Diet Time…It must be the New Year!

As a rule I don’t make any rules and that includes New Years resolutions. The wife on the other hand has gone crazy health kick mental. She’s eating healthier and doing bonkers amounts of running. Quite frankly, it’s making me look bad. A wife should have more consideration for her lesser half but no, the missus wants to “be fitter” and “live longer”. It’s working too, she’s happier and losing weight like Facebook users are losing interest.
She has far too much motivation for one person and you can’t help but get caught up in her success. The chance to ride in her wind was just too tempting. Coat Tail City, here I come!
As far as diet goes, mine is pretty shocking but well balanced if you’re a carnivore. Essentially, if it moves, I’ll eat it with chips and gravy. When it comes to greens I tend to run in the other direction. By running I can also ensure I don’t get any verbal off slow moving veggies hell bent on giving us top-of-the-food-chainers a free lecture. Save your strength hippy!
But whether I like it or not I am a tiny part omnivore, which means I need to eat non-meat stuff. Annoyingly vast quantities of spuds don’t count. The better half is literally eating stuff that grows out the ground! Like plants and that, I think they’re called “vegetables”. Ain’t no way that’s going on MY plate! I mean, it’s green, like bogies but even more so. Do I look like a rabbit!?!

Fortunately there is an answer! http://www.ayurveda4life.co.uk/ make this stuff called Energised Greens. It’s powdered veg which when mixed with water make a drink that resembles the stuff you find at the bottom of a pond that normally can only be removed with bleach and a sand blaster. That’s probably a bit harsh, some bleaches smell nice. I can condense the “How to Take” instructions into a single line; as quickly as possible and don’t let it touch the sides! Despite its appearance though it is still infinitely better than consuming the equivalent amount of daily fruit’n’veg portions. It also has the added benefit that you don’t feel like you’re depriving some poor bunnies of their food. Stick that in your lentil pipe!


which one is which again?

As for exercise, well those that know me will already know that on a mountain bike I am a laser guided, precision tuned, finely crafted athlete with unlimited strength and endurance…..in my head. The green stuff is designed to make me go even faster! This slightly alarming prospect is actually quite appealing, as I tend to go towards things that scare me a little. That particular behavioral trait would certainly explain the whole night riding thing, my vasectomy adventure and the people I associate with. My friends list on Facebook for example is like a who’s who of the weird, disturbed and wonderfully mental. I’ve set myself a weekly mileage target which would embarrass airline pilots and ride times which can be used to track my progress.

It is my intention to pwn this health thing, (“pwn” – I am so down wid da youff innit!). My insides are now at war and war is never pretty. My stomach is having Vietnam style flashbacks to when it used to see green food on a regular basis. My alimentary canal will be a Waitrose where once there was a Netto. My arse will be its own Concorde moment.

For someone who doesn’t do veg the future is a little bit squeaky bum. Results to follow.

Post Dramatic Snip Disorder

There is no denying that I have saved the world.

Having a vasectomy was sure to put the world’s population numbers on a plateau. You can all thank me later because right now I’m dealing with something of a growing problem. Anyone who has read the blog below, followed me on Twit’n’Facebonk will know the operation was a flawless success. Going in with eyes wide shut and outstanding naivety had paid off massively. However, rescuing mankind it would seem was not without its cost.
Becoming a jaffa can result in more than just losing your pips. Post Vasectomy Pain (PVP) and infections are the biggest nutaches. There are other possible ‘complications’ as well such as scrotal hematomas or allergic reaction to the chromic acid in the stitches. It’s well worth reading about…after you’ve had it done.
My little swimmers can give David Walliams a run for his money and they were none too pleased at being told they couldn’t go on the tube slide anymore. They aren’t suited to a life in the shallow end so they're taking their revenge.
In my case Day +12 was where the fun began. From nowhere I started to get plumpain on a par with giving birth to twin Zepplins. There was also a swelling in my pants, and not the good kind! The swelling briefly looked like a third love spud and I considered what it would be like to have trip-locks. A third more testosterone would get me kicked out of the Tour De France so it’s a blooming good thing I’m not a pro-cyclist. I decided that no good can come from having tiddlies that resemble a New Delhi train during rush hour and that I should probably get help or something. I won’t mention the oozing around the stitches, it was just too gross. The awesome Dr. M who had performed the surgery agreed to see them for a second time. His bravery was made even more impressive when you factor in the appointment time was after lunch. After a quick fondle he concluded that I had an infected man udder. He also suggested taking the stitches out. I agreed because apart from having a slowly inflating space hopper in my scrotum “all looked good”. Putting them in didn’t hurt, why would taking them out be any different?

#EPIC #FAIL

Naivety it would appear only works pre-op. It smarted a bit I can tell you but I’m glad he did because within minutes the vast majority of the pain had gone. Vanished like the prospect of becoming a daddy again. He made out a prescription for some anti-bi-ollocks and I was away at the speed of a legless sloth.
Space is still at a premium ‘downstairs’ but at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. I will just have to wait for the drugs to kick in and the swelling to unswell. I've single handedly halted the population growth, there’s no way I’m gonna let my plums fill the void!

to be continued...(hopefully not)

7 Billion and NOT counting.

Our species had hit the big 7 billion the media announced; it was time to commence Operation: Deweaponise My Nads. Codename: Seedless. Project: Blank. Objective: De-Plum. Mission: Unleaded !!!
This is the story of my journey to slow the population explosion by having my bollocks taken off the grid. A gripping tale of transformation from Optimus Pomigranite to Bumblejaffa. A quest to defuse genitals and turn the tide by having “the snip”.
However you want to put it a vasectomy was the only way to protect our planet from my baby making love spuds. For too long they have threatened people numbers with a ‘semenly’ limitless ammo of man fat. This was the double dip the world needed.
Making the arrangements was easy and there were no end of local GP’s that could do it. I visited one and they told me in detail what was involved. However, all I heard was blah blah blah, no more babies. After four years of two babies and zero sleep this was all the incentive I needed. Being a bloke I naturally went into this the only way we know how, with eyes wide shut. I booked a date and began the countdown. At Day minus 20 all I could think was: ppff, I’ve got ages yet. At Day minus 7 this had been upgraded to the more serious: ooh, me thingy is next week, I should probably read the leaflet or something.
On the bloke scale of panic there is very little time between DEFCON 5 and DEFCON 1. From vague concern to headless chicken can sometimes be just nanoseconds. It was this realisation that made me read the leaflet at Day minus 1. My conclusion: yeh I’ll be fine. I’ve found that it’s very easy not to be worried when your head is in clouds of blissful ignorance and a fog of naivety.

Day zero : cometh the hour, cometh the man #phrasefail. In total denial of what was about to happen, my only nerves came from my lack of nerves. Fortunately me, and the Victoria Cross worthy ‘Dr M’ hit it off like two Canal Street regulars on a bender. It was important that we did, after all future lives were in his hands.
Considering this was about to be the gayest experience of my life, Dr M was awesome. He’d probably fondled more scrotums than the local bishop but he did it at F1 speeds and with the touch of a Russian grand master. Seriously, the guy was a pro. He had a blade in one hand, a soldering iron in the other and only the slightest glimpse of sadistic pleasure in his eyes. If ever I need my undercarriage tinkering with in the future I’ll know exactly who to call.
While he desparkled my crown jewels we chewed the fat about golf and mountain biking. He explained that there would be no riding for me for at least the next two weeks, and no biking either, fnar fnar. It was only a minor ballache to add to the major one I should expect after the op. While I lay there I enquired about installing Sky Sports on the ceiling but it fell on deaf ears. I explained to the nurse that a 19 inch flat screen would fit perfectly between the two strip lights but it wasn’t to be. Sorry future egg-bashers, I tried I really did, but you’ll just have to lie there starring into a world of poorly lit magnolia like I did. The previously mentioned soldering iron was actually for electrically cauterizing the offending tubes. The only off putting bit was the burning smell, it was me, it was my bollocks, they were on electric fire! Life doesn’t get any more awesome when you realise a stranger is tickling your plums with a scaled down light sabre.
All in all, apart from briefly having electro-balls it was a bit of an anti-climax #phrasefail. The whole thing from lying down to standing up took fewer than twenty minutes and was on a par with going to the dentist. The sterile environment is the same, the same anaesthetic is used, the proceeding pain is roughly the same, they both want you to jizz in to a test tube 16 weeks later etc etc. The only difference seemed to be which end they were working on.
After my bollockoptomy I found my wife waiting in reception. She was more worried than I was and was a total hero for ferrying me home during her lunch hour. She’d even prepared a ‘carepack’ for me which consisted of some mountain bike mags, some booze, some ibuprofen and a shed load of chocolate. She was awesome and in total agreement about how this procedure was way worse than child birth. I’m basing our conversation on the age old adage that when she says no she actually means yes. She REALLY meant it.
Back at home I made comfy on the sofa, but not as comfy as my now useless onions which nestled in the finest Endura chamois panelled cycling shorts. There they would lay locked down and motionless for at least the next day. If you’re squeamish I would advise not looking down for quite a few days as you might be surprised to find what looks like two rottweiler puppies chewing on a cocktail sausage. Apart from the initial change of vista in the trouser department the recovery time is quite quick. Sure, for a few days you’ll walk like you’re in Planet of the Apes but this is nothing when you consider the reward. I had done the world a massive favour by guaranteeing not to add to it anymore. There was also a second prise of equal awesomeness, the very real fact that with the current batch of kiddies growing up and with no more sprogs in the tubes, I could at last attain the parent holy grail.

SLEEP.

Why I'm better than you. Part 1 of loads.

Humans are apes who have broken their instinctive programming patterns. We can easily override what natural selection has spent several billion years perfecting. We are the product of evolution, environment, nurture, nature and what’s on offer at Morrison’s.
Every now and then our baser instincts get tested to the limit, but by tolerating the stupid and not giving in to anger we make our human qualities better.
To make myself a ‘better’ person I like to test myself. I do this by listening to a short arsed mystic who seems to find it rewarding to stand aloft a sturdy wooden box in the middle of town while bellowing his witchcraft. I believe his book of spells is called the Bible…? My test is to see how long I can resist the urge to shout “Twat”. My current record is 4.8 seconds but I’m confident I can numb myself to his rambling bollocks and get my time to well over five or even six seconds by the end of the year.

“You sir, are you a sinner?” he shouts.
“Yes I am!” shouts a local completely deflating the little gobshite.

Yes he was a sinner, and proud, which is probably why no one was starring at him and thinking ‘freak’. The cards were heavily stacked against a looney with a soap box. First of all as I mentioned he was short, hence the wooden box. Secondly, he was ginger. Jaffa is the dominant gene that proves even nature can get it horribly wrong sometimes. Next up, he was wearing glasses. Finally, he was yelling the word of “our Lord”. Now everyone in this country loves an underdog but the Right Reverend Stumpy Gingafoureyes had crossed the tolerance line. He had one spanner-characteristic (spackeristic) too many. Even though I admire his gun sticking I think he would have had way more success/an audience if he’d shouted out Harry Potter instead.
Thanks to some seriously subtle penning, you might have noticed that I don’t really do religion. I have a Catholic upbringing to thank for this. The only religious saving grace is Hinduism, which acknowledges that the universe oscillates and is several billion years old. You’ve got to doth your cap for working that one out.
Life in junior god squad was dull, I did all the usual: First Holy Communion, First Confession, First Naked Polaroids for the Bishop etc However, this worm turned at the point of Confirmation. When you’re young Confirmation is just a way of getting a middle name and some lame-arsed present to say well done you’re officially a Catholic now. To be confirmed meant extra bashing and no one wanted that. As some of my fellow pupils had already been confirmed the teacher at the time went round one by one and asked us who was being “done” this year. For some reason I was at the back of the classroom and last too be asked. I’ll never forget the look on my class’ face when I instinctively said ‘no, not me’. Without saying a word and in perfect unison the entire un-done class span round and gave me a look of “WE HAD A CHOICE????”. In hindsight I have to thank the reptilian part of my brain. In a fight or flight on-the-spot kinda moment my dino-brian did both. It’s yet more proof that I’m subconsciously awesome. Either way from then on life slowly got easier. I've gone off the lapsed Catholic scale and become a coma'd Catholic.
I'll probably have to spend enternity in hell but I've been to Blackpool so it should be alright.

Camping....part two

After leaving a ruin in ruins we headed back to the campsite to rough it in our portable big top. The kettle, DVD, dry clothes and air con were put on in that order. I say air con, it’s more like a mesh window with its own flappy bit of tent material that controls the flow of air. It’s a floppy Velux really. When I opened it the warm damp humid air was instantly exchanged for much cooler damp humid air and some rather coarse language. But this was no time to moan, there would be plenty of time for that later. After all we were in a paper thin grandiose wigwam sheltering from teeming rain and a typhoon in a soaking wet field in the arse end of Devon. Life was good. With grumbling tummies we watched the bears catch salmon from where the car park used to be and our attention turned to food. The grizzlies were eating all the game fish and we were saving the venison for an emergency snack. The scallops in vintage soy sauce, assorted mushrooms and okra in lime cups were ready but the Krug was nowhere near chilled enough.
Only one course was open to us, we’d have to pub it.
We dinned and then dined heartily on burgers, chips, gammon, more chips, chicken nuggets, beans and a few more chips all washed down with several pints of lager and some Fruit Shoots for the wife and I. The more than reasonable prices meant we would have to buy more crisps and chocolate on the way back.

larger lout











Once our bellies were full we ambled, grunted, sighed and burped our way back to the unshapely chalet. Bloody good thing it was mostly downhill. The rain had eased a little and the bears had moved down river to buy ice creams. We reflected on the day in the living area and planned the next days adventure; the zoo. On the promises of lions and tigers the kids bolted and vaulted to bed like Thompson gazelle while the wife and I said prayers to Teflon, the god of waterproofing. Just one more night, that’s all we needed.
The zoo was a mere Howitzer shell away from the campsite so we had enough time to demolish an entire variety pack of cereals. I mixed some Corn Flakes with some Frosties together because I’m crazy and renegade like that. We had arranged to meet Granny and Granddad at the zoo car park at 10am before it became too busy. Meeting inside the zoo was too risky as first thing in the morning Granddad has the appearance of a tweed wearing silver back. Apart from the clothes the only thing that separated him from one of the primate attractions was a vague wiff of mothballs and Marmite.
We arrived at precisely 10am while the relics finally made an appearance at 10:02am. As a penalty for gross time keeping they agreed to pay our entrance fee. We waited patiently in the queue while Granddad filled out the necessary re-mortgage paperwork. One arm and one leg later we were in!
The hours flew by as we starred at empty enclosure after empty enclosure. With a little help from a tower and the Hubble telescope we did see a tiger. Well I say tiger, at that distance it might as well have been a sheep in a costume.
Just a note to all zoos out there: nocturnal animals, why have them if you’re only open during the day? rare fox my arse! it's a few random holes in the ground and you know it.

An escaped monkey











Fortunately this particular zoo had clued up on its typical audiences attention span and placed an adventure playground every two hundred feet.


Colditz with wood bark


As we progressed the adventure playgrounds became ever more like an SAS assault course and there were no end of opportunities for parents and carers alike to have heart attacks while they watched.



By the time we got to the tourist trap at the end the kids were too knackered to bother with fluffy pink elephants or replica rhino turds. Result.
To be continued………

Holiday

I’ve been camping!!
No no, not the kind you’re thinking of. This involved pitching a tent, looking at who had the biggest and things going bump in the night. Despite the weather arsing it down for 72hours straight we still had an awesome time. This was largely due to the fact that our temporary abode was borderline palatial. There aren’t many occasions where you can proclaim how proud you are of your erection without much embarrassment, but this was one of them. Me, the missus and the sprogs slept in the north wing. The carpeted living room, kitchen area and south wing were used as a dumping ground for the wife’s vital essentials.
We had gas powered heating/cooker, electric, TWO tv’s, four beds, four chairs, two tables, and a larder. We were proper slumming it. Drinking water came via two five litre water holders which were filled from a tap about 25metres away. It was like being homeless or something!


(behold, the Ritz)

The only glimmer of luxury were the toilets. You’ve never seen clean like it. Confused men kept wandering out to check they were in the right bog. The potpourri and “soap” were really quite intimidating. The showers, crappers, urinals and sinks were cleaner than a royal wedding. The mirrors were so clean you could see your face in them! Despite my best efforts to draw willys and boobs in the condensation they never lasted more than a day. There was even piped in music.
I’m going to recommend them to the tourist board.
Other than the wc’s the campsite itself was barely acceptable. It only had two heated swimming pools! The crazy golf was nowhere near crazy enough although gaffer taping knives to the windmill and putting piranha in the water hazard did help a little. The shop was very good but their sensible pricing meant they lost massive points on the captive audience front. We had to spend nearly twenty quid on chocolate and crisps before even felt a little bit ripped off. The onsite soft-play was clean as well. None of the balls in the pit smelt of wee or anything! I can’t comment on the tyre swing as I was asked to leave before I could measure the tread depth. I felt this was a tad unfair as I was both “over 3 years old” and clearly “taller than the bunny ears”. I’ve left the exact details with my solicitor. A long time was spent at the outside play area with its wooden fortress and connecting slides, even the kids enjoyed it.
We decided that the rain shouldn’t ruin our camping adventure. We should let it ruin our excursions as well. With the sat-nav route set to “B-roads only” and “popular with caravans” we ventured out. Instinct and flood warnings guided me to a nearby castle. Small boy plus real castle equals a quiet afternoon. The castle in question had been there for six hundred years. I can’t imagine what it had seen and endured over that time but I’m pretty sure it’s biggest test was my son with his stick sword. You could feel the six feet thick stone foundations move as he charged the ramparts and shouted through every arrow slit. Hell have no furry like a three year old fuelled up on Hairbo. The noise he makes at full gusto could split atoms.

(he's smiling because five minutes ago there used to be a roof....job done)

After several hours of charging round like a mentalist he relented and calm was briefly restored while he crashed out on the back seat. His younger sister is much more civilized and decided to do the usual and eat herself to sleep.

To be cont’d….

SUMMER, get it while it's hot!!!

The rain is that little bit warmer and I’m down to just five layers of clothing. You know what this means!!!
Summer is officially here. If you’re a bee, wasp, fly or any other winged insect, then you’ll have probably flown through our house recently. Sorry about the state of the place. It’ll be a lot tidier when you reappear stumbling across the carpet in autumn moaning that it’s too cold to fly.
It’s also a time for us cavemen to make fire in a rusted out barbeque and give everyone food poisoning. Thanks to some industrial sized tree pruning I now have an inexhaustible supply of fuel. So much in fact that I’ve had to purchase a hatchet. Surely, it’s one of the all time man-tools of all time? It comes with a lifetime guarantee on all ‘chopper’ jokes. The leather sheath just adds to the man-ness of it all. It has a flat end for battering stuff and a nail puller, but I’m not sure what that bit does.
My little chiminea is now constantly primed and ready to go at the drop of a swan vesta. How can a mini-axe bring so much pleasure? Who cares! Now stand back while I try to cleft this wood and keep my digit count in multiples of five.
Ladies, there’s no point in you trying to rationalise our love of fire. After all we don’t rationalise why you need quite so many shoes, or your love of Glee. Gawd don’t even get me started on Glee. I’ve had to recalibrate the shite-o-meter for that one.
The all time man tool of all time full stop is the knife. Alas though, we’re not allowed a proper one in the house because you girlies will use it as a screwdriver and end up with a free trip to A&E. The sharpest blades in the house are on your Venus razors and you can’t whittle with one of them….I’ve tried. I ended up with a very smooth lollypop stick and not the vicious pointy sabre tooth scarer I was trying to craft.
Summer is short in the UK. Normally it’s two weeks in May and then about five good days spread across the rest of the year. The exception is the south coast, which enjoys endless summer suns. The old and people with a metabolism the speed of a glacier love it down there. However, the prevailing southwesterly wind has meant there is a constant smell of old wee wee and Werthers Originals around Dover. I’d love to blame the French I really would but this one is our fault.The rest of the country enjoys almost continual assorted shades of grey. It’s not always been like this though. Oh know! only a few thousand years ago in Skara Brae (Orkneys), (top of Scotland), (the lumpy bit above Newcastle), (haggis munching kilt wearing wineoland), (yes there), the sea was full of fish that today are only found in much warmer tropical waters. Nowadays those fish have long since vanished, probably down the gullet of the nearest penguin. Go back in time a bit further and you’ll find Birmingham under a mile of ice. Happy days. The UK is obsessed with the weather because we get so flipping much of it. In the two minutes it’s taken to construct this drivel it has rained, blown a gale, been nice and sunny and finally settled on rain again. Last week it was hotter than Miami. Today it’s colder than a vengeful polar bear drowning some kittens for fun. I don’t know whether to wear shorts or skis. I’d cover my arse and wear both but the colours would clash horribly. Maybe if I had a different pair of shoes to match every single item of clothing I own and then sub-divided them into say ‘winter’ and ‘summer’ outfits I wouldn’t be in this mess…..? It would take an organisational genius and a mammoth wardrobe space to figure that one out. Ladies, over to you.