We’re Going on a Blog Hunt

I’m going for a run.

It’s going to be long one.

What a cold, shitty day!

I’m a little scared.

Uh-uh! People!

A family of four, walking side-by-side.

Blocking the entire pavement.

I can’t run through them.

I shouldn’t really push them over.

Oh no!

I’ve got to go around them!

Running into the road towards oncoming traffic, while muttering ‘For fuck’s sake’ under my breath!

Beep beep!

Beep beep!

Beep beep!

I’m going for a run.

It’s going to be long one.

What a cold, shitty day!

I’m now even more scared.

Uh-uh! A tree branch!

Hanging low across the path at nipple-height.

I can’t go around it.

I can’t jump over it.

Oh no!

I’ve got to run under it, hurting my back and hitting my head!

Ow! Bugger!

Ow! Bugger!

Ow! Bugger!

I’m going for a run.

It’s going to be long one.

What a cold, shitty day!

I have a headache now.

Uh-uh! A massive hole in the pavement!

Left by the stupid workmen building that new estate.

I can’t go around it.

I don’t want to fall down it.

Oh no!

I’ve got to jump over it!

Leap! My knees!

Leap! My knees!

Leap! My knees!

I’m going for a run.

It’s going to be long one.

What a cold, shitty day!

My knees feel like porridge.

Uh-uh! Horse manure!

All over the path.

I best not jump again.

I don’t want to stand in it.

Oh no!

I’ve got to hopscotch my way through it!

Tiptoe! Tiptoe!

Tiptoe! Tiptoe!

Tiptoe! Tiptoe!

I’m going for a run.

It’s going to be long one.

What a cold, shitty day!

I hope I don’t smell of horse poo.

Uh-uh! A pack of teenagers!

All spotty and wearing dark clothes.

I bet they have weapons.

I can’t cross the road or turn back now.

Oh no!

I’ve got to go past them!

Wait, are they moving to one side for me? That’s awfully kind of them. See, teenagers aren’t all bad.

Thank you! Cheers!

Thank you! Cheers!

Thank you! Cheers!

What’s that?


Quick! Back past the teenagers. Thank you! Cheers! Thank you! Cheers! Thank you! Cheers!

Back through the horse shit. Tiptoe! Tiptoe! Tiptoe!

Back over the massive hole. Leap! My knees! Leap! My knees! Leap! My knees!

Back under the low branch. Ow! Bugger! Ow! Bugger! Ow! Bugger!

Back into the road around that stupid family. Beep beep! Beep beep! Beep beep!

Get to my front door.

Open the door.

Get a glass of water.

Head downstairs to the shower.

Oh no!

I forgot my towel.

Back upstairs.

Grab my towel.

Back downstairs.

Into the bathroom.

Into the shower.

Under the hot water.

I am not going on a long run again.

Thanks for reading x


Road Bloggage

The following transcript is an extract taken from the stolen recordings of a meeting held within the Highways and Roads department of Cheshire East Council last month. Don’t ask me how I got a copy, I just did, ok?

Due to the sensitive nature of the discussions which took place between senior Council members, and to preserve the anonymity of the persons involved throughout, their names have been swapped around. As a result, the real names of councillors Ken, Jeff and Dennis have been substituted with Jeff, Dennis and Ken respectively. Doris’ name has been left unaltered, since she is no way implicated in any wrongdoings, and, in her words ‘couldn’t give a shit, love’. Unsubstantiated allegations that it was Doris who leaked the recordings in the first place have no basis whatsoever.

Distribution of this transcript has been deemed to be firmly within the public interest, particularly for those poor bastards now required to commute along the roads of Cheshire East once again, following the latest return of the nation’s children to their schools.

Should any current employee of Cheshire East Council happen to chance across this publication and wish to make a formal complaint about their dealings being broadcast to the masses, I would welcome the opportunity to address their concerns, but have strategically hidden my e-mail address in such a way that they will never find it. Well, it seemed only right to extend them the same courtesy.

Besides, none of you have to read this if you don’t want to.

But you should.


Ken: “Are we recording?”

Doris: “Yes.”

Ken: “You sure this time?”

Doris: “Get stuffed.”

Ken: “There’s no need for that, Doris. Let the record show that Doris is hereby excused from the meeting.”

Doris: “You don’t have the authority.”

Ken: “Just go.”

Doris: “Fine. Get your own dinner. I’m off to the bingo.”

[there is a pause in the recording, during which a chair can be heard moving, followed by footsteps and then a door slamming].

Ken: “Right, gents. First on the agenda, is the huge backlog of roadworks we have to deal with. Turns out, our roads are in a right mess. A lady in Congleton lost an entire pushchair down a pothole last week, while an elderly fella in Prestbury fell into one.”

Dennis: “Fell into it?”

Ken: “Up to his neck.”

Jeff: “Jesus! Is he going to sue?”

Ken: “No. Let’s just say he’s been ‘dealt with’.”

Jeff: “Killed?!”

Ken:  “JEFF! For fuck’s sake, this is being recorded. No, he, erm…. had to move abroad suddenly.”

Jeff: “But isn’t non-essential travel banned at the moment?”

Ken: “Jeff. Jesus Christ.”

Jeff: “Oh, right, sorry.”

Ken: “Turn the tape off. Now. Before you say something else incriminating.”

Jeff: “Ok. Sorry.”

[there is an audible click, but the recording continues]

Ken: “You sure it’s off?”

Jeff: “Pretty sure.”

Ken: “Good. Anyway, as I was saying, at last count we had 47,613 dangerous defects to deal with, so we’ll have to send the ground team out to partially repair the worst of them.”

Dennis: “Only partially repair?”

Ken: “Well, yeah. We’re hardly going to do the job properly, are we?!”

Dennis: “Won’t that still cost a lot of money to repair them all?”

Ken: “It’s ok, we’ll just ‘forget’ to collect the bins for a few weeks. That’ll claw some funds back. Plus, we can mix some porridge in with that knock-off shipment of bitumen we got, to make it last longer.”

Dennis: “Good idea.”

Ken: “So, the question is, when do we schedule the works to start?”

Jeff: “How about next week?”

Ken: “Hmm. No, that doesn’t really work for me. What about 8th March, instead?”

Dennis: “Isn’t that the day all the schools are going back?”

Ken: “I believe it is, yes.”

Dennis: “But that will cause total chaos. There will be five times as many cars on the roads then, at least.”

Ken: “And?”

Jeff: “Would it not make more sense to do the roadworks now, while so many people are working from home and the roads are quiet?”

Ken: “Jeff, how many times must we go over this? What is Cheshire East’s motto?”

Jeff: “I dunno.”

Dennis:Maximus disruptium.

Ken: “Exactly. By scheduling the roadworks to commence on 8th March, everyone will be so pissed off that their daily commute has trebled, they won’t be paying a blind bit of notice to us fucking up everything else.”

Dennis: “I like it! So, which roadworks are we scheduling to start on the 8th?”

Ken: “Good question. I was thinking, erm, all of them.”

Jeff: “ALL OF THEM?!”

Ken: “Yes. All of them.”

Jeff: “At the same time? It’ll be carnage out there!”

Ken: “I know. Delicious, isn’t it?! Now, what’s one of the busiest commuter routes in the area?”

Dennis: “I’ll check on the map….. erm…. probably this road right here.”

Ken: “Excellent. And how many crater-sized potholes do we have there?”

Jeff: “Forty-seven, just on that one stretch of road. But you can’t honestly be suggesting that we-”

Ken: “Read my lips, Jeff. All. Of. Them. At. The. Same. Time.”

Dennis: “Actually, this one here is right by a bus stop, so if we place the temporary lights just right, and a bus has to stop, it’ll block the traffic both ways and create chaos!”

Ken: “Excellent! See, Jeff, this is precisely why you will never lead the department. Dennis here has got the right idea.”

Jeff: “I’m just worried about the fall out, that’s all. Won’t the motorists all get really pissed off at us? Especially if one of them is unlucky enough to get stuck in every single traffic jam on their first day back after months of working peacefully at home.”

Ken: “So? What are they going to do about it?”

Jeff: “They might complain.”

Ken: “And how, pray tell, will they do that? Have you seen the ‘contact us’ part of our website?”

Jeff: “Not recently.”

Ken: “Well, let’s just say, if any of these idiots can actually find an e-mail address or telephone number to complain to us, then I’ll personally drive to their house, naked, and address their concerns face-to-face.”

Jeff: “We’re not going to be popular for this.”

Dennis: “We never are.”

Ken: “Exactly. What’s the worst that can happen? Some jumped up little prick writes a blog entry about us?!”

Dennis: “Ha! Good one Ken!”

Ken: “Hey, Jeff, why don’t you go and get us some coffee while Dennis and I talk logistics?”

Jeff: “Fine…. oh, erm, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Ken: “What? What is it?”

Jeff: “Erm. Nothing.”

[recording ends]


Albus Dumblogdore

Tomorrow, our family of four will become, once again, a family of five.

Now, I should explain from the outset that this has nothing to do with the number of children we currently have, nor will have by the close of the weekend. My wife is not pregnant and, having had Isaac in our lives for nearly seven years now, I think it is safe to say we would be more than happy to stop at one child (we actually have two, but would be happier to have stopped at one – that was a joke, before anyone complains).

Equally, when I say we will ‘once again’ become a family of five, this does not mean we used to have a third child who we have carelessly misplaced somewhere, nor are we gaining a new lodger.

No, I am of course referring to us getting a family pet.

In truth, I have been sceptical for some time about us getting another pet, because although it is approaching five years since we said goodnight to The Greatest Dog That Has Ever Lived, our beloved Bexley, the memory of that trip to the vets will never leave me. I don’t mind admitting I cried like a little girl when he drifted off to sleep, and it broke me for some time afterwards. Bexley had been a part of our family for over a decade, and we always fondly referred to him as our ‘first born’ – he was the sweetest, most good-natured pooch a young family could have ever wished for.

Both boys would dearly love us to get another dog. Ollie has fond memories of ‘B-Dog’ (he too, sobbed his heart out, when my wife and I got back from the vets and he nervously asked us ‘Is Bexley coming home soon?’ – Christ, I’m welling up again just typing this), and even though he is somewhat scared of more ‘excitable’ canines, a number of his friends have recently got puppies and I think he is a little jealous.

Equally, while Isaac does not really remember Bexley (who he referred to as ‘Bebski’, and enjoyed clambering over as a baby, which was usually met with a disgruntled huff from the large brown lump of fur on the floor), he is a lover of all animals, having been initially raised by a pack of wolves before entering our lives.

I think the fact we have not succumbed to getting another pet for so long is partly down to the fact we see Isaac as more of a pet than a child, to be honest. He is hairy, he never refuses food, and he loves nothing more than lying in wait at the foot of the stairs so that I trip over him. Plus, he stinks.

However, he has been begging us to get a pet for ages, and when an opportunity recently presented itself, my wife and I decided to give in to his demands.

A few weeks ago, a friend of ours posted on Facebook that her hamster had given birth to a litter (is that the correct term for a shitload of hamster babies?), and she wanted to see them all go to good homes.

My wife and I then quickly discussed whether it was a good idea (we had to act quickly, to ensure Isaac didn’t miss out), and ultimately decided to go for it, on the basis:

  1. Of all the potential pets Isaac had shown an interest in, a hamster will hopefully be relatively low maintenance.
  2. We’re not ready to consider getting another dog.
  3. Cats are evil, ungrateful, spiteful little bundles of terror, who fuck off to live with someone else at the first sign of a better deal.
  4. Fish are pointless and dull.
  5. Reptiles/insects are reserved for the fundamentally odd.
  6. My wife won’t let me get a tiger (I know I said cats are evil, and I feel sure tigers are no exception, because if we got one it would surely rip my fucking face off within a minute, but how cool would it be to own a tiger?!)
  7. We knew it would make Isaac’s year.
  8. The hamster will be some companionship for him, on the basis he and Ollie seem to currently loathe each other (which is no surprise, as I tend to loathe them both most of the time, anyway).

We therefore contacted our friend, pretended to offer a ‘good home’ (it used to be good, but the kids ruined it), and enquired whether any boy hamsters were still available – we had been advised that boys are often less likely to nip – to which she replied that a couple had not yet been claimed.

Having looked through the pictures on Facebook, we selected ‘Baby Six’, and were told he would be ready for collection on Saturday 23rd January.

Initially, we were going to keep this a secret from Isaac, in order to surprise him with an early birthday present, but when we started getting updates from the ‘mum’ (by which, I mean our friend, in case you think the mother hamster was particularly intelligent and able to type), we decided it was unfair for Isaac to miss out on all the excitement.

Before telling him of the new arrival, however, my wife decided to test his reaction with a short quiz, to find out what names he would give to various potential pets (apparently, my suggestion of sticking with ‘Baby Six’ was ‘ridiculous’).

Having run through her list, with Isaac deciding that he would call a cat ‘Simba’, a dog ‘Bones’, a parrot ‘Roger’ and a sheep ‘Jim’ (don’t ask), my wife eventually reached hamster and Isaac surprised us with the rather cute suggestion of ‘Dumbledore’, based on his love of Harry Potter (hence the name of this week’s blog, in case you were wondering about the obscure link between a hamster and a wizard).

When we then told him that he would indeed be getting a hamster, to say his reaction was one of elation would be an understatement. He nearly cried with happiness.

The next morning, despite it being a Sunday, he got up ridiculously early – which was nothing new for him, but the fact he didn’t immediately assault me certainly was – and practically skipped his way downstairs. I later discovered him on the living room floor, with a large piece of paper, a pen and his laptop (a knackered old one we don’t use anymore), researching hamsters on the internet in order to prepare himself for being a ‘Daddy’. His list was split into various sections, including research on what hamsters like to eat, what equipment he might need, and what they like to play with.

Since then, we have received regular updates and photographs from our friend, we have purchased a cage and exercise ball (complete with bedding, a water bottle and food), and Isaac has spent many a blissful hour drawing pictures to go on Dumbledore’s wall next to his cage.

He has also written his new buddy a welcome letter:

Dear Dumbledore

My name is Isaac and I’m goner be your new owner. I love and love your colours. I am very excited to play with you.

Love from Isaac”

Bless his little heart.

Anyway, welcome to the family, Dumbledore the Hamster.

Thanks for reading x


If It Ain’t Blog, Don’t Fix It

I had no intention of writing a new blog entry this week, for a few reasons.

Firstly, nothing particularly blog-worthy has happened in my life – until yesterday. Ok, Isaac has been as ‘interesting’ (read: batshit crazy) as ever, but his brief comedic moments lend themselves far better to short posts on my Facebook page, rather than a full blog entry.


Secondly, WordPress (for reasons I will come to shortly), is now dogshit.

Finally, I am quite enjoying sharing blog posts from the past, for all my new 2020 followers to enjoy, and I have plenty of festive-themed entries to choose from over the next few weeks. Still, it’s only the start of December, so there’s plenty of time until the big day, and perhaps I’ll share one a day for an entire week instead.

Whenever I plan to write a new blog entry, I always prefer my material (or, at least, the original idea/event) to occur early in the week, so I have plenty of time to jot down my thoughts, then spend my lunchbreak/evening on the Thursday making any final adjustments, before publication the following day. Sadly, for reasons which will become clear in a second, today’s entry is based on something that only happened yesterday, and I have therefore had very little time to write it. 

Nevertheless, write it I shall, and if this means I have to forego some of my pre-flight checks to get it ready in time (a little like NASA, when they launch that space probe in The Martian), then so be it. I’ll just have to hope that what follows doesn’t similarly explode in a ball of flames.

download (2)

Today, I would like to discuss companies trying to make things better – but achieving quite the opposite.

I understand why devices like mobile phones, laptops and games consoles need to move with the times (although, I’m not sure new releases are required quite so frequently, when they add little to their predecessors), and I particularly enjoy developments in the motoring world, where my desire to save the planet is only superseded by my love of a quirky cup holder, but sometimes, just sometimes, things work perfectly fine as they are and you should leave them the fuck alone.

Cup Holder Want GIF by Cheezburger - Find & Share on GIPHY

This happened recently with WordPress, who ‘upgraded’ the platform I use for this blog, and in doing so made it almost completely unworkable. For example, I can no longer write my entries without each paragraph being placed into ‘blocks’ (no, me neither), and this means I am unable to leave a line between certain paragraphs, inserting images is damn-near impossible, and the ‘justified’ paragraph option has been removed altogether, so I can only now select ‘align left’, ‘centred’, or ‘align right’ (when no one in their right mind would write an entire blog entry adopting anything but the former). I don’t want to align left, I want my entry to look neat, because I’m a perfectionist, and now the right hand side looks all scruffy. Ok, this might seem minor to most people, but my point is this – why fucking get rid of it at all? What does that achieve?

Put it this way: before computers and typewriters existed, if someone wanted to write an article (that’s what we used to call blogs back in the day, kids) they would usually write their words down on a piece of paper. It was basic, but it worked fine. What WordPress have done recently, however, is the equivalent of making that person write upside-down, with gloves on, and their hands tied behind their back – claiming this improves their experience.

Facepalm GIFs - Get the best GIF on GIPHY

It’s utter madness.

The worst part is, having contacted WordPress’ tech support (which appears to be manned solely by people who failed their McDonalds entrance exam) they have suggested I can return to the old, i.e. better, version if I want to, but I would need to install a special plugin and that requires an upgrade to their Business Plan… at a cost of £235 a year. That’s not progress, that’s fucking blackmail.

“But I want to write my article the correct way up, without any gloves on, please?”

“Why would you want to do that?! Surely this is better?”

“No, it makes it much harder and gives me a headache.”

“Right, fine, whatevs. We’ll turn you the right way again, untie your hands, and take the gloves off if you really want, but it’ll cost you.”

So, as a result, I am currently planning to reach blog entry #250 (today’s is #244) and then call it a day, purely because I don’t think I can continue writing on a site which makes it so damn difficult.

Then, yesterday, Facebook followed suit and upgraded my ‘Confessions of Middle-Raged Dad’ page (without being asked), which has resulted in it being much harder to use, and, in my opinion, not as aesthetically pleasing.

Facebook have been trying to do this for months, but until yesterday I always had the option to revert to the old version for 48 hours, which at least meant I could do so before each ‘Ye Olde Cock & Balls’ pub night, thereby avoiding any additional stress when things don’t work as planned. I was ok with that.


Yesterday, however, that option was removed – I assume permanently – so I am now stuck with the new version of my page, and to say I don’t like it would be something of an understatement.

Admittedly, I am the sort of person who doesn’t like learning new things from scratch, which I understand is my issue rather than Facebook’s, but I genuinely don’t see how they have made my page any better with this latest upgrade. Plus, while WordPress have obviously fucked things up deliberately, to force people into paying money to make things right again (detestable though that may be), Facebook is, and apparently always will be, free – so what’s the point? Why piss people like me off by making things infinitely worse?

Let me explain what has altered – since you may not have noticed just yet – and you can then decide for yourselves. In the interests of balance, I will deal with the new features I see as positive, as well as the (many) negatives. Let’s start with the former, so you can have the good news first.

The ‘insights’ part of my page has seemingly become more in-depth, so I can now throw all sorts of interesting stats at you, such as:

  1. Only 16.70% of my followers are men, while 83.30% are women (no surprise there, just look at me). However, since that adds up to 100%, it means I apparently have no appeal whatsoever with the non-binary community. 
  2. Of my 30,000+ followers, 28,400 are in the United Kingdom, followed by just 342 in Ireland, 253 in Australia, and 155 in the United States. Which means, since that totals a little over 29,000 people, there are around 1,000 followers from ‘other countries’, each of which must have fewer than 155 followers to feature lower than the US, and I therefore appear to have reached more than a dozen countries across the globe. How exciting.
  3. As far as the UK is concerned, after London and Manchester, my biggest following is in Glasgow. How ye daein? Gled tae meet ye, ye wee stoaters. A wannae winch the lorra yae (don’t blame me, blame Google).
  4. My key demographic is the 35-44 age bracket, followed by 45-54 and then 25-34. Understandable, since my page is mostly about adult humour and parenting, but what did shock me is that I have a small number of fans in the 13-17 bracket. Not sure what they gain from my page, to be honest, as I very rarely discuss puberty, TikTok, or ‘how to be a sulky little bitch’, but it’s good to have them on board anyway. 

Screenshot_20201204-111121_Facebook (2)

So, yes, the insights/stats part of my page is admittedly rather interesting, and…. erm…. yeah, that’s where the good news ends, I’m afraid. Now for the bad stuff:

  1. I can no longer invite people to like my page. By that, I mean I have lost the option to click ‘invite’ if someone who does not already follow me reacts to a post, and even if I still had that feature, they could no longer ‘like’ my page anyway. Sadly, Facebook deemed ‘liking’ a page surplus to requirements, so all you can now do is ‘follow’ it instead. Call me old-fashioned, but I quite enjoyed having people ‘like’ me. It seemed more enthusiastic than merely ‘following’ me, just in case I posted something of interest.
  2. While I could never respond to every comment on my page (at least, not since my fanbase rocketed in March), I always tried to whenever possible. My view is that, if someone has taken the time and effort to comment, it’s courteous to at least acknowledge them – even if their opinion is bollocks. Now, though, it seems Facebook is filtering my notifications, so I only receive the ones deemed to be of interest to me, as if Facebook’s algorithms know the first fucking thing about what I like (which they don’t, if the adverts I receive are anything to go by). So, apologies if you comment on my page, particularly with a question, and I don’t reply – I’m not being rude, it’s just that Facebook has deemed you unworthy of my attention.
  3. The ‘search’ function has remained, which I frequently use to look back at old posts when I need to refer to (or copy) something, but I can only now search for ‘old’ material after the update was forced upon me – in other words, anything posted since yesterday morning. Great.
  4. The main reason for wanting to revert back to the old Facebook during my pub quizzes, was because the new version makes it very difficult to post picture comments to my page, so while I can still upload photos to a main post, if I want to start a picture round and then upload the images into the comments below, I have to follow a number of complicated steps to do so. Again, how is that progress?
  5. Another new feature, is that Facebook now tells me precisely how many people have got bored of me and unfollowed my page in the last 28 days. Gee, thanks. Any chance you could also find out how many of those people referred to me as ‘unfunny’ and/or ‘ugly’ as well, just to really give my confidence a kick in the nuts?
  6. Last, but by no means least, my new page has cropped the cover image when viewed on a mobile phone, so that only my (admittedly large) nose is viewable on the left hand side, and the ‘Midlife Crisis Ahead’ sign now reads ‘MII CI A’. Even worse, my profile picture has been moved over it, so that the very top of the page now reads: ‘Confessions of a Middle-Raged Wanker’.

Screenshot_20201204-111021_Facebook (2)

That’s. Just. Ace.

I’ll keep tinkering away, to try and restore some sense of normality as soon as possible, because I would hate anyone to get so frustrated they leave (presumably uttering something about me being unfunny and ugly as they go), but you might need to bear with me. 

Oh, and I’ll be sending daily feedback to Facebook as well, using phrases such as ‘fucking pointless’ and ‘why couldn’t you leave things the way they were, you total gobshites?’

Thanks for reading x


November Can Blog Off

As far as months go in the UK, November must surely be one of the worst.

Think about it. If we all accept that the spring and summer months are the best six (which we do, and if you disagree with me then frankly you’re wrong), that essentially leaves September through to February to fight among themselves for the title of shittiest month of the year.

Except, September often has semi-decent weather, October has Halloween and half-term to look forward to, and December has fucking Christmas, so now we’re down to our final three.

I’ll make a case for February, because not only is that the month when I celebrate my birthday, but, thanks to Valentine’s Day, it is also the one date in the calendar where everyone has their best chance of getting laid.  

GIFs of Hot Guys Winking | POPSUGAR Celebrity

All of which leaves us with January and November in the grand final and, while I suspect January takes the overall crown for the majority of people, don’t let November off the hook so easily. After all:

  1. The clocks have just gone back, so as soon as the kids come home from school, it’s immediately dark outside, which means you can’t really throw them out into the garden for a few hours to kill each other where you can’t hear them.
  2. After the potential for a few final days of ‘autumn sunshine’ in October, you can kiss goodbye to anything other than biting wind and howling rain for the foreseeable future. Plus, the chance of starting to feel all festive with some potential snow is still a few weeks away.
  3. All of the trees (well, the deciduous ones, at least) have now well and truly shed their annual supply of leaves, which in October gives the pavements a beautiful autumnal canvas, but thanks to November’s rain they are now just soggy mulch, serving no purpose other than to make you slip over, or, worse, to disguise some unclaimed dog shit underneath.
  4. There is not a single date within the month of November to look forward to (apart from perhaps the 30th when we get to see the back of it for another year). Ok, my mum and wife celebrate their birthdays in November, which is nice, but that just means I’m skint – at a time when I really need to start thinking about buying Christmas presents – and the pressure is on me to come up with ideas of what to get each of them two months running. Plus, while I suppose Bonfire Night can be considered an event of sorts, all it seems to do these days is split the nation between the pet owners who hate all the loud noises, and the people who get fed up of the pet owners complaining.

So, yeah, January is probably the most widely-hated month of the year, but November is right behind it in the title race, and in some ways that makes it even more pathetic, because it’s can’t even succeed at being shit.

However, there is one other good reason why November is such an utterly terrible month, and that’s because all the major stores and supermarkets choose November to really push their annual assault on the nation – their Christmas adverts.

John Lewis Christmas Advert 2020: What is it about and who sings this  year's song? | The Independent

Don’t get me wrong, that first glimpse of the Coca Cola truck gives me a lovely warm feeling inside, and I cried like a little girl over that fucking John Lewis penguin a few years back, but nowadays it just seems like all the major stores and supermarkets follow the same boring formula:

Rules for Christmas Adverts

  1. First, choose an already slow and dreary song for the soundtrack.
  2. Slow the tempo down by at least half, then record it using ONLY a piano (all other musical instruments are strictly prohibited).
  3. Employ a female solo artist (preferably someone relatively unknown, so you can later claim you ‘discovered her’), to half-whisper/half-breathe the lyrics with as little enthusiasm as she can possibly muster.
  4. Create a cute main character (animals, young children and pensioners are all popular choices), then place them in an utterly depressing situation. Preferably, make them look really fucking lonely.
  5. Bring it all back together with a happy ending, then shoehorn in a Christmas message, while claiming that this is what your company proudly represents throughout the year, even though we all associate the brand with something entirely different (e.g. John Lewis = overpriced goods for the middle-classes; Aldi = the random ‘aisle of shite’ and packing at potentially fatal velocity; Amazon = not paying any tax, etc.)
  6. The main aim is to try as hard as you possibly can to make everyone cry. Never mind that Christmas is meant to be a happy time, you want your customers blubbing for the entire month, because the more people you can make cry, the more successful your advert is deemed to be.
Is it Okay For Men to Cry? | The Modern Man

Why can’t just one of the major stores be realistic each year, and portray Christmas like it really is for most ordinary people?

Ok, contrary to what Facebook might think, when they repeatedly suggest I should advertise any vacant jobs I might have available, my page is not a business. If it was, it would be an utterly terrible one. In the nearly-five years since I first launched ‘Confessions of a Middle-Raged Dad’, I have not made a single penny from it. Not one. In contrast, I have spent hundreds of pounds trying to gather as many followers as I possibly can (had I known before this year that it would only take one post about a ‘cockney bellend’ to go viral, I’d have saved the cash).

Nevertheless, if I do ever launch a product range (perhaps selling merchandise with quirky slogans printed on them, like ‘Go To Bed, Debbie’, ‘Don’t Answer The Fucking Questions’, ‘Tired as a Git’ and ‘#feral’), then you can be damn sure my Christmas advert will at least be realistic.

For example, picture the scene:

The camera pans along a dark street at night, while the first few bars of ‘Fairytale of New York’ begin playing in the background (look, it’s not even in my top three Christmas songs, but it’s by far the most appropriate for what follows, and I plan to use the original version, not some barely-whispered horse-shit piano cover by some twat like Ellie Goulding).

Ellie Goulding Wants To Be A Teen Again Very Badly On 'Sixteen' - MTV

The camera continues down the street until it stops outside a rundown looking house with the lights still on, then zooms in and enters the living room. Above the fireplace is a clock which shows the time to be just before midnight, and either side it are two large sacks with the names ‘Ollie’ and ‘Isaac’ printed on them, but both are flat and clearly empty. Underneath them sits a half-drunk bottle of sherry, and an open box of mince pies.

A man’s voice starts singing the lyrics to ‘Fairytale of New York’, but it quickly becomes apparent that he is not only a worse singer than Shane MacGowan, he also sounds even more inebriated (if that were possible) and, as a result, he gets some of the lyrics wrong.

As the camera angle moves toward the sofa, the man is slumped cross-legged on the carpet, with mountains of unwrapped presents stacked around him, and mince pie crumbs nestled on top of his Christmas-jumper clad belly.

He continues to sing, drunkenly out of tune, while looking from the presents to some large rolls of Christmas wrapping paper and then back again. He appears to be fiddling with something between his legs (hey, no, come on folks, you’re better than that) and, as we zoom in, it transpires he has a roll of Sellotape in his lap.

He glances at the clock and looks exhausted. Then, his face brightens slightly as he manages to locate the end of the Sellotape, and as he frantically picks at the roll, a weight seems to lift from his shoulders.

But, as soon as the Sellotape begins to peel away from the roll, it suddenly splits, leaving the man holding a useless four-inch stretch of tape which narrows to a point. He angrily shakes his hand as if to discard the tape, but it only becomes more entangled around his fingers.

The man stops singing and begins to quietly sob, as the camera pans back, out of the living room window and back to the cold street.

Moving upwards toward the empty night sky, the message ‘Have a Middle-Raged Christmas’ appears on the black, starlit screen, and when the words eventually fade away, we hear the man wail pitifully before, half-sobbing, he whimpers ‘For fuck’s sake’.


Look, I doubt it will sell much, but at least mine is realistic.

Thanks for reading x


A Rush of Blog to the Head

On Tuesday evening I went for a run

My first in eight weeks, I’ll admit it was fun

I know that I’ve grumbled and said in the past

That running is shit, but that wouldn’t last

People said “It’s addictive, becomes like a drug”

And I think I might’ve now caught the bug

So, for something I’ve always said that I hate

I take it all back – because now I feel great.


Having not run in ages, I suffered with nerves

As I undressed after work and noticed my curves

I donned my compression top, so I’d look my best

(it constricts my belly, and flattens my chest)

It’s bad enough for ladies spotting my wobbly bits

Without getting jealous of these massive tits

I’d rather they focused on my legs and ass

Craning their necks as I go flying past.


I put on my shorts and my snazzy blue shoes

My bright yellow top so I’m easily viewed

(The driving in Sandbach is generally shit

and it’s bad enough running without being hit)

I needed music, so grabbed my mp3

Did some warm-up stretches and went for a wee

And then I was ready, so despite feeling crap

I opened the door and set my Strava app.


I left our estate to the main Sandbach road

Plodding along like a bright yellow toad

But I felt pretty good and soon realised

I was enjoying a pastime I’d always despised

Although if you are local and happened to pass

(no doubt craning your neck to check out my ass)

You might have noticed me put on an act –

(look like I was dying, to be more exact).


I started to realise my speed and physique

And the fact that I’m clearly at my fitness peak

Could attract some attention and cause a backlash

Upset other runners, or make drivers crash

So, I slowed down my pace and limped as I ran

To make you all think I’m a wreck of a man

After months of not running, it wouldn’t be fair

To be the world’s greatest athlete, make others despair.


I pretended my breathing was laboured and strained

My limbs were on fire, my energy drained

I rubbed my right hip and clutched at my chest

Faked pain in my knee, looked fairly depressed

I started to cry like a little lost boy

When they were really tears of unbridled joy

I pretended I was struggling and generally unfit

(which is why I stopped and walked for a bit).


After all, I realised my pace was so brisk

The 5k world record was likely at risk

But what was the point if my time wouldn’t count

No medal or trophy, no podium to mount?

I couldn’t see Guinness sending someone to mine

To be waiting with a stopwatch at the finish line

So I delayed my record to a future run

And continued the act to fool everyone.


I slowed to a walk, then for any sceptic

I heaved in a hedge and faked getting sick

If you went past, you just might have seen

I brought up something quite sticky and green

But that wasn’t phlegm, the performance was fake

(it was actually my earlier enzyme shake)

While you may have spotted me heaving and pale

What I actually produced was some digested kale.


I then struggled on and developed a cough

Told a few passing motorists to kindly ‘fuck off’

(that part was real if you happened to see

since the drivers in question had tried to kill me)

I reached the half-way point at Sandbach train station

Then waddled back home like a wounded crustacean

A few more times I walked for a bit

To maintain the façade I was generally shit.


Despite my performance, a sprint’s in my genes

So nearer to home I gave it the beans

Flew down our road and at the finish line ducked

Then nearly keeled over and claimed to be fucked

The truth was I’d smashed it and really felt ace

Despite the anguished look on my face

I unlocked the door and stepped in our house

Ready to be met by my proud kids and spouse.


I’d run over 5k and despite a few rests

I was delighted – a personal best

(ok, that’s not true, as the furthest I’ve run

was nearly eight miles in baking hot sun)

But my first run in weeks was still a good test

and back then I didn’t have this belly and breasts

I felt pretty awesome, so I’ll admit that I lied

When I told the boys that I thought I had died.


Ok, I was limping and holding my back

And I’m sure I felt sweat creeping down my arse crack

My breathing was laboured, my cheeks had a blush

But that was just from the endorphin rush

If you saw me in pain, I was only lying

I bloody love running, it’s my new favourite thing

In fact, I’ve already planned my next run day….

I should be good to go again some time next May.


Thanks for reading x


Don’t Tell The Blog

I have mentioned before that I work as a personal injury solicitor, and, contrary to popular belief, we are not all ‘ambulance chasers’ or ‘parasites’, who get turned on by the slightest glimpse of a car crash.

We do not all go weak at the knees when faced with the prospect of making a little money (and, believe me, due to Government cuts over the past decade, any money we do make from our work is most definitely ‘little’), out of someone else’s misfortune.

However, when it comes to metaphorical car crashes, particularly those of the television variety, I do get a little tingly of trouser.

I have, over the past few years, posted a few blog entries alluding to my fondness for truly awful TV, the stand-out examples being Eurovision (https://middlerageddad.com/2016/05/13/blog-bang-a-bang/) and ITV’s Take Me Out (https://middlerageddad.com/2016/03/11/let-the-blog-see-the-rabbit/) so I am happy to pause here for a minute while you go back and read both, if you like.

Good, weren’t they?

Anyway, for some reason, I derive great pleasure from laughing at idiots, and while many people find cringy television uncomfortable (for example, my wife cannot stand Alan Partridge), I relish watching programmes where the window-lickers of society gather together. By that, I am not suggesting for one second that I laugh at all stupid people, as that would be unkind, but if you happen to voluntarily feature on reality shows such as Take Me Out or Love Island, then, sorry, but you are fair game as far as I’m concerned.


I am currently writing this week’s blog entry from my in-law’s, partly because Ollie and Isaac wanted to spend some quality time with their maternal grandparents (who live on the other side of the country to us, so we don’t see them as often), but also to give my wife a break from refereeing their constant squabbles – while I try to work.

Now, my in-laws do not have Sky, which is absolutely fine (although it does mean we’ll return home to a shit-load of recorded Masterchef Australia to catch up on, not to mention the fact Isaac is having Spongebob withdrawal symptoms), but the consequence of this is that I have encountered a few programmes over the past few days which I have either not seen in years, or have never seen at all.


One such television ‘treat’ (and I say this knowing full well many of you will strongly disagree with such a description), is a programme called Don’t Tell The Bride. I honestly haven’t seen this show in years, but please believe me when I say there was literally nothing else on while eating my breakfast the other morning, so I decided to amuse myself by watching some utter planks get hitched.

If you have never seen Don’t Tell The Bride, let me explain the concept: a betrothed woman, more concerned with a few minutes of fame/ridicule on TV than actually having the wedding she wants, entrusts every single aspect of her big day to the man she plans to spend the rest of her life with – who is, almost exclusively, a total fuckwit. The groom-to-be is then given a budget to organise absolutely everything, including the ceremony itself, the dress, rings, bridesmaid’s outfits, hen party, stag do, food, vehicles, decorations… everything, and the couple must then remain apart for three weeks until the entire shit-show is unveiled to an invariably pissed off bride.

Why is she always pissed off? Well, that would be because the groom is always either medically stupid, completely ignorant of what his bride wants, or a totally selfish prick (but usually a combination of all three). However, I am yet to watch a single episode where the bride turns up to the ceremony and promptly calls the whole thing off in floods of tears – which is, if I’m honest, the only reason I turned it on this morning. I live in hope of one day catching an episode where the woman storms off, screaming at him to stick his ring firmly up his….. well, ring.


Now, it is highly unlikely that anyone reading this blog entry knows the people who featured in the episode I watched while eating my breakfast on Wednesday morning, let alone appeared in it; but, just in case, I would like to apologise for the next four words in my blog:

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

Even by the very low standards already set by Don’t Tell The Bride in the past (and, I must stress, I have only watched a handful of the 164 episodes that apparently exist), the groom was a monumentally arrogant and selfish bellend; so, by association, his bride deserved everything she got – which, in case you hadn’t already seen the conclusion coming, was the polar-opposite wedding day to the one she had no doubt dreamed of for years. Still, if you choose to marry a prick, and then have your day filmed for a television show which thrives on men being utterly useless at planning anything important, you only have yourself to blame.

Anyway, here are my ten highlights from this particular episode, so the men among you can gauge whether you would have done a better job of planning the wedding (and, if you have read this far without getting a headache from the big words, I guarantee you would have), while the women can gasp in horror and thank your lucky stars you never made such a stupid decision (to have your wedding day filmed by E4 / marry this clown).

Strap yourselves in, folks…


Before separating for three weeks prior to their impending nuptials, the bride-to-be only specified one aspect of her wedding day which she was resolutely fixed on – she did not want it outdoors. In her words, she ‘doesn’t like t’cold’; so, naturally, the groom arranged for the wedding to take place on a fucking beach. Cracking start, lad.



Then, for the hen do, which he forgot to organise until a few days before (as he was too preoccupied booking his stag do skydive instead), he arranged for his beloved and her girly chums to have a lovely relaxing day….. at a muddy assault course. After all, what self-respecting bride doesn’t want to spend her hen do squelching around under a tarpaulin, before dragging herself over a brick wall and through a partially submerged tunnel? Well, apart from one who is FUCKING PREGNANT, and therefore can’t take part. Not that she would have enjoyed it, judging by how much the chief bridesmaid bitched about her lovely new trainers getting ruined.



Fortunately, the groom redeemed himself slightly later that same day, when he arranged for the hen party to dine at a fancy restaurant (well, it was fancy for them, because the cutlery wasn’t plastic), and all appeared to be forgiven. Well, until they realised he’d forgotten to pay for the meal, so they nearly had to cover the bill themselves.


Next up, the big one – selecting and paying for the bride’s dress. I did sympathise with him slightly at this point, because (a) no man should ever risk buying clothes for a woman, as it will almost always end in disaster; (b) this is especially true when it is arguably the most important outfit she will ever wear; and (c), did I mention she was HEAVILY FUCKING PREGNANT? Fortunately, she left the wedding dress choice relatively open for him, so long as he didn’t buy one with loads of lace on it…..

….yes, of course he did.

Ryan Reynolds Facepalm GIF - Tenor GIF Keyboard - Bring ...


Oh, and it had a big shiny silver belt around the waist, too – because, what every pregnant bride wants, when already uncomfortable stood on a freezing beach, is to be further restrained around her expanding bump. Still, the dress was, in his words, ‘cheap’, so at least he saved a bit of cash to put towards his skydive.


Then, for the bridesmaid’s outfits, he very astutely realised that you hardly ever see them dressed in white too (I wonder why that is?); but, to avoid causing any confusion/jealousy by clothing all the gal-pals in similar white dresses, he opted for ABBA-style jumpsuits instead. Cla-ssy.


They honestly looked like a cross between low-budget Bond villains (if a Bond film had ever been set on a cold beach in Yorkshire, which it understandably hasn’t) and a group of thoroughly-miserable painter decorators.


While choosing their rings, he appeared to be genuinely flummoxed when the jeweller asked him what size he needed for his wife-to-be, and even more astonished when ‘cocktail sausage’ wasn’t a recognised size on the International Ring Scale.

Shocked GIF - Shocked WillSmith FreshPrinceOfBelair - Discover ...


For the ceremony itself, he splashed out the princely sum of £16.99 to buy a trellis style archway from somewhere like ‘Poundland’, which he then had to secure to some wooden pallets on the beach to stop it from making an untimely escape towards Scandinavia.



Still, at least if the bride-to-be was pissed off at having to exchange her vows cowering under Poundland’s finest, with the icy turd-ridden surf creeping ever closer to her feet, surely the groom could pull it out of the bag with a spectacular reception afterwards?

Well, he did, but only if you consider a marquee in a nearby caravan park to be spectacular. Having said that, he also arranged a fairground ride and chip van, so at least that was something for her special day. I mean, she obviously couldn’t go on the fairground ride (preggers, remember?), but she more than made up for any disappointment with her chip consumption.


Finally, despite fuming at getting married on a beach, hating her sand-stained dress (not to mention the bridesmaid’s jumpsuits), nearly standing in horse shit from her carriage  ride on the way to the caravan park/funfair reception, and the somewhat-belated realisation she was now inextricably linked to a fucking moron, once she’d had a cone of chips, she decided he was a sweetheart really. Which is the way this show always ends, no matter how badly the wedding has been arranged.

I hope they are very happy together*

*which, bearing in mind the show was filmed two years ago, I doubt very much they are.

Thanks for reading.


How Much Is That Bloggie In The Window?

Recently, Isaac has started asking if we can get a pet.

I have tried to argue that he is very much our family pet already (more so than a human child, in fact, since he prefers eating off the floor, has strange sleeping patterns, and leaves hair everywhere), but he is having none of it, and desperately wants us to add an actual animal to our family unit.


While we have not yet made any firm decisions either way, there has been some debate between us as to what kind of animal we should get if we decide to cave in to his demands – and, as far as I am concerned, pet owners (in the UK at least), tend to fall into one of two main categories: dog lovers or cat lovers.

Of course, there are exceptions. Some people, who like their pets to be as dull and low maintenance as possible, keep fish. Others, who prefer something smaller, fluffier and more restrained than a cat or dog, focus solely on the rabbit/hamster/guinea pig section of the pet store (but this tends to be a habit most of us grow out of once we reach adulthood, and no longer crave things which are ‘cute’).

Then, finally, there are those people who are more than content to remain single for the rest of their lives, so they buy themselves a snake or tarantula. These people are not to be trusted under any circumstances, and should be regarded in much the same way as those who enjoy cricket, or have more than three children.


Anyway, the majority of pet owners tend to be either ‘dog people’ or ‘cat people’, and whilst you may very well enjoy the company of both, you will always have a preference – meaning ownership is generally restricted to one or the other. This is partly because the two are very different animals, which suit vastly opposing lifestyles, but mainly it is due to the fact that, if we have learned anything from the cartoons, it is that cohabiting cats and dogs will invariably end up clawing the living shit out of each other (then, after each battle, the cat will walk away unscathed like nothing happened, while the dog will lie dazed on the floor with little birdies tweeting around his head).

Anyway, I already have two children, so I have no need for further violent skirmishes around the house, thank you very much, and that means any future pet ownership will need to be restricted to either a cat or a dog, not both. And, before we go any further, I will make one thing perfectly clear: I have always been a dog person.

Growing up, my Mum bought the family a little Yorkshire Terrier, a breed she had always been fond of, and, even though in hindsight he could be a right little twat at times (indeed, from recollection, his pedigree name might very well have been colossus bellendium, despite the fact that sounds like a spell from an adults-only version of Harry Potter), at the time we loved him dearly.

Then, once my wife and I were married, but prior to having children, we decided to test whether we could be responsible parents by getting a dog first, and having suffered a number of setbacks via a local rehousing charity (one couple changed their minds about giving up their dog, and another was sadly run over and killed before we could meet him), ‘Bexley’ entered our lives.


In short, ‘Becks’ (as he was originally named) was a mongrel of questionable parentage, but there was definitely a mix of Labrador and Retriever swimming around his DNA, and once we had decided to change his name to ‘Bexley’ (on account of the fact the family having to re-home him – due to emigrating – all turned up at our house wearing Manchester United shirts, and I flatly refused to have a dog named after the then United star, David Beckham), he quickly became a cherished member of our family.

He was energetic, friendly and adorably clumsy in equal measure, and everyone who met him instantly loved him. It broke my heart the day he was put to sleep, and I do not mind admitting I sobbed like a little child holding him in my arms at the vets that day. I’m filling up even now just recalling how horrible it was to say goodbye, despite it being a few years ago, but he had a good life with us and lived to the ripe old age of sixteen, which is good going for a dog of his size.

So, despite being attacked by an Alsatian when I was younger, I have always been firmly entrenched in the ‘dog’ camp, and this is for four very good reasons:

  1. Dogs are (generally) lovable, loyal, and fun to have around, and they are always pleased to see you. Cats, on the other hand, spend most of their time scratching viciously, and literally don’t give a shit about you or anything you do. They aren’t even grateful when you feed them (compared to dogs, who wag their adorable little tails to show their appreciation), and, if you don’t tend to their every whim promptly enough, they simply fuck off and live with someone else. Cats have no loyalty whatsoever.
  2. I despise losing stuff that I have paid for, so I could never own a cat knowing the chances are it would be likely to disappear at any given moment (if the local Facebook posts are anything to go by, a cat goes missing in Sandbach every fourteen seconds). I’m pissed off enough when we lose the TV remote, so imagine how irate I would be losing an actual pet I had devoted my time to.
  3. While I would argue that dogs are usually more adorable (both in terms of their appearance and bumbling thick-as-shit attitude to life), it always seems to be the ‘cat people’ who use phrases like ‘fur baby’ and ‘forever home’. Apologies, but I could never mix with people like that.
  4. You can never blame a fart on a cat.

In fact, so far as I can tell, there has only ever been one advantage to cats as a species – they occasionally dispose of a pigeon or two, and pigeons happen to be one of the only animals I dislike more than cats.

I will, however, qualify my disapproval of cats with two exceptions:

Firstly, I have always been fascinated by ‘big cats’ (by which, I don’t mean the fat lazy kind, but rather the wild animal variety), and the highlight of any trip to Chester Zoo is seeing the lions, tigers, jaguars and cheetahs. In fact, if pushed, I would say my favourite animal of all time would be the cheetah, because, like me, they are sleek, fast, and can only run for around a minute before they need to take a lengthy nap. Well, at least I used to consider myself to be like a cheetah, but then lockdown happened, and nowadays I would find myself far more at home in the rhino enclosure (slow, cumbersome, and horny).

Secondly, we appear to have involuntarily ‘adopted’ a cat called Daisy, and I’m rather fond of her. Well, I say adopted, but we had no part in the decision, as she has essentially taken it upon herself to start living in the hedge in our front garden (see previous comment about cats doing whatever the fuck they want). I’m sure she goes home to her actual owners occasionally, but, most of the time, as soon as I set foot outside our front door, there she is to greet me. And, so help me, she’s adorable.

While not possessing the tail-wagging capabilities of a dog, Daisy always seems pleased to see me, immediately comes over for a fuss (despite the fact we have never fed her), and has not once tried to claw my eyes out – like every other cat I have had the misfortune to meet. Daisy may take the form of a cat, but she possesses the heart of a dog.

I should also stress, we only know her name is Daisy because someone near to where we live posted on Facebook a few months ago that they would like whoever is feeding her to please stop (it wasn’t us), and the picture was definitely her, since we had noticed her around the street for some time. Until that point, we had simply referred to her as ‘slutty cat’, because she didn’t seem to care where the attention came from, so long as she was being admired. See, I told you she’s like a dog.

I even made up an entirely original song for her:

Slutty cat, slutty cat, why are you such a slut?*

*any similarity to a song performed by the character Phoebe in ‘Friends’ is entirely coincidental.

However, even though I am now rather fond of Daisy, I know she is not ours and, more importantly, I know that if we ever bought a cat of our own we would almost certainly get one of the ‘total git’ variety, rather than one like her.

So, if my wife and I do ever succumb to Isaac’s pleas for a pet, we will be getting another dog (although not a puppy, we’re not that stupid), and I think I’m nearly ready to consider doing so, after years of mourning the loss of my dear old friend Bexley.

Until then, we still have Isaac, who is occasionally rather adorable himself.


Thanks for reading x


Blog Out, Then Blog Back In Again

Yesterday, I had my first proper Zoom meeting.


By that, I mean my only experience of Zoom prior to yesterday was to attend a few family gatherings on my phone, in order to remotely celebrate birthdays which have taken place during lockdown (including both of my sons, who wanted to see grandparents, uncles and aunts on their special days), so this was my first real Zoom meeting – and certainly my first in a professional capacity.

Now, if you are currently sat reading this with a judgemental expression on your face, along the lines of ‘How has he never used Zoom properly until now?!’, I am willing to wager that you had never heard of it before March either, so don’t give me that shit. Yes, I know I’m a couple of months behind everyone else on the old ‘Zoom bandwagon’, but the truth of the matter is my line of work (I’m a Solicitor) doesn’t really require it – and, when it would actually come in rather handy, such as for remote trials, it seems most Judges would prefer to use software last seen in 2008, such as Skype. Yes, Skype is still apparently going. Who knew?

Anyway, last week I received an invite to what promised to be a very helpful seminar for the work that I do, and, since it was free (no, especially because it was free), I was able to persuade my boss to let me sign up for it. However, it was only on Wednesday of this week that I received the link to the seminar itself, and discovered it was taking place via Zoom, rather than in a more customary ‘webinar’ format.

In case you aren’t sure what I mean by that (or are sat there wondering why it would make any difference), I should explain that most lawyers only attend seminars in order to amass the requisite ‘training points’ to remain in practice each year, so if the talk in question is taking place as a Webinar (where you simply watch someone give a presentation online), it doesn’t really matter if you happen to nip to the loo, make a cup of tea, or nod off in the middle of it, because no one can see you – and, most importantly, you still get the training points regardless (see, I am nothing if not dedicated to my profession).

Falling Asleep GIFs | Tenor

Whereas, with a meeting platform like Zoom, you are more actively involved, as if you are in a room with the speaker and every other attendee, and it is therefore far more difficult to participate indifferently / unconsciously. You have to actually look like you’re bothered.

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Thankfully, prior to logging into the seminar shortly before the start time yesterday morning, I was aware that Zoom offers two very helpful functions to avoid such an awkward situation: the option to turn off your microphone (so that no one else in the room can hear you/your feral children), and, even better, the opportunity to switch off your video (so that no one can see how shit your lockdown hair has become, or that you have stains on your t-shirt)*

*just to clarify, I didn’t have stains on my t-shirt, and it was fresh out of the wardrobe, I was merely illustrating a point. And my haircut isn’t that bad.

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As a result, I was confident when joining the seminar yesterday, I would be able to utilise both of these functions in order to participate in the session as only I know best – with very few fucks to give whatsoever. Please understand, it’s not that I am necessarily lazy, or that I do not care about doing my job to the best of my ability, it’s just that it’s hard to muster enthusiasm when listening to someone discuss the finer points of the legal system for an hour or two.

Anyway, ‘pride comes before a fall’, as they say (or, more accurately, ‘be a smug bastard, and you’re bound to take one in the nuts soon enough’) because, no sooner had I joined the meeting shortly before 11am, I realised that my laptop was still logged in to my wife’s Zoom account – from last weekend, when her laptop was playing up and she needed it for an MA teaching session – and so it was her name under the picture of me on the screen.

To avoid any confusion or awkward questions, I then quickly went in to her profile to change the name to my own (making a mental note to inform her later I had done this, so she could change it back before using Zoom herself for teaching), and hoped none of the attendees had noticed.

Then, I quickly turned the microphone off (as Ollie was in the next room, and while he had promised to be quiet, he also doesn’t absorb basic instructions particularly well, and is about as reliable as a fishnet condom), before switching the video off as well.

It was at this point, I realised that my wife has also set up a picture of herself for when the camera is turned off (so the screen is not simply left blank when she is teaching), and while it is a nice picture of her, I got the impression she wouldn’t be best pleased knowing her image was there to be looked at by a room full of dull lawyers (some of which have never seen an actual woman before) – not least because it was now accompanied by my name underneath it.

So, having discounted the option of quickly logging out of her account, logging back in to my account, and trying to re-join the seminar under my own profile (which, in hindsight, I wish I had done, but couldn’t be bothered with the inevitable questions from the seminar host as to what I was playing at), I was left with no choice other than to keep the video on for the full hour – rendering yawning, pulling faces, eating biscuits and taking all my clothes off at the very least ill-advised.

Ok, perhaps they would all be considered ill-advised anyway, but there is something so deliciously risqué about fucking around when no one can see or hear you, I often find the urge to do so irresistible. Like that time I wasn’t getting what I wanted from a grumpy Judge in a telephone hearing, so I took solace from the fact I was able to make lewd hand gestures while talking to him, all of which suggested he might be fond of pleasuring himself.

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Anyway, I digress.

As the 11am start time drew ever closer, and the delegates began to join the meeting, I then noticed one very familiar name further down the list – one of the partners at my old firm (a job I did not necessarily leave on the best of terms, on account of the fact I handed in my notice relatively soon after they paid for my training and qualification, but, in my defence, they weren’t particularly pleasant to work for).

This would not have been so much of an issue if I had been able to hide behind a blank screen with only my name showing, but I now had to not only stay awake, but give the impression I am doing really well in my chosen career, and not losing the will to live on a daily basis.

Thankfully, the seminar started soon after, so I was able to feign interest in what the host was saying – which, to his credit, was not the most dull topic I have ever sat through – and, aside from a few occasions where I caught sight of myself looking a little fed up on the screen (which, after sixteen weeks of lockdown, is an expression I am really struggling with), it seemed to go quite well.

Indeed, there were even two comedic highlights featuring the same woman (I know this, because aside from the speaker she was the only other person with her microphone left turned on).

The first, was around five minutes into the presentation, when said female joined the list of attendees, and then very loudly exclaimed, presumably to whomever was helping her with the technology:

“Is this working now? Definitely? And you’re sure no one can see me, because I look like shit today?!”

Fucking glorious.

The best part was, the seminar host clearly heard this too and, as we were the only attendees with our cameras left on, it was up to the two of us to stifle the giggles (while everyone else could laugh away as much as they wanted)  – something I did a far better job of than him, as I was able to fake an itch and cover my mouth slightly, whereas he was having to still talk away, with his mouth contorted into a pained half-grin.


Then, at the end of the hour-long session, when he asked if there were any questions (and we all nervously waited to see if anyone would be ‘that person’, who delays the meeting ending to ask some pointless question no one gives a shit about), an automated voice piped up:

“The number you are calling knows you are waiting. Please hold and we will try to connect you.”

Again, because there were only two microphones left on, it was clearly the same woman trying to make a call, and this time the host couldn’t contain his laughter:

               “Well, that’s not strictly a question, but thanks anyway. Anyone else?”

Fortunately, there was no one else wanting to contribute, with either an automated message or a genuine question, and we all began to leave the meeting. I only hope, that after the session had been concluded, that same woman suddenly realised everyone in attendance had heard her exclaim how shit she looked. I just wish she had accidentally switched her camera on too, so we could all decide for ourselves.

Or farted.

Thanks for reading x


Bunch of Busybloggies

I love Facebook. Most of the time.

However, I also despise Facebook, some of the time.

Let me explain.

I love Facebook, because it keeps me in touch with my family, friends and the world at large. It informs me if my favourite bands have a new album coming out, or are due to go on tour. It allows me to peruse funny videos of people hurting themselves, and laugh at comedic memes, restoring my faith that there are others out there who share my twisted sense of humour.

I also have my very own page, a little corner of the vast expanse that is the internet, where I can be myself. Where I am able to laugh about my children, while at the same time venting my spleen (I honestly never knew my spleen had so much vent in it). Plus, because of Facebook – and some ‘cockney bellend’ called Joe – my fanbase has multiplied more than tenfold since March.

Finally, thanks to Facebook (albeit prompted by the horrible situation the world currently finds itself in), I now have my own ‘virtual’ pub, where I can meet up with people I have never known in real life, listen to music, and take part in one of my favourite pastimes – a pub quiz.


However, increasingly of late, I also detest Facebook. It bombards me with adverts for things I have never wanted, and will never want. It reminds me that some people are stupid, bigoted and downright racist, and they are not the tiny minority I once thought (or hoped) them to be. It reminds me that the nation, and, indeed, the planet, has never been more divided.

Thankfully, the benefits to Facebook still outweigh the various disadvantages (otherwise, I would consider deleting my account) and, since this is meant to be a lighthearted blog, lets focus on the positives for now.

For every bigot or racist, there are countless more fighting for change and unity. For every moron ignoring lockdown to meet up with their mates, or squeeze onto an already crowded beach, there is a group waiting to berate them publicly for their stupidity. And, for every ludicrous decision made by the likes of Johnson, Trump and the sycophantic fucknuggets behind each of them, there is a comedic genius waiting with a meme to ridicule everyone concerned. It may not solve the problem, but it reminds me there are like-minded people out there who are just as exasperated as me. That gives me hope.

So, while today’s blog entry is all about one particular aspect of Facebook, and how much it riles me on a daily basis, I am going to strive to find the humour in there to share with you all, and hopefully raise a smile on this fifteenth Friday of lockdown.

This week’s entry is all about that seemingly endless source of (often unintentional) comedy: the local Facebook group.

I am a member of three of these groups myself, and, without naming them, two are for the town in which I live, while the third is for the village where I grew up – and now commute to work every day (well, at least I did until lockdown was initiated).

You may belong to one (or more) local groups yourself, for your own particular town or village, and no doubt you will come across the same idiots that I do on a daily basis, namely:

  1. The person who cannot spell to save their life, and who appears to have typed each and every post using only their feet (I am not being ‘thickist’ here, but it really is basic stuff at times)
  2. The person who asks a pointless question, such as how long the queue is at a particular shop, despite the fact queues invariably alter as time passes, so the original poster will never get an accurate answer.
  3. Finally, the person who posts one of the ten most asked questions in local groups up and down the country, apparently oblivious to how much it gets on the tits of easily-irked middle-raged people like me.

If you are unsure what I am referring to with that last point, the chances are you may be guilty of it yourself. However, just in case, and so you can avoid falling into the trap, I have carried out literally seconds of extensive research, and have determined that 95% of all posts on local Facebook groups fall into ten distinct categories – and every single one of them gets firmly up my bottom hole (metaphorically speaking).

So, having collated and analysed them, I have decided I will upload alternative piss-take versions over the coming weeks, and there is not a damn thing anyone out there can do to stop me (well, assuming I don’t get banned from said groups for being too acerbic, and as long as the wife will let me).

Anyway, in no particular order, the ten categories of local Facebook Group post (with my alternative versions underneath) are as follows:

#1 – ‘I’ve lost my cat’ / ‘I’ve found this dog’

The frequency with which local pet owners lose their animals is, quite frankly, appalling.

My version: ‘Has anyone seen this cat? Oh, he’s not mine, but just LOOK AT HIS FACE!’ or ‘I’ve just found this dog. I’m not sure who he belongs to, but I kinda like him, so he’s mine now.’

(nauseating reference to ‘fur baby’ optional)


#2 – ‘What’s the best Chinese / Indian?’

I see this posted on a daily basis.

My version: ‘What’s the best Chinese? I know someone asked yesterday, and the day before that, and every day for the previous year, but I just wondered if anyone’s opinions had changed in the last 24 hours? Plus, I can’t be arsed scrolling back through the seventeen posts about missing cats since yesterday.’

Alternatively: ‘What’s the best Indian? I was thinking maybe Mahatma Ghandi?’

#3 – ‘Any jobs going?’

Oh, sure, that makes you sound employable.

My version: ‘Any job’s goin round ere? I no know won rely adverts on here, but will do anything. Am hard working so long as u dont mind Iv tiped this with me fourhed am able to start in too weeks. Carnt start before as its two nice out lol.’

Dumb Face GIFs | Tenor

#4 – ‘Parents. Do you know where your teenager is tonight?…’

They then proceed to rant about the latest bit of anti-social behaviour they have encountered around town, often with no proof whatsoever that it was actually caused by teenagers.

My version: ‘Parents. Do you know where your teenagers are tonight? If not, there’s a good chance they’re locked in my garage, because I spotted some rubbish outside McDonalds earlier and decided it must have been dropped by teenagers – so I’m now driving around bundling any teenagers I can find into my van.’


#5 – ‘I’m getting sick of picking up other people’s dog poo.’

I’m not surprised. It’s hardly the most wholesome hobby.

My version: ‘Just found some dog shit on the pavement again. The next dog owner I see letting their pet crap in the street without picking it up, is going to find me wandering over, collecting the offending turd myself, and then ramming it up their fucking nose, mmkay?’


#6 – ‘Sorry if this isn’t allowed but…..’

They then go on to write something which almost always contravenes the site rules, gets promptly deleted, only for them to post again later the same day bitching about their original message being taken down, and demanding an explanation from ‘admin’.)

My version: ‘Sorry if this isn’t allowed but….. aren’t boobies ace?’

Raising Eyebrows GIFs - Get the best GIF on GIPHY

#7 – ‘I hope the person who left this rubbish by the side of the road is happy. Fly tipping is illegal. It makes me sick.’

This is almost always accompanied by a photo of a kitchen appliance in a hedge.

My version: ‘I hope the person who left this rubbish by the side of the road is pleased with themselves. I lugged the microwave all the way home on my bike, and it doesn’t even fucking work, so I threw it in a hedge.’


#8 – ‘Here are some pictures I took of a sunset / lightning storm / some flowers.’


My version: ‘Look at these photos I took of this evening’s lightning storm. You probably saw it for yourselves, and if not I’m sure you’ve seen lightning before, but I crave your attention and want you to worship me for successfully operating a camera.’

I will then upload a photo I have clearly taken from Google, for example:


#9 – ‘To the person who hit my car outside Waitrose this afternoon. I will give you until the end of the day to own up before I will be contacting the police.’

The first response to this post is always either: (1) ‘Aw no hun that’s awful. U ok?’; (2) ‘Scum’; or (3) ‘Have you asked Waitrose if they have CCTV?’

My version: ‘Some fuckbag hit my car outside Waitrose today. I was going to post a threat giving them until tomorrow to own up, but not only has that never worked in the history of Facebook, the Police would do bugger all about it anyway. Oh, and on the basis Waitrose didn’t have CCTV when someone’s car got hit yesterday, or for any of the previous daily accidents in their car park, don’t bother asking if I’ve checked.

#10 – ‘Does anyone know [insert name]? I’ve received this letter/parcel for them.’

This post is always accompanied by a photo of a package where the sender has omitted 80% of the vital information needed for it to reach the recipient, and the postie has evidently given up and pushed it through the first remotely similar letterbox.

My version: ‘Does anyone know [insert name]? I’ve received a parcel for them, and it looks really interesting, so I’m going to open it and keep the contents. If you know them, tell them ‘tough shit’ from me.

Alternatively: ‘Does anyone know [insert name of someone you don’t like]? I’ve received a giant parcel from Ann Summers which is addressed to them, and the contents are vibrating like fucking crazy, so I don’t know whether to open it or not?



That should keep me entertained for a few weeks at least.

Thanks for reading x