Fitba' crazy

Yep, it's fair to say the Grant family have gone fitba' crazy of late. Kids have gone garden-goals-shooting bananas, Katy is practising Ronaldo step overs and Jenny is washing kit like detergent is going out of fashion. Even the cat is running about like the beast it is, chasing a furry mouse ball.

I'm playing a serious match every weekend with our Wahroonga Tigers geriatric and very infirm over 35's. Our full blown season starts in two weeks. I'm training on Wednesdays and doing death defying fitness work on Thursdays. I've also got work lunch-time football and here's the latest...I start coaching the local Under 7s on Tuesday! We are all Wahroonga Tigers!

How can a hard-working father of three with a massive global debt find time for such self-centred pursuits?

Whilst the pure thinking by-stander might point a shaky finger towards the daddy for such selfishness, scratch beneath the surface and you might find quite a different story. Why have the Grants, and daddy in particular, gone fitba mad? You tell me, who's really to blame?

Here are the suspects...

"Uncle" Malcom & "Auntie" Seonaid

This dynamic duo, sponsored by Sydney Adventist Hospital, lured Ally and Jenny from the UK over to their house in Sydney last year, for grilled prawns and melon canopes served with a medley of tortillas and dips. (Please note the connection here - Jenny is Seonaid's cousin.)

Please also note the resemblance between Sepp Blatter, president of FIFA, and Malcs...

Sepp Blatter (top) and "Uncle" Malcolm (bottom)

Anyway, this visit coincided with Ally's job interview in Sydney but that's, well, just a coincidence. Under this pretext, Malcolm smoothly moved from the topic of tax evasion, political economics and global currency exchanges to playing fitba every Saturday for the Over 35s at Linfield. He even cited the fact that a former Rangers player and living legend, Dave Mitchell, used to play.

How did he know I supported Rangers, eh? Answer me that one. Good bit of insider research done there, perchance? Seonaid nodded on encouragingly saying buzz phrases such as "it's great" and "brilliant fun", whilst looking at Ally expectantly throughout. Ally nodded, thinking, hmmm - probably serious stuff. My football days are over. I'll stick to running. But Jenny said "yes that'd be great. You like football, don't you, Ally?"

"Yes, I do," said Ally. Ally then took the next flight home to Oakhill.

Tarun
Tarun is officially my best mate in Oz. Not only that, him and I make up the coach and management duo of the U'7s. How did I meet this soccer Guru and all round good egg? Goes like this. Brrring Brrring went my phone.

"Hello. I'm Tarun".

"Hello I'm Ally. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Tarun."

"Ah right . You said."

Massive pause as Glasgow meets London in Sydney.

"Melissa tells me you want to play O35s football."

"Melissa? Who's Melissa?"

"My wife."

"Oh. Nice. Does she play football?"

"No. She said Jenny told her you wanted to play football.."

"Oh."

Local adverts Australia is different from Britain in many ways. For example, it advertises Mangos in a pseudo erotic manner.

It has a very sensible Prime Mininster with grey hair and a reasonably sized belly, plus it's got Dame Edna. We have Des O' Connor and Sonia; it has loads of Abos and Kangaroos, some of which have very large goolies indeed, and no, I don't just mean the Abos.

It also knows how to market its local football team. Other countries bidding for the World Cup might as well give up now. While if you lived in Oakhill you might be loosely aware of the the local football team. If you live in Wahroonga you cannot fail to have the mighty Tigers shoved in your face. There're banners across railway tracks. Signs at traffic lights, centre page spreads in the papers and a collection of mothers screaming at you"what?! you're not in the Tigers ? what's wrong with you?"

There are 80 teams in the club. Yep, 80 teams. From embryo' s all the way up to over 90's - men and womens. They have BBQ's at every match, car park attendants, ambulances and live camera crews at the ready. They have a scary president, who gives offical addresses and talks about his annual turn over of 500,000 dollars! To not be doing footie on a Sturday morning means you're an outcast from society.

Jenny was the first person I met who alerted me to the Tigers, your honour.

Dad
An inspirational comment from my dear old daddy. "You're a bit long in the tooth for football are you no' ,boy?"

Whilst nursing fractured ribs and a slipped disc I did momentarily think he might be right.

Note: my dad is Jenny's father-in-law.

Father-in-law
Note - this guy is Jennys' dad and therefore is Jenny with facial hair... give or take a few vital organs etc. Don't think she likes licorice much, either but she is a fan of lasagne.

"I'm thinking of playing football"

"Great. You're good at that, aren't you?"

"Er no. Not really. Might start off in Division four."

"Oh, work your way up to the Division 1?"

"Eh. Don't know about that."

"Well a player of your qualities, Alasdair, can't be kept back."

U7's parents
Having just returned that very morning from a week in San Diego, I agreed to miss William's football grading and stay at home looking after Tom whilst recovering from jet-lag.
An hour later I receive a call from Jenny.

"I've just nominated you as coach for the U7s team."

"Urggh. What do you mean?"

"Do you want to be coach?"

"Urgh. What day is it. Where am I.?"

"Just say yes. Everyone says you'll be great."

"Urghh. ok."

What's she on about now? Coach? Back to sleep for me. Phone goes again ten seconds later.

"Ally. Tarun here."

"Mate."

"Boss, you mean."

"Eh?"

"You're coach; I'm manager"

"What?!"

"Jenny nominated you as coach, I seconded and Melissa nominated me as manager and Jenny seconded."

"Eh"

"What? I'm really coach?"

"Yes, mate. Talk tactics later."

Jas
Me old fave mate and defender extraordinaire from Somerset. Advisor, councellor and general solid chap.

"Central midfield for you, matey."

"Noh, I'm a defender."

"Honestly midfield. Even Jenny agrees."

Incidentally, I met Jas through Jenny being friends with his wife Suzie.

William
"I hate football, dad. I want to do dancing".

I said "gulp."

With this light-hearted ditty at the back of my mind, I joyfully took William along for his first football grading with the Tigers.

His experession was something between a man facing a firing squad and someone who'd just started hand writing twenty copies of the bible. I vowed I'd give him a four week stint and if he didn't like it then he'd be out. I'd get him to sign something saying "my dad took me to football when I was wee but I didn't like it and I forced him to stop taking me. The fact I now have no mates and can't talk footie down the pub or at work with the lads is completely not his fault."

Anyway, did he do me proud or wot? The guy ran his nads off , chasing everything, even decked someone (for which I reprimanded him later but just like I would, he said it was accidental).

Getting him home he wanted to practice football. I nearly died. We did shots together, we did headers, we did Rangers winning the cup.

I was the proudest dad in the continent! Then he comes in and declares to the family, "I love football".

The double highlight for me was when he said he'd like me to be coach..

OK , so you've heard the case...Now these are my chief suspects...

Let me summarise for you.

There's the Malcolm and Seonaid combo, relations of JENNY. Sponsored by Sepp Blatter and advocates of Saturday afternoon trips to local hospitals.

There's my father-in-law, who just happends to be JENNY's dad. With his "Go for it Alasdair. You're good at football" attitude.

Then there's me top old matey, Jas. Who reckoned I could be a midfield maestro. JENNY is best mates with Suzie, Jas's wife.

There's JENNY, who thoroughly enjoys kit washing and affirmed I would be playing football to Seonaid and Malcom, most of the population of Sydney, Wahroonga Tigers coaching staff and friends and family back home.

William: Forcing dad (husband to JENNY) to lead by example and steer him away from a career of Swan Lake and demi plies.

And then dear old dad, JENNY's father-in-law, who commented about my age and abilities making me think I need to prove him wrong.

Well, m' lord. I have heard the evidence. I see the Grant family have changed enormously due this football thing. Jenny has been clearly influencial in every aspect of Ally's endeavours. Indeed one might argue, the poor man had no choice but to play football at least three times a week. However, he also apparantly has no choice but to watch Coronation Street three times a week but he does not.

I therefore find guilty...

Ally

Cos if he didn't like footie he bloody well shouldn't be playing it.

I sentence you to a life of cutting the grass, miscellaneous trips to chiropractors, physios and various other expensive medical treatment centres.

Hanging my head low. I have to agree....

It's all my fault.

'Cos I am fitba' crazy!

Visionary

Inspired by last years Glasto, I’ve been wearing my new spectacles recently. Well, they’re not new exactly. I bought them in March last year but they’re sort of new in the way that you might have a shirt that you bought in America eight years ago that you’ve never worn until one Saturday morning and someone, like your wife, says,

“Is that a new shirt?”

You have a slow think then reply firmly,

“Yes.”

“Oh. Where did you get it?”

You then have to think again. Where did you actually get it? Think it was Macys. No, that’s not right, it was JC Pennys. No, maybe the Burlington Coat Factory.

Not wanting to be wrong you say, “Dunno, love, somewhere in America.”

“What? In America? but we moved back from there 8 years ago.”

“Hmmm. Yeah. So?”

“Well, it’s not exactly new then, is it?”

“But I’ve never worn it before.”

Seemingly a lot of us men are in the “best not use that now as I don’t really need it right now, I’ll save until I really, really need it” category. Often this turns in to a period of a few months or in normal cases, ten years. Bit like my Uncle Jimmy’s collection of antique tinned hams and potted meats. I’m sure he’d have made a fortune on the Antiques Road Show:-

“Well, I do declare I’ve never see such a tin of spam before. If you look at the print at the back there...”

“Aye.”

“It’s hand written in dog blood.”

“Aye.”

“Well, that type of ink was used widely at Marks and Spencer’s in the early 1920s.”

”Aye.”

“Do you have any idea of it’s worth. Have a guess.”

“Och, it’s about two pound twenty three pence for 500g from Marks in Inverness.”

“No. I’ve got news for you. You’re wrong. A tin of ham that old, in such pristine condition, 80 years past its sell by date would fetch you …"

The audience gasp...

"Five pence.”

Women, on the other hand, tend to rip right in and cannot contain themselves with excitement when they buy something new, just like you with a fresh four pack of beer. Often they don’t even make it out of the shop, they must put on their new shoes, frilly knickers or fashionable head scarf immediately.

So, my glasses are pretty much in that vague category of manly new-ness. But they’re not totally new like the shirt ‘cos I’ve sort of dabbled with wearing them now and then at night time. Sort of sneak previews, break the family in gently sort of thing. So, maybe they’re not officially new at all.

Anyway, I’ve started wearing them kind of occasionally. Yep, I know I’ve said that already but I’m wearing them a bit more than I used to. So, it’s in the more occasionally stage but not quite regularly and nowhere near full time. I might do that when I hit like fifty eight or something or maybe seventy when I’ve given up football completely or I’m dead. Or which ever comes first, I suppose. Won’t need them much in a coffin. Mind you, do the myopic dead lose their specs? You know how people can look very odd with their specs off? Maybe they’re allowed to keep them on. Especially if people want to have a quick look at the body before it goes under. You can imagine they wouldn’t want friends and family seeing them for the last time not looking their best. They’d be mortified.

Usually there are whisperings like,

”Oh, she looked so at peace, with a gentle smile on her face.”

Instead you’d hear, “The auld man looked well weird withoot his specs on.”

Now, my glasses are the doggies – at least on paper. They’re the latest designer look from last year. Let me think now, who is it?…ahh Georgio Armani. Good, eh? Cost about 400 smackers. Wow. Should be able to see for miles with that sort of money. They’ve got a Georgio Armani case and a Georgio Armani wiper cloth thing, so it’s all top nicker.

But just like having a set of Ping golf clubs and being crap at golf, they’re not really working.

Everything takes on this curvaceous sort of look, but it’s not sexy at all. I go to pick up a pen and I miss by two inches. I try shaving and lose three pints of blood, cups of tea end up down my neck and horror of horrors, I can’t watch the footie without thinking everyone’s doing banana shots. I can live with this in an uncontrollable way, although driving can be quite thrilling. Still, that lampost needed moving and so did next door neighbours pot plants. Such a shame about Rover, well I did toot the horn. They’d be better off with a cat anyway.

More importantly to a vain man of the 60’s, are my looks. My eyes appear, I think, well I don’t know for definite, do I ? ‘cos I’m looking through the glasses to see what I look like and that might well give the wrong impression. But it certainly looks to me like my eyes have shrunken in size to that of a gerbils or maybe a mole who’s had a very bad nights kip. I’m a cross between one of the Kray twins and Buddy Holly, with a dash of Ronnie Corbett.

The kids are terrified but are quite subtle in their ways of hiding it. Usually they’ll bring the topic up over cereal:-
Pause in munching, “Why are you wearing glasses, daddy?” enquired Katy.

“They help me see, sweetie.”

“Oh.”

Munching continues.

“Can you not see without them daddy?” asked William.

“No, son. Unless I wear my contact lenses.”

“But why don’t you wear them then, daddy” asked Katy.

“Oh, it’s not good to wear contacts all the time.”

“Oh.”

Munch on.

“That’s a shame.”

“Hmmm. Why?"

“Oh, nothing, really.”

“Do you have to wear them outside?”

“Hmm. Could do.”

“It’s just someone might see you”

“What do you mean, Katy?”

“Nothing” desperately trying to back paddle. “They might not recognise you.”

Katy is becoming super smart with excuses and off the cuff thinking these days. I glance at her, or maybe it was William, and think aww, when she was a wee baby, I wouldn’t have had such a remark. Aww, those were the days. She’d probably just’ve farted, puked and then screamed the house down. Tom goes for the direct approach, points at me and gurgles “silly daddy”.
William, being a supportive brother says, “yes, they look a bit funny, daddy.”

“You just need to get used to seeing daddy wearing them”, Jenny attempts to smooth the waters but her smile is a tad too wide for my liking and I’m sure she spluttered on her next spoonful of honey nut cornflakes.

I feel a bit gutted.

The matter is drawn to a close by Katy, “you look really great daddy."

My spirits instantly rise, “aww, thanks, Sweetie. That’s nice of you to say so.”

“But I think you look even better wearing contact lenses.”

“Best buy some” laughed Jenny.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Oh, and darling?"

“Yes?”

“Make sure they’re new.”

Christmas is coming

I used to love the run up to Christmas me, I did. The freezing cold frosty mornings, nose pressed hard against John Menzies front window, gawping at the toys I dreamed of, the sheer excitement and anticipation of what I might get. Playing games during work hours at school, throwing booby trapped snowballs at neighbours windows then fleeing through crunching snow in case they saw me or worse still caught me and gave me a good doing.
Then there was the great day itself; getting up at two in the morning to see if Santa had been, rushing in my mum and dad’s bedroom, without even knocking, heart a pounding and shouting:-

“Look, dad, I got football boots!”

“Urrgh go away, boy.”

“Tam, that’s not nice. Happy Christmas, pet.”

“Happy Christmas mum and dad!.”

“Dad, can you tie them up for me?”

“In the morning son, in the morning.” Dad’s voice was a cross between an android and a bin full of cabbage.

I’d invariably open all the presents at once, ignoring “to” and “from” labels, assuming everything was for me and then gorge myself on tangerines and Texan bars.
Big sis would come in at about 6:00 am then start howling as I’d made such a mess and ruined all her presents.
Undaunted, I’d put on my new Scotland strip and wait for the stone deaf combo of granny and Uncle Angus to come for dinner and Subbuteo. Those were the days. Christmas was all about me and getting; no hassles, no worries.

When I became a married man it all changed. Christmas became a time for running up and down the M6. Oh yes, those futile attempts to keep everyone but me happy. Occasionally, we’d host the event in an effort to resolve this. We’d realise every time that Great Uncle Archibald in Aviemore or Auntie Wendy in Wales hadn’t made it and hoof it up the road again. Arrangements were always a nightmare.
“Awwww, but we went to your parents last year. We’re always going there.”

“No we’re not. Don’t you like my parents?”

“Of course I do. Just think we should go to mine for a change.”

“What do you mean? We’re always seeing your parents.”

She then presents a list of all the times you’ve seen them over the year. As usual, it turns out to be 30 minutes more than she’s seen hers. Therefore, it’s only fair that we go to them for Xmas. As usual you agree as you’ve got other things to think about.

With kids, it’s even harder to please. All want to see them and their look of Christmas wonderment on their expectant chocolate Santa faces. By the end of a Christmas holiday you’re knackered. What’s worse you’ve been forced to take a week off work using precious holiday when the weather is crap. I’d campaigned long and hard for Christmas in summer, so at least you can get out and about in the sun, or even the rain. Failing disastrously with that approach, I decided to shove the job and move the family to Sydney. And so here I am, looking forward to my first hassle-free Christmas in years.

No family, well apart from Jenny’s cousins twenty minutes away but they’re cool as she’s Scottish and he’s got a Blackadder DVD box set. Oh, and her sister is 90 minutes up the motorway but apart from that and their four kids, well and the cousins who’re In Melbourne and Jenny’s Uncle and Auntie who are visiting relations in Canberra, there’s absolutely no one we’re expected to see or places we should be. Bliss. I love Christmas me, I do.

Mind you, it’s pretty weird this hot weather stuff in December. It’s 35 o C here today and everyone’s sweating like a beast, especially Santa. Our local Wahroonga village day had the sweatiest Santa I’d ever seen, even without any scantily clad elves in sight. He could hardly get a Ho ho ho out without dripping buckets. In the end he’d given up both on festive good will and his beard which sagged exponentially with temperature. He grumpily handed out melted lollipops to the kids in between brow mops.
Taking a pause in licking, the ever philosophical William asked, “Is he the real Santa, Daddy?”

I looked swiftly to Jenny to see if I had confirmation to tell white lies. Her eyes nodded.

“Err, no son. Remember, Santa was born in Glasgow. This guy is just one of Santa’s helpers. You know how busy he is. He’s probably in Myers in Sydney right now.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, son?”

"What does shove it up your ass mean?”

”What! Don’t you ever say that again! Errr, by the way, where did you hear that, son?”

“You know, dad, when Santa was holding the mic on stage then the Town mayor and the policemen took it and helped him to get down. You know, just before he spilled his beer over the speakers and they went all smokey.”


So, there we were wandering about the town centre in shorts and t-shirts, Christmas carols blasting in the background whilst eating ice-creams. Bizarre. And get this, people are hoping for a very hot Christmas. None of this snowy rubbish for them. Makes you wonder though, Bing Crosby could never have cracked Oz with “White Christmas”, could he? It’d be more like “I’m dreaming of a bloody hot Christmas. Just like the one the year before. Where barbies glisten and beer is drunken and birds float round in revealing swimwear.”

I must admit, I’m a bit worried about my first Oz Christmas dinner. Seemingly you can do a full turkey and trimmings, (I’ve even got a dealer who can get me sprouts) but only if you’re nuts. It’s true, traditional Crimbo dinners are only for families who are a sausage short of a six pack or have air conditioning that’s very expensive indeed.

It’s just not the done thing. You’re supposed to have some prawns on the barbie and some fresh fruit. What?!!!! Fresh fruit? Prawns? Are they mad? That’s far too healthy. I want some heavy pudding, I want some turkey. I want some of those sausagey things with bacon wrapped around them and I want stuffing. Actually, a lot of people say that to me. I want the Queen’s speech and I want to be asleep dribbling in my armchair by 4:15 pm clutching a glass of port, wearing my Santa hat at a jaunty angle. I want snow, I want ice, I want misery, I want The Two Ronnies, I want a traffic jam on the M6. I want to see rellies that I don’t want to see.

I want a good old fashioned British Christmas. What am I going to do?

Random mutterings

Well folks, it's been a flurry of activity over the last four weeks. So much has happened that there's no way I can do this bloggo thing every weekend. Far too busy for that. So instead of "weekly wonders" it might well become "random wonders" or "annual wonders" or "wonders when I bloody well feel like them." Thing is, I'm trying to write a book, get a column and construct a play at the mo. Then there's the whole job thing. Major inconvenience. Takes up the best part of the day. A wise man once said to me, "it's a question of priorities." This is totally correct. Very wise. Very unhelpful.

Right, let me think now, last time I wrote about family stuff was my birthday week. Which means I missed the end of November and start and middle of December i.e four full weeks. Ooooh doesn't time fly?
Some snippets that come to mind...William's been a very good boy, doing super trooper at school and, if I may be so bold, seems to be maturing somewhat. Becoming a tad more sensible, respectful and other adjectives one would like to describe one's eldest son by.


Examples? Hmmm. Tricky. Doing what he's told at the third time of asking, rather than not at all. Take the other day's breakfast,

"William can you put the Coco pops away, please?"

"I've got spelling today, dad."

"Right, nice one son. Can you put the Coco pops away, mate?"

"Kamran's got Pokemon cards."

"Yep, right, William. Can you put the Coco pops away?"

"Are the trains running on time today dad?"

"William just put the Cocoa pops away."

"Dad?"

"Arrrgh. Yes, son?"

"Why do you always ask me to do things three times?"

He's been getting bronze and silver certificates at school now. They're super big on praising the kids here, really focussing on good work that they do and making sure it's rewarded. Katy has done super well too and scaled the dizzy heights of getting into the school band. On flute.
I'm proud of them both for settling in so quickly in a new school, with new kids, in a new country, half way through the academic term. Wouldn't fancy it myself, so hats off to 'em, I say!

I remember very well William's first day when he was introduced to two of his new class buddies who were tasked to look after him. He'd been pretty upset about the whole going to school thing right up to the point where he met those guys. I was worried he would collapse in a pool of self pity and come over all wimpy in front of them and be the class soft lad. Not a chance! With his back to them he wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, turned round then looked them straight in the eyes and shook their hands. There was no way on earth he was going to appear wimpy to them.

Tom happily continues to eat his way around the day care centres of the world in the way that oblivious two year olds with no clue where they are or what they are doing can do. At the moment he's super big on Vegemite sandwiches. That's Oz equivalent of marmite. He's also thoroughly enjoying screaming hysterically every night in bed. And who can blame him? What with possoms and cockroaches snoring their heads off all around him, under sweat box conditions, I feel much the same way.

All three are swimming like beasts - having swimming lessons on a Saturday morning then hours of practice duting the week. We're talking kids in pool for four hours plus. Right enough generalisation.

List of random specifics starting from now - been promoted (no extra salary -I'm so laid back now I couldn't be bothered to ask), putting out eight patent applications (wooohooo! One of the main objectives career wise for coming here) Jenny set up new bunting company, my mate's wife has cancer (gulp but hopefully ok), Santa at the village fete was disgracefully sweaty and rude, temp is 35oC, re-started keep fit regime after 4 weeks rib convalescing was up - took it easy by running Monday, Tuesday; golf wednesday; work footie Thursday then proper footie on Sunday. Hurrah!

Then...Disaster! Did my back in after 3 minutes and am out for rest of year (arrrrrrrrrrgh), doesn't feel festive at all as far too hot, concern over sprouts. Wonder if I should change career and become technical writer. St Andrews day was a non-event, caramel wafers aside. Concern I've still got no mates here. Miss my mates from back home and can conclude that OZ would be super fanatstic if they all lived here. Without them it's just fantastic. Found the best park in the world ever. It's in West Pymble. Going to Kylie next week - Jen at Billy Joel tonight. Had day off work as couldn't stand. Boss took us out for curry lunch to celebrate birthdays, and St. Andrew's day (coolio or wot!). Had first poor quality barbie - sausies burst but luckily it was just for kids and after a few pints of coke they didn't even notice, still nasty surpise as I'd thought I was becoming skilled in the trade.

Right let's pick one from the list....What d'ya fancy?

Actually, don't think I'll bother as I'm editing this two weeks late.

I'll start a new blog covering this week.

Honest.

I will.

Really.

I'm going to do it right now...

Thinking of M & T & family.

Skype

When you're miles away overseas, like in a tent in Afghanistan or in a mid-terraced house in Glasgow, you might find Skype incredibly useful. And it is. More or less. For those of you who don't know what it is, I'll briefly enlighten you. It's an internet web cam thingy that allows you to call other Skype users. You have the option to text them live or make one-to-one direct "phone"calls all from the comfort of your home computer. And get this, it's free. Yep, totally free. Well, apart from having to buy a web cam and headphones with mic. Oh, and a computer if you don't have one, and err, broadband internet helps as well. Best to go for a top of the range monitor and cam too so you and your co-chatter can look as beautiful as possible. You might also want to get a man round with a PhD in astro physics for the installation. As I say, it's totally free.

All of this is fine and dandy. In no time you'll be chatting away to friends and family around the globe.

Despite this, some people are really anti-Skype...



Why is that, I wonder? Don't they have friends and family in far off places? don't they like having every Sunday rammed full of Skype appointments? don't they like new technology? don't they like free things, even if they're a bit rubbishy some times?

You see, just like everything else in life, Skype can have some failings, technical hitches if you like, that is no fault of the system, more to do with the users inability to get his act together...

Things that can go wrong are usually visual: best mate looks a bit fuzzy; best mate is tiddly and thinks the desk lamp is the camera; best mate doesn't realise you are there and is screaming obscenities about "bloody Skype" or even worse sitting in his pants scratching his nads. Whatever the event you will spend the majority of your Skype time talking about Skype issues. A typical conversation goes along the lines of :-

"Yo bro is that you, mate?"

"Yes, mate. Is that you, bro?"

"Yes, mate."

"I can't hear you very well."

"Oh, I can hear you ok. You're a bit fuzzy, mind you. Have you been drinking?"

"What was that?"

"I've only got half an hour - going out with the kids."

"Eh? Aye, what's the weather like?"

"I'm just adjusting the camera." The camera, which hangs on the monitor with a pubic hairs worth of plastic, invariably falls "down the back" somewhere. You keep talking anyway, even though you can't be heard. Skype doesn't worry about such minor details. After several delicate attempts trying to rebalance it you hit it repeatedly with a hammer. This severe deformation has worked in your favour, creating a ledge of bruised plastic which fits perfectly around the edge of your monitor.

"Aye, its raining here."

"Oh, it's roasting here."

Then someone will come into the room. Actually, it's usually about nine people and they will all push in for a camera slot, make silly faces and wave like loonies. They'll all then start to rabbit at once, leaving you with nothing to say but...

"It's really hot here" or "it's raining"

At least two people will get behind the web-caster and do rabbit ears whilst mouthing the word "wanker". Which, to be fair, is usually mildly amusing, just a bit disturbing to see your Granny and Grandad doing it.
Before you know it, your half hour is up.

"Right. Great to see you, bro. I'll give you a wee Skypo back next Sunday, ok?!"

"Aye that'd be great, mate. Brilliant talking to you!"

And that's the funny thing, it doesn't really matter what you say. In fact one of the best conversations I had recently was with my brother-in-law and a dead mic. [Microphone that is, not my mate Mike. He's not dead or anything like that. Well, at least he wasn't last time I Skyped him]. I had to hold up bits of paper which said witty things like "you look like a girl" and "can you go away please I need the toilet". He managed to waffle on in monologue with me in stitches as he gave me abuse about everything from my hair to my taste in socks. I responded with silent wit and charm. It's amazing how many times one can show ones buttocks and give the vicky to a web cam and still get a laugh.

You see, it's being in touch that counts. Which, when all said and done, makes Skype well worth the pain.

Howler of a birthday

Monday was my birthday. Hip-hip hoooray! One more year until the dreaded big four zero. Gulp. Need to be successful by then or at least semi-retired. Hmmm could be tricky. No chance of a scout catching me at the mo and turning me into the oldest proffessional footballer in Australia, due to my girlie rib injury. Which means I've even less time. Right, let's forget footie and think of something else. There's always the guitar. Problem there is my tuner is hidden in one of the five hundred boxes of shipping in the garage that arrived four weeks ago. Time I find that, I'll be well past it. Need new strings as well. Then there's the time factor too. What with working, kids and barbequeing there's barely a moment to watch Setanta.

Anyway, as I say, the week started off well with my birthday. It was on a Monday, as most weeks tend to begin that way. Half thought I should take the day off, partly to avoid any possibility that I might be given a cake ceremony at work. These are well embarrassing from what I've seen so far. As twenty zombie over-qualified, under acheiving scientists stare blankly at a large round chocolate cake as if they're expecting it to get up and dance but know as a matter of fact it won't, the knife is raised by the red faced birthday boy or girl and my boss jovially bellows the instructions "you've got to cut that in 23 and a half equal pieces you know, mate." To which everyone continues to stare blankly. The trembling cake cutter invariably makes a complete dogs dinner of it and the cake is passed round solemnly in a crumbling mess. The boss then tries a joke like "who saw the golf at the weekend?" to which no-one replies. This witty repartee goes on for around thirty minutes, covering questions from most sports, TV programmes, current affairs and politics before he announces "Well that was great. Happy birthday once again, blah blah." Everyone then moves slowly and silently out of the room. So, I'd quickly come to the conclusion that there's no way I'm suffering that humiliation on my birthday - party pooper or not. Which you might think is sound and you'd do the same or perhaps you think it's a most miserable approach to take. In either case that's your plate of onions. After all, it's my birthday not yours, so there. Don't think it's a soft option, it's a blooming hard job trying to avoid your boss and fellow colleagues all day who might just spring the whole cake thing on you at any moment. I was on tenderhooks throughout, (apart from a very nice lunch with Jenny in Balmain - Singapore noodles are tops) like a paranoid bunny about to face the firing squad but not sure just quite when. A surge of relief overwhelmed me at quarter to four as I knew I was safe - some people leave at four, cake ceremenoy takes at least twenty minutes. Logic innit?

Skipping home with a lah de dah de dah I arrive to a super spread prepared by the kids - think Jenny might have helped too. There was authentic British cuisine - caramel wafers, Tunnock's teacakes, wotsits, twiglets and those shrimp crisp things, can't remember what you call them but you know the ones I mean. They sort of melt in your mouth after about half an hour then you wonder if it was actually a crisp you'd popped or a lump of fishy polystyrene. Grillicious.


My right hand chef man, William, disclosed his secret of making sprinkle bread - namely "take a bit of bread, dad, put butter on it and then throw on lots and lots and lots of sprinkles. " He paused to think if there was anything else. Then concluded, "then you can eat it". After a proper cake cutting and eating event, we decided it was time for a bit of kitchen dancing. Katy took over as resident DJ. She's a smart girl and insised she put on music daddy liked i.e none of that Mika or High school musical rubbish that's going round and round my head these days. No, no. She put on the all time best band in the world ever, The Cult. What a girl. Only eight as well, tremendous potential. All started off decorously, William and Tom headbanging, Jenny hopping from toe to toe and me swinging Katy around, highland dancing stylee. Fantastic. I then dimmed the light slightly and awaited the next track. "I'll just turn it up a bit", said Katy. "Good idea!" I encouraged as we waited with anticipation in the darkened room. What should come on but She Sells Sanctuary (Howling mix). Ya beauty! For those shamefully not aware of this musical masterpiece from 1985, it starts off with a pack of wolves howling at the top of their voices. A spooky silence enveloped the room as the wolves howled up. I looked at Tom who had his head thrown back, mouth wide open. He was at that brief silent stage of screaming where babies transfer all their energy to their tonsils. It only lasts a millisecond or two whilst you consider if they're actually alive but then all senses meet at the tonsil interchange. Boy, can they let rip. Screamed the whole place down, he did, bawling his eyes out. Despite desperate pleas from the birthday dad to calm down and assurances that "it'll be the heavy metal drum beat in a minute, son", before I knew it The Cult had rudely been thrown off and replaced by...wait for it...blooming Mickey Mousey Mika. Disaster.

Got some great presents, mind you. An inflatable boat from the kids for the swimming pool - aye, aye captain; Kings of Leon CD; a handy travel clock (which I'm going to set to UK time to confuse everyone) and joy o' joys, a Sat nav system for my car. Not that I needed one of course, as I have a masterly sniffer dog instinct for getting aorund places. Especially in the dark. Just ask Jenny, hmm and my boss and hmmm Derek and, well a few others. That's not the point. It's a family thing, isn't it, Sat nav? Everyone's got one these days. I'll never be late or lost again! Hurrah!

It was only on my third lap round the block as I searched for Tarun's house that I realised one of the minor flaws with sat nav. You need to know where you want to go. It's true. Typing in "My mate Tarun's house" just doesn't work. It's blooming useless if you don't know the address. I was sure I knew the way there - I'd passed it once for the first time only four weeks ago. And with a memory like mine, how could I possibly not find it? Running over thirty five minutes late, with the sun sinking rapidly and Tom showing signs of repetitive scenery boredom, I bit the bullet and went as low as a man can possibly go. I pulled in and called Tarun for directions. Yep. It was that bad. As I looked out the passenger window, I could see him waving and grinning at me from his living room window whilst politely enquiring why I'd driven past three times already. I emphatically switched the sat nav off and came to one clear conclusion. I must be getting old.

Still, it's not been a bad week. Avoided the cake at work, Diego didn't hammer us - a very respectable one-nil defeat to the Argies and I've discovered my new sport. Rowing.

Inflatable boat in the pool has almost literally gone down a treat. A great big splashy bundle of laughs with Katy, even if my buttocks are hanging out the side. I'm teaching her all I know. We've just about mastered the art of sitting in it together without drowning. Hmmm.

There's a thought. That Steven Redgreave geezer. He must've been about forty when he won twenty olympic medals.

I could do that. And I've got more hair than him.

Maybe I'll be a success after all.