Craptastic Parents in Shopping Spree Madness


Here’s an interesting fact about me: I work in retail, in a gigantic ultra-store. It’s pretty good, actually. I get to help nice people with some very specific problems, which is a good way to spend a day. I also work alongside decent sorts, and the company isn’t a rank bastard. My day is generally full of lovely people.

I also get to people-watch, which is tremendous fun. Sometimes I see people being adorable, which goes against my instinctive opinions about the general public. Sometimes I see people being parents, and that’s always inspiring to me as a fellow breeder, because some parents are brilliant, and I can always do with picking up tips on how to be better. Most parents are average, and that’s cool too. Average is fine. I’m totally average.

But occasionally – very occasionally – I see parents being less than stellar, and this is fun too (though not for their families). Because that’s when I get to be judgmental.

Oh, come on. Don’t judge me for being judgmental (even though that is somewhat hypocritical of me to demand this). I like being judgmental. I can look upon people and decide whether they deserve to exist. Being judgmental is FUN! On the whole – and this surprised me – most parents I see in shops are pretty good. They engage with their kids, they all look like they’re having a fun day out (even though shopping is not always a fun activity), and they show respect for one another. I aspire to be like that. Sometimes the kids misbehave, and some parents deal with it pretty well. Sometimes the parents say to the kids, “If you don’t behave, the man over there will come and tell you off”, to which I long to say: Hey, don’t drag me into your shit. I’m not the head of discipline here. Kid, go nuts.

And then there are the parents who misbehave – and believe me, when parents misbehave, it’s worse than the kids. Sometimes it’s a snarky giggle to observe.

father daughter shopping
“Natalie, I am cursed to go shopping until you tell me what this is. What is it? Fucking tell me, or we’re trapped here forever!”

Occasionally it’s disturbing.

Before we go any further, I’d just like to point out that I am totally capable of being an absolute arse-cleft when shopping. I don’t always measure up. I’ve had all the classic bad-father-in-shopping-centre-stupidity moments. I have whined. I have slumped and sulked in frustration like a teenager. I’ve urged Sarah to get a bloody move on. I’ve had choices presented to me, and I’ve shrugged and said “whatever…” because I actually want to go home. I have had rows. I’ve stomped off angrily in the opposite direction when I didn’t get my way. I’ve got irritable when shopping has gone on for far too long. I’ve had grown-man tantrums in public. I’ve lost my temper. I’ve snapped at my beloveds.

Here’s a specific moment of crap shop-parenting so that you can judge me for a bit: I once got fed up of Alice (aged 5 at the time) running around screaming in a large shop and refusing to calm down. So I grabbed her by the arm to try and arrest her momentum. Unfortunately, the thing I grabbed was the hood of her anorak, which was fastened up to the neck. Alice stopped all right, with an “hw’erk!” of strangulation, and she fell hard onto her coccyx.

Oh God. Throttling your child is apparently a big parenting no-no. So there I was, in a busy shop, trying to comfort my now-weeping child (and, rather despicably, doing that thing where one apologises for  bad behaviour, and simultaneously attempts to justify that poor behaviour like a complete prick) in front of dozens of witnesses. I heard at least one tut. Not my finest moment ever.

So now we’ve got my poor parenting out of the way, let me assuage my guilt by telling you all about some of the shite families I have witnessed as both a shopper and a shop worker.

The Red Bull Incident:
I once witnessed a parent with a small child in tow. The child couldn’t have been older than seven years old, and was drinking from a 350ml can of Red Bull with a straw. Now, I’m a drinker of Red Bull when I need to be, but it is foul and disgusting. Also, I really don’t think a small child should be drinking that much caffeine and taurine, particularly through the direct-injection of a straw. I currently have an empty can of the stuff on my desk in front of me (which I really should put in the bin) and it very clearly says ‘not recommended for children‘ in bold writing.

Anyhoo, the parent had clearly not read this instruction, or didn’t care, and had given the rather massive can to the kid in order to shut them up with sugary chemicals, and was blithely unaware of the shitstorm that I was sure was about to be unleashed.  To my immense schaudenfreude, my prophecy came true half an hour later. I was walking through a further bit of the store and witnessed what could only be described as a screaming blur dressed in the same clothes as the child I had seen earlier. That same Red Bull-sucking child had gone feral, and was thrashing around, screaming his head off. The parent was remonstrating with the poor kid, and actually had the nerve to wail “Why are you being like this??”

red bull tantrum.gif
Red Bull. The effects could last forever.

It’s because you’ve given your child their entire pre-teen allowance of caffeine in just 20 minutes, and now they’re so wired you need to strap them down. You halfwit.

Trolley Scraping:
I once saw a family walking through a store. The parents were a little way ahead. The kids (a brother and sister, approx 11 and 9 years old) were behind. The brother was pushing the trolley, and the sister was hanging on to the front of the trolley, her feet on the frame. There was a sibling argument going on, and the parents were dealing with this by telling them to pack it in by snarling over their shoulders without turning round. The children then escalated their war. The brother attempted to dislodge his sister by shoving the trolley back and forth very hard. The sister held on admirably, and tried to work her way up the side of the trolley to clout him. I was on her side; he was being a whiny little twat.

He then went up to a protruding corner wall and tried to use it to scrape his sister off the side of the trolley. She yelled in pain as she was crushed against the point of the corner. At that point, the father wheeled round, marched up to them both and castigated his daughter for being noisy, while the son smirked in victory. The look of disbelief  on her face and her vocal outrage at the injustice of it all still haunts me two years on.

Threatening Behaviour:
“If you don’t shut up NOW, I’ll SMASH YOUR FUCKING FACE IN” – Man to his female partner in front of their children, leaving her looking shocked and afraid, presumably because she had the nerve to take him shopping on a Saturday. Lovely chap, I’m sure.

Shoving Kids in Trollies:
As a parent, and a trained first-aider, what really gets my goat is other parents putting their kids in the trolley. I’m not talking about the little fold-out seat designed for under-fives, but actually standing up in the basket of the trolley itself. The potential for an accident is massive. All sorts of things could happen, but typically, the trolley would collide into something and the unrestrained kid then smashes into the wire basket.

I attended an incident just like this two days ago. You do not want to see a two-year-old with a lump the size of an egg on their forehead. It’s horrible. And enough of my fellow in-store first-aiders have plenty of jolly  anecdotes about smashed teeth and gushing bloody noses, all because some parents would rather their child not undergo the inconvenience of walking.

It’s not fucking difficult, is it?

I’ve never let Alice stand in the basket of a trolley, despite her asking. Her legs are fine, and it wouldn’t hurt her to use them. I’d rather she was complaining of sore feet than complaining about being in A&E.

Incidentally, first-aiding is something I’ve always wanted to do, and I recently did the course. It’s worth doing, if only to scare yourself rigid, to hear the most horrific first-hand accounts of dreadful incidents, and to have a responsibility that weighs heavily on your shoulders every time you arrive at work for an 8-hour shift. But it does give yourself a skill you might need in a bad situation. Nearly all of my calls have been for children caught up in some misadventure or other, usually because they’re running around. Minor head injuries, mostly.

The worst so far was when I was less than ten feet away from one kid who wriggled from his mother’s grasp and fell backwards onto his skull. I didn’t see it – I was on the other side of a partition wall, but Oh God, I heard it. There was a sickening noise. I thought it was a plastic shelf smacking onto the floor, until I heard the awful, blood-curdling, guttural screaming. I don’t know which was worse, the child’s scream, the mother’s distress at her child’s accident and potential head injury, or her guilt at her child falling from her arms. And while I was helping to assess the child’s injury and calming the poor mother, a crowd gathered. One absolute fucknut, who was passing-by, whipped out his mobile phone to capture the moment for posterity.

Just look after your kids in a big store, OK?
Shoving Kids In Trollies and Expecting Them To Stand Still:
OK, you’ve put your kid to stand upright in the trolley, despite my advice not to. Well done. I already hate you. Then, you pile loads of things all around the kid, and wheel them around a large shop with many obstacles. A trolley is not a stable thing, and a child would need to adjust their stance in order not to smash their soft and fragile face on the wire frame. Children can do this, although their sense of balance is not as acute as an adult. So the child stabilises themselves against the motion of the trolley by getting strong foot-purchase on the contents of the trolley.

Just literally a few weeks ago, I saw a child standing in a trolley, on top of some large picture frames. The frames could not fit in the trolley, so were at an angle against the wires of the basket. The child, aged about four, had nowhere to put their feet, other than on the picture frames themselves. There was an ominous crack, and both parents yelled – properly yelled at full volume – at the kid for the cardinal sin of trying to stand upright on top of picture frames whilst being pushed in a trolley.

What sort of clattering thicko buys expensive frames, and then plonks a kid to stand on top of them, and then blames the kid for trying to remain standing up? The father, no doubt blinded by his own brilliance, then yanked the kid out of the trolley by the arm on one massive heave, and gave her a thorough bollocking. The poor child was furious and humiliated. Again, I was on the kids’ side.


All my life, not just in my job, I’ve seen parents smack, clip round the ear, shake, shove, and bully their kids in shops. It’s horrid to watch. By contrast, I’m one of those parents who gets down on one knee and very quietly utters a threat of punishment to my child because I don’t want other people to think I’m a shouty monster. You may call it cowardice, I call it not being a bullying twat in public. I prefer to wait until I get home before behaving like a monster. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?

“Mummy I Want My Phone”:
I just don’t understand why parents, on family days out, shove their kids in the back of the car with a hand-held screeny-thing either, when there’s scenery to look at, daydreams to indulge in, music on the stereo, and family conversations to be had; but I suppose I’m a knee-jerk technophobe who had no option but to tolerate long car journeys as a child. I really don’t understand why parents give their kids an expensive, noisy, flashing gadget on short trips to the shops. I blame both parents and kids for not partaking in the shopping experience in the spirit in which it is intended.

Oh, all right, going shopping is a massive pain in the arse, but is giving your kid a hand-held screen to idle the time away really the answer? Are we really training our kids to be hooked to tiny screens rather than an interest in the world around them? What habits are we forming in their tiny minds? For example, because there was always a book in the bathroom throughout my childhood, I can’t now do a number two in my own home without a good ten minutes’ reading, much to my wife and child’s early morning annoyance. I admit, it’s not a good habit.

So anyway, I was right by the entrance to a nearby supermarket recently, when I noticed a woman coming in. She had a crowd of girls around her, aged roughly between 5 and 13. This woman was posh – sometimes you can just tell, even without hearing them speak. The girls were all pony-tailed and slender and had the same thin face as the woman. An obvious family. And when I eavesdropped on their conversations, their accents were classic English, Radio 4, crystal-decanter, pony club, posho-posh. They had literally just entered the store.

One of the daughters – second eldest, by my reckoning – tapped their mother, who was trying to read a shopping list and read out their plan, on the elbow.
“Mummy, I want my phone” (‘phone’ pronounced as ‘pheaune’)
“In a minute, dear, I’m just trying to…”
“Mummy, I want my phone
“Let me just get this sorted, lovely”.
“Mummy. I want my phone now.” (this was not shouted, but the emphasis was clearly audible)
“I’ll get you your phone in a minute.”
“Oh, all right poppet, here it is” (produces shiny black monolith from the recesses of a leather handbag).
Child, no word of thanks, instantly puts her head down and starts frantically typing on the phone, no doubt writing on Instayelp to her lacrosse team about how horribly unfair everything is.

This is what is likely to happen when pheaune is not produced within 28 seconds.

I hated both child and mother instantly.

I know we all like our children to have interesting and distinctive names, and we want our children to grow up to be different from all the rest. I don’t want to criticise your choices. Your child’s name is deeply personal, and I respect that your reasons for choosing your child’s name are profound and significant. I also know there are cultural and family reasons for particular names, and I am not fit to pass judgment on your decisions…

…but it has to be said that there are some people who are just white, pretentious, aspirational middle-class wankers who give wanky names to their wanker kids: Cassius. Fabian. Alfonse. Saladin. Thisbe. Orion. Darwin. Blue. Orlando. Clematis. Phoenix. Dante. Ariadne. Persephone. These are all names that have been within my own earshot in shops, and it is almost always said by a pleading woman who is trying ineffectively to control a recalcitrant child. I know am running the risk of offending you if you have given your child a distinctive name that has been bestowed for reasons of tradition, culture, or love, and I get that… but Saladin? Really?

The Couple (with two small children) Who Came Up To Me With A Complaint Who Reeked Of Stale Booze And Swore A Lot:
Fuck me, you people have a serious problem, and I hope your kid does not copy your example.

Oh, and just the other week, I did have somebody be obnoxiously racist to me about the Muslims we get in store, the non-white heritage of one of my colleagues, and anyone from Wales. He didn’t have any kids with him that I could see, so he wasn’t a bad parent, just your average common-or-garden cunt.


Please don’t get me wrong. 99.9999% of the customers I encounter are splendid and polite. They treat their kids with love, and they deal with any frustrations with good humour and reasonable discipline. The kids are usually all right too, they’re just bored surrounded by distractions, and they act out because of it. Sometimes they scream their way around the store, but that’s fine. Kids scream. I don’t mind it, despite some parents thinking I do. I see great parents all day, every day, looking after their kids, singing songs to the tiny ones, involving the older ones in the shopping experience, and doing their best to make their family time in a massive store enjoyable.

Shopping is a chore. It’s a ballache. Maybe all of my examples of poor behaviour were exceptions to their otherwise unimpeachable characters. We can’t be expected to be perfect all the time. So if 99.999% percent of people have one bad shopping trip, who am I to judge? The examples I listed above are rarities, the absolute exception. I don’t see people like that every day, or even every month. So, I’m not exaggerating when I say that 99.999% of my customers – and I usually encounter hundreds on a shift – are superb and I genuinely enjoy helping them.

OK. Maybe on a super-busy day it’s more like 98.7%. A busy store like ours is a bit of an intimidating, overwhelming place, and even though I’ve been there for two years, I have experienced my own share of panic attacks. Yes, I do get people being rude, unreasonable, petulant, whiny, handling disappointment with bad grace, and seemingly hell-bent on being arsey, but that’s part of the job. And maybe I’m the reason why they get annoyed, I dunno. It’s possible I have a manner that enrages and a face that invites punching. What amazes me is how rare these people are, and if they are behaving like pricks, there’s usually an understandable reason why.

But be warned: I do observe people. And so do my colleagues. We’re on to you. Just remember that when you’re out shopping, shop workers such as myself are watching you. If something happens – an incident, a behavioural tick, an overheard remark – you will become an anecdote. We will laugh at you when you’re out of sight. We will repeat what you have just said, and we will snigger about you and your stupid attitude. And you will be judged by your behaviour, and the way you treat your children.

Oh yes. I assure you: Ye shall be judged.

judging you.gif

Reflections On My Daughter Turning 8

She’s 8
She’s growing up fast
Too fast, in fact
You can hear the moments swoosh by in painful Doppler-effect
I can’t make her stay young
But I’ll miss the 8 year old, like I miss the 6 and the 3

She’s 8
Lives in a world filled with friends
But she’s beginning to get puzzled
At why some people don’t play with her

One day
Someone will tell her she’s not cool enough
And no matter how hard I will try to convince her otherwise
She’ll believe them and not me

She’s 8
Soon she’ll be 10
She’ll want things that are new and expensive
That are essential to helping her to fit in
Right now, she doesn’t care
Thank God for that
May it remain in the future

She’s 8
She can see the World now
She sees the news, and realises it affects her
She sees the faraway country, and feels the connection
I am proud and sad
“Saoud”? “Prad”?

And she makes me happy
All breathless and giddy and funny and shouting
She’ll still make me happy in five years time
But the giddy and excited will make way
For quiet moments in her room
The wide-eyed wonder will be pushed back
And her instinctive automatic affection will embarrass her

She’s 8
And she name-drops Jaguar
She thinks it’s the best car
Because she knows I want to drive one
And she can spot Led Zeppelin
Doesn’t care if her friends can’t
In five years
They’ll tell her she’s sad
Then she’ll tell me I’m sad
Then I’ll actually be sad
But not teenager-sad
Properly sad
That I’m the embarrassing Dad
She will put empty space between what she likes
And what I love

shai hulud
She’s 8, and she has summoned Shai-Hulud #prouddad

She’s 8
And I’m still Daddy
I’m not Dad yet
I know it’s coming
I want Dad to be kept at bay
It’s a name that can lengthened
Into a Daaaaaaaaad! of annoyance and frustration
Daddy can be in this house a little longer
Even though the insistent monotone
Follows me around the shops

She’s 8
Soon she’ll be swearing
I’m looking forward to not having to mind my language
But I don’t want that open, sweet face to utter a curse

She’s 8
She’ll soon want to kiss
And whoever she kisses
Had better be good to her
Fist-shakey father
Terrifying the spotty teenager
Who dares to be overly polite on our doorstep
And calls me ‘sir’ on first meeting
Taking pleasure in his angular awkwardness

She’s 8
Staying indoors
When I was 8, I rode the town
On a bike across busy roads
Into deserted back lanes
And ran pathways in woods
Encountering hostile bigger kids
And stashes of creased magazines
Full of naughty hair

And bought bright green teeth-gouging sweets
With sweaty coppers
And sometimes crossed the road
Without waiting for David Prowse to bleep at me
Knocked on familiar doors without invitation
Played on wheel-worn tarmac
Watched skin concertina up my knee

I’m still too scared
I can’t bring myself to let her cross the road solo yet
Or walk to school alone
Or buy things in the shop
Or walk round to a friends’ house
Or make a phone call
Or type a word into Google
Because everything leads to porn, you know
Cars don’t stop for pedestrians
And all strangers are terrifying monsters
The world outside these comfortable brick walls
Is full of broken glass and needles
Blade-edged crushing cars and perverts
I’m the one who is scared, not her

“Why haven’t you won a fucking Oscar yet??”

She’s 8
She writes and talks and sings and dances
And sticky inept fingers on piano keys
Pick out idiot melodies
Words come out jumbled and charming
Without thinking any of that is wrong
And one day, and it’s a day hurtling towards us
She’ll write properly
Talk politely with a filter

She will be too scared to sing
Because other people are listening
She’ll refrain from sudden public dancing
because other people are watching
And the music will be corrected
And she’ll speak like the rest of us
Just to avoid the tuts and sneers
Just because other people want her to be normal

And she makes me happy
She’s so breathless and giddy
And talking without fader
When we’re both shouting and snarling
She’s usually crying
And I’m towering
I’m usually winning
But she hasn’t hated me yet
Or sworn or slammed doors
Or run out of the castle into the tangled Disney forest
Or scrawled on walls
Or turned up the volume
Of yelping, excoriating words
From paid miserablists
Who in their twenties and thirties
Articulate for teenagers
Or turned inwards and loathing
Writing words on secret paper
Refusing my courtesy
Sour respect
It’s John I feel most sorry for. Not so awful to be a never, and not a DEFINITELY!! Just a dismissive ‘Not really’. Poor Not-really John

She’s 8
And soon her body will disobey
Bits poke out and make her distinct
Skin will swell
Tiny volcanoes
Angry red swarm on cheeks
Clothes feeling tight
Skeleton rearranging
New pituitary chemicals
The doorway of womanhood

And then the pointing
Sly giggling
Innuendos and slurs
Developments are early or late
And others will be having it better
Whatever she gets, she’ll feel it is wrong
The inevitable exile
From self or army of others

Right now
She’s a blank larvae
Teeth the only sign
Of growth and maturity
And height marks on a doorframe
Long hair and dress sense
Inspired by fairy-tale and dream
Her trusting eyes
Long sighted
Blue and open
Always hopeful

And she makes me happy
And she makes me so, so happy
All breathless and giddy
We love the same things
She’ll still make me happy in five years time
Will she still love the same things?
Or will she want to lengthen her arms
Keep me and my things at the tips?
Put the blinker-hand to her eyes
And walk a little bit quicker than me?

Father Daughter Banquet 028-001
It was right after this picture was taken that one of the Dads said “…and remember, girls. Always use a condom”. Pick your moment carefully, fathers.

She’s 8
8 is vanishing
Soon she’ll be 9
Soon she’ll be 12
Soon she’ll be 15
She’s halfway to 16
A decade from voting
Sex and drinking
Driving and smoking
Separate living
Not daily talking but sometimes calling
The aged parents
Our duty done, her duty to contact

The silent house
Is very distant now
10 years or more
But soon will be close
She’s still golden
While I’m still dark, but snow is forming
And the body will lengthen
She’ll look me in the eye
And ask for freedom
My wife and I
Praise the quiet
At the end of each day
Talk boring adult things
Mortgages and roadworks

But when clocks stop
And lights switch off
On the final closing of doors
Emptied drawers
The relinquishing of house keys
Her terrifying adventure
Enriching, engorging and full
Will be a solo flight
We’ll be left behind
My wife and I
Clinging to each other
Like shipwrecked beavers on a raft
Wishing for the chatter
And streaming prattle
To return as soundtrack
I write it down
So that I can always hear it

She’s gone, cannot return
She changes, grows, and blossoms
I carve gouges in my face
My hair turns to birch-bark silver
And mother becomes a cheerful apple
Rose-red and comforting
To the new names and beautiful hands
A kitchen and a front room to visit
Pot-pourri walls and confident with nails
Our beloved garden
Books and photos in the attic
Always visited
…So far away
Getting closer
Return to this room now

She’s 8
And I’m 40
She’s soaring upwards
And I’m sauntering down.

How I see mine and my daughter’s relationship unfolding as the years go on. Your parenting role-models might differ from mine.

My Daughter is Teh Awesomz!!

How Alice would like our bathroom. So that she can still have chats. No. Just… no

I just got irritable at Alice. I properly shouted at her.

It was before heading off to school. I was on the loo, making myself lighter, and she came upstairs and started gabbling at me. Annoyed at having my one moment of isolation interrupted, I snapped through the door to leave me alone. She cried, yelled “Well… leave ME alone!!” and stomped off into her room, sobbing.

“Can’t I have one moment of privacy??” I pleaded with her, after things had cooled down.
“You get privacy at work!” she responded. I work in retail, in a store with hundreds of employees, and with many thousands of customers per week. I am surrounded at all times by many people. She knows this. As comebacks go, it’s one of the most bizarre.

Now at this point, you’re thinking this is a blog entry about my toilet visits being interrupted by my offspring. It’s a classic parent trope, isn’t it? The fact you cannot go to the toilet by yourself anymore? Hilarious! But I fancy wrongfooting you today, and I hope it has worked. On the walk back from school, I started thinking about how this blog doesn’t always express the pride I have in her. And it’s about time I should do something about this. Hopefully, I shall do it in a way that doesn’t make you sick.

Sooooo… pride in your children leads to… cannibalism?? Literally… wut?

Before we go any further, I don’t want you to think that I’m going to gush proudly about Alice in blog format, and then not tell her to her face how much I am proud of her and her achievements. I DO tell her. I tell her a lot.

I’m proud of her for many reasons. Not just that she’s good in school – of course, I’d be bothered if she wasn’t, but I’m more concerned with who she is as a person, not a test score. The fact that she’s doing well in school is a happy coincidence, and I am proud of that, but to me, what really matters is who she is turning into.  And I like that person a lot.

  • When she spontaneously does a lot of tidying without complaint. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I’m delighted. Just yesterday, she announced that she was going to be “super-helpful!!” with audible exclamation marks. So she helped me with the shopping, helped me pack it away when we got home, and then tidied the living room.
  • When she talks with confidence to people, especially adults. Sometimes she says too much, or talks out of turn, or gives out too much information, or just babbles. But to just have the ability and willingness to attempt to converse with the adults she meets with me, instead of hiding behind my legs, is something I’m really pleased about.
  • When she can stand up in front of an audience and not feel any fear. So many adults piss themselves dry at the thought of public speaking. Alice revels in it.
  • Seeing her interact with other children, when she’s in a strange place or in a strange situation, is always rewarding. She makes friends easily.
  • The other day, she announced that she hadn’t watched enough news. So she watched some, because she realised she needed to know what was happening in the world. You go, girl!
  • After three and a half years of primary school, and lots of gentle cajoling from teachers, she just transformed her handwriting. What used to be sentanceswithnospacesorpunctuationwhatsoeverinaspideryhand are now flowing and neat, and written in an elegant and slender gothic script. This is something I’m not just proud of, but slightly jealous about. I still have appalling handwriting.

    serial killer
    Alice’s handwriting is coming along nicely!
  • Alice is good at science and has an interest in the scientific method. I’m not particularly, and neither is Sarah. Recently, she has developed a fascination with the periodic table. Despite me knowing next to nothing about the periodic table, I am keen to foster this interest.
  • Alice is good at maths. I most definitely am not.
  • Alice told me she wants to challenge me to a geek trivia quiz. I told her that I would beat her, hands down. She put her hands on her hips instead, and firmly told me I would lose. I said, Oh yeah?, and asked her what Deep Thought calculated was the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. She didn’t know, and asked me who Deep Thought was. OK, so I proved my point, but I’m really pleased that a) she is interested in geek trivia (and was both confused and amazed at the answer 42, and wanted to know more); b) she actively seeks a quiz on geek trivia; and c) that she thinks she can take me on.
  • Alice doesn’t take shit from me. She really doesn’t. Much as I would like her to obey every command without question, and follow every instruction, and not be so cheeky as to answer back, I am still really pleased she stands up to me. If she can stand up to me, she can face up to bullies, abusive boyfriends, and crap bosses.
  • When she stands up for herself, in school, in the face of some quite nasty behaviour from her peers (they’re 8, they do that, even the lovely ones, and most of her classmates truly are lovely, but sometimes they can be horrific to one another), or when someone continually picks on her. She doesn’t realise this, because she gets upset and feels helpless, but I’m really proud that she does the right thing: She doesn’t hide from the confrontation, she calls them out on it, she challenges their attitude towards her, and she tells someone about it – a teacher, a friend, Sarah and I. By contrast, I really wish I had done that so many times in my life, up to and including last week.
  • Alice wants to watch films. She wants to go to the cinema with me. The other day we saw Beauty and the Beast (the new live-action version with Emma Watson) at our local flickhouse. It was rubbish, but we had a lovely afternoon of me and her, and she loved it, and we did popcorn, and afterwards we held hands and skipped through the cinema foyer. A gang of teenage girls looked aghast at this sight, and one sniggered in a nasty way. Alice didn’t notice and I didn’t care. Even seeing a bad film with Alice is good fun.
  • Alice likes music, and is happy to be introduced to new sounds. It has to be done the right way. You can’t just play Alice a song, or a band, and expect her to like it. Hearing a song on a film soundtrack is a good way to feed her new songs. Or hype up a band over a couple of weeks until she demands to hear it. Thanks to the teaser trailer for the upcoming Thor Ragnarok which employs effective use of Immigrant Song, Alice has developed an enthusiasm for Led Zeppelin. WIN. Now I’ve been telling her about Stairway to Heaven and – crucially – not playing it to her. Now she really wants to hear it. The other day, I casually mentioned Pink Floyd and her ears noticeably pricked up and she asked me who they were and what they sounded like. Sometimes she does surprise me. Not long ago, I played an old Genesis album in the car, to Sarah’s mild annoyance. From the back seat, a small voice piped up “I’m feeling this, Daddy!”. Now Genesis are one of her favourite bands, even though I’m slightly embarrassed about it.

    I’m sort-of sorry about this.
  • Alice doesn’t care what other people think of her music taste. I think this is great. With her burgeoning enthusiasm for Zeppelin, and an established love of Bowie, Kate Bush, and AC/DC, I do worry how her peers would react to her tastes, as mine did back in the day.

    “What if they tell you that you’re not cool enough, and the music you like is uncool and sad, Alice?”, I asked her.

    “I don’t care”, she answered, blithely. “It’s my music, and I like it, and that’s that.”

    That got a high five.

  • Alice cares about other people. She has empathy, particularly when other people are upset. She has signed up to the school program to be a ‘playground buddy’, which means she will be looking after the small kids, or anyone who hasn’t got a friend to play with.
  • Alice reads. She reads story books, Harry Potter, graphic novels, kid science books, magazines… now while reading is one of those things all kids are expected to do, I did get a bit worried a year or two ago when Alice just didn’t seem to enjoy reading all that much. She could do it quite easily, she just didn’t seem to get a thrill out of it. Now she does it a lot more. Authors are beginning to attract her attention. Obviously JK Rowling gets a mention, and Roald Dahl of course, but she’s heard a few short stories by Terry Pratchett, and is keen to read more. She still won’t read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory though, and still describes it as her worst fear (usually whilst shivering and quaking theatrically). Although, a few weeks ago, she announced she had started reading it, and would probably skip the scary bits.
  • As previously mentioned on this blog, we recently bought a Playstation 4. Alice loves it, and has enthusiastically started getting into gaming. She has, with Sarah’s help, built her own world on Minecraft, filled with very Alice things. It’s a town called Poppitron, and there’s the mile-high bridge that goes nowhere, a lava fountain, the most opulent railway station in the world made of emerald and gold, a school made of glass, a permanent scrapyard fire-pyramid, a vertical football stadium, a movie studio called Pollywood, a tower of carpet, a giant clock tower, a duck farm.
  • She sings her own songs, spontaneously, and with gusto. Some of her compositions are charming, and not many of them are about poo or wee, as all of my songs were when I was aged 8.
  • She wants to be an author (blimey, who doesn’t around here?) and she has started writing her ideas down in a notebook. Some of them have genuine potential. What I’m really proud of is that a) she’s taking it seriously; and b) she’s actually developing good discipline and practice.
  • She’s good with names and imaginative ideas. She has had, since the age of three, an imaginary country called Mongray, and the citizens of Mongray speak a language called Chiksh. The language, mythology, and geography of Mongray is always evolving. Her various worlds in Minecraft have great names – Floransems and Efammubi for example. By contrast, my latest character name for Call of Duty is Ultra-Dan Megaskillz.

    It’s all kicking off in downtown Effamubi…
  • She’s a smart, clever, funny girl, who likes conversation and interesting things. She cares for other people, and is interested in how the world operates. She likes words and numbers and science. She can play imaginative games by herself, and she likes joining in with other people. She loves school. She loves family. She likes doing stuff with Sarah and I, and we have fun together. She doesn’t ask for material things very often, and certainly isn’t interested in current fads, trends, must-have toys, or the latest ‘thing’ very much; and she doesn’t care what other people think of her.


I’m not complacent though, and there is room for improvement. There’s still a lot of parenting by myself and Sarah to do, and Alice has to make the effort as well. But really, it’s on us. For example, she has never made toast. She has never crossed a road all by herself without me or Sarah looking out for her. She can’t swim all that well. She has never ridden a bike. She has never bought anything in a shop all by herself. She still uses her fingers as a piece of cutlery. She sometimes doesn’t know when to stop talking, and sometimes she doesn’t have that filter between brain and mouth.

She is, however, remarkable to me. I never can quite get over that really not that long ago, she was a cluster of cells, and then she was a baby with a formless mind, and then a toddler, and now she’s a proper person. With thoughts, and ideas, and dreams, and opinions. She’s growing up to be more than I could ever wish for, and sometimes more than I can bear. I’m so totally, utterly, properly, ultrally proud of her, that I just make up words sometimes. Rather like she does.

Proud parent


Conversations With My Daughter #88

A family walk in the British countryside in glorious spring sunshine. Alice is espousing on the nature of birds. Some might call it prattling without pausing for breath. I prefer to call it imaginative free-styling. For some reason, known only to herself, Alice is full of the Yuletide spirit.

“The birds are all singing their own Christmas carols. They have their own religion about the giant crystal snowflake that flies over the world giving the birds presents on their version of Christmas Day, but they call it Snow Bubble Day, and they announce it to each other in their bird-language called ‘Twitter’. Sometimes they go ‘tweet-tweet!’ at each other, and sometimes they go ‘tweet-twat!’…”

Er… Alice…?

“…and sometimes they go ‘twit-twit-twoo!’, and sometimes they go ‘twoot-twat-twey!’…”

[Sarah and I exchange amused, but slightly concerned, glances. We are about to walk through a quiet village centre, our Alice is hitting her stride, and she is declaiming loudly as if it were the Sermon on the Mount]

“…and sometimes they go ‘twooot!’, but that’s the bigger birds, and the smaller birds go ‘tweety-twatty-twit!’…”


“…and when they really get carried away, they go ‘TWAT-TWAT-TWAT-TWAT!’…”

OK, Al, there’s something we need to tell you…



Super Megathing 3000


If you’re noticing a spring in my step, and a more zesty attitude to life, you might be forgiven for thinking I’ve won the lottery or had sex. But no, my new vim and vigour has come about due to last Christmas’s family Christmas present: A Sony Playstation 4.

Anybody who says that material things – especially sparkly digital shriekboxes – are ephemera we could all do without is talking absolute bollocks. Having a Playstation 4 really has made my life completely better.

I should explain why I’m so giddy about this. You see, I’ve never had a cutting-edge games console before (I know, I know, #FirstWorldProblems and all that). I am not what you might call an early adopter of technology. I do not own an MP3 player. I haven’t got a sat-nav in my car. I sneer at Apple things, and baulk at their prices. My smart phone is cheap, low-cost, and only used for text messages and phone calls, and that’s it. Good tech is wasted on me.

I’ve been conditioned to be like this. Growing up in the 1980s, my father was afflicted by that strange delusion that middle-aged men with young families had back then, and bought a home computer on the basis that it would help my brother and I do better homework than anyone else, and that he could control the family finances in a much more comprehensive way. Of course, that was bullshit, and we used it as a home arcade-game machine. I don’t think I ever saw him use it for compiling a spreadsheet, and I certainly never did homework on it.

It was a BBC Model B Microcomputer, with a 5″ floppy disk drive and 32kb of memory, and it was brilliant. He managed to get a few games for it, and that was enough, end of story. At the same time, the games console market was taking off, but he figured that a computer with games on it was enough for us, end of story, no argument.

Typically of our family (we also had a Betamax video recorder) The BBC Model B was not a machine my contemporaries had (most of my peers had a ZX Spectrum 48k), so games were hard to come by (apart from the original Elite, which was fucking brill, and I now play the new updated online version, Elite: Deadly Turbo Zone). Over subsequent years, we’d get various underpowered PCs, thanks to my Dad’s insistence on computers over consoles, and to his complete lack of knowledge about computers.

This parsimonious attitude rubbed off on me. As a student in the 1990s, when my chums were all blowing grants and student loans on the original Playstation, I thought I was being sensible by not getting one. Fool. I therefore missed out on staying up until 5am with a spliff in my hand, playing Tomb Raider. This was an essential experiential part of the cultural zeitgeist in the 1990s, and I missed out on it, and as a result my life has never really recovered.

I’ve missed out on such fun.

A few years ago, I caved in and bought a Wii, some years after everyone else had bought one. It’s OK, but games were hardly being churned out for it, even in 2010. We now use it for the fitness thing, except it can be quite judgmental. But this Christmas, both Sarah and I agreed to get a new console.

We reasoned that as Alice was getting older, that she should have some sort of Super Megathing 3000. For one thing, most of her friends have got tablets, Nintendo DS’s, Xboxes and so on, and we didn’t want her to feel left out. For another, we wanted her to have something that had a current supply of decent games coming out every so often. And finally, and most importantly, Sarah and I wanted all of those things for ourselves.

Sarah, ever the clever budgeter, thought we could get a PS3 second-hand, and that would do the job. For once, I didn’t agree. I felt that Alice would be better served by having new games. It’s not that I wanted her to have better, flashier stuff than her chums (nor do I want to rub it into the faces of our fellow parents), but that she could have something she could be proud of, and that she could have something where the games were relevant and current. I said all this, knowing full well that, deep down, my real reason for wanting a PS4 over a PS3 was that I wanted something spanking new for once, dammit!

After 30 years of console culture, I finally wanted to have something where, if a new game came out, I didn’t watch the adverts, wistfully hoping that I could one day have something as snazzy. I wanted to have a game and a console that all the other kids in the neighbourhood had. I wanted the shiny bullshit for once, and I wanted to have the bestest graphics, and the dopest games, yo. I wanted to play games when they came out. I wanted to play violent games online, and get my own back on teenagers from Ohio who call me a “faggot” and a “n00b” by blasting them repeatedly in the face (in the game, of course. Duh).
Besides, I’m an adult now, and what’s the point of actually working for a living if I can’t buy whatever the fuck I want?

I also reasoned with Sarah that Alice could have child-friendly games of her own, and that Sarah could play her beloved Minecraft in glorious, plasma-screen HD (up until now played on a creaking laptop). I reasoned that the PS4 would be current for a good few years yet, and it would be fine for a few years after any successor came out.

And lo, my wheedling paid off. The PS4 is now the newest member of the family. Fuck, it’s great. OK, so I can’t stay up until 5am with a spliff in my hand, sitting on a beanbag making Lara Croft jiggle around with guns – the time in my life where I could do that has now passed. Instead, Sarah and I can sit together and chat while we play our games. It’s quality husband/wife time together. Alice has also enjoyed playing  various Lego games and Minecraft herself. And it has brought a new disciplinary tool to the family dynamic: The old “If-you-don’t-do-your-homework-now-you-won’t-play-the-PS4-this-weekend” thing, which works a treat. The threat of which means that Alice will quickly do whatever she’s asked to do with minimum fuss. The threat of having her Lego Avengers game withdrawn is too much for her to bear. I mean, what else will she do without the PS4 to sustain her? Actually play with real Lego?? HA!

OK, so all I’ve done is bought a racing game, Twatty Car Vroomfest, and a shooty game in the form of Star Wars Battlegasm, and they’re all very shiny and lovely. I haven’t played Call of Duty Black Ops II online yet. In fact, I haven’t played any online games yet (and thus my waste of good tech continues), but I do feel like I’ve been a provider. I’ve finally become a good modern father after all my self-absorbed, liberal, non-bling, non-acquisitional pontificating and posturing, right? I’ve provided for my family. I haven’t denied my child some gaudy thing just because I didn’t have it as a lad, or out of being miserly. I’ve bought something aspirational and current, and it didn’t hurt. In fact, I feel better for it. I’m having fun, and so is my family! They’re downstairs right now playing on Minecraft as I type this. We’re all happy! You know, I think I may be becoming shallow and materially obsessed as everyone else. Hooray!


So How’s The Diet Going? A Diet Tale. Part Ten

diet strg
And another of these fucking pictures. I tell you, I’m glad this is the last part of this series, and I don’t have to go looking for pictures about dieting, because 75% of them are of this sort of heavy-handed nonsense. However, this is my favourite. The crazy eyes clinch it for me.

Hey, super being. Yeah, that’s YOU I’m talking about!

Well, here we are at the last part of this series. If you’re new here, welcome. Here are the other episodes. Maybe start at the beginning and work your way through it. Or just skip to the end, like I used to with the Hardy Boys books I used to read. That mill owner was such a fucking crook.

Here is the multi-season box-set for you to binge on:

Season One: The Shame of Weight
Season Two: The Quest for Thin
Season Three: A Feast of Fat
Season Four: Blood and Crowns
Season Five: The Crows of Wrath and Tiddly-Pom
Season Six: Oooh! Cosplay Ideas!!
Season Seven: More Tits And Shagging Than Even HBO Can Handle
Season Eight: Not As Good As Season Six, But You’re Hooked Now
Season Nine: The Expensive Battle Sequence And Everyone Dies

If you have read this whole series, then thank you for joining me. I really appreciate you being here.

If you are dieting: GOOD LUCK. If you succeed, please tell me how.


This time it’s war. It’s war on food, war on the doubting thoughts in your head, war on temptation. This is why you fail at diets, because the war becomes hard. There’s too much collateral damage. Too many civilian casualties. But in this war, the collateral damage and casualties are just your hunger. It’s almost as though you want to lose this war. NOT TODAY, MAGGOT. Not on my watch. You are losing weight, and you know it’s hard. This is a fight you have to win.

You are a PARENT now. You don’t allow your kid free access to television or sweets. You are strict on discipline, and you insist on good manners. You would do anything to prevent your child from smoking, drinking heavily, doing drugs, and becoming as overweight as you. So why do you do it to yourself?

Your child has big eyes, and has perfected the art of looking imploring when they want to manipulate you. Your inner child does this whenever you feel temptation. See a bowl of chocolate ice cream, or feel the need for a bag of chips? Your inner child gazes up at you. Do you give in to your real child all that much? I bet you don’t. So why spoil your inner child? You need to fight your inner child. Smack it in the face in exactly the same way that you wouldn’t ever do to your own real-life kid. Punch it into submission. Go on, be a horrific, abusive parent to your inner child. Just don’t do it in real life.

External pressures play their part. All around you are companies trying to convince you to buy their food. They make food look gorgeous and luscious and delicious, and very tempting. Takeaway Apps for mobile phones are a new industry in themselves. They didn’t exist 10 years ago. They are there to make vast amounts of money out of promising you convenience, no effort in cooking, speedy and tasty food, and they exploit your utter laziness.

Fighting for your attention – and losing, it has to be said – is the diet industry. It’s not just faddy diets, bogus science, patronising books, and pictures of people facing the agonising choice of vegetables or burgers… I mean, yes, it is all of that, but it’s an industry that is actually worth £2billion in the UK alone. Imagine that! Two. BILLION. POUNDS. Now realise that for the first time in the history of this blog, I’ve actually done some research for once.

Is the diet industry a help or a hindrance to dieting? It depends on your sense of cynicism, I suppose. I find it a massive annoyance, because pictures of smug arseholes tucking joyfully into a bowl of salad immediately makes me want to eat a steak and bacon sandwich. I don’t buy into the diet cult, and I don’t like the people who diet successfully and then crow about it. And maybe that’s why I have failed at pretty much every diet I’ve ever done. Losing weight isn’t the hard part. Keeping it off is the real challenge. A diet fails when your weight bounces back up to what it was. A diet succeeds not just when you lose weight and keep it off, but your entire lifestyle changes. It’s difficult to make these changes when you realise that the diet industry needs fatties like you. No matter how many books you read, how many diet clubs you join, it’s all money in someone’s pocket. I know it’s not what you should be thinking, but it’s a depressing modern fact. There are people who get rich from selling diet solutions to schlubs like me who regularly go on diets and fail.

I call bullshit. And putting a pic of a bloke in a white lab coat doesn’t make it any less so.

You are in Week Ten of your Diet. If you have lasted this far, that’s incredible. But it’s not good enough. The future beckons. Are you going to fight for your new weight loss? Are you ready for exercise? Are you prepared to take the diet up a notch? God knows, at this point you might be entering the ‘plateau phase’, where your rate of weight loss flattens out. If that happens, are you prepared to make further changes to your life?

So Week Ten is the season finale. The showdown with the end-of-level baddie. Be Buffy, and take down the Big Bad.

1. Fuck what the scales say – You have lost weight.

2. Feeling bullish/confrontational with the diet. Physical evidence is there, and if the scales lie to me again, the scales are going in the fucking bin, and I’m getting different scales.

3. And you know what? You’re buoyed up. A bit more confident about your body. Pleased that you are trimmer. You’re slightly frightened by the nightmare/comedy potential of loose trousers at work, but could always rush out to the shops clutching your waistband and buy some string and go full tramp as a temporary measure.

Oh boy, another smug arsehole tucking joyfully into a bowl of salad. Also – Olives: Ugh!

4. Your wife is being slightly frosty about the School Run Mum comment from last week, and just to prove a point, she comes with you on the school run one day when she’s working from home. Linda, one of the School Run Mums comes over and complements your wife on how slim she’s looking: “We noticed HE (nods towards me. Oh, I’m a ‘he’ now, am I? Thanks a fucking bunch, Linda…) has lost some weight, and he said you were both dieting, but it’s obviously really working. We all want to know: What’s your secret?”. Wife no longer jealous, and now pleased as Punch that other women are jealous of how she’s looking.

5. You’re not thin. You’re still quite fat. But you have lost weight, and it doesn’t feel bad. You’re not hungry throughout the whole day, and you don’t feel the need to have late night snacks.

6. Your co-worker offers you an M&M, and you practically smack it out of their hand: “You know perfectly well that I’m on a diet, and have been since January, and just because you lunched it during the first week of February doesn’t mean you can drag me down into the Failure Cave with you”. They look shocked for a second (and you think “oh fuck, here comes the HR meeting”), but they mumble a sulky apology and back away. You’re fucking BADASS.

7. You start to think you can do without sugary food most of the time. It’s such an indulgent waste, isn’t it? Of course you can manage without it. It’s just a luxury for those moments where you need a reward, but you can take it or leave it. You’re better than this. You don’t need sugary baubles. You’re not wedded to frippery.

Wedded to Frippery

8. Coffee doesn’t taste so bad without sugar or milk. In fact you go for a whole week without even opening the bottle of milk. Then, one day, you haven’t got any leftovers to eat so you go for cereal as a breakfast. You open the bottle of milk and have a cheeky sip from the bottle. It’s oddly grainy and tastes sort of sickly-sweet, but also there’s a nasty aftertaste. You look at the expiry date. It’s last week. You have just drunk the beginnings of yoghurt. Fucking hell, it’s rancid milk!! This is one of the most disgusting things that has happened to you ever.

8. You don’t miss chocolate. You eat plenty of fruit. Your kid notices this and wants to eat more fruit and less sweets. You’re good with that. Your kid also insists that they’re on a diet too, and this remark bothers you. Your kid is far too young to have body issues. Fuck’s sake.

9. Trousers are loose. Shirts are baggier. You’ve spent so long avoiding some clothes because you’re afraid that your belly will slide into view every time you raise your arms more than 45° that there are parts of your wardrobe that are like forbidden zones. Now you are looking at some of these shirts and contemplating wearing them. You try on an old favourite you haven’t worn for years. The buttons do not strain. This is good, very good.

10. You begin to think that dieting might just be the new norm for you. From now on, it’s not ‘breaking the diet’ to have naughty food to eat. It’s bingeing, and it’s a thing to do on rare occasions, almost by accident.

11. But then you come home from work having had a shit day on the same day that your wife comes home from work having had a shit day. You really can’t be arsed to cook. She doesn’t want to cook either. You both look at each other, and like former alcoholics falling off the wagon, one of you says very shamefully, very quietly: “Takeaway?

12. The devil on your shoulder sings the praises of one teeny-tiny takeaway meal that won’t make a difference. After all, the people in the adverts for takeaway apps look healthy and happy and have lots of friends… but the pious angel on your shoulder pleads with you to stay strong, and the Shame Nun starts cracking her knuckles. You mustn’t. You shouldn’t. Don’t buckle.

13. And this time, you don’t. Get thee behind me, Satan.

14. But what this makes you realise is that the future is not rosy. The diet is never going to be easy. You will be tempted. And there will be failures. Just not today. But the reprieve is only until tomorrow. Then it starts again from the beginning.

I'm The Best
LOOK AT MY ARMPITS, WORLD! (which reminds me, next challenge is to lose those bingo wings…)

10 weeks in, and there’s much to be proud of. But you’ve done 10 weeks of a diet before. What about 20 weeks? What about 30? Are you going to last until the summer? Are you going to last until Christmas? What about those weddings you’ve been invited to? You can’t do the diet at a wedding. Or that dinner party? You gonna cancel, or ring them up with your bloody dietary requirements like a twat? You just have to learn to adapt. You need to learn when you can break the diet, and when you can’t. A celebration? Sure. Every week? Absolutely not. New words need to be understood on a literal basis: Occasional. Special. Treat. A little treat now and then is good, but it has to be a treat, not a regular foodstuff. Your diet needs you to be strong, for weeks at a time, from now on. In fact, it can’t be seen as a ‘diet’ anymore. It’s now how you should be eating from now on. Your life depends on it.


Really? Wow!

Wow. Yes, that’s a lot for one week. Hmmmm. You weight yourself again.

+1.5lbs. Wait a sec… that’s a difference of 7.5lbs. Aw FUCK. You suspect your bathroom scales have either been broken for the last 10 weeks, or they have been trolling you like a boss.

The bathroom scales go in the bin. New bathroom scales are sought. Maybe this should be Week One now? OK, let’s reset and start at the beginning again. Deep breath.


Diets do suck. They’re hard. But good health can no longer be taken for granted. You are in your 40s and you are a parent. Weight loss takes effort and willpower. It’s a long, dark road. Some days are going to be good, and some weeks are going to be bad. The end result is still going to be you, with all your flaws and personality defects, but for the first time in years – decades even – you will feel good about how you look and what you can achieve.  You should be proud of how far you’ve come, and look to the future, when you can be amazed at what you are capable of. Don’t give in to temptation. You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.




So How’s The Diet Going? A Series On Dieting. Part Nine


diet struggggle
Slightly more thoughtful than the usual “diet struggle” photos. Also, that burger looks revolting, and the healthy stuff looks like one heck of a salad can be made from those ingredients. Not really a struggle, is it?

Blessings be, whoe’er ye be. Be ye slim, or ye be huge and fat. Come in and sit ye down.

This is the ninth part of this series on dieting. I hope that, if you are currently on a diet, this is either a comforting read, or cathartic in some way. If you’re not dieting, then I hope this is mildly entertaining and distracts you from your worries, if you have worries. Do thin people actually have worries? I’ve heard they don’t. Well, being fat is not one of your worries, I’m sure.

As this is Part Nine, you have some catching up to do. PREVIOUSLY ON DADDY BURNS THE SALAD’S SO HOW’S THE DIET GOING? A SERIES ON DIETING:


Dieting is, let’s be honest, a fight within ourselves. And at no point does it suddenly become easy. It would be nice if homo sapiens had developed the ability to not put on weight, but we do. It’s one of our evolutionary successes that we can retain weight. It’s also one of our modern disasters that we make and consume so much food that is bad for our frail bodies. Mind you, without that, an entire industry, based around dieting, that contributes to our global economy and provides thousands of jobs, would be fucked without us fatties. On the other hand, it has given rise to that most baffling and irritating of professions, the Life Coach.

Honestly, has there ever been a profession that is more of an expression of our needless, greedy, consumerist, image-obsessed, insecure, lacking-in-motivation, aspirational society? It’s an industry purely driven by exploiting those who need a little encouragement and guidance. Has there ever been another job that requires people to be so smug and superior as an essential part of the job description? If all the Life Coaches were put out of business, would the world carry on as normal? You betcha. If all the sewage workers were put out of business, would things be OK? No, we’d be in deep shit. And yet, when The Cataclysm happens, all the Life Coaches will demand that they deserve a place in The Ark over, say, violin teachers. The moment we, as a civilisation, realise that Life Coaches are completely unnecessary, the happier we will be, apart from all the Life Coaches who will need to find work, obvs.

Fuck off and get a proper job that benefits humanity other than yourself, Gary.

For this reason alone, go on a diet by yourself, discipline and dedicate yourself to it, and put these shysters out of work.

Anyway, now that I’ve offended any passing Life Coach, let’s dig on…


You’re still doing well, but there’s never any let up with a diet. A constant sense of determination is needed. Even with the weight loss you are experiencing, there is still a need for motivation and discipline. Temptation is everywhere. And you’re prone to thoughts of “well, one spoon of sugar in my coffee isn’t going to hurt”. It isn’t, but then the following week, you’ll think you can get away with it again. And then it becomes every two or three days, and then every other day, then every day. And once those sugar-in-coffee floodgates are open, you’ll give up on other things as well. Before you know it, you’re stuffing your face again, and you’re back on the fat train. Choo-choo.

“Fleshy People” – band name.

It doesn’t help your self-esteem, to be honest. Being overweight is easier than being in shape. It takes much less effort, but your feeling of lethargy and self-disgust is directly in proportion. Losing weight takes an immense amount of effort and willpower, and it’s so tempting to slip back into bad habits, right? I mean, you’ve lived with chubby-you for so long, you should be comfortable with the way you look, yeah?

Well now you have a battle in your head for supremacy. The you that wants an easy life just wants to fall back into old habits. The you that rather enjoys the compliments on your figure, and the way your body seems to be slimming down into something more appealing, is rather unused to all this positivity. But the diet is hard work. Easy life is easy, but will result in more depression. Diet life is hard, but will have rewards… some day. But yummy food is also rewarding, and it’s rewarding right now!

Society does not help. There are people out there who actively hate fat people. And overweight people are everywhere… and yet invisible in the media (except on news reports that highlight the obesity problem). And all the time, there’s a nagging voice in your head that reminds you that you don’t look good and that you should do something about it. And you have an unshakeable feeling, down in the pit of your soul, that you are the wrong shape and the wrong sort of person. The truth is plain: When you go to bed at night, you dream of being a thin person. When thin people go to bed at night, they do not dream of being you.

And so there’s a cycle of love, hate, self-doubt, temptation, pride, failure, achievement, rage, inadequacy, reward, denial, discipline, greed, a wish for a better metabolism, a desire to look good, a burning need for all the wrong food, and a spark of hope for redemption. This is the diet mindset. More so than looking young and pretty whilst eating salad.

Your observations for this week highlight this storm of contradiction:

1.Weight loss is really starting to have benefits. You can stay on your feet all day without feeling weak, but you can also feel a little trimmer.

2. You tucked your shirt in the other day, and you didn’t look like a darts player with a massive gut hanging over your belt.
fat gif
3. Your belt buckle is not digging into the flesh of your belly anymore, and you do not get an icky red scab forming. Your wife appreciates this, as she says: “Thank God for that. I never liked the way you would slouch on the sofa and absent-mindedly picked the dry skin off your belly and then eat it. It wasn’t sexy. In fact, it was quite revolting”. When she says it like that, you suddenly realise it’s revolting too.

3. Some of the people in work know you’ve been on a diet since January and are fucking annoying. One woman keeps saying – on a regular basis, like at least once a week – in a really condescending tone: “Gosh, you’re wasting away! Absolutely wasting away…” and then walking off smirking to herself. You are sorely tempted to tell her that she too would benefit from some weight loss, but… HR meeting? Is it worth it? Hmmmm. It might be.

4. One of the school run Mums says to you, apropos of nothing, without you actually telling her about the diet: “Have you been on a diet lately? I could swear that you’re looking thinner. We’ve all noticed it. What’s your secret”. And she looks at you in an appraising fashion. This is bloody great! You don’t tell your wife for about three days, but then you can’t help yourself and you blurt it out one evening. She doesn’t say anything, but purses her lips. The next day she enquires who it was who commented on you. Part of you is guilty for mentioning it, but a sizeable nasty part of you is secretly pleased she’s a bit jealous.

5. You do up your trousers one day. You have run out of belt loops. You need a smaller belt to keep your trousers up. This is working!

6. You do worry that if you lose lots of weight, you might end up with loads of loose skin flapping about, and you’ll look like someone has let the air out of you, but hey, that’s better than worrying about any sudden heart attacks.

Soooo… what you’re saying is that I’m going from looking undesirable, to looking freakish and weird? Why am I doing this diet again? (I mean, apart from the health benefits…)

7. And then you run into someone you haven’t seen for two months and they say “Wow, are you on a diet? You look trim!”… and you begin to suspect that maybe you were looking even fatter than you originally thought.

8. And then one day, you have a bad one. Work is stressful and you are argumentative. You feel shaky and weird, and you know this means low blood sugar. You are irritable and panicky. So you have one bar of chocolate from a vending machine. It’s a Snickers bar, your favourite. For a moment you get a rush of satisfaction and you feel better… but only for a bit. You catch a glimpse of a reflection of yourself in a mirror or a window, and you see you stuffing the chocolate into your ravenous maw and you are immediately revolted by what you see. All that work, shot down because you feel a little shivery. You absolute cunt.

9. You still finish that chocolate bar though.

You’re not peeling your belly skin, and the School Run Mums approve of your slimming body. WIN. That chocolate bar weighs heavily on your conscience. FAIL.


No. I’m not having that. I’ve been good all week, and I’ve stuck to the diet (apart from that chocolate bar). I have done NOTHING wrong (apart from that chocolate bar). This is like living in a dictatorship where citizens are randomly punished by The Fat King, whether there has been an infraction or not, just to keep everyone in line. I know I’m innocent. I hate dieting all of a sudden. But the evidence is there: My belt is too large, and my trousers are too loose. I AM losing weight. The diet IS working. Fuck that chocolate bar, it counts for fuck all. And I’ve had it confirmed that The Court of the School Run Mums, through their official spokesperson, have pronounced me to be thinner. And that means more than some numbers on a fucking electronic scale.

And the battle in your head keeps on raging…

Yes. But NO.

So How’s The Diet Going? A Fatty’s Progress. Part Eight

diet struggles1
Yet another “Oh God, what to eat??!” conundrum-picture, designed to make you feel both solidarity with the subject, and guilted into making a hard choice. This picture introduces the dark powers of the occult into your diet drama. Thanks for that.

Welcome one and all to the eighth magical episode of the Daddy Burns the Salad diet journal! If you’ve been following the series thus far, you’ll know that it’s a sweary look into the beastly mess that is dieting.

If you would like the full series on catch-up, here is the box-set:

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven

Dieting is not fun. Nobody ever says “I need to go on a diet! Hooray!”, because if you do diet, it’s usually because of bad things, not good things. Dieting goes against every instinct we have as animals. We need to eat food to survive. Eating less food will not help us survive, says our base brain. The trouble is, food is now more fattening, more tasty, more addictive, and more damaging than at any time in human history – apart from the 1970s and 1980s, when microwaved convenience food was rammed down our throats. At least now there is an appreciation of fresh ingredients and better cooking practices.


And now with all those thoughts weighing heavily on your mind, here is the next exciting installment…


This diet has been going on for eight long weeks now. Actually, they’re not all that long. Once you get into the swing of it, it’s not too bad. What you notice most of all is the change in your taste buds. The morning coffee – black, unsweetened – is not as rasping or bitter as it once was. It’s palatable. OK, so you still hanker for sugar and milk in your coffee, but that’s a lifetime habit. After all, you quit smoking years ago, and you still occasionally yearn for a cigarette.

You had Valentine’s Day last week, and it was great to knock the diet on the head for an evening. However, there are downsides. It’s the first meal you’ve had where you rely on someone else’s cooking, and it was very interesting. For one thing, you’re aware that people use oil in cooking, and lots of it. Having cooked for nigh-on two months with just oil spray, and then to have something that uses liberal amounts of olive oil means that you can feel a thin coating of oil all over your lips and around your mouth.

For another thing, when you’ve been eating a low-fat diet for a period of time, foods with lots of fat make you feel very different. You can feel the globules of fat coursing through your blood vessels. Why haven’t you noticed this before? Also, it does nothing for… shall we say… the waste products. Look, I don’t want to be immature about it, and we’re all adults here, but after a blow-out, your poopy-poos are squitty, and you would rather someone else wiped your bottom for you (although would you really want to put someone else through that disgustingness? Actually, in the midst of it, you totally would).

You can imagine the conversation between this model and her mother: “Hi honey, how did the photoshoot go today?” “Well, I sat on a toilet with my trousers round my ankles and my knickers on display, and pretended to show discomfort while a photographer yelled at me to ‘get in the moment’ and look hot and poopy at the same time. Mom, I wish I wasn’t a model anymore.”

And the benefits of dieting are really beginning to show. Not just on your waistline, but in other ways, as detailed below. So you go back on the diet this week. It feels actually quite good to be healthy, but somewhere in your head, you remember what it felt like when you had that first delicious bite of pizza, and a tiny part of you – actually a large part, because it’s your fat part – yearns for more. The struggle is real.

1.Every single advert on TV shows beautiful thin people eating scrumptiously rich, glistening, luscious, tantalising, gorgeous food. In reality, those actors would be going “No, I shouldn’t, I mustn’t, I have to watch my figure or I won’t get the roles” and starving themselves with a bowl of cucumber soup. Fuck them.

2. Meanwhile, you’re looking at myself in the mirror. Have you noticeably lost weight? Is your gut looking a bit more trim? Is your wife looking slimmer? She’s looking slimmer around the face at any rate. This is good.

3. No reported snoring. No acid reflux. This is good.

4. Work trousers in real danger of slipping down. This is not good. And while it’s great that underpants now feel somewhat loose, if trousers go south taking pants with them, there will be a meeting with the HR dept.
PG7Yoqo9QnGlBuhY2bhf_Shoots Pants Off.gif
5. It’s your turn to cook. You cook the same four things every week because a) you know they’re low-fat and diet-friendly; b) the kid eats them; c) curries, lean pasta dishes, and stir fries don’t get boring if they’re each cooked once per week; d) if you make large quantities, they’re your breakfast too!

6. It’s your wife’s turn to cook. This is where variation and diversity comes into the weekly menu. Wife is much better than you at experimenting with new recipes. Wife is also prepared to follow instructions from diet books written by people who were thin in the first place. And OK, some of the recipes are a bit bland, but at least they’re edible, unlike the onion-and-onion soup you get at work.

7. Face facts, you over-privileged white male: Your diet just means you are eating less. You’re not making any huge changes to what you already eat. Your wife, however, has made a significant change. After being a vegetarian for almost 30 years, she has decided to eat seafood in order to get tasty low-fat protein into her diet. You’re so giddy and excited at this, you then forget that it’s only seafood she is accepting, and not full-on mammal meat, but you nevertheless make her a lamb curry, whereupon she looks at you as though you have lost your mind. You have, frankly.

8. Fish is expensive. It’s nice, but it’s expensive. And there are all sorts of ecological issues surrounding it, and you, being the fluffiest of fluffy liberals, spend a long time in the supermarket trying to comprehend which certification you can trust. Also, some supermarkets are better than others, but depending on which website you visit, all supermarkets and their policies on sustainable fishing are suspect. Is there any company who isn’t a complete bastard these days?

9. You have forgotten that shellfish is an acquired taste, and you’re expecting your wife to suddenly acquire it so that you can have a king prawn stir-fry. You’re being a bit selfish about shellfish (try saying that 20 times really fast). To a traditionally non-shellfish eater, prawns, crabs, lobster, and scampi are basically underwater insects; and molluscs either look like snot or labia or Cthulu. After a few queasy shellfish meals, your wife decides that fish is fine, but shellfish is a naaaah.



Feeling better now that fish is on the menu. However, there are limits. You are told repeatedly (in every diet pamphlet, diet magazine, or diet book) that fish is ‘brain food’ and ‘good mood food’, which is either a revolting image of a feeding brain, or a punchable phrase that was invented by a thumpable twat.

5lbs. Yay for FISH!

You have lost enough weight to earn yourself a present! Well done! You go into town, and after being sorely tempted to buy a single Snickers bar, you reward yourself with a CD. Oh for God’s sake, you’re such a bloody middle-aged man on a diet.

Lose weight with… what now?


So How’s The Diet Going? A Dieter’s Journey. Part Seven

diet struggles
It’s another take on the classic ‘apple-or-cake?’ diet struggle pics. This one is unusual in that it’s the first pic I’ve found where the person facing the agonising choice of a scrummy apple or a scrummy cake is actually someone who looks like they are dieting, although the facial expression is another case of ‘confusion = wronked face’.  To hold this pose for photo after photo must be fucking agony.


Here we are at the seventh part of a journey of fat reduction. Have you read the other parts yet? Oh, you so should! Here them be:

One   Two   Three   Four   Five   Six

Are you on a diet? How’s it going for you? By all means write to me and tell me if your diet is good, bad, easy, rubbish, difficult, lemon, hairy, or German. To be honest, I’m finding it hard, but there are coping mechanisms, as you can see in the following words…


At long last, something good is happening to you now. After all this grumbling, there is noticeable difference in how you look. People are beginning to ask if you’re on a diet (as if they didn’t know, with all your bitchin’ and complainin’ – clearly nobody listens to you), and you look down at your waistline, and you can see more of your feet than hitherto.

The new tactic of missing lunch, but eating of last-night’s leftovers for breakfast, is actually paying off. You look forward to breakfast time a lot more now, which is good because you now start your day in a positive mood. The good mood doesn’t last, and by evening you’re properly hungry, but you’re not miserable from the moment you wake up, and that’s good.

You look at yourself in the mirror. Lookin’ good! Lookin’ trim! And no more mirror demons either. Although, the little girl with the blindfold on who appears occasionally in your peripheral vision has started to move a little closer to you. Oh well. On balance, it’s a good week.

Hang on, do you want women to be ashamed to be fat, or embarrassed to be thin? Make up your fucking mind, patriarchy…

Here comes the first test of your resolve in this diet. We’ve arrived at the middle of February. This means that, holy crap, it’s Valentine’s Day!!! And you’ve both promised each other that you will have one night’s break from the diet. It’s no bad thing. Here’s how the evening goes down (minus the… oh, you know):

1. OK, the kid is away.

2. You’re not going out, because every restaurant in town is going to be packed to the rafters with long-term couples having stilted conversations, airing long-held resentments, expressing regret, and enjoying some quality awkward moments together.

3. You’re just having a night in. And because it’s Valentine’s Day, and you want to kick back and relax, you decide to have a break from the diet.

4. And maybe a glass of wine, or two glasses of wine – ah, who’s counting anyway?

5. Takeaway it is!

6. Curry? No, you can have curries on the diet anyway. Chinese? Nah, you can do that as well. Pizza?

7. Hmmmmm. Pizza is forbidden in so many ways – bread, cheese, salami. It’s impossible to do a diet pizza without it tasting of MDF and guilt. So pizza it is. If you’re going to flip the bird at your diet, you might as well do it repeatedly.



Day after Valentine’s Day:

*ding ding*

Back on the diet the day after Valentine’s. Let’s say the prayer all dieters say when things go awry: “Dear Lord, I promise not to blow the diet until Easter at the earliest. Please. I can live without chocolate until then, but for Your sake, can you give me some fucking light at the end of this bastard tunnel? Amen.


Nine. Whole. Pounds.

And there was pizza too! (but don’t read too much into that. Eating pizza regularly will not lose weight. In fact, it will do the opposite.)


#ThemefromRocky – see? I told you that you’d hear it at some point!

So How’s The Diet Going? A Guide To Not Being Fat Anymore. Part Six

Oh hurrah! It’s yet another picture of the eternal diet struggle. This pic is great – the hard choice between an apple (which would be yummy) or a cream bun (which actually wouldn’t be yummier than the apple, to be honest). I like her bitey-bottom lip face, it’s a bit, y’know, sexy. I must admit that in the course of the diet, I’ve not yet picked up the naughty food and the healthy food, and agonised over which to eat. Not once. And nor has any other dieter ever, I’ll warrant.

Hiya, o gorgeous one – yes, you! Last week, I begun this series on dieting.  Here are the other episodes if you fancy a catch-up binge:

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five

Dieting is horrible, but necessary. I’m on diet number umpteen now, but this time, the diet has to work. Now that my circle of acquaintances is including more and more people in their forties, a number of my chums are exhibiting bad health issues all of a sudden. This has spurred me on to losing some serious weight. It’s not really an option for me to be crap about it anymore, so this one has to work, and I must not quit after three months.

You will notice that I am not including much exercise in this diet. This is because I hate exercise. It’s painful and boring and overrated. So getting fit will have to wait for another time. This might turn out to be a mistake. We’ll see.

Anyway, here’s the next spasm in the diet journey. READ ON…

Yeah, you appalling parent. Making your kid drink something that has not sugar in it?? AS PARENTS GO, YOU’RE WORSE THAN FRED WEST. (You gotta love vintage guilt-shame adverts…)


After a week of feeling like a sack of shite, you go back to work, but you feel gaunt. You look gaunter. Fat and gaunt is not a good combo.

You’re now in the middle of February, and it seems that everyone else in your office has totally given the fuck up, and lunched the diet. You don’t blame them. If anything, February is worse than January. The weather is awful. Everything is grey. There is no hope on the horizon. Summer is so far away, it might as well be on Mars. Sometimes, you wish you could just have a takeaway, just a bag of chips, just a quick burger. You try to make diet food appealing and fulfilling, but there are some days when you can feel your stomach crying out for food in its keening, wailing voice.

One night, you look at yourself in the mirror. You don’t recognise the person who is looking back at you. No, I’m not kidding, you really don’t. The person in your mirror is a demonic old woman, who stares at you with malevolent intent, and she bares her teeth. On top of everything else, you now have a haunted mirror. Oh, fucking brilliant.

You turn the mirror to face the wall, but  you can hear her whispering evil things all night. Demonic chanting can be heard. You are unwilling to allow the haunted mirror to become a portal to another hell-dimension, so you consider calling in an exorcist. Exorcists don’t advertise on, and you don’t fancy calling in The Vatican after last time, so you do self-exorcism by taking the mirror to the municipal dump and throwing it into the skip. The old woman beats her fists against the mirror glass and screams as the mirror smashes on a bag of builders rubble. Now you need to buy another mirror to see how fat you are. Plus you are in for a miserable seven years. Still, you have saved on bringing in a sub-contractor, and there are no stains or burn marks on the bedroom carpet.

Satanic mirrors aside, Week Six is the diet in full force. Your observations for the week leave you feeling as though you are merely existing, not living.

1. Can’t face breakfast. Every time you weigh out the 30g of cereal, you want to cry. You actually do cry one morning, and you hope your family does not see you being tearful.

2. There’s some stir-fry still in the wok from last night. If you eat that, and skip lunch, would that work?

3. Do NOT want to feel starving at 2pm though.

4. Or weigh out the cereal again. You’re basically punching yourself in the balls while telling yourself that you’re doing good.

5. Fuck it. That stir-fry was good last night, and it’s calling out to be eaten.

Yeah, that looks pretty fucking awesome. And not like 30g of cereal, which looks pretty fucking dismal.

6. WOAH! Stir-fry in the morning is great!

7. Go to work.

8. Lunch time – Go to cafeteria. Lentil and onion soup as the healthy option. You’re… not hungry. Should you skip it?

9. You are literally snubbing soup. And you’re snubbing all other food as well. You’ll have another fag-end coffee though… but you know what? You’re going to have a splash of skimmed milk in it. TREAT YO SELF.

10. 4pm – OK, You’re hungry now.

11. Come home, make low-fat curry.

12. 9pm – You’re… well… the tummy isn’t rumbling for once.

13. Wake up following morning. Wife muses, “You know, since starting the diet, you haven’t snored much. I’ve had a proper night’s sleep these last few weeks without wanting to smother you.”

14. That’s a point, when was the last night you woke with acid reflux burning your throat? Around New Year, wasn’t it?

15. “Thank you colleague, but no, I don’t want an M&M. No, please don’t be a dick and wave it in my face whilst whispering “Go onnnnn” in a seductive fashion. It’s almost as if you want me to fail. Well, not this time.”

You gone and done a few days where you eat last night’s leftovers for brekkie and… it’s pretty good. Hey, this could be your new diet thing. It certainly fills you up until the evening meal… yeah, it’s perfectly doable.

Next week is going to be tricky, though. You’ve got Valentine’s Day coming up, and you want to be able to enjoy it without feeling horribly guilty. Sometimes you’ve just got to fuck the diet off, otherwise what’s the point of living? However, would it ruin everything to indulge for one naughty evening? We shall see…

5lbs. WOAH! WIN!!!