You don't need a brain to knock doors

If I was being lazy, I would type that cold calling can't be any fun, but of course, it can be, as can making home deliveries, not for those making them, but for me, the twat trying to make their jobs more difficult, it could almost be listed as a hobby.

I have had some enjoyable ones recently, and one which I think was sometime last year, that still makes me laugh, especially as they still come knocking.

Yes, I'll start my regaling with that one;

THE JEHOVAH'S WITNESSES

JWs: Hello Sir, we are glad to find you home, and would just like to simply ask you; Do you wonder why there's so much misery in the world?

SN: No.

JWs: Oh. Well, if ever you do, can we leave you with this little booklet, it may hold some of the answers?

SN: Does it have any staples in?

JWs: Pardon?

SN: You know, little metal things, hold the pages together?

JWs: No, it doesn't.

SN: Then yes, feel free, will use it to light my log burner.

THE KITCHEN EQUIPMENT SALESMAN

KES(No not): Hello Sir, is the lady of the house at home?

SN: There is no lady of the house.

KES: Oh, I sell kitchen equipment, and I usually speak to the lady of the house.

SN: There is no lady of the house.

KES: I'll come back later.

SN: Well, can we say a month, at least give me a fighting chance?

THE TESCO DELIVERY DRIVER

TDD: Hello sir, this may seem a silly question, but are you over 18?

SN: *unable to contain my 32 year-old body rattling with laughter*

TDD: Sorry, have I offended you?

SN: Yes, I often laugh when I'm deeply offended.

TDD: Oh, I see, you're not disappointed then?

SN: Only in that you're not a naive 18 year-old girl making the same assumption.

TDD:

THE PARCEL DELIVERY MAN

PDM: *Clearly not reading the 'Mr I. Newbold' addressee well enough* Are you Mr One Newbold?

SN: *Putting on a very convincing Spanish accent* Yes, I am Juan Newbold

PDM: *Clearly unamused* Can you sign HERE?

SN: Yes, but surely you would want me to sign my own name?

PDM: *Still not amused, nor getting my joke* Whatever mate, whatever


How I love being a sarcastic prick.

Knock knock.

Who's there?

My favourite widowers

I thought I'd compile a list of my favourite fictional widowers, believing that five to be a sound number, that and the fact that all the others I thought of are tossers, like Marlin, Nemo's rather overprotected father, or that pompous twat Jack, of Jack and Sarah.

So here it is, my top five (which includes a spoiler for 24, if that is not a big fat one on its own, score);

5 – Ned Flanders, The Simpsons

I don't actually like Ned very much, nor am I a big fan of his god bothering, scripture quoting, nonsense. But he does provide some comedy gold for Homer Simpson, so at least he is a facilitator of laughter. And his wife happens to be dead. He's in at five.

4 – Daniel, Love Actually

Daniel, played by Liam Neeson - now a real life widower – in Love Actually, is a likeable sort of posh prick. I do like the way he tackles problems with his step son, Sam. A very positive person, who ends up knobbing a Claudia Schiffer look-a-like, played by Claudia Schiffer, for which he gets a high five. And if you'd like to question my sexuality for watching Love Actually several times? Kiss my manicured anus, my long-time unhealthy obsession target, Martine McCutcheon is in it, as is Shannon Elizabeth, and Elisha Cuthbert, my current obsessive favourite.



3 – Jack Bauer, 24

This is the first role played by Kiefer Sutherland that I have actually liked. I need to clarify, I thought he was brilliant in Lost Boys, and as Ace in Stand By Me (one of my favourite films), but those characters were horrible, to me at least. Bauer is a ruthless, infinitely focused bad-ass, caring little for protocol, his own personal protection, and the law in general. At the same time he appears to be as adept at speaking softly to his family as he is decapitating key witnesses within state protection. This is the only thing that doesn't really add up, Bauer wouldn't have a family, who in this sort of gig would have? Oh, apart from that good looking cock in Spooks? But he did, and it yielded Kimberley Bauer, played by the aforementioned Cuthbert, and I have just started watching series two, which appears to be, largely, about Ms Bauers bouncing bosom. So, thanks Jack. For that you're number three.



2 – Carl Fredrickson, UP.

Another widower from the land of make believe that has only just hit my radar. Those lovely monkeys at Disney have just sent me UP on Blu-ray for review, and he, and the film, are a hit as far as I am concerned. The depiction of his married life with his wife, in a musical montage, is a very emotional one for me. Not one I can entirely relate to, but it is beautifully done, I don't want to give too much away if you've not seen the film, but it isn't just happy smiley shit, his married life had some upset and angst, which does add to his character, and make who he sides with as a widower more poignant, plus the geriatric fight scene is very funny.



1 – Darth Vader, Star Wars

Essentially all my movie type lists end with a character from Star Wars, and as I am not a revolutionary, I am not bucking that trend friends. I don't like his first incarnation, Anakin Skywalker is a shit head. Even the little kid is loathsome, his acting is pants, but the character played by Hayden Christensen, maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan, he is a proper whiney, cocky bastard, and he mutilates kidlings, or whatever the Jedi for children is. But Darth Vader is awesome, while working for the wrong side – a side he is naively tempted to, in a quest to save his doomed wife - he is ruthless, a streak I like, yet, when push comes to shoving the Emperor, he makes the right call, and his final scenes with Luke make the Ewoks almost bearable. He's my number one baby.



But who did I miss?

I don’t do cards

And it is not just because I don’t like getting paper cuts on my knob, no, it is more than that.

I don’t like being ripped off, no, I don’t like being told that just because it is a certain date, it be deemed necessary to buy cards to signify something other than a million trees being wasted either.

Trees are for my log burner and weeing against at music festivals, not for cards.

I dislike the regimented nature of cards, for every event, but especially for things that aren’t birthdays.

Valentines is probably the most offensive to me, and was a big bone of contention in our annual calendar, as husband and wife, or as boyfriend and lady slave before that.

My argument, one I would reel out every year, was that if you don’t feel loved everyday, then our relationship is not what I want it to be, and something is wrong. Furthermore if you are pacified with the purchase of a card, making other behaviour acceptable, a la, ‘But he got me some lovely flowers for Valentines’ then you are not the woman I thought you were.

But, but, but suchandsuch has bought suchandsuch…………………………..

Well woopyfuckingdo for them, are they pre or post lobotomy?

This argument would then be tailored for other laminated cardboard inducing events.

I would compromise, and sometimes make cards, plus if there was an opportunity to take the piss, I could, and still can be, enticed into purchasing cards.

And also there are the occasions when I prefer to be a hypocrite than socially awkward.

The uninteresting thing about my broadcast philosophy is that people would still buy cards ‘for me’.

Yeah, it’s so for me, you get absolutely zero satisfaction from scratching the itch of protocol, nonwatsoeva.

This is very much a personal thing, and not one I enforce on others, and certainly not my boy.

All our family get cards from him, and on some occasions I get a card from both of us. He gets cards from me for all sorts of occasions and I get them back for all the traditional ones, and while I treasure them, make a note of when and how they were produced on the back, it is the impromptu stuff, stuff we sometimes make together, that I hold dearer.

I suppose as they signify real memories, and moments of great joy and satisfaction, rather than the robotic ones dished out willy-nilly because, as a race, we have got in the habit of ‘gifting’ them.

Answers on a postcard.

Peace out.

If my parents weren’t Nazis

Picture the scene, summer holidays, 1986, sun on my back, enjoying the beautiful Welsh coast, virtually in the sea I was that close, with mountains nearby to explore, I am nine, surrounded by family and friends, frolicking about in a pre-teen hedonistic state, which probably involved cricket, throwing stones into cow pats, bloggy off and, most definitely, football.

1986 was a World Cup year, the first I have vivid memories of. Apparently we holidayed in Spain during their hosting of the 1982 World Cup, but I must have been pissed or something, as I don’t remember it at all

But Mexico 86, I can even remember the red ball overlapping logo.

However as a tournament I got totally engrossed in it, and not just my own country’s progress, in fact, probably more so, with other countries, and with certain players, and one in particular.

This was at a time when my own football career reached its very early, and decidedly unimpressive peak, being considered one of the best in my school side, enough so to be one of the three regular outfield players in their successful four-a-side team.

Yeah, I was that good.

But there were players on display in that tournament that were truly wondrous, some I probably fell a little bit in love with. Our very own Gary Lineker, hat-trick hero as we faced exit. The Danish pair Elkjaer and Laudrup, and French midfielders Platini and Tigana.

I had the official video of the tournament, ‘Hero‘, that I played so much afterwards I wore it out.

But it was during one of the games, when we were popping in and out of caravans as one of the tournaments epic games stopped and flowed through extra time and penalties, that my hero worship really began.

Sócrates, pronounced sock-ra-teas, was quickly to become my hero. And he did so despite failure.

This is the moment that, while others probably cursed him, I started to love him.

A missed penalty, and everyone else was laying into him, teasing me that I had decided to side with Brazil, and not France, who went on to win the penalty shoot out.

However I was sold, this guy was brilliant, seemingly effortlessly so. No monumental ego evident, just a laid-back style, and acceptance that he wanted to play a certain way.

Such was my defiance, and instant man love, I insisted that my name was to change, and that everyone should now refer to me as Sócrates Newbold.

My mother refused to ratify the change legally, I bet she never even discussed my very serious request with my dad, such was their level of control, so I was stuck with my original moniker.

However I did often call myself that name, and there are a good few of my friends, that while have never called it me, know of my love of the medicine man from Brazil.

Now, I am actually going to change it, at least as far as the internet is concerned.

So don’t be surprised if you see this little fellow popping up in your blog comments, or via Twitter.

I am that retarded

My memory is something of very occasional brilliance, but all too often, a place of whacking great big holes, and lapses.

I do have the capacity to shock with the inane tiny detail. Things I can remember about a person, or a situation, or how something played out.

Like, last week, prompted by putting Trumpton on for my son to watch, I was reminiscing about Spitting Image, and cited the 'Windy Miller, Village Idiot' parody they used to do, to which everyone else around me did not seem to remember. So, I'm thinking I imagined it or got mixed up, it was a long time ago, and while I remember Spitting Image being funny, I was only a child so probably wasn't allowed to watch it all that much.

Then I discovered this.

Now I don't know how accurate it is, it's Wikipedia and I have been unable to find any further reference, or footage. However, if correct, this memory, vivid recollection, was based on a single viewing of a 90 second sketch, in 1988. Twenty two years ago, when I would have been ten or eleven.

But can I remember what day it is?

Fuck me, sometimes I do have to check.

I can go shopping for like five items, with a list of said five items, constantly referring to such list, and checking thinks off as procured, and still be driving home when it dawns on me I have forgotten something from my desired quintet.

Use-less.

On the back of my pantry door I have a wipe board, on which I write things down that I must buy the next time I do a supermarket shop. And for the last six months I have been doing my shopping online, which is ace by they way, no queuing behind twats who stand their motionless, and then seem surprised that the till operator has just asked them to actually pay for the stuff conveyor belted passed their lights-are-on eyes, therein suffering extra, totally unnecessary, waiting while they panic and scuffle around for a method of payment.

I digress.

Constantly.

My point is, I still end up amending my shopping cart three of four times before my shopping actually arrives, as I remember things, or as I actually transpose all the items from my pantry list.

And still, I miss stuff.

I also use my left had as a reminder prompt, I know this is a common trait, people write down times and reminders so things do not become forgotten.

Last Friday, a friend came round to help me set up my new iMac. This was partly in turn for a good deed I have done them earlier in the day. Walking their children home from school, to save them waking their baby from a nap.

I actually walked three kids to theirs, as they had a visitor for tea.

So later, we're sitting at my shiny new baby, and my helper just starts laughing. I naturally assumed it was at my general ineptness with all things Apple Mac, but no, he was amused by the scribble on my hand.

As even though I had taken a call from him only a few moments before I set off to fetch my own son from school, I had made a little note on my hand to remind me of my new little fetch and deliver task, for fear of actually forgetting on my six minute journey there.

Apparently that was funny.

But he found it more hilarious, that I had written all three names down.

At least, this time, I did not forget any of them.

Is this news?

In my ageing far too early into an angry, and crazy old person, I now have a new leisure pursuit.

I tune into the news, and then over the top of virtually every segment I scream things like “NOT NEWS, NOT NEWS AT ALL” And “EXCELLENT REPORTING MY LIFE IS NOW BRIGHTER FOR IT”.

Nobody even has to be here, although it is more fun if someone else is here to be irritated by my irritation.

Thing is, what is news today?

It seems that the news programmes have fallen victim of those damn viewing figures, and thus, are tailored on that basis.

When they actually have an opportunity to offer simple advice, or areas of resource that bare some sort of relationship to the news being ‘featured’ they don’t.

The January snow escapade was a very good example of this shit. Showing footage of a single car struggling to get up a street, with a whole dialogue on how chaotic THE ROADS, yes, THE ROADS, ALL, were.

Accuracy unbound.

But, not one jot of information for all these numpties who clearly did not know how to drive on the ice, of how they may better attempt getting from A to B.

Sure I love watching others’ misfortune, some idiot inevitably crashing their car slowly into another, but that is light entertainment not news, NOT NEWS AT ALL.

It seems I am not alone, I was lead to this excellent news satire report via someone on Twitter.

Breaking News: Some Bullshit Happening Somewhere

And the brilliant Charlie Brooker has his awesome swipe at the news, in his excellent programme, errrrrrm, News Wipe.

Check out his hilarious blueprint for a news report.

Then there is one of my favourite television programmes of my totally viewing history, The Day Today, now that is a ‘news programme’ I totally got on board with.

Formula moron

I am not a big fan of the sports personality. I love sports, love watching them, love playing some, but generally, the people of the very top of their game, are not very nice people, nor are they very interesting in all honesty.

They have had to be so focused, so narrow minded to get where they are, I imagine real relationships based on more than what-do-I-get-out-of-this have been difficult to develop.

However as they have known no better, they are probably blissfully ignorant to that fact, and in truth, if you have glamour models on speed dial for intellectually conversation and blow jobs, just how important is a real relationship?

Very, is my answer.

Oral sex is the same from a page 3 stunner, as it is a tramp, not that I have the proof, I have never been sucked off by a baps out model.

But when does all this focus start? Seemingly in childhood with a lot of our ‘stars’.

Pushing a child in such a way they have a narrow sole focus, and aim, is tantamount to child cruelty in my opinion, and the people that do it are all selfish wankers.

And they are missing out on so much by being such arseholes, often breeding the same in the process.

I have been getting back into Formula One, basically since the BBC started coverage again last year. And while I must commend them for their excellent work last year, I also recognise the monumental fuck up they made to get it. Paying a record amount, against no other bidders. Like, how, the fuck, does that happen?

Grand prix, indeed.

And now they need to make cuts?

NO FUCKING SHIT SHERLOCK.

How about starting with the cunts that came to that decision, rather than with BBC6?

However this week I read an interview the BBC ran with Lewis Hamilton, after it was announced his dad would be relinquishing his role as Lewis’ manager, to concentrate on other things, and being his dad.

Lewis told the Beeb; "I want to go for a beer with my dad. I want to go bowling with my dad. I want to go on holiday with my dad.”

At first I thought they had interviewed the wrong brother.

To me, it seems, that quote is an indication that he has missed out on all those things with his old man, at a time when those activities were probably more age appropriate.

Of course I could be wrong misguided from the truth, by this just being PR sanctioned glib, and in fact, the Hamiltons have had the best father son relationship in the world, ever, two.

But I suspect not. I just do not see how it is possible.

As much as I would love to be hurtling around Bahrain in the next week or so, getting tossed off by one of the Pussy Cat Dolls in the pits, I would not actually have thanked my parents for pushing me towards such a scenario.

What happens to the thousands that don’t make it?

Actually, that tramp mentioned something about being a child prodigy, but it was difficult to make out exactly what he was saying, as he was busied with other things.

You might want to look away, now

I am not sure when it started, probably at the very beginning, but over recent months – probably the last six – I have been growing steadily irritated with my blog, Single Parent Dad.

It is probably evident from my post count, that after going from an un-deliberate, but consistent 15 per month, I have dropped off to half that frequency.

And that is not because I have less to write about, fewer incident prompts, no, it is because I have felt very apathetic to the whole thing.

I have really enjoyed writing elsewhere over the same period, so perhaps that has contributed to some of these feelings, and if I had to choose between one or the other at the moment, I would choose ‘other’.

Thus I have considered terminating this blog altogether, or just leaving it stagnant for renewed impetus in the future.

If I was to delete this blog, I would start a new one elsewhere, but instead of it being based on a narrowed part of myself, it would be a personal blog, that I gave myself free range to write about any subject whatsoever.

I have inadvertently thwarted myself here, and not in a gratifying way, more figuratively in this particular case.

Somewhat sleepwalking into becoming a ‘daddy blogger’, but that is not really me, or the whole me anyway. All of my posts have been written with totally sincerity, based on true feelings, emotions, and what has gone on in my everyday life.

In its current guise this blog has very much served the purpose for which it was created, somewhere to write without pressure, and with a fixed topic genre so I did not have to think too hard about subject matter.

My cathartic posts have been very good for me, and to know people have actually read my thoughts, and in certain cases, resonated with them, has left me warmed, and has lifted my mood on occasion.

There has also been some great advice dished out to me, and reassurance of doing the right thing, that I have genuinely been grateful for.

And I have physically met some great people through blogging, and I very much look forward to meeting a few more later this year.

But it is time for a change.

And while I may still blog about being a dad, a widower and parenting, I will no longer limit myself to that.

That is why I have switched on the 18+ warning.

There will be insults here like; grandma rimming monkey feltcher, see you next Tuesday.

And please do not take this as me being considerate, no, this is me eradicating myself of what little conscious I have of making such a change to my blog, and writing, without any warning whatsoever.

But if you are reading this, and linking people to me, who may be expecting a ‘family friendly daddy blogger’ if they did click through, I think you should really be deleting those links.

And with that typed, you may personally wish to consider removing me from your reader if reading vulgarities is not really your colostomy bag.

This also in part explains why I decided to reset who I follow on Twitter recently, but I won’t bore you with the science of that decision, and, in any case, Morgan puts it better than I ever could be bothered to.

So, I hope to reconnect with some of you, and introduce you to my very good friends; swearing, gross self-loathing and inappropriate ridicule.

Because, seriously, I have suppressed those fuckers long enough.