Still processing this…

They say confession is good for the soul but bad for the reputation.

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I wrote here about things I am not good at.  Mostly to do with towels.

Anyway, turns out I dont know one superfood from the other either.

It is school holidays at the moment so I’m mostly spending time with the boys, not doing a lot but enjoying it nonetheless.  So we sit down and we are watching something on netflix and for whatever reason they serve up a serving of quinoa.  I believe it is pronounced Keen-wah.

Well I believe it now but until yesterday I had no bloody idea that is the same as that quinoa (Kwinoah?) stuff I force down my face when I am feeling particularly fat.

I honestly had no idea.  I mean one look at me abnd you’ll understand that I am don’t have a heavy keenwah intake but for whatever reason the fact just avoided me and I thought they were seperate things.

I told the family and they all laughed their arses off at me.  Even the 14 year old who’s brain only works between 11 and 2 each day and who is currently obsessed with knives and fire.

They then reminded me that until perhaps 8 years ago I had no idea that the spike in the end of an ointment cap is used to pierce the film lid.  Up until then I tended to use the outer prong of a fork though this did often result in something of a premature ointment explosion.

I reminded them that they were all garbage human beings and the 11 year old blonde one, fond of his facts and a bit of a know it all, ceased laughing most heartlily when I reminded him that he still couldn’t ride a bike and he better hope his hair darkens before he gets older because blonde haired male adults are just weird and creepy.

I wanted to say he would look like like a kiddy fiddler but showed some restraint when Mrs Afterwards gave me the look.

The even came to an abrupt end and we all had an early night after I suggested they eat my backside.  I know, wrong on so many levels and I know I ought to be ashamed of myself.

I blame it on the lack of keenwah in my diet…

 

 

 

 

Things I cannot do

We’re all shit in our own unique way.

There are things that I am good at which I am comfortable with.  I do a decent limerick, I”m shit hot with spreadsheets , and I make a bakewell tart so good that you’d likely let me touch you inappropriately just for a slice.  I think there are others but thise are the ones that spring to mind.

This though is not about my ability to make Microsoft Excel talk to you and tell you it wants to watch you take a pee.

This is about my inability to fold towels.

Well I can fold them but for the life of me I cannot get any of them the same bastard size.  It’s never been something I thought about much, intent as I was in the past to stack them in such a way as to make a pretty pyramid akin to the sort you get if you get a bundle as a gift.

God that’s a depressing thought in itself isn’t it.  A gift of towels.  Reminds me of the Christmas I found myself disappointed I never got any socks.  I died a bit inside that day I tell you.

I am also not talking making towels of vastly differing sizes fold to a similar footprint.  That would be stupid.  Hmm.  I think I’m still pretty crabby about it.

No, thing is Mrs Afterwards has this knack of folding all the varied towels and they all end up beign of a similar size and stack wonderfully and whilst she doesn’t admit it I know she is smug as fuck about it.  Well I would be if I had achieved such a feat.

Today I decided I would do the same and it did not go well.

Within ten minutes I happened to call a particularly tricky black bath sheet a bastard in front of the youngest, and followed that up by telling all the fluffy white ones to go screw themselves because even the ones of the same size refused to allow themselves to be folded to the same dimensions.

Eventually I rolled them all up instead like in a hotel but they didn’t fit on the stand in the bathroom so redid them just like one of those lovely stacks you get as a gift from your sister when you move into a new home.

Anyway, I imagine it is something passed down from mother to daughter but there is no way I am asking the missus.  I’d rather air dry.

That reminds me, does anyone know how to change a duvet cover.  Last time I did one I ended up with a prolapsed sphincter and a dislocated shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

Balls to you October

See ya later!

 As Blogging months go I really didn’t enjoy October one bit.  It was filled with excuses and distractions and I found very little joy in the whole experience and got myself into a bit of a hole with it all.

I’ve been doing this since last July and I was certainly at my least inspired and uncreative but I wont go as far as to call it writer’s block because there would be the presumption that I am a writer and that is something I just cant really come to terms with.  It was more a matter of not being able to quite find the time to do it properly.

I started a new job a short while ago so am actually having to work for my money which is a real pain in the arse I tell you and at night I was finding myself far too weary when I eventually sat in front of the keyboard so mostly I just went to sleep instead or sulked a bit. 

Now the urges and ideas were still there that wasn’t the problem.  My head is always full of dirty limericks and images of stick people finger banging each other and I am never short of an idea for a bit of a story but time just seemed to conspire against me.  Or at least I let it.

Interestingly my diet also suffered during the month which I wrote about here and I think maybe that was part of the problem.  My discipline in general had gone to pot and across the board I was finding myself unproductive and rather jaded and allowing myself to find excuses wherever they presented themselves.

Anyway, as November loomed I decided bollocks to the excuses and given that I was off today planted my arse in front of the laptop for the day and forced myself to get back on the horse I have so enjoyed riding this last year.  I forced myself to write whatever old bollocks I could muster and you know what, I have enjoyed it immensely.  It’s hardly great stuff but it’s my stuff and I cracked a smile when I did it and I felt rather relaxed by it all which is great because It has caused me some stress at times  which is just ridiculous.

Ive managed maybe ten pieces today which is great but mostly I have enjoyed feeling creative again.  Yes I didn’t feed the kids and absolutely I should have made them do something productive instead of leaving them to do whatever it is they got up to all day, but it was more important for me to do what I needed to do because I far less grumpy and dickish when I am being creative.  I never received any notifications that I had been charged for anything so I think I got away lightly.

I think November will be better.   

M is for Michael

that’s me…

Michael.  That’s me.

 

This seemed like a good idea when I did the title but now I am less sure.  If you’ve read me for more than a day or two then you know what I’m like and I don’t really need to tell you.  I have a wife and kids who I love, a life I enjoy immensely and very few filters or boundaries.

You know what, I think that will just about do.

You really don’t need to know that I love comics or rugby or television or films or coding or laughing or being grumpy, that’s all there for you to see.  You don’t need to know that I think Donald trump is a twat and that I find it quite heart breaking to see what he is doing to America because I grew up with all things American and it played a big part in my growing up.

And you dont need to be told that I like to make people laugh and dont take things too seriously and that I have a problem with authority and organised religion.  It’s all there to see in my writing.

Thanks for reading and I hope you continue to take some pleasure in what I put out there and if not, meh, I’ll get over it.

Michael

X

 

 

 

 

L is for loss

If I were not here tomorrow…

Were I to die tomorrow then there are so many things I would not get to tell my boys.  As melancholy a thought as it is it is one with which I have of late struggled though something I have yet to remedy.  Such words of wisdom that are a father’s to impart would go unsaid and they would quite possibly venture into this world as young men without my deep and considered understanding of so many things.

Whilst their mother would without doubt provide them the support they need as young men I would not be there to explain to them why they should always ensure they place the drill chuck back in the little holder thingy on the handle of the drill to ensure they are not forever heading to the DIY place to buy another.

I ask myself who, if not me, should be the one to explain why darts is a sport and motor racing is not and why being a Yorkshire-man is truly a privilege.

My heart is heavy with the thought that at my passing so ceases the chance for me to impart upon them how a man should approach washing dishes so as to ensure he never gets asked again.

Truly though I believe the greatest gift we can give them is our presence, time and attention without which we cannot pass on our biases and prejudice.

Good god, what if they grow up to be Manchester United fans?

 

K is for Kids

Just to be clear. They are not for sale.

I have two and I love them very much, which is lucky for them because there are days when I think they might just be a little bit faulty.  Don’t get me wrong, despite their obvious flaws I still think mine are actually more pleasant than other peoples – and definitely yours – and I have the tedious photo’s and long winded stories to prove it.

I think/hope that my eldest may well have the most wonderful sense of humour as just the other day he asked whether the Germans were still looking for the Von Trapp family.  Now don’t get me wrong, as an Englishman I am of a mind to think that somewhere there is a lower level Ortsgruppenleitner with a hatred for sing songs that is still hopeful of apprehending them, but truth be told that’s probably just me being awful.  I was troubled enough to ask him whether he was serious, and I am still not actually sure.

The youngest is a precious little thing who has the most delightful ability to believe his own lies and I am most certain that he is destined for great things – probably in politics or banking.  Such is his conviction that I often have to refer to the internet to support any argument I may find myself having with him.

Still, I wouldn’t be without them no matter how much I was offered for them – and trust me the little blonde one is worth big money in certain parts of the middle east.  The elder brown haired one is probably worth less though he has broad shoulders and a strong back and would certainly do the work of at least one small mule.

Not that I’ve researched it.  Honest.

To be fair, had I tried to return them or asked for a repair I imagine I would have been told that any damage they are currently exhibiting may well be my fault.

 

 

 

J is for Jesus, Jew and Jam

I do rather like Jam.

Given it’s Christmas and all J is most definitely for Jesus.  I was going to write ‘J is for Jew’ but that sounded a bit accusatory and a kind of racist.  It’s not is it?  It’s only a word after all.  I tend not to think about what is and what is not appropriate when I write and simply go with it and watch my followers to see whether it effects the number.

Maybe it’s how you say it?  Or who says it?  If I am standing on top of a burning car outside of a bank it is most like decidedly racist, criminal and a load of other things that my mum would not be proud of.  If someone has a bomb vest on insisting J is for Jew and is shouting for his friend Alan Akbar then again – I am thinking it is probably a negative use.

Conversely, if I am wearing a little white hat thing on my head attending a colleagues son’s something-or-other where they cut parts of his dick off then I think it is simply a statement.  I sit and reflect: “Oh yes I see, J is for Jew.”  It’s almost a rather comforting and warming moment feeling that I am connected to a people that have spanned all of written memory.

Guess how it makes you feel is about you and not me really.

P.S.

You know, google is great.  I searched for ‘Jewish Cock Cutting Ceremony’ and it informed me it was called a bris.  I am assuming lots of other people have searched similar terms.  See, I’m not alone in my ignorance.

P.P.S

J is also for ‘Jam’.  I do like Jam.

 

 

 

I is for i-spy

You can shove your i spy!

Before I get into this I would make the point that I love my boys very much and would do just about anything for them.

If in doubt understand that I will regularly unclog their toilet –  which they seem to prefer to only flush every third or fourth visit – with only minimal shouting and threats.  Look closely and you will see that the bonds of love are such that I have been known to tidy their rooms for them and only remind them once or twice that the option of adoption remains on the table until they are 18.

Still to be convinced?  My heart overflows with love so abundant that only recently I was witnessed preparing them 3 meals in a single day.  That’s true human kindness right there…

That said, there are limits and those limits come in the form of board games.  I really do not enjoy one bit sitting down with the family for an evening of board games and frivolity.  It takes almost no time at all for me to upset somebody because I refuse to let somebody win because they’re ‘only little’.  Play against kids of your own age if that’s how you want to roll but as far as I am concerned you want me to play, I will play to crush you.  Ideally I will make you never want to play board games with me ever again.

I know it makes me a terrible person.  I will pay for their therapy when they are older.  Might also explain why we have a cupboard full of unused board games.

The wife likes to play with the boys when I am away though, which is nice.

And don’t get me started on bloody i-spy.  As if driving in this country isn’t hard enough with it’s constant roadworks and sheer weight of traffic…I travel miles and miles having to try and guess the quite ridiculous things my youngest apparently spies.

Get lost Thomas you didn’t spot Batman, T is not for “Tornado” and you can get stuffed if you believe that you saw a clown in the car that went past us 5 miles ago.  You’re a liar and your lies make baby Jesus cry!

And don’t go crying to mum when I insist that Psoriasis begins with a P, and you’re no doctor so the dry skin on my elbows could well be something more serious and your diagnosis is worthless because you are only 9.

😉

 

 

 

Grrrrrr

Not a piece I am particularly proud of but it is what it is.  *Presses publish*

I know, my last piece was rather dark.  So how about limericks to lighten the mood.  This week I will be mostly considering terrorists and fundamentalist sorts who thinks the only way is their way.  

Hmmm.  I should probably delete that.  All sounds just a bit angry.

An american chap who gets weird

if he sees a tanned bloke with a beard

thinks they all carry bombs

and oppress wives and moms

bought a gun, shot a few, as I’d feared

 

A  bomber killed folk in God’s name

people think all his kind are the same

blew himself all to bits

what a right bunch of shits

But we cant give all Muslims the blame

 

Hmmm.  Not as light hearted as I had hoped for.

 

A godly man fancied this kid

you’d be shocked at the bad things he did

but the church saw no crime

said “Don’t do it next time”

and made sure that his sins were well hid

 

Think I might be in a bit of a mood and rather judgemental.  Oh well.  

A fellow quite grumpy, a Brit

sat typing some quite nasty shit

think hes in quite a mood

maybe he needs some food

and a nap and to swear less, that’s it

Not a piece I am particularly proud of but it is what it is.  *Presses publish*