg. Maybe his team mates weren’t too impressed, but it made me laugh. The sight of Jamie running along while skipping through a hoop surrounded by a mass of other kids doing the same – all to varying levels of success was hysterical. The fact that not one of them – really not one – was not smiling or laughing was fantastic, and absolutely a reflection on the skill and leadership of the teachers.

It’s a shame the parents can’t be the same.

Oh my – I nearly forgot about them.

In order to keep things simple and flowing for the kids the teachers had set up a little rotation. There were fifteen meter tracks (approximate – I didn’t pace them out) with a small gap between them. Two types of race (ie hoop race or bean bags etc) would be laid out ready and there were three groups of kids, because there are three classes within year 1. So you can already get the feel that one class sits out on the side while the other two classes are on the track. The class does one type of race on track one, then moves forwards to track two for the other type of race. The class will then sit out for a race before returning to track one for a new type of race.

So, not rocket science then.

Not exactly stressful or difficult, the tracks were not exactly on opposite ends of the town either, not even opposite ends of a fifty meter running track.

Some of the parents, however, will be moaning about this for the rest of the year. I could not believe the stress this seemed to be causing with these fat, lazy good for nothing parents who were only stressed in the first place because they had been forced to last nearly an hour without a cigarette or a can of cider. I’m guessing the only reason some of these mums got pregnant in the first place was because the condoms were on the bedroom table and it was just too much damned effort to reach over and get them.

The noise these people were making about having to walk twenty meters now and again, in order to watch little Dwaine puffing and wheezing his large McBody along with a coit balanced precariously on his head, was unbelievable.

“Oh here we go again, now where are we supposed to be?”

“Who’s bloody sports day is this supposed to be anyway, theirs or ours?”

“Oh not again – how are you supposed to get comfy?”

“I don’t believe this, they’ve moved again – F***ing ridiculous!”

Are just a few quotes I heard. People were still confused and unable to understand why they had to keep moving after the third rotation. How difficult was it to understand? I heard so many more moans and groans about the rotation than I heard cheering or encouraging that I almost felt embarrassed about shouting Jamie on.

Luckily I am slightly exaggerating. The majority of parents were enjoying themselves but there was a significant portion of the crowd who will long be suffering from aches and pains after such a massive feat of endurance.

Well done Jamie – you were great!

Why I am like I am

For those of you who read my post about Mr. Benn and didn't understand it all, because you were not raised in Britain during the 70's, I'd like to introduce you to the television of my youth.

I talked about George, Zippy and Bungle, and here they are in all their brilliant glory.

You wonder why I am as messed up as I am?

Ladies and Gentlemen, let me take you back to 1970's British children's T.V.

Legoland

We all went to Legoland yesterday and I have to say that we had a great time. The boys were great.

Legoland is great but my goodness it is so expensive. We could have got on a plane, got a hotel and gone to Disney World in Florida for less. Very over priced fun.

Luckily we shop at Tesco! Earlier in the year we swapped Tesco Clubcard points for three tickets to Legoland, and then sat around a table for three hours trying to find a way that we could go without Daniel. Surely there was a way that we could leave him behind? No of course we didn’t do that, before you start.

All we had to do then was buy one child ticket and we were in. We bought that online in advance getting 20% off, and it was still £22. Adult tickets were something like £38! Had we paid in full for this trip it would have cost £120 on tickets alone, or 181 US$ or 216 AUS$! That is unbelievable, how can people possibly justify spending that much to go there as a family? But that isn’t the end of it – oh no.

After spending £120 going to this park for the day, guess what? Parking isn’t free. They actually make you pay one pound to park – like you possibly have a choice? So far we had virtually spent £121 but actually had spent £23 so we were feeling pretty good about the value of our day.

Having got in so cheaply we made the decision (pre planned on the Internet) to get a “Q-BOT” The device that essentially queues for you. You pay per head of the people you want to be able to ride at any one time and then can book a time slot to go on a ride. When it buzzes you turn up at the back door and get preferential routes onto the ride. Sometimes you have to queue for a couple of minutes with other Q-BOT owners, but sometimes you walk straight on without the slightest wait. Let me put this into real terms. On average through the day, I’d say we usually waited about five minutes per ride, at the most. On one ride only we had to wait nearly ten minutes, and the noises our fellow QBOT people were making about that was incredible, I just shook my head a little. I want to put this in context now, We went on one ride that we couldn’t use the QBOT on and I watched as Daniel got more and more fed up and fidgety for half an hour as we waited. Quite a few of the rides we went on had signs up saying the queue time was forty five minutes, one was over an hour. On peak days in the summer holidays, these queues will more than double. So now you understand why I was not too upset at having to wait ten minutes that one time.

Had we paid in full for our tickets, there would have been no way in hell I could have justified the £60 we paid for the QBOT because that would have been a total of £181 (326 AU$ or 273 US$) for a day at a theme park. I would have regretted not getting one though, because it made the day worthwhile. We considered only paying for three people on the Q-BOT, thinking that one of the adults could sit out and take the two boys on the rides. This would certainly have been a good money saving tip, but I’m glad we didn’t. the staff do check the numbers at the gates and are more than ready for people trying to sneak on as extras and in most cases through the day, we did all go on the rides. I think we had a lot more fun doing that. However if you do have a natural ‘bag carrier’ at these types of park then don’t pay for them. In our case, for the sake of that extra money it made the difference between having a fantastic day out with my family and having a stressful day out with the Devil’s family. In peak summer, if anyone doesn’t at least consider getting a Q-BOT then just don’t bother going would be my advice. My longest Q-BOT queue of the day was ten minutes – do I need to say more? When we wanted to go on the main ‘big’ Dragon ride with nearly an hour of queue stood outside it; we did the following. I reserved the time slot just as we were about to set off on a train ride, we got off that ride and went on the Pirate ship, which had virtually no queue (about five minutes) and then walked straight to the Dragon ride. We then walked immediately on to the Dragon ride without the slightest wait, DID YOU HEAR THAT? I feel stressed just thinking about standing in an hours worth of queue with my two boys.

Talking of the pirate ship, a little tip I picked up needs passing on to any other dads reading. When you are taking on your adventurous eight year old son who has been on one of these rides before, don’t let him talk you into going on the end. Especially when you also have your five year old with you who was a little scared. It is not worth it; go in the middle – I so wish that I had!

We had a brilliant day and my children will remember that for a long, long time. The picnic we took resolved the issue of the ridiculous cost of food on the park, and legging it down to the far end and then working our way back using the Q-BOT did the rest.

By the way, if you do go – please make sure you go round Mini-land. The Lego mini version of the Epcot Centre’s world tour is fantastic. We were all blown away by how good it is and my boys absolutely agreed that it was one of the highlights of the day. Some people forget about it because its not an actual ride as such, believing that it is just a patch of land you have to walk past to get to the next ‘zone’. It is much more than that, not having to queue for something does not make it rubbish. On the hill train, heading back up to the gates at the end of the day, I overheard a parent pointing towards Mini-land to show him one of the towers. It was clear that they had not been to see them close up, you could hear the amazement in the child’s voice, I was gutted for him that he had not seen the rest up close.

Don’t forget to see the Lego land at Legoland – it’s a simple rule.

Stop jumping in front of my train!

Okay – I’m starting to get fed up now. My compassion is ebbing away and slowly but surely I’m finding myself edging towards actually being quite miffed.

Three train journeys in a week have now been seriously held up and delayed for the same damned reason. Not signalling problems, or engine failures, leaves on the line or the wrong kind of snow, but bloody Emo’s that have been listening to too much Coldplay.

How can three people chuck themselves in front of trains on the same stretch of track in one week? I know England played bad in the World cup but come on. Perhaps this last one was a Venus Williams fan, who knows?

Why do people have to find such an inconvenient way to top themselves anyway? It can’t be hard to turn the lights out without making so many innocent people late home, can it? What’s wrong with good old tried and tested techniques, like hanging yourself in a hotel wardrobe with ladies underwear on, or walking through Glasgow at night with an expensive camera slung round your neck and an ‘I heart New York’ baseball cap on your head. Personally if I ever decide that the time is right, I’ll be going to Pizza Hut’s ‘eat all you can’ buffet and I’ll bloody well gorge myself to death Mr. Creosote style.

I’m sorry if I sound completely callous and intolerant of the terrible state of mind that these people must be in, but it has made my journey more than half an hour longer than it needs to be just once too often. Today the delay is currently at two hours and we are not through it yet. I have heard half the carriage muttering “good” when the driver reminds people of the fatality, and one pin stripe suited ‘gentleman’ suggesting that death was too good for “the bastard”, and that they would be happier if the person had just made themselves disabled, so that they could suffer “As much as I have!”

Commuters – you have got to love them.

My kids are useless

My two boys are useless; I have absolutely no idea where they get it.

Really.

Useless.

Here is a snippet from this morning – sports day. 10 minutes before it was time to leave the house.

“Daniel, have you got everything you need? Did you need anything specific for sports day? Do you need to take your trainers or are you just wearing your P.E. kit?”

“No I don’t need anything”

“Okay, you don’t need your trainers?”

“No”

“Okay”

“I need something red”

“Sorry?”

“I’m in Red Team, so I need a red top.”

“Right, I see, a red top hmm, I can do that”

“And something black and white for tomorrow, I think or something like that…”

“What? Well is it black and white or something else?”

“I think its black and white we need.”

“Right well, can you check today? Can you ask?”

“Hmm, don’t worry I’m sure its black and white or something”

“Can you ask?”

“Okay, I need a red hat for sports day too.”

“A red hat?”

“Yes, I’m in Red Team.”

“Right”

“And my trainers”

“What?”

“My trainers, I need them too”

The eagle eyed more successful parents among you will no doubt be asking why we were only trying to ask these questions ten minutes before leaving the house, no doubt. Well humph! That’s how it is in my house I’m afraid, we are about as well prepared for these major events as the England Football team.

Meanwhile Jamie walks up and tugs my shirt.

“I need to take P.E. kit in”

“Sorry?”

“I need P.E. kit, for school”

“You have got P.E. kit at school; I remember taking it in, what have you been doing?”

“Wearing the school’s kit”

“Why?”

“Because I need to take P.E. kit in”

“But you have P.E. kit”

We were at an impasse. We stared each other down, neither willing to be the first to break and concede the point.

“Have you put your kit on the wrong peg? Have you looked? It is in your blue bag, do you remember?”

Jamie paused as he worked his way through the flurry of Gestapo style questioning.

“I might have, no, oh is it? No”

I paused as I worked out his answers.

In the end we agreed that he would have a little look around at the other pegs to see if he can find it. This exact scenario happened last term and the bag turned up, in the end, just below his peg on the floor. His teacher must think we are an absolute nightmare never sending him in with P.E. kit.

One day we will no doubt pick up the coveted World’s most amazing parents award, but perhaps not this year – again.


UPDATE: After sitting through both conversations this morning and merrily heading off to school, Daniel has had his sports day.
Wearing shorts borrowed from school.

Apparently he has not had PE kit at school for 2 weeks!

Oh my.