The Life and Times of a Househusband

Tell them about the honey, Daddy

2012-01-16T13:43:00.000Z

Just before Christmas, the good people over at the New Zealand Honey Co asked me if I would like to take part in their ‘natural remedy challenge’. The idea being that they send me a box of natural goodies and I would use them instead of all the normal pharmaceutical nonsense I normally chuck down my gullet. Being a fan of both New Zealand (that did just beat France on the World Cup after all) and honey (the Bee is mine and Kaede’s favourite animal), I decided to accept their offer and let the chips (poker, not potato) fall where they may.

When it arrived, my box of natural goodness contained the following:

· Manuka Honey 15+

· Beech Forest Honeydew Honey 20+

· Thyme Honey 20+

· Garlic

· Ginger

· Dried Blueberries

· Peppermint Tea

· Lavender oil

· Lemon juice

The garlic and ginger would be no problem, I practically put garlic in everything I cook anyway and quite often use ginger in my stir fry’s, so all I had to do was figure out how to use the rest.

I decided to start my two week challenge on the 1^st January, new year, new regime and all that. Except I had a bit of a hangover on New Year’s Day and well, the 2^nd was a bank holiday so ditto that day as well. So on the 3^rd I finally got started.

Dried blueberries are packed full of vitamin C and are great for your immune and muscle systems, so a handful of them went into my bowl of muesli every morning (and let’s be honest – anything you add to muesli is only going to improve it) and with that I would have a cup of hot water with lemon juice and Manuka Honey. Manuka honey is a great antiseptic and should hopefully combat any coughs or colds that were heading my way, as is lemon juice, double immunity for me.

For my elevenses (I know, so very English) I decided I would have a slice of toast with Thyme Honey, accompanied by a cup of peppermint tea. The thyme honey is a great antioxidant and is great at fighting the free radicals in our bodies (take that you hippy trespassers). The peppermint tea aids digestion and can help sooth upset stomachs, so maybe I should have tried it with my hangover after all.

For my ‘mid-afternoon give me strength for the school run’ snack, I would have some Beech Forest Honeydew honey either on some toast, or on one of those ‘God aren’t I healthy’ cracker thingies. The honey is a pre-biotic with a rating of 20+, so I guess it starts fighting all the nasty stuff in your digestive system before the bugs have time to put on their armour and start getting all aggy.

Lavender oil can help induce and aid a restful sleep, so a few drops of the lavender oil went on my pillow every night, although the Mrs tartly suggested that ear plugs would probably be a better aid for her to get a good nights kip. After that quip I decided to test the theory that lavender also helps relieve stress and depression, so I put some in her tea – which resulted in the only failure of the two weeks testing – she got the right hump.

Two weeks have now passed and I have to say that I’m quite impressed with the results. I can honestly say that in those two weeks I haven’t had a single cold, not a single bout of ‘Delhi belly’, or any other malady come to think of it. I know two weeks isn’t enough time for all conclusive proof, but it’s working so far and I intend to stick to it. As another plus, not only is the honey making me healthier, it actually tastes great as well, the thyme honey being my favourite of the bunch.

As a curious (well curious to me anyway) by-product, it’s made me think more about my health and being healthy in general. I have cut down on the booze a bit and have mostly knocked the midnight snacks on the head, they were always my dieting downfall.

Many thanks again to the New Zealand Honey Co for providing me with a free box of goodies and all the bees in the 14,000 hives for providing the wild honey.

Satan Claus

2011-12-12T16:31:00.000Z

Here’s a piece of advice, never, ever, drop the kids off at school with a hangover. Because if you do you’ll end up agreeing to do something you would normally run a mile from. Your defences are low, your judgement is shot and your ability to make up bullshit excuses off the cuff has left the building.

It was on one such morning, a morning where I was nursing a mild to medium hangover, when I got hung drawn and quartered by one of the Mums. There I was, minding my own business, when I heard “Ere Jay, can you do us a favva?” I knew that voice, it was a voice that could strip paint off walls, it was Josie, mother of Jody, Joey and Joely. It was with some trepidation that I turned around as I knew that whatever came next wasn’t going to go in my favour, and I was right, it didn’t.

She wanted me to be the Father Christmas for the playgroup she runs – Grubby Gits I think it’s called – a bunch of two year olds left to run amok and become mini Jackson Pollocks. I stuttered and spluttered as I tried to come up with an excuse, but she took my silence as acquiescence, told me the time and date to be there and marched off as fast as her tiny little legs would take her.

I cursed my stupidity, trudged out of the school and promptly forgot all about it.

Forgot until last Friday that was, when the dulcet tones of Herr Josie rang out with “Don’t cha forget about being Father Christmas on Monday, cheers darlin’.”

On the day of my ‘guest appearance’ I woke up early, drenched in sweat. Sweat caused by a nightmare in which Father Christmas was drumming into me the difference between him and a rapper saying ‘Ho Ho Ho’, whilst cooking reindeer burgers on a BBQ. This was not going to go well, I hadn’t even practised my voice yet.

Despite being told that I didn’t have to be there until 11.15, I spent the morning fielding calls and texts from Josie and her Michelle Minion, checking I was coming and asking where I was – there was no chance of me ducking out of this thing, so I got in the car and made my way there. On the journey I decided to listen and sing along to Eminem, it was probably best if I got all the cuss words out of my system before I got there. It would be poor form to open with “Have you all been good little f**kers this year?”

As I nervously entered the venue I could hear the collective screaming of 30 kids, it was all I could do to not join in the screaming myself to be honest. I was having such a bad feeling about this, what kind of idiot would ask someone like me to do something like this? I didn’t know what I was going to say and how I was going to say it and it was too late to practise now.

I walked in and had to rub my eyes in astonishment, Josie had turned herself into a real-sized elf. Then I remembered she was naturally that small and had gone to no real effort at all. The Michelle Minion handed me my costume, explained the running order and told me to get changed in the blokes’ toilets.

So I took myself off to the toilets and started to get changed, which was beyond awkward due to the size of the cubicle. The costume had obviously been bought at Scrooge’R’Us, it was the tattiest and sorriest looking thing I had ever seen. The pants had a waist Buddha would have been comfortable in, but the jacket had been designed for Ghandi. The black belt that was meant to tie the whole lot together was made from a rubbish sack and had an outsized buckle that would have been hard-pressed to keep rope tied together. The fake beard was over-used and fluffy and made me sneeze so hard that I turned the moustache green and white like a Pacer mint. With the help of the Minion and several safety pins, we eventually got the outfit together and I waited for my cue.

Now I’m sorry, but it doesn’t matter how pure of body and mind you are, there is something just plain wrong about hanging around in a toilet in a Santa suit, something I had to do for 15 minutes. I started to feel like Sleazy Santa and my “Come and sit on my knee little girl” voice was sounding more and more deviant. My big entrance had been delayed due to one of the little’uns being sick on the bouncy castle, which then set off a chain letter of puke amongst the rest of his play mates. Always a classic combo of destruction – sweets, cakes, fizzy pop and a bouncy castle.

Eventually the sleigh bells started ringing so I took my cue and made my entrance into the hall. You could have heard a pin drop as they all stared at me and I must admit that it felt quite good to hold the power of silence over 30 little kids. I gingerly made my way to the chair that had been put out for me, desperately trying not to tread on one of them (I do have previous on this score) and sat myself down. As soon as I did, the safety pin on the jacket gave way and I instantly regretted wearing my black Jack Daniels t-shirt underneath it. I quickly picked up my sack and put it on my lap and hoped that it would cover the gap before anyone noticed. Although judging by some of the Mummy stares I was getting, that was a forlorn hope.

It all went fairly smoothly, my “Have you been a good little girl this year?” was said with the correct timbre of joviality and deepness and the only slight hitch was when little Tony stepped forward. Tony had long curly blonde hair that obviously belonged in a Timotei advert, but it left me with no idea if he/she was a boy or a girl. So I went with a “Have you been a good…err…person this year?” Not my finest moment, but it had to do.

I had soon whizzed through the 30 monsters and to my credit, not one of them cried, a success then. I bid them all farewell and reminded them to leave beer and chocolate under the chimney for Santa at Christmas. Back at the toilets I made a quick change that both Superman and a flasher would have been proud of, then I made like a Shepherd and got the flock out of there. Job done.

Oh and Mummy’s, one last thing. When picking out your wardrobe, please bear in mind that you will be bending over and ushering your 2 year old child towards a seated Santa. Avoid low cut tops, Santa is only human after all.

Away with the Fairy's

2011-11-24T11:53:00.000Z

OK, before we start, I have a confession… I’m a habitual Fairy sniffer. I’m one of those people you have to lean over to get your washing up liquid because I’m stood there opening the lids and sniffing, desperately trying to decide what new ‘flavour’ to get before the Security Guards throw me out for disturbing behaviour.

When I’m caught up in this endeavour the wife rolls her eyes, Storm hides her face in shame (yet again) and Kaede and Nate try to join in (well they did until the day that Nate got a nose full of apple and lime blossom Fairy and was sneezing green bubbles for a week.) My argument is that I’m the one that always does the washing up, so what’s wrong with it smelling nice at the same time?

So when Fairy contacted me and asked if I would like to join them at a pop-up restaurant at the OXO Tower for lunch cooked by the two starred Michelin chef Michael Caines to launch their Platinum range, there was only going to be one possible answer, ohmygodyescountmeinthankingyouverykindly. There was a catch however.

I had to wash up afterwards.

Bring it on, said I.

So last Saturday found myself, the good Wife, Storm and Kaede heading off to London, all dressed up to the nines. I think Kaede was the most excited, she’s wanted to be a chef since she was four and she was a bundle of nervous energy at the thought of meeting a ‘real proper chef’.

When we arrived, everything looked as swanky as you would expect and one look at the menu (based on Michaels childhood memories) and we knew we were in for a treat.

Shepherd’s pie with saddle crusted lamb with smoked aubergine puree and a rosemary and thyme jus.

OH MY GOD. Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout but it was so delicious. I am not a big lamb fan, but this tasted like no other lamb I had tried before and the Shepherd’s Pie went way beyond gorgeous.

After the mains it was time to pay the piper and wash up. Fairy had set up a stand where two people could race to clean a pile of dishes, head to head, with the best times winning prizes. I faced off against Storm and after some strict instructions from the Scottish Washing up Sergeant, we were off. Storm, showing off all the skills of a layabout student, made a meal of it but still managed to come in with a respectable 26 seconds. I, however, in a performance par excellence managed the unbeatable time of 16 seconds. Unbeatable that was until Sandy Calico managed to beat me by a second, grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Taking my defeat like a man, I wandered back to the table to hunt out a glass of red wine. When I got there I saw that dessert had arrived.

Sticky Toffee Pudding with Butterscotch sauce and caramel ice cream. To say Kaede was impressed was an understatement.

After we had finished our desserts I settled back with a nice glass of red and released a very contented sigh. I then realised that the table was a little bit too quiet and noticed that Kaede had disappeared. I looked around the restaurant and quickly realised why she had disappeared so fast. Michael Caines, having finished in the kitchen, had popped out to say hello and there was Kaede, bending his ear and grabbing his autograph. He certainly was happy to give her his time and pose for a pic and has cemented her desire to be a chef.

He then started announcing the winners in the washing up challenge. The Wife’s 26 seconds in the dishwasher challenge won her nothing, but my 16 seconds won me 6 months worth of Fairy Platinum, whoop whoop.

Since returning from the event I’ve been using Fairy Platinum and must admit that it really works well, even after a Sunday Roast. But most importantly it smells pretty darned good.

Many thanks to Fairy, Michael Caines and Rosie Mann at Ketchum PLEON for the invite and an excellent day which will certainly stay in Kaede’s memory for a very long time.

24

2011-11-01T09:29:00.000Z

The following takes place on the day of the Californian Presidential Primary. Events occur in real time.

21.01

Tomorrow morning’s the date set for the op, a cockovisionogram with claws. I’m looking forward to that, not. Damn it, bloody kids and their bloody Lego. How can something so brightly coloured blend into the carpet so well and why do I always manage to tread on it?

21.51

No eating or drinking after midnight so I had best stock up now. I try to decide which would be the most appropriate pre-op drink. I settle for a bottle of Pinot Noir but keep the Jack Daniels in the emergency standby position. Damn it, somebody has broken the last big wine glass. I get ready to shout at someone then remember that someone was me.

23.55

I wash down a handful of peanuts with a large JD and Coke. We’ve run out of ice but I care not a jot.

00.24

I attempt to sleep, restlessly tossing and turning whilst protectively cupping my nether regions. Damn it, why won’t sleep come to me?

03.14

Some inconsiderate arsehole has left his car running outside the bedroom window, with Barry Manilow blaring from the car stereo. Another middle aged lothario dropping off the Widow Twankey from across the street no doubt.

06.21

Wake up from a dream where the cast of Monty Python perform my op with chainsaws whilst singing the ‘Lumberjack’ song. Damn it, I’m never going to be able to watch Monty Python again.

06.49

On the way to the hospital now, traffic is light which is good as for some reason I’m eager to get there now. Damn it, stuck behind a learner. Seriously, at this time of the morning? Send them back to the side roads where they belong.

07.14

Arrive at the hospital and it’s a pay and display car park. Don’t we pay enough in taxes to avoid having to pay to park? “Bloody NHS” gets uttered for the first time today. I have a sneaking suspicion that it won’t be the last.

08.42

I’ve been sitting in the holding pen on the ward for over an hour now. Damn it, the bloke sitting opposite me is eating chocolate and drinking an ice cold bottle of water. I could cheerfully kill him for his booty.

10.04

Have finally been moved to the ward, I’m the youngest there by about 30 years. The bloke in the bed next to me has his wife sitting with him and she is one of those loud complaining types. I swear she just complained about the view.

10.27

A nurse turns up to take my blood pressure and the like. I always worry that I’m going to fail these tests, so I hold my breath. I don’t know why I think this will make a difference but I do it every time anyway. My blood pressure is high, but on the basis that a camera crew are about to go on an expedition down my urethra, it’s hardly a surprise.

11.26

Despite being promised I would be the first person seen at 7.30, I am now the only person left on the ward as my fellow victims have already been prepped and taken. Damn it, I would normally find being asked to take of my pants and put on some stockings quite a kinky request, unfortunately the person asking me is a sixty year old Asian bloke.

11.44

Great, I now look like a trussed up turkey wearing a gown that Mary Quant would find too short. There is no possible way of sitting comfortably without giving the Crown Jewells a public airing.

12.31

They are finally wheeling me into the operating theatre. I meet the surgeon, who is one of those over-confident laughing types with an entourage bigger than any rappers, except his consist of student doctors and nurses. He runs through what’s going to happen and then opens my gown and laughs. Damn it, just damn it.

13.27

The first thing I hear as I start to come round is Maria McKee singing ‘Show me Heaven’ and I start to panic. Am I in heavens waiting room, although considering the music maybe I’ve landed downstairs? I open my eyes and with a huge sense of relief, realise I’m still in the hospital. I have not shuffled off this mortal coil, at least not yet.

13.45

I’m wheeled back to the ward and told I can’t leave the hospital until I have passed water, a phrase so quaint even my gran found it old-fashioned. I start drinking pints of water like my life depends on it, or maybe just my sanity.

14.16

I finally feel the urge to pee and gingerly shuffle to the toilet. I stand there and wait and wait, and wait a bit more. Damn it, come on, get on with it. The ol’ chap has obviously gone on strike in protest of the treatment meted out to it today. A bright red liquid eventually dribbles out, probably not enough for hospital purposes but I don’t care. I want out and I want it now. I go back and tell the nurse I’ve just turned their toilet into the Niagara Falls from hell and can I please go home now.

15.18

Doctor eventually arrives and gives me the preliminary results. The results, that in my urge to get out of here, I had forgotten to worry about. They found nothing wrong, so fingers (and legs) crossed, all is well. After some slight exaggeration on my part, he agrees to let me go home. I ring Mum and ask her to come and pick me up. Apparently having a metal rod shoved into you can affect your ability to drive, go figure.

15.32

Mum arrives suspiciously quickly and after a brief interrogation she admits that she had been sitting in the car park waiting for the call. I let it pass and allow myself to be led out of the hospital like a sick little boy being picked up from the school nurse. I manage to convince her that I will be fine left on my own and she reluctantly drops me home and leaves. The mother in law has the kids, so I just lie on the couch and let the silence wash over me.

17.14

Everyone is home now and either fussing over me, or ignoring me and I’m not sure which one is pissing me off the most. Talking of which, I still haven’t been to the toilet so I escape them all and take myself to the loo. Damn it, I still can’t go but it really feels like I need to, especially as I’ve drunk 4 pints of water and one can of lager. I push until my eyes nearly pop out, yet nothing happens. I’m not panicking yet. I am, however, doing a lot of lying to myself to stave off that panic.

17.19

OK, now I’m panicking.

18.42

I am now seriously considering poking a hole in my belly button just to relieve the pressure. I wonder how long it would take to cry out all the excess fluid in my body, but decide to try to pee whilst jumping up and down instead. I realise it will make a hell of a mess if it works but am past caring right now. Catch a sight of myself in the mirror doing a crazy piss pogo and begin to think that maybe I didn’t actually come round from the anaesthetic. Maybe this is my version of hell?

19.14

I have now been in the bathroom for half an hour now and I’ve run out of ideas. I’ve tried standing, sitting, pogoing, shaking my bladder, pressing my bladder, standing on my head (nope, I don’t know where that one came from either), doing the twist and staring and willing it out – nada, nowt, nothing. Have also realised that despite being in here for over half an hour, nobody has sent a search party looking for me. I guess that’s my fault for hiding in here so often, damn it.

19.22

Oh My God, the pain, the release. I have somehow just passed a blood clot the size of a golf ball, I would be freaking out if I wasn’t so relieved. The ‘Me Man, me make fire’ part of me takes over and I seriously consider taking a picture of it to boast about - and as I flush the toilet I instantly regret that I didn’t.

20.45

Normal service has been resumed, in fact I can’t stop going. That may have something to do with all the beer I consumed to celebrate the end of a long day. Feeling tired, time for an early night methinks.

21.01

Damn it, I’m going to be up peeing all night.

Lest we Forget

2011-10-31T09:35:00.001Z

This year marks the 90th anniversary of the Royal British Legion, and to celebrate, they’re calling for the nation to join them in standing shoulder to shoulder with all those who serve, and support them by wearing a poppy.

The Shoulder to Shoulder website www.shouldertoshoulder.org.uk enables visitors to upload a photo of themselves (or themselves and their kids, a loved one etc), add a poppy to it and then a message of support to our Armed Forces. Once submitted, the image will then join the Shoulder to Shoulder virtual wall with thousands of others. The wall is open to the public, and allows anyone to hover over it and read all of the messages of support.

It’s a great way of visually interesting children in the Poppy Appeal and giving them a greater understanding of the kinds of sacrifices the Armed Forces have made.

It’s only a small thing to do, just a tiny way to show our support for the brave men and women who have kept us safe in the past and continue to do so now. So please go visit the website at www.shouldertoshoulder.org.uk and add your message of support.

The Royal British Legion provides practical care, advice and support to Armed Forces personnel, ex-Service men and women of all ages and their families.

The charity runs recovery centres for injured personnel; provides advice and support for bereaved families; helps with financial and careers advice; offers life-long companionship, healthcare and practical support to the Service community and their families; and has 2500 branches worldwide offering comradeship and support.

The Royal British Legion is also the nation's custodian of Remembrance; organises the Poppy Appeal; campaigns on issues affecting Service personnel and runs one of the UK's largest membership organisations. For more information visit www.britishlegion.org.uk

Bonfire of the Banalities

2011-10-26T08:26:00.000Z

It seems to have become tradition in the blogging world, around this time of year, to suggest who you would like to replace Guy Fawkes on the bonfire come 5^th November. I’ve decided to join in with the imaginary bonfire this year, mainly because I couldn’t think of anything else to write about. It is also partly because, since some strong suggestions from the Mrs, the neighbours and the remaining rabbit Spencer (RIP Mark), I’m not allowed to light real ones in the garden anymore.

I started to write a list of people that I would like to be rid of, all with justifiable (if not homicidal) reasons, but as I started the list when the Mrs was watching Strictly Crap Dancing and then X Fucktor, it started to get out of control. I was never going to be able to limit my choice to one person anyway, so I’ve decided to have a host of categories and pick one for each.

To get the fire started I would obviously use copies of the Daily Mail, can you really think of any other use for it, with auto-biographies written by anyone under fifty also thrown on for good measure.

Politics – Lembit Opik nearly run away with this one but I guess he no longer fits in this category as he’s now an unemployed bum. Dianne Abbot would be another but I get the feeling that’s she one of those ‘all publicity is good publicity’ types, so I won’t feed that particular bonfire of the vanities. So it will have to be the back-stabbing Cain of politics – Ed Milliband. Not only has he got nothing of any interest to say, he insists on saying it with that annoying nasal twang.

Sports – The rat faced twonk that is Ashley Cole nearly got thrown on, but I was worried I might catch something by even touching him in my imagination. The winner by a country mile though, is the cud-chewing, bulbous nosed, Beckham bullying Scot – Alex Ferguson. He also comes with the added bonus of being so full of expensive red wine, he’s bound to give off a lovely looking flame.

Music – It has to be Jedward doesn’t it, two people whose only discernable talent is the ability to jump out of time with each other. Unfortunately the Health and Safety Executive have refused to let me add them due to the flammable nature of their hair and suits. So in that case it has to be the band with as much talent, personality and taste as a can of Lynx – One Direction. Every time the lead singer, with his hair do made from the collected cuttings of the Chelsea team’s manscaping, opens his mouth, I want to put pencils in my ears and press firmly.

Z Listers – This is a tough one because firstly there are so many of them and secondly, they are so insignificantly famous, I don’t know their names. Anyone who’s ever been on Big Brother would be an obvious choice, as would anyone that’s slept with Big Bouncer (Jordan). But my final choice has to be that bloke from whatchyamacallit, you know the one, the one with the face like a slapped arse, goes out with that orange girl. Yep, him, that’s the one.

Real life – I wanted to throw on everyone that says to me “I don’t do twitter, who wants to know what everyone’s had for breakfast.” A cliché so old, even moaning about it has become a cliché. Instead I shall choose the mean spirited Restaurateur that has padlocked his car park to stop everyone parking their cars for 10 minutes when doing the school drop off. We weren’t hurting anyone, you’re not even open at 8.30am so what’s the problem? Now all you’ve done is pissed off a load of parents who were, or could have been, good customers. Now we’re parking and eating elsewhere and you’re trying to flog discounted food - great decision mate.

Stranger - The bloke who picks someone up in my road every day and never says thank you whenever I pull into a gap to let him pass. Never, not even once, not even a nod or a smile. I am half thinking of buying some old clunker and running him off the road with it, but failing that I may just block him in the cul-de-sac next time I’m not in a rush.

Actor – Meryl Streep, one film, two words, Mama Mia. Enough said.

Figure from history – Guy Fawkes, not for attempting to blow up the Houses of Parliament – but for failing.

Inanimate object – Michael McIntyre’s hair – every time I see it my blood pressure rises. I’m sure he’s a funny guy, but whenever I see him on TV I have to change channels. So until he gets his own radio show, his comic stylings are going to pass me by.

So there it is, these are the people that are going to sit atop of my bonfire, punished for the sins of making my blood boil or my stomach churn. Hopefully I’ve now got the grumpy old man out of my system, but I somehow doubt it.

Turn left at the Iron Man

2011-10-25T07:46:00.000Z

You know you are in a special place when your enquiry as to where the toilets are is answered with a “Go up past the Incredible Hulk and turn left at the Iron man” and this weekend found me at such a special place – Disney’s London Headquarters. They had kindly invited me and the family to visit them to see their new AppMATes Mobile application toys and who am I to turn down an offer like that.

I didn’t tell the kids about the trip until the morning of the event as who wants to hear an “Are we there yet?” type convo for a week - it was bad enough I had to hear it for the hour it took us to get there. I would like to describe to you how the building looks like the massive fairy tale castle you see at the start of the Disney films, but I have been sworn to secrecy. It’s also the reason I can’t tell you that as soon as I passed over the threshold and into the HQ itself, the hands on my watch magically turned into Mickey Mouse hands.

As the kids entered the room where they were holding the demos of the toys their eyes went as wide as saucers, but both for different reasons. Kaede saw the toys and was instantly sold, Nate saw the buffet table and was instantly hungry. I kid you not, the boy ate four croissants, three pan au chocolats, six fruit spikes and a fistful of sweets. At one stage, the only way to find him was to follow the croissant crumbs.

Kaede and I went straight for the AppMATes, basically they are tiny cars (based on the Cars film) that you use in conjunction with an iPad and the Cars 2 app (which is free to download from iTunes). You then use the cars on the iPad to control the play as you explore Radiator Springs. There are tons of things to unlock and explore and each character has some of its own unique content as well. Here’s a link to a video clip as I don’t seem to be able to do it justice in words http://bit.ly/Appmates-Demo

I’m not ashamed to admit that I had a lot of fun playing it and Kaede certainly did. They even managed to coax Nate away from the food to have a go, no mean feat indeed. It seems quite easy for the little’uns to use, very responsive to their movements and it doesn’t hurt your iPad. The packs are available as a single Lightening McQueen (£12.99), or as double packs including loads of the new characters (£19.99).

After we finished having a good play with all the toys, we went into their private cinema and watched Cars 2, which of course was awesome. I’ve always been a fan of the Disney/Pixar stuff and this certainly didn’t let me down. I loved the innocence of the first movie but I think the second one has just edged it in terms of fun and excitement and a couple of jokes that were definitely aimed at the Dads in the audience.

Thanks to Disney and Eulogy PR for the invite and for the bag of goodies they gave the kids on the way out. Apparently I am now officially the coolest dad in the world for arranging this trip, result.

Is this Gooner a Goner?

2011-10-20T11:43:00.000Z

I’ve been a Gooner (an Arsenal fan to the uninitiated, who will stop reading right about….now) since I was seven. My Dad was a rugby fan with no ties to any particular football team, so whilst I played football morning, noon and night, I didn’t support any one team. I admired the Liverpool team of the seventies, who didn’t, but it didn’t even occur to me to become a glory hunter and start supporting them. My granddad collected the football cards that came in his packet of smokes and gave them to me – and I collected my Panini football stickers with more allegiance to filling empty spaces in my sticker book than to the teams they represented.

I was born in Barking which is a mere pass, dribble and shoot away from Upton Park, the home of West Ham United. But even at seven I knew they called themselves ‘the Irons’ and I also knew that Iron in Cockney meant poof, so that was a non-starter. So I just carried along in my own merry little way, playing football for the school, the street, the gang - whoever would let me to be honest (and when that was no-one then it was me versus the wall).

Then came the day that would change my life forever, for better or worse I know not, just changed. That day was Saturday 6^th May 1978 - FA Cup Final day – Ipswich v Arsenal.

We had gone to a Cup Final party at friends of my Mums, I remember they lived in Upminster and that they had a daughter called Sarah but I remember nothing more unless it was footy related. The whole house seemed to be supporting Ipswich, I guess that’s because they were considered the underdog at the time and me being the contrary bugger that I was back then (and possibly still am), I decided I would get behind the Arsenal.

I couldn’t tell you too much about the game – I remember being spell bound by Liam Brady running down the wing and when they substituted him mid way through the second half, I swore I saw tears in his eyes and that was it - I was officially a Gooner. Incidentally I met him years later in the hospitality lounge at the 2003 Cup Final and as I nervously collected his autograph like the seven year old I had become, I rather gushingly told him he was the reason I had become an Arsenal fan.

Anyway, I digress, Arsenal ended up losing that game 1-0, but that didn’t matter - I was hooked and I was a Gooner, and nothing was ever going to change that.

I got lucky as a fan, many have to wait years to see their team lift any silverware but I had to wait precisely a year and six days, for on 12^th May 1979 Arsenal were back at Wembley, this time against a team that would become a thorn in my backside – Man Utd (further referred to as “Manure”). I don’t know if it’s the romanticism of looking back through age tinted glasses, but that was probably the greatest Cup Final I have ever seen. The sun was shining, we were two up by half time, but with ten minutes to go we were starting to look very tired. Then came the Manure fight back and within five minutes and with less than five to go, they had brought it back to 2-2. Even I could see that there was no way our boys would last another 30 minutes of extra time, we were doomed.

Luckily for me, Brady thought otherwise. In the final minute he shrugged off two challenges and passed outside to Graham Rix. Rix crosses over and up pops Alan Sunderland to head in the winner. I went mad and ran around the front room screaming my head off (even writing this now has given me goose bumps).

After that it was slim pickings for a while, a Cup Final defeat to West Ham the following year, a League Cup win against Liverpool in ’87 (thanks to Charlie ‘Champagne’ Nicholas), but it was mostly a lot of dour football. I had started going to the matches with my mates by then, part of the North Bank faithful and by now Arsenal had become my religion.

I was lucky enough to have seen some of the great Arsenal legends – Henry, O’Leary, Rocastle, Wright, Vierra, Bergkamp and Adams (AKA God). I’ve also been lucky enough to watch players who would bleed red and white, players like Groves, Parlour (AKA the Romford Pele), Davis, Keown, Bould, Dixon and Winterburn. Neither of those lists is exhaustive, but I could go on for hours without even getting to Limpar, Ljungberg and Lukic. The trouble is, that’s all in the past - if you cut our current crop of players they will bleed pound notes and then sue you for breach of contract.

I think my love affair with all things Arsenal is coming to an end.

I think it all started with Cashley Hole (AKA Mr Cheryl Cole) and his “I nearly swerved off the road” comment re his proposed wage increase to a mere £55K a WEEK, five grand less than he wanted, and it’s all gone downhill since then. Sure we are playing some of the best football I have ever seen (well we were ‘till this season) and we are always there or thereabouts when it comes to the League title, but I’m used to investing time and loyalty to these players but they don’t seem to want to pay it back anymore.

Sure, maybe it’s because I’m getting older and more cynical now - I’m thirty-ten now and not as naïve as I once was – and maybe I haven’t got as much time to spare watching football, the kids want to go out and play it after all, but surely we as fans deserve some degree of loyalty from these overpaid mercenaries?

It was only when my 17 year old daughter texted me Sunday afternoon to check on the score because she was nowhere near a TV, that I realised that instead of watching the game I was out in the garage cleaning up (jeez you may as well pass me the pipe and slippers). I haven’t watched a whole game this season and come to think of it, I can’t really recall watching many at all this year. It looks like I’ve been a Gooner in name only for a while and I’m not sure how much that bothers me?

Would the Gooner in me today be able to write this piece here again http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/28/opinion/28iht-edharding.html?ref=global ? I somehow doubt it, the passion has gone, but do I blame the team or my age? I want to be a hard-core fan again but what’s the point when the players leave as soon as some rich club show them a flash of knickers and a garter belt stuffed with cash? I’ve realised that as you get older, the amount of hurt in your life increases exponentially and I’m not sure that I want to add the pain of losing games, or players to it.

So I don’t know where that leaves me.

When I started writing this piece, I had come to think of myself as someone who, from now on, would just keep an eye on the results with a smile or a frown. But the writing of this and the watching of old goals on YouTube has made me somehow doubt that that would be possible. I still shed a tear when I watch old clips of Rocastle play and I guess that will never change.

Arsenal, I’m giving you one more chance. One more chance to inspire me, to make me shout, to make me sing, to make me cry. One more chance I tell you.

But who am I kidding?

Rio

2011-10-19T10:55:00.001Z

This is a sponsored post brought to you by the makers of Rio. Not Rio the place as that would be God (or Darwin, I get confused), but Rio the animated film (you know, those Ice Age Creators).

Last week Kaede and I were lucky enough to be invited to a screening of Rio at London Zoo. Even luckier was the fact that the event was held in a function room within the Zoo and not the monkey enclosure, where the Mrs rather cruelly implied I would be more at home.

They had provided food (which Kaede had four plates of), drink (of which Kaede consumed three toilet stops worth) and cuddly toy characters (of which Kaede snagged two somehow). After the screening one of the zoo keepers brought out a real Macaw, which created such a huddle of excited kids that I’m surprised they managed to get out alive.

Kaede absolutely loved the film and even though she had already seen it at the cinema, she still sat there riveted, only moving to dance along with great samba soundtrack. From an adults point of view it was a fun watch, which is a good job as I’m sure this will be one that the kids make me watch over and over.

All this was to launch the release of the Rio DVD and Blu-Ray on the 24th October. It comes with more extras than you can shake a stick at, including bonus Angry Bird levels. Angry Birds is the app that Kaede is always nicking my phone or tablet to play, so some extra levels to keep her quiet on the trains are more than welcome.

Whilst I haven’t got any copies of the DVD to give away, I do have some links to some cool free stuff:

For some computer cursors (I’m currently using Luis) click here http://www.premierpr-online.co.uk/rio/

For a Birds v Monkeys game click here http://www.birds-vs-monkeys.co.uk/

For a Rio In-a-Row game click here http://www.rio-in-a-row.co.uk/

So if you’re anything like me and the thought of the kids home for the half-term week is filling you with dread, you can’t go far wrong with a copy of Rio and maybe a bag of popcorn to keep them occupied.

Making Meccano

2011-10-05T08:50:00.000Z

Quite often as you start to approach middling life, you look back with fondness at how much better things were in days of yore. The music, the sense of society, the dress sense of teenagers and the size of a curly wurly. But one thing that has improved with age is Meccano. I have vague recollections of yellow bits of metal that could be bolted together to make something, that whilst looked harmless, made an excellent weapon for smacking my brother over the head with, but that is nothing compared to what they’re making now.

A few weeks ago, the lovely people at Meccano sent me a couple of their new kits for me and my six year old to try out and boy was I shocked. Pack one was a Space Chaos DarkPirates Spaceship, all bells and whistles with light and sound effects. Pack two was a Turbo Radio Control car and this was the one I was looking forward to making the most.

Both packs were aimed at the 7-14 year old age groups and although Kaede is only 6, I figured something that really made her think would last a lot longer than something she could put together in 10 minutes (plus it would mean that she would need my help, whoop whoop).

The two boxes sat on my kitchen table for two frustrating weeks due to weekend activities, illnesses and sheer bad timing. Meccano had always seemed like a rainy day toy and unfortunately we were having a crazy Indian summer with temps up to 29C. Every time I walked past the boxes I could hear an ethereal voice calling “Come to me…play with me…don’t wait for the kids”. Eventually I had to ask the wife to hide them away lest I succumb to temptation like an Essex girl outside Lakeside.

Eventually I snapped and one sunny Sunday afternoon, Kaede and I sat down and opened up the spaceship pack. One look at all the parts and nuts and bolts, and Kaede was hooked. As I read through the instruction manual, Kaede organised all the parts into their own separate places (a lesson she learnt from watching me attempt to put together all things IKEA). The instructions were in a simple step by step guide, with every step listing what pieces were needed for that particular moment. Kaede took responsibility for gathering the pieces together before each step, each time with the furrowed brow of someone bearing the great responsibility of a major engineering project. A really clever idea is that the front of the booklet had a printed ruler, so that when it said a 5.4mm bolt was needed, it was easy for her to pick out the right one.

With heads buried deep into our project, we ignored the world and only paused to sup from our worker drinks (lager for me, a weak shandy for her). You really started to feel the sense of excitement coming from her as the spaceship started to take shape and I was pleasantly surprised that she stuck with it from beginning to end. Our Kaede is a bit of a feral one and not well known for sitting in one place for too long, but the Meccano had really grabbed and drawn her in.

With a flurry of activity and a gasp of relief (or disbelief) we finished and Kaede proudly held up the finished article. Not only did it not fall to bits when she did that, but it also started making sound effects and the engines started to glow red. Kaede then spent the next hour running around the garden with it, dive bombing her brother from behind - I guess some sibling things never change.

That night the spaceship had pride of place in her bed and it has slept there ever since. The weather report said it will be raining next weekend and there’s a long winter ahead of us, so it looks like my, I mean her, radio controlled car will be next on the agenda. I’m not sure who’s looking forward to it more.

Many thanks to the good people at Meccano for not only making the stuff, but for sending me the free samples as well. The Space Chaos spaceship retails at £24.99 and the Turbo RC Racing car at £29.99

Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner

2011-09-08T08:52:00.001Z

I have an admission - I’ve been ignoring my relationship of late. I pay no attention to her, I take her for granted. I know she will always be there, so I ignore everything she has to offer. Do you know what, sometimes I’ve been known to litter her, unforgivable I know. For all this I want to make a public apology.

I’m sorry London, I had forgotten how beautiful you are. I had forgotten how many interesting nooks and crannies you had. I had forgotten how much of you remained un-explored to me and for that I humbly apologise. You may wonder what brought on this ‘road to Damascus’ moment, what seismic event could have occurred? Well, it turns out that seeing London from 135 meters was enough to do it.

I received an email the other week asking if I would like to go on a Champagne Experience on the London Eye, followed by a London Eye River Cruise down the Thames. The first words that jumped out at me were FREE, CHAMPAGNE and A BREAK FROM THE CHILDREN, so I obviously accepted (as you knew I would) and on Saturday the Mrs and I took the (sometimes) short journey from East to Central London.

We had picked a beautiful day for it, the sun was shining and the air had that crispness to it that makes September the best month of the year (the fact the kids go back to school in September is pure coincidence). It doesn’t take long to get from my neck of the woods to Westminster, so before we knew it we were standing at the foot of the wheel and craning our necks upwards at the tallest Ferris wheel in the Western hemisphere.

We went inside to pick up our complimentary tickets and as we were early we popped into the new 4D experience that comes as part of package. I won’t spoil the surprise too much, but it’s a short 3D film with added wind, bubbles and mist effects, which was freaky if not enjoyable.

Ten minutes before our allotted time we went to the meeting area and were promptly walked over to the Priority queue, all the while trying not to look too smugly at the queuing tourists. Each capsule holds 25 people, but with the Champagne Experience our group of 20 was split into two pods of 10. This gave us all plenty of room to wander around and enjoy the view, and OH MY GOD what a view.

It takes fifteen minutes to get to the very top, but I guarantee your first WOW will be uttered within five. The view down the river to Tower Bridge is spectacular enough, the view of St James Park and Buckingham Palace is awe inducing and seeing the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben from above is superlative inducing. Then just when you think it can’t get any better, somebody puts a glass of champagne in your hands.

It was at that moment that I decided to start playing the lottery again as I don’t want to experience anything else in life without holding a glass of champagne. At the Post Office getting your Car Tax – have a glass of Champers Sir. Standing in the ‘Ten items or less’ aisle in Sainsbury’s – here are your bubbles Sir. Watching a never-ending School play – Champagne would be lovely please Headmaster. Oh yes, that will be the life for me.

Our lovely host in the capsule was called Joy and she did an excellent job. She was always on hand to take pictures for you or point out some of the sights. It was once I stopped looking at all the obvious monuments and buildings that I realised how much of London I hadn’t seen and how much it had to offer. Standing on top of the world over-seeing our beautiful city, I felt a sense of pride that I hadn’t felt since my daughter accidentally-on-purpose tripped up the school bully and got away with it. All too soon our ride was over, but then we hopped straight on the boat for the cruise down the Thames.

So we proceeded to view London from a lower, but no less interesting, perspective. As soon as the Tour Guide got on the microphone I knew we were in for a treat. He sounded like Hugh Grant at his funniest (think About a Boy rather than Nine Months) and his spiel was part factual, part comedy routine. For example –

“Big Ben is actually named after Sir Benjamin Hall who oversaw the installation. Thank goodness his name wasn’t Richard. Or William.”

And

“The Bloody Tower achieved its nickname due to the bloody murders that occurred there, including the rather bloody murder of the two young princes. You can’t see the Bloody Tower that well because of all the bloody trees.”

He managed to keep this patter going for the entire 45 minutes of the cruise and it certainly added to the experience. The trip took us past Westminster Palace to Lambeth Bridge, there it turned around and took us down to Tower Bridge, then another U-turn that brought us back to the London Eye. It was a most relaxing way to view the Thames and loads preferable to the way I normally see it – running down the South Bank after the kids.

It was a great day out and it re-ignited my love affair with London. I’m not saying where you live is bad and I’m not saying your town or city is in some way inferior. All I’m saying is that London Rocks and there are a thousand good reasons why it’s still the hub of the country. I’m a Londoner through and through and proud of it, I’m just sorry I forgot it for a while.

Many thanks to Alison from Hill & Knowlton for the tickets, they were very much appreciated.

I'm a nice bloke - Vote for me

2011-08-19T09:52:00.001Z

Two things happened to me this week that I thought I would share with you (alright, I appreciate that obviously more than two things happened to me, but these are the two that I thought worth mentioning, unless you want to hear about bowel movements of course?) Firstly @Trampy_joe over at http://neildad.blogspot.com/ tagged me in a ’10 things we don’t know about you’ post, and secondly I was nominated, then chosen as one of the five finalists, in the Gurgle 2011 Awards for Best Daddy Blog. I have no idea who nominated me, although I rather suspect it was my Mum, but whoever you are, thanking you most kindly.

You can vote for me (or one of the others I guess, it’s a free country and of course you are allowed to trample all over my feelings) at http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/MS7M82K . I’m not going to beg but please, please, please vote for me because I would quite like to meet Mylene Klass (the host) and talk to her about her classical music.

So here are 10 things you didn’t know about me and please don’t let anything you read here influence your voting decision in any way, shape, or form.

1. Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings I wander the streets of South Woodford helping little old ladies cross the roads. Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons I spend helping confused old ladies who are inexplicably stuck on the wrong side of busy roads.

2. I operate a butterfly hospital from my back garden where I repair wings and landing feet of injured butterflies. I also run a self esteem course for the plain white ones where I hand paint bright patterns on their otherwise dull wings.

3. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I put on my ‘You are not the weaker sex and I’m not mistaking plumpness for pregnancy’ T-shirt, then I ride the trains - giving up my seat for women young and old.

4. I always, always, let cars out of the side streets when I’m driving down a main road. Who cares that it then means that I have to start the school run at 3am? If I can save a bit of your impatience then I’m a happy man.

5. I believe that children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way. I also believe teachers are worth their weight in gold (even in today’s over inflated markets) and children make for excellent guide dogs. Win, win.

6. When I live up north I vote Labour. When I live down south I vote Tory. When I’m temporarily hospitalised for my own protection, I vote Lib Dem.

7. I do not believe Women are tetchy and illogical one week in every four, it is purely a coincidence. An even if you are, it’s our fault anyway and we deserve whatever abuse comes our way.

8. At the weekends I enjoy taking my children to different gardens in the South East of England. Granted, they are Beer gardens, but they do enjoy a glass of lemonade and a packet of crisps whilst running between the tables.

9. I think all babies are beautiful, even the ginger ones, or the mono-browed ones, or the non-identical twin ones. There’s even a place in society for the ones that permanently look like they’re taking a dump, even when eating.

10. At award ceremonies I would always dedicate my undeserved win to all the hard-working and underrated Mums and Dads of the world, they are so much more deserving than me and I’m just thankful to be a parent.

So with tongue firmly in cheek, I ask you again to do the right thing and VOTE FOR ME at http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/MS7M82K . A vote for me will not only let me continue some of the good works listed above, but it will also make you feel like the good minded citizen you obviously are. Plus, as the vote is anonymous, you will be doing a completely unselfish act and it’s not often you can say that.

Crime and Punishment

2011-08-13T16:01:00.000Z

So we're half way into the summer hols and all normal punishments for the heinous crimes the monsters I call children commit on a daily basis, have started to lose their effectiveness.

Sending them to a corner has stopped working as they have taken to hiding toys there, safe in the knowledge I'm a crap cleaner, so they will happily sit there for hours playing.

Threatening to turn off the TV doesn't work, as they have realised that I still have to do my usual work-from-home type work and if I want any peace and quiet then the goggle box is my only chance of that.

They're on a sweet embargo anyway, as it took three months to finally finish the Easter egg mountain, so the sweets are on a sabbatical and can’t be used as a threat.

I can't smack them because now that it's summer they're wearing short sleeves and shorts, so the marks will show. Only kidding - it's because they've leant to duck and weave.

So I'm now in a quandary, either I start to feed us all Vodka and Valium and we spend the rest of the summer in a fog like void, or I start thinking up some new cruel and unusual punishments.

Here are some that have been meted out so far:

Nate (Male, 4) Constantly yelling into the microphone on his battery powered shopping till.
PUNISHMENT: Me accidentally dropping a full suitcase on to the offending toy. Twice

Kaede (Female, 6) Singing along to a Justin Bieber advert in a non-ironic way.
PUNISHMENT: Spending an afternoon listening to John Coltrane, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davies and Sarah Vaughan. Then discussing the merits of removing the voice box of annoying, pre-pubescent, talentless, crap magnets.

Storm (Female, 17) Leaving her hair straighteners on all day, resulting in a perfect V shape being burnt into her bedroom carpet.
PUNISHMENT: Fuse removed from said straighteners (and hairdryer for good measure.) Offender not informed about fuse removal, leaving her to replace 'unrepairable' items.

Nate (Male, 4) Picking a fistful of flowers that I had spent six months growing, then scattering the petals throughout the house like Cleopatra's man servant.
PUNISHMENT: I mowed the lawn without the collection box attached and made him pick up all the grass cuttings.

Kaede (Female, 6) Showing guests at a recent party we threw, the secret room where we had, last minute, hid all our crap.
PUNISHMENT: Have compiled and saved an assortment of truly hideous and embarrassing photos of her on a CD marked 'Kaede's Wedding Day'.

Storm (Female, 17) Failing to get to a safe place to let me respawn during an online Halo game, resulting in the relentless taunting of me by a 12 year old American gob-shite.
PUNISHMENT: Making her go back to basics with a Space Invader marathon.

Trish (Female, 40) Only bringing home one bottle of wine for Saturday consumption, leaving me with the 'Daytime or Evening?' drinking dilemma.
PUNISHMENT: My accidental dropping of sanitary products into sink, blaming kids and my parting comment of "You may as well pick up another bottle of wine as you're going back to the shops anyway."

There were more I could mention but time, space and the social services have prevented me from listing them. If anyone else has some bright ideas, then I'm more than happy to hear them

Anyone but Alonso - Hungary

2011-08-07T08:16:00.000Z

Anyone but Alonso – the slightly warped world of the anti-fan – Hungary GP 2011

For the first time in God knows when, Massa has out-qualified his ‘team-mate’ Alonso and starts in 4^th spot, one place ahead of the eyebrowed one. This could mark the resurgence of Massa and the end of team orders at Ferrari. I’m sorry, I take that back, I know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit and will instead bet the house on Massa letting Teflonso past at some point in the first ten laps.

It’s a Bon Jovi start today (Slippery when Wet for all you youngsters) and everybody seems to be starting on the intermediate tyres today. It’s a terrible start for the Teflon Don as he slips to 6^th, but after a battle with Schuey he retakes 5^th place. Massa seems like he’s given up already, what a surprise. Maybe he and Webber can have a ‘battle of the test drivers’ race?

Lap 5 sees Hamilton take Vettel as he loses grip on the turn. Again Massa blatantly lets Alonso past after Alonso had left the track, again. Seriously, is there any point to Massa at all? I guess that’s why we always get a gutless display from him. I was actually ashamed to be Brazilian watching that display, then I realised that I’m actually English so I stopped worrying about it. After Hamilton pits, Grandfather Schuey gets to lead a GP for the first time in God also only knows when, but then he pits and everything returns to normal.

At some stage I really should address my feeling on the whole Sky/BBC job-share debacle, but at the moment all I can see is an opportunity to pay half my licence fee if I promise to only use one eye when watching the coverage.

Massa is now stuck behind Schuey and perhaps remembering the team orders from when they were both at Ferrari, respectfully holds position behind him. The Brazilian is now driving like the part of the body the ladies have a Brazilian.

Lap 25 sees the Lotus of Heidfeld turn into a BBQ and then explode like the sausages I have forgotten about on my own BBQ in the garden. Heidfeld seems to have escaped unscathed, but I’m sure there will be a heated exchange once he gets back to the team bus. Schuey retires, but unfortunately, only from the race.

Come Lap 37 Alonso can afford to pit and still come out in front of Massa, such is the patheticness of Massa’s driving. Vettel then pits and Alonso gains track position from him. The commentary is full of talk about tyres – primes vs super-softs. I have to admit that all this tyre talk detracts from the excitement of the race for me and makes me super-soft. The crying shame is that Hamilton has put the wrong tyres on and will probably lose the race because of it.

As if to prove my point, Hamilton does a doughnut, nearly taking out Di Resta, leaving Button free to move into the lead. Then with rain starting to fall again, Hamilton starts harassing Button and manages to get his lead back as Button goes wide into the turn. The lead goes back and forth between them as they show Ferrari how a team should be run. Team orders – Pah. We then watch d’Ambrosio try a hand break turn into his pit stop, I’m not sure he saved himself any time though.

Lap 53 sees Hamilton pit and rejoin in third, he is also now under investigation for the earlier spin – and unsurprisingly he gets given a drive through penalty. Plus he then has to change his tyres again as the rain didn’t hold, so he may as well just give up and go home. He then rejoins the race behind the two number 2 drivers, Massa and Webber. Both Webber and Hamilton breeze past the pedestrian Massa, again making we wonder WHAT IS THE POINT OF HIM? Especially when you see all those in places 7 to 11 fighting for the remaining points behind him. It’s a disgrace Ferrari operate like this.

Hamilton manages to get past Webber on Lap 64 as they are both making their way through the back markers. As I watch Webber give up his place, I can’t help but think that it’s no coincidence that if your team treats you as second class driver then you end up driving that way.

This could be McLarens fourth win today, two for each of the drivers. This shows that the ‘whoever is winning the race gets first choice’ tactic, whilst not working out for Hamilton this time, is a good tactic for the team as a whole.

The race finished then, with a win for Button, followed by Vettel, Alonso, Hamilton, and Webber, with Massa a distant sixth. The HRT team finishes 22^nd and 23^rd- again proving they’re only good once a month. We’re treated to a hilarious moment before the podium when Button asks Alonso “What happened to you, you kept going off?” The speeding Gypsy remained tight lipped, but his immense eyebrows furrowed in protest at the cheek of the question.

So we now head into the enforced four week break. The teams are not allowed to do anything for two of those weeks, so it will be interesting to see how long Teflonso's eyebrows will be by the time we get back. Without having the use of the team’s angle grinders to trim them, I’m betting on at least an inch.

On a final note, during the whole of this GP my thoughts seem to have been dominated by Ferrari and Red Bull team orders. When they see the excitement of the two McLaren drivers racing wheel to wheel against each other, they should hang their heads in shame. Hopefully next season Sky will get the races where Red Bull and Ferrari cheat a win and the BBC will get the honest races, like the one we had today.

Anyone but Alonso - Germany

2011-07-30T14:45:00.000Z

Anyone but Alonso – the slightly warped world of the anti-fan – German GP 2011

This week’s action comes from the Nürburgring, a circuit I am very familiar with due to my extensive computer gaming experience. The circuit is some 500 meters above sea level in the German mountain region, so this should suit our brunette Yeti Alonso.

An excellent start by Lewis as Webber is caught reading the adverts on his overalls, leaving Teflonso and Vettel to duke it out behind them. For some reason the Teflon Don forgets to turn and Vettel steals back third place. Can’t help but thinking that maybe Button should change his name to Zipper as we all know zips are faster than buttons, just a thought mate.

Vettel seems to be choking in front of his home fans as he has a pleasant looking spin, or maybe he’s just showboating due to his almost unassailable points lead? Buemi pushes Heidfeld off the track, further heaping on the pain for the home fans. The normally happy and comical Germans are starting to look a bit glum and serious.

Webber cheekily passes Lewis whilst Lewis is chatting to his team on the phone, luckily he decides to hang up and he retakes first place. A whole series of pit stops leaves the un-pitted Massa out front and Ferrari take the opportunity to slow the race down for a bit so we can all look at the lovely sponsorship on the cars. Massa eventually pits and the triumphant Webber gets to lead his first lap of the year and the Aussie press instantly label him a hero.

It’s a shame to see the BBC have forgotten all of their weather predicting equipment, which results in poor Martin Brundle having to look at a puddle for the whole race just to give us up to date weather conditions.

A brief glimpse of action as the resident octogenarian Michael Schumacher wakes the dozing crowd by doing some doughnuts on lap 24. After another round of pit stops, Lewis takes first and immediately gives Webber a little kiss to push him off the track as Webber attempts to overtake at turn 2. Alonso’s pit stop brings him out into first place a lap later but Lewis, always the patient teacher, shows Webber how to properly overtake at turn 2 and whizzes past the pedestrian Teflonso.

A disappointing finish for Button as he retires his car from the race with hydraulic problems, although on the plus side, he can now grab a hot cup of Bovril to chase away the 13C temperature out there.

I feel my eyes getting heavy as we get to the last third of the race and it is starting to look like the race will be decided by the last set of pit stops. There’s a lot of talk that the teams may leave it until the final lap to put on new tyres, so I take the opportunity to go grab a beer from the fridge.

Lewis takes a gamble and swoops into the pits with eight laps to go, Teflonso waits a lap but not even pedal power could give him the extra time needed to pass Lewis, so he remains in second place. This now puts Webber in the dark horse position, the only man who can ruin Lewis’s weekend, but knowing his luck, that’s somewhat doubtful. If Webber didn’t have bad luck he wouldn’t have any luck at all, a statement proved when he re-emerges from his pit stop in third place.

All eyes are now on the battle for fourth place between Massa and Vettel and with two laps to go, and both of them needing to pit; the team tell Vettel to do the opposite of whatever Massa does. I’m momentarily confused as I thought Vettel had been doing that all season, i.e. winning, but what they actually mean is that if Massa pits then Vettel should stay out and vice versa. Vettel is obviously as confused as me as he follows Massa into the pits, leaving the speed of the mechanics to decide fourth place. Now given that Marlboro sponsor Ferrari and Red Bull sponsor - well Red Bull, my money is on the energy drinking crew rather than the chain smoking one. A hunch that is proved correct as Vettel exits the pits ahead of Massa.

Lewis once again rubs Alonso’s nose in it and takes the chequered flag with a friendly wave. Alonso’s car then runs out of petrol on the warm-down lap and Webber, clairvoyantly knowing what he’ll be doing next season, acts the taxi driver and picks him up.

Up on the podium Alonso looks like he’s choking on a fur-ball as our National Anthem is played. He then tries to blind Lewis with his losers champagne spray, but this is thwarted by the wideness of Lewis’s winning smile catching it all.

So on to Hungary for next week’s race, which apparently will suit the Ferraris as they don’t like the cold, poor little luvs.

Anyone but Alonso - Silverstone

2011-07-28T08:49:00.001Z

Anyone but Alonso – the slightly warped world of the anti-fan – Silverstone GP 2011

The start of British Grand Prix weekend seems to be dominated by all the talk of all the technical changes to the exhaust systems and the like. My only comment on all this is that it must all surely be Alonso’s fault as he is the only one not moaning about it. Come to think of it, is it a coincidence that it’s Jean Todt, as head of the FIA, that has made these specific changes that may possibly benefit his old team? Of course it’s a coincidence, surely?

So race day begins and it’s a race of two halves – half the track dry, half wet. It’s also a race of two eyebrows as Teflonso settles into third place from the start. ‘Old Father Time’ Schumacher again forgets that drivers no longer just move out of the way for him and he promptly gives Kobayashi a rather impolite kiss up the butt. Maybe Schuey should be sponsored by a rhinoplasty surgeon, the amount of new nose cones he’s had this season.

Kobayashi was in the action again a bit later as we see an interesting new pit lane tactic. He decided to take out Force India’s wheel guns as he drove down the pit lane, a piece of cunning genius that definitely scores a ‘10’ on the Evildeedsometer.

Button mugs off Massa, who’s driving skills seem to deteriorate faster than the ever mentioned Pirelli tyres over the course of a race – then our very own leader of the Brat pack, Hamilton, breezes past Teflonso. I can only presume he was caught by surprise, presumably because his eyebrows were obscuring his rear view mirrors.

Nigel Mansell in his capacity as Head Steward, proves he’s never one to forgive a slight against the UK and hands Schuey a rather harsh 10 second stop and go penalty. Too late to give Damon Hill the ’94 championship he deserved, but o how I laughed anyway. A nice close up of Schuey’s hands as he overtakes Petrov, it actually looks like he’s wearing thick mittens. Maybe at his age he is starting to feel the cold and his arthritis is playing up?

It looks like Kobayashi didn’t need to nobble the Force India team as they have managed to do that all by themselves – some clown has decided to try to put Sutil’s tyres on Di Resta’s car. Then, in a Dick Dastardly moment, a Ferrari mechanic manages to disguise himself in Red Bull overalls and manages to sabotage Vettel’s pit stop, thereby giving the master of the fluke unfortunate incident, Teflonso, first place.

Watching on TV it was nice to see the new ‘Cable-Cam’ flying back and forth across the circuit. Strangely enough, we see more images of the cable cam than from it. Then again the same can be said of the coverage of Di Resta’s race, as the BBC decides to ignore the latest British hope. I think his foreign sounding name has fooled the TV director into ignoring any news or action of him.

The chameleon Ferrari mechanic then changes his skin to mimic McLaren overalls and ‘accidentally’ forgets to put a wheel nut on Jenson’s front right (or front left as Jenson thought). Is it just me that thinks it quite scary watching a driver that doesn’t know his left or right? Button – one hell of a racing driver, but a really crap mini-cab driver.

The weekend’s misery is compounded by Webber overtaking Hamilton, whose McLaren team had obviously run out of money to put enough petrol in his car. I’m now gutted I didn’t send them my ‘5p off a litre’ voucher that I got the last time I was in Tesco’s, at least Lewis could have made a fight of it then. Massa is now threatening to take Lewis’s 4^th spot, but as he’s almost certainly forgotten how to overtake a decent driver, Lewis should be alright.

It was nice to see the Red Bulls scrapping it out on the final lap. Either Webber has improved his driving or Vettel has improved his acting, as it almost looks like there are no team orders. We then hear the frantic team messages to Webber ordering him to back off and the confusion is cleared up.

At the final corner Massa proves he can’t even push drivers off the track as well as his team-mate, as he attempts to stitch up Hamilton and fails.

Well, thanks to the chameleon Ferrari mechanic, Teflonso sneaks the win - although I hear there was a Stewards enquiry into the caterpillars sitting high on his face affecting the cars downforce. I’ve actually come to the conclusion that he is the model for the new ‘Gypsy Thunderbird’ figurine, so he should be looking forward to next seasons Romany GP.

And so on to Germany for the next episode of Some Mechanics Do ‘Ave ‘Em.

The Double Stuff Oreo Lick Race

2011-07-26T10:34:00.001Z

For the first time ever it’s competition time on ‘The Life and Times of a Househusband’, or ‘my excellent blog’ for short. Previously whenever companies have said to me “Here’s one of our products, perhaps you would like to offer this as a prize to your readers?” they have been unable to hear my mocking roar of laughter from their cosy west-end offices. Like I’m going to accept a freebie and then actually give it away to the great unwashed, not on your nelly.

This time it’s different though – some bright spark at Oreo has had the foresight to give me two kits – one for me (of course), and one for you. Everyone’s a winner, and by everyone I mean me and the person that actually wins. OK, they say the devil’s in the details, so here’s the details.

Oreo are trying to find Britain’s ‘Most Entertaining Lick Racer’, based on the ritual of twisting an Oreo, licking off the crème, and dunking the remaining biscuits in milk. The kit they have provided contains the following:

· Flip camera with tripod

· Oreo Biscuits

· Two tumblers for milk

All you have to do to get your hands on this kit is to leave a comment below and you will be entered into the competition. To get an extra entry into the comp tweet ‘ Oreo and @goonerjamie are giving away a Flip Camera and Oreos at http://goonerjamie.blogspot.com ‘. For my Facebook friends that are still Twitter luddites, leave the above message on your profile page and let me know.

I will put all of the entries into a hat, or cup, or maybe even a bath (dependant on how many there are) and pull out a winner at noon Wednesday 27^th July 2011 so you’d better be fast.

Unfortunately this competition is only open to those in the UK, sorry.

BUT THERE’S MORE

You could also win a VIP holiday to Florida & a Nintendo Wii per week (as part of a prize draw for all valid video entries). All you have to do is film your Lick race and upload your video to www.oreolickrace.co.uk and you will be entered for the chance to win the holiday or Nintendo Wii. The competition finishes on 31^st July 2011 so again you will have to be quick.

Your video must be in one of the following three categories – parent vs child; sibling vs sibling; and grandparent vs grandchild. Record your Double Stuff Lick Race live using your computer’s webcam or film on your mobile and upload later. To qualify, both entrants must compete all of these steps.

1. Have ready an Oreo biscuit and a glass of milk (equal measures for each participant)

2. Twist the Oreo biscuit and pull it apart

3. Lick the crème filling from the biscuit (tongue only, no teeth)

4. Show their opponent the ‘clean’ biscuit

5. Put the biscuit back together

6. Dunk the biscuit in a glass of milk

7. Eat the biscuit

8. Drink the glass of milk

Once you’ve uploaded your entry, get your friends and family voting because there are great prizes to be won, including a VIP family holiday to Florida, Nintendo Wiis and lick race Kits.

Don’t forget…

1. Each race should only have two family members, no more, no less

2. Five entrants per category are allowed so all the whole family can take part

3. A parent or guardian needs to tick the consent box if you are not over 18

4. And for every upload Oreo will donate £1 to KidsOut charity.

And just to get you all going, here’s my entry

BUT THERE’S EVEN MORE

If you don’t fancy filming yourself, you can enter the ‘Who’s the Slicker Licker’ competition where you can win a Nintendo Wii ever day plus thousands of Double Stuff Lick Race prizes.

Visit www.oreolickrace.co.uk and opt to play ‘Who’s the Slicker Licker’ Watch to Win game. Players play a guessing game to determine who is going to win between two pre-filmed Lick Racers. Irrespective of result, all Players will be eligible to enter their details via an online entry form to go through to the free prize draw.

The full terms and conditions are on the Lick Race website
http://www.oreolickrace.co.uk/conditions

So there you go, three ways to win and don’t forget to tweet ‘ Oreo and @goonerjamie are giving away a Flip Camera and Oreos at http://goonerjamie.blogspot.com ‘ for an extra entry into the Flip camera competition.

Good Luck.

Anyone But Alonso - Valencia

2011-07-24T08:30:00.000Z

Anyone but Alonso - the slightly warped world of the anti-fan - Valencia GP 2011

I thought I was watching the Spanish Grand Prix today, but apparently it's not, it's the European Grand Prix. I can understand the reasoning to having a floating European GP but why pick a sunny country to have two? Especially after having the best, in my humble opinion, GP ever in the very, very wet Canada. Maybe we should only have GP's in constantly wet countries from now on? Strangely that would rule out England, as although the practice would have happened in a monsoon, as we talk the air temp in the UK is the same as Valencia at an incredulous 27C.

Anyway, enough of all that, I'm here to report on how our home warrior Teflonso copes with the pressure of racing in his own country, whilst still maintaining his four day facial growth. Whilst other drivers have a lackey to hold umbrellas over them come rain or come shine, the Teflon Don employs one to run after him with a part-worn straight razor to keep him looking like a gypsy.

From the start of the race, Teflonso gets himself into third place - and all without arranging for a team-mate to crash for him, and he looks happy to play third fiddle to the Red Bulls. Massa, once again proving he has no ambition to win a race, lets Teflonso easily pass him. I've always wondered why the so-called GP fans love Ferrari, as they are the only team with one driver allowed to race. As much as I admire Schuey Senior as a driver, he wouldn't have won the number of championships he did without the angry, but compliant, Barichello. Maybe since Sennas death, Brazilian drivers just don't want to take the risks anymore, they're just happy to be the 'also starring' driver?

I still laugh when I watch the pitboard man, manually changing the boards then holding them out for their drivers. These drivers have buttons on their steering wheels that do everything - I've even heard that, from Silverstone, they're introducing a spark plug change button, yet they still have to rely on a fat, grey haired bloke holding a lump of MDF to find out what position they are in the race.

And whilst I'm on the subject of bad decisions, in what way is constantly talking about the 'quick to degrade tyres', good for Pirelli? In this sponsor led world, what bright spark at Pirelli thought it was a good idea to associate their name with bad tyre wear? What next, Ocado sponsoring Team Lotus - 'We get there in the end', or the Post Office teaming up with Michael Schumacher - 'Yeah, we're old, but we still have a car'.

Two weeks ago, Jenson changed his tyres five times in two hours. Can you imagine how long the school run would take if I was stupid enough to put Pirellis on my Ford Fiesta next time I went to Kwik Fits?

The pedestrian Australian Webber lets Teflonso past and the Italian team supporting Spanish crowd do a Mexican wave. The next thing I hear from the commentary team is "He's hit the cliff". Unfortunately they were talking about tyre degradation and not the bearded one taking a nose dive into the sea.

Lewis got told by his team that his wheels were hot, his reply was "I can't drive any slower." Yes you can mate, you can take Massa's seat. Another Massa pit stop goes in Teflonso favour, this week’s excuse - a stuck left rear.

The race finished with another Vettel win, which only reminded me that my brother-in-law still owes me £20 from our bet on the result on last year’s championship. He was even too tight to offer me double or nothing on this year’s result, although based on Sebs 77 point advantage, it's a good job for him he didn't.

I was stunned to hear that the race had finished with all the starters. I had actually thought that Schuey went out at the first lap, so little was mentioned of him. Then again, after finishing 17th, I bet he wishes he had.

So a second place for Teflonso, with his eyebrows coming a close third and forth.

Summer in Space

2011-07-22T10:37:00.000Z

Last night Kaede and I got to be one of the first groups to go on the Science Museums new Space trail, part of their ‘Summer in Space’ exhibition, that opens this weekend. I have to say that when the invite came I was more than a tad excited. The Science Museum has always been a firm favourite since I first visited it as an eight year old Cub Scout (and isn’t that a great mental image for you) and now I was hoping to pass down that sense of wonderment and awe to my unsuspecting six year old daughter.

We were told to arrive 15 minutes before the Museum closed and we patiently (in Kaede’s case anyway) waited for the museum staff to get everything sorted and begin the tour. I think there was maybe eight other parents, fourteen kids, three staff members, two tour guides and the curator in our party and we had the whole museum TO OURSELVES.

As soon as we walked into the huge Energy Hall she squeezed my hand and took a very audible sharp intake of breath, it had her. Mind you, every hair on my arms had stood up, so it still had the ability to get me as well. If you’ve ever been to the Science Museum you know what I mean, if you haven’t, well I don’t really have the words to do it justice. The size of the pieces, the machinery, the steam engines, the visual avalanche and that’s just the first room.

Then through to the ‘Exploring Space’ gallery, here 2 rockets hang overhead pointing the way to a full-sized replica of Eagle, the landing pod/ship/thingy that took Armstrong and Aldrin to the moon’s surface. There are space suits, space food and space diapers, almost everything a space freak could want. Kaede had been given a flip-cam to use as the museum wanted some film from a kid’s point of view and she was running around filming and gasping in equal measures. I apologise to the staff in advance, as I’m not sure how much of her footage they’ll be able to use but my guess would be very little.

Next we moved on to, in my opinion, the star of the show - the actual Apollo 10 command module. To be standing only feet away from something that has actually orbited the moon was mind-blowing. To see the scorch marks, to peer inside the window into the cramped conditions the three astronauts had to endure, was truly incredible. We had watched the launch on YouTube before we left, so even Kaede fell silent as she looked at it. Watching her trying to compute what she had seen to what she was seeing and then see the look of astonishment appear on her face was definitely a magic moment.

After that was the ‘Making the Modern World’ gallery, jam-packed with items from 1750 onwards that have shaped the way we live today. From the large – cars, planes and Stephenson’s Rocket; to the small – a sample of penicillium mould, a porcelain bowl from Hiroshima and Edison’s filament lamp. With so much to see you could easily spend hours in there, but we were soon onto the next part of the trail, the ‘In future’ gallery.

We didn’t stay too long here but it did have a couple of big multi-user games in there about predicting the future, although the only future I could predict is that I had to get Kaede to a toilet PDQ.

Next was the ‘Launchpad’ gallery, full of hands on experiments that help explain some of the laws of physics. There were water bottle rockets that you could help launch across the ceiling, a big grain pit that explained how simple machines help things move easier and more moving, playable, unbreakable stuff as you could shake a stick at. The kids were all in seventh heaven and I will admit that I took the time to sneakily join in the fun. I also joined in the groans when we had to move on to the next gallery, spoilsports.

Onwards to the ‘Cosmos & Culture’ gallery, a gallery full of telescopes and all things star-gazing related. Even Wallace & Gromit’s ‘Moon-machine’ is on display, as well as a telescope made from baked bean cans (only to be used on windy nights I presume?) Once the kids had filled their eyes with moons, stars and giant mirrors, we went back down to the ‘Exploring Space’ gallery and some much needed refreshment.

The children sat around the ‘Eagle’ replica, munching away on crisps and sarnies and being entertained by someone playing the character of Gene Cernan, the last man to walk on the moon. He gave the kids a fascinating talk on what it was like to take off on a rocket, walk on the moon; in fact he pretty much covered everything, even the inevitable poop in space questions. After he had finished his chat he took Kaede around some of the exhibits, including the space diapers and space food that were of primary interest to her. I was really impressed by the way he was talking to her and not talking down to her, this was definitely going to be one night she would remember.

To say we had a great time would be somewhat of an understatement. Kaede can’t wait to go back and has rather graciously, by her standards, allowed that even her little brother could come next time. As for me, any place that can fill me with a childlike sense of wonderment has to be a hit. The ‘Summer in Space’ exhibition starts on 23^rd July 2011 and full (and probably more accurate) details can be found at www.sciencemuseum.org.uk

The day we met Wenlock and Mandeville

2011-07-18T13:15:00.001Z

As a daddy blogger I am often contacted by companies or PR firms asking me to look at or review their products. To the surprise of those that know me in the flesh, I do have a bit of integrity and I normally politely turn down the ones that don’t really have anything to do with me and my world. For arguments sake, the thought of reviewing a £700 princess throne that would have lasted 5 minutes with my unruly mob, was an obvious no-go. As was the Breastfeeding book (no breasts or babies that need them), coconut milk dessert (me and hairy shells don’t mix), an airport meet and greet service (am still shell-shocked from the trauma of our last foreign holiday) and the pregnancy care water (a great product I’m sure, but I’m sans fallopian tubes).

Then along came an offer that I couldn’t refuse – would I be interested in popping down to the Adidas office in London to take a look at their new Disney/Pixar range and their London 2012 Olympic collection? Would I ever, I love trainers, I love Adidas trainers and I love seeing stuff that nobody else has seen yet and then telling my mates about it (I guess that makes me an ocular gossip). I replied with an air of nonchalance that I would like to take them up on their kind offer and even waited a whole two minutes before replying. The fact I spent that 2 minutes making a phone call to my trainer freak sister (50 pairs and counting) just to brag and ended the call with a “ner ner nener ner”, wasn’t one of my prouder moments, but fun nonetheless.

So Saturday found me the Mrs and the little’uns travelling to Covent Garden, all ready to have a nose around the Adidas offices and all the new gear. Within minutes of arriving, Wenlock and Mandeville, the official mascots of the games, turned up and totally enchanted my children. Apparently they are made from the last two drops of steel used to make the Olympic Stadium, but the way Kaede was hugging them to death I rather think they are made from something a lot more pliable. It was good for the kids to meet them though, as since we lost out on the Olympic ballot this will be the closest they get to anything Olympic.

Anyway, with the kids occupied I got to look at the range without distraction. It’s hard to be all kid-like if you have to deal with kids at the same time and believe me, being surrounded by so many trainers I truly felt like a kid in a sweet shop. I headed for the Cars 2 range, a series of trainers and clothing for kids with the characters from the film on them.

I’m like a Crow, I’m a sucker for shiny things and I’m sure I raised a few eyebrows with my wows and oohs. I did try to maintain an air of professionalism and objectivity, but one pair had Lightening McQueen on the sole for god’s sake, how awesome is that? They also had some pairs based on the Disney Princesses which definitely scored high on the cuteometer.

Then I moved onto the ‘Originals’ section, all those classic designs from yesteryear and in kids sizes. I still remember my first pair of Gazelles, blue for the first pair and burgundy for the second. Now I’ve just turned thirty-ten I stick to black, but they have some wicked colours for the kids now (just typing that sentence made me feel 60.)

My sister had charged me with stealing some pink and grey clothing for my eight month old niece Isobel. I managed to find this (see below) but rather wisely they were watching me like a hawk, so I’ll have to buy it for her instead.

The Olympic 2012 range is looking quite snazzy and by this time Kaede had started tugging me by the sleeves indicating that she wanted this top and that top and those trainers – a monster of my own making.

Both the Cars and the Olympic range are released this month with the Originals either out already or coming soon.

For the sake of transparency, I will add that as we left they gave us some bags with goodies, plus a pair of trainers each for the kids. They weren’t expected but very much appreciated, I am now the coolest Dad in the world apparently. But to be honest (and hoping I’m not shooting myself in the foot here) I would have wrote this piece anyway, so thanks to Adidas for the look around and the trainers, I’m just gutted I can’t squeeze into them myself.

Just call me Uncle

2011-06-23T09:54:00.000Z

My son turned four a few months ago, which also meant that I will have been a househusband for almost the same amount of time. A lot has happened over those four years, some of it good some of it bad, some of it printable, most of it not. I have learnt a lot in those four years, and some of it is even useful. I had an Uncle-in-law who always used to tell me that he had forgotten more than I had ever learnt. He meant it as a taunt, but last year he fell up a kerb, bashed his head and developed amnesia, so maybe it was just a strange prophecy?

My rambling point being is that I have learnt quite a few tricks of the trade in these recent years and I feel I am honour bound to pass them on to the younger generation of Househusbands and Stay At Home Dads. I think it is my destiny, nay my duty, to become an Agony Uncle to these fledglings who follow in my ever turbulent wake.

You may ask what qualifies me to dish out such far sweeping advice to my fellow brothers in arms. Well firstly I have three children of mixed ages and all of them are in one piece. Sure, one of them nearly chopped her ring finger off trying to get ice cream out of a tub with a carving knife, and I will freely admit that another took two years to grow bored of being a cat only to become a dog. I will also hold my hands up to the fact that the youngest is so used to being mis-dressed that he cries when given matching socks. These things don’t weaken my argument, they strengthen them.

Do you want advice from somebody that centre parts their child’s hair, or from someone who knows what time the sun passes over the yard-arm in 57 different countries?

Do you want to listen to somebody that recycles and biodegrades their used nappies, or somebody that used an old Guns’n’Roses tour t-shirt as an emergency nappy then cried at the injustice of being a father?

Do you want relaxation advice from somebody who locks himself in the toilet with a copy of stamp collecting monthly and a packet of wet wipes, or from somebody who invented a Teflon coated toilet whilst sitting on the throne with a bottle of JD grabbing a moment’s peace from screaming kids?

There isn’t a mistake I haven’t made, a social occasion my presence hasn’t made awkward or a politically correct yummy mummy that hasn’t needed a long hot shower after speaking to me. We Stay At Home Dads are the parents of the future. Do you want to face that future standing on your own in the playground, whilst a group of well dressed and bad mannered Mums thumb their noses at you? Or do you want to stand with me and proudly shout “I am a Man in a Woman’s world, but it won’t be yours for much longer sweetheart. Now whose round is it?”

If your answer is the latter, then come take a seat around the fire. Let us tell tall tales and swap pieces of slightly dubious in origin advice. I tried to raid the letter bags of some of the more politically correct and lily livered Agony Uncles, but the pickings were slim, and by slim I mean none. I spent 3 hours searching online for some sort of real Agony Uncle and I came up with zip, nada, nowt. Imagine all the decent stuff I could have looked up in those three hours, or how many whining on-line Yanks I could have slaughtered on C.O.D. Black ops. This is how dedicated I am to you fellas.

I guess in the age of equality and fairness, I really should also offer my services to all those lost and bewildered Mums as well. Don’t worry, you can ask anonymously, your secret is safe with me. Jemima, Lucinda, Arabella and Meredith will never find out that you had to ask a mere Dad how to deal with a snotty nosed bully or his even snottier nosed Mum.

So ask if you dare, send me an email at thelifeandtimesofahousehusband@gmail.com I can’t promise to answer them all, I definitely can’t promise not to laugh at the more stupid questions, but I can promise to read them all at least. You will always be safe in the knowledge that someone out there knows your problem, and a problem shared is a problem halved. Unless that problem is some sort of disease of course, then it’s a problem doubled and please wash your hands before you send me an email.

FML

2011-06-16T10:47:00.000Z

Of all the modern acronyms my most bitter sweet favourite is F**k My Life. This is my FML moment from today.

Was having a very pleasant dream when my son decided to deliver a piledriver slam to my testicles. This wasn’t my FML moment.

Realised it was Sunday and only 7am. This wasn’t my FML moment.

As I wearily dragged my tired arse down the stairs I realised I had a hangover head on. This wasn’t my FML moment.

Discovered, after I had watched and waited for the kettle to boil, that
a) whilst the saying ‘A watched kettle never boils’ isn’t strictly true, it may as well be.
b) We had run out of coffee.
This wasn’t my FML moment.

Settled for a glass of green lemon tea, which tasted like a cup of hot water that had once seen a lemon, on TV, in black and white. This wasn’t my FML moment.

Wife informed me that she was taking the kids to church this morning and of course I didn’t have to come, although her eyes said otherwise. I got the guilt hint and begrudgingly said I would come as well, hoping she would recognise my gesture of goodwill and let me off. She didn’t. This wasn’t my FML moment.

Arrived at church five minutes before Kick Off and all the seats had gone, which meant we had to stand at the back for the whole service, which meant I had to lip sync to all the songs lest I get spotted. This wasn’t my FML moment.

Kaede started drawing what looked like the priest in his high robes and hat, but actually turned out to be a picture of a toilet with a floater in it, helpfully captioned ‘Im sick’. A mad dash into the church hall ensues and we almost make it. Half a toilet roll and one thrown away pair of knickers later, we re-enter the church. This wasn’t my FML moment.

Half way in and Nate is beyond restless, his feet are everywhere, the deck of oversized cards are strewn all over the place. The wife whispers to me “Where are the bribes?” the bribes being raisins, apples, breadsticks - basically anything that will fit in my pockets and his mouth. I reach into my coat pocket to grab something for him and realise it’s summer, I don’t have a coat. I turn to my wife and actually wish that looks could kill, because the one I’m now getting would at least send me to an early grave and spare me the rest of the service. This wasn’t my FML moment.

The swag bag starts to get passed around for the collection so I search my jeans pockets for the non-existent coins there. Now the church has reached the 20^th century it actually takes our money by direct debit, yet they still guilt trip you for more every Sunday. Receive another crappy look from the elderly parishioner as I pass it on without chucking in. This wasn’t my FML moment.

It’s nearly over now, time for communion and then we can escape into the sunshine, hell I would even settle for pouring rain at this moment. My leg starts vibrating as I walk down the aisle towards the front of the church and I thank the Lord I remembered to turn my phone to silent. Except that in process of putting it back in my pocket I must have knocked the stupid switch back on, my phone is no longer silent. This wasn’t my FML moment.

Recently I had discovered how to create ring tones from the music in my iTunes library so I had done just that. Marilyn Manson was now blaring from my phone. This wasn’t my FML moment.

Oh, and he was singing his cover of ‘Personal Jesus’. This wasn’t my FML moment.

When I eventually get the phone silent and scuttle red faced back to the pews I look to see who was calling. It was the Mother in law, she’s left a message. With a great deal of trepidation I listen to the voicemail and all my fears are confirmed – she’s coming round this afternoon to see the kids, she’ll see us at noon. THIS was my FML moment.

There's no such thing as a free lunch

2011-06-12T17:06:00.001Z

Recently the lovely people at vouchercodes.co.uk contacted me and asked if I would like to participate in a new project of theirs called The Most Wanted Fuss Free Dining Report. The idea is to get to the bottom of which nationwide restaurants really are the most child-friendly, welcoming and serve up the best value-for-money fare. Now I must admit that I don’t normally look forward to taking my feral brood out to eat, add to that it was now the end of a long hair-tearing half term and I was about to turn their kind offer down. Then I spotted the words “and it’s on us” and I was sold.

After a quick conflab with the family, it was decided that we would visit Prezzo in South Woodford during Saturday lunchtime. Prezzo sets its stall out as an Italian Restaurant chain and I had eaten there before, albeit without the kids, and had enjoyed the experience. Now to find out how it would cope with the Harding’s en masse.

We arrived at 1.40pm and had missed most of the lunchtime rush, so we were ushered straight to a table that was within view of the chef who was making pizzas in a wood fire oven. I have to say the ‘front of house’ welcome wasn’t exactly the warmest I’ve received, as my Dad always says “A smile doesn’t cost a penny”. I considered passing this snippet onto our waitress, but her icy stare stopped me short.

I hate to use the word ‘posher’ but as I can’t think of a suitable alternative it will have to do. Prezzo is a bit posher than the Pizzas Huts, Harvesters or any of the chains with a play area, which is why we don’t normally bring the kids here, they tend do need to run about between courses. Luckily for us (and the other diners) the kids had realised that they were in somewhere a bit nicer than Kathy’s Café and were behaving appropriately.

The waitress brought over the obligatory ‘kids menus that doubles as a puzzle/drawing mat’, but neglected to bring pencils as they had run out. Kaede started to express her outrage at such service and the waitress quickly found two pencils that had fallen behind the till, a lucky escape. Plus they had a good mixture of puzzles and drawing on them, so they would be a welcome distraction. I promised my 17 year old daughter Storm that I wouldn’t mention that she got stuck on the crossword, so that never happened OK?

Our waitress then went through her super speedy spiel and took our drinks orders. To my horror Kaede asked for a beer only for Nate to tell her they were only allowed Daddy’s beer at home. I ignored my Wife’s stare of shame and buried my head in the menu. Luckily for me they have a good wine list, so I ordered a bucket of wine for the Mrs and a super-sized Peroni for myself.

The kids starters arrived quite quickly, pizza dough garlic bread, and I used the rare moment of silence to take in the ambience of the place and enjoy my beer. With starters finished and a change of waitress, we were asked if we were now ready for our mains, thus giving us the chance to move the meal along at a faster pace if we wanted.

The new waitress overheard Kaede say that she was going to run her own pizza and pasta joint when she grows up. Her speciality is going to be the cheese-free pizza, in honour of her mouldy milk hating Dad. She asked Kaede if she would like to watch the chef make the pizzas to which she got an excited ‘yes’ answer. This was Kaede’s equivalent of being asked into the cockpit of a plane to meet the pilot and she was gone like a shot.

After another round of drinks our mains arrived. Fusilli Alla Rusticana for Storm, Spicy Beef pizza for the Mrs, Pepperoni Pizzas for the little’uns and Spaghetti with King Prawns for me. Again, the silence gave testament to how good the food was. Everybody enjoyed their meal, including my Wife the wannabe food critic, who has walked me out of more restaurants than she’s walked me in. The kids deal was £4.95 for three courses plus a drink which really represented value for money. The portion sizes were more than generous and yet the kids still had room for the obligatory ice-cream dessert.

The toilets were clean, spacious and included baby changing facilities, although I count my blessings that I no longer have to avail of those. Something we also no longer need is a high chair, but my good wife informed me that the ones they have there are the good ones, the ones she always felt safe (?) with. Although Prezzo doesn’t pitch itself as a kiddie restaurant, you aren’t made to feel unwelcome for dragging your little monsters in with you. It does act as a good stepping stone between the noisy play area eateries and the kind of restaurant you wouldn’t dream of bringing children to.

All in all the whole meal was a success and one I hope to repeat soon.

Vouchercodes.co.uk have asked us to score Prezzo, so here are our all important score cards.

Keep Out

2011-05-25T11:46:00.001Z

This is a sponsored post brought to you, in part, by those lovely folk over at ASUS. A while back they gave me one of their new Eee Pad Transformers to use in my everyday life (as opposed to my everyotherday life) and let you know the results. It’s a lovely bit of kit and I’ve loved using it, but there is one person in the house that has loved it even more than me, my six year old daughter Kaede.

She’s stolen it to make YouTube videos, she’s posed for it on an empty Tower Bridge, in fact I’m fairly sure she now thinks it is actually her own property. She has her favourite games on it and is quite often found squirreled away somewhere playing Bubble Blast. There are so many free apps to download on the Android Market that I’m always going to be guaranteed a way to keep her quiet, a godsend.

This week she decided that the Eee Pad could solve one of her biggest problems – her brother. Apparently he keeps going in to her room and making it untidy, believable enough, well believable enough until you consider that the photo underneath is an example of what she considers tidy.

Anyway, she has decided that she needs a warning sign that will let him know he is no longer welcome in her room. The Polaris Office software that comes pre-loaded on the Eee Pad comes with a Presentation option, so I decided to let her get on with it. I gave her a quick run through on what buttons did what until she rather impatiently told me that she had ‘got it’.

She seemed to get on with it quite well, I think the instinctiveness of using a touch screen came to her a lot quicker than using the click and drag of the PC. Several draft versions were discarded before she eventually plumped for the final version below.

I’m not sure it’s going to do the trick, I’m even less sure if I will notice the difference even if it does, but she enjoyed making it and proved, yet again, how easy the Eee Pad is to use. Now all I have to do is steal it back from her.

ASUS have also just launched a competition to give away an Eee Pad Transformer. All you have to do is visit this link http://techinstyle.tv/category/products/pads-and-slates/ , comment on any one of the Eee Pad blogs there and Bob’s your Uncle, you get entered into a prize draw. Good luck.

When old meets new

2011-05-11T16:08:00.003Z

This is a public service announcement - brought to you, in part, by the folk from Samsung, Red and Dinosaurs Unleashed.

Last Saturday me and my brood were invited down to the O2 in London, aka the Millennium Dome, aka that initial waste of public money, aka wow what a great venue now, aka that place I saw Prince at an after-show party and didn’t get home until 5am. Samsung wanted us to try out their new ‘Full HD HMX-Q10 Camcorder’, and they had picked the Dinosaurs Unleashed exhibition for us to test it in.

I didn’t dare tell the kids about the trip until the morning of the said trip, a week of dino-begging would have been far too much to take. I truly think the ‘BC’ in 10000 BC stands for ‘badgering children’. Once told, the excitement levels rose to numbers not seen since the last Easter Egg hunt, but we managed to get them calmed and cleaned (no mean feat as it looked like they had been doing some excavation of their own) in time to jump on the tube to Greenwich.

When we got to the O2 all I could see was a sea of pink and there was a distinct smell of sweat and oestrogen in the air. Thousands of women had just finished their Run for Life and the only thing standing between them and their exit home was me and my lot. I grabbed the kids and we huddled behind a bin, nervously waiting for the stampede to pass. I tried to tell the kids that this wasn’t part of the dinosaur thing, but they didn’t look convinced.

We eventually made our way to the exhibition and met up with fellow bloggers Jen, Sally and Alex. As we waited for our hosts we all tried to keep our restless kids under control (unsuccessfully of my part) all whilst holding those nervous fixed grins that say ‘please tell me there is something wrong with your eyesight and you didn’t just see my kids go through that bin’.

The lovely ladies from Samsung and Red arrived (I’m sorry, I am really, really crap with names) and set about showing us how to work the new camcorder. I have to say I was impressed – small and lightweight, it even fitted in the front pocket of my jeans (although that did make it look like I was really ‘excited’ about the product). It was also very, very easy to use.

The whole tutorial took less than 10 minutes and only took that long because of kid interruptions. It had a touch screen for all the technical menu type stuff, but the basic use could be done using your thumb only, perfect. It also had something that Samsung call ‘Switch Grip’. This meant that if you are a south paw, you can flip the camcorder upside-down too and the screen would flip with it. Quite nice of them to think of all those strange left handed people, I have sinistrophobia so I wouldn’t have bothered personally.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pth4QXOHLCA

We headed off for a quick lunch and a quick beer for fortification purposes, and then back to the exhibition. To be honest, I think it would be unfair for me to tell/show you too much about the dinosaurs, I don’t want to spoil it for anyone thinking of going. I will say the kids absolutely loved it, and even better, it quietened them down. A word of warning if you go on a hot day - make sure you take plenty of water, it can get really hot in there. It was quite dark in there and I was a bit worried about how much the camcorder would actually pick up, but it did really well and it also captured the sound really well.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PXM_f3rWoCU

Eventually we were all dino’d out, so we said our goodbyes and headed off home. Except we had to get the train home as the wife had mis-parked the car (only joking dear.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXfappPWQVI

All in all we had a great day and the Samsung Full HD HMX-Q10 Camcorder is a lovely bit of kit. I have attempted to make a quick vid to show you some of the functions (please don’t sue me Samsung for bad presentation),

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-m-k7lvqnlw

but for the more technically minded, here are some of the specs:

	HMX-Q10
Lens	Schneider-Kreuznach Varioplan-HD F1.8 10x optical zoom lens with OIS 2.75mm ~ 27.5mm focal length
Size	43.7 x 53.3 x 119.4 mm
Additional Features	5MP BSI CMOS sensor 2.7” touch panel LCD Flip Shooting (Switch Grip Control) Switch/both Handed Grip Smart Record Pause Ultra Compact and Full HD Recording Built-in USB/PC S/W Auto Focus Face detect (up to 6 persons) Smart Auto HD Time Lapse recording Intelli-Studio 2.0 Tripod screw
Display	2.7” touch LCD 2D S-motion Graphic User Interface
Video Recording	HD resolution: 1920 x 1080 60i 1280 x720 60p SD resolution: 720 x 480 60i
Battery details	110min (1h50m)
Still capture resolution	4.9MP (2MP)

I don’t know what the majority of that stuff means, but it all adds up to a nifty little camcorder that is easy to use and quick to turn on when your kids try to set up a dinosaur fight between their toy dinosaurs and our Dragon lizards.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kIqfsir909k

Child's Play

2011-05-06T08:45:00.013Z

I have an important announcement to make, THIS IS A SPONSORED POST. You may by now know that those lovely folk over at ASUS have given me one of their new Eee Pad Tablets to play with and to see how I use it in my day to day life. Well this week I nearly failed in that most simple of tasks. You see, I lost the darn thing.

I know, I know, I'm an irresponsible fool, I've only had it for 3 weeks, I should take better care of things and this time I really thought I had. I realise that it's quite small, after all that is the point of a tablet, but it's not small enough that it could fall between the cracks in the floorboards.

I searched high and low, I searched all the obvious places like the tables and my work desk, and all the unobvious ones like the garage and the toilet. I found things that were lost but not important (the duct tape I needed last week to fix a draw), things that were important but not lost (a diamond earring that my wife supposedly knew the location of but as that location was in my toolbox, I somehow doubt it), and things I didn't even know existed (sorry, I've been sworn to secrecy on that one.)

I started to curse the ASUS developers for the not having the foresight to add some kind of app that would aid my search. Something where you could whistle and the lost tablet would bark back at you would have been perfect. I think I may suggest that to them for the next update or something.

So three hours of fruitless searching and cursing still left me light one Eee Pad and in one hell of a predicament. I decided to go and lie down in my bedroom and try to compose an explanatory email to ASUS. Maybe it was my sense of panic that made me overlook it, but I suddenly noticed how quiet the house was, a silence I should be thankful for, but one that made me (like all parents in that situation I guess) suspicious.

I poked my head around Kaede's bedroom door, and I saw her in full-on performance mode. Her innocent antics put a smile on my face and made me forget about the missing tablet, well it did for the two seconds it took me to notice that it was the tablet she was performing to.

After a quick check to make sure the tablet was in one piece, it was, and a few reprimanding words that would undoubtedly fall on deaf ears, I asked her what she was up to. She informed me that she wanted to make a movie to put on YouTube so people could see her performing. I pointed out that she was only six and that if she wanted me to film her then I would. In a rather haughty manner she informed me that she didn't need any help in the making of it, but I would have to post it to them.

I checked the tablet and found she had made not one, but five film clips. I'm not sure I could describe the clips with any great justice, let’s just say they have a feral quality. I have attached one of the slightly less bizarre clips for your perusal and maybe as an excuse as to why I like a beer or four.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KfyOmLW2f-c

I know Kaede has enjoyed playing some of the games I've added to the tablet, but I was quite surprised at how easy it was for her to start using the camera and making videos with it. It does go a great way to explain why I've found the Eee Pad so easy to use though.

For the technical minded amongst you all, the front camera is 1.2 M Pixels and the rear one is 5 M pixels. The tablet also has a mini HDMI port so you can plug it straight in to your HD TV and watch your creations in all their glory, if you so desire of course.

There's something wrong with my wee

2011-04-28T08:53:00.000Z

(And I'm not talking about the one made in Japan)

OK, for all those of weak stomachs and lily livers stop reading right now. The following story is not going to reaffirm your belief in God or all things nice and normal. This story is all about The Good, The Bad and the WTF - continue at your peril. Can I please also make a personal point (D'oh, this is a blog, it's all personal.) I'm not writing this for sympathy or empathy or any of those other pathys that I can't spell. If after reading this you feel the need to add a message of support or condolence then just STOP RIGHT NOW. I appreciate where you're coming from, I just don't want to hear it, and hopefully I'm not in a position to need it.

A few weeks ago I went to the toilet and peed blood.

I tried to think of a way to ease you into the situation, but I didn't get one so why should you? I have to admit that it shit the life out of me at the time (luckily I was in the right place for that little event.) I've spent 39 years peeing yellow, so whilst red was a nice change in scenery, the implications of it weren't. I considered keeping it to myself, but the Rorschach patterns I was leaving in the bowl were bound to give the game away eventually so I told my wife the following day and agreed that I would book an urgent appointment with my GP.

Unfortunately it seems that he doesn't work mornings at the moment, and mornings were the only time that I could do this in secret, so I made an appointment with his Spanish colleague Manuel, and hoped for the best.

I'm not sure I could do the appointment justice to be honest. Just imagine the episode of Fawlty Towers where Basil couldn't mention the war, except it was "Don't mention the Penis." Then times the embarrassment by 10 and include a prostrate exam in front of your kids, and then you may be somewhere close. They are still asking me if the Doctor has found his watch yet.

So it was decided by my Doctor that I should undergo a few tests at the Hospital, better to be safe than sorry he said. What he didn't mention until I was safely out of his office and unable to seek retribution, was that one of the tests would be a cockovisionogram. For the uninitiated, this is when they stick a camera down your Japs eye and start looking for intelligent life, or something like that.

I entered the room to find the whole camera crew were there, and I have to be honest, I think the need for a guy with a boom mike was a tad over the top. Ironically the director of this epic movie was blonde, female and Swedish. I started to worry about standing to attention at an inappropriate moment (I blame my early teen porn usage for that), but upon seeing the size of the camera, and the nurse holding it, all worries disappeared, well shrunk actually.

I asked the Doc if she could Sky+ the proceedings as it wasn’t something I was expecting to watch, and it may make great viewing when paired with my vasectomy DVD, a classic double bill, but she just continued to slap iodine on my knackers and ignored me.

Without a trace of a smile and with ruthless efficiency, the camera was inserted and the feature movie appeared on the screen. The first thing I saw was two perfect circular shapes on the upper wall of my bladder. My first thought that was that some microscopic beings had set up a lunar base on their way to Uranus, but apparently they were just air bubbles.

I also got a good view of my prostrate during the proceedings. It looked nice, pink and healthy to me, but unfortunately the Doctor so enjoyed her view of it that she decided to have a hands on visit - at least it felt like her whole hand anyway.

And just to make matters worse, as it feels like I have been pissing razor blades since the whole experience, I rather fear that she has left one of her false nails behind. I mean, how am I going to explain that one away when I am standing in a public convenience and I pee out a bright pink fingernail? She could have at least painted her fingernails blue, then I could have pretended it was one of those plasters they make the Barmaids wear when they cut themselves.

So now I sit here and wait. For all their explorations, deep sea drilling and other ventures best left to BP employees, all they found was a red patch on the wall of my bladder. They say it probably means nothing, but what it does mean is that they are going to repeat the procedure again - but this time they're bringing a cutting crew.

I shall endeavour to keep you updated, if you so wish, during these exploratory procedures. But don't panic, I shall keep the prostate porn pics to myself. I wouldn't wish that viewing on anyone.

Nice work if you can get it

2011-04-26T16:26:00.000Z

Again it's me, stating for the moral guardians of the interweblogging world, THIS IS A SPONSORED POST.

For the few out there that didn't read last week’s post (who am I kidding), those crazy but generous folks over at ASUS have given me one of their new Eee Pad Transformer Tablets to review and let you know how I'm using it in my normal day to day life. Well to misquote a line from The Fast Show, 'This week I have been mostly using it in the garden.'

We are having one of those glorious early summers in London, and we are all desperately trying to ignore the fact that whilst we are having nice weather now, it does means that July and August are going to be as wet, insipid and dull as a wet T-Shirt contest in an OAP's home.

Be that as it may, we English know how to make hay while the sun shines, so me and the Tablet have set up camp in the garden and have been working from there. Last year I had to stay chained to my PC to work, infrequently rushing outside to catch some rays like Joan Collins catches husbands (and rays.)

This year is going to be so gloriously better, and I am glad the Chancellor has increased the VAT to 20% as Vodka and Tonic is my summer drink of choice, and an increase of them by 20% is more than welcome.

The Polaris Office software the Tablet comes preloaded with is a joy to work with, in fact my last three articles have been written exclusively on it, and they have been easy to send to my home PC or to upload to the MyCloud facility that also came pre-installed. It has everything I need to access my work email, and the tools I need to create the pieces of art I call email campaigns.

All that's left to me is to somehow explain my new tan to my Boss when I next have to make a Head Office visit. I am currently using the Tablet to Google 'unfortunate discolouration', but all it has come up with so far is WAGS and Essex, neither of which I think my boss will find as an acceptable explanation.

I'm not taking the pee though - I know that the Tablet has the ability to store all my chosen music in MyCloud, so that I can whistle, hum and strangle lyrics whilst I work, but I am resisting that temptation in fairness to my office-trapped colleagues. Although one of them just sent round a 'joke' email at my expense, so I may well re-evaluate that principle in time for the next blog.

I promised you, my avid and rabid readers, some technical details about the Tablet, so here they are.

NVIDIA® Tegra™ 2 1.0GHz dual-core CPU for excellent multitasking & 1080p video playback
Android 3.0 Honeycomb O.S. with Adobe® Flash® 10.2 support
Full QWERTY keyboard, touchpad input with Polaris® Office® for mobile productivity
16 hours long battery life for all day computing with docking station
Brilliant IPS panel with ultra-wide 178⁰ viewing angle made from scratch resistant and super tough glass
One year of Unlimited ASUS WebStorage, two USB ports, SD and Micro SD card readers for easy sharing & storage expendability
3D stereo with max bass response with SRS premium sound

I have only a vague understanding of what the majority of that lot means, but what I do know is this:

1 I can use it to work in the garden (important)

2 My work colleagues are stuck in a smelly office (oh dear)

3 I'm not (A loud Nelson from The Simpsons Ha Ha)

4 As a result of the Tablet, George Hamilton is going to be coming to me for tanning tips.

Until next week my friends, I bid you Adieu, and don't forget, use sunscreen.

http://techinstyle.tv/blogs/the-eee-pad-transformer-vs-british-summer/

A not so bitter pill to swallow

2011-04-19T09:00:00.001Z

OK, let’s get this straight from the start. THIS IS A SPONSORED POST, woe betides me to fall foul of any moral guidelines or obligations.

Those crazy folk at ASUS emailed me and asked if I would to try out their new Eee Pad Transformer and then write about it, good or bad. I will admit to weighing up the pros and cons of accepting such a task, and 3 nanoseconds later decided I would.

I will also admit that I thought nothing would come of it, and put the proposal to the back of my mind. I mean who in their right mind would give little old me a brand new Tablet and docking station? In fact when I told my Mum I was about to be given a free Tablet, she presumed I had joined another Hay fever clinical trial. To my shame I agreed I had rather than try to explain what a tablet was.

Anyway, this afternoon I returned from a shopping trip, via the pub, all ready to do some gardening, some BBQing, and maybe even playing with the kids if I got bored. All plans were put on hold when I saw the package my eldest had signed for, could it be, surely not. It was. THE Tablet had arrived.

I will freely admit that I am a big kid at heart, and I was more than excited as I tried not to rip the package apart like Henry VIII on his wedding night. Showing a sense of patience I didn’t know I possessed, I carefully removed my new toy and turned it on.

I know I'm in danger of sounding quite fawning now, but I was truly impressed with my initial viewing. The 10" screen was bright and sharp, it sounded good, and I even managed to sync it with my broadband within a couple of minutes, a miracle within itself.

I started to explore the apps when a rather unsubtle nudge in the ribs reminded me that I had a BBQ to sort out. Feeling like a kid who had to write a thank you card before his Christmas pressie was out of the box, I reluctantly retreated to the garden and fired up the…well the fire. Eventually food was cooked, dropped, brushed off and distributed - leaving me to make my excuses and pick up where I had left off.

Having had no real experience with Tablets, I was quite surprised about how light and thin it was. Although the kids were surprised at how big my new 'phone' was and were wondering how I was going to fit it in my pocket. I did feel a little bit like Gulliver in the land of Brobdingnag, so I added a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels to the table just to really mess with their minds.

Once I had finished messing around and exploring I decided to attach the tablet to its docking station and keypad. I do love touch screens, but I am still enough of a PC boy to want to write anything substantial on a keyboard. This seemed like the best of both worlds to me, and I happily sat in the garden and wrote the words you've just read (or pretended to if you're family and just humouring me.)

I could see this was going to change my summer. Normally I am chained to the PC, due to work demands, but as long as I remembered to wash the suntan lotion of my hands first, I can see this becoming my work place of choice. Tea breaks are about to be changed, Pimms o'clock anyone?

Just to make sure, I synced the tablet to my home PC, and like witchcraft, my PC's homepage appeared on the screen. I neglected to mention this to my Wife, and later on when she had logged onto Facebook, I had plenty of fun updating her status in front of her eyes. According to her status, I am now absolved of any future housework and indeed, men are fully deserving of being waited on hand and foot.

All shenanigans aside, I have been impressed by everything I have seen so far, so I decided that I would put it to the travel test the next day.

The Next Day

It's the day of the London Marathon and we've decided to take the kids up to Tower Bridge to watch it. As an ex Marathonian, the Mrs always makes us go and watch, and to be fair, it's always a good day out. The trick is to keep the kids occupied though, so I downloaded some free games from the app store (which incidentally downloaded a lot faster than they do on my PC.) I removed the tablet from the docking keyboard, another idiot proof process, and put it in its handy travel case.

The tube was quite busy, and the games kept the kids amused for the journey, so far so good.

Tower Bridge was mobbed, the sun was out, and there was a carnival atmosphere in the air. Well there was on our side of the barriers anyway, the runners were at the half way stage and had long since lost their smiles. The wife looks back on her marathon with a fondness that belies the obvious pain she went through at the time. Maybe it's like childbirth, really painful at the time but a pain quickly forgotten? Either or, it's not something I see myself doing anytime soon. I won't even run for a bus, I just calmly pull out my phone and call for a cab. The looks I get from people when I get picked up from a Bus Stop by a mini-cab are priceless. I took a few pics using the tablet, but I think it captured the pain on their faces too well, so I stopped.

We watched until the throng of runners started to thin out and then went in search of a pub. Watching people run is thirsty work you know. From our pleasant seat outside the pub, we basked in the sun and watched the last of the runners (well walkers really) pass. The kids had moved on from Angry Birds to Bubble Pop, and I thanked the lord for a long battery time - heaven help any device that runs out of juice before my kids get bored with it.

The clear up crews started to arrive and were making so much racket we decided to make our exit. The barriers had started to come down and the streets were deserted, despite it being central London and only 4pm. Obviously everyone had moved onto to another spot further down the route, all the better to really witness the agonies of those final few miles. It did mean though that we got to walk across Tower Bridge in the middle of the road, in the middle of the day. It was quite an eerie experience, I felt like on was on the set of 28 Days later.

I whipped the tablet out and started to take some pics for posterity (and accidentally one of a Policewoman’s posterior which she made me delete) and Kaede, happy at being allowed to play in the road for a change, duly obliged in posing for some pictures. All in all it was a good day out and one certainly enhanced (made easier) by the new tablet.

This is the first of a few articles I'll be writing about the new ASUS Eee Pad, and I promise that by the time I write the next one I will be a bit more tech savvy and have some spec details that will make sense to someone other than this technology caveman.

Happy Birthday Kaede

2011-02-23T09:14:00.000Z

Happy Birthday Kaede, six today, who’d of thunk we’d make it this far? Only yesterday I took you out of the disapproving nurses arms and put you in an Arsenal baby grow. Your face was so battered from all the trauma of getting you out, that you looked like a footy hooligan already. You started life unconventionally and have stubbornly stayed that way ever since.

I know we didn’t help by landing you with an unusual moniker, but count yourself lucky it was Kaede and not Yukihana, which I also pitched, as it was snowing when you were born and it means ‘snow fairy’. Good sense and maternal pressure won through though, and Kaede it stayed.

You have been a lifelong believer in running before you can walk, which once resulted in you falling over and chipping your front tooth, the one we had so lovingly grown for so long. That same tooth fell out of its own accord last month, so maybe Mummy will let you start smiling in photos again.

You invented the ‘wiggle-bum’ dance and often entertain us with it, although it sometimes stops passersby in their tracks. After all, who expects to see a full moon during the day? Your Irish dancing is also a sight to behold, more akin to a baby giraffe learning to walk than anything Irish though. Your version of the Nutcracker Suite is an eye watering affair, especially when you jump onto my lap.

Your first word was Pub, something that brings equal shame and pride to the family, but then your Mum and I rarely agree on anything anyway. I considered it a statement of intent on your part, whereas she thinks it was the answer to “Where’s your Dad?”

I see a culinary future for you. Determined to make a cheese-free pizza for your dairy-averting Father, you invented the Spaghetti Bolognaise Pizza. A plain base, covered in bolognaise sauce and topped with cooked pasta and basil leaves. Hard to hold, but tasty to eat, it deserved the honourable mention it received in the Pizza Express competition.

But whatever you decide to do in the future just remember the following:

1. All boys are horrible and really do smell as bad as they look.

2. The eyes in the back of my head still work with long (or grey) hair

3. Try to make your Mum laugh more than you make her cry

4. Happy tears are OK though

5. Football isn’t just for boys, that goes for video games too

6. Continue to compare me to Homer Simpson, I won’t let you down that way

Happy Birthday Darling.

The Electronic Nanny

2011-02-07T18:13:00.000Z

This morning I found myself having an argument with someone about the Scooby Doo theme tune and how it had changed over the years. I’m a member of the old school and obviously prefer the classic quality of the original. My combatant sagely promoted the opinion that the arrangement of music in the new series ‘Scooby Doo Mystery Incorporated’ was far superior and catchy. They had a good point, but I’m not the greatest of losers, so I replied with a “Don’t argue with your father, you watch too much TV.”

I should really stop arguing with my five year old about kids TV, her knowledge surpasses mine, and I guess that’s partly my fault. I am quick to use the third parent, or ‘the electronic nanny’ as the faux posh refer to the television, whenever I need to get some work done. Hell, I use it if I want to get a moments peace, and I need a lot of peace right now.

I know traditional wisdom says that television should be used as a treat and that painting, drawing and reading should be the norm, and that opinion has value. Except that as a stay at home Dad I’m in a non traditional situation, so why can’t I use painting and drawing as a treat, and the TV as the norm? Because my Mum said so, apparently.

On a recent visit my Mum asked Kaede what she had done today and to my shame, this was her reply. “Well first of all we watched Scooby Doo on Boomerang. Then we switched to CNToo so we could watch Johnny Test. After that Tom and Jerry came on, and it was Dad’s favourite one, the one when all the balls hit Tom in the face. Then the Garfield Show came on but Dad thinks that sucks, so we turned over to Playhouse Disney, which is Nate’s favourite, and watched Mickey Mouse then Little Einsteins.”

Apparently this is too much TV, apparently the kids need better stimulation, and apparently I am still scared of my Mum because half term started this week and I’m restricting the amount of TV being watched.

Day One didn’t start too badly, we had a few tears and tantrums at first, but they soon calmed down. As the day wore on I did start to feel a little bit sorry for Nate. He was wandering around the house like he was being punished for something he couldn’t quite remember doing. It was almost as if he was revisiting all his previous crime scenes and trying to figure out which one was to blame. Was it the crayon on the kitchen wall, the half eaten jelly bean in the carpet, or the scissors and his latest self inflicted Noel Gallagher haircut?

The day passed without incident, and I will admit to being quite smug as I described our day to the Wife as we took the kids upstairs for bedtime. Smugness was soon running out of the house with his arse on fire when we saw the state of their bedrooms though. And the bathroom. And our bedroom. And all blue nail varnish on the hallway floor. And the same shade all over Nate’s toes.

There was no TV for me that night, as I spent the evening on my hands and knees trying to get the blue footprints out of the carpet. I thought about drinking the nail varnish remover to cheer me up, it smelt so nice and inviting, but the room had started spinning already so I called it a night.

Day Two started with subdued children. I think the shock of watching their Dad trying to pull his own hair out the previous evening, may be the reason. Although the way they were intently watching the microwave as my reheated cup of coffee went round and round, made me think that they may be going cold turkey. Watching them put two chairs in front of the tank that housed our two bearded dragons, then sitting there for an hour watching them, convinced me. At least there were no adverts on that show though, which meant no shouts of “Can I have that, and that, oh and that”, things were looking up.

I got them to do some drawing eventually, supplying a small copse worth of paper and a box of pens and pencils. Out of the 200 writing implements in the box, we managed to find seven that were either sharpened or full of ink, and Art 101 began. Kaede proudly showed me her first effort, a big black square with two sad faces next to it. Being a bit slow on the uptake, I asked her what the picture was. “It’s the broken television with me and Nate sitting next to it crying” was her reply, accompanied by the saddest face she could pull. This convinced me of two things. Firstly, I was an awful parent. Secondly, women don’t learn to become skilled manipulators, they are just born to it.

For the rest of the day I could be found playing the role of Referee in the world’s longest wrestling match. The kids had been sent to, and sat in, so many corners of the house that I’m fairly sure they could draw accurate architectural plans of the place.

I don’t normally drink on a Tuesday, well not publicly anyway, but that Tuesday my wife came home to a half empty (I used to be a half full person) bottle of Pinot Noir, and a not even starting to mellow husband.

On Day Three I managed to write this piece. Yep, I caved. As I write, a bizarrely costumed villain has just uttered the immortal line “I would have gotten away with it too, it if wasn't for you meddling kids.” The children are quiet other than the occasional shouted addition to their Christmas list, and all is good in the world.

* This article was originally published on www.dad.ie the site for Dad's that know, want to know, or forgot what they know.

Who am I?

2010-12-15T11:06:00.001Z

OK, stop me if you’ve heard this one. What do you call a Househusband that gets a full time, work from home job? No, no ideas? Nope, me neither. But whatever the answer is, that’s what I’ve become and now I’m suffering from an identity crisis. I’ve spent the best part of three years convincing people that a Stay at home Dad was a real thing, a real occupation, and now I’ve gone and blown it all by getting a ‘proper’ job.

Since this strange turn of events I’ve found that all the people from my old life, my running a pub doing a job type job, have found me a lot easier to deal with. They now seem able to talk to me about things other than my kids, like the kids were the only thing that defined me. They genuinely seem happier, almost safer, when they ask me how my day has been, safe in the knowledge I will be able to give them an answer they can relate to.

Instead of moaning about screaming kids decorating my carpet with permanent markers, I’ve found myself moaning about clients daring to have an opinion, stationery requirements and email etiquette. And while we’re on the subject of email etiquette, what’s with those people that add a P.S. to the end of an email? Are you really too lazy to move the mouse up a bit and insert the inane drivel you had momentarily forgot about, into the main text? Isn’t P.S. only relevant to the written word where you are unable to magically insert text?

Even worse than that, are all the bloody emoticons littering my inbox. I could barely cope with them on twitter or facebook, but aren’t we meant to be professionals here? Has the workplace changed so much during my brief sojourn into insanity? Imagine my shock when one of my male colleagues sent me an email that contained this sentence:

“I would <3 a beer right now.”

You want to stick your testicles in a pint of beer? Seriously? What kind of company had I started working for when not only do their employees manipulate their reproductive organs into inappropriate storage devices, but they openly boast about it as well? Then I started wondering how my female colleagues would appropriately respond. Would Rhonda from Customer Procurement reply thus?

“Me too, I’m going to % that bottle of beer as soon as I can.”

What’s scaring me the most is that I’m actually turning into one of them. I actually got excited about stationary today. I opened a new box of biros with the same excitement and anticipation that I used to reserve for a new pristine packet of wet wipes.

So now I feel like a bit of a fraud and it could not have come at a worse time. I have just been made the Class Rep at school, a fact that has shocked all that know me, no more so than ‘er-not-indoors. The head of the PTA collared me in the playground a month ago and asked me if I would like to take on this ‘pleasant responsibility’. The shock of one of the yummy mummies, sorry I mean THE yummy mummy actually approaching me, put me on the back foot, and my natural instinct to lie my arse off disappeared. The conversation went like this:

Yummy Mummy – How would you like to be the class rep?

Shocked Me – I really don’t think I’m the type of person you want for that kind of job.

Yummy Mummy – Of course you are, I see you chatting to people, you’re quite friendly, you’ll be fine. (Not perfect you’ll note, just fine.)

Scared Me – You may well have seen me chatting to people, but I’ll bet you haven’t seen many chatting back, they tend to avert their eyes like I’m selling The Big Issue.

Yummy Mummy – Don’t be silly, I’m sure lots of them buy The Big Issue.

Stumped Me - {gives a look of women’s logic incredulity}

Yummy Mummy – So I will put your name down then. (Also note the lack of question mark here)

Scrambling Me – Names, that’s it. I don’t know anybody’s names, I’m useless at them.

Yummy Mummy – You’re being silly again, of course you do.

Sardonic Me – Listen hon, I’ve known your for two years and whenever I refer to you I call you the tall blonde one. (She’s 7 foot 3 inches in Uggs)

Yummy Mummy – Well my name is Ann and you’ll be fine.

Surrendered Me – OK

So my rather long winded point being, is that now I have to speak to a load of Mums that I haven’t really had any dialogue with, and as sure as eggs are eggs they always ask me what I do for a living. I would normally answer with “I’m a househusband/Housebitch” and give them a ‘what of it stare’. That now feels like a lie though, and for reasons I cannot fathom makes me uneasy.

Am I, by saying that I’m able to do a full time job as well as my househusband duties, admitting that being a stay at home parent is really only half a job? Or am I telling the world that I am indeed Superman, and there isn’t anything I cannot achieve? Neither sit well with me to be honest because neither are true, as any real housewife or anyone that know my numerous failings (which is actually everyone that knows me) will testify.

Until I manage to figure this out I think I shall remain nameless. ‘The life and times of a Househusband’ may become ‘The life and times of a confused work from home, but what is work really when it comes to it, husband’. You can refer to me as that bloke that used to be funny but now thinks too much.

I have to go now, I have a wash to put on and a stationery request to file. Fluorescent Sharpies anyone?

P.S. My first responsibility as Class Rep was to organise and run the Bar at the Winter Fayre, hic, what a result.

The Bitterst Pill

2010-11-18T09:42:00.000Z

One of the first obstacles the newly appointed Stay at home Dad has to face is a psychological one. Whilst convincing yourself that what you are doing is best for the family, convincing yourself that it is also best for you is a harder sell. Feelings of emasculation and insecurity are quite common and ever present, but with a slight change of mind set, can be easy to overcome.

I have found that the quickest and easiest path to the golden chalice that is ‘Acceptance’ is to bend over and take it like a man. Pretty much from the off, whenever I was asked what I was doing now that I had sold the pub, my defiant reply would be “I’m a Housewife”, with a silent “What of it?” thrown in at the end for good measure.

It didn’t matter if they were close friends, vague friends or complete strangers I had once served, I always gave the same reply. This was invariably followed by one of the following three reactions/replies:

1. “No really, what are you up to?”

2. A nervous laugh, followed by a swift subject change (I sometimes have to check to see if I am still wearing my pinny.)

3. A blank look that demanded a more detailed explanation.

Rather than be embarrassed, I would just turn the subject on its head and embarrass my interviewer. Many a person has ventured the opinion “So you just sit around doing nothing all day.” The obvious retort to which is “So your Mum was a lazy cow then when she spent her life wiping your arse and cooking for you?” A bit confrontational I know, and possibly the reason my wife calls me the ‘Bolshie from Barking’, but sometimes gross stupidity deserves nothing less.

If I am in less polite circles, down my local for arguments sake, I will quite often sign off with the salutation “See you all later, time for me to go back to being a Housebitch.” Guaranteed to get a laugh, and let’s be honest, not far from the truth. I would also enjoy telling everyone how easy it was, how much free time I had, all lies of course but jealousy is a great distracter. Well I did until I received a phone call from the head of the local Housewives union (my best mates wife actually). She quite grumpily informed me that I was getting them all in trouble. It turned out my (soon to be ex) mate had come home from our liquid refreshment session, all full of insider knowledge about how easy her life was, and what the hell was she doing all day, oops.

So I have now gone from struggling to accept, to almost playing the stereotypical Housewife role. I tut and moan when the breadwinner (It still hurts to type that, it’s part of my acceptance path) comes home and turns my calm kids into screaming monsters. I am either campaigning for more housekeeping money, or defending myself over the shopping bill, they really have no idea how much things cost in the real world. Don’t even get me started on how annoying it is to find her work clothes scattered in a path on the way to the hot bath she needs, apparently to relax her from the ‘stressful’ day she’s had at work. Stressful my arse. Try juggling teenage tantrums, potty training, and cooking the housekeeping books to hide that sneaky case of beer that’s sitting in the shed.

I am also very proprietary about the kitchen now. I recently decided it made more sense for the cutlery to be in the drawer nearest the place I plate up the food (delusions of chef grandeur I know). The wife has not stopped moaning about this change, even though the only time she goes to it is to grab a teaspoon to stir her tea, and kill my coffee with. I have been forced to point out that this is my place of work, and I would never dream of telling her what cabinet to use when filing her legal papers in her office at Charge by the Minute & Sons.

I often reminisce about my previous life as a publican, normally when I am cleaning up after the latest potty failure, and there is a part of me that feels quite maudlin and wistful. Then I realise I can draw quite a few similarities between my old and new job. Both sets of customers speak a language vaguely related to English. In fact my many years listening to Drunkanese helped me decipher the mysteries of baby babble, if you listen hard enough you get there in the end. Both sets of customers are no fun to clear up after, although the kids are slightly tidier and more likely to control their bodily functions. Both jobs demand I be surrounded by alcohol at all times, of course instead of selling it, I am now consuming it, impossible to do this job without it in my opinion. So taken logically it becomes very easy to realise what a full and proper job we have.

My middle child has now started school, leaving just me and the little fella at home all day. Life is moving too fast and they are growing up so quick. I am now hoping that he turns into a three year old Peter Pan, permanently frozen at this age, thus sparing me the hassle and upheaval of going back to work. Now that is one thing I will struggle to accept.

* This article was originally published on www.dad.ie the site for Dad's that know, want to know, or forgot what they know.

George the Guilt Explorer

2010-10-13T07:20:00.000Z

Hello, my name is George the Guilt Explorer and I have a very important job. My vocation in life is to guilt trip people, on behalf on my client, into doing something they really should have been doing anyway and hopefully with a smile on their face. It doesn’t always work of course, popping me into a cookie jar or a case of beer, is always doomed to failure and sometimes violence. But on the whole I have a pretty good strike rate, and I get to explore some strange places.

This week I have been hired by Mr Goonerjamie. He’s quite a nice chap despite being a workshy Househusband, have you ever heard of such a thing? I would never dream of sending Mrs Georgina out to guilt explore whilst I sit indoors leafing through girlie magazines (you think your models are full of plastic, you should see mine). Although to be fair, the wife does guilt trip at an amateur level, but usually when I forget to put the toilet seat back down, or when I bring home drunken Lego friends.

Anyway, I digress. Mr Goonerjamie set me to work straight away, and boy did he give me a huge challenge to start with. His teenage daughters’ room.

On the whole it looked quite tidy, most of the clothes were hanging up and I could tell what colour the carpet was. Then I came face to face with the Wastebin Mountain, and it was tall. Four weeks worth of sweet wrappers, body mist canisters, tumble weeds and discarded homework. I started to climb, narrowly avoiding a cotton wool avalanche and a nail varnish spillage. It took me all day but I eventually made it, and there I stayed until I was noticed two days later. Two long days with nothing to do but read her facebook updates and listen to loud recycled music, it was hell.

Eventually I was noticed with a quizzical smile, and the waste bin was duly emptied, success.

I walked across the landing and over to daughter number two’s room, she’s only five so I wasn’t expecting too tough a task. What I found was a teddy bear skyscraper piled half way up to the ceiling. It was a soft climb, but no less arduous, and I almost fell to my death when a button eye came off in my hands.

I was noticed quite quickly, and my presence had to be explained, but teddies were tidied and re-settled in the Hanging Gardens of Fur.

Next stop was the Toy Room where the boy could normally be found. It looked like a crime scene in there, broken toys and half eaten jigsaws.

I started to fear the worse, and my suspicions were confirmed when he picked me up and tried to use me as a lollypop. I accepted defeat and got the hell out of Dodge City. There is only so much I can do.

My next task was Mrs G, or the artist formerly known as Imelda Marcos as she is oft referred. There were shoes, boots, flip flops, slippers and effoffbiatch shoes. I could only gather a quarter of them together, I’m not a miracle worker, and I waited for her return from work.

What happened next wasn’t pretty, and nor was her reaction. I was thrown across the room in an explosion of expletives, and there I lay as she started to write what I can only presume was a ransom note.

It all got a bit confusing then, with an evil laugh she marched me down the stairs and into the kitchen. There I was placed into a greasy metal room, and with a slam of the door I was pitched into darkness. I let my eyes adjust to the dark and could vaguely make out some strange smelling lumps of blackness. Some smelt of rosemary, garlic and potato, others of beef or chicken fat. If I had been a lazy good-for-nothing Househusband instead of a hard working grafter, I would have realised sooner that I had been placed in an oven that hadn’t been cleaned in six months. As it was, I only realised this when Mr Goonerjamie placed a dirty metal tray above me and things started to get warmer. Could this be it, the end of all things guilt?

Aromas of olive oil, tomatoes and garlic washed over me, then a smell I couldn’t quite place. A smell that I vaguely connected to the night Mrs Guilt made me take Viagra. That was it, I can smell plastic melting, who on earth puts burning plastic in a pasta sauce? OH NO it’s me. I’m melting. I’m melting. I can’t even see my ‘Made in China’ tattoo any more. Let me out, let me out, tell my wife I love her and to not feel too guilty.

The Invention of Sitting

2010-10-06T08:54:00.001Z

This morning I found myself deep in thought pondering life, the universe and why people leave one sheet of toilet paper on the roll. I was sitting (there may also be a h in that) in my laboratory, or what some people may call the lavatory. It has fast become the place where I do most of my thinking, where the most profound thoughts hit me and where I invent most of my inventions. You may think I’m talking shit (thought I would get that one in before you), but it’s true. This may well be because I do spend an awful amount of time in there, so much time that my Wife has started to insist that I go see the Doctor to get my Irritable Bowel Syndrome looked into. I hope she doesn’t mean literally, what a crappy job that must be.

I can assure you there’s nothing wrong with me, it’s just the only quiet place in the house I can hide. Plus it has a lock so that even if I am found I can still keep them all out. I used to hide in the shed but now winter’s approaching it’s getting a bit cold out there. Is it sad, or plain common sense, that I often pretend to be constipated just to avoid my kids for half an hour? It’s not that I hate them or anything, but it’s a guilt free place to grab a break from them. You’re not avoiding them, you’re just combining a toilet break with some much needed peace and quiet.

Whatever the reasons I’m in there, I still maintain it’s the best place to think. Over the past year I have had numerous ideas, all ripe for invention. All I need now is to find someone with bundles of cash and the same warped sense of reasoning as me. In the hope that one of you is such a person, I share these with you now. Beware, my lawyers are watching. I don’t mean they’re watching me on the toilet, I mean, ahh you know what I mean, stop being so pedantic, just don’t nick my ideas or I’ll send my kids round.

Teflon coated toilets – Seriously, it’s a no-brainer. No more scrubbing brushes, no more nasty stains, no more toilets left full of bleach ready to splash up at you and give your nether regions hi-lights when you forget. I’ve never really understood why toilets are white anyway? Whoever made that decision has neither cleaned one, or had kids. Black would have been a far better choice, if not as obvious as brown. Teflon is as cheap as chips nowadays, and who wouldn’t pay an extra £10 not to have to look at, or clean skids again?

Half width toilet roll - This is my solution for saving the rain forests and the planet. Let’s be honest, you really don’t need all that width, you only use the bit in the middle anyway, the rest is wasted. You also have the added bonus that by buying this product you are telling the world that not only do you care about the planet, but you also have a small bum.

Foot Bidet - A slightly smaller version of your traditional bidet that is sunk into the floor at the foot of the toilet. The deluxe version could also fit one of those foot massagers you bought your Wife for Christmas ’06, but has only been ungratefully used once. This way you can wash your feet whilst sitting on the toilet, not only multi-tasking, but ensuring a cheese free odour for the whole house. It’s what most people use bidets for anyway so why not put them in an easier position?

Package literature - I don’t know if you are like me, but I have to be reading something when I’m sitting on the throne. I do tend to keep a book in there to while away the time, but on occasion I find myself with nothing to read but the ingredients of the toothpaste. There is only so many times you can try to remember the spelling of monofluorophosphate, plus there’s nobody else in there to test you, talk about the worst spelling bee ever. So my idea is to put short episodes of a book on the packaging. Episode 1 could be on the toothpaste, episode 2 on the mouthwash and the title on the floss. Think of the brand loyalty it would create. Who cares that the mouthwash makes you smell like a wino if by using it you get to find out who killed whom with what?

I only need one of these ideas to pay off and I can not only justify the last year I have spent on the toilet, but also the flat screen TV I’m thinking of installing in there. That means I will also have to invent a bum cushion for those long films, I mean bouts of Delhi-belly. See I told you I get all my best ideas when I’m in here. Now if you will excuse me, I have to flush.

Lament

2010-09-28T10:01:00.000Z

Woe is me, woe is me. I’m losing my best friend, I’m losing my Dad. I haven’t been given a date or a death sentence time limit, but I’m losing him all the same. His body is failing him and now his mind has decided to join in as well, like some treacherous turncoat. He has fed and nurtured both of them, and now they have turned their back on him, cast him aside like they’ve had a better offer elsewhere.

I don’t believe in God, but I blame him anyway. How dare he do this to him, he’s done nothing wrong, he’s one of the good guys. He has sweated his tabs off all of his life, supported his Wife and three kids. Gone without himself, just to provide. So now it’s his turn to relax, to enjoy life, to sit back and smell the roses or the hydrangeas. But no, you have other plans for him. You want to give him this disease, that disease. He beats those so you throw something else at him. Coping with that are you, here you go, how’s losing your ability to read suit you? Breathing is easy, we’ll see about that then. You want more, I’ve got more for you. What indignity do you fancy this week? No don’t go and guess, go spend a week in the hospital instead, let’s see what the Doctors can discover. Let’s see how far I can push you before you snap and crumble.

FUCK YOU GOD. You’re a bully, a sick deity, a friendless figment of the weak’s imagination. No family, no Wife. You had to kill your own son for some company. Are we paying for your sins because you slept with Joseph’s wife and had a bastard son? You may have taken my Dad’s voice, but I still have mine. You’re a coward, I hate you.

I didn’t realise that grief was so selfish. I sit here thinking about how it’s going to affect me, how much I will miss him. How it will be so unfair on me to lose him, miss his advice, his stories. How am I going to cope, how will I get through the week of the funeral. Me, me, me, me, me. I can’t stop and imagine what it’s like in his shoes, they’re too big for me to fill. I haven’t got the guts, I’m not strong enough. I see you, I cry. I think about you, I cry. I write about you, I cry.

Am I mourning you before you’ve gone? I guess I am. Maybe I think it will make it easier to cope with when it happens, I’m betting it won’t though. I used to say that a Grandparent dying was a child’s introduction to death, they would be sad, but they would move on. I was young, blasé and childless when I said that. It’s just that I have kids now, and their Grandfather is my Dad and I’m not so blasé anymore. You’re not an introduction, you’re my beginning, my middle, and now you’re end.

I haven’t given up on you, but I would never blame you for giving up. Too much hurt, too much pain, not enough time. Time’s a bitch, always being wasted, being passed, never appreciated until it’s too clichéd and too late.

I leave my hate on this page.

I leave my love in your heart.

Ten rules for an Urban London Househusband

2010-09-01T15:54:00.003Z

The lovely Heather over at www.rukakuusamo.com/notesfromlapland/ recently asked me to give 10 bits of advice to a woman moving to my part of the world. Living where I live is not just geography, it’s a state of mind baby, so here we go.

1. You need to learn to juggle. Not that ‘I can make a packed lunch whilst applying eyeliner and talking to my friend on the phone’ housewife type juggling, I mean the real ‘3 balls/socks/fish throwing in the air’ type juggling. It will instantly calm a bunch or unruly five year olds, especially if you set light to the socks whilst you do it.

2. Always know where the nearest pub is to any park you may visit, or worst case scenario an off-license. Nothing inspires drinking more than an hour at a park playground, and you don’t want to waste precious drinking minutes looking for a child friendly pub afterwards. By child friendly I mean it needs to have an outside bit, nothing special just somewhere to sit. The only good thing that has come from the Government’s smoking ban is that there are now loads of places to sit outside. Just make sure you empty the ashtrays first as my lot will eat anything.

3. Always make sure you have spare batteries kept in two separate places. In site A you have fresh new batteries for all the TV/DVD/Wii gadgets, nothing causes more panic than when the third parent gets stuck on Cash in the Attic or something else involving orange old people. In site B you keep all the old dead batteries. My lot have long since sussed out that when a toy stops working, it isn’t broken, it just needs new batteries. This way you can put the dead batteries in their annoyingly loud toy guitar (thanks Uncle Daniel, be expecting Anthrax from us this year) in front of them, and then claim that it must be broken. Peace and quiet restored.

4. Never, and I cannot stress this enough, ever come along to a play date at my house without beer or wine. You will not be welcome and your children will be locked in the rabbit hutch on their own, as opposed to the cupboard under the stairs with the rest of the children.

5. Make sure you own at least 5 T-shirts. Apparently the Mums at the school gates are quite observant and will notice when you wear your favourite iPope t-shirt, especially if your child goes to a Catholic school like mine.

6. Make sure you have a Smartphone to entertain yourself at the school gates. All the yummy mummys won’t be talking to you, so you need to entertain yourself somehow. iPhone says ‘in touch with the kids, fun and down to earth’. Blackberry says ‘desperate to get back to work and boring’.

7. If you see a Yummy Mummy looking like she needs to get somewhere else fast, avoid eye contact at all costs. You are not responsible enough to look after your own children, what on earth makes you think you could look after young Tarquin, even if it is for only five minutes. It is a well known fact that middle class children break easier than working class feral ones.

8. Make sure your house has a big empty wooden box, IKEA do a good sized one. This will save your bacon when you have been playing on the Xbox all day instead of cleaning up. Approximately 30 minutes before your spouse’s arrival from work, hold a lollypop per child and tell them to throw all their toys in the box, and themselves too if they are looking too grubby, before they can have it. This will enable you to play at least 2 more death matches, and the sugar rush should kick in just before the Wife walks in the door. This will make her appreciate what you have to put up with even more, and will also put off any boring work story as she will not be able to shout over the kids.

9. Encourage your children enjoy watching football from a very early age. There is nothing more upsetting than a child’s tears when you push them out of the way and turn the Toy Story DVD off because the Arsenal v Liverpool game is about to start. And yes dear, the pre match build up is important. And no dear, they couldn’t have just watched the last ten minutes of the film, I need to know the line-ups.

10. Always lower yourself to the children’s height. A man never stands as tall as when he kneels to help a child. This will also lessen the chance of a slipped disc or a kick in the gonads, and you think childbirth hurt, pah.

So there you go, my ten rules to live by, stick by them and you may just make it out of this god forsaken hellhole alive.

The Wedding Tweeter

2010-08-20T12:38:00.002Z

I’ve started my own business, I’ve found a gap in the market and I’ve dived in like a Messerschmitt on speed. I have become the World’s first Wedding Tweeter, or should that be Twedding Tweeter? Why do the inhabitants of Twitter world insist on putting a ‘tw’ in front of words to make them twitterfied? I mean we are a persecuted bunch as it is, all our non tweeting friends think we’re stupid or narcissistic anyway. They don’t understand Twitter, so let’s not make it worse tweople.

Anyway, my concept is that with so many people belong to social networking sites now, be it facebook, twitter or BLAH BLAH (ask your kids), they actually start to consider their on-line friends to be real friends. Not real enough to waste a wedding invite on obviously, especially at £110 per head and rising, but real enough to want to share their special day with.

This is where I come in. For a small fee plus a free bar at the reception, I will provide the following services.

1. Set up a Twitter account for the lovely couple, i.e. @DesperateAndRichGetMarried. They can now distribute this account amongst their friends, and add worrying about their follower count to the list of things keeping them awake at night. This list includes hoping Uncle Malcolm hasn’t fallen off the wagon again, assigning an usher to steal his drinks if he has, and wondering is the missionary the traditional wedding night position or would the reverse cowgirl be OK?

2. I will then use your account to keep all your followers up to date with the proceedings. This would look a bit like the following (excerpts taken from @BaldingAndFlabbyGetMarried).

The @groom is looking nervous. Not sure what he is regretting more, having the stag night last night or the pink tie.
Just spotted @Bestman being sick in the font. Hope nobody is being baptised tomorrow.
Nice save, @Usher1 has found and confiscated @UncleMalcolm’s hip flask.
Sneaky @UncleMalcolm has a sock flask, this won’t end well.
The @GroomsFather and @GroomsFathersNewGirlfriend are arguing with @GroomsMother and @GroomsMothersToyboy over the seating arrangements.
Compromise found. @GroomsFather and @GroomsMother on front row, @GroomsFathersNewGirlfriend and @GroomsMothersToyboy on row 2.
Oh dear, the @Vicar is getting impatient now, @Groom checks watch again, @Bestman makes a phone call to bookie
Action at the back of the church, @Bride has arrived, report on dress to follow.
Dress is a beautiful flowing white number, unfortunately it looks like the number 8.
On the positive side, at least she has managed to fit in it, looks like the ‘being sick for a week’ diet has worked.
RT @BitchyUninvitedWorkColleague Her dress looks like it contains a bag of ferrets fighting to escape
RT @JealousExBoyfriend White, are you having a laugh, ask @Usher2 about the time that we (the following has been edited in the name of good taste)
Preliminaries under way, hymns, blah blah, why are these things so long, just cut to the chase @Vicar.
Really should have used the toilet before I came in.
Really shouldn’t have tweeted that.
A nervous silence as @Vicar asks is there any reason that they should not be married.
Several heads are shamefully looking at the floor, including @Usher2 @CousinJimmy and @GroomsSister
Phew, everybody remains silent and the deed is done.
It’s official. Congratulations to @MrandMrsGoatsbottom
RT @SlowWorkmate So that’s why we call him Ivor. I always wondered about that
Time for the final prayer. Top prank by @Bestman as the soles of @grooms shoes reveal the words HELP and ME.
Prank backfire. It appears the @Bestman does not know his left from right as the shoes read ME HELP.
In the name of good taste @GroomsFathersNewGirlfriend and @GroomsMothersToyboy have been excluded from official photo line-ups.
In the name of bad taste @GroomsFathersNewGirlfriend and @GroomsMothersToyboy have sneaked into presbytery for a quick grope.
Just enough time for all males to check their phones for the footy scores.
Just enough time for all females to reapply their make up with a trowel.
Time for the reception and a well earned pint.
Bucks Fizz, are you having a laugh, when will people learn?
Tweeting interrupted to help guests find the real bar, hopefully one that has a TV showing Gillette Soccer Saturday
Time for speeches, these will be abbreviated due to restrictions of 140 characters.
Wish the real ones had those restrictions.
From @FatherOfBride Lame joke, childhood mishaps, welcome to family, serious bit, dead grandmother, tears, lame joke, ushered into seat
From @Groom Drunken sweats, My Wife and I, applause, lame joke, nervous glances to Wife, drops notes, finishes abruptly
From @Bestman Slurred, dubious content, bad taste joke about sheep, worse taste joke about @Usher2, nervous looks all round, falls over
Well that’s that then folks, hope you enjoyed the wedding. Don’t forget to log in for the reception (over 18’s only)

3. Using TwitPic (or y.frog if you consider yourself a princess), I will post beautiful pictures of all the momentous moments, as they happen. These will be slightly blurry as I will be using my iPhone, but your friends will just think you have hired a pretentious photographer straight out of art school, so that’s OK.

4. Via Blip.fm I will let your friends listen to all the great tunes your wedding DJ is playing including your first dance. Unless of course your first song is ‘Angel’ by Robbie Twilliams, in this case I will change it to ‘Smack my Bitch up’ by the Prodigy. You will then either look retro cool or just ironic, depending on how many of your S&M loving details you accidentally tweeted about when drunk.

5. Supply a framed A4 wordcloud of the days, and evenings if readable, tweets. All done tastefully in black and white, in the classic Goudy Bookletter 1911 font.

I think I’m onto a winner here, I’m even thinking of franchising it out for a small fee of course. Bookings are now being taken and the weekends are being snapped up fast. For all enquires re payment plans or deletion of dubious photos, please contact me at the lifeandtimesofahousehusband@gmail.com or by comment at this blog.

This time next year I’ll be a millionaire, or in prison.

The road to Hell (Michigan)

2010-08-16T07:50:00.001Z

This week, undoubtedly fuelled by being trapped indoors by the rain with only the kids for screaming company, I decided I wanted to become a Travel Writer. Not one of those ones that visit Venice and remark that they found the quaintest little coffee shop just behind the third piazza on the right. And I definitely did not want to be one of the ones that wrote ‘Ten rambles through the Salisbury plains’ either.

I wanted to be like Bill Bryson, actually I think I wanted to be Bill Bryson. I wanted to visit places like Buttsville (Pennsylvania) just to see how many arseholes lived there. I had to see if there was a Dentist in Snaggletooth (California). I wanted to know how demanding the ladies were in Iron Knob (South Australia). Would Dissapointment (Kentucky) really be one? And I really, really needed to know what they drank out of on Whisky Dick Mountain (Washington). That was it, I had made up my mind, I was doing it.

My wife, once she had stopped laughing at me however, had other ideas. What about the children, who was going to look after them whilst I was off gallivanting in search of funny sounding places? A good question, as much as it pained me to admit it. Sod it, I would take them with me, although that would rule out visiting Titty Hill (England), as what was the point if I had the kids with me?

They are actually easier to control in the car anyway, they’re locked in place for starters, and if their noise got to be too much I would unleash the secret weapon. Normally I’m only allowed to have the car stereo’s volume at a maximum of 14, and only that loud if it’s a track the wife particularly likes. But I have discovered (when she was at work of course) that if I play Marilyn Manson as loud as 19, the kids kind of go into a trance, all slack jawed and silent. Works every time. She also said we had to be back by tea time, which seriously put paid to my plans of visiting Twatt in (all of) Scotland.

I decided to visit Butts Green (Essex), the kids spend so much time rolling around the grass anyway, and it was only 35 miles from home. I packed a bag full of healthy snacks and drinks, as well as a big bag of sweets to help with the bribery. I had my notebook, two pens and a Valium so I was set and we were ready to go.

We managed to get to the top of the road before the five year old informed me that she was busting for the toilet. My eldest is 16 for God’s sake, you would have thought that I had been in this game long enough to make the kids go to the toilet before we left. Then again, I’ve been carrying a wallet since I was 16 and after we had dealt with all things toilet and re-departed, we had to return again to pick that up.

The only excuse I can offer for having to return a third time is that I have only been carrying a mobile phone for a mere ten years, so was bound to have forgotten it given my track record. I’m sure our neighbour, as she waved us off for the fourth time, was starting to think I was trying to catch her stealing my plants or maybe the lid from our bin, as I had noticed hers hadn’t got one.

We hit traffic within 10 minutes, of course we did, why should I expect that anything in my life was going to be plain sailing? The bag of sweets turned out to be sugar-free so they went out of the window. I ask you, what kind of sick mind invents something like that. I bet it was the same kind of idiot that believes in telling children there is no such thing as Father Christmas, as it just perpetuates the commercialism of the birth of Jesus, or some such lily livered tree hugging codswallop. I was not happy, and obviously nor were the kids, they can smell a phoney a mile off.

I went to put the Marilyn Manson CD on but it was missing from the case, this was dire. I made a frantic phone call to the Wife to see if she had moved it, she had. Apparently me picking her up from church every Sunday, blasting Mr Manson’s version of ‘Personal Jesus’ had been deemed inappropriate. I do have a history of allegedly playing the wrong song at the wrong time though. Whenever the Mother in Law starts to leave our house after another visit, I have a habit of blasting ‘Stairway to Heaven’ on the stereo. Some people just can’t take a joke, and now the joke was on me.

I tried to fob them off with raisins but that only resulted in a food fight, which then obviously ruled out giving them an apple. The last thing I needed was to be hit with one of them whilst driving at 50 mph. That was of course if we ever got to go any faster than the tortoise mph that we were currently doing. Thirty minutes later I gave in, and turned the car around in defeat.

As we pulled up and trudged out of the car, my neighbour asked me what I had forgotten this time. With a sigh I replied “I forgot that you don’t have to go to Michigan to visit Hell.” She gave me a quizzical look, put the lid on her bin, and scurried into her house.

I don't love Cricket, I like it

2010-08-09T11:00:00.000Z

As I write, it’s a beautiful sunny Sunday afternoon and I’m on my way to a cricket match. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t know the difference between a googly and a silly mid off, and the nuances of a Seamer or a Yorker are lost on me, but I had won the tickets and I tend not to look gift horses in the mouth. Thank goodness I’m not going to a test match then. A game that lasts five days without a result is not my idea of fun. I have friends that love the slow pace and nothingness of the game, but whenever I ask them what the appeal is the most common reply is that it’s a great day out and a good beer-up.

Despite the strong allure of sitting in the sun drinking lager all day, the idea that I would have to keep an eye out for a ball that weighs the same as a small child and is as hard as a Duckworth-Lewis calculation seems a step too far on the dangerous side. I mean, if I wanted to combine stupid risks and drinking, I would just go for a beer with my Brother-in-law in the Czech Republic.

Nope, I’m off to the new version of cricket, Twenty20. I know purists hate it, it’s fun, it’s fast and you actually get a result, so you can see their problem with it. Plus all the teams get to dress in bright colours and not those dreary old whites. From the point of view of a person that has to do all the washing at home, I’m anti white anyway. After all, you can’t spray fabreeze on something white when you’ve forgotten to wash it and still pretend it’s clean. With colours I can and often do.

Luckily enough I had won a pair of tickets, so I invited my cricket mad mate JG to come with me. Not only could I pick his brain on cricket law and etiquette, but he was also a booze hound not unlike myself, so he would obviously know the best place to sit. Apparently you need the perfect combination of view and accessibility to the bar. To be quite honest I wasn’t too worried about the view, I was escaping from the kids for the day, so we could have been watching women’s darts for all I cared.

Walking into the ground I was struck by how much quieter the crowd was compared to a football match. I realise that you get a lot less fans at a cricket match, even compared to those small provincial teams like Tottenham, but everything seemed quite jolly and subdued. There was no tension in the air, just a feeling of calculated nonchalance. Missing was the smell of fried onions, instead replaced by a heady mixture of Old Spice and linseed oil.

Beers needed to be procured first, seats second. Those kinds of priorities are ones I am always happy to go along with. As we took our place in a very polite and organised queue, I looked around to take in my surroundings. Above the bar were photos of all the previous Essex Captains, proud, distinguished, moustachioed men. Oh, and Ronnie Irani.

We stepped out of the clubhouse with our pints of Oranjeboom, a lager I thought had disappeared with my milk teeth. I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked out at the pitch, which we were viewing side on. I then had to shield my eyes again as the Middlesex team took to the field to warm up, resplendent in bright pink. I had put my back out the previous day so we decided to stand against the clubhouse wall for a while, the fact that we were standing next to the nearest door to the bar was nothing but mere coincidence.

As I was purchasing my third pint, the teams decided to take to the field and a polite round of applause rippled around the ground, more of a royal wave than a Mexican one. Essex were fielding first, and the fine chap to my right obviously mistook my three pint mellow face for that of a cricket expert. He voiced the opinion that we should open the bowling with someone that was proficient in the art of in-swinging. I voiced the opinion that I had only had a few drinks and it was a bit early to be asking me to throw my keys into the middle of the table. My new friend decided to move elsewhere.

It was towards the end of the innings, and mid pint number six, that I heard the glorious sound of ball hitting willow in the perfect pitch. I knew the ball had been hit for 6 before I even turned around to watch its trajectory. I had been asking the new gentleman standing next to me how much a cricket ball actually weighed, this had become annoyingly important to me as I had had an idea for a blog. The next sound I heard as I struggled to find the balls trajectory, was the noise of something weighing 163 grammes (I googled it in the end) and travelling 60 mph, hitting the brick wall a meter above my head. The ball bounced off the wall and hit the guy 4 rows in front of me in the back of the head.

Despite the shock of a near miss, I still managed to laugh like a loon at the poor bloke, which seemed to be the correct etiquette as everybody else was. I looked up to see the mark where the ball had struck and realised I was standing under the O in ESSEX COUNTY CRICKET. Maybe the opposition were using the circle as target practise, maybe it was a fluke? Either or, I decided to take a couple of steps to the left and stand underneath the Y. I mean, why not?

The innings soon ended and it was half time, or tea. I had stopped caring about the correct terminology by then, and started on the spirits as the pint glasses were becoming too heavy to hold. The Essex innings went by in a bit of a blur. I do remember that the bowler we had been having a pop at had then turned into an excellent batsman, but I may be wrong about that, they all looked the same to me. It all got a bit tense towards the end, I could tell because the crowd had actually started to make a bit of noise. We eventually lost by 11 runs, but apparently it didn’t matter because Surrey or Sussex or Stockbrokers XI, I don’t know which, had also lost so we were through to the next round.

I can’t really remember much about the journey home, although I do know we stopped in a pub before we got on the train. I also know that I was 10 minutes from home at 9pm, yet walked through the door at 11pm? The next morning my head hurt, my only consolation was that it probably didn’t hurt as much as it would have had the ball actually hit it.

In conclusion, the only difference my untrained eye can see between a Twenty20 match and a five day test is that with one you drink all afternoon, and the other you drink for five days. Maybe that’s why they call it a test?

A Quest for Knowledge

2010-08-03T10:37:00.000Z

I’m about to take my first steps towards my long awaited Nobel Prize for Science, and I’m inviting you all to come along with me. Those wonderful folk over at the Science Museum, in my home town of London, are on a quest for knowledge and they want me, and of course you, to help them. Don’t panic, you haven’t got to work out why buttered toast falls slimy side down, why a full nappy weighs twice the amount of the food consumed, or even why ginger (seriously, why though?) So you can stop searching for those old Physics text books in the loft and just answer a simple question.

What makes you smile?

Your answers will all form part of their ‘Who am I?’ gallery, all about what makes you, you. In my case that’s 2 parts Jack Daniels, 1 part coffee, 4 parts body mass, 1 part Oasis lyrics and a tiny smattering of smart arse thrown in for good measure.

Your answers can be written in the comments field of this blog or you can tweet them at @sciencemuseum . You can even send them a video response, well everyone except Paris Hilton as we have already seen what makes her smile.

So to set the ball rolling I had better tell you what makes me smile. I’ve ignored all the obvious ones like an unopened bottle of Tequila and a bag of limes, watching people walk into things and winning an argument with the Wife (only because I can’t remember the last time that particular one happened.)

What I’ve plumped for, is stuff my five year old daughter Kaede says.

We were watching the third parent the other day, let’s pretend it was the Discovery channel and not The Simpsons, when the adverts come on. This particular advert was for dishwasher tabs, the ones with all the wonderful fresh fragrance of forest fresh lemons, and the cleaning power of four below minimum wage illegal immigrants. Kaede turned to me with a wistful look on her face and said “I wish I was a plate.”

Experience has taught me not to then ask her “Why?” The last time I did that her response was “because then I can wee on a trampoline”, and you really don’t want to know what the question was that prompted that believe me. So I gave a more measured reply of “Wouldn’t it be better to be the person that got to eat off the plate rather than the plate itself, always destined to carry the food rather than eat it?” I was expecting a “But I can eat the food when it’s laying on me” type answer, and not looking forward to the ‘plates don’t have mouths’ debate that would follow. Again.

Her actual response was “But plates are hard working and strong because they can carry all of that food. They have a purpose.” Did I mention she was five? This was definitely the most profound thing she had ever said, certainly more profound than my last drunken offering of ‘Kids are for life, not just the cab ride home’.

So that’s what makes me smile, her crazy statements and her ability to shock the hell out of me in a good way, rather than the riding down the stairs on a tea tray bad way.

So now it’s your turn, I look forward to your responses, and I promise to mention you all in my acceptance speech.

Tour de Farce

2010-07-13T08:42:00.000Z

I hate the phrase ‘it’s just like learning to ride a bike’ it’s a load of old tosh. Nothing is like learning to ride a bike, nothing comes close at all. Between that and swimming, I don’t think there is a harder thing for a kid to learn. I learnt both at the same time, and I don’t mean at the same age. I mean within 10 seconds of each other.

My Dad took me over the local park to teach me, a typical father/son outing. As with most kids, it looked like I was never going to get it, and then all of a sudden everything clicked into place. I was riding on my own, this was easy, and I was so pleased with myself. I remember feeling the wind rushing through my hair and I remember turning round to wave at Dad. I remember the bike veering suddenly and I remember heading down the hill towards the pond. What I forgot, was where the brakes were or how to use them.

But do you know what’s harder than learning to ride a bike? Trying to buy one, that’s what. I spent last Saturday trying to buy my 5 year old her first bike without stabilisers. A fairly simple task you would think, after all, we live right near a branch of a major national bike and car accessory shop. At first I thought the problem would be that they have too many models of bike to choose from, but she picked out the one she wanted and the price suited me, so no issues there.

Unfortunately they didn’t have any in stock, but after the kind man checked his computer, he informed me that the branch 30 minutes down the road did. I wish he had used the same computer that they use in Little Britain, the one that always said no. At least I would have saved myself the journey, because lo and behold they had none in stock there either. Nor did the next one that was another 20 minutes down the road, their computer actually said they had three in stock. Do I really need to tell you how many they actually had in stock? Have a gold star, you guessed right, none.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times and I guess I’m just dumb enough to be asking for it. The conversation I had with the spotty teenager in the 4th branch of Halfwits went something like this.

“Hi, I’m hoping you can help me. I have been told you have a Sparkle 16” bike in stock and I really need to buy it off you, will that be possible?”

“Erm let me check my computer. Yes we do have one in stock but it’s the display model.”

“Excellent, as long as it has two wheels and a handlebar then I’ll take it, is there any discount as it’s shop soiled?”

“I’m afraid not, any item we can still order from Head Office cannot be discounted.”

“You’re kidding right? You know what, I’m not bothered, I’ll pay full price.”

“Sorry, I don’t really want to sell it to you, it’s too much hassle when they get returned.”

“Believe me, after all the aggro I’ve been through, I won’t be returning it.”

“I still don’t want to sell it to you.”

“Listen mate, if you don’t sell me that bike, one of two things will happen. The first is that I walk out of here in a simmering rage back to my car. In that car are my Wife and two fighting screaming kids, all of whom have been sitting in a car that is doing a decent impression of an oven right now. An oven we have been driving around in for 2 hours, just trying to find this particular bike. I will open the door to the car and before I can utter a single word, my wife, who is quite intuitive, will notice I don’t have a bike under my arm. She will then start telling me, in a voice that is one notch too loud, that she cannot understand why I can’t even manage to buy a bike without it becoming a song and dance. She will have a point, but that doesn’t make hearing it any easier, so I will probably snap back some kind of nasty retort. We will probably trade insults and throw in some still-festering arguments for good measure. One of the kids will start to kick the back of my seat, whilst the other one shouts and screams and demands food. After about 149 seconds of this, something inside of me will snap. I will exit the car, my wife still reminding me what a failure I am and I will go to the boot. When there I will look for something sharp, but failing that, settle for my golf umbrella. I will then wedge the handle of my umbrella against the kerb, place the tip of it against by heart and with a calm look of acceptance on my face, throw myself upon it. This will be done with such force that the umbrella will pass through me down to the handle, the wind will pick up, and the umbrella will pop open. Upon hearing all the screams, you will rush outside and see my still grinning carcass being blown around the car park, my wife chasing it shouting “you couldn’t even kill yourself properly.” With a speed of mind that belies the dumb arse look on your face, you capture my final moments on your phone. You will post the video clip on YouTube and it will go viral within a week. You also upload the stills to your Twitter account and gain yourself 113 new followers. A year will pass, and you forget all about me. Five years later you will actually find somebody to marry you, but between you and me, she’s only agreed because she’s five months pregnant. Oh and the real father is your best man Derek, but you won’t find that out until the kid turns eight. But when little Del is five, you will take him out one hot Saturday morning to buy his first bike. As you stand there listening to the spotty little oik behind the counter tell you that there are no bikes in stock because of the rising cost of aluminium in China, you will remember me, and you will start to cry and you will never be able to stop.”

“What’s the second thing that could happen?”

“You can explain to my wife why we can’t have the bike.”

“The bike is yours sir, and here’s a complimentary safety helmet.”

A Fistful of Dollars

2010-07-08T12:37:00.000Z

To plug, or not to plug: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outraged bloggers,
Or to take gifts against a sea of adverts,
And by opposing end them? To die: gift free.

Would Shakespeare have written that today, a wannabe screenwriter, reduced to mere blogging to practice his craft? Accepting gifts and bribes from the Corporate world, some relevant to him, most not. There’s a part of me that thinks he might, well especially before his independent art house film got picked up and bastardised by Hollywood anyway. I don’t know enough about Shakespeare the man, to know if he wrote for the love of writing, or to keep a roof over his head. You’ve got to hope that someone that wrote ‘Love is too young to know what conscience is,’ was doing it for more than mere trinkets and baubles. But a man’s got to eat, no?

I am in no way shape or form comparing myself to the great man, sometimes I have to stop and think if there’s an ‘e’ at the end of his name, but we all have aspirations to be published one day. I don’t know if writing something with the pure intention of selling a product, makes you a better or worse writer. Is there a skill involved in trying to hide the fact that you’re a corporate glove puppet whilst actually selling the product at the same time? Or is that just a white lie you tell yourself before you attempt to look in the writers’ mirror?

I guess we all have pieces of work that make us cringe when looking back on them, but does knowing someone gave you a new knife set for writing it make you feel better or worse? Maybe it depends on how you see yourself. Am I a writer that happens to write a Daddy blog, or am I a Daddy blogger? I guess if it’s the later then it’s OK to take whatever the Fat Cats want to throw at you. Parent blogging is seen as big business by those in the know, we’re relatively cheap to bribe, and everyone’s a winner. Who can’t do with more toys, nappies, wine tokens?

But what if you want to either be seen as, or become a serious writer? If I’m going to sell my soul to the Devil then surely I should demand something a bit more than new pots and pans. Surely a Pulitzer, or a Booker maybe, or heaven forbid a Best Original Screenplay Oscar would be better compensation. There’s a good chance I would sell my three children’s souls for those awards, well two of theirs anyway, I think one of them have made their own deal already.

Or am I doing us bloggers a disservice? Apparently we are the reason that the print media is in decline so we must have some power. Our content is free, often quick to produce, and has no overheads. We have no big shot owners or political flunkies to appease, we can write what we want and when we want it. The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Times, all of them carry adverts, does that make them less of a paper? The Huffington Post has some of the world’s best bloggers writing for them, but they still run adverts alongside the content.

Anyway, I’m just starting to ramble now. I created myself a soapbox then didn’t know what to say once I climbed on board. I apologise for the lack of humour in this post, it’s just that I nearly pressed ‘publish’ on a blog that contained the sentence ‘Luckily **** Stores, who have some amazing online stores where I can get everything from cookware to lights’, and it seems to have shaken all the laughter out of me. Normal smart arse service will be resumed soon I’m sure.

Once upon a Weetabix

2010-07-07T11:38:00.000Z

Once upon a time, in a town not to dissimilar to the one where you now reside, lived a man named Bert. Bert is not his real name, I’ve had to change it for his own protection. If word was ever to leak out who the real Bert was, and what he had invented, well he could kiss goodbye to his quiet life. He leads a simple life does Bert, but believe me the man is a genius. For one day whilst sitting at his kitchen table eating his breakfast, his mind stopped looking for words that rhymed with purple and started wondering what Weetabix and chocolate would taste like.

If it had been me or you that had had this idea then our story would have ended there, or maybe in A&E after one of us spilt molten chocolate on their hand instead of the waiting Weetabix. Luckily for us, Bert worked for Weetabix and knew exactly who to take this idea to. Days, weeks, possibly months later for who knows how long these things take, a brand new box of Chocolate Weetabix turned up on my doorstep.

I had won the sweepstake in life’s lottery and had been chosen to get an advance tasting of the new offering. Such was the level of secrecy surrounding the project, that the person who delivered my box was actually wearing a cloak and dagger. I was to spend a week with my prize before it would be wrested from my chocolate stained grip and delivered to those lucky blighters at Sainsbury’s for its big unveiling on the 12th July.

It was suggested by some that I should share my bounty with the children. Fools all of them, this would be wasted on the children, they didn’t deserve it, it wasn’t Christmas. After a medium bout of foot stamping, some mild tears and at least one temper tantrum I finally gave in and agreed to share. I wiped away my tears and the box was placed in the larder ready for the morning.

Once the children had been despatched to bed I ventured the opinion that it was morning in Kamchatka, so it would be alright to have a bowl now. I have tried this trick with alcohol in the past, it didn’t work then and it wasn’t working now. I decided to go to bed on the basis that the sooner I slept, the sooner it would be morning.

I dreamt of Bert’s invention that night, dreamt I was sitting in my chair made from Weetabix, holding a bowl the size of a footballers ego, full to the brim with chocolate Weetabix. Eventually my breakfast began to taste like feathers, and I woke up to find my pillow in my mouth. Thank heavens they don’t make coat hangers is all I can say.

I woke the kids up and rushed downstairs. I now had an excuse to make everyone sit down for breakfast rather than throwing toast at them as they run out of the door to school. I gave the kids a normal helping, but as it only has half the amount of sugar as other chocolate cereals, I gave myself double, result.

It was the quietest our dining table had ever been, apart from the occasional slurps and mmm’s you could have heard a pin drop. I proposed a toast to Bert and various cups of coffee, tea and orange juice were raised.

Chocolate Weetabix was an obvious success in our house, so much so that I am now using the threat of not having breakfast to get the kids to go to bed properly, and clean my car, oh and the hoovering, and sometimes the recycling. You mere mortals will have to wait until 12th July to get your hands on them. Ha Ha.

Ignorance isn't bliss

2010-06-28T13:09:00.001Z

Today I unexpectedly found out why the Mum’s at the school look at me like I was an exhibit in a zoo. I did at first just presume that the majority of them had been dabbling in a bit of Botox treatment, but it has become all too apparent that it is actually their distaste for me that causes the expression, or lack thereof.

After 18 months they have just about got their heads around the concept of a stay at home Dad, so it’s not that. I’m no longer on my own in that respect anyway, there is another part time SAHD, a fine Mediterranean fellow. Although I’m not sure being in a constant between jobs flux counts, but in the cause of the brotherhood I will give him the benefit of the doubt. Every week I ask him with a chuckle, if he has seen the perfect Italian job yet, every week a nonplussed shake of the head.

Nope, I think it is some of the things that I say that leaves them somewhat bewildered.

I was having a conversation (and by conversation I mean I was being allowed to stand close enough to listen without being considered an eavesdropper but obviously not contributing) when one of the Mums happened to mention that she had been rushing around like a ‘blue arsed fly’ all morning. With that, a voice I did not recognise asked “Why do they call it a blue arsed fly?” I did not recognise the voice because it was mine, and it is seldom heard in the playground other than in its shouty variety when I have to holler at my feral children.

The stunned silence from the Mums emboldened me to continue. “Why not a red arsed fly, is it blue because it’s cold and needs to warm up? Or why not a brown arsed fly? It spends most of its time sitting in crap, so brown would make more sense.”

More silence. Eventually Wasp Mother replied “I rather think Google is the place for that kind of ponderment, rather than in front of impressionable five year olds.” With that she grabbed Jemima, Honey-Blossom and Pig-Tails, and flounced off. I had always thought that Wasp was an acronym for White Anglo Saxon Person, but in her case it’s because, like a wasp, she’s always buzzing around sticking her nose in and is of no discernable use to anyone.

It did make me wonder about my own ignorance though. I mean, I have only just got my head around the concept that when it is winter here, it is summer in the southern hemispheres, and vice-versa. The idea of Christmas on the beach is as foreign to me as the idea of drinkable beer is to an Australian. The thing that really clogs my brain up though, is what about the countries on the northern/southern hemisphere border. If we are in winter and Australia is in summer, does that mean the inbetweenies are in a permanent spring/autumn weather zone? Is there a band of countries around the globe where it is permanently raining, and if so, why do we still have a hosepipe ban?

I would like to think that the reason these thoughts blast around my noggin is because I spend the day without adult conversation. Or possibly because of the repetitive chores my day is full of, all requiring no thought, therefore leaving the brain to occupy itself with any old nonsense. I can literally spend hours, with what can only be described as a bemused confused look, looking at the PC wondering why if you Google Google you get 2120 million results. You cannot seriously tell me that 2,119,999,999 other people were just as bored as me can you?

I rage at the TV sometimes as well. I was watching a Mickey Mouse film the other day (with my son of course) when Minnie Mouse, playing the part of princess, announces that she has fallen in love with Mickey, and it is so perfect because “We even have the same surname.” I mean come on, seriously, what are the odds? Two mice both having the same surname of Mouse, who’d of thought? My youngest tends to back away from me when I get like this, and as well he might, he never has the answers anyway.

I don’t understand how my 16 year old daughter (I know, I don’t look old enough, thanks) can get up at noon, have breakfast at 1, lunch at 4, and still moan when there’s no dessert after her dinner at 6. Since when did Facebook burn off calories? Does rearranging her iTunes library really equate to a five mile bike ride? Is sarcasm this generations exercise? I need the science explained to me.

I consider myself a fairly educated and worldly wise type of fellow, but can somebody please tell me why, come the end of the day, my voice is so high pitched and shrill that only dogs respond to it? A fact I know to be true because the kids apparently can’t hear my umpteenth request to justbloodybehaveandstopthrowingyourfoodattheTVthebookcaseandeachother.

It’s not that I’m an illiterate dummy, I do know some answers, but they are mainly of the ‘because I said so’, ‘because you’re Mum said so’, and ‘because cats don’t like microwaves’ variety. I just don’t know where I am anymore. I’m ignorant of all the things I’m ignorant about, I don’t know what I used to know, and I question the unanswerable. So my final question is, if I’m this ignorant, where’s all my bliss?

How to teach a new dog old tricks.

2010-06-10T13:36:00.000Z

Last week I was clearing out the cupboard under the stairs (I’m not that house-proud, I just wanted to hide from the kids for a while) and I kind of lost track of time. Next thing I know, it’s 7.30 and the wife is ringing the doorbell, home from work at last. I opened the door and her face confirmed that she had had a bad day, and one look at me, covered in dirt, dust and cobwebs, had made it worse. The kids were screaming in the front room and instead of the welcoming sight and smell of dinner on the table, there was a pile of wet washing. Some may call it a bad day, I call it Wednesday.

It got me thinking that I really should try harder, not necessarily at being a better housekeeper, but maybe at least hiding most of the daily crap from her. I can remember watching my Mum putting on her lippy and perfume before dad came home every night from work, and decided to take a leaf from her book. Unfortunately my Mum has never written a book, so I had to refer to that infamous 1950s high-school, home-economics textbook, the one that drives Feminists into a moustache pulling frenzy, ‘How to Have a Happy Husband’. My idea was to take their advice and somehow try to adapt it to my way of life, hopefully cheering up the missus in the process.

THE TIP: Have dinner ready, Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal - on time. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home, and the prospect of a good meal is part of this warm welcome needed.

THE PLAN: I needed a meal I could throw at the kids for their dinner, and then fancy up for ours. Bolognaise was the answer. Normal spaghetti for the kids, some of that fancy Fusilli Lunghi Bucati for us.

THE OUTCOME: Turns out the fancy stuff isn’t that easy to eat. By the time I had finished slopping and slurping, it looked like Quentin Tarantino had directed the dinner. Well my side of the table did anyway.

THE TIP: Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so that you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

THE PLAN: I liked the sound of this. 15 minutes of playing Xbox, then a quick version of the three S’s (ask your husbands), and Bob’s your Uncle.

THE OUTCOME: I fired up the Xbox, and 15 minutes soon turned into 45, just me and my marines shooting the crap out of the Ruskies on Modern Warfare 2. I rushed upstairs, threw some water and then some product on my hair. I then discovered that shaving whilst sitting on the toilet is not as easy as it sounds, and I therefore opened the door with eight bloody bits of tissue stuck all over my chin.

THE TIP: Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.

THE PLAN: I must admit, this one stumped me at first, but in for a penny in for a pound. I dug out an old flowery shirt, put on some eyeliner, put a Broadway show tunes CD on, and attached a nipple clamp for the interesting part. That should cover it.

THE OUTCOME: The shirt went well, I poked myself in the eye with a mascara brush and still have conjunctivitis a week later, and the less said about the nipple tearing and subsequent visit to Accident and Emergency the better.

THE TIP: Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives gathering up school books, toys, paper, etc. Then run a dust cloth over the tables. Light a candle. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift, too.

THE PLAN: This sounds like the way I clean up anyway, except that it’s my main clean of the day, normally done half an hour before she comes home. I know she has some scented candles near the bath, although I’ve no idea why they are kept there? I’m also sure I’ve seen a dust cloth somewhere, they’re yellow, right?

THE OUTCOME: The clutter was picked up and thrown into the cupboard under the stairs. I ran the duster over the TV, as that’s the only place that really shows it anyway. The candles were a problem as the ones in the bathroom had worn down to nothing. Luckily I remembered we had some of those emergency power cut ones. Unluckily they were kept in the cupboard under the stairs, so I had to clutter and then de-clutter again, only for the candles to then give off a thick black oily smoke.

THE TIP: Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

THE PLAN: If I let the kids play dress up all day, then their clothes underneath would stay clean. I would then lull them into a false sense of security by offering them sweets. I could then scrub their faces with wet wipes, and maybe a brillo pad.

THE OUTCOME: The kids refused to change out of their costumes, and wouldn’t stand still no matter how many sweets I gave them. My wife was therefore greeted by a crying red faced Scooby Doo, and a hyperactive Frog from A Princess and a Frog.

THE TIP: Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, dishwasher or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Better yet, have them in bed.

THE PLAN: Eliminating all the machine noises wouldn’t be an issue, but gagging the kids would probably just upset her. Decided to skip this one as someone once told me it was bad to give the kids valium.

THE TIP: Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad to see him.

THE PLAN: Easy, note to self, brush teeth first.

THE OUTCOME: A look of exasperation and an “I thought you promised you would stop drinking during the day” comment. I need to practise smiling.

THE TIP: Some don'ts: Don't greet him with problems or complaints. Don't complain if he's late for dinner. Just count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day.

THE PLAN: Don’t complain, are you sure? So one of the kids riding their rocking horse down the stairs, interrupting what was about to be a 5 man kill streak on Halo3 is minor? Give me a break, consider this tip scrapped.

THE TIP: Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom.

THE PLAN: I would make sure at least one of the chairs was free of small toys, and ensured that the bed was made with extra superfluous cushions and obligatory teddy bear.

THE OUTCOME: The offer of a comfortable chair was welcomed. The offer of a lie down however, was greeted with an arched eyebrow and a ‘you must be kidding look’. The more I tried to explain that my intentions were honourable, the more the eyebrows arched.

THE TIP: Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes.

THE PLAN: I bought a bottle of Cava, had a spare pillow ready, and made sure that my nose would be hay fever-blocked ready for the shoe thing.

THE OUTCOME: More arched eyebrows combined with a “Getting me pissed isn’t going to help you. I’ve had a long day. When will you take no for an answer?”

THE TIP: Speak in a low, soft soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.

THE PLAN: I wasn’t sure that soft and soothing would be the sound females wanted. I figured gruff and craggy à la Sam Elliot was the way to go. I don’t smoke anymore, so smoking 60 to get the effect was not an option. Singing footy anthems as loud as I could all day, was though

THE OUTCOME: Mr Elliot would have been proud of my gruffness. Madame, however, asked me if I had been in the garden singing those awful terrace chants whilst booting footballs at the kids (I do have previous in this regard).

THE TIP: Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him - the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.

THE PLAN: My wife is half Irish Catholic, I can never get a word in edgeways anyway. This one takes care of itself.

THE TIP: Make the evening his. Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or to other places of entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to be home and relax.

THE PLAN: Great, so that means a night of Sex and the City re-runs. I bought a half bottle of Jack Daniels to hide down the side of the sofa, that’ll help.

THE OUTCOME: I can vaguely recollect saying “The ginger doesn’t deserve the barman, he’s too good for her”, before falling into a boredom/alcohol induced stupor.

THE TIP: Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.

THE PLAN: Seriously? Did these people not have kids? I could provide the spirit, Rum and Black ought to do it. If she drinks enough of it at least I will get some peace and quiet.

THE OUTCOME: A miserable next morning being blamed for getting her drunk on a work night.

THE GOAL: A happy marriage for him.

THE OUTCOME: No divorce lawyers yet, and as it's summer the shed isn’t that cold to sleep in.

Just a matter of routine

2010-05-27T10:16:00.002Z

One of the most difficult first tasks facing a new Stay-At-Home-Dad, is just how to split his day up in some kind of constructive manner. When I first became a SAHD after selling my pub 2 years ago, my biggest worry was what the hell I was going to do with my time. Sure I had a 3 year old girl and a one year old boy to deal with, not forgetting the surly/manic/hormonal/loud teenager, but in those first few weeks I just didn’t know what to do with myself.

Obviously the house wasn’t very clean, it was surface clean, something I think all blokes are good at, but it wasn’t really clean. My other half had started making some vague comments about my lack of cleaning skills, and a list of chores soon magically appeared on my desk.

The sheer number of things that needed doing on a regular basis was a very daunting one, the flip side to that was I now had what I considered to be a real purpose. No longer would I consider myself a glorified baby-sitter, I had promoted myself to CEO of the house. I felt quite excited by the prospect, well as excited as you could be about a list of chores, although some of the jobs on it made no sense at all.

Clean inside of oven once a week. What? Clean inside the oven? Surely the super high temperature would kill all the germs, it certainly killed the Sunday Roast on a regular basis.

Air and make beds on a daily basis. This one had me a bit perplexed, I had no idea how or why you would air a bed, so I made an educated guess and left the duvet on the floor all morning, then put it back on the bed in the afternoon. That was easy enough. I failed my first bed inspection, for although I had plumped up the pillows, I had failed to put the two cushions back on top of the pillows, and wedge the big white Teddy Bear between the two sets. These are the same cushions and soft toy that have to be thrown off the bed every night before we can sleep.

The list went on and on and on. To keep on top of this I had to learn some skills that don’t come too naturally to men, well men about the house anyway. The first of which was organisation. I was going to have to organise my life into some sort of routine, that would help me out, and provide the kids some much lacking structure to their lives.

I had recently watched “About a Boy” and if you could ignore Hugh Grant’s haircut, it wasn’t a bad film, with a great soundtrack by Badly Drawn Boy. Anyway I digress, old floppy played a character that organised his life into 30 minute slots, just to while the day away. I figured I could use the system to create some kind of order in the chaos that was our lives.

Getting kids washed, fed and dressed one slot. Taking wife to station and getting paper, one slot. Afternoon nap for the boy, playing on X-box for me, four (of my favourite) slots. I found that by allocating myself three cleaning slots, spread out over the whole day, I would tend to get more done with not quite as long a face. The kids got used to the idea, and soon learnt what would be happening and when, a favourite of theirs was always the ‘watch Dad run around sweeping forgotten toys up’ slot.

The second thing I had to learn was multi-tasking. I had always presumed this meant watching TV whilst reading the paper and scratching your nether regions. The first time I tried to take a phone call whilst changing a nappy was an expensive lesson in how not to multi-task. I could never bring myself to speak into that handset again. The art of juggling children, chores and cooking, the three c’s of the SAHD’s world, is a lesson hard learnt but worth persevering with.

Within months, no more than a season anyway, I was cleaning up as I went along when cooking, the kids were peeling the spuds and naming the ingredients, and I was dishing up food fit for consumption by beings without tails.

I will admit to taking some short-cuts along the way, there were days when the TV became a third parent. At times I would put my wide awake son in his cot with some toys, just so I could vacuum upstairs. I once even told my Mother in Law that I had a hospital appointment, just so I could meet a mate for a quick pint. Sometimes the ends justify the means, in my opinion a happy Dad can only be a good thing for the kids.

So we have all settled into our own cosy little routines. The kids know that if I throw a box of raisins at them it means I have an important phone call to make. They know that if they let me put them in the car without any fuss to pick their Mum up, they will get a yogurt in return when they get home. They know a shiny apple is a reward for putting their toys away. Some may call it bribery, I call it a healthy balanced diet, oh, and multi-tasking.

* This article was originally published on www.dad.ie the site for Dad's that know, want to know, or forgot what they know.