Boys

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Boys are rough and tumble and boys break bones

But boys can be quiet and sweet as a soul

Supress all your emotion and toughen up son

Don’t shed a tear and fight till you’ve won

What world are we raising our little boys in.

Where they shouldn’t feel lost cus they’re a tough strong boy

Where they shouldn’t have a choice of the little pink toy

Where they shouldn’t let you know how they’re feeling inside

Where they shouldn’t get sad or even confide

They’ll just stand tall and let the world take them down

We’re sorry my son we didn’t know what was going through your head

No because society told me to keep it locked up instead..

Transfer Talk

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Almost a year since I last posted and to be honest not a lot has changed in the last year or so, the same for many of us though I guess. As far as the two bundles of joy in my life the changes are slightly more obvious than myself who is just slowly meandering through time.

My four year old is now a five year old and my one year old is now a two year old. I’ve always been quick with maths..

My 5 year old Fred is now almost as tall as his mum (give or take a couple of feet) and has found his early passion in life, said passion being football. Dusk till dawn you’ll find him playing, watching, drawing, breathing football. Now I’ve always been a football fan so this brings me immense pride and happiness but what I wasn’t ready for yet was the fact that his knowledge would far surpass mine before I even had time to acknowledge I needed to knuckle down and research.

To make matters worse his unwaivering desire to consume all things football has lit the touchpaper of what was a previously unknown football mum. Last night I caught the pair of them during intense discussions over the weeks transfer news.

‘Daddy did you know Martial has gone to Sevilla’.

‘No because I haven’t been invited into the inner sanctum of your transfer talk club!’

This being said I think it brings us all some common ground, are lives are now consumed by this magical sport and I for one am all for it.

Not to forget the little one who scutters around our feet as we attempt to recreate Christiano Ronaldo’s celebration, Nelly is now two and is developing her vocabulary which I can only presume she has learnt from a dictatorial book her mum has left lying around..

She’s a beautiful but bossy soul, although with everyone being consumed in the daily goings on of Jürgen Klopp and co I suppose somebody has to keep us on the straight and narrow..

Don’t count your chickens.

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It’s been a while since I wrote anything and it appears that lockdown 54 has not inspired the creative side in me very much.

As the house became a prison once again I’ve found myself revisiting my role as deputy warden trying to merely assist the governor (sorry mummy) in controlling the population and preventing the riots of 2020 repeating themselves.

Our one year old remains a babbling hoover and no item of food is safe in the hands of anyone. She is however now a walking hoover, and although this means the threat is ever greater she’s certainly lost the element of surprise. The samurai scream as she charges towards you all but makes sure of that.

Our 4 year old is now ready for parole and itching to get back to school, I dread to think what the playground will have in store after 300 cooped up children are let loose and out from their shackles.

Apparently this will all be coming to a slow and meandering end soon but I won’t be counting my chickens yet. Especially because my ‘daily exercise’ at the minute is amassed entirely of cleaning a chickens shitty behind. Yes that’s right it appears even the chickens have begun their own protest.

I suppose atleast it’s ten minutes spent cleaning it instead of listening to it on the news..

Spag Bol with Donald Trump

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Watching our ten month old eating I recently came to the realisation that babies have got the simple act of eating down to a glorious fine art.

I can’t help but feel we could learn a thing or two from them. Mindfulness and being aware of our every sense is all the rage right now and food is all about our senses isn’t it, the temperatures and textures of every mouthful..

I imagine if Nelly could talk she would be telling me ‘Why restrict yourself in experiencing the wonders of food with just your mouth, why not follow my example and smear the mash around your face, maybe even let the eyes get in on the action.

Then take the broccoli and throw it around a bit before pummeling it into your face and eventually landing upon the necessary entry for food to actually be consumed’.

I’m sure being sat in a restaurant looking like Donald Trump after my spaghetti bolognese would be frowned upon, but that is exactly what the magic of baby wipes are for after all.

So maybe as we grow up and become aware of how food should be eaten we forget that sometimes shoving our face directly into the bowl of shredded wheat could make the experience that little more fun.

And on that note I think it’s time for dinner..

Summer at Barnard

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What a lovely summer we’ve had
Staring at the same four walls
Boris tells us it’s not that bad
And the cases will continue to fall

We’ve broken free and seen a glimmer of hope
But winter is just around the bend
I’ll try my best not to sit and mope
And for now let’s just pretend

That all will be well and good in our world
At times it will be a real hassle
But just remember my friends if all else fails go for a trip to Barnard castle

The Christmas Turkey

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Somehow without any real due diligence I have self imposed two more children under my ever wavering parenting ship.

It seemed like a fantastic idea to get a pet, not ready for a four legged friend yet we decided to get some two legged feathered ones instead.

First job was obviously to name our egg laying machines, easy – Sam and Elvis, took some getting used to but they have quickly assumes their roles as the dominant and subordinate characters.

After being robbed by the pet shop for some chicken pellets and straw it was job done. Time to sit back and watch Sam repeatedly attack Elvis until she looked like the Christmas turkey.

Fresh eggs then, isn’t it the dream.. Well it is until you realise that to get said egg, which for some reason is laid in the hardest to reach spot every single day, you have to hover your arm through a box full of straw covered chicken poo. This to be expected though I suppose, the real surpise that has arised is bedtime, after the baby and toddler are down I have to patiently wait until the chickens decide they’ve had enough clucking about for one day and the allure of that straw can wait no longer.

So the brood has grown yet again, and somehow I can’t help but feel I have literally moved even further down the pecking order..

Toddler sports

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Being a sports fan and having a toddler can be interesting at times.

I have extremely happy memories of paternity leave, not only because the greatest thing that had ever happened to me lay asleep on the sofa next to me, but it happened to coincide with the Euro 2016 finals (I couldn’t have planned it better). I have vivid memories of watching the Belgium v Italy game in the delivery room with mummy as she shouted obscenities in-between passes. Back home a few days later and now we could enjoy sitting down staring at our beautiful bundle of joy whilst the football set the soundtrack to his first few days in this big world. I can’t tell you the amount of baby videos I have with Lee Dixon waffling in the background.

Fast forward to the 2018 World cup semi finals and England vs Croatia. A tense affair to say the least and with mummy at work it was a lads night. 1-1 heading into the 72nd minute and all of a sudden Croatia thud the post, without thinking I scream ‘fuck’ at the top of my lungs. This mistake however led to Fred repeating it for the next 20 minutes as if it was the funniest thing his dad had ever said. Some explaining to do when mummy got home..

Freds first experience of golf saw the heroic efforts of Tiger Woods winning the USPGA, he didn’t seem to take too well to it at first, but as Tiger got closer to that green jacket and my blood pressure rose it culminated in half an hour of us synchronously screaming ‘come on Tiger’ at the tv. This along with Freddie urging every player to hit the ball in the water, clearly he’d enjoy watching his dad play..

Being avid F1 fans it was only normal for mummy to ask me with all my wisdom to guess the order of the grid for Sundays showdown at Silverstone. This however quickly descended into a game of pronounce the funny names and giggle at the results. A highly amusing game providing a solid ten minutes of humour until we made the grave error of trying to predict the grid position of Alfa Romeo driver Antonio Giovinazzi. Lets just say I won’t be asking him to say that again for a while..

Who knows maybe one day we’ll see England win the world cup and even mummy will be shouting fuck.. until then we have many more sports to conquer and I for one can’t wait.

What if..

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What if, a thought that plagues many people on a daily basis,

What if the world really is flat?
What if there is life on Mars?
What if I won the lottery?

At the minute my what ifs are a little bit more mundane..

What if Mayor Humdinger wasn’t the mayor of foggy bottom? Would Ryder and the pups have a sense of unfulfilled purpose chasing their tails everyday in the hope that another meteor crashes into adventure bay.

What if Norman didn’t live in Pontypandy? There would most certainly be job cuts in the fire department and the hero next door wouldn’t seem as much of a stand out star would he.

What if Paddington had smuggled himself into Waterloo station instead? Waterloo bear just doesn’t seem to sit right does it.

What if Mr tumble moved in next door? I mean I like where we live but I’m sure there’s plenty of good schools in other counties.. or countries.

And finally what if Uncle John and Wendy didn’t have a YouTube channel? Oh what a pleasant thought..

Living with Bradley Walsh

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Now I’m a big fan of Bradley Walsh don’t get me wrong, and I’m partial to a bit of the chase myself.

However living with a four year old Bradley walsh can at times become unbearable.

This all started a couple of years ago, our two year old for some unknown reason (strong suspicions it was grandad) became obsessed with the chase. Everyday, every minute you would hear dunsadun dunsadun dunsa dunsa dun dun hello welcome to the chase.. chance win a thousand pounds..

Sometimes I can still hear it when I close my eyes at night.

Anyway this lasted for a good few months and slowly petered out, after the wrap party was finished we thought that phase of our lives was now over.

That was until recently, now I don’t know why this has happened or what we have done to deserve this, I can only imagine he has been so bored out of his mind at home that he has taken it upon himself to become the family entertainer, but nonetheless we have seen the return of Bradley.

This time however we have Bradley 2.0, a much more sophisticated and eloquent version who now pronounces most words correctly and understands the format of his own show. And to our joyous surprise not only do we have Bradley but also Ben Shephard living under our roof. Yes that’s right quiz fans tipping point is now also a firm favourite (tenable did have a look in but fortunately for us didn’t make the grade).

What makes it all worse is that I am no longer even allowed to be a contestant, the iPad has taken over these duties as he meticulously selects the right moment to pause the video on the four contestants up for slaughter on todays show. He’s even made his own stand for authenticity to ensure the visage is not ruined for us.

So that’s it, Dunsa dun is well and truly back and doesnt look like it’s going anywhere in a hurry.

I guess all that’s left to say really is if somehow my 16th follower ends up being you Bradley Walsh, watch your back because I know a very charming and handsome adversary who is gunning for the ITV teatime slot..