Lazy Sunday Afternoon.......... yes I must book one of those

SKY Sports Super Sunday News Roundup

On the Pitch:

Monkey Boy's team crashed out of the Quarter Finals in penalty shoot out drama.

But the boys dun good. Coming back from an early defeat with an unbreakable team spirit. Sort of. Obviously a solid right midfield. Keeper let an easy one in. (Not listening Not listening Not listening......)

On the Ice:

Minx back on the podium with a 3rd place.

Cross about her parallel but flung herself into the rest of the afternoon's flower flinging with great aplomb. Enough glitter hairspray in the atmosphere to mummify John Barrowman. Cheers and tears in equal bursts. Gorgeous girls all gathering to cuddle and 'awww' each other as results posted up. No bitchin' - disappointments hugged and lollipopped until everybody happy again. Really wonderful bunch.

Mummy cried, hid her red nose in her coffee cup and clapped lots. Lots and lots and lots. And swapped more over-the-boot-tights technology tips with fellow sequin shepherds. This is very important stuff.

Daddy slept in the car, or listened to the Grand Prix.

Back at Training Camp:

Nanny dished out the sweeties. Grandad mowed the lawn.

Little Rock Godling and Thuglet swung and flung golf clubs at each reappearing golf ball until each was once again hedge-bound. Then, at full-time headed back indoors and unearthed record-breaking numbers of previously undiscovered dinosaur body parts and arranged them for a detailed inspection across the freshly tidied bedroom.

And that's the end of another week of sporting highlights from the Scene of the Crime. The week ahead will bring arty endeavours to the fore. Monkey boy had already expressed his disdain. Minx has shrugged. The other two don't know what day it is. Mummy is full of enthusiasm which WILL bloody rub off. And is, in truth, looking forward to Thursday - her clutch control foot's day off.

Close my eyes and drift away........

But not too far. Don't tell anyone but I kind of like my kids.

Tie Me To The Mast

Right. I'm cured.

England are crap.

Shan't get excited again.

For the one good moment in the match, Gerrard's GOAL, ITV HD managed to blip off and showed us a shiny car instead. Hopefully the fuckwit responsible was taken out and hung by his pants on an active pylon . Green's schoolboy fumbling fingers act however was shown a thousand times over. Because we all needed that forever burned into our heads.

What have I become? A moaning football blogger? Shoot me now!!!

And so I shall go back in time to my wilderness years - when I pretended that only boys liked stupid old football and found it funny when England always promised so much, suckered the poor lambs in and then gobbed on their dreams. I used to skip about the house during a penalty shoot out. I used to chuckle at the back pages. I was a most superior being. And had no wrinkles. And no lucky shirt.

And then it started calling again some years ago..... some familiar and welcoming sound drawing me back. I'd walked away YEARS ago. I'd left home - no more Grandstand all day Saturday and curtains drawn every big match. I was a free spirit. What WAS this compulsion to turn back and re-enter the fray?

Was is soppy nostalgia? Maybe hunkering down in front of Match of the Day was a weird across-the-worlds communication with my Dad? I started listening out for Charlton's scores every Saturday after he died and added their well-being to my portfolio of personal responsibilities. But would still list Chelsea first. Why? Was I still 7 years old? Was this a regression or an adulty opening up of acknowledgement for what was truly my inheritance? Eurghhh....

Or did I just like hanging out with the boys down the pub? (Was it simply my tightest shirt?)

All this is like SO not cool. I'm a tired wheezing old pants-folder now. What do I need this crap for? If I want to be regularly disappointed I just look in the mirror. I've grown out of glossy magazines - tried to buy one for my traditional birthday treat the other day and found them ALL so dull. I am very rarely impressed with films these days - give it 10 minutes and switch off if it doesn't grab me. Unshockable in front of the MTV naked grinding videos at the ice rink. Implacable in the face of other people's children's achievements. Even my famous twitchin' eyebrow doesn't raise at the sight of 10 Downing Street. I am above such cheap distractions. My god I can even do family occasions without hiding in the toilets these days. Surely I can rise above the Bloody World Cup!

But it kind of IS life and death. Football. It was the soundtrack of my childhood. It was important to the males in my family and so it held an entrance to their world. My Mum may have called me in from the garden one sunny afternoon to sit me down in front of Rita Hayworth in Cover Girl - a crucial moment in my cultural history, and educated me in the ways of Busby Berkely, Judy Garland, Fred and Ginger etc, but football was the background hum of the house. It seeps in. I still watch Hollywood musicals (and watch them - still - ie not moving a muscle) with a great big smile. I watch football with a scowl, with continental gestures, with overblown language and flying cushions. Life and death.

And that diary of matches that coincide with your own events just weaves it into your own personal tapestry ever more. I mean I have to listen out for West Ham's results now too after my brother died. Another personal responsibility. I take each defeat as an insult to his memory. I still haven't actually forgiven them for losing the FA Cup Final 4 years ago - I knew he was watching and couldn't believe they didn't make the extra effort. That was the last FA Cup Final he ever saw - and it couldv'e been HIS team lifting the trophy! Useless bastards! But if they just got themselves back up there I imagined life itself would get less shit. This is how football gets you. This is why so many men devote themselves to it. It's for their old Dad. They get to rant and scream about stuff and call the world a wanker and noone thinks it's not British. And if 'we' won!!!??? Well - old Dad is 'up there' happy - and that's a better religion than most.

The last World Cup Final was a weird one to be sure. It was the day Thuglet was born, and the day my brother died. A very odd sort of day. We still watched the match tho'. What else was there to do? Less dramatic reactions perhaps. We'll be on holiday this year when the final takes place. Which is probably a very good thing. A different scene. Cushion throwing back on the menu. (Dammit I said I wasn't going to get excited again!) Although it's usually a more civilized spectator scene than the early rounds seeing as how England won't be playing. Don't gasp at my lack of faith. I told you I'm cured!

Now my Monkey Boy's at a football tournament this morning. Set off with his Dad bright and early. No slo-mo hero shots coming out of the tunnel - more of a scramble with a clip round the ear trying to skid out of the gates, but I bet Rusthall FC (Tunbridge Wells) will have more sparkle and fizz than South Africa. They sell Refreshers at the club house. And noone there would dare chant 'eez a cunt, eez a cunt, the referee's a cunt'. At least not after I was asked to leave at Langton Green's Football Fiesta last month. And this afternoon it's back to the rink for their End of Seasons competition - Minx in action in all her pink and black shimmery glory.

This is the real stuff. Where the spectators look at their watches every few minutes and tell the competitors to stop being silly in front of their friends.

Real sport.

Kids having a laugh.

My heroes.

And Blow!

Another week dun gone. A couple more lakes of diesel dun guzzled. Another mountain range of chips dun wolfed. A smattering more of bruises..... A scattering more of brain cells..... And a battering more of my bleedin' overdraft.

We had recovered from the previous weekend's family birthday and silver wedding anniversary shenanigans, applied ourselves to last weekend's family golden wedding anniversary and birthday bonanza, and will be sleeping off this weekend's family birthday bananas amid a crumbling houseful of neglected jobs in a state of ThankFuckForThatness. The next one's at least 2 weeks away. Time to breathe. Into a paper bag if necessary. And I'm sure we can summon enough teeth-flashing for Father's Day without too much effort - it's turn-on/turn-offable nowadays. Just need to pace ourselves through a reasonable July ready for the marathon August onslaught. Our Month of Candle-Blowing Supreme. Asthma inhalers at the ready. We get the 2nd off, a couple of days free after the 9th, another few flares followed by a little break until near the end and then, come September we're home and dry. Just a civilized 1 or 2 a month again until the spring - when my teeth's antennae again start twitching in fear of the approaching icing avalanche.

Now I know I'm extremely grumpy but I just don't 'get' birthdays. Especially my own. I have to feign enthusiasm for my children's. Outside of that intimate circle I look upon anyone openly celebrating their birthday to be highly inconsiderate. What's the big idea? Why drag me into it? Surely all this melting wax could be put to better use?

There's obviously some deep-rooted psychological warp that makes me this way. People actually seem to get cross when they discover that my birthday has slipped by and they didn't know. Huh? Get happy people - one less fingernail trapped under sellotape to worry about. Having said that I'm not saying a nice stiff envelope with my Mum's handwriting on it doesn't please. It always arrives a day early (to make sure) and I usually wait for The Day to open it. Not this year though. Why be a hypocrite? There's money in there and as I've already spent it I'd better 'replace' that cash with this stuff so now we can get chips. Sorted.

Ungrateful brat that I am at least I try not to inflict it on anyone else. Minx's birthday however lasts for weeks. The build-up alone is exhausting. The execution relentless. And the after shocks last until it's Xmas (ie - September). Bless her.

But which is normal? Or which is healthier? I would probably be desperately worried if Minx behaved like me - why doesn't my precious baby want to celebrate being born??? Which would explain MY mother's retort a couple of years ago to my dismissal of mine 'Well I want to celebrate it - I WAS there after all!' (Guess my back-hand verbal volley). But on the flip I will be quite happy when she's old enough to wander down the pub with her mates without my Super-Mum input (albeit clutching the contents of a shredded pink envelope).

But all in all I can still find time to count my blessings - after all it's NOT bloody Xmas and I CAN keep it under wraps if I choose and noone's singing about babies in the middle of the shopping centre.

And I did get some nice presents. Including the book that 'Whip It' - my Roller Derby fantasy life - was based on.

Ordered it myself.

(What kind of fucked-up psyche is that?)

Feel bad now - Mr GPants bestowed many delights and presented a roast dinner on our crash-landing. And cake was distributed around the park by my friend acting on a tip-off. And all the kids genuinely seemed to want me to be happy - which I am - honestly. And I am touched by all this. And appreciative. I am.

I simply don't like fuss. I don't think it's a self-loathing or lack of worth complex or a fear of getting older. I just can't really see the big deal.

Now, much more worthwhile - but no less stressful - is the England v USA match tomorrow night. That WILL require carefully planned catering (crisps) and diary-clearing (thankfully no bleedin' birthdays) and serious butterflies-in-the-tummy build-up control measures. How now in an alchohol-free house? Mr GPants will opt for golf therapy. I shall have to resort to folding and sock-pairing. I expect there to be much car-washing and lawn-mowing and bottle-recycling throughout the land tomorrow afternoon as the nation prepares for 90 minutes of gut-crunching tension. And will it all be worth it?

Will it fuck?

And will we saddos do it all over again for the next one?

Of course.

Something over-hyped and guaranteed to disappoint time and time again. Everyone gather round. Turn out the lights. And all together now sing........ 'Three lions on a shirt.........' Now make a wish.

I feel sick as a parrot already.

A Whole New World

My golden-skinned explorer Mr GPants is back from his adventures in the desert. Back from his misadventures on the seas (ie in the seas). Back from trying to take portraits of wilting children in 45 degree temperatures. De-steamed his large manly lens and evacuated the aeroplane food once and for all (I hope). He is now ready to focus on our finding somewhere else to live - and I sense that Dubai is no longer on the list - at least not in June/July/August/September. And we do have to live somewhere in June/July/August/September. But he has still 'had enough of this country', our grim winters, and what wiv the government stealing any money you do manage to make........(ad infin....) He has an intrepid spirit. A traveller's soul. A love of the exotic. A hunger for the sun. A yearning for culture.

Last night he clambers into bed all perky, apologises for taking so long but he's been looking at properties on the 'puter and announces in an enthusiastic tone: 'Maybe we should move to a totally different area.'

I could have pretended to be asleep. But relief that he's finally showing an active interest in moving and a spark of curiosity for his latest burst of inspiration make me peek out from the duvet:

'Like where?'

'Norwich'

The Guilt

Feel like I'm on Death Row waiting for a pardon. I'm actually waiting for the phone call. The one that berates me for wrapping up an obviously damaged football trophy in layers of newspaper and hiding it in a bag and handing it over through the coach's car window in a fake hurried kind of way before making a run for it. THAT phone call.

This is after spending hours and hours trying to repair the damn thing - until the dawn chorus had long segued into the general morningy sounds. I got a good colour match with black glass paint and white pigment but it took several experiments with several resin-y glues. None of which worked. Quick drying (which it wasn't) polyfilla was the last mix. And it still looked totally crap. All the time I had a pack of perfect-for-the-job Milliput sitting there but I had convinced myself it would be too rough texturally and not sticky enough. No. Cos of course pollyfilla is perfectly smooth and sticky. NO IT ISN'T. But once I'd started on my journey of no end, I stuck with it. Hunched over the kitchen counter (so confident I didn't even sit at a table), I pressed the Repeat button and replayed my mistake over and over until I could could not stand up straight again. Until I heard the mocking birds. Until I needed to reach the sweetie tin obviously. (Mind over matter that.)

Anyway............The Guilt is now burrowing into my innermost pea of decency. The one I had buried in nonchalant mattress after mattress just to survive this cruel and crazy world. What shall I do now? Like Macbeth I spent all day yesterday scrubbing and scratching at my villainous hands to remove the traces of black stuff but I turn around and it's everywhere I look - the kitchen counter, the tap, the tea towel - The Evidence of my crime! I can't sleep! I can't look into my children's eyes! Eating's not been a problem funnily enough.......

Of course I should just ring him up, apologise and offer to buy a new plinth. That would be the adult thing to do.

But I've left it too late now - the hopeless attempt at mending just shows my true dishonest nature. I couldn't explain that away now I've gone and done it could I. So I am left to suffer the agonies.

But if you could see me now - surrounded in filth and fighting siblings, no hope of ever reclaiming any authority or table space again, not a chance of a quiet moment for the next 20 years, infested with rodents and insects as big - AND slugs, back-ache, head-ache, bum-ache, face-ache.......... AND I have to go to Tesco's in a minute with all 4 brats...... couldn't you find it in your heart to over-look a little tiny teeny itsy bitsy witsy micro nano spot of deceit? Surely this is punishment enough? It's a life's sentence for gods' sake!!!! I'm throwing myself on your mercy............

I don't know. Mitigating circumstances...... What came first? The punishment or the crime? It's a long- running debate.

**Hey I'm depraved on account of I'm deprived!**

Unfettered Rant

I am only starting another post in a pathetic attempt to avoid an urgent and difficult (actually IMPOSSIBLE) task. Don't read this if you are having a nice day. I am on full whinge mode. It's nearly 1.00am and we have to return the football trophy that Monkey Boy was awarded last year for this year's ceremony thing. Football training is at 10.00am. The task is to disguise the bloody great chip in the base of the trophy.

We've had this thing in Monkey Boy's bedroom for a year with no incidents. We brought it downstairs last week to return it but missed training due to Thuglet's floppiness and hot water bottle impersonations. We had also not taken a picture of it with the football superstar in his gear - so that had to be quickly rectified. Bit cross it's taken me a year to do that. I bet he looks so different from a year ago when we should have done the photos. Well, I'm sure there is a picture of him receiving the bloody thing but as there were no announcements at last year's ceremony I didn't have a clue it was happening until he came running over to me by the bouncy bleedin' castle carrying it and yelling 'Look what I got!' I'd been not so patiently waiting for that damned part of the day with 2 loony younger brothers going *boing boing splatt aaaahhhhhh boing boing splatt aaaaahhhh* for 'kin hours in full sun on the only hot day of last summer. The picture that must exist would have been taken by the village's vampire psycho slut pretending to be a professional photographer. I shall not be handing money to that shit-for-brains for a picture of my boy.

At least by missing the whole awards thing (and the whole point of being stuck in that friggin' 'family fun day' in that godforsaken village of hell) I did avoid having to share breathing space with her. And now, just to add to those golden memories, (and that looming sinking feeling of another perfectly delightful Sunday in June spent in the same soul-scrunching way), I have now laid eyes on this fucking chip in the granite-y base of the bloody THING. I can hardly just hand it over in a brown paper bag and run away. His name's engraved on it - albeit misspelled. And that's another thing.....!!!!!!

Oh I don't know.... I'm no lover of this Saturday morning team. Not so much the people involved - the other mums and dads particularly (the usual stalwarts) are great. It's just that it all happens in the village of hell. The most claustrophobic smug up-its-own-arse irritating bloody village on the planet. With its very own species of mud. The place must have been founded on a bog for gods' sake. And, obviously, it is home to the viper bitch. This alone is reason enough to raze it to the ground. My eyes automatically narrow to cartoon villain slits even driving through the place - which I have to do on Friday's as well as bloody Saturdays.

I don't want to go to training tomorrow. I don't see why they still have to play football when the football season is well and truly over. I don't see why we have to spend so many weekends at bloody football tournaments anyway - especially as the team is crap and usually loses despite all the players being quite good. I don't want to go to another 'fun' awards day when I could be extracting my fingernails instead (infinitely preferable). And I don't want to be told off for breaking the fucking trophy. I just want to burn the whole place down instead. Could I? Come on - who'd miss it?

OK. Rant over. I'll put my toys back in my pram and dig out some black paint and superglue. It's a bit like taking the school hamster home for the holidays and discovering it's lost a leg. I'd probably try superglue then too. Like - what are they gonna do right? Hit me with it? It's bloody heavy actually. Come on girl, time for some invisible mending. You used to be a whizz with the ol fibreglass resin coating stuff and car body filler. Little granite chip should be a piece of piss. Stop sobbing! Get a grip!!

OR - I could hand it over in a spazzy way and sort of drop it and then blame them? Suddenly I see a light........... There's always another way of looking at something. It could work.

Or I could just lob it through the vulture whore's window. Now someone's finally using her noodle. I think I'll end with a song!

***sealions up me skirt....... drools on face still gleaming.....***

Just Make Sure It's Got A Happy Ending

Get me! 2 blogs in one evening!! Yeah baby I'm on fire!!!

OK so I did drag my bleached orange peely-feely rear off the chair, threw things in the dosh-wisher, hurled more things in the moshing wash-in - no idea what went in what, but I pressed buttons and swirly noises hummed out = achievement enough. Stripey stuff got squirted on tufty things and poked in little gobs. 'If you don't open your mouth you won't get any sweets tomorrow' 'Mm-mmm' 'Or crisps' 'MM-MMM' 'How does a dinosaur go?' 'Raaaaah-ulp-uh-uh-og!' 'Good boy' And I even read stories with up-and-downy voice. 'Cos Ah'm a Wuman - W - O - M - A - N - let me say it again.....'

3 boys down and 1 girl to go.

Time to kick through a path to the settee, scrape off the Moon Sand, cover it in blankets just like the car in Pulp Fiction, boil the kettle and dip biscuits into Angel Delight in front of Sweet Charity with my little fellow girlie flick buddy. Proper parent/child interaction that is.

Cos Ah'm a W - O - M - yeah enough.

It was very nearly Bringing Up Baby, I was making the case for Thoroughly Modern Millie, but Shirl got the nod. We haven't watched it for ages. This time around there were a few more questions along the way. And a slightly thoughtful face at the ending. Now I love the ending. (If you're planning to watch it for the first time tonight look away now - I'm gonna spoil it.) I love the ending. She gets dumped at the Marriage Certificate Office by her dream man, she's left her job after 8 years with no obvious hope of finding another and is also now homeless. She rings her ex-flat/workmates in tears which they mistake for joy and which fills them with joy and hope, so she lets them keep believing she's 'made it' out of the crummy life they're still in and she spends the night sitting on her suitcase in Central Park. Dopey Flower Children wake her up in the morning with a big daisy - and off she goes again swinging her bag. Cue music....

Minx seemed slightly worried about her prospects. Kind and wise Mummy reassures her that she's better off without the boring old git in the suit, that sometimes you just can't get a new job until you've actually walked out of the old one and that her friends were holding her back anyway. Life lessons - sown from Hollywood, watered or trampled on by Mummy?

Is I a bad mutha, or is I a beacon of light to a blossoming W - O - M - A - N ?

Whatever. She went to bed and I finished off her Angel Delight. Who's singing now?

Sweet charity begins at home.........