Dirty Pretty Things

The anticipation of this blog entry has the same intensity as that experienced by the fellows stood at the bottom of Mount Sinai when Moses was on his 9th commandment. I do apologise for this but I was on holiday and as my life now does not follow normal guidelines, I actually have more time to write at work.

The holiday itself was a game of two halves. The first week saw us visit 3 separate hospitals over 5 days, whilst the 2nd took us down to Southampton.

Dylan has had his Hernia operation and the patient is now fine with all bits put back in the right place. He is now sporting a small scratch on his waist, that I may pretend is the mark that the aliens left when they were inserting something alieny.

Also, Sophie, can now only count to ten, a high five rather than a high six. Now when the angry mob come round our way looking for witches we won’t have to hide her in Claire’s handbag. The finger has been removed. The digit has been amputated. Unfortunately, it does mean that she has probably lost a couple of ounces because of it but we couldn’t really have kept it on just for the weight statistics.

The weather has obviously been appalling all over the country, and so the rain in Southampton now echoes my constant moan about the rain in Manchester. In fact, Manchester has been one of the driest places in the country in the last month. The week in Southampton was tarnished by the fact that we could not really enjoy any decent day trips because it was so cold and wet. But like the one legged man that painted himself pink to gain work as a flamingo said, “you have to make the best out of a situation”, still, I am glad that we are back home

I ended my vacation by attending the Arctic Monkeys gig at Old Trafford. We had been forewarned of the incredibly long beer queues so did not rush there to see any of the support acts. The Coral and Supergrass are disappointing warm up bands on the best of days and so there was no chance I was going to spend 6 hours in the place.

However, when we did turn up it was as if we had been transported into a war torn country where the vista more resembled a scene from Mad Max. We had to queue for over an hour to get to the bar, and they didn’t have any pork scratchings even then. And if that is not inhumane enough, I was then faced with one of the most harrowing images that my eyes have ever suffered. Now, I have been to many festivals and consider myself to be quite experienced in gig behaviour, but the toilet situation was out of control.

As is often the case in this type of event there was an area solely dedicated to the extraction of waste. As is also the case normally this area tends not to be big enough for the number of people there. But instead of an orderly waiting system, there was nothing of the sort enforced. Let me describe the situation. Picture a square of ten Portaloos per side, then also imagine a set of urinals in the middle of the square, possibly 16, all facing each other in two rows. All of the space around the urinals was filled up with people, both men and women (even though this was the Gents) all drunk and desperate to offload the last pint of watered down lager.

I managed to squeeze my way through the crowds and get to one of the urinal spaces. These came up to your waist so you were effectively standing in the middle of a crowd, for all the obstruction they were giving. So with boys and girls stood all around me I proceeded to alleviate the pressure that had built up inside. It was not an enjoyable moment but then things were to get a country mile worse. I looked up, being careful not to look anyone in the eyes opposite me who were also going through this living hell, I spotted a female stood up at the urinals with a slight recline. To describe the disgust that was etched on to the faces of those that witnessed it would be impossible to do, but I am sure as you are reading this you will have the same look on your own.

I walked out of the dirty courtyard, shaking my head, to see more girls just squatting in the middle of the concourse type area with friends holding blankets up to hide their shame. There were men acting in a similar way but that is not so shocking, we have come to expect that. As I returned to my group I had the unenviable task of reliving it through anecdotal form to their horrified faces. I do not like to be the purveyor of nasty images but I felt that it was my role as a social commentator to enlighten these friends of mine with the exact details, as to ensure that they would not make the same mistake as me.

Where is England?

Once a proud nation that stood behind its history and traditions, has now hidden them so far beneath a superficial cover of commercial nonsense that it is in real danger of losing the character that made it what it was.

In a time before the Internet, the mobile phone and even before you could fly, England stood proudly at the centre of the developing world. We developed Australia and America, and built an Empire. London was the richest city in the world, Manchester was the centre of the world textiles industry. The centre of the industrial revolution was here in blighty. For centuries we concentrated on making vast amounts of wealth, and selling our brand all across the world.

In a way, the English brand is still sold around the world. 90% of influential popular music from the last 50 years has originated in England. The Royal Family is still as popular today as they have always been, on foreign shores.

But, England is not a country, it is a State Sovereignship. The country is called The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Out of all of those other countries included, England are the only country not to have their own Parliament. It is the only country that doesn’t have a proud National Day. If you asked people what an Englishman stereotype was, most would reply “a football hooligan”.

Most English people abroad are an embarrassment to themselves, and are usually the most noticeable, the most disrespectful and the most ignorant. But this isn’t a surprise considering the state of our country at the moment. If you go out anywhere on a weekend night then you would be witness to binge drinking, fighting, drug taking and general chaos. This isn’t far removed from the Medieval days.

The brand that we now have to sell, is a one that we should be trying to hide.

The character of traditional Englishness is so hard to find. The eccentric chap who harmlessly bumbles through life, the old lady in the Tea Shop, the Village Fete, and the “never say die” attitude. All of this is still there, somewhere, and often turns up in the next Hugh Grant film. But instead of this being a fair portrayal of English life, it is no more than a look through our “The Way it used to be Glasses” and a re-enactment of simpler days.

Society has now replaced this with a short term, high impact, and convenient way of life. Nothing is real anymore. Everything is there to fulfil a temporary desire and when that has been spent we move on to the next want. The American cultural influence has changed the view of England beyond all recognition. Convenience has replaced Character, and with that change in the behaviour of the population we are now faced with a catalogue of issues.

Respect for others has now been lost because it is easier to look after yourself and achieve your personal goals regardless of other people. Obesity is now an issue because it is easier to warm up food that is not nutritional rather than cook fresh food that takes slightly more effort. Children are becoming more and more violent and lawless than ever before, because they have been getting away with it for so long. People aren’t going to cross the road to prevent something happening when it is easier to put your head down and ignore it, “it isn’t part of my world!”

Well the fact is that it is part of our world. By avoiding the reality of everyday life, and being swept along by the people that are making money from us, we are losing all of the attributes that made England proud.

The topical issue in the press at the moment is the out-of-control immigration policy, and how the country is over run by different cultures. Why is this bad? It doesn’t affect my day-to-day life or anyone I know. I have more issues with 50th generation Englishman that can’t be bothered to work, and sponge off the Government, waiting to trade excuses for handouts.

England used to be about self-respect, and respect for the community. This has now declined into a self-centred, apathetic society that will continue to get progressively worse while times are financially better than ever before, and also safer than ever before. No one cares because no one is affected. Ignorance acts as a large rock that you can hide behind, and as long as nothing gets over the top then you can carry on regardless.

So, again I ask, “Where is England?” The answer is that it is floating off over the Atlantic to become the next American State, where all of the issues that I have just described are rife. It won’t be long before we are shooting each other, or getting winched out of windows because we are 80 stone, making excuses that it wasn’t our fault but someone else’s.

Sponge Bob

It was on the way home from work on Friday evening that it all began. There was a light rain in the air and it was gently covering everything in sight with a fine mist. Although the weekend was beckoning, our hero had the face of a warrior returning to battle. He had been away from home for ten hours and had grown accustomed to the quiet, and relative peace, of an open plan office. The telephone rang and on the other end was his wife sounding surprisingly happy.

I received the news that an offer had been made on our house of 10 grand under the asking price, but at least there was interest. So now we had an offer accepted on a house in Marple, and it looked like we were going to be able to pay for it with something. So we were quite happy on Friday night, trying not to get too carried away due to the wisdom that Claire has gained from Estate Agenting for 3 years.

Throughout the weekend we then discussed possible negotiation strategies and inevitable counter strategies. We were like tycoons planning our next venture.

Today, however, our hopes have been dashed by the offer being withdrawn. Apparently the prospective couple have issues with the ease of parking that the house offers. This has not changed since the offer on Friday, so perhaps there car collection has. Either way, we our in the same position that we were in on Friday morning, now we will have to wait for the next sun to rise over the horizon.

Health Check

Sophie was taken to an emergency doctor on Saturday evening because her hand had become inflamed and looked very sore indeed. It does have an infection, and antibiotics have been given to remedy it.

As we were leaving the doctors though, a most surreal event happened. We turned a corner and there in front of our very eyes was a 7 ft Square Bob Sponge Pants urinating in a bush. It took me a moment to fathom the situation, and as I finally came to my conclusions, he pushed off from the small wall, that was holding the bush, and staggered off down the road. At first I thought that I must have inhaled something in the surgery that had caused me to hallucinate, and just as I was in the middle of my ponderings, two 118 men ran past me and carried on down the road in the same direction as Bob. I know that I haven’t had much sleep recently, but still, you don’t expect to lose it that quickly. The sight of Claire laughing behind was enough to convince me that it was not my diminished mind, but a typical Saturday night in Stockport.

Chunky Girl

Sophie is now 6lbs 4ozs. At last she has tipped the 6lb marker. Hopefully she can now push on and get a bit of momentum up and start chunking it on like Dylan did at that size.

Anyway, I realise that I haven’t really given much insight into our everyday life at the moment, mainly because I don’t think you will be too interested in it. But it is probably valuable to understand the pain and torture that is endured at the moment to ensure that future generations will not make the same mistakes. Pain and torture has been some what diluted in modern times, the Spanish Inquisition has hung up its tools, there are no more stocks in village centres, and most modern methods of agony infliction have been outlawed. People in the Dark Ages probably thought that they had it bad, but surely the constant nature of this particular grief has to be right up there with the great hay days of the Chinese Torture years.

It is relentless every day. As soon as one of them stops crying and feeding then the other starts. There is absolutely no time to do anything substantial on your own. We have grown used to being capable of doing most things with only one hand because the other one is employed with a baby. Sleep has become a distant friend, one that you see only every now and again but one that you know you will have a good time with when you do see them.

The other night we climbed in to bed, and for the first time in 6 weeks there was no noise coming from the nursery. At first I thought I had gone deaf, but then the realisation hit me that they might actually both be asleep. I pointed this out to Claire and we both closed our eyes and enjoyed the silence. This lasted for 6 minutes, and then Sophie woke up pretending that she had never been fed before.

In all fairness, they are now beginning to sleep more at night. Both need one feed in the night and can then settle quite quickly afterwards. We are going to attempt to get them in a routine now so that we can reclaim a bit of our evenings.

The "List"

Ignore everything I have just said. Try and be happy when you have a cold all weekend and two babies who, no matter how many times you explain, still keep crying. Although Claire has borne the brunt of the work this weekend, it has been a trying time. I have been feeling like the inside of a hiker’s shoe, and my nose has been running like a sewage pipe into the sea. I’ve been drinking Lemsip as if I were partaking in a perverse drinking competition, where beer was substituted by over-the-counter medicines. Happiness is a place that I visited once on holiday a few years ago, and I can vaguely remember it by the sunburn that I had there.

Anyway, I have bought my ticket to return there, so fear not, your hero will not disappoint you and become a grumpy old man in front of your very eyes.

The house situation is hotting up. We are putting in an offer for the Cross Lane property and waiting on two offers to come in for ours. We went back to Cross Lane this weekend, even due to the fact that in the war they would have left me to fend for myself. It is definitely our future house, there are loads of things to change but at the end of it we will have our house. So it will be worth it.

I also hope that someone will offer a figure for our house soon, as the constant cleaning up to show-home standard is really hard in between feeding times. People keep commenting on how clean we keep it even though we have twins. Yeah, right!!

Now we get to the real crux of today’s entry. The universal “List” that couples have that gives them immunity to any extra-marital relations. Let me explain the rules of the “List”. 1) There must be only one, or a select few, people on it. 2) If any chance comes up with yourself and that person then you have an All Access pass. Examples of the type of people that would be on these lists are the likes of Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston, David Beckham, Kylie Minogue, etc.

As most couples, Claire and I have a “List”. My list is very civilised, with one person on it, that being Cat Deeley. Cat and I go along way back, and she has always been the one for me. Now I will try to remember all of the names that are on Claire’s “List” currently.

· Jon Bon Jovi (Aging Middle-of-the-Road Rocker)
· Lawrence Llewelyn-Bowen (Gay Decorator)
· Diarmuid the Gardener (Gay Gardener)
· Dermot O’Leary (God Loving Big Brother Presenter)
· Kevin McLeod (Nice tweed professor type Grand Designs presenter)

As you’ll agree, there is trend of gay (or in the closet) designers mainly. This does nothing for my self-esteem, as a straight man that is bored with interior design. Also, the clear disregard for the rules, it appears as though it is open season on Claire’s list with half of the males on TV at one point making an appearance. However, I have lived with this truth for nearly ten years and attempted to move my life on despite it. But now there has been a new addition that has shocked my world to the point where I do not know if I will ever bounce back from it.

Jeremy Kyle has been added to the “List”. Jeremy Kyle. JEREMY KYLE.

There has to be a line drawn somewhere. I am not going to explain the obvious deficit of benefits that Kyle has, and the clear challenges that he has in every day life with his face. But suffice it to say that if Kyle is getting a mention, then soon she’ll be having the bloke at the newsagents on it.

I have lodged an appeal with the Universal “List” Board and they are taking this matter very seriously. I feel as though my chance of a better life with Deeley (sort of rhymes with Holley, by the way) has been ruined by this obvious abuse of the system, the accepted code that we all live by, the fabric of our very society.

I am shocked to the very core, and I hope that one day I am not writing to inform you all of the inevitable news that Claire has left me for the guy over the road with his handy toolbox, just because he was on the “list”.