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.