Tag Archives: children

Far beyond Toad Hall

It’s hard to explain just what I felt when I saw her.

She was incredible. Standing there on the Northern line like she hadn’t just rocked my world. It hit me like lightning, a tidal wave and a right hook rolled into one. I reeled a little, regained my balance, tried to pass it off like the driver must have hit a jumper coming into Goodge Street. They were maybe the strongest feelings I’ve ever felt for another human being.

Because when I saw her standing there, reading ‘Moomin and the Moonlight Adventure’, it’s possible I’ve never been so angry.

Continue reading Far beyond Toad Hall

Economy Comfort

I’ve had the unfortunate fortune to spend a lot of time on planes recently. I’m fortunate because they took me somewhere I love being, if only it didn’t take so damn long to get there.

Long haul flights are bearable – just – so long as we abide by certain rules. Don’t talk to me, unless offering a hot towel, food and drink or, in an emergency, offering to assist me in gouging out the eyes of the moron who’s stopped beside me to get at his hand luggage. There are no exceptions to the second rule: don’t touch me. Never keen on human contact, all I want on a long plane journey is to be left alone to hunker down with the seatback TV, a copy of the New Yorker and the sound of my sanity folding itself up and slipping into the overhead bins at around hour eight.

On this trip, however, nobody had read the factsheet. Boarded early at Amsterdam and settled into my seat (on the aisle of the middle four), the Japanese couple with the middle allocation arrived. They snuck up from behind so I didn’t see them coming but still, there was no attempt to get my attention or generally indicate their presence before the woman started literally climbing across me to get to her seat.

“Woah, hang on, let me get out, no, stop, oh God that’s your arse in my face, please, just wait,” I said, but as I was to be constantly reminded over the next fortnight, my Japanese is abysmal and English isn’t that commonly spoken by the natives. At least that’s my hope, since I muttered “for fuck’s sake” as I finally vacated my seat and let her husband through. Later in the flight, the woman vaulted the person sitting in the other aisle seat on her return from the loo.

All right, I thought, maybe just this one woman is nuts, or too shy to attempt communication with horrible Westerners. Until a couple of hours later when I saw a middle-aged European woman stand on the armrests to get past a man sitting in an aisle seat. Did she know him? I don’t know. I hope so. He was definitely awake though, and appeared to be neither disabled nor halfwitted and thus, I assume, able to stand the fuck up.

Is this a thing now? Are people now too lazy to stand up for others, or has it suddenly become acceptable to clamber over one another? Is it a new sexual fetish I missed while reading the New Yorker rather than Cosmo? Or has society descended to the point where we can’t be arsed to expend a couple of seconds to say “excuse me”?

On the return leg, the airline upgraded my schlubby cheap seat to ‘Economy Comfort’, right at the front of the cabin. Nice. I was slightly less happy to see a woman with a baby across the aisle. But, you know, families have to fly as well, and I’d have headphones for when it started screaming.

Except screaming wasn’t the problem. I don’t know this baby’s age; as is going to become very clear, I’m not the maternal type. Whatever the age is where they’re still breastfeeding and able to toddle about. And mum saw absolutely no problem with letting baby wander around the plane. Including into the row where I was sitting. She helped it walk over to the window. Now, there’s improved legroom in Economy Comfort, but not that fucking much. Then she left it to explore its surroundings, which included my TV screen and legs.

Increasing horror doubtless apparent all over my face, mum says “Oh, is he bothering you?”. Yes. Yes, he’s bothering me, smearing his breastmilk-and-sputum coated fingers across everything in sight. Rather than say this, I more politically highlighted the face mask I was wearing to shield my increasing attempts to cough up a lung (when we all start to die in a few weeks of a hybrid Asian-European flu, I apologise now as patient zero) and said something about how it’d be better if the fruit of her womb wasn’t in my immediate spluttering zone.

This was all while still at the gate. During take off, the kid sat on her lap and she pointed at things out the window, finger hovering inches from my nose. When the seatbelt signs were off, the baby went free range again and nearly got run over by the drinks trolley appearing from behind the business class curtain. (At one point he went running into business class, with mum aware but unconcerned. Cabin crew had to ask her not to let this happen again.) I myself had to dislodge the baby’s fingers from an abandoned dinner tray, which it was about to pull down on itself, and swiftly remove from my own table a bottle of water and tumbler of (medicinal) brandy when the kid got curious again. Maybe I should have left it to its own devices and had a guilt-free conversation with a steward along the lines of: “Please may I have another large glass of free booze, as my last is soaking into this child”.

Personal space. It shouldn’t be hard. Even on planes, where several hundred bodies are densely packed together, we all have delineated areas. Respect mine and I won’t have to cause an international incident. You have been warned.

Ticking the Bundy box

When psychos attack, why the hell do they choose schools? What have those innocent kids done to deserve bullets?

Especially in America, where there’s the KKK for fuck’s sake. At least having a go at them would be a challenge. Although saying that, if you substitute KKK for USA, then the line between what is or is not an act of terrorism becomes kind of blurry, real fucking fast.

Nonetheless, I am neither advocating nor calling for anything that radical. My point is that if humans insist on meddling with the process of evolutionary selection, could they not do it only on subsections of humanity that carry throwback genes to our darker and more primitive past?

It does seem like a group can get away with being little more than a fascist militia as long as they have a flag, officially state the target(s) of their vitriol, lack the ability to move with the social inclusion of the modern times or simply admit to their own stupidity. Just look at Mosley’s black shirts. Oh to have been a fly on the wall during one of their meetings.

“What ho old chap! There’s a new craze sweeping across Europe don’t you know? [Well, I say new, but in truth it was a tried and tested methodology – see the Ethiopian Holocaust.] They’re gassing people in ovens so as to heal the ailing economy of the Fatherland.”

“Gassing? Ovens? I thought that was for getting rid of disabled babies?”

“Ah yes, but the Nazis have used their engineering nous to ratchet things up a notch! It’s going to give their economy a decent chance of surviving on the new stock markets, which will begin at the close of play of this war”.

It should be noted that there are many large industries and organisations which promote bigotry, xenophobia and hate. But there’s a limit to how many arseholes you can write about simultaneously, before your hands start to smell like shit.

Surely if we’re going to try and fix these kinds of problem, better education is the key. How much longer must we be ruled with/by ignorance? These outbreaks of anger which cause so much sorrow and pain, should be seen as symptomatic of a much larger problem. If the people are given the chance, they will more often than not do the right thing. And yet the killings continue. Is that such a surprise when you consider that the personality of a psychopath is the same whether you kill six people or run a multinational corporation? I guess it makes it easier to see how such negativity is fostered within our societies. I think it would be fair to postulate that if you fell into the latter category (CEO), you’re more than likely ticking the Ted Bundy box as well.

Not that any one society or country is immune to this madness. Whilst I can admit to my fair share of high school anger and the enveloping shroud of darkness that ignited it. I would never dream of directing any of that towards my schoolmates or teachers. Attacking schools is not the way forward! Did you know that Jewish schools in London are attacked [ I appreciate what constitutes an attack may take in a broad spectrum of actions] on an almost daily basis?

It’s especially galling when you consider some people struggle with the concept that following a religion is not another name for being a radicalised member of some splinter cell. I actually knew a kid, he and his brother had converted to a religion during the last two years of school. A year or so later, I happened to be watching the news (insidious propaganda) and there was a story about said brothers, the youngest of whom had been killed during some sort of firefight in the desert.

Well, I guess that just about brings us full circle. Shoot cunts not kids.

The old-fashioned way to get knocked up

My husband and I have been trying to start a family. I suppose that’s the ‘delicate’ way to say we are trying to get pregnant. Or maybe its that I am trying to get pregnant and he is just being…ahem…supportive.

The old-fashioned way to get knocked up is, theoretically,  the easiest way to go about it. And things are not going as planned in that department. Not at all. I can’t believe how much time I spent trying not to get pregnant and now I am faced with the Murphy’s Law of pregnancy.

Teenagers are getting pregnant all over the place, to look at the statistics. Every seven seconds a 16-year-old, low-income minority teen conceives a child just by talking to a man, if the conservative media is to be believed. The developing world is turning them out assembly-line style.

In the midst of wars, natural disasters, genocide, political upheaval, terrorism, and incredible poverty with a lack of basic care and sanitation, women are banging these kids out right and left. There are even shows that showcase women who have an awfully hard time not staying pregnant constantly, or who get pregnant on a ridiculously grand scale with multiple embryos. Even our friends who also waited to settle down and begin families are just popping them out like a row of champagne bottles. Our Facebook explodes with daily and monthly reports of their current and impending offspring.

My husband and I are not included in this explosion of obstetrics. I am not getting pregnant. No-one knows why and so no-one knows how to fix it in a way that does not involve medical/surgical intervention or the taking of large amounts of hormones, none of which we’re keen on. We will give this the old college try, we decided. But so far, nada.

I have read articles with titles like ‘The 10 best ways to get pregnant after 30’ and visited websites showing happy, fecund women in the sidebar proclaiming: “I gave up ___ and conceived after 10 years of infertility!” They are more depressing than helpful. I’ve read books with titles like ‘Pregnancy and the Older Mother’. They mostly leave me with visions of me finally conceiving but needing an ambulance during delivery that can accommodate my walker and that has a holder for my false teeth.

Most people’s advice is shit. Telling us to relax, not think about it, to let nature take its course. Bullshit. Nature and I are at odds 90 percent of the time. I think it’s trying to kill me which is why I stay out of the rural areas and stick to the city where the human animal is the one thing I am sure of.

They recommend cutting out cigarettes (no problem) and alcohol (problem). Try acupuncture, some Reiki, perhaps? Being stuck with needles and having hot oil poured on me from an angle is just not my thing, so I’ll pass. Apparently, I should keep an ovulation chart (the romance of statistics), take my temperature regularly and check my…um…discharge, to monitor whether “conditions are optimal”, as though conceiving a child is akin to deciding whether or not to take a long journey by sea on a small raft.

My poor husband has been ridden enough (literally) without the medical community’s infantilization of his genetic material by referring to his sperm as ‘swimmers’. He is supposed to wear loose underwear, not take hot baths or showers, not smoke pot, and not drink refined or processed foods with their insidious anti-sperm ‘toxins’. My husband and I both now share the indignity of examinations full of plastic cups and “wands”, medieval looking tools put in uncomfortable places, and tables covered in paper roll.

See, we thought this whole ‘buns in ovens’ process would be a lark. We thought it would take six months tops and we’d be on our way to weekends full of puke and dirty diapers. So we stupidly told our families we were trying and for the first year we’d get excited talking about the prospect of parenthood with them. Well, maybe we shouldn’t have done that. It’s backfired and taken a lot longer than we imagined it would.

Things are also getting weird, more for me than for my husband. I feel alienated from my body these days. As if it has disappointed me, gone off to do its own thing and left no forwarding address. My body has always done what I’ve needed it to do, except for cartwheels . Never was able to do one of those. Now, I feel let down. I am making a ‘hospitable environment’ for baby and baby doesn’t want to live there.

Even though I’m happy for them, I have begun to get sad when people I know let us in on their ‘joyous news’. I have a bit of a sinking feeling when I experience a ‘moment’ in my job (I work with children) and wonder what it would feel like to be a mother. My husband is sad too but he keeps it to himself. Truth be told, we are both in disbelief at this whole mess – there’s even an undercurrent of slight shock. We never imagined anything like this would be an issue. We are both physically fit, happy with ourselves and each other. So: what the fuck?

We’ll keep trying, for now, and then evaluate our options. But if nothing happens and I find out it’s the water supply or the bisphenol A in my fucking plastic kettle, I’m burning this motherfucker to the ground.

Disney meets Stephen King

Ever since I was 7, I’ve been wondering if there was something wrong with me. I woke up every morning for almost 20 years with the question floating through my mind, between thoughts of food and coffee. The inside of my head sounded something like “I’m hungry, what should I have for breakfast? I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. I know: coffee.” The answer is always coffee.

Now I know for sure. There is definitely something wrong with me, because it’s Saturday evening and I’m going to my friend’s house to babysit for her. As I pass hoards of party people, some of them already in a joyful state of inebriation, the certainty that something is wrong with me grows stronger. I try to focus on the music that’s now blaring in my headphones. At some point, I swear I can hear Strummer screaming “There’s something wrong with you” between the lyrics of Cheapskates. Surely, missing out on the parties I was supposed to attend in order to spend the night with the spoiled brats my friend birthed is a sign of something being completely messed up in my head.

Maybe my brain’s been bleeding somewhere in the frontal lobe, thus changing my personality. This may sound extreme, but my friend has three girls, which is reason enough to say no to babysitting. They always look like they came out of a Disney book and that creeps me out. What’s up with those Elsa dresses they keep wearing? This Frozen shit is like crystal meth for little girls.

I look around at girls aged 2 to 7 and all I can see is a future generation of Taylor Swift-loving idiots waiting for some dumbass Prince Charming to kiss their loneliness away. Yesterday I saw a toddler wearing a pink onesie that said “future trophy wife” in capital dark pink letters. Her mum was pushing the buggy around with a smug look on her face, as if already envisioning the life of her offspring in the shadow of some poor fucker who’d have to work 80 hours a week to support the fifties cliche he chose as a wife.

Isn’t society supposed to evolve? Why the fuck are we heading back to the last century? What’s with all these gender stereotypes? Women get pregnant and they can’t wait to find out the sex of the baby, just to know if they should decorate the nursery in tones of pink or blue, although I imagine it won’t be long until some nutjob will have their house covered in shades of grey – about fifty of them. Poor foetuses haven’t even developed fingerprints at the time their fate is decided and colour-coded.

“Oh, baby, Mummy loves you so much. Now, because you have a vagina, you will have to wear headache-inducing colours, play with dolls and survive on lettuce for the vast majority of your life. Please don’t step out of this tiny pink glittery box or you’ll have a very hard time. Other than that, welcome to the world, it’s lovely having someone I can dump all my unaccomplished hopes and dreams on.” Does that sound messed up to you? That’s because it is.

And don’t get me wrong, it’s much the same with boys. The only reason I’m focusing on girls is the fact that I’m surrounded by them and it’s obnoxious seeing this happening every single day. My friend is a nice woman, but she’s making the same mistake as most mothers nowadays. I stopped visiting her by the time her second daughter turned 2. The last time I went to see them, her lounge was something out of a horror story. A pink, glittery horror story. It was Disney meets Stephen King. Carrie at the prom covered in glittery blood. I don’t know if ‘glitter allergy’ is a thing, but it should be and I should try and get it. It would be the perfect excuse to stay away from the three future housewives with sticky hands and weird white wigs that she’s raising.

We think we’re the lucky ones, the ones free and educate their children in that spirit of freedom and accomplishment. Yet there’s a girl across the world who faced bullets in order to protect her right to go to school, at an age when girls in Western countries post pouting selfies on Instagram because they don’t have a boyfriend to validate their worth. We think they’re savage because they force their daughters into marriage, yet we’re so quick to judge a woman who gets to a certain age and is still single and childless.

We jump on our high horses and descend onto ‘poor, uneducated’ peoples to serve them a nice warm slice of our wisdom, not realizing it smells oddly like shit. You’ll read a magazine article praising some Hollywood star’s feminist campaign, then turn the page and find ‘beauty tips’ and ‘diet advice’, because surely, as a woman, you can’t be interested in much else.

And all this shit starts with the Disney movies that seem so perfectly innocent. We take our little girls and spoon feed them all the stereotypes you can think of: girls always have teeny tiny waists, princes are handsome and if you see someone physically ugly in the movie you can bet they’re the bad guy. That’s why they grow up to quickly help that young man in an expensive suit who suddenly got sick in the middle of the street, while ignoring the homeless who’s probably dying under their eyes. And if they somehow grow up without having the perfect princess body, that’s fine, they have the women magazines to teach them all about lemon detox and how to hide their pimples.

People often ask me why I hate children. They assume I do, because I quit teaching for no apparent reason and I say I don’t want to have children of my own. I don’t hate children, though. I hate their parents and their ignorance. I hate how I saw a woman say ‘no’ when her daughter wanted a green tee with a dinosaur on it and buy a pink one instead; when people say to me “you’re too smart for your own good”, but never say it to my brother or my male friends; when they assume a woman is single because she can’t “keep a man around” and not because she actually chooses to be single; when a boy is “gay” because he likes to knit rather than watch football; when “real men have muscles” and “real women have curves” because if you’re too skinny you’re less of a man or a woman.

It’s a two-edged sword, though, because the victims of the issue are also the enforcers of it. Growing up with this bullshit makes children see the world in a very twisted way. They’re not only the ones trying hard to fit in, but also the ones who judge others for not succeeding.

And yes, I still stand by my opinion – it all starts with the fuckin’ Disney movies. I’d like to see Disney make a movie about an average sized girl who likes chocolate a bit too much, binge-watches Netflix at weekends and works a shitty job to pay her way through her neuroscience degree, all the while being single and far from frustrated by it. Or maybe a musical about a princess falling in love with another princess and flipping those who stand against it. But god forbid we teach our children something about real life, right?

I’m already trained to smoke

There are many things wrong with the world that deserve government intervention. Protecting those in care homes and stopping animal cruelty are clearly worthy of the sweat and tears it takes to get anything through Parliament. When it enforces ‘common sense’ or invades my own sense of well being I cannot help but explode in fury.

Instead of educating idiots, the UK is going to bring in a ban that stops anyone smoking in a car containing children. If you happen to own one of these things then you should be fucking responsible enough to know that it’s bad. If you don’t, then do not embark on expanding the species. It is a simple enough thing to understand. Look after your blight on humanity, protect them from danger and illness. Why the fuck does it need a new law and yet another fine structure?

As a hater of children who occasionally has to transport them in my car, smoking is one of the only things that stops me from putting the foot down and driving off a cliff. They can open a window for fuck’s sake, onto all of that good motorway air. I warn any little bastard’s owner that I will smoke; if they allow the thing into my space then fine. The kid is, after all, their responsibility not mine.

Now I face an even more excruciating time getting my lungs ripped out by tedious mirth at the new inability to control my own life. I pay for my vehicle; as long as I’m not transporting another body it is my private world of joy. In my rented flat I’m already trained to smoke leaning dangerously out of a window, paranoid over any smell fouling the walls. Only on the road can I fully let rip, inhaling the little cancer sticks with two fingers up to other people. This is my England; jog on usurpers.

If this law made any sense it would just fine the parents. There’s already enough mollycoddling of these untouchables who choke up hospitals and block pathways. They get paid to have time off to ‘bond’ with a baby. Then there are family credits, free NHS prescriptions and special parking spots.

Despite working I get fuck all. Start piling fines onto these breeders so they consider it before the bloody thing arrives. Make them responsible for how everyone else’s life is puked over. Taking a giant pram on public transport? That is an extra two spaces lost. Pay. Bringing a disease into work from your beloved little shit? Pay for everyone else’s sickness time off. I supporting a ban on children in pubs, especially past 6pm. I’m not there to babysit for you, and the noise is excruciating. My mental health is impacted. Pay.

Needless to say the upshot is all children are now banned from my car. So, actually, maybe it’s not all bad.

The other guy started it

A day after the horrific massacre in Peshawar and we are all still in shock. Of course a lot of very important people are dive bombing into the media pool with condolences and false platitudes, twisting it to their own agenda, but common sense appears to be absent.

My first question after any such attack is ‘Why?’ What makes someone do something so ridiculous? The catch all term of ‘terrorism’ is handed to us on a plate as if that explains everything. “It must mean something.” Er, no. There is no excuse. None.

The experts say that this act is intended to demoralise the Pakistani Army. Anyone with a sound knowledge of Hollywood movies knows that this is idiotic. Killing a kid just leads to a desire for revenge. Liam Neeson and Mel Gibson would be all over their ass, renewed in vigour with gigantic guns and damning puns. Then again, even they are terrorists. Oh to erase Rob Roy and The Patriot from my mind.

The groups who commit these atrocities are, above all, certified loons. Going into a school and shooting over a hundred kids is not something that’s easy for a sane person to do. No cause can justify it. No matter whether it’s religious fervour, greed or fear, to repeatedly shoot a two year old in the head is not normal. Believe me I’ve considered it many times, especially over Christmas when trapped in a shop with brats crying over the latest plastic tat. Yet even with my anger issues I stop, I say no, I walk away. If you blast a child into the next life no-one will suddenly think you have a good point, and only other mentalists will sit and plan their next holiday training in a desert.

The subsequent Taliban news release (yes they have a press team, cementing our complete hatred) loudly stomped and threw a rattle pointing out that the other guy started it, their kids got killed, ner. What exactly was the result? Did you get all sad and give up as you’re presumably hoping the enemy will? No, I’m pretty sure you just shot a load of kids who you’d never met before. All of you got shot as well. That’ll get the message out there. You’ve been sacrificed my friend, and have just made life impossible for many of your religion across the world. I love it when a plan comes together.

Just remember when you next read about a terrorist attack that these faceless suicide bombers and gunmen are not just in it for ‘a cause’. They’re human like the rest of us. Look at the action, what was involved and what was actually achieved. In most cases I think we’re better off just agreeing that there’s a percentage of the human race that are prone to complete and utter lunacy. These killers migrate to causes andthey feed off them as an excuse to kill. Treat them like you would treat Ian Brady.

A thong and a ski mask

‘Look at what my partner heaved out of her vagina. I put all the photos up. LOOK. This one it kinda looks like its flipping you the bird hahaha. And in this one you can see he has Daphne’s nose. LOOK. Isn’t he cute! Let me upload MORE pictures of…’

Fuck off, and fuck your fucking children.

Oh, Facebook. I suppose it was the progression we should’ve expected. When Zuckerberg penned the idea for an online directory of local college flange he couldn’t have imagined it would turn into the whole world’s psychologist. I can just about stomach some of the Cantona-esque cryptic cries for attention, the conspiracy theorists who call for bans on anything edible that contains vitamins L through to Z, the brainlessly named ‘facerape’ about some hopelessly unoriginal homoerotic activity somebody has been dying to get of their chest and the weekly photos of some oik having his latest ‘best time ever’.

But babies? No.

As the actual age of the Facebook narcissist slowly rises, it appears the mental age slowly melts out of their ears as they discover what happens when ‘man put pee pee in woo woo’. And seeing as their entire life up to his point has been telling people (who don’t give a fuck about anyone) about themselves (who don’t give a fuck about anyone) the natural progression is to have a child and then tell all of those people who don’t give a fuck about anyone that you have spawned another little shit that no one can give a fuck about. And when they grow up, won’t give a fuck about you.

But that’s not good enough.

Because once someone becomes a parent they become very protective of their child. They wouldn’t want any harm to come to them, and they say it proudly. With all these paedos around you can’t be too careful. So let me just upload this little human being’s life from the age of ‘cunt-warm’ to ‘staggering like a drunk’ and hope no twisted uncle is beating himself off to it wearing a thong and a ski mask.

Hopefully as a parent you can recognise that he/she is a proper child that requires attention as opposed to an artfully tinted Instagram photo, and refrain from putting more images online for the Nonceville wank bank.

Maybe because I haven’t experienced the joys of being a father that makes me sound bitter. Perhaps. But much like childrearing, I have also never taken a selfie and god knows that would be a fucking treat compared to some of the hideous duck faces pouting about online like the race of the constantly constipated. I still, however, won’t be doing that.

Over the last few years I have slowly slimmed my online ‘friends’ collection down to under 100. These at present contain no baby peddlers, no UKIP chimps, no fuckwits ‘jus chillaxing’ or ‘rolling with my bitches’ in club toilets (because that’s where the party starts).

And how much better my ‘online’ life seems for it. Once in a while a scan photo might slip through, in which case you have a nine-month probation period to prove you are not so excited by your offspring that you feel the need to show everyone, like a child who has shit in his own hand and is so amazed and delighted he offers it to mummy.

Having said all this, I have been left with a barren wasteland of a news feed, consisting mainly of factual statements, the occupy movement, NFL news and betting adverts. It’s all very boring. I need to get out and play a bit of football maybe.

Has anyone got a kid I can borrow?

Now the nuts don’t work

I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t allow any person to stick their fist into my anus. I’m sure there are people who love it, and I’m sure evidence of that is a brief tap of the keyboard away, but I’m afraid it’s not for me.

I wonder, do the people who enjoy this activity look at me with pity, as though if I would only arch my back I would understand the ecstasy it can bring? Do they share stories of their own gaping arseholes with similarly bucket-reared friends, just loudly enough for the closed-minded likes of me to hear? Do they talk about me when I’m not there, perhaps even run through pro-fisting arguments they can try on me to show me the error of my ways?

Entirely unrelated, I also don’t want to have children. At this point anyone reading this who has children will have their ears pricked up like a dog in a pitch-black room sensing another animal sniffing its ringpiece.

I’ve just seen something that I now have to quote as read, to share the unmistakable taste of stomach acid tickling the back of my tongue.

“I am a father. I have one child – a little girl who is almost 2. She is absolutely amazing and means everything to me. Being a father is very special. However, being a father to a little girl is such a unique and amazing relationship.”

It’s the word ‘special’ I object to (most), much the same way as I object to ‘awesome’. If everything is ‘awesome’ where do we have left to go? I like things that inspire awe, but like kebabs and wanking I don’t want one every few minutes.

And if being a parent is so ‘special’, how come there have been so fucking many of them? I know science has moved on apace lately but the number of people who have had a father is still exactly equal to the number of people there have been, as I understand it.

I’m at the age when not having kids is seen as weird so I’ve decided now I’m going to explain to everyone who starts on this fucking never-ending subject that I have a double varicocele, a swelling of the veins that has drained both my testicles of the all-important juice that only lucky men can use to create a civilisation with one single shot. There’s no known cure, though it’s possible to squeeze a tiny amount of ejaculte out past my throbbing capilliaries if I make sure I fill my life with enough drink, drugs, gigs, holidays, unwanted electronic devices, trips to the cinema and people to do the cleaning for me. Exactly the kinds of thing parents can’t afford, but we all have our crosses to bear.

I will go into as much intentionally gruesome detail as you need about the massive red disease that has snuffed out my only chance at life’s main pleasure and ultimate goal, right up until the point you shut the fuck up about your children and how I really should help cure the world’s human shortage. I’ll stop explaining how I have to milk and milk and milk myself in ever more mind-bending positions the moment you admit that your obsession with children is a pathetic attempt to obtain the immortality you feel you, yes you rather than just your genes, deserve.

Either that or I’ll agree to have kids immediately if you lube yourself up and bend the fuck over. Your choice, daddy.