Andy's Blog

Arse Feck Drink!

You know what? I am bored of this now; the ups ‘n downs, the no-news, the unwelcome news and all the bits in between.  I am tired of writing about it, almost as much as you are reading about it.. probably.

I am supposed to be at Karate now, getting my unfit body dragged and beaten up around a School hall somewhere in Northamptonshire, and I was all but there… instead I am now here in a foul mood and desperately trying not to drag this post down into a long list of anglo-saxon, and some exciting newly invented, words.

Quite frankly everybody has an “It” of their own without me adding to the It’iness of it all.  So henceforth “It” shall not be getting any more column space on this little irrelevant corner of the T’interweb unless it’s a post with a title along the lines of “So long and thanks for all the fish”.

That of course may change as I am a man of short memory and whimsical nature, and this is my blog and I’ll whine if I want to – to paraphrase Barbara Gaskin

There is a lot to love about Spring finally sprunging [sic] its way onto the scene; the sun warming us itinerant t-shirt wearers, the blossoming of tulips and other flowery things, the sweet twittering of birdies, the tinkle of ice-cream vans as they slowly reappear after a lengthy hibernation, hot air balloons making their lazy way across the sky, yay even the ridiculously D&G bespeckled mid-life crisisee in his open top cabriolet gives one pause to snigger smile…

..and thus was I skipping through the daisies in a merry old mood, or less poetically strolling through Corley Service Station on the M6 after filling up the horseless carriage with liquid gold (or at least that’s what I hoped it was after I paid over a small mortgage), when my eyes did fall upon the less welcoming aspect of Spring’s sprunging.

Bent over double in front of me as I entered the shop, and searching through the sweets on the bottom shelf, was a pair of leggings.  Leggings stretched to a thin almost eye-wateringly see-through veneer.  Pale, cream coloured leggings, which were slowly coming up for air from betwixt the cheeks of a very VERY generously proportioned set of but-tocks.

Unfortunately the desperately escaping leggings also brought up a memento of their explorations of the inner workings of their host.

There is a moment when you feel as one with the bunny rabbits as they stare, frozen, at the oncoming headlights.

It was at this moment, of frozen horror, that some joker walking behind me looked over and, with (I hope) sarcasm, lets out a loud wolf whistle and exclamation of “Phwoar! Nice arse luv!”.. before continuing his journey onto wherever.

I looked in almost stunned admiration at his rapidly retreating frame, I would never have the balls to make THAT kind of statement.  It was then that I noticed that the bunny killing headlights were now smiling towards ME!

I don’t think I knocked over too many women and children in my hasty exit, I think I may have confused many more with my “roll on Winter” comment…

You know, in the midst of a mountain of things to worry about; lumps re-appearing, lumps being gauged out, ritual draining of blood, tiredness, soreness and wondering what the local quack will say when next you see them…  it’s the stupid little things that can surprisingly pick you up.

She beats me mercilessly around the dojo whenever the opportunity arises, uses parts of my body for punching and kicking practise, frequently uses a sly little put down to pop any form of self delusion I pamper myself with and more often than not can see through the mountain of bullshit I throw up in front of me to obfuscate the mountain of worry that’s bringing me down;

…Missing your skirt and legs :’( x

It’s a stupid little text message, done fairly late in the evening, and I am fairly sure has a certain amount of alcohol fuelling it… but despite all of that the day seems a little less of a downer already

Thanks for that :’)
xxx

This Monday just gone I was in a bad mood, and I hate being in a bad mood.

Being in a bad mood takes a lot of effort to maintain and really doesn’t do anything for ones complexion.

I especially hate being in a bad mood with the sprogs but sometimes, no matter how much of a “new age” parent you try to be, the little wallet drainers will dive head first into full martyrdom mode, throwing  proverbial dummies out of the even more proverbial cot, and get right on my tit.

The thing is, I remember being almost exactly the same when I was Number 1 son’s age.  The world was almost entirely against me and my parents were just the frontline of the battle-lines being drawn between me and the rest of the population of the Universe (yep, we’ve escalated from World to Universe).

To be fair my battles were minor scuffles when compared to the ding-dongs my Sister used to throw :¬)

To now find myself being that frontline soldier is somewhat startling.  Despite the rapid hair loss, white streaks in my facial bum-fluff, and snaps crackles & pops sounds that my bones make – in my head I am still that gangly 6’1 blonde idiot I was in my teenage years.

In a moment of revelation I look at the moping 13yo in front of me;

• 6’1? near as dammit,
• blonde? check,
• idiot? oh yes!

Oh crap!  I’m looking at Andy Mk II, the improved model.  I wonder if my dad ever had the same thoughts running through his mind?  …Probably not.

Not that this made the mood appreciatively better, although I now felt considerably older than I did a few seconds before that little epiphical revelation, cos now I feel I am just arguing with myself of 30-odd years ago!

*sigh* I feel the need to go and apologise to my parents…