Sunday, 27 December 2009
Here we go with the Frazzies 2009 (from the Frazzled Daddy Academy)
And the winners are...
‘The Hero to Zero’ Frazzie... Tiger Woods
In 2009 he had it all, in 2010 he has the most expensive divorce in history and an awful lot of ribbing on the Tour to look forward to
Runner up... Kanye West at the MTV Awards for disrespecting Swifty. He was so wrong he even made Beyonce cross. Bad Kanye.
‘The Most Embarrassing Dad’ Frazzie... Mr Ronnie Woods
I’m glad my 68 year old dad didn’t run off with a 20 year old who then tells all to the papers
Runner up Mr Noel Edmunds for the hideous Noel’s HQ on Sky 1
‘The Most Money Spent On A Date’ Frazzie... Mr Barack Obama
For taking the first lady to Broadway to fulfil a pre-election promise (the date reportedly cost $24,000 due to the security and travel costs)
‘The Nice Try Old Son’ Frazzie... Mr Richard Timney
The husband of Home Secretary Jacqui Smith who made an expense claim for a couple of mucky movies. He got like totally busted.
‘The Object of Jealousy’ Frazzie... Mr Stuart Townsend, boyfriend of Charlise Theron.
Already an Oscar winning actress and renowned beauty, in December she won the heart of every Frazzie Academy member when she poked fun at the ridiculous pomposity of FIFA at the World Cup Draw. Mr Townsend you are one lucky guy.
‘The Most Original Use of Standard Dad Equipment’ Frazzie... Mrs Tiger Woods (golf club)
‘The Giving Us Hope That Even If Our Kids Fail Every Exam And Have Zero Talent They Might Make A Few Quid’ Frazzie... Jon and Edward Grimes
Runners Up... Olly Murs and Jamie Archer
‘Dad of the Year’ Frazzie 2009... Captain Chesley Sullenberger.
The pilot of a US Airways Airbus that, in January, suffered a catastrophic bird strike and lost power. Despite having a silly name Captain Chesley managed to land the plane on the Hudson river in New York saving every one of the 155 passengers and crew.
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
Picture the scene, it's the day before the day before Christmas and you realise that you've forgotten that all important pressie for your nearest and dearest.
Here's what you do Frazzled Daddy style (ya check me)...
Borrow something from a friend that you know your partner will hate (Chuck Norris boxset, hideous clothing etc).
In mid-Jan, after your partner has long since put the offending article on a shelf/in a drawer and expunged all memory of it from their brain, simply return the item to the friend that lent it to you.
In mid-Feb say something like 'darling where's that lovely tiger print, crushed velvet top I bought you at Christmas?' or 'ooo let's watch that kung fu boxset that Father Christmas left in your stocking'. Then sit back and watch them panic when they can't find it. They'll feel so guilty about mislaying the pressie that they'll probably buy you something fab to make up. Or at the very least you might get a bit of sex, you just never know.
Happy christmas xxx
Friday, 11 December 2009
One of the ridiculous side effects of being a daddy is how unprepared I am for my heart strings to be plucked. These days I seem to cry and just about everything. I'm like a woman from a 1950s Hollywood B movie who needs to be slapped in the face by a tough grizzled chap and told to pull myself together.
This is not good.
I am most vulnerable while watching a film or TV show (usually X factor but not exclusively) or listening to the radio. It doesn’t have to be something tragic that gets me going, often it can be something really uplifting or corny. Recently, I found myself reading a Sunday supplement and was marvelling at the opportunity afforded to me to buy a hand-painted, ceramic wall plate with a rendition of the poem Footprints on it. Before I knew what had happened I had read the words on the plate and was found by Mrs B in the foetal position sobbing “it was then that I carried you” over and over.
Nowhere do the tears flow more though than during a movie, especially a kids’ movie, particularly a movie made by those bastards at Pixar. One of my eldest son’s favourite films is Cars, a film about a cocky, brash racing car called Lightning McQueen who, after meeting a group of salt-of-the-earth country folk, sees the error of his ways and becomes a kind and honest racing car. The film’s denouement centres on a race that McQueen has to win to become the greatest racing car in the world. Everything is going perfectly for him until the last lap of the big race when ***SPOILER ALERT*** he spurns his opportunity to win (and win the prizes that our society values most i.e. money and fame) in order to help an old car to cross the finish line with a bit of dignity (and win the prize that really counts for the most i.e. respecting and valuing another person/talking car).
I watched this film with my son sitting on my lap and thank God he wasn’t looking at me because any shred of respect that he still has for me would have been wiped out in an instant. The tears were streaming down my cheeks and at the end of the film I had to pretend to go to the loo so I could sob in private and throw some water on my face.
‘Daddy, why are your eyes all puffy and red Daddy..?’
‘Oh, er, it’s just my er hay fever son.’
‘Hay fever in November Daddy..? Really Daddy..? Or are you stupid cry-baby Daddy. I have lost all my respect for you and I’m only four. You make me sick Daddy, in fact, I’m going to stop calling you Daddy from now on and will henceforth only refer to you by your first name You’re dead to me now.’
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
I was queueing up at the till in Boots the other day when I noticed a shaven headed young man in front of me waiting to pay for three jumbo packs of Durex 'Tingle'. I, however was waiting to pay for a pack of pull-up pants (4-5 years). Never before has my life as a father been brought into such sharp focus.
When I got home Liz told me I had bought the wrong pull-ups.
She laughed when I told her about the Durex 'Tingle'.
It was a depressing time.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
The photograph you can see at the top of this blog of a child’s leg in a cast. This is my son, my youngest, my still-yet-to-be-one-year-old boy.
About three weeks ago he fell down the stairs at home and broke his leg. It is what the doctor’s call a ‘green stick’ fracture. The bones of babies are so new and malleable that they don’t break like an adult’s would. Instead imagine bending a green twig, rather than breaking in two, it will fray on the bend. This is the kind of break that Sam has. Or rather had because by the time you read this, the cast will be off, the leg will be mended and the guilt of the event might be fading.
As I write though the guilt of the event has not faded. I can still hear the thuds of his body falling against the steps. I can still see the tell-tale fleck of blood from the gash on the top of his head. I can still feel anxiety in the pit of my stomach as we realised that something was wrong with his leg. I am a Bad Parent, the sort that ends up on television being shouted at by Jeremy Kyle (actually, the list of reasons that I, or my family, might be on television being shouted at by Jeremy Kyle is growing by the day).
I couldn’t bring myself to write about this until now as I have felt the guilt of the Bad Parent for the last three weeks. Like the chains of Jacob Marley the plastered leg has served as an awful reminder that I’m a Bad Parent. Everywhere I turn I am confronted by the physical reminder of being a Bad Parent. Every time Sam tries to stand up and can’t, or crawl around and bashes his cast into something, or gets his massive leg stuck in his trousers when you’re undressing him, or has a wash because he can’t have a bath in case the cast gets wet I feel the guilt of a thousand Bad Parents burning into my soul. That’s if I have a soul, which clearly I don’t because I’m such a Bad Parent.
The one crumb of comfort seems to be that there are other Bad Parents out there, a whole load of them. Just type ‘my still-yet-to-be-one-year-old boy’s leg broke when he fell down the stairs’ into Google, or Bing (no search engine bias on this blog), and you receive more stories from other Bad Parents than you can possibly read. Neighbours and family have fallen over each other to regale me with the stories of the horrific injuries that their children have received. Injuries that have resulted in broken bones and busted teeth and hours and hours spent in casualty departments. Try it out with your friends, the second you mention an injury that has happened to your kid, prepare yourself for a list of even worse things that have happened to other people's sproglets. It's like being in a version of Monty Python’s Four Yorkshiremen sketch: ‘A broken leg from falling down the stairs..? You were lucky. We used to dream of a broken leg from falling down the stairs.’
Now that the cast is coming off though a tiny part of me feels just a little bit sad. Christmas is coming and the Brown family Christmas photo could have been a fabulous reimagining of Dickens’ Cratchet family complete with an unusually realistic Tiny Tim.