Beans means cricket

I'm in Cambridge today ahead of our inter-site company cricket match. I'm keeping one eye on the BBC Weather reports and the other on the banks of grey clouds rolling in. It looks gloomy, but the groundsman -- who I had a quick chat to at lunch time whilst he was preparing the track -- is confident that it will remain dry. I am less confident and reckon my trip over will be wasted. I have a feeling that come five o'clock it will be wetter than Elliot's over-night nappy.

The skill level, like most company and pub team games, will be mediocre to mixed. I had been looking forward to it until Tuesday night, when my practice session in the local nets was abysmal. I was terrible, even managing to bowl one ball over the nets and into a hedge. i.e. I bowled the ball about 12 feet too high. If I do that later, I'm going to be ashamed of myself, give a load of runs away, and generally be a laughing-stock. I've now put some pressure on myself to deliver, and my mindset has moved from "just enjoy the game" to "don't be a donkey".

At the same time as the self-induced pressure, I now see a big spread on our UK corporate intranet page, biggin' up the match and announcing that there is to be a cup awarded to the winning team. There's even a photo of the damn gleaming thing. Worse still, there will be a globally published match report and in-play photos released across the company.

My cricket whites are so old they have 30" inside leg measurements. That's 4" too short. They come halfway up my calves. They also have a snooker ball sized hole in the rear end area. I shall be wearing a jockstrap and my bare cheeks underneath them.

That's going to look good beamed around the world.

The MD of our Japan operation is going to love the view of my arsehole.

Bite my carrot!

There were two horses that lived in a field around the corner from my grandparents in Tackley, who I would be encouraged to feed peppermints to every time we walked the village. When you're a wee boy, horses seem huge, and to this day I still can taste the fear that welled up each time I was gently pushed forward with the instructions "keep your hand flat so he doesn't bite your fingers off".

For me, until recently, horses have always been immense beasts that bite off children's fingers and shit in the road*.

So it's always a great pleasure to take my own children up to the horse rescue centre at Speen and inflict the same long-term night terrors, resulting from enforced contact with horses, on them.

Unfortunately you can't go throught the trauma of feeding them anymore -- they were getting fat on mountains of carrots, apples and Polos -- but you can still stroke them and get your allergies flared up. I left the place with one bloodshot eye, a torrent of snot oozing down my chin, and red-raw itchy hands.

Anyway, things didn't go to plan. Although India showed some trepidation, Elliot turned the tables. He ran around screaming, hands and fingers outstretched at horses teeth, leaping up at stable doors, scrambling to climb into stables, trying to poke the beasts in the eye, and generally having a wild time. If he could have rode one, he'd have given it a go.

One blast that amused India and made Vic and my eyebrows arch, was whilst petting one of the horses, hearing a good 30 second long fart come from its arse. He held it at a single note. It was impressive stuff. Two boxes further down and that horse did the same.

And the horse's name that lived between these two epic hair blowers?

'Reveille'.

You have to assume that he can play two or three different notes.


* I'd now actually like them to shit in my composter.

Wii Willy Winky

Borrowed next door's Wii system and Sports game. Love the tennis. Bowling is cool. Baseball is alright. Golf is OK. Boxing is awful. Thought it was great on Saturday after mojitos and beers*. Getting bored of it after just five days. I don't think I'll be buying one.

* What isn't great after mojitos and beer?

Adapted/Ripped Off From Ruffles


You can play spot the difference if you have keen eyes...


I've recently registered on Facebook. I've accumulated a handful of friends; I really have no idea of what I'm doing with it or what I should be doing with it. Rob told me to sign up, so I have. As part of the original Internet generation, my comprehension of it was basically as a big unwieldy largely inaccurate book. Social networking was limited to a bit of email and the odd message board. I'm probably missing the whole point of Web 2.0 -- which I suspect is either to hook people up for sex or to get jobs for the boys in the Square Mile -- but apart from accumulating old and lost friends, I just seem to spend most of my time finding out that my 'friends' are making 'friends' with people I've never heard of, turning people into zombies and/or sending them fish. There are 5 Nobby's on there, one of whom also seems to be an accountant who works in London (jobs for the boys in the Square Mile), and looks like a tosser. I've also randomly joined a few local groups, but quickly spotted that I am old enough to be the father of all the other members of said groups ("Welcome to our group gramps").

Second Life reference:

"I like your boobs mummy" -- India to Vic (yesterday)

That's my girl!

In the shadows

There seems little doubt that Maddy McCann is dead. You have to hope otherwise, but reality bites down hard. With India only being a few months younger than Maddy, it's been particularly distressing for us to guess at how both her parents must be feeling, and most horrifically, the fear and terror Maddy must have felt during her kidnap and ordeal. We know how India would have reacted, and it doesn't bear thinking about.

But it's very difficult not to think, especially when your daughter bears a passing resemblence to the missing girl. There was a moment last week on holiday when India and I got out of the apartment block swimming pool (imagine my toned body raising from the water like Craig whatsisname in Casino Royale) and I quickly wrapped India up in her Jedi-style wearable towel. A German lady, who had not seen us before, caught my eye -- she was staring at India. Really staring. And it occurred to me that she was thinking "is that Maddy?!".

And it certainly affected our behaviour whilst away, especially Vic's: she was even concerned about leaving the children by themselves in the apartment room next door to where we were sat outside with my mum and dad. 5 yards. Within earshot and in visuals.


I hope they get the bastards who did it and the McCann's get some proper closure.

I really hope Maddy's still out there unharmed.

Wasteland

I decided to drop the Wonderful World title. One it's naff and two the world isn't wonderful. Apart from the Mrs Nob, the Little Nobbies, and our extended families & friends, lighting up my personal world, the wider world is starting to look like a wasteland rather than the green and pleasant meadows of Oxfordshire, as my dear departed grandparents perceived our environment. I shall elaborate further over the next few days, but to give a clue to my increasing obsession and paranoia, when I do my daily commute to Slough, I'm now seeing the folly of our human behaviour. The single occupancy cars that sit idling in traffic jams are becoming increasingly sinister to my green eyes. Cars full of doomgoblins destroying my wonderful world -- and I am part of the problem.

Dunlop Green Flash

I bought some canvas shoes for our week's holiday in Spain. Last pair of canvas shoes I had were red Converse high-tops back in 1987. Bring the noise. Shows things go round in fads and circles.

I've been in a fad-ish mood lately. Things go in and out of interest for me quite quickly. Not the important things in life -- the Nobby Family and chocolate* for example -- but the little things, the stuff in the background, the 'nobby hobbies'.

Some elaboration on the ins and outs:

1) Blogging. Not been interested in mine or anyone else's for months. Have just discovered that two of my old regulars have a) visited the UK from the States last month (and were within striking distance for a pint of Sheep Dip at least 4 times) and b) been blogging about Oxford United all last season. Anyway, I've subtly changed the colour scheme to raspberry pink (India's favourite colour is pink. What a surprise!), added a list, and even added a photo of the two Little Nobbies digging for gold/oil/dead bodies/fag ends/dog shit on the beach in L'Escala**.

2) Online Poker. I was loving this for ages and at low stakes tables increased my original bank-roll by 2000% (oh yes!). But then they changed the site, I starting losing interest, and I started losing games (30% of that 2000% killed). We cleared most of my account out to help pay the grocery bill last month, and I'm just not enthused anymore. Of course, Vic will be pleased as she -- and probably most of our friends -- still reckons I am just a few games away from a highly dangerous gambling addiction. Clearly, I am not...

3) Magic. Went back and played a night of it. Thought the organiser was a complete tool. Told him so. Never been back to that night or any other. Tried playing it online, but realised that half the fun of it, like any other competitive activity, is the social contact with friends. All packed in. I can't be bothered with it anymore and don't miss it a jolt. Freedom!

4) PS2. Having bought a load of great games two years ago, I'm conscious that I should be getting my money's worth, so the PS2 has been dusted off for some occasional action. Difficult to fit in with the kids, but a beam of light is beginning to shine, as India is becoming interested in computers and video games. Disney Golf and Buzz! Jungle Party are the doors to a future of her and Elliot getting their arses firmly spanked on vg consoles by their Competitive Dad.

Things I need to blog:

India: Angel or Devil?
Elliot: Not a Baby Anymore.
Looming Mid-Life Crisis: What we are going to do with our life in terms of next house and job moves.
Vic's freelancing.
We have negative money syndrome.
Oxford United: Stuck in the BSP for another two years.


* put that in for the ladies.
** they found fuck all, but at least Elliot enjoyed eating the sand.

New Car, Same Old Wankers

After an age of a wait I received my new company car, a beautiful black "pimp my ride" Zafira Design with chromey bits. 10 days into its life some fucker has already key'd all four of the passenger body panels...

Bye Bye John

Rob's dad John died last Monday. He fought valiantly for 15 months, but it was ultimately a battle he couldn't win. We have the funeral tomorrow. I'm sure it will be a wonderful celebration of his life. Having seen John on his death bed on the Sunday -- which brought back some uncomfortable memories of my gran -- and how grey and ashen the rest of the family were, I have to say his passing will be a release for them all. I'm hoping that after the funeral, Rob will be able to start looking forward, as his life has frankly been on hold for the last year.

John was a good son, husband, father, host and friend to many. Bye bye John.

Fucking Israel

Mass-murders, land-grabbing, fascists. The Middle-East's biggest terrorists. Bombing civilians, minibuses, apartments blocks, hospitals, red-cross ambulances, children playing in streams.

Boycott food imported from Israel. Write to your MP. Phone up their embassy and tell them you now sympathise with the Iranian president.

Out of Touch

So yesterday's Times2 supplement ran an article on emo's. It highlighted how out of touch I am with youth culture -- and therefore middle-aged and old -- as I hadn't heard the term emo before.

Apparently emo's are all emotional and are basically goths with frills and an internet connection: Boy emo's pretend to be gay. Girl emo's wear polka-dots and animal prints in addition to the black drain-pipe jeans and wide rubber, cut-disguising, bracklets on their wrists.

Ask an emo, Family Fortunes style, what a razor is used for and their response will be:

1) Cutting yourself whilst listening to Joy Division or some internet band nobody's heard of outside of MySpace
2) Ummmmmm.... Having a shave?

Of course teenage-angst, and dressing up like the Manic Street Preachers, is nothing new: Ironically the term emo is almost identical to the brief emu youth sub-culture that was spawned in the UK after this self-harming skin-cutting 1999 tragedy.

Play those Radiohead albums emu.

Small Things Give Us Pleasure

Before the match I'd hoped for a last minute Ronaldo miss to level things, resulting in him crying his greasy eyes out.

There is a god.

And he waved his offside flag.

I had to wait 2 minutes before the local TV broadcaster showed the grease ball sobbing away, but it was a wonderfully uplifting sight, if not the highlight of the World Cup.

Recommended Podcast: Baddiel and Skinner's "The Britishers are Coming Home", chapter 8, 10-11 mins in.

iCandy

"Mummy, can I have an iPod... for my birthday?" -- India, aged 2 and 3 quarters.

Hello World

Elliot Ethan arrived at 04.34 Friday morning 10th March 2006, safe and well. He weighed in at a healthy 8 lbs 1 oz, bearing a striking resemblence to his big sister: a shock of black hair and facial features that are so similar, he could be India's twin. India had longer legs, but Elliot has larger hands and feet. Overall, he's a pretty boy.

Labour was a mere 4 hours: half the length of India's, and Vic did brilliantly. Once again she did it with no pain relief and frankly made it look easy. She stayed focussed and calm, and importantly listened to the midwife and pushed at all the right times. I'm very proud of her. The short labour time has already helped Vic's post birth recovery, as she is far less drained than with India. No stitches either. As a result, she was able to discharge herself yesterday morning, so Elliot and mummy have been home for a day and a half now.

So far so good too. Last night wasn't too bad. Elliot is a very hungry boy and wants attention all the time. With the milk yet to arrive in earnest, he's wanting a feed every hour or two, so we had a broken nights sleep -- which is less than ideal when you're knackered anyway... but it was certainly better for Vic, if not for me, than her being in hospital.

Vic and I are both very happy. It's a natural high. I've forgotten how amazing the whole baby-parent thing is. We're all in a sleep-deprived daze of course, but it's so worth it.

India's reaction yesterday wasn't quite as me had hoped. Despite being primed via numerous books and explanations, she didn't like hospital and was very quite when introduced to Elliot. Some clear jealous has popped up whenever Elliot is being fed or cuddled by mummy. Things are improved today though, she's been helping daddy look after Elliot and hasn't freaked as much as yesterday. She's wearing her "i'm the big sister" T shirt with pride.

I have the week off, we're being looked after by the mother-in-law, and I'm loving it.

Hot Thai Food

No sign of any baby movements. We're going out for some hot thai food tonight in an attempt to flush the little blighter out. Vic's "bored" with being at home with nothing to do now that all rooms have been cleaned at least twice this week already.


Know Your Enemy, Mister Weasel

Hello to all my colleagues who shouldn't be reading this. Now go away. Leave this site. You are not welcome at this blog.

Here's the story:

I update on the Tuesday. On the Wednesday there is a print-out of my blog front page on the office printer. Not my printer though, it's on the management printer. I've not printed it and asking my line manager and the Finance Director, they haven't printed it either. Nor have the only other three individuals who regularly use that printer.

To be honest, I'm shocked that it's been printed at all: nobody at work should know of it's existence. Clearly someone at work has discovered my blog and decided to print it off in order to embarass me...

But how have they discovered the blog? It's written in a pseud, with no references that could be google'd up, unless you're really clever and persistent. Having checked with IT, internet logs are not viewed by IT, so it wasn't them. So either the individual has seen me writing the blog in the office -- not possible -- or I have to conclude they have physically gone onto my laptop and taken a look at my internet history.

Option 2 is pretty serious stuff considering that there were also a few company confidential links surfed that day, as well as numerous confidential spreadsheets that I'd opened too. The misconduct box is pretty much ticked there. The FD wasn't inpressed when I explain the scenario.

On Thursday I catch a couple of members of IT viewing this blog on line. Caught redhanded.

So now did IT get the link?

Well I have to conclude that the same individual who printed-off the blog also decided it would be great fun to email the link to their chum in IT. A great opportunity to nose into my private life, have a titter behind my back, etc.

They must think I'm an idiot.

I'm f**king furious that's what I am. Seething with contempt. This blog is for close friends, fellow bloggers, community friends, and complete strangers. I don't want Tom, Dick and IT reading it.

It's not difficult to piece two and two together. I don't even need the printer log or internet log from the Wednesday to finger the perp. I don't even need to check my Site Monitor for their IP address. I know actually who I cannot trust by their reaction on Friday to my cold shoulder.

Be disgusted with yourself.

a fraughtnight to go

So we're down to just 2 weeks before delivery day.

Stress fractures are starting to appear.

Our wonderful midwife Norma, in whom Vic has the upmost confidence, is away for a weeks holiday, and as a result Vic is nervous and unreceptive to jokes, jibes or insensitive husbands. Vic is worried that the baby is going to arrive before Norma returns from holiday and she is going to be left in the hands of a less-able, or rather less-known, midwife. I was wrapped up in my own little world last night and managed to upset my wife with a couple of ill judged comments that failed to take into account her underlying fears into account.

Of course, their OUR fears, but for some reason I've switched off to so many of the concerns that we had first time round with India. I've almost sleepwalked into the position we now find ourselves: just 2 weeks away from a new baby, and to quote Vic, "the most painful experience of my life... thanks."

I've been thinking it's going to be like last time, but need to wake up fast to the fact that anything could happen. It's clicked that I've not been half as supportive as last time, or as I should have been.

I've been rolling in the barrel, gently floating downstream. I need to start paddling. I see a crocodile.


Reflective of my lack of support/communication, is the fact the name game continues. We still haven't collaborated on a middle name. I've at long last started viewing the baby name books for something unusual, cool, but suitable. I've discovered a middle name that has a family connection, but know it would just make Vic's mum and dad laugh: it's Vic's place of birth...


And finally, something that's been causing me frustration for about 3 months: I bought Vic the complete season of Lost on DVD from the US. And then is just disappeared. We couldn't find it anywhere. Seriously, I was staring to think it had evaporated/been stolen by a ghost. It was really lost and doing my nut in. Discovered it last night behind the playroom shelving unit. Looking forward to finding out what all the fuss is about by watching it at 2.00 am in a fortnight...

Make Way for Noddy

So we're now just four weeks away from delivery day. Vic gave up work last week and has been in nesting mode for some time: We've been rushing around turning our house into a proper home. New bathrooms, new carpets, new kitchen floor, and the dreaded Clown Room has been transformed into a tranquil nursery for Noddy.

As part of the acclimatisation process, we asked India whether we were having a boy or a girl and what India would like to call him or her.

She has decided that she is having a baby sister who is called Noddy. Despite telling her otherwise, she is convinced that when we visit Mummy in hospital there will be a baby who looks like the character Noddy, complete with blue hat and jingly bell. Whenever we use an alternative name for the bump -- which is rarely -- India gets most upset.

As mentioned, Noddy's room has been stripped out and redecorated. The clown wallpaper and raspberry carpet has been replaced by a new wooden floor and Kelp paint. If you take a look at the Dulux Editions colour charts you will see that Kelp is a beautiful and serene sea-green. Ideal for a tranquil nursery, and sufficiently neutral to suit either a baby girl or boy.

The paint went on as a nasty sage green colour and then dried to a colour that can only be described as

Baby Boy Powder Blue

...with no hint of green in it at all.

With no time to repaint it -- I've got bags of other jobs to do still -- Noddy, whether a boy or girl, will have to live with it.

Read into that as you will.

Hi-5

So the great novel-writing in a month marathon is over and you must be desperate to know how I've got on. The fact that I've no updated this blog for a month gives you a good idea of how much writing I've done on Fish in a Cold Dish (provisional title only).

I actually forgot about the whole thing for days 1 and 2, but managed to write the complete opening chapter on day 3 and didn't looked back after that.

The final word count, which you can compare against the target of FIFTY THOUSAND, is a massive four hundred and eighty three words.

Well done Nobby.

Why no finish?

Well, I wasn't organised or motivated. And I've had the kitchen tiling to do. And Brian Lara's cricket on PS2. And Hi-5 to watch.

My aussie reader, and any dad's who happen to watch Channel 5 at 7.15 in the morning, probably know all about Hi-5. It's a great aussie kids show that features five smiling guys (2) and gals (3) singing, dancing and performing bad acting for the cameras. You if want to get up in the morning, I recommend watching it for Kathleen alone.

Whoa. She's hot.

Another Day, Another Doomsday

I love Doomsday scenarios. Documentaries on super-volcanoes eradicating North America and causing a nuclear winter; asteriods wiping us out with no warning; the Canary Islands falling into the sea and cauing a tsunami big enough to swamp the East Coast; terrorists detonating WMDs; and of course, Global Warming. All things that frankly we can't really do much about, so all you can do is shrug your shoulders, accept the risks and get on with life.

However, this article from the weekend's Sunday Times Magazine has really got to me.

Go read it. It's damn scary. Oil could run out within 10 years according to one Swedish University. The most optimistic professional assessment of oil stocks gives us 40 years.

Then check out the latest business pages from the BBC or whatever news site you use. Read about how increasing oil prices are pushing up US inflation at incredible rates, right now. Increased inflation means increased interest rates. It doesn't take a fool to realise that our mortgage repayments will be going through the roof, that our banked savings will become worthless, that saving for a pension becomes a waste of time.

Add in the fact that long before the oil actual runs dry, you won't be able to afford to drive to work, what are you going to do? Work locally? Same thing for food. It's too expensive to distribute by truck, so you need to find locally produced foodstuff. Businesses will fold. Society will break down faster than New Orleans.

You need to:

Learn survival skills
Learn to ride a horse
Learn martial arts
Buy a gun and learn how to use it
Buy a moutain bike
Buy an archery set and learn how to use it
Dig up the backgarden and plant vegetables and fruit trees
Fortify your property
Stockpile canned food, drinking water and medicine
Be prepared to kill someone for a can of dog food

Welcome to the Mad Max Scenario.
I am seriously freaked out!

Total Football: Come on you Herons!

My nephew Jacob is playing his first season of competitive football. If you'd like a new team to support, please let me introduce you to Hernhill Herons, sponsored by Dawes, who play in the Faversham & District Under 7's friendly league. They have their own stats page -- complete with match reports -- on the Football Association Fulltime website [You need to pull down the Division tab to show Under 7's]. Jacob, George and Joe represent the spine of the team, and are Hernhill's very own Terry, Lampard and Rooney. My brother is the coach and tactical mastermind behind the teams early success. I for one will be avidly reading the Heron's results on a Monday morning for the rest of the season.

Top of the league after two matches! C'mon!