Anything, Anywhere But Under Sufferance

I was at the Driving Range the other evening, paying for my son and his friend to hit golfballs aimlessly about while Ian and I gazed on in the forlorn hope that we may get a turn (Out of 100 balls, I hit about 10). When our gentle practising was interrupted by the sound of a car being revved to high heaven and then spinning its tyres in the car park. Now, I'm pretty certain that the R&A in their laws of the game of Golf, suggest that revving a car engine while people are practising is pretty poor form and liable to a two stroke penalty. One with the club across your windscreen and the second seeing your putter wrapped around the idiot drivers head. I really don't understand this macho posturing in cars. There's so many ways to do it too. You can wind your window down and play music so loud that you frighten the wildlife, not just in your local town but often in Norway. You can rev your engine aggressively at traffic lights and glance across at someone else in the car n...

Here's a thought for you. I don't like alcohol very much. Let's not misunderstand this. I occasionally enjoy a cold beer (much rarer now since I've been asking the fat fairies to harvest the lard from my arse), a glass of wine or maybe, if pushed a Southern Comfort or nice Single Malt whisky. But I could quite happily give this up forever tomorrow. The problem is, I think, that I don't really understand the subtle differences that so many people witter on about. Let's start with wine for example. If you are particularly unfortunate, you may catch that god-awful irritating, plum-in-the-mouth frizzy haired bint, Jilly Goulden wittering on about "the bouquet of fresh Thyme and Mint echoing through the velvety undertone of Saffron Walden..." or some such nonsense... So I try it and think... "Umm... It's wine." That is my level of understanding. Wine comes in three flavours, Red (which is purple), White (which is yellow) and Rose (which is Pin...

Around a year ago, as I stood in the school playground, keeping myself to myself and wondering just how many people lack clothes in sufficient quantity to force them to come to school in pyjama's, yet still have enough smelly make up, perfume and hair products on to floor a herd of Bison at a distance of three miles, one of my children's teachers came up to me and asked if I would be interested in becoming a parent governor at the school. "Is this because I am a bit gobby?" I asked. Instead of just agreeing and saying "Well, no fecker else wanted to do it and you look miserable enough to possibly say yes..." she was very nice to me, so I agreed and filled in the forms and within a few weeks, I was at my first meeting with absolutely no idea what was going on or being said or why governmental agencies have multiple orgasms over using acronyms for absolutely anything. By my second meeting, I looked bewildered enough to be appointed Vice Chair after the current...

DAY SIX THE BEACH The following morning we had all risen from our beds, breakfasted and gone about our daily ablutions with the general acceptance that today was going to be a “rest day”. This is a euphemism which basically means that we don’t do any driving on that day and we stay sat on our arses doing stuff around the house, or in the gardens or down on the beach. This was supposed to be what the holiday was about for all of us. While holidays where you go to places and do all kinds of crazy things every day may appeal to some, we all lead such hectic lives (apart from me who 'sits on my computer playing all day') that sometimes we just want to get away from it all, and that included doing things. Rest was the byword for the week and it seemed like finally, today we’d all get the chance to unwind in our own differing ways. By mid morning it was fairly evident what this was going to entail for the majority. My Dad had his nose in Kris’s DS and was busy playing some form of ...

DAY FIVE CLIFDEN 11am In all the kerfuffle over Pepsi (who was now showing signs of great improvement) we had forgotten to go into Clifden the day before to look for a wetsuit for Kris. He had braved the bitter cold of the sea with Jess and Josh again the previous day but only briefly and my mum, seeing how the wetsuits Jess and Josh had allowed them to stay in the water a good while longer, decided that they’d pick one up for Kris. However Pepsi’s veterinary visit had taken precedence that day and for reasons of canine concern and general bone idleness (we were on holiday), Kris’s trip to the shop was postponed until this morning. My mum and dad went with him along with Alex. They gave the shop with the expensive wetsuits a wide berth and headed into the sports shop that had been closed on the Bank Holiday Monday and quickly found some wetsuits that were comparatively cheap at 40 Euro’s, which were still four times as expensive as the ones we bought in Keswick, but given the price ...

DAY FOUR CLIFDEN VETERINARY SURGERY : 11am After the best night’s sleep I’d had of the holiday I awoke to find Pepsi still looking very unhappy with life. Thankfully her retching had stopped, but she still showed no interest in eating anything and remained entirely listless and lethargic. Despite this small improvement in her condition, we were all in agreement that we needed to take her the vets. Jon, panic stricken, had already dug out the number of the nearest surgery in Clifden and my wife called and arranged an appointment at around quarter to eleven. Jon, by now, was beside himself with worry over Pepsi. He had grown incredibly attached to both her and my original dog Foxy as soon as we had got them. Foxy was my first dog, a rescued collie crossed with, what one can only assume was, as her name suggests, a fox. She was a very intelligent dog, soon learning how to open the back door with her paws, to let herself into the house. Her only problem was that she didn’t like being alo...

DAY THREE COTTAGE : 10am The first glimmer of light of the new day broke through the curtains of our bedroom at around 5am in the morning. We know that because at that time we had been woken by the sound of Pepsi getting ready to be sick again. We quickly let her out into the yard where she dry heaved before coming back in and slumping rather pitifully on her cushion. My wife had decided to let Cookie out to do her morning ablutions and during the time we were checking on the welfare of Pepsi, we had forgotten to keep an eye on the Yorkie, who was now nowhere to be seen. Throwing on a coat over her pyjama’s and sliding on her flip-flops, my wife ventured out into the weak morning sunlight to find out where the little terrier had disappeared to. She walked down to the foot of the garden before catching sight of Cookie, who was merrily racing along the beach having a rather fantastic time of it. My wife believes that when people are in bed, it is possible to shout at the dogs by whispe...