Archive for January, 2012

7 X 7


Earlier today Mother Venting threw a rock at me. *Picks self up* *stitches up headwound*. Turns out she was just tagging me in a Meme, so I’ve forgiven her, though the rock looks a bit incongruous on my office floor. Anyway I was truly touched and pleased – till I read the bloody thing. It was going to be a nightmare. Luckily I had a train journey home to consider it and it would stop me worrying about my football team’s impending derby game so I came up with a plan.

I have to list 7 posts I like and 7 blogs to carry on with this theme and then list 7 things about myself. The plan I came up with was simple. My blog is new, I am a Dad blogger, I have just turned 40 and I live in Sussex. I have recently enjoyed muchly posts by people who have one of those things in common with me. So that’s my posts AND my bloggers sorted. My criteria above does not, however, contribute to the 7 things about me. Far too dull. That bit at least I can do. I think. My brain hurts a bit what with being struck on the head by that fucking rock.

So – 7 posts.

31 Bands To Fall In Love With In 2012

Getting On A Bit

The day my heart melted

Grumpy me?


To Trust a Toddler Or Not

Peppa Pig Bad? …Pull the other one

7 Blogs

The first one is Muso Dad who was nice enough to read my first showcase and knows about a million times more about music than me – and I love music.

The second is from SAHDandproud who may put that he’s not a writer on his blog but is in fact a writing genius.

The third from Mutterings of a Fool touched my heart.

The fourth from Random Pearls of Wisdom touched a nerve because, frankly, that’s me too.

The fifth from Snoo and Me shows why the right wing press should think before they print and everyone else should think as they’re reading. And before they talk.

The sixth from mummyglitzer is a great early post from a newbie and a lovely Tweep..

The seventh is from the man who inadvertently got me in to all this when he was #ff –ed by Seagull Songs on Twitter. I tweeted him back on this one as I consider myself a cross between Daddy Pig and Homer Simpson. Talking of which….

7 things about me.

  1. I can speak “Taxi” Chinese but I get the tones all wrong.
  2. I had a hamster who kept kicking his sawdust in to the sides of the cage. We named him ‘Scrabble’ but I wanted to call him ‘Piles’.
  3. I am properly terrified of driving cars, which for a bloke is wrong on a million different levels.
  4. I am scared of broccoli.
  5. I once took part in a tuc-tuc race in the middle of Chennai at 1 in the morning, blind drunk.
  6. Me and my brother took it in turns to follow Chesney Hawkes round a Brighton techno club singing “I Am The One And Only” at him and telling girls what nice hair he had. (Yeah I know, it was the 90s).
  7. I shout at Radio 4 and have a secret stash of cardigans.

Apparently everyone I mentioned now has to do this but PLEASE only do so if you want. I’m not the Meme police. Muso Dad is particularly excused as he already posted something very similar.

Byeeee. *waves at Mother Venting* *collapses with concussion*



Is it a Boy or a Girl?

Sunday Funny

A mildly amusing (some may say gentle comedy) rant about old people and babies as part of the Sunfun linky ting going on at actuallymummy.

I realise that this is not exactly an original subject. In fact I’m getting flashbacks to Mother Venting’s marvellous Ears post just typing this. That’s because very often babies seem to be an ok signal for strangers to come up to you and talk to you about them. Some of these people are nice. Some are bonkers. As they’re mostly elderly most are nice AND bonkers.

Anyway today I got on the bus back from town with baby in her Snow Suit. Admittedly the main colour of her Snow Suit is blue but it’s a very light blue, almost aquamarine. And here’s the thing. It’s covered in fucking huge pink flowers. The women next to me starts asking questions about baby to which I reply in the gender specific  because I’m, y’know, normal. Bonkers Woman isn’t .

BW:  Is it your first?

Me:  No she is my second. Her brother is at home.

(At this point my answers are irrelevant. She’s spotted the blue bit of the suit, ignored the flowers and decided Baby is a boy).

BW: He’s very big isn’t he?

Me: Yes, she’s tall. (97th percentile on the Health Visitor ‘make parents feel like shit’ scale).

BW: He is a boy isn’t he? Boys are such hard work. *descends in to unintelligible babble*

And so on.

Baby is most obviously a girl. Her hair may have not grown long but it was covered by the hood which is covered in fucking huge pink flowers. She has long fluttery eyelids. One of her first words was ‘shoes’. She can spot bling at forty paces. She’s a girl and God help me she looks like a girl. Just because we don’t deck her out in uniform pink every day of the week with a Little Princess sticker on the back of the buggy and ribbons in her non-existent hair and…..   *beats head on wall*.

Bonkers Old People of the world. I think I am a nice person and I will happily answer any question you have regarding my children. Just listen to the answer would you? Ta.

, , ,


Saturday Caption Take 2

So my very second go at the #satcap linky via mammasaurus

Here’s this weeks……


A Trip To The Dentist

Today I was working from home, and then only for half a day for I had to go to the Dentist for a check up. More worryingly so did Boy. He’s been before of course because as I posted earlier he’s had teeth since he was 15 months but they haven’t been proper check up appointments. He’s gone with one of us and the Dentist has had a quick and subtle check. But last time I went I registered him and then we got the Dreaded Card That Says His Appointment Must Be Made.

I wasn’t that worried. He is a good if fussy tooth brusher. By fussy I mean “will only use Berry flavoured toothpaste and then only the one made by Morrison’s”. Mint is an absolute no-no. Even the Sainsbury’s berry one was regarded with suspicion and then complained about. Loudly. But as long as we have the Morrison’s one in Boy cleans his teeth faithfully.

Boy was worried. I assumed it was because he was genetically programmed to be apprehensive of the Dentist. Both his parents are apprehensive of the Dentist. But it took a lot of coaxing to find out that he was worried about something completely obscure. Having his teeth checked was fine and he understood They Would Not Be Doing Drilling. What he was actually scared of was the chair that goes up and down. I’m pretty sure that when I was a kid that was the only good part of a trip to the Dentist but I guess I’m assuming. I can’t really remember when I was 5. I can’t really remember last week. Anyway I promised him he would not have to sit in the chair that went up and down and then I crossed my fingers.

When I picked him up I could tell he was nervous because when he is then he talks non stop. Also he asks ‘why’ to everything. He was doing both of these things only so loudly he was more asking the whole bus than me. When we got there they were running late and so he asked the same questions to the whole waiting room. Then we were called in and guess what? The Dentist had put out a little chair that did not go up and down and she had a little look in his mouth just like she had before and he got a sticker and that was it. I had kept my promise. It had been alright.

The other thing that had always scared him was climbing bus stairs to the top deck while it was moving. On the way home we went on the top deck and he charged up the stairs like Sherpa Tensing. Two fears conquered in one day.

The dentist said he had lovely teeth and clean teeth and was a very good Boy indeed and I glowed with Dad pride.

I on the other hand have to have 2 bastard fillings.

, , , ,


Not Quite Fever Pitch

A small explanation of my schizophrenic Twitter feed with apologies – and reverence – to Nick Hornby who was doing this sort of stuff years ago, much, much better.

A bit of a history lesson is needed. When I was a young man I was a Brighton fan and an Old School one at that. I stood on the terrace behind the goal with my mates and I went to every away game I could and it was fun. Or at least it was until the finances at the club started to unravel and a “Foul Politician and A Man From Lancashire” (copyright the mighty Booney) sold the ground and nearly killed the club. Luckily, at the last minute the club was rescued by a very nice man with not much money called Dick Knight. The ground was gone though so we groundshared in Kent for a bit before coming back home to play in an athletics stadium. An uncovered one with terrible views and very few seats. Still I got a season ticket and became Old School only in the seats on the side. If we lost I was inconsolable all weekend. Meanwhile Brighton were not getting planning permission for their new ground.

Then something happened that meant I wouldn’t be a season ticket holder at all. I was offered a project in my company’s Asia Pacific division and we grasped the nettle and moved to Sydney. Then Tokyo. Then Taipei. And I had the best four and a bit years of my childless life. Football played a small part still as I became 5th choice Centre Back for the reserves of a crazy Expat drinking club football team but I was no longer a regular on the terraces or in the seats.

Then we did something immensely stupid wonderful and decided to have a child and when we succeeded we moved home so he could be born somewhere where the midwives spoke English. I know. Overprotective first time parents eh? And Brighton did not have their new ground but I did have my new son and I enjoyed playing with him much more than sitting in the rain watching Andrew Whing kick lumps out of people. Bad fan. I went from time to time, usually the first and last games of the season and a few of the mid-weeks but I did not have a season ticket and to all intents and purposes I was a raving lunatic father and not a football fanatic.

Then we got planning permission for the ground. And a very nice man with shitloads of money called Tony Bloom paid for it. I joined the bandwagon, the Johnny Come Lately army (or more Johnny Came Back) and got a season ticket and this season I started to Go Again Properly. I look forward to my Amex Stadium Saturdays like I used to look forward to birthdays. I leave as soon as permitted and meet my childless friends and we talk Man Nonsense and drink real beer. My football mates have been friends through thick and thin bound by a love of the team, proper beer, silly japes and a disregard for bullshit. Then I go to the ground and meet my Very Best Friend Of All who has 3 boys and not a shred of bullshit and we spend a couple of hours shouting, singing, clapping and swearing (particularly me). Then I have a swift half with the others after and go home. And all the stress of work, commuting, sleepless nights, Lego retrieving and Baby locating have gone, washed away in to the Amex ether.

And because it does I come home these days having left the result behind if we lost, happy to be a parent again, looking forward to Middle Class Sunday. Which is a post for anther time entirely.

, , , , ,


Around the World in 80 Words – Taipei

Taipei has more taxis and scooters than cockroaches. And it has a lot of cockroaches. It’s where I learned my cockroach ninja skills. It’s also where I drank Snake Blood and ate Octopus Beak, things that Boy refuses to believe when I tell him. It also has a very big tower thing and earthquakes. The earthquakes are less than ideal if you’re up the tall tower thing. Also Boy was conceived there making him Made In Taiwan.


Saturday is Caption Day

I hope I’ve done this right! (Mega newbie)