Strange old day

Within a couple of hours earlier today, I two hugely different messages regarding friends with cancer.

The first, from an old friend who had battled it and won, he was overjoyed at having just being given the all clear.

A few hours later, another old friend letting me know that his mother had finally passed away after losing her battle.

There but for the grace etc, etc

I know man should always be in charge of his dog and all that, but sometimes life ain't perfect, and this video is what it sometimes can be like having a leisurely stroll in the company of the fuckwit spaniel

Bizarrely, this scenario actually happened last week when Amanda was walking said fuckwit spaniel with a few of their respective human and canine chums.

There were a few key differences. The deer were proper roughty toughty country types, not those indolent, latte sipping London ponces, and the language was considerably more agricultural than 'Jesus Christ.'

Although the sight of this fool both squealing and running like a girl is bloody funny, my favourite bit is the smug, Muttleyesque giggle by whoever filmed it, right at the end of the clip.

Fags and charity

I know it's about as socially acceptable as admitting that you like hanging out the back of pigs whilst wearing a pink thong, but, I'm a smoker. I shouldn't be, because it kills you and stuff, but at times I enjoy it, and it's somewhat of an addiction.

I can't stand the smell of fag smoke. Pubs are much nicer places to be since they stopped being submerged in a blue fug. I don't smoke in the house,I don't smoke around my kids. I smoke in the car when I'm on my own. I would never dream of having a fag with the kids in the car, and never use the ashtray. Quite often, I'll pull over and get out of the car for a fag, even when on my own. I'm not particularly comfortable smoking around non smokers.

I can understand today's news of a drive to ban smoking in cars, because people are idiots, and smoke in their cars whilst their children are with them.As an example, the road up to the village school is a narrow lane, one cars width. The school ask time and time again for parents not to drive up to the school entrance. The pub around the corner allows parents to use it's car park, and it takes less than a minute to walk up from there. Every day, the same Land Rover Discovery drives up the narrow lane with the mother puffing away on a fag and discharges her kids, reeking of smoke, directly outside the school. Both actions speak volumes of the mindset of the individual.  But, the same people will inevitably smoke in their homes when their children are around. How do you legislate for crass thickness? It's basically a common sense thing, although you could argue that no smoker has any common sense, but could the accusers then step forward and confess to their own flaws?

It's Children in need tomorrow, and it's obviously a worthwhile cause, and as usual, we'll probably send the donation text. I couldn't give a gibbon's hairy hoop if people don't give to charity, it's fucking tough out there. As I type Five live announces the new jobless totals, a seventeen year high. The last two mornings, I've listened to Chris Evans charity auction for CIN, the stuff you can't buy kind of thing. A round of golf with Clark and Westwood, driving rare Ferraris. Despite the obvious fact that it's going to a good cause,  I found the amounts bid for these items obscene. It seemed to me to be a crass flaunting of wealth when some people are making choices between heating their homes or putting fuel in their car. I am turning into a proper leftie.

Parenting

When one is doing the enjoyable jiggy bit that actually creates an infant, unsurprisingly, you're not that preoccupied with thoughts of what the coming years may bring.

There's no user manual either.

Duw, it's hard sometimes.

Middle aged motoring

Is forty three middle aged? Probably.

Anyway, unless you come from a different planet (or Norfolk, much the same thing) you will know that putting fuel in your car now costs roughly the same as the car itself. Public transport isn't an option, as it never goes where you want to go go, it's usually broken, and generally stinks of piss.

So, when it was obvious that Amanda's car was due a few quid spending on it, we bit the bullet, and have a shiny brand new one of these jobbies turning up on Monday.

It's pretty dull (to be honest, it's duller than your average Tory backbencher), but is does 75 to the gallon, produces virtually no C02s (so the government doesn't charge you gazzillions to tax it) and it's going to be the Gumpher family mode of transport from now on.

Unless of course, we have to take off fully loaded with the fuckwit spaniel and other assorted paraphernalia, in which case we'll take this, which is mine.

It doesn't do 75 to the gallon, it does however produce more C02s than all the cows in Wales, and as a consequence does cost gazzillions to tax. It has the redeeming qualities of having a flappy paddle gearbox and going like greased weasel shit, which is fab for humbling spotty chavs revving up their burberry infested vauxhall novas, and by the same effect, making one not feel quite so middle aged. I also, ahem, need it for work.

And before you ask, I am not sploffing cash I don't have in these austere times. I stuck it through the business on contract hire. They can have the cocking thing back in two year's time, I'm sick of losing small fortunes on cars.

More excited than a toddler full of sherbert

It's World Cup quarter final weekend! And we're still in it!

Unlike four years ago when we went out in the group stages and I had already booked my trip to Marseilles for the quarter final. More of that here Rugby and oysters and here  Rugby and oysters 2

I am going to struggle to sleep tonight, 6 AM kick off here we go.

Because I'm worth it

I am not a particularly hirsute man, but nonetheless, I do like to be clean shaven. I appreciate that stubble looks rather fetching on some blokes, the laydeez tell me that some chap by the name of Clooney carries it off rather well. I don't.

If I don't shave for a few days, I don't end up with a even layer of stubble of my face. Oh no. I end up with some strange appendage on my upper lip more reminiscent of a certain seventies style of film where some German chap in tradesmans overalls turns up and knocks on a frauleins door and announces "I am comming to be fixing your pipes, ja?" before lobbing out his purple veined bratwurst, much to the delight of the said fraulein as it makes all of her clothes fall off.

I digress, but it's not a good look.

Anyway, over the years, I've lined the pockets of Gillette and Wilkinson trying out all of their wares with every increasing blades and technology, and do you know what ? They're all shite, and replacing the blades costs about the same as small cottage in Devon. So I went on the interweb thingy, and got myself one of these bad boys.

It's luverrley, beautifully engineered and comfortably heavy. It does take me rather longer to get ready every morning. I no longer shave in the shower. Try that with one of these babies and you'll end up with bits of your face all over the tiling. I now lather up in front of the mirror and ponce around, gurning like a loon as I manfully stroke the flashing blade over my fizzog.

It's really rather enjoyable, and my wife is very impressed by the results, even though this morning she told me that "You look like a cock when you're doing that" which I thought was a tad uncalled for.

Search engine weirdos

Some oddball with severe spelling issues somehow arrived here after chucking 'fuccing+lisbians' into Google.

Also, CUNT+PHOTO, bingo, you're in, helloooooooooo.

That, I feel, is a tad harsh.

No lesbians here, oh no sirree.

Bleurgh

On top of not being in the best of health for the past six weeks, and not being able to take any time off (running your own business has plenty of upsides, the downside being, don't work, don't get paid) we have had the added bonus of poor Josh going through a rather unpleasant bout of night terrors.

Last night, he finally got off at 2.30 AM after a few screaming fits which woke us all, including Charlie. The third time Bean threatened him with bodily damage if he didn't belt up, which isn't much good, as although he's howling like a loon, he's actually asleep. I felt sorry for Charlie as he trudged up the road to get his bus this morning, he was down on his straps.

Poor little sod, Christ knows what goes on in his head, because I certainly struggle to figure it out. Putting aside the fatherly concern, I could have quite happily throttled him around 1 AM when he was in full on nonsensical rant mode.

At some point in the near future I really must ditch all of this gloominess and switch into Funtime Frankie mode. I've turned into a social hermit and barely touched a drop of grog in six weeks. People are talking.

Me, my shadow, & Chris Huhne being a fuckwomble

When you're a kid, your shadow is your chum, it grows, it shrinks, you jump about it. My shadow as an adult lives a damn sight closer.

It's about two and a half feet tall an makes an odd hissing noise. It has never left my side for the past six weeks. It reassures me with it's constant presence, yet I always resent it being there.

It's my oxygen cylinder, and it's changed my life. I resent it, because it means pain is near, but I adore it, because it makes the pain bugger off, like nothing ever has done before.

I am not a huge admirer of the odious little turds that choose to make politics their chosen way of life, and over the past few days, one in particular has stuck his head above the paprapet and demanded that we yell 'cunt' in order for him to duck down.

Chris cuntarsing, I've never broken the speed limit, nor shagged a lesbian Huhne.

On Sunday, anyone who didn't shop around for an energy deal was a lazy twat, and it was fucking spiffing that these companies were making oodles of cash because it was ace and everything. Try telling that to a pensioner who neither has access to the internet, nor wouldn't know what a fixed rate online deal was if it slapped them on the arse with a wet haddock.

By today, when oddly enough, he had to stand up and give a speech to all of his Libdem closet Tory mates, he had slightly changed his choon. He, big bad Chris, was going to get proper, proper roughty toughty with those nasty boys from the energy companies, and give then what for. Oh yes he was, and everything.

What a total, unmitigated cunt the man is. I'd wish shame on him, but he probably couldn't even spell it. 

What, more blog?

I am currently taking enough medication to make a medium size carthorse raise an eyebrow in gentle query.

One of the annoying side effects is sleep, or lack thereof. I am a blissful eight hours a night kind of chap, so getting between three and four hours, and then not feeling tired, is a bit odd. Amanda says that I'm acting a bit weird. I have bitten my tongue, to avoid acting a bit rude. I kind of reckon that no sleep and feeling manic would make one appear a tad odd.

So, 4.25 am, and Charlie comes belting into our room convinced that Satan and all of his little weevils are invading our house because the milkman zoomed passed at 3mph and woke him up. So he's crashed out on the floor in our room, and I've been pottering around the kitchen since, ooh, 4.35.am. Triffic.

I've stuck some photos on FB, made myself a tuna and egg salad for lunch later, had two cups of tea, checked the news, blogged, and even though it's not yet 7, I may even have a crafty fag.

Sleep deprivation, life on the edge.

Well, hello there

Gosh it's me, on a blog.

Useless I've been, proper crap. No reason whatsoever either, other than utter crapness.

Life pootles along with it's usual ebb and flow of highs and lows. The big high of the year was Amanda's fortieth birthday which we spent with a wonderful group of friends in a delicious riad in Marrakesh which we had all to ourselves. Debauchery and hilarity was very much the order of the weekend and a high ole time was had by all.

Much of what happens to Josh occupies the lows, along with the recent return of my cluster headaches after three years of nothing. They have the capacity to reduce me to a gibbering husk of a man, the only upside being that I have to quit the elbow bending whilst medicating, so the longer they go on, the healthier I become. That being said, I would rent out my nutsack to the fuckwit spaniel's fleas for a swig from a can of Stella 4%. Since I last had them I have been given oxygen cylinders to give pain relief at home. Quite how I got through the previous twenty years without it, I have no idea. Quite remarkable.

I would have liked to swum in the sea rather more than I have done throughout the summer, but other than that the barometer swings more up than down.

This hateful little island

It makes me a bit sad, and a big bit cross.

Unbelievable quango fuckwittery

A few months ago, one of the quangos that survived Dave's cuts went into Charlie's school to measure and weigh all of the kids.

Shortly afterwards, we received a letter telling us that he was overweight for his size and age and that we had better bloody well look out or else they would kick the door in in the middle of the night, drag us outside and shoot us.

A few posts below there's a picture of said hooligan number 1. Doe he look overweight to you?

A few days ago, a follow up letter arrived from a 'health improvement co-ordinator' inviting us to attend 'a session which brings families together with children 7-13 years who are above a healthy weight for fun, weekly sessions to learn more, and share experiences of how to eat well and move more.'

Needless to say, my piss went from normal to boiling before I had got to the end of the letter.

Here's my reply.

I would like you to explain why you have written to me inviting us as a family to attend a nanny state event targeted at overweight children.

I can only assume that has something to do with Charlie being termed as overweight in previous correspondence to us.

Perhaps I could give you a bit of background about our family and our lifestyle which might help you understand why I find this letter to be highly offensive.

We are not fast food eating couch potatoes.

Our diet, and the diet of our children is extremely important to us as we all lead a very active life.

Charlie plays rugby three times a week for his school and club. He also boxes once, sometimes twice a week. I play squash two or three times a week, as well as coaching junior rugby. My wife runs most days. Our youngest son plays rugby and football. We all walk our lively spaniel together.

Charlie plays in a specialist front row position, hooker. Perhaps you could look at the build of professional athletes such as Dylan Hartley, Matthew Rees and William Servat and tell me if you think they are overweight? I am of course, assuming you know who I am referring to.

As a family, we take our sport and diet very seriously, and I suggest that you target the recepients of these one size fits all letters a little more carefully in the future, as I am not in the least happy to receive them.

If my son has been placed on some sort of ‘fat’ database, please provide me with all of the details of what information is held, where and why. Rest assured, I do not need some half baked government initiative to teach me how best to feed and exercise my children, and I find it highly offensive to be written to by a ‘Health Improvement Co-ordinator’. It is correspondence that challenges my basic intelligence and ability as a parent.

I look forward to your soonest reply.

If the government seriously wants to help thick fucktards look after their kids properly, at least target the message at those who may need it. Or, if they'd like to save a fortune, give me the gig, it's not difficult, and I wouldn't charge that much.

A nationwide poster campaign along the lines of' EAT LESS SHIT AND DO SOME MORE EXERCISE AND YOU WON'T BE AS FAT YOU BACKWARD LARDARSES should do the trick.

Vomit, pooh and pee at Gumpher Towers

Poor Josh continues to spew and keff and has had another day off school.

Today was also the day of his first appointment with the consultant child psychologist and I had the day off.

He hadn't been sick, so off we went to Malvern for the appointment. Five minutes away, the poor chap chucks up everywhere. We rang ahead, and they said to come in and they would speak to the quack. When we arrived, he was covered in vom, and they decided it would be better not to go ahead. He's been on a waiting list for five months, and can't be seen for a further three weeks. About turn and back to base.

Poor little chap. He's as white as a sheet and very subdued. He managed to keep down a dinner this evening but seems to be vaguely amused as every time he farts he follows through. He ran out of jimjams at around four in the afternoon.

When we got back the ginger tosser was also looking a bit peaky and kept taking himself off to the garden and roamed around the flower beds squatting and straining. I carted him off to the vet, and in he went for surgery for a blocked bladder. They've rang this evening and he seems to be doing okay, but I'm two hundred and fifty quid lighter, and have two upset hooligans as he's been kept in for observation.

An epic day.


Then I played like a retard on acid and got soundly beaten on the squash court, and my attempt to rid the car of the smell of a small boy's upchuck has resulted in a strange odour of sick and polish. On Friday I will spend around eight hours in aforementioned vomit comet as I have a meeting in Ipswich.

Ipswich on a fucking Friday. Seriously. Can you get webbed feet and an inclination to start shagging your sister just be being with Ipswichistanis ?

My cup overfloweth.

And lets not get onto the cuntarsing rugby.

The tingling feeling has started.......

The Six Nations starts on Friday night with Wales against England




Please, please can we cease the shiteness of the past few months and attempt to recapture the glories of 2005 and 2008? Can we also have a gameplan which is a bit wider reaching than 'Fuck me, give it to Shane?'

Also, Friday night kick offs suck the clingons off a fat birds arse. International rugby should be played at 3pm on a Saturday, the television companies are forcing me kicking and screaming into the pub on a Friday night.

If we win, I'll get battered and have a good night with my English chums. If we lose, I'll get battered and have a good night with my English chums. . I must get around to writing the annual letter to my wife reminding her not to plan anything over the coming weeks. Actually, come to think of it, we're going to Marrakech for her birthday on a six nations weekend, now that is what you call love and devotion.

Home alone

Amanda has cleared off to Centre Parcs for the weekend with a bunch of chums leaving me, the hooligans, and the fuckwit spaniel to fend for ourselves.

I must say, she and her friends are very organised. This is the third year on the trot they've done this little jaunt, and every year the spouses involved go into mad panic and forget, hence I'll be collecting numerous kids from school today as I am ace and on top of stuff, so the disorganised toe rags get me looking after their offspring. They will pay in beer.

Tonight is sorted, basket meal in the pub and home by half seven. Tomorrow, Josh is off to a mate's for a sleepover, Charlie and I will cook paella together. Sunday, rugby for both, and I'll do a late afternoon roast when we get back.

I honestly don't know why some men get all stressy and useless about being on their own with their kids. I will admit to one big failing. I am crap with clothes and am banned from using the washing machine after a colour run incident. Amanda has sent me a text explaining where the kids rugby kit is. Sad I know. One things for sure, the hooligans and the fuckwit spaniel will be well fed and exercised, but there will be one mighty pile of laundry.

It's starting to get a bit silly

I've just filled my car up with petrol.

It cost nearly as much as I have paid to fly to North Africa in a few weeks time.

Back in 2000, we had a series of blockades which severely restricted fuel supplies as a reaction to petrol creeping up to 80p per litre. Yesterday, I found myself out in the sticks after rushing around and forgetting to go to a 'cheap' petrol station, and ended up paying £134.90 per litre. Needless to say, it was just a tenners worth to tide me over.

What has happened in the last eleven years? Have we become a more meek and accepting society? or have we merely worked out that these days, you just can't stick it to the man?

Winter

It would be very nice if you could just bog off now.

I've had enough of being cold.

Thanks.

Only 6 weeks to go until a weekend of debauchery in Marrakech.

I just hope they're not planning any Tunisian style stuff, not until we've been and gone anyway.

Selfish, you bet, it is my wife's 40th party after all!

Ye gods, I feel old

Hooligan number 1 was eleven today. Happy birthday to Bean.

Normal school day followed by a tough session at boxing club and then his fave Chinese take away in front of a dvd.

Tomorrow I'm taking him and a few of his chums to Castle Grim for an evening European rugby match.

I cannot believe it was eleven years ago that I was desperately avoiding the business end,nursing a bad hangover as a very chipper young Kiwi surgeon neatly sliced open Amanda's tum to bring him into the world accompanied by a sound which rather resembled the noise of a big Guinness follow through.

Happy birthday chum.

The 'Beautiful' Game

I don't get football.

Well, I do get in the sense of 'win ball, put in the net', sport doesn't get simpler than that. I don't get some of the people who follow it.

This weekend, there was crowd trouble at Newcastle v Sunderland, and Villa v Birmingham. On Monday, I spoke to a chap I know as we bumped into each other walking the kids up to school. He'd been to the Villa game and confessed to feeling very intimidated as he walked from the ground and felt it prudent to change his route a few times. I was staggered when he casually said 'Well, twenty years ago, I would have just waded in, but I'm a bit old for that now.' I don't know him particularly well, but the comment left me somewhat shocked.

I am passionate about being Welsh and watching Wales play rugby, but I have never seen so much as a punch being thrown at an international match, likewise when watching Gloucester. On Thursday night, I'll be at Gloucester v Agen with Charlie and a few of his chums, and we'll all enjoy the game without the slightest fear of any trouble.

What is it about football that brings the tribalism and violence of supporters to the surface? How can you hate another person on the basis of what team they support?

Like I said, I don't get it.

Money saving

During the Christmas jollidays, I finally got off my arse and got on with what I had told myself to do for ages, but constantly put off due to the vast boredom of the task - renewing insurance and utilities.

I was right, it took up the best part of a day, but I have saved, get this, £1020 a year.

That's by moving gas and electricity, cars, buildings, contents, and annual travel insurance to different providers. I feel more than a bit dopey for not having done it before.

I will shortly be bunking off work and buying industrial quantities of beer and fags to celebrate.

The New Year

I never have New Year resolutions. Once again I simply hope that I will enjoy the year even more than the previous one. Constant optimism.

A quick piece of advice for the morons who were all over the media yesterday complaining of 'mountains' of uncollected waste on the pavements.

Yes, you pay your council tax, and yes you have not received a service for which you have paid, but the rubbish is still there. There are places called recycling centres, tips in old money. If it bothers you that much, chuck yours in the back of the car and take it there. And if you have an elderly neighbour, take theirs too. It's really not that big a deal.

Hope that helps.