The Bane of Bairns

I hate children, all children from new borns to those on the cusp of adulthood; I don’t discriminate and happily include strangers, acquaintances and family members. I know, not a popular opinion. I should add that I don’t actively wish them harm, but the fact remains that children irritate me and as such I am looking to impose a UN sanctioned no juveniles zone. The actual mechanics of the zone have yet to be thrashed out but I’m doing pretty well so far in policing my own informal arrangement. I’m just hoping Ban Ki-moon will sanction some clips round the ear to complement my glaring.

I’ve never been interested in my own or anyone else’s progeny; as a young adult I never foresaw my family lineage doing anything other than halting with me. I didn’t ever imagine myself as someone’s dad, nurturing, teaching, helping a child grow into a functioning adult and then sitting back with pride at the not inconsiderable achievements of my loins and mind. No thank you. I know that it seems the most natural thing in the world to many but nature and I are at odds on this one. I’m not quite sure where this antipathy originated and there was a time when I assumed that maybe I just wasn’t ready and nature would give me a nudge when appropriate to take care of business.

I’m now at an age where the general expectation is that you should be having or already have had children, if not there must be some physiological problem precluding breeding in which case you merit great sympathy. Most of my friends now have children and insist on telling me all about them, sometimes sending me pictures of them and frequently posting photos on Facebook accompanied by hackneyed ‘sleeping’, ‘crawling’, ‘first steps’ statements. I assume that I’m being afforded great sympathy by them for my failure to procreate, the tacit ‘trouble’ I must be having; if they knew of my dislike and disinterest in children they surely wouldn’t insist on keeping me abreast of the minutiae of their spawn’s ‘progress’ and would come to rightly regard me as the selfish and shallow individual I am; qualities which I am perfectly comfortable with.

The sound of children elicits the same response in me as nails scraped down a blackboard. I bristle in the presence of them in much the same way that other people become tense and uncomfortable at the presence of a smoker or a hooded teen; preferable company in my opinion. I scan the area and plot exit stratagies like one of Andy McNabb’s fictitious heroes. I know that they can’t hurt me, not physically, but they can ruin my day.

I recently visited a bar with my father, an establishment we had enjoyed on many occasions previously. By pure good luck we obviously hadn’t had the misfortune of visiting on a Friday afternoon before. This particular bar is opposite a prep school where the aspiring middle classes part with their hard inherited cash in order that their offspring receive the best of starts. A laudable idea. A little after three thirty the formerly peaceful idyll was transformed by the arrival of squadrons of Ritalin starved apes ‘overseen’ by a small team of moneyed, negligent, clothes horses. It was dreadful, I hated it, my father hated it and the staff clearly hated it. The clothes horses seemed unaware of the chaos and clearly didn’t think that they ought to play any part in the disciplining of their children. Dad and I glowered into our swiftly consumed pints and the staff offered the sagely advice of avoiding Friday afternoons in future.

Children in pubs, this is one of my biggest bugbears, pubs are adult environments, for adults. I don’t ruin it for them by making the playground unwelcoming; the pub is my playground and they are effectively breaking the slide and smashing the swings when they enter a pub. How can I enjoy the sticky carpet, the company of the unhinged and the extortion in a child-friendly pub?

I know my stance will horrify and offend some, thankfully those known to me will be too busy with their offspring to read that I watch You’ve Been Framed purely to see children falling over and hurting themselves, it’s my rather benign revenge.

Tim Mac

The Fat Of The Land

The Fat Of The Land

Like many people I could lose a pound or two with little difficulty and look and feel better for doing so. Unlike many people, I am aware of this.

Now, I’m not an old man far from it, at thirty nine I may have passed the tipping point of my prime but I can still remember the great days of the early nineties when going on holiday meant sharing beaches with fine looking people; the Mediterranean coasts were literally awash with good looks and glamour, a perception admittedly assisted by alcohol but a fair reflection all the same. However, not enough booze exists to make many of today's Brits abroad look palatable. At holiday resorts frequented by the British the appearance of David Attenborough and a camera crew is half expected as you would be forgiven for thinking that you’d arrived at a seal colony given the abundance of blubber.  

We live in strange times when the majority of people sporting sports attire are those least likely to engage in anything that would even raise the heart rate of those of us able to see our feet and reach our genitals. They don’t look sporty just as I don’t look like a nineteenth century gold prospector when I pull on a pair of jeans.

The men generally opt for a trip to Sports Direct to pick up a few 4XL t-shirts and jogging bottoms. The women tend to adhere strictly to a different dress code that allows them free rein as regards their torso but mandates leggings on the bottom. Leggings, however comfortable, are rarely flattering, especially on the fuller figured wearer. White ones forgive nothing whilst black ones create a sort of giant black pudding illusion.

A friend recently started internet dating, he was seduced by the myth that it is normal (it isn’t) and being new to the whole thing wasn’t really up to speed with the jargon and various acronyms used on such sites. Thinking that a broad cast of his net would yield better results, he had to endure a number of dates trying to disguise his disappointment with his hulking fellow diner before he realised that BBW apparently stands for big beautiful woman; he felt MOPS would have been rather more appropriate - morbidly obese panting slug. Things didn’t improve a great deal when he got the hang of things and decided to refine his criterion. Average sized and even slim were the next lies being purported in the cyber love search. When did corpulent become average or slim? The problem is that many people who are indeed overweight seem to think that because they are part of a sizable and growing (in every sense) minority, their size is in fact normal and rather than being mocked for their porcine gluttony they should be considered perfectly acceptable specimens.

I enjoy eating, its a pleasant thing to do. What I don’t understand is comfort eating. I suppose that I must derive some sort of comfort from eating but only the comfort of no longer being hungry having emptied my calorie bank. As a rational, pragmatic individual I tend to look for solutions to any problems I may have rather than ways to compound them. Post-war Britain was a pretty miserable, austere place, did everyone comfort eat? 70s Britain saw massive inflation, the three day week, the winter of discontent, did our bulldog spirit lead us to chow? Thatcher dismantled the remnants of British industry, did we mewl into our microwave meals? See where I’m going? You’re a fat rotter, it understandably upsets you. Solution, eat more. Give me strength!

I’m not a body fascist (whatever that means), I don’t expect everyone to walk around taut and sinewy at their optimum fighting weight, I just want to see people with the general contours of people rather than sea mammals. Glandular problems, big bones? Nonsense. If glands were the problem more money would be pouring into glandular research than for both cancer and the common cold combined. It isn’t. Bones are hard, fat people are soft, I don’t think bones are the cause of their problems other than forming a scaffold from which to hang fat.

What happened to necks and waists? I’m struggling to recall when I last saw either, before too long I expect them be consigned to the history books, listed alongside dodos, mammoths and sabre toothed tigers but with more photographic evidence. We’ll become wistful and yearn for yesteryear when elders were respected, you could leave your doors unlocked and people boasted necks and waists and often both, great days.

What of the future? All of our signs would have to be modified as the stick figures currently used to denote human beings would no longer be a recognisable representation of the human form; fat folks would be in mortal peril, unable to heed that the warnings from unrecognisable signage.

I recently saw a guy on TV complaining that he had been refused a gastric band on the grounds that he wasn’t fat enough. Surely any right minded individual would breathe a sigh of relief at discovering that, whilst overweight, they weren’t actually morbidly obese and their very existence wasn’t threatened. Not this chap, he decided that the only solution to his problem was to gorge himself Henry VIII style until such time that he was considered fat enough to merit weight loss surgery. He’d managed to work out that eating more made him fatter but was unable to comprehend how cutting down would have the reverse effect.

Eat less and move more, it’s a simple equation which seems to befuddle our rotund friends. How about this one then? Substitute calories for pounds; if £4000 was deposited in your bank account each day and you only withdrew £2000 would you expect your balance to go up or down? If you can work it out you can lose weight, if you can’t happy heart attack.

Mal B

Late Night On The www.

Buy now $18.98
Buy now $23.25 - Free Shipping.
Like new, no bids, starting bid $5s....
Decisions, decisions...
Let's just have a quick look.
TYPES IN - Shimano 105 Compact Groupset.
$639. $40s Shipping.
Hmm, that's still too expensive. What have I left in Paypal? $247s. Ok, I bought those new Contis, good price, hope they're genuine, guy only had 9 Feedbacks.


"Are you coming to bed?"
"Two minutes, yeah."
"Are you on eBay again?"
"No. I'm looking at porn."
"Thank God for that."

JL

ON A MISSION

Time was getting on Col thought to himself, he’d have to make a move soon or it would be too late. The weather had steadily gotten more and more inclement throughout the day but if he didn’t attempt the trip soon he would have no chance. Zipping his parka up so only his eyes were visible and pulling his beanie over his ears before pulling the hood as tight around his shaven head as he could ,he mumbled to himself ‘well, Colin, it’s now or never’. He looked down to his feet and as usual he noticed he  was ill prepared for the task ahead, but with the weather seeming to get worse by the minute he realised that if he didn’t act decisively now then any chance he may have had would be gone. Slowly he set off, his middle age frame more reminiscent of a frail old eighty year as he had to stoop into the piercing, frozen gale that was blowing snowflakes the size of 50 pence pieces into his exposed eyes and covering the fur of his parka hood, weighing it down so it drooped in front of his increasingly frozen face. The snow had definitely reached blizzard proportions and was settling like a thick shag pile carpet under his feet which incidentally felt like they were turning into frozen blocks of ice. Even though the night was pitch the fresh fallen snow created that odd sensation which made it look more like twilight when he looked at the ground. If Col looked behind him he would see that his footprints were disappearing almost as quickly as he was making them. With a steely determination though he fought through the worsening storm, keeping his spirits up by thinking he might actually make it. With head bowed and a about a mile clocked up on the trek he could just make out a twinkling light which gave the adventurer a lift. He smiled to himself even though he was frozen to the bone. As the light shone a little brighter through the worsening onslaught of snow, he allowed himself to believe he was actually going to make it. Closer and closer, the light beckoning him like a siren to a sailor, Col trudged on, until finally he reached his destination and the familiar vision in front of him came as such a relief that he fair pushed the door off its hinges before he shouted ‘The usual please Hayley, and a bag of scratching whilst you’re at it!’

Colin

How Not To Rob A Bank

First thing’s first, we’re not hardened career criminals. Just four blokes who needed a cash boost. Tommy, Johnno, Bernie and me had been mates since we met on the bricklaying course . I was fresh from failing my A-levels (in the days when they were bloody hard), Tommy and Johnno were the same, but Scottish. Bernie was actually planning his career in the building trade – he had a business to take over eventually.

It was this business that put us in our current predicament. True enough, Bernie had inherited his dad’s business after he died, only to have absolutely no business brain. This meant the company quickly went downhill. It was on the verge of going bust when Tommy had the plan. “We can rob a bank,” he said in his thick Glaswegian accent. “I saw it done a few times when I were a kid.”

“That’s all well and good” I responded. “But how in God’s name do you suggest we get away with it?!”

So Tommy told us. First thing, you get yourself a good mask, to cover your face. Secondly, you get something scary to wave about – doesn’t have to be guns, or even real guns. Third, a reliable getaway driver in a non-descript car. Finally, you’ll need a good hideaway and trustworthy connections.

So, we got our masks. Mine was a good ski mask, two eyes and a mouth. Real menacing.  The others had similar ideas – they got exactly the same mask as me. Tommy used his slightly dodgy connections to lay his hands on a couple of fake pistols. I got my baseball bat from in the loft and knocked a few nails into it. Bernie brought his dad’s old hunting knife. Johnno got us a getaway driver. More of that later. Finally, Bernie borrowed the keys to his dad’s canal boat – he thought it would be a great idea to mix lying low with a boating trip!

We were dropped off outside the bank, and in we ran, shouting and waving our weapons about. The cashier starting filling the bags, and it was going smoothly until Johnno sneezed, and Bernie, forgetting himself, said – out loud the stupid bastard – “bless you, Johnno.”

Tommy was distracted from waving his toy gun at the manager, and cursed him. “Bernie you tit, what did we say about not using names!” This was all the manager needed, and ‘BAM’ the alarm was triggered. We legged it outside to where the car should have been. Only for the car not to be there.

Never use a taxi as a getaway car!

Jonathan M

Shoe Club Monthly.

I guess you could call it a fetish for slingbacks. Must be, as I become aroused just typing the word. It's difficult to say when it started but I think it was probably in middle age. From what I've read it's not uncommon to develop this type of fixation later in life. Mules I would say come a close second, but there is just something so sensual about a slingback. The way they show off the heel of the foot but that strap providing restraint that seems to suggest 'bondage? why not...' Of course the foot is the thing really. A peep toe with a nice pedicure and one of the naughtier shades of red on the nails seals the deal. Any hard or yellow skin showing though is a turn off. But that's all about care and attention to detail. I've seen sixty year olds who are better turned out than most teenagers. I try not to be too leery or obvious in public but sometimes it's overpowering. I've followed someone around a grocery because I couldn't take my eyes off their splendorous footwear. Mostly I fill my craving off the internet. Not the specialist sites so much as regular online shoe shops. Porn's OK but I can just as easily get off on the Shoe Club monthly mailing. I don't see any harm in it to be honest and It's filled a hole in my life since I've been single again. Anyway, it's not as if I can do much about it. Maybe I wouldn't be this way if I'd worn them myself.

Buzz K

Spit on her hand and make it shake.
Count on her fingers the number of days, weeks, months he’s been gone.
Dig up the glass from the garden and place it by your bed.
Watch the steel cool.
It doesn’t need to be true, I repeat.
And let the inventions lather under my scalp.
Under my tongue and nails.

 

Yawn so big your jaw can cradle the moon.
Swallow it whole and let its lavender glow fill your throat.
Stretch so far into the universe you can reach your heels.
Watch the meal cool.
It doesn’t need to be true, I repeat.
And let the serpent fidget inside my chest.
In and out of my knees and knuckles.

Place your feet in the wagon.
Count how many shoulders are gradually favoring the trees.
Stop looking for an electrical connection and lick your fingers.
Watch the moon cool.
It doesn’t need to be true, I repeat.
And let the red wheels carry my back.
Away from my nerves and hips.

Sam

Your Best Mate

Your best mate’s fucking awesome isn’t he? I can’t talk from a woman’s perspective. Maybe the female version’s just as good? Who knows, besides women, obviously? And any modern man who has a best mate who’s a bird can fuck right off. I went shoplifting with my best mate not shopping.
A best mate then. Someone who’s always there for you. Offers advice, Helps you when you’re in a jam. And in a pinch, a shoulder to cry on when the world turns against you. Not a fucking chance. A best mate kicks you when you’re down, slags you off at every opportunity. Borrows a few quid and never pays back. Goes out for a few shandies when you’re broke and phones you up to let you know what a great time you’re missing. You might even sling punches at each other from time to time and that’s alright because guess what? You’re best fucking mates. And that’s what best mates do.
My best mate, he knew I wasn’t a great runner. His party piece when we were young, go in a shop, blatantly steal something, say a Lacoste sweater from Austin Reades, it’s not important, attract the attentions of the security geezer and shop assistants, the more the merrier, then make for the door. Yeah, my best mate ran cross country for the city boys. I played rugby for the school. Badly but my dad had a car and was free on Saturday mornings. There’s another best mate. Your dad. On rugby, ’You’re not as bad as I thought you’d be.’ Bless him. Wouldn’t want it any other way.
Your best mate leaves you sleeping on a bench on the front at Blackpool, with your laces tied together and a cup of cold tea balanced on your chest. He gets in arguments with bouncers and neglects to give you a heads up on the situation. Consequently, it’s a great mystery to you why you’re getting wailed on and ejected from the bar. Your best mate gives you a tip on a long shot that’s a long shot for good reason. Then laughs as you stare at the telly in the bookies wondering why all the other nags have finished running but yours is still out there. Somewhere.  He'll take a run at a bird you fancy when you’re not around. Just to piss you off. But should you have a steady girlfriend, she’s off limits. Though he’ll imply differently. And that’s what’s fucking great about your best mate. He has standards. They’re as low as yours, invariably but he has standards none the less.
In short, yer best mate’s a laugh. Makes life fun. If he’s not get another one.

Silly Bastards

The first thing I saw when I looked around after finishing my final CSE in 1986, was Carl Degnan trying to draw a pair of glasses on his face with a Biro. The second thing was two lads having a ruler fight the lad in front defending himself by randomly waving his ruler around behind his head without looking, his other hand frantically trying to finish the exam.

 Most of these lads I've lost touch with. I saw Carl D last in 1989, he'd started a bus driving YTS. Good going for a lad who'd been banned from driving as 15 year old after he swiped his dad's mk3 Cortina and piled it on Brierley Common.

One of the ruler lads now lives in Australia, and regularly voices dubious opinions on Facebook, all in block cap Barnsley dialect. He broke another lad's collar bone by sneaking up behind him, shouting WOMBAT! then jumping on his back.
His speciality though was making you laugh hysterically at the most inappropriate moments.

We all went to a funeral of a schoolmate in the early 90s. All very sad as the lad had been very popular, had a unbeatable dry humour and was only disliked by the jealous. He died in his house in a completely avoidable drunk chip pan fire incident. A tragedy.

At the funeral, a completely off the mark selection of the lad's 'favourite' music had been played, one particular track was some horrible soft rock bollocks that went on forever and had been really badly taped. 'Wombat' had been dropping 'funnies' throughout the service that we had managed to ignore, and he was getting desperate for a reaction.

"What's this, the fucking 12 inch extended remix?" He whispered. Skip (nicknamed after his dad, who in turn was nicknamed after his dad, who was on the last boat out if Dunkirk, called Skipper), one of our closest friends who had grown up as a next door neighbour of the deceased, burst into hysterics that he had to quickly disguise as a massive bout of deep and uncontrollable grief. We quickly led him out of the service and tried our best not to be heard in the tiny church as we almost joined the residents of the graveyard, trying to catch our breath between bouts of tearful, violent laughter.

Ironically Wombat is now a fireman, noted for his bravery and dedication, the daft twat.

This story is for you Hilly, miss you mate. : ,(

Ken B

Royally Stitched Up

As the news came out that the Queen was on her deathbed, the country descended into outright chaos. The Prime Minister appeared on television to appeal for calm and understanding in this emotional time, but nothing could change the situation – both Prince Charles and Prince William were missing – the two direct heirs to the throne could not be found. Anywhere. All the international crime agencies were on the case – the CIA, FBI, MI5, Interpol, the KGB, even the Ku Klux Klan.

The Armed Forces abandoned their missions and returned home to conduct house to house searches looking for any clue as to their whereabouts. Prince Harry was placed under the tightest of security as he and Prince Phillip kept a bedside vigil in Buckingham Palace as the Queen slowly faded. Both Camilla and Kate were taken to a secret location for their own safety, as nobody had a clue who was responsible for this audacious attempt.

Parliament debated long into the night, trying to decide what to do. Some wanted to keep the throne vacant until such time as Charles and William could be found, or Charles or William. Then there was the faction that demanded Prince Harry should take his place. Not surprisingly, the Republican sympathisers kept their heads down and their mouths shut for fear of reprisals. Ultimately, after a hotly disputed vote, it was agreed that Prince Harry was to ascend to the throne once the Queen had passed away. A convoy of armour plated limousines conveyed the Prime Minister, Chancellor of the Exchequer and the leaders of the opposition from Westminster to Buckingham Palace, and in a private audience, they informed Prince Harry of their democratic decision. Harry bowed his head and fought back the tears, but regained his composure and thanked the politicians. Arrangements were made for a television address by Harry when the time came.

Harry retreated back into the sanctum of the Queen’s bedroom to be with his Grandmother in her final moments. Silence reigned for about ten minutes, before both Phillip and Harry came out, tear stained and distraught. Harry rushed out of the palace and into a waiting car, speeding away to the consternation of all.

As news of the Queen’s death spread, the television address was all ready to go. The only thing missing was the new King, Harry.

He did eventually arrive and prepared himself for the address. He stood in front of the camera.

“On this most emotional day, I would like to announce the greatest April Fool’s Joke ever.” And through the door and in to shot came the rest of the Royal Family, including the Queen, waving and smiling.

Jonathan M