Archive for April, 2012
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It was Hubby’s birthday last week and I was stuck with that annual problem of what to buy an ‘Old skool’ and un-materialistic maturing male who doesn’t want anything, unless you count a Harley Davidson (which my service station wages don’t stretch to) or to find his wife draped on a chair wearing a silky, sexy white basque (which unfortunately even lycra doesn’t stretch to these days).
The personalised card was straightforward enough though, courtesy of Moonpig and after searching through the old photo albums and scanning and uploading, I was pretty pleased with the results. However in retrospect I’m wondering if it’s a cruel move to confront a person on their later birthdays with a large, in your face image of them during their salad days! I may as well have added the caption, ‘….and this is how you used to look!’
Previous failings have included a power drill, of a brand that apparently has no place in the shed of any self respecting male, a sun strip for the car windscreen complete with our names on which apparently was strictly not allowed on the company car that we had at the time, and a t shirt that I had printed from an online company depicting one of the lines of his childhood hero Tarzan. I ask you, how is anyone supposed to know exactly how to spell ‘ungower mighty tantor’ or whatever it was? Needless to say it’s only ever been worn inside the house.
After asking google to throw up some ideas and throwing back the nose hair trimmers, musical slippers and garden kneeling pad, I settled on a selection of retro sweets. As he’s not in bad nick for his age, especially his teeth, I chose drumstick lollies, a bag of Bon Bons, a jar of fruit salads and some big refresher chews. Huge success and an imaginary pat on the back for me, although after succumbing to temptation and shoving a huge refresher into my weak teethed mouth with the sole intention of sucking it soft, I ended up resembling a rabid bulldog, all foamy and dribbly and not at all like the basque adorned birthday image that had been hoped for.
Our youngest son whose 21 made the day complete by producing his birthday offering which was a toy gun that connects to an iphone, called an appblaster and the two of them spent the whole day running round the house shooting aliens and beating each others scores, stopping only to shovel sweets in their mouths. I could have been tricked into thinking that I was hosting a kid’s party except there were no kids, no sick to clean up and no-one got smacked for showing off.
I also happened to come across a lingerie website that caters for women who want more stretch in their garments. Maybe next year’s prezzie hunting won’t be quite so difficult.
It sometimes astonishes me just how fast news travels around the interweb, didn’t think for one minute anyone would publish my story, and now I seem to be number 1 on Google news! I will just sit back and enjoy it while it lasts.
News release below for anyone interested in having a read
Just got to hope my new Cats & Dogs book ‘Collars And Catwalks‘ is a big hit with the Kindle massive, then I can make dreams a reality.
I have watched a helluva lot of football in my life. Not, I hasten to add through any choice of my own, more a bi-product of marriage and motherhood. During these matches I tend to amuse myself by making up words from the score thingy at the top of the screen, my son humours me and plays along and we text our findings to each other. My favourite to date is Arsoohul, bit childish I know. My son’s favourite is Woloowig which also works if Wigan are playing Wolves at home Wigoowol, although obviously this game only lasts until someone scores. Also, instead of choosing a ‘Man of the match’ I choose a ‘Name of the game’.
There have been a few corkers, including Pinas, Dickov and Goodwillie, oh how I entertain myself! As you can probably tell, despite watching many balls being kicked, I don’t really know very much about the beautiful game, but one thing that I can recognise for myself is the cheaty divey thing that now goes on. Even I can see that when a highly tuned athlete gets a wet slap from an equally highly tuned athlete there is no need for him to fly a whole foot in the air, unless the crowd are sneaking in spud guns that we don’t know about yet.
In my vast but very limited experience, I clearly remember when men were men and I can very quickly summon up that iconic image of Terry Butcher, all bloodied and bandaged within an inch of his life and refusing to come off. I have also watched some old 70s and 80s matches on ESPN and if you compare those players to today’s players……. Well you can’t. Those old players had way too much pride than to fall on the floor like a melting chocolate Diva or a fainting Walter Softie. You could probably have hit them with a truck and you would just have a dented truck on the pitch. So what has brought about this change in behaviour? Could it be that we have just allowed these hybrid fillies with their pampered natures to behave like woosies because there’s no longer any shame in it?
But who am I to comment, I’m just one of those women who makes up silly games and can’t get her head around the ‘If one player is in between the goal and another player’ nonsensical offside rule, but I do like a man to be a man, like the New Zealand All blacks for example.
It’s with this in mind that I have included a football poem that I wrote about my son (when he was younger) and his dad, who comes from an ‘old school’ mentality.
Win ‘em and wear ‘em
“Win ‘em and wear ‘em son”
Said me dad.
“We had far worse than that
When I was a lad.
We’d go out on that pitch all shiny and new
And by half time we’d be all black and blue.
Our captain would shout
“Get stuck in lads” so stuck in we got
And we never wore shin pads.
We had noses bloodied and ears cauliflowered
But we’d rather eat spinach
Than be branded a coward.
We wore our scars like medals we did.
Oh yes, it was different when I was a kid
We’d win it and wear it
And just grin and bear it
So get up now son, there’s a game to be won.
And if something falls off
just stick it back on.”
How not to spend a day off!
Hell yeah, a day off work! Zippety doo dah, what to do? What to do? Well firstly, there was the lie- in to enjoy and whilst being blissfully aware of it, I was of course completely unaware of it as I slept right through it and once awake, it is but a distant non- memory. But I did enjoy contemplating it the night before and toasting its future arrival with a few large vodkas in a befuddled noworkinthemorningmeansnoeffectfromnightbeforealcohol state of mind.
Trust me I fall for it every time, and by the time I switch on the telly, Jeremy Kyle is already sitting on the steps shaking his head sadly to the strains of “He’s a beep beep liar, he ent sin our daughter Bonjela for ova a year now and ‘e calls me an unfit muffa”. Well, she shouldn’t be unfit methinks. She certainly has all the fitness gear on, trainers, tracksuit and even a running cap, in fact so does poor Bonjela’s father surely they should be very fit parents. At this point Jeremy intervenes; he’s smiling now because he knows where this is going. “Do you pay towards the keep of your daughter ….er Bonjela?” (The name sticks in his throat) he asks the one with the beard.
“Ye, course I do. I send the odd fiver down to her through a mutual facebook friend” he announces proudly.
“Do you work?” Jeremy asks Beardy bloke whilst a smile is playing on his lips.
“Er, well not at the moment ‘cos I’ve bin a bit depressed ‘cos I’ve got a few problems with alcohol and weed innit!”
And then it happens, the bit of Kyle magic that stops me doing anything productive until the shows over. He begins the rant on behalf of the hard working taxpayers from all over the country, where he spits out words like ‘National disgrace’ and how he knows soldiers that are putting their lives on the line daily. He goes right in there faces to tell them that if only they had a brain cell they would think to ‘Put something on the end of it’ then, after publicly humiliating them some more by snarling ‘You completely l-a-z-y- waste of space’ he demands that they get the hell off his stage. Bloody Hero!
Anyway, I make a mental note to myself to hoover today at some point whilst I just flick through the channels to see if there’s any other crap on. Well I am bottom of a pecking order for the controls normally, so I need to keep on top of remote control skillage, I’ve heard if you don’t use it, you lose it. Oh good, there’s lots of it!
Before I know it, my wonderful longed for day off is almost over and I’ve been reduced to ‘commercial break house-working’ yet again. Damn! Nothing productive achieved, nothing learned, nothing done. I now have to race around throwing together a tea that looks like its been lovingly planned and prepared before the family get back from their busy day, whilst spraying furniture polish in the air and sweeping up the more noticeable crumbs off the floor with a dust pan and brush. I tell the dog to give the impression that he’s been for a long walk and race upstairs in the closing minuets to finally get dressed whilst mumbling that if only I had tomorrow off I could get so much done.
Also tomorrow is lie detector test day.