Happy New Year

And so like an old-fashioned gramophone winding itself down, so does 2006 come to a dull and unsatisfying close. A sure sign of my advanced years is the fact that I have never known twelve months pass with such bluster as this. And what a year it has been. I’ve seen OD, my bright-eyed, beautiful, brilliant daughter go skidding so far off the academic rails that it is now looking as if sixth form college is but a fancy rather than an foregone, the automatic entrance with a shiny range of A grades that had been on the cards since Primary school now just a wistful fantasy. I told her this week that she still has four months till her exams and that she can turn it around. I offered to pay for tutors and buy any revision books that she might wish. “I’ll let you know” she replied. It breaks my heart to see her wilfully throw this opportunity away.

Despite my efforts to forge something of a long-term relationship with BotS, it would seem that my heart is so black and deadened that it is incapable of forming feelings for any woman (as - I regret – FM will soon to realise). My wonderful, wide-eyed angel of a child, YD, has shifted to the role of teenager with such commitment that it has resulted in a pattern of behaviour in which I find myself relegated to the role of taxi driver (no longer do we sit together when she visits; instead, she locks herself in the attic to MSN the hours away). My relationship with my job is such that I can scarcely raise a flicker of interest for something which so bores me. My only solace is my musical interests, but even then I don’t feel that I am reaching my potential as a player – and the last few gigs with my band have reminded me too much of the empty halls I played in when I was young, scratching around to get people to attend. If I look back on the year just gone, the highlight was my holiday in California – driving down Highway 120 to Yosemite, open fields either side, sun beating down on the open-top Chrysler, and Styx’s ‘Carry on my Wayward Son’ (a song I’ve never been a fan of but it seemed so right in that setting) blasting from the radio. Bliss!

So, resolutions for next year then?

1. Become sufficiently proficient on the Double Bass to be able to sit-in with a jazz band before the year is out.
2. Change my job so that I have a reason to attend work other than the money.
3. Remind myself regularly that I could be dead tomorrow so just bloody enjoy yourself while you can, you grumpy fucker!

Happy New Year chums.

Merry Christmas Chums

And so, having spent Christmas Eve evening flat out on the sofa listeniing to Joy Division and drinking whiskey, I now begin the 80 mile journey to my Father's house. Merry Christmas everyone.

XXX

OD's Birthday

Today is OD’s sixteenth birthday. My little tiger. Sixteen. Who’d have thought it? However, must as I would like to be sitting here and writing about how proud I am of her and what a fantastic daughter she’s turned out to be, sadly I’m once more bemoaning the fact that she’s been bunking off school, calling her Mother a cunt, and generally acting as though she had not a care in the world. Whilst every other child in her school year (and indeed throughout the entire country) has been sitting their mock GCSE exams these past two weeks, OD has been lying in bed doing fuck all. Saturday she came over with Niamh and Helena and the three of them sat in her room and got stoned. Yup, stoned. Niamh had bought a small bag of grass with her. Today she rowed with her Mum in the morning, rowed with her again in the evening, didn't both turning in for either of her Drama exams, and then hoofed off to boyfriend Chris’ house. “Maybe you should move back in with your Dad again” her Mum told her. When I spoke to OD tonight she said “and she didn’t even wish me happy birthday”. Ahhh dear; you treat people like shit, you get shit back. That’s the way of things. Surely you've worked that out by now? It isn't as though I haven't mentioned it before.

So, happy birthday daughter of mine. I love you to bits, but by God you are heavy work at times.

Christmas Party

I do enjoy a fat, middle-aged bloke making a holy show of himself on the dance floor… especially when it is me! And so it was the night of the IB Christmas party where I managed to get my face slapped not once, but twice. I tell you, this is starting to become a habit. Admittedly I only had myself to blame. I was queuing up at the dodgems with Gary (yes, Dodgems. They don't do things by half you know) when a young and rather drunk woman behind me said that we need to buoy ourselves and become more aggressive before we take our positions. I concurred and playfully slapped Gary across the cheek. Cleared besotted with the boy, the woman loudly declared "don't you do that to him!" and promptly slapped me as hard as she could (full force, big swing from the shoulder. Ouch!)

About an hour later I was talking to Simeon and the lovely Jenny L when the aforementioned woman (who, it transpires, works for Jenny) came up and told her the story. "Can I have a go" Jenny asked, fixing me with those deep blue eyes of hers. I mean, how could I refuse? I know she's married but, hey, it is Christmas! Thwack again! The difference is, Jenny really rather enjoyed it and - to be honest - coming from her, so did I. It’s about time I had a new hobby so sadomasochism it is.

The rest of the evening passed pleasurably. I held Jock while Steve took a picture from under his skirt to find out what Scotsmen really wear. Believe me, I have subsequently spent most of today trying to block that image out of my mind! FW in facilities flirted with me and asked if she could loosen my bow-tie to which I responded, with my usual high level of sophistication and charm: "listen, if you're going to undo anything, better make it my flies". I enjoyed several dances with the head of legal - the incredibly foxy Tiggy - before missing my train and eventually returning home at 2:20. Ahhhhh, Christmas, eh!

Drunk in public

I got absolutely hammered last Thursday night. It was MP’s leaving party from work and we were at The Fine Line in Bow Churchyard. I was just going to pop down for a couple of small snifters but, having snuck off early and arrived at 4:30, I didn’t actually depart until a little after nine. I knew it was a good night because for the first time in many a long year I was smacked across the face by a woman. I’d like to say that I had deserved this but, unfortunately, it was not the case. As I was standing at the bar, rather jollied up by this point it must be said, a young man with spiky hair went to get served and me – being me – promptly ruffled his head. (I know; you don’t need to say). Myself and the people we were standing with then got into conversation with this equally drunk youth who was accompanied by an attractive young woman. She turned to face the bar and MP, thinking he was still living in a 70s sitcom, promptly grabbed her arse. She whirled round and smacked me right across the face and I burst into a fit of giggles at the mistake she’d made. Soon all was lovely again and half-an-hour later we realised they weren’t a couple when we saw the aforementioned woman snogging an even lovelier girl by the toilets. Those lesbians get everywhere these days. I went home, not before composing YD a goodnight text along the lines of “sleepy tight, night, night, love you bundles” only to get one back from my boss two minutes later telling me that he loved me too (yes, I’d sent it to the wrong phone; Dr Freud, make of that what you will).

AM

Standing outside OD’s bedroom door this morning, trying to raise her from the pit of dreams.

ME: “Come on. Its 7:25. You should be up by now!”
OD [stridently]: “I’m gathering my thoughts!!”

Well, you’ve got to admire her wit.

Only six months and then she'll have left school...

Well, its has been a funny old week. YD stayed over on Monday and Tuesday evenings. OD stayed on Wednesday and Thursday. YD was back for Friday and Saturday, and tonight I hope to get the night off and visit FM. [The reason YD was here was because I when I got in from work on Monday I received a tearful phone call as OD had just slapped her round the head: “she’s driving me fucking nuts. She took my I-pod into school and lost it. She wears all my clothes and never asks. I can never get on the computer. I fucking hate her. Will you come and get me?” - which, of course, I did]

I’d like to say that the two evenings OD stayed over with lovely and stress-free, but – alack – that would be a fib. I was due to rehearse on Wednesday but that all got cancelled at the last minute due to illness in The Dame’s family so I ended up in the boozer with Pete and some other work colleagues instead. Thus, soon after returning home, I found myself ordering her a new mobile phone via the Internet to replace the one which she dropped down the toilet a fortnight ago (haven't I told myself before about buying things on the Internet when I'm drunk? Does the phrase 'easy-touch' ring any bells?] When I left Thursday morning she was up and getting ready for school. Of course, I should have known better than to take this as an indication that she would actually attend and, alas, I found myself getting rung at 10:30 in the morning asking about her whereabouts.

Thursday evening I was going to see FM’s brother and his acoustic covers outfit (imagine Turin Brakes covering the Rolling Stones and you’re there). As I was about to leave I mentioned that I was driving over to Kingston. This produced an immediate reaction in OD whose boyfriend Chris (five months and counting) lives in nearby Moseley. Would I possibly, being the kindest Father that ever lived, let her spend the evening there? Of course, seeing her little face light up so I agreed on the proviso that she would – of course attend school the following day (not least because I wouldn’t be picking her up till around half midnight). She promised she would and I put a duvet and pillow in the back of the car so that she could sleep on the journey home.

So there I am, in the boozer with FM and her parents (who I was meeting for the first time) watching her brother singing how Papa was indeed a rolling stone when I received a text: ‘Dear sweet Father of mine, please may I stay at Chris’ tonight as by the time I get home I won’t go to school tomorrow anyway as I can’t be dealing with it when I am sleepy. Love you dearly, you dashing young chap, you. From your loving daughter X’

I promptly responded: ‘We had a deal! If I thought you were going to bunk off tomorrow I would not have taken you to Chris’ tonight. I will collect you as agreed’. I soon got a response: ‘But Dad by the time we arrive home I will only get about four hours sleep and I will be too tired. I promise I will go to school every day next week and stay for an hour after to revise’. This time I rang her: “I’m leaving now. Be ready in fifteen minutes’ I said. Eventually we negotiated that she would go to school as planned and I would pick her up at half midnight as agreed, which is what happened.

Of course the following morning would she get her arse out of bed? Would she fucking buggery! A row promptly ensued which resulted in my declaring; “Listen you! This isn’t about whether you go to school or not. This is about me and you making a deal, me doing my part and you failing to keep your end of the bargain’. I ranted a bit more and wished her good luck in her career at Tescos (because that is the only job she’ll ever get without decent grades, moan, shout, etc.’. She her mocks in the next few weeks. Predicted grades are two Bs, one C, two Ds followed by a mixture of Es and Fs. Lawd luv a duck!