The rapier and the broadsword

The hooligans have been keeping rather active of late, nothing new there, but at completely opposite ends of the sporting spectrum.

Here's hooligan number two, togged up all smart for a gymnastics competition, 8.5 for the vault, 8.25 for the floor

And hooligan number 1 (second left front) fresh from his first match for the county rugby team

There's some big units in that lot!

Whizzy wheels

Amanda has just taken delivery of this

It's ace, and it's the most fun I've had driving since I had my beat up old Spitfire as a kid. Took a bit of piss taking when i turned up at the rugby club in it mind.

Cider I up!

Back in the cold of December we did this

Roll on seven months to a sunny July afternoon, and we finally have this!

8% as of the last testing, how do you like them apples?

Unashamedly proud dad moment

I make no apologies for this indulgence.

Rugby has been a massive part of my life. playing it, watching it, talking about it.

Charlie took to the game as soon as he first started playing tag when he was six. He really started to flourish when he went from tag tag to contact rugby. He'd found his niche. He could hit hard, carry hard, and scrummage hard, and he had a pretty tidy turn of pace. He developed into a good hooker.

He's just been selected for the county squad for next season.

I'm very proud of him, and very pleased for him.

Breakfast of champions

One downside of Josh's medication has been a loss of appetite.

He very rarely eats lunch, and tends to want to eat later in the evenings. He does a lot of sport, and is a bundle of non stop energy even before he gets to the gym, or on the track, so we have to get calories into him whenever we can.

Breakfast is a different story. He wants to eat almost a soon as he gets up, and this is a fairly typical morning scoff.

Touch me, oooerr

This summer, I have mainly been playing touch rugby, which is bloody good fun.

A bunch of us entered a lads and dads team up at the Warriors league, 14s and 40s (clever wordplay, n'est ce pas?). Injuries to lads, 0, injuries to Dads, 1 broken foot, 2 hamstrings, 3 calfs and 2 achilles. We're all pretty fit blokes, but all share the same failing, an inability to realise that your mid forties body will not react in the same way as your mid twenties body when you see a gap and ask for the afterburners.

I am the latest hamstring case, on the last night of the season. Threw a lovely little dummy to leave some mid fifties bloke wallowing in my wake, stuck on the gas and pulled up like I'd been shot in the back of the thigh, much to the amusement of my team mates who showed their concern by lobbing ice spray cans at me as I hobbled off. It bloody well proper hurts, no squash for a while. Bean played as well, but missed out on a few weeks after having had a busted hand plastered up. We won our league as well!

In another attempt to make me feel old, I no longer have any children at primary school. Josh has finished and will start middle school in September, and Charlie will move up to high school.

It's made me rather glum. The village school is a short stroll away, and I will miss meandering up together. Some days in silence if we've had a barney, other days full of animated chatter. Mostly the latter. I don't think it's a part of his life he'll dwell on, as he is really looking forward to his move, although he's not so keen on getting the bus every day at 0730. I think of it as quite a bit landmark in my life, and I was worried I would make a tit of myself and blub at the leavers service, I remained stoic, although Amanda required the Kleenex.

Those who have read this old bollocks over the years will know that Josh's time at primary school was sometimes an unhappy struggle, but he flourished in the final two years, and I hope he leaves with some happy memories, he's certainly got a big group of good friends.

Bean enjoyed his three years at middle school, but as he is currently going through a rather stereotypical teenage grunting phase, I can't provide accurate feedback.

I am a colossal idiot

More of a fucking imbecile actually,

I'm doing that 500 calories twice a week diet thing, it's worked really well for me. Aaaaaanyway, yesterday was a diet day and I got up early and chopped a load of veg for a spiced veg soup later. Got home from work, chucked it all on to simmer and took the mutt out for a stroll.

At this point I must point out that my wife was out giving blood, otherwise such utter fuckwittery would not have happened, she would have spotted my twatishness and firmly reigned it in.

Back from my walk, everything looks tidy and the kitchen is full of the scent of carrots, cumin, turmeric and all sorts. I got out the blender, but couldn't find the lid anywhere. No bother, thinks I, I'll stick the chopping block on top , that'll sort it.

This is where it all goes a bit pear shaped, plus being a bit hungry after only having had a bit of salad and a few prunes earlier, I was in a bit of a rush and went straight to max power. I'd overfilled the blender, and near boiling soup flew up at some speed, hit the underside of the not really fitting block, shot out at all angles at high trajectory and hit me smack in the chest. Not really grasping the situation, I stood there gibbering like a loon as spiced veg soup hit me like a nicely scented, hot hailstorm.

Finally, I turned off the blender, and realised that my upper regions were starting to get a bit tingly. When it went from being a bit tingly to actually quite painful, I quickly whipped off my clothes. My nipples, and all the area around had gone bright pink. I grabbed my clobber, legged it upstairs, and threw the sodden clothes in the bath.

Then, I needed to get cold water onto my chest, sharpish. Did I, A, get in the shower and turn it to cold? B, soak some flannels in cold water and apply them to my chest? Or C, fill the sink up and try and put my chest in it? As this is a tale of complete cocksocketery, no prizes for guessing, but take it from me, it's not easy trying to get your torso into a bathroom sink.

When my nipples became less nuclear, I ventured back to the kitchen, which has cream units and white walls. I like clean lines. In my absence, it appeared that someone had projectile vomited all over the fucking place. There were bits of carrot on the floor, the ceiling, the dog, everywhere. It needed cleaning before my wife got back and discovered that her beloved husband was in fact, a feckless fucking chimp.

Take this as a warning. Dieting is not for the unprepared or faint hearted.

The soup was over-spiced and made my eyes water. Even the dog turned her nose up at it.

__________________

Little fluffy things

Bastards, all of them.

Let the fuckwit spaniel out this morning and recoiled in horror. She appeared to have shat her own body weight. Nice.

Unsurprisingly, given the choice of cleaning up dog shit or doing the hooligans' packed lunches, Amanda chose the latter. I'd just finished bagging and shampooing when a vile retching noise came from the kitchen. The fucking cat had yacked up her breakfast.

Amanda's just come into work and admitted to letting them share the leftovers of last night's curry.

Women.

What goes on tour...........

Charlie had his first rugby tour last weekend, and I tagged along too (Club rules, if your son goes, you go)

We both had a superb weekend in a shitty holiday park near Bournemouth.

It was all done properly with tour court along with a judge, lawyers and sneaks. Whipped cream pies and chilli sauce drinks for the kids when proven guilty, the usual liver punishment for any adult up in front of the beak.

Bean had a superb time, I'm so glad we booked it as it's his first full season with the new club, and it was a chance for him to get to know people a bit better. They all enjoyed paintballing on the way back. A couple of dads went in to observe, needless to say the kids shot the shit out of them.

There won't be photos, the tour theme was 'Lord of the Rings' cumpolsory fancy dress for the whole weekend. I make a fucking daft looking hobbit.

A Welsh Easter

'Twas a bit chilly in the Black Mountains, but very beautiful.

Eat less and move around more

Losing weight really is that simple, I don't see what all the fuss is about.

I'm in pretty tidy shape for a chap in his mid forties. I play squash regularly, lots of walks with the fuckwit, and we eat a sensible diet. Since I packed in the smokes (nearly a year now) I've had the stereotypical weight gain, nothing drastic, but more than sat comfotably.

So, no booze at all in January, nada, not a drop. I do miss a good glass of red with dinner, and a crisp, cold cider, but it's been no biggie. Two days a week, 500 calories only. 500 calories is not a lot of food, but it's no reason to have unpalaltable food. A typical day would be;

Breakfast, one slice of wholemeam toast and a vitamin drink.

Grazing throughout the day, carrots and fruit.

Lunch, vegetable soup.

Dinner, spicy cabbage broth with either boiled chicken or fishballs.

Homemade steamed fishballs are lush, and the name provides the hooligans with minutes of endless hilarity.

" Hey Josh!"

"Yeah?"

"Guess what, the old boy is eating balls again!"

"Mwhaaaah ha ha ha aha ha !"

I've also upped squash to three sessions a week.

I've lost just over half a stone in three weeks. It's a piece of piss, and I'm verging on what the yoot refer to as 'buff', well, that bit might be a bit made up.

I'll be firmly back on the booze at the weekend, it's the start of the six nations ( I am Welsh, hear me roar, oops, what, another Grand Slam, etc, etc) and I have a freebie in a box at Castle Grim. I may be a tad squiify come the end of the day.

I now have a teenage son

Christ, that makes me feel old.

Bean turned 13 at the weekend

This is him at the physio last week, pretty much proof that kids can use a mobile anywhere, even when there's an electrical current being sent into their body.

He's now bigger than his Mum, and is catching me up pretty quickly. If you want to get yourself one of these, check that you can afford the food bill first.

'Tis, or rather, was the season

A rather enjoyable and laid back Christmas was had at Gumph towers.

The four of us, both mothers, and my sis back from Singapore for a few months, it was all rather jolly, albeit rather damp and soggy. Once again we came close to launching the Ark

American gun laws

"The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun,"

" In Washington, the National Rifle Association called for "good guys" to be armed for "absolute protection"

It all seems much simpler, and much safer, up here in the Shire.

And with far less dead children.

Spit the dummy

I played badly.

I got a bit stroppy

I broke a rather expensive squash racquet.

I'm 44.

I feel a bit daft.

If you can learn to lose with grace, it will make you win with grace.

Halloween

That is all.

Changes

As an adult, we become used to change. As a child it can sometimes be quite a big thing.

Charlie is not far off becoming a teenager and has been at the same rugby club, with the same mates since he was six. They had some good times over the years, but the numbers have dwindled, and at towards the end of last season a few matches were cancelled due to lack of numbers. We talked, and both agreed to see how the start of this season went. A few players left over the summer, a few didn't bother with pre season, but turned up for the first match. That's okay, people have different priorities. Josh likes rugby, but it comes a lowly third on his list of priorities behind gymnastics and athletics. Charlie loves the game, given the choice he'd play every day, as it is it's Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday. He needed to be at a club where week in, week out, rugby was guaranteed.

So, the decision was made, his club informed, and goodbyes made. He's joined a club with forty three registered players in his age group that put out two teams every week. He'd been to two training sessions prior to the first fixture, and I wasn't really expecting him to get a game, but they selected him to start at hooker for the seconds, and was presented with his match shirt, embroidered with his initials before the game.

As the current vernacular would put it, he smashed it (and that unfortunate lad in front of him) and will be given a chance in the first team squad next week. From walking onto a training pitch last week, knowing no one, to performing like this shows huge drive and commitment. I'm very proud of him. Most of the kids, and all of the coaches came and shook his hand and congratulated him after the game. It's got a nice feel to it, the right choice has been made.

A change for the good.

Getting old

With one exception, all of my Grandparents have lived to a ripe old age, and I've been close to all of them.

It's unusual given that I'm in my forties that I still have grandparents, although we lost my much loved Grandad a few months ago.

My remaining Grandmother has Alzheimers, and I try to visit her as often as I can, but sometimes it's not a pleasant experience. Last week she was fine, although very tired and forgetful, our conversation kept repeating itself. The week before was heartbreaking. She was very upset, and in constant distress. She still knows what is happening to her, she isn't in the full grip of the disease, although it's changing her very quickly. She had an almost pleading tone to her sobs as blurted out "I just want to die, I don't want this," over and over again.

She's terrified of going into a home. As yet, it's not going to happen. On that side of the family, it's just my Aunt and I, no one else, and caring for her is becoming ever more difficult for my Aunt. She herself is in her sixties, and still working part time.

There's a photo of my grandad on the mantle. She's left the frame there, but stuck a piece of card over his face as "He's upped and buggered off with another woman." He's been dead twenty five years.

The corner, turned?

Just before the schools broke up last term, we took a very big step where Joshie was concerned.

For years we had persisted with therapy, rather than medication, against all medical advice. I can't go into all of our reasons for not wanting to give him drugs, I'd be here for a very long time, and I'm not sure even then I could fully express our reasons. After a long, soul searching and emotional appointment with his psychiatrist, we agreed to try.

The results were pretty instant, and rather surprising. It has made me feel very guilty about not doing it before, but Amanda and I have spoken at length and she has made me feel more comfortable about our decisions over the past few years.

Therapy has worked wonders with his anxieties and fears, but never really helped with his miserable time at school which was caused by his hyperactivity and inattentiveness.

We didn't tell the school what we were doing, we waited for them to come to us, which they did. There was dramatic change. We don't see it that much, the medication works quickly when he takes it after breakfast, and wears off in the late afternoon, and we don't always give it to him at the weekends. Suffice to say, he has gone from being excluded and being sent to a 'special' school for a period of time, to being the first school prefect to be announced, with responsibility for the new reception class, and bring given the first Head Teacher's award of the new year. And, he's happy to be there. It's a massive transformation from only a year or so ago. He's definitely quieter when taking it. It's not changed his character, but it has subdued parts of it.He's always been a very, very deep thinker, but now I feel he has a reflective and melancholy air. Perhaps I am being over analytical.

It means he will go through this final year with no major worries about the transition to big school, and that he can start to fulfill his potential, as he is properly back in mainstream education. There are side effects, and side issues. He doesn't like taking them, and at first refused, despite a very frank discussion with his doctor, who he trusts. "I'm not mental, I don't want these, and no one can make me take them." He was convinced by being told that it would help him to make better decisions, which is essentially what it does. He now suffers from headaches, and also has a vastly reduced appetite. We knew these may happen, and he is measured and weighed frequently. He has grown in height but lost weight. It's difficult to get weight onto him, he does a lot of sport. Luckily, he is still hungry at breakfast, and usually has cereal, yoghurt, eggs, toast, and fruit. His lunchbox comes back barely touched, and evening meals can be hit and miss. There's no point getting cross and being pushy, it's not his fault. We get as many calories into him when we can.

It's going to make a massive difference to his life, but most importantly it's made him happier. Hindsight is hard, and regrets are sometimes fatuous, but it's hard to have neither when it's your child.

He's come a bloody long way on a very bumpy road.

Summer festival japes

Having been to The Green Man for the past few years, we decided on a change of scenery for our summer festival trip. After a bit of research we decided on Nozstock on a farm near Bromyard.

It was a fab choice, a weekend of genuine British eccentricity, helped in no small way by the organisers extremely liberal attitude to the use of soft drugs.I've never smoked spliff, it doesn't agree with me, but I've never seen so many fat biftas in all my years. There appeared to be an ongoing competition to outdo the Camberwell Carrot.

It was themed as 'Myths and Legends' and rather than a music festival, it's set up as a festival of performing arts, so there was lots of quite frankly, weird, but enjoyable shit, going on. Apart from the young couple who wandered around the site and then would strip naked, sing a song, get dressed and amble off to scare other folk. That's not art, it's streaking. They couldn't sing either, and I'm reliably informed by my wife that he had a small penis. It's generally not a good thing to use your wanger as a bit of performing art if it's a tiddler. People will point and snigger.

I found the human octopus a bit freaky. They had their own show in the theatre (the tent behind, it was called the 'Bantam of the Opera', vair droll) I didn't go. I did go and see a bit of a show called Artwank. It was a history of early pornography with some seriously wrong black and white footage presented by a rather foxy lady called Ophelia Bits. She was very funny, but I felt a bit odd sitting in a tent watching spank films with strangers, so I left to get more cider. My chums Kate and Al stayed, they were positively lapping up the filth.
The comedy tent was a bit hit and miss, but an act called the Rubberbandits were bloody good. Don't take kids though.

Ophelia Bits obviously had a hand in naming the bar.

It really was a cracking weekend. Charlie thoroughly enjoyed it. There were only 4000 people there, so he and his chum Alf ambled around together, tracking us down when they wanted food and water. It was odd not to have Josh there, he would have loved it. He was have a fab time being spoiled rotten by his Grandma. They went to watch the men's gymnastics at the Olympics!

A couple of bands, I really enjoyed.  Biscuithead and the Biscuit Badgers were perfect for a sunny afternoon with a few ciders. Jonny Kowalski and the Sexy Weirdos were proper ace, as were the Electric Swing Circus. You can see acts who probably will never make the big time, but are incredibly clever and talented and love what they do.

We danced, we sang, we drank cider and lazed about in the sun. I got my mojo back for the weekend.