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 tag “Coronation Street”

Didsbury: I Have a Dream

I have a dream. I have many dreams. Beyond a harmonious world and an easy to assemble Kinder Egg Toy, I have dreams.          I remember when all of this was train track. 
I dream of reading a newspaper article (analogue or digital) whose research is not a celebrity twitter feed and in which fact checking does not mean a retweet. 

I dream of the time when the Pearly Princess can put on her own tights. Truly, as a man with the dexterity of the average baby this is a daily bind. Fifteen minutes spent struggling with a wriggly toddler to find they are on back to front and the heel is over one knee is soul destroying in a way that working out next to someone who keeps asking if you’re okay “…as you don’t get many people in your age” can only peck at gently.Burns, La Tasca, Cibo, Solita. Inhabitants and the back four of FC Nido in the 2004 Champions League qualifier. 

I dream of a time when each incarnation of the restaurant known as Y Fabrica (me neither, no idea) join forces. Whether it’s The Mud Crab Cafe, Felicinis or Didsbury Wine Bar, between them there is a decent menu lying in wait. 

I dream of people caring about each other. Of pushy mothers in 4x4s not double parking or taking residents’ spaces when dropping their Freyas and Archies at Primary School. Of the staff at Evans being knighted for services to middle class dinner parties in South Manchester. Of Unicorns singing Stone Roses tunes as you pass the “Welcome to Greater Manchester” sign on the M56 and of a time when my first action of the day is not deciding what to do with a pull-up. The names on the mug are in reverse order.

Alongside every act of lazy and institutionalised xenophobia we have witnessed over the last year I believe there is goodness. There are people who realise the contribution of all people whether British born or not. I thought about this as I sipped the most exquisite Sardinian-made Bloody Mary at Piccolino’s on Saturday. I remember it when it when I bump into people who remember me going for sweets on Lapwing Lane with my own Didsbury grandad. Rare picture of Fog Lane Park’s Pets’ Corner

I dream of a world where Coronation Street does not move so quickly that I miss a month and have no idea who Steve MacDonald has married/impregnated/saved.Kiwi, a rare Didsbury delicacy from when Evans first opened. 

I dream of a world where the city abruptly ends and the country takes over in seconds. Then I remember Stenner Lane, the perfect cut through between almost Gastropub The Didsbury and the haven of Fletcher Moss.

Ten minutes looking at the river and I don’t care who’s blocked my drive, which continent Felicini’s is pretending to be from or which toddler’s knee wakes me with a morning kidney jab. I just tap my heels together 3 times and I’m walking back from Flannagan’s with a smart haircut and a Fosters’ chippie tea in my hand. 

* thanks to @craftwords for keeping me up to date with developments and great one-liners whilst I’ve been too busy navel-gazing to write a regular blog. 

This Much I Don’t Understand

This much I don’t understand.I’m willing to admit I’m no longer in my 30s. In fact as I really left my 30s the idea of us looking back fondly at a Con-Lib coalition government because it wasn’t as craven or desperate as the current government, ludicrous. The only Clegg I knew was in Last of the Summer Wine. 
The notion of a British number 1 tennis player and Leicester City’s league win being eclipsed by the vulgarity, racism and lynch mob mentality of our exit from the Europe and even that not being the biggest story of the year… mind boggling*. It’s hardly surprising then, that even the transformation of Greggs on Wilmslow Road  from stand-up sandwich shop to sit down McDonalds decor, sorry McArtisan decor raised barely a murmur. From Bowie to Murray to Aleppo it’s all been jaw on the floor material this year.unemployed with small children, spare a thought for him.

* I don’t really know what boggling means. 

Mind you. As I really left my 30s the notion that Didsbury Son would be taller than me and use Lynx was also unbelievable. So, as we enter the final chapter of a year when “Liar, liar, pants are on fire.” Has been appropriated as the shout of the mob eulogising their leaders, this much I no longer understand.50s to 5s in one easy vote

1. Brexit means Brexit. At the end of the day (which also means.. ummm, nothing.) Brexit is a portmanteau. It sounds a bit like Brisket and for all it actually means we may as well add gate on the end to make it sound interesting. I only found out what portmanteau meant by googling it. Ying Tong yiddle i Po means Ying Tong Yiddle I Po, Brexit means Brexit. I’m none the wiser. I peaked at no means no. 

2. People who read The Daily Mail and think it’s warping influence is less corrosive than nasty porn to a teenager. In fact people who read The Daily Mail by choice. 

3. What’s happened in Coronation Street. Whilst visiting my own Didsbury Dad it was on with such volume that the neighbours had their own sound off so they could hear clearly. I last tuned in about a month ago but the whole programme seems to be based on each character simultaneously living four lives. I then found out Phil Mitchell is still in Eastenders. Hasn’t he died several times? Are the soaps now reincarnating characters until they attain Nirvana? 

4. How Saints & Scholars survives, although I’m glad it does. 

5. Twenty somethings with full beards and checked shirts. I still don’t get it. Irony imitating life. I know recent transatlantic political moves have made many people look towards Canada but is this an attempt recreate Alberta between Chorlton and West Didsbury?

6. Why 808 State and MC Buzz B aren’t still massive. 

7. Bros making a comeback and selling out in seconds. Bros are back 

Right, that’s the bah humbug out of the way – ready for some Christmas cheer next. 

Dads – Know Your Place

Being a dad is not always a natural and easy job. Raising children for us is a series of incidents. Some of these are life-affirming wonderful moments such as that first skin-to-skin, the first time they make their own breakfast and the first time you realise they are all asleep and you can have a cup of tea and stroke the cat in peace.

Some stretch you more than you can imagine. That school concert that clashes with an advert you’ve only seen once or the quick thinking strategy required when a nappy has burst like a dam in a storm and the wipes are just out of reach. As babies grow to children women have three basic advantages over men. First, with regard to child rearing they are innately better at pretty much every aspect. Kids may love their dads but they need their mums and from everything beginning with why a gripe at 3am needs a bottle to why the vagueness of a year 7 memory should be ignored on an exam day I, and most dads know their place.

Secondly, in a greater percentage of women is that maternal gene for reproduction that men are often unable to comprehend. Once we join the club it makes sense but it seems a bit like talking about a PHD when you are doing your GCSEs.

The third axis of maternal is the ability to forget. Once Didsbury Son (lovely, easy-going, barely a tantrum) cranked through the gears of childhood I spent many hours watching, remembering and cringing as my own see-through childhood bleating and blagging was laid out before me. I finally appreciated just how patient my own Didsbury mum and dad really were. Didsbury Son is hampered by my memory of being his own age and knowing there would always be more mileage in going to my mum. The cycle plays on.

If the women ever learn to teach and enjoy pull my finger / burp on demand or see the unending comedy in wearing pants on your head we may as well head for our own Jurassic Park.

Having twin babies is a little like being in a soap storyline. You miss a week of Corrie or Eastenders and when you switch back on the story has moved along so quickly you spend the episode thinking how? When? What? Really? I am back from 5 days away in a port city with no decent coffee shops but an accent that made me feel I was an extra in The Archers, my lovely. The change is ferocious. My mighty headed baby boy has two teeth coming through and enough hair to have bed head syndrome when he wakes up. On Skype they sat upright on the bed eagerly chewing toys, but this morning their independence in sitting, rise in appetite and the pearl-headed girl’s insistence that the morning baby porridge be low-carb were a frightening vision forward.

From Midday… Live blogging from The Didsbury Festival and tweeting from @didsburydadblog
Please join in the carnival as I try and find a quiet corner on my own

20130608-103418.jpg
The Jumparoo, preparing for the 2028 Olympics.

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: