Wednesday, 28 March 2012


I never thought there would be a time in my life when I'd give serious consideration to the name of my daughter's nether regions. It's not a subject you can randomly pop into a conversation with friends:

DEREK: I love boobs!

ME: Hell yeah. And another thing... 

DEREK: Yeah?

ME: Fannys.

DEREK: Oooh. Go on...

ME: My daughter's fanny.

DEREK: What the...

ME: What's a good name for it?

DEREK: Jesus...

ME: We're atheists. Have another go...

Not a conversation I remember having. Yet here we are, 17 months in and in need of inspiration. I've been calling her fanny...well...fanny since she was born. Thing is, I have a sneaky suspicion it's a swear. We're not talking the level of the 'C' word (Cameron) or even the 'T' word (Tory) but a swear nonetheless.

This is okay while it's me saying it. Thing is, Bug's started saying things too. At the moment her vocabulary consists of 'star,' 'dog,' 'up,' 'bubble,' 'no' and 'good.' Do I want to add a fanny into the mix?

OLD LADY: Hello little girl!

BUG: Good bubble up dog fanny.

How do you respond to that? With caution I guess.

Bear says they're Bug's lady parts. To me that suggests she should also have gentlemen parts. Someone at work suggested 'front bottom.' Front bottom? That's mental. Front bottoms can only lead to back fannys and we all know there's no cure for that.

It is all very confusing. Do Mum's worry about this? Does the penis give them sleepless nights? Are we slipping dangerously into innuendo?

I'm not sure there's a right answer. It's not like Bug and I will look back when she's 27 and joke about the names of her privates. At least, I hope not. I don't intend to make it part of my speech at her wedding. Mainly because she's never leaving the house without me, let alone getting married.

But that's another blog.

I'm open to suggestions.

Bye for now.



We went to the beach yesterday. It's Bug's first time since she grew her walking legs. Paddling was the order of the day. Paddling and falling dramatically into sand. It was ace.


This is a truly wonderful blog I stumbled on while trying to see what other Dad's write about:

Friday, 23 March 2012

Me Too? No thanks.

I'm going to discuss books and TV a lot in this blog. Bear calls me the Charlie Brooker of kids' entertainment. I take it as the compliment it wasn't intended. There's a lot of stuff that's excellent. I'll leave that for another day. Today we'll look at a TV programme described as 'absolutely fucking gash' by at least one toddler. It's on Cbeebies and is called Me Too.

The basic premise of the show, as far as I can tell, is that recently kidnapped children are sold into a child porn ring headed by the wicked Granny Murray. Here's the cast in a lovely photo. Granny Murray is the one in the perpetually stripy sweater:

The characters wear the same clothes in every episode, which wouldn't be so bad only it looks like they rifled through their mother's clothes drawer right before they murdered her.

After abandoning the children at Granny Murray's basement flat/dungeon, we follow the kidnappers as they go about their normal day. Here the show alternates between Granny Murray's dungeon and the kidnapper's place of work. Dungeon children look rightly terrified. Granny Murray forces them to do a series of dance numbers as she sits in a chair clapping her hands and rubbing her thighs. Cut to Ray, the train buffet car manager, singing a jaunty song about his trip to work. Here it is, and bare in mind that seconds earlier he left a terrified child with a certified nutter:

Back at Granny Murray's and she's having a meltdown because she only has nine hours to make a cup of tea.

Cut to Dr. Juno who recently left her beloved dog at Granny Murray's for no apparent reason I can think of other than the show's makers had ran out of children. Dr. Juno's shouting abuse at patients before abandoning them on the operating table to die so she can sing a song about cake. Part of the lyrics are:

there's lots of excitement in the hospital,
machines are buzzing just to give us a thrill.

What? The machines in the hospital buzz solely to give the staff a thrill?

NURSE:        Dr. Juno! Dr. Juno!

DR. JUNO:    What Nurse?

NURSE:        This man's flatlining!

DR. JUNO:    Parteeeey!

(The nurse and Dr. Juno dance around the heart monitor. Other members of staff poke their heads around the door saying things like 'do I hear a flatline?' before cracking open a can of lager)

Okay, maybe I made that last bit up. I wish I could say the same about the lyrics.

Me Too is utterly awful. There's not one believable character in it, the songs are horrific and Granny Murray is clearly insane.

I am not a fan.

Other people are.

The world is truly weird.

Bye for now.

Sunday, 18 March 2012

Trips to the museum

We often go to the National Museum of Scotland. We go almost every week. The last time was a few days ago with friends both big and small. It reopened in 2011 and I'd recommend it to anyone with a morning to spare. It's free, for starters, and children are well accommodated for with good baby changing facilities and lots of space for little legs to run amok.

There's a full size elephant and camel near the entrance. Every time we go, Bug runs in, does a respectful Nazi salute to the elephant and then shouts at it. She then runs over to the camel and shouts at that. The next 20 minutes are spent with her running between the two shouting louder and louder at each of them. I like to think she's winding them up:

BUG (to the elephant):                    The camel says you're fat!
ELEPHANT (looking guilty)             I have put on a few pounds. How embarrassing. 
BUG (running back to the camel):  The elephant called you a twat!

And so on.

When she tires of annoying the National Museum's large stuffed animals, she finds flight after flight of stairs to pound up and down.

There's lots of stairs. Up and down we go. Up and down.

Her will is strong, but her legs are small so dear old Dad pounds the stairs too.

Up and down. Up and down.

It gets so the only history I'm seeing is my life as if flashes before my eyes due to the tingling sensation down my left side. I often scoop her up and use my last energy reserves in a mad dash to the camel baiting room in the hope of a distraction.

"You again!" she shouts at the camel.

This week we ate lunch in the hall for groups. There were four of us, counting the kids. Four makes a group: The Four Tops, The Beatles, The Teletubbies. Fours. According to The National Museum of Scotland, our foursome didn't reach the prerequisites of a group. More the girls from Sex in the City than The Beatles. A stern employee told us, after we'd finished eating, that the room was only for groups of school children.

They had highchairs. I know this as Bug ate lunch in one. Now, I'm not one for judging (I am) but if Scotland's child pregancy rate is so high that there's need for highchairs in a room used by 8 year old boys in shorts then the words 'put your knob away Timmy and eat your vegetables' may be needed to be used more often. The issue of the highchairs was pointed out by my friend. Stern employee  had the good grace to mumble incoherently before fucking off.

This aside we loved our day out.

Here ends a party political broadcast for the National Museum of Scotland. Other father/daughter activities are available.

Bye for now.



I took this photo outside the museum on our first visit a few months back. We watched these three gents work for 10 minutes. We're not some kind of work watching perverts, we were simply early. One bloke swept the litter, one picked it up, and one held a rubbish bag. It made us laugh.

Saturday, 10 March 2012

Smile and wave boys. Smile and wave.

A few months back I complained bitterly via Facebook about folk not waving after Bug had waved like a mental at them. My exact words were 'you're all a set of miserable bastards who couldn't spot a wave in a tsunami.' I couldn't understand why people failed to wave. It made no sense. Here's this little girl learning about social interactions at nine months old. Here's the world ignoring her. A grump was well and truly afoot. It never occurred to me that maybe the world hadn't seen her. She was small with smaller waves, and anyway, defensive is a Dad's middle name.

She's sixteen months old now, or as I like to call it: a year. I've been saying 'a year' for the past four months. I am King Denial when it comes to Bug growing up. When she's twenty seven I'll be telling people she's just big for her age while trying to squeeze her squidgy bum into a baby grow. Speaking of which, yesterday I was talking to our neighbour.  He's expecting his first wee one in a couple of months. I had Bug in a sling. He pointed to it and said "I'd like to get a sling."
          "They're ace," I said. "She's getting a bit heavy for it but still..."
          "Yes. I bet you like the cuddles."
          "I do," I replied. "She'll be in here when she's twenty seven!"
          He smiled. I got carried away:
          "Just call me Fritzl. Haha!"
           He hasn't spoken to me since.

Back to waving. Bug's big now with bigger waves. When she starts it's difficult to miss and people respond. Bug gets more new waves than an 80s teenager! The thing that amazes me is the type of folk who wave back. At the traffic lights last week there was a white van. In it sat two of the roughest looking bastards you'd never want to meet. Hanging out of the window was a dog that looked like it had gone paw-to-paw with the hound of the Baskervilles and won. Bug clocked the dog and gave it an excited wave. The two psychos noticed Bug and gave her a big wave back. The dog barked happily and waggled its tail. Bug gave a happy chirp and off on our day we went. It was Disney done by Guy Ritchie.

She gets waves by mistake too. Bug can spot dog a mile off. She has dog-sense. At the park she waved madly at a dog on the horizon. The homeless gent stumbling towards us didn't know this and gave her a huge grin and a wave. It's very hard to give a wave back so I pocketed it for later and smiled.

I love that she makes people happy. It's like folks get to experience -- in those few seconds -- what I get every day.

Bye for now.


Bug's learnt to shake her head when she doesn't like something. Turns out there's a lot she doesn't like. Who knew eh?

Monday, 5 March 2012

A bag of Poppins

Not long after we got together, Bear and I went to Madrid. She organised travel; accommodation was down to me. Weeks before we flew she'd booked flights. I waited until the day before and booked a hotel: bargain price and in the centre of Madrid with lovely views.

I smugly told Bear the price and location.

Turned out the lovely views were views of lovely breasts. Lovely Spanish breasts and legs. Breasts and legs and the occasional slipped fanny. The hotel was in the middle of the sexy district. The manager looked perplexed when told we wanted the room for longer than a hour. 

This is a microcosm of our relationship: Bear plans, organises and leaves very little to chance. I go on holidays with prostitutes.

Which leads me directly to nappy bags. Obviously. During my Bug days, the nappy bag consists of nappies, wipes, a cup, a bottle of water, and a banana. That's me planning for all eventualities: nappies, wipes, a cup, a bottle of water, and a banana. 

It's as if I can't imagine a situation when one of these aren't going to be useful. If someone said to me 'what happens if Bug needs a change of clothes?' then I'd waggle the banana at them and wink knowingly. That's winking knowingly, never to be confused with the suggestive wink. Never waggle your banana at a stranger while winking suggestively. While we're at it: never waggle your banana at a stranger while wanking suggestively, although in this situation a waggling banana should be the last of your worries.

Sorry. I digress. Too much caffeine.

Nappy bags.

I look after Bug Monday to Wednesday. Bear does Thursday to Sunday. The Wednesday night air in our flat is full of Bear sighs as she adds to the nappy bag all the things she thinks she'll need over the next four days. Things like Calpol and tissues and plasters and toys and snacks. The adding of a spare set of clothes elicits a knowing banana waggle from me. She sighs.

Every Sunday finds me emptying the contents of the nappy bag across the living room floor, discarding almost everything she's added over the past four days. More sighs are given.

I get a lot of sighs, mostly deserved. I'd be lost without her: a banana is no substitute for a clean pair of leggings.

I'd like that to be my epitaph.

Bye for now.