Under and Over Performing

Well, you leave your PC alone for a few days and all hell breaks loose. We’ve had Chechnyan lunatics on the streets of Boston and in MIT, scaring the bejeezus out the really clever bods and the general public in equal measure. Add to this that the whole of Texas pretty much exploded, each with the pointless loss of almost as many lives as you could count on your fingers and toes.

At this stage it’s still unclear what the bloody hell these Boston stranglers were up to and why they blew the legs and feet off many innocent civilians and also killed a handful. The media are desperate to pin this on organised terrorism, but it seems that this is no more planned than a hasty fart after a prolonged course of Ex-Lax. You and I could both probably have a pretty good stab at making an explosive from the scribbled notes of an ingenious and overtly aggressive ten-year-old, plus an hour of unencumbered ip ghosting on the internet. That the two numpties didn’t manage to blow themselves up is probably the biggest surprise, not that this wasn’t, in fact, the focused and venomous plans of some uber-villain only usually found operating an underground bunker in an Ian Fleming novel. It might have been easier for Boston and the rest of the United States in general to believe that this attack was by the hand of a foreign threat with enough guile to thwart the alleged talent, skills and budget of the armed forces that came out in literally droves, beating their chests in more and more ridiculous headwear as the pursuit went on. The weight of the problem, the lateness of the hour and the depressing length of time it took to catch the second alleged bomber would have been unbearable, had I not been concentrating on “what a funny hat he had on.”


Regardless, this farce, starring thousands of the nations’ finest crime-solving illuminati couldn’t locate the man that was finally discovered lurking in a boat under a tarpaulin in a back garden of one Watertown resident, just a hundred feet up the road the where the press conference (that really is a funny looking hat) was taking place. Despite the warning of the man being ‘armed and dangerous’ and ‘not to approach him’, the resident in question went to have a look at the blood on the side of his boat that wasn’t there before and found a dishevelled teenager, cold, bloodstained, and decidedly free from the menace that the authorities would have had you believe he was capable of. Well done, nosey resident. Boo, hiss at the ineffectual authorities for not finding them on their own. Still, they got him and that was the plan. Well, they didn’t actually get him. They have him. Yes, that’s better. They have him. Still, that’ll do.

I still haven’t got my DVD back. I did ask for it again, and I thought she might crumble as I have been doing my utmost to behave myself and not piss her off too mightilly. There was a moment when she nearly gave in, but it passed as quickly as it appeared. I had a go, I failed. There you go. I might leave it a week.

Today was the second saturday in a row that I got out of work early, but the first saturday that I ventured to Worthington Park, to watch my nine and eleven year olds try their hand at a spot of acting. A local director of some renown, accompanied by a BBC cameraman, was shooting a short film and had politely asked if it was okay to give my two youngest kids a few lines. When we had established that he wasn’t in fact a member of the dirty mac brigade, propositioning my children with cocaine, both my wife and I duly agreed. He paid them for their time with a huge bag of assorted chocolate from Sainsbury’s. A work of genius. Cheap, but highly effective. This was their first effort (more of this in a future episode, including youtube footage, I expect) into the world in which my wife inhabits almost perpetually. They were both pleased with their performances. We all grinned happilly in the car on the way home, opening a big box of Celebrations to, well…you know, celebrate.



As if I wasn’t quite far back into the doghouse enough already (what with the saucy dvd shenanigans), I managed to spend almost my entire working day trading accusation and recrimination by the wonder of text message with my wife (no escape); about how I am definitely not the rounded human being I already knew I wasn’t. I didn’t think I was as bad as all that, but if you look at the post a couple of days ago about having an opinion of my own? Apparently I am.

I need to learn to count to ten (breathe…and relax) and not be so aggressive and confrontational. How I respond to criticism is not healthy, it seems, either for me or my alleged terrified family that apparently dart for cover (must have missed this in my red mist, knife-wielding haze) the minute I can’t find the remote control or step barefoot onto the sonic screwdriver of a lazily discarded Doctor Who collectable.

(say it like a mantra, if you will) I am responsible for my own reaction to criticism, I am responsible for my own reaction to criticism. I am resp….yes, yes, for fucks sake, alright, I know I am. Just don’t wind me the fuck up then! I blame her and she blames me of course. And of course, I am wrong. But then I’m always wrong (no really, I am).

So I shall count to ten from now on and not fly off the handle when things don’t go my way or I am being berated for something else I fucked up on. (Drivesafe, I’m looking at you, and your non-existent reminder email). I will attempt to get over this fairly insurmountable hurdle to begin with, before even trying to smile gratefully whilst getting kicked in the bollocks. I am responsible, after all. Let’s see how calm she wants me to be when some grubby-hooded chav is running off with her purse, shall we….?

PS – Not going to be getting that dvd back anytime soon, I reckon. I blame myself… (I think she should be grateful, frankly. I have a whole world of internet filth to look at, but I’d still rather look at pictures of her)




Realised earlier that I’d accidentally left a DVD of some fairly ‘controversial footage’in the dvd drive last night. When I went back to get it, it had disappeared. Had to ask the wife if she had found it and removed it. She said she had. Lucky me that she found it and not one the kids. Good job for her too, really, as she was starring in it. I still asked for it back. Not got it though. Hmmphh.



At a loss

Just what is it about my employed, average weight for my height, moderate drinking, mostly viceless, mostly amiable and passionate persona that my wife finds so unpalatable? Is it that I have an opinion of my own that causes her such distress, or my choice of moment to express it?