Chocolate!

Originally Published 30th May 2018

Cheerful things full of cheerfulness today. We took the boys for a mooch about at Cadbury World and a fairly funky time was had by all – the tone of the day was set by George who, before we’d even left the street, had screamed CHOCOLATE! at the top of his voice, for no other reason than he was excited. Knob.

Traffic was a bit shit on the motorway but we arrived with a few minutes to spare before the allotted kick off time. Because I’m a mong in a wheelchair we were awarded yellow wristbands, which means we don’t need to wait in queues like other people – “Mong coming through, move please.” I’ve got no idea why I’m awarded prizes wherever I go but it’s cool. “Oh, your leg fell off, here’s a wristband to get you to the front of the queue, that’ll obviously help no end“.

The first part of the tour teaches the history of Cadburys and it’s really quite interesting. The boys couldn’t give a rats ass about the development of Bourneville but I thought it was dead good. I like a bit of history though. It was fascinating to learn about how advanced Cadburys were and how they made a point of looking after their staff. It’s ironic that this is taught in a virtual shell of a factory that was once full of employees. Kraft, the American owners of Cadburys laid off 300 staff and replaced them with machines, they also closed other factory’s and moved production to Poland (naturally) and in so doing, ruined the legacy of Cadburys who actually wanted to treat their staff well at a time when other employers were treating them like shit. The price of progress [and profit] eh, shame.

The tour [not sure why it’s called that, as you’re left to your own devices] includes a few videos but it’s mostly a question of wandering about to look at stuff, it’s great! The boys enjoyed the armfuls of chocolate they were given during the tour [they came away with 16 full bars of chocolate freebies] and they also loved the 4D cinema and the various interactive features.
We spent a good couple of hours in the factory, it would have been double that had it not been honking with rain as we had planned to take a picnic so we could munch while the boys enjoyed the extensive play areas outside, best laid plans and all that…

My yellow wristband was only employed twice, the first was when Chris took the boys onto the train-ride-thing, and the second was at the 4D Cinema. The first occasion caused some bint in the queue to object, she wasn’t happy that the mong family Robinson were pushing in and wanted to know why, “So If I had a wristband could I push in as well then?”, she said in a sarky voice. The staff member in front of her simply said “yep” and carried on. “Oh, okay” she said… she clearly isn’t well versed in the way of the blood feud. Had that been me I’d have tattooed that blokes name onto my heart and would have kept it there until I’d destroyed him.

For once I didn’t fall out with anyone! The staff were all excellent, really accommodating and not at all patronising and the other people who were there with us were all spot on. Parents reigned their children in, people waited patiently as the mong rolled past them and some even apologised for almost sitting on me. It was good. The only negative was some fat fatty fat fat who saw us coming out of the mong lift and decided that she and her fat kids could use it too because she couldn’t be bothered to use the stairs. Hmm… chocolate factory, can’t be bothered to use her legs, massively fat – she’s the reason the government treat us like knobheads. I know you can die from being fat and idle, and she will, today probably, assuming she got out of the lift okay, the bloater.

So anyway, on a completely unrelated note to the above, as we left the factory we popped into the shop and managed to spend £35 on chocolate and chocolate related products. I bought myself a Fathers Day mug [it says the man, the legend and is very cool] and somehow my gift to myself was usurped and it’s now a gift to me from the boys – what the fuck? I bought it myself! How the bollocking hell is it a gift from the squirts? At least go through the motions of taking them to the shop before buying me something ‘from them’ while they spend whatever money they’ve got on toys and comics. Talk about phoning it in!

We bought loads of stuff and will surely die from being fat very soon, It was fun though, very tasty and totally worth it.

Can anyone smell burning?

Originally Published 20th May 2018

Dramatic scenes at Perriwinkle towers last night as the house across the road decided to catch fire and burn down. We almost missed the drama because we were in the living room [the living room is at the back of the house] and were watching a film called ‘Detroit’, about the race riots in Detroit [surprisingly enough] it had just got to a noisy bit when we heard an odd noise, we assumed it was one of the boys and Chris went to check, returning about 2 seconds later shouting “the fucking house across the road is on fire!”… I’ve never transferred to my wheelchair faster, WOOSH, 2 seconds later we were at the door, mouth hanging open, watching someone’s life go up in flames.

The fire brigade were already on the scene when we opened the door and the noise we heard wasn’t Tom dropping a book but most of the roof falling down [they’re surprisingly similar noises] as we watched the house literally fell apart. The roof tiles nigh on melted inside 5 minutes, then the floors collapsed and the fire dropped to the first floor. All the while Trumpton were wandering about outside looking for all the world like they worked for the council. One bloke was on a hose and he was joined by another bloke. A bloke in a white helmet was mooching about talking into his radio and further up the street was another 20-25 firemen, helmets off, drinking tea – nice! At some point they decided to get the platform down, which is basically a fucking big crane-thing. A dude got onto the platform and shot off into the sky, he then poured water onto the roof from the top while his mate set about smashing the balls out of the rest of the house.

Tom had woken up by now [the platform was hugely noisy and was bang outside his bedroom window] so he was out and about with his mate next door, the pair of them were stood there, in their dressing gowns, looking like a pair of old women. We eventually hauled Tom inside because the boys were starting to get a bit excited and we noticed that the family whose life was burning down were just a few feet from them and we didn’t think it was very fair for them to have to put up with small boys laughing and playing like small boys do.
One or two people came down with their phones and stood there filming the misfortune of others and someone even brought a bag of chips and sat on a driveway enjoying the show. Pretty disgusting really, and I include myself because I was just as guilty. It’s drama, and we all love a bit of drama!

It hit home to us when we saw the kids crying. The family whose house was burning have two children and, naturally, they were distraught. Christine took them drinks and blankets [as did the lovely people next door] and more or less everyone on the street came in to use the toilet [some people even flushed, sadly a few didn’t…]
It all settled down around 1am and the Perriwinkle house caught some ZZZz’s. As I write this there’s a newspaper reporter sniffing about outside, collaring anyone who ventures near him. We refuse to speak to them after the shit they wrote about me but Chris has been told that matey outside has been asking where the bloke with one leg lives, the twat.

There are all sorts of theories as to what happened but the main thing is that everyone got out and nobody was hurt. It’ll all come out in the next few weeks and no doubt somebody somewhere will get blamed, be it the householders, the people who have just completed electrical checks or the developers [these houses are only 5yrs old] so long as no bugger blames me, i’ll cope… oddly, the first text I got this morning, at 0730hrs, was from my mate, Darren, who wanted to know if I’d been out petrol bombing – it’s shit like this that gets a bloke locked up! Keep it on the down-low, people. Repeat after me… Andy doesn’t burn down houses unless he has good reason. Thank you.

Later, people.

Dear Summer, I hate you

Originally Published 25th May 2018

I really don’t like this time of year. I know we’re all meant to be bouncing and happy and jolly because the nasty winter has finally buggered off but i’m not. Spring means the nights get lighter, it means the temperature goes up and it means people start coming outside to do stuff. It also means that the weather has a massive brainfart and does whatever the bloody hell it feels like doing. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, one minute it’s bright sunshine, the next it’s pissing down with rain. As I write this it’s pissing down with rain, but i’m going outside soon and will be wearing a T-Shirt and shorts, plus a rain coat.., it’s stupidness, nobody can honestly say they enjoy this shit, can they?

The lighter nights don’t mean anything to us as far as the children sleeping is concerned. I know some people struggle with the lighter nights but ours both sleep like logs and when they’re tired, they sleep. They both had a really solid bedtime routine when they were tiny, nothing got in the way of bedtime [if we were out, we came home] and the net result is that, come bedtime, they’re both almost desperate for bed. If we’re out [now they’re older the routine is more flexible] they’re fine, but if we’re at home, on a school night for example, then come 7:30pm and 8:30pm respectively, that’s them done and snoring ensues.
What I don’t like about the light nights are other people. The people who use the Leisure centre we live next to are generally noisier during the Summer, they’re a bit shoutier and because it’s still light[ish] at 10:00pm they seem to assume it’s daytime. Horns get honked, they shout fond farewells because they’re so fucking hilarious and all the time i’m wishing they’d just die.

Other people’s noise is the thing that annoys me most in life. I’m a very quiet person on the whole and don’t enjoy loud noises [George appears to have inherited that trait] so I get annoyed quite easily when the local knobhead turns up in the car park behind us in his 12yr old Vauxhall Nova, revving the balls off of it in a desperate attempt to impress someone, pumping out Bass that makes our windows rattle and generally behaving like a ball bag.
Sadly, wherever there’s a dickhead in a shit car, there’s a herd of bellends to impress. In our case it’s the Huncote massive. A collection of 14/15yr old hard nuts who swagger about as if they own the place. They stride around shouting big boy swear words at anyone who looks at them and sometimes they even threaten to beat up the old folk whose bungalows border the car park, it’s super to listen to on a sunny Sunday afternoon, when the Leisure Centre is closed. The local scrotes gather near the football pitches and spend the afternoon being twats, i’m sure they’re perfectly normal when they’re near mummy and daddy but put them with their mates and they become instant arseholes. They turn up in Winter but at least they’re cold and that makes it all much easier to cope with.

Chuck in barbecues and garden parties and you’ll complete my pain… I love a barbecue, if i’m invited and i’m more than happy to host a garden party [when I say “more than happy” I mean “have hosted one once in 30yrs, and it was okay”] but what I’m not happy with, surprisingly, is other people’s noise.
We once had Polish neighbours who would hold a family barbecue every-single-day of the summer and that’s no exaggeration. One of the in-laws would turn up with his guitar and would treat everyone within an 8-house-radius to a selection of Polish songs as he got slowly wankered on Vodka, they’d then whack the stereo on and would play the latest in Polish music, very loudly, until whatever time the Vodka ran out. They had kids in the same class as Tom and they’d often be bouncing on the trampoline at midnight on a school night and their favourite game was ‘let’s scream our fucking head off’. At bedtime there would be screams akin to a murder scene, we later discovered that Mum & Dad decided to remove the door handles so the kids were locked in their bedroom, 3 children in one room, no toilet and Mum and Dad enjoying a lie-in until Noon [even on school days] when we complained they accused us of being racist… lovely people.

Temperature wise, I don’t like anything above 24 degrees. That’s pretty much my limit. If it’s hotter than that it makes me sweaty and uncomfortable, so I tend to stay inside where it’s cool and only venture out when I absolutely have to.
I’ve been in a desert, I’ve been atop massive sand dunes in 50 degrees, and I’ve been firmly in the shit in some very shit places, but nothing compares to being too hot in my own back garden. Nightmare!

I know lots of people who don’t like Winter but for me, it’s the most wonderful time of the year. It’s cold [sometimes] and we all know where we stand when it’s cold. It rains a lot, which keeps the dickheads inside. There are no barbecues, far fewer footballs belted against fences, nobody is out and about so the old folk don’t get threatened, the local knobhead has nobody to show off to in his Nova and the Huncote massive are at home, playing board games with Mummy and Daddy. What’s not to love? Also – what happens in Winter? Halloween – awesome! Bonfire night – awesome and CHRISTMAS! – double-awesome!

So there we go. Roll on Winter, Perriwinkle for President!

Happy Holidays

Originally published 26th May 2018

It’s the first day of half-term today, which is brilliant. We love having the little blokes around and think this half-term is great because we can both spend time with them for a change. It’s usually just me as Chris has to work but if you spool back a few years the roles were reversed as I’d be out working in gardens while Chris took annual leave.


The weather has naturally decided to take a change for the worse. Gone are the lovely sunny days of the last week or two and we’re now enjoying lovely rainy grey days. We had planned to take the boys to a few places and are busily scrapping those plans, or at least are revising them so we have alternatives in place. A day trip to Skeg-Vegas was on the cards but that looks rather unlikely at the minute and has been switched for a trip to Cadbury World. We also had an idea to take the squirts to Tropical Birdland [they’ve been a few times before and love it, plus it’s cheap – cheep! – Birdland …I’m wasted here]

Monday sees the annual duck race in our village. For those not in the know, us residents have spent the last month trapping wild ducks using a combination of methods. My favourite is an old fashioned drop-trap. You simply position a milk crate over a pile of bread, support the crate with a stick and tie some fishing line to the stick. You scare the ducks away initially but they get brave once they see you leave the area and come to investigate the bread. You all know what happens next, duck pecks bread, I pull on fishing line, stick comes out, crate drops, one duck nicely bagged. We have a couple of duck-wranglers [yes, that’s a real thing] in the village, Fraser and Mitchell, they staple a numbered sheet onto the back of each duck and then attach a small firework.

The way it works is this, we all choose a number [paying a pound to do so] and the fireworks are lit, the ducks are released and the one that gets furthest before the firework explodes is declared the winner. The winner of the draw bags 10% of the money raised and gets first dibs on any bits of duck that they can find [excludes feet and mouths] it’s a lovely tradition, and dates as far back as the doomsday book. It’s quite amazing to think that they had chunderbum exploding bangers in the 14th century*, what a world we live in.

*Fact checking courtesy of my friend, Rebecca, who is a real History teacher in a real school.

That’s it, Bye.

Robin Hood made me Moist

Originally published, 22nd May 2018

Greetings, sports fans, I trust you’re all well and happy and all of that good stuff?

We headed over to the hospital in sunny Coventry earlier, it really was sunny as well. We were in and out like a fiddlers elbow today, Just one hour after walking [rolling] in, out we came. Arthur the leg is being a sodding genius now, he’s clearly fed up of having a hole and is healing it faster than Mr T could figure out that his milk was drugged and that he was in fact, getting on that plane, the fool.

We zoomed home in our trusty Picasso, we had to use the Picasso because my new wheelchair, designed for and delivered to me yesterday thank you very much, is too big to go into the other car, which is shit. Now I’ve got to save up and buy a new fucking car on top of whatever else it is I’ve got to save up for, I lose count to be honest. I’m in a permanent state of saving up. When I come back i’m coming back as a rich bloke.

Our afternoon was spent watching Tom in a school play – now that you’ve read that statement just take a pause and think about it. Think about what happened to us this afternoon. Give yourself a good 30 seconds of quiet contemplation before reading on, that way you’ll feel our pain and will be able to relate to what comes next – note – if you were at the performance and enjoyed it because your little ray of sunshine was so amazing, fuck off. You’re not normal and are not wanted here.

Don’t ask me why the school are putting on a school play in May cos I have no idea. In my day we wrapped a T-Towel around our head in December and that was it. As we got older we traded our T-Towel in for a shirt and tie and had to sing songs in church, but that was it, and it was in December, so everyone knew where they stood. It wasn’t in May, that’s just crazy.

The play was something about Robin Hood. I didn’t catch the actual title and didn’t hear 90% of the words spoken due to them being directed at shoes and because of the noisy toddler near us. I saw Tom prancing about though, he was a narrator and he also got to hold up a sign that said “Boo” from time to time, so that was nice [I love a good Boo] Towards the end of the sing-a-thon [Ten songs in a 45 minute show] some kid caught a pie in the face, it wasn’t explained why they pied him, they just did. He’d been one of the best kids up there so maybe the rest were jealous? Anyway, they pied his ass and that was the show over. The doors were opened, the stampede started and that was that, hopefully, until Christmas.

As it was only a few minutes before George was due out we hung about in the playground. George didn’t know I was going to be there so it was nice to get a big cuddle from him. I also got to enjoy the embarrassed looks on the faces of the adults I caught staring at my leg. I don’t care that I have a space where my leg used to be, I actually quite like it in fact and it’s a damn sight better than the bag of shit that used to be there, but I’d rather people just talk to me like a human being rather than trying to catch snide glances when they think I’m not looking.
The normal people, the people I consider to be friends, talked to me. They wandered over, shot the shit for a minute and then wandered off again, no big deal, happy days. The rest of them stood about 20′ away and shuffled nervously. You could tell they wanted to ask, but none could muster a bit of courage and come on over.
Our friend, Heather, informed me that she was a bit damp in her unmentionable area, it was super of her to tell me directly and whilst she claims to have been simply ‘sweating’ [lovely image that, Heather] I think we know the real truth.

The highlight of my day was not a trouble-free visit to the hospital, nor was it watching my first born son mincing about on stage. The thought of Heather going a bit giddy at my unannounced appearance pleased me greatly but the prize, the absolute cheese, was the discovery that the word MOIST sends women into apoplexy! Seriously they, and in particular, Heather, bloody hate the word, MOIST. I’ve no Idea why they hate MOIST so much, but apparently they do. Go figure.

So anyway, that was Tuesday.

Archives

Some of you may remember the posts written on the previous incarnation of this blog; a lot of the posts related to round trips to the hospital and were a total yawn-fest, they were the posts that convinced me to give up the blog in the first place, it was so dull writing about the same stuff day-in-day-out.

A website exists that allows the user to look back in time. It’s called the Wayback Machine (link opens in a new tab) and it takes you to previously stored versions of your favourite website. Not all pages are available but, in this case, I was able to salvage a fair number of posts.

I’ve weeded out the rubbish and the repetitive hospital posts and have plonked the others into the Archive section. If you want to see how utterly naïve I was prior to the amputation, that’s the place to go. For example, in one post I’m talking about what I expect to happen at the hospital, the things I’ll be taking in with me and so on – and it’s all horseshit – I thought I was going to be in for 7-14 days, the reality was 2 days, I thought I’d be starting physio and rehab whilst in hospital, the reality is that it took 4 months before I could even get an appointment, I thought I’d be using crutches whilst in hospital, the reality is that crutches are considered the Devil’s work (although they still gave me a pair and set me loose on them after 2 days in bed, and with zero training) …and so on. It’s quite eye opening.

Read them, don’t read them, it’s up to you, but they’re there anyway.

Guess who’s back…

I’ve decided to get back into this blogging malarkey because I sort of missed doing it, because Doris keeps giving me a hard time about not doing it and because, as you may remember, I’ll do pretty much anything for a quiet life or a bacon sandwich.

All kinds of things have changed since I last wrote anything but one thing that hasn’t changed is my ability to swear whilst I’m writing. I won’t ever drop the C-Bomb but everything else is fair game so with that in mind, Please don’t let children look at this site, it’s not intended for little blokes.

Also, if you’re the type to burst into tears at the slightest thing, do yourself a favour and bugger off now. My writing style is lazy, bordering on illiterate, and I generally write the way I speak. Take it all with a pinch of salt and we’ll be cool, start whining at me and we’ll fall out.

Right… let’s begin, good luck.

Andy