I'm still here, honest

It has been a busy time at Gumpher Towers of late.

I've been checking my regular reads, and leaving the odd comment, but have had little time to get something down myself.

I'm currently running projects in Peterborough, Totnes, and Launceston, and unsurprisingly, my arse has spent an awfully long time stuck to the seat of my car as I traverse the wonders of our nations motorway network. I've still managed squash twice a week, and at least one big big ride in the longer evenings, and this combined with a few weeks on the wagon has me looking fairly trim, verging on the buff even (lets not get carried away here).

The boys have had a good few weeks. Boy 2 continues to both stretch the boundaries beyond their limits on an almost daily basis whilst looking like butter wouldn't melt. He's been a star at rugby, and starts cricket this week.

Boy 1 has been a bit of a grump of late, he's struggling to get off to sleep with the light evenings,
(they both go to bed fairly early on school nights, 7 for 2, 7.30 for 1), and this morning I had to virtually boot him downstairs for breakfast at 8. He had a great rugby club dinner on Friday. 240 kids from 6 to 17 crammed in, spruced up in collar and tie, noisy doesn't do it justice. Fantastic surprise for everyone when it came to the prizes. The Volcano, Lesley Vainikolo (Gloucester and England for the non rugby types) turned out to present them. The kids all went ballistic when he came out onto the stage. Fair goes to the bloke, he stayed until late, and considering he had a massive game against the Unmentionables the following day, it was bloody decent of him.

My 40th passed with no major trauma. We had a groovy time with friends in Cardiff Bay. The St.Davids was impressive, but not really our kind of place. Visually very cool, but A and I prefer our hotels more intimate, and a little less flash. Still, drank vast amounts of the fizzy stuff, ate well and enjoyed it.

A managed to complete the Tewkesbury half marathon yesterday, but was very disappointed with her time. When we saw the weather forecast I told her to forget about the time, just get round it. She was hoping to crack two hours, but sods law, it was the hottest day of the year, and all the runners struggled. She managed 2.10, which is a hell of an achievement for someone who only started running eight months ago, and I' m very proud of her. Afterwards, we grabbed some lunch and spent the afternoon with the boys and a group of friends, sinking a few cold ones on the bank of the river at the sailing club. Bliss.

All is well as long as I don't look at the news. Same old.

Cash

Am I being tight ? We rarely use public transport, but today my wife took a bus from the nearest town back to the village. She'd been to a pilates class and her friend who had driven, had forgotton about a dental appointment and had to shoot off, hence the bus.

Now, am I totally removed from reality ? The journey is a shade over three miles.

£1.75, fuck me, she could have got a cab out here in the sticks for that. Now I look at it, I appear a bit daft, bitching about a couple of quid., I mean £1.75 is nothing, but it seems a bit much to me for a three mile bus journey.

More money whinge. I've just paid sixty quid to fill my car with diesel.

I've had to add Yvette Cooper to my list of 'What the flying fuck made you think that you were cut out for a career as a politician ?' after her hilariously inept performance on Newsnight last night.
The other two weren't much better. George Osbourne is an oily little tick, and Vince Cable looks like the uncle that starts the conga at a wedding after two halves of mild. Bless him. All treasury spokepersons for their parties. Be afraid, be very afraid.

And

Sitting here, quaffing a wonderful glass of Sauvignon Blanc, I am looking forward to a weekend with my wonderful wife at The St.David's in Cardiff Bay, dropping the boys off at my Mums in Abergavenny on the way down.

It's not so bad.

I could be English and forty.

So

Forty.

Still the same, or as my Father's wonderful card said, 'You're not forty, you're twenty one with nineteen years of experience'.

The funeral, as ever was grim. The point when the curtains came around the coffin was particularly sad. My nephews, who are the same age as my boys, had been stoic in their approach to the event, but collapsed, crying, into their parents arms as they said goodbye to their Grandfather. My brother in law , their father, was remarkably strong through the whole service, but you could see he was struggling, but held it together for his boys.

Thankfully, the other parts of today were more jolly. I lucked in on some good pressies. A voucher for The Harbourmaster in Aberaeron from my Mum and Sis, which is a wonderful little hotel in West Wales, some rather natty shirts from Boy 1, a deliciously whiffy leather pocket wallet from Boy 2, and the manbag to end all man bags from A. I usually carry a laptop bag and a briefcase for files to meetings, but this baby takes the lot. And it's in a rather fetching duck egg blue and light brown leather. I am now a fully fledged, paid up, great big gayer.

Listening to Colin Hay singing 'Overkill' acoustically, which always makes me joyful.Toooooooooooooooooooo deep.

My life, I have decided, is a bit of a good one, and I'm rather thankful for that.

Okey doke.

Up to my neck in it

Quite literally.

Decided to go for a ride with the boys after lunch, and as I was getting the bikes out of the shed, noticed a fairly unpleasant smell and a strange ooze seeping from underneath the patio.

I lifted the inspection cover to be greeted by the sight and smell of rather a lot of shit.

Blocked drains. Cosmic.

Im fairness to dyno whoever, they were round in an hour, but at 80 quid per half hour, so they should be. Our drainage is odd. it goes across our back garden, under the wall, another inspection cover in our neighbours back garden, and then an interceptor in her front garden. All three blocked.

I explained the problem to our neighbour, and asked if we could have access to jet it all out. She was fine, but a bit concerned that the drain man would damage her plants. Now, given the choice of a few squished petunias or a garden overrunning with eight years worth of the family Gumphers waste matter, I know which I'd opt for.

He set too, and the sights and smells were fairly grim. I went back into our garden to check if everthing was flowing . As I leant over the open sewer, the nozzle of the jetter appeared, and before I could leap out of the way, the fucking thing was turned on, and I was covered head to toe in piss and shit.

The boys were playing in the conservatory, and had a ringside view of the afternoons entertainment. They both agreed that it was their comedy highlight of the year, but even today I am yet to be amused.

A group of friends went camping in the Forest of Dean at the weekend. A had politely declined an invitation to join the happy throng ('Are they fucking mental, have you seen the forecast?'). And thoroughly soaked they all got, but bravely stuck it out for the whole weekend.

Iwas discussing said trip with my chum bokkie after squash on Thursday. His wife had lumbered him with the trip, and he was moaning like hell. Not that he doesn't like camping, he just likes his camping to be rustic, as befits a man of the veldt. 'Its got a fucking pool man, and a bar'. His disgust new no boundaries.

We're planning a dads and kids camping weekend at the end of May, and Bokkie is doing his level best to find the most basic site in the British Isles. I had a email from him on Friday with a link attached and a rather excited message. 'Check this out, there's no caravans, you can have open fires, no showers, and you have to shit in a hole in the ground!' There's a great marketing line for prospective campsite owners, guaranteed to have weirdo Boers flocking in .

I'd sent him details of a site I'd found, but as it has two rather basic showers, I'm sure it'll be rejected out of hand as having showers is only one step away from Brokeback Mountain in his mind.

40 tomorrow. Supersonic. I'll be spending the morning at a funeral. That'll cheer me up.

I am less grumpy of late. I am sitting here, slightly warm of tongue, having just consumed a rather yummy Thai fish salad ( I think I overdid the chilli, which should make for a stinky night for Mrs. Gumph) The lateness of consumption is down to a game of squash in which I, lost rather badly to a chap I mullered last week. I only lost my temper with myself twice, shows my laidbackedness. (New word, quite like it).

Owing to my reluctance to celebrate my forthcoming of oldness, we had a spanking party for A's 37th on Friday. We had sixteen friends for a party and after an evening of stonking hilarity and drunkeness finally hit the sack at 4 ish. As the boys were at Grandma's for the evening, I had the luxury of stumbling out of my pit in the early afternoon. Glorious.

This Friday should be interesting. Boy 1's school have decided to enter years 3 & 4 into a tag rugby tournament . They suddenly realised that of the 28 children, only 4 boys actually play rugby, and whilst the class teacher, although a nice lady, clocks in at around 20 stone, and would be about as much use on a rugby pitch as tits on a bull. Cue a phone call seeing if I could possibly take the day off on Friday. I'm looking forward to it. I suspect it may be slightly different from coaching C and his ruffian chums at the rugby club.

Ho hum

I am bereft of blogging inspiration at the moment, but then I am generally uninspired.

I'm in a slump.

I need to jump on a plane, with A and the boys, and head off to somewhere with clear blue skies and gently lapping shores.

I need to not see the pointlessness of the Olympics, the loss of what was the Corinthian Spirit, the inevitable involvement of politics in sport ( but accepting that it's ok really because coca cola and mastercard get to show their logos to the world).

I need to stop thinking of the futile existence of those involved in the whole sad Shannon Matthews affair, and thank goodness that it's not me in that stinking estate, shagging near members of my family, but then wondering , ' Am I where I am through choice, or
circumstance ?

I need to stop loathing the bloated excess of football in this country ( a tough one)

I need to stop hating the pseudo socialist labour party as much as I do.

I need to stop despising the international community for ignoring Zimbabwe whilst they dither pathetically across the middle east.

I need to chill out.

A lot.

The age of doom

I'm forty in a few weeks time, and I'm really not looking forward to it. I've banned parties, as I don't feel the need to 'celebrate', plus I've had a gutsful of other people's fortieth parties over the last few months.

Is forty old ? It's older than thirty nine for sure, but is it really old ? Odds are that I'm over halfway to pushing up daisies, which is a tad fatalistic, but probably right. I just don't feel forty, whatever feeling forty is, but I'm fairly sure I don't want to feel it anyway.

What have I achieved in forty years ? I've managed to be fortunate enough to have a happy relationship with a woman I love very much, and have two children from our marriage that I am proud of and adore, but that's not really an achievement as such is it ? I am fairly successful if life achievement can be judged in monetary terms, which more importantly means I more than provide for my family. I have managed to have career happiness, but that sure took its fucking time, and I sure as hell made some gargantuan fuck ups on the way. I have travelled extensively and was fortunate to spend quite a bit of my childhood living in different countries. But again, are this things I've achieved, or simply things that have happened to me ?

This is not a post I've enjoyed reading back, it's whiny, and I'm not generally whiny, but I'm just not looking forward to being in my forties. A is sensible enough, and knows me well enough ( I hope) not to bollocks around with surprise parties. In the event that she is foolish enough to do so, I will invite the assembled throng to politely fuck off, and go and drown myself in a vat of red wine.

Typical

As the clock winds down to the start of the bank holiday, the inevitable happens.

It starts to sodding rain.

Four days off work, and it's going to piss down. 'Triffic.

I seem to have left something out..........

We are Welsh and we are mighty !

It was a bit good and a few beers went down the hatch on Saturday. (Polite speak for being deliriously banjaxed)

Yesterday I went up to the big smoke to see the specialist at the London Migraine Clinic. It all went swimmingly well, and she will be writing to my Gp to tell him how and when to treat me, and what medication is required. It's a bloody huge relief, I'm finally going to get some pain management, which should make coping a bit easier. Also, studies have shown that for cluster headaches to persist in adult males in their forties is rare, so there is an upside to the dreaded soon to be birthday.

I went on the train. For the first time in years, I had a trip which could actually work on public transport. Going up was fine. I read the paper and spent a lot of time mooching out of the window at the vast expanses of water that currently make up the English countryside. There are those that love London, and big cities in general, and I am fully appreciative for their reasons for doing so, but, every time I visit London or any city, I am truly thankful that I live tucked away in the sticks. I find it noisy and smelly, and struggle with the sheer volume of people. I spent around fifty minutes in total on the tube. If I had to do that every day I would scream long slow agonising howls. It's bloody horrible.

Anyway, after the fruitful consultation with the head doctor, I set off to met an old friend for a drink. An old girlfriend in fact. We were bf/gf in our early teens at school, and I've only seen her once since we went our separate ways. It really was great to catch up. Funny how you change. I'm married with children, and she's still single, which is probably the opposite of how we would have viewed ourselves twenty odd years ago.

The train was late on the way back, and I didn't get into the station until 10.40, but I had a good book, and a rather yummy selection of sushi I'd grabbed from a Japanese food stall in Piccadilly.
London does have its uses, you try getting decent sushi in rural Worcestershire !

Filthy,dirty,robbing bastards

The three petrol station closest to me are now selling diesel for £1.17 per litre.

It's getting beyond silly

Touch me Darling

He really is one of the least charismatic politicians, and out of the current bunch of wooden lookalikes, that takes the biscuit, and I must say I'm a bit baffled by his budget. Essentially, it is a tax raising budget, but all done with the finesse of Kelvin MacKenzie. Where was the financial nous ? Sadly lacking. It was a tabloid budget. £950 on a gas guzzler, and make us think it's a green tax ? nonsense, it's a showroom tax, simple as, another way of generating revenue, but why dress it up? Call it a spade, we need a bit more cash, and this is one way we're going to do it.
Everyone in this country is an addled alky, so we'll bang on a few pence there as well, oh, and we'll do it year on year, and carrier bags, greatest problem facing the nation so we'll damn well sort that out to.
Carrier bags ? For fucks sake, bandwagon politics at its worst. perhaps I'm a simpleton, but I'd rather they concentrated on the mess that is our foreign policy, the the insanity of violent crime, and the scandal of all fuel prices. But I suppose that as long as there are less plastic bags on the street I should be content.
Politics generally is starting to drive me potty. I take more than a passing interest, we'll all should, but increasingly, all the parties are merging into one uniform mess, with very little separating them apart from an egotistical urge for power. As individuals, some actually make me cough up a little bit of sick when I see them. Some in this category (but by no means all) are;
Lembit Opik - As useless a tosser as you are likely to meet, and horribly oily with it
Ruth Kelly - There is no excuse for Ruth Kelly
Anne Widdecombe - She actually considered herself leadership material, crassly delusional
David Miliband - Horribly scary 'perfect' labour droid, vastly out of his depth.
The list could go on and on. Oh, and David Cameron just comes across as a bit of a twat. Nothing that offensive, you could be having a conversation with a friend, describing a mutual acquaintance who your friend is struggling to remember, and you may say' You know, wassisface, lawyer, lives a couple of doors down from the pub, okay bloke, bit of a twat though'
'Ohhhh yeah, I know who you mean'
Bit of a twat in that way.

On an entirely more agreeable subject, my wife has had her long hair cut short, very short, and she looks stunning. She's had long hair for as long as we've known each other, and for some time before that. I couldn't picture her with short hair, and nor could she herself. It was very spur of the moment. We were shopping and I told her I needed to zip to the office to pick up a file and was told, 'Okay I'll meet you in the library I'm going to have my hair chopped off' , simple.
Now, even on a bad day with a hangover Mrs Gumpher is a fine specimen, but with this new look, I tell thee, she is smokin', I'm a lucky chap.

More frolics in the Wye Valley, but a lot further down this weekend. Boy 2 was off to a birthday party on Saturday, so I suggested to Boy 1 that we load up the bikes and head out. I'd found a recently opened trail called The Peregrine Way, which is the old railway track between Ross on Wye and Monmouth. The cycle trail has been done so that you can ride next to the river from Monmouth to Symonds Yat and back.
Picnic made, we set off. It was glorious , we were passed by a few other serious cyclists (all dayglo lycra and go faster helmets) and passed the occasional jogger, but most of the time it felt as though everyone had vanished and we were the only people on the planet. It was wonderfully quiet. The river was deeper than at Builth, and faster flowing. We stopped to watch canoeists larking about in the rapids, looked like great fun.
We reached Symonds Yat and the sense of being alone vanished, it was very busy with tourists, but then it is very pretty. Last year, we put an offer in on a cottage overlooking the Wye at Symonds Yat. At the time it seemed to make sense. The village we live in has become crazily expensive for property, and although we love our house, the garden is quite small, and with two growing hooligans we felt the need for more space, so we looked further afield, where we get get get a lot more for our money, and settled on Symonds Yat. In hindsight, I'm glad we didn't get the house. Yes it was in a beautiful spot, but being there on a sunny spring day, made me realise just how busy it would have been. Also, we are very happy where we are, we have lots of good friends, as do the boys, and they go to a great school in the village.
We turned back and found this spot for lunch. (at top, cocked up positioning)
We cycled back stopping at the Biblins foot bridge. I'm not good with heights, and also the bloody thing wobbles like an excited jelly, but over we went. (cocked up again !)
It was a great day out, and I really enjoy spending one to one time with either of the boys.
Earlier in the week, we'd had parents evening. It went as expected, Boy 1 , a joy to teach, well mannered, doing well. Boy 2, hmmm. J is a problem, he has always been exceptionally bright. His elder brother is no fool, but he works very hard as well. J has set himself a mission, and that mission is to be the class clown, and he's succeeding, but succeeding at make himself a royal pain in the arse, disrupting the class and not going forwards himself. It was coming, his behaviour at home is fairly dire. The difficulty is, there's never any malice in what he does, he's a hugely affectionate and tactile little chap, but also a nutter. The thing is, we are strict. I cannot abide badly behaved kids, but J is turning that way. We have defined boundaries, and punishments for overstepping those boundaries, but it seems not to bother him. It causes problems with A and I, as we argue as to the best way forward, so the atmosphere in Gumpher Towers is generally rather frosty at the moment. The whole parent thing is a constant learning curve, and nothing I had done prior to being a father had prepared me for it.

I like Fridays. The boys primary school has an open assembly on a Friday which parents can attend which sets me up for the day, as it usually has the odd moment of utter hilarity, invariably around the hymn, which today was 'I wish I was a wiggly worm'. The words were rib crackingly funny and the school 'orchestra' were so out of time with the whole thing I was pissing myself all the way through. They've made the mistake of giving one of C's hyperactive chums the cymbals which he bashes together with gay abandon at wholly innappropriate moments.

The kids are allowed to talk about their out of school activities, and today one girl got up to show her grade 4 ballet certificate. Cue major dumbass moment from the head teacher. 'Thats very good M, now what grades did you do before grade four ? ' The look on the little girls face was priceless, a nine year old doing an excellent 'go figure you pillock' face.

Talking of pillocks, Ruth Kelly on Question Time last night. Aaaaaaaaargh, I can't bear the woman, she speaks like she's permanently got a gobful of man batter, and she is so badly informed it defies belief. She wasn't exactly up against strong opposition (that irritating little twunt Alan Duncan being one), but she got totally caned. Very worrying that one of such limited abilities holds such a powerful postition.

We've badly screwed up this weekends' social planning. We've invited friends around for dinner on Saturday. There's rugby on all day, which means muggins will be banned from watching in the pub as I'll be a gibbering mess by the time the guests arrive. Doh ! And the France/England game is an evening kick off so I guess I'll be told off every time I slope off to check the score.

To further compound my problems my wife is currently on a train heading for Selfridges in Brum on a day out with her mum and sister, so I anticipate being considerably poorer come this afternoon.

Still, just listened to Colin Hay doing an acoustic 'Overkill' which is spankingly fine.

More woe

I could really do without being at work today, but I have a site meeting for a major project this afternoon, and as I run my own business, needs must.

I had a fucking awful cluster attack last night. 1.30 am, and finally went back to bed at 3. I feel totally shattered, and for some reason I'd reacted by scratching at my chest and stomach, and have big red weals over both, but have no recollection of doing it. This episode has been ongoing since mid January, and it's starting to get me down. I missed a meeting in Southampton on Monday, as I had an attack at 6 in the morning, but luckily I was able to get down there yesterday.

There is light at the end of the tunnel. I've managed to get an appointment at the London Migraine Clinic to see the country's leading authority on Cluster Headaches. The first thing they'll do is to make sure that my GP prescribes me oxygen for home use, so I can finally get some pain relief. my GP has been pretty good in fairness, and recognises oxygen as a solution, but wants me to go to the surgery to use it. Not much good in the middle of the night. The clinic explained that the average GP will probably only see one or two cluster cases in their whole career, so I suppose it's reasonable to cut them some slack.

We had a huge walk along the mid section of the Wye Valley near Builth Wells at the weekend.
It's rather pretty, don't you think ? I never mind what the temperature is as long as there's a clear blue sky, it was glorious, but bloody cold, the diesel froze in my car on Saturday night, we had to push it into the sunshine to thaw out ! Parts of the shallows had frozen, which our friends' dogs found very odd, but all the kids had great fun breaking up the ice. We also found a near perfect spot for skimming stones, with a rocky beach chock full of wonderfully flat, round skimmers.
Needless to say, part of the weekend involved the usual session of liver abuse, which made the crisp cold air all the more welcoming.

We had planned a couple of quiet days at the start of the week, as the boys had gone to my Mums for a few days as it was half term. (Praise be for the gift of grandmothers).

It didn't quite end up as that. We'd just had the dining room decorated, and A wanted 'finishing touches'. Thats woman speak for curtains and cushions. It took all sodding day, Worcester, Malvern, and finally Cheltenham. Still, it was great to have the day to ourselves, we had lunch in Worcester, when we finally acquired the curtains, we had a few beers and then caught the early evening showing of 'No Country for Old Men', which was good in the first half, but faded away somewhat after that, finally followed by a quick bite at Nandos. Went home, got the fire going, a few glasses of wine and then A spanked me at scrabble. Zebra did the damage, triple letter on the Z, and a double word score. How thoroughly middle aged.

As the boys were away, it seemed like a good idea to sort out the playroom. They've got loads of stuff that they never use, and without them being there to bitch about what was going, it was a golden opportunity to do a charity shop run. At the same time I was faffing about with various curtain poles. We finally sat down to eat at 8.30, after working flat out all day. They are messy little buggers, and the sorting out was a nightmare. They arrived home to be greeted by the news of a new regime. A maximum of half an hour computer time each day, which has to be 'earned' in five minute chunks, and can also be taken away in five minute chunks, and a maximum of half an hour of tv per day. You should have seen their faces, you'd have thought we were sending them up chimneys.

As always, it was great to have some time to ourselves, it always goes too quickly. The house is very quiet without the hooligans around, but it's always great when they get back. You can't beat the gentle sound of a five year old and an eight year old battering each other. Soothing.

Betterer and betterer

The trip to the match just got better.

Had a phone call late last night and got offered an extra ticket. So I took boy 1. What a great day, he was all togged up in his Welsh shirt and scarf, face dragon painted. His first 6 nations game, and we won.

Look at that view, virtually smack on the halfway line.

Happy days.

Mentalist

What the flying fuck has Rowan Williams been smoking ? I thought he was meant to be first in line on the batphone to the Big G, but it would appear that he spends most of his day sat in a squat chowing down on a crack pipe.

So, certain aspects of Sharia law should be adopted in this country then. Oh do fuck off. Muslims make up around 2% of the population of this country, so why the hell is the political and religious agenda constantly occupied with Muslim appeasment ? Fuck 'em, and while your at it fuck Jews, Anglicans, Catholics, Hindus, Sikhs, in fact every single one of the backward insane divoids who think that 'their' higher being is the 'right' higher being come what may. Religion gets on my fucking tits and it seems to be making a bit of a comeback. Look at that fucktard Huckabee, he wants to be the leader of the worlds largest superpower, and he's a full on religious nutjob, and, people are actually voting for him. I don't know whether to laugh or shit my pants. And our own previous glorious leader kept his own faith somewhat under wraps just in case the great British public thought him a bit odd. No shit hombre.

That bearded arsewipe Williams should keep his moronic opinions to himself, and whilst he's at it, he should get a fucking eyebrow trim, it's not a good look on a man who's trying to come across all serious and if he leaves it much longer he'll need a sodding weedwhacker.

Anyway, the sun is shining, tonight I shall be rustling up a rather juicy bit of cow with a red wine sauce and some pureed parsnip, and tomorrow I shall be hot footing it down the M50 to watch us batter the Jocks. Not all bad then.