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 “God”

Everything you need to know about holidaying in Spain with small children a

I know three things about Chris De Burgh.
1) he brought his wife a dress and made back the cost several times over with a song still played at every incontinent tea dance.
2) he had a monobrow before the Gallagher brothers made them fashionable in the 90s.
3) He is a liar and this lie has impacted directly on my summer holiday plans.
In his song Spanish Train (from the album “Does not include Lady in Red” recorded during his pre Lady in Red phase) De Burgh sings about a train transporting the souls to heaven that the devil tries to nab, there is no mention of a Lady in Red. It’s a “Devil Went Down to Georgia” without fiddle playing, charisma or specifically a tune. Within its cool for 11 year olds, naff by 12 conceit, a railwayman lay dying (with his family by his side) and for his soul they are crying for the train he has to drive. Anyway there is a lot of hand-wringing and in the end God wins by gambling at cards and the train (with the souls of the dead 10000 deep) goes up and everyone’s happy. Lovely. Obviously this is from memory as its a bit hot to Google the lyrics.
Except it isn’t true. I was planning on a trip to Spain with Didsbury Wife, Didsbury Son and The Toddler Collective. Didsbury Wife and I planned a trip to El Corte Iglesias (Juan Lewis), I promised the twins a Paella Ice Cream and Didsbury Son I promised to top any theme park by taking him on to see The Spanish Train as it transports souls between worlds. At least I thought we could get a t-shirt. It doesn’t exit and the name I was called by the Galician Tourist Society translates as something not only illegal, but difficult with my knees. 

So Chris De Burgh, the Irish crooner that is not Daniel O’Donnell I call you out as a two-bit toddler-trashing tenor. Now to go and get some olive oil as sunscreen and countdown to the new football season – still almost 6 weeks and Wimbledon to get through. 

  

 Fresh Jamon 
http://youtu.be/VXkhiIFCgAo.                  If the children have been naughty play them this. 

If they won’t practice their musical instruments play them this – The Devil Went Down to Georgia.

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Sweet Home Alabama: Do they have a Cafe Nero?

I am sitting at the back of a hot room listening to a man who looks like a refugee from a Lynyrd Skynyrd video. He is telling us about how he is a creative whose job title can’t be defined. How very very creative, his lack of definition is not endearing. I can think of a four-letter word beginning and ending in T but one that is not a pallendrome. This is the first time I’ve been able to drift into a few thoughts for a few weeks. So here comes the splurge.

I have several days in a guilded City delivering something mediaish and exciting. It’s my spring job; annual, stressful in the most exciting way and as with 99% of the careers I have had – does not mix with babies and is a lovely niche.

Normally a few days working away is something I would grasp chirpily, feigning sadness at being able to go to the bathroom without holding at least one child, grimacing at the thought of not being woken by tiny fingers up my nose – you know , the usual. But this time, nothing. Something sinister has happened. Another platitude has reared it’s cliched head like a toy with a primary colour.

When I kissed the children before they left for school and childminder I filled up as though this were some important cup match and they were my team running out to play.
As Didsbury Son mooched down to the bus stop, pitch oscillating and mood following, I had to fight the urge to follow. When my boddlers left I waved them off, turning to the JP Morgan of Catnip for solace as they disappeared by bus and people carrier.

For the umpteenth time this year I surveyed the scene and wondered when all this became mine. Children, plastic weightless and all pervading mess, creaking knees and a cup way more than half full, but probably containing cat food, a toy and baby spit.

Now if I was writing an American dad’s blog I could say they weren’t mine, just loaned from God or Colnel Sanders. If I was not in Didsbury, I could have gone inside, packed and gone to work.

But

I am a Didsbury Dad so I took the only possible route. Coffee at Didsbury Deli, a peruse of The Guardian, a quick discussion about Nido’s new incarnation and then I got blocked in by some rude mother in a people carrier who thinks the school run is Tron.

Silly hat day will be a few days late

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Gluttony, religion and Chocolate for breakfast

In my religion all festivals follow a similar pattern; they tried to kill us, we killed them -let’s eat. It’s an annual and generational repeatable saga. Take Passover, currently nearing its end. The Jews were slaves, God freed us by slaying first-born captors amid a plague epidemic and we left before the bread had risen.

You notice we didn’t leave the bread as we ran for our lives, we took it partially cooked. Today Jews eat Matzoh (crackers with a backdraft more powerful than your average house fire) as a tribute to our pragmatic forefathers. This notion of group identity and the importance of shared food has shaped the tribe.

Didsbury Wife and Son are Christian and Easter is a big deal. I like this. I like the fact that the breakfast, lunch and dinner (plus snacks) courtesy of Galaxy that will shape Didsbury Son’s day comes with a story and a bit of grounding; it helps. I also wish a Happy Easter to the other religions and atheists who just fancy a day on the Cadbury’s, it’s a good call.

Didsbury Son is just back from his first school trip abroad; happy yet gallically pre-teenage. I have discussed the Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy/Santa dilemma before (my only parenting tip – you don’t believe, they don’t come). This year our foreign explorer needed something a little upgraded and 2013 – we needed something doable between nappy changes and feeding for the Mighty-headed boy and his pearl-tipped twin.
So this year the Easter Bunny sent clues by text message. this worked brilliantly. Having chocolate in one hand and an electronic device in the other fulfilled all Didsbury Son’s desires and a breakfast of Minstrels, Mini-Eggs and Milk was alliterative if nothing else.
As the twins shnurgled happily, Didsbury Son followed clues sent direct from Easter Bunny HQ that led him around the house. Via little treats stored craftily he came to an Easter Egg big enough for a dad tax without complaint.
All was perfect, or it would have been had I remembered to reset his phone so that the texts didn’t come through saying “Daddy” at the top. Definitely not a Heavenly Father but a Didsbury Dad.

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Love is the Message and the Message is Love – delivered via Dr Dre endorsed Beats

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I’ll Take the Cliché and you take the platitude and I’ll be in Scotland etc.


The clouds are so low and thick I imagine myself in one of those films where Morgan Freeman is God to Steve Carrell or Jim Carrey.

Location shot for Deliverance 2

 

It’s beautiful, but my view is that a decent summer holiday should be somewhere that is barren and bleached by the sun, not green and lush and therefore wet and overcast for much of the time.

I digress. It takes 3 hours driving through sheeting rain between huge lorries to get us from the Borders to the middle of nowhere. Didsbury wife knits happily, looks serene and occasionally pats me in a ” just keep driving, no more coffee breaks” kind of way when we pass the many Costa fleecing points. Didsbury son is chirpily tired from swimming and moves seamlessly between cross-stitch and 3DS. Trying to shut out the sound of Fearne Cotton and Radio 1 in general I realise I have spent hours chewing several conundrums in this week of English looting and soul searching…Ooh, a fir tree.

1. Black Pudding supper, White pudding supper or Haggis Supper? When will the English catch on to what we really want – offal, barley and all in batter.

Tree.

2. Scotland is foreign, I spent Sunday afternoon in a decent sized town searching pubs like some go getting Greyfriars Bobby trying to find The Premier League on SkySports and what did I find? Kilmarnock v Hibs and fat boys playing catch in a warm up for the soon to bore world cup of fat boys playing catch. It’s an outrage.

More trees.

3. My abiding visual of the week of riots, looting and political knee jerking comes from photoshoplooter of hoodies braking into No. 10, genius.

Look, a tree.

4. Didsbury son played and slaughtered me at Super Mario, laughing quite rightly at my dimwitted ineptitude. Not only am I a Didsbury Dad. I am my becoming my own Didsbury Dad. I look at Didsbury Son, in 35 years it will happen to him too.

Tree again.

5. Driving across the magnificent Forth Road Bridge and taking in the splendour of nature that surrounds it all I could think was East Fife 4 Forfar 5.

Trees.

I may settle for haggis flavoured crisps and a nip of something patronising.

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