Things the wee fella says ...

It’s that time – time for the pearls of wisdom that drop from the mouth of my 13 year old son like, well, pearls.

Conversation #1

The wee fella said – after I gave him a good morning hug as he approached the breakfast table (well, THE table. I don’t have a table for like, every meal) – Daaad, your breath stinks – pause – and your teeth are yellow.

Me – that was harsh.

The wee fella grins – it’s called tough love – grins even wider and finishes with – Bitch!

Conversation #2

It’s my latest health kick (for the record I’m 24 pounds lighter since Easter. Go me!) and I give myself one day per week off the healthy stuff and eat absolutely anything I want. On this occasion I had a pizza – grand pan, meat feast – from a well known pizza chain. I’d mention them by name but I want some freebies first. (You know who you are. See my agent. Please.) Washed down with lashings of cola. From another well known company. Same rules apply, Company Beginning with P.

I was munching into said pizza and fancied a wee top up to my cola. The cola was in the kitchen. I couldn’t be arsed going for it. I never ask the wee fella to be my gopher as I used to hate it when I was a kid. Besides, in the few occasions I have made such a request he moans like I’ve asked him to do a shift up a chimney. However, I had my sloth on and thought I would give it a go.

Me – could you fill up my glass, son? (I point helpfully to the cola bottle visible through the kitchen door.

TWF – (grunts, stands up) S’pose.

Me – after he has poured a paltry two fingers worth – thanks.

TWF – Why didn’t you get it for yourself?

Me – I wanted to see if you would do something for me.

TWF – I do something for you every day, Dad. (BIG grin) I give you a reason to live.

Xmas Past.

remember the tree I was telling you about?

I’ve created a monster, people. Oh, and I watched some movies.

That’s my response when folk ask the question, “What did you get up to over the holidays?”

The monster?

The Queen of Chaos was over for dinner and I showed her how many people have been reading about her in my two festive blog posts.

Oooo, she says, do you get any money for this? (with the subtext of: and if you do, what’s my cut?)

She was, it is fair to say, crestfallen when I explained how blogging works.

That’s rubbish, she says.

Then as the meal progressed, she ended every sentence with: hey, you could put that on your blog. Your readers will piss themselves laughing.

We met in town two days later. She had just taken back a bracelet I bought her (too big – who ever heard of a bracelet being too big? Or is that just a guy comment?) and somehow the shop assistant read £14.99 on the receipt as £1.

QC told her where to go. My brother is no skinflint, she told her. No way would he buy a present for me that was only £1.

Then as chance would have it, our paths crossed. She grabbed my sleeve and pulled me in the direction of the shop, like a terrier pulling its owner to save the distressed child, all the while talking about 100 miles per hour about the rip-off merchants who tried to give her £1 for “that beautiful bracelet”.

A new shop assistant tried (unsuccessfully) not to laugh as QC went into a fresh tirade about how “loaded” I was (I wish) and how generous I was and how I always spend a fortune on her and how there was no way I would only spend £1 on her and how I am not a skinflint and how I had also bought a lovely dress for her and it was nearly £40.

It was like she considered her minutes long monologue as proof of the price of the bracelet. (And was further evidence, if I ever needed it that my sister is obsessed with knowing the price of things.)

That’s all very nice, Sis, I said, but all you need to do is show the nice lady the receipt.

Oh, Right. She wrestled in her cavernous bag (one question – do women REALLY need to carry all that stuff?) for about thirty minutes. You ever tried to dig a hole in the sand as a kid? You dig down, pile up the sand on the sides of the hole and it just slips down and fills back up again? This was what was going on with QC and the Giant Bag. Eventually, after inflation rose a few notches, I grew another couple of gray hairs and the wee fella grew a giant pimple on his chin – the receipt was produced with a triumphant, Ta Da.

The first shop assistant appeared, she admitted her error and QC was given the run of the shop to pick a replacement. All’s well that ends well – especially since the shop now had its sale on and everything was half price.

You could put this on your blog, said QC as she left the shop with her new goodies.

As a wee aside – some of the movies I watched over the last few days...

Avatar – yes, again. And again the wee fella ranted about how the movie might look good, but they’d basically nicked the storyline. And it was gross to see all those giant blue butts. And now they’re kissing, he says. How gay is that? (It seems I tuned out for two minutes and the meaning of the word has changed again.)

Casablanca – I put a gag on the wee fella and watched this in peace.

As I did with It’s A Wonderful Life – and yes, I had a lump in my throat.

New Town Killers – Dougray Scott goes psycho. Cool and edge of your seat type of stuff. No comments from the wee fella as I removed the gag and sent him to bed. With bread and water.

Bienvenue Chez les Ch’tis (Welcome to the Sticks) – this is a French comedy gem that you’ll sit watching with a smile stuck to your face. A man is transferred to the north of France – Nord Pas de Calais. Everybody in every other part of France would hate to go there. But our man falls in love with the place and the people and when he goes back to the south he feels he has to pretend that he is miserable or his family and friends will simply feel he has gone mad. A character in the movie summed it up when he said that everyone cries twice when they visit the region. Once when they arrive (because they hate the thought of it) and once again when they leave (because they have fallen in love with it.)

Loved it. Wonderful, wonderful stuff. Buy, beg or borrow a copy now, today.

The Expendables – the wee fella said this was the worst movie he’d ever seen. Wasted by having all these amazing action stars and giving them like a minute on screen and that guy (Stallone) is ugly and can’t act and talks funny. His rant was fairly impressive and suggests that he might be taking over here quite soon.

And I quote – “Interesting movie having all of these action stars from the eighties and nineties, but the problem is that the story is average, half of the actors do nothing – what is the point of having Willis and Schwarzenegger and giving them 5 second roles? And then have Stone Cold Steve Austin and have him barely speak. So what do I think of it? I give it a fricken 2 out of 10. Don’t rent or buy, it is a useless piece of crap.”

I fear, I may have created another monster.

The week after the week that was...

So after our exertions in Blackpool the wee man and I are having a quiet week.


Do you want to go out?

No.

Fancy going to the movies, I ask him. I’m a wee bit huffed that he went to see The A-Team with his mum and trying to hide it.

Nope.

How about we go down the beach?

NO.

He’s now wearing a face that suggests I’m an idiot several points north of his village.

Dad, when will you people realise I’m happy to just hang out at home?

You people? That would be me and your mum?

Yes.

Are you going to get out of those pyjamas any time soon?

What time is it?

Three pm.

Cool, he grins, I’ve always wanted to have a day in my p.j’s.



This, to be fair works well with my cunning plan. Keep him entertained in a way that allows me to catch up on some writing. Nice one.

So yesterday I got torn into my latest book. It’s crime. It’s low-down, dirty and nasty and I’m loving it.

The wee fella came over to see what I was doing. And of course, on a page full of words he happened to see the one that spelled out F-U-C-K.

Daaad, I can’t believe you’re swearing in front of me.

That’s not me swearing, I say, it’s one of my characters.

He just looks at me - And who puts the words in their mouths?

That would be me, yes. But in this occasion his friend has been attacked and the swearing is justified.

So if I come home from school and my pal has been bullied I can say the f-word?

Not a chance, buddy, I say thinking, here we go another hour’s debate about swearing.

But you just did it, dad.

That wasn’t me...

I get it, it was your – he makes the speech comma sign with his fingers in the air – character.

Oh look, I point at the TV, Kim Kardashian’s not wearing very many clothes.

Oh – he says, she’s hot.

And I’m momentarily off the hook.

We're all going on a summer holiday...

It started on day one of the holiday. We had just arrived in Blackpool – yeah I know, I spoil him– when the wee fella asked...

- See how you and Mum split up ...was it because you were sniffing coke?

I made the mistake of laughing. The wee fella knows the nearest I’ve been to drugs is washing paracetamol down with a slug of cola.

The next time he asked the question we were in public and he judged the question perfectly. Perfect, that is if you are going for maximum embarrassment factor.

- See how you and mum split up...was it because you were unfaithful?

I laughed again. And laughed some more when the shop assistant paused in the action of handing over my change, with an expression of outrage.

A day later, while a waiter served up breakfast...

- When you and mum split up was it because you are gay?

- No.

- Are you gay?

-No

- Is mum a lesbian?

- No.

- Were you on crack?

- No.

- Is it because I is black?

- That’s enough, son I say forcing down a laugh. We’re both big fans of Outnumbered and he fancies himself as one of the characters.

Anywho, back to Blackpool. For any Johnny foreigners reading this, it is a holiday hotspot on the north-west of England renowned for dolloping up a chunk of cheese with your vacation. It is a six(?) mile stretch of beach with amusement arcades, junk food outlets and stands selling rock (a stick of candy) for its full length. Who buys all this shit? You need money, lots of it ...and the constitution of an ox. It’s brash with a stiff (ooh er, missus) breeze. It’s in your face, unapologetic and lots of fun. For a few days.

The nearest I got to my five a day while I was there was flicking a slice of mushroom from my pizza and swabbing up some raspberry sauce with a mouthful of cheesecake.

We did the Zoo, the circus, the Pleasure Beach and spent more than a few hours in the amusement arcades that line the shore front.

At the circus the wee fella sat beside me but leaning forward, facing me so that he could register his discontent any time I happened to gaze his way. Knowing what was on his mind I ignored him and laughed even louder than I needed to at the antics of the clowns. Eventually he realised I wasn’t reacting to the scowl and the body language.

- I hate circuses, he said.

- Since when?

- Since right now, they’re rubbish.

- Can you wait until you are actually a teenager before acting like a teenager?

- Hmmmfh. He crosses his arms.

The Chinese acrobats were amazing and still he wore his scowl like a badge of discontent. The clown – Mooky, in case you were wondering - brought 3 members of the public into the ring and had them act out a comedy sketch. It was genuinely the funniest thing I’ve seen for ages. The wee fella gave in and laughed. When he noticed I had spotted his mirth he quashed it down with another complaint.

- How lame is that?

- Why are you laughing then?

- I laugh at lame stuff.

I made the “whatever” sign in front of my forehead and he chewed on his bottom lip to stop his answering grin.

Next stop was the waxworks museum. Famous people rendered in wax is surprisingly entertaining. Who knew? It’s the staging that makes it work so well and we had our photos taken with Barack Obama, Michael Jackson and King Kong.

More amusement arcades. More junk food.

We finished off our week with a day at the Pleasure Beach. The wee fella lied about his age and saved me a few quid on the entrance fee. Did I say I was cheap?

I didn’t have a map of the park with me and knowing nothing about the rides that were available we just kinda saw a queue and joined it. The first queue was for a ride called Valhalla. “You will get soaked” the signs warned. And we did but it was well worth it. Great fun.

The next queue was for “River Caves”. Did I say the wee man hates queuing? Half an hour it took. Was it worth it? Hell no. This may have been the height of excitement in the 1950’s but today it has all the thrill of a rich tea biscuit.

Next was lunch. I decided that I hadn’t had my saturated fat intake for the day yet and ordered up some hot dogs. While waiting in the queue for my food a Glasgow wifie prodded my shoulder. By the way, just as a wee aside – does Glasgow completely empty out this week? Everywhere I went I was surrounded by weedgie accents.

- Ho, son, she said. A pigeon has just done one on your shoulder.

- Oh right. Thanks for letting me know.

- Want some babywipes to clean yourself?

- Yeah, thanks.

I take my jacket off and spot a pale slick of shit running down my back. I am momentarily put off my lunch. The babywipe makes short work of the pigeon’s best efforts.

- Good job it didn’t get me on the head, I say to the wifie.

- That might have been easier to clean up, she says with a grin eying up my bald head. See Glasgow people. Always with the humour.

Next was The Avalanche. A white-knuckle ride that aims to replicate the experience of a bobsleigh ride. I am SO impressed with myself that I went on it on account of the fact that I am such a wimp. And OHMYGOD it was good. Exhilarating.

They take photos of you while you are on these things and they show them to you as you leave.

The wee fella had an expression that managed to mix pure joy and terror. If you can imagine such a mix. I looked like I had fly caught in one eye while I was suppressing a fart.

While in the queue for the Ghost Train – which was as scary as playing Russian roulette with your index finger – we noticed some people running past. Then some more. All heading in the same direction and all wearing an expression of excitement...like they had spotted someone famous. About 10 minutes later a man joined the woman and child in front of me. “That was Jordan,” he said. “Katie Price is in the park and everyone was hoping to catch a glimpse of her before she left.” I ventured the hope that each of them had a mouthful of phlegm and a good aim. This earned me a disgusted look.

And that was Blackpool.

The last word, as usual went to the wee man. As I was settling up my account at Reception at the head of a large queue I heard the voice at my shoulder...

- Dad?

- Yes, son?

- See when you and Mum split up was it because you’re an alcoholic?

Ladies Night In....or not.

With all of the money that Tesco have at their disposal you’d think they’d be able to target their promotional emails a little more carefully. Here is an excerpt from one I received last week...

Dear Mr Malone,


This week at Tesco.com we're celebrating the highly anticipated release of Sex and the City 2 with these fantastic offers to help you have the perfect girl's night in. From wine to dips and pizza to desserts, we've got all you need for a fabulous night in with the ladies.



Now, I don’t mind a wee drop of wine, the odd pizza or dessert and I wouldn’t be averse to a night in with the ladies – do Tesco provide them as well? The advert didn’t say. But celebrate SATC 2?

Puh-leeze.

I’d rather sit and watch a party political broadcast – for any political party - scripted by Katie Price, starring Piers Morgan, with music by Jedward and directed by Chris Moyles.

euuuggh

A trailer for SATC 2 was on the TV the other night and the wee fella reminded me that my attempts to socialise him are failing and that the age of Political Correctness has completely passed him by when he ranted – I don’t get it, dad. Why are they making a fuss about these women? They’re old and they’re ugly and that one – Sarah Jessica Parker flits across the screen in some designer blah – has a face like a horse.

Ouch.


Tesco.com were more on course with their marketing this week when their promo talked about the World Cup (this is me jumping up and down and screaming, I can’t wait!) and offered cheap beer and crisps.

D’ye think if I get in some wine, pizza and desserts the ladies will come along as well?

Oops

Oops

So there I was having a glass of water and reading through the 62 entries for the Scottish Association of Writers’ annual poetry competition. I pushed my laptop out of the way to give me some more room and...

Water and paper don’t mix too well. Who knew?

Dinnae worry, it’s all good. Disaster was averted by lightning-quick reflexes. And some kitchen paper. Thankfully, the entries remain readable, but I can tell you my wee heart was pounding for a minute there.

How are the poems? I ain’t telling. I know that there are some peeps from the Scottish writing community who read this blog and I don’t want to give anything away.

I have to write a critique on each entry and find a top 3 and perhaps “some” commended pieces and then deliver the adjudication at the annual conference in March to an audience of around 200.

I was explaining this to the wee fella. He sought some references in his own experience in order to understand what I was saying.

- So, you’ll be like Simon Cowell?

- Well...kinda. But without the ego, the high-waisted trousers and the obscene wage.

- But you’ll be nicer than him, won’t you? X-factor ruins peoples’ dreams, dad.

- I know it does, son, but sometimes people need to know that they don’t have the talent...and you might have to be cruel to be kind.

- Don’t be cruel, dad.

- No. I’ll be one of the nice judges. I’ll be ...Cheryl Cole.

He gives me that look. Like I have one foot in Stupidville and the other wedged in the toaster.

- She’s a woman, dad.

- Ok. Right. Who’s a nice male judge then? Louis Walsh?

- NO. He’s stupid. He said the kids liked John and Edward and we didn’t. We thought they were rubbish.

- Ok. Right. What about Randy Jackson?

- Then, you’ll have to call everybody “dawg”.



But just in case you were wondering, here’s me about to read 62 entries and I’m enjoying the work. Dawg.

Christmas 2009 Remembered

Oh well. The annual food/ drink/ over-indulgence fest is over for another year and it’s back to old clothes (work suit) and porridge (with honey and cinnamon) tomorrow morning.

Despite my weary attempts at cynicism in this blog I am actually a simple soul and I love the whole shenanigans. Without it the winter months would be just too miserable.

What are my highlights, I hear you ask? As usual, my twin-sister (Queen Of Chaos) provided a few “moments”.

She bought me a jumper. So did my dad.

-Did you like it, she asked.

-Yes, I replied.

- Did you like my jumper better than dad’s, she asked.

- No, was the reply. (QC is brutally honest, so I thought I should answer the question in the same way she might - truthfully. Don’t get me wrong, she’s never deliberately nasty. She just doesn’t possess the edit button the rest of us have.)

- Aww, she replied, I feel a wee bit offended.

- Not sorry, I said, you wouldn’t want me to lie to you, would you?



Dad also bought QC a jumper. Over Boxing Day dinner the conversation went something like this...

- Dad, see that jumper you bought me?

- Aye.

- I look like shit in it.

Cue much laughter from everyone around the table.

The wee fella was also a big presence during the holidays. As part of his Xmas gifts I bought him DJ Hero for his Xbox. He was delighted with it. Big beaming smile. The conversation went like this...

- THANKS Dad. That was really thoughtful of you.

- What age are you?

- 11 and three quarters. Why?

- You sound about 31 and three quarters.

- You’re weird.

For Hogmanay (New Year’s Eve) I said he could stay up with me. There were some strong comedic moments on BBC 1 Scotland earlier in the evening with Still Game – “enhanced” by the moments when I had to translate the following “baw bag” (scrotum) and ”baw hair” (a hair found on the aforementioned scrotum). Then BBC Scotland resorted to the tried, tested (and failed) Jackie Bird (WHY?) to bring in the New Year with some folk/ pop musicians. As soon as the first fiddle was strummed the wee fella was out of the door – give me a shout when it’s nearly midnight, he said. This stuff is rubbish.

The bells rang out. Fireworks exploded across the TV screen.

- Eesh, it’s only another year. Don’t know what all the fuss is about.

- You’re only 11...

- ...and three quarters.

- ...and three quarters. But wait until you’re my age, a new year becomes a chance to review your life and all the things you want to achieve.

- You’re not THAT old, he replied, and I don’t understand the rest of what you just said.