Friday, June 23, 2006


Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth - my arse. If he actually did as he was told once in a while he wouldn't have had me fishing him out of the River Avon yesterday evening.

'Stop at the next gate won't you '

'Yeah' - scampers off, instead of stopping, follows the dog through the dog gate. Dog decides to go for a dip, he gets too close, splash. Gumpher shows a suprising turn of speed, nearly made me think of getting my boots out for next season.

One very frightened three year old returned to the riverbank in one piece and our peaceful evening stroll continues.

Next week, Portugal, hussah !

Wonder what he'll break there. (Make mental note to check 'damage to villa' section in travel insurance policy)

Thursday, June 22, 2006

How to start the day badly

Take number two offspring to nursery, stopping, as usual to collect his chum who goes to the same place. Have said chum open the front door and greet you by smacking you square in the nuts, and then same child having a spastic mentalist fit as his mother tries to put him in my car. Fit continues all the way to nursery where he has to be dragged kicking and screaming through the door. All the while number two offspring looks on with an air of mild bemusement, as if butter wouldn't melt.

Deep breaths, deep breaths..........

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

So his Royal highness, lord of all he surveys, defender of the faith and all round good egg Tony blair has finally got the aircraft he has hankered after for some time. Not one, but two of the fuckers. One for Tony and one for Tony's ego and Fat Bollox Prescott too share.
I'm sure this is all vital to the running of our country, but what about ' education, aducation, education' or is that soooooooooo last year ?
My son attends a village primary school which is chock full of all of the latest computers and whizz bang projectors, items Blair told us that schools were being filled with at a rate of knots. Oh yes, we've got them, and who paid for them, we fucking did, every last one of them through parent fundraising and donations. Yesterday the boy's spelling book was finally filled, so he was sent home with a scrap of some parents' company letterhead with his spellings on. We sent him back with his own notebook. Once a term every parent sends the kids in with a bog roll, a bloody bog roll, they've not even got a budget for wiping their arses. Each term we get a list of items that have no budget available, and the items beggar belief. Each term they also estimate a shortfall and ask each family for a voluntary contribution. All of which we do, everyone does, but there is an increasing feeling that if we wanted to pay for an education on top of the tax that we pay towards education then perhaps we'd consider private schools.

But, hey, Tony's got a new jet. Fine and fucking dandy

Thursday, June 15, 2006

The one child wrecking machine that is my youngest son has really excelled himself this time. After weeks of effort, he has finally managed to block all of the drains. He has been sneaking into the toilet to flush all manner of bizarre things down the pan. Why ? I have no idea, and he's a clever little bugger and rarely gets caught, so fuck knows whats gone down it altogether. Various threats have done little to suppress his quest, and last night as A ran the bath out, the patio finally gave in and looked like the swimming pool in a dodgy Spanish hotel.

This morning I tackled it. Up came the patio, up came the drain cover, back in the house ran Gumpher to ring a drain company. Sixty five quid an hour. Wait 'til he gets back from nursery, little sod.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

My eldest son, who is six, had a bit of a dilemma the other day. Football induced. I don't mind football, but other than playing in a summer five a side league to keep fitness going between the end and start of the rugby season, I've not played since primary school, whereas I've played rugby every season from the age of ten, I love the game, playing and watching, it's been a big part of my life. C has been playing football since he was four. A guy in the village started a junior section, and thanks to his endless effort, it's gone from strength to strength. I try and mooch off early every wednesday to watch the match at the end of practice. To C's delight he got man of the match yesterday for a crunching goal saving tackle, which in his mind qualified him for a chocolate biscuit with his bedtime milk. Anyway, with the world cup approaching, all the kids are getting pretty revved up, C's got his wallchart up, ready for the first game. One slight problem. No Wales. No great suprise to followers of football, but a bit bewildering for a six year old who wants someone to cheer on. I'm Welsh, born in Wales, Welsh parents, three Welsh grandparents (one slipped in from Yorkshire, it barely taints the bloodline) My wife has a English father and a Portuguese mother and the boys were born in Cheltenham. This caused a problem. I thought it reasonable that as soon as labour started, we would jump in the car and hot foot it down the M50 so they could be born over the border. my wife, selfish mare, was having none of it. Being Welsh is important to me, I have a strong sense of Welsh identity, and the boys think of themselves as Welsh. So here's the little fella's problem .At footie last night a good two thirds had the England kit on, the boy had his rather snazzy Portugal shirt on , the old purple one, they all want to be Rooney. So he sidles up to me with his sticker book, all earnest of expresion. "Daaaaad" "
"Yes chum ?"
When it's a long drawn out Daaaad, I know it's something he's been dwelling on
"You know this world cup"
"Just this once, and I don't want a flag or anything, is it okay for me to support England ?"
I want England to win the World Cup, they were the only home nation to qualify, and I think its fine to want them to succeed. Rugby's a different one, support only two teams, Wales, and anyone playing England.
"Go on then, just this once"
"Thanks Dad, but I promise, never at Rugby"

Thats my boy.

Monday, June 05, 2006

Each to their own, but I'm damn glad we don't live anywhere near the M fucking 25. Went to a wedding in Sidcup at the weekend, less said the better. Suffice to say it was a feeling of pleasant relief to be back in the Worcestershire countryside on Sunday.