Hubbies@Home

Baby's first hemorrhoid

2012-01-25T03:12:00.001Z

*The folowing is a recreation of an actual telephone exchange between two persons of interest. Where appropriate, names/ locations/ personal details have been changed in order to protect the parties concerned.and, y'know, for shits and giggles too I suppose.*

"Good afternoon, Bananaborough Medical Practice - Sophia speaking, how can I help you?"
"Good afternoon Sophia I hope you can help me; I'd like to speak to a doctor over the phone, preferably as soon as possible?"
"No problem, I'll just go ahead and book you a telephone appointment. Can I just take your name, date of birth and a brief description of what it's regarding please?"
"Skiptony James Rooberland, fourteenth of August 1981 and uh... to be honest, I'm just looking for a quick yes/ no answer is all. S'nothing major."
"Can you be a bit more specific?"
"I uh...I really just-"
"Mr Rooberland, I'm afraid I'm going to need a little bit more information from you than 'just looking for a yes/no answer' before I can go ahead and book the appointment in the system."
"Hmph. Well - Since you put it that way: I've discovered a small red lump protruding from the rim of my anus and I need to know if it's a hemorrhoid, or if I'm about to die a slow, painful death at the hands of rectum cancer."
"......"
"Sophia? - Are you still there? Is that enough information?!?"

There are many rites of passage on the road to manhood. Most of them, we're well forewarned of from an early age: Shaving, pubes, foul body odour, a deepening of the voice. These are but a small sampling of the many changes that any pre-pubescent boy (and some very unfortunate girls) will pass, on the richeous road to adulthood. He'll be well warned of them though: Fully informed time and time again through cautionary tales, handed down like legends of yore from health-class teachers, older siblings, parents and touchy-feely, weirdo neighbours alike.(Is that last one maybe just me? God I wish we had Childline in the eighties).

Then there are the more unsavoury changes - treated with a fervent (almost revered) degree of clandestine omission, from all advisory talks on what it means to become a man, I refer here to the dreaded, fearful changes that every young man hopes he will never have to deal with on his steady progression towards the reapers sweet embrace: Baldness, beer bellies, moobs, arm flab, impotence. As, when, and if any of these vile ailments should come for me in later life though, I'll be ready for them. For the majority of my life my every step has been dogged by the one thing that I can never have respite from: My own body. Like some vile, demented meta-tormentor, it would seem my carbon-based soul husk exists with only one heinous purpose: To make my every waking moment a brutal, savage, sisyphean ordeal.

If there's one thing positive thing a lifetime of crippling arthritis has gifted me though, it's a heightened perception for what qualifies as suffering (For example, it's hard to get upset about a little teenage acne when you just spent your pre-teen years learning how to walk again!). So what if my future may contain a podgy gut, less hair and a floppy cock? Fucking bring it!!. However, no amount of stoic cynicism could prepare me for the recent curve-ball that was thrown my way, courtesy of my good friend Mr. butt-hole - My first haemorrhoid.

Sadly, said haemorrhoid arrived with little fanfare and virtually no back story to speak of. I just reached behind one day to wipe and 'boom' there it was, claiming squatter's rights between my ass cheeks. It was saddening in away as I always thought I'd pop my first 'roid while doing something glorious. Like pinching off a steaming brown social statement, while I performed a stunt-bike jump over Chris Martin's head, as he plays to a packed audience, live at the BAFTA's. Now that just seems like the silly, naive little dream of a far younger, less learned man. I have to admit to being more than a little terrified at first. Even with my vast experience of extreme toilet crises to fall back on this was new, unmarked territory for me. After eventually securing a telephone appointment with my doctor (as a result of the above conversation no less) I was informed to my relief that, yes it was in fact a heorrhoid and no there is no such ailment known as rectum cancer. Exhaling a sigh of relief on both counts I then asked if there was anything I could do to treat my problem. She suggested an over-the-counter piles cream.

And so it was, that in presenting me with a solution to my problem, my GP had now, inadvertently, provided me with another problem in of itself. I now had to go and buy piles cream. I've often heard people speak of the embarrassment that results in having to buy certain items of a medical nature: Tampons, condoms, thrush cream,. laxatives. I would willingly buy each of those, all at once, in bulk, from a wholesaler, while the whole time loudly declaring "I NEED THESE FOR MY WILDLY DYSFUNCTIONAL GENITALS!" before I would ever again face the awkwardness of buying another tube of Anusol.

As I entered my local pharmacy later that day, I decided the best way to go about my transaction was to play it cool. 'Just act like you buy piles cream all the time!' my instincts whispered into my mind's ear.. I realise now in hindsight that it was probably not the best plan of attack I could have ran with .So, there I was, shoulders back and head held high as I made my way towards the sole member of staff in view; a fussy looking, bespectacled, older woman who looked like she surely must have been months from either retirement, or a cremation (depending on which came first)."Can you please point me in the direction of your over-the-counter, topical piles creams?" I asked, doing my best not to make a big fuss over what was likely to be a routine request she faces regularly. Sadly, I did not receive the blasé response I was so dearly hoping for. Instead, she immediately broke eye contact with me and became fixated with a vague point in the general area of my left arm. "I'll take you over to them" she helpfully muttered to my navel.

The lady then brought me to a section of the pharmacy which, in a less discreet world, would have been dubbed 'the bum cream aisle'. She waved her arms toward the assorted creams in a (slightly more enthusiastic than the situation called for) flourish, wordlessly signalling to me that we had now reached exactly what I was looking for. At this point I nodded and drew my gaze from the lady, to the rows of various creams, trying to establish from the packaging which seemed likely to give me the most bang for my butt. While I was perusing the shelves, I noticed from out of the corner of my eye that the pharmacy worker was still standing there. Still, disconcertingly flourishing in the direction of the haemorrhoid creams. And with a slightly unnerving smile on her face. It was hard to know at the time, or even now in hindsight what she was wanting from me - A tip? A high-five? A congratulatory pat on the ass? Who knows

It may have been that this only went on for a second or two more than was necessary, but the palpable awkwardness made it drag on for an eternity. It was during that period of unease, while alternately taking in both this woman and the selection of medicated ointments she was, for want of a better word, 'presenting' to me that a weird epiphany took hold; 'this is quite possibly how the world's worst game-show would go down' I mused. Can you picture it too, even as you read this? A brightly lit-up stage sets the scene while a packed studio audience cheer on two couples, as they vie to compete for the chance to win a lifetime supply of Anusol. Following intermittent breaks in the action, a c-section scarred septuagenarian pops out to present and seductively gesticulate toward the star prize while sporting a pink, thong-backed bikini she clearly has no business wearing. I'm going to pause for a moment now while I reflect on whether that scenario horrifies me or just took the top spot in my list of best sexual fantasies...

Eager to exit this torrent of awkwardness as soon as possible, I decided to forgo the follow-up questions. I reached out and grabbed a tube of Anusol , thanked the lady for her time and followed her to the checkout. Exhaling a sigh of relief I stepped out into the cold Winter wind, I anxiously made my way home. Hoping that this whole ordeal would soon come to an end with the application of my cream.

Bizarrely, the lady broke through the barrier of discomfort long enough to give me these parting words: "Just, be careful with that cream, I've had complaints in the past that Anusol can be quite greasy after it's been applied". I am still, even now, at a genuine loss as to what type of conversation must have taken place in order for the pharmacy workers to have gained that knowledge. The most plausible scenario I've been able to come up with pans out with a disgruntled customer, returning to the pharmacy and relaying his woes in the following manner: "Madam, I am not happy with this piles cream you sold me, not happy at all! It has left my anus incredibly greasy. Greasy to the point where I can no longer safely stow my spare change in my colon. You and your company now owe me sixteen pounds worth of lost twenty pences!"

I arrived back home with the cream and anxiety started to creep in. This was it. I was going to have to stick my very own finger in the immediate vicinity of the place where my poops come out. This wasn't going to be pretty. Taking no time to read the instructions (as, let's be honest, being a man it would go against my principals) I ripped the box open and was greeted by this enchanting little attachment here:

Oh hell no!

No matter how bad things get, I told myself, that little hose is going to remain nothing more than a superfluous attachment and - In very extreme scenarios only, a makeshift drinking straw. So with much trepidation, I entered the bathroom, squeezed a little blob of the cream onto my finger and... well, this is the part where the more squeamish amongst you may want to skip this article altogether and wait till I put up my next post in 2013.. So anyway, with butt-cheeks spread, and eyes screwed up tight I gingerly thrust my ointment-laden finger toward what was my best guess at my bum-hole's exact location and... I missed the haemorrhoid entirely. I sighed deeply as dismal realisation set in; dabbing blindly wasn't going to be the way forward. Clearly I would need to use a little more finesse. With another dab of cream I executed plan B. I would have to send my middle non cream-bearing finger in as a scout, have it get the lay of the land and then report back to the index finger with the angry red nodule's exact point of origin. I gagged slightly while carrying out this procedure. No man should ever have to be this acquainted with his own anatomy. No-one!

I had until then, only vaguely been on touch terms with the little fleshy protrusion, i.e; I had only felt it through toilet paper. This was a different sensation altogether.It felt far less like a part of my body and much more like a baked bean I had accidentally sat upon, only to then have it become determinedly stuck upon my person. Needless to say it felt unpleasant and unnatural. Words cannot express the disappointment I felt when I checked the lump's progress later on that night, and it was still as extraneous as ever. Clearly the Anusol was not a wonder tonic with uncanny properties, and this ordeal was going to take some time to iron itself out.

Three uneventful days passed by - And then shit got real...

I was sitting alone in bed one night ready to turn in after a bit of light reading. Sadly, owing to circumstance, much of the light reading I partook in for those few days was entirely haemorrhoid related. After stumbling across a great deal of misinformation (and, most troublingly, a great deal of scaremongering sales pitches for ointments!) I found myself stumbling upon the NHS website:- An always invaluable portal of medical knowledge. It was perusing said site, that I was to become accustomed with the varying grades of Haemorrhoid and their accompanying symptoms. Let's take a look at them shall we? Better yet still let's give them all handy-dandy code names lest they might stick in our minds a bit longer:

Grade one haemorrhoids (The Inside Job) - Small swellings often inside the lining of your anus. They cannot be seen and are very common. In some cases, they will enlarge to grade two.

Grade two haemorrhoids (Cuckoo Clock) - These are larger in size but are still within your anus. Sometimes they become pushed out when you pass a stool, but will return inside immediately after.

Grade three haemorrhoids (Chest Buster) - Appear outside your anus. You may be able to feel one or more small lumps hanging out. They are also referred to as prolapsed haemorrhoids. You will usually be able to push them back inside using your finger.

Grade four haemorrhoids (Non-violent Protestor) - Can become quite large and remain outside your anus permanently. They cannot be pushed back inside and will need to be treated by your GP.

I skimmed the list feeling a sudden pang of empathy for whomsoever was assigned with the arduous task of cataloguing the multiple grades of haemorrhoid (I'd wager that even to this day they have a strong aversion to placing their hands anywhere near they're mouths). I then set upon the task of cataloguing the status of my own haemorrhoid. Now there's a sentence I hoped I'd never live to write.

So, without any hesitation I immediately wrote out The Inside Job and Cuckoo Clock from the list of possible candidates. My Hershey hole hitch-hiker was very much the devoted, outdoors-y type - so that left me faced with either scenario three or four. The question remained though: Which was it? No matter how many times I read the information over, there just didn't seem to be much distinguishing a Chest Buster from a Protester. Then, on my umpteenth re-read, I spotted a little sentence that until now had continually passed through my eyes without triggering anything on the brain front:

"You will usually be able to push them back inside using your finger"

No! Surely they couldn't be serious? This was a revelation of the Tyler Durden magnitude. I could just... slip my finger onto the haemorrhoid... and push it back from whence it had came? I started to pace the bedroom floorspace. Surely this couldn't be true, could it? They couldn't genuinely expect people to slip a finger into their own bumhole and re-arrange the furniture like that... could they? Absolutely not I decided. Whatever the alternative that remained was, positively had to be better than fingering my own bum. I mean, my naturally inquisitive nature had driven me to send things up there in the past but my God - Never my own finger! I'm not a monster!

So the matter was settled; I absolutely, no way, no how, not-on-your-nelly, unequivocally did not have myself a case of the Chest Busters. That only left Grade Four to consider; the Non-violent Protester. What was their prognosis for that again? I reread the description: "will need to be treated by your GP". - So that clinched it then. It was definitely a Grade Three. And so, after performing some deep breathing exercises one would normally associate with an Olympic weightlifter I got myself pumped up and mentally prepared to poke that bothersome fleshy mass onward, upward and out of my life for good.

I lay on my side, tucked up my knees and ,with my forefinger gingerly entering the enemy territory, secured the perimeter. I slowly started to apply pressure, silently bargaining with every God I could think of, that I would build a small temple in their honour, if this actually worked. As I pressed even harder I started to doubt the NHS website's information source. No way could this work. It couldn't just be this easy to take care of. I may as well just give in now and make another appointment with the doct -

Holy fuck! It slipped back in!

I cannot even begin to competently relay to you in words, the strong mixture of satisfaction, euphoria and delight (satis-phori-ight?) I experienced as that pink little bastard slid home. I felt like a hero, a sorceror, an elemental deity! This must surely be how God felt as he shaped the earth with his own two hands! Beethoven's Ode To Joy rang out in my ears, a single tear trickled down my cheek and for one single crystallizing moment, the world was a better place.

Sadly this new outlook on life was almost immediately quashed as a quiet moment of introspection kicked in, allowing me to see the situation from a very different (and possibly more accurate) angle. The cruel reality was, that there I sat: Alone, in a darkened room, on my bed, a thirty year old man with a finger up his jacksy. Sometimes it really doesn't pay to be self aware.

But, the disappointment didn't even have the compassion to end there. Despite my heroic triumph over the Chest Buster and my peaceful return to anal normality, I was now left with an index finger that, no matter how many times I wash it, still smells like shit. Being ever the optimist though, I would argue that things aren't too bad. The poopy finger is ,after all, a small price to pay for the thwarting of a disgusting anatomical anomaly. And, provided I don't use my right hand to eat (also, note to self; burn this keyboard) for a while, it's smooth sailing from here on in.

[Edit: Shortly after posting this article, I completely forgot about my shitty finger situation and ate a bag of crisps - with my right hand. If you don't hear anything from me for the next two years, there's a good chance that I'm dead due to faecal matter consumption. Let it be known here though that, should that be the case, I want an open casket ceremony and I want the mortician to paint me up in blackface. Racially incentive? Totally. But I'll just be too dead to care about the backlash.

Holy Shit, it's 2011!

2011-04-07T14:01:00.008+01:00

I went for a dump a few days back. For most people that wouldn't be a piece of news worth broadcasting yet I, sadly, am not most people. Almost five years of hard, opiate-based painkiller use has left me with a colon so work-shy and indolent, it makes the average Joe's poop-chute look like the London Underground! That's right, I said it; your poop-chute is a subway, (no not the sandwich place you sick freak) so busy and bustling with activity that to you, taking a crap is something you only very rarely give thought to.

Remember the viral video sensation that was 2 girls 1 cup? Do you recall the feeling of overwhelming revulsion? The paralyzing disgust that washed over you as it quickly became apparent that this wasn't just some awesome lesbian porn your friend had emailed you? I can assure you wholeheartedly, right hand up to Spiderman, that my initial reaction was nowhere near as visceral. Tragically, it was but a mere, sad longing that washed over me, as a dismal realisation hit home: "I haven't had a shit like that in ages"

I'll spare you the grim details of what my usual trips to the Pocelaine Poop Portal (treble P for short) usually entail. For now lets return to the subject matter we began with: I went for a dump a few days back. This dump wasn't so much a routine passing of human waste as much as it was a gruelling test of sphincster endurance. I suppose it would have been foolhearty to expect anything less arduous, being that at this point, almost seven days had passed since my last bowel movement.

The Goddess of Mophine is a fickle mistress indeed: without her I'm condemned to a world of chronic pain and agony, while continuing to consort with her in my twice daily fashion leaves me bloated, tired and burdeoned with a pathological hatred for the Andrex puppy. If only the Goddess of Morphine could be coerced into playing nice with my dirty, little bit of stuff on the side; Mistress Movicol, the industrial strength laxative, then it would be plain sailing for all involved. Sadly the results are wildly varied and unpredictable at best. The present state of play sees them both locked in an eternal conflict, each one battling for dominance over the other. The casualties so far, to name but a few, have included my toilet, my underwear and my bathroom floor. Won't someone please think of the children?

So, it took a total of forty-five minutes to bring this epic scat symposium to a close. I sat on my toilet; guts heaving, legs tingling with pins and needles, all the while the toilet seat carving a solid red ring into my butt fat. And it was over that seemingly endless period of time that the strangest phenomenon occured. As I sat there, reading, grunting (occasionally weeping) and patiently waiting for the whole ordeal to come to an end, it struck me - the stench coming from my toilet was actually changing as time progressed.

NB: Just to clarify, before I start to come across as some sort of freaky, shit-enthused weirdo (then again, perhaps that ship has sailed already) I'd like to make it very clear that each scent was as revolting and unpleasant as the last one. Now that I've gotten that off my chest, (*OMITTED CLEVELAND STEAMER REFERENCE*) I shall now return to my detailed, account of this freakish occurrence as it unfolded.

As the cavalcade of bum smells proceeded, I came to grasp the reason behind the perpetually changing odour. This had been my first bowel movement in a number of days. Thusly, almost a weeks worth of meals had passed through me in the wink of a brown eye. Each one bringing with it it's very own indicative scent. The whole thing seemed dreadfully unfair. Usually when going for a twosie, one finds that the nose quickly becomes desensitised to the stench. Yet a perpetually changing odour, means the nose has no such chance to acclimatize! I couldn't help but resent my own digestive system slightly. It wasn't playing by the rules.

If there was ever a testament to how positively caustic the odour was in my bathroom that evening, then it came at around the thirty minute mark. My daughter, blissfully unaware that the facilities were currently in use, trundled into the bathroom with a sense of slight urgency to her stride. She had barely set a foot past the doorway when she stopped dead, hand still on the door handle, her face suddenly wearing the expression of one who has walked straight into the glass of a screen door. She'd been stopped dead by a brick wall of stink. She followed this up with a look of deepest-set loathing before taking a step back and closing the door. I called out to her with my sincere apologies for forgetting to lock the door, but it was pretty clear that I was not forgiven. Seconds later the bathroom door's lock handle began to turn - all of its own accord, right in front of my very eyes! The only way that this phenomenon can possibly occur, is with the careful use of a screwdriver, while on the outside of the door. It didn't take long to deduce what was going on:

"JULIAAAAAA! What are you doing playing with a screwdriver? Get that back in the tool drawer!"

"Not until I've locked you in there with that horrible smell!"

From the perspective of a 6-year-old, I'm sure the logic seemed bullet proof. Lock in the smell so it couldn't get out. Imprisoning me at the same time was a sacrifice she was willing to make. I would have taken the time to appreciate how cute the whole thing was, were I not fretting over the idea of Julia running amok, unsupervised with a screw driver (well, that and the fact that my anus was mercilessly forcing me to endure what could only be described as nasal passage rape). As I frantically tried to hurry the process along, a small part of me feared I'd walk into the living room just in time to see all my flat-pack furniture collapse into the state I'd brought it home in, while Julia danced round a small pile of freshly removed screws. Fortunately my fears proved to be unfounded.

So that was that. I threw the bathroom window wide open, finished up, stuck some "Police - Do not cross" tape over the door and declared the room out of bounds until it could pass the sniff test.

It's possibly around this point (or even earlier in our charming little toilet fable) that you're starting to wonder if there's a point to all this. What agenda could I conceivably have for this meandering, ramshackle tale of my recent trip to the toilet? Well there's a couple of explanations I feel I can offer you for that.

Firstly, it serves as the perfect allegory for my life as of the past several months. Just as swiftly as almost a weeks' worth of meals had blasted through me in such a short period of time, so too has the past year whizzed by. Like a cold breeze under a door, it's gone as quickly as it came and left no trace of having ever been.

And secondly, it makes me smile just to think that you have now finished reading a full and complete, grimly detailed twelve-hundred word account of how I took an epic dump. That's right, the whole thing was just a flimsy premise upon which to boast about my long overdue bowel movement...

Sweet Jesus - what the fuck is wrong with me?!?? Answers on a postcard please.

Those Mayans better be right - Two more years is my limit

2010-04-02T02:45:00.027+01:00

On the surface, it sounds like I lead an nice, peaceful, perhaps even care-free existence. I don't have to go to work, I take long afternoon naps, I have a steady supply of hard-core pain medication, and I get to spend most of my free-time with my daughter. My daughter who manages to simultaneously be both my best friend and my proudest contribution to this world. So why is it then, that I spend most of my day gnashing my teeth in blind rage? Why am I constantly choking back an urge to head for the nearest premature baby ward, and embark on a cranial soft spot punching spree? The answer is simple:- People. Stinking, ignorant, vile, putrid people who surround me from every direction. A plague of abhorrent, jackanapes who make me want to reach for a pillow and smother myself. All because I am loathe to even breathe the same air as them.

Today the cross-hair on my keyboard is set on two particular demographics: Bad parents and lazy dog-owners. They are, without question, amongst the worst of the scrapings from the bum-crack of humanity. It is in no small part thanks to them and one horrifically shitty day, that I am now one step closer to becoming an angry old man with a blood pressure problem. Let's re-visit the days events a little more closely now shall we?

A Rather Snowy School Run

There's something that happens to a motorist when they make the journey to pick up their child from school. They lose a large percentage of brain function. Some rational part of their mind shuts down, goes offline and then implodes. Nothing evidences this more profoundly than the disastrous gridlock that occurs outside every primary school come home time. People double park, they box each other in, they mount kerbs, I have no doubt that if they could, they would drive into their child's classroom, all in a desperate bid to avoid several yards walk. By far the most grim part of the whole affair is that most of them live just round the fucking corner from the school! It's bad enough that they band together to completely obstruct traffic in the name of laziness, but to do so when they are within spitting distance of their own home is heinous in the extreme.

Thankfully, as one of the very few perks of being a gimped-up cripple, I don't have to deal with the torturous affair that is finding a parking spot during the school run. Back at the beginning of the term, I was very kindly granted permission to use the (normally) completely out of bounds staff car park (Unbelievably, to the spiteful envy of many other parents who perhaps feel that constant pain is a fair trade-off for some parking privileges!). It is here, within this car park, that the scene is set for out woeful tale.

This morning, as my daughter and I ventured out to the car for the school run, we were greeted by a very light snowfall, lazily making it's way down to the ground. It was clear to see that it had only just started, as a very light dusting of white covered everything in sight. If I were, in hindsight, to be pressed for an educated guess at the depth of this snow cover, it would be something in the region of one eighth of a centimetre. In simple terms; 'absolutely fuck all'. We made our way out to the car, completely unfazed by the banal blizzard's failure to make an impact.

Not far from our little cul de sac, we were quickly faced with our first clue as to what kind of morning this was about to become; fifteen minutes of driving had seen us make a whopping three turns and travel approximately one fifth of a mile. Thanks to the weather conditions, main road traffic was nose to nose and the roads were at a complete standstill. It completely eludes me why even the slightest sign of snow results in inevitable, vehicular gridlock (I suspect it has something to do with people rushing out to panic-buy carrots and coal for their snow-men.) The worst part of remaining stationary at this point in our journey was that, even though we had barely left, we were now a mere, single right turn away from arriving at our destination. Before you smile at the inherent hypocrisy in taking the car for this short journey, I'd like to gently remind you all firstly that my legs are fucked and secondly, to go jam a fork in your eye! There's nothing quite so infuriating as having to endure being stuck in traffic, a stone's throw from where you're headed. Least of all when your arrival marks the beginning of five sweet hours of child-free, relaxation time.

Ten torturous minutes of creeping along in first gear later, I finally approached the right turn that lead into the school's staff car park. By this point the level of sheer pent-up rage I was carrying around had managed to turn my knuckles white and render my scrotum a shrivelled, angry, mass retracted to my lower abdomen. I was now literally aching for the sweet sanctuary of that small staff car park, where I could turn off and away from the main road's gibbering populace of what I would henceforth come to dub 'snow drivers'. I threw on my indicator and turned, aghast as I laid eyes not on the small, inviting staff car park I had come to know but yet another grizzly scene of motorist chaos. Blocking my way were no less than half a dozen awkwardly placed cars, tightly packed into an area built to provide ample turning space for two, maybe three cars at a push. The morning had plummeted even deeper into the nine circles of hell as it was now my grim pleasure to watch as six cars full of idiots blinked bemusedly at one another, each waiting for the other to politely move aside. It was like sitting in on a world record attempt for The Most Shitty Game Of Chicken Ever. Played Incorrectly. And By Morons.

Eventually, through the skilful use of angry scowling and horn blaring, the parents were able to carefully negotiate their way round each other and finally leave the car park they should never have entered to begin with (for those of you keeping track, by this point I was now almost thirty minutes late for the beginning of the school day). Being lucky enough to secure myself an empty space to the immediate right of the entrance, I watched them leave one by one before driving the final forty feet or so to the School's office entrance. I walked my daughter in, with a hurried apology to the first member of staff I encountered. She put me at ease by explaining that even most of the teaching staff had still yet to arrive. I turned around, and sure enough, a parade of teachers each more pissed off than the last were making their way in, one after another. They too had had been held up in entering the car park thanks to the previously mentioned parents and their reluctance to walk through a barely tangible covering of snow.

I'm now considering putting a few of these up:

Fun In the Play Park - Now With Free Prizes!

Later in the afternoon I returned to collect my daughter from school. The morning's events, while passed, were by no means forgotten. I made a snap decision during the trip back home that a little jaunt to the park for some swing and monkey-bar action would do us both the world of good. Julia would get to play and run herself ragged, meanwhile I could... Well... Do what I always do; Sit back and be useless, only this time on a spectacularly uncomfortable park bench. Result!

After braving the cold for almost an hour we headed back to the car, our short time in the park having been both fun and uneventful (although I did learn the rather painful lesson that I'm no longer the key demographic for see-saw facilities). No sooner had we set off for home when something rather unpleasant caught my attention; A smell so strong and rancid it brought tears to my eyes and caused me to dry heave. I shot an accusatory look in the direction of Julia who seemed to immediately pick up on it's meaning. "It wasn't me!" She declared, all before I could even open my mouth. I wasn't surprised at her denial. Firstly, because she's denied every one of her own acts of flatulence since the age of two, and secondly, because the smell was far too potent. So much so I found myself checking my mirror to ensure my eyebrows were still there, fearing prolonged fetor exposure may have stripped them right off.

Having ruled out bodily gasses as the source of the stink , I reasoned that we simply had to be downwind of some local farm or another. Then the realisation dawned that the smell had only been with us since we entered the car. This left only one more rational explanation.
"Julia. Can you show me the bottom of your feet please?"
She twisted her leg round to bring her sole up for inspection. I nervously tensed every muscle in my flabby body as the little foot slowly swung into view. A spilt second seemed to swell up and last for an eternity. How could she be so bloody stupid and careless? My mind skipped forward to the unpleasant scene that would greet my arrival home: I envisioned myself coercing Julia into wiping as much excess faecal matter as possible onto the grass outside our front door, before eventually setting to work on the rest with some wet paper towels. I made a silent promise do my best to stay calm and not penalise her too harshly. These things do happen after all I conceded. To careless idiots. Then, snapped from my little reverie by something I did not expect, I closely scrutinised each of Julia's little boots, now turned in my direction. They were both immaculate.

On seeing this I nearly created an unpleasant smell of my own. A pair of clean heels were the very last thing that I'd been braced to expect. This of course, changed the dynamic of the situation completely. If not for the fact I was driving, I would have closed my eyes tightly as I craned my head downwards. Sure enough I looked down to find a large, brown protuberance swinging merrily from the side of my boot. Even worse was the part that was no longer attached to my shoe; Now smeared mercilessly over my brake pedal. Not a good day, I mused on reflection, to wear my brown leather boots with the large, chunky grips on the sole. This marked the first time I'd stepped in a dog turd in my entire adult life. I hope it's the last. There can only be a small handful of activities more gag-inducing than having to scrape masses of poop from each individual groove in a shoe, using only a few squares of kitchen roll and bare hands. Once the majority of shit had been tediously scraped from each groove and crevice, I turned my shoe upside down and doused it with a kettle of boiling water. In spite of all this I've still had to leave it outside my back door overnight. Possibly forever.

I had, at one point, been perfectly willing to blame the chaos caused by of our smelly, little, mahogany hitch-hiker on my Daughter's carelessness. Now that the poo was on the other foot however, I quickly became motivated to place my blame somewhere else: Squarely upon the lazy dog owning public and their dumb, slobbering leg-humping companions (also the pets they own too). I never have been much a dog-lover. It escapes me why anyone would be (to me at least) stupid enough to give a home to one. Dog's are dumb, smelly, needy creatures which could, at any moment snap into a feral rage before tearing your throat out and using your face for a chew toy. Call me prudent or indeed old-fashioned, but the idea of a house-pet capable of killing me stone dead within seconds, is not one that appeals.

The only thing that I hate more than dogs themselves are the people who own them. More specifically, (this morning's events notwithstanding) I hate the owners who seem to think that picking up their pet's curly ass bagels is a task, far beneath them. Yet more vile still, are the miserable fuck-hats who believe that to walk their dog, they need only give them the free reign to come and go while their front door is left open. Overcome by complete freedom, these dogs tend to cheerily wander wherever they please, dropping little blobs of brown behind them as they go. Like some sort of grim, furry Pac-Man in reverse.

The incontestable truth is simply this; If you find yourself unable to clean up after your dog for the sake of complying with UK law, you were probably never fit to own one in the first place. Sadly, the concerned parties capable of reaching this conclusion, to the benefit of many others, are the same group of people least likely to accept it as fact. However, rather than despair over this sad realisation, I came up with a course of action which, if we all band together on, should eradicate the problem for good:
The next time you find yourself witness to the scene of an apathetic dog owner paying little heed to his or her dog, as they drop a dookie in a public place, simply stride over to said owner and grab them from behind, before firmly thrusting their face into the resultant brown mess. You may or may not wish to also to employ a shrill cry of "NO! THAT'S BAD!" to accompany your actions and perhaps even, once finished, you can strike them round the nose with a newspaper, just for good measure. It seems to work a treat with the pets themselves, let's hope it helps the message take hold with the pet owners.

With that vivid image no doubt sending me off to sleep tonight with a smile on my face, let us now visit the final bout of nastiness I had to endure today, and latterly the kind people who make these wondrous experiences possible.

The Trouble With Kids Today

As I now start to wind down with my final anecdote from the day's events I find myself slipping rather unpleasantly into a throbbing headache. Such I fear is not only the result of living out this long, abrasive Thursday but also from reliving it through the art of rage-fuelled black and white type-y words. For this very reason I will attempt to do this last event as much justice as I can in as few words as possible.

With the day panning out as the complete bust that it was; Discourteous motorists, wayward pavement poop and lest we forget, one whole eighth of a centimetre's snow fall. I volleyed an attempt to undo the damage that had been done to my psyche with that marvellous cure-all to stave off all others; ice cream. With a small child in tow, I set off to the local ice cream shop (which, remarkably also has a roaring side trade in groceries, house-hold items and even a post office!)

Infeasibly motivated to keep the amount of entailed fucking around to an absolute minimum (and with the day we'd already had, believe me it was more for the sake of others than myself) we promptly made our choice and headed for the counter. As usual, they had a overwhelming one whole cashier in place and as luck we had lined up just in time to wait behind some shambling degenerate junkie attempting to buy a pack of cigarettes with as much loose change as he could procure from his jacket pocket. With an ungodly amount of cursing and grunting he had eventually brought himself up to a mere pound from what he wanted. He decided to plump for a smaller pack over his original choice. With a chorus of sighs from all those in front and behind him, the counting started all over again.

The already minuscule amount of patience I had left for this man was stripped down even further when his son made an appearance at the counter. As he arrived two equally enraging events took place simultaneously. First of all, with a cry of "I want this!" the miserable little splodge of semen that should never have been threw a garishly packaged action figure at the girl serving at the checkout. Secondly, every coin his junky father had painstakingly counted on the counter was sent skiting off on to the floor. The cashier paused for a moment, presumably to allow the father a chance to dole out a reprimand for this act of misbehaviour. I quietly hoped she didn't have anywhere important to be if that was the case. A look of incensed rage glimmered over the woman's face and then, with a sigh, she bent down to reclaim some of the man's lost change.

It was then, in the grip of boredom that the boy decided to create his own entertainment in a repeatedly determined attempt to kick my daughter in the stomach. As his father had, since the airborne toy, decided to hold on to him in attempt to stop him wandering off again his little leg continued to fall short of Julia with each forward swing. She looked up to me with an expression that seemed to convey that she wasn't entirely familiar with the type of thing she was seeing at this precise moment. The icing on the cake came when the boy, at one point, swung his leg with such force he pulled his dad slightly off balance. The father turned around to see his son continuing to see his son make a repeated effort to plant his little shoe into my daughter's abdomen. Here it comes I thought. This is where we get to witness junkie parenting first hand as he spouts off some variation on the them of "Gonnae fuck that out you?" or "Stoap bein' a wee shite". I felt both robbed and enraged then when what he actually did was look from his son, to my daughter, and finally to me with a scowl that I should keep my daughter out of swinging range of his son's feet.

I'd finally had enough. All in one day I'd had road rage, shitty boots and now to cap it all off, some junkie piece of shit is looking at me as if he disapproves of my parenting methods. In a perfect just world this would would be the part where I pummel his gaunt seven-stone frame into the shop's floor, paid for my ice cream, but the world is far from perfect and I happened to standing under a security camera. Oh, and also crippled. I took one step forward until my nose was practically touching the back of his neck and began to heavy breath like a sex offender, down into the back of his coat. Not, I can honestly say, the biggest treat my sense of smell had ever had to endure. I almost found myself pining for the dog shit again. Almost but not quite. Whether then, he was able to pay for his cigarettes or not I do not know but after a quarter turn to look behind him, he grabbed his son by the hood of his coat and made a dash for the door. The cashier surveyed me critically, almost trying to infer by my appearance why I had decided to stick my face into the back of another man's head.
"I'm sorry," I began "It was either that or I was going to knock him out."
It appeared this was the explanation she was looking for. With a smile and a nod, she started to run through our ice creams.

It both deeply saddens and angers me whenever I see Junkies with children. Now, I of all people am fully aware that you can have a controlled drug problem and still be a fully component parent, So please know, that when I talk about junkies, I mean the rock bottom dregs of society. The type of person who trades in all their benefit money from day one on a nice big fat score and then survives the rest of the week on whatever they can suck up form their bedsit floorboards. People like this should not be allowed to be parents and, to link in to my last anecdote like the expert wordsmith I am, nor should they be allowed to be pet owners. An individual who can't bring stability to their own life should never be charged with responsibility for another. If I were to have my way, measures would be taken to ensure these people never get the opportunity to fuck up more than one life; their own. The ideal solution, in my eyes, is to monitor the progress of male children as they enter adolescence. The first sign of leaning towards a scumbag existence of hard drugs and care-free unprotected sex should see them collected by the government in a van, taken away to a facility where they they can't be heard and then have their testicles shattered with a rusty crowbar. Just think of all the money that could be saved in child benefit alone!

****

Yes, it's days like today that make me very glad to be a reclusive weirdo with very little need for human contact. I often wonder where all the hate I carry around with me stems from. Now the next time such a query arises all I'll have to do is step foot outside and it'll all come flooding back to me. As the vast majority of humanity never fail to disappoint me on a daily basis, I sometimes find it hard to justify their very existence. The best I'm ever able to come up with is that without other human interaction to distract and sometimes amuse me, I would most likely wank myself into a coma. I suppose even that has to count for something. Right?

Good Riddance To Bad Christmas

2010-01-05T15:47:00.011Z

With most of the world back at work today, it seemed fitting to give the holidays a respectful send-off the only way I know how; with two fingers.

I have to say though, it's hard not to feel a little bit festive with the weather we've been having lately. I've seen more snow here within a week than I have in my entire adult life! As much as it warms my cockles seeing my daughter making snow-angels and pelting me with snowballs as I sleep, I could really do with a rainy spell right about now. After two failed attempts to get to the local supermarket (one almost ending with a quite literal bang) I've had to spend two days without any of the following:

Milk
Bread
Cereal
Toilet Roll
Tinned and Frozen Food of any kind

Lucky I know how to improvise! Although I was pretty unpopular one morning when I served up tuna mayonnaise and onion rings for breakfast. You don't even want to know how we got round the round the toilet roll situation.

Yesterday morning, after deciding enough was enough and I would be a slave to the elements no longer, I tackled the problem head-on and... Did my shopping online. Now my salvation lies in the hands of whether the Tesco delivery guy is ballsy enough to drive on what is now effectively black ice with a hefty coating of slush. I guess all I can do now is sit back, with fingers and legs crossed (at least, I would if not for the crippling arthritis and prosthetic hip) and hope for the best. My situation has become so grim I'm at the point where I'll even accept substitutes. Substitutes I tell you! Truth be told, even if he managed to make it with only my toilet roll to deliver, I'd still be delighted. Things are getting quite desperate. I never thought I'd see the day that I wished a Stephanie Meyer book had more pages in it.

The Pumpkin Paradox

2009-11-03T02:46:00.055Z

And so, as quickly as it came, Halloween has Hallo-been and Hallo-gone.This time around I decided to buck my yearly trend of switching all the lights out and barking through the letterbox, to get in on the action for the first time since the sad day I outgrew my Spiderman outfit.(That said it was probably for the best; the very next day my daughter started letting me drive her to school again). With the requisite two days of horizontal recuperation behind me, I've had some time to reflect and decide that it was an event worthy of Chronicling.

For the first time in her life I took my daughter round our neighbours doors to embark on the socially accepted scrounge-fest that is Trick or Treating. I wish I could say it was to be her first time knocking on the door of a stranger begging for food but, in my defence, I just really like lying in at the weekends. Week days too for that matter. There's a small part of me still harbours some dislike for the term 'trick or treating' but the whole affair has become so Americanised at this point, it just seems easier just to run with it. Every year I look out my window and see the outdoor decorations become more and more ostentatious. Every year the supermarkets become less and less subtle in whoring out their shelf space to plastic, Glow-in-the-dark tat and 'fun-size' chocolate bars. The whole affair has steamed onward to become almost as big a consumerist darling as Christmas itself. And yet each year Kwanzaa comes and goes with little to no fanfare. Doesn't seem fair really.

Even the once mighty turnip, pure and enigmatic symbol of all that was ever awesome about October the 31st is no stranger to the scornful march of time. With the pumpkin having become a steadily more commonplace produce, it's been left to watch helplessly from the sidelines as it's orange nemesis become the de facto choice of spooky lantern. Sure, pumpkins are easier to carve, easier to hollow and they're a far more regular shape. Granted, it may also take the best part of a week and numerous flesh wounds to carve even the most basic of facial features into a turnip, but it composes itself with a quiet dignity that the pumpkin could never hope to aspire to. All that, and when you're done with it, you're mum'll use it to make soup! Try that stunt with a pumpkin after it's spent the night as a lantern; Burnt, shit flavoured soup anyone? The turnip is quite simply a vegetable you can depend on when it matters most. They should give the thing a fucking knighthood, or put it on the national flag. I'd salute it.

Sadly, it quickly becomes clear, that as a turnip elitist, I rank myself among an obvious minority. For evidence of this, one need look no further than their nearest supermarket. No sooner have my local Tesco received their annual haul of pumpkins, they just as quickly find themselves sold out afterwards. It's funny to see a bland, day-glo vegetable become charged with the selling prestige normally reserved for products like Buzz Lightyear and Furbies. This neatly neatly brings me to the titular topic of this piece, the pumpkin paradox.

As much as I may piss, grumble and moan,(No no, believe it or not, even I complain from time to time)) about the scandalous ordeal the turnip has had to endure, even I myself have become a traitorous pumpkin convert. The arthritic bone damage in my hands is to such an extent that the lengthy, tedious ordeal of laboriously gouging at a turnip is not a viable one. While, in previous years, I have mostly celebrated Halloween from behind my couch with the lights off and curtain drawn, I always make a point of picking up a pumpkin. There's just something undeniably cathartic and pleasurable about carving a goofy face into their thick, leathery hides. But it's when you factor in both their scarcity and high demand that things start to become problematic. The only way to guarantee securing yourself one of the much coveted squash, is with an early purchase. You are then faced with two , equally unappealing options.

Leave the carving to the latest possible point before your lantern will be needed. Running the risk of leaving yourself a soggy, over-ripened Pumpkin to carve.
Carve the pumpkin on or around your day of purchase. And pray to Jack Skellington it holds up till the night it's needed

Whichever option I plump for in the end, my end result, come the 31st, looks a little something like this:

So, with that torturous axiom now off my chest, what about the night itself and the shenanigans that ensued? As I mentioned before it was arguably Julia's first 'proper' Halloween, she was dressed up like a witch (replete with pointy hat and broomstick) and she was raring to go. Whilst the Cul-De-Sac I live in is far from large, I still felt it necessary to take minor precautions, just in case my creaky legs crapped out on me. That precaution took the form of Julia's Uncle Bevvy (Not a real Uncle, merely an appointed one in the manner of all dear friends to parents the world over) accompanying us, in a cat-like state of readiness, should I suddenly need someone to drag me back home. Also along for the ride was Julia's school-friend Danny, who's mother also happens to be our neighbour. He's a sweet, likeable kid with a pleasant demeanour but god damn he's high-spirited and boisterous.A large part of the evening was spent chasing him off the main road as he zipped around recklessly, and apologising profusely as he ran straight into the house of everyone kind enough to open their door to us. The only way I'll be taking him trick or treating next year will be if his mother provides a large burlap sack to drag him round the doors in. On the plus side his behaviour was enough to convince Uncle Bevvy that he never, ever wants to reproduce. A fact which I've spent a number of years assuring him would be for the greater good.

A little unruly behaviour in the grip of a sugar rush I was prepared for, but the way in which the night impacted on me I could never have expected; I got to meet and pleasantly converse with nearly all of my neighbours, most of whom I previously wouldn't even know to look at. Now things have completely turned around, to the point where I can barely poke my nose through the letterbox with being approached for a spot of pleasant chit-chat. It makes for a far more pleasant atmosphere to bustle to and from my car in. And, should I find myself not in the mood for some idle comments on the weather or my general health, avoiding it is simply a matter of removing my trousers before I step out my front door. Then all I have to contend with is a hurried wave as they pass me by, eyes fixed upon the ground. Nothing kills the conversation quite so efficiently as a conspicuous cock-bulge and some minor pee stains.

In summary, it seems my veiled attempt at scoring my daughter some free sweets turned out to be pure social networking in it's most basic form. With neither a face nor a book to be seen. Well- apart from the faces of the people who met us at their doors, and our faces too I suppose. Also, there was this one guy who had a small bookcase in his hall. You know what, who cares? I got a drumstick lollipop for the first time in about fifteen years and in the end, that's all that really matters.

Welcome to Splits-ville - Population: Me

2009-08-18T16:18:00.023+01:00

What becomes of a hubby at home when he no longer reserves the right, to bare the title of 'hubby'?

Something a little like the above video I'd wager. Please enjoy my first and almost certainly last piece of work to feature my sweet little cherub, Julia. They say, that in showbiz, that you should try to avoid working with either children or animals. With my daughter being the little monkey that she is, it would seem the odds were stacked against me from the begining.

The only true catastrophe came about during the filming of the water balloon scenes. For it, I had to fill the best part of two dozen water balloons. This was a slow, arduous process hindered in no small part, by my square-spouted taps ripping almost as many of the little latex pouches as they successfully filled! Eventually I became so absorbed in the soggy tedium of alternate filling and ripping that I neglected guard duty of the growing pile of fragile, quivering water bombs. It wasn't long before this fact was exploited by a pair of sneaky, inquisitive hands.

I think we can all see where this is going.

The thing to take from the incident I guess, is that it resulted in the kitchen floor getting the mopping that it had so richly needed (and deserved, God bless it's little, linoleum heart) for so long.

Here's hoping it won't have to wait till my next filming of a water ballon scene to get it's next once over with a mop.

The undisputed masters of PR: These guys...

2009-07-29T22:06:00.030+01:00

I'm used to being played for a chump by the media. I've used Lynx deodorant (also ran under the Unilever brand as "Axe" in other parts of the world") ever since I've been old enough to be conscious of how my body smells. Very quickly I learned the harsh lesson that their adverts, while often amusing, are built on a bed of lies. Women do not, intoxicated by my aroma, line up to dry hump my leg as I take my wheelie bin out to the kerb. They never have and much as it pains me to think it - They probably never will.

Lynx are an ambitious company though, something I have to respect them for. Not satisfied it seems, with feeding us woefully inaccurate expectations of their product, they take it several steps further by selling us something we couldn't possibly want unless they told us otherwise. By my count there are two strikes against them in this department. They take the form of Fragrance 3 and the Lynx Bullet. What better time than now then, for a short commercial break.

Wow! I think I may actually have becomed more stupider in the short time it took that video to play. Let's review shall we? Lynx 3 is actually a product sold through virtue of a twin pack of deodorant canisters. The first contains one fragrance while the second, another different fragrance. To quote the ad itself now if I may:

"Mix fragrances 1 and 2 and create new lynx 3"

How's about 'no' Lynx. Just 'no'. You want me to combine two different scents to make, what is in fact, the fragrance you are selling me in the first place. That's your job! You're supposed to do that before it goes in the fucking can! I can't believe I'm actually being charged more money for a toiletry that involves more effort on my part than a lower priced counterpart. I have a product pitch of my own Unilever; It's called 'World of Pain' and is brought about by simply combining my foot and your scrotal sack! Lynx 3, named for the mental age of it's target demographic.

The latest innovation (read as 'cock-slap to the face of the consumer') from Lynx takes form of the Lynx bullet. No video this time,(although, there is one if you're interested) just a picture taken by me in my local Supermarket. By pure chance I was also able to photograph my contemptuous soliloquy as I held the item up for inspection.

Another long time offender of shitty advertising, are the various purveyors of that feminine hygiene favourite, the sanitary towel. We've put some distance between us and the days of 'Woooooooooooowwwwwww Bodyform' and the sky diving, but not much. The idea that Bodyform, Always and their cohorts can't seem to shake is that women want more than to just be informed about the product. They're convinced they need a cold, side order of soap opera to go with it. It's not enough to tell you that you'll be keeping your pants dry, clean and relatively scab free! There has to follow an inane, micro-tale of a young woman so charged by her new-found confidence, she feels compelled to strap on her rollerskates and walk five dogs at the same time. Naturally she then goes on to catch the eye of some ruggedly handsome construction worker/waiter/ random passer-by with a face and body carved from solid mahogany. (Rather ironically, at the time of the month when she feels least like being intimate with anyone!)

It's shit like that which makes me want to find and tongue the balls of the guy who invented Sky Plus as it's thanks to them that my advert intake is kept to a bare minimum.(Yes, I know what you're thinking: 'What if it's a woman who invented Sky Plus?' Right? In that case it would be her balls that I tongue. Happy?) What stops them from mixing things up a little after all these years? Just give your target audience the information it needs in a way that's creative and factual. Since I'm such an idea machine, here are a few ideas that they can use for free:

Rebranding - Try a quirky name that's memorable and descriptive. My suggestion? Muff Mallows.

Lighten up - Have some giant singing tampons sing about how awesome and effective they are. Building on the success of the 118 ads why not take an existing, familiar melody and change the words, i.e: Take the Addams Family theme, replace the word kooky with coochie and you're half way there.

Memorable catchphrase - I'm quite partial to 'put your crotch on cruise control'. Use that and I'd be hard pushed not to buy some myself!

It's something I fall into rather easily, filling up with malign for the companies we've discussed so far. Recently I had the misfortune of discovering handheld accessory manufacturer, Krusell. In need of a case to protect my new phone, (which is something in the region of 95% fragile, highly scratchable screen) My travels, as they often do, took me to the realm of Ebay. With a sparse selection I found myself limited between two extremes; One case that was more costly and opulent than I required and another cheaper alternative that looked as if it would probably fall to pieces in the post. After some deliberation, I eventually plumped for the more expensive option. My thought process being that it would be less trouble than buying something I half expected to send back on it's arrival.

What arrived several days later far exceeded my expectations and was promptly put to use. The small plastic binder it had arrived in, was treated in the respectful manner of superfluous cardboard and blister packaging the world over. As such it was several days later before I came across it again, buried under a mountain of crap by my computer desk. As is the requisite ritual for whenever I can no longer find a clear space to put down my mouse, I began to sort the teetering pile into two groups; Useless crap for the bin, and useless crap that I wanted to keep. While in the process of trying to establish which pile the aforementioned binder was headed for, something caught my eye beyond the deliriously happy (almost to the point of lobotomization) male model on it's front. That something, was a sizable body of text.

Lynx purporting their whiffy wares as an industrial strength aphrodisiac is a little white fib in comparison to this shit! At least all the Inca ad did was tell me I'd get my end away, these shite-merchants want me to believe that thanks to a few grams of leather, my entire life is never going to be the same again!. Aside from the light-hearted quip about a new found lack of vibrating pants, this patch of blurb is the very definition of over-promising and under-delivering. Let's look at some of the highlights from Krusell's above mission statement come verbal masturbation; 'Revolutionise the way I talk - and walk',(damn, why didn't I see this before agreeing to that hip replacement?) 'full access to information any time', 'upgrade my status' and 'consolidate my outer image'? I can't believe I'm going to gain all this just from freeing up one whole pocket. They haven't even mentioned the extra wads of spare change I'll be able to carry around. 'Get carried away', is the sentiment the ridiculous shpeel ends. Coincidentally that's what happened to the guy who wrote this, shortly after he'd finished. He got 'carried away'. By men in white coats. It's a fucking phone case you chumps! Not the second coming of Christ and certainly not the solution to all life's problems. People burned The Beatles' records for less than this level of self glorification.

I hope this will serve to convince you, without a shadow of a doubt, that Krusell are the undisputed masters of PR spin. It's for this very reason that I have decided to send them a commemorative plaque to mark the occasion. Unless of course I forget, or I never get round to it in which case the glory of seeing their name up on the seldom updated blog of a drug addict will just have to be enough of an honour. Well done Krusell. I'd say that your certificate's in the post, but I still need to nip out for the glue and dried macaroni.

Urge... to punch... rising - When the trials of parenthood take their toll

2009-06-25T21:55:00.016+01:00

I think I involuntarily took part in my own Rite of Passage today, folks. In my short stint as a parent there have been many times where I've been annoyed, irked or once even livid, at my daughter. In comparison with the events of today, I think I'll come to look back on those times, as having been minorly inconvenienced. Today saw me, for the first time, suppress an overwhelming urge to beat my daughter within an inch of her life.

Now I realise that last sentence is one likely to polarise my meagre traffic figures into one of two parties. These, we can call the "So-What?"'s and the "My-God"'s. Let us begin with the "So-What?" clan, shall we? These are a folk likely to be in resounding apathy at the thought of ill intent toward my only child. "What's so exciting about that?" they may well wonder, "I suppress that desire on a daily basis. Such is life as a parent". That's a very real, grounded way of looking at the situation. I, in all honesty would struggle to name a single parent I know who hasn't at one time or another, told me a woeful tale of patience broken and tempers incensed.

Not me though. That's just not how I roll.

It may bring you joy to know that until very recently, I was one of the pompous few who felt that with a calm temperament and empathic demeanour, there was nothing you couldn't endure as a parent. (Those of you smiling at this point would do well to look up the word schadenfreude and then suck on my left ball!) It's amazing how one day can make everything you once held to be true look so trite and naive.

Let's now take our attention back to the "My-God"'s side of the coin, and pay them all the heed they deserve. These are the one's who will read of my relapse in composure with either an open mouth or tut of disdain and wonder; How someone could ever consider such a monstrous notion? If this accurately describes your thoughts then please read the following as if it were addressing you directly:

You're a cloud, cuckoo-land pansy and your children will grow up to be whores and rapists, perhaps not at the same time, though you may wish to suggest it to them as an enterprising business strategy.

My behaviour today may well have been the very first of it's kind, but I'd be a dirty, damned liar if I were to tell you that I've never before had to choke back bile on account of my sweet, little cherub's actions. The difference is, that in the past, I've always been able to keep a clear head till such times as the anger can be diffused effectively. (Ok, with the exception of one time. More on that in a bit) As a man, I share the sweet birthright of all my Y-chromosomed brethren. Being able to bottle up my rage till it can be slowly released through a cleansing ritual of some kind. The method of release varies greatly from guy to guy; Some punch a wall, some bust out the power tools for a DIY-fest, while for others, it can something as simple as bludgeoning a hooker to death before wearing her face like a hat. (I do hope the My-God's are still paying attention)

For my own mental upkeep though, there's no more effective cleanser than shooting things on my x-box while verbally abusing those who call themselves my friends. Each night, after the requisite chapter of Harry Potter and the fifteenth verses of Frere Jacques, I've always been able to shed the days woes with a healthy blend of head-shots and name-calling. (Incidentally, if you're reading this Ry, your face stinks of shit!) It's a ritual that sees me able to start each new day fresh, and free from parental anguish.

As a testament to the efficiency of my stress relieving method, let us review what it's allowed me to stomach in good humour over the past few weeks. You may wish to keep this list for future reference. I have no doubt that if used correctly, it could serve as an effective means of contraception.

Multiple instances of being told "I hate you!"
Drawing on the walls, furniture and her toys
Repeatedly staying awake past bedtime, almost till midnight
Trying to punch/ kick/ bite me whilst in the grip of a violent tantrum
Breaking her bedroom blind
Pretending to wet the bed with a small cup of water
And lastly, if there wasn't enough drawing for you, my TV also got it. Smiley face style!

The list pretty much says it all. Staying calm has not been an easy task for me of late. It's all very well having a structured plan for keeping my daughter's behaviour on the straight and narrow. It's quite another to stick with said plan when at your most base level all you want to do is go 'Hulk Smash' on all your inanimate belongings.

With what I've been enduring in good faith lately, you'd think that what eventually saw me pushed to the brink would have to be pretty bad right? Right?!? You would think that. The truth of the matter is my gasket was finally blown by a failed attempt at sneaking to the bathroom. Her fourth in an hour. This time it was to get a tissue. We all have limits and I had reached mine. I should probably explain that by this point it was a good two hours or so past her bedtime and I had now tucked her in on no less than three separate occasions. The saddest part of it all is that even pushed to the brink of my composure, I'm still rubbish at being an angry parent. As I stood hollering about how I couldn't take any more, letting all my unbridled rage flow from my mouth to her ears, I'm sure Julia left with the impression that I was only somewhat peeved. In the manner of one who has misplaced their keys. Or ran too much cold water in their bath by mistake. When it was all over she went back to bed and fell asleep minutes later. Just to add insult to injury. The fact remains thought that I was briefly driven by a strong despair to administer a well-placed smack and for that, I'm still awash with resentment.

To come back to the time when i first lost my cool as a father is a tale which takes us some three years or so back in to the past. If at this point, you wish to play the Doctor Who theme while wiggling you fingers in front of your eyes as you read, then by all means, be my guest (you big freak!). This was back in the days where Julia was still in night nappies and I had two, perfectly functional legs to call my own.

It all started one morning, when after getting up with my alarm for work, I made my way in to see if the little one was awake yet. Nothing could have prepared me for the scene of devastation that was her bedroom. Some nights I still wake up screaming with the image still burned into my retinas: Shit - as far as the eye could see. Stuck to everything and spread all over the room. There were brown smears on the walls, the carpets, the curtains and from where the appeal of constructing her own scatalogical theatre had wore off; even her toys. The true centrepiece of this grim gallery though, was undoubtedly the creator herself. Despite having put about enough poo to constitute redecorating she still, miraculously, had a nappy so full it almost sagged to her knees. Closer inspection revealed that she'd been so engrossed in all her hard work it had escaped her notice, that scratching your head or face with a handful of dooky is liable to see you end up with a head/face full of said dooky. And that it had.

Believe me when I say, that as unpleasant as I'm sure that was for you to read, it could never compare to the agony that was being in it's presence. More so, it could definitely never hold a candle to the act of cleaning it all up. The details, I'll be kind enough to spare you but should you ever need confirmation of the abhorrence consider the following:

I would sooner go and have another major bodily joint surgically replaced than wake up to that nightmare.

It's at around some point between the surveying and damage mitigation that many parents would have lifted a hand to their child in that scenario (once they'd finished vomiting naturally). Not me though. I decided the best way to ensure this didn't happen again was to explain to the small offender just how much damage had been caused. This seemed to take effect and by the time she was washed and dressed I had received both and apology and assurance that it would never happen again. Then, the very next time I woke up for work, it happened again. Every morning, again and again for almost two - fucking - weeks.

I think it was around day ten or eleven that I finally broke. We'd tried everything by that point. Pleading with her, screaming at her, we'd even performed a few small animal sacrifices in the hope that we would experience divine intervention from a smitten deity! Nothing seemed to take though. Her digestive system had very cruelly set itself to first thing in the morning and she'd decided to make the best of a bad situation. Each morning held the same devastation for us as the last. We started to fall into a routine. I'd stick The Great Poodini in a shower while Shell made a start on her room. Once I'd finished doing my best to prevent my daughter from smelling like an ass I lended a much needed help with everything else. The carpet got shampooed, walls had to be scrubbed and then re-painted, cuddly toys and bed-sheets were put in the washing machine. The great irony of it all, was that I had now reached a stage where I too started to feel like smearing my excrement on the walls.

I stumbled through to check on her before climbing into my morning shower, knowing full well the scene that would greet me before I'd even opened the door. There wasn't even any malice or anger in my actions at all. In the words of the immortal Popeye I'd just 'stood all I could stands and I can't stands no more'. I pointed at the areas where the bedrooms fresh coat of baby turd wwere most prominent. "Do you see that?" I asked. She nodded solemnly. "Do you see this?" I went on, now pointing at her slightly browner than usual sleeping quarters. Again, the nod came. So did my right hand. Fast. "I'm going to do that every time I come through and find you've done this to your room" I told her.

That was the last time I had to endure "The Brown Room Debacle" as it came to be known. By me. It was also the first and last time I've ever lifted my hand to my child, and despite the wildly successful results, I want it to be the last. Perhaps the natural order of things is that every parent will be faced with their own Brown Room Debacle at some time or another. It's how they deal with it that will inevitably see them shaped as a parent, and as a person. I can only remain optomistic that not too many more opportunites to snap will present themselves as time marches on. Sadly, things have been harder to deal with of late than ever before. My tolerance levels seem to have dropped to an all time low. I suspect it may have a great deal to do with an inevitable divorce looming on the horizon.

That, I feel, is a story for another day though. I'll try my best not to sit on this one for three years.

Hip Op, A Hippy To The Hop

2009-04-28T18:04:00.018+01:00

This would have been up sooner had it not been for the intense post-surgery pain keeping me from being able to sit at my computer for prolonged periods of time. That said, it didn't help in the slightest that I was teaching myself how to use the video editing software as I went along with it!

The fruit of my efforts then served both as a learning experience, and a documentation of my time spent in hospital.

The main thing to stick with me, from the whole affair of getting my new hip done, is that I now realise just how hard a time lies ahead of me if I decide to get my remaining three leg joints done in the same manner. Three weeks on from my day of surgery and the recovery process is really starting to take it's toll:

I'm sick of having to use crutches to get myself from A to B, I'm tired of feeling like a knob doing these pissy exercises daily, and I'm pretty sure that I'm starting to develop cabin fever (my wife's judgemental cheese plant even says I should be getting out more).

I'm scared. No - really!

2009-04-03T04:18:00.012+01:00

There's a few reasons as to why more of this site's content doesn't revolve around anecdotes and gripes from my day to day life. The first would be that, simply put, I don't think a detailed account of my belly button fluff's colour and consistency would make for good reading. The second stems from a reluctance of mine to wind up sounding like every ten-a-penny, shit-fest blog that stagnates the internet with it's mundanity. If you're lucky enough not to know what I'm talking about, just visit any blogger page and merrily peruse their's and other author's offerings with the "Next Blog" facility. What ensues will, I am sure, turn out to be no less than pure digital valium.

That said, there's one upcoming event from my life that I must take to the online stage, the very reason that I'm still here, slumped over my computer at this ungodly hour:

Today, I am having a hip replacement.

Consenting to this procedure has been a choice which has plagued my consciousness for some two years now. Even now as I sit here typing, mere hours before I'm due to be admitted for the operation itself, I can't help but feel awash with reluctance for the decision I've made. What if it goes wrong? What if I get an infection? Do I really want to set myself up now for a lifetime of decadely surgery? These are just some of the questions niggling away at every fibre of my being for the several thousandth time or so this past week.

At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I also can't seem to shake from my mind that there's a chance (albeit ever so small) that I could die today on the operating table. Grim as it may be, I've began thinking of things in terms of potential lasts: Last time I read my daughter a bedtime story, last time I hug my family good bye, last time I enjoy a nice pickle and cheese toasty or have a shave even! The thing I seem to be able to quickly remind myself of is that tomorrow's prospect of death could be even slimmer, if I change my schedule to sitting in my favourite armchair, eating biscuits and feeling my ass groove grow bigger.

I hope I'll look back on these words to consider myself ridiculous for thinking them in the first place, much less typing them. And I'm sure i will.

In the mean time, I hope you'll pardon the scared ramblings of a man who's reached his maximum occupancy for shear terror. All going well, I'll have an update within the week. Wish me luck.

Update (04/04/09): Hurting like hell but still kicking. Looks like you'll need to find another occasion to wear that swanky, new black tie! Come back soon for a blow by blow of my gripping ordeal. Up to and after, going under the knife.

For a limited time only - The Colossal McFuckup

2009-03-31T00:54:00.011+01:00

The endangered animals promotion is not my doing through editing trickery of any sort. It is genuinely, at the time of writing, the theme of the kid's happy meal.

I'd write more on the matter but I sustained a slight concussion during the implosion of my hand-held irony detector.

Atheism - Now With Less Thinking!

2009-01-25T15:23:00.009Z

It's carnal knowledge that in polite social gatherings there are certain topics regarded as conversational suicide. The two that most people will be quick to mention, are religion and politics. It's worth bearing in mind though, that should you ever find yourself on the bonny banks of Scotland, that we are a nation blessed enough to be gifted with a third confabulational danger zone: Football. Just take refuge in the fact that if someone is cruel enough to force upon you a diatribe regarding this third topic, it's invariably because they know piss all about the other two. Should you be lucky enough to have something shiny on your person at the time though, you can use this to distract them while you plan your get away. You may also find it beneficial to burn the building you met them before they make an exit of their own, so as to minimize recurring awkwardness. Entirely optional, but very funny.

People who discuss politics in public put me in mind of someone industriously treading the surface of a swimming pool filled of cow excrement: it'll stop them from drowning, but they'll still stink of shit for days afterwards.

Let me explain that rather grizzly, poorly constructed metaphor - for some people, it's not so much that they enjoy talking about the economic crisis or the latest shadow cabinet reshuffle, it simply serves for them as therapy. They know that their vote isn't worth an airborne fornication and they realise that no amount of heavy scowls laid upon the evening news will change the Country they live in, so they complain. Sadly for them most people aren't informed or insightful enough to discuss the edicts and workings of an entire Country without sounding like complete dicks (and I'll gladly include myself in that large group).

Think that's a little cynical? When was the last time someone seemed anxious to tell you how intelligently their tax money was spent? How often have you heard someone praise the efficient competency of the NHS system? People like to vent because it keeps them that one step further from a grizzly, mass killing spree.

Religion on the other hand, is something I can get behind with a deal of enthusiasm. It's an area in which I hold my views close with great personal regard and I seldom shy to air them out should the need arise. Oh, and did I mention I'm a raging, out loud and proud atheist? (Sorry mum, I know you wanted a raging, out loud and proud homosexual for a son, but surely two out of three must hold for something?) It's not something I wear on my sleeve, out to brandish in everyone's face but as it's a piece of personal dogma I've only been open about for a relatively short time I like to get as much mileage out of it as possible. Why only for a relatively short time? Well, let me enlighten you.

[Cue sepia-toned footage of a small, fat, curly-haired ginger child playing on a swing]

You see, I like many children before me was given the privilege of a good wholesome Christian upbringing. As such I was privy to all the inclusive perks: Morality, Sunday School, an ever loving God and the perpetual fear that if I so much as thought unwholesome thoughts, my immortal soul would burn forever in agonising, eternal torment.

I couldn't even attempt to clue you in the exact point in time where I made the transition from Christianity to Atheism. The reason being that there wasn't a penultimate moment in which my faith ceased to be. Truth be known it was a gradual process where as more and more questions arose, fewer answers seemed keen to be up to task. As it stopped being rational to leave lost teeth under my pillow for a small winged woman, it so too seemed unlikely that clasping my hands would turn me into a one-way communications device. I do however, recall a very early memory which may have been the first turn of the key that would eventually start the engine of disbelief...

If I were to take a guess at the age I am in this memory, I'd have to plump for around four or five. I'm in Sunday School and part of today's teaching involves everyone being handed a picture of a robed and bearded Jesus to colour. Being the anally retentive child I was, I reach for the only three crayons that I need; brown, pink and an nice off-white for his robe. After finishing I sit back to admire my work and am horrified to see the girl next to me's vision of Jesus Christ almighty includes green skin, pink hair and a multi-coloured robe. Naturally I did the decent thing and proceeded to tell her how fucking retarded she was:

"What are you doing? Jesus doesn't have green skin or pink hair! You're picture's wrong! You've done it wrong!"

Possibly sensing that a crayon in someones eye was at this point imminent, the Sunday School teacher intervened:

"But John, with Jesus there is no right and wrong answer. He can be any colour you want him to be" (Presumably she meant with the exception of black amiright?!)

With the scorn of a possibly well deserved smug look from the girl beside me still stinging, one sentiment prevailed over all others: "What a crock of shit!"

From then till now has been a long windy road, paved with inner conflict, doubt and muchos self resentment but I eventually became at one with something I'd known for most of my adult life. That there is no God.

As I sit here looking at that last sentence there's a small part of me that fears for my immortal soul. That, I suspect, is what's left of the small boy with the only three crayons he needs. I wonder if he'll ever go away.

Probably the most trying ordeal my new beliefs (or lack thereof) have presented me with came quite recently with the passing of my wife's grandfather. Not because I was so grief stricken that I longed for much older, easier answers but because it was my daughters first real encounter with loss and bereavement. Some three months on she still gets tearful about it. Wishes she could see him. wonders why the world could be so cruel as to take him away forever. It's hard enough to watch your child suffer for any reason, much less something that you know you couldn't help her with in any way. Or could I?

I can't help but construe it as unfair. My daughter has to settle for the cold hard truth while I could always take comfort with the thought of an eternal afterlife (where houses were made of marshmallows and farts smelled like freshly baked cinnamon rolls). I could soften the blow for her in an instant, with tales of angels, harps and clouds. To do so however would put me in quite a precarious position. To imply to her that there's a whole other existence follows after the one we enjoy now ends is quite a lot for a small mind to take in. It's something that's bound to stir up a maelstrom of questions each one which I'd have to provide an answer for that I. myself, would know to be a lie. To take this action I would basically have to bullshit my daughter at point blank range. Okay, if I make an honest correction; bullshit her for a circumstance that didn't involve a large, fat man dressed in red.

The situation I ultimately find myself in, is one where I'm deliberately withholding from my daughter, an alternative to being grief stricken for a loss she can barely understand. An alternative my relatives handed to me without reservation to ease my sadness and lighten my burden. That, to me, is just some of the baggage that comes from outgrowing your faith and seeing it replaced with a misanthropic cynicism for all things you can't caress with your own two eyeballs.

And then someone thought this was a good idea:

The picture you're looking at is of an advertisement printed on the side of a bus. It and over seven-hundred like it will be, as of this month, doing the rounds in Britain's major Cities. This comes after over quarter-of-a-million pounds was raised by anti-religious campaigners. The comment itself is so middle of the road it's hard to see how anyone could take issue with it:

"There's probably no God now stop worrying and enjoy your life"

Wow. Really? Was there more than one draft for this campaign before this final message was greenlit? How non-committal can one sentence be? What a shame buses aren't bigger or we could have seen their original vision realised:

"There's a good chance, once you weigh up all the evidence I mean, that there might not be a God. Therefore, it's fair to assume that it's not worth stressing about living in according with the teachings of the Bible. Unless you enjoy that sort of thing in which case, carry on. Sorry if I offended you. By the way, that coat looks smashing on you!"

As you've probably gathered I'm not exactly thrilled at the thought of this method being used to raise awareness for my daily dogma of choice. Where I mainly take issue is with the idea that people seem to feel a need to give Atheism a voice. Richard Dawkins (who I was surprised to discover contributed financially to this endeavor) summed up the idea of an organisation for Atheists quite nicely. I can't recall clearly enough to quote him exactly, but he said something to the tune that once you give a face to the ideals of Atheism it starts to become something it goes against the very idea of. What he meant by that, I feel, is that once you start an institute of any kind that deals with the lofty subject of individual ideology, there's very little that distinguishes you from the pointy buildings where the men in funny hats hang out.

That's not to say that's what this is though. A few words on the side of a bus is a far cry from setting up a counseling clinic the first retirement home for ex-deities of worship. It just seems to me that with things as they are presently, there's no-one to answer the questions this new wave of bus converts will inevitably have. There are no friendly faces to comfort them upon making this most onerous of decisions. Not at the moment anyway. You can bet your bumhole that as long as there's a steady stream of people having their "awareness raised" there will eventually be a governing body for them to put their name to. And that's about the point where I'll be driven to run out and punch a mentally retarded infant in protest.

From Wii to WMD (Weapon of Moderate Discipline)

2009-01-13T23:15:00.034Z

To say Nintendo has had a giant success with the Wii is, at this point, a little like saying Amy Winehouse is rather offensive to the eyes. For the uninitiated few, the Wii is a games console set apart from it's piers in that it's primary aim, thanks to it's unique controller, is to emulate the movements of your arms with a digital counterpart seen on-screen. The games you play through in this manner vary as far as tennis simulations where your every swing moves the racquet, to swashbuckling adventure games that see your every thrust passed over to the sword hand of the in-game protagonist. Since it's release back in '06 Nintendo have had a perpetual struggle to keep in line with the vast public demand, seeing it go on to dominate the "must have, can't get item" slot for two consecutive Christmases. Once the media's interest was aroused in early '07 (several months after the system's release) the little white wonder had started to snowball spectacuarly from the top of Mount Hype. Nintendo, then quick to realise how much they liked money, went on to score their second golden, Christmas goose with a recumbant counterpart to the main console: The Wii Fit board. As invariably happens with these "essential" Christmas items, several charming entrepreneurs (read as bastards) snatch up as many of said items as possible with the sole intent of making a killing on ebay. Upon a recent visit to Toys R Us, it was my sad misfortune to experience this shady practise from a little closer up than I was comfortable with.

Way back in August of last year was a time when one could hardly peruse any form of media without the senses being assaulted by the words "Wii" and "Fit". It was around then that myself and some significant others had decided to make a trip to our local Toys R Us (damn you qwerty keyboard layout and your lack of a jauntily back-to-front "R"). Not with the intent of picking one up per say, but merely for a "wee look" such as is the format adopted for most of our large, retail park based shopping. Imagine my first thoughts as we passed a crudely constructed cardboard display for the nation's favourite white, plastic oblong with an even cruder sign attached, excitedly exclaiming that they were "IN STOCK NOW!!!" My first thoughts were, naturally, why the sign maker felt it justified to use not one but three exclamation marks. As the grammar Nazi in me slowly relented though, the realisation started to dawn that I would be leaving this building some £69.99 poorer. A swiftly flagged down store assistant promptly confirmed that the message heralded by those exclamation points was in fact accurate. Accurate to the quantity of five in fact, and we set off to round up the rest of our party some two aisles away, the whole time deliberating over the necessity of this impulse purchase. No sooner had we made our return to the display, some forty-five seconds later, when we discovered the sign had been taken down and all the "take one for purchase" tickets had gone. Thankfully, before we got to lament our hesitancy to any great degree, the afore flagged assistant approached to tell us he'd had the foresight to set one aside due to their selling at an incredible rate. Wondering the whole way to the checkout as to how nearly half a dozen of these things could go so quickly, mid-week, in a practically deserted store, I soon found the answer waiting for us at the till. So were a couple of the dirtiest glares you could ever have the pleasure to fall between. At either side of us as we made our transaction with the cashier, so too were a couple of characters fitting the bill of the much loathed ebay capitalists mentioned above. I could only assume by the dose of full stereo malign I was being blasted with that two wasn't enough for each of them and at a mere fifty pounds profit each, who can blame them eh? They must collect at least that a week from the post office, all without having to spoil a single child's Christmas! It's days like that where you really feel the woes of being an atheist most; having no one to pray to, begging that they unleash swift, painful death upon the heathen of your request.

It''s hard to believe that it's been over a year now since I decided that I'd like to teach the world to shave, in perfect har-mon-ee. Seems like only yesterday since my inherent lack of knowledge for all things video editing compelled me to perform both parts shaving and narration in one continuous take. Not that you could ever tell or anything (yes I am being ironic). So it only seems apt that this year, in the spirit of the month of resolution (as are all the other ten-a-penny, sycophantic, publications and broadcasts; spouting claims of the secret to a "happier, slimmer you" that fucks with the sexual prowess of coked-up March hare too I have no doubt!) I now take you away from the face to a slightly more sensitive area: your children.

Chances are if you're amongst the lucky few to have thrown your dna at someone and had it stick then you have your own preconceived ideas about how the parenting thing goes down. The harsh reality of the matter is though, that most of you are doing it wrong and your children are little bastards. You know those endearing little quirks they have, such as spitting on your carpet, hitting other children and throwing wild, property damaging tantrums? That's not child-like high spirits. Those, my friend, are the anarchic fruits of your lazy half-assed parenting. I swear I could count the number of children I like that aren't mine on one single digit and even then it's the middle one. It seems like every child these days is either a spoiled, obnoxious, little mannerless delinquent or worse, an abusive,pouting, passive aggressive knuckle dragger depending on which side of the age bracket they fall into. Proof, if there was ever any required, that a TV is not a substitute for parental interaction and guidance. If you find your head hanging in shame as you read the above vitriol, know that you need do so no more. Swooping in like a narcotised superhero with a limp, I'll be using my mutant powers (the ability to create an impenetreble wall of solid text, able to withstand any impact) to guide you to being the parent of a child that should I ever happen to meet, I just might not fantasise about drowning afterwards. And that Wii thing you got to stop them chewing through their bedroom floorboards - We're going to need that and that live in babysitter you call a TV too. And if we're very lucky, you might not even need to beat them once.

The WMD method

I like to think I've always tried to steer my daughter along the right path since she became old enough to be influenced by my actions. My wife and I have always strived to ensure she uses her manners and understands why it's important to do so. We make sure that whenever she steps out of line that we present her with a consequence for that action. Not that we've reached the "organic only" stage yet or anything but we also try to ensure that she eats right and that fatty, sugary snacks are kept to an absolute minimum. My own personal mission though, much to my wife's protest, is that she's kept mentally stimulated at all times. This in particular can be taxing and tiresome as I seem to have conditioned myself to the belief that any time spent together that we're not glueing or drawing or reading, is time wasted. In spite of our best laid plans though, there's still the odd occasion where it all goes belly up due to the pesky irritant that is life itself. The trick is to not lose the thread altogether when that inevitably does (and will) happen.

What follows are some of the techniques that we use to keep as much order as possible to the intrinsic mayhem of our household. Know now that I have confidence in you to know your own child better than anyone else, and as such trust that you'll know which aspects of this plan pertain to the results that you are aiming for and which don't.

Carry on up the charts

Click to enlarge

The daily chart (pictured above, feel free to make your own or save mine with a right click of your mouse) is, by all accounts, the life blood of what I'm here playfully referring to as the WMD method. At the end of each day before starting the bedtime routine, I take my daughter to the kitchen where her chart is stuck to the fridge, proudly (or abashedly) on display for any visiting friends or relatives to see where praise or concern needs be dealt. Having the chart highlighted and discussed in this manner makes it seem all the more relevant and "real" to her than if it were purely confined to a brief discussion at the end of each day. The format, while a little overbearing at first glance, is really quite straight forward; Starting at the left of the current days row, I work my way through each topic discussing her performance in each before ultimately deciding if it was good, bad or just downright abhorrent.

Stickers

Should her behaviour have been up to standard then it gets rewarded with a sticker in the relevant box. What seems obvious now was not always so clear in the beginning so please know that if the sticker route is one you intend to follow, always ensure that you can fit at least four of them in a box first. This chart is, after all, to last for a whole month (The first time I put this scheme into play, I managed to land myself in a check mate, using large, almost box-sized butterfly stickers - not one of my smartest moments). Should it come to pass however that my little darling cherub's box-relative etiquette does not warrant a sticker, then I simply put nothing in the box at all. I follow this up by giving her an idea of what she can do to turn things around in time for tomorrow's chart-a-thon.

Unleashing the little white juggernaut

The Wii's part to play in this grand design is small but not to be undervalued. The only time it comes into play will be on a particularly good day, when a full house of stickers has been earned like as seen here:

It's now that we make a triumphant march to the living room and, with wii-mote in hand, switch on the TV. The Wii has a snazzy little photo editor program built in y'see and it is within this which we load up the monthly photo of our daughter's choosing for the month whereupon she is allowed to add one stamp of her preference (pink stars, every time!) to her picture wherever she sees fit to place it. If, on the last day of the month, the target of eight stars has been reached, she gets treated to an entire day of child-centric fun, making it entirely in her best interests to do so.

And now for the hard part...

Coming back to the chart you may now be left wondering why I glossed over what to do in the event of particularly egregious childhood behaviour and it's with good reason that I save it for last. This is possibly the most hard to bear part of the whole WMD method in that it involves making a very hard judgement call that invariably leaves me (and by extension you) in shaky standings with my offspring. I speak my dear protege of the dark act that is the removal of pink stars from the picture! Whenever I find my daughter in the situation that, in spite of multiple warnings she still insists on outrageous behaviour, I reach for a special book of stickers known simply as "the smelly foots!". Within the past year that I've been running this little set up for my daughter it's reached the point that the very mention of these dreaded stationary novelties roots her to the spot with fear. They're feared to the point, that in that twelve month period I'd be surprised if I've handed out more than 5, on the basis that a mere threat is enough to bring her back round to being a paragon of obedience. Those are some lofty credentials for a small, sticky piece of paper. It's for every one of these "smelly foots" that get added to the chart that a star is taken from the picture leaving her one step further from her goal. It's by happy coincidence that as well as acting as a deterrent from bad behaviour, they also ensure she doesn't get complacent should she reach her goal within the first few days of a month. It's imperative that smelly feet don't become a humdrum occurrence. I always threaten the lack of a sticker in a category before moving on to the threat of a smelly foot and make a point to always follow up on it. Cruel as it may seem, rationing them lets her remain a relatively unknown quantity and perpetuates an air of dreaded mystery leaving the message loud and clear: "You don't fuck with the smelly foots!"

And there you have it, the WMD method in a nutshell (albeit a very long nutshell). I'm sure that by now you'll have picked up on the fact that the Wii actually plays a very small part in the grand scheme of things. It wouldn't be the hardest task in the world to get a similar scheme up and running with a photo on your computer instead. Any basic editing software (even MSpaint) will afford you the luxury of some fun stamps to paste over your child's picture of preference. Running this, in tandem with the chart may just prove to be the best thing that you and your children ever did for each other. The categories of the chart are by no means set in stone and if you want to make your own then you'll find a blank template here. The great thing about this bare bones structure I found was that there's plenty of scope for organic growth between the system and your child. In the past few months I've brought in the concept of potential for cheeky, little bonus stars to be picked up for exceptionally good behaviour and, the stipulation, that any less than five stickers doesn't qualify for a bed-time story. Play around with it yourself, make it relevant to your own child and see what you come up with. There's still a few weeks left in January for you to get something organised for next month.

Failing that, ebay has has a cornucopia of interesting items for you to bludgeon small heads with.

Happy New Year indeed.

How the Google saved Christmas

2008-12-28T00:04:00.011Z

And so, the end of yet another year whizzes toward us at breakneck pace, but what have we learned? Debt is bad would be one lesson to take to heart. Another would be that if you're not a fan of disappointment, now would be a good time to stop counting down the days to your retirement. With all that behind the household of myself and countless others, it's easy to see why a bit of trouble may have been had getting into the Christmas spirit this year. Festive cheer is a phenomenon that's a lot of things to many different people. While some will settle for no less than carols and chestnut roasting by an open fire - in the compulsory, itchy sweatshirt depicting an endearingly deformed reindeer of course - others settle simply for a few days of feeling slightly less shit about themselves. The fashion to which I pitch my seasonal groove with jingle bells on is in a slightly more grounded manner; To relish in a pervasive, inner-fuzziness that throws my conscious mind, for a few precious moments, across a chasm decades wide. Whereupon it lands and greedily basks in a joy so simple, that it's a trial to explain it; something deep-rooted and primal that just makes every fibre of my being stand on end, screaming and overwhelmed by how fucking awesome Christmas is. This year, that feeling was to be the bane of my Christmas with it's resounding absence.

So what prompted my inner ho ho ho to get up and go go go? Maybe it's because Christmas never used to be a three-month-long celebration. Let's hold that statement to further scrutiny shall we? Three. Months. Long. As soon as the Halloween merchandise has even begun to fill the shelves it slowly creeps in; "Book now for Christmas" signs adorn the front of every eatery up and down the land. Selection boxes and toiletry gift sets accost you at every weekly shopping trip you make. The old lady across the road, who no-one ever visits because she reeks of piss, puts her candle bridge in the window, presumably with the tragic intent of attracting carol singers to talk to. Of course, the inevitable happens and by the time the much chronicled 12 days of Christmas roll, around your senses have been assaulted with no less than 5,000 megajoules of snowflake shaped lighting and enough coca cola ads to span the length of several feature films. (I shudder to contemplate the plight of those without a Sky+ box) Enough to see anyone well on their way to becoming a Dickensian caricature.

Perhaps my lack of goodwill to men stemmed from something as simple as my age. When the big three-O tentatively looms over your head like an angry balloon waiting to descend, it's little wonder a rotund man in red and white makes you think of heart disease faster than jolly gift-giving fun. My resolve remained strong though, after all, with my daughter now at the age of four this could easily be called her first "Real Christmas" and I felt it to be my duty to ensure she looks back on her Santa years with all the dewy eyed nostalgia I muster up every time I think of unwrapping that fresh copy of Super Mario Bros 3. It's silly to think that my enthusiasm levels could ever enhance or diminish the joy she yields from the sheer anticipation of presents galore, yet it still doesn't feel good to spend Christmas Eve thinking of it's daily successor as little more, than another drizzly Thursday.

Leave it to Google then to come through for me yet again, as it does whenever I reach a loss for masturbatory inspiration, with the Santa tracker. For those of you who missed it, I can only extend my commiserations and hope that you will now make use of your browsers bookmarking feature, better placing you for when the end of 2009 rolls around. Tracking Santa's planetary pit stops with Google maps, while a simple enough concept, was executed with such flare that it had my entire family of three crowded around our fifteen inch monitor. Imagine the scene as we revel in watching what was, in essence, a pixellated icon moving in synch with a fucking countdown timer! Do you think we cared? Not a jot. With baited breath we sat waiting for each video of his most recent departure to give us a lesson on the Christmas celebrations indigenous to that locale. I couldn't even bring myself to hate them for forcing me to learn as each successive factoid hit my cerebellum, locking itself away to be remembered forever. Did you know the Russians celebrate Christmas two weeks later than us? Me neither! There was something so delightfully cathartic in, at long last, feeling that Yuletide enthusiasm slot into place as I saw my daughter's smile brighten up every time Santa made another move closer to us. Before I knew it my Grinch like apprehensions had vacated my person only to leave me positively pissing brandy and shitting candy canes. It seemed my Christmas spirit had not been lost forever, only misplaced.

It could be viewed as unfortunate to think of me only getting into the swing of Santa's birthday for it to end so soon after, but sometimes a day is all you need. I seem to remember the term "Christmas blues" getting thrown around a lot back in the nineties. The term was used to describe bouts of depression certain individuals would experience after the holiday season had came to a close. It's hard to imagine such a thing existing in this consumer driven age where we're only every nine months away from it all starting all over again! I can understand how people may come to miss the opportunity to catch up with distant relatives. It's not too hard to imagine that they would mourn the passing of the party season and the chance to get a night out at the expense of their employer. To miss the annual occurrence of Christmas itself though, is something I just can't wrap my head around. To the select few who find themselves suffering from the Christmas blues though, may I suggest the following video as the one-stop elixir for your condition:

How can one children's toy so competently embody everything that is and ever will be wrong with the Christmas of the now. It's one thing to piddle on the memory of the baby Jesus, all but replacing him with the capitalism compliant Santa Claus. It's quite another to defecate in that replacements sack and sodomise his reindeer. It seems that's not only what the makers of the rapping Santa were going for but excelled in. With honours.

Suddenly next December doesn't seem too far off at all...

Wherever I run broadband, that's my home

2008-12-10T23:23:00.020Z

No-one tells you how stressful moving is. Granted, people do tend to gripe and complain about the tremendous strain it puts them under. It's likely that they'll declare their incredible relief when it all comes to an end. It's even possible they'll turn up at your door in the middle of the afternoon, eyes flooded with tears, pleading with you to help them make their move date as smudged mascara runs down their face like long, dark tendrils. If however, like me, you're too busy laughing as you poke at them through your letterbox with a sharpened pool cue, the message can sometimes fall on deaf ears. Moving is just something you have to experience for yourself before you can grasp the magnitude of the labour involved. Just to be clear here, I'm not talking about moving a few meagre possessions from one furnished flat to another, nor do I mean moving out of my parents house to stand on my own for the first time. The type of move I speak of here, is one of the arduous struggle between man (or as the scenario played out in my case; Wife) and furniture.

The Trouble is that when you have a pair of legs that function with all the flare of a quadriplegic rowing team, even the most rudimentary tasks can manifest as a weighty endeavour. Unsurprising then, that the vast majority of the donkey work should fall to the already precariously stacked workload of Shell. What then followed went on to be the longest month that I have known in my adult life. Not since the days of prying a chocolate a day from a Ninja Turtle themed advent calendar has a day taken so long to arrive. This was helped in no small part by the equal servings of help and hindrance lovingly doled out by my mother-in-law.Although an invaluable asset to the overall process of packing and moving, she seemed to take issue whenever we felt the need to through out any superfluous belongings, items I endearingly like to dub "shite". Sped up, and with a Benny Hill soundtrack, it could play out as workable comedy, to see me filling bin liner after bin liner as she surreptitiously follows behind, moving everything she deems salvageable into the boxes we set aside to take with us. Such was the extent of her prolific shite bag infiltration that we ended up having to hire a second van for stuff that, once unpacked, revealed itself to be mostly items we thought thrown out! Eventually though, after six weeks and an immeasurable number of marital fallouts later, we finally got ourselves moved successfully.

A swift change of living quarters is something we'd spent the past two years of our lives discussing. Much to my wife's dismay however, my end of the discussion mostly consisted of a series of "no"'s following to the crescendo of a prolonged sulk in my armchair. There were a number of reasons for my change of stance on the matter. Three alone of those being shitty neighbours. Leaving a home of five years though, isn't something you want to resort to on account of the misanthropic fuck hats you have to pass on route to and from your car and for that reason I'm glad to be able to say that I didn't. I moved to get away from eleven of the most obnoxious stairs to ever impede my toilet journeying progress (you just know it's time to vacate your living quarters when you start having to rationalise every urine expulsion to yourself as a critical emergency). Being all on one floor is like an extremely grounded dream come true. How could I have known that being able to up the productivity of my bladder would bring me so much joy? I can only hope the next five years my family spend growing together is as rewarding as the last.

So, if you haven't scanned ahead to work out the relevance of the above picture, you're probably at a loss as to what all this has to do with the picture of the car above. "Is it his car outside my new home?" you may well wonder. Why, how simply bland and pedestrian that would turn out to be! The purpose of the picture above can only be for one thing:

That's right folks, call it getting caught up in the festive spirit if you will, but h@h's been nabbed by that fuzzy feeling inside you normally come to associate with bygone years. Rather like when the bigger boys used to shove holly leaves down your underpants and make you sit down. What better way to get into the spirit of things than with festivities of our very own. Partaking in said festive cheer couldn't be simpler. Here's all you need to do to enter:

Study the above vehicle and registration plate number, you may even wish to write it down (don't worry, I'll wait while you grab a pen)
Scour the entire East Coast of Scotland until you find said car and smash fuck out of it with whatever item you can claim to hand, ideally, not with the owner still inside the vehicle or inside it but this is not an essential requirement.
Simply post your photographic evidence of said destruction on the photo hosting site of your choice and include your url in the comments system to this particular article. Please know that bonus points will be awarded for any creative types that manage to capture the vehicle's owner in a state of dismay upon returning to find the vehicle in the newly destroyed state.
All entries must be received by the end of January 09 however should you wish to enter the competition afterwards just for shits and giggles thereafter that will be fine with me.

Good luck! And a merry smashmas to all.

Watchable Kids Movies Part 2: Flushed Away - This feature hasn't circled the U-bend yet

2008-09-05T05:50:00.010+01:00

Back when I started the Watchable Kids Movies feature it was with one clear mission in mind; To ensure that any father, when faced with the inevitablity of sitting down to a family orientated movie with their children, would have a defense. A weapon, if you will, with which to cut through the overgrown mass of sycophantic, uninspired, morality-laden spunk tarts that children's cinema grows more turgid with each box office year. To ensure no parent would ever again have to endure another truly terrible children's movie. Air Bud Spikes Back is just such a creature.

Early this morning I found myself on the receiving end of all this feature had ever hoped to prevent. And suffer I did. One reckless channel surf was all it took for my daughter to cry out, smitten by the sight of a bounding golden retriever, for me to go back a channel to the big doggie. Knowing what agony my existence could well entail for the next hour and twenty minutes if I didn't think fast I told her she was mistaken, there was no big doggie, she must have imagined it. One snatched remote and two flicked channels later, she put a swift resolve on that argument. I never knew my four-year-old had such mastery of the Sky box interface.

Not even my morning dose of mass opiates was enough to numb the pain of this abhorrent abortion unto movie kind. If you're unfamiliar with the trend of the the straight to TV (read as "bin") Air Bud sequels and the original that kicked it all off, try to imagine a low budget version of last year's Firehouse Dog. If you've never heard of Firehouse Dog, try to imagine a big budget movie adaptation of The Littlest Hobo. The concept, drawing on two well used memes of children's cinema, is one part underdog team that ascends to victory, one part child befriends extraodinary animal/ creature, one part mundane, pedestrian script and writing. (I'd take the time to steer my vitriol towards the horrible, horrible title too but at this point it becomes not so much shooting fish in a barrel, as draining the water and watching them air drown)

God damn we get it already Hollywood! Good people who try hard will triumph over any adversity, while bad people seeking the easy path at the expense of others will get their just desserts (Quite literally, as it's always, invariably a fucking pie/cake to the face while everyone stands by and laughs) How about mixing things up a little? Perhaps a well scripted joke here or there, a plot that toys with the audiences expectations, engaging character development even! Kids are easy for Christ's sake! Make sure you have a squeaky voiced fluffy thing get in some screen time every twenty minutes or so, and they're happy. It's beyond me why there is any reason for these projects, with the art of the moving picture now being well over a century old, to not be aimed at least partway toward the people who are affecting the top line profits. Perhaps the reality is simply that the quick and easy buck will be favoured over the ambitious challenge every time.

However, like a shiny beacon of quality towering over a ravaged dystopia, proudly stand gems like Flushed Away, ensuring that the day for complete recreational despair, will always be tomorrow. Featuring genuinely impressive vocal performances from some A-list acting talent (and Kate Winslet) each scene becomes a joy to watch unfold. Aardman Animations (of Wallace and Gromit fame) effortlessly take their trademark artstyle into CGI territory for the first time, and the result is a visual feast from start to end. From the gusto-filled, Billy Idol-tracked, opening, to the familiar yet enthralling climax nearing the end, each scene heaves with snappy dialogue and well paced gags in equal measure. Even the mandatory "protaganist learns an important lesson of self" scenes are never dwelled on longer than needed before the comedic antics get back on track. Make sure you brace yourselves though, for the most eye-wateringly grueling scene of rodent genital torture you'll ever see played out in the name of comedy. You have been warned.

So now that we've established you'll like it, will it deliver for the kids on the squeaky-voiced fluffy thing department? Squeaky voiced, yes, but fluffy? Hardly, as the child friendly sweet spot comes in the form of singing slugs who make regular appearanes throughout the movie's underground sewer backdrop, proving with ease that not all singing in kids movies has to be gay or cringe-worthy.

In short, do yourself a favour and spend five of the smartest British pounds you could ever hope to part with, and keep Flushed Away tucked away as your ace in the hole. Lest you too, should suffer the eighty minute wrath of a large, sport-playing canine from your armchair.

You can thank me later.

Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? If he has any sense, his barber for one. Ba-doom-tish!

2008-09-04T00:10:00.008+01:00

I've retained, for the most part, a sceptical stance on the high profile relaunch that is Sky 1's bigger, sexier re-vamped Gladiators series. The show that we all remember so fondly from it's 90's heyday may well be back with all the amateur dramatics, pugil sticks and lycra unitards you can shake a giant foam finger at (yes even they make a triumphant return) And there's no disputing that the show plays out with all the high octane family flavoured fun of both the British original and it's patriotically named, trans-Atlantic counterpart "American Gladiators". Yet since it began earlier this year, every episode I've managed to take in, has left me wanting. The harsh, Scottish bellow of John Anderson still sounds just as harsh and Scottish as it did back when MC Hammer still had money in the bank, so we're no worse for wear in that department. And it would seem the presenters are almost modern day counterparts of their male and female predecessors being eye candy and ex-footballer in that order (That's proper football not "American football" for those keeping score at home) and being honest, if you flicked over just to see John Fashanu and Ulrika Jonnson together each week it could only be to ensure the contrast on your TV was still set properly. So if everything good has made the cut and nothing worthwhile or endearing has been taken away, then why are my feelings toward the new Gladiators so apathetic?
Alas, it seems that niggling, absent "Je ne sais pas" turns out to be something Sky couldn't give to me with all the money and resources in the world: A childhood. The realisation dawned on me earlier this evening as through the wonder of Sky plus, I caught up with the most recent instalment from Sunday; Gladiators: The Legends Return. Seeing some of my childhood heroes don the Lycra once again to face off against the now comparatively impudent, young team made me realise that the strongest premise this re-launched franchise had from the offset, was nostalgia. Nothing made this clearer than the man who made the 90's series what it was: The Wolfman. Curly head of receding locks or no, one pantomine worthy strop later I was taken back to the time of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Ghostbusters, and yes, even Roger Rabbit. Hunter may have been the shining paragon of the show's spirit but it was always more fun to be shocked by Wolf's complete lack of chivalry and frequent tantrums.

The Gladiators I look back on in my minds eye will always come with a large serving of eight year old me staying over at my Great Grampa's for the weekend. Such was the fashion that every Friday through to Sunday I'd spend the non school days with a relative who was all the fun of another kid with all the spending power of a parent rolled into one. Saturday night would always be the pinnacle of every visit for TV's blinding prime time line up: Such offering as Big Break, The Generation Game, Catchphrase and of course - Gladiators. There's something delightfully cathartic in looking back on a tragically curly haired, terminally freckle faced Me dancing to that glam rock-esqe theme tune in my Superted Pyjamas, almost catatonic with expectation for the 60 minutes of balls to the wall awsome that was about to be delivered, straight to my eyeballs.

Such memories do not come alone of course. Therein lies the delight to be had. Almost as satisfying a piece of nostalgia was the meal that would ceremoniously precede each night of cathode ray theatre. Back in the days before hydrogenated fats were at the forefront of everyones mind and the link between greasy foods and juvenile heart strain had been established, my grandfather would guiltlessly put down to me, a plate of king ribs and chips with lashings of tomato sauce and as much Irn Bru as my kidneys could comfortably turn into pee. Even knowing what I know now about both their meat (none) and fat (lots) content, there's still something so alluring about those king rib patties that my mouth waters as I type about them. If you'll excuse me now I'm going to jump in the car and see if such a thing as a 24-hour Farmfoods exists. Maybe I'll pre-heat the oven before I leave so I can start cooking them straight away when I get home...

The Death of the Social Nicety

2008-04-30T00:25:00.006+01:00

Neighbours, a wise theme tune tune once sang. Everybody needs good ones it maintained. It would then go on to proclaim unto us, with much harmonious fortitude that, with just a little understanding, we could find the perfect blend. Then Harold Bishop left and it became shit. Then he came back and it got even worse. Then, realising that it had fallen from being one of the top soaps in the Country to a ghastly, unwatchable disaster, Neighbours did the only decent thing it could have under the circumstances; it moved to Channel 5 where it would never be seen again by anyone. (Unless it was put on in place of House by mistake)

The trouble is, oh wise and omnipresent theme song, that I have strived, and in some cases, even believed I had achieved that fabled "perfect blend" with my geographical peers. It's just that I could now be likened to a small child beavering away to build the most elaborate sand castle on the beach, knowing the tide will soon come to undo my work. To tear it down as if it had never been. And it's coming in all too often lately. To the point where I no longer see the purpose in taking my bucket and spade to begin with.

My journey from being the fresh faced, smiling,wide-eyed new neighbour to the pessimistic curmudgeon who types these words you read, is a long one spanning five years. Here is one such highlight which, I promise, won't take you five years to read.(Unless anyone who went to my High School is reading this, in which case, it's a grim possibility)

Cat's the way (uh-huh, uh-huh) I like it
Several months upon moving into my bare shell of a rented property here in Scotland, my wife (then heavily pregnant girlfriend at the time) suggested that we should get a kitten. With me working every hour the kind management staff at Dixons could write on a rota, and our daughter at this point still several months away, I eventually conceded a kitten would make a good house mate for Shell in my hours of absence. A wife devoid of loneliness is a happy one I reasoned. It also did me good to think, that with a cat to interact with, she wouldn't need to hold the window cleaner back, taking him in for lengthy chats while I was out pushing consumer electronics.

Little more than a year into the cat's life cycle we began to have real problems with the old lady two doors to our left, feeding our fluffiest family member on a sometimes more than daily basis. The feeding I feel on reflection, we could have handled and for a long time did, yet things began to escalate as she started to keep the cat in overnight. At times, weeks would roll past when the cat had spent more time living at Cassà De Los Geriatric than it's own abode. When it became very clear that the 'ignore it and hope for the best approach' had failed me, I decided it was time to stick my nose in and break an old lady's heart with my rightful claim to possession. However, as I stood in the hall, gleefully straightening the brim of my special old person heartbreaking hat, ready to cross the threshold of my front door, it struck me; There was a much gentler way to hit this objectionable feline fancying on the head for good.

Reluctantly, passing Shell my esoteric headgear with an instruction to return it to the glass display case for another day, I made my way to the antiquated pussy plunderer's front door where it opened as I approached. It seemed old Wrinkly McCatsnatch had taken this exact moment to have to hurriedly be somewhere else to fall in line with a prior engagement. As I made a short walk with her, I explained that a recent trip to the vet had revealed my cat suffered from a rare medical condition and any deviation from a newly prescribed diet could cause it to die of bowel obstruction. Taking a moment to reflect on this information, the last piece of my masterplan slotted into place as she told me she would do her bit to ensure the cat's diet consisted of nothing but my (imaginary) medically prescribed, kitty cuisine. And then, all was well in the pet-related part of my world. Till the next day, less than twenty-four hours after I'd dropped the medical bombshell to my elderly adversary, while making my way to the car, I saw her beckoning my cat into her house with a large bowl of food.

Six months elapsed and it started to become apparent that we were fighting a losing battle. With the medical condition card played out no less than three more times in the form of a gentle reminder, it became apparent that our incontinent inconveniencier either didn't believe us, or simply didn't care. At this stage we were lucky if a week would elapse wherein the cat would pay us a visit much less stay overnight and when it did stay overnight, it would very kindly leave us the memento of a hot steaming shit behind the couch to clean up. From this it was only rational to deduce, that the old lady had bought the cat a litter tray so that she could keep it in for many days in succession, conditioning the cat into believing it lived with her, not us. The whole time the cat had been with us however, it had refused to use a litter tray, favouring the great outdoors (and in particular the part of it that contained my next door neighbours garden) as her own personal toilet. It became clear that the only decent thing to do now, would be to relinquish ownership of our family pet fully and hope that every so often we'd get the pleasure of seeing her pass by our front garden every once in a while. But seriously, when has doing the decent thing ever been fun?

One visit to the local listing site Gumtree was all it took before we found our ex-pet a brand new, and most importantly, geographically distant home, some fifty miles or so from where we presently reside. Things couldn't have played out any smoother as after arranging an end of week collection our cat swung by, and was subsequently nabbed from, our back garden the next again day. She was then kept in overnight and, as was now par for course, left us a steaming brown welcome gift to our new day, as we descended the staircase the next again morning. Early that afternoon the keen adopters of our once proud house pet arrived to take her away, by sheer dumb luck and happy coincidence, while our oldest neighbour was out of her house. For the real pay off I had to wait five long days, when, as I made my way back from the car I was confronted by a familiar, wrinkly face.

"Haven't seen the cat around for a while" She began. "Has she been with you by any chance?" She asked, almost as if I had some explaining to do if that was indeed the case.

The words almost danced with triumph as they made their way from my tongue to her ears, dripping with false empathy:

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I thought you might have guessed. Remember when I told you about that digestive condition Lenne had? I had to take her to the vet last week, absolutely floored with pain she was. Turns out she's managed to get food from somewhere that falls outwith her dietary needs and she was in such a bad way - That the vet had to put her down."

After telling me how sorry she was to hear the news she made an about turn and headed back into her house, hands up to her face as the grief set in with the realisation that she was a premeditated reckless cat killer. I too made my way back to the house. Removing my hat as I passed through the front door, I then made my way to the cloak room where I returned it to it's stand, in the glass case, and closed the door.

"That'll do hat. That'll do."

Pomegranates get the ugliest groupies

2008-03-31T22:51:00.003+01:00

The world of fruit is one in which I've happily come to think of myself as something of an eclectic. Not one to resist newcomers onto the scene or defiantly stick with what I grew up with, I like to think I'm an open audience to all types and styles that find their way to me. Not to say that there's anything wrong with those mainstream classics; L'Orange, Grape Bunch, Loose Apples or The Fair Trade Bananas. Contrarily, there's very good reason why those cats get all the airplay and lucrative promotion deals - They know their fanbase well and they give them what they want with such gut-busting delivery they leave them screaming for more long after the encore. I'd even be the first to admit there was a time in the mid-nineties where I could be seen pounding the schoolyard tarmac in my Reebok pumps adorned with side slung canvas backpack, the words 'Punnet O' Satsumas' embossed in fat black marker upon it, loudly proclaiming my fandom to all who cared to gaze upon my angst-filled little form (And if you knew me in High School it wasn't any of the girls, at least, none of the pretty ones) For me though, the world of fresh produce is one that becomes much more fulfilling to be in once you familiarize yourself with some of the slightly grungier, indie acts on offer. Consider if you will the fuzzy alternative Kiwi, the psychedelic charms of dragon fruit or perhaps even some up tempo mango.

Laboured metaphors aside, there wasn't always such a merry, symbiotic relationship with myself and my inner fruit enthusiast. Time would be that my fruit intake would consist of separating and spitting the sultanas out from a mouthful of wholesome, store-bought, microwavable curry. My cheerful progression towards a middle age beleaguered with certain obesity and heart disease was thrown into imbalance by an anecdote a family friend would lay down on me as a young, impressionable father. As a school teacher she'd went on to tell me - in a tone of nothing but concern and dismay for our own society - of how one of the pupils had been so thrilled with the school's "Try Something New Day" as it had allowed him to sample the delights of a food he'd never had before: A strawberry.

Since then there's been something of an ongoing crusade in my kitchen to keep it stocked with as many varied fruits as possible. A mission that brings a perpetual smile to the face of my three year old daughter, to whom no end of cherries, blueberries or strawberries is ever enough. That said my attempts to bring new entries into our weekly rotation are not always without the occasional catastrophe. For example, there was a period, not too long ago, where I would have advised everyone to avoid mango. "Mango's are shit. Don't ever eat one" is how I seem to remember it would go. I'd tell everyone I met while my traumatizing mango experience was still fresh in my head about what a tropical abortion it had been and how they should never, under any circumstances, eat one. More often than not they would just smile politely fearing for my mental state, and on one occasion I was even asked to leave the church, or they'd call the police. Then the tale of my encounter would find itself falling on the ears of my daughter's godfather. He only had one, rhetorical, opinion-changing question for me: "Don't tell me you ate the skin?"

The most recent mishap entry to be assimilated into my ever growing tasty fruit playlist, as you may have predicted by now, was the pomegranate. Not a mishap you understand where, as with the mango, I ate it in an inappropriate fashion - more so that the whole eating experience, once it came to an end, reaffirmed my comprehension that there are some naturally produced things in this world, which are also abysmally awful. A title I had always previously though was best reserved exclusively for use when describing the latest children's box office offering from Hollywood.

You see, Pomegranate: The Self-Proclaimed Superfruit had long since established me as a casual fan with it's accessible, easy listening crowd pleaser '100% Juice'. I decided it was only fair to see what joys were to be found with the fruit itself. Imagine my chagrin as I found the whole affair to be altogether quite far detached from where my hopes had lay. Despite having now at this point having eaten two of the things, I still have no idea what their redeeming, enjoyable qualities are supposed to be.

I suppose it's only fair to start with it's outward appearance. It's here that in a rather tenuous way we can find something to enjoy about the pomegranate right away. Just have a look at it. On first glance, before holding it to any further scrutiny doesn't it bear a striking resemblance to the household onion? There we are then. Aren't onions nice when chopped fried and sprinkled liberally over a cheeseburger? After that I swear to you there's nothing else I could even force myself to enjoy about this seed-laden disaster. The infrequent smatterings of flesh that can be found throughout, leave you with the impression you just ate the proceeds of a rather starchy leaf of lettuce that mated with an even more starchy piece of cardboard. Perhaps flesh bashing is superfluous though; everyone knows when you crack open a pomegranate, the arils are where all the action is at. Trouble is, with every tasty, juice-filled pod of redemption it puts your way there's an obnoxious, bitter little seed determined to ruin the fun for you. The juice is by far the most enjoyable trait to be found here but with the acrid flavour of the flesh and seeds aggressively seeking council with your taste buds throughout, it becomes a hollow victory at best. The question that presents itself though is this: Which is the best way to enjoy said juicy trait with minimal interruption from the fruits many bring-me-downs? The most obvious answer is to eat the pips themselves and spit out the offensive seeds yet this is cumbersome at best, nauseating at worst. Squashing them in a bowl with the back of a spoon seems to the best way to get things done, yet this sends rogue sprays of juice flying at your eyes, nostrils, clothes, walls and disgruntled family pets. The unfortunate thing for me was that by the time I'd put this technique into play my daughter had fetched a second spoon and began to enjoy lapping up the juice faster than I could procure it. This left me rather disgruntled, wearing the blood spattered look of a zombie apocalypse survivor and, with a stomach rather less full of sweetly sour juice than hers.

I'm assured by an oft relied on source of information that the pomegranates I ate owing to their bright red hue were in fact "bad ones" yet I'm still in no hurry to rush out and try a "good one". The only way I could ever see pomegranates working their way into my regular rotation would be on the condition that the non-bad ones, tasted at least 9000 times better and came packed with a crate-full of a less shit fruit, free of charge. I put it to you that the pomegranate is a dried out one hit wonder. A superfruit he may well be but it's a success story he owes to laying back, resting on his arils and letting the royalties roll in, from the one, big, juicy hit he had in his prime.

Sometimes you just can't hit the back button fast enough

2008-02-18T00:53:00.006Z

As if you need further be cautioned of the evils of the internet, feast your bandwidth ravaged pee-holes of the face on yesterday's literary genocide the daily mail's site managed to successfully fob off as journalism.

To be clear from the offset, I am not a frequenter of the Mail's site. Kerry Newman's article (link above and here again if you're as lazy as I think you are) is not about to change that. You may, if you haven't read it already (and I bet you still haven't bothered, you lethargic little sauce pot you) view it as a complement when I say it had me on more than one occasion, throwing my head back in laughter. How wrong you'd be though.

It would be all too easy to let this article turn into a long-winded diatribe about the tabloid's recently most favoured paper-selling uniped but in the immortal words of Charles Darwin: "There's enough of that shit going around lately". Heather Mills may be a self righteous parasite, unstable in every sense of the word (must...resist...cheap shot) and about to receive enough greenbacks to buy the knobbly bit of Italy all just from flexing those wonderful traits in the right place at the right time. The subject matter here however is Heather's equally parasitic ex-manicurist and the piece she wrote - I have no doubt using a chunky yellow crayon - for The Mail. Incidentally, that part about the long-winded diatribe - I'm making no promises.

Let's take our first look at the beginning of Kerry's (*barf-choke*) article whereupon she set's the scene to how she first laid eyes on Heather in a small cafe near Brighton:

"She was with her daughter Beatrice and her security guard and she was really running Paul McCartney down, saying he was trying to poison Beatrice against her and declaring: "It's all about the money for Paul." I thought it was a bit bad her letting every Tom, Dick and Harry hear that."

From the get-go it seems as if her shit-tastic skills of narrative would be reason enough to wish she'd go the way of a botched French tip. A whole paragraph later and she makes it clear she's not just a one-trick pony when it comes to reasons to hate her:

"I rang my partner Darren, told him about Heather being there and asked if he thought I should approach her with one of my business cards. He said: "Yeah, why not?"
It might seem a bit strange to be so forward, but for my job you have to get the word out."

So presumption is synonymous with success in the beauty game is it? I can only assume then, that she would have been just as quick to approach Bob and Jenny Jobseekers having a tiff over Bob's repeated swapping of the baby's milk tokens, for his latest shot of smack! Let's skip a little further down.

"When you tell people you're treating someone like that, it's "Oh my goodness." Name-dropping does help!"

Ah, thought so. Glad that's all cleared up then.

Kerry goes on to share her joy with us when Heather returns her call to arrange a gel overlay treatment. In the delusion that we, the reader, actually give a flying fuck as to what that could be, she goes on to enlightnen us:

"It's like a French manicure, but the gel sets hard and doesn't chip. A lot of celebrities have it. She also wanted a pedicure."

I feel it's worth mentioning that the last sentence of that quote was the first part that saw me let out a mirth filled little cackle. Reading even further on, I was rewarded with this chuckle-worthy titbit - A keen eyed insightful observation of hers from the sessions they would eventually come to share in later days:

"Heather always kept her prosthetic leg on, even when I treated her real leg."

Just when you thought you'd heard the very worst about crazy old Heather Mills. Be fooled no more Johnny Public for here she is reveling in all her pretentious, narcissistic glory. I thought I'd seen some wild stuff but keeping your false leg on when you're having a pedicure truly transcends all your precedent heinous acts Heather. What's your problem anyway? You do realise a prosthetic leg doesn't even have nails for her to... pedicure, if that's even the correct adjective, or are you so conceited you think you'll be able to pass it off as real? Doubling poor Kerry's workload not being a cause for her concern she remains too aloof to enter into what is surely the only appropriate etiquette for such a situation: To detach and discard her toenail-less prosthetic limb, dump it behind the couch, forget the standing on ceremony and let Mr Stumpy wiggle freely in her face while she works.
Sheesh. Sometimes you just have to spell it out for these people.

So what about the ex-member of the Fantastic Four himself, Sir Paul McCartney (I can never remember if he was the one made of brick or the one that could light himself on fire) was there any sightings of him while Heather's lifestyle revelations were being uncovered one by one? Herein for me lay a real knee slap moment as she puts this readers speculation to rest:

"There was never any evidence of Paul in the house, except for a few Beatles DVDs stacked by the TV."

There we have it then. Take caution my dear curvy-bottomed reader, for the next time you browse through your DVD rack and see the spine of your copy of Help or Yellow Submarine staring back at you, it's a surefire sign old Macca's lurking in the shadowy reaches of your home ready to strike at any moment. I pass my new found knowledge on to you, content to know that I may have saved you from the torturous time poor Heather went through. Unless of course you can't think of a better way to get that second swimming pool in your holiday home in which case I'd say sit back and just enjoy the ticket to ride.

From Loafing Around to Loafs Abound

2008-01-18T22:25:00.005Z

It's not very frequently I feel the compulsion to do something constructive with my time. Mainly this is for two reasons:

I'm usually narcotized to the point of rabid apathy, part of the territory that comes with being on enough pain medication to bring down a Boeing 747.
Any attempts to steer my temp-libre toward something fruitful, unconditionally involves leaving the womb like sanctity of my reclining armchair. (And let's face it, will probably continue to be the case till the world wises up and gives me one of them swanky red buttons like Bush has in his oval office)

It shouldn't come as much of a stretch then to imagine my lack of enthuse when my dearly beloved recently suggested a change to my regularly scheduled afternoon activities - examining the contents of my inner ear while reading aloud from erotic novels in my best Miss Piggy impersonation since you ask - and proposed instead that we bake a loaf. Naturally I leapt at the opportunity for some quality time with my wife or, as I like to think of her - if you'll permit me a moment's unrestrained gushing - my semen receptacle of preference.

I'd been aware that the bread maker had been quite the prolific appliance in our kitchen of late, having provided the fundamentals for many a jam and banana sandwich enjoyed by my daughter and I. Lamentably though, even with the occasional glance into the monolithic device's bowel, courtesy of the oval shaped porthole embedded in it's hinged lid, I'd never been able to establish how it worked. I suspected some manner of witchcraft was involved. It wouldn't be until some time shortly after the boulangerie bonanza had begun that my apprehensions of paganism were put to rest and some time again after that when the golden brown paragon of wholemeal tastiness emerged from it's toasty warm, tin, birth chamber.

Take the time again now to gaze upon it and know that what I came to savor that afternoon was not just the taste of yeast, sugar and brown flour but something greater. Yes, even if my preperational contribution was just to tip in the already measured ingredients as Shell handed them to me one by one, I was to know a much more stimulating feeling on my pallet; the sweet taste of accomplishment.

I'm drawn to remember a story of Jesus Christ from back in my Sunday School days whereupon he would take a blind beggar by the hand before turning him into a loaf and then proceed to feed 45,000 hungry orphans with said loaf.* I assure you, without bias, that my loaf held up with all the beauty and blind beggar deliciousness those orphans came to enjoy on that historic day.

I can only hope that the next time you clear your throat before reaching for your copy of Ignacio Noe's The Piano Tuner that you'll take a page out of my erotic book and put your efforts towards something that'll leave you smiling with a sense of accomplishment and inner-fulfillment. Failing that, you could always go lock the bathroom door and just have a good wank.

*Note to self; Consider writing and subsequent publishing of best selling novel: Jesus Christ - Evangelical Messiah or hobo-killing, mass orphan groomer?Disclaimer: All of the above content is written as a work of intended satire. Skipjimroo is in fact a devout (insert your religion here) and as such worships and prays to, the relevant Gods on a daily basis, except for Wednesdays due to the Dr Phil marathon taking up most of his afternoon. We at H@H thank you, as always, for reading and till next time, may Allah/God/Shiva/Buddha/The Hamburglar/Jehova (please circle your selected deity of worship(s) as appropriate) be with you.

Smooth As A Baby's Corneas

2008-01-02T02:52:00.002Z

With the holiday season already drawing to a close, now might be a good time to ask what's still on your festive "to do" list; one more night out on the town? Write out the thank you cards? Tea at Gran's, or maybe just torching the local orphanage before heading home for a quick cry in a stolen pair of your mother's leopard print pumps?

Whatever you find yourself cramming into that all too brief time between now and that ungodly return to another relentless year of the daily grind, you can rest assured that you'll be looking the shit with H@H's guide to the grooming of the face. I'll forgive you for wondering where my usual linguistic flair has vacated to when watching the above. I can assure you it would have been there in spades had it not been for the arrival of my friendly neighborhood delivery man with a bag full of MSG enriched goodness, moments after I'd hit the record button. The impending delights of shredded crispy chicken in honey and Chilli sauce was all I could think about from then on as I heard my wife answer the door.

Nonetheless, I still feel it holds up as a cogent grooming guide that will serve as a worthwhile watch to hairy-faced veterans and newcomers alike. If you haven't already now's a good time to hit play, and if your struggling for new year resolution inspiration- You could do a lot worse than implement a better grooming routine right in between your shower and your cornflakes.

Butter Her Up Like A Breadroll - The H@H guide to romancing your lady swift style

2007-12-05T00:47:00.005Z

Time to bring the hiatus to an end now and serve up another helping of Arial fonted wizardry that aspires to tip an age old paradox slightly more in your favor:

"Women need to feel loved to have sex and men need sex to feel loved."

Unless you're lucky enough to bunk up with a very heavy sleeper, this is a sad truth you have to contend with on a daily basis. What follows are some personal successes I will share with you, in an attempt to better aid your ability to at least rectify the first part of the above, with as little applied effort as possible.

Share little in-jokes

The cliché-ridden world of cinema would have us believe that in order to make the object of our affection gush and swoon like a Southern Belle, we would do well to make a coy reference to a prior act or statement shared by us both at an earlier time.

Case in point, see Moulin Rouge and it's memorable "Oh but a life without love, that's terrible" line. Such pedantic quotings are rarely necessary though so put away your notepad and untape that dictaphone from under the couch (In fact, best leave the later as is in order to better alleviate your fears about that young, strapping milkman that just started a route in your area.)

Fortunately the most mundane of exchanges hide within them the potential to build a grounding on which you can both share the occasional giggle. I for one couldn't imagine how my own marriage would be if it were to suddenly be robbed of the ever pervasive humorous nature it thrives on. You'll know way more readily than I the most effective comedy stylings to put into play. Consider one of my most recent household, chuckle catalysts: Whenever I find myself with a prime viewing of My Wife's ample double 'H' charms (Occasionally at times when she is unaware of it) I find myself breaking into a rousing chorus of "Booby, booby, booby, boobies, Ah-ah, ah-ah ah-aaaaaaaaaah" sung to the theme of a well known Kaiser Chiefs song.

It may be worthwhile to check in with her every now and again though, to ensure she actually finds your remarks funny. I'm often reminded of another little blues-esque number I used to sing to Michelle that's aim was to, in a playful way, make her reconsider doing something to which she'd already told me "no". The structure of it was such that I would unconditionally start with the words: "My baby's so bad to me, she no..." only to be completed with the insertion of the request she would not happily comply with: Make me a sandwich, run me a bath, clip my thick, yellow toe nails I'm sure you can let your imagination run wild with that one. It was only some ten months to a year later she would confide in me that she felt absolutely terrible every time I sang it to her. You can imagine how reprehensible that could have in turn made me feel were I any less a self-serving bastard!

To treat, to woo!

Everyone loves getting presents am I right? The feeling of contentment that washes over, from knowing that someone cares enough about you to unabashedly put those feelings in the form of a physical gesture. The best part about gift giving is that it's something that becomes a two way street once one of you takes the initiative on it. As much pleasure as it will bring to see the look of joy on her face, you'll appreciate it even more when soon after you're presented with that DVD box set you've been hinting at since it's release.

Don't fall into the trap of feeling like your latest offering isn't a true retail conquest unless it puts significant strain on your purse strings. This is an all too commonly believed fallacy perpetuated by the media's coverage of "glitzy" celebrity couples and their latest 24k, diamond encrusted display of their unrelenting affection towards each other (you'd think it'd be enough they starred in movies and adopted babies together) The very fact that you've made the time, and applied the effort, shows that you've thought about her and ultimately, that's the one department in which every lady loves to continually be reassured. There are some though, the exception to this rule if you will, to which none but the biggest sparkliest stone and the most high fashion designer labels will suffice. These are members of the fairer sex I have dubbed with the gentle moniker of "high-maintenance, ball busting ho-bag". Those of you presently cohabitating with a lady of this ilk have my deepest condolences. I can only hope that her immaculate grooming and big shiny smile comes as substantial constellation for all her idiosyncratic tediums.

Celebrate her arrival, lament how you both must be parted

Too many couples think it's acceptable to greet and split ways on a monosyllabic grunt so devoid of social airs and graces that it would make neanderthal man grimace. It's an all too frquent occurance and, let's be honest, one that there's really no justification for.

Riddle me this Batman: Exactly how the fuck do you expect to convey your feelings of affection toward your better half when the announcment of their exit or arrival evokes nothing more than a nasal grunt reminiscent of that which you would emmit while squeezing out a shit. For some couples, even grunting is too much of a social niceity to bear and they continue to deafen each other with silence until the inevitable time arrives whereupon circumstance compels them to converse.

Now I'm not about to suggest that your other half leaves her beloved trogladyte in the morning and returns in the evening to your best Clark Gable impression complete with smoking jacket and well oiled side parting. Start small and be realistic; Grunts to greetings, greetings to (mild,playful) gropings, gropings to, well you get the general idea, I'll stop there as this is a family orientated blog after all (that, and I'm starting to give myself a big raging hard on!). Up your game raise the bar and your ultimate vocation should be to make her feel she is a welcome,adored presence in your life. Something which sadly for too many women is a far off distant aspiration.

Regrettably there are no sure-fire tactics one can employ in order to get it right every time with relationships. There are some women for whom pleasantries such as the ones listed above would incite nothing more than a contempt fueled raise of the eyebrow much less fondly remember that fateful night they first saw you flailing your sweaty appendages down at the local discothèque. It's all I can do now to leave all the legwork to you, the sexy, huge-penised (or huge-vaginaed, who am I to judge?) reader in the hope that these humble lines of text will aid you in being better equipped at bringing joy to that special someone in your life and, if we're very lucky, the frequency with which they give you sweet Texan style humpings will go up accordingly.
Score!

Bedside Manuevers - Get them ladies rollin' with thawhide!

2007-10-16T22:38:00.017+01:00

Since the advent of man in the biblical utopia that was the garden of Eden man and woman have competed for dominance. Even Adam and Eve were not with their domestic upsets. Sadly, Eve had to endure an array of insults and hurtful jibes from her Y-chromosomed companion , anything ranging from "'Shurrup Rib face" to "Go fix me a sandwich, you dozy, apple-eating, bastard!"

Tame, you may think , by comparison to the horrors Adam would have to contend with. His beloved Eve would stretch out, spreadeagled across their sleeping quarters each night as she slept, leaving very little space for him to call his own and greatly diminishing the quality of his peaceful slumber. A trial his descendants would get all too well acquainted with. Even many generations later.
The point is that when you find your nights sleep interrupted by your significant others all too frequent attempts to conquer your side of the bed and claim it for themselves, it's not a pain you carry alone. Quite the contrary in fact, statistics I just made up just now show that at least 85% of modern men wish their partn.er wouldn't hog so much of the bed.

Here at H@H however we are nothing if not overrun with empathy for our fellow man. It is for that very reason that we now provide you with a bedroom maneuver that'll have you taking back your rightful sleeping arrangements with the merciless force of a viking horde at a children's birthday party (only without the balloon animals and cake)

Engaging The Thawhide

Let us, for the sake of illustration, picture that your small girlish bladder has inconvenienced you yet again by waking you for another late night trip to the bathroom. You make haste with your yellow deposit into the bank of toilet only to return and discover you now have significantly less bed to sleep on than when you left. It would seem that tonight your destined for another broken night's sleep come balancing act as you teeter on the edge of the bed. Then again, perhaps not...

Here's where it all begins, please note, I will be making the assumption that you sleep naked. If not then I'm afraid you'll have to part ways with you bright red, adult sized optimus prime jim-jams in order for this to be pulled off successfully. I really wish there could be another way but it's inevitable that every war must have it's casualties. Engage stealth tactics and quietly get yourself somewhere out of earshot where you can commence with phase one of the plan: Greatly reducing the temperature of your buttocks.

Phase one is imperative to the success of the plan so your home environment will very much affect the methods you can use to achieve sub-zero, posterior perfection. Have a cold bathroom? Back up against the porcelain of the sink for a while. Got a wine connoisseur in the family? Why not take a nice Pinot grigio fresh from the cooled wine rack and nestle it gently between your buttocks? The fact is there a number of means to the same end (no pun intended I swear) The only method I wouldn't condone is an excursion out into the back garden. Not only is strolling around stark, bollock naked ill-advised, it's liable to see you end up with indecent exposure charges or perhaps even itchy bite marks from nocturnal air-borne insects. From experience, I find the most effective results are had from briefly backing up against the inside of the freezer door.
Next comes phase two, the reconnaissance part. Having promptly made your way back to the bedroom, take a moment to let the eyes natural night vision survey the scene and work out the best insertion method for your newly attained weapon of mass annoyance. Now slide into position, lie parallel to your target with your back towards them and savour the moment because this is the time that lies between the anticipatory peak, and the pay off from all your efforts. Will your reward being a joyous night of spread out slumber or a night on the lumpy couch? One thrust of the bum against her bare flesh and all will be revealed I guess. Use it sparingly or you may find yourself reverting back to body temperature quicker than you would like. Quick, brutal and effective is the key, just like a cattle prod. Each touch will see her retreat further across the bed and while she may groan considerably, it's unlikely she'll wake up. Even if she does it's doubtful her initial conscious thought will be that your glacial derrière came about after much plotting and deliberate calculated effort.

Just be sure not to celebrate your deserved victory too riotously though, this is crucial. If showboating happens to be your thing however, you could always keep going till you put her out of the bed completely and steal the bed covers as your proud finale. Months of conditioning with this technique should see your special someone come around to start respecting the invisible mattress boundary line and your time in the land of nod will in time become something to cherish and look forward to.

Disclaimer: Neither H@H nor Skipjimroo can be held liable for your divorce and/or seperation that results from use of the Thawhide technique. By the reading of this post you forfeit all right to sue me and/or call me names in the street.

Snack My Kids Up!

2007-10-13T20:14:00.006+01:00

So let's picture the scenario; your selfish spouse or significant other is out enjoying the fruits of her latest successful break for freedom leaving the children expectantly looking to you for interaction and nourishment. To make matters worse the kitchen is several days overdue for its latest delivery from Mr Supermarket and the little, walking, migraines personified have kindly pointed out that it's lunch time, they're bored, and there's nothing to do.

No, no, don't reach for the contents at the back of the medicine cabinet yet, there is another way. Perhaps even, dare I say it, a better one. Fortunately for us there are certain inalienable truths that we can always come to rely on as our saving grace.
First of these is that in any kitchen, no matter where in the world it is or who it is in fact used or frequented by, a thorough foraging will always overturn the following items:

One small block of cheese
A single lonely tin of sweet corn
One or more pieces of bread, perhaps only fit for consumption after toasting
And lastly, always, for some odd reason, a yellow fruit-shaped squeezy bottle of lemon juice no-one can recall buying. We won't be needing that, I just felt it was worth taking this opportunity to highlight that anomaly

The second truth is that kids just love to be involved with the preparation of food on absolutely any level- my, my, sounds like a recipe for success indeed.

Here's the technical part, stick your piece(s) of bread under the grill to brown one side while you get the tin of sweetcorn opened and the cheese grated. Get your culinary protégé to pour the corn into a bowl while you negate the pointy dangers of the grater. Ah bless them, don't they just love to help?

With one side of the bread nice and brown, you want to get it out of the grill and onto a chopping board or wipe clean surface, now it's juniors turn to shine. Tell them to put as much sweetcorn on the bread as they want and top it all off with a generous spinkling of cheese. If you're child is more daring in the tastebud department or you fancy giving this snack a little kick for yourself to enjoy with them, a couple of splashes of worcester sauce will see you right.

Back under the grill and three minutes or so later should see a melty transformation take place, now you want to get it on to a plate whereupon mastication should ensue with immediate effect. It just serves as a happy coincidence that after spending the night enjoying a few ales this serves as the perfect pisshead snack when you find yourself outwith the vicinity of a local Pot Noodle distributer. Just make sure there's someone sober and conscious in the vicinity to switch off the grill should you wipe out in a puddle of your own saliva.

Watchable Kids Movies Part 1: Who Framed Roger Rabbit

2007-10-12T18:28:00.007+01:00

Let's kick things off with what I anticipate will return to be a regular feature on H@H

Amidst a sea of Ant Bully's and Monster House's, it can be hard to find a piece of cinematography these days that simultaneously keeps the kids on their ass and quiet while leaving you, the more discerning adult viewer, free from cancer of the eyes. It's both true and saddening that the majority of stuff Hollywood pumps out aimed at the younger demographic these days, has less depth than a small puddle of mouse pee.

This is why it may often, but not always, be necessary for us to go back to a time where the world of children's cinema was a finer temptress with a far tighter ass and much perkier breasts: The early nineties.

A mastery of the balance to which so many family films aspire, Roger Rabbit plays out effortlessly on both levels for viewers young and old. Until such time as it becomes perfectly legal to chloroform your young-uns when their antics become too much to contend with, we'll always fall back on the magic of the dvd to steal back those rare moments of tranquility we get to enjoy before that magical part of the evening, the sanctuary we know as bed time.

It should only be fair then, that you stick on something you can enjoy together. Fitting then that your teeny tyrants will be captivated with Roger's bright bow-tie and equally colourful supporting cast of cartoon favourites peppered throughout while you preoccupy yourself wondering just how wrong it is that a female cartoon character can put your underpant elastic under such duress. They can take in the seamless blend of stunning animation and live action, while you wonder to yourself is Donald Duck really is calling Daffy the "N" word.

In short, get it! Get it now and just be glad you did