Friday, 21 December 2018
The observationist: Holidays
The observationist: Holidays: HOLIDAYS I love going on holiday with my two little girls. Twice a year we go somewhere Euro-exotic like Portugal or Greece, always in ...
Holidays
HOLIDAYS
I love going on holiday with my two little girls. Twice a year we go somewhere Euro-exotic like Portugal or Greece, always in the school holidays-obviously if anyone asks.
Kira is 12 and at an age where the kid's disco doesn't appeal anymore but somehow finds herself joining in if the right song comes on and she thinks no one is looking. Then there is Carrie who is 7 and whom the kid's disco does still appeal and doesn't care who is looking, throwing herself around to the macarena with the grace of a bag of oven chips off her face on her 18th kid's cocktail laced with more sugar than a bottle of calpol.
I like to people watch, mainly other nationalities but also families new to the holiday game-and it IS a game- versus the seasoned holiday veteran. The olympic sun lounger dash is always good entertainment value. The Germans and the Spanish are favourites to win this event. The Germans leave their towels on the sun loungers then go to the all you can eat breakfast buffet while the Spanish leave their offspring on the sun loungers before going to breakfast.
I particularly enjoy the holiday outfits. I admire the Brits with their 'i'm wearing this neon spandex thong and crop top ensemble-possibly with a cape-and nobody shall stop me for i am on holiday where i know noone' attitude. I love the Germans with their 'i'm going to wear this muscle vest and overly tight shorts because we are a fun nation' viel vegrnugen and the Spanish, Italian and French 'i'm just gonna lay here with my perfectly coiffered genitals on display to anyone who cares to look, for i will not burn as my body is used to this climate. I will also casually rub sun cream into my girlfriend's boobs whenever the mood takes me and look over in my direction more than once and i will rub some in yours too' joi de vivre.
I love the Spanish, Italian and French because they actually do not give one fuck and i admire that.
My favourite holiday guilty pleasure, bar none, is when parents lose the plot with their kids. You can feel it in the air when it's about to kick off. The tension is almost tangible and all reasoning is a redundant spectacle. Little Freddie, who was the model of decorum and cohesive conversation, is now running around the pool screaming 'i don't want to go to the kid's disco! It's shit! and your'e not my real dad anyway!' Meanwhile little Freddie's mummy, who 2 days ago was telling anybody that would listen how her little boy is a piano virtuoso, can speak 4 languages, is the captain os his primary school debating club, scored 4 trys for his local under tens rugby team and most recently has taken up political science as a hobby, is now helping herself to the all inclusive bar and singing 'i will survive' from the top of the lifeguard station wearing nothing but a wonder woman headband while her husband tries to coax her down with a kfc bucket for 6 (which i believe comes with free coleslaw).
Me and my kids look quite normal in comparison in our matching sunhats and sunburnt feet.
We are already looking for our next holiday adventure.
Vietnam looks nice.
Thursday, 20 December 2018
The observationist: SHOPPINGI hate shopping. Any form of it. Clothes, ...
The observationist: SHOPPINGI hate shopping. Any form of it. Clothes, ...: SHOPPING I hate shopping. Any form of it. Clothes, groceries, presents but worst of all-window. What is the point in that? Unless you'...
SHOPPING
I hate shopping. Any form of it. Clothes, groceries, presents but worst of all-window. What is the point in that? Unless you're shopping for an actual window why go out without any money to buy nothing? Why do people put themselves through that? It's first world madness.
Shopping on any level is the most tedious past time since camping was invented.
I try to get my grocery shop done in one go in the shortest time possible. I bet Usain Bolt couldn't beat me.
Unfortunately it doesn't always work out like that. Parking is the first hurdle. Everyone tries to park as close to the entrance as is humanly possible. I've seen people parking in the disabled bays without a badge, getting out of their cars and putting on an exaggerated limp dragging their leg across the car park like an extra from Saving Private Ryan. I've seen people parking in the mum and toddler bays with kids who have more facial hair than a cornish folk festival.
I have a list and i do not deviate from it because once that happens it's game over. Although if i spot a shop assistant with a reduced sticker gun i will follow them like a gila monster tracks it's prey because if i can get 2 pence off a loaf of bread it's a small victory for the consumer. A win is a win. The worst culprits for making me deviate from my list are my kids. I would rather put pins in my eyes than take them with me but sometimes i have no choice. I warn them before we go in 'no messing about, no fighting, no can i have can i have, no sticking fingers through cellophaned pieces of meat and definitely no eye gauging.' 'we won't mum' they promise, their earnest little faces looking up at me and like a mad fool, i believe them...every time. Within two minutes of entering the supermarket i have a trolley full of slime ingredients, giant share bags of skittles, 17 pencil cases and the eldest has the youngest in a headlock shrieking 'mum, she said my legs look fat!' Meanwhile the middle child has tried cous cous off one of those sample stalls and is spitting it into the hand of a mortified shop assistant.
People who walk around supermarkets at such a slow pace they have visibly aged since they first went in are a pet peev of mine. And it's not just the elderly (gawd bless 'em) for they can move like the wind when the reduced stickers come out, it's the couples who are so in love they hang off each other blocking the aisles saying stupid shit like 'oh darling, do you remember the first time you made me eggs benedict for breakfast and brought it to me in bed with a glass of prosecco and a rose you'd picked from the garden'. If the supermarket burned down they'd probably just lay in the ashes exclaiming 'is it warm in here or are you the hottest thing on earth?' These people make me wanna puke! It's people who for some reason don't have a list and just bumble up and down the aisles until they decide what they fancy for tea. These people make me want to hurt myself! It's people who bring the whole family shopping from babies to great grandparents. Why?!!! They must either be gluttons for punishment or they just like winding me up! These people make me want to live on an island and eat sand.
The worst part of shopping is the checkout. I've abandoned going to the self checkout to preserve my own sanity. I don't want to run the gauntlet of 'unusual item in the packing area', yes, it might be unusual but i need it to ease the burning when i pee, or 'this item needs approval'...i don't need anyone's approval just because i'm buying 3 bottles of wine at 8.30 on a Thursday morning. Judgemental bastards.
I choose my checkout with care but it seems to me whichever one i go to the cashier is going on a break or the conveyor breaks once i have put my entire weekly shop on it or the person in front has their card declined and they are forced to play 'which food don't i need this week roulette' or the till roll jams or something doesn't scan. I'm a till jinx and by now i'm ready to take my own shopping hostage and anyone else who looks at me funny.
'Why don't you don't you shop online?' i hear you ask. NEVER!!! It's madness. Tried it once, had a mango replaced with mange tout (whatever the fuck that is), got 20 loaves of bread instead of 2 and a voucher for pile cream-which ironically i needed after the 100 mange tout sandwiches.
For now i will endure the weekly grocery shop in the flesh and all of the idiosyncrasies that come with it because i still have breath left in my body and i'm never one to shirk a challenge.
Tuesday, 11 December 2018
The observationist: Camping
The observationist: Camping: Camping has to be a mild form of mental and physical torture. It should be used to extract information out of terrorists. At first it's ...
Camping
Camping has to be a mild form of mental and physical torture. It should be used to extract information out of terrorists. At first it's all fun and games then after around 12 hours the realisation dawns that you are basically under a few millimeters of canvas that may or may not leak rain depending on your tent erecting ability and the airbed that you have just bought will slightly deflate 2 psi every half hour or so resulting in the most horrific night's sleep since sharing a bunk bed with pissy Pete on a hostel tour on a German school trip.
Trying to light a gas stove in a force 10 gale just to boil a tiny kettle to make a cup of tea is like trying to thread a rope through a tiny needle while a small child holds a bunsen burner under your gusset. It's pointless and will inevitably end in tears.
Needing a pee in the night when camping is always a test for anyone. First of all you have to get out of your warm sleeping bag, off the now semi deflated air bed and locate your footwear (usually flip flops) in almost complete darkness. Then you have to unzip your tent as quietly as possible so you don't wake anyone. Once you have disembarked your tent in the most stylish way possible whilst wearing a onesie and a kagool you have to quickly gain your night vision. Once your eyes have adjusted generally the best spot for a wee is behind your own tent if there are no trees available. Absolutely nobody wants to make the long walk like your'e in a vietnam based war film to the campsite toilets. The horrors that can be found in there at 3am could kill a man who possess a sense of smell and eyes. Why is it acceptable to leave a bag of rancid nappies next to a sink or write 'help me' in shit on the toilet wall in a campsite loo just because there is no toilet roll? These people are animals. Once you locate a suitable place for a wee pray to the large intestine Gods that your body doesn't decide it also needs a poo because when that happens it's game over.
The amount of days you decide to camp for is key. Any more than two and i may as well go feral and decide that changing my pants is an optional extra that i can't be bothered with any more. My hair resembles a badly built bird's nest with actual bird shit in it and i've developed trench foot, the likes of which haven't been seen since the Somme. Any more than two days and i may as well tell family and friends i've decided to go off grid and live as a hermit dining on whatever i can catch with my bare hands or forage from a lay-by bin.
You may realise by now that i'm not a fan of camping. My kids love it but i like those posh tents with heating, carpets and walls...you know...hotels.
Camping is not for me but i realise other people love it. It's a way of life for some and i salute those people.
Trying to light a gas stove in a force 10 gale just to boil a tiny kettle to make a cup of tea is like trying to thread a rope through a tiny needle while a small child holds a bunsen burner under your gusset. It's pointless and will inevitably end in tears.
Needing a pee in the night when camping is always a test for anyone. First of all you have to get out of your warm sleeping bag, off the now semi deflated air bed and locate your footwear (usually flip flops) in almost complete darkness. Then you have to unzip your tent as quietly as possible so you don't wake anyone. Once you have disembarked your tent in the most stylish way possible whilst wearing a onesie and a kagool you have to quickly gain your night vision. Once your eyes have adjusted generally the best spot for a wee is behind your own tent if there are no trees available. Absolutely nobody wants to make the long walk like your'e in a vietnam based war film to the campsite toilets. The horrors that can be found in there at 3am could kill a man who possess a sense of smell and eyes. Why is it acceptable to leave a bag of rancid nappies next to a sink or write 'help me' in shit on the toilet wall in a campsite loo just because there is no toilet roll? These people are animals. Once you locate a suitable place for a wee pray to the large intestine Gods that your body doesn't decide it also needs a poo because when that happens it's game over.
The amount of days you decide to camp for is key. Any more than two and i may as well go feral and decide that changing my pants is an optional extra that i can't be bothered with any more. My hair resembles a badly built bird's nest with actual bird shit in it and i've developed trench foot, the likes of which haven't been seen since the Somme. Any more than two days and i may as well tell family and friends i've decided to go off grid and live as a hermit dining on whatever i can catch with my bare hands or forage from a lay-by bin.
You may realise by now that i'm not a fan of camping. My kids love it but i like those posh tents with heating, carpets and walls...you know...hotels.
Camping is not for me but i realise other people love it. It's a way of life for some and i salute those people.
The observationist: Christmas.
The observationist: Christmas.: Int' Christmas brilliant?-as a much better comedy writer once said. My favourite time of year bar none. The decorations, the tree, the ...
Christmas.
Int' Christmas brilliant?-as a much better comedy writer once said.
My favourite time of year bar none. The decorations, the tree, the presents-giving not receiving because i can't do that fake 'ooh it's lovely' expression as my own face chooses that exact moment to betray me and gives a look of 'what the actual fuck!' Gin is always a winner incase anyone i know is reading this. A loofah mit or a pair of silver pop socks will not cut the mustard. And of course the food. For the rest of the year i will try to avoid cake or chocolate or pies but for some reason as soon as the first of December rears it's festive head i will eat my own body weight in bad carbs and woe betide anyone who tries to stop me. I will literally sacrifice my own children for a massive piece of gala pie. I will eat all of the chocolates off the tree and blame the dog. I will gorge myself on black forest gateaux, prawn rings, roast potatoes, crackling, stuffing, pigs in blankets, pate and trifle. Sometimes all at the same time. By the time boxing day comes around i have to wear my maternity knickers and be carried to my own car like a tubby cleopatra with a penchant for calories.
My alcohol consumption is ridiculous. When else can you drink prosecco for breakfast, cocktails mid morning, wine with lunch and whatever's left during the Queen's speech? However, i draw the line at sprouts. They are, afterall, the devil's tescticles.
The decorating of the tree is my thing. Every year i let my kids do it because they love it. We put some Christmas music on and they get to work. After an hour or so the tree looks like it may topple over at any second because absolutely every trinket or bauble i own has been festooned upon it. It resembles a shrine to the God of shiny bollocks. Where the fuck did that tinsel even come from? I HATE tinsel! The last time i saw it was last Easter when it was inexplicably hanging out of my dog's arse while he dragged is bum hole around the garden. Once the kids have gone to bed i take everything off the tree and decide on a colour theme. This year it's blue and silver. Classy. Fairy at the top-not a star-and presents around the bottom. Thankfully my girls no longer believe in Father Christmas so i don't have to hide presents all over the house/garage/shed/attic and then attempt to find them and wrap them after i have had a wine or two.
I am notoriously bad at wrapping presents. My intentions come from a good place but i tend to lose my will to live after an hour or two and at this point i will usually revert to my safety net of the gift bag. My mum and sister are brilliant at gift wrapping and i'm pretty sure they partake in competitive gifting. The bows and the ribbons get more ridiculous every year. My mum has recently started to pour tiny metal stars or snowflakes into the layers of paper so when it is opened a shower of these aluminium bastards will adorn every carpet or surface like a fucking steam punk diwali festival. I hate them! They get every where and should i decide to strip naked and sit on my sofa drinking gin once the kids have gone to bed (it's christmas don't judge me) i will occasionally have to pick some out of my bum crack.
Christmas is a great time to spend time with your relatives and friends and feel part of something wonderful. That is until some relatives and friends who don't seem to know when to leave make me feel nostalgic for the good old days when nobody visited and you could put a bottle of wine in the fridge and it'd still be there 2 days later. I call some of them 'the exorcist' because when they finally do leave all the spirits have gone.
Don't get me wrong though, Christmas is a time for family get to togethers, loving thy neighbour (even the ones across the street with no curtains and a giant pentagram painted on their living room wall in what looks like blood) and wondering what the new year might bring.
I absolutely love Christmas and insist everyone around me gets excited too. Bah humbugs and Grinches can just piss off.
Christmas is brilliant.
My favourite time of year bar none. The decorations, the tree, the presents-giving not receiving because i can't do that fake 'ooh it's lovely' expression as my own face chooses that exact moment to betray me and gives a look of 'what the actual fuck!' Gin is always a winner incase anyone i know is reading this. A loofah mit or a pair of silver pop socks will not cut the mustard. And of course the food. For the rest of the year i will try to avoid cake or chocolate or pies but for some reason as soon as the first of December rears it's festive head i will eat my own body weight in bad carbs and woe betide anyone who tries to stop me. I will literally sacrifice my own children for a massive piece of gala pie. I will eat all of the chocolates off the tree and blame the dog. I will gorge myself on black forest gateaux, prawn rings, roast potatoes, crackling, stuffing, pigs in blankets, pate and trifle. Sometimes all at the same time. By the time boxing day comes around i have to wear my maternity knickers and be carried to my own car like a tubby cleopatra with a penchant for calories.
My alcohol consumption is ridiculous. When else can you drink prosecco for breakfast, cocktails mid morning, wine with lunch and whatever's left during the Queen's speech? However, i draw the line at sprouts. They are, afterall, the devil's tescticles.
The decorating of the tree is my thing. Every year i let my kids do it because they love it. We put some Christmas music on and they get to work. After an hour or so the tree looks like it may topple over at any second because absolutely every trinket or bauble i own has been festooned upon it. It resembles a shrine to the God of shiny bollocks. Where the fuck did that tinsel even come from? I HATE tinsel! The last time i saw it was last Easter when it was inexplicably hanging out of my dog's arse while he dragged is bum hole around the garden. Once the kids have gone to bed i take everything off the tree and decide on a colour theme. This year it's blue and silver. Classy. Fairy at the top-not a star-and presents around the bottom. Thankfully my girls no longer believe in Father Christmas so i don't have to hide presents all over the house/garage/shed/attic and then attempt to find them and wrap them after i have had a wine or two.
I am notoriously bad at wrapping presents. My intentions come from a good place but i tend to lose my will to live after an hour or two and at this point i will usually revert to my safety net of the gift bag. My mum and sister are brilliant at gift wrapping and i'm pretty sure they partake in competitive gifting. The bows and the ribbons get more ridiculous every year. My mum has recently started to pour tiny metal stars or snowflakes into the layers of paper so when it is opened a shower of these aluminium bastards will adorn every carpet or surface like a fucking steam punk diwali festival. I hate them! They get every where and should i decide to strip naked and sit on my sofa drinking gin once the kids have gone to bed (it's christmas don't judge me) i will occasionally have to pick some out of my bum crack.
Christmas is a great time to spend time with your relatives and friends and feel part of something wonderful. That is until some relatives and friends who don't seem to know when to leave make me feel nostalgic for the good old days when nobody visited and you could put a bottle of wine in the fridge and it'd still be there 2 days later. I call some of them 'the exorcist' because when they finally do leave all the spirits have gone.
Don't get me wrong though, Christmas is a time for family get to togethers, loving thy neighbour (even the ones across the street with no curtains and a giant pentagram painted on their living room wall in what looks like blood) and wondering what the new year might bring.
I absolutely love Christmas and insist everyone around me gets excited too. Bah humbugs and Grinches can just piss off.
Christmas is brilliant.
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