The Inseminator Goes Off Half-Cocked

Now, I don't find it easy to admit to going off prematurely, but it appears I might have done so...

Thank you everyone who has looked into it more than I did and told me what the score is. It appears I was a bit hasty in blaming The Powers That Be.

It seems that there has been a long history of wishful-thinking women, high on powerful hormones, that turn up to register births citing Des Lynam, Jeffery Archer or Wee Jimmy Krankie as the father. To prevent this, a marriage certificate or a personal appearance is required. I suppose (and it pains me greatly to say this) that that is fair enough. Apparently if I fill in a yellow form and turn up in person with my mother and a note from either a priest or licensed publican*, I can, in fact, have my name added to the birth certificate. So I will be eating this (delicious looking) slice of humble pie:

mmmmm....pie.....

It's a shame really, I was starting to enjoy being The Inseminator, even if I was a little previous.

Thanks again for the heart-warming show of support.

*I made this bit up.

Call me Mr ---------------------------.

Recently, my first-born child, the fruit of my loins and apple of my eye, the adorable baby Esme, was officially registered with The Powers That Be. Now it should be noted that Antonia, my soul mate, partner in crime and love of my life, and I are not actually officially married in a legal, got-a-certificate kind of way. I changed my name to match her surname so the family has a family name, we jointly own our house (and mortgage), do everything together and are quite inseparable. However, we do not have a little piece of official paper to state that we declared all this to an official registrar.

What has this got to do with registering Esme? Well, here's a bit of her birth certificate:

Notice the father's name. Because we aren't married, I'm not allowed to have my name on my child's birth certificate. I am Mr. ------------; the mysterious, nameless inseminator. It's as if Antonia didn't quite catch my name, or perhaps saw no reason to remember it, or even ask for it. Perhaps the holy ghost was out and about, moving in His mysterious ways, is Esme the result of immaculate conception? Chances are, no. Antonia is fairly sure I am the father, but without a marriage certificate, well... best just leave the name blank eh? After all, if you are loose enough of morals to have a child out of wedlock you probably have unprotected sex with quite a lot of strangers, and so surely any name you gave would be nothing but guesswork anyway. That must be it.

We did consider, and might still apply for a Civil Partnership, now this is quite hard to distinguish from marriage. It was created for (and apparently can only apply to) same-sex couples. Antonia and I have decided if it's good enough for same-sex couples, then it's good enough for us, and if same-sex couples can't get 'Married' then we don't want to either.

But for now, I am that mysterious figure who comes in the night... The Inseminator.

The Inseminator - Who is this masked man?

Footnote:
Should the unthinkable happen, and we ever split up, Antonia will be legally compelled (that is, she will be breaking the law by refusing) to name me as the father; so that I can be forced, if necessary, to make support payments. So in that eventuality I *have* to be named. I can't help but think this process would be easier if my name was on the birth certificate in the first place.

We have been mis-represented!

Recently my beloved life partner, soul mate, mother of my daughter and love of my life said some things about me, that I feel might need some qualification.

The comments in question referred to my use of the word 'we'. Now while it would be easy for me to come back with some tit-for-tat 'oh, but what about the time when...' I will not. You see, it's like this, there are two distinct situations when I might use the 'we' when I actually know the deed to be “we'd” will be done by only one.

1. Sometimes when I know some horrid and revolting task needs doing, like scrapping the barnacles from the cats, or cleaning out the badgers after their long winter sleep, I might say 'We must scrape the cats' or 'It's time we sluice the badgers'. Now, I know that I, alone, will be doing the scraping/sluicing, but I don't like to make an issue of this fact. I just don't want to appear to be saying 'A vile and disgusting task has arisen concerning jointly owned property/animals, but I know that it lies with me alone to resolve the situation', for one thing there are too many words in the sentence, and for another it would be silly. I will just say 'Oh, we must clear the rotting things from the gutter,' and then get on with it. All quite innocent.

2. Sometimes there is a job to which Antonia is a million times more suited and where any attempt by me to do it myself will doubtless result in a) defeat, b) humilation and c) a large mess and several broken things. But again I might say 'We must paint that thing,' 'We should phone so-and-so,' or 'We must breastfeed Esme'. Maybe this is misleading, but what I mean is that I will be there for Antonia, while she does whatever it is. Her erstwhile co-pilot in the venture. Perhaps not actually doing anything, as such, but supporting – emotionally, spiritually. Like Ginger to her Biggles, like Watson to her Holmes, Cheech to her Chong or Wooster to her Jeeves, I'm there, a bumbling fool of little use perhaps, but there. Or at least somewhere in the house. Or at least nearby. Supporting, helping, encouraging, often offering useful comments as to how she might do the task better, or how I would do it. Like Ben Kenobi's spirit helping Luke Skywalker or my Master Po to her Grasshopper, supporting and teaching. Now how could that be a bad thing?

Basil Rathbone as Antonia looks stoic as Ian (played by Nigel Bruce) explains how to smoke a pipe properly.

Five Things You Probably Didn't Want To Know About Me

Righty ho, I seem to have been tagged by Adrian with a 'Five Things We Didn't Know About You' meme that is running through my blogging acquaintances like a dose of clap through a budget brothel. So despite having already posted two times in the last two days, I find myself saddling up for a third.

1.The Educational:
I collect Victorian home medical encyclopaedias. These books give a fascinating insight into not so ancient social history and stupendous scientific arrogance. 'Household Remedies For Man And Beast' contains advice on curing common colds and broken bones, how to make your own white-wash and a remedy for sweaty canaries. Dr Kellogg (inventor of the Cornflake, and founder of the cereal company) spends over 40 pages describing how to identify female practitioners of The Solitary Vice and warns most strongly of the physical, intellectual and spiritual damage caused by This Most Pernicious Habit; all without ever stating what an act of 'Self Pollution' actually entails. Parents beware: biting of nails, indolence, sullenness and the eating of coal are all evidence that your daughter is most certainly succumbing to Manual Venereal Debauchment, and Moral Bankruptcy and Delinquency will follow as sure as Day Follows Night, so act now!

2.The Emotional
Despite being a hardened cynic with all the empathy and emotional attachment of a barnacle whelk, I can not watch the end of Batteries Not Included without shedding a tear.

3.The Psychological
I have an extreme and passionate hatred and fear of pelicans. When I was three I became briefly separated from my family in St. James' Park. The resident pelicans seeing me fall behind rallied in attack. I was savagely bitten and almost devoured whole by one of these evil avian monsters. Had my father not lifted me to safety in the nick of time I would not be here to write this. The collective noun for pelicans is a Filth.
This picture was taken just before the vicious and unprovoked attack.

4.The Medical
When I was but twelve years old I developed a dull pain down there. Being at that awkward kind of age I kept this to myself for nearly a week, before explaining to my parents why I was walking funny. The next day I was at the doctor's for an examination. After a quick cup and a cough and a couple of questions he suggested we should pop along to the local hospital for a further check, he told me not to worry, and that the hospital would be expecting us. I was asked if I'd eaten that day, when I said no, I was scheduled for an operation that afternoon. Before I had the chance to be worried or afraid or panic-stricken I was on a ward, in bed, surrounded by screens with a pretty young nurse shaving my clock-weights. This was probably the most emotionally complex moment of my life. I hadn't even had the chance to use the damn things, and they were going to do who knows what! Some hours later and minus my epididymal appendices I came round from general anaesthetic feeling rather sick. I then had to wear a scrotal support for two weeks – a strange kind of string net bag with a hole to let your man-thing out and a belt to take the weight of my not-so-hairy-now saddlebags. It all itched like hell as my nutsack returned to its former hirsute self. Oh, The anguish! Oh, The Torment! Oh, The memory of that nurse!

5.The Physical
I used to have hair.














Then: Brooding young rock God.      Now:Needs help.


I tag Bob., your turn...

This photo appeared on the BBC website following the recent storms:



It was, of course, a recent scientific discovery that a car (or any large, near-hollow object) can, in fact, pass through a tree (or other dense organic matter), but only if going slowly. Anything under 15mph should be okay for a family car and a large fallen oak.

Either that or someone is making cruel and unfounded insinuations about the intellectual prowess of Her Majesty's Constabularies*.


*Who do a difficult and demanding job in these challenging times, and who are the envy of Europe, Asia, the America's and all the other less civilised parts of the world.

What would her mother say?

Now, I know it's not right to mock the afflicted. But sometimes I can't help myself. Sometimes they beg to be mocked, sometimes they seem intent on mocking themselves, sometimes they dress like this:
I mean, honestly, what was she thinking when she got dressed?

'Super-dark Chanel sunglasses on a dreary day, check.'
'Andy Warhol tribute hair, check'
'Slightly too small leopardskin-print top over a slightly larger white vest, check.'
'Best turquoise nylon knickers, check.'
'Skinny jeans, two sizes too small, check.'
'Studded belt, because I *ROCK*, check.'
'Chunky pink 'Hello Kitty' wristwatch, check.'
'Favourite comfy house slippers, check.

'I am *HOT* and ready to shop....All I need to do now is make sure everyone can see right down my arse, and truly, I'll be the most talked about girl in town!'

Just before this photo was taken she had just pulled her knickers up a bit, while checking out her reflection in a window - she looked quite pleased with what she saw. I thank the Lord I didn't see her from the front. Heaven knows what sights one might meet there.

Oh, the joys of teeny weeny camera phones.

Getting Wood!

Trips to the wood yard are always exciting. Firstly we get to make 'Getting wood' gags. I shall never tire of that one; that and the 'pass the ashtray' gag. I have a theory that even the worst joke in the world can become hilariously funny if you tell it often enough. I believe this is excellent training for the next phase of my life as 'Embarrassing Middle-Aged Dad' ; I can hardly wait until Esme is old enough to bring home friends so that I may impress them with my wit and general hip-ness. By then my currently rather tenuous grasp of modern popular culture should match my Grandmother's ability to fly fighter planes and tap-dance. As a child I believed embarrassing parents were the result of cultural ignorance and general 'unhip-ness'. It is only now that I realise that a good percentage of it is the product of a sense of humour hideously warped by countless sleepless nights, over-full nappies and a desire for (largely) harmless revenge.

But I digress. Getting wood. From a wood yard. The stuff of real men. Like lighting barbecues, sharpening knives and mixing cement, and like those things you do it with your head held high and with a John Wayne swagger.

Now I have a dining room full of wood and feel oh-so-pleased with myself!

Hoorah for the simple things in life!

Next weekend I get to indulge myself in the testosterone fuelled 'World Of Powertools'® as I try to carve a brand new bed out of the trimmed down remains of seven trees and a large shrub. Truly then I shall be 'King Of Mens'* and 'Provider To The Family'.

Hmmmm.... Wood......

*A full explanation of this fiercely contested title will come later...

Melon Licker

My cat licks melons. Which is nice.

(I couldn't find a tune called 'Melon Licker', but I figured Window Licker was a close enough.)

Fiendish Facial Hair (revisited)

It's getting worse!

Good Luck!

I can't remember how it came up originally, but we here at VitriolForDummies decided to bring good luck and wishing up to date.

For to long we have been dependent on old wives tales and murky superstition for our good fortune. This new and updated list is, of course, based on solid scientific research.

We have downgraded shooting stars (they are only little rocks, after all, and you always get loads in August when we go through the Perseid meteors), and blowing out candles on birthday cakes (due to the vile practice of self-re-lighting candles). These have been downgraded and will now merely bring good luck, rather than having full wish-upon status.

However, we now have three new things that will make wishes come true (usual caveats of secrecy apply):

1. A taxi full of bridesmaids (must be at least three bridesmaids and a public taxi: private-hire cars/limousines do not count).
2. A cormorant flying under a bridge.
3. A dead dog. (Rather sad, but true. Obviously no wishes if you had any part in its downfall)

Things no longer lucky:
1. Horseshoes - There used to be too many, now there are less, but they have become too tacky.
2. Unicorns - Apart from awful airbrush artwork and even worse porcelain ornaments there are no unicorns. Bad taste in posters/crap china is not lucky.
3. Lucky Heather - This has never been lucky. The only lucky thing about heather is not having someone try to sell you some.

New things to bring good luck:
1. Cormorants.
2. Seeing a Goth laugh.
3. Three red cars in a row (Doubly lucky if playing 'Red Car'*)

Quicky guide:

In:








Out:









*'Red Car' is a wonderful game for the whole family to play whilst driving. It was invented during 'My Rock 'n' Roll Years' (tm), off to do a gig in, of all places, Redcar, with my erstwhile companion Big Jason. It involves the first person to see a red car shouting 'Red Car!' followed by large argument of who actually saw it first, which only abates when another red car appears. It's a winner every time!

Grrrrrr! Idiots!

Our beloved local council have just decided that parking permits should cost more for 'gas guzzlers'.

Oh yes! I hear you say, let's penalise the evil polluters! but wait...

Parking restrictions are from 8:30 to 5:00, when most folk are at work. Now if I leave my vehicle behind and cycle to work like usual, I will be charged more than if I drive to work each day! Hoorah, that really makes sense! And they say this should encourage me to buy a less polluting car. My dear little car is now 35 years old and has the mileage of an average 7 year old. Currently I do about 1600 miles a year so the 15mpg is hardly here or there. But compare this to the energy required to have a new car made for me (about 2,340 gallons apparently - according to a somewhat biased looking report), or another 23 years of happy motoring for me!

Now I realise this post is somewhat lacking in humour and wit, and is tending a teensy weensy bit towards rather dreary ranting, but hell, I'm fed up with councils/government trying to raise extra revenue by pretending to give a shit about the environment. Grrrrrr. Seethe. grrrr.

Anyway, how are you?

Non à 2007!

Hoorah for the French !

(and you won't hear me say that very often).