Blogz II Men

Over the past few months, I have become increasingly conscious that my blog entries, and my Facebook posts in particular, have become a little, well, Isaac heavy.

I think I can be excused for this, to an extent, because Isaac – as should be perfectly clear by now – is a seemingly endless source of comedic material. For example, last month alone, he:

  1. Determined that cows eat sausages;
  2. Caught a Daddy longlegs at school, gave it to a girl in his class as a gift, then ‘meditated for a while thinking about donkey poo’;
  3. Decided he wants to ‘save all the trees’, because if he doesn’t, he might run out of paper for drawing, and that would be far worse fate than any resulting lack of oxygen;
  4. Fell in love with his own toes and decided he would quite like to marry them one day;
  5. Drew the following rather unflattering portrait of me:


  1. Walked to school with his arms inside his coat, insisting I hold his empty sleeve all the way there, only for me to discover that he was sticking a lone finger out from underneath the coat, so everyone passing us thought he had his knob out;
  2. Wrote his first ever love song, which went a little something like this:

Ah, love you

Oh no

Oh no, yeah, yeah

Oh no

Oh no, yeah, yeah

Yeah, oh no, oh no

Oh no, yeah, yeah.

  1. Wrote an angry note to my wife and I, which he penned with such rage and fury, he then couldn’t read his own handwriting;
  2. Drew ‘Zog The Evil Rabbit’, complete with ‘male genitals mouth’, nipple tassels, and rather excessive public hair:


  1. Punched me in the leg for no apparent reason, then apologised with the excuse ‘I thought you were Ollie’.

And that was just his top ten in September (I know, because I’ve been back through my Facebook posts for the month). In short, the kid is one unpredictable little bundle of totally fucked up.

But, every so often, he can be the sweetest child in the world. As I posted on my page last weekend, I took the boys to the cinema for the day (so that my wife could work on her MA in peace), but knowing I was feeling dreadful, he asked her to pop to the local shop while we were out to buy ‘a chocolate bar the size of his head’ to cheer me up.


And, if that were not cute enough, who can forget the time he drew a face on his hand before leaving on the school run, and when questioned he explained to me that it was ‘Mr Hand’, who he likes to talk to at school sometimes when he gets lonely.



Bugger. I was supposed to be starting this week’s entry by apologising for my blog posts and Facebook page being so Isaac-focused of late, and I’ve just – rather ironically – wasted one-third of my (self-imposed) word count writing about him. Worse, I have completely neglected to mention my first-born child, Ollie (well, I guess I referred to him once, but only in the context of Isaac twatting me in the leg thinking it was him).

Poor Ollie doesn’t get a look-in sometimes (and I mean that purely in the sense of my online persona, it’s not like we neglect him at home…. much), but that’s only because he doesn’t possess the sheer, unadulterated quirkiness of Isaac. He has his odd moments, like all kids, but he has never once pretended to be giving birth on the classroom floor at school – to our knowledge – and I doubt he would randomly start talking Spanish when asked what he did at school that day (when he hadn’t studied any Spanish at school that day – or, indeed, ever).

So, in an attempt to redress the balance (not that either of my boys give a flying fuck what I write about in these blog entries, because I tend to use phrases like ‘flying fuck’, which means they aren’t allowed to read them), this week’s entry is all about Ollie. Well, from this point onwards, anyway. He may not ever read these words, but I’ll feel better knowing I have devoted some online attention to him for a change.

Here goes, then….

Ollie is a right mardy little knobhead at the moment*

(*that may very well be the most northern thing I have ever said in my blog, so for any southern – and, indeed, foreign – readers among you, I shall translate: ‘Ollie has been something of a grumpy little nuisance of late.’)

The thing is, like any child Ollie is prone to mood swings, but my wife and I have noticed that, particularly over the last month or so, he has restricted himself to swinging purely between ‘sulky little twat’, and ‘stroppy little twat’.

In Ollie’s defence, we put some of his current vileness down to lack of sleep, because he and Isaac still share a room – and, as most of you know, Isaac is the Nocturnal Prince of Darkness, who seldom succumbs to his subconscious netherworld until he is fully satisfied that everyone’s evening has been suitably ruined. But that cannot be the only reason.

Funnily enough (and I use the term somewhat ironically, bearing in mind what follows is not funny in the slightest), a couple of weeks ago one of the mums at football training mentioned that her son is exactly the same at the moment, and there followed a general murmur of agreement among the parents gathered by the side of the pitch, to the extent  that everyone was encountering the same behavioural downturn with their own son.

At which point, the same mum explained that, in her view at least (and she is a teacher, which does lend some weight to the suggestion), our boys are going through the early stages of [gulp]… puberty.

Image result for scared gif

Now, bearing in mind I was cradling baby Ollie in my arms what feels like a few months ago, I am NOT ready for puberty just yet (and I refer solely to Ollie going through ‘the change’ here, as I have been fully developed myself for at least two-and-a-half decades now, with everything dangling and hairy as it should be), but if Ollie is developing into a man early – or, at least, earlier than I recall it happening to me – I can only hope he will emerge the other side equally early, and we’re not looking at suffering these mood swings until he is about fifteen. If that happens, then by the time Ollie is a fully-formed bloke, Isaac should be well into puberty himself, and I’m not going to get any respite until around 2030 (the year, rather than 8:30pm).

Worse, puberty not only means all the uncomfortable conversations I will have to have with Ollie over the next few years (because my wife and I agreed, prior to becoming parents, that she would have ‘the chat’ with any daughters we might produce, but I was responsible for the boys – and then she knocked out two sons just to fucking spite me), but if he is anything like me – and just look at him, he is exactly like me – then it could very well be a miserable period in his life. A terrible thought, bearing in mind he’s a grumpy little shit already.

If nature takes its course with him, as it did with me during most of the 1990s, he has chronic acne and his voice breaking to look forward to (not that it took a decade for my voice to break, you understand), and this will all happen at precisely the same time he suddenly decides girls are actually pretty awesome, rather than ‘disgusting’ and to be avoided at all costs (I’ve always thought it unfair that we humans become sexualised when we are at our least attractive stage of life).

I only hope he doesn’t face the endless bitter rejection that I faced throughout my latter teens (although, if any of the girls who rejected me at school / work / university are reading this – and there are plenty of them out there, so the odds of at least a few stumbling across these words are pretty high – then consider this: you could be married to the sixth most popular blogger in the whole of Sandbach now, so there).

Image result for blowing raspberry gif

It’s not all bad news though, because if Ollie’s development does take a similar path to my own, then it is simply a waiting game. If he perseveres, one day the acne will fade, the facial hair will become less sporadic, and he should be blessed with a monstrous ‘middle-wicket’ for the remainder of his life – winky face*.

(*I should clarify here, I haven’t worked out how to insert emojis into my blog entries yet, just in case anyone assumes I call my penis ‘winky face’, or, worse, that I occasionally draw an eyes, nose and mouth on it…. which I only did once. It’s actually called ‘Monty Bojangles’, and isn’t that impressive if I’m honest.)

Anyway, when that day comes, Ollie will hopefully find a girl who loves him for who he is (assuming he hasn’t bored her to death with football talk in the meantime), and he will ultimately be far happier as a result, with puberty a distant – yet harrowing – memory.

I just hope all of this happens quickly, though, as I can’t take much more of his fucking sulking.

Thanks for reading x


Rita, Sue and Blog Too

I suspect most of my readers know this by now, but I have two sons: Ollie, who will be nine in May, and Isaac, who turns five a few days earlier. They are both my sons (until genetic testing proves otherwise), but they could not be more different if they tried.

Oh, they certainly have similarities, and most of the traits they do share undoubtedly come from my DNA rather than my wife’s (such as being accident prone, short-tempered, and dashingly good looking, to name but two), but at the same time they could easily be mistaken as coming from different families.

For example, Ollie is very academic, generally quiet and reserved, and his two main passions are reading and football. Isaac, on the other hand, isn’t very fond of reading, hates football, has long hair like a mane, and can be extremely, erm…. challenging at times.


Ollie is also a very sensitive and emotional child, who gets upset rather too easily (which, again, is typical of my contributed DNA rather than his mother’s), while Isaac only tends to cry when he is denied chocolate (and, if you have been paying attention, you will know that we as a family gave up chocolate for the month of February, to raise funds for the British Heart Foundation, so he has spent the last twenty-eight days in as foul a mood as you can possibly imagine).

So, on the whole, our boys are very different, but in the last few weeks they have both reached an important life-milestone (at roughly the same time, if not the same age): they have apparently both got girlfriends at school. Needless to say, my wife and I found this very sweet (then teased them both mercilessly) but they have approached the news in very different ways.

Ollie has vehemently denied that he has a girlfriend, to the point he eventually got very upset and – typically – cried when Isaac made fun of him, but we suspect he is at least keen on one of the girls in his class, because he blushed uncontrollably when we discovered her name. I have since tried to work out which one she is in the playground (so I can warn her that she can do better – joke), but he’s not giving a great deal away, and just tells me to shut up.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d be horrified if he actually started dating at the age of eight, because not only is that far too young to be in any kind of relationship, but I didn’t get a proper girlfriend until I was eighteen (and she’s now my wife), so the injustice of my son playing the field at half that age is frankly rather depressing.

I am, however, pleased that his opinion of the opposite sex seems to be maturing, because until recently he still considered girls to be in the same league as green vegetables – utterly disgusting. I think it would be quite sweet if, the next time there was a school disco, he got dressed up to impress the ‘other’ half of his class (because there is still a very obvious divide in the playground between the girls and the boys), rather than simply going as Darth Vader, as he has previously. And, in case of any confusion, this is not a metaphor for him being all dark and brooding, as he actually went dressed head-to-toe as Darth Vader. In his words “well, it said ‘dress to impress’, so I did”.


It’s nice that he is maturing, and I am particularly pleased that he is growing up to be a well-rounded young man – but at the same time there’s no need for him to hurry, and merely accepting/appreciating girls is more than enough progression for now.

Then, we have Isaac.

Isaac is the one I am worried about, because he has already shown an interest in a number of girls in his reception class since he started in September, and I suspect this isn’t solely related to sharing tips on hair styles.


One of his best friends, a girl from nursery, started school with him, and they have always been inseparable, so when he whispered to my wife recently that he has a girlfriend, we immediately expected it to be her, but it turns out his affections now lie elsewhere.

Again, it wouldn’t be fair of me to mention the girl by name, because I have a number of local followers, and so there is a (slim) chance one or both of her parents could read this, but suffice to say it isn’t a name we had heard him mention until earlier this week, so I have again been on the lookout in the playground to try and spot her.

As with Ollie, my wife and I suspect that this girl has no clue Isaac is keen on her, so when he claims to have a girlfriend, the relationship may be entirely one-sided, but they apparently shared a lovely moment playing with Play-Doh on Monday (as in the children’s modelling clay, rather than an unusually-named classmate), and he has been smitten ever since. Part of me is tempted to tell Ollie, so he can get his revenge for the teasing Isaac gave him a couple of weeks ago, but that would be just as cruel of me; and, besides, I happen to think it’s rather cute.

It has got me thinking about what they will be like when they are older and actually dating, however, and while I suspect Ollie will be very much like me (nervous and uncomfortable around girls until he is much more mature, when he will no doubt settle down at a relatively young age), Isaac is the one I am concerned about.

Isaac, despite only being four, is the one I already worry will be sneaking through a girl’s bedroom window in the dead of night, before being escorted back to our house by a disgruntled father. Isaac will be the one with a number of girls on the go at once (by all accounts, he already has), as ladies swoon over his flowing locks – assuming he keeps them when he is older. Ladies, I am told, like a wild man they think they can tame, and a bad boy who will treat them mean (at first). They like a work in progress. And, despite only being four, that description already suits Isaac rather well.

In truth, I’m a little jealous of him already, because I have never known – nor will I ever know – what it is like to have women fighting over me (unless it’s the elderly variety, who want something reaching from a high shelf in the supermarket), but I have no doubt Isaac will be breaking hearts all over the place when he’s older.

Thanks, as ever, for reading x



Bloggy Kids


A Short Play


Dramatis Personae:



A tall, good-looking man, who is struggling with the pressures of early middle-age, and who regularly overuses the words ‘fuck’ and ‘Nobhead’.



An eight-year-old boy, wiry, over-emotional at best.



Ollie’s younger brother, four. A feral wolf child, with the face and hair of a pretty little girl, but the empty black soul of a malevolent demon.


Narrator:  The following play is based on real-life events, which occurred in a small town in Cheshire, in January 2019.


[The lights come up on a Living Room. Daddy enters stage right, wearing nothing but an ill-fitting towel. He is wet, and the impression is that he has just exited the shower. He looks harassed and hurried]

Daddy:  Why are neither of you ready yet?!

Ollie:     I’m ready!

Daddy:  You’re not wearing socks.

Ollie:     Oh, yeah.

Daddy:  And you’re still watching that idiot play FIFA on YouTube. For the final time, turn it off. I said I wanted you both dressed and ready by the time I got out of the shower. Don’t do this to me again!

Isaac:     Do what?

Daddy:   Get me stressed and make us late.

Isaac:     Can I have more cereal?

Daddy:  No! You’ve already had two massive bowls and we don’t have enough time… or milk. We’re leaving the house in less than ten minutes and I have no clothes on yet. Do you want me to do the school run in just this towel?

Isaac:      YES!

Daddy:   Shut up. Look, I’m going for a shave, and I want you both ready to walk out of the door by the time I come back downstairs.

Ollie:       Ok.

[Daddy quickly exits stage left, clutching the small towel at his waist to save exposing himself as he takes the stairs three at a time. Both boys remain motionless, with Ollie staring at a laptop screen, and Isaac watching Scooby Doo on the television]



[The lights come back up on the Living Room. Both boys are in exactly the same position as they were at the end of Act I. Daddy rushes in stage left, now wearing a suit, and hurriedly straightening his tie]

Daddy:  What the HELL?! Ollie, turn that laptop off NOW. Isaac, turn the television off and find your hairbrush. Ollie, put some fuc… put some socks on NOW.

Isaac:      I can’t find my hairbrush.

Daddy:   Get Mummy’s instead then.

Isaac:      Ok, Geoff.

Daddy:   Stop calling me Geoff. Ollie, why are you crying?

Ollie:      You shouted at me.

Daddy:   Do you know why?

Ollie:      No. I’ve not done anything wrong!

Daddy:  Really? How about ignoring me and making us late for school yet again? How about not getting dressed before watching those stupid videos on YouTube? How about leaving your cereal bowl there for Isaac to trip over? We have the same conversation every fu…. We have the same conversation every morning, and, for once, I would like to arrive in the school playground without worrying that I might collapse at any given second. Go and get your bags, brush your teeth, get your shoes and coat on, and wait by the front door. We’re leaving in two minutes!

[Ollie runs off stage left, sniffling loudly. Daddy quickly brushes Isaac’s hair, then struggles with an orange ‘bobble’ as he tries to style it into something resembling a ponytail. At one point, when Isaac isn’t looking, he silently screams ‘FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK!’, then punches the table next to him. He rubs his knuckles, evidently in some pain]

Daddy:   Right, that’ll have to do.

Isaac:     Does it look ok?

Daddy:  Erm, sure. Now, go downstairs, put your shoes and coat on, brush your teeth, and wait by the front door.

Isaac:     Ok, Geoff.

Daddy:  Stop calling me Geoff!

[Isaac leaves stage left, followed shortly after by Daddy, who is still rubbing his knuckles]



[The lights come up on an entrance hall and front door. Both boys are now wearing coats. Daddy is putting his shoes on]

Daddy:   Right, have you both brushed your teeth?

Boys:      Yes

Daddy:   Both of you?

Boys:      Yes!

Isaac:    Actually, I haven’t.

Daddy:  Do them. Now!

[Isaac dashes to the side of the stage]

Daddy:   Ollie, have you got your swimming kit?

Ollie:      Yes.

Daddy:   And your £1 for swimming?

Ollie:     Yes.

Daddy:  Guitar?

Ollie:      Yes.

Daddy:   Drinks bottle?

Ollie:      Here.

Daddy:    What about the permission slip for your school trip?

Ollie:      Hey, that rhymes!

Daddy:   Shut up. Do you have your permission slip, or not?

Ollie:      Yes. It’s in my pocket.

Daddy:    Is there anything else you need?

Ollie:       My Match Attax.

Daddy:   Balls to your Match Attax. Is there anything else you actually need for school?

Ollie:      No. I have my Match Attax anyway, I was just saying.

[Isaac returns from the side of the stage]

Daddy:   Isaac, have you got your school bag?

Isaac:     Yes, Geoff.

Daddy:   I asked you to stop calling me that. Do you have your drinks bottle?

Isaac:     Yes.

Daddy:   Have you both got your snacks for breaktime?

Boys:      Yes!

Daddy:   And do you remember what you’re having for lunch?

Ollie:      Roast chicken dinner!

Daddy:   Correct.

Isaac:     I’m having a packed lunch.

Daddy:   No, you’re not.

Isaac:     I AM!

Daddy:  No, you’re fuc… you’re having chicken dinner, remember? I asked you half an hour ago and you agreed. You said you love chicken dinner.

Isaac:     I hate chicken dinner! I want a packed lunch!

Daddy:   Tough. We’re late, and I haven’t got time to make one. You’re having chicken dinner.

[Isaac now starts to cry]

Daddy:   Please, Isaac, we discussed this. I don’t have time to make a packed lunch. You told me you love chicken dinner. It’s just chicken, potatoes and veg.

[Isaac suddenly stops crying]

Isaac:     Yay! I love chicken dinner!

Daddy:   You little f-

Ollie:      Can we play a game?

Daddy:   What?! No! We need to leave, NOW.

Ollie:      Can we play a game on the way?

Daddy:   No. Look, I have a splitting headache, I’m stressed, and you two have again been no help whatsoever. He’s been up since 5.45am, you’ve both spent the past hour fighting –

Both:      He started it!

Daddy:   – I don’t care. You’ve both spent the past hour fighting, and I’m sick of it. We’re leaving the house and you’re going to have to run because we’re VERY late.

[Ollie opens the front door]

Ollie:      Erm, Daddy….?

Daddy:   What now?

Ollie:       It’s raining.

Daddy:    Oh, for fuc….. right, put your hoods up. I’m just going to swap my coat for the waterproof one.

[Daddy quickly changes coats]

Daddy:    Ok, now can we leave?

Ollie:        Hang on. I can’t find my pound for swimming.

Isaac:       I don’t have any shoes on. And I need a wee.

[Daddy starts to turn purple, and the stage lights fade to the sound of a scream]

Daddy:     FUUUUU-



Blogs and Girls

This is my youngest son, Isaac:


Yes, that’s right, he’s my son. I am well aware that he is extremely pretty, and has long hair, but he is still very much a little boy (believe me, he mentions his willy even more frequently than I do), and it’s amazing how many people struggle with the concept of a boy having long hair, even in 2018.

Isaac’s hair initially grew beyond what society apparently deems ‘normal’ length about a year ago, because he didn’t want to go to the barbers to have it cut. The more we tried to persuade him that barbers are not scary people you should be fearful of (unlike murderers, tax inspectors, and dentists, for example), the more he refused to listen. It has now got to the point where, if we so much as suggest getting his hair cut (and this is not for the reasons you might imagine), he curls up into a ball like a cornered hedgehog.

The thing is, over the past year, Isaac has moved away from merely being scared of getting his hair cut; and his main reason for not wanting to visit the barber now, is that he simply adores his long hair.

True, he hates getting it tangled or matted (usually with ketchup or ice cream), and in hot weather it can become an unwanted source of additional insulation for him (to the extent he is now often seen in just his pants, with his long hair blowing behind him as he runs); but, generally speaking, he adores his mane, and it is now very much a part of him. In fact, if he did suddenly get his hair chopped, it would be some time before we adapted to his new look.


Isaac is very much an individual and unique little boy, who doesn’t wish to conform to whatever society dictates to be the norm – and I refer here to not only his hair, but also his behaviour in general, which is best described (as I have many times before), as ‘feral’ – so if he wants to have long hair, he is jolly well going to have long hair, and fuck anyone who questions his decision. Truth be told, I admire anyone who has this attitude to life, and only wish I was so dismissive of what people thought of me.

In recent months, now that the weather is warmer, he has decided that he wants to wear his hair up more, and as soon as the ladies at his nursery started putting it in a pony tail, or bunches (and, on one occasion, a French plait – see below), this only encouraged him further. This does not mean he relates more to being a girl, or prefers girly stereotypes (whatever they may be); he merely loves his hair to bits (ketchup-encrusted bits, admittedly).


I’m ashamed to admit that, initially, I wanted him to get his hair cut for selfish reasons, because I was so annoyed by the strange looks when another parent or passer-by in the street would overhear us call his name; or, worse, when they would actually engage with us and refer to our ‘little girl’ or ‘daughter’.

At first, I would correct them with a simple and stern ‘actually, Isaac here is a boy’, but I eventually got so sick of the confusion in their reaction – or, on odd occasions, an actual look of disapproval – that it just became easier to ignore their comment and say his name louder next time to really mess with their heads.

But now I’m getting seriously pissed off with it all.

I don’t care if he has long hair. I don’t care if he enjoys playing with his dolls and unicorns (he’s obsessed with unicorns). I don’t care if his favourite colour is pink. I don’t care if, one day, he decides that he’d quite like to wear a dress please, Daddy (although that does mean actually buying him one, and we don’t have enough space for any more clothing as it is, because 82% of our house is taken up by my wife’s shoe collection).

Who decided that dolls and unicorns are just for girls, anyway? When was pink allocated to one gender, and blue the other? Why shouldn’t he spend his birthday voucher on two rainbow-coloured teddies if he wants to?


At Ollie’s football club on a Thursday evening, there are two young girls who turn up every week with their Dads, and whenever I see them playing, I’m disappointed. I don’t imagine for one second, that there are only two girls of Ollie’s age in the whole of Sandbach who enjoy playing football, and it saddens me to think they don’t join clubs like this one, because they are either afraid or embarrassed of being labelled ‘boyish’.

Ollie has done many things that have disappointed me over his eight years on this planet. In recent months he has become extremely sulky, stroppy and stubborn. Prior to that, he started to misbehave and get into trouble at school (only for talking in class, mind), and when he was a baby, he shit on me. A lot.  But I have never been so disappointed in him, as the time he criticised his goalkeeper at football club, purely because she was a girl. Ok, as it happens, she’s not the best player in the world, but then again neither is he, and I gave him a severe bollocking for having such a chauvinistic attitude.

My grandparents grew up at a time when racism was still widely accepted, and even though society has come a long way in the last few decades, we still see racism even now – for example, we will almost certainly encounter it at this summer’s world cup in Russia.

In 2018, we are still faced with gender inequality in terms of wages, and, until this year, women were not even allowed to drive in countries like Saudi Arabia.

People are still persecuted and looked upon differently, because of their gender, age, race, religion and sexual orientation. It’s fucking ridiculous. If we don’t educate our children, now, then this will never change.

If Isaac is made to feel different, or odd, or wrong, purely because he wants to have long hair, wear pink, or play with a doll, then society as we know it is totally screwed.

He may grow out of this phase of his life, he may not. I frankly couldn’t give a shit either way, so long as he’s happy, and so long as – if he does choose to pursue what society deems to be a more boyish lifestyle in the future – he does so for his own reasons, and not because of peer pressure, or, heaven forbid, bullying.

Look, he’s not perfect. In fact, far from it. There are very few days where I don’t end up telling him off, for one reason or another; but I still love him, and that will never change no matter what life he chooses for himself, and no matter how much he morphs into Drew Barrymore from E.T.


So, next time you see a young child in the street (or an adult for that matter), don’t automatically make assumptions about them and their life decisions. They may be very self-conscious of their appearance; but, hopefully, if they are anything like my son, they won’t give a flying fuck what you think.

And I think we can all learn something from an attitude like that.

Thanks for reading x



Sie Ist Nach München GeBlogen

To:          Mrs MRD

Sent:      Monday 17th July 2017 20:43

Re:          A postcard from home


I know it’s customary for the person travelling to send a postcard, rather than the person stuck at home with their kids, but since you’re on a school trip with forty-four teenage boys, I figure you’re busier than me (twenty-two times busier, to be precise). Plus, if one of the lads in your care has an accident, there’ll be all sorts of paperwork to complete, whereas if (when) one of ours hurts himself, I’ll probably just laugh for a bit.

How’s Munich? Was security ok at the airport? Any rectal exams?

You’re probably knackered, having been up since 2am, but I don’t want you to think it’s been easy for me either. I’m not sure if Isaac was already in our room when you left, but when I woke with a splitting headache around 4am, and went downstairs to get some paracetamol, I damn near tripped over the little git, as he was curled up on the floor by our bed.

It was only at the last second, as the pungent fumes of shit alerted me to his presence in the shadows, that I realised he was down there, and I had to execute an emergency ‘lunge’ to avoid standing on his fucking head.

I added a pack of wipes and a pull-up to my downstairs shopping trip, and when I returned, I had to give careful thought as to how I was going to change him. After all, I didn’t want him to wake, and he was already restless (and mumbling something about poo-poo).

Imagine my surprise when, having unfastened his pull-up with all the delicate care of a bomb-disposal expert, it transpired he hadn’t crapped at all, but had instead emitted a fart of such noxious toxicity (noxicity?), it had not only permeated the entire top floor of our house, but remained there until about 4.45am (it may have survived longer, but I drifted back to sleep).

When my alarm went off at 7am, I half-wondered if I had dreamt the whole experience, and would have to now battle the sort of concrete encrusted turd that can only be chiseled off in small chunks with a screwdriver. But, no, it had indeed been a phantom crap of biochemical proportions.

I then managed to get both boys fed and dressed (Ollie successfully clothed himself in a PB of nine minutes) and we dropped Isaac off at nursery on time. #winning

Ollie and I then returned home to do his reading (why on earth has he brought home a book about rock pools? I now know more about crabs than a Magaluf holiday rep), practice his spellings, and put the finishing touches to his appearance. Well, I spent five minutes wetting his hair to try and get that damn tuft to stick down, while he focused on spreading more toothpaste onto the front of his shirt than his actual teeth (I made him keep the shirt on, as punishment for being such a dickhead).

Tonight was more successful, as Isaac was asleep by 7:30, and aside from a major meltdown at dinner, when he wanted “ALL THE KETCHUP!”, I haven’t wanted to strangle him once. Ollie is still awake, reading quietly in his bed (and, by ‘quietly’, I mean ‘with all the stealth and grace of a pregnant hippo in heels’), but we’re surviving.

Hope you’re having fun. I’ll e-mail again tomorrow, so you know we’re still alive.



To:         Mrs MRD

Sent:      Tuesday 18th July 2017 21:06

Re:          Losing my patience

I’m not Isaac’s biggest fan right now.

Having got him to sleep with just one reading of ‘Night Pirates’ yesterday (I don’t even bother turning the pages now, as I know the fucking thing off by heart – and clearly so does he, as he was mouthing the words while he drifted off), I had hoped to have a relaxing evening.

I planned to do some tidying and cleaning, then watch that third Hunger Games film I recorded. I even grabbed a midweek beer, to toast a successful evening of single-parenting.

But, bugger me, those films are bleak. I genuinely don’t think I could have depressed myself any more, if I’d worked my way through Radiohead’s back-catalogue, while looking at photos of deceased relatives.

It was honestly so melancholic, I had to pause at one point to do some dusting to cheer myself up. It was only when I was completely satisfied that all thoughts of self-harming had dissipated, that I went back to watch the rest.

Then, just as the film got exciting with about fifteen minutes to go, Isaac woke up and started crying. I tried to persuade him to stay in his bed, and reminded him of the Thomas The Tank Engine train he had chosen from Ollie’s collection as his ‘prize’ if he did, but he was having none of it. In fact, the look he gave me was very much ‘fuck the toy, I’m sleeping in your bed.’

Oh, and did you know there is a train called Mike?! Smug little bright-red bastard he is as well.

In the end, I got Isaac back to sleep in our bed, but every time I crept downstairs to finish the film, I’d get through about thirty seconds before he’d start crying again. I ended up watching the final fifteen minutes of the film in twenty-eight separate instalments. Still, according to my (dodgy) Fitbit, I managed 976 flights of stairs yesterday.

Isaac only woke me once during the night, although that was by forcing his big toe up my nostril. The good news is, I’m getting better with my anger-management, as I managed to stop myself from launching him off the bed in a fit of rage.

This morning, Isaac threw a tantrum because he wanted to eat his cereal in the living room, then he wanted it in the kitchen, then he wanted milk, then he didn’t want milk…. essentially, whatever I did, I was still wrong. Definitely your son.

After a few issues getting him dressed (he insisted on shorts, but the only clean pair we had looked scruffy and didn’t match, so I put my foot down and insisted he wear trousers), we put his shorts on and left on time. Even Ollie managed to get dressed without any major incident.

I took a photo of the boys on the nursery run, to show you what a fantastic job we are doing without you, but that was more for their benefit to be honest, as I don’t want them to see any signs of weakness on my part.


I’ve managed to get Isaac to sleep in just a few minutes again, but all I can hear down the monitor is Ollie reading quietly. I don’t know how he manages to make so much noise with just a magazine. I’m pretty certain I couldn’t make that much noise with a copy of ‘Match’, if I rolled the bloody thing up, and smacked it repeatedly against a giant gong.

Hope you’re having more luck getting your boys into bed.

Wait, that sounds wrong….


To:         Mrs MRD

Sent:      Wednesday 19th July 2017 21:09

Re:          Help!

This is getting like Groundhog Day now, and you’ve only been gone since Monday.

I don’t know whether it’s the heat, or the fact Isaac is an insufferable little shit (I suspect it’s both), but I am only able to tolerate his company for about an hour each evening – and not at all in the morning.

Despite Ollie’s cacophony of reading last night, Isaac was amazingly still asleep when I went to bed, but then he woke and started crying around 2am. I tried to calm him down, and get him to stay in his bed, but the appeal of Thomas train rewards seems to have well and truly worn off, and he insisted on getting in bed with me.

After just a few minutes, he then started screaming to be in his bed, and me shouting ‘this was your bloody idea!’ only made the situation worse. He demanded I follow him, so I explained that, if he was fucking with me (I didn’t use those exact words) and changed his mind again, I would rain down on him with biblical fury (I did use those exact words – he didn’t understand).

Sure enough, within a minute of climbing back into his own bed, he wanted to switch rooms a third time, and that’s when I properly lost it. In the end, it was nearly 3am before we got back to sleep (I might have dropped off first, so for all I know, he was still going).

Despite the lack of sleep, he woke me at 6:30am, because he wanted to see Ollie. I didn’t fully register what he was saying at first, and by the time I realised what was happening, he had escaped, climbed the steps to Ollie’s bed, and was gently waking his sibling by smacking him in the face. As you can imagine, Ollie accepted the rude-awakening with his usual grace and patience.

Breakfast was a disaster, because Isaac alternated between wanting me to carry him downstairs, then screaming if I went near him, which developed into an irrational help me/don’t help me situation with his cereal. Quite how I restrained myself from tipping the bowl over his sodding head is a mystery.


This made us late leaving the house, with the result Isaac looked like he had been dressed by a blind person, then rolled through shit. When we arrived at nursery, he loudly informed everyone he had lost his voice, and would not be speaking for the rest of the day. Irony, it seems, is lost on him.

I did manage to get Ollie to school, with his packed lunch, drinks bottle, snack and guitar, but I spent so long focusing on all the stuff I had to remember, I never noticed he was wearing an age 3-4 top. In fact, I only spotted it this afternoon, when he walked out of class looking like a fucking Britney Spears tribute.

He was in quite good spirits, so we walked into town and treated ourselves to drinks and cake. I suggested phoning nursery to lie about being stuck in traffic, and that I would not be able to collect Isaac until 8pm, but Ollie said that was nasty, so we compromised and went for him at 5.30.

Unsurprisingly, Isaac was exhausted, and kept falling asleep on the sofa, so I quickly bathed them both, and had him asleep by 7.10pm. Record time, but this also probably means he’ll be wide awake again by 10pm. I’ll worry about that later.

I may just survive this ordeal after all, but if your flight home gets delayed, or there is any other reason why you aren’t back on time, that might be the final straw. I’m very fragile right now.



Fighting Like Cats and Blogs


Just under a year ago, I went from having one son, to having two.

They say that having a baby changes your life (well, duh), but not many people talk about what having a second does to you. That’s most likely because they are too busy screaming into a poo-stained pillow, whilst having some form of catastrophic breakdown.

If, like my wife and I, you already have more than one child, you may very well connect with what I am about to say (assuming you can spare a few precious minutes to read it, without the little shits trying to kill themselves/each other, and assuming you can still focus on the words through your streaming tears/splitting headache/those undetermined stains on the screen). If, on the other hand, you currently have just the one child, but intend to spawn more of the little parasites in the future; or, even worse, you are one of those blissfully naive people who is currently childless, but plans on having a big family one day, please be warned: it is not always the Enid Blyton-esque picnic in the sunshine that you might think it is.

The reason, dear reader, is this: children can be inherently evil. And I don’t mean ‘just a bit naughty’, either, I mean demonically evil. They may occasionally surprise you by behaving for a few minutes, but generally speaking they are erratic and unpredictable, and the next tantrum is just around the corner. They can sense your weaknesses and vulnerabilities, particularly when you are sleep-deprived, and they will prey on this mercilessly. So, when you have more than one of them, they team up to create a volatile situation that will invariably end, almost daily, in some form of parental misery.

As a result, anyone with more than one child will, every day, without fail, have their favourite. This may be a subconscious decision, and you will never admit to it, but it will happen. Don’t get me wrong, I love both my boys dearly, but that doesn’t mean I have to actually like them all the time, and certainly not at the same time. So, at any singular moment, if you ask me which one I currently prefer, I will be able to answer you in less than a second.

Now, if you’re reading this, and you fall into the unfortunate category of suffering with multiple offspring, you will either be nodding along sagely, as you mentally select which one of your own children you would currently like to trade-in or put up for adoption, or you will be tutting at me disdainfully and claiming that you would never do such a horrible thing. If it’s the latter, I would suggest that you are in denial (or it’s possibly because your partner is also reading over your shoulder, in which case, don’t worry, they’re thinking it too). Either way, wake up and smell the coffee. Actually, that runny brown stuff that you can see/smell/feel running down your leg, is almost certainly not coffee, but you get the idea.

So, now that we’re all agreed that it is ok to have a favourite child at any given moment, let’s take a look at the reasoning behind it. Your preferred son or daughter can change hourly, let alone daily, but without fail one will always be performing better than the other. Why is this?

In giving my explanation, I will adopt (actually, wrong choice of words, the last thing I want to do is frigging adopt) our position of having two children; but if you have more, I am sure you will still be able to relate your own miserable situation accordingly. Incidentally, if you do have more than two, there is always a comforting hug waiting for you here, should you ever need it.

The answer to why we always select a favourite child is simple: siblings have an innate behavioural correlation with each other, that they are often not even aware of.  This relationship works exponentially, so that when the behaviour of one child starts to improve, the other subconsciously senses this, and commences misbehaving at the same rate. It’s like behavioural yin and yang, if you will.

However, having already explained that you will always have your favourite child at any given moment, there is one exception to the rule. If the behaviour of one child is exponentially improving or deteriorating in sync with his or her sibling, there will invariably come a point where the two will pass – where their behaviour is, for one brief, glorious period in time, exactly equal. They are neither perfect, nor horrendous. Both children are just average. You might think that this is not ideal, as neither child will be living up to your pre-pregnancy expectations of what the perfect family unit should be like, but consider this: if both kids are just okay, just manageable, then you can still visit a friend, or go for a meal, or do the shopping, or drive somewhere (without the overwhelming urge to steer the car off the road), and essentially function as a family.

Call this (often fleeting) period what you will (I have personally labelled it the “Behavioural Sweet Spot”), but it’s what keeps those of us with more than one child from making the newspapers each day. For that very reason, its significance cannot be underestimated. It is vital to our sanity. However, as I have already explained, it can last but the blink of an eye so, for the majority of each day, you have to disregard it. Don’t try to focus on it, or anticipate it, for it may then not arrive at all. Just be aware of it, and pray it visits you and stays awhile.

In the long, soul-destroying hours in between, we return to the position where we have our favourite child, and the speed with which a parental brain can make that snap decision is astonishing.

Using my own in-depth research, I have identified the ten behavioural categories that we mentally process when choosing our favourite child, and have separated these out in order to analyse them in more detail. Not all ten will apply at any given time, but we still subconsciously consider each of them, if only to disregard a few when making our decision.

For each category, I will use our two boys – Ollie (nearly 5) and Isaac (nearly 1) – as example guinea-pigs, and rate one against the other, in order to work out which, currently, I prefer. It may seem harsh, but the point needs illustrating, and I am nothing if not thorough.

1: Sleeping

This, currently, is an easy one. Ollie, with a few exceptions, will usually sleep through the night. True, he is of an age where bad dreams sometimes disturb him (and consequently us), and his brain is so active that actually getting him to go to sleep in the first place can often be a struggle, but that is still preferable to Isaac’s ‘routine’.

Isaac, you see, is still in our room with us and, whilst he has a cot next to the bed, he seems to have some kind of allergic reaction or phobia towards it. As a result, whilst he will often start the night in there, he will, without fail, end up between us at some point. This would be tolerable if he then went back to sleep, but he seems to find it far more entertaining to kick me in whichever soft, fleshy part of my anatomy is nearest to his feet at the time. Thankfully, the family jewels are usually too far down the bed for him to reach, but a swift kick to the throat at 3am is still pretty distressing, particularly when you suddenly wake, gagging, to see him grinning at you with black, soulless eyes.

Winner: Ollie

2: Eating

Again, Ollie has this one sewn up. He can be fussy at times, and he is, without doubt, the slowest eater I have ever encountered (to the point that, at school, he is often still munching away when his reception classmates leave the canteen for the playground, and the junior kids come in for lunch), but that still beats Isaac. In Isaac’s defence, he isn’t yet one, and so is still arguably in the phase where food should just be for fun, in order to get him used to the concept of eating, but he’s still showing very little interest in solids, and is certainly behind where Ollie was at this age. In fact, Isaac will only accept food from you, if there is a chance he can then smuggle it from his high chair to the waiting jaws of his partner in crime – Bexley (our dog) – who lies patiently and expectantly below.

Winner: Ollie

3: Mess

Time to cut Isaac some slack. Yes, he makes a lot of mess with his toys on the floor, and with the food he throws in the general direction of the dog, but he is a baby. He has no concept of tidying up after himself, whereas Ollie should know better. Ollie’s room, until my wife spent hours blitzing it recently, usually resembles something of a post-apocalyptic nuclear war zone (if that war had been predominantly fought by Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, that is).

Winner: Isaac

4: Bodily Functions

Again, Isaac is more or less excused here. Whilst his farts are usually so paint-strippingly bad that they could easily be used in chemical warfare, and often cause us to don Hazmat suits to change his nappy – only to discover that the outfit-ruining shitastrophe we were expecting is, in fact, a non-existent phantom poo – he cannot realistically be held accountable for this. Ollie, in contrast, often produces bowl-cracking toilet sausages that an elephant would wince at, and frequently suffers from constipation so intense that he emits a high-pitched squeal whilst on the toilet. The neighbours complained about this once. We have instructed him to eat more fruit, but he believes that stuffing grapes into his face whilst actually sitting on the toilet mid-defecation, is a satisfactory solution. It is not.

Winner: Isaac

5: Noise

Tough one to decide, this. Both boys have sufficient lung capacity to drown out overhead planes and large machinery if required, and Isaac certainly makes more noise at night when we’re trying to sleep, but Ollie seemingly has no concept of volume, and insists on everything being shouted at all times. Isaac’s squeals are definitely more piercing and harmful to the ear, resembling, as they do, the death throes of a gutted wild boar, but are thankfully short-lived when compared to the marathon of noise that Ollie conjures each day, so Isaac wins the point.

Winner: Isaac

6: Supervision

No surprises here. Ollie can be full on, and demands a lot of attention at times, but he is also getting quite good at creating his own entertainment, and will happily sit in his room with a book or DVD to give us a break for a bit. Isaac, on the other hand, is determined to seek out the nearest choking hazard and ingest it, as soon as your back is turned for half a second.

Winner: Ollie

7: Anger Management

Both boys get angry and throw tantrums, as children are prone to do, and Isaac is certainly more familiar with acts of physical violence. In fact, there is not a day goes by when he doesn’t attempt to re-arrange my face in some manner, usually by trying to scratch my eyes out or ‘fish hook’ my mouth. However, he does at least have the common courtesy to shriek like a banshee before attacking, so you have some warning of the impending assault in which to try and defend yourself. Ollie, however, can allow his mood to deteriorate so quickly, and for the slightest of reasons, that it often takes you unawares.

Winner: Isaac

8: Emotional stability

No question of the winner here. Isaac cries, sure, but he’s a baby and his very purpose is to wail at everything. He doesn’t yet understand how to control his emotions. Ollie should understand, but if he does he bloody ignores it. He is, in short, an emotional rollercoaster of a child.

Winner: Isaac

9: Entertainment

Ollie claims this one. No offence to Isaac, but there is only so much fulfilment one can gain from a cute smile or a few nervous steps whilst holding on to furniture (just ask my wife every time I come home drunk), whereas at least you can interact properly with Ollie. He’s beginning to enjoy real films like Star Wars, has a decent taste in music, and will often come with me to the football (which was, in all honesty, the main reason I wanted children in the first place). So, while it’s not really Isaac’s fault, Ollie is the runaway winner here.

Winner: Ollie

10: Conversation

It follows, for obvious reasons, that Ollie wins this one too. You can have proper, adult conversations with Ollie, that defy his tender age (so long as you are happy to mostly discuss Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) and some of the phrases he comes out with are priceless at times.  I feel for Isaac, I really do, as he has lost some valuable points purely on account of his age, but this one is a no-brainer.

Winner: Ollie

Ok then, time for a count-up….

Oh. It’s a draw. Five points each.

We must be in the Behavioural Sweet Spot then – I best go make the most of it…


Little Bloggers

Those of you who may not have appreciated or enjoyed my recent football-related blog as much as earlier pieces, needn’t fear of a repeat, as I write this just days after County managed to lose 2-0 (and have two men sent off in the process) against a team I had to fucking Google last season to work out where in the country they were. That’s how far we’ve fallen and, having suffered this embarrassing defeat, County and I are not currently on speaking terms.

So, with that in mind, let’s introduce the kids.

I have two sons. Oliver (Ollie), who will be five in May, and Isaac (Zac, Zaccy, Zacbags, The Zacatron….), who will have his first birthday just three days earlier.

They often say that “good things come in threes”. Not kids. Not boys anyway. Two is plenty thanks, and we’re finished. Neither of my siblings have kids, so let them take some of the pressure for a change, we’ve done our bit.

Apart from the fact I wouldn’t want my good lady wife going through pregnancy and childbirth again, the logistics of having more than two children just don’t stack up, do they? Human beings have two hands. Just two. One to grab each of the little fuckers with. Then there’s the fact that there are two of us, so if we’re out somewhere, and they run in different directions, we can go after one each. Imagine having three children that all decided to spontaneously make a break for it. You’d have to choose your least favourite, and try to save the other two.

Admittedly, with Isaac not even crawling yet, catching him is relatively straight-forward – even for someone with my expanding waistline, dodgy knees and shortness of breath – but there will come a time when even these days of screaming and cursing will seem like a fond memory. God help us when both of them can run.

Ollie, you see, is too bright for his own good. Don’t get me wrong, I’m immensely proud of the fact that he is apparently reading at the age of a 7/8 year old, and his confidence at such a tender age is often dumfounding, but sometimes that intelligence can come back to haunt us. I’m sure lots of 4 year olds have their tantrums, for example, but how many would turn around during a telling off to yell “Don’t you bark your orders at me!”? How many would strike up a conversation with the old dear who works in the charity shop around the corner, to inform her that he “won a bet with Daddy the other night, and Daddy had to run around the house as a rudey-nudey because I won”? How many would refuse to leave the comfort of a potty for the big-boy toilet because, and I quote, “I guess I’m just not a toilet kinda guy”?

Often, because of his intelligence, and the fact you can have proper, grown-up conversations (and arguments) with him, we forget that he only started school in September, and he’s emotionally quite under-developed. Some of it may come down to tiredness, or frustration because he wants to do more than he is able, but he has a tendency to burst into tears at the drop of a hat. A recent example: I put milk on his cereal. Honestly, I’m such a cretin sometimes.

But, he’s a bright lad, and of that we can be proud. I’m sure, if he can just stop crying at the slightest things (I’m one to talk, Noel’s Christmas Presents gets me every year), he’ll go far in life:


Isaac, in contrast, whilst only 8 months old, is almost certainly going to be tougher, and will no doubt be beating the shit out of his elder sibling as soon as he takes his first steps. This may be down to the fact he had a tricky start in life, bless him, so he had to learn to fight from a very young age (and we’re talking days rather than weeks here) or, more likely, he’s possessed by some malevolent demon. Either way, we can tell even now that we’d better not cross him. He will remember, and he will destroy us. Even other parents have likened him to Stewie Griffin (which, I am aware, is my second Family Guy reference in just 4 blogs, sorry).

I don’t know whether it’s the evil glint in his eye, shortly before he tries to violently rip my bottom lip off, or perhaps it’s the wild banshee-like scream he emits during and after his assault, but I do fear that, one day, we might end up having a home-visit from the priest who recently baptised him (Tubular bells playing somewhere in the distance, and green vomit everywhere).

Despite this, he has the best smile in the world and, as we all know, cute beats evil (like some kind of behavioural rock/paper/scissors). Don’t believe me? Look at this:


How can you stay mad at that face?

(he said, shortly before his body was discovered by a passing dog-walker)