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The Time I Screamed at my Kids

Before my kids arrived I swore I’d never shout at them. But choosing how to approach parenthood before your kids are born is like a caterpillar deciding what kind of butterfly they’re gonna be while they’re still building the cocoon. ‘I’ll still do loads of charity work, of course. And I’ll be REALLY nice to moths too, even though they’ll probably hate me because I’ll be so bloody gorgeous.’ Theory and reality are like sugar and shit. I’ve raised my voice to my kids more times than I can count. Often just to shout ‘STOP SHOUTING!’ which I’m aware doesn’t set a great example. ‘You should NEVER shout at your kids.’ And that’s fine. In theory. Because everything’s fine in theory. The Slimfast diet is a piece of piss until day two when you’ve had three hours sleep and someone offers you a Wagon Wheel. Of course, I never WANT to shout at them. I love them more than words can describe. But those you love are also the ones blessed with the innate ability to boil your piss q
Recent posts

The Time I Smeared Shit on the Duvet

My wife and I developed our parenting systems through trial and error. One of the earliest rules we’d introduced was that if it was after 5am and one of the babies became unsettled, we wouldn’t waste our time trying to get them back down in their cot - we’d just bring them in with us. After a nice cuddle in our bed, they’d normally settle back down, barring the occasional impromptu fanny gouge or affable bollock kick. (Babies are the most violent sleepers on the planet, easily capable of committing GBH in the middle of reaching for their dummy.) Our twins were six months old. I was fast asleep. At least, the deepest sleep you can get once your kids arrive. My pre-kids sleep used to be the nocturnal equivalent of deep sea diving. Nowadays I’m lucky if I can submerge my toes in a puddle. Early on, my sleep was lighter than a Ryvita biscuit who’d been having it off with a helium canister they’d met on Tinder. Everything woke me up. Some nights I’d just lie there, bewi

The Time I Got Sent to the Naughty Step

The naughty step is only as powerful as the child allows it to be. I once sent my son there and 20 seconds later he came racing through the living room on his fucking bike. I briefly tried to return him to his pleasantly carpeted penitentiary but I was far too busy giggling. On another occasion, my lad wouldn’t go to bed and instead plonked himself down on the bottom of the stairs in defiance. I started to threaten him with a trip to the dreaded step of naughtiness. ‘IF YOU DON’T GET TO BED RIGHT NOW, I’ll, erm….’ I tailed off as I realised he was already sitting on the effing naughty step and my threat now made less sense than Welsh hip-hop. I could see on his little face, he’d worked this out too. He threw me a smirk that said, ‘You’ll do what, knobhead?’ I felt it crucial not to back down. So I continued: ‘I’LL PUT YOU ON THE NAUGHTY STEP, YOUNG MAN!’ ‘But I’m already on it!’ he snorted. My brain turned to scrambled egg. ‘WELL THEN!’ I had nothing. Bu

The Time I Embarrassed Myself on a Bouncy Castle

Kids love bouncy castles. And why not? They’re bouncy and unpredictable, like Kanye West on a pogo stick. But just like Calpol, crayons and eating your own bogeys, the allure of the bouncy castle tends to dissipate as we reach adulthood. I’m not someone who lists ‘castle bouncing’ as a hobby these days. My kids, on the other hand, love a good bouncy castle. The bouncier the better. The only thing they love more than a GOOD bouncy castle is a REALLY BAD bouncy castle. Especially those ones that haven’t undergone a decent risk assessment since mullets were cool. In fact, the more dubious the health and safety standards appear to a casual bystander, the more keen my kids are to dive on headfirst and find the hazards. So. We’re at a farm park. We’re enjoying the standard parental farm park experience - the kids are interested in everything EXCEPT the very farm animals that we just paid a whopping £37.50 to visit. (BTW - My son’s favourite animal at Chester Zoo was

The Secret Diary of a 4 Year Old

MONDAY Demanded to wear socks AND sandals to the park. Mummy said that I couldn’t as it ‘wasn’t the done thing’ so I reminded the inflexible hag that I wasn’t planning on poncing down the catwalks of Milan or wowing the party girls of Manhattan’s Upper East Side in this fucking ensemble. I was simply visiting a subpar, surburban playground in the North of England to ‘arse about for a bit’ and if I wanted to dress like a 57 year old virgin then  I bloody well would do. TUESDAY Daddy is so sluggish first thing. That’s when I’m at my peak. Zipping about. Making plans. Ploughing through breakables. Keep up, old scrote. WEDNESDAY Wanted to be a shark so wore my swimming fin all day. Got told to remove it when I went for a dump but thankfully my arse stepped up with a rousing rendition of the theme from ‘Jaws’ to ensure the shark motif remained uninterrupted. THURSDAY Daddy explained to me that if someone is ever annoying me I must never rise to it and should simply walk away.

The Time I Went to Soft Play (During School Holidays)

We went to the soft play last week. It was meant to be fun. It was more like the Dunkirk landings. The day went south as we entered the car park. There was a massive queue outside. So we joined it. And stood in the rain. Just to get inside this spongy, bottomless pit of bastards. My first instinct was to turn myself and the boys around, hoping they wouldn’t notice that we’d driven all the way to the soft play, parked at the soft play and were now waiting outside the soft play. But it would’ve been easier to talk down a pair of rabid Doberman who’ve not eaten in two days and have spotted the postman’s arse through the letterbox. ‘Shall we go somewhere else boys?’ My withdrawal attempt wasn’t just optimistic. It was moronic and has since been filed under: ’Parenting Errors of Extreme Fuckwittery.’ (Other notable entries include: turning the TV off without prior warning and offering beverages from incorrectly coloured beakers.) I scrapped my extractio

We Have a Winner!

Ladies and gentlemen - some news! One recipient of my newsletter is now the 'lucky' (ahem) winner of an exclusive gig from me IN THEIR HOUSE! And that person is... Lyn Morter!  Well done, Lyn! (Btw, if anyone from  Ofcom  is reading, you can check the legitimacy of this result via the  Facebook Live video  I did last week.) When I informed Lyn that she'd won she simply said, 'I've never heard of you' and 'How did you get my phone number?' so I'm sure that will be a great gig for everyone. (Only joking. She was thrilled.) Thanks to all of you for entering. But what now, Sam?  I hear you screaming at your smartphones. Well, I'll be taking things a wee bit easier through August, spending some much needed time with my family after all the touring. But just like that former Governor of California of Austrian descent, I'LL BE BACK (sorry) in September with more blogs, videos and general waffle.  I'm also heading b