Little darlings

Emmak, who pretends to have headaches, has just blogged about the joys of parenthood. She did not go far enough. For anyone considering sprogging, answer the questions below, and consider once more

FOLLOW THESE 14 SIMPLE TESTS BEFORE YOU DECIDE TO HAVE CHILDREN:

Test 1
Women: to prepare for maternity, put on a dressing gown and stick a beanbag down the front.
Leave it there for 9 months.
After 9 months remove 5% of the beans.

Men: to prepare for paternity, go to a local chemist,
tip the contents of your wallet onto the counter and tell the pharmacist to help himself.
Then go to the supermarket. Arrange to have your salary paid directly to their head office.
Go home. Pick up the newspaper and read it for the last time.

Test 2
Find a couple who are already parents and berate them about their methods of discipline,
lack of patience, appallingly low tolerance levels and how they have allowed their children to run wild.
Suggest ways in which they might improve their child's sleeping habits, toilet training, table manners and over all behaviour.
Enjoy it.
It will be the last time in your life that you will have all the answers.

Test 3
To discover how the nights will feel:
1. Walk around the living room from 5pm to 10pm carrying a wet bag
weighing approximately 4 - 6kg, with a radio turned to static
(or some other obnoxious sound) playing loudly.
2. At 10pm, put the bag down, set the alarm for midnight and go to sleep.
3. Get up at 12pm and walk the bag around the living room until 1am.
4.Set the alarm for 3am.
5. As you can't get back to sleep, get up at 2am and make a cup of tea.
6.Go to bed at 2.45am.
7. Get up again at 3am when the alarm goes off.
8. Sing songs in the dark until 4am.
9. Put the alarm on for 5am. Get up when it goes off.
10. Make breakfast. Keep this up for 5 years.
LOOK CHEERFUL.

Test 4
Dressing small children is not as easy as it seems:
1. Buy a live octopus and a string bag.
2. Attempt to put the octopus into the string bag so that no arms hang out.
3. Time allowed for this: 5 minutes.

Test 5
Forget the BMW and buy a practical 5 door wagon.
And don't think that you can leave it out on the driveway spotless and shining.
Family cars don't look like that.
1. Buy a chocolate ice cream cone and put it in the glove compartment.
2. Leave it there.
3. Get a coin. Insert it into the cd player.
4. Take a box of chocolate biscuits; mash them into the back seat.
5. Run a garden rake along both sides of the car.

Test 6
Get ready to go out
1. Wait
2. Go out the front door
3. Come back in again
4. Go out
5. Come back in again
6. Go out again
7. Walk down the front path
8. Walk back up it
9. Walk down it again
10. Walk very slowly down the road for five minutes.
11. Stop, inspect minutely and ask at least 6 questions about every
piece of used chewing gum, dirty tissue and dead insect along the way.
12. Retrace your ste ps
13. Scream that you have had as much as you can stand until the neighbours come out and stare at you.
14. Give up and go back into the house.
15. You are now just about ready to try taking a small child for a walk.

Test 7
Repeat everything you say at least 5 times.

Test 8
Go to the local supermarket.
Take with you the nearest thing you can find to a pre-school child.
A full-grown goat is excellent.
If you intend to have more than one child, take more than one goat.
Buy your weeks groceries without letting the goat(s) out of your sight.
Pay for everything the goat eats or destroys.
Until you can easily accomplish this, do not even contemplate having children.

Test 9
1. Hollow out a melon
2. Make a small hole in the side
3. Suspend the melon from the ceiling and swing it side to side
4. Now get a bowl of soggy cornflakes and attempt to spoon
them into the swaying melon while pretending to be an aeroplane.
5. Continue until half the cornflakes are gone.
6. Tip the rest into your lap, making sure that a lot of it falls on the floor.
7. You are now ready to feed a 12-month old child.

Test 10
Learn the names of every character from the Wiggles, Barney, Teletubbies and Disney.
Watch nothing else on television for at least 5 years.

Test 11
Can you stand the mess children make? To find out:
1. Smear peanut butter onto the sofa and jam onto the curtains
2. Hide a fish behind the stereo and leave it there all summer.
3. Stick your fingers in the flower beds and then rub them on clean walls.
4. Cover the stains with crayon.
5. How does that look?

Test 12
Make a recording of someone shouting "Mummy" repeatedly.
Important: no more than a 4 second delay between each Mummy -
occasional crescendo to the level of a supersonic jet if required.
Play this tape in your car, everywhere you go for the next 4 years.
You are now ready to take a long trip with a toddler.

Test 13
Start talking to an adult of your choice.
Have someone else continually tug on your shirt hem or shirt
sleeve while playing the Mummy tape listed above.
You are now ready to have a conversation with an adult while there's a child in the room.

Test 14
Put on your finest work attire.
Pick a day on which you have an important meeting. Now:
1. Take a cup of cream and put 1 cup of lemon juice in it
2. Stir
3. Dump half of it on your nice silk shirt
4. Saturate a towel with the other half of the mixture
5. Attempt to clean your shirt with the same saturated towel
6. Do not change, you have no time.
7. Go directly to work.

You are now ready to have kids.

I woke up this morning knowing that I had a days work of working on my accounts to look forward to, which made getting out of bed hard work. Until I opened the curtain. A slight frost was on the car windscreen, but the sky was clear and blue. I'm now crunching numbers, and thankfully I am making money, whilst looking enviously at the people on the golf course outside my office window.

Crazy things on e bay. World cup final tickets, 10 grand each. There must be some very rich and very stupid people out there. 10 grand to watch a game of rugby ? I love the game, but that's plain daft.

The return of rugby & oyster

We both collapsed onto the roundabout somehow managing to avoid the prickles. Laughing our nads off at our truly fubared position. After some time lurching around the road we found the keys, and out of the darkness car lights approached. A proper taxi ! The driver wasn't Algerian ! He had a map !
10 minutes later we wandering to our pad after being dropped at the bottom of the road. As we approached a vomit covered apparition rose from the steps. 'Four hours I've been here, four fucking hours you pair of cunts'. So BIL had his homing instincts switched on. Turns out he'd watched the game and then grabbed a cab, assuming we'd do likewise. When it was clear we hadn't he wandered down to the bar at the bottom of the street, the one we swore blind that no matter how bladdered we were, we wouldn't venture in. Turns out they took pity on him, they all had a few beers and they even gave him a couple of fat biftas, hence the spew. Weed and beer are not happy bedfellows.
By now it was 5.30, which seemed a good time to crash as we had to do it all over again later in the day. we rose at 10 , all looking very special, a quick shower, a few gallons of water and OJ and off to catch the bus. We followed the main docks road into the edge of the centre, and then got the metro to the old port. As I said earlier, dog rough in parts.
The walk from the station to the port is pretty. The station sits on top of a hill and we strolled down tree line boulevards taking in the views. We found an amazing confectioners staffed by the most stunning women, bloody well made me want to buy biscuits. I got the boys some rather jazzy lollipops and we continued our stroll munching on themostfuckingincrdiblefreshlymadethatmorningmeltin yourmouthbutterbiscuits, yum.
We opted for brunch. BIL went for pasta, he was doing the Cardiff half marathon the following weekend and last nights debauchery had totally fecked his training schedule, and as more was planned for this day, pasta was a his token effort. Bokke and I had bloody gorgeous steaks with a heavily reduced red wine and red onion sauce swilled down with a few bottles of rather refreshing rose. Breakfast of champions. more strolling aided digestion before we decided to join French cafe society and watch the Boks play Fiji sat comfortably outside a bar with a big screen. I think this was where I went a bit wrong with my drinks choice. More wine, a few beers, and a few pastis. The game was wonderful. Played at a hell of a pace with the score going one way then the next, before the filthy Saffas pulled away at the end. Bokke was happy, but mighty relieved. He'd taken loads with very good humour all through the game as he was the only Boer in the bar, and everyone was backing Fiji. It was from this point that my memories become hazy. It was only around 7pm, and the next game was 9. We meandered some more and found ourselves in the bar we had finished up in the previous night. Mine host was pleased to see us, and greeted us with a free shot of Tequila. ( We most have blown a few quid in there the previous evening ) it then got messy. More tequila, sambuca, oysters, whatever that orange licker is, more oysters, lobster, and finally, kick off and the sensibilty of a cold pint. Somewhere during the second half is the point at which my weekend ended in disgrace. I pulled a massive hurl, damn near turning myself inside out in the process and rather sensibly informed my companions that I wished to be collected from my sleeping position on the church steps opposite when it was time to go. Iwas told later that Argentina won. I may be daft enough to do it, but I'm now wise enough to know when I've had enough.
The journey back was relaxing. I've always hated air travel after a weekend on the lash, but the train was great. We had time for a spot of lunch in Paris. Bokke had more steak. Boers and meat. My body being totally protein overloaded cried out for, and got a green salad with a few litres of diet coke. The drive from London back to the shire was the only harsh part of the journey as I had to drive. Bokke and BIL both drive stupid trucks, Bokke as he hankers after the veld, and BIL as he lives halfway up a mountain in the arse end of nowhere. We went back to Gumphers as Mrs G was looking after Bokkes kids for a few hours. We were delighted to be told that we all looked and smelt like tramps, a proper badge of honour. She was pleased to see me really. The boys liked their funky shirts and lollipops, and A professed to be chuffed with the Foie Gras.
All in all a fucking splendid weekend. I hadn't had a rugby trip for a few years. As the boys are getting older the weekends get fuller and fuller, but it was the world cup dammit. Good company, fine wine, beer, and food, and thrilling rugby. I cancelled two games of squash that week and eventually came right on the Friday. I am old and I smell of wee.

Rugby & Oysters

Forget planes, trains are the way to travel. Particularly if they're French, don't stink of old lady's wee and go at 200mph. Leave London 0534, arrive Marseilles 1329. Genius. No shitty airports, no queues and a big comfy seat.
Sometimes I'm like Paddington Bear, as in , things happen to me. All we wanted was a cab from station to apartment, a quick change into shorts, dump bags and leggit back to the Vieux Port for the first game. Thanks to that twat Remy, we were now staying at the very north of the city in a crappy flat in a very dodgy area near the docks, but hey, we didn't plan to be there much, it was just a bed. Anyway, we grab a cab, we're nearly at our pad, and another car dings the back of our cab in the narrow street and drives off. Our driver turns into a full on mentalist and gives chase. Its only when we're doing 95 on the wrong side of the road that we realise there are no seatbelts in the car. Enough,not wishing to be a French motoring statistic, we demand he stops. He does and invites us to piss off out of his cab. There's three of us and one of him so we tell him to take us to our fucking pad and then he can piss off. Fair enough, but then we have no drive back to town. Our French is woeful, so a neighbour kindly calls us a cab, and we make it back just as the anthems are being sung.

My companions for this trip are my English brother in law (BIL) and my South African chum (Bokke). So I'm the only one along for the jolly, Wales being shite and all that. The big screens were slap in the middle of the old port, which is very impressive, a large fort guarding the entrance, and a stunningly pretty church perched on a hilltop looking down on the cluster of boats and eager rugby fans. The rest of Marseilles, much like many port cities was a fucking shit hole. We watch England beat the convicts in the sweltering sunshine helped by many cooling pressions. BIL is chuffed to arseholes and is one of many dazed Englishmen around us. Bokke and I are amazed. How can a team that dull and shite be in a world cup semi final (little were we to know that it would get worse the following week) We had a mooch around the old port, sampling various French lagers and the odd Pastis on the way whilst choosing a restaurant for an early evening meal .KT Tunstall was playing later on by the harbour, and we wanted to watch a bit of that before baggsin our spots for the next game. We opted for a fabbo fruits de mer washed down with a couple of bottles of Chablis. I say fabbo, everything bar the sea snails, which were fucking minging, but it was a matter of manly pride to finish the lot.
This is the bit where the evening went slightly tits up. We lost BIL. his phone kept going ansaphone, which was more than irritating. (later we found out he dropped it and it was fucked). Realising that we would never find him in such a massive crowd, Bokke and I decided that we would enjoy the rest of the night, and find him when the crowd dispersed. So, we had a few more beers. One, in a bar which we thought was paricularly friendly and only had men in it, stepped outside and noticed the multicoloured flag, oh yes, the poofs like their rugby too. Caught a bit of KT and then watched the French do the Kiwis up the wrong 'un. What a night, we sang, we danced, we hugged smelly Frenchmen. It was bloody 'triffic. We found a cool little bar on the front for more Pastis and singing and did the odd recce for the BIL with no avail. At 2 ish, we thought we should make a move. Slight problem, we had no idea of the address of where we were stayin, BIL had written it down, but he was nowhere to be seen. We knew roughly where it was, but our French was so appalling and we were so drunk, there was no way we could communicate the info. There was an upside, although not so good for BIL, Bokke had the keys in his pocket. A word of advice, never ever try to get a cab in Marseille after midnight as they don't exist. A dodgy looking geezer in a shagged out Renault accosted us, and by a mixture of sign language and yelling we figured out that he wasn't a taxi, but if we bunged him a few euros, he would take us home. It started well on the main road north, but after twenty minutes of aimless meandering around some of Marseilles less salubrious suburbs, and for the second time in fifteen hours, we were once again hoyed out of a French car. We wandered around the roundabout where we had been ejected. We both noted some interesting cactii, and we both concurred that we were a little bit fucked. Bokke wanted to take the high road, I disagreed, we were by the sea, we should take the low road. I was accused of being a prick and some house keys were flung in my general direction along with some mutterred Afrikaner insults, and then some Afrikaner horror when Bokke realised that he had just had a fissy fit, he had just thrown the keys at me, and they were nowhere to be fucking seen. Like I said, just like Paddington Bear. tbc..............................

Ruined

I must get around to writing about our truly memorable weekend in Marseille. It was the trip of legends, but I broke myself, badly, and I have shit loads of work to do. Soon.

Cheese eating surrender monkey

After a pleasant evening alone watching reruns of various rugby matches the phone rang at 10.30. I thought it would be A saying she would be late home as she was out with the girlies. Nope it was Remy, the dodgy French bloke whose apartment I had booked some two weeks previously. Now, my French is cack, as was his English, but the general gist was 'I ave a probleem, is no possible you 'ave my place' . Vast tantrum, to no effect, ees still no possible. Once again the word cunt became a tad overused, and nicogum is furiously chewed.
We leave at half 5 on Saturday morning to go to a city with no room at any inn. Today I have accomplished sweet fa workwise. My presence was requested by both boys at church for the harvest festival. They both had lines ! A big leap forward from their no speaking roles in every nativity thus far. Number one had a good stab at explaining the foot and mouth restrictions and number two simply had to announce 'cauliflower' and stick it on the altar which he did with great aplomb. Not with the gusto of one his little chums who screamed COURGETTE ! whilst waving a rather impressive specimin around his head like Zorro on drugs. I'm a weddings and funerals chap where god bothering's concerned, but I thoroughly enjoyed the service, banging out a few tunes in my monotone yowl.
Anyway, after about twenty odd phone calls to various bemused Frenchies (tomorrow, are you zeerius ?) I finally managed to secure a pad. Not central, but beggars etc. So, off we jolly well go. Its going to get messy, hurrah.

Red wine and snails

I'm off to Marseille to watch rugby at the weekend. South Africa, Fiji, Australia and England. Spot the deliberate mistake ? Distinct lack of Wales. Useless fucking cunts the lot of them. Thats all I have to say.

Smoke free zone

So, tomorrow, a month off the weed. For some reason I feel very little sense of achievement, not sure why. No weight gain, but then, I exercise and I don't eat shite, so no great suprise. Apparently my skin looks better, whoopee. Lung capacity definitely up, I can now scream abuse at myself for the full forty minutes on the squash court whereas before I would be a wheezy mess in the corner after twenty five.
I've been on will power for a week. Patches didn't really agree with me. I found them irritating on my skin, and I don't know if it was coincidence, but my mood swings were shocking, not so now I've stopped wearing them, I'm a miserable shit all of the time.
I could still quite happily have a Marlboro moment, but I'm not going to. See kids, just say no, even if all the cool kids still smoke

An Englishman, a South African and a Welshman walked into a bar............

So, I got my hands on that coveted ticket, triffic it was too, bang on the halfway line, best ticket I've ever had in Cardiff. And then those filthy dirty convicts gave us a rugby lesson. Ah well, we gave 'em the runaround in the second half. The bois need to learn to turn up for the first half. At least I'm not English. Needed a colostomy all through that Saffa game, pissing myself I was.

Anyway, high on the drug of live rugby, Gumpher and two battle hardened companions are going to Marseille for the two quarter finals. Road trip baby ! No women, no kids. Ha ! We'll be quaffing industrial quantites of red wine, there will be the usual compulsory eating of snails and two world cup quarter finals on consecutive days. Yabba dabba doo.

Arse biscuits

Today I have been using the word cunt, a lot. I wish people would let me use my sub contractors who are reliable and deliver on time, rather than a certain not named organisation and their subs. The project schedule they wrote was the greatest work of fiction since one C.Dickens pondered over his pen. Three weeks overdue, three fucking weeks. Puts my cashflow up shit creek and costs me a packet in additional transport and labour, I'll get it back, in fucking November. Cunts.Oh, and when did they decide to share this information ? Three fucking days before completion. To add to my woes it looks like we've found a house. It's just around the corner from us, ticks all the boxes and means that I end up with a mortgage the size of Malawi's national debt. All of this whilst Marlboro free.
On the bright side, I may have a ticket for Wales v Australia. Please please please make it come my way.

Next week is going to seem a bit odd, as, on Wednesday, number 2 boy will be joining number 1 at primary school. I wonder how A will be after the initial few weeks of having more time for herself without constantly having a small boy zooming around the place. I'm only guessing, but I suspect that she'll miss him for a bit. It's a big change in both their lives. She will have some choices to make. A's not worked for years. She quit work in her mid twenties to do a degree, and then when we started a family, we both agreed that she would be at home with them at least until they were both at school, we have been fortunate that we have been able to afford that luxury, many can't. I wonder what she'll do. Initially probably more gym, running and pilates, but she does sometimes talk of employment and wanting to use her degree. J will slot into school with no problems. He's a very confident and gregarious boy, much more so than his brother. I suspect the person who will facing the biggest difference will be A, interesting times.

I am not a bundle of fun at the moment. Still not smoked since Thursday, but finding it very difficult. Very short tempered and tetchy, hyperactive and edgy. I almost feel sorry for the bloke I'm playing squash against tonight as I think I may be ever so slightly mental when I get on the court. I really am a complete boring stereotype of someone giving up smoking. its not much fun, but you just need to keep thinking of the positives.

I feel a tad odd today. I had my last cigarette last night. Today had been my target day for some time. I thought I'd be crawling up the walls, but I'm not, well not yet anyway. Half a day without a fag may not seem like a big deal to a non smoker, but I'm really rather chuffed with myself. This is it, there can be no going back. A and I sat in the garden chatting about it last night. I drew up a list of all of the reasons I wanted to stop, and a list of why I wanted to smoke. The list of reasons to stop was huge, and the list to carry on very small. Two things, in fact. 1. I like it. But then I had to cross that off, because I wanted entirely sure that I did like it. 2. I'm addicted. And that's it in a nutshell, I don't want to be addicted to anything ( apart from blowjobs) . I'm going to be interested to see how it affects my sport over the next few weeks. I play a lot of squash, and from about half an hour in I'm wheezing like an old wheezy thing, and if that stops, that makes it a result in itself.

Yo ho ho

I like parties. I like getting together with groups of friends and having a good old time. I also like drinking, and I'm very good at at, which is fairly handy amongst the circle of lushes we move around in.
I don't however particularly like the concept of fancy dress parties. Which is exactly what we're going to tonight. A 40th birthday on a boat with a 'nautical' theme'. Not possessing any adult dressing up paraphernalia, we hit the web, and consequently I will be attending as a pirate with Mrs Gumpher as a pirates wench. Said costumes turned up yesterday. Now, I don't need to dress up to look like a twat, I usually make a fair stab at it anyway, but tonight I will plum to new depths of twatishness. The bloody thing is ridiculous. Its all in one, which it didn't appear to be in the picture, so quite how I'm going to have a piss I really don't know. I'm going to have to roll up the leg as far as it will go an then yank my gentlemen down as far as possible which will no doubt provide hours of entertainment to whoever is slashing in the pissoir next to me, unless they found the same website. There is an upside to this. Mrs Gumpher's costume is considerably shorter and more low cut than she thought when ordering ,and as captain of the ship I shall be instructing her to walk my plank at the latter stages of the evening, which will probably met met with howls of laughter and a probably justified comment that no way on earth is she going to let such a twatty looking pirate clamber on no matter how hard his yardstick.

Religion's a funny old thing (peculiar, not ha ha). One lot in Iraq stone to death a women suspected of wanting to join the other lot, so the other lot blow up a few tankers next to the one lot killing two hundred, death toll rising. Just how on earth we think we can bring democracy to somewhere that still carries out stonings is beyond me. Has democracy ever happened at any point in time in the middle east ? Just because it works as a process in the west, are we right to assume that it should be forced on the middle east ? I'm not sure it's totally understood as a theory of government because religion would appear to come before anything, even the law of the land, and in some places that's a religious law.
In my eyes, any religion that seems to revolve around fear and death is a flawed religion. actually in my eyes all religion is flawed. If people want to believe in a higher being that's fine, but unfortunately it seems to make most of them a tad on the fundamental, and even the peaceful ones I find barking. Jehovahs for instance. How could you refuse a blood transfusion for your dying child because your interpretation of a book says its the right thing to do. Barking. So I'm off to hell with Satan and all his little weevils, but I won't be, I'll be in a box getting munched by little weevils, just like the rest of them.
I wish to buggery we werent in Iraq or Afghanistan any more, its just so bloody futile. If they want to blow each up, let them get on with it. There didn't seem to be much point getting rid of Saddam or the Taliban as whatever wants to replace tem seems to be as big a collective bunch of loons. So we've fucked an already fucked situation.

Next Saturday I will be taking boy number one for his first trip to the home of rugby, The Millenium Stadium, to watch our beloved Wales play Argentina. Its a big day, I can still remember the first time my Dad took me and we got beaten by the French. In fairness I have probably seen more losses there than victories, but again and again I return , hoping against hope that the good times will come back , as they all too briefly did in 2006. If that twat Gyppo puts out the same side that saw us humbled by England last week, I will personally seek him out after the game, bend him over and ram a giant inflatable daffodil straight up his retarded arse. I will not have my special day with my boy ruined because Jenkins is a cunt of unquantifiable proportions, although I fear I should prepare.

The water has finally gone and it's left some folk in a godawful mess. We were dogsitting at the weekend, a big soppy chocco lab which number two boy adores. Both he and A constantly go on about getting a pooch. I like dogs, but I prefer them to belong to other people. The one we sit for is a lovely chap, but he stinks and he shits great big turds, which have to be picked up. There's few things as vile as scooping up a freshly steaming lab log, especially when the last bit is a bit dribbly. Still I've held out so far with a few unanswerable arguments, the main one being that I am the fucker who will be doing the morning walk despite what the rest of the mob promise. Fine in July, not quite as peachy come January. Plus, we've got three cats, and none of them are particular fans of the canine breed. J's four year old logic has decided that when the cats are all dead he can get a dog. Hmmm.
Anyway, number two and I got up at 7 on saturday and took the mutt down to the riverbank. What a fucking mess. What had been summer meadows full of colour were now dull brown fields of flattened grass. Each hedgerow was full of all sorts of rubbish. Caravans, yep caravans were hanging out of the lock, and boats were randomly scattered or half submerged. And the whole lot stank, really quite unpleasantly. I found it fairly depressing.

Where's that sodding Ark ?

There are times when living in a cute village next to the Avon is not all its cracked up to be. This is the road out of the village, there's a bridge in there somewhere, honest. The top pic is the end result of trying to get to our nearest petrol station. We were fortunate, I managed to get home on Friday, although today is the first day that I've been able to get to the office. We dealt with it it in typically British fashion on Friday night, had a load of people round for the night and got slaughtered, whilst amusing ourselves by phoning other friends who were bedding down for the night in their cars . Most had the sense to head for the pub in the next village across, which was as close to home as they could get. Around 200 people kipped down for the night, and quite a knees up was had. It gets worse. The trout in law is in one of the areas without water supplies. She could be up for a fortnight. I can feel a strongly worded letter to Severn Trent coming along

After a fantastic couple of weeks on a beautiful sun drenched island it's just peachy to be back in good old blighty with more mad muslims, pissing rain, an interest rate rise and a miserable Scottish twat in power. Welcome back. Still, a corking time was had by all members of family Gumpher. A stunning room on the beach, wonderful people, superb food. A downside was the cheapness of beer and fags, which due to the price I felt obliged to consume in industrial quantities and as a consequence am now both porky and wheezy.

If the weather stays like this I'm go to knuckle down for a few weeks and then take the tribe down to Portugal for a bit. I'm bollocksed if I'm spending a whole summer in this dampness.

Tally ho !

Off to Koh Samui for two weeks.

Lick me.

We're all pissheads

A strange thing for a government to do, tackle middle class drinking. Can't stand class partitioning, but by earnings, house car, education etc, I suppose that I'm middle class, and I like a drink. In fact, everyone I know likes a drink. And the problem is ? All of my friends enjoy a few beers or a bottle of wine virtually every evening, which puts all of us over the government guidelines. And yet we have all helped the kids with homework, read them stories, put them to bed, got up when they're having nighmares, had the usual morning chaos and gone to work as normal. We have not smashed shop windows, got into a fight with a total stranger for no reason or whatever other vileness seems perpetrated in town centres up and down the country most days. There seems to me to be a slight problem with the area of focus. Booze and its effects seem to be increasingly problematical, but a bunch of thirty somethings having abottle of Merlot most nights of the week, do me a favour.

14 days and counting

Not that I'm excited or anything, but two weeks today, this will be home for a fortnight. The one major downside is twelve hours on a plane with boy number two. I'll have to top up on gin at Heathrow, pass out on the plane and leave A to deal with him. Or top him up on gin and strap him into a seat for the duration. The theory is that by taking a night flight they should spark out after the initial excitement, but theory and practice could be way apart.

On a different note, old cuntybollocks Blair is awfully quiet considering he leaves us shortly, last seen in Middle Burundi solving the African famine problem inside of a week to add to his already stunning legacy. And where on earth is the his able sidekick the portly drinks steward ? Probably lurking around the corridors of Westminster seeing if there are any desperate secretaries worth hanging out the back of. Big Brother seems to be getting more press attention than the labour party deputy leadership contest. They should wang them all in the house, that might rekindle the nations interest in politics. But then there's the awful thought that we might see Hazel blears in a bikini, and I reallly don't want to be barfing up a decent Chablis on a Friday night.

Bank holiday blues

Typical British bank holiday. Saturday wasn't too bad, managed to get out for a big bike ride and go swimming. Sunday was vile. It pissed down from sun up to sun down and we gradually drove each other stark raving mad in the house. J is a classic case of the devil making, idle hands etc, and somehow, unoticed and very quietly, managed to sneak into the kitchen and redecorate walls, worksurfaces, and appliances with a mixture of strawberry and rasberry yoghurts, cream and crushed ryvita. Denying all knowledge was no option as he's the only one who needs a chair to get into the fridge, and the evidence had been dragged across to the fridge for all to see.
It was then decided that whatever weather was chucked at us on Sunday, we were off out, all day, no arguments. So, the picnic was made, the brats were tied into the car, and a route march was had around the sculpture trail in the Royal Forest of Dean. The forest is a place of real contrasts. The towns are grey, souless hovels, chock full of cousins who have shagged each other for generations. I've played rugby up there for years, and most sides are fifteen identical blokes all called Smith, all of whom seem to think that an afternoon on the pitch is a good excuse for a godalmighty punch up. But once you're out of the towns, the forest itself is beautiful, through all the different seasons of the year. The sculpture trail is wonderful, a series of paths through the forest with hidden works of art. The boys had great fun tearing around trying to be the first to spot them. This one, although not a great picture is a wonderful piece of stained glass hanging at the end of a corridor of huge trees, giving the impression that you're looking out of a church. I rather liked it. And we didn't get that wet, bonus.

Eeerm

Why do scousers always start a sentence with eeerm ? I can't stand scousers, they've got the most revolting accents and all they do is nick hubcaps. I'm not the biggest football fan, but had it been any other British club, I'd have wanted them to win, but I am so fucking pleased that Milan beat the scouse gobshites. And once again these amusing scallies nearly cause yet another football disaster and guess what, its someone else's fault again, suprise.

Better days

Today is not a good day. I have left too many things go far too late in the week and consequently I have more than one tits up situation entirely of my own making. I also have to work most of the weekend and already have two weekends booked for work in May. Theres me thinking that being self employed was about flexibilty, it is, all about being flexible around your clients ! This also means that I will miss Gloucester aiming to win the league, and as we're working in Wiltshire, probably be out of range off bbc radio glos, which is all a further embuggerance. I also foolishly agreed to play squash again tonight even though my shoulder is aching from playing last night and I would rather have a few glasses of something white and cold watching Chaos at the Chateau ( my current guffaw out loud watch, gutwrenchingly awful people).

I am a big old sack of laughs today

I'm old and smell of wee

39 yesterday, one to go before the dreaded. I don't want to be 40, I don't really know why, but I just don't. Can you get treatment for an irrational fear of being 40 ?

Couldn't have asked for a better way to spend the day, watching C playing in his last game of the season. Bit of a hike to Sutton Coldfield, but they finished second in their group, played some excellent rugby, all thoroughly enjoyed themselves, and all got a medal. I'm so chuffed that he's enjoyed his first season. rugby's been a big part of my life, and although I wouldn't force any sport on the boys, I would have been gutted if they hadn't taken to the game. J can start next season which should be interesting as he's bloody quick, if a little small, and there's no substitute for raw gas. C has got a proper end of season dinner in a few weeks, shirt & tie job, and there's a bar for the dads, should be a good night, they're a good group of kids. He's made new friends as noone else from his school plays rugby, they're all mad keen on football, which he's still playing every week and enjoying. Its probably his last game for the club if we move in the summer. its been a good start for him, and its made me very proud.

I'm still old tho', but I don't really smell of wee

Summer's here...

...and I'm a happy boy. Even happier if I had time to play golf in the sunshine. We've started the countdown, 58 days to Samui and two weeks of guaranteed gloriousness

Arse

Just had a quick trawl on t'interweb and discovered that the muppet whose house we tried to buy sold it at auction for 25 grand less than we had offered three weeks previously. That not only makes him a wanker, but a thick wanker as well.

We'll be lucky to have any roof over our heads at all if number 2 boy continues his antics. The little sod managed to set fire to his bedroom over the weekend. Pretty impressive even by his accomplished wrecking standards. Luckily his rather more sensible brother wasn't too far away and managed to grab me before the fire brigade needed to be informed. I wouldn't recommend his strategy on starting a fire - say nothing and hide underneath your duvet. His pre school head teacher claims that he's ' incredibly bright'. I wonder, I really do wonder.

Lard & Lunacy

We foolishly spent bank holiday Friday at Bristol zoo along with half of the population of Bristol and South Wales. The boys enjoyed it, but I don't think we'll go again, I didn't think many of the enclosures were big enough for the animals. I have never seen so many fat people in one place. Really proper fat, not just a bit of a belly. Whole families of Mum Dad and kids busting out of their clothing. We seem to be catching up with the Yanks as a nation of true porkers. There is something about really overweight people that sort of bugs me, it's almost that it strikes me as a sort of laziness. But, on the other hand, if they're happy with their bodies and their health, my opinion's not really worth a wank, but I know that I wouldn't want to be that size.

This crazy situation of serving forces men and women being allowed to sell their stories of captivity, is just that, crazy. I truly believe that the rest of the world looks up to our armed services as a beacon of professionalism, but this has made them look more than a tad foolish. Yes, they got captured and locked up for a few days, and I'm sure it wasn't pleasant, but they weren't tortured and they're not dead. Quite how the situation made them 'heroes' I don't know.
Apart from the fact that they shouldn't be allowed to sell their 'story' what the fuck is there to know that hasn't already been released through military channels , and why do they feel the need to share this with us through the tabloid press ? My Grandad fought in North Africa during the secon world war. He was a teeneager, and boys that he grew up with from a small town in Mid Wales are buried in the sands. He was injured, he was decorated for gallantry, but he has never once spoken about it to anyone apart from my Grandmother when he first came home. He doesn't participate in British Legion events, he never attends a remberance service, but he understands why others would want to, its his way of trying to put it behind him. I wonder what he thinks of these men and woman, but I wouldn't like to ask

Ruuuuuuuuuuuun

I think I must have had a dodgy crab last night as brown water has been running out of my arse on a regular basis all day. Feel like shite (boom boom) not eaten, but keeping the fluids up. Probably too much information, but who doesn't enjoy a good shit ? Unfortunately these are bad shits and my belly kills. Still, I'd rather have a good shit than a bad blow job

As long as we beat the English, we don't care

Kelly Jones' words not mine, I want to beat everyone, but realistically, if your having a shite season the one to win is England at home. We gave them a right tonking, but it should have been more, especially if Ickle Shane could learn to pass as well as run. The atmosphere in the stadium was a good as I can remember for years, the singing was fantastic. At one point just before half time the dirge that is Swing Low just about got to the end of the first line when it was drowned out by a rousing Hymns and Arias. For the first time for a while both team and crowd seemed up for it, but then, it was only England, and lets not forget that they are also a little bit crap as well. I moved in elevated circles that day, sharing a car to Cardiff with the British ambassador to Argentina, bizarre.
Still trying to get tickets for the world cup quater finals in Marseille, not that its a banker that Wales or England will get that far. The official ticketing website is a pile of chimp jiz. A few of us have registered for information since November, but nada, jack. Every time you try to buy tickets that are 'Available for general sale now !' you get to the press the button part to be told, not available. Its starting to become tiresome, I really could do with a weekend on the lash with the guys, its something we used to do a few times a season, and its on the wane since we all became middle aged and sensible. Marseille in the Autumn seemed to be the ideal opportunity to rediscover our talents for quaffing industrial amounts of cheap red wine and forcing each other to eat oysters without barfing.

Odds & sods

Thank god that rains gone. One end of our village was cut off for a week, the bridge I drive over every day to go to work, sods law. This is the lockkeepers mode of transport for a week, about a quarter of a mile row to his cottage. Still, the sun is now glorious, the daffs are out and the Cheltenham festival is upon us. No ticket this year, but the wonder of modern technology allows me to make my usual losses sat at my desk thanks to Messrs W Hill.

More sporting losses to come at the weekend as I wait to hear if I've been succesfull in securing a ticket to see Wales finally get the wooden spoon. Its only two short years since a post proclaimed ' I am Welsh & I am mighty', the next will probably be 'I am Welsh and I'm going to take up tiddlywinks'.

One or two things are yanking my plank at the moment. The new version of blogger is shite. The reason for infrequent posting is that the bastard thing rarely allows me even to get as far as the log in page, and then it runs as slowly as a Welsh prop. We're going to stick our house on the market soon, and we're registered to buy with vast amounts of agents in the areas we're looking to move to, but we're getting fuck all sent through. Useless tossers in the main. Forget about the lockkeeper pic as above, blogger refuses to upload it. time to turn on the radio and see which of my chosen nags is running backwards

New & improved

Blogger finally forced me to switch to new blogger by not allowing me to log in to old blogger. I then had to create a Google account which kept crashing and took ages. Logging in is a bit hit and miss, the page takes ages to come up. New, but not improved.

Shite weekend, A & I both had the lurgy. Had to cancel squash on Saturday, and jib out of a party which probably would have been a tidy piss up. Sunday was better, Boy 1 captained his team to an 8 tries to 3 victory scoring a brace himself. He got covered in mud and thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Number 2 continues his bizarre antics. For ages he's insisted on being butt naked to have a dump. We've been trying to dissuade him over the last few months as he starts school in September and we're trying to convince him that this won't be regarded as normal behaviour. He's also taken to drawing over random surfaces which is a new one.

we've been househunting for two weeks. I'd rather do my VAT return.

The Green Green Grass of Home

Its taken a while, but I've finally calmed down. How shite were Wales on Saturday. Scotland are a piss poor attempt at a rugby team, so quite what that makes us I do not know. If we continue to play like this we're going to struggle to win a game, wooden spoon here we come. From Grand Slam to this in two seasons, fuck me backwards with a spoon.

Still, I am now one half of the Pershore & District Mens Badminton Doubles Champions. Go me. Agents beating a path to my door, fame and fortune beyond my wildest dreams beckon.

That bloody holiday can't come soon enough...................

Wahay !

I love snow, just for a day or so, couldn't live with it all the time. Woke up yesterday to pristine whiteness. School was closed, so I copped a skive and we all went sledging. Fantastic day, J is so light that he went down the hill like greased weasel shit, totally fearless. The boys built a snowman in the garden, and plenty of snowball fights were had. Its chucking it down again today.

Real player is now pissing me off to the nth degree. England v Australia is coming down to the wire in a cracking finish and all I can hear is dalek

Thieving sods

How the fuck do you get away with doubling the price of something overnight ? That's exactly what that morose twat Gordon Brown done with air taxes. Now I know that something has to be done before the ozone layer goes and we all die of sunburn, but surely taxation can't be the answer to all of our woes. Apparently its going to raise an extra one billion annually which is going to go towards public transport. Is this the right diversion of funds ? I thought public transport was covered through other revenue streams. It smacks of the typical mismanagement which has been a feature of this useless bunch of corrupt, self serving wankers tenure of office. It'll will probably end up being spent on another computer system that won't work, but the chairman of the company that wins the contract will get a nice comfy red seat in the Lords, or they'll build a nationwide group of drop in centres for one legged muslim lesbians, and the roads will still be pot holed donkey tracks that take a half a lifetime to travel on, and buses and trains will still stink of old womans piss, be full to bursting, cost the gdp of a small African nation to travel on and always be fucking late.
All grammatically incorrect, but I've made my point.

Blowing a hoolie

Its not cool to talk about the weather, but jeez, I'm sick of this. Its not cold but I am bored of the pissing rain and howling winds. Lets have more global warming, I like living in shorts and a tee shirt.

Utter hilarity watching that thick scouse munter with the vile plastic tits on cbb and listening to her comment on not being able to understand Shilpa because of her accent. Pot. Kettle. Black. Moose.

hmmm

Not sure that old blogger is saving posts, perhaps I should go to the new version. I am such a retard luddite, I can't beleive I actually used to sell technology for a living, good job it was a concept sale. I'm in the process of uploading a load of stuiff onto an MP3 player I've bought for the boy's birthday. Either I'm doing something wrong, or it takes an awfully long time to get a cd onto the bastard thing.

What a kerfuffle over celeb big brother. It's not racist, it's just three poorly educated peasants not knowing how to react to a person who is totally alien to them. I don't think you can accuse them of racism just because they're as thick as pig shit. The Goody family, ay caramba, pure fucking trash. The mother really should have been prevented from breeding, and as for Jack introducing himself as a football agent, christ I know some footballers are dense, but you'd have to be in a near vegetative state to let that chimp manage your affairs.

Back to the joys of the MP3...................

Generally a shite weekend. Had a good Friday night, the badminton club Christmas 'do'. A decent feed, good wine and beer so a hangover on Saturday. I decided that we would have a family outing on Saturday evening, something that I thought we would all enjoy, but ended up being wank. An hour each way in the car with the boys fighting all the way and a overcrowded event in the freezing cold. Sunday was again dominated by freezing cold, with the added bonus of it pissing down as well as I watched number one son playing rugby for a few hours. Just thawing out at home to get a phone call from the old man telling me how the heat is a bit much in Darwin.Peachy.
Am now stuck in front of my laptop totally fucking up some poor sods office design and hoping for some inspiration

BT - Bastard twatfucks

Had a dead tone on my business line, yesterday. Rang BT. 'Do I owe you any money ?'

No, so through to faults, who test the line and confirm that there is an external fault. They give me a reference number and then a response time.( Catherine Tate moment ) You're not going to believe this. Seven days. SEVEN DAYS, THE DIRTY BASTARDS. Its my business line you twat. 'Sorry sir', I know its not good enough but we've got a backlog.
Its fucking crazy that these huge companies can take my money and provide such a shite service. I tried Telewest a while back, and they were worse. Oh they fixed the fault quick enough, its just that the faults came more frequently than a number 10 bus. And to admit that it's shite and still take your money is just peachy.

stuffed

Went to the world's best stadium on Saturday ( and it will still be the world's best stadium even when the wendyball palace in London eventually gets finished. The only problem was that the world's best rugby team were playing in it, and that team was not Wales. Oh yes, the Kiwis stuffed us, in some fashion. Still, beer was drunk and songs were sung. It could be worse, at least I'm not English.

You want to be scared

Cracked me up !

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues

Is there any point to Girls Aloud ? What a talentless bunch of munters. Their latest offering is bollocks of the highest order, 'something kind of ooh, jumping on my tutu'. Genius, bet the folks at Ivor Novello are poised with the engraving needle.

Talking of munters, got to feel sorry for Macca. Never took to him, but I do think it sad that some gold digging bunny boiler is going to take him to the cleaners. Supose he can afford to lose a few quid, but I'm not sure thats the point.

Need a bloody hoilday. If the two projects I'm working on come off before christmas, Thailand beckons. Hussah !

Sprog one played a blinder in his first proper match scoring a spanking try from the half way line. My jumper split as my heart burst with pride.

Hmmmm....

Not been that arsed to blog lately.

Been all over the country working, could do with another holiday, soon.

Boy No 1 has started U7's rugby and loves it, so I'm chuffed to bloody bits, first proper game next Sunday. No 2 continues his vastly successful career as a one boy wrecking mission, the bathroom now being his most popular target for wanton destruction. Hooligan.

Summers truly gone, which irks me. I don't like dark mornings and dark afternoons, makes me feel like a sodding mushroom.

Have come to the conclusion that Dim Dave is almost as big a twat as Honest Tone, and just as keen on soundbite politics. Can't we have Bonker Boris as leader of the Tories and Bagdhad George back to lead Labour purely for entertainment value. That fucktard Hazel Blears was on QT again last night, possibly the worst advert for being interested in politics around at present.

So the Pope is the latest in the long line of those to have pissed off Muslims.

Is it me or are they just a tad touchy ?

Quite amusing how one spouter of meaningless fairy tales can rattle the cage of the same. Lock a few of them up together and let them have a theological row. 'My god is the greatest, No, my god is the greatest'. Ah, I just love a tolerant religion

Scales of justice ?

'Prince' Naseem Hamed serves 16 weeks after nearly killing a man as a direct result of dangerous driving, he'd previously been banned from driving on two occasions.

Some bloke gets flashed by a gatso, and scared he'll lose his job if he's prosecuted, goes and blows it up. Shouldn't have been speeding, but I've been done by one of those bastard machines, and although a bit dim, good work fella. His sentence ? Four months.

Nice to see a sense of perspective.

Bizzare things

Going to your Dad's wedding at the age of 38. Well, wedding party, they got married in bali a few weeks ago. A seriously good night, catching up with loads of people, dancing like a dervish and generally misbehaving before finally giving up at six in the morning. Fairly monster hangover but well worth it.

Sad about Steve Irwin, seems to be a mixed bag of opinion about him, but I thought he was a cracking bloke, loved his huge enthusiasm for life, and his obvious love of wildlife

Off they go again......

Our troops our being killed in Afghanistan and Iraq. Hospitals are closing wards and making redundancies to avoid deficits. We live under a seemingly continual 'terror' threat, so what are the governments' new initiatives to do something about all this and to address these important situation?

Appoint a new minister with a responsibility for fitness. You couldn't fucking well make it up.Apparently were all going to be quite fat in a few years, and we need a minister to tell us how not to be quite as fat. Now I know there are a lot of extraordinarily thick people in this country, but I'm sure that most of them realise that if they swapped their diet of lard and lager for juice and salad, and spent less time with x boxes and sky and went for the odd walk instead that they might shed a few pounds. But no, the all seeing Labour government thinks they have to gently massage the message to the fatarsed masses. The new minister is a rarity in that she's one of the few politicians who would be worth giving a portion of pork sword to.

And then they wheel out the shining personality that is Ruth Kelly to help us with integration. I'm sorry, last time I checked I was British, living in Great Britain, I've been fairly well integrated for a while thanks. If others choose to live here, they can integrate or cock off back to where they came from. Also, I'm not going to take lessons in equality from a woman who's a member of a dodgy Catholic group who has never attended any vote concerning gay rights

Pimp my Saab

My six year old has developed a strange fascination with Pimp my Ride, (6.30 weekdays C5, if you're interested). It's led to some strange language entering the Gumpher household. I walk in from work,

'Hi chum'

'Hey dawg'

Hmmm

'Good day ?'

'Yeah, went swimming. Dad, can we pimp the Saab ?'

'Uh , no, I don't think it would go down that well if I turned up to meetings in a pimped Saab'

'What about Mum's ?'

' Chap, how do you go about pimping an Astra estate ?'

Thanks a bunch Westwood. Can't wait to get a call from school to find out he's called his god fearing teacher a badass ho.

Dumbing down ?

A level results yet again see an increase in A grades and pass rates

A girl pictured on the front of The Times today acheived 10 A grades. TEN ?! How the hell can you take ten A levels ? I took three back in '86. History, English Lit and Economics, and it was bloody hard work. I didn't get brilliant results as I decided that playing rugby and chasing skirt was far more enjoyable than studying, but still had a full week. Thirty five periods in a week. Take out six for games and three for 'study' periods, about eight a week per subject. So in this girls case, around three a week. How on earth can you learn enough about a subject to be examined two years later by only studying it for a couple of hours each week ?

I am sick to the back teeth of Muslims/Islam. I'm not racist, I'm certainly religionist (?) especially when it involves mass murder and bigotry in the name of your God. I don't support our involvement in Afghanistan or Iraq for reasons previously stated, which are very different reasons than those of Muslims. What I really don't get is their view of their own importance as a minority, and why there views need to be addressed. The adverts recently published in national newspapers were a shocker. I don't agree with our current foreign policy, but in a country of some 65 million inhabitants, a minority of 1.5 million suggesting or demanding that our democratically elected government changes its foreign policy is just plain daft. The view that they are being vicitimised is also wrong. The recent atrocities, and if we are to believe the current position, planned atrocities are the work of young Asian muslims, and the security services are damned right to concentrate their investigations on this group of people. For fuck's sake, were not worried by the radicalised faction of the Welsh Baptist shoe bombers chapter are we ? And as for intigration, don't even get me started. if you visit an Arab muslim country the respect of their religion is demanded, not expected. If these people want to come and live in this country, and have families in this country, its about time they bloody well integrated. Islam is not the religion of Great Britain, and Sharia Law is not the law of the land, how about a big portion of wake the fuck up, because the only people causing any kind of racial divide in our country our the Muslims themselves.

Not very well put across, but I've now got to the point of being a tad cheesed off. Just come out and say that what is happening is not acceptable, and as leaders within our community we are going to help the authorities in every way we can, with no strings attached. Otherwise we are fully aware we can live in Iran, Saudi, Afghanistan or Syria, (probably not Iraq, because we're a bit scared of that, we're allowed to do just as we please here )
And next time we get these illegal demonstrations threatening and glorifying death in the name of their prophit, will the police kindly break it up like they did with the miners, who only wanted a job.

Are they bored ?

They must be if the leaked report of the new transport plans are to be believed. I am not a ranting pro car nerd a la Clarkson ( although he does make me giggle ) but I do need a car for work. It needs to be half decent, to portray a certain image to clients, but not flash, portraying the wrong image. It needs to be big enough to carry the boys and the associated crap that goes with it, and I like a reasonable turn of speed. Like everyone else (apart from the peasant under class who don't give a toss) I pay insurance, road tax and fuel duty, a fairly tidy sum to the treasury each year. So why the fuck are they considering a plan to charge by the mile on all roads. To get people on public transport ? Bollocks, it won't work. I can't use trains, what's the point, I'd always have to use a car at either end of the journey, they're bloody expensive and they're usually broken. I generally have meetings with my main client once a week which is a 102 mile round trip, takes about an hour each way. If the figure of £1.34 per mile is accurate this trip will cost me £136.68 a week, or six and a half grand a year allowing for holidays. Six and a half grand a year to visit one company with fuel on top. It doesn't take a genius to figure out just how retarded this is. And the real stupidity is that they know people will continue to use their cars, and will sit in them cursing the new charges, but knowing that they have to use the car. Total lunacy and another cunty way to squeeze yet more tax out of us.

Retard boy

Fab few days in Italy, in the mountains above Lake Como. I love the lakes, stunning scenery, although you need to ring the bank for a mortgage top up to go out to dinner. Great times catching up with my best buddie from school days who now lives in hong Kong. His two boys are a few years older than ours, but they all got on famously. We camped in the garden of his folks house, and their hospitality was superb. They were completely unfazed by the invasion of four loud little boys and two blokes who should know better getting two years worth of drinking crammed into four nights. It really was great to see him, we've known each other since we were ten, shared dorms, studies and then a flat after leaving school, and although we don't see each other for a few years at a time nothing changes.

I excelled myself on the way back and got the flight times wrong. Oops. A hundred euro taxi trip to brescia airport, two hundred and forty to rearrange the flights, and one very stroppy wife who eventually spoke to me as we drove into the village. Actually she did call me a twat at the check in desk, but that was her final word for ten hours. There's an upside to everything then.

Still very angry about Afghanistan, and have a sense of 'what the fuck ?' about Lebanon. Its odd how Isreal can do what the fuck it likes without any international condemnation. Okay, they had two soldiers kidnapped, but talk about a sledgehammer to crack a walnut. What if the IRA kidnapped two British soldiers in the 70's and we bombed the crap out of Dublin as a response ? Madness.

What the fuck our we doing in Afghanistan ? I think we're up to six British troops killed in the last few weeks. Its pointless. We got rid of the Taliban a few years ago, but they apparently didn't go very far, and now they want power back, and we're hardly likely to stop them with half a company of paras and a few helicopters, so why be there at all. If the Afghan people don't want to be under Taliban rule, its down to them to do something about it. Yes, it was oppresive when they had power, but did it affect us ? Is it worth yong British men losing their lives. ? No bloody way. The argument that soldiers know what they signed up for doesn't stack up here, we're not at war with Afghanistan. So what does our government do ? Commit more troops. Fucking morons. Look how may troops the Russians sent in, and it ended up being their Vietnam. More troops = more bodybags coming home for a cause that no one in this country gives two shits about. Iraq, Afhanistan, if they want civil war let them get on with it, its something that ultimatley we have no realistic chance of solving. Is it the job the West to impose the rule that we want ?

Buggered off for a week of sun, pool and beach. Back now.
A good holiday. A few 'firsts' for C. Bodyboarding in the surf, sea fishing including catching an octupus, eating his catch on the barbie that evening, going down the scary slides at the water park. J had a great week pottering in rock pools catching crabs, and jumping over waves.
A and I loved it.
Two weeks of work and then off to Italy, and then lots of work to pay for it all...

Splash

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)

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..........

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

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.

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"
"Yep"
"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.

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.

Why are the utility companies such a useless bunch of cockends ? Every bill we've had in the last year has had a price increase, and they still declare vast profits. I've got to get off my arse and switch suppliers. They all use automated call centres, and I fucking hate them, as soon as they ask you to start pressing one for this and two for that I start boiling. Next time they ring me when they're chasing money I'll try to go into auotomated mode and really confuse some dweeb sat in downtown Bombay. If you do manage to speak to someone when paying ( I don't pay by dd because they never read the meter, and their estimates are always way out ) they finish by asking 'Is there anything else we can help with ?' Why ? Can you tell me why I keep slicing my nine iron ? Could you make the Home Office run properly ? If you want to help, get a real live human being to answer the phone within five rings . Gimps

Given up on Big Brother. What a bunch of retards. If Shabaz got taken to a vet he'd be put down, no point in prolonging his pain. Seriously, where do they find such fucked up people.

The usual bunch of social misfits and freaks are back in the Big Brother house. I'll be watching, it's crap tv, but once again it will pull me in, and once again it will make me feel good about myself in comparison to the whackos in the house. Shouldn't laugh at tourettes, but a bloke strolling around yelling 'wank !' a lot makes me giggle

Question Time was a giggle last night. The panelists were Lord Heseltine, Menzies Campbell, Piers Morgan and Bren off of Dinner Ladies. Seriously, what fucktard ever told Hazel Blears that a career in politics was a good idea. She was so way out of her depth that I almost felt sorry for her. ( I said almost, and the feeling passed swiftly).
I seem to be writing too much about politicians at the moment, but I loath this labour government, and watching them die like a fly on a turd amuses me

Glad to see that the cabinet reshuffle has sorted out the country's problems , and we can now sleep soundly at night safe in the knowledge that president Blair has his finger on the pulse.
So, what do we get, well if you're weeny peeny Johnboy, quite a lot actually. No actual job, apart from answering the odd jibe from lord Dave at question time when Tone's on his jollidays, retention of a full salary and the grace and favour properties, bet the fat twat has an few extra portions to celebrate. A stroppy former Marxist in charge at the home office, and weirder than weird Ruth Kelly, has a responsibilty for equality. You couldn't make it up, a women who belongs to a right wing Catholic sect, oops group, who believe homosexuality to be a fundamental sin, and she's a government minister with a portfolio for equality. Check out her voting record with such issues, there isn't one. The capacity for the jaw dropping, you're shitting me knows no end.

Another disturbing issue, marmite in a squeezy plastic bottle. Noooooooooo. You can never finish a squeezy plastic bottle, the last inch refuses to budge, all you get is splat of Heinz or Hellmans accompanied by a vile fart. This is not want when I apply marmite to my toast, it'll be like when the cat had the squits

Public service announcement

Don't mix beer, red wine and gin on a school night.........................................

Just when Prescott thought he was doing a good job of lying low and keeping away out of the spotlight The Sun runs a story about his 2 inch todger. Priceless. I always new this lot had no balls, now it appears they've got no cocks either.

If I hear any more about Wayne Rooney's foot I'll just shit myself. Is there a world cup coming up ? You'd never fucking know.

This is the view from our room the other weekend. it's actually the view from being sat on the pan, a loo with a view. The view from the bedroom was the same, we didn't have to take a dump to see the sea. I love North Wales, and hadn't been there for years. We dropped the kids at my Mum's and scooted up to Snowdonia. Empty, twisty roads, brilliant fun to bomb along. We did some horseriding, a lot of walking, ate some wonderful food in the hotel restaurant, drank to much, and had two blissful, uninterrupted nights sleep.

The Labour scuzballs have certainly excelled themselves in the last couple of weeks. That irritating, patronising cow in charge of Health must be thanking the good lord for Prescott and Clarke, it's certainly provided a wonderful shit deflector. Clarke is simply not capable enough to hold his position. You might not have agreed with the policies of men like Parkinson, Hurd and Heseltine, but I bet you felt confident that they had the ability to carry out their jobs effectively. They had a certain gravitas about them which these mickey mouse politicos certainly don't. Prescott is a buffoon, given a position of high power to appease the union and old labour support. The woman he shagged does not come out of this particularly well, but jesus, poor bitch having that fat lardass clambering on, I hope the Mail on Sundays shilling meets the physio bill of having that pie eater bouncing on top of her. Blair has to back these cretins, although all three are obviously incompetent, who would replace them ? Hazel Blears ? Ruth Kelly ? Fuck me gently with a spoon, thats a scary thought.

I can't see what all the fuss is concerning GP's salaries. The 250k figure being bandied about is not the average, it's the absolute top.These people train for a long time, and in recent times start work with vast personal debt. I would rather a GP averages over 100k than say an Estate Agent.
They also have to work within the NHS, which despite what Tone tells us, is in a total fucking shambles. Both my father and sister are dentists, my sister has recently started her own practice, putting herself up to her eyeballs in debt in the process, and the old man has had his own practice in the past, but now chooses to do locum work as he simply cannot bear to deal with the NHS directly. He recently walked out of an NHS practice as he was not comfortable with the standard of quality and work that could be carried out within the financial constraints of the NHS contract. They also had a couple of Polish imported dentists working there, nice people, but according to Dad, their work was bordering on butchery.Now before people whinge about dentist's pay, again, look to the new contract, they simply can't work with it. Incidently, the old feller has just taken a 4 month locum in Darwin, and even with air fares and rent still reckons to earn twice as much as in the uk for doing a four day week.
The concept of free health care is no longer there any more. We pay for teeth, eyes, and if you want it, a quick service. Again vast amounts appear to be wasted on a new computer system. With the goverments track record for collosal cock ups with computers, you'd expect them to give it more thought. But no, they just keep telling us there's more money than ever going into the NHS, which is fuck all good if it's not spent properly

The boys have been little buggers during the holidays, they've bickered and fought constantly. It's a tricky balance between keeping them occupied and doing stuff with them and not turning them into brats with everything done on a plate.
Still, they've appeared to have had fun when they briefly stopped battering each other. Easter was a bit of sod as I had to be on site on Friday and Saturday, but we had a good day out yesterday. Two days until our few days of relief. The hooligans are having a couple of days with Grandma and we're going to have a few nights on the coast in North west Wales. The hotel is small and tres posh and the menu looks groovy. Can't wait.

Oh the joy of interupted sleep. The whining of an attention seeking three year old at 2 in the morning, and the stubborness of said offspring in not giving in for two hours whilst we lie there refusing to give in because it took two and half years to get the little sod to go to sleep and we're not going back to musical beds. This happens a lot and it's starting to get wearing. Luckily c generally sleeps through it, but we are both buggered and crabby. I'm considering putting vodka in his milk.
I love the little git dearly but I could throttle him at times. Oh, and how's he in the morning ? Bouncing around like a badly trained labrador. Swine.

This is what I built, and donkey and pony field shelter half way up a mountain in deepest Wales. Pretty good views. I am not the worlds biggest fan of building stuff, but I enjoyed this. We were visiting friends who have opted for a rural existence and they'd just acquired the pony and donkey, oddly enough from the field next door to our house. So, a weekend of hard labour, good food, too much wine and the company of good friends. Plus, assorted children didn't fight, an added bonus.
If my four legged friends don't use it after our efforts, I'll show them what the French do to horses on our next visit

I've built something ! A pony shed, a great big fucking thing. I've also cooked a damn mighty fine dinner. 7 hours, I shit you not,7 hours, and it's not finished. I will tell you, for I am mullered, good vino mind, but for now, rest assured, I've made an ass and a pony tres happy. Yabba yabba yaaba, I'm knackered. I will tell more, it's groovy, trust me

A harsh but true undeniable fact of life - if its got tits its a problem

When you've got small kids, mother's day is a double whammy. Not only do you have to make sure you get a card to your own mother, you also have to sort out the mother of your children. C & J had made cards at playgroup and school, but I thought it would be a bit tight to raid their savings for a present, so that fell to me. The smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, yep, me. I find it a bit like valentines day, contrived and a bit American.
C had a boiled goose egg and soldiers for his breakfast. The thing was fucking huge, it must hurt like hell to force one of those buggers out, no wonder geese are always stroppy, they must have permanent ring sting, whichever ring it passes out of. Boiled it for ten minutes and it still had a yummy runny yolk. He was hugely impressed.

Why is it, that when the uber chave reaches the age of, say seventeen, the thing it most covets is a shitty moped/bike that sounds like a shagged out turbo haidryer. A couple of retards in the village have taken delivery of a pair of clapped out piles of shite which must be vampires, because they only come out in the hours of darkness. Its not that they ride them quickly, because its not mechanically possible, but the noise irritates the crap out of me. Its like the crazy frog amplified, ring a ding ding ding ding. Could forensics trace it back to me if I rig up some kind of remote control clotheslining device ? Sorely tempted. I have no idea where these tools live, and I don't think they have any idea of how twattish they look. It's like a line up for the X chav factor, all crap shiny tracksuits, baseball caps and zits.

Good to see the dour Scotsman has sorted out global warming in the new budget. If I had a 50 grand motor doing 15 to the gallon I'd shit my pants with the new road fund licience. 210 quid, quick, flog it and get a prius or its the poor house for us. Tit

I ache, badly, still. Last Wednesday I decided it was time to start doing some exercise again after none (apart from a bit of golf which doesn't count) for ages.

So I turned up at the village badminton club. Two hours. I was shagged out, pulled a calf muscle and my groin. Feeble. It's wierd to see people you know on an aquaintance basis in a sporting concept, particularly when you wrongly guessed that they would have the sporting ability of an uncoordinated lemur as they spank your arse.Enyoyed it tho'

If you havent already, watch the David Gilmour concert on Radio 2's website, it's the ducks nuts.

The least said about rugby the better. Drawing with Italy at home, pile of wank. A small smirk watching Les Rosbifs get a caning down Paris way.

I do recall around this time last year a cry of 'I am Welsh and I am mighty'. Change to 'I am Welsh and I might have a nice new wooden spoon to stir my stew with'

Back to work. It's a bit bizzare after so much time at home, but it's time to start earning again. It's a good set up, a decent office in a converted farmhouse opposite a golf course. My largest client from the old company is still giving me regular business and prospects for more work look good.
The time spent at home was fantastic. C is at school,but to spend the amount of time I had with little J was a joy. He and A popped in to see me yesterday (home is only 10 minutes away, another bonus) and when they left he looked up and said 'Daddy, come home right now please'. I don't think he's got it yet.
Parents evening tonight. Should be interesting. C's teacher is a proper god botherer, and we've never really seen eye to eye. Should be the same old, agree that he's doing fine and then start arguing over the school's lack of competitive sport.

Long time no blog.

A great few months spent at home but work beckons. New premises found, clients primed and the move in the offing. Bugger.

The last few months have been groovy, loads of good times with A and the boys, particularly J, as he's still at home. Lots of big walks around the river, stories and general larking around. Plenty of cooking, have lost weight due to not eating shite at lunchtime, verging on the buff, no, it's true.

Blody great innit