Onesies

I made the mistake of making my views on onsies rather too loudly within the hearing of my youngest son. We were shopping in Asda and they were selling a particularly hideous selection. I say 'particularly' because they were even more vile than the usual vileness of all onesies.

The comment I passed, which unfortunately he heard, was that anyone wearing a onesie should be shot and then crucified. Josh's mind will always fixate on the shocking, and now each and every time we see anyone in a onesie, or they are mentioned in conversation, Josh will very kindly pass on his father's opinions in a very smug and matter of fact manner.

I've been quite surprised that some people think this to be a rather excessive point of view. Those people of course, being those that have bought the stupid fucking things. It's a fucking romper suit, a babygrow. People who dress up as infants are normally classed as perverts, now it's meant to be socially acceptable?

Wearing one of these makes you look a bit of a cunt.

It really does.

Honestly.

Lurgified

It's that time of year again, I have manthrax. My wife's bedside manner is less the lady with the lamp and more Attilla the Hun, in other words, fuck all sympathy.

That's it really, a rather pointless point, I'm ill, and as is the way of men, I am feeling hugely sorry for myself.

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