I couldn’t, in good conscience, let that other post occupy the top of t’blag for too long. It was bringing me down, and there’s enough of that shite going on. Thanks though, for your kind words and sniping. It warms the heart.
A word of caution: if you are of a particularly sensitive disposition, I request, nay, compel, you to stop reading this post right now. Go and visit Kieran instead – he’s a thoroughly amiable minstrel with a far greater wit and intellect than I. You won’t be disappointed.
You’ve been warned. I make no apologies if you keep reading, though you’ll likely think less of me.
After a really shit few days, I got to thinking (yes, I was exhausted afterwards, hoho): what better antidote for being down in the dumps than a fart story? Inspired by steph and duckie, I spent the train journey home this evening recalling a horrendous incident from a wedding I attended earlier in the year.
Last April, when this blog was nowt but a twinkle in my Jap’s eye, one of Linzi’s best mates got married in a beautiful old castle near Perth. That’s Perth, Scotland, not Perth, Far Away. A beautiful day, all told. The sun split the rocks, the bride looked absolutely ravishing, and copious amounts of booze flowed; no sooner had they sealed their future together as husband and wife, than hipflasks were produced from sporrans, and nips of whisky were sucked greedily with that strange species of Celtic hunger that no amount of food can satisfy. Thirst, I think we call it.
Unfortunately for the bride, the groom, the entire wedding party and all sundry guest types, I had partaken of a particularly delicious chicken biryani in a local Indian establishment the night before the wedding. Occasional readers may know of my love/hate relationship with Indian food – suffice to say I enjoy the taste, but my body doesn’t deal with it too well. Yes, unfortunate, on such a special day, to be riddled with the foulest, most toxic emissions released since Westlife’s last album, but there I was.
These were silent creeping death, untainted by any saving graces: possessing both potency and longevity the likes of which I haven’t rivalled before or since, my noxious releases were bound to get me into trouble before the end of the night.
And of course, they did. Wouldn’t be much of a story otherwise, eh? Now I shall switch to the present tense, thereby immersing you in the thick of the action with me, your stinky protagonist.
Through the course of the day, I manage to take myself outside whenever the need to release these horrifically smelly molecules (smellecules, if you will) comes upon me. This is often, as you can imagine, but I seem to be managing to avoid attention every time.
Then I get drunk.
As the beers flow, alcohol-fuelled complacency gets the better of me. I gently squeeze one out at the male-dominated bar, to test for reactions. You know, high-fives, cheers, things of that nature.
No reaction. Excellent. I surmise that they are either missing key olfactory nerves (unlikely) or they are just too polite to mention the stench (possible), OR I am simply nowhere near as stinky as I initially presume myself to be (definitely Kav, that HAS to be it). My test complete to my satisfaction, I take this as my cue to fart as and when I desire.
Did I mention Linzi is here? I thought you’d take that as a given, since it’s her close friend’s wedding, but just in case, I’m telling you.
More beers. Champagne. Beer. Vodka. Beer.
Pffffffffffttt. I am the stealth beast.
Suddenly, my nostrils flare and begin to crease inward, my body’s instinctive sense of self-preservation kicking in even before my alcohol-addled mind processes the smell and begins to comprehend the damage I have done. Linzi turns to me, her complexion pale except for two spots of colour high on her cheeks (from holding her breath). She knows me too well.
“Was that you?” she glowers.
“What?” I can’t look her in the eye, mainly because my eyes are watering from the smell.
“Kav, oh my God! What have you done? Go. Go! Quick!” she hisses.
She pushes me, but I am drunk, feigning ignorance as to the source of her anger even this late in the game. I make some rudimentary attempts at dispersing the smell. I put my hands in my pockets and try to flap my trousers and jacket; as I mentioned above, these discharges are pungent and insidious – think pulling the covers back the morning after a 12-pint session and a vindaloo, and you’re close to the odour I am shaking out with each flap of my lapels.
Futile. Plan B.
If dispersal won’t work, internalisation of as many smellecules as possible is the only option. Stands to reason, the more of the smell that I inhale, the less there will be for others to smell. Same principle as a vacuum cleaner, you understand.
I cock my nose like a bloodhound, sniffing as quickly as possible, hoovering up the air. Linzi, several yards away, continues her self-righteous glowering, and I know that my chances of a ride tonight are well fucked.
Being drunk, I only now notice that there is a rough circle around me, its circumference marked out by my fellow wedding guests. They’re all looking at me, and I’m wondering if I’m supposed to do a speech or something. I think: cool, I am the centre point of this circle. I consider calling out to Linzi that pi times the distance from me to her squared equals the area of this circle I now stand in, but then I remember why I stand alone, and I go a bit red, and make my way towards the toilets to try to exorcise these demons once and for all.
Update: Incidentally, the words in the pic above are from the Prodigy song Firestarter. I thought this would be well-known, but apparently not. So there you go.
If you’re a new visitor, please note: I’m not usually such a dismal fucker. A confluence of circumstances has collaborated to curb my cheer, if you believe in such things.
See update below.
“Kav, when are those *insert techy-sounding bit* reports due?”
“Um…three weeks ago.”
“What stage are you at with them?”
“Well, I’ve got three done. And. Ahem. Ten more to go.”
“Any chance you could get this wrapped up by the end of the month?” (Note: This was not a question.)
“Yeah, no problem. By Tuesday. Sound.”
Fuckity bastard cunt. Guess who’s working this weekend?
Home: I arrive home tonight to find that our night out (dinner/a film; the simple things, you know) has been shitcanned because we have no fucking money left. I was really looking forward to this because, well, it would have been good. It would’ve got us out of the feckin house. So bollocks to that too.
Last straw: our water heater’s broken. I was almost typing “our hot water heater’s broken” but that sounds cuntishly redundant, for obvious reasons.
We can’t even bath the kids. They’ll be stinking like knackers in no time. Might as well sell the fucking house and move into a caravan.
I had started to explain why the thing isn’t working, and then I remembered that I’m taking those classes to help me not be a boring cunt; suffice to say, it’s definitely broken.
Nae hot water. Nae night out. Working all weekend.
This, and I’ve hit a brick wall in my studying, the wall being that I haven’t an inkling about anything in the current, 134-page chapter in the 600-page volume which I must have learned by heart for the 9th of December. Not a fucking clue.
Fuck off to fuck. Friday evening, and this weekend’s already a write-off.
Have a good one.
Sunday update: After a wasted day at work (I went in to be productive – no phone calls/emails interrupting my flow, and all that – and instead spent the best part of two hours chatting to a couple of guys who were in to do their own stuff. Pah.), I took the boiler and the hot water tank apart last night, and reassembled them without finding the source of the problem.
When I woke this morning (at 5am instead of the usual 6 because the fact that we got an extra hour last night means nothing to wee Jack), delicious sexy scalding water abounded. Hooray.
The only this that pisses me off is that I know I didn’t do anything to fix it, so I still haven’t found the cause. It could stop working again at any time.
Feck it, there’s enough other shite to be worrying about at the moment.
One of the lads at work brought some impressive sausages back from his recent trip to Poland, so naturally, we had to enact some porno scenes with them.
BTW, I’m still up for some questions, if any of you can be arsed.
Free piece of shit. I can’t read anyone’s blog.
Until recently, I’ve been strictly anti-umbrella, on the grounds that they are gay. I’ve changed my attitude of late after getting fucking saturated a couple of times on my way to work. Being damp and miserable for a ten-hour stretch tends to focus the mind, and led me to swallow the last of my ragged pride and say fuck it, umbrella time. I picked up a shitey old umbrella lying around the house – fuck knows where it came from. Linzi swears it isn’t hers, and there’s no feckin way it’s mine. Honest.
I don’t know if it’s a man’s umbrella or a woman’s. I do know that to call this umbrella gay would be an insult to gays everywhere.
Christ, and I wonder why I don’t get eyed up anymore.
What do you say, blogging types? Umbrellas: Yay or Gay? Can a man ever get away with an umbrella?
First of all, apologies for not visiting your blog/responding to comments of late, but I’m actually starting to get into this studying thing. Don’t worry, it’s only for another seven weeks…
Had a meeting today and got a fit of the giggles during it. Myself and Kerr (I’ll just call him Kerr for the purposes of this story, because that’s his name) caught each other’s eye midway through a serious discussion and both of us started convulsing at the same time. You know, the silent kind of laugh where your whole body shakes and tears come out, but you have to pretend like you’re not laughing.
It got me thinking back to school days, and Sound Billies.
In the earlier years of secondary school, each class remained in one room for the day, and teachers would come and go between subjects. Of course, this meant that in the time between one teacher leaving and the other arriving, the class would descend into utter fucking chaos. Fights, shouting, jerking off, pretending your desk was a spaceship…these were all normal activities.
Once the teacher arrived, he or she would go ballistic, because the classroom looked like it had been pillaged by a group of superintelligent, highly organised primates. After various complaints and escalations to vice-principal and principal level about the class’s behaviour, we were given a final warning: shut your fucking mouths or go home. This stern admonition spawned Sound Billies.
The game was simple: one student, any student, shouts “Sound Billies one two three!”. As soon as the (stupid, incredibly stupid) words were spoken, you were forbidden from talking. The words worked with the speed and efficiency of a mousetrap snapping; silence reigned.
Seconds would pass; on rare occasions, even minutes. Then somebody would cough, or clear their throat, or if they were feeling particularly brave, shout “Fuckers!” or somesuch, and the room would attack. Yes, the penalty for breaking Sound Billies was taking a serious fucking beating, without fighting back, from everyone else in the class.
The teachers loved it. We were praised for remaining quiet and calm without supervision. They had no idea that the wrath of your peers is a far more effective deterrent than a breezy detention period could ever be.
Like everything, Sound Billies escalated. Some smart fuckers would do things like scrape their desk along the floor, which, since it was not a sound coming out of your mouth, was not directly punishable. To counteract this, Noise Billies was born. Noise Billies meant no sounds. Whatsoever. You had to work incredibly hard just to keep totally still, focussing on your breathing and your breathing alone…because even if you breathed too deeply, or sighed, you were fucked.
Noise Billies necessitated alot of finger-pointing. You’d point at some fucker, who’d shake his head and look all innocent, holding his hands up, silently pleading. Then some other lad would say “Get him!” and of course he’d be the one to get his head kicked in, because after all, the whole finger-pointing thing was just a ploy to get some other mong to drop their guard and make a noise.
Noise Billies worked, but then some smart-arse came up with Smile Billies, the ultimate in Billy games. Smile Billies came with all the prerequisites of Sound and Noise Billies, but also precluded smiling. This, as you can imagine, was an extremely difficult game, and after a beating or two, I learned pretty quickly how to pull a good poker face.
It was my attempts at controlling my smiles today in this meeting that brought back all the memories of the “Billies” games. The memory alone was enough to wipe the smile off my face.
Those teenage games were excellent training for life ahead, both in terms of preparing you for boring meetings in the corporate world, and also for getting the shit kicked out of you on nights out. They should be mandatory for all schoolchildren.
I can’t concentrate. I’ve never been great at studying; I tend to do all the wrong things but somehow still end up doing okay in exams. Now, though….Christ. It’s been six long years since I had to apply myself like this, and I’m like a five-year-old Japanese cartoon character who’s been snorting coke while touring Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. I can’t focus on anything for more than ten seconds.
I have raised with Linzi the possibility of a sex-based reward system, in the hope that looking forward to a swift blowjob or something of that ilk will help me apply myself in a far more direct way than the esoteric and aesthetic reward of career progression ever could. My plan is, for each evening of study I do, I get a blowjob, but for some reason she disagrees with this. I can’t think why; to me it’s a win-win situation: I study and learn what I need to learn, and get a delightful reward for doing this, thereby boosting my morale and making me want to study more. Linzi, for her part, is filled with a sense of empowerment knowing that she is helping me to work hard and move on in my career, ultimately becoming a better provider for our family. Plus, she gets to have a taste of my lad.
There are no losers in this scenario.
Did you hear that Bono fell off the stage the other night?
He got too close to The Edge.
Did you hear about the lad who drowned in a bowl of muesli?
He was pulled in by a strong currant.
“Fucking hell, it’s absolutely bucketing down.”
“Oh look, there’s a poor old man taking shelter under the tree across the road. Should we invite him in?”
“He’s sheltered isn’t he? Nah, he’ll be fine.”
“It’s awful heavy though. Torrential. He’ll be saturated. Maybe I should ask him if he wants a cup of tea.”
“Where is he? Let’s see him…ah for fuck’s sake, he’s not that old.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Fuck him.”
Don’t forget to ask.
The above picture was originally going to have me saying “Ask me anything”, but I changed it to something completely irrelevant. Woot.
Anyway, kudos and credit go to Debbie for her excellent idea which I am unapologetically thieving. To compensate her for this, I urge you to go and check out her blog – her honesty and cleverness puts my blog to shame. Shame*, I say.
Since I have no choice but to be a lazy blogger for the next while**, I figured I’d open the floor to you lot. If you have anything you want to know about me (fucking hell, I haven’t even published this post and I’ve already received three mails asking me why I’m such a cunt), or questions you want answered, feel free to comment and I will update this post as and when I’m able to. Hopefully this will keep things mildly interesting around here while I go about my bidness.
Have at it.
* Catholic shame – it’s the worst kind.
**I’m very annoyed about this because I’ve got notes on half a dozen posts that I don’t have time to type up.
UPDATE: Oh yeah, I want to hear from any lurkers. You popped in for a while recently but then you got complacent, and settled back into your anonymity. So, ask something. If you don’t, I’ll shake my fist at my PC in a threatening manner.
The Swearing Lady breaks the ice with the following:
What’s your pints-drank-in-one-day record? Mine’s 47.
Ooh, also. If you had to be one of the teenage mutant ninja turtles, which one would you be?
Ooh, also, also. Describe the taste of red lemonade.
1. Of course, I have no way of verifying this, but a couple of my friends read this blog (but never comment – the cunts) and I am sure they would break their vow of blogsilence to call me a liar if I gave you an obviously inaccurate figure. So I’ll be as truthful as possible when I say I imagine it to be in the region of 14 – 18 pints. Normally I would not drink this much pint-wise (I usually switch to vodka at some point), but my friend Paul’s birthday is on Paddy’s Day, and we used to have a rule when we drank on his birthday that you could only drink pints (yeah, like that was ever followed). Therefore I will select the median and say 16 pints, and suggest that this was probably on a St Patrick’s Day between 1998 and 2002.
47 pints – that’s impressive. You’re from the country though, so it doesn’t count.
2. I had to Google to find out which was the lad with the nunchucks, because he was my favourite lad to use when playing TMNT on the Nintendo. Michaelangelo, he was. So, him for his weapon, but Leonardo for personality. And April the news girl if I had to shag one of the characters
3. Red lemonade. Tricky. Warm TK red lemonade is the backbone of an Irish social occasion, but how to describe its taste? Sweet, fizzy, sticky, useless at quenching your thirst – it’s all of these things. But its taste…hmmm. I’m thinking the only way to describe it would be to imagine you have a glass of ordinary white lemonade, and to it you add a good splash of red stuff. The stuff’s properties are unknown – it’s just called “red”. So, red lemonade tastes like white lemonade with red stuff in it. That’s an awful answer, but it was a hard one.
What is your favorite time of year? Your favorite holiday?
Favourite time of year is May, partly because it’s my birthday month and partly because it’s the start of summer, and I love summer. Favourite holiday is Christmas, because I don’t really do anything for any of the others. And this year I have 21 days off at Christmas. How fucking great is that. 21 days. I had to work Christmas last year and vowed I’d take a decent holiday this year, especially cos of the kids too. Oh, and Christmas definitely wins because it was always the best time of year with my family.
Old Knudsen asks: For the last two days I’ve had blood in my shit, could this be a sign of colon cancer or just excessive scratching?
Also when I stand up I get a little dizzy, this is usually after only 8 beers and a bottle of smirnoff so what could this be?
Have you ever tugged the lad to gay porn?
Where did I put my specs?
Do you think you should of limited people to one question each? some folks really take the piss.
1. I would say you should check your arse in a mirror, and if there are no obvious clawmarks, you probably have cancer. At your age this is a serious condition, yet treatable if you get a good chunk of your bowel removed.
2. This tends to happen if you expose yourself to any sort of natural light. Next time, check it isn’t during the day – if it is, the clear answer is you’re got a sensitivity to sunlight and ought to remain indoors, ideally a pub or house well-stocked with said beverages, and you’ll be fine.
3. Does having a shuffle during that scene in The Crying Game count?
4. Did you check your rectum? It may explain the bleeding.
5. Probably, but I’ll take what’s given.
Describe your first school dance.
What’s your favorite dishes to eat for holiday dinners? (i.e. Christmas, Easter, etc)
1. Hmmm…we don’t have school dances in the traditional sense that you Americans do, but as it happens, my secondary (aka high) school actually held various dances while I went there. They went under the moniker “Bish Disco”, Bish being the nickname of my school. My first school dance, therefore, was probably one of these. I was sober, and I definitely didn’t score, so it was a load of shite. Girls were still fairly alien to me in those days, so most of my first few “dances” followed this pattern.
2. Favourite dishes: Well, I tend to enjoy food on any occasion, but if I had to specify, I would say that ham boiled in Coca-Cola (don’t knock it until you’ve tried it), sausages wrapped in bacon, and stuffing are all delicious holiday foods. You said dishes though, which implies a sumptuous feast of different things. My ideal holiday dish would be seafood cocktail to start, followed by spicy parsnip soup, followed by roast turkey, the aforementioned ham, some delicious turkey stuffing, the sausages described above, some properly-cooked roast potatoes (poorly cooked roast potatoes may as well be used as grenades) as well as some random vegetables to add colour to the dish. The veg would of course be ignored in favour of the meat-based food. Dessert would have to be something chocolate-based, ideally with cream, fruit, jelly, ice-cream, pastry and toffee thrown into the mix. Then I would have a coffee and fall asleep in front of the fire while the women cleaned up.
so. What are you wearing? Meooww! 😛
Seriously. Ahem. Errrr.
Do you play dutch ovens with the wife?
Which is worse. Your da’s bum crack, or ya mams cleavage?
1. As I type this, I’m wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt. It’s mostly blue, but the arms are white. And boxers. That’s it. Yes, it’s 3.30pm on a Saturday. I’m white trash.
2. I have no idea what this means Steph. Is it an Aussie sex thing?
3. Mam’s cleavage, I would say. I could just shout at my dad for having his arse on show, but not so with mam.
Fat Sparrow asks:
So, good in-laws and family being hard to find, what do you think about an arranged marriage between the Nestling Sparrow and Erin? CV, pictures, and stats can be supplied on request. This would be a non-salaried position, of course. All reasonable offers will be considered.
And, do you have any friends or family that would be willing to be interviewed for the Fledgling Sparrow? She’s a gift, but she’s a good-looking gift. Unbelievably, she has excellent prospects. She will be attending college and plans to be a school teacher. She can relocate (forcibly, if I have anything to say about it). Again, same referrals as stated above.
1. That was acceptable to me until you mentioned that no financial advantage would be gained by the arrangement. However, I’m a firm believer in arranged marriage, so this plan still sounds like a winner. Send me a brief description of the youth, include a recent STD test, and his likes and dislikes, and I’ll see what I can do.
2. Some of my friends are sick bastards and they are willing to wait until she reaches the age of consent. However, they tend to live hobo-like existences, unsure where the next bit of food is coming from, so they may not be the safest hands to ship the fledgling off to. I’ll work on it and let you know.
Old Knudsen asks:
If you found a sexy and still warm dead girl (natural causes still intact) in an out of the way place how long would it take you to call the cops?
If I found one do you think after a week its still ok to phone them?
1. Call me traditional, but for me, the fact that she’s dead negates any sexiness she may have once possessed. I have an active imagination, though, so I imagine it would be a good half hour or so before I called the cops, because it would take me that long to stop screaming and freaking out and making sure I had burned the memories of the corpse somewhere in me that only gets to come to life when it’s dark and there’s nobody else around. On an unrelated note, that’s why I like horror movies.
2. Call them, but make sure you give the corpse a good wash first. They can do all sorts with their DNAs and their HIVs these days.
The Swearing Lady asks:
You know your problem, Kav? You hang out with very butch and hairy ladies.
Anyway, a question. What’s nerdier: collecting X-Men comics or working in PC World?
And a genuine, relevant question. What’s your favourite hangover cure?
ALSO: What kind of eejits would have a son on St. Paddy’s Day and call him Paul? Where’s the sense in that?
1. You’re just jealous.
2. Collecting X-Men comics is nerdier, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. On the other hand, I’ve only ever known cunts to work in PC World.
3. My favourite hangover cure has no oldwifery about it, and is a bit boring as a result. Personally, I’ve yet to find a cure that can beat having a shit, shower, shave and a pint or two of orange juice. Also, I’ve been known a time or forty-nine to partake of the hair of the dag, but everyone knows that’s just an excuse to get fluthered again.
4. There’s a story behind that, as it happens. Here is the story: Paul’s parents hate the name Patrick with a passion. It’s a true story.
What did you want to be when you grew up? Give reasons for your answer.
When I was very young I wanted to be an architect, but that was before I realised I had absolutely no aptitude for advanced mathematics, so that career choice was given short shrift. I have variously wanted to be a journalist (couldn’t do it; I may be a cunt but I’m not that much of a cunt), a carpenter (my grandfather used to build boats and I grew up around them, but because of being smart, my family thought university would be more up my street than a trade. My bollocks.), a radio DJ (again, I’m not quite enough of a cunt to be a traditional Tony Fenton type DJ, but I can spout some amount of shite so I’d be good on a pirate station or something, waffling about nothing in particular while playing QOTSA requests for The Swearing Lady)…to tell the truth, I still don’t know what I want to be, but I know I’m not it yet. I mean, who the fuck wants to be an IT Compliance Analyst when they grow up?
If I could go back and do anything, it would be carpentry/joinery.
Do you really not know what a ‘dutch oven’ is?
I thought you, most manly of all men, would know about this. Google. Google is your friend.
I really didn’t know, but thank you Fat Sparrow for that enlightening explanation. Now I’m lost as to what double dipping is, but I’m afraid to ask because I know it will be fucking disgusting.
Anyway, now that I know what it means, to answer steph’s original question, no, I do not play that with Linzi. She would go fucking ballistic if I did. There are many topics she finds hilarious, but the smell of my farts is not one of them. She says that every time she thinks of Christmas 2005, she will think of the stench of my farts from a particularly bad week on the sauce. Enough said on that topic, methinks.
Fat Sparrow asks:
Kav, if you really want to know what “Double Dipping” is, just e-mail me. I’ll bet you’ve done it, ya dirty Fenian bastid.
As for more questions, you have the Gaelic, do you not? Can you tell me how “losgann” is pronounced? It may be incredibly obvious, but Gaelic can be tricky. Reading books and trying to figure out the Gaelic pronunciation is a bitch.
Also, do you think you will go to Hell for having upside-down crosses in your sidebar, or are you just a St. Peter devotee?
I will email you asap, FS. Besides, I have a bone to pick with you. Heh. I said bone.
1. I have a bit of Irish, which is quite close to Gaelic, but not the same. I’ve never heard of the word losgann – the closest I can think of is loscann, which means frog. As for pronunciation, you would most likely say it “loss-gone”. What book you reading?
2. No, I don’t think I will go to hell for that, because I have done far worse…
Conan Drumm asks:
Dear Kav, please tell us what you like and dislike most about your Scottish exile?
Conan, good question. Things I like most: Nobody has any preconceptions about me, I can be who I want to be and not be prejudged as I would be in Ireland. I earn about double what I could earn back home. I can remain on the fringes of the bigotry and racism in Scotland, as opposed to being drawn into it in Ireland (whether I want to be or not). I have a much higher quality of life here due to the affordability of things.
Dislikes: the geography of Scotland tends towards dispersed, so the need to travel longish distances to do basic things is more or less taken for granted – this is annoying when I’ve been used to Galway, where almost everything’s available within a 10-mile radius. I really miss Lough Corrib; I grew up on the lake and it’s the single thing I miss most about home. The lochs over here just can’t compare – Loch Lomond is the biggest loch in Scotland and it’s only half the size of the Corrib. I dislike being apart from my family and friends, but as migrations go, I could not have picked an easier place for us all to travel to and from. I dislike how much it costs every time I do go home, and I dislike that every time I have holidays I feel obligated to go home. Going home for five days costs more than two weeks in the sun, and that’s no bullshit.
There’s alot more – I wrote a long post about this stuff a while back if you’re interested.
- A school chum convinced me he had a steel arm, just like Lindsay Wagner, the Bionic Woman.
- One lad led me to believe that he was a superintelligent being from space, and that trucks could drive over him without harming him.
- A knacker who lived across the road told me that when you see sunbeams filtering through clouds, that was a soul going up to heaven.
- Do you remember 40/40? It’s like hide and seek except the game isn’t over when you find the person – once you catch someone you have to run back to “base” and shout “Forty forty home!” if you’re the hider, or “Forty forty I see Martin!” if you’re the seeker. Anyway, there were usually about 10-12 of us playing this game, and one day, I was the seeker, so I counted to 40, then spent the next half hour looking for everyone. Turned out that they had all just fucked off up to another estate and left me hunting around gardens and such on my own. What a gullible mong.
- One of the schoolyard things that used to go around was “If your hand is bigger than your face, you have cancer.” When you put your hand up to your face to check, someone would punch your hand and your nose would bleed, but not break. Good times. I fell for this a lot.
- Not so much something I used to believe, as something I didn’t get: when Freddie Mercury first made AIDS fashionable, the kids used to say “Do you have AIDS?”. You would respond “No” to this, at which point they would say “Are you positive?”, to which (you guessed it) you would respond “Yeah”. You would then be called a HIV-infected cunt and laughed at a lot. I didn’t get this until I was about 15.
- Back when nobody knew what a vagina looked like, you would place your palms together, and a friend would do the same. You would then place your held-together hands at right angles to each other, and interlock your hands between index and middle fingers. Once your hands were joined like this, one of you spread your palms and looked inside, and this, apparently, is what a vagina looked like. I still believed this until last year, when I lost my virginity.
What about you? Tell me some shite you used to believe.
In other news, I have a tough exam* coming up in December, and I will need to dedicate a fair amount of my time to it over the coming weeks. You might notice a dropoff in the level of my posts and comments, but rest assured I haven’t forgotten you. I just think you’re a cunt and never want to speak to you again.
I’ll be around, just not as much.
*if I pass it, I get a very nice qualification that will help me get more money, and money is great.
Yeah yeah, boring pictures of random people you’ll never know. Skip through this post if you’re looking for entertainment – I write this blog for myself, so there’s going to be a certain amount of what you may call boring shite, but it’s important to me.
Last weekend was excellent. There were almost 30 people in my house on Saturday, as a pile of folk descended from Ireland and ate me out of house and home. At the start of it all I had my usual worries, because Linzi’s family are generally fairly pious and straight-laced (she’s the exception), and mine are a bunch of fucking mental patients who just want to get hammered and eat lots of food. There was a bit of wincing as I heard my sister talking with Linzi’s mother about the “stupid cunt of a camera” not taking a picture properly, but after a while I just thought fuck it, and stopped fretting. Her mother will just need to accept that we say fuck and cunt a lot. I’ve no doubt she’s praying for our immortal souls after the day-long display of colourful language she was subjected to on Saturday.
Oh well, not to worry.
It was Erin’s 2nd birthday, and we also had a little naming ceremony thing for Jack.
This is a picture of Erin and Jack looking at each other:
Anyway, the day went really well, and Erin got so many presents that she still hasn’t opened them all…now that’s spoiled for you. Jack was quiet throughout the whole ceremony thing, during which Erin read him a poem (with a bit of help from me) and grinned from ear to ear when she got a big round of applause afterwards.
Somehow Erin stayed awake the entire day, and as soon as she collapsed into bed that night, Linzi and I went out to eat with the family and got drunk together for the first time in a very long time. We also had some food at some point, I think. One of my best friends, Paul, and his fiancée Eleanor were staying with us, so when we got home that night we fired up the patio heater thing that we’ve only used twice and sat outside getting wasted and talking shite until the wee hours. I managed to escape going on duty to look after Jack that night, so I was able to sleep off the worst of my hangover.
Of course, my family being my family, one night was not enough, and it was yesterday before I got the last of them sent home. From great-grandparents to cousins to sisters to complete fucking strangers, everyone was here this weekend, and they stayed until they ate and drank their fill. I’m feeling sick and exhausted and three stone heavier from the various excesses, but it was well worth it. Surprisingly, given my fractured family, there was absolutely no tension or arguments…be thankful for small mercies, don’t look a gift horse, and all that shit.
Tomorrow, I will complain about something. And yes, I will catch up with everyone too. For now, I must sleep.
Who’d have thought it, in this enlightened age?
I’ve been off for a while, family stuff (which I’ll post more on later), hence the lack of posting. However, I’ve been compelled to recount my visit to the doctors yesterday morning, because it fucked me off so much.
Since I was off work yesterday, I took Jack to get his 12-week injections (pneumonia and meningitis, various others). I don’t usually get the chance to do this sort of stuff, so I was looking forward to
checking out the attractive mothers in the waiting room having this time with my boy, seeing a little bit of his life that, ordinarily, I’d not get to see.
The stupid fucking doctor’s surgery doesn’t allow you to bring prams inside – you have to leave them out near the front door. I’ll be fucked if I’m going to leave a £500 pram lying around for any cunt to nab, so instead I carried him in one of those…carrier things.
No, not a plastic bag, but a proper yoke for carrying babies that you strap to your chest, making carrying even the heaviest child an absolute doddle. Luckily, we just live ten minutes’ walk from the docs, so I was only partially crippled by the time we arrived for his appointment.
Anyway, I got in, let them know we’d arrived, and took Jack out of his carrier and his little snowsuit thing. Cue Jack bawling his head off, and I can understand why; he’d been snoozing, warm and snug pressed up against me, then he was woken up by being jerked out of his cradle and disrobed without warning. I’d be pissed off too.
And fuck it, what can you do? Babies cry. There were half a dozen of the little shits* crying in there.
I spent the next few minutes doing my best to soothe him, trying not to look like a pathetic parent with no control over their child whatsoever, and then we were called in.
There were three of them in there – two nurses and a trainee. As soon as I walked into the room, I sensed a vibe. Something was not right here. They gazed at me pityingly as I sat down and bounced Jack gently on my knee, talking to him, telling him it’s all ok, and so forth.
Then the questions started.
“Oh, is he ok?”
“Yeah, he’s fine, he just woke up with a bit of a fright, I think.”
“Awwww, poor baby! Has he been fed? He could be hungry.”
“No, he just had a bottle before we left. He’s not due for a couple of hours.”
“Oh. Well, now, are you Jack’s primary carer?”
“Well, normally I work through the week, so my wife is the primary carer. I’m off today though, so I figured I’d take him here.”
“Right, right…well, are you looking after him all by yourself today?” (Do I even need to highlight the condescension in this sentence?)
“Uh, my wife’s at home too.”
“Oh good, well, your wife will be able to get Jack calmed down. He might just be hungry for a bottle.”
FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING PATRONISING CUNT. Let’s just get this shit over with, because you’re starting to piss me the fuck off.
Naturally, after receiving two spikes into each thigh, Jack’s state of mind was not improved, and the poor lad continued to cry as they advised what side-effects to expect (tiredness, fever, crankiness….it’s not fucking rocket science, is it?), which I patiently listened to, because I understand that there are alot of people out there who don’t have any idea what to expect, and besides, I’m not a dick, they do have a job to do. So I accepted all their advice with grace and humility, but then the awful, horrible cunt had to go and spoil it all by saying
“And if he does have a fever, just give him some Calpol. Have you got any Calpol at home?”
“Yeah, we’ve got some alright.”
“Well, your wife will know what to do. If he seems to be a bit feverish, just ask her how to give him some of the Calpol.”
EXCUSE ME, CUNT? WHAT THE FUCK AM I, A FUCKING SPASTIC? DO I APPEAR SEVERELY RETARDED OR OTHERWISE LACKING THE ABILITY TO FUNCTION AS A PARENT? Jesus Christ alfuckinmighty, give me strength.
I ought to point out that, on the surface, my countenance belied how I felt. On the outside, I looked calm, sincere, expectant, as I listened to them treat me like a fucking idiot who wouldn’t know how to change a fucking nappy**, never mind administer medicine to an infant.
Okay, moving on. I ignore her comment about asking my wife for help giving medicine, and, in an attempt at catharsis, to dissipate my rage, and also, probably unconsciously, to point to a possible reason for why Jack’s crying, I casually ask:
“What’s the earliest you think a baby could start teething at?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, he drools a lot and he chews his fist all the time.”
“Well, it’s usually between six months and a year, but they can be as young as three months, and let’s see, Jack is-“
“Three months, yeah, so I’d say it’s unlikely he’d be teething yet.”
“Right, that’s fine, just checking. Heh.”
“Would you like us to make an appointment with you to help you understand how to wean your baby?”
“No, that’s okay thanks, we’ve got one already, so we’ve been through it all before. We’re going to start him on solids when he gets to four months,
“Oh good, well then, your wife will be able to keep you right, and if you need any more help, just give us a call.”
My wife. She’s going to love hearing about this.
I don’t get it. Was it just because Jack was crying, that they assumed I was a shit parent who had no idea what to do, or is this simply how they treat all fathers, as if they are slightly mentally challenged, the classic lovable oaf-like fuckwit perpetuated on a thousand tv ads as examples of your “typical” father? Either way, they came across as looking like absolute, utter cunts. I’m not trying to stir this up into a battle of the sexes, but if three men treated a woman like I was treated in that setting, she’d (rightly) go fucking berserk about it.
I’m sure the three of them thought they were being incredibly helpful, in the same way as born-again Christians think they are doing you a huge favour by letting you know how you can let the Lord into your life, but I just could not get past the condescending tone, the patronising comments about seeking assistance from my wife, the pitying looks as I tried to soothe Jack. The looks of pity on their own I could understand – it’s their job to empathise with stressed parents. It’s just the combination with the other things that got to me.
Unfortunately, it seems that some stereotypes continue to thrive unchallenged. So tell me: does the fact that a man, rather than a woman, is looking after a child – does this influence your behaviour towards them? Is it a commonly-held view among women that men are helpless aw-shucks idiots who do hilarious and silly things to kids such as putting their nappy/clothes on backwards, feeding them nothing but sweets and ice-cream and Coke so that when good old mum comes home they’re hyper, running riot around the house?
To top it all off, Jack stopped crying the moment we left the building. Little traitor.
*Other people’s kids are little shits, of course. Mine are perfect.