Yum!

My son now feels he’s too old to go out on Halloween. We call it “guising” in Scotland. Short for disguise, geddit? But people now call it Trick or Treating. When I were a lad we used to have to do something for the treat, like sing a song, recite a poem or at the very least tell a joke. Nowadays they stand at your doorway with their hand out. While the other hand holds a bag already chock-full of sticky treats.

One year I even wrote a play. I was twelve. It was shit. So sue me. I got my sister (aka Queen of Chaos) and her pal to play the other two parts. We each had about 3 lines of dialogue – I was very fair-minded and all I can remember about it was that someone died horribly at the end.

The neighbours must have laughed up their dinner when we moved on.

So, this year the wee fella is 12 and he’s way too cool to be going out in a disguise. This is me feeling kinda sad and relieved at the same time. It’s cold out there people!





The Wee Fella has never been much of a reader but the school have managed to get him interested in the Fighting Fantasy gamebooks. So, emboldened by this success I place a book beside him on the sofa. It’s a more conventional novel, Ostrich Boys by Keith Gray (a friend of mine) which has won shedloads of awards.

Me: why don’t you have a go at this. It’s won a lot of awards.

The wee fella just looks at me...

...and says, Dad, you’re taking this too far.





Me (on the phone to a friend): Oops, nearly called you a name that rhymes with Rick. (I didn’t want to use rude words while my son was around)

The wee fella: (shouts) Dad, the word is prick!

Me: Don’t you talk like that.

TWF: I don’t. I'd never use a word like that. I call my friends arseholes

Thinking Ahead

He followed me into the kitchen as if he had something important to tell me...

- Dad, I want to be a writer.

- Cool, I said.

I’m not one of those people who dump their own dreams and expectations on to their children. I want him to do whatever he wants to do. The cliché follows...as long as he’s happy.

So I left the conversation at that.

A few days later...

- Dad, did I tell you I wanted to be a writer?

- Yeah, buddy. That’s pretty cool. What do you want to write?

He gave me the title of something that he’s been thinking about. First it was going to be a movie, then a cartoon, then an X-box game. Now it’s going to be a book. We have franchise possibilities here, people and that’s why I’m not providing the title. You just never know.

- That sounds excellent, son. When you going to start it?

- Eh...he says and pauses. He thinks awhile. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that work had to be done and the thing had to be started. He answers - Soon.

- Can I give you some advice, buddy?

- Sure, after all, dad you’re world famous and very successful (ok, he didn’t say that EXACTLY. I’m paraphrasing...in a wish fulfilment kinda way.)

- Well, to be a writer, you’ve got to read a lot.

- I think I want to be a businessman then.

- Why are you thinking about this just now? You’ve just turned 12.

- I can’t live with you or my mum forever. I need to be able to have enough money to buy a flat of my own.

- Again. You’re 12. There’s plenty of time to think about this.

He pats my hand

– You need to plan, dad. Stuff just doesn’t happen on its own.


Who is putting this stuff in his head? I blame the cartoons. Full of all kinds of nonsense.

Kentucky Freakin' Fried

After a swim, the wee fella is usually starving and I’m usually in full-on lazy, let’s get take-out mode. Not a good combo. On you go, son, I say, have a swim, get some exercise and then we’ll fill your gut full of cheap carbohydrates. I am a bad parent. Nonetheless, I remain undeterred and full of post-swimming sloth.

The problem is that I LOVE KFC. Did you get that? I heart KFC. The problem part of this comes from the fact that I hate poor service... and that’s consistently what I get every time I visit my local store. I can cheerfully claim that the Ayr store has the worst service I have experienced since I first had some hard-earned to spare. My last experience was so bad, dear reader that after this week’s post-swim laziness got to work on my brain, I took the wee fella to McDonalds. Aye, I know. Shock horror. No need to throw the plates out with the dishwater, I hear you say. But there you have it. I've sold out.

The last time I visited KFC, Ayr there was a queue of about eight people and only 1 of the three tills had someone in attendance. The whole thing about convenience food is the convenience, right? It ain’t very convenient if in the time you wait you could have visited the supermarket, driven home, prepared the ingredients and served up a wholesome meal. And of course every five minutes you are stood standing in said queue you debate with yourself – I should just go, I’ll give it another five minutes. And of course five minutes pass with all the fury of a feather floating in a weak draft. Then you say to yourself, I’ve waited all this time, I may as well stay. Meanwhile, the wee fella is moaning in a theatrical bellow – dad, what’s taking so long? As if it’s my freakin’ fault. The other adults around us are wearing expressions that are the very definition of “Stoic” and I’m thinking, why don’t you dumb fucks go somewhere else? But of course they are on the same internal journey that I am.

Now I can see the till. The ...let’s give him a name...the Operative at the till could give a flying fried chicken wing (see what I did there) that every eye in the room is on him and they are all now being switched from “Stoic” to “Glare”. The reason for this lack of concern, I assume, is because he has a horrific case of acne and its so bad the whole world can go fuck itself. Try and imagine someone took a straw, filled it with a tomato sauce and then sprayed it with care over his t-zone. Then they left him out in the sun to dry. Then they painted a wee yellow dot at the centre of each “spot”.

By now the chicken cooking crew are running out of chicken so the Operative takes a person’s order, passes their receipt to the side and then takes the next person’s order. A wee girl swaps her chicken cooking apron for an Operative’s badge complete with the appellation “Trainee” and walks out front to help.


Chaos ensues.

The trainee takes on an appearance of concern and stands in the one place and looks from the Operative to the chicken to the crew in the back cooking the chicken and from there to the queue who to a man are silently willing her to Freakin’ Move. She’s giving gormless a whole new flavour. Eventually, she rouses herself to action and places some orders on some trays and some people get to carry their food over to a table, relief making them appear about ten years younger.

The queue is now stretched to the door and every time I glance over my shoulder to see someone else has joined I want to scream at them - Get out. Go. Go now before the Crap Service/ Chicken Hunger trap gets you. I however, am caught as if my feet are glued to the floor.

A woman from the middle of the queue loses patience and walks up to the counter. She ignores the people who are next in line to be served and demands that more people are brought out to help man the counter. The operative looks at her and shrugs. He purses his lips. Well, he sticks his bottom lip out and then he goes back to take the order from the next person in the queue. The woman learns her lesson –that basically she has as much importance as a bluebottle drowning in batter – and chastened she returns to her place in the queue like she has been sent there by the headmaster rather than a spotted youth who has yet to master the art of making facial expressions.

My beard has grown a centimetre, the wee fella’s belly has shrunk by the same measurement and eventually we reach the counter. I lean against it to make sure it is solid and not a mirage brought about by chicken and batter deprivation. The operative looks in my direction. Chews the inside of his lip in what I assume passes for “May I take your order”. So pleased that I have actually reached the stage where a meal is actually achievable, I pass on the opportunity to tell him what I think of the appalling service and I give him my order. He reads the cost of my food from the till and I realise that this is the first time I have heard him speak. Feeling that I should offer some form of congratulation I hand over the cash. He gives me a receipt and looks at the person behind me. A look that I assume is meant to mean “next please”. He is yet to look me in the eye.


I need to relax my jaw. It’s clamped shut with the effort of not shouting at someone. I turn to the wee fella and say...next time I suggest we come here will you slam my hand in the car door? My son looks at me with that expression... and I experience a moment of recognition – a moment of pure horror. I look from him to the Operative and a voice screams in my mind. Noooooo.

Some folks behind me have their order taken in the same desultory manner. But the trainee has risen to the challenge and more and more people actually get their food within an almost reasonable time.

Then I realise that people who’d had their order taken after me are getting their meals before me. Hunger has made my mind like a steel trap, has it not. Hey, I say, where’s mine? The Trainee blushes. The Operative maintains the same expression he has worn since I walked in the door. In Scotland we have a great word for it; glaikit. (Pronounced glay-kit, it means stupid beyond measure) They look at the receipts and ignore the chicken free zone in front of me. They confer. And agree that I am right and the Operative fills a tray with my order. He has a slight and temporary squint in one eye that I optimistically read as an apology.

Before I pick up the tray, I assess my order.

- There’s only TWO pieces of chicken here, I say and wonder who the crazy person is that has taken over my voice and added a strong dose of Ayrshire to it along with a thick lacing of crabbit. - I ordered a three piece meal. Three. Piece. Meal. (I can only speak in a staccato manner because I’m hyperventilating). There’s only ...two... pieces.

Bawheid, (pronounced baw – to rhyme with raw – heed; meaning your head is a ball and you are stupid beyond measure) formally known as the Operative looks at my tray and then looks at my receipt. With alacrity – oh, okay – with a movement that suggests he might have the ability to act with alacrity if say, the building was on fire and the person in front of him was stealing his mobile phone and his ipod, he dumps a chicken thigh on my tray.

I turn and join the wee fella at a table. The first piece of chicken makes it down the back of my throat without being chewed. In fact not one part of the chicken touches one part of the inside of my mouth. My son looks at me in a way that Bart might have looked at Homer and asks,

- Dad, when do I get to shut your hand in the car door?

love sucks

- Love sucks, says the wee fella as he surfs through the music channels.

- Sorry? I look up from my book.

- All this music. Why do all these people sing about nothing except love?

- Don’t know - I say - It makes the world go round?

- That’s ...eh...money. Or sex – he says this word with what he thinks is a leer. Looks more like a pantomime bad guy.

- You’re too young to be obsessed with that stuff - I go for a jokey tone.

- I’m not obsessed - judging by his tone, he doesn’t like my tone - these people are obsessed – he waves the remote at the telly - with all their songs about love.

- Cannae argue with that - I say while trying to remember a recent pop song that wasn’t about relationships.

- Anyway - he gets back to his original point - love still sucks.

- Why’s that? I ask, anxious to get back to reading Greg Iles’ latest paperback.

- ‘Cos it always ends.

- Not always, son. I know your mum and me didn’t last but some people stay married for a long time.

- Yeah and then it ends. They always break up. Anyway – he stares at the telly- is that not her from X factor? The judge?

- Cheryl Cole – I answer – she has a song of her own now.

- And it’s about love, isn’t it?

- Yes – I have a wee listen to the lyrics.

- Have they broke up yet? He asks all world-weary and cynical.

- Lots of relationships last, son. Both of my older brothers have been with their wives for like – I can’t remember the exact number so I guess - 30 years.

- Yeah but one day one of them will die.

- Everybody dies, I say with my This Is One of Life’s Big Lessons voice.

- Exactly. And they they’ll be on their own. Love sucks – he crosses his arms and leans back into his chair.


Conversation over.


We both turn to face the TV and watch Cheryl Cole dancing on the screen.


- Dad?

- What?

- Why’s she humping the wall?


 

What Goes Around...

I am a wee bit unsure about posting any of my poems on this blog, but in this case it is necessary for you to get the joke. Also this particular poem has been published in New Writing Scotland and on a CD of poems so I’m not worried about it popping up somewhere else under someone else’s name.

That is of course, presuming anyone would want to steal one of my poems. Anyway, here it is...

Art in the Park

They wur in among the trees, behind the big hoose at Rozelle.
Right there oan the grass, like they’d dropped from a plane.
Huge they wur. Huge wae effort. Huge like a god’s thoughts.
-Whiddye make o’ them? I ask my wee boy.
Had tae drag him away from the black box,
before his een went widescreen.
He points, finger oot like a dirk
– Dad, that one has a big butt.
- Furgoadsake. You watch way too much telly, son.
‘N the word is arse.
He jist luks up et me n’ says
– Whatever.

The Yoke this wan’s called. He’s hunched over.
Heid awa tae the side, like Gourock.
I move closer for a good look.
- Dad, let’s find some branches, so we can play at sword fighting.
I run ma hands over the granite. See, ye think it’s gray,
but up close it has a’ these speckles o’ black, n’ flashes o’ green.
-Dad, I’ll be Darth Vader, the wean skips over wae two sticks. -Who are you?
- In a meenit, son. Ah’m huvin’ a moment tae myself.
Noo, he’s just starin’ at me ‘n he says
- Whatever.

See, son. It’s aboot Jesus n’ his pain. But it’s more than that.
Nature’s givin’ a hand here. The stone’s gray like a sufferin’ sky,
n’ the trees are stretchin’ their arms oot tae share a touch.
Tae soothe. The earth is aroon the base reachin’ up
tae pull the granite back in. N’ see here, moss and lichen
…n’ wid ye look et that? That lichen is like a red stripe
doon the statue’s ribs. Whaur a wound might huv been.

My boy stops wavin’ his sticks aboot,
- Dad, I cannae believe you are actually my dad.
I just looks doon et him n’ say
- Whatever.



So... this poem was performed by myself on a CD that Makar Press published just over a year ago. And forgetting that my son and I have an ongoing debate about bad language, I played the CD in the car while he was with me.
‘N the word is arse.’ I say in the poem.

The wee fella homed on this. Ooh, Dad you said a bad word. Tell me you don’t swear a lot, says he. Of course not, says I. Only for effect or when I’m trying to amuse someone. Eh, says he looking totally mysstified, that makes no sense.

Fast forward a year and the CD hasn’t been played since. He’s watching a Horrible Histories episode and the theme is Ancient Greece. The next thing I hear is the wee fella shouting at the TV, ‘Kick his ass, Zeus.’ A phrase which you don’t ever expect to hear coming out of your child’s mouth.
Hey, says I, watch your language.
Sorry, dad, says he with a cheeky wee smile. I forgot. The right word is arse.

Sometimes you know some things are going to come back and bite you on the bum, but you can never quite tell how.

fathers and sons

It’s a strange sort of Friday evening. A long hard week at work and I’m feeling tired, but relaxed. Well, I say relaxed. I’m veering more towards somnolent.

As I was chilling on the couch, wondering what to eat for dinner...wondering if I could be arsed eating anything for dinner – so not like me – I like my grub – I was watching the repeat of last week’s X-Factor.

First off, I’m not joining any pseudo intellectual queue to slag off this programme. I’m an unapologetic fan of all this stuff. Blame Hughie Green. I was brought up on talent shows and I’m also a sucker for the story. No, not the my wife died and this is for her, kinda story. More the, I’m just an ordinary guy/ gal and I have an uncertain amount of talent and a huge dream, kinda story. ‘Cos basically I am everyman and I want everyone to succeed. And I’m there cheering with all the family members when their son/brother/ daughter/sister gets a row of yes’s.

As usual there were those who were deluded, those who were clearly just there for a laugh or a bet and those who frankly shouldn’t be let out in public on their own without a bell to ring and an armed guard. Call me old fashioned but I have to say I prefer it when the programme makers engineer a situation where we have someone we can laugh with, rather than someone to laugh at.

Interestingly, the wee fella doesn’t like programmes like the X-Factor because only one person out of all those thousands can win. The rest of them, he says, go away with their dreams ruined.

He has a point.

Anywho, there was the guy at the end, Danyl Johnson, teacher, 27. He was soooo good I got goosebumps. I’d pay to see him in concert tomorrow. He could sing, dance and engage the audience. As I write this, I believe his audition has become the next big thing on youtube.

Another young fella turned my ear. Can’t remember his name but he was about 19 and he had only sung karaoke and “in front of like a hundred people”. That’s some karaoke, dude. His song of choice was “Dance With My Father”. This was a song that won Luther Vandross a Grammy and one he was quoted as saying it was the high point in his career. It prompted a memory...

...my son and I were in the car in a shopping mall car park. Dance With My Father was playing on the radio. This was about a year ago and at that time he wasn’t really into music, but something about the song made him stop what he was wittering on about (WWE probably)and he listened...

- what’s that song about, Dad?

- It’s about a man remembering his own Dad and how he misses him. His Dad died a long time ago. But when he was a wee boy his dad used to pick him up and dance him around the house. He’s singing that he would love to have just one more dance with him.

Suddenly, we are both gripped by the emotion of the moment. He turns to stare out the window.

- You ok, son? I just manage to ask.

- Don’t say anything, he answers, or you’ll make me cry.

We sit in silence until the last note faded.

- Want to go for a coffee now, he asks.

- Since when did you like coffee, I say surprised.

- Since never... but you like it, Dad.


So there’s me on a Friday night, with a tear in my eye and the whisky bottle not even open.

Summer what summer?

I’m suffering from Sundaynightcan’tbearsed-itis. Should be doing certain tasks to get ready for the week ahead, but ...I’ve been on the settee pointing the remote at the TV watching nothing in particular.

I would like to posit the opinion that I am suffering from Seasonally Adjusted Disorder. WTF, I hear you cry, in the summer? Absolutely. Our summer officially ended at the start of July and my neighbourhood is beginning to resemble the set for Kevin Costner’s Waterworld. If the leaves weren’t stubbornly hanging on to their trees I’d be convinced this was October.

The silver lining to this particularly persistent sky full of cloud is that if it’s raining I can’t cut my grass and this is A Good Thing. I have a similar attitude to cutting grass as I do to housework. I am now paying a cleaner...maybe I should find someone to pay to cut the lawn?

I was in Glasgow yesterday. Buchanan Street to be precise. For those of you who don’t know this is one of the busiest shopping thoroughfares in the UK outside of London. Looking down the length of the street from the top end all you can see is a monster mass of bobbing heads. I overheard a tour guide talking to a bunch of Italians. This woman had an astounding grasp of the obvious as she pointed down Buchanan Street in one direction saying...in this direction we have shops. She then pointed in the other direction and said...and in this direction we have shops.

I hope the Italians got their money back.

At the far end of the street sits the Royal Concert Hall. A man was singing on the steps in front of the hall to a gathering crowd. Man, he was good. Nessun Dorma et al were given an airing. His name was John Craig Innes and he calls himself the People’s Tenor. Apparently he goes round the country “bringing opera to the people” singing in shopping centres and the like. Certainly, the people of Glasgow enjoyed him yesterday, cos he sold a shitload of CDs.

I’m not happy with myself today. I’ve written very little in the last week. Work has been a tad draining and I find it difficult to sit in front of a laptop and write at the end of a work day. Enough with the sob story, dude. This coming week WILL be different. An hour a day can’t be too difficult can it?

Had a lazy afternoon with the wee fella. I planked myself in the bookshop and leafed through the latest Greg Iles while sipping a giant cappuccino. He read a Horrible History. As I used to work there a number of people came over to say hello. Which did not please my son.

- Eeesh, he says under his breath, you’re worse than a girl.
- I know a lot of people, son. I can’t ignore them.
- You’d say hello to Hitler if he walked in here.
- If Hitler walked in here I’d phone a TV station.
- See if someone got their throat cut, he asked after pausing for a beat, would there be a mess?

I’m not worried at how the conversation turned out. He has this thing about asking about nasty events and their consequences. For example...
- If I fell from that building would I die? Depends on what part of your body you land, I answer trying to think of a more gruesome reply. He is into gruesome these days. If you land on your head, I go on, you would die. If you land on your feet the force would push your legbones up through your ribcage and yes, you would die. Cool, says he.

- Would someone die if they lost their legs? If they get to the hospital in time, they might be able to stem the flow of blood, I answer running out of energy. Where gruesome is concerned I have my limits.

- If a man...he paused to think of something that might embarrass me. He gets a wee glint in his eyes...if a man had his penis cut off would he survive? Probably, I say. He might just wish he hadn’t.

Laters,
M

On the treadmill...

...something just as embarrassing as the Scotland football result against Norway? Surely not.

While watching the first part of the first half of the game, it wasn’t Caldwell that cleared the ball from the penalty box. It was me. In my head at least, it was I who gave the ball a quick punt up the park, keeping it out of the danger area.

The problem was that the TV I was watching the game on was mounted on a treadmill at the gym. I took an imaginery swipe at the ball. Forgot to tell my leg I was only pretending and missed my footing. Have you ever tumbled on a treadmill? Not a good look. I was saved from falling arse over tit by the safety cord attached to my t-shirt. A stumble. A quick look around me. Thankfully nobody caught my foolishness and I went back to running myself into a standstill. Which to be honest, takes all of ten minutes.



The wee fella was watching TV the other night. Well, he was copying what his father does and was surfing the channels, watching nothing in particular. He caught two seconds of Doctor Who – which is now considered to be lame, because someone at school said so; and Torchwood –he hates Captain Jack because he sacrificed a wee boy to save millions of other children. Every single life is important, he told me. Captain Jack is a loser. So there. Anywho, he stops, thinks and looks at me...


...see if you ever go back in time, Dad? Don’t touch yourself.


...wha...? Was my considered response. My first thought was a Nun wagging her finger at me and telling me I would grow hairs on the palms of my hands and would almost certainly Go To Hell if I ever kept my hands in my pockets. All I ever had in there was a penny, a half-chewed toffee and a bogey-ridden paper hanky. Why would I want to keep my hands in there?


....when you go back in time, he repeats with all the patience of someone talking to the village idiot, don’t touch yourself because it causes ripples in the future.


...what, like feelings of inadequacy and a guilt complex, I ask.


...weird. He shakes his head. Just weird.

Prunes and tigers

Today, I’m like a prune. I have wrinkles on my wrinkles. I took son for a swim at a Leisure Centre at the McDonald Highland Resort in Aviemore. The cost for non-residents was £15. I explained to the receptionist that I only wanted a swim, not to take out membership. Her smile was frayed with impatience. Then, “There’s a wave machine.” She made a token effort to sell it to me and then raised an eyebrow that articulated exactly what was going on in her mind – “like I could give a shit, you wanker.”

My son was hopping up and down in anticipation of a dip. I handed over the cash and asked the receptionist if they provided staff with masks along with the uniform. She didn’t hear me. Probably because I’m a feartie and only asked it in my own head.

I was determined that we should get our money’s worth and we were in the water for ages. The wave machine was great fun and there was a slide that the wee fella pronounced the best he’d ever been on. Two hours later - the prune effect was achieved.

Yesterday was awesome. We went to the Highland Wildlife Park at Kincraig. They specialise in animals that are suited to the weather conditions locally and those whose numbers are in decline. Indeed many of the animals in situ are either extinct or approaching extinction in the wild. There are yaks, european bison, red panda, eagle owls, lynx, beaver, reindeer and loads more.

There is an area where you are able to get out of your car and walk about to look at the animals. There is also a stretch that you drive through and this is where many of the grazers are given space to roam. Driving through the main reserve we passed the Bactrian Camels, the Yaks, European Bison, red deer... and then we parked by the roadside to watch a small group of Przewalski’s Horses.
They are strikingly similar to the horses depicted in European neolithic cave paintings. Fossil evidence in Scotland indicates that wild horses survived here up to 3000 years ago but after the last Ice Age, the horses’ range became smaller and smaller until its last wild population was in Mongolia.
The Przewalski is presently being reintroduced to two main sites in Mongolia and they have re-established themselves well. Przewalski’s horses differ from domestic horses in a number of ways. Their skull is heavier and they have a thicker jaw as well as an upright black mane and no forelock. They are stocky with relatively short legs and a yellowish brown coat with black lower legs and a black tail. Just in case you were wondering.
And we can testify that they are also nosey feckers. We had the window down so I could try and take some photographs. One of the horses took this as an invitation to have a wee look at us – splendid specimens I could hear him say. I managed to get the window up just before it had a nibble at the wee fella’s hair. I have the horse saliva staining the length of my car window to prove it.

Headline act at Kincraig is undoubtedly the Amur tiger pair and their 3 cubs. They used to be known as Siberian tigers but apparently their numbers have retreated to a smaller area of the region; you guessed it, known as Amur. These are the largest tigers on the planet and to be mere feet (through thick glass) from ma and pa while the cubs (born on the 11th May this year) clambered all over each other was a thrill and a privilege. Pa Tiger was HUGE. Awesome is a word that is over used nowadays, but in terms of being able to watch these tigers so closely it is absolutely appropriate.

The WWF website says - In the 1940s the Amur tiger was on the brink of extinction, with no more than 40 tigers remaining in the wild. Thanks to vigorous anti-poaching and other conservation efforts by the Russians with support from many partners, including WWF, the Amur tiger population recovered and has remained stable throughout the last decade or so.

But poaching of tigers and its prey, increased logging and construction of roads, forest fires and inadequate law enforcement are threats that affect the survival of the species.


Another delight was the troupe of Snow Monkeys who have recently arrived. They were the most physically active attraction on the park and contentedly carried on with their lives in full view of the hairless bipeds on the other side of the viewing glass. Could’ve watched them for hours.

The wee fella was trying to work out the gender of several of the monkeys walking past. One large male turned away from us to present a close-up view of his hairless pink arse and a large pair of equally pink and hairless cojones...and this is why actors are always saying your should never work with kids or animals...
- Well he’s...my son began to say with the voice of a TV announcer.
- Don’t go there, I said quietly, trying to head him off at the pass.
- He’s definitely male, announced my son to the crowd around us.
- Yes and just leave it at that. I spoke quietly.
- ‘Cos I can see his big pink balls.
I should just have given in to the inevitable.

Oh – and for the record, two hours writing time yesterday and 1.5 today.

The Good Life

It’s Tuesday. Day two of my annual leave and I showered with a smile on my face this morning – and the smile has barely left my face since.

Sloth was the order of the morning. Sloth and caffeine. And the Herald. And a croissant with jam. And then some more sloth. The most energetic I got was to press the lid down on my coffee bean grinder and then to turn the nozzle on the milk steamer. Meanwhile, the wee fella was brushing up on his American accent with some cartoons. (An excerpt from a subsequent conversation: In Scotland we cut the grass, son, we do not mow the lawn. And for the record, a trunk has got feck all to do with a car.)

Eventually I raise myself from this stupor to actually do something. Which I manage with unerring precision, to time with when the sun decides to blast off the clouds. How good am I? When we arrive at Culzean Castle the sun is doing its hammer on an anvil thing and the day is glorious (just the way it started, actually).

We go to the duck pond and believe it or not we have prepared. With bread and everything. If it was an outing where a woman was present we would have had sandwiches, crisps, fruit, water, a rug, a hat, possibly a wee fishing pole, a ball, suntan lotion, wet wipes, plasters, disinfectant, anti-histamines, a change of clothing for the wee fella, a portable loo and a minesweeper. And it would all have been in her handbag. No wonder women can never find their car keys.
What were we carrying? Four slices of the white stuff for the ducks.

A swan was the first to approach, followed by a cluster of ducks. What is the collective pronoun for ducks? I’m liking cluster. Can we change this convention on this one? Anyway, my son got a wee bit nervous with the size of this swan and threw the bread a tad too short. He’s sizing up the length of the swan’s neck and the size of her beak and feeling kinda unsure. I suggest he edges closer and pushes the bread forward with a foot. I would have done it myself, of course, but he was nearer. At this suggestion he just looks at me and says -hell no, the swan can freakin’ starve before I get any closer. Just what cartoons were you watching this morning? I ask. He mumbles something and points out a group of ducklings. A cluster.

Bread spent, we head back to the car. Whenever we do any sightseeing it’s at breakneck speed. See the ducks. See the swans. Right, let’s get the hell out of here. On the way to the car park we pass a family of twelve. Mum, Dad and cluster of weans. I’m liking this word cluster. They’re carrying bags and bags and boxes of food and drink. Mum sees me sizing up the goodies and smiling says I can join them if I want; they have enough to feed an army. I look at the kids and think that’s exactly what they have and leave them to it. Ten kids! Let me repeat that exclamation mark!!! Mum looks like she is in her element. Dad looks like a haunted wraith. He looks like he stepped out from behind a desk only five minutes earlier to find himself wearing shorts and a t-shirt and to have suddenly acquired a life’s worth of children.

Next stop is at the opposite end of the Culzean estate. There are 125 steps just beyond the visitors centre that lead down to a white cottage, called Segganwell where I used to go for my holidays when I was a kid. This always prompts memories... like the time me and my cousins tried to walk along the coast to Maidens but got caught in a cave when the tide came in. Apparently the adults were worried sick about us, but we just climbed our way out to safety singing Patridge Family songs.
I am a slave to this blog am I not, admitting shit like that?

Today the tide is out, way out and we walk to the water’s edge. We spot a pair of herons; a couple of swans and a cormorant perched on a rock with its wings out to dry. I have a moment. I am in the now. Life is good. I’m in a beautiful setting. The sun is strong and warm on my back and my son is hale and hearty and quoting some crap from a cartoon he watched earlier.
-nice to see you, Mrs Jones, he says in one voice.
-it’s Mr Jones. I’m a man, Doctor, he says in another.
-you just keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.
He giggles.
-Son, exactly what cartoons are you watching?

I’m wearing shorts. I know, I shouldn’t. Frightens the horses. At one point in the day I look down and notice that my legs are SO white they look like they’ve been covered in enamel. There is a local phenomenon called an Ayrshire tan. Brown face, neck and arms, while everything else is so pale it’s almost translucent. Actually, scratch the Ayrshire and go for Scottish. Apart from the folk who live along Dumbarton Road in Glasgow. It’s one of the longest streets in the city and it has a tanning parlour every twenty yards. And each tan shop has a Chinese takeaway on one side and a kebab shop on the other. It’s so the local population can look healthy while they eat their way to a heart attack. (Did you hear our Jessie died last week? Clogged arteries. She looked great in her coffin, but.)

We walk for a couple of miles – I’m sneaky and take the long way back to the car – he’s giving it, are we there yet? Just round this bend, son. An hour ago it was just at the top of this hill, he moans. As he says this he’s making quotation marks with his fingers.

Got home. Got pizza and salad. Got a movie. “Get Smart”. My son laughed himself into a coughing fit.

He’s now in his room settling down for the night while I write this. As a parent there can’t be a more pleasing sound to hear than their child, safe and secure and playing in their room overhead. He’s making those lovely wee noises he makes when he pretends he’s murdering aliens. Bless.

Time for bed and I’m still smiling. Ain’t life good?

Rambling On Random

It’s another Friday night and the only thing warming my lap is a computer. Never mind. Or should that read, Never Forget, Back for Good, Patience, Rule the World. Dinnae worry, “Babe” I hope you had “The Greatest Day”. You can “Relight My Fire” another time.

I love hearing about the daft names that people saddle their children with. I heard today about a brother and sister called Catriona and Douglas. The names were of course shortened to Cat and Doug. I should explain to those with the misfortune of not being born Scottish that “Dug” is Scots for Dog.

Enough with the celebrity TV. PLEASE. I guess that’s one of the blessings I’ve received since I’ve taken up blogging – watching less telly. When I did turn it on tonight, what was the first thing to hit me? Celebrity Masterchef. With a groan that was surely audible for miles around I switched over to MTV thinking some RnB would be a better bet – only to find a trailer for Kerry Katona’s “reality” show. WTF, MTV? She might be a nice lassie – and she has the plastic surgery scars to prove it, but really, who cares?
Actually, who can blame these so-called celebrities for clinging on to another five minutes in the spotlight? I might be tempted if I used to be famous and I didn’t have enough cash left to fill the Chelsea Tractor with diesel or pay for my Orange, Mango and Cinnamon tea down at the Deli.
I’m going to run a campaign. It will be called “Turn Off Celebrity TV”. It will be hugely successful. People in their droves will switch channels as soon as a celeb’s haunted and desperate face appears on their box. Then the programmers will get The Message and make interesting television featuring people who actually have talent. And Elvis really is working in that cafe. He fries the eggs and burgers that Marilyn serves up to the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.

From the sports pages it’s looking increasingly likely that Shunsuke Nakamura will no longer be gracing the pitch at Celtic Park. It appears that the Japanese footballing genius is about to sign a 2 year contract with Espanol. Sayanora, Naka. You were an absolute pleasure to watch. (By the way, if you have a spare couple of minutes go to YouTube and search “Japanese Binocular Football”. Swear to god, you will laugh yourself silly)

The most recent download on my ipod? George Benson’s version of Unchained Melody must be the best version of that song, bar none. We love you George, but we loved you more when you looked normal. WTF George? Did you see Barry Manilow’s frozen expression of surprise and think, that’s for me?

I had another one of “those conversations” with the wee fella the other day. In the car after school he was quiet as usual then he asked me about the boy in the local academy who stabbed a fellow pupil and was given a custodial jail sentence.
- The boy who was stabbed must have been a real bully.
- Still doesn’t give the other boy an excuse, son.
- But I’m just saying maybe the boy with the knife was being really bullied, Dad.
- We don’t know what happened, buddy, but you should never, NEVER turn to knives. If somebody bullies you come to me, your mum and your teachers.
- But what if he doesn’t stop?
- Then you kick him in the nuts and run away.
- Daaaad.
- Seriously though. Being bullied is nasty. He might have felt he had nowhere to turn, but think of the situation now. The boy he stabbed nearly died and he’s in jail. He won’t see his mum and dad for years and his Play Station and ALL his games will have to be given away to some charity. (I’m thinking the threat of the latter would have more power)
- How do you think that boy would have felt if the bully had died, Dad?
- I think he would have felt really, really, REALLY shitty.
- Did you say...?
- Yes. Sorry.
- Whoa, Dad, he says and swivels in his seat to face me – you’re making me want to say the freaking F word.

Life Lessons

As a parent I feel it is my duty to ensure that my son has a strong understanding of certain human concepts and how we each fit into society. One such human concept of keen importance I feel, is that of sharing. This quality is key to the human experience, particularly when chocolate is in the house.

We are of course talking sharing on the level of one to you, two to me.

This week’s lesson is being developed with the visual (yet rapidly vanishing) aid of an 8 pack of Cadbury’s Twirl. These have overtaken the firm family favourite of Maltesers for the moment. We had, I must admit a brief flirtation with Giant Buttons, but are now settling on Twirls.

By the way – Maltesers, The Lighter Way to Enjoy Chocolate? My fat hairy arse, not when you eat them in quantities that could fill a pillow. They should really warn you about that.

Which leads me onto an unfortunate side effect of eating chocolate in large quantities. ..
Who knew? ...you look in the mirror and say to yourself, holy mars bars, Batman, you could do with losing ten pounds. Then someone you used to consider a friend sends you a photograph taken on their digital camera after a poetry reading (the work of Satan these cameras, if you ask me...the damn thing is there right in front of your eyes in seconds) and you think, Holy Cadbury's Clusters, Batman, scratch ten pounds, we’re talking twenty.

I really must go back to healthy eating. But who will carry on my teachings? The wee fella still hasn’t fully got the picture on this sharing malarkey.

It has just occurred to me that there is an additional lesson he needs to learn - how to cope with disappointment. When he comes round tomorrow, there isn’t a piece of chocolate left in the house.

He simply has to learn these things. It really is for his own good.


Ps. While I was writing this my TV was providing background music from a digital music channel. I was two minutes into “It’s Raining Men” by Geri Halliwell before I realised. I’m now off to scrub my eyes with vim and stick a pencil deep into each ear.

Sex Lessons

I find that when I pick my son up from school and try to start off a conversation about his school day it goes something like this...
- How was school today?
- Fine.
- What happened? Anything exciting?
- Nuthin’
- Nothing happened all day?
- Nuthin’
- All day?
- Nuthin’

So sometimes I go for the silent approach hoping that whatever is going on in his mind will pop out. Tonight it went like this.
- Girls get periods, dad. And they’ve not to worry if they see blood down there.
- Oh. Right. You got told this today?
- Yup. (some giggles)
- What else did you learn?
- Welllll, if the penis (he makes an elaborate show of pointing at my groin)...
- I know where it is, son.
- (giggles) if the penis and the vagina ...he searches for the right word...collide
- Collide? (I’m giggling now)
- Some stuff comes out. Sperm. I can’t believe I got it wrong, dad (more giggles)
- Got what wrong? They test you on this stuff?
- Sperm gets made in your BALLS, dad. (He loves saying this word and says it at every opportunity). Each sperm is about the size of a grain of sand. And there’s MILLIONS of them. (I’m sure he’s now got an image of filling a sandpit from his penis.)
- You realise you don’t do these things until you’re in a committed relationship?
- Yuk (he blows a raspberry)Don’t worry, dad (he reaches over and pats my hand) I’m not doing that. Ever.

Squirrel Monkeys and Trampolines

Yesterday was an ideal day to go for an outing so I took the wee fella to the Heads of Ayr Farm Park. On the way there, quite unprovoked he started laughing.
-I’ve gotta joke for you, dad
-Go for it.
-This man has a dog called Willie and a house he calls Big Hairy Bum. He loses his dog one day and calls the police. He tells them he’s looked all over his big hairy bum and he can’t find his Willie. Cue giggling dad and child. It’s good to be eleven now and again, no? Wonder where he gets the daft sense of humour from.

We loved the Farm Park, by the way. Loads to do and see – otters, llamas, iguanas, GIANT rabbits and the cutest monkeys you’ll ever see. They’re called squirrel monkeys and they are about the size of...you guessed it, squirrels. The park has also giant bouncy pillows – think of the floor of the bouncy castle without the castle, slides, quad bikes and trampolines. Well worth a visit for anyone with families out there. Lots of kids with smiles plastered all over the faces being the best judge of the quality of the place.

Some of the children there were absolute wizards on the old trampolines. We used to just try and jump as high as we could. Now of course if you don’t have a trampoline in your back garden you’re the odd one out. And it showed with somersaults, flips and spins on display.
This reminded me of my brief career as a world class trampolinist. When I were a lad, the only people who could afford trampolines were t’ council. The list of unaffordables was long and included colour TV’s , football boots and foreign holidays. But hey, wagon wheels were HUGE and mars bars had more than 3 bites in’em. Life is but a series of payoffs, innit? Where was I? Oh, right...there was some trampolines down Barassie shore in Troon. They were rectangular and set up with two rows of five inside a wire fence about seven feet high.

I was about twelve – so that is my defence for what happened next...after a good ten minute session of bouncing I was the only child within the fenced enclosure. Fantastic! I had all these trampolines to myself. So I decided that I would make use of this and jump from one to the other down the line. There was about a foot of grass between each one so with just a little effort I could easily get from one to the other. The big mistake was when I decided that I should only allow myself one bounce on each trampoline, with the grass being out of bounds, on my attempt to travel to the far end. I bounced down towards the end, only realising that I had built up a fair amount of momentum when I got to trampoline number 5, with nothing to halt my forward movement apart from a bloody big fence. I crashed into it head first and crumpled to the floor.
I cried, dear reader and I had a nice mesh effect on the left side of my face for at least 4 weeks.

Plooks

Nature has compensated for stealing hair from my head (and re-laying it everywhere else) by rarely giving me zits. I think I had two, three tops when I was thirteen and another one on my twenty first birthday and that is it. (And here’s where I take a little time out for the benefit of any non-Scots reading this and give them a new word to play with. Plook. Scots for a zit.)
I digress. Where was I? Ah yes, no hair, no zits.....until today. I have a lump at the side of my nose that makes me look like I’m trying to grow a new nostril. With a nice yellow crown.
My feeling is that fresh air is excellent for one’s offspring so I took my zit for a run in the car this evening. It was parents’ night at the school. My son wasn’t in attendance as he and Supergran had gone to the Braehead arena to see some half-naked men in lycra and tattoos (who knew it would be such an appealing combination) body-slam each other on to a square of canvas while pretending they are in a competition. Yes folks, WWE is in town and Gran and grandson will be whooping it up with the worst of them. Gran is taking her favourite Rey Mysterio mask with her. Works well with the blue rinse. Joking. She doesn’t have a blue rinse, she’s much too trendy for that. It’s purple. (And no, she doesn’t read this)

Before leaving for the school I debated long and hard about mini-me...to squeeze or not to squeeze? That was the question. In the end, because it is nobler in the mind and because of the size of said plook – we’re talking the ability to fill several custard pies – I decided I didn’t have the time to clean up the resultant sea of troubles.

My son has two teachers. They job share. They don’t look old enough to have kids of their own, let alone have spent enough time at college learning how to teach other folks kids. They say you’re getting old when the police look young. Let me add a few other professions to that list – teachers, doctors, dinner ladies.

In any case I needn’t have worried about my singular breakout of acne. One of my son’s teachers was having – how can I put this delicately - trouble with her T-zone. I couldn’t keep my eyes off. I had one mountain peak. She had the Andes in miniature stretching up and down either side of her nose. I was hoping she would unbutton her top two buttons so I could have something else to vie for my attention. I caught her staring at mine and briefly wondered if we should start up a convention. In the end I chose not to. My membership would only have been temporary, whereas she, I fear, would have been a life member.

What is the evolutionary purpose in acne? Eh, Mr Darwin? Bet the turtles in the Galapagos Islands weren’t able to tell you that. The books say that nature is supposed to have a design for everything – what’s acne all about? Maybe the clue is in when it strikes. In the teenage years. I’m nodding slowly as I write this. What else is going on during that time of torment? A storm of hormones. The girls are uber-fertile. The boys are walking erections. That’s it. Drum roll. Acne is nature’s contraceptive. Nothing like a plook bursting over your feeble moustache to cool your ardour.
....and welcome to the School of Half-Baked Ideas and Piss Poor Theories.

It’s getting late and I’m rambling. Off to bed now. To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay there’s the rub, but I hope mini-me doesn’t get rubbed all over my nice clean pillow cases.
ps – the report was great. The wee fella’s doing us proud.

Bad Hair Day

I dropped my son off at school this morning in plenty of time (this picture is not him, BTW) and congratulated myself on managing to remember everything that I was required to. Lunchbag: check. Homework:check. Matching socks: check. As I leave the house in the morning my head is normally full of the various things I need to achieve that day and it wouldn’t have been the first time that I was halfway to the office, and realising he was still in the car. So the fact that I had even managed to drive the shortest route to the school rather than go via the by-pass was a big tick on the positives. My advice? Try listing the things you do well, rather than the muck-ups of a morning. It makes for a much better day.

So I was feeling good about myself...until I noticed the back of his head as he exited the car. Think toilet brush. Think matted horse hair. Think the worst bed head you have ever seen. In my defence making my own hair presentable in the morning isn’t a task I’ve had to consider for the best part of 20 years. It occurred to me he is now in primary 6. That’s a lot of bad hair days and a nomination for me for the worst father of the decade.

Memo to me: buy a comb.

Talking of hair, this reminded me of an early visit to a barber. I can’t remember what age he was, but he was fairly young as he was still going through that phase of tugging at his penis through his trousers when anxious. (Do we ever grow out of that, I hear you cry?)
It was a typical busy Saturday morning and while we waited in the queue the girls working there were fawning all over him. He was enjoying the attention, but at the same time feeling a wee bit uncomfortable as he really didn’t like the electric clippers. Sometimes when he gets nervous he retreats. Sometimes he gets loud.

When it was our turn, the girl said, with a big grin, ‘Right who’s next?’
My son answered, ‘Not Dad. He’s bald.’ Big laughs all round. Playing to his audience, the wee fella laughed louder than any of them. He was sat in the chair and covered in the brown nylon wrap thing that keeps the hair off his clothes and the hairdresser set to.

After a few minutes I saw that his hand had strayed to his groin under the cover and he was making those unmistakeable movements with his hand. From the look on the face of the girl cutting his hair this was a situation she had never encountered before and she was wondering how to address it. So I thought I would save everyone’s blushes.

‘What are you doing, son?’ I ask.

‘Playing with my willie,’ he answers proudly.

If I thought the first round of laughter was loud...