Didsburydad's Blog

From the not so mean streets of M20, blog about being a dad, Didsbury and dealing with parental confusion

Archive for the category “children’s TV”

2015, More of the Same from Didsbury Dad

Apologies for being blogless. It’s a terrible thing when work and life get in the way of you writing reams of blah from the single in the nursery that the Mighty Headed Boy now calls “Our Bed” after a Christmas holiday spent edging me out of it.

Normal service will return in about a week but in the week when the retirement sale sign at Wilkinsons brought a lump to the throat. In the week when Emmanuel’s prayer group requested a Waitrose where Cafe Rouge once was. In a week when Gentry Grooming’s management buyout brought independence in the village whilst one of West Didsbury’s last remaining non-bohemian stores, Loft announced it was closing…

Five things I learned:
1. Watching toddler twins in the morning is akin to refereeing a corner in the Premier League. Finding out who began the pulling, dummy stealing and Peppa Pig invocation is impossible.

2. At 39 and 12 months + a few more 12s you can party or parent. Both leaves you looking like Stig (of the dump not Top Gear).

3. You can learn the words to every Frozen song through Osmosis.

4. Life is good. When the news on TV becomes almost too difficult to watch, having someone next to you whose world is complete with a soft toy and a cuddle is a real gift.

5. Four is enough for now.

Happy New Year

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Wilkinsons – who will fix our objects now?

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Peppa Pig glasses: I am praying they have better vision than me

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If you don’t know who this is, I salute you

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Didsbury’s Christmas Tree shines brighter than McBusted

Wednesday night saw Didsbury Village at its best for the Christmas tree switch-on. Stewards in Santa Man. City outfits telling us Santa’s not a red, it was a coca cola conspiracy. A host with a microphone full of enthusiasm and a unique lyrical skill, led us through free mulled wine and pizza, bags of satsumas and women handing out sweets. It was magical. The mulled wine was provided by The Stokers Arms and delivered by Bisou Bisou’s lovely Front of House – a kind of McBusted for the village. Santa arrived on a fire engine with a sound system playing Chris Rea and The Mighty Headed Boy, gently crushing my shoulders from the top down, cried as though Chris Rea himself were coming to sing.
The tree lit up, the sweets were snaffled and a good time was had by all. Only the darkness where once was Cafe Rouge reminded us that not everyone has there own French Patisserie – but we do, happy holidays.

N.B. I have no idea who McBusted are. I even watched I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here to see if they were there.

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Ready for the big night out

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The stars came out

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The Mighty Headed Boy v Santa

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Stoptober, The War on Drugs and Groupon

Stoptober; lovely idea. 260000 people still daring and rich enough to smoke have signed up. Good on them. Of all the habits I have started and stopped it was by far the most difficult to end (seconded closely by visits to the Kool Runnings Caribbean Food Van on Upper Chorlton Road). However, something in me feels we should be allowed the freedom to choose. The ALS Ice-bucket challenge, another wonderful money raising, cause-highlighting affair that also made me feel uncomfortable. (The peanuts have been removed from Revels, ruining my favourite joke about Revels being Russian Roulette for but allergists, one gag probably not worth the risk but it’s put me off Revels). It’s not the cold water in the ice-bucket challenge – just the feeling of generic naffness, the idea of being told what to do makes me feel like posting a cynical retort – which I know is probably wrong.
Stoptober has me thinking of 10 Silk Cut for £1, Movember has me up early to shave and I now get so many Just Giving requests that they proliferate my inbox like Groupon and their worthiness undoes my innate Northern outsiderness.
A friend once set-up a Justgiving page to announce that they were doing nothing. I donated immediately. I like my causes and donate, I am a FOLLA (a Friend of Lapwing Lane Arcade), I can be coerced during the later, more receptive stages of most telethons and of course am now an easy touch for anything with children, but…
It must be a generational thing. I am old enough to have met all my friends. I overshare sometimes on Social Media. This week is National Champagne Week ( c’mon Primary Schools – that’s a theme day parents would buy into), it’s National Hug Day and Tuesday marks 32 years since Ronald Reagan declared the first U.S. War on Drugs – how did that work out?

We have Silly Hat Day at home and that can lead to controversy if the twins go for the same beanie cap. I think as profile raising, marketing exercises these nannying call to arms are wonderful. As ways to coerce people into contributing to things in which they may not believe – even better; they remind me of Halloween. I am all Parkin and Bonfire night

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A double rainbow. Donate now for a third

Into every rain a little sun may fall

The thing about family life as the parent is that you are hero, villain, unpaid slave and feted emperor(ess), often in the same day, sometimes in the same conversation.
For every matrimonial slight magnifying exponentially as sleep depravation crescendoes, there is that complicit nod, a shared joke with Didsbury Son or a boddler leap and hug.
The scattering of re-imagined objects on the floors, at times a joyful motif for the imagination unspoiled by Cartoon Network – on another day when the Middle C note has been hollered before 5.30, the planets unaligned and the day has gone downhill, it is a sinister coupling of the results of a conspiracy against you to negate all you have done. It is neither. It is just the detritus of a lively house and you are in a trough; with a peak hiding the other side of the Nightgarden.
I have been keeping a list of the little things that have made me happy and sad/angry/paranoid this week. The list, a mundane arrangement of MIS-interpretations, imagined slights and the odd moment of clarity.
If I had read it in a magazine I would have nodded in recognition, distancing myself from the pettier, ignoble side.
However – seeing ideas and behaviours laid out so bluntly is like a plooking back at a teenage diary and suddenly realising that it wasn’t that no one understood your genius, just that most people try to avoid you when you behave like Kevin the Teenager and pout like a trout.

Didsbury Life: This Much I Know

As the sails of 39 years, 364 days recede ever further back into the noughties and the creaking of the trees in the late autumn breeze matches the creaking my knees; this is what I have learned.

Male patterned grumpiness is not a right, it has to be earned. We lack the manipulative front to be supportive AND judgemental, so grunting like a 15 year old and sighing like a winter wind fill the gaps.

Mancunian slang rarely works. I recall the Didsbury Boys in Tesco, Parrs Wood describing their Shredded Duck in Hoisin Sauce Wrap as “bum man, f- ing bum” and thinking that the Bronx would be shaking. Last week I was exiting the gents at Piccadilly Station. (how many stories have started thus?) when a 40 year old, Gallagher clone but without the hair saw the 30p charge to use the facilities and danced his outrage. Talking loudly to no one and everyone he declared, “Are you having a giraffe?” Before scuttling off more crab on the sand, than ungulate mammal on the velt.

The closure of Cafe Rouge in Didsbury Village is a blow to the community. I miss people
-watching from its patio and peering inside when walking past with the pram. I miss my free Guardian Sports Section and I miss the feeling that by sitting in sight of the library I was upping my culture.

Didsbury Son is now a teenager and the first month (83 to go) has been fine. The build-up was threatening, but since the clock turned he has resumed being the lovely boy and easy-going accomplice of his blondini, squeaky voiced days. He has started cracking gags in a style that I know is based on me and makes me truly understand the issue Didsbury Wife takes over my mistimed, poor taste speciality.

With their second birthday looming the battle amongst the Didsbury Dad extended males has begun to claim The Mighty-Headed boy and Pearly-Girl for our respective football teams. There is no subtlety, no fraternal loyalty, just craven boddler baiting with song, shirt and toy. I realise that against all my best intentions, this is probably going to use up more thought than which school they should go to and possibly more money on uniform.

The staff at Chalk all look as though they have stepped out of rehearsals for Glee to be with you (courtesy of. @Craftwords). Whilst their unfeasibly kittened-hipness is shaming, the hope that they will break into Flashdance on one of the sofas keeps me coming back. ( and the chipolatas.

Twins’ weight: painful knee and cortisone’d elbow.

Nursery Rhymes sung badly as I Only know the rude version: 8

Frozen watched: 3 times a day

Sleep Depravation constant with a good chance of caffeine and chocolate about 10 to get through the day.

Next time: Why I love Burton Road, It’s autumn soon so the bad-parking 4×4 Season is upon is and a review of The Global News refit.

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This is starting to seem a long time ago.

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News of Cafe Rouge closing caused a walkout

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Pre- service team meeting at Chalk.

Urban Legend, Political Campaigns and an Apology

Didsbury Son is on a scout camp in the middle of nowhere. There will be lots of gung-Ho camping, climbing and sharing small spaces with other people. Thank The Lord for CRB checks and the lovely Scout Leaders who pass them and give their free time to teach him skills for living and learning. The Remembrance Day parade is always moving and their scouting means I don’t have to expose myself to any camping experiences or weekend slumming it in the name of bonding. If I can wriggle out of going fishing, the summer is looking good.

Urban Legend 1: Didsbury is full of focaccia-eating, self-obsessed yummy mummies and daddies. That’s Alderley Edge, we’re only half full.

There are some serious issues that need addressing:
The Stokers Arms’ free lunch offer booked up before I could get my date confirmed. It’s gone from being O’Neills which you wouldn’t want to go near to The Stokers which you can’t get near.

Urban Legend 2: Gourmet Burger Kitchen once had a queue of almost 6 people that stretched to the door before the financial crash of 2008.

2. I owe a big apology to the owners of The MudFlap Cafe in the centre of Didsbury. Their quick Felicini’s demolition and ludicrous early publicity put me off. On the recommendation of several people we braved it… And were a bit bowled over. Didsbury Wife is a water sign, I am Vegan Intolerant and The Mighty Headed Boy gets upset by food beginning with W. No bother. The food was good, the coffee spot on the staff treated us with a welcome throughout that normally evaporates when the first missile leaves a high chair bound toddler or the fiifteenth chorus of Incy Wincy Spider shakes the window. Thank you, we are coming back.

Urban Legend 3: in 2008 a man looked the wrong way on Wilmslow Road and didn’t see a 42 bus for over 8 minutes.

Finally, before festival fever takes over ( It’s only 2 weeks to Didsbury Festival – I love Didsbury Festival, I’ve directed dozens of festivals in many different genres and cities but nothing beats Didsbury Festival on a warm day in June). I want to start a campaign for Pram Lanes in Didsbury. I walked to Withington today (always good to go to the edges of M20 to see what gives and hang out with my brothers from a different mother and school). On the way our double buggy met 3 other double buggies, 16 single buggies, two wheelchairs and a tourist from Chorlton. This entailed much wiggling and stopping to share the pavement whilst the cars hogged the road selfishly.
With prams being such an essential accessory it must make sense for the inside lane to be pram only between 8 and 6 on weekends. All right thinking people must join the fight. Let’s be honest, people were stupid enough to vote UKIP so this might have a chance.

This week we are listening to 6Music, watching Episodes and The Little Princess and getting excited about Wine & Wallop on Lapwing Lane.

Didsbury – a historical lesson

I have a friend who went to Nido the week it opened. His rationale being to try it before it closed. This front for something, 60-Minute makeover of a restaurant was a slow car crash of a failure, whilst we watched the manager occasionally pace around outside.

As the letters symbolically fell off the Laughing Buddha signage next door the lights went out on the restaurant customers forgot. If only Didsbury Magazine had done a feature, if only Wadden v Brimelow’s aubergine v purple Estate Agent war had taken place over lunch there… But if onlys are scattered across Didsbury Village’s failures. Remember the fake gangster Japanese place where now lies Zizzi and what was always The Old Grey Horse? No. Neither does anyone else.

Time for a little indulgence. Starting at the library end where Didsbury station was a get-on for London we finally say good riddance to O’Neill’s. I loathe Irish-themed bars. I’m not Irish but The Railway across the road seems a great pub with strong Irish connections and when I see an “Oirish” bar I think of people making Cream of Chicken Soup and passing it off as the real thing. We are getting The Strokers Arms. ( not a euphemism).

After many years Ashley Brown’s iconic locks are finally swapping with the sublime Wendy J Levy who leaves the cobbles of Warburton Street to trade online. We are promised a deli, we expect Costa Express. Ashley Brown took over Jim’ s a green grocers. In the. 70s the Evans-Axons-Hamlet axis of power was a square. Jim was their D”Artagnan.

Jaanum ( which translates as Nido without seats) is still boarded up and Urban Grille’s baffling menu still pulls those who shirk the call of the burgeoning Domino’s.

So back to Padmore Parade. Jo Padmore took over Thresher, which was begat by a serve your own Victoria Wine. Nido followed an average Turkish Restaurants with name changes to cover every City in Turkey, before that a wonderful small restaurant and take -away. To those of us of a certain age it is always Sykes, one of Didsbury’s best record shops where we rushed home from school to buy Lipps Inc. in the 90s it spent time as Namaste Village (before the definition of Namaste had filtered down from Chorlton). This meant that in the mid 90s every Didsbury Child ( then named Ella or George) had their own dream catcher and Peruvian Worry dolls.
Next door was Ho Wah. In the 70s this had been a KFC. My own Didsbury Mum took a moral stance and refused to take us there – the bags of chips were too small.

* No facts were researched during the writing of this blog. Other facts are available.

I’ve Never Seen Star Wars in Didsbury

I’ve Never Seen Star Wars. This was a great idea and worked well on radio until the second series when the B list celebs got wise and we were treated to a feigned angst over “I’ve never had a full body massage from a £300 per hour West End masseur followed by dinner at The Ivy and advice from a Tax Lawyer”. The reveal didn’t work.

I was thinking about this because a) there is only so much Iggle Piggle or Minecraft a dad’s brain can hold. B) oooh, a nappy. C) I’ve never watched Doctor Who (intentionally or for more than 5 minutes.) it was a global phenomenon last weekend. I met the writer at an event. He seemed lovely. Whilst all the talk was of Gallifrey ( or Gallipoli or something), all I could think of was how much I despised big scarves at school. I’ve only seen 1 Harry Potter and managed to find friends and family to take Didsbury Son to Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Dungeons and Dragons, zzzzzzzzzz

But. – what is the Didsbury equivalent? I’ve never parked on a double yellow in Didsbury Village? I’ve never had a haircut on School Lane? I never worked out what the smell is at Cineworld? Here are mine…

1. I’ve never stood outside The Nelson dancing for the traffic. It’s always my favourite set of lights to stop at. Last week Didsbury Son and I were treated to a beer inspired Soft Shoe Shuffle that was worthy of Strictly…

2. I’ve never seen anyone coming in or out of Didsbury Conservative Club. Once Fred Silvester disappeared they melted like (insert melting Doctor Who character) Nigella’s chocolate pudding and bankability.

3. I’ve never ordered something at Folk without having to repeat 5 minutes later. Give the waiters pens.

4. I’ve never worked out which tree covers the graves of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s soldiers by the river.

5. I’ve never got over the loss of Hippins, then Linen.

6. Altogether now… I’ve never been to Nido and it looks like the lights are off for good on the restaurant that cast no shadow.

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More lights than Nido and looking for a pen for a Folk waiter

I’ve Never Seen Star Wars in Didsbury

I’ve Never Seen Star Wars. This was a great idea and worked well on radio until the second series when the B list celebs got wise and we were treated to a feigned angst over “I’ve never had a full body massage from a £300 per hour West End masseur followed by dinner at The Ivy and advice from a Tax Lawyer”. The reveal didn’t work.

I was thinking about this because a) there is only so much Iggle Piggle or Minecraft a dad’s brain can hold. B) oooh, a nappy. C) I’ve never watched Doctor Who (intentionally or for more than 5 minutes.) it was a global phenomenon last weekend. I met the writer at an event. He seemed lovely. Whilst all the talk was of Gallifrey ( or Gallipoli or something), all I could think of was how much I despised big scarves at school. I’ve only seen 1 Harry Potter and managed to find friends and family to take Didsbury Son to Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Dungeons and Dragons, zzzzzzzzzz

But. – what is the Didsbury equivalent? I’ve never parked on a double yellow in Didsbury Village? I’ve never had a haircut on School Lane? I never worked out what the smell is at Cineworld? Here are mine…

1. I’ve never stood outside The Nelson dancing for the traffic. It’s always my favourite set of lights to stop at. Last week Didsbury Son and I were treated to a beer inspired Soft Shoe Shuffle that was worthy of Strictly…

2. I’ve never seen anyone coming in or out of Didsbury Conservative Club. Once Fred Silvester disappeared they melted like (insert melting Doctor Who character) Nigella’s chocolate pudding and bankability.

3. I’ve never ordered something at Folk without having to repeat 5 minutes later. Give the waiters pens.

4. I’ve never worked out which tree covers the graves of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s soldiers by the river.

5. I’ve never got over the loss of Hippins, then Linen.

6. Altogether now… I’ve never been to Nido and it looks like the lights are off for good on the restaurant that cast no shadow.

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More lights than Nido and looking for a pen for a Folk waiter

This much I know: I like Bonfire Night not Halloween

As I sail so far past 39.9999 years old that I remember the fall of the Berlin Wall whenever I hear “Voodoo Ray”. As I realise that playing The Cocteau Twins to Didsbury Son is as relevant as my Didsbury Dad describing Vera Lynn as a cracker, this much I know.

SPARE THE CALPOL – SPOIL THE CHILD and ruin the parent

cocteau twins
1. Bonfire Night has gone. It’s the vinyl to Halloween’s download – subsumed by the gaudy nylons and cigarettes of the child friendly marketing monolith to follow the American grey squirrel of a festival. The old fashioned joy of commemorating the attack on democracy and the torture and death of the poor bloke left holding the candle; gone. That simple terror-filled evening when a semi-drunk uncle lit fireworks with a smouldering cigarette then ran like crazy to the Parkin and Heinz tomato soup will be as scratchy as my fake Top of the Pops album from Sykes to the next generation. I think I have seen my last collective dive for cover when a Catherine Wheel makes a dash for it.

Proof - were it needed that Guy Fawkes was a New Romantic

Proof – were it needed that Guy Fawkes was a New Romantic

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American Squirrels picking off our festivals one by one pose a great risk tot he environment.

Sorry Guido and your band of insurgents against the crown, apparently the devil does have the best tune here and we prelude All Souls Day by copying American suburbia. If Thanksgiving takes off we may as well all move to the Costa del So where British traditions are respected.

2. If you are stuck in the house with fractious children of any age, stick them on the sill and open the window. Whether gurgling babies or excitable eight year olds – it’s a winner guaranteed to enchant the neighbours.

3. When something works – do not over analyse. My pearl-headed baby girl has one word, “Daddy”. She chirps it in every situation and to whoever is within view. A little part of me knows this. But there are moments, usually early in the day when I am trying to contain her pre-dawn excitement, when she holds my gaze and my hand and chirrups “Daddy” over and over. In those moments I am beyond gravity. This is where I go when I realise the cost of the childcare.

4. Caffe Nero’s decision to ramp the entrance in Didsbury Village and make the baby change wide enough for a double buggy is a piece of planning genius that buys loyalty, however corporate.

American Squirrels cast envious eyes over our festivals. They beat Bonfire Night, next it's Cheese rolling

American Squirrels cast envious eyes over our festivals. They beat Bonfire Night, next it’s Cheese rolling

5. Despite this serenity I now see pavement-parked cars that block pram access through a red mist far beyond that which is necessary or justified.

6. CBeebies, an iPad and a knife to peel and cut an apple are all you need before 8am.

7. Finding a pub to watch football, then finding they don’t let in children is a guilty pleasure.

8. The key is that I now know I will never again control the remote for the Television. Having lost it to Didsbury Son several years ago for a constant rotation of Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother, I am now third in the pecking order behind Cbeebies and my mighty-headed baby’s ability to fit the remote in his mouth.

When they leave home as I near infirmity I’ll get it back. Or as Vera Lynn might say, “We’ll meet again”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivr57dcs9-E

VOODOO RAY – YNN MIX. WHEN THE BASS DROPS THE WALLS COMES TUMBLING DOWN (SIC)

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