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 “Sugar Rush”

The Lion King, Parkin and Steven Spielberg

How you celebrate festivals as a child is crucial as to how you deliver them to your own friends and family. My Didsbury mum, auntie and extended entourage celebrated everything. Bonfire night was all tomato soup outside with treacle toffee, Parkin and anxiety amid the awe that a Catherine Wheel would take my eye out. 70s safety adverts lacked nuance but were packed with graphics to scar the psyche permanently. Once I found out the reasons behind Bonfire Night I loved it more, immediately taking the side of the conspirators; a normal Northern reaction. Jewish New year meant apples and honey; Eid brought pistachio sweets from Syrian friends of the original Didsbury Dad. 

  This is apparently cutting edge Anime. I thought it was from Pink Floyd. 

This was too exotic for words. Remember this was the when the Queen was in her 40s. If you had pineapple people thought you had won the pools* (Note 1). 

We also loved Christmas. Our house was decoration free and no pigs had blankets. Non-participation at home gave me the best out to see everyone else’s. To me, a decorated Christmas tree was the epitome of cool and I am still a sucker for a string of lights and a chocolate bauble. I also get giddy on FA Cup 3rd Round Day (Bovril), Winter Solstice (Cake and Wine) and anything celebrated with fried chicken.  

 High-tech Halloween.

The next generation are already starting to shape their own future. My pearly princess is a happy soul and easy going spirit who skips lightly through whatever is infront of her. Didsbury Son likes the detail and the art of a festival and The Mighty Headed Boy found Nirvana on Saturday in Didsbury.

He has been through the excitement of Christmas and greeted it with an enthusiasm that could be lifelong. He has sampled the best Friday night Dinner chicken soup and given it a toddlers’ thumbs up but… Nothing will ever match the logic and sheer joy of Halloween.  



Dressed up as a monster with hands free and mouth available he knocked on strangers’ doors, shouted Trick before mumbling incoherently and they gave him sweets and chocolates. 
The generosity of Didsbury was quite stunning. Across M20 the pumpkins were out and the kids from 0-teenage were welcomed with open bowls and quirky sweets. It was uplifting in all the best ways. 

In terms of training children to anticipate danger this would seem as appropriate as the 1970s BBC giving Jimmy Saville a show making children’s dreams come true; but he loved it. 

Mind blown, plastic bucket filled and several blocks shaken down for Haribo, he sat on the couch like Mufasa showing off Simba to the animal kingdom. 

Had he not been surfing the wave of a sugar rush I am sure he would have turned to me and told me, Jawsesque, “Daddy, We’re going to need a bigger bucket”
* Pre Lottery, pre scratch cards, pre Big Brother and Sky this was your best way to upgrade to a Vauxhall Firenza. 

The horn, the hamster, the goldfish and Jack Nicholson

I took Didsbury Son to a big sporting event last weekend.We left forĀ  the capital for big treats all around and high excitement.

I made 2 errors with profound effects. 1. I brought him a horn. 2. I brought him a horn four hours before the event started.

A loud horn and a small boy, bad combination

Didsbury Son re-enacts Robin Hood’s call to arms

By the time the battle commenced the combination of constant horn honking, sugar rushes and overwhelm gave him an expression closer to Jack Nicholson just before he shouts “Here’s Johnny” than anyone I recognised.

As an experiment it was fascinating. As proof to me that I can zone out of any sound after a while it was interesting. As evidence that a honking horn can drive hard men to tears and drunken men to abusiveness it was conclusive.

By Half-Time he was so wired I honestly thought I would have to swap him before re-introducing him to Didsbury Wife later that night. I have tried this tack before with a goldfish and after the unfortunate incident when the kamikaze hamster, more suited to The Great Escape than the burbs leapt free from his cage straight down the throat of Didsbury Fat Cat.

It wouldn’t work. I used to get confused as to which one was Didsbury Son when he first started school. 20 odd 4 year olds launching at you in the same clothes is enough to confuse any dad, but mums know so I had to try something new, more sugar.

I was heartened by the overriding half-time sight of dozens of dads angrily trying to pacify overwrought and over-tired sons. Hapless pre-tens who were apeing the big men they saw around them, with hapless apemen trying to shout them back to calmness. I did what any sensible dad would do; plied him with Fanta and he got back to happily honking until an exasperated supersized Neanderthal begged me to get him to stop.

Six hours, 2 more hotdogs and a sleep in the car later we gratefully turned into M20. The sight of Cineworld heralding a a heroic return home. I half carried and poured Didsbury Son to bed, smiled at thoughts of our adventure, sipped my tea with Didsbury Wife and threw away the horn. He hasn’t noticed yet.

Lord of the Manor

Didsbury Son surveys the landscape of another glamorous day out

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