Is it serious glue?

"Let's get some glue Mick,"

"Yes Dad, let's get some glue."

(Brilliant exposition of character there - so subtle you may not have noticed it if I hadn't pointed it out really crassly here)

"Shall we get that glue Mick?"

"Is it serious glue?"

"Yes Mick, It's serious glue."

"Ohhhh, I don't want serious glue. Is it serious glue?"

"Well Mick, it's fairly serious but it does have a playful side. If you tell it a joke per se it won't laugh but it does appreciate sarcasm and irony."

"Irony? And do we have irony at home?"

The girl next to us who is touching different types of A4 refill pad smirks. My job is done.

"Yes Mick, we have an infinite supply of irony at home."

He's a cheater, he cheats, he cheated.

It's a close call. Both number threes whizz into their positions on the floor. Blue three is slightly ahead of Red three.

"Cheater, cheater, cheater, you're cheating, you're a cheater, he's cheating, he's a cheater" says the boy with the glasses. He is in red team.

"Excuse me?" I say.

The boy with the glasses says nothing.

"Were you calling him a cheat?" 

"Yes." says the boy with the glasses.

"Can you remember what I warned you about at the beginning of the game?"

"Yes." says the boy with the glasses.

"Can you remind me what I said please?" 

"You said that calling people cheat or accusing people of cheating was against your rules."

"That's right. I don't want to hear any more of it. It's only a game."

"Ok."

The boy with the glasses turns to his friend. "He's a cheater, he cheats, he cheated."

"O.K. I asked you not to say that. If you can't play without conjugating the word "to cheat" you'll have to sit out and nobody wants that."

"O.K, sorry."

He stops calling the kid a cheat. I mentally congratulate myself for keeping everything in perspective and shout "SIX"

I knew instinctively that this would be my rake

This morning I got Mick dressed and we drove to B and Q to buy a new rake.

Hanging up in the garden section were many Leaf Rakes and Garden Rakes.

Leaf rakes are mainly for gathering leaves and garden rakes are for levelling soil. I intended to mainly gather leaves and branches and apples, not to level soil.

None of the rakes were cheap so buying one of each was not an option. Well, not an option I could afford.

I didn't know what to do so I rang Polly up and she said "Just get one rake, a leaf rake." (This is paraphrasing. She said other things too like "Hello, hello, hello" because the answering machine kicked in before she picked up)

I looked at all the leaf rakes on their hangers. There was an excellent choice of rakes.

First I considered B and Q's own make of rake. It was retailing at £11.98. It had quite a narrow head, but other than this I was happy with it.

Then I looked at the other rakess. They were all retailing at £19.98. This suddenly threw new light upon the price of B and Q's own make of rake. Why were all the other rakes retailing at £19.98? What was wrong with B and Q's own make of rake that it only cost £11.98?

I went to B and Q's own rake and touched it with my hand. I lifted it out of it's hanging hooks but was suddenly overwhelmed with the possibility that a rake for only £11.98 would be a false economy when compared to a rake for £19.98.

I did a couple of rake tests. First of all I kind of jiggled it up and down in my hand, probably three times. Then I touched the end of the handle on the floor. I touched it once, then twice. Then I touched the end of the tines with my finger. I then put it back.

My tests had been pretty thorough and confirmed exactly what I had suspected - an £11.98 rake simply would not do.

I decided to investigate the rakes that cost £19.98. I took the widest one available off of the shelf and looked at it. The tines were made of plastic. This put me off. I thought it looked as if it would break very quickly. I put it straight back on the shelf. No further tests.

Then I looked at the rake that I was to purchase.

I knew instinctively that this would be my rake for three important reasons:

1) The rake was made by Wilkinson Sword, a company who are famous for making products that are brilliant at scraping. I didn't know that they made rakes too, but I was pleased to see a rake with a brand that I recognized.

2) The rake had a handle made of FSC certified wood and a sticker on it which said "10 year guarantee."

3) The rake was a rake that I liked.

I then looked at another Wilkinson Sword rake which had a carbon steel handle. I decided that I preferred wood because it was more natural and looked better - qualities that I was discovering were essential for me in a rake.

I then saw a rake for £4.98. It was an adjustable rake. It had a very short handle and one of the rakes was lying on the floor as if a customer had taken it off the shelf and thrown it down in disgust.

I reached for the Wilkinson Sword rake with a wooden handle, turned around to Mick, said "We'll get this rake," and picked the Wilkinson Sword rake with a wooden handle off the hanger.

As I picked it off the shelf I pitched it slightly up in the air whilst twisting my wrist to make the rake do a one hundred and eighty degree turn before catching it.

Cool moves, cool rake, cool guy.

As I walked off I spotted an enormous garden rake that I'd not noticed before. It was very wide - maybe 50cm wide - but in the shape of a garden rake. It was so gigantic that it stopped me in my tracks. I walked back to it and stood in front of it, staring. It was called a "landscaping rake". There was only one on the shelf. I looked at it in enchantment, thinking "that is a very very wide rake, probably the widest rake I've ever seen, maybe I should buy that rake then I will own the widest rake I've ever seen, and I will feel total rake happiness and fulfillment in a way I've never felt before." Unfortunately one of the tines was bent. As there were no other landscaping rakes available I decided to settle for my Wilkinson Sword rake with a wooden handle.

It now strkes me that I spent a very long time standing on a floor staring up at rakes this morning in a way that was reminiscent of Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters. Except with rakes.

It was raining when I arrived at home so instead of cutting the hedges I raked up all the windfall apples on our lawn. I made them into two piles on the garden.

As I raked I noticed that I liked everything about the rake apart from the way it felt as I raked and the way it raked things up.

I was suprised by this. Then I remembered that I don't really like raking.

After gathering up the apples in piles I put the rake back in the shed. It seemed very new and smooth against the darker, more weary woods of the older spades and hoes.

Different types of flavours of crisps

If it wasn't for people wanting to know about different types of flavours of crisps, this blog would be dead.

However, loads of people want to know about the different types of flavours of crisps.

Here, for those people, they are. If you don't want to know about the different types of flavours of crisps, for your own sake, go somewhere else.

The different types of flavours of crisps are:

Salt and vinegar
Prawn Cock
Disgusting

I GOT A PINK ONE, I GOT A PINK ONE, A PINK ONE, A PINK ONE, I GOT A PINK ONE!

We are at my parents. We are staying over. Polly and I are unfolding the kids bed and having a good argument.

"Can you pull the bed out 1cm?" says Polly.

"No, do you think you could possibly perhaps maybe just put the fucking sheet on the fucking bed without doing a strategical reorganisation of the bedroom?" I say not unreasonably. Or charmingly.

Meanwhile Mum and Dad have arrived in the bedroom. It's quite a small bedroom - just about big enough for a double bed once it's pulled out - with a very low ceiling.

"Is it too warm?" shouts Mum.

"I don't think so, do you think it's too warm?" says Dad

"I don't know, it might be too warm, but I'm not too sure, what do you think?" says Polly

"I don't know if it's too warm. Look, can we just focus on these sheets for fuck's sake?" I say.

"David," shouts Mum

"Don't say that David," says Dad.

"I'm sorry, I'm just a bit too hot," I say.

"It is hot in here, isn't it, maybe it's too hot?" says Mum.

"I don't think it's too hot, do you think it's too hot?" asks Polly.

"WHY IS EVERYONE ASKING IF IT'S TOO HOT? I DON'T UNDERSTAND, WHY DOESN'T SOMEONE JUST TURN DOWN THE SODDING RADIATOR," I shout.

Everyone starts shouting at once.

"DAVID, STOP IT,"

"ROS, TURN IT DOWN, IT'S TOO HOT,"

"IS IT TOO HOT? IS THE RADIATOR TOO HOT? IS IT TOO HOT? DO WE NEED TO TURN IT DOWN?"

"TURN IT DOWN, JUST TURN IT DOWN,"

"THE SHEET, JUST GET THE SHEET ON,"

Just at the point that I think I am actually going to die from a haemmorrhage brought on by the sheer mental challenge of trying to work out if we should turn down the radiator, the door crashes open and Mick comes running into the room.

"I GOT A PINK ONE, I GOT A PINK ONE, A PINK ONE, A PINK ONE, I GOT A PINK ONE!"

He is holding a pink one above his head.

As one, we all turn and look at Mick, grin and chorus..

"Have you got a pink one Mick?"

Today

1) I decided that when nothing really happens like a story I will just do boring blogs like this one.

2) I drove to school and got very worried that I was going to be late as the traffic was quite slow on the A14. I was supposed to be on playground duty at 8.30 but I was still sitting on the A14 at 8.22. I got very very anxious and thought about ringing people at school to warn them but the traffic was still moving and I didn't want to break the law or die in a crash so I just sat tight, looking at the clock every 20 seconds and composing excuses and scenarios for when I was late.

Luckily though the traffic sped up and I got into school at 8.30, so the moral is if you are feeling worried about something, don't worry about it because it definitely won't happen. This is now my new philosophy in life.

3) I taught a very interesting lesson where we looked at leaflets and listed all the different features that are common in leaflets and wrote them into our books. So, if you've been worried about the future sparcity of leaflet writers, don't. It's covered.

4) I taught about fractions. Some fractions equal other fractions, and when you add one fraction to another fraction you get a different fraction. Sometimes fractions can be simplified. Fractions are more difficult to learn than they are to teach.

5) I ate a very small ham sandwich with some lettuce and some avocado. It was ok. Then I surfed the internet for games that we could play in the hall this afternoon, as our normal games lesson was off due to the infant sports day. I got about 10 really good games off of the internet and printed them all out. It took me about twenty minutes. I was pretty stoked about this and excited about our fun afternoon.

6) I went into the staffroom to drink a cup of coffee but there wasn't any so I had a cup of water. It was ok. It was cold and tasted like water. I then overheard a teacher saying "We're in the hall all afternoon" and I said "Are you in the hall all afternoon?" and they said "Yes." and I said "O.k. then I won't do PE in the hall all afternoon I guess." and they said "Sorry" and I said "No problem," and did loads of thumbs ups and smiling to indicate that it wasn't a problem, but it was a problem as it meant that I'd just wasted 20 minutes finding games on the internet and printing them all out.

This taught me that if you don't worry about something and relax and look forward to it, it will all turn to dust around your fingertips, so never get excited or anticipate anything being any good ever. I have revised my earlier philosophy to include this learning.

7) We played the games I had planned for the hall in the playground. It was OK. Only one child was bleeding by the end of the afternoon.

8) I drove home and cooked some salmon and courgettes and pasta for the children's supper. I was pretty stoked about having been so organised.

9) The kids came home and said "I don't want to eat tea, I want to watch TV." then ate about 1 mouthful of the food I cooked them and then watched TV.

See, that was a wicked day of fun wasn't it? Now I'm going to put the children to bed and cook supper.

It is more exciting than being dead.

There are fifty different types of crisps.

"Have you got anything?" Elly says.

I look at her and think "Oh shit, I haven't got anything. The next 17 minutes of my life are going to be fairly challenging. Try to distract her."

"Look here, can you see in this picture? It's you, Shellfish and Ipod when you were all in Reception!"

I've been flicking through a book of "Early Years Photographs" that are on the table outside the school hall where I wait for Elly to finish Drama club. I am dissapointed to find loads of photographs of Elly thus shattering the illusion I've bitterly created that nobody at the school realises that Elly is alive.

"Daddy, look at ME Daddy, Daddy, have you got anything?" she asks.

"Umm, look, I've got something to tell you. I've left your box of smarties at home. We'll have to pop in at home on the way to collect Mick,"

"Don't do a joke Daddy, It's not funny." says Elly.

"It's not a joke," I say.

Elly's bottom lip immediately starts to quiver.

"Stop that. We're going straight home to get your Smarties, unless you kick up a massive fuss, in which case there'll be nothing."

I am Superdad. Or a cock. You decide.

"O.K." she shoves her thumb into her mouth and starts stamping towards the car, each footstep drilling a message of hatred towards me through the concrete.

"No, you don't walk like that, you walk normally, otherwise no smarties."

"O.K." she takes my hand and we walk to the car. As I open the car up I notice 2p on the seat and say "Elly, I've got 2p. Shall we go to the shop and buy a 2p sweet or two 1p sweets and skip the Smarties?"

"YES, Oh yes Daddy, 2p. A 2p sweet. Or two 1p sweets. They've got 1p sweets and they've got 2p sweets. I don't know what to get." Elly is giggling and skipping towards the sweet shop.

This is brilliant. I really am not a cock. I really am a Superdad. Instead of a big box of Smarties Elly is going to have just 2 little milk bottles which will fool her into contentedness . I am doing my two favourite things - buying sweets and conning my daughter.

I truly am the shit.

Emphasis on the am.

Notice use of "the" and not "a"

We walk into the sweetshop and turn to where the wall of 1p and 2p sweets are.

It is full of crisps. There are fifty different types of crisps.

When did crisps become so diverse? It's as if the shop has some kind of equal opportunities policy that's been extended to the world of crisps. "Here at Mace we believe that every crisp flavour should have an equal opportunity to reach it's full market potential,"

Seems a bit ethnic cleansing to do it at the expense of the 1p and 2p sweets though.

"First they came for the 1p and 2p sweets,
And I didn't speak up because I wasn't particularly fond of 1p and 2p sweets,"

Good. I can use that bit for stand up. And then have to make a joke about how I knew all along that it wasn't particularly funny when nobody laughs. On with the story...

"Oh look Elly, they've got crisps where the 2p and 1p sweets used to be."

"OH NO, NO DADDY, NO," Elly's thumb shoots into her mouth and she starts trembling silently.

"Come on, we'll go straight home and get the smarties from there.

We walk out of the shop and she begins crying a crescendo of misery until her body is wracked with sobs. After about 10metres she stops walking and screams "I CAN'T WAIT FOR MY SMARTIES THOUGH DADDY, I JUST CAN'T WAIT...I HATE YOU, I REALLY REALLY HATE YOU."

I stand and look at her. This is really so unfair. I was trying to do something nice, I was totally up for spending the 2p on sweets, it was going to be brilliant. Who exactly are these idiots who demand fifty different types of crisps? Where are the 1p and 2p sweets? Why can't there be any consistency in this shit world? Can't a shopkeeper show some commitment to the sanity of people like me who make blind yet not unreasonable promises to their kids? Is that really too much to request?

Yes.

In my head I summarise the situation.

Elly is screaming.

Elly wants some Smarties.

I intended originally to give her some Smarties.

I have no Smarties.

I only have 2p.

Summarising in my head isn't really helping Elly to stop screaming.

I approach Elly, kneel down opposite her, reach out to her shoulders and look deeply into her eyes. Then I say to her, very gently...

"Elly, listen, I really want to get you some sweets but I haven't got any money so this is what I'm going to do," I glance from side to side up and down the street and then look back into her eyes and whisper "I'm going to go into that shop and I'm going to steal you some Smarties."

"What?"

"Don't tell anybody, ever, but I know how to do it. I can just go in there Elly and I can steal some sweets. If the shopkeeper catches me I could get into a lot of trouble with the police, but I really need to get you some sweets and I haven't got any money, so let's go and do this."

"No Daddy, no, you can't steal."

"Why not?"

"It's wrong."

"I know, but come on," I pull her towards the shop. "You really need these Smarties, I can see that because you're so sad. I've never done it before but I'm sure I could get away with it. If I get in trouble I don't care. As long as your happy. Let's go."

Elly looks at me, with an expression on her face that I've never seen before. It dawns on me that it is pity. My six year old is pitying me.

"Daddy, no, it's wrong to steal Smarties. Let's go and get some from home."

As I drive off she says to me "Daddy, I know you were joking about doing the stealing. Now put your seatbelt on."

We're all having a lovely laugh.

"Daddy, we have to take a drink into school."

"What?"

"We have to take a drink into school. For the summer fete."

"What kind of drink? Do you have to take alcohol or normal drinks?"

"I don't know."

"O.K, I'll ask Mrs Winston." I say. It wouldn't do to take in a drink of barley water if everyone else was bringing in a bottle of wine. The shame of it would be too apalling, and the last thing I want is to feel embarrassed, ever.



"Hello Mrs Winston,"

"Hello Elly's Dad."

"Hello Mrs Winston's parent helper,"

"Hello Elly's Dad."

"Now, Mrs Winston, this summer fete, Elly tells me that you need a bottle of drink, but we're very worried about the contents of said bottle."

"Oh, don't worry, it can be anything."

"Anything?" I ask.

"Absoutely anything as long as it's liquid" says Mrs Winston, laughing a little.

"Absoutely anything as long as it's liquid?" I ask, incredulously. This is too good a setup to waste.

Mrs Winston laughs properly.

Mrs Winston's parent helper laughs too.

This is great. We're all having a lovely laugh.

"That's great. I've got a lovely big bottle of Rohypnol at home. I'll bring that in shall I?"



The laughter stops. Instantly.

"Ok. Thanks a lot. Say thank-you Mick," I say and leave the classroom.

When was the last time you had a nice glass of barley water?

Please come round the side,

We had supper on the patio last night. On the table on the patio. Not on the patio. I didn't throw the food on the patio and shout "Polly, we're going to eat on the patio tonight, like dogs. Dogs who eat aubergine and chickpeas and granary bread."

Anyway, that would be eating off the patio.

We ate off plates whilst sitting at the patio table last night. A woman was coming over to pick up our underbed boxes that we had put on Cambridge Freecycle. Worried that I wouldn't hear the bell I scribbled a quick note for the front door.

It read

"We are in the garden, please come round the side.

Unless you are a burglar.

If you are a burglar, please fuck off.

Thankyou."

I was torn between this and "If you are a burglar, try next door, they've got a Lexus and everything."

OK

Really quickly, because I want to read my book, but I also really want to tell all one of you this hilarious story.

On Tuesday we all went swimming. When we change we pair up. I changed with Mick this time and Elly changed with Polly.

When Mick and I finished getting changed we walked out to see Elly sitting in the Cafe. This is the council swimming pool and it has the mandatory council swimming pool cafe which sells Jacket Potatoes and has two packets of crisps in a bowl by the till and has a banana and and apple and an orange all sitting in a "display" on top of the hot food display cabinet. Look at the beautiful picture I paint with merely a few words.

The cafe is busy. It's half term and there's loads of kids and mums around.

Elly is sitting all alone at the table. She is sitting up as straight as she can, being "a very good girl," She is being such a very good girl that she's trembling with happiness at being a good girl. If you could read her brains they would probably be saying something about being as good as a princess or a ballerina.

My first thought is "Polly must be dead." It's my default interpretation for the unexpectedly missing matriachal figure. I always used to look for Mum's car on my way home from school and if Mum's car wasn't there I'd think "Nana Minnie must be dead, great excuse," and then I'd get in to find a note saying "I am at John Lewis, bad luck, you'll only have your horrifcally adolescent obsession with sexual intercourse to blame for getting C C E in your A levels,"

Then I think "No, Polly is probably not dead. She must be buying some food," I look towards the food counter but Polly isn't there.

I approach Elly and say "I can't see Mummy anywhere Elly,"

Elly sits up very straight and says "Mummy is at the toilet."

I look around and think "That's really bad Polly, you can't leave Elly sitting all alone in a public place, this just isn't responsible parenting."

I think this for 4 seconds, before I suddenly think "BRILLIANT OPPORTUNITY."

"Elly, quick, get your coat, let's all go and hide,"

Elly looks at me, lowers her eyes, smiles condescendingly and says

"I'm not allowed."

"What? What do you mean you're not allowed?"

"Mummy said that when you said that we should go and I hide I have to say that I'm not allowed."

Sometimes it's as if my wife knows me.

Affluenza by Oliver James is the most important book ever written.

Yes. I got a new computer. When I plug things in it works straight away. Unlike the acer aspire 3662 that I used to have. That was a really bad computer. It never worked.

I am in Brighton. It is good. We have no children with us and we're not missing them.

Check out this ironic photograph.



Let's count the ways of Irony.

1) It is ironic because the book is called affluenza yet the sticker is encouraging me to buy more than one book.

2) It is ironic because I took it on my brand new mobile phone which isn't really that much better than my perfectly good old mobile phone.

3) It is ironic because the function of a mobile phone is primarily to communicate with people through the medium of phone call. In that case I may as well carry around a little stick and call that a mobile phone. I'd probably use it to make more calls. At least then I'd only have to speak to imaginary people.

4) It is ironic because this is my second brand new mobile phone in two weeks as I threw my last mobile phone into my toilet. I wish I had done a poo in the toilet first, but I hadn't, so the story is pretty futile. It goes like this "I was walking into the toilet. It was 5.45 in the morning. I pressed the email icon on the screen then lost my grip on the phone. It dropped into the toilet. I fished it out. I dried it on a tea towel. I put the tea towel in the dirty washing. I went back to bed. I phoned my insurance. I went into town and got another phone." If only I'd done a poo. It would be a much more entertaining story then because I could add the words "I had to put my hand into the poo. I had to wipe the poo off using some toilet paper," That would be a blast.

5) It is ironic because I really wanted to buy the book although I didn't need it.

6) It is ironic because the font is double spaced with massive amount of white space all around it so it is twice as big as it needs to be.

7) It is ironic because as soon as I saw the front cover I went and purchased a white suit and a briefcase and a shirt with coloured splodges on it and then I forced Polly buy a white suit and a green scarf.

8) And Polly cut all her hair off and I brought a wig. We look like dicks but we feel as if we did the right thing.

9) It is ironic because the title encapsulates the entire book and probably says everything you need to know about the subject, thus rendering the entire book obsolete.

10) It is ironic because Influenza is an illness where you lie on a couch and stare at the ceiling, often wearing no clothes and crying a little bit, whereas Affluenza is not an illness, it is a made up word, made up by Oliver James in order to make his book sound zeitgeisty and cutting edge and therefore to sell his ideas to us.

11) It is ironic because I haven't read the book yet I am slagging it off, which is the sort of habit I disapprove of. Unless I'm doing it. Then it is HILARIOUS.

12) It is ironic because by the very nature of me writing "Affluenza" and "Oliver James" again and again I will end up advertising the book and perhaps selling a copy or two.

13) It is ironic because Oliver James will probably google himself and see this blog and then he will write a new book called "Ironyfluenza" and it will be all about me and he will make loads of money. Out of me.

13) It is ironic because I purchased it.

Once I have read this book I will write the following review:

"Affluenza by Oliver James is the most important book ever written. YOU MUST BUY THIS BOOK. And then you must buy a copy of this book for everyone you know and tell them to buy a copy of the book for everyone you know. And then you must buy this book again and leave it lying around your house. Especially when they reprint it in another format or with a new cover. "

(I didn't buy it. I might get it out of the library. It's non-fiction so I should be able to get it held and sent to my local branch)

I drive home.

"We've got to book the holiday David," says Polly to me as we drive back from Thetford forest.

Elly has spent the last hour howling with despair because the 43p she brought with her wasn't enough to buy anything at the shop. She's been really screaming and it's been pretty much totally embarrassing and unbearable.

Screaming like this has a kind of mind searing effect which wrenches any fun that's been had previously in the day out of your soul and replaces it with blind and furious hatred of everything in the world. Ever.

Elly sobs from the back of the car.

"Yeah, that'll be right Polly. That's definitely what I want to do. I want to do this, every day, for ten days and spend one thousand three hundred pounds doing it."

Suddenly the car jerks forward. Polly has slammed her foot on the accelerator and is driving like Gene Hunt. I really am quite scared.

"Polly, please don't kill us all."

"WELL I MAY AS WELL, I TRY TO SAY SOMETHING POSITIVE AND ALL YOU DO IS BE REALLY NEGATIVE, I MAY AS WELL KILL US ALL THAN LIVE LIKE THIS,"

Polly is incredibly angry. She's really shouting this at the top of her voice. The last time she shouted at me like this was six years ago and we had to go and buy new crockery. I think there is a 24% chance that she will kill us all.

"Well Polly, if you're going to do it could you try to do it just on your side? Or wait until we get that brilliant insurance policy we were talking about the other night?"

Polly pulls over, gets out of the car and leans against a fence.

I go over and stand next to her. I poke her on the shoulder with my index finger. This is definitely the most comforting of all gestures.

We look back into the car. Elly is bent over in her car seat, wracking with sobs.

She says "Why does she do it?"

I say "Probably because she's five years old."

We sigh and giggle a bit.

I drive home.

(Theives threw a brick though my window last night and stole my laptop and my ipod, hence the lack of pictures)

Bow down to the master of distraction, suckers.

"Put the number 3 back and take a small one," says Polly.

"No, my is giving the number 3 for Daddy," says Mick, proffering the number 3 shaped biscuit at me.

"I don't want it, put it back please," I say.

Mick walks up to the cooling rack and puts the small biscuit that we gave him permission to eat back. He keeps the enormous number 3 biscuit that he's been specifically forbidden from eating in his hand. He's got a look on his face which says "I fooled you all. Now I shall eat the massive number 3 biscuit and none of you will notice. Bow down to the master of distraction, suckers."


I walk over to take the number 3 biscuit out of his hand. As he sees me coming he grabs it so tight that the biscuit explodes. He crumples to the floor and starts crying in humiliated despair.


"Ha Ha Mick," says Elly.

I walk over to Elly who has her own biscuit, take the remaining biscuit out of her hand and put it back on the cooling rack.

"No, Daddy, I'm sorry, please give me back the biscuit." she whimpers.

I feel terrible because she's only had pancakes at after school club plus two pancakes with golden syrup once she got home plus half a 3 biscuit.

Poor kid.

"No, you shouldn't say "Ha Ha Mick," to Mick when he's crying. It's really cruel."

She moans a defeated "Oh,", walks into the hall and sits on the stairs.


Five minutes later we hear her start to cry.

"Oh, I can't do anything, I can't even play on Cbeebies."

"Oh, I can't do anything, I can't even play on Cbeebies."

"Oh, I can't do anything, I can't even..."

"Yeah, I can hear you," I say.

"Daddy, please can I play on Cbeebies?" she says, although because she's crying so much it sounds like "Da had ad ad eee eee eee, ple hease ca haan I play hay eh hay eh hay or hon sea bee hee bees?"

"No Elly, No,"

"Why not Daddy?"

I rack my brains for a way out. I consider "It's O.K. with me, but you'll have to run it past Mum first" which I learnt from Polly the other day, but decide against it.

"Wait here, I just need to get the instruction manual for how to look after you that they gave us when you were born," I say, jumping up to find a childcare manual.

"Polly, have you seen the instruction manual for the children?" I say.

"Which one?" she asks.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, I found it," I say, pulling down the NCT Complete Book of Unrealistic Expectation and opening it at random.

"O.K. Elly, lets see what the instruction manual says, let's see - ah here it is, listen to this - "If your child is crying whilst asking for something you must never give it to her. If you do, you will break your child."

Elly fixes me with a helpless look. She suspects that I'm lying to her but that she also understands that she has no way of verifying this.


She sighs, stops crying, turns away in disgust and walks off.

I look down at the book in my hands. The page says "Remember, you are the adult, you owe it to your child to treat her with love and, most importantly, honesty."


I made that last bit up. The book really said "If the object is sharp or quite large, call your doctor for advice." but that doesn't really resonate as harmoniously.

I am a cycle pistol.

“Where are you going?” says Polly.

I am turning left on autopilot from Hills Road into Cherry Hinton Road on my bicycle, really enjoying the concrete cycle filter which even has it’s own traffic light just for bicycles. The light is green so I am luxuriating in my unimpeded and enhanced cycling experience until Polly shouts at me and I remember that we had discussed earlier the necessary route of cycling along Hills Road instead of going down Cherry Hinton Road because Cherry Hinton Road can be rather congested and dangerous, especially with the kids on the back of the bike.

“Shit, I am going the wrong way,” I say.

I slow down and watch Polly cycle off into the distance. I’m trapped in the filter and try to work out how to get out of it. Mick is on the back of the bike so I can’t bump up and down the kerb. I don’t want to push the bike backwards because the extra weight of Mick tends to make the bike behave in odd ways. The safest way is to continue forwards and try to cycle back round into the main road without killing myself or my child.

Before I can divert, a woman with blond hair and shades steps in front of my bike. She doesn’t notice me because she is focused entirely upon her mobile phone. She’s so engrossed that she’s not realised that the bike traffic light is green, that she is standing on the road or that I am about to cycle into her leg and arm and head.

Her boyfriend shouts at her to be careful. She looks up, notices me, shrugs then looks back down at her phone and carries on walking. No apology, no skip run, absolutely no reaction to indicate that she’s sorry for walking in front of me even though I’m on a green light.

I try to think of some really clever things to shout and come up with the following options:

“Excuse me, unless you are texting “I am standing in front of a bike even though there is a green light for bikes” then your text is very inappropriate.”

Or

“Hey, See that green light, it has a picture of a bike, not an idiot doing texting on a mobile phone,”

Or

“Thanks a lot, the prospect of having to start my bike again from standing for no real reason other than that you’re crossing the road whilst doing a text has helped me to appreciate just how brilliant momentum really is.”

None of these seem snappy or bitchy enough so I weigh up the following possibility…

“FUCK OFF,”

When this one pops into my head I get very excited. It seems to me that this is one of those rare occaisions in life where I have a completely legitimate case for being allowed to shout fuck off at a person.

My weighing up process goes like this.

I am on a bike (plus)

I have a toddler on the bike (plus)

I am on a bike lane especially designed for bikes (plus)

The bike traffic light is on green (plus)

The woman is standing in the bike lane even though it is a green light (plus)

The woman hasn’t apologised or made any effort to accept that she is in the wrong and I am in the right (plus)

I calculate this to be six plus points to no minus points. As far as I can see there is absolutely no reason at all why I shouldn’t shout fuck off at this woman. I am totally elated. I pull back my shoulders and inflate my lungs, but suddenly a strange kind of calmness washes over me and a voice inside my head says “This woman is a total idiot, but you have a chance not to be. Why don’t you just try not shouting fuck off at the woman and see what happens?”

The voice in my head is right. Reluctantly I acquiese to it’s suggestion. I stare after the woman and watch her boyfriend shake his head.

The road is now clear but the bike traffic light has gone red so I have to wait. Every second I wait is a second that I berate myself “David, you should have shouted “FUCK OFF,” at her. You would have been so cool, shouting “FUCK OFF,” at her. You would have been just like the Sex Pistols on Bill Grundy. That would have really taught her a lesson. Oh why didn’t you shout “FUCK OFF,” at her? No wonder you were never in the Sex Pistols - you don’t know how to indiscriminately shout “FUCK OFF,” at people do you? You great big loser.”

Eventually the light goes green and I find my way back to my route. I cycle towards Polly along Hills Road cycle path, which is an small section of the road with a painted line and an icon of a bicycle painted on it. She is waiting for me just opposite Hills Road College.

As I cycle towards her she shouts “BE CAREFUL DAVID,”

She is shouting “BE CAREFUL DAVID,” because a Jaguar is pulling out of it’s drive and has nosed forward across the pavement and into the cycle lane just ahead of me.

I look at the Jaguar and pretend to be confused.

I slow down to a pathetic wobble, and then at the point where my bike is central to the Jaguar’s bonnet I pretend that I am concentrating so hard on trying to stay in the cycle path that I have to put my foot down on the floor in order to retain my balance.

I really ham it up, pointing my tongue out of my mouth in concentration, and putting my hand out to apologise to the Jaguar, mouthing “Sorry,” at the driver, but the driver is ignoring my performance.

I figure that the God of cycling has given me the Jaguar as a reward for my good behaviour towards the idiot woman so I simply stop my bike and wait for him to look at me, and then I point at the road mouthing “You’ve stopped over the cycle lane,”

He looks at me and mouths “I know,” as if he is really bored, but I can see that despite his insouciant air he is a beaten shell of an old man.

I am a cycle pistol.

Oh! (pretending to be surprised in the hope he won't get eyes rolled in a heartbreakingly irritated way at him)

Tonight's evening meal went like a dream.

That dream when you wake up in the morning and think to yourself "Oh my God, I killed all my family in my dream," and all day long you feel terrible anxiety and trauma but you can't remember why. Then you remember that you killed your family and you shudder with grief. Then you remember that you didn't actually kill your family, that it was only a dream and you sigh in relief only for the whole thing to repeat itself about thirty minutes later, all day long.

When I picked Mick up from Nursery he had six peppermint creams on a plate. I said "Lovely Mick, look at those lovely peppermint creams, thank God you finally moved out of that rubbish old room into a room where they do good stuff."

(I feel strange about typing God because I know my mum will be reading this and she hates it if you write "God" on a piece of paper because you are supposed to write G-d in case you destroy the paper and you destroy God's name. What about this then? Are these pixels real? Do you destroy God's name if you navigate away from this page? Perhaps you'd better just leave this page open forever, just in case.)

Martine said "Ha Ha Ha,"

I said "Are you going to share those Mick?"

"No, not share them," Mick says.


"Ha Ha Ha," says Martine.

"Ha Ha Ha, Yum Yum, Lovely Peppermint Creams!" I say, thinking to myself "I wish I could throw those peppermint creams in the bin. Those peppermint creams are absolutely the worst things that have ever been made ever."

I arranged for Polly to pick up Fish and Chips on the way home because we're out of food and I can't be bothered to cook tonight. Nigel says that's alright in "Appetite" where he writes a rule of "Don't cook every single day," although his latest book probably says "A day without cooking is a day without joy." or a more porno version of that (hello peverets doing searches for porno, I can see you through my stats).

Halfway through the meal it all kicks off because Elly really wants a desert but hates fish and chips and everyone else likes their meal but she doesn't. Mick meanwhile is remembering that the peppermint creams are his desert and he doesn't want to share them with anyone.

At this point I spot my dictaphone and hit "record" thinking it will make a good blog.

Elly: We're going to have two each, one for you one for me, one for you and one for me.

Mick: (pouting) No

Polly: Right, I tell you what Mick, because you've got a letter "M" there... (points to the cream in the shape of the letter M)

Mick: (shouting) No...

Polly: (voice raising an octave in brave enthusiasm) Oooh, you've got an M and a T.

Mick: No, I want, I want to eat 'em all, (with increasing anger) eat 'em all, eat 'em all.

(Polly distributes the peppermint creams between the two children)

Mick: (crying in outrage) No, NO!!!

Polly: Right Mick, yours go in the bin.

(Polly walks out of the room with the two plates of creams in her hand.)

Elly: (crying, as if a horse she loves has died) Mick's got more than me I don't even...

Mick: No, No, (crying) u huugh u huugh, waaaugh, No, (Screaming) I'm not. Put it out the bin, I want them.

Elly: Waaaagh, ahaaagh, ahaaagh, kehugh, ahaaagh,

Mick: Ugh huugh, ugh huugh,

Polly: (walking back into the room with the plates) Are you ready to start sharing them?

Mick: (mournfully) I'm not.

Polly: Ok, well then I'm going to put them in the bin.

Elly: Ahaaaagh, eeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh, errrrrrgh.

Mick: I want one.

Polly: Are you stopping crying Elly? Do you want one rather than none?

(Elly nods her head and starts eating her peppermint creams)

Mick: (standing up on his chair and grabbing helplessly at the air in front of him) Uuuuuuuuuuur huuuuuuuuur, no, ho those are mine, ho, (proper, full blown screaming) aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh, aaaaaaaaaaagh, no, no, no give me back Elly, no, give me back, no, give me back, I want you to give me back, no, no, give me back Daddy...

David: You need to share your food.

Mick: No, Don't.

David: Yeah, you do,

Mick, No, don't, aaaeeeaaaggh, aaaeeeaaagh, aaaeeeaaaggh, aaaaeeeaaagh... (this continues rhythmically every half second through the rest of the dialogue)

Polly: (spotting the dictaphone) What's going on with this? Why's it on?

David: (pretending to be surprised in the hope he won't get eyes rolled in a heartbreakingly irritated way at him) Oh!

Polly: Are you recording all this?

David: Yes

Polly: Why?

David: (guiltily shrugging) Make a good blog?

Polly: For fuck's sake, would you turn it off?

It was a brilliant day.

I woke up at 5.20 and pretended I couldn't hear Mick crying until Polly got up to get him.

Then I remembered that I am reading Jpod at the moment so I jumped out of bed, scooped Mick out of her arms saying "It's O.K. Polly, I'll get up with him, you get to sleep," and generally behaved as if I was the best dad in the world for about 10 seconds, then took Mick downstairs, put the telly on, lay on the sofa and read Jpod.

Then I went to work at a school I've never worked at before.

I taught that decimal fractions are really difficult to teach. Then I taught that the general concept of fractions can be made into really boring posters. Then I taught that Alcohol is really bad.

This third thing was my favourite thing to teach. On the notes it said "Describe some of the bad effects of alcohol (impairs driving, double vision, reduced inhibition)"

Stay away from that booze kids, you might do something you really want to do and end up a bit happier.

At lunchtime I read Jpod again.

Then I did some more teaching.

I taught that it's really hard to read a book that's too difficult for you to read, then I taught that it is frustrating to devise and rehearse a choral glockenspiel piece with percussion in a room full of other children who are also devising and rehearsing choral glockenspiel pieces, then I taught that the nrich maths website has hundreds of really challenging activities on it but tic tac toe and noughts and crosses are the best.

It was a brilliant day.

Then I came home and put some Jacket Potatoes in the oven, read Jpod again and went to pick up Mick from his nursery.

I made an excellent joke at Nursery. This is how it went.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello" said the Playleader in Mick's room. Let's call her Martine, which is her name.

"Did he have a good day?" I said.

"Yes," said Martine.

"Did Polly tell you about his hospital appointment on Monday?" I said.

"Yes," said Martine.

(Don't worry if you don't find all this hilarious, the joke is about to happen. You will know when it happens because you'll laugh your ass off)

"Mick did that today," said Martine, gesturing at a wall display of people made out of card and paper plates with a guitar made out of a cardboard box and strings.

"All by himself?" I said.

"No, other children helped him," said Martine.

"Oh. Please don't let other children work with him, he is a very gifted child, they probably ruined that work." I said (that is the first brilliant joke)

"Ha Ha Ha," said Martine.

"Did he do that one too?" I said, pointing to an alligator on the wall made out of egg boxes "You have to watch out leaving stuff about like that, he's awfully prodigious," (that is the second brilliant joke)

"Ha Ha Ha," said Martine.

"What about those computers? Did he build those for you? Mick, have you been upgrading the CPU for the Flamingos? Did you reconfigure the motherboards?" (Flamingos is the name of the room he is in. This is the third absolutely brilliant joke)

"I pity this child," said Martine.

Then I went to pick Elly up from her ballet class. That was also really hilarious because when I went to pick her up the people I went to pick her up from thought that they had lost her, but they hadn't, there was just a communication gap. Whilst I knew that they hadn't lost her the person in charge where I went to pick her up from didn't and she turned white and started shaking.

It was very funny, but also very terrible for the person who thought they had got my daughter kidnapped so I didn't laugh out loud. Instead I said "Don't worry, I've only come to get her coat, I know where she is, she's O.K." and generally acted like a mature thirty six year old, for about the second time in my life.

Then Mick and I picked Elly up and put her in the car and drove home.

Then Elly and Mick watched In the Night Garden and I read Jpod until I had finished reading the book.

Then Elly ate her Jacket Potato as if she was eating the most delicious meal in the world, groaning and closing her eyes with pleasure as she ate. I had to keep trying not to cry because a) the night before I'd made her pan fried fillets of mackerel with peas and new potatoes and she hated it, but tonight I threw a potato in the oven and she thought I was Gordon Ramsay b) it was really late thanks to me mis-timing the potatoes and c) I had been up since 5.30 and was beginning to feel tired.

Then I put them to bed.

Then I wrote "Bouncy Castles, Bouncy Castles, Bouncy fucking Castles..." in preparation for a stand up routine about bouncy castles.

Then Polly came home.

If it's any consolation, I hate the faux naive convention of starting a disproportionate number of paragraphs with the word "then" even more than you do.

Daddy, we're going to Pizza Express for a school trip.

"What?"

"We're going to Pizza Express for a school trip."

"To Pizza Express?"

"Yes Daddy,"

"For a school trip?"

"Yes Daddy,"

"Is this the form?"

"Yes Daddy,"

"I'll fill it out today and you can take it in tomorrow."

"Oh, thankyou Daddy."

I am playing

Nanaca Crash!

Hence lack of blog action.

Today I ate too much spaghetti bolognese. I ate my adult portion. Then I ate another adult portion. Then I ate Elly's leftovers. Then I put some more meat sauce in the bowl and ate that. Then I ate two wooden spoonfuls of meat sauce whilst standing over the pan.

After this I took the kids up to get them ready for bed. They ambushed me at the top of the stairs, jumped on me and rode me as if I was their donkey bitch.

I was so full of spaghetti bolognese that I couldn't do anything except giggle in a high pitched effeminate way and cry out "NO, PLEASE STOP" repeatedly. At times my back was hurting, not in an achy way but in a sharp painful way like something was seriously wrong.

I was genuinely overpowered by their donkey riding mania and I thought to myself "There is a very real possibility that my children are going to kill me in the next five minutes."

Eventually I stopped crying out and merely concentrated on trying not to puke.

I saved myself by shouting "Who wants to watch In The Night Garden?"

While we watched In The Night Garden Mick jumped on my stomach 14 times.

It was a lot of fun.

What an enigmatic search term.

Some days I don't have anything to post and I think all day "What am I going to post?"



Other days I check my stats and someone does a search like this.

What an enigmatic search term.

I think it means that a man, lets call him Terry, had a friend ("Which friend was that Terry?" "The black one," "Oh yeah, your black friend. Is that my black friend too?" "Yeah, that's the one,") and Terry's friend fucked Terry's wife and now she is pregnant.

It could also be read as a tempting invitation "My black friend, fuck my wife now, she is pregnant."

What light was Terry expecting to find at the end of the tunnel?

I hope that my writing on the brilliant film "Notting Hill" (which, for those of you who haven't been paying attention, is an excellent treatise on how difficult it is to make love to the most beautiful (if slightly bad tempered) woman in the world, especially if you have a history of being caught getting blowjobs from prostitutes in LA, but if you persevere you will almost certainly be able to get her pregnant and even be successful enough to afford a paperback novel about a Greek man) helped Terry through his time of need.

If, Terry, you need a black friend to fuck your wife now that she is pregnant though, I cannot help, for two reasons.

Firstly, I am not your friend. Secondly, and seemingly quite importantly to you, I am not black, despite my mum's vaguely racist story that when I was born her black midwife said to her "That one's got black blood in him." (I can't think why the nurse would have said that to her, other than if she was some sort of clairvoyant and could see my massive future jewfro?)

Thanks for the invitation though.

I want to read my book in bed, but it's so dark that I can tell I'm not going to be able to read my book in bed.

It's dark.

The kitchen light is off. The back kitchen light is off. The living room light is off. The lounge light is off. The hall light is off. All the lights are off.

That's because it's bedtime.

I suddenly feel very angry. I want to read my book in bed, but it's so dark that I can tell I'm not going to be able to read my book in bed. This is for two reasons:

1) Polly has gone to sleep. Just because she is tired. That means it's too dark for me to read. What a selfish woman. I absolutely hate her.

2) Polly has stolen and hidden my head torch. In order to find it I will need to wake her up and ask her where she's put it, then she'll tell me off for waking her up. GOD, she is SO SELFISH. I hate her even more.

I climb up the stairs. As I get to the top of the stairs I see a fragile shard of light cast itself across the landing through a crack in our bedroom door.

Polly is awake. And she is reading.

My mood instantly changes. Everything is BRILLIANT. I can lie next to my wife who I love and read my book.

I brush my teeth, grab my book from the toilet, run into the bedroom, lie down, sigh in deep satisfaction and say "Where the fuck is my head torch Polly?"