Noblog Laureate

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‘IF’ by Rudyard Kipling

ft. The Middle-Raged Dad (and probably Justin Bieber)

(2019 Remix)

 

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing their shit and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when everyone else tells you it’s chocolate, but you know better,

But make allowance for their doubting, and give it a quick sniff anyway;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, even though you’re really fucking tired all the time,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, unless it’s that one about Father Christmas, or the Tooth Fairy, because those are good lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, even when Isaac is being a cock again,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise. Because, let’s face it, you DON’T look good these days, and you haven’t made sense in weeks:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master, it means you’ve had more than two hours consecutive sleep, which is a win,

If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim – when you are not sat on the toilet,

If you can answer your wife, when she asks ‘what are you doing in the kitchen?’, with the reply ‘marinating my chicken’, yet still not snigger like a child,

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster (or Ollie and Isaac, as you prefer to call them),

And treat those two impostors just the same (except you don’t, because at any given time you have a favourite);

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken (because she’s bound to repeat it when you least expect it)

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, or a den for the kids,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken – like the house, the car, your left foot on that fucking piece of lego….

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools (assuming you can even find your tools, because the tool box went missing months ago, and the last time you needed to put a picture up you had to use a shoe as a hammer):

If you can make one heap of all your winnings (or, if not, a giant mountain of laundry),

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, rock-paper-scissors, or even ‘pull my finger’,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings (or at least pre-children),

And never breathe a word about your loss, because other parents may judge you;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew, and occasionally your right hip if it will only stop clicking for five fucking minutes,

To serve your turn long after they are gone to school,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you (because the kids ate the last of the cereal),

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

But they ignore you and do it anyway.

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, or at least master sleeping with your eyes open

‘Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, but a swift kick to the trouser-clams makes you want to vomit and cry at the same time,

If all men count with you, but none too much, because they too are fathers and have their own shit to deal with;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, because sixty seconds is all you can manage these days (and we’re not just talking about running anymore, are we?);

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And – which is more – you’ll be a Middle-Raged Dad, my son!

Thanks for reading x

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My Blogcentennial

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A little over four years ago

I sat in my office and stared at the snow

Looked down at my files, and, feeling forlorn

I started to write, and this blog was born

 

I work as a lawyer, as most of you know

But wish that I didn’t, it’s got me quite low

So, thinking about my one true passion

A weekly blog, I started to fashion

 

In truth, at first, looking back with reflection

My writing was random, no sense of direction

Part autobiography, part family tree

I focused on the stuff that was personal to me

 

I decided to call my blog ‘Sandbach Chatter’

But I wrote about things which don’t really matter

And soon I realised the more favoured releases

Were about our boys, and the ‘ranting’ style pieces

 

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So, with public opinion suitably gauged

I realised I was becoming more middle-raged

I changed to ‘Confessions of a Middle-Raged Dad’

Which turned out to be the best idea I’ve had

 

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The rather dry posts about my childhood days

The films that I like, computer games played

Were increasingly swapped for harsh diatribe

As that seemed to get more folks to subscribe

 

I gathered more followers, and after a while

Developed my own unique writing style

At first apprehensive, and a little bit wary

I grew in confidence and got rather sweary

 

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And even though I have no fame or money

I love writing about what I find funny

The only thing better is when you guys laugh too

For that I’m eternally grateful to you.

 

There’s been rants about cars (especially Ford)

Elton John’s lyrics and flying abroad

Building a Wendy house, getting stuck in Ikea

(I barely survived, it’s my one greatest fear)

 

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The beach, the weather, nursery rhymes

The show ‘Take Me Out’, social media crimes

World domination – I set out my plan

While explaining I’m hardly the manliest man

 

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A flight to Norwich, a UK road trip

I then started running and fucked up my hip

I visited my local osteopath

But she said I was ‘stiff’ and I started to laugh

 

I’ve played rounders with work, badminton with some friends

Spent hours at ‘soft play’ on countless weekends

The lands of CBeebies, that bitch Peppa Pig

And then Euro Disney (it’s so fucking big)

 

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A trip to the dentist, an awkward position

That time I collapsed when I saw my optician

I’m not much a swimmer, and can’t really dance

I pass out quite a bit, I’m no good at romance

 

Speaking of which, gave ‘Love Island’ a try

But within fifteen minutes was left asking why?

The phrases on Love Hearts, they’re just as bad

‘Cwtch Me’, in particular, got me quite mad

 

I discussed Valentine’s, and displays of affection

Then mocked the US Presidential Election

I gave the Super Bowl a genuine go

But fell asleep before the big half-time show

 

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I tried public speaking, and astrology

I re-wrote the Christmas nativity

I’ve admitted my fondness for Eurovision

And my hatred of Hastings after last year’s collision

 

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A weekend entertaining Ollie’s class bear

(his name’s also Isaac, but he has shorter hair)

And speaking of which, I have to admit

I’m jealous of Isaac not giving a shit

 

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People laugh at his hair, they think he’s a she

But I’d give my left arm to be half as pretty

When he started school, I had a good laugh

Though the blog which I wrote got passed ‘round the staff

 

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A caravan holiday, camping at school

Misplacing my balls in a cold outdoor pool

A ferry to Ireland, to see an old friend

His surprise birthday party was fun to attend

 

Ollie’s visit to Barca a resounding success, he

toured round the Camp Nou and got to see Messi

While back here in England, wind started to blow

Roads ground to a halt with a dusting of snow

 

I re-wrote the two-year development checks

And a poem for Ollie when he asked about sex

A new royal baby, press camped on the roof

Kate Middleton pushing a prince out her foof

 

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I tried to diet, when I noticed weight gain

Compared my ideas to the ‘sperm in my brain’

I’ve criticised Barclays, slagged off Facebook

Become the tooth fairy (that was a good look)

 

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I tried single-parenting when my wife went away

She left Monday morning, I gave up by Tuesday

Isaac’s first disco, our boys got girlfriends

Had a row at a quiz with a team of bellends

 

Compared all my clients to the Mr. Men

Had the same work appraisal again and again

Had a fight with a moth, criticised Halloween

Got chased by a Volvo like a James Bond chase scene

 

I’ve visited BrewDog to sample some beer

Ran ten 10k races in the space of a year

Collapsed at Whitchurch and as my reward

Was rushed to hospital, spent the night on a ward

 

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My ‘team’ of old men really gave me a fright

When I didn’t think they would all last through the night

I’ve given up chocolate, I’ve started to cook

Explained why I swear (but I don’t give a fuck)

 

That’s why I love writing, the freedom I have

To post what I want, and make people laugh

If you all stopped reading, I think I’d still write

But I’d have much less fun and it wouldn’t feel right

 

So, thanks for the likes, the comments and shares

It gives me a tingle in the fella downstairs

Another two hundred though? Well, we shall see

For now, I’ll just wish Happy Blogday to me!

 

Thanks for reading – cheers x

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Don’t Let The Bed Blogs Bite

I lie there in waiting

Alert on your stairs

A vast black body

Antennae with hairs

To the naked eye

I may well be dead

But I’m patiently sat

‘Til it’s your time for bed

Then as you approach

And squint in the light

I’ll flutter one wing

To give you a fright

Then I’m still once again

Like a miniature bat

As you lean in to look

“What the fuck is that?”

A creature of darkness

An insect-shaped goth

A prince of the night time

I’m the world’s biggest moth

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I patiently wait

While you search for a book

Take your best shot, pal

I don’t give a fuck

You think you’ve surprised me

Caught me unawares

As the book crashes down

There’s a smudge on the stairs

I lay flat and look squashed

It’s part of my game

While you get a tissue

To gather my frame

You carry me off

Throw my ‘corpse’ in the bin

But as I land in your trash

I stifle a grin

As the lid closes down

I crawl, like a sloth

To wait for my moment

I’m the world’s biggest moth

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The very next day

The bin opens once more

You’ve forgotten me now

Think your house is secure

With that first crack of light

I dart through the space

And the next thing you know

I’m there IN YOUR FACE

I flutter; you splutter

You shout, yelp and swear

Your mind wanders back

To that stain on the stair

You thought I was dead

You fell for my trick

Now you’re waving your arms

And you look like a dick

You grab for a weapon

Locate a dishcloth

But when you turn back I’ve gone

I’m the world’s biggest moth

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I flew near the window

Of that you are certain

But where am I now?

Is that me on the curtain?

I’m the master of stealth

The king of disguise

My huge body vanished

In front of your eyes.

I smile to myself

As you strike what you think

Is me near the window

While I’m sat by the sink

You swing, and you swear

Then you sigh and give up

As I skip cross your bowl

Wipe my arse on your cup

My gigantic frame

Like a winged behemoth

I don’t give a shit

I’m the world’s biggest moth

You head to the lounge

Plunge the room into dark

While I busy myself

By leaving my mark

It’s fun flying round

But my ultimate goal

Is to scare you again

Near the washing up bowl

I rest on the edge

Give myself time to think

But then lose my footing

And fall in the sink

I flap, start to panic

Must escape, but then…. Fuck

I’m too far from the side

I can’t swim, and I’m stuck

I’m trapped in the water

Surrounded by froth

Could this be the end

Of the world’s biggest moth?

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When you wake the next morning

And go to your sink

To fill up the kettle

And make your first drink

Your tired eyes glance down

Can’t believe what they see

In among all the bubbles

That right pal, it’s me.

The master of evasion

Has finally been found

Because I got over cocky

And ended up drowned

So, as you scoop me out

Dump me back in the bin

That’s it: ‘Game Over’

I lose and you win

The dinosaurs, the dodo

The woolly mammoth

I too am no more

The world’s biggest moth

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Alone in the darkness

My last resting place

Never again

Will I fly at your face…

… but as the bin closed

Did you see my wing twitch?

I was really dead, right?

 

Sleep well, bitch.

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