SATURDAY 30th OCTOBER: In between being That-Woman-Who-Barely-Contains-Her-Bile-And-Hisses-At-Her-Small-Child-Through-Clenched-Teeth-In-Sainsbury's and That-Perfect-Smiling-Devoted-Pinny-Smoother-Encircled-By-Perfect-Smiling-Rosy-Little-Faces, there had to be a little work. I won't burden you. But there was more hissing. Possibly a little shouting. A sprinkling of screaming. And the merest hint of bi-polar implosion. But we made it through our 'traditional' (????????) Halloween family love-in. We got big pumpkins, we got little pumpkins (oh yes they bloody are - 'squash' is not for the likes of us). We got sweeties. We got a deluded madwoman determined to make this a Lovely-Bloody-Evening-For-Everyone!!!!!! Bit more hissing......
This IS our damned tradition. At least I tried to initiate this lantern-lit garden sweetie hunt last year. They all want to do that Trick or Treat lark. We don't have neighbours. We don't have many invitations either. Following Daddy out the back gate and round to the front door, (leaving Mummy just enough time to grab sweets, a wig and scary lipstick to answer the knock with a cackle), just wasn't going to cut it this year. Last year I managed to sell Minx for the night to ToT with a chum in her street. Result! This still left 3 boys. On a roll we sold them to Nanny and Grandad while Mr GPants and I scarpered to see Steve Earle playing over in Croydon - (scary enough). I lovingly prepared separate decorated bags of sweeties for each and quietly asked Grandad to hide them all in their garden and let them go out with their little carved lanterns to seek them out. Caring and Creative Mother Rewards surely a given.....
So did you go out in Grandad's garden with your lanterns last night?
No Grandad had his torch.
Oh. Well did it take you long to find all the sweeties?
Nah. Grandad hung them in the tree by the front door.
Hung them?
Yeah. He hung the Tesco's bag you gave him in the tree.
Oh...... Good ol' Grandad.
Cut to this year and the cute sight of 4 excited little moppets scuttling through the back door, swinging their lanterns like it's 1967 down the Kings Road.... Their mission: find all 5 spooky picture bags full of sweeties - pumpkin, spider, skull, bat and ghost. Just one each!!! Just ONE!!! How many skulls have you got there? No I'm not relighting that damn lantern again. Just put the bloody thing down, find the friggin' sweets and let's get back inside for the 2nd half of TV Burp. Oh and have you all found your extra secret treat thing too? Well where did you put it? Yes I know you don't like the popping candy ones but there's a normal one for you - oh just go and look near the fence. Yes it bloody is! On the post! Oh for gods' sake THERE! COME ON!!!
Back inside, ready for my shiny pinny-smoothing moment..... 'Mu-um! You KNOW we don't like these ones!!! Sp - sp - spl - spleugh.... '
Still working on the multi-coloured striped jellies. Think I'll pour them down their pants.
But tonight it is ACTUAL Halloween night and I have managed again to sell Minx to her chum AND secure an invitation to a ToT party for the boys. Yes, MY boys.
I'll let you know......
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Friday, 29 October 2010
Been a Long Time Been a Long Time Been a Long ohhh you know.....
Dunno what I've been up to all this time. Seems like about a year since I've switched on the damned 'puter. Don't know what I've got to show for all my busy-ness. But I'll think of something. When the kids haven't just put 'The Middle' on telly. Maybe I'll just have a peek at my diary, except that my pen ran out the other night and... oh yeah I think I kind of got stuck on last Sunday. Or maybe it was the Sunday before that. Either way..... But I had cyber-scribbled a little list of 'things' that must have meant something. It went kind of like... plums, spiders, toes, sewing box, mooncup, Match Attax, Essex and it rounded off with a question: Why are all my favourite songs about murdering your lover?
These little insights into my own brain are not enlightening.
I'm off again. Got to put tealights into horrifically mutilated pumpkins. Oh yeah - we did pumpkins! I remembered something! I also made pumpkin soup. It was OK. Not as good as my friend's pumpkin soup that she even brought on our last nature walk thing of the year (god was that only yesterday?) - in a big pot, with lots of cups for everyone, carefully wheeled about in a pushchair all day til we found a suitable lunch log. That's pumpkin soup dedication. And the chap who does all the knowledgeable talky stuff's dog did all the washing up too. I have to do my own washing up. And fish out slimy seeds to put in pots to grow our own next year (yeah.... I'll SO do that). (Really ought to fish out slimy fish from a totally opaque bowl. Yeah.... ) 4-way pumpkin scraping and scooping and souping and slurping is enough slime for one day. And 4 mini ones to make into lanterns for garden sweetie hunting tomorrow night too. What am I like? I swallow all this 'traditional' stuff whole. We never did pumpkins when I was a kid. I never tasted a pumpkin til I was prob in my 30s. I did make a spider out of pipe cleaners and a cotton reel once 'cos I saw it on Play School. I scampered into the lounge that afternoon with boinging it on a bit of elastic shouting 'Bouncy bouncy weeee!' to find a priest standing there with his arms raised blessing the house. Something to do with the then fashion of having a mass said in the warmth of the parishioners' houses. Thankfully this phase didn't last long. I know my mum was probably bullied into it somehow - really not her cup of tea that sort of thing. Way too sociable. But she did have a soft spot for this old boy (the priest man). Thinking back I reckon he was the only one of That Lot Up The Road who remained sober for very long. There always seemed to be a trail of staggering men in black. Very often from our house. What was I talking about? Plums, spiders..... Don't recall anything about drunk god botherers. Oh - Halloween memories it was. Think it's time to go. I'll try to have a think about something more coherent while I'm extinguishing the fire I'm about to start over on Mantlepiece No 2.
Coming darling.... Oh actually I think we've got the same problem as Birthday Season. I wonder if Minx has started smoking yet.
Got any matches?
Why not? You're 11 already!
These little insights into my own brain are not enlightening.
I'm off again. Got to put tealights into horrifically mutilated pumpkins. Oh yeah - we did pumpkins! I remembered something! I also made pumpkin soup. It was OK. Not as good as my friend's pumpkin soup that she even brought on our last nature walk thing of the year (god was that only yesterday?) - in a big pot, with lots of cups for everyone, carefully wheeled about in a pushchair all day til we found a suitable lunch log. That's pumpkin soup dedication. And the chap who does all the knowledgeable talky stuff's dog did all the washing up too. I have to do my own washing up. And fish out slimy seeds to put in pots to grow our own next year (yeah.... I'll SO do that). (Really ought to fish out slimy fish from a totally opaque bowl. Yeah.... ) 4-way pumpkin scraping and scooping and souping and slurping is enough slime for one day. And 4 mini ones to make into lanterns for garden sweetie hunting tomorrow night too. What am I like? I swallow all this 'traditional' stuff whole. We never did pumpkins when I was a kid. I never tasted a pumpkin til I was prob in my 30s. I did make a spider out of pipe cleaners and a cotton reel once 'cos I saw it on Play School. I scampered into the lounge that afternoon with boinging it on a bit of elastic shouting 'Bouncy bouncy weeee!' to find a priest standing there with his arms raised blessing the house. Something to do with the then fashion of having a mass said in the warmth of the parishioners' houses. Thankfully this phase didn't last long. I know my mum was probably bullied into it somehow - really not her cup of tea that sort of thing. Way too sociable. But she did have a soft spot for this old boy (the priest man). Thinking back I reckon he was the only one of That Lot Up The Road who remained sober for very long. There always seemed to be a trail of staggering men in black. Very often from our house. What was I talking about? Plums, spiders..... Don't recall anything about drunk god botherers. Oh - Halloween memories it was. Think it's time to go. I'll try to have a think about something more coherent while I'm extinguishing the fire I'm about to start over on Mantlepiece No 2.
Coming darling.... Oh actually I think we've got the same problem as Birthday Season. I wonder if Minx has started smoking yet.
Got any matches?
Why not? You're 11 already!
Sunday, 10 October 2010
Ta Ta and thanks for all the peas...
Wot wiv all my ranting of late, I forgot to announce the recent demise of ....What-was-its-bloody-name.
The fish thing. Minx's fishy. Fishy..... Hhhhhh....
It did have a name to start, which has slipped my goldfish bowl brain. But being a fish of very little brain itself, it soon began to gather as many pseudonyms as ... well, me. (I have a diff mon for every blinkin' thing I do. Easier that way. Leave no trail....)
It got fat very quickly. So obviously got called Fat Fucker. It kept pretending to be dead - always floating upside down near the surface. So I started calling it Harold (as in And Maude). Little Rock Godling called it Max. Which was quite funny as it was at its Max weight. He also called his own fish Max. When Thuglet finally got 2 tiny minnows to go in the orb, he called them Max too. Minx called it many interesting girl kinda names. So interesting I can't remember a single one. Mr GPants called it every name under the sun. He was the one who had to keep scooping it out and feeding it peas. It spent its last few days back in solitary. Just him and the peas. With a bit of plant stuff for entertainment. (A bit like childhood of old really). This then earned him a new name - the Cooler King.
And now The King has left the building.
Last Sunday, during a break in the torrentials, Minx skipped out into the garden and dug him a little grave, laid him to rest and scattered flowers. 'Done it.' Back on Facebook. Sorted.
We all felt compelled to make it into a bit more of a ceremony. Got to give the little sod a proper send off. I've presided over many a fishy funeral before. Student days. We had a viking burial, a funeral pyre, a trebuchet-style launching.... Come on. Crocs on. All stood round. 'Anyone know a fishy song?' LRG put his hands together all holylike. Dunno who's house he's got that from. Must've been on Spongebob.
Mr GPants started 'Who shall have the fishy...' ohh-ooh good one! 'On the little dishy...' Altogether now - 'Who shall have the fantail when the boowat cooms in?'
LRG sweetly sang '12345 once I caught a fish alive...' And Thuglet sang 'Happy Birthday'. All very fitting. Then we took pictures of our feet around the graveside. Then we started fighting over the camera. Then I went inside and slammed the door.....
One down, 4 to go.
The fish thing. Minx's fishy. Fishy..... Hhhhhh....
It did have a name to start, which has slipped my goldfish bowl brain. But being a fish of very little brain itself, it soon began to gather as many pseudonyms as ... well, me. (I have a diff mon for every blinkin' thing I do. Easier that way. Leave no trail....)
It got fat very quickly. So obviously got called Fat Fucker. It kept pretending to be dead - always floating upside down near the surface. So I started calling it Harold (as in And Maude). Little Rock Godling called it Max. Which was quite funny as it was at its Max weight. He also called his own fish Max. When Thuglet finally got 2 tiny minnows to go in the orb, he called them Max too. Minx called it many interesting girl kinda names. So interesting I can't remember a single one. Mr GPants called it every name under the sun. He was the one who had to keep scooping it out and feeding it peas. It spent its last few days back in solitary. Just him and the peas. With a bit of plant stuff for entertainment. (A bit like childhood of old really). This then earned him a new name - the Cooler King.
And now The King has left the building.
Last Sunday, during a break in the torrentials, Minx skipped out into the garden and dug him a little grave, laid him to rest and scattered flowers. 'Done it.' Back on Facebook. Sorted.
We all felt compelled to make it into a bit more of a ceremony. Got to give the little sod a proper send off. I've presided over many a fishy funeral before. Student days. We had a viking burial, a funeral pyre, a trebuchet-style launching.... Come on. Crocs on. All stood round. 'Anyone know a fishy song?' LRG put his hands together all holylike. Dunno who's house he's got that from. Must've been on Spongebob.
Mr GPants started 'Who shall have the fishy...' ohh-ooh good one! 'On the little dishy...' Altogether now - 'Who shall have the fantail when the boowat cooms in?'
LRG sweetly sang '12345 once I caught a fish alive...' And Thuglet sang 'Happy Birthday'. All very fitting. Then we took pictures of our feet around the graveside. Then we started fighting over the camera. Then I went inside and slammed the door.....
One down, 4 to go.
Saturday, 9 October 2010
One for the Toad
Coming home late the other night I was beaten through the back door by a toad. A real beauty. Don't get rated on their looks too much do toads. I think that's a shame. Our friend was big and gorgeous. Got Honey Badger Boy to scoop him up in a big bowl so we could take a picture before Mr GPants escorted him to the other side of the 'Fuck! He's jumped out!' Ah well. It was outside again at least. Keep meaning to look up those nice amphibian people I mentioned before and be all Citizen Scientisty with my latest sighting. Yeah - like, tomorrow...
The toad theme is echoing somehow. The show on near Xmas this year at our nice cosy theatre is The Adventures of Mr Toad. Now I like to take the little sodlets to see a show at Xmas, and I like to do followy-uppy things so something about a toad seems perfect right? And we're getting a schools rate discount. So what's the grief?
I fucking hate The Wind in the Willows.
So I'm busy texting the friend who's organising it. Minx, at their house, has said she wants to go, so I feel guilty enough to ask the boys what they think. Stupid. 'Right, does anyone want to see a show with like people dressed up as a toad and stuff?' Really stupid. This sounds cool to small boys. Bugger. At least Honey Badger Boy screws up his face and says 'Nah'. Was a bit worried there as he's the real animal-obsessor. Safeish ground tho' on the 'show' front - it's inside, you have to sit down, and it's usually a bit crap. Why did I ask the small ones tho'? They say 'Yes' to everything.
Mr GPants comes back. Thoughts pop up.
'Do you like The Wind in the Willows?
'No I fucking hate it. Posh boys shit.' - with added wanking hand signals.
Bugger. I text back 'Can Minx go with you?' I tell the boys 'Shame.... all the tickets have gone.'
Did I dun good or is I a bad bitch? I did consider it see? The make-up might be cool.... But I faltered at the point where I imagined me handing over money. I stumbled when I thought about luvvies in latex and tweed. I choked when I heard the first throaty jolly lines in my head. No. I can't do this.
I really can't do Wind in the fucking Willows.
Nor can I do Enid bleedin' Blyton. Or Alan twatting Bennett. I sometimes wonder if I am English at all? I also hate Wimbledon wankin' tennis. And The Last Night at the poxy Proms. Especially Pomp and cocksucking Circumstance. I hate David dickhead Dimbleby. Alan titface Titchmarsh. Both these last 2 could be described as 'toady' - no way! My toady was lovely. The English language is weird. The English are weird. Especially things considered 'quintessentially English'. Instant repulsion. Back to my hate list then... Chuffin' Chaucer. The bloody Boat Race. Blue pissin' Peter. In fact most of Radio knobbin' 4 is wank - even the bits I like (the dour pauses and tweety bird sounds whenever they do an OB). Not interested in the rancid Royals at all, or the arse-roll newspapers they appear in - whether they're 'toadying' (no!) to them or issuing poison. Nor do I have any time to waste (sliding further down the slimy scale) over the likes of Damian h'wanker Hirst, or Florence felchin' Welch or anyone from a shitty gritty Soap or or ANYTHING. I don't even like The chirpy bastard Beatles.
So what'cha gonna do? Slam me in the stocks outside the Albert Hall and pelt me with roast beef, yorkshire pudding and builders' tea whilst Vera Lynn sings The White Cliffs of Dover in a tin hat?
I'm gonna stay in my little 18th Century English farmhouse and be all English in my own way. I'm gonna drink Columbian coffee; eat curry, pasta and pain au chocolat; listen to Country & Western; wear clobber made in Asia somewhere; start that Stieg Larsson book and watch Match of the Day.
Having a laugh at the idea of the Commonwealth Games tho'. Mr GPants can't really believe it's still going. Just the word 'common-wealth' makes him ramble on about our dodgy history shenanigans til we're praying for Billy Bragg to crop up somewhere for some light relief. He thinks it's all a bit 'we are still the British Empire'-y and especially rubbish 'cos most of the winners wouldn't win if it was the Olympics. Not sure what I think. It's nice the competitors get a chance to do their stuff I suppose. And at least when someone English wins they now play 'Jerusalem' instead of God Save the cakkin' Queen.
I know it's still got god references but.... it's William Blake. Now I like him.
The toad theme is echoing somehow. The show on near Xmas this year at our nice cosy theatre is The Adventures of Mr Toad. Now I like to take the little sodlets to see a show at Xmas, and I like to do followy-uppy things so something about a toad seems perfect right? And we're getting a schools rate discount. So what's the grief?
I fucking hate The Wind in the Willows.
So I'm busy texting the friend who's organising it. Minx, at their house, has said she wants to go, so I feel guilty enough to ask the boys what they think. Stupid. 'Right, does anyone want to see a show with like people dressed up as a toad and stuff?' Really stupid. This sounds cool to small boys. Bugger. At least Honey Badger Boy screws up his face and says 'Nah'. Was a bit worried there as he's the real animal-obsessor. Safeish ground tho' on the 'show' front - it's inside, you have to sit down, and it's usually a bit crap. Why did I ask the small ones tho'? They say 'Yes' to everything.
Mr GPants comes back. Thoughts pop up.
'Do you like The Wind in the Willows?
'No I fucking hate it. Posh boys shit.' - with added wanking hand signals.
Bugger. I text back 'Can Minx go with you?' I tell the boys 'Shame.... all the tickets have gone.'
Did I dun good or is I a bad bitch? I did consider it see? The make-up might be cool.... But I faltered at the point where I imagined me handing over money. I stumbled when I thought about luvvies in latex and tweed. I choked when I heard the first throaty jolly lines in my head. No. I can't do this.
I really can't do Wind in the fucking Willows.
Nor can I do Enid bleedin' Blyton. Or Alan twatting Bennett. I sometimes wonder if I am English at all? I also hate Wimbledon wankin' tennis. And The Last Night at the poxy Proms. Especially Pomp and cocksucking Circumstance. I hate David dickhead Dimbleby. Alan titface Titchmarsh. Both these last 2 could be described as 'toady' - no way! My toady was lovely. The English language is weird. The English are weird. Especially things considered 'quintessentially English'. Instant repulsion. Back to my hate list then... Chuffin' Chaucer. The bloody Boat Race. Blue pissin' Peter. In fact most of Radio knobbin' 4 is wank - even the bits I like (the dour pauses and tweety bird sounds whenever they do an OB). Not interested in the rancid Royals at all, or the arse-roll newspapers they appear in - whether they're 'toadying' (no!) to them or issuing poison. Nor do I have any time to waste (sliding further down the slimy scale) over the likes of Damian h'wanker Hirst, or Florence felchin' Welch or anyone from a shitty gritty Soap or or ANYTHING. I don't even like The chirpy bastard Beatles.
So what'cha gonna do? Slam me in the stocks outside the Albert Hall and pelt me with roast beef, yorkshire pudding and builders' tea whilst Vera Lynn sings The White Cliffs of Dover in a tin hat?
I'm gonna stay in my little 18th Century English farmhouse and be all English in my own way. I'm gonna drink Columbian coffee; eat curry, pasta and pain au chocolat; listen to Country & Western; wear clobber made in Asia somewhere; start that Stieg Larsson book and watch Match of the Day.
Having a laugh at the idea of the Commonwealth Games tho'. Mr GPants can't really believe it's still going. Just the word 'common-wealth' makes him ramble on about our dodgy history shenanigans til we're praying for Billy Bragg to crop up somewhere for some light relief. He thinks it's all a bit 'we are still the British Empire'-y and especially rubbish 'cos most of the winners wouldn't win if it was the Olympics. Not sure what I think. It's nice the competitors get a chance to do their stuff I suppose. And at least when someone English wins they now play 'Jerusalem' instead of God Save the cakkin' Queen.
I know it's still got god references but.... it's William Blake. Now I like him.
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
Hey - we have an achiever here!
Obviously not me. But you knew that already. No - it is my Minx. She has passed her Level 2 ice skating test after SUCH MUCH dragging of bladed heels in the Field Moves department 'But I hate them! They're boring!' Every bleedin' lesson she got them wrong. On the wrong edge, arms all wrong, bottom sticking out instead of knees bent and she can't count..... Wrong Wrong Wrong!!!!! Then last Thursday we squeezed in an extra lesson and she finally gets it right! Yay! Wednesday's test will be OK after all. Tuesday's lesson - Wrong Wrong Wrong!!!!!!! Oh fuck she's crap. But today..... bottoms up! Got through! Worth getting up at 4.30am for and driving for an hour and a half in teeming rain for and hanging around the coldest place on earth for another 3 hours for? Oh yes. Especially as none of that applied to me. I did wave her and Daddy off at about 5am - or something - nagged about leg warmers and a thicker jumper, then went back to bed. I know where I truly belong.
I also know where I truly don't belong. It is getting more and more clear that I do not belong in a Michael Jackson-style Street Dance class. I am becoming more and more lost and unbalanced with each week. I have now resorted to being the disruptive element (disruptive elephant would be more accurate) in the back row who this week finished on her knackered knees in tear-streaked hysterics at her own ineptitude while everyone else was perfecting their moonwalk. I did resist performing my own signature move - the moon. Only because by then I couldn't use my arms effectively. All that pointing, dragging and grabbing ...... I just can't be taking this seriously. Everyone else looks kinda cool but I look like ...well, exactly what I am: a slightly plump uncoordinated mutton-as-lamb fool. Normally I don't care. Don't go in for mirrors much in this house. The dance studio is ALL MIRROR!!!! I do not belong there!!!!!!!!!
Dancing is not for the post-birthers. I have said it before. It is some kind of chemical reaction that occurs when things that are really too big to be anywhere near your lady bits get squeezed out from there and leave your entire body suddenly incapable of cool moves ever again. I'm sure David Attenborough must've done a programme on it - the natural cycle of doing dancing to attract a partner so you can do procreating and when you've done that, the dancing reflex is lost immediately. No longer biologically necessary.
I think being cool is very much over-rated anyway. As is cleanliness, appropriate humour, sympathy for illness, nutrition..... This family is never going to get on Blue Peter.
To prove my point I shall list our latest fun and games - (Oh the funny things they say!!!!!! Just don't repeat any of this to Social Services.) Here goes:
I may have previously mentioned my Little Rock Godling's aversion to hygiene. I asked him the other day 'When did you last have a bath?' Shrug. Rest of family unusually quiet. All thinking. Nope. No bells ringing. 'When did you last change your pants?' I can hear the wind whistling down the old chimney. Dim echoes of ghostly ticking. 'Hmmmnn ....' A minute later I've got him on my lap and despite his history he is still unbelieveably edible. 'Oh I'm going to eat you all up.... but maybe when you're clean.' 'Yes' he replies 'Or I'll be itchy butt flavour.'
Last week at my mum's we were playing 'Tell Me' - (where you spin a dial thing and it lands on a letter and you ask a question and then you have to give an answer beginning with that letter - family funfunfun...) The letter was 'u'. The question was 'Something you would find underground'. Hmmmmmmn...... Minx came up with 'Uncle Brian'. Gallows humour from an 11 year old. That silent hysteria again took hold. The sort of laughing that you do when you're really not allowed to. The sort that hurts your stomach and ruins your mascara. It may have been 4 years now but my mum was really not ready to see the funny side. Which of course made it way more funny. Ow.
In the park yesterday one of the mums was looking out for another's little girl when she needed a wee. The toilets were a hike. 'Would you do a wild wee?' Blank look. 'Like in the bushes or something?' Frowning now. 'Um.... when you and mummy go for walks in a country park say, and you need a wee, where would you wee then?' 'In the stinging nettles.'
And I can add another Vom Notch on the side of my car. Same seat. Different little friend. Same journey (the big one - the ice rink at dawn's crack). Same 'Woof-Splatt!' noise. The same reaction. 'Open the window, give him a wet wipe, we're running late.' I'm gonna get a reputation. A different one!
And before you know it it's bloody dinner time again and I just can't be fucked.
As I said, it's all over-rated.
And the childishness doesn't stop when we finally get to bed. Thankfully I can't recall how the converstion got started but it led to a new puerile game: substitute the word 'spunk' for the word 'love' in all your favourite song titles. Here are just a few:
Spunk Me Do
This Guy's In Spunk
Spunk Hurts
Baby Spunk
SpunkChild
How Deep is your Spunk?
Spunk Letters in the Sand
Hot Spunk
Yummy Yummy Yummy I've got Spunk in My Tummy
Spunk Me Spunk My Dog
Ever Fallen in Spunk With Someone You Shouldn't've Fallen in Spunk With........
There were more but it was late...... memory not what it was. Thank fuck. But none of these titles match up to Little Rock Godling's lastest list of his songs for his band 'Skulls On Fire':
I've Never Been Nine
Skull On Fire
Dirt Case
I Don't Have to be the Biggest Wanker
He's going to go far that boy. I hope he'll remember his old ma for all her love and support when he's swathed in groupies beside his LA pool. 'And this one's dedicated to my dear mother' ........... I can't begin to imagine where it can go from here. But to be honest, with parents like us the poor little sod doesn't really stand a chance.
I can already hear the stadium ringing with the chants of 'Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!.....'
I'll be bursting with pride. That's MY wanker up there! 'Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!.....'
Oops..... * * STOP PRESS * * I've made an error on LRG's song title No 2: this should read We Are Skulls On Fire
I hope this now makes perfect sense.
The ill-informed researcher in question has now been dealt with in accordance with the rules of the house. Back to the poo mines for me.
I also know where I truly don't belong. It is getting more and more clear that I do not belong in a Michael Jackson-style Street Dance class. I am becoming more and more lost and unbalanced with each week. I have now resorted to being the disruptive element (disruptive elephant would be more accurate) in the back row who this week finished on her knackered knees in tear-streaked hysterics at her own ineptitude while everyone else was perfecting their moonwalk. I did resist performing my own signature move - the moon. Only because by then I couldn't use my arms effectively. All that pointing, dragging and grabbing ...... I just can't be taking this seriously. Everyone else looks kinda cool but I look like ...well, exactly what I am: a slightly plump uncoordinated mutton-as-lamb fool. Normally I don't care. Don't go in for mirrors much in this house. The dance studio is ALL MIRROR!!!! I do not belong there!!!!!!!!!
Dancing is not for the post-birthers. I have said it before. It is some kind of chemical reaction that occurs when things that are really too big to be anywhere near your lady bits get squeezed out from there and leave your entire body suddenly incapable of cool moves ever again. I'm sure David Attenborough must've done a programme on it - the natural cycle of doing dancing to attract a partner so you can do procreating and when you've done that, the dancing reflex is lost immediately. No longer biologically necessary.
I think being cool is very much over-rated anyway. As is cleanliness, appropriate humour, sympathy for illness, nutrition..... This family is never going to get on Blue Peter.
To prove my point I shall list our latest fun and games - (Oh the funny things they say!!!!!! Just don't repeat any of this to Social Services.) Here goes:
I may have previously mentioned my Little Rock Godling's aversion to hygiene. I asked him the other day 'When did you last have a bath?' Shrug. Rest of family unusually quiet. All thinking. Nope. No bells ringing. 'When did you last change your pants?' I can hear the wind whistling down the old chimney. Dim echoes of ghostly ticking. 'Hmmmnn ....' A minute later I've got him on my lap and despite his history he is still unbelieveably edible. 'Oh I'm going to eat you all up.... but maybe when you're clean.' 'Yes' he replies 'Or I'll be itchy butt flavour.'
Last week at my mum's we were playing 'Tell Me' - (where you spin a dial thing and it lands on a letter and you ask a question and then you have to give an answer beginning with that letter - family funfunfun...) The letter was 'u'. The question was 'Something you would find underground'. Hmmmmmmn...... Minx came up with 'Uncle Brian'. Gallows humour from an 11 year old. That silent hysteria again took hold. The sort of laughing that you do when you're really not allowed to. The sort that hurts your stomach and ruins your mascara. It may have been 4 years now but my mum was really not ready to see the funny side. Which of course made it way more funny. Ow.
In the park yesterday one of the mums was looking out for another's little girl when she needed a wee. The toilets were a hike. 'Would you do a wild wee?' Blank look. 'Like in the bushes or something?' Frowning now. 'Um.... when you and mummy go for walks in a country park say, and you need a wee, where would you wee then?' 'In the stinging nettles.'
And I can add another Vom Notch on the side of my car. Same seat. Different little friend. Same journey (the big one - the ice rink at dawn's crack). Same 'Woof-Splatt!' noise. The same reaction. 'Open the window, give him a wet wipe, we're running late.' I'm gonna get a reputation. A different one!
And before you know it it's bloody dinner time again and I just can't be fucked.
As I said, it's all over-rated.
And the childishness doesn't stop when we finally get to bed. Thankfully I can't recall how the converstion got started but it led to a new puerile game: substitute the word 'spunk' for the word 'love' in all your favourite song titles. Here are just a few:
Spunk Me Do
This Guy's In Spunk
Spunk Hurts
Baby Spunk
SpunkChild
How Deep is your Spunk?
Spunk Letters in the Sand
Hot Spunk
Yummy Yummy Yummy I've got Spunk in My Tummy
Spunk Me Spunk My Dog
Ever Fallen in Spunk With Someone You Shouldn't've Fallen in Spunk With........
There were more but it was late...... memory not what it was. Thank fuck. But none of these titles match up to Little Rock Godling's lastest list of his songs for his band 'Skulls On Fire':
I've Never Been Nine
Skull On Fire
Dirt Case
I Don't Have to be the Biggest Wanker
He's going to go far that boy. I hope he'll remember his old ma for all her love and support when he's swathed in groupies beside his LA pool. 'And this one's dedicated to my dear mother' ........... I can't begin to imagine where it can go from here. But to be honest, with parents like us the poor little sod doesn't really stand a chance.
I can already hear the stadium ringing with the chants of 'Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!.....'
I'll be bursting with pride. That's MY wanker up there! 'Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!.....'
Oops..... * * STOP PRESS * * I've made an error on LRG's song title No 2: this should read We Are Skulls On Fire
I hope this now makes perfect sense.
The ill-informed researcher in question has now been dealt with in accordance with the rules of the house. Back to the poo mines for me.
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