Parental Guidance – This blog contains the unavoidable use of colourful language, in particular a word that rhymes with duck. Enter at your own risk!
This year my son Jonny partook in ‘Dry January’. When I spoke to him the other day he reported that his alcohol abstinence hadn’t been overly challenging and he hadn’t displayed any overt signs of withdrawal……… Well, unless staring at the three cans of Becks Vier for two hours a day constitutes a sign of withdrawal.
To find out he’d undertaken a month of sobriety came as a surprise. At the beginning of the year, he mentioned partaking in ‘Dry January’. On hearing this I misguidedly assumed he was going avoid showering for 31 days…… However, as that’s my son’s default hygiene position, I should have known better.
I undertook the same challenge last year (a month of sobriety not shower dodging), 31 days when I found my discipline to be resolute. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a challenge at the time, but hey I’m only flesh and blood.…… Well, apart from my ears which are inexplicably made up of flour, sugar, butter and eggs. Evidently, I’m the only person in West Yorkshire in possession of Victoria Sponge cake listening devices.
Unless you count the guy from Heckmonwyke with ears of fudge……. Although, thinking about it fudge isn’t a cake, so strike that..….. Unless, it’s a fudge cake of course..….. For f***s sake move on, Gary!!
Incidentally, apologies for my cursing above. Ordinarily, I don’t like using the ‘F word’ in my monologues, but on some occasions it’s unavoidable. As I head towards my dotage, my language is getting brisker; in particular a significant increase in utilising the ‘F word’.
I blame it on a mixture of becoming entrenched in middle age, growing increasingly cynical; in association with fall out from the seven year roller coaster ride living with Karen’s cancer sojourn.
Last year’s sobriety saw a pleasing reduction in the utilisation of the naughty word that rhymes with duck (and truck, as well as Thurrock). For instance, my long suffering wife experienced a respite from rants like “F***ing hell, I’ve ran out of Becks Vier!” (other lagers are available).
Inspired by my increasingly colourful language, I recently started a fictional tale based on a Doctor Dolittle like character who despaired at the cursing animals he conversed with at a Tourettes farm.
It isn’t the most intellectual yarn from my pen, but what I’ve written so far has been fun. In particular, I covet the farm’s fridge magnet merchandise of a sheep shouting ‘Arse Biscuits!” at a long-suffering farmer.
It’s probably not too surprising to learn how pleasurable I find putting words into the mouth of cursing farm yard animals. As self-indulgent experiences go, penning dialogue for a horse who’s learnt he was to become a gelding is up there with the best.
Whether I ever complete this work of fiction, or it remains in the ‘work to finish’ tray, only time will tell. I’m unsure why probably the least sophisticated tale I’ve ever started has been amongst the most fun to write. It maybe tells you all you need to know about my mischievous mind.
Anyway, as my good friend the Tourettes afflicted sheep would exclaim “Arse Biscuits!”