Monday, 27 February 2012

Random children are the bane of my existence

Not your child, of course. Nor the child of people I know. It's children of people I don't know. The lesser spotted child. Random child. It's as if they're conditioned by parents in labs resembling something from Bourne films:

MUMMY:   Your mission Timothy is to track down this pair.
                     (PASSES PHOTO OF ME AND BUG)
                 Once found I want you to neutralize them. Neutralize them both.

TIMOTHY: I don't think I can Mummy.

MUMMY:    It's what we trained for.

TIMOTHY:  I know. I'm sorry Mummy.

MUMMY:    Well, what do you think you can do?

TIMOTHY: How about I wait until the baby's asleep, then ride by on my bike and just
                  shout really loud as I pass them?

MUMMY:    What will you shout?

TIMOTHY:  A series of elongated vowels. I'll then turn around and ride off.

MUMMY:    Will it work?

TIMOTHY:   It'll have to.

And it normally does. Children on bikes, normally rotund boys (never girls, which is weird because they have a song and everything) pass us all the time screaming primordially. This always wakes Bug.

They're on buses too, sans bike. Bug had fallen asleep in the sling on the way back from the museum last week. A woman got on with her son. I noticed that the kid, around Bug's age, was playing with a plastic bag. Screaming and rustling his plastic bag.

I kept thinking: that crazy woman's letting her son play with a plastic bag.

His excitement was beginning to wake Bug. Every time he screamed, Bug stirred.

Bag rustles. Boy screams. Bug stirs.

Now I'm thinking: that crazy woman's letting him play with a plastic bag. It's not even keeping him quiet.

Bag rustles. Boy screams. Bug stirs.

Now I'm angrily thinking: that crazy woman's letting him play with a plastic bag and if health and safety's taught me anything it's that plastic bags are pretty fucking good at keeping little boys quiet.

Bag rustles. Boy screams. Bug wakes.

Dad grumps.

Another day, another child. While swinging on swings at the park, I heard a women scream “say hello, Thomas!” I couldn't see the woman or Thomas. I spent a while pushing Bug and wondering why Thomas was in need of hardcore politeness training.

Later we were by the slide when out of nowhere a boy came sprinting towards Bug, fist drawn and ready to punch. It was something out of a war movie, the only thing missing a hunting knife and a milk teeth necklace. He looked three months older than Bug.

“No Thomas!” screamed his Mother trying to catch him. “Say hello!”

Thomas stopped inches from Bug's face and spat “hello!” fist hovering. He then backed away, never taking his eyes or laser guided fist off my daughter.

'They're all like that at that age,' laughed his Mother nervously.

'What? I replied. 'Fucking psychotic?'

Random children. They're like nuclear missiles: you can see them coming but you can do fuck all about it.

Bye for now



We are teaching Bug about things that grow:

When grown we're going to sell the beans to a gullible giant. This one's for you, Jack.

Tuesday, 21 February 2012

I am unintentionally raising an unintentional fascist.

Like most who subscribe to a radical authoritarian nationalist political ideology, Bug started doing Nazi salutes after copying her parent's rubbish animal impressions. For Stalin's parents it was anteaters, Idi Amin's Kingfishers. In our case: elephants.

Her first impression was of the dog. She'd say 'oof 'oof all day long, followed by 'dog' or 'doggy'. Normally it was a combination of the three. We couldn't get ten foot without her happily 'oof 'oofing to herself. People would bring their dogs up for a stroke. Bug would wag her tail. Everyone went home happy.

Then she started on elephants. She held her right arm out straight and said 'ooooh.' Every time we saw an elephant: arm outstretched followed by an 'ooooh!' And just like dogs, we get the occasional random elephant. For no reason at all: arm outstretched followed by 'ooooh!'

It was cute at first, elephant added to the dog, monkey, fish and clap clap crocodile menagerie she was perfecting. Occasionally she'd do them all at the same time and look mental. Then we began to notice elephant's similarities to the Nazi salute and when I say similarities I mean exactly the same. Try a Nazi salute yourself.

Go on.

I won't tell.

That, according to me and now my daughter, is an elephant. Easy mistake.

I dread the day we walk pass an old Jewish couple only for Bug to do random elephant. How do you explain that?

1. She loved the first two Reichs so it was only a matter of time?
2. She accidentally watched five minutes of Loose Women?
3. Sorry, she's just a bit racist?

I'm not sure. Hopefully it'll never happen.

Bye for now.



Yesterday, Tesco Man wheezed his way up three flights of stairs to deliver our shopping. Sweating profusely and impossibly close to a coronary he panted 'wouldn't you rather be at work than babysitting?' I simply said 'no.'

Wednesday, 15 February 2012

My first, and potentially final, blog post.

In an attempt to finally write something -- three years after leaving university to become a literary giant -- I've decided to start a blog.  If blogging history has taught me anything, and it hasn't, then this will be my one and only entry.

See, lots of Facebook friends start blogs. It's the thing to do. Most don't get past a single burst of inspiration: there's lots of chest thumping followed by two minutes of work ending as quickly as it started.

A bit like sex.

Some stick it out longer, blog a few times before losing interest and putting on Match of the Day while the blog phones her friends to discuss your small penis.

A bit like...

Anyway. Blogs. Mostly this will be about my inability to raise children. Specifically, my child, codename: Bug. I'd be surprised if the blog didn't also touch on popular culture. As in:

DEREK: Have you seen the new Tarantino flick? Stunning!

ME: Fuck you Derek! Fuck you and your capitalised name. I've not been to the cinema in 15 long months! What do you want to discuss next, my tiny wee penis?

And so on.

But mostly Bug. Bug and the missus, codename: Bear.



1: A cause of obsessive fear, anxiety, or irritation.


So yes. This is my first blog. It could also be my last. Let's see how things go.



The fucking cat, codename: bastard. All it ever does is shove its ass in my face like it's a two bit whore wanting me to pop a pouch of Felix down its pants. Fuck you cat. And fuck you alliteration.


I'm likely to swear quite a bit on here. Since Bug was born, I don't swear at home. Instead I stutter as a way of finding a word that isn't the swear I was about to say: 'George Osborne is a right c-c-c-c-c-coconut.'