Better Than Marje Proops

Misssy M highlighted a delightful jape on her blog this week; seems some smartarse prankster wrote a letter to The Guardian’s resident agony aunt, Mariella Frostrup, that was basically the plotline to the film Little Children. Most amusing of all the cigarette-butt gargling Mariella didn’t pick up on it and replied in earnest.

Of course, being a caring sharing kind of blogging community ever waiting in the wings to pounce on someone’s gullibility to increase our own internet profile the idea was muted that as many blogger’s as possible write in to Mariella in a similar vein – choosing our own favourite films as source material – and thus stretching Mariella’s sandpaper voiced advice to the absolute limit.

Sounds far too cruel a prank to pass up. So here are a couple of humble offerings from me:

Dear Mariella,

I was raised by my aunt and uncle on a farm and never knew my father. They always told me he was dead and didn’t want to talk about him. Since their death a while ago I have been struggling to make my own way in the world. I thought I was doing OK but then the fates conspired to bring me into contact with a man who claimed to be my father! There are various proofs which seem to validate his claim. My life is now in turmoil as he has revealed I also have a twin sister. I have met her a couple of times now and if not for the family connection I’d think she was pretty hot. My dilemma is this: my father seems to be involved with a very bad organization indeed and I know they are doing a lot of bad things to a lot of people. He keeps asking me to join him and take over the company. He is very forceful in his argument. It is all I can do to resist him. We have fought about it a few times now and I have been lucky to escape relatively in one piece. He is now very angry with me and says if I won’t join his firm he will force my twin sister to do so in my stead. What should I do? I love him and want him to walk away from this organization but he just says it is too late for him. How can I save him and save my sister?

Yours in desperate need of help,
L. Skywalker.




Dear Mariella,

I’ve lived a very sheltered life and have long looked up to my very old uncle and his friend, G. They have been mainstays in my life for a long time. Last week my uncle announced he was leaving and with barely a goodbye he just disappeared from the community. I was very upset by this. He is very old and I worry I won’t ever see him again. As a parting present he left me a family heirloom – an old ring. It means a lot to me because I know how precious it was to my uncle. It is now, for obvious reasons, very precious to me. However, my uncle’s friend, G, who is a very clever fellow and knows lots of amazing things – he’s quite a wizard sort of guy – says he has discovered the ring really belongs to someone else, someone who is not very nice, and it’s rather dangerous me having it. He has suggested I take it a long way away and get rid of it. He doesn’t usually lie or make-up stories so I believe him. But the ring is very beautiful and makes me feel special. When I wear it I feel like I could do anything at all. It is also my last link with my dear old uncle and I don’t want to ever be without it. But I don’t want to upset G either (though sometimes I think he just wants the ring for himself). What should I do? Should I keep the ring or should I do as G suggests and get rid of it? He’s a very wise man and says the ring will bring me and my friends nothing but bad juju if I don’t get rid of it.

Please help.
F. Baggins.

P.S. I suffer quite badly with verrucas – can you suggest any industrial strength creams?


Hope you enjoyed them. Do feel free to join in and think up a few of your own. Remember: Mariella is here to help.

Rack Off

The great debate has started.

Forget the US vs. Iran. Forget Miliband vs. Miliband. Forget man-pants vs. mankinis.

The question that is dividing the nation at the moment (like a wire-thin mankini in fact) is what is your all time favourite sit-com?

Bizarrely two distinct contenders have stepped forth out of the smoke and rubble of snarling opinion. In the red corner we have The Office – currently flopping about in Heather’s boxing glove like a rogue horse-shoe – and in the blue corner we have Kath & Kim swishing about like an illegal nunchaku in a Japanese tea-house as toted by London City Mum.

This is the moment when I jump into the debate and, much as I love The Office, I am going to nail my boxing shorts to the blue corner. For those of you that have been reading this blog a while, this patronage should come as no surprise as I’ve previously written about my love of Kath & Kim before – right here in fact – see I was on this particular bandwagon before it was even a bandwagon! That’s how cool I am.

Now I freely admit Kath & Kim aren’t to everybody’s taste. The ‘yoomer’ is distinctly Australian and rooted (if you’re Australian, you’ll find that word funny) in the heart of Australian suburban life. It is, to quote one Australian TV presenter whose name I don’t know, Australia laughing at itself.

So to get the yoomer I guess you need to have some kind of affinity with all things Oz. This does not mean you have to like Neighbours or Home & Away. In fact if you don’t like them Kath & Kim will probably tickle your fancy even more.

For me though, the biggest selling point of Kath & Kim is the incredible dialogue. This is where the yoomer resides. Yes, occasionally they do slapstick and physical humour, but for the large part the funnies are in the language and in particular how it is (Joe) mangled. Words are misplaced, transposed, wrongly emphasized and spliced in ways that are both cringe-making and ingenious. For me it’s what makes the whole show one of the most joyously quotable on the market.

For instance when Kath Day-Knight nee Day thought she’d committed bigamy with the love of her life Kel: “you know, Kel, I think I might just ask the pope for an annulment and be damned.”

Or when Kim lays into her poor beleaguered husband Brett: “Oi’ve made your favourite tonight, Brett – rack off lamb” (think about it).

The characters are incredibly endearing too. You can’t help but love Kath even with her eighties fashion sense and her frizzy perm (“the fro is the way to go – Kel loves my frizzy hair, no matter where on my body it is” and “Kel, loves my hair, he says it’s my clowning glory”) and even though Kim is the most horribly obnoxious, high maintenance be-actch in the entire world you can’t help liking the ol’ hornbag. And as for Kim’s “second best friend” Sharon Strzelecki – there is something about her morbid obesity combined with her rabid devotion to sport that is both tragic and richly funny.

I could go on. I know humour is a personal thing but my vote goes to Kath & Kim because, if nothing else, it is a Ricky Gervais free zone.

Now that has got to be the killer argument.

If you want to join the debate then feel free to dive in! The troops are assembling. People are arming themselves. Do you really want to be the one left in no-man’s land with only a copy of It Ain't Half Hot, Mum to protect yourself?

Sacrificial Virgin

There’s nothing like a tight sexy box, I always say, and after much umming and ahing the wife and I have finally acquired one for the use of the entire family.

Having been a cable TV subscriber for the best part of 10 years I was, I admit, reticent about the benefits of a set-top box but finally the law of economics won out. We need to make some savings and paying out for a huge cable TV package that features hundreds of TV channels we don’t actually watch seemed idiotic. My quality of life is not going to suffer for being without Bid-Up TV, Price War TV, Television X and Hot Grannies From Grimsby. That last one is made up by the way. Though I do, I admit, wince at losing all the history channels – my wife knows I am rather partial to an odd evening of “Hitler P0rn” as she calls it.

The set-top box we’ve gone for accesses all the channels we watch regularly and features a hard drive that can record 2 programmes simultaneously or record one programme while you are watching another. For someone who was still operating a front loading VCR last week that is technological progress indeed. Of course it now means the wife and I are experiencing recording lust and have already recorded a whole heap of programmes that normally we’d have been happy to let pass us by in the vain belief that we will one day find the time to watch them. There’s already 2 episodes of The Rob Brydon Show on the hard drive that we still haven’t decided to watch. Not sure whether this is good taste or bad taste.

Anyway, now that we’ve got a new, smooth, glamorously tactile box (alas, no Brazilian) we no longer need to retain the scabby, saggy box that Virgin Media supplied us with many moons ago (and that now smells of wee). So I rang Richard Branson to inform him of this and one of his customer facing minions at first accepted my decision to ditch their TV package but then inevitably went into hard sell mode pointing out that the TV package I currently subscribe to means I get an £18 reduction on my Virgin Media phone bill (eh? First I’d heard of it!) and that if I wanted to just reduce my TV package to the “small size” I could retain a £5 reduction on my phone bill.

But I don’t need the cable TV service at all, I pointed out. I’ve disconnected it. I very patiently explained this to him twice before – sounding personally insulted and aggrieved – he finally agreed to acquiesce to my wishes though he truculently pointed out that when I made telephone calls from my Virgin Media phone line in future they will now increase the amount of my monthly bill by the cost of the call.

Really? Is that how it works? I never knew.

So now I have to ring a different number to book in the disposal engineer (my name for him) because, or course, the guy I spoke to can do everything but that for me apparently though hopefully the call won’t cost me money which will go onto my monthly phone bill. Heaven forbid.

So our old box’s days are numbered. I do, I admit, feel slightly dishonorable. Like I am betraying an old friend. Casting her out into the cold or if not into the cold then at least into the caverns of a vast Virgin warehouse full of old chapped boxes that nobody wants to finger anymore or indeed ever. I am plainly a heartless cad.

But all is not lost. Perusing the instruction manual that came with our new non-virgin box, it seems our new purring playmate can get the Yesterday channel. I can access Hitler p0rn after all!

Cool.

Well in that case: Virgin smirgin. Auf wiedersehen pet and guten tag Adolf!

You Talkin' To Me?! You Talkin' To Me?!

Blog etiquette.

It's a funny thing.

Most of the time we're polite and respectful of each other's blog's and opinions but sometimes, you know, you just lose it with someone. You suddenly want to punch the face of a blogger you have never met and are not likely to meet. So what do you do about it?

You write a blog post slagging them off. You let off a bit of steam and lace your hyperbole with acid and visceral toilet humour. You sprinkle it with the burning chili seeds of your displeasure. You do, in fact, do everything but name names or give too many details because there is this rather stupid idea that that would be bad form.

And you don't want to come over as a sour-faced, shit-stirring, misery guts who likes to cause trouble, do you? So you come out with the ol' "I'm not naming any names but..." line because somehow that makes you a decent person and the one who is in the right.

Right?

Wrong. Heather at Note From Lapland has written a superb post about it here and I suggest you go check it out. Certainly do so if you're planning on producing a diamond sharp piece of character assassination anytime soon.

Heather's rules are simple. Details, details, details. If you're going to attack someone on a public forum (which our blogs, unless private, are) then give names, give details so we, the reader, can make informed opinions. Link back to the person you are drubbing - we're all mediawhores after all. And best of all - let them know - give them a chance to respond. Make it a debate not a cowardly attack.

So in that spirit there is a blogger here who I've long wanted to take to task. His blog constantly zips about all over the place. One week it's personal stuff. The next it's TV reviews. Then he'll throw in a bit of music. Oh and the women. Constantly, constantly he composes the most dire odes of adoration to whatever flimsy bit of eye candy is infecting his TV screen at any one time. The man plainly cannot be constant even if it were to save his life. And his frequent recourse to gratuitous "glamour" photos just to drive up his site traffic is transparent and pathetic in the extreme.

And don't get me started on the "humour". I say "humour" in inverted commas 'cos this person thinks they're funny. This person obviously thinks he should be writing comedy for Mock The Week of Have I Got News For You. Weekly we get the most lame, uneventful, unexciting life stories from this bozo's working week jacked up with the type of jokes and gags that even Keith Harris and Orville would sneer at.

You're not funny OK?

So if you're reading this, Steve from Bloggertropolis, please, please stop. I'm just sick of it. I wasn't going to name you; I was going to spare your blushes, but Heather is right. If I'm going to do this then let's do it properly. Face to face. Just you and me. And you know I'm right. Who the hell do you think you are? You're not a blogging god. Your opinion doesn't count. You don't sway the masses. Get down off your high horse and try eating some humble pie for a change you big poetry writing, non-published ex-emo!

God, I feel better already.

Aaaargh!

Letting Rip...

The call came through late yesterday afternoon. “Man unconscious on the floor of the baby change.”

I put the phone down with a weary sigh and performed a precautionary save of the revolutionary Word document I’d been working on all day which described a plan that, if implemented immediately, would save the council millions of pounds in these cash strapped times (sack ALL the managers and the executives. To be honest I’m not sure if my bosses will be willing to embrace this radical approach – curse them and their shortsightedness).

Great, I thought. Another vomit laced drunk with a scabby top lip and trainer bottoms that have failed to act as an emergency colostomy bag. I’ll have to call out the paramedics to scrape him off the floor.

I headed downstairs to investigate and for once was pleasantly surprised to find a young man in his early twenties merely asleep on the floor of our topnotch (cough!) baby change facilities. No smell of booze. No smell of vomit. No seepage of bum gravy warranting calls for BP to come in and clean up the immediate environment.

He was just asleep. Sound asleep. Breathing deeply and contentedly. His head lying on his carefully folded jacket and the nappy bin strategically placed between his head and the door so that should an unwary mother with a pewling toddler rush in to avail themselves of the baby changing mat he wouldn’t wake up to find his brains had been twatted out of his skull and splattered up the wall behind him.

Some considerable thought had obviously gone into this.

Although the phrase “let sleeping dogs lie” came into my head he just couldn’t stay there. This is a baby changing facility not a doss-house (Leamington’s drunks please take note).

So I tried to rouse him. I tried calling politely. I tried calling rudely. I tried shouting like Gerard Butler in 300 (this is not a youth hostel – THIS IS SPARTA!) but ol’ Rip Van Wrinkle wasn’t waking for anyone or anything. I even tried the old armpit poke but that had no effect whatsoever. He was so deeply asleep he was in danger of being kidnapped by 7 dwarves.

Part of me felt envious. As someone who is continually woken before 6am by my eldest boy bouncing action figures of the metal bars of his bunk bed I admired this youth's ability to shut out all external stimuli and remain furiously, passionately asleep.

Another part of me just thought he was a git and I therefore rang the police to see if a bit of politically incorrect truncheon action might encourage him to move on to his own bedroom or at least the nearest furniture store.

The police were amused and said they’d send someone out as “a priority but not an emergency”. I don’t blame them. It was plain this guy was in the best of health. He was just asleep. Asleep on the cold hard floor of a public amenity immersed in the sweltering odour of about 30 overflowing nappies.

While I waited for the police I thought I’d give waking Mr Sleepyhead another go. I returned to the baby change. I saw the sink in the corner and inspiration struck. A good handful of ice cold water was summarily dropped at great height straight onto Coma Boy’s head.

Boy did he wake up. I stepped back just in case he barked but he just looked nonplussed. He wiped his face and looked around at the immense puddle that had suddenly formed around him. I could see his brain formulating the question but thought it best not to be too forthcoming as to the source of the deluge.

I checked after his well being and suggested he move on. With much grunting (that surely only his mother could love) he concurred and shambled from the building a darn sight cleaner than when he came in.

I returned to the phone and called off the fuzz. I then returned to my Word document and felt... strangely buoyant. Strangely wired. It had been fun. I’d enjoyed it. Tipping water onto someone. Hmm.

Dear readers, I fear a cruel appetite has been awoken in me. Should you ever find yourself in my neck of the woods suffering from exhaustion or even narcolepsy don’t expect any sympathy or understanding from me. You see, I’m just waiting for the call. I have a large bucket under my desk now and a 2 litre bottle of water in the fridge. It’s chilling nicely.

And it has your name on it.

Enid Blyton Land

The “terrible twos” as they are known are OK.

By that I don’t mean they are enjoyable – nobody likes having to deal with a tantrumming youngster – but they are acceptable because (and do correct me if I’m wrong) they are age appropriate. They are part of the development process that we all (at some point in our lives) have to go through, where we learn how to handle disappointment and frustration and to hear the “no” word without throwing our dummies out of the pram.

Tantrums are part of a learning curve.

Tom, my little ‘un, has them. Not many. Not daily. But a couple of times a week and more if he’s feeling grotty. We can all sympathize with that surely?

The nursery who look after him during the day – and it’s a great nursery, really wonderful in so many ways – have notified us that they are assigning the equivalent of a case worker to Tom to try and get his tantrums sorted out. Because apparently they feel it is not normal for him to be tantrumming. The intimations are that none of the other kids are doing it or have ever done it in the entire history of the nursery.

Rubbish is my answer to that.

Tom is only 2. He’ll be 3 in October. Like all kids he has issues and personal foibles. For me his tantrums aren’t a problem. If he throws one at home he gets put into the kitchen and left alone. I guarantee he’ll cry for 10 minutes, come and seek comfort (which he is given) and then is instantly calm and accepts the decision that caused the tantrum in the first place. All done and dusted. Sorted. Best of all the tantrums are getting shorter. He’s learning.

For the nursery to suggest that Tom having a tantrum in the first place is somehow not normal just enrages me. It is not normal for a 30 year old to have a tantrum! For a 2 year old it is, believe me, normal. Terrible Twos, right? It’s quite common. It’s part of the developmental yadda yadda yadda. Already said that.

I sometimes think that Tom’s nursery is living in some kind of parallel universe that is loosely based around the novels of Enid Blyton. A world where the kids are all polite, well spoken, silent unless spoken to and outwardly inquisitive but only in an adult and responsible manner. In this strangely quiet land the kids don’t argue or have tantrums. They respectfully enquire if their fellow citizens wouldn’t mind them having their own way for once but only if it won’t cause too much consternation or disapprobation among their fellow peers. All kids are born with an innate ability to manage their anger and emotions in such a way that counsellors all over this land are rendered surplus to requirements. Crime is at an all time low but then so is creativity and individuality and the global birth rate.

*Sigh*

What an awfully sterile place it must be.

To conclude then, do we here in the west try and impose an inaccurate and unnatural and horribly rose-tinted view of childhood onto the very people who are living it – our children? Do we let the pursuit of some nice, idyllic, blanket wrapped ideal impose a framework on our kids which is not only a downright lie but also stifling and unfair and, worst of all, denying them the right to be normal, feeling, reacting human beings?

Or am I just spitting the dummy out of the pram?

Keeley, Why Didn’t You Call?

A week on and I’m still rather tearful.

My mobile phone has an unsightly crack in its display from where I threw it into the bin in disgust.

All bloody day I waited, checking the signal reception just in case I was in a communications blackspot or Vodafone’s spy satellite had been nuked by the Russians. But no. All was fine. The technology was functioning as it should. Like a well oiled machine in fact.

And talking of oil, I was oiled up too. Oiled up and waiting.

Was that the problem Keeley? Would you have preferred me dried and talced as opposed to oiled up like a centurion in a Roman bath house?

Well, you could have rung and told me. I’m amenable. I’d’ve bent over backwards for you (I’ve got the harness and everything).

But no.

You were in Leamington Spa last Monday and didn’t call me. Not once. I don’t dare show my face in Pizza Hut again after the fuss I made. She’ll be here I said. Any minute. You just keep that All You Can Eat For £6.59 Buffet open.

But 3 hours later they had to close and the only thing that had caressed my lips was a breadstick.

I don’t want to hear about shooting schedules; about how you were only here to film the external shots for the new up and coming remake of Upstairs Downstairs.

All I know is I’ve sung your praises on this here blog for the last 3 years and I thought we had an understanding.

I’m cut to the quick, Keeley. I’m now on an uneven keel and feel like I’ve been keel-hauled and not in a good way either.

Next time you want a pizza you’re on your own, baby. We’re done.

P.S. I’m free next Wednesday. I’m very forgiving. Just call me (I’m still on the same number; your lawyer probably has a record of it).

Manager Wanted: Apply Here

Whilst strutting back to work from my lunchbreak one day much in the manner of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever (only without the tin of paint) I came across an unexpected and rather fragrant piece of street theatre.

Though I’d like to think these boys were fresh from the Edinburgh Fringe I know for a fact they’ve not missed a single day of retching through the park gates for at least the last 3 months so I know they haven’t been as far north as Boots The Chemist let alone Scotland.

But there they were. 5 of them. A street drunk quintet all sitting on the steps of the KL Oriental Supermarket looking like a living, moving fly tip.

They’re a strange combo in terms of audience demographics but I can see they’re trying to cover all their potential bases. Their ages seem to range from mid 50’s down to early twenties. There was even a guy with a porkpie hat and a moustache who looked as if he’d been exhumed from the communal grave of 1960’s skiffle.

Now it’s not unusual to see one or other of these guys singing. Usually a bad Tom Jones (geddit?) or a raspy Shirley Bassey – occasionally a bit of Happy Mondays – but to see all of them performing as a single ensemble was quite frankly so jaw-droppingly amazing that I literally nearly dropped my... well... my jaw.

They were singing together. They were organized. They’d obviously rehearsed. Even worse / better one of them – the baby of the group (a 6 footer of around 25 but undoubtedly with the liver of a 65 year old French man) was attempting to provide percussion solely with his mouth. A human beat-box. Or in his case, a human beat-up-box.

Unfortunately he hadn’t quite mastered the art so all his spitting and raspberry blowing sounded less like a kick-drum and a snare and more like an elephant farting into a biscuit tin. With the addition that everyone in a 2ft radius of him was getting wet.

Best of all these guys weren’t singing into “air mics”. Oh no. Nothing so crass and amateurish. They were singing into their cans of Special Brew. Possibly this deepened the rich timbre that their vocal chords were producing and added a touch of reverb.

Anyway, I confess I had a Dick Rowe moment and briefly considered taking these boys on and seeing if I could steer them to fame and fortune. Or if not that then at least The X Factor (I’d love to see Simon Cowell getting rhythmically spat on) but what with my other commitments – Take That, Amy Winehouse and Jane McDonald – and a young family to raise I just don’t have the time or the energy to take on a boy band with so much genuine street cred and so many permanent health issues.

So I’m throwing it open to the blogging community. This could be your opportunity to get onto the ground level of the next big thing. A contact in Alcoholics Anonymous would be a plus as would a natural immunity to the combined odours of vomit and beer breath. A sponsorship deal with Heineken is already in the pipeline and A&E are expecting you.

Good luck.

Could Dave Be The One?

The search has been long.

There have been times when I have given up hope, when my heart has cried out, “just let this foolish hope go, learn to live without it – why put yourself through the pain of rejection time and time again?”

But the call, that human call of one to another, of flesh to flesh, is strong and unquenchable. So you lick your wounds. You dust yourself down. You gird your loins and throw yourself back into the market place.

When I first started looking I had a few promising bites, a few responses that I confess I built up too high. Far too quickly I pinned my entire future happiness on them. Invested far too much emotional energy.

To a man they all let me down. They didn’t return my calls. They didn’t answer the phone. Some, the worst of them, faked interest, even went so far as to make plans with me, describing how they thought the liaison would go... and then left me hanging. They disappeared. Took off with someone else. Allowed themselves to be bought by a higher bidder.

I confess I briefly considered a session of DIY. There’s no shame in it. We’ve all done it at some point I’m sure. But – let’s be truthful here – it’s just not as good as when someone else does it for you. When you have the right person on hand to manipulate the right parts. Who will fit you in and make sure all the pipe work connects properly.

So I held out for Mr Right. Held myself firm through the long, dark, cold nights of rejection.

And finally it paid off. Finally I found him.

He was advertising in the local paper. Just a small ad but I saw that as a good sign; a sign that he was as hungry for what I had to offer as I was to give it. His name was Dave. An honest name if ever there was one. I rang him and told him my needs, my voice a-tremble and breathy – how many times had I reached this stage in the past only to be ultimately spurned?!

He said he’d call round. I tried to take it with a pinch of salt, to not get my hopes up lest they be dashed again. But no. He arrived. On time. On the day and time that he said he would. A man of his word.

Finally my heart dared to hope.

He listened to my wants, my desires. He didn’t turn away in disgust or contempt. He could do all that I wanted. He priced it all up. The full service. It was just right. Affordable but no so that I’d feel too cheapened by the transaction.

I agreed. We shook hands. The rendezvous has been set for next week.

The relationship is established!

And now my dear, dear reader my heart is now joyous where once it was bereft. My soul sings where once it did cry. The long search is over. A plumber has at last been engaged. My taps and my leaky bath are to be saved!

Hallelujah!

Morgasma

+++ APOLOGIES +++ MINORITY INTEREST POST +++

So with the return of Merlin to our TV screens last Saturday (apologies to my overseas readers) I find myself dusting off my TV critic’s visor and lance and preparing to saddle up the steed I call “please Radio Times employ me as a columnist”.

The first two series of Merlin were good. They were OK. They were ample. They were entertaining. Compared to the BBC’s ill thought out, misbegotten Robin Hood, they were brilliant. But compared to other stuff the BBC was churning out (Lark Rise To Candleford, Ashes To Ashes to name but 2) the writing was patchy. A good episode was frequently followed by one which merely made me shrug my shoulders and toss my gauntlets down in exasperated ennui. Only the searing brunetteness of Katie McGrath’s Morgana kept my interest constant.

After only one episode it’s impossible to say whether the writer’s of this third series have finally found their legs but they certainly left the starting blocks with enough acceleration to leave Roadrunner spitting out tarmac.

Finally the story is moving. The pieces are beginning to fall into their allotted places. Morgana has turned to the dark side. No more riding around on a palfrey mare looking like a representative of the Scottish Widows (although actually she did do that in this episode); no more haughty looks above a décolletage that I would love to drop my wand into (though, er, she did do a couple of those as well) and no more simpering smiles to Arthur and Uther as if she were accepting an invitation to cream tea at The Berkeley (though, yes, there were some of those but they were all part of her evil plan to lull them into a false state of security).

The dynamic has changed. Old allegiances are broken. The whole social dynamic of the show has been injected with a newer, darker energy. The interaction between the characters is now far more interesting. It’s gone from Enid Blyton jolly japes to C.S Lewis good vs. evil mysticism. There is betrayal and sneering looks afoot. There is righteousness and corruption. This is all much more in-keeping with the Arthurian legend and gives the actors something to really get their teeth into.

For the girls Bradley James (Arthur) spends much of his screen time either swishing his sword or his nipples around in manly topless abandon and Colin Morgan (Merlin) somehow manages to muffle and mangle his muscular Irish accent out of all existence and into a generic English plum with such skill and verve that you completely overlook the fact his ears totally eclipse the light of the sun. How the lighting riggers manage to backlight him without making his head resemble Shrek’s, I don’t know.

For us guys Angel Coulby plays Guinevere as if Thomas Mallory had re-written Cinderella but is wenchy enough to be modern, sassy and, dare I say it, chav-like but all in a positive way (I’d just love her to say to Arthur “yo bruv, it’s well shameful but like I love you, innit”) but for me, the real star is Katie McGrath. Poised, graceful, long limbed, brunette and able to wield a plunging neckline as expertly as she wields a blade. She can pull my sword from its stone anytime.

The producers have found some money too. I suspect the wagon load of groats that was delivered to their gatehouse with a note from the BBC executive team that read “’ere, give us a third series and make it look like Clash of the Titans” had a lot to do with it but I am not complaining. Last night we had giant scorpions, fighting skeletons (almost as good as the ones Ray Harryhausen produced for Sinbad) and a flying dragon. And for once none of it looked too ropy. Hopefully this is a sign the BBC are in for the long haul and we might actually get to see Arthur crowned king rather than have the Beeb pull the plug just as it all starts to come good.

So, all things considered, I will be flying the flag for Camelot every Saturday evening for the next 13 weeks though secretly supporting the dark side just ‘cos the bad girls are hotter than the good ones. And whilst in that vein, Katie McGrath you have the honour of receiving this blog’s second TV Totty Of The Week award for services rendered to corsetry and witchcraft.

Just bung it on the mantelpiece next to your grimoire, luv; it’ll look magic.

Baps, Craps & Taps

I’m loving the new Stats link on my Blogger Dashboard and, judging from the number of posts of a similar nature to this one, so are lots of other bloggers.

Now of course it’s interesting to see which countries people are reading your blog from, which web sites are referring readers to your carefully crafted missives but really what any self respecting blogster / webster wants to know is what people are searching for when Google throws up your pearly white blog before their swinish eyes.

I was imaging some high falutin’ search terms like “leamington novelist”, “people’s poet” or “literary giant”.

But no.

People are coming to my blog via the following keywords:

alice roberts skinny dipping
"debbie does dallas" "2 disc" dvd
naughty why men don’t skinny dip
plumbing"blogspot.com"

And for some strange reason:

aid for constipation in dogs

Basically, as the title of this post suggests, baps, craps and taps.

In fact, the search terms that make reference to Alice Roberts outnumber everything else by an alarming amount and are always and inevitably combined with the words “skinny dipping” or “in a pool naked”. Although one dyslexic Alice Roberts fan wanted to see her skinny diping – not quite sure what that involves but it plainly requires the p to be taken.

It doesn’t take a brainiac to deduce that Alice Roberts is a popular girl and my bloggerly admiration for her drives a huge audience my way with not much effort on my part at all. Hence I’m mentioning her a lot in this post and even posting a picture of her above, complete reprobate and media whore that I am. Come and get her guys; here she is!

So. To conclude. Nobody is here for the fine writing, for elucidation, for philosophizing of the most noble and high minded kind. You’re here for the sex, the innuendo, the eye candy and the canine version of Imodium.

I’m so glad to be of service.

Christine

As a rule we don’t name our vehicles in my household. They merely get referred to as “the car” or “the bike”. After all it is impossible to get them confused so why bother being more personal?

“The car”, however, has now earnt the moniker “Christine”.

Yes, as in the film.

Karen, the kids and I were on holiday last week. We had lot of plans to visit people and places. To see the country. To travel. The weather was set to be good. Things were looking up. We just had to get the car through the MOT.

Christine decided to malfunction the day before the MOT. A big overheating problem. However, we managed to limp her to the Peugeot garage for her MOT.

They rang back fairly quickly. The head gasket had “gone”. I don’t know where it had gone, ‘cos it was there last time we looked, but it had gone.

Annoyingly, if the car had fully broken down amid smoke and bits of spewed metal, my wife would have called out the AA who, bound by the terms of the insurance agreement my wife has with them, would have replaced the head gasket and carried out all repairs at no cost to us.

But because the damn thing hadn’t the grace to breakdown properly and we’d got it to the garage we were now liable for all repairs.

Although I wasn’t there, Christine’s headlights glowed evilly red as the garage hit us with their quote to do the work.

£1800.

1800 effing £!

That’s a serious dent in our savings. In the end, after much deliberation – might it be worth just buying a new car? – we decided to get other quotes and go for a repair. We just can’t afford to tie up thousands of pounds in a new car until Tom is at school and Karen is working full-time again.

So we found another garage. A reputable, well recommended one. He could do the job for £900. Only thing is he couldn’t start until the penultimate day of our holiday and we wouldn’t have the car back until the day we were all due to return to work / school.

We had no option. So all our travel plans were scuppered. No visiting of friends. No drives around the country. Christine sat on our drive exuding brimstone from her exhaust and revving her engine in praise of Satan for much of our holiday week until we finally offloaded her onto the mechanic last Thursday.

We should have got her back on Monday but the repair took longer. Something about a fan blade shearing off and taking out the radiator grills. I’m guessing she was trying to snuff out one of the grease monkeys who were working on her...

So Karen, who needs the car to get to and from work, had to ring her employers to say she couldn’t make it in. This meant taking an unpaid day off. That’s us £50 down already before we even pay the garage.

We finally got the car back yesterday afternoon (so another day off unpaid for Karen) but... and here’s the rub. The car now has to be re-MOT’d. The mechanic can’t do that. We have to take her elsewhere. That’s a third day at home for my wife. We are now £150 down this month on top of the repair bill.

Christine meanwhile was writing “666 in clover” in engine oil all over the floor of the mechanic’s garage and buggering a virgin over the pile of tyres the mechanic keeps at the back of his repair bay.

Today the position is this: we’ve managed to get her into another garage today for an emergency post-repair MOT at midday. Should she pass we’re all sorted and only a grand down. If not then we will be throwing more money after bad...

Did I say bad? Harrumph. I’m calling a priest. That car needs some serious exorcising.

This Space Is Free

So, I’m immersed in the small scale mania of my first day back at work after a week off with the wife and kids. I won’t belabour the point but I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be picking up the phone, picking up the contracts, picking up the complaints, picking up the tab, picking up exactly where I left off and running in that big wide circle of dull employment that positions me back in this exact same position this time next Monday.

But I am and I will. The bills need paying. The kids need feeding. The wolves at the door need sating. This is life, right?

But there is one consolation. One undeniable fact that makes this reintroduction to the corporate grindstone a little more bearable this morning. Hell, it even makes me review my career path and makes me think that maybe I didn’t bum out after all.

And I have ASDA to thank for this joyous epiphany.

A quick walk to their store yesterday afternoon to pick up a packet of Bourbons and draw out money that I haven’t got from their ATM brought me into contact with a member of their staff who surely must have the most demeaning and soul destroying job on the planet.

Maybe this position has been around a while and I have merely missed it due to my infrequent visits to ASDA’s superstore? Maybe it’s not big news but it was certainly a new experience for me.

I’d grabbed my Bourbons. A double economy pack if you must know. I was heading down the aisle towards the checkout booths and that’s when I saw him. Or rather I saw it first.

It. The big green cardboard pointy hand held up on a big stick. The big green pointy hand with the words “space here” printed across the palm in ASDA’s jolly shopper script.

ASDA are employing someone to stand in front of the checkout area, moving along its length backwards and forwards like a crab in a force 10 gale, indicating which of the checkout booths has space on their conveyor belt of plenty to accept a new customer.

You poor sod.

Those were the exact words – pure and unadulterated – that entered my head when I saw him. He wasn’t even a young YTS-wannabe. Not a Hoodie serving community service. It was some poor middle aged fellow. Geez. Someone my age. He looked as fed up as such a job could make anyone. I could feel his depression emanating from him like the BO from his upheld arm. Space here. How he didn’t just dip that sign down so it was pointing to his own skull, I don’t know.

And then I thought: well, my job isn’t all that bad. I have a desk. I have a computer and a telephone. I have an In-try and an out-tray. Paperwork and emails. Budgets. And most important of all. I have a need to fill. My job is required. It is needed and, dare I say it, essential to the smooth running of the building. It’s important.

But then again it also has stress. And responsibility. And fall-out. And consequence. And complaints. And accountability. And capacity for foul-ups. And boredom and tediousness. And a sheer lack of personal engagement which quite frankly stultifies my brain for 5 days a week.

The only difference between me and that guy in ASDA is the stick.

And the BO.

*Sigh*

Space here. If anybody wants it.

Why Bunk Beds And Vomit Do Not Mix

Cleaning up vomit must be one of the worst jobs a parent has to undertake within the normal gamut of parental experience.

I have literally just hit the anti bacterial hand wash to try and rid myself of that horrible tangy, catch-you-in-the-back-of-the-throat odour that seems to hang around you for hours afterwards after you have come into intimate contact with kiddius vomitus.

Our eldest has just chundered / technicolour yawned his way down every step of his bunk bed. Great coughing hiccups of bile, slimy chicken, chocolate, pork scratchings, lemon tart and lasagna (don't ask; it's been a long day). Not his usual diet I have to say but we took ourselves off to Warwick this morning to sample both its restaurants and its Saturday market. This stomach eruption should in no way be seen as a gourmet review. It is, I hope, just a reaction to the day's rather rich eating.

Because as a parent, when one of your offspring decides to blow chunks, you inevitably experience that gnawing, nagging fear that the household has been hit by a stomach bug that is going to work it's way around every single one of you and see you, the parent, mopping up yet more vomit before the night is through whilst vomiting huge spicy carroty-bits yourself.

However, the little 'un seems fine. Sleeping soundly, breathing calm. Which is no mean feat in a room that smells like Jimi Hendrix's pillow.

I, however, feel very queasy but I am putting that down to my recent close encounter with my son's expelled stomach lining that I have just poured down the toilet.

Bunk beds, for those of you that are thinking of investing in them for your kids, are not great. Yes, they save you space, but (and I am speaking from past experience here) when both occupants are ill you inevitably end up with a sick sandwich. The double decker chunder if you will. Clearing up ground vomit whilst being rained upon by air launched vomit is not a great milestone in any parent's career.

Today's encounter with hot-vom has been mild in comparison.

I have scraped off the carpet. Rubbed down the bunk bed ladder. Polished the child proof gate that divides my youngest from the upper level of the bunk bed kingdom. I have done my best to check over all nearby toys for collateral splashing and vegetable soup staining.

All seems as clean as I can make it.

The room still smells like a bulimic's handbag but both boys are now breathing peacefully and are sound asleep.

I'm fervently praying for a dry morning.

Leamington Is Full Of The Strangest People, No. 3: Tin Can Andy

And so may I present what is probably going to be the third in a three part series about some of the strange people in Leamington Spa that you may meet if, like me, you actually lived here.

For those of you that have missed the first two (what were you doing? Leading a life?) Number 1, Bob The Shopkeeper is here and no.2, Pooper-Scoop Pete is here.

Today though we are going to speculate on the strange existence of Tin Can Andy.

Like most towns across the UK our household waste collection service is divided over a 2 week period. One week it will be the pre-sorted, pre-flattened, pre-washed recyclable stuff. The next week it will be the uneaten food stuffs, body parts, landfill fodder and stuff the charity shops wouldn’t touch with a barge pole.

On the recycling waste weeks, so early in the morning that the birds are still brushing their teeth and gargling with Listerine, you can hear the squee-squee-squee of Tin Can Andy’s shopping trolley. Well. When I say Andy’s shopping trolley I really mean Asda’s shopping trolley.

As I’m so paranoid about having my bin nicked I don’t put my recycling boxes out until the very morning of the collection. I’m usually up pretty early anyway as I have kids and anyone who has kids knows that 6.0am is a lie-in.

It is during this early morning chore that, if I am lucky, like spying a red deer emerging from the mist, I sometimes spot Tin Can Andy moving surreptitiously amongst the red boxes and bags that his community has placed outside their doorsteps ready for the waste disposal team to empty.

Tin Can Andy you see likes to rummage around other people’s recycling waste and re-appropriate... you’ve guessed it... all the tin cans. By the time I see him he must be about half way through his “round” as his trolley is usually piled up already with his ill-gotten aluminium gains.

Now I confess I don’t know what to make of Tin Can Andy. Part of me feels an undeniable sense of indignation. Technically these cans are not his property. They belong to the people who have left them out in good faith for the council bin men. Technically what he is doing is theft. Isn’t it?

But then the other half of me thinks, what the hell. It’s only junk. Who cares?

Presumably – though this is yet to be confirmed – there is money to be made selling old tin cans to scrap metal merchants? Certainly given the number of drain covers that have been stolen from the Warwickshire area over the summer people are crying out for metal, whether it is “scrap” or not. But would the money you’d get from a tin can really make the sheer effort involved in acquiring it worthwhile?

So my other theory is that Tin Can Andy is building something out of the tin cans. He is, in fact an alien. One of those multi-morphing alien creatures from John Carpenter’s The Thing. And out in his backgarden, in a clumsily dug cavity under his B&Q shed, there is an underground tunnel leading to a half built spaceship. Once Andy has acquired enough cans of baked beans he’s buggering off home again to Alpha Centauri or Clacton, one of the two.

To be honest I couldn’t care less.

As long as I don’t have to see his upside down head scampering across my lawn on giant spider’s legs I’ll be more than happy. Though to be fair, he does keep the occurrences of cat poo invasion down to a minimum...

Michael Bentine’s Potty Time...

...has nothing on this.

Here in the Blake household it is potty training time. In earnest. After a couple of false starts we’ve figured that Tom is now ready to make the big jump from pull-up nappies to no-nappy at all.

He understands the concept mentally.

He understands the ploys him mummy and daddy are employing to get him to do his business in the potty. These basically revolve around bribery – both material and emotional.

We’re also employing a variant off the Pavlov technique. Each time there is a little golden shower on the carpet we sit him straight down onto his potty to establish the link.

Tom understands all this.

But he ain’t going for it.

“No potty,” is his answer. This is sometimes followed by the potty being forcibly ejected into another room.

This plainly is the wall that we have to break through.

The wees aren’t too bad. Kiddy wees aren’t horrible like grown-up wees (unless of course that’s just the parent in me talking). They’re easy to mop up. Not nice. But easy.

It’s the poos that are causing us headaches.

Tom’s always been a private pooer. To the point where he’ll completely remove himself from company, often by shutting himself in another room or the hallway where he can pass his motions without audience participation. I kind of feel the same about my poos so I know where he is coming from.

However, this makes throwing the potty under him when a log is about to fall extremely difficult because as soon as he spies our approach the bomb bay doors lock tighter than the Coalition Government’s budget. Arrested development. Not a dicky-bird. Just the high pitched whistle of foiled expectation.

Most kids have a problem with control. Holding it back. Not Tom. He can hold it in for a phenomenal amount of time. His problem is letting go. Saturday he refused to poo at all and Sunday looked to be going the same way. As Tom is prone to a touch of constipation if his cycle is broken we gave him a quick shot of lactulose; he finds constipation very distressing so we don’t want to colour his perception of potty training with that kind of experience.

So Sunday afternoon amid much foul smelling wind we knew our little boy (to continue with the bomb analogy) was about to drop his Little Boy. There is only so much “watching like a hawk” that you can do. Somehow he managed to sneak off, shut himself in the kitchen and, just as daddy valiantly arrived with the eager potty, dropped a brick of humungous proportions onto the welcome mat in the kitchen.

I felt like whistling the them tune from The Great Escape.

*Sigh*

Missed it again. So we put it in the potty. Sat Tom on the potty. And then we all trooped upstairs to give Mr Brick an honourable send-off (discharge?) down the toilet.

It blocked the toilet.

I’m not kidding.

It backed up. Right to the rim.

Great, I thought. Now we’re going to have to call out an emergency plumber (and you all know how I feel about calling plumbers).

But as it was the internet came to my aid. A fantastic site called www.howtomendit.com. On a forum for blocked toilets – yes, really – it recommended tying a bin bag around a mop and using it as a plunger.

Well blow me if the thing didn’t work a treat. Torpedo away. All clear in the tubes. And Tom was feeling pretty lithe too.

So. This is how we are spending our Bank Holiday weekend. We are re-enacting the blitz. There’s been no direct hits at present but the payload is all ready to be loosed.

I’ll keep you posted. I know you want to know.


P.S. News just in. Direct hit on Pottyville with a large incendiary device at 10.30 hours approximately. Street party about to commence.

Loose

I’ll be the first to admit that this doesn’t crank my temper up to atomic proportions but it does annoy the bejasus out of me.

You know what it’s like.

You order a DVD from an online shop. Amazon or Play, whatever. You go for the 2 disc version. The one with the extra disk that contains 48 hour’s worth of extras that you’ll ever have enough time or the inclination to watch. But you order it anyway. Just in case. The joy is in the having not the watching.

And a couple of days later (or a couple of weeks later depending on the dedication of your regular postman) it arrives through the post. A familiar tell-tale sized parcel plops down through your letterbox.

Ah, you think, my new Debbie Does Dallas DVD has arrived.

You bend down and pick it up.

And the bloody thing rattles. It rattles a lot.

Your heart sinks. Because you know what has happened. The DVDs have come loose in transit and have spent at least half of their journey to you sliding around inside the case like a very large pinball inside a very small pinball machine. Some scrote at the post office, seeing that it’s a DVD, has thought to himself: why bother to take any care over this package? It’s bound to be a Debbie Does Dallas DVD that I’d like to own myself but can’t afford due to the crap wages the post office pays so I’ll just hoof it around the delivery warehouse and use it as a Frisbee for a bit and sod the rich git with money to burn who has ordered it.

And thus Debbie Does Dallas arrives scratched to feck, won’t play properly and you have to send it back through the post only to risk damage to the replacement when they send it back to you using the same delivery system.

Now, most of the time, I admit, they play fine. DVDs can take a little bit of punishment. But it is still irritating to have paid good money for a brand new sealed product only to have it arrive in a state that can only be described as tarnished. And then you have to live with that paranoia that as you watch it for the first time... is this the moment that it is going to jump / freeze frame / fall over?

Now I know the answer is to bypass the butterfingered third party by shopping directly from a store in town and carrying your purchase home with you yourself but to be honest, (a) the goods are genuinely cheaper from a lot of the online stores and (b) I have now been addicted to online shopping for so long that I no longer know how to navigate my way around a real life shop. Alphabetized? Alphabetized? How does that work? Just tell me where the Goddamn “Search” button is!

So. My demands are simple. The post office needs to treat its charges – i.e. our goods and chattels – with a lot more respect and the people who make and supply the DVD cases to the film industry need to come up with a new design that holds the DVDs as tightly in the case as a prisoner in Guantanamo Bay tied to his water-boarding chair.

You got that? Good. I’ll leave it with you, then. I’ve got a date with Debbie.

The Amityville Plumber

Dark forces are at work in my house.

The shadows bend outward from the corners as if stretching, reaching for additional purchase to haul themselves further into the mortal world.

Upstairs in an inexplicably empty room flies seem to multiply unnaturally and mither themselves to the point of insanity against a solitary window that is impossible to open. So many of them, swarming, crawling, buzzing like infernal machines, that they block out the light of the sun.

In fact we sent a priest upstairs to sort that room out with a blessing a couple of weeks ago and he still hasn’t come down. Come to think of it I found his dog collar on the stairs a few days after his arrival and it had teeth marks in it.

And don’t talk to me about our basement.

What basement? Yeah, that’s what I mean. We didn’t have one when we first moved into the house but suddenly we do and it seems to have a strange effect on all who venture into it. Their eyes turn red, their teeth become large and pointy and they start talking in a slightly unhinged but manly baritone... something about the gateway to hell.

Now, either my house is built on the site of an old McDonald’s Drive-thru or something truly nefarious is occurring.

It is the only thing I can think of to explain the sheer impossibility of obtaining any damned contractors to come round and perform the multitude of small jobs that are currently hampering my enjoyment of my family home.

I wrote a while ago about my difficulties in obtaining a plumber. I’ve approached others since then and they have all given me the same excuse: yes, I am interested but can’t come round now to look at the job, I will call you on such and such a day and arrange a visit. Right. So such and such a day arrives and they don’t call so I call them back and get the same excuse repeated to me and the same thing happens yet again.

And then there are the TV aerial installers. I tried to engage one of those too. I left several messages on the company phone. Nobody has rung me back. It’s £159 to have a new aerial installed apparently. Not huge money, I know, but it is the price they have put on it themselves. I’m willing to pay it. But for some reason they don’t want to come round to my house to earn it.

And now I have to engage someone to try and repair our cooker because another sausage-based inferno has put paid to the dials on the fascia and the cooling fan has lost the ability to turn itself off.

My heart balks at the mere thought of having to kick off yet another round of polite enquiries only to be given the finger / the hand / the cold shoulder / the thank you but no thank you / the brush off.

Christ. The only person who comes round regularly and without fail to my house is bloody Wayne the window cleaner. You remember him? Wayne the bloody nutcase, commie hating, Christian platitude spouting, crusade revivalist with a grudge against all western world bankers. Every month he comes round to clean my windows because I’m too much of a coward to tell him to take his chamois and his bucket and his ladder and his hordes of demonic flies and sod off.

Ooh.

Demonic flies.

You don’t think he might be, you know, putting some voodoo on my house or something? Some kind of weird window cleaning juju?

*Gulp*

Anybody know a good priest? Shit. Hold on a minute; I’ve already tried that.

Help!

The God Killer

If Richard Dawkins was a religious man he’d no doubt be termed a zealot. The sheer fervour with which he proselytizes his belief that all religions are bad, God is a fantasy and spirituality is merely a panacea to help the human race cope with the frightening reality of an afterlife-free existence is practically religious in itself.

He has a new series on More4. I don’t plan to watch it. The trailers have been enough in themselves. They feature Dawkins, close-up to camera, positing his theory that the human race would be a much finer species whose moral progress would be far better assured if it abandoned its primitive reliance on religion for existential succour. Basically, he says, left alone, good people would do good things and bad people would do bad things but religion makes good people do bad things and thus we’d be better off without it.

Now I am not particularly religious. I used to be C of E because I was brought up that way but over the years I’ve found myself wrestling with those old beliefs and find they have too little for me to hold onto. It’s a private fight and I don’t intend to share it with you all here.

But even I – great pseudo heathen that I am – can see that Dawkins’s argument is essentially far too reductive and, well, just stupid. And Dawkins isn’t a stupid man. Far from it. He’s a proper Brainiac; expressive, articulate and knowledgeable. But he does seem to have a blind spot when it comes to religion and spirituality. You can practically see him foaming at the mouth whenever the subject is broached. Stick a crystal worshipping hippy in front of him and you can honestly see him contemplating murder or, at the very least, a lobotomy without the brain owner’s consent.

My problem with his argument is this:

Yes, religions do sometimes make good people do bad things.

But so do most political systems – if not all.

In fact any kind of administration very often makes good people do bad things.

So what do we do, Richard, get rid of all religions and political systems? Do we just leave the good people to be good and the bad people to be bad? Chaos and anarchy?

Fine. Let’s do that.

Only thing is I’m pretty sure that that would lead to poverty for the majority.

And you know what? Poverty and starvation more than anything else often make good people do bad things. Look at it this way: if your kids were starving to death would you rob and possibly murder to feed them? I think I would. But maybe that’s just me?

But maybe I’m just not one of the “good people” that Dawkins talks about?

Hmm.

But what is it with the whole good people / bad people thing anyway? It in itself is reductive to the point of ridiculousness. In fact it’s so black and white as to be no better than any of the polarizing religions that Dawkins professes to hold in contempt! In my experience people are rarely “good” or “bad” they are just people. Very few people are solely bad and very few solely good. People do good and bad things for a whole heap of different reasons – religion being only one of them (though religion does tend to make people proclaim the reasons for their actions far more publically than, say, politics or the old “I was only following orders” argument).

Quite frankly, as a race we find reasons for doing bad things all the time and dismantling all world religions will do nothing to change this. All that will happen is it might keep Richard Dawkins off our tellies.

Hey – a good outcome from a bad act!

See, I said his argument was stupid.

Dork.

Put A Cork In It

Don’t get me wrong I like cats. I prefer dogs but I like cats. We had one all through my early childhood (a half feral moggy called Smokey) and another one through my teens (a fat black and white strop of a cat called Felix). I loved them to bits. Even when they clawed me.

(Which reminds me of that famous book: The Cat’s Revenge by Claude Balls.)

But I cannot abide the neighbourhood cats where I now live.

Not because they stalk the bird feeders that the wife and I keep constantly replenished at great cost to the weekly budget. Not because their territorial wars often wake me at night with the resultant caterwauling.

But because they shit on my lawn.

Actually on the lawn.

For some reason this strikes me as odd. Even a little bizarre. Because in my experience of cats – owning 2, cat-sitting for other people on occasion, etc – is that when they need the bathroom for a number 2 they tend to dig a hole and bury it. Nice clean animals, cats. They hide it all away. This is the belief system I have carried around with me since childhood.

Even my sister’s cats – both housebound because of living on an upper story – used to dig little holes in the cat litter tray. It is natural and instinctive behaviour for a cat. When they start pulling up the gravel with a forepaw you just know a cat turd is on its way.

So why are the neighbourhood cats spurning this evolutionary imperative and dropping their revolting little logs all over my lawn?

It’s not just an aesthetic problem, you see. My little boy loves playing out in the garden. As soon as the door is open he’s off, dressed or not, more often than not barefoot, trotting his merry way all over the lawn.

Barefoot. As is his right in his own back garden. Barefoot with little pellets of evil lying in wait in the grass.

Animal poo and little kiddies do not mix. There’s a story in the paper today of a little girl who may be blinded because she fell into some dog poo in a child’s play area. It’s heartbreaking.

It also makes me angry.

Now I know it’s a slightly different scenario – dogs have to cleaned up after by their owners and the same rule does not and cannot be applied to felines. The owner of the dog is responsible for the girl’s injury but the owner’s of the various cats in my street can’t really be held responsible for their cats pooing on my grass. Even though I’d quite happily kneecap the lot of them in a kangaroo court.

The question is: what can I do about it?

Some have suggested a sprinkling of curry powder or pepper spray onto the areas that the cats frequent. Fine but I don’t want a half naked little boy – or even a fully clothed one – rolling about in it either. So that’s no go.

The only other solution I can think of involves a cork, a shotgun and me pulling the trigger to fill Macavity’s muck cavity...

But is that, strictly speaking, legal?

I Was A Teenage Dirtbag (Baby)

I’ve rarely used this blog as a confessional. I’ve rarely dragged skeletons screaming from my closet and paraded them for all to see.

I always assumed, you see, that you, my dear discerning reader(s) wouldn’t want to read scurrilous declarations of wrong doing and sin making.

But I was wrong. I’ve been hit by a meme. Vegemitevix wants me to name and shame 10 secret things that you don’t know about me. She wants me to fess up, unburden my soul, pour out the unwholesome desires that have racked my body in my darkest years in the wilderness before I found the light.

Now that is going to be tough because this is the third time I’ve been hit by such a meme. I’ve fessed up on two previous occasions here and here.

But even by the second time I was duplicating stuff.

And you know why? Because I was trying to keep the real skeletons out of the limelight. I was going for the easy, palatable stuff. The stuff that wouldn’t drive my burgeoning readership away in droves. I was trying to avoid the real, true blue secrets. The truth and nothing but the truth about yours, er, truly.

So. This is the third time someone has demanded that I divulge and disclose. The third time.

So OK people. I get the picture. You’re not going to leave me alone until you’ve got some dirt, are you? Until you’ve got me naked and exposed, squirming beneath your unforgiving gaze.

Well, I’m not sure I can run to 10 because, if I’m honest, I haven’t led that exciting a life. But some of these revelations may shock and disappoint. They may change the way you think of me forever. If you want to keep me up on that pedestal in your mind (and I’m aware that some of you have placed me pretty high) now would be a good time to stop reading. This is your final warning.

Still here? Geez, you guys are salacious. OK. Here goes.

1) During my late teens and twenties – in fact pretty well right up to my thirties – I would honour my best friend in all the world (Dave, if you’re reading this, I hereby apologize) by personally customizing every birthday and Christmas card I bought him with cartoons of a horrifically sexual nature. What started off as little doodles soon became works of obsessive pornography that covered the entire envelope front and back (and even inside the flap) and also the entire card itself. Entire cartoon strips of sexual depravity would slather their way across the best that Hallmark had to offer. If I was feeling particularly mischievous I would post the card to him through the post. You have to understand that Dave is a postman and has a lot of mates in the post office. Those perversely tattooed missives would have gone round like wildfire. I’m pretty sure that after a while Dave began to live in fear of his birthdays and saw Christmas as a good time of year to leave the country. Weirdly, after I got my first girlfriend at the age of 30 my need to produce these Hieronymus Bosch-like paradigms of perversity died away. I simply no longer had the time, energy or inclination. Thankfully for posterity (and for those who wish to blackmail me) I scanned every card and envelope I ever defaced into my PC. This means I can reproduce one here. Or at least a little snippet of one. If you are easily offended do not click on the picture below as this will only cause it to enlarge and you will have to look at it in all its offensive glory. Believe it or not this is the cleanest example I could find. In case you’re wondering it is meant to be a parody of the Spice Girls. Enjoy.

2) God. This is the biggie. Being a somewhat sexually frustrated and yet over libidinous teen (never a great combination) and also having a secret desire to be some kind of comedian – bizarre when I was such a wallflower – I used to amuse myself by making my own homemade albums. These would consist of me “singing” over the top of some of my favourite music into a cheap microphone and recording the lot onto C90 tape. I would ad lib sexual paeans of depravity to whatever starlet happened to take my adolescent fancy at the time. I would then make my own tape covers which greatly resembled the cards I used to send to Dave above. In fact, thinking about it, there’s a bit of a theme here, isn’t there? I still have all the tapes. In fact Dave once got a mate of his to turn some of them into MP3’s and put them onto CD for me. I even made a CD cover for that particular album too. And no. I am not going to post any of them online. EVER. Dave had a theory at the time that these outpourings of teen lust were my equivalent of a “cold shower”. Not sure about that myself but I do think that these musical travesties are possibly the most complete embodiment of teenage hormonal crassness ever produced and I may well leave them to science upon my death.

3) Not content with ad libbing the kind of toilet humour that Rik Mayall himself would have balked at, I even scripted it. I would write little plays parodying various soap operas and, armed with a BBC sound effects tape, would embroil my sisters into acting them out on a Sunday afternoon in my Nan’s garage and recording them onto C90 tape. One memorable series was about the Blake & Blake Detective Agency and would usually be, yes, you’ve guessed it, a sorry tale of sexual misdemeanour and horrendous wrong doing. And yes, I still have the tapes. And yes I made covers for them. And no you’re not getting to hear any of them. EVER. See. There is a theme here.

4) Not on your nelly. You’ve got quite enough to be going on with. And if any of you wish to end our virtual association right now, I fully understand.

Ladies and gentlemen. The confessional is over. I’m not going to hand this meme on but I do dare any of you to respond in kind. Go on. It’s cathartic. It might halve your readership but it’s good for the soul. Apparently.

The Betrayal

It feels wrong but you do it anyway. After all, there is no other way. It’s unavoidable. It’s just the way life is.

Most of the time Tom is fine about being dropped off at nursery. On the whole he really loves the place and has been as pleased as punch to have moved up to the pre-school group. He’s a “big boy” now.

But then there are days like today. Days when he’s just a little boy who’s a bit under the weather – not seriously ill – just a little bit cuddly and wants to stay at home and have his mummy and daddy stay with him.

And I know how he feels. It’s Monday morning. I don’t particularly want to go to work. I don’t particularly want to be one of the “big boys” myself. But that’s just how life is. The bacon has to be brought home or nobody eats.

So we take him to nursery. And he won’t let go off my hand. He clings to my leg like a Koala bear clinging to a tree. He wants a “big cuddle” (this means a proper lifted up cuddle). He shows no sign of wanting to wander off and play with the “big boy” toys in the pre-school class room like he normally does.

I try persuasion. I try cajoling. I try leading him into the room and expressing an over-egged enthusiasm for a big red plastic fire engine. He likes fire engines.

But not today.

He grips hold of my index finger and won’t let go.

I bend down and give him a hug. I try and reason with him. Give him the grown up argument. Daddy has to go to work. Daddy doesn’t really want to go to work either. Daddy loves him very much and would love to stay at home with him but can’t. Daddy has to go and earn some money so we can keep our nice home.

All true but it rings hollow.

If I love him why am I putting work first? If I want to stay home too why don’t I just do that? I’m a grown up after all; I make all the rules – why don’t I just change them? I know Tom doesn’t think in those terms but the look he gives me tells me this is where his little heart is today.

In the end one of the nursery staff pick him up and carry him over to the toys. She’s being lovely to him – a big hug, lots of coos – but all I can hear is the wail of despondency; all I can see is the mouth turning down and those big brown eyes looking at me imploringly. “Daddy!”

Karen and I hurry out. Out of sight. It’s the best way. Cleanest cut, soonest healed. To prolong it only makes it more painful and more upsetting for Tom.

Out in the corridor, giving ourselves a hug, we can still hear him crying. He doesn’t usually cry for this long. A cry that squeezes the heart painfully. Bless him. He’s under the weather... not seriously ill... I’m so tempted to go back and get him. Tempted to take a sickie and bring him home.

But I don’t. I can’t. If I do that now then Tom will expect me to do it every time he doesn’t want to be left at nursery. Pretty soon I’d end up losing my job. So Karen and I head outside. Back to the car.

He’ll be OK. Within 10 minutes he’ll settle and will have forgotten all about it. The nursery is a good one and will ring us if he becomes really poorly.

I know all this. We’ve done the right thing. The only thing. We have to go to work. It’s unavoidable.

But it feels wrong.

It feels wrong to abandon my son; to walk away when he is distraught. To pull away when he gripping hold of my T-shirt, my fingers, anything he can get hold of.

I wonder if he will remember it. Remember what he is feeling in these moments. Spend time when he is a little older puzzling why – in what seem like to him random occasions – when he was upset and needing his mummy and daddy we walked away and left him. Will he think that he did something wrong? That he was being punished?

All the way to the car I fight the urge to go back and get him.

And that feels wrong too. It goes against my instincts as a parent.

Who am I betraying more, I wonder? Tom or myself?

What kind of world have we made for ourselves when being a parent is at odds with plain ordinary living; plain ordinary survival?

When I eventually get to work I have a sudden yearning for a big red plastic fire engine. But I am glad that Tom has it.

Can Nick Knowles Please Come Round And Brace My Extension?

The BBC seems to have been rife of late with home improvement programmes. And when I say rife I, of course, mean it has broadcast 2 whole programmes whose format is based around the idea of rescuing the average Joe and Joanne Public from the scourge of cowboy builders.

On the one hand you’ve got Cowboy Trap which deals with the hod humping horror of incompetent builders who promise to rebuild your home in the image of Olympus only to leave it looking like Hiroshima after the bomb had been dropped. In the process these rogue traders have also usually cleaned out their client’s bank accounts to the tune of many thousands of pounds. £150,000 on the last episode I saw and the clients had little to show for their expenditure but plasterboard on the floor, dodgy wiring that could kill and a great deal of heartache.

On the other hand you’ve got the same stories given the Walt Disney Treatment via DIY SOS. This offering from the Beeb sees Nick Knowles – the chubby, stubbly, housemaid’s favourite – diving into the UK’s chavviest suburbs to rescue sundry families who suffer from various diseases and disabilities from half completed DIY jobs and projects that ran out of money and / or enthusiasm half way through, leaving the unhappy family living in a single bathroom while the rest of the house resembles a mediaeval carpenter’s workshop with no wheelchair access whatsoever. If you love a happy ending and a well erected stud wall then Nick Knowles is your man.

Anyway, the point of the post isn’t to titillate the ladies with some male TV totty (though maybe I should restore the balance a bit after my Dr Alice post) but to say that all of these “look what happened to them” programmes really put me off the idea of ever allowing any kind of contractor anywhere near my home let alone into it to put in a loft extension.

Not that Karen and I are about to install an Olympic sized swimming pool or anything like that but every now and then we do begin conversations with the words “If we won the Lottery wouldn’t it be good to...” You know what I mean, I’m sure. If money were no object we would all of us add rooms, refurb basements and extend lofts to the point where every family member could have so much space and privacy they would never have to have contact with or even look at another family member ever again.

Pipedreams for the large part. But the idea of a loft extension is one that keeps coming back to Karen and me. To the point where I think that one day, when the kids are through school, the mortgage has been worn down to a mere nub and Karen and I are at last realizing our full earning potential, we might actually go for it.

But who the hell do we get in to do the job?

Because according to the BBC none of Britain’s builders are up to it. Half are incompetent and the other half are just plain dishonest. You couldn’t trust them to referee a football match between two peas (which is one of my dad’s favourite sayings). I’ve seen Nick Knowles brace the walls of more Victorian semi-detached death traps than I’ve had fantasies about Dr Alice Roberts.

Yes. That many.

Which brings me to my point.

Eliminating all the cowboys, all the scheisters, the tinkers, the tailors, the gypos, the pikies and the Poles, the only person I’d ever trust to do any building work around my gaffe is Nick Knowles himself.

And that scares the living bejasus out of me.

It might be safer just to buy a bigger house.

P.S. For those of you that have actually read this far. Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me! 41 today and still thinking like a 16 year old. I just love being male, I do.

Don’t You People Listen?

Rol was right. It is damned annoying when people don’t read things properly. In Rol’s excellent blog post yesterday he described his frustration at sending an email to someone that quite clearly posed 2 questions only to have one of the questions completely ignored in the reply.

I totally understood where he was coming from. Totally understood the growling frustration that you feel afterwards. Because now you have the do-I-send-then-another-email-asking-the-second question-again-or-do-I-just-give-up-on-it-altogether dilemma. Because if you chase it up you inevitably feel like you’re being a nag or just plain anal.

But this innate understanding wasn’t good enough for the universe or life or whatever master-force controls my destiny. Oh no. I had to have my understanding refreshed, updated and made more piquant...

I’ve just sold something on eBay. What isn’t important but whilst emailing the invoice I also added a little paragraph giving my address (the object is to be collected in person), phone number and a list of days and times when I’d be home to hand the object over.

I then had a reply to this email asking me where I lived! What? Didn’t they see my address in the email?

To add insult to confusion the buyer then stated that they worked in Leamington and wanted to know how far away I was because they worked in Cubbington.

Eh?

Now for those of you that don’t know Leamington Spa, Cubbington used to be a neighbouring village some miles away from Leamington proper. Over the last 50 years it’s been swallowed up by Leamington’s expanding waistline and is now a geographical belly-button. So yes, Leamington is Cubbington but Cubbington is not Leamington. There is a difference between the two. Especially if the buyer is planning to walk to my house.

Anyway. I gritted my teeth and replied with another email. I told him he was about a 20 minute drive from my house and politely referred to the fact I’d given him my address in my previous email. I again stated what times and days I’d be free to receive him. After work any day but Thursday – I specifically can’t do Thursday as I have a prior engagement that night that I totally can’t get out of.

I sent it off.

I had another reply. The buyer apologized for not seeing my address in my previous email. He’d now found it; thank you. Now he knew where I lived he’d probably come round on Thursday or Friday but wasn’t sure which yet; he’d ring me to let me know. Did I have a mobile number?

Aaaargh! Yes. Supplied in my original email along with my fecking address and the times and days I was available! And I can’t effing well do Thursday! I quite clearly said that!

Christ, how many emails do I have to write? How many times do I have to give out the same information before it sinks into this guy’s cranium? It’s not like the emails were awash with metaphor and hyperbole... they were the bare skin and bones of necessity. There were no excess words into which the salient facts could have got lost. They stood out like a couple of leylandii in the desert!

How can someone read an email but not actually take on board what the bloody words mean?

Is anybody listening? Ever?

Ants In Your Pants

Now I don’t know whether this is a national phenomenon or even a global one - maybe you good bloggers out there can inform me – but it certainly is a personally observed local one.

On the same day, at the same mysteriously appointed hour – perhaps when the soil reaches a certain temperature and the eggs hatch – every ant for miles around feels the need to boil upwards from its underground nest and swarm crazily on the surface of the human world.

And not just ordinary ants but the far superior and brutal looking flying ant too.

Basically the ordinary common-or-garden ant is just an ordinary GI Joe. Regulation uniform, hand me down rifle and one-size fits all combat training. On their own or in small numbers they’re so ineffectual as to be negligible. But when there are hundreds of them swirling over the patio like self stirring bug soup it’s time to wear industrial boots or risk the flesh being torn from your feet by a thousand clicking mandibles.

The flying ant by contrast is a force to be reckoned with on his own. Compared to the GI Joe he is a Stealth Bomber with a full payload and a bad attitude. He’s out to nobble whatever and whoever gets in his way. When you see a flying ant up close – and I’ve had one of the buggers insinuate itself into my mouth and bite the inside of my lip – you can really see the genetic connection between wasps and ants. They’re nasty, my friends, really nasty.

Anyway, yesterday, no matter where we went during the afternoon the ants were out. Darting through the air, swarming on the ground, mincing over cars, pinching their way up T-shirts and blouses and basically getting into every nook and cranny they could find. And if those nooks and crannies were human in origin all to the good. There was just no escape.

And much as I’m used to seeing this phenomenon by now (for it happens every year) it still has me scratching my head (in fact just plain scratching) and wondering: just what is the trigger? How do they all know to leave the nest at the same time – or rather how do all the nests know that this is the day to evacuate en masse? ‘Cos we drove to the next town and, just as in our garden a couple of miles away, the ants were erupting there too.

Is there some kind of insectoid Google that we humans don’t know about? Is there an arthropod graffiti network that tags small blades of grass with the date and time of the next ant rave?

When me and my family have enough trouble coordinating ourselves to get to work, school and nursery on time each morning I find this invertebrate efficiency deeply enviable.

However, it still doesn’t stop me pouring boiling water all over the little blighters.

Another cup of tea anyone?