Glen's life

The Lord of the Gays

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Fri, 25 May 2012 18:30:00 +0000

So, over at ‘In The Powder Room’ it is “Gay Week”. Specifically it is a themed week responding to President Obama’s recent comments about gay marriage. We do have quite a range of writers over there so if it is a subject you are interested in then please go to the home page and read the various posts in the theme as these guys properly have some good points to make.

As for me?

I’m not entirely sure I understood the brief.

Oh dear…

Apple have an awful lot to answer for...

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Wed, 23 May 2012 20:31:00 +0000

It’s 8pm. I know it’s 8pm because I’ve been staring at the time for the last fifty seconds, ever since 7:59, when I started.

Watching a clock tick is worth the effort, it’s stopping me from starting something that I’ve been putting off for a while.

But I can put it off no more.

It’s time to transfer i-tunes.

My old PC is slowly dying and running out of steam – don’t be sad, it’s had a good innings but the world no longer loves Windows 2000 and my computer’s memory is fading fast, is it one Gig or two? Who can remember?

Before I can send my faithful old PC out to pasture and place him lovingly into the loft with all the other crap that I refuse to throw away/sell/charity/admit to still having, I have a job to do.

Music has been a somewhat complicated affair since some bright-spark decided that the CD’s, which they had made me buy because the cassettes that I had replaced all my LP’s with, had gone out of fashion and that anyone with trousers worth ripping off had an ipod instead.

What was wrong with taping the top 40 off the radio anyway? So what if the start and end of every song had some chump talking over it but who cared? You were bang up to date with the latest tunes, could copy it to play on other devices, could carry it about to listen to on the train and could easily mix it about to knock up your own special playlist mix-tapes that you could give to a special lady who would usually dump you the next day.

Music was easy.

One day, several years ago, I joined the digital revolution and spent a lifetime figuring out how to put my “Who”, “Spear of Destiny”, “The The” and “S-Club 7” collections onto it via my computer. Oh don’t laugh, everyone has something embarrassingly shameful and indulgent on their ipod, with me it’s The The.

Somewhere along the line, I’ve just discovered, I decided to use my work email as the log-in for my i-tunes account.

The work email that is about four years out of date now.

That’s the one.

With the password that is nearly, but not quite, the one I usually use.

That’s the one.

I knew that this job was going to be lengthy.

Authorizing a new computer is step one and according to the help texts takes about four seconds. It does if you can log in without it happening automatically in the background for you. When you actually have to know your account name and password it suddenly becomes interesting.

Do I want to email myself a new password? What, to an email address that wouldn’t even work now if I still worked at my old company – which I don’t? Hmmm – better keep guessing then.

Eventually, I stumble onto the right credentials and my buzzing new laptop has the power to access my songs.

Except it doesn’t because I still haven’t actually transferred the music, just the rights to play it, it seems.

So another hour skips idly by as I seek out the actual media files and copy them over to an external drive only to copy them again to the new computer. I have at least got a little savvy now by leaving them grouped in a single folder and backed up on the external so things should be easier next time.

Next time?

Like I’m ever doing this again!

Midnight.

I do believe I’m done.

My new computer has playlists (that was a shocker – you export and import the library but then have to do the playlists separately). The playlists point to tracks that it can actually find.

It works.

Bed.

Feeling somewhat cocky and confident, the next day, I buy some new tracks and plug in the ipod.

Three hours later….

It seems my ipod had to delete everything and rebuild itself to the new PC.

It seems it didn’t like it very much.

Everything has gone and the ipod is not responding.

What was so bad about vinyl again?

It's only taken three years but I finally have a fan

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Mon, 21 May 2012 19:43:00 +0000

Did I tell you that I’ve been writing for three years now?

My third Blogiversary passed by in April, relatively unnoticed by the world and I. This year has been a little rocky for me and posts have taken a little dive as a result.

I won’t bore you with the detail but I’ll use some keywords to describe the distractions that have been going on about me in both my immediate and extended family over the past six months.

Physical attacks

Breast Cancer

Strokes

Redundancy

Stress

I didn’t want to write about any of those things but as they were filling my mind and taking up most of my thinking time, writing anything here became harder and harder.

Anyway…

To the point.

Something happened this weekend that has really cheered me up, really made me smile.

I got a fan-mail.

An actual letter (well, email really but it’s the same thing) from Susan. Susan is an actual bone fide reader!

Not only does she take the time to read here, which is pretty blummin amazing, but she then felt the need to write in and tell me what she thought…

Not because she has a blog to promote, which she doesn’t, not because she was after a plug or a giveaway…

But because she wanted to.

How amazingly brilliant is that?

So, Susan – thank you – thank you for being an ace reader.

You made my year – even if you did tell me off for not posting often enough… working on it -)

Summer is going to be very British this year

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Tue, 08 May 2012 21:24:00 +0000

London 2012 Olympic Stadium

Summer is coming.

It is, it really is.

I know this seems unlikely with the current weather conditions being what they are (I’m a little over sensitive to the climate at the moment as our boiler is broken and so the heating has been off for a few days. A cold wife is not a happy wife).

I always have loved fast women

But around the corner, the Sun is rubbing its hands together and blowing on them to get ready for a hard season’s shining – trust me.

In London, summer’s imminent arrival can mean only one thing.

The Olympics.

For all of the tax expense, for all of the travel disruption, for all of the anticipated lack of gold medals – I for one am excited. Never before in my lifetime have I had a chance to go to the Olympics and chances are I never will again. This is it – this is my chance.

And guess what – I’ve already been.

On Saturday – last week.

Where most of our golds will be found, I suspect

As part of the preparations for the facilities, LOCOG have been running test events. These help to train the volunteers as well as check the processes and procedures about the park in time to make any last-minute amendments before the main event. And we got us some tickets.

So we went and explored the Olympic Park in a very chilly Stratford.

It is pretty impressive; I can truly report that Britain has done a bloody good job. Be proud of it you Brits – we can hold our heads up high. The Stadium is awesome, the Velodrome looks fantastic. The whole set-up seems very well thought through.

They just need to work on the coffee. They’ve got time and this is the point of test events after all – tasteless over-priced coffee that you have to queue up for three days to buy is not the future. Get it right guys, this is a make or break situation. The park was only a quarter full and coffee was a major headache. I get a bit David Banner when deprived of caffeine.

Jo tries very hard to get over the lack of a good coffee

We watched Team GB take on the Australians at Hockey for an exciting three-all draw, then went into the main Stadium to watch University athletics, followed by an awful so-called celebrity official opening thing. Watching the athletics was great. It really gave you a feel of what it will be like to see the real thing. I especially enjoyed watching the women athlete’s bottoms bouncing about – but then I would.

The Orbit - absolutely awesome piece of art

The show was dire. Really. But that didn’t take anything away from the moment. Sitting in that arena with the floodlights shining like beacons of hope, the boys loved it, Jo loved it, I loved it. The Olympics are coming, and we are ready.

Team GB have a crack at the hockey

Come Summer you will find team Staples watching the male artistic gymnastics (not quite sure how that happened and not too happy about the glint in Jo’s eyes every time someone talks about gymnast’s bodies – I hate it when women treat us men as objects to be leered at). Then in September, we are back in the stadium to watch Paralympic Athletics, which I truly am excited about.

London 2012 – Being British doesn’t have to be embarrassing.

The death of a myth

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Thu, 03 May 2012 20:19:00 +0000

The jury is out, the Judge is stroking his gavel, and the prosecution are high-fiving openly and shamelessly.

It’s an open and shut case.

Guilty.

My son.

The boy who killed the Tooth Fairy.

The last time my eldest son, Daniel lost a tooth he tried to set a trap so as to catch the fairy at work and presumably ransom her into coughing up an extra pound. He tied some string round the tooth and then to his finger. One twitch would wake him – I talked about what happened here.

This time he meant business

For Christmas, Daniel was given an electronic set that lets him build simple circuits that make lights flash or buzzers sound.

Unbeknown to us, Daniel got creative.

Jo and I went up the stairs ready to do a little midnight pillow lifting and just in the nick of time I saw it. Just a hint of a string. Following it along I found his trap. One tug on the string around the tooth would pull a ball of Aluminium kitchen foil out from between two wires, setting off a billion decibel siren that would wake the whole of Oxfordshire. Actually the buzzer is pretty quiet but I can see what he was thinking.

We couldn’t stop ourselves.

Jo found the closest ornament she could find that resembled a fairy and stuck on some tinsel.

We might be evil but some things are too tempting to resist.

I stuck a pound coin into the fairy’s hand and tangled her in the string, swiped the tooth and then hung the fairy. The buzzer wouldn’t go off because the string was tangled on his drawer. I think things through.

Then we tip-toed out and went to bed.

To the untrained eye it did look a little like a dead fairy.

At 06:45 there was exactly (I timed it) a twenty second pause between the loud cry of “Wha???” and laughter. For twenty whole seconds my boy thought he had killed a tooth fairy that he didn’t even believe in. He’s not daft and knows full well to play along with the game or otherwise he wouldn’t get the cash. If he had really still believed I wouldn’t have done it – promise.

But that pause was pure doubt.

Love it.

The Tooth Fairy - dawn of time to April 2012. RIP

The A to Z of why you should sleep with me

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 20:06:00 +0000

Recently, while negotiating with the ‘lady who decides everything’ about some possible future game of Doctors and Nurses, I found myself essentially making a list of all the pros that came with my idea. I know what you are thinking and you are right, I am a romantic fool and master of seduction.

Anyway, because I believe in sharing the wealth, here is my A to Z of reasons why getting a slice of Glen-cake should be top of any woman’s bucket list.

A is for athletic. Admittedly I’m only talking about my feet but it still counts.

The Boboli Gardens 1996

B is for body. I most certainly do have a model’s body; I’ve been the muse for many an artist’s sculpture.

C is for considerate lover. I totally understand a woman’s needs and take great care not to jolt about so much that you lose your place in your Kindle.

D is for donkey. Just saying. Actually, to be more accurate, I’m usually described as an Ass but I’ve already done ‘A’.

E is for euphemism. During foreplay you will be impressed by how many different words for boobs I know. That should be more than enough to get you going.

F is for Foreplay. See 'E'.

G is for gratitude. I always say “Thank You” Politeness costs nothing.

H is for hairy. Chest, back, toes everything. Except head.

I is for imagination, which you will need plenty of if you are to see George Clooney in the room.

J is for Justin – those people whose imagination can’t see Mr. Clooney can pretend they are with Justin (aka Mr. Tumble) instead.

K is for Kilos – about 95 of them to be precise, ask a scientist for a detailed answer about why that’s important but it’s all about momentum, apparently.

L is for longevity which is not something I’m blessed with so you can relax. There’s no need to miss Desperate Housewives, we can easily get things sorted during the commercials.

M is for manly. I can assure you I’m all man and can prove this by repeatedly farting during E and F.

N is for no socks. Pre-sex sock-removal is 100% guaranteed when you are with Glen.

O is for orgasm (obviously). I can, again, 100% guarantee that one of us will have one.

P is for post-coital pizza; I was raised to be a gentleman so I will always let you relax as I pop downstairs to answer the door.

Q is for quick; they don’t call me lightening for nothing. No woman has ever complained of getting bored during lovemaking with me, there just isn’t time.

R is for romantic. This list should be more than enough proof of that – especially 'N'.

S is for small. No need to feel intimidated or anxious with me – you’ll hardly know it’s there.

T is for treacle – or Golden Syrup to be more precise – we all have our weaknesses.

U is for uniform. I do have one of those.

V is for volume, or more importantly, the lack of it. I’m not a tennis player and see no real need for over-emphasised grunting.

W is for wet patch, which a gentleman like me will always volunteer to sleep in.

X is for xylophone-playing, which apparently requires very strong wrists and fast moving hands. I suspect I’d be good on a xylophone.

Y is for “Yabba-dabba-doo”, which I may occasionally shout at seemingly very inappropriate times. This may slightly contradict ‘V’ but does at least deflect attention away from the simultaneous farting.

And finally, Z was going to be for xylophone until Spell-Checker got involved but now stands for ZZZZ, which is all you’ll be hearing from me between Yabba-dabba-doo and the doorbell announcing the pizza is ready. I won’t keep you from your book with idle chat or questions about which bit you liked best.

So there you go. 26 highly agreeable reasons as to why my wife should have succumbed to my devastating charms last Saturday night. All I need to know from you readers is..

1. Why didn't it work?

2. How do you remove a tin of treacle from your backside without the lid coming off?

The End

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 19:46:00 +0000

Flash Fiction Friday from - http://www.flashfictionfriday.com(I know it’s Wednesday)

Cue: Write a story where your protagonist is mistaken about something they “know” to be true.

Length: Up to 1200 words

The End.

“Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not – look, Dave, we have been through this enough times.”

The girl looked tired. Bloodshot eyes with puffed out bags draped heavily beneath them betrayed her lack of sleep but it was the sheer wall of stupidity and lack of trust she was facing that exhausted her the most.

She knew she had lost him, she just didn’t know if she cared.

Dave’s heart was broken.

His head was telling him that it had only just happened, that Stacey’s horrendously callous ability to lie and cover up her actions the night before had killed their love. His heart knew better. The love had died years ago.

The love died the day the trust was lost.

Dave stopped trusting Stacey two years earlier and when that happened their relationship entered a downward spiral from which it hadn’t recovered. It had seemed such a good idea. Both of them went on separate holidays with their friends, recapturing some of the fun they both had known in their youth.

Dave had a blast. He’d drunk and eaten whatever he liked. He’d checked out the ladies on the beach and flirted outrageously with them in the bars. Then his mate had suggested a game.

They had to decide whose “bird” was the most ‘doable’. Who they thought was likely to be the best in bed. What a laugh. They did it on paper as a secret ballot.

Stacey won by a landslide.

At first Dave was proud but as they laughed about it he began feeling uncomfortable. Why were his mates talking like that? Why did they all think they stood a chance?

Dave drank hard that night and woke up with Jemima. Was that her name? He really wasn’t sure but however fast her name may have escaped him, the guilt stayed put.

But it wasn’t just him was it? Stacey was clearly as bad. She must obviously be flirting around his mates all the time and God knows what she got up to in Cornwall?

Dave’s inability to trust himself manifested itself swiftly into a suspicion of Stacey. The arguments flew thick and fast after that holiday but Stacey never actually admitted any wrong doing, so Dave never did either.

Once trust dies so does the relationship, even if it isn’t actually the other person you don’t trust.

But he generously forgave her, even if he couldn’t forget.

And now she was doing it all over again, and this time he would not be able to forgive. Her face was so brazen, so adamantly innocent that he knew he would never again be able to believe a word she said. How could such a convincing liar ever be believed?

Stacey sat with her head in her hands and shook with a rage she could barely contain. What was she supposed to do now, pack her bags and leave? This was as much her place as his now, it was home. Stacey had moved in four years ago and felt totally in tune with the flat. She could easily imagine the smug smile of satisfaction on her mum’s face when she found out just how right she had been about Dave all along.

Dave watched her closely. He desperately needed her to give him the redemption he sought. If only she would admit her failings and tell him what really happened, then he could be angry, then he could be right, then he could be forgiven.

But no relief was coming. Stacey stood and silently headed upstairs to pack some essentials. Dave watched her go and let his shoulders sag as the burden of responsibility was gone. The relationship was over and it wasn’t Dave at fault. She would go. It was the right thing. It was time to move on.

Wordlessly, she threw things into a bag as tears damned well refused to escape from her eyes. Dave watched, stifling his own confused emotions as he did so.

As she headed to the door, Dave’s mouth betrayed his intentions and shouted out for one last chance.

“Don’t go…” He shouted, “Don’t. Just tell me. Tell me and I’ll understand. I will. We can work through this but you have to tell me. You have to be honest and we..”

“I have been honest, you stupid bastard” Stacey interrupted, “ I’ve told you everything – nothing happened!”

“I’m not stupid. I’m not. I know where you were last night”

“Yes, I’ve told you where I was. We were all there – at Jane’s. All of us stayed over when we missed the last train, me Jane, Julie, Vanessa, Pippa and Shelley! How many times have we been through this?”

“Yes I know all that so why won’t you be honest with me?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Dave.”

“Stacey. I’m 36 years old. I’ve been around and I know how things work. I know what happens when women get drunk and have a sleepover so will just stop lying and tell me who won the bloody pillow-fight?”

Facebook Dining

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 19:48:00 +0000

So I had an idea.

I have a feeling it is probably a bit brilliant.

I may be wrong.

It stemmed from when my wife and I were out on a ‘date’ last week; I had to stop myself from using Facebook while sat supposedly being romantic (as discussed already). I’d tried to suggest to Jo that we could spend the whole evening in silence, only ever conversing via Facebook but she hadn’t seemed too keen. Instead, she insisted on spending the evening banging on about whatever it is women bang on about when you are trying to read a menu, or evaluating the quality of other diner’s plates to see if what they have is worth ordering.

That night, as I patiently waited for sleep to catch up with me I let my mind wander off down its inevitably irreverent paths unchained.

Where it took me was Facebook Dining.

Facebook Dining is (or should be) the future of the social network’s brand. I’ve already emailed Zuckerberg and anxiously await his cash to arrive in my inbox.

I figure that everyone (who matters) uses Facebook these days. Whole social groups depend on it. People chat, joke and bumble their way through whole conversations on it even though they have absolutely nothing else in common with the people on the other side of the Internet. In short, people with no ability to talk to each other in real life can tap out words for hours on their mobile’s FB app.

Here’s where my idea comes in.

What does every town everywhere have? Restaurants, right? Usually the same damned ones. Chains are everywhere. Once inside there is nothing to set them apart. What do real life friends love doing when they meet up? That’s right, they go to restaurants.

So what do virtual friends do? Nothing. They stay in because there is nothing worse than going to a restaurant alone.

Until now.

Get your virtual friends together via Facebook invitations. Book single tables at the same chain (let’s assume Nandos for now) at the same time, accounting for time zones.

Then you all go to your respective Nandos brandishing your mobiles, ipads or laptops. You are effectively sharing a meal at the same restaurant together like real people do. You can order what you like as there will be no quibbles with the bill over who had the extra coleslaw. You sit, eat and drink in as big a group as you can organise without having to book a huge table. All the conversation flows through comments within the event you have set up. You can upload photos, share your opinions and have a great night. All without actually having to hang out with the people who never really liked at school anyway.

You are no longer eating out alone – you have friends! In fact that foursome in the corner looking at you dismissively can sod off, they have no idea that you are actually out with 31 friends – they should be in awe of your social standing, not pitying it!

I’m well up for experimenting with this – all I need now are some other idiots stupid enough to try it with me.

Facebook Dining – the future of the socially inept.

Just how exactly do you flirt?

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 22:00:00 +0000

I ain’t never gonna Heaven..

I ain’t never gonna Heaven…

In my Teacher’s bra…

Yes, you’ve guessed it – my boys have just come back from Scout camp. It seems they’ve learned some new songs.

At least this time it wasn't family camp – I still haven’t fully recovered from that ordeal.

This time the Scouts (Daniel) were away for three nights and the Beavers joined them for one night on Saturday (Jamie).

So our house has been lovely and quiet. Daniel gone for three nights was nice enough. It is surprising how easy life is when you halve the number of children that usually complicate it. Then on Saturday

night we found ourselves back in time.

Pre-kids.

We had a night off – completely. No babysitters needed, we were back to being young DINKs like we once were – so very long ago.

This presented us with a problem.

Just what is it that we used to do?

In the end, Jo vetoed my plan of going to bed really early and trying for ‘number three’ because, as she put it, “You really are an arse, Glen.” So we went out instead.

To Oxford, for a lovely meal at The Living Room – by the castle.

And it was nice, very nice.

I resisted the urge to “Check-In” on Facebook and leave a really long message about how I was having a romantic meal with my wife and go into laborious detail about how it was going and what we were eating. The irony of bragging about romance while clearly spending all your time nose-deep on Facebook made me laugh. I didn’t bother because I just wasn’t sure anyone else would get it – and besides, Jo was banging on about something and I couldn’t concentrate long enough to write it.

Wine flowed and Jo flirted a little, I flirted back, Jo stopped flirting and asked if I was feeling okay? Apparently I’ve forgotten how to flirt and looked more like I had a chicken bone lodged in my throat.

How exactly do you flirt anyway?

Can anyone remember?

Still – it was a lovey night.

And then we had to get up early and fetch the boys.

I enjoyed being young and childless for a night but I’m happy to have them back. I reckon after a couple of years I’d start to miss the little buggers.

Anyway – must go, I need to find out what’s wrong with my Son’s teacher’s bra?

Reflections of man

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 20:37:00 +0000

Over at In The Powder Room today I’m working alongside the formidable Iris Beard to look at myself.

Specifically I’m looking at how all us men look at ourselves in contrast to how you ladies do it.

What Heaven or hell does a mirror pose for you?

Find out what I see in the glass reflected at me and then please go read Iris’ post to hear another side on the same subject. Iris is always worth reading – she just is.

Glen's 10K for Cystic Fibrosis - I only gone and run it!

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 21:31:00 +0000

Paul - Glen - Darren and Craig - Adrian behind the lens

I did it!

Oh yeah!

Only three months after announcing, right here at Glen’s Life, that I would run ten Kilometres (6.2 miles) in aid of Cystic Fibrosis and to support my Brother-In-Law, Paul in his attempt to run the London Marathon next week, I am ecstatic to announce that I completed the course in 1 hour and eight minutes.

Glen and Craig half way point

1 hour 8! Brilliant. My running app, which produced this map, says we went 13K. I think I will be deleting that app as it is clearly an idiot. www.mapmyrun.com says we did 10.2K and Craig’s watch said we did it in 1 hour 8 so that’s what I’m going with.

I was joined on the run by Paul, the guy whose marathon attempt I linked up with, Adrian, Darren and Craig. All of them are ‘gym types’ and runners and all gave up their time to help a fat boy like me make an easy jog for them look difficult. In the pub, waiting for us, were my mates, Mike and James. All of these guys are brilliant for doing that – let’s hear a massive round of applause for the boys!

Meanwhile, a big thanks also to Leanne who came all the way from Cambridge to hang out in the pub with us. She had intended to run as well but was unable to due to an injury – she came anyway. So let’s also hear a big shout out for the girl and her friend Ash who also came along.

It was hard. Really hard. I chose running along the canal because it would be flat so I was more than a little vexed to discover a lock half way along that meant we had to go up a hill and a section under a bridge that was closed, meaning we had to go up and over – killing my legs in the process. You can see the video of my half-distance interview and decide for yourself how knackered I was.

Glen and Darren fail to impress at the finish line

With just over a kilometre to go I mentally kicked into gear and instructed my legs to pick up the pace – I was after a big finish. However my legs told my brain to sod off and refused to go any faster than they already were, thank you very much. What that meant is that my arms (goody two-shoes arms) did as they were told and started swinging at a much faster pace than my legs were going. I looked like the Duracell Rabbit as I hobbled along the streets at 10 strides a minute but banging an imaginary drum at 100 beats per minute. Nothing my head could do mae any difference – my legs were absolutely adamant.

Only one us looks like he ran 10K - guess which one?

Until we rounded the last corner before the end and I knew I was there.

Then my legs chimed in and decided they would try and get all the glory with a sprint finish.

I was a blur.

I sprinted. My arms and legs were back in sync and I looked like an athlete for the first time in my life.

Right up until we reached the very last corner and discovered that instead of turning easily to the finish, right in front of the pub, I actually found a temporary wall. Building works were going on. Access to the road was blocked!

Leanne - Mike - James and Ash doing the hard work

We had to run around the wooden fence and I just crumbled. I’d done my big sprint finish and that was all I had left, I had nothing. Running around the fence added on perhaps 50 metres at the very most – but that was enough. I had no fuel in the tank and all I could do was slowly limp around it before finally reaching the waiting crowd (Mike and James) looking flustered and sweaty and ill, like I usually do when I have to walk past Greggs the Bakers because my wife is looking.

It wasn’t the dream finish I’d hoped for but it didn’t matter.

I did it – thanks to a lot of support from the guys and a whole load of people who supported Cystic Fibrosis by giving up their hard earned cash for the cause. Thank you everyone.

Now I need a pie.

Glen's 10K for Cystic Fibrosis - The time is nigh

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:50:00 +0000

The time has come for one last plea for support.

Tomorrow (Thursday 12^th April), I take on the challenge that I announced only three months ago, right here at Glen’s Life.

Glen’s 10K run for Cystic Fibrosis is very much on.

My Asics and I have pounded the streets in preparation for this. I’m ready. I could actually be mistaken for an athlete the way I’ve been speeding along. and I mean a proper athlete - not just a darts player.

Well I say athlete…

Sumo wrestlers are athletes, right?

If you are at all interested, please go to my 10K page above to read all about the challenge and to find out how you could make a difference to the lives of those who suffer with Cystic Fibrosis. Or please click here to donate - thanks. The money does not come to me at all, it is an official “giving” website and the money goes direct to the CF Trust through the portal set up by my marathon running Brother-in-law.

So how far is 10Km in real measurements? 6.2 miles, this is a very long way, in my opinion. Maybe not a marathon – like my Brother-In-Law is running (the fool) - but still a bloody long way to be pushing a finely tuned body like mine along without a pie-stop or sleep.

So at the very least wish me luck and if you are London based then I should mention that if I don’t die en-route then I should be reaching the Railway Tavern by Liverpool Street Station at about 7:30 pm. Any folk loitering about showing any kind of support are likely to be fleeced for either cash for the CF trust or beer for me, but don’t let that put you off – I’m very easily distracted. The old “look over there, Kylie Minogue is trying on new hotpants” line works every time!

Okay folks, I’m stretching now – here we go…

A weighty loss of humour

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 19:56:00 +0000

Why don’t women have much of a sense of humour when it comes to their weight? Why don’t men take their lady’s concerns more seriously?

Stuffed if I know.

However, I know a man who does…

A weighty loss of humour – by The Regular Guy UK.

The answer is out there…

Or then again, maybe it isn’t!

Surviving the School Dico

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 21:28:00 +0000

If there is one thing that frightens the pants off me, it’s when the boys bring the letter home that says there is a school disco coming up.

I'm not saying I’m old but…

I hate it.

Lots of schools do discos and many have their own way of doing things. In our case it’s a major event. The kids aren’t allowed to be left unsupervised so we adults have to go too. And for me, it’s a very special type of hell.

I don’t do crowds.

I don’t do noise.

I don’t do over-excited sugar-induced kids.

What I’m saying is I dread it.

And my cunning wife, Jo is always busy. She cheats. She reads things. When the boys bring home these letters she actually reads them! So by the time I find out about the disco she already has something else written on the calendar.

And as you know – if it’s on the calendar it’s safe.

It really does get crowded in there. The mixture of heat infused body odour and Disco Dave’s smoke machine only adds to the joy.

And then I get dragged to the sweet stall.

It is after all a treat for the kids, and it doesn’t happen often, and the proceeds all go to the school…

Oh God – I’m going to have to take Jamie to the sweet stall.

Thankfully, I reckon by the next disco he’ll be able to go buy his own bloody chocolate. The thing is the queue gets mixed with the beer stall, which I’ll come back to, and so you wait forever.

Eventually, you get to the front and that’s when war breaks out. Ten children lie in wait and swamp you as you finally push your youngest properly through the queue and he spends approximately a month studying the array of treats. How much can he spend? How much are these? How much are these? How much are these? This goes on for a week.

The lady behind the counter is basically surviving on gin as the crowd of children rub their sweaty hands over her stock but never actually come to a decision.

I crack and throw the whole box of Fruit Pastilles packets into the air. I shove a note in the gin lady’s hand and drag Jamie away. We have sugar.

Back to the beer stall.

As I said, adults have to stay so they put on a beer stall. Result – I guess. And the beer is cheap. Even better result – I hear you say. In practise, this means that five million pikeys spend all night buying warm tins of Fosters and bottles of Cuban Chardonnay. The queue never dies down.

I have no doubts that there are some parents who see this as the best night out of the year. A chance to sit in their school-gate cliques and get plastered on cheap booze while slagging off anyone at a different table is just too great an opportunity to miss. They get dressed up in their absolute best – honest! Some of the mums came in the most unbelievable outfits – my flabber was well and truly ghasted. Boobs were hanging out everywhere I looked, and still were on the second and third times that I checked. And fourth.

At a kid’s disco!

It’s all too desperate for me. I wore my grumpiest frown and just stood watching the clock until I could get away with taking the boys home.

Meanwhile, the boys had a blast. Especially Daniel whose name I heard being called out by Disco Dave as a winner but I’d missed what it was he’d won. I was really proud – what a chip off the old block he is?

Clearly my ten year old had just completely out-danced his peers. His body-popping moves had clearly outshone everyone else’s. Or was it the Robot dance I’dtaught him that had put him ahead?

I was looking forward to finding out.

Musical bumps.

Musical – bloody – bumps.

My ten year old had managed to take on a bunch of seven year olds and beat them at sitting down. Three tables of angry mums had disregarded their school-gate politic and joined forces to cast their hatred our way. It’s safe to assume Daniel will not be receiving any birthday party invites for a while!

I'm determined to find out the date of the next disco first – there has to be a way of beating Jo at her own game!

when you don't have to fake it

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 21:43:00 +0000

You know your kids are getting older when you stop having to ‘let’ them beat you at football in the garden.

Little whippets – Long gone are the days when I have to pretend to not be able to save the goal.

I’ve had to resort to fouling the little buggers just to get a kick of the ball.

It’s not easy being a dad.

Budgeting for a mid-life crisis

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 21:44:00 +0000

Times are hard.

Everyone knows that.

The world is in financial crisis and we all have to tighten our belts and take care with our money.

This, then, is a really bad time to be having a mid-life crisis.

No nifty little sports car for me, no jetting off on mad trips to Ibiza or Ayia Napa and definitely no twenty year old mistress with a penchant for champagne and spa hotels.

No – cash is too strapped for all that so I’m going to have to dodge old age on the cheap.

This mid-life crisis is going to have to come in on a budget.

Which is where the scrape on my elbow comes in, not to mention the looks of utter despair my wife keeps giving me.

It all started innocently enough – isn’t that always the case? We went for a bike ride. Last Sunday afternoon, the sun was out and we had nothing pressing to be getting on with so off we went.

It was lovely. The kids were on surprisingly good behaviour, cycling safely for a change instead of making us wince with every crazy twist and random turn they usually make. Jo had let me choose the destination and plan the route (a rare treat, I’m not usually trusted with decisions) and the weather was smashing. We went to a place called Paradise Wood on Google but Neptune Wood on the local signpost, which promised willow sculptures and walks in the woods. It was about a four-mile ride to the place, which was enough for little Jamie. Actually as a round trip and including the extra riding we did while we were there I worked out that Jamie’s stumpy little legs managed nine and a half miles on his 14-inch wheels and no gears.

We found the wood easily and the boys loved it. In yet another rare moment, Jo nodded approval at my choice. I was getting things right and I think that is what started making me feel a little giddy.

The walk in the woods turned out to be wheelchair friendly, which, roughly translated, means it was also cycle friendly. The walk turned into a ride through the woods on what the boys decided was a racetrack.

It was around about this point that I forgot I was 41.

The boys were still playing in the willow ‘boat’ and Jo was flapping around taking pictures. I was sent ahead to recce the route. Alone. On my bike. On a racetrack.

Oh dear.

Not only did I decide I was considerably more talented at speeding around bends than I actually am, but then I came up with an idea, one I haven’t had for a very long time.

Actually I think it’s about 25 years since I tried doing a wheelie.

I don’t just mean a little hop style wheelie because no man on the planet can ride a cycle without doing at least one of those, no I mean a full on pedalling along for a while - wheelie.

That would be a buzz that I haven’t felt for a very long time.

I got some speed up; leant back pushed hard on the pedal and pulled up the handlebars in a whirl of excitement, wondering just how many metres I’d be able to keep it up for. This was going to be bloody impressive.

The wheel came up.

The wheel kept going up.

When the wheel went over my head I started to sense that things weren’t entirely going to plan.

On the scale of epic fails I’d say this was a 10. It was pretty messy.

At the sound of a bike smashing into a bush upside down and the yelp of a grown man with a fresh graze, Jo turned and came over to see what was going on.

To find me on the floor laughing my head off.

“I was trying to do a wheelie!” I managed to admit between gasps for air. Jo looked at me blankly for a couple of minutes, blinking only twice and then turned silently away. The sheer nostalgic pleasure of crashing your bike on a failed wheelie was completely lost on my wife. Maybe girls never do that when they are young. Boys do – all the time and I seriously have no idea how old I was the last time I wiped out on a failed bike stunt – 14, 15 maybe? What a rush!

So there you go. One failed wheelie maybe all I can afford right now but it might just be enough. No, sod it – I’m going to go out again this weekend and try riding non-handed. I haven’t tried that since I was 17. I used to be unbelievably good at it - in fact from the age of 13 up until I got a car, I don’t think I ever even touched my handlebars. Surely riding non-handed is just like…. riding a bike? I mean it will come back to me won’t it? Since I started riding a cycle again a few years ago it hasn’t actually occurred to me to let go of the grips but maybe now its time to release my inner teenager.

What could possibly go wrong?

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 10:35:00 +0000

So much has been happening recently, I just don’t know where to start…

In fact I do, because it’s Tuesday and there are rules.

And rules have to be followed – or do they?

So the first thing I’ll do is point you to In The PowderRoom where The Regular Guy is discussing the moment in all experienced married men’s lives when we discover the awful, shocking and distasteful truth that porn lies.

I know – it doesn’t sound likely, but there you are – you heardit here first.

That leaves me with a few posts still to write which I shall endeavour to get out this week. Here are some teasers.

You need to know about my current mid-life crisis that I’m trying to have on a budget.

You need to know about my painful schoolyard moment as I tried to make myself as small as possible.

I should probably talk about football with the boys.

And you certainly ought to be told about the school disco.

So much to write – so little time.

Until then – please go read about the rules.

The Weight Watchers Gang Show

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 20:23:00 +0000

The band played the first few bars of a Take That medley as the curtain twitched to open with the lights about to shine.

I was in for a treat in Oxford’s cosy New Theatre; this was going to be a show to remember.

Okay – I guess 1 out of 2 ain’t bad. I can at least remember it.

When I was very young I was a Cub and a Scout and one of the things I did in that time that will stay with me forever was The Gang Show. For those who have never heard of it The Gang Show is an amateur production put on by Cubs, Scouts, Brownies and Guides every year, up and down the country. Usually it is an amalgamation of local troupes.

I loved being a part of that show. It was an absolute buzz.

So when we got a chance to take our boys to see this years’ show I snapped it up. They both only started late last year – Jamie at Beavers and Daniel briefly at Cubs before moving up to Scouts. I thought if they saw the show now then they would be up for auditioning for next years’.

Sometimes we cannot help but try and impose the things we loved when we were young onto our kids.

Because of all of the above I found myself sitting in a theatre surrounded by kids waiting to watch a completely non-professional show full of children that I didn’t know. An element of doubt started to creep into my mind.

The lights came up and there, filling the stage, were a load of adults. I looked at my wife and then back at the stage because these were no ordinary adults. These were really big ones.

It seems that the first qualification you need to be a Scout leader in Oxfordshire is to be very, very – well, cuddly? The stage was one set of scales short of a full Weight-Watchers meeting.

Then they started singing.

I kind of wished they hadn’t.

Now don’t get me wrong on this one – these people are brilliant. I’m in awe of people who so selflessly give up their time and volunteer to help young folk out in the way that they do. I don’t do it – I couldn’t – even if I am chunky enough. It’s a damned hard thing that they do every week at their local troupes, and then these guys have gone that extra step and come onto a reinforced stage to sing so badly that the kids who came on next sounded good.

They are selfless people and I want that totally understood and thanked before I go any further taking the P*** out of them!

They were only on the stage briefly before the real stars of the show came out and took over having cleverly whispered to the one closest to the wings that there was some sponge cake in the dressing room.

The show was, in fact, very good. For an amateur production it was very professional. The kids did a great job and their parents deserve to be extremely proud. I did feel, though, that the adult helpers took far too much stage time up throughout the show. Be in the back of the chorus guys and have one funny all adult act by all means – that is the way of things with a Gang Show but you guys turned up in nearly every scene, right at the front.

I suspected that some of them were enjoying their moment more than the kids.

The scariest act was one that had me doing breath tests on myself to check I wasn’t drunk. I know I shouldn’t mock – there was so much work put into it but.. but...

Far too ‘sexily’ dressed young girls akin to Big Fat Gypsy Weddings characters, singing ‘Holding out for a hero’ as occasionally four adult men – no wait, three adult men and one adult lady with a fake moustache – did muscle poses and one adult woman on roller skates was swung around for no apparent reason whatsoever, was just too much to take. And no, there was absolutely no way I could make that sentence any shorter.

I know it was in humour – but I just couldn’t work it out at all! If the roller-skating lady could have stayed out, or if they could have used one of the actual men to take the place of the fake man then I could have taken it. As it was I was beat.

It was good though – really. I was very impressed and I know my boys were. Their eyes were wide open with excitement throughout the show (Well Jamie got a bit stroppy when he found out the sweets weren’t getting opened until half time but otherwise...). Hopefully I haven’t knackered up their chances of getting in next years’ show by writing this because they both want to try for it.

It is a brilliant chance for kids to get up on stage and I wouldn’t mock that for the world – or the people who bust a gut to give them that chance.

Well, maybe I’d mock them a little – it’s what I do.

boys

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 19:37:00 +0000

Can’t talk now – every time I try and walk away, my boys start fighting. Hang on….

Boys.

Do girls do this? If you have a little girl can you still get on with jobs about the house?

I mean properly.

Can you talk on the phone or sit at a laptop if you have girls? I know I – oh hang on…

It’s okay; I think I’ve figured out how to get on without hearing them killing each other – music.

Why I didn’t think of putting my headphones on earlier I don’t know. There’s no dispute that Florence can’t help me ignore.

Remind me again why I had kids?

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 22:29:00 +0000

On Sunday I took my new Asics out for a test-run and couldn’t believe the difference they made.

My shins love them. Actually I think my shins have been having special thoughts about them, there’s no way I’d leave them in the same room together un-chaperoned, let’s just put it that way. They certainly aren’t going up to my bedroom to listen to the Top 40 on the Radio; I can tell you that for nothing.

They do need to loosen a little at the sides as at the moment they are rubbing a little and did give me blisters, but I believe they will soften.

The thing is – just two months after I started this challenge and with a whole month to go – I just went out and ran 9Km, that’s over 5 and a half miles! I’m so proud of me I could burst.

Now don’t be too impressed, it took a while. I think I was out running for most of the afternoon; it certainly felt like at least one Season changed while I was out there but the thing is I kept going. I may have been running slower than Stephen Hawkins with a flat battery but I was running.

And so I am very happy today. My feet are mildly blistered and my thighs are aching constantly but my shins never felt a thing. My shins are laughing. I know I can do the distance and now I just need to find some speed so that I can finish the run in the same month I start it in.

April 12th – 10Km for Cystic Fibrosis – bring iton!

Childbirth is NOT for ladies

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 15:34:00 +0000

Hello and welcome to another weekend – fan-blooming-tastic!

Firstly, an apology. Posts have been a little light recently and also I haven’t been doing much in the way of reading & commenting about the Interweb, if you haven’t noticed then you aren’t paying close enough attention!

There is nothing deep about this lapse other than things are a little hectic at work at the moment, meaning that I have too much other stuff to be doing. I’m finding I’m too tired to do any decent writing on the trains or to sit with a laptop on my knee all night. To attempt to pay some semblance of attention to your wife, watch TV AND read blogs when you are already affected by a multi-task blocking Y chromosome and tired is proving too difficult. Priorities are having to be taken, and family time has to come before hobby time I’m afraid.

But don’t worry (starting a paragraph with “but” always feels a little naughty but fun – like pizza) I will be restoring normality just as soon as I am sure what is normal anyway (Thanks Douglas Adams).

I’ll be back into the swing of things soon enough and will be reading and writing properly again in no time.

Of course, where Glen’s Life is a hobby, In the Powder Room is very much a professional commitment (which is handy because it’s a fun one), I’m not able to use laziness as an excuse over there in case they get lazy with the pay.

Hence this Tuesday, a new style of Regular Guy post was born as I found myself going head to head with the excellent Bearded Iris. We collaborated to produce two articles on the same subject but from opposing genetics.

We both wrote about childbirth – in all its dramatic glory.

I wrote from the male’s point of view observing the event –please click here to read.

Iris wrote from the woman’s hilarious sausage based point of view – please click here to read.

I think the experiment went well – what do you think?

Actual posts actually here returning soon – promise.

Happy Birthday, guys

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 13:50:00 +0000

For 41 years you have been loafing about on the end of my legs wondering when you were going to get something back for your effort.

Today may be all of my body’s birthday really but this year I'm dedicating the day to just you two.

Happy Birthday, feet.

Are Pregnant women sexy?

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 22:12:00 +0000

Well are they?

It’s a tough one isn’t it? Only one person could possibly try and answer a question like “Are pregnant women sexy?” without hiding in a wardrobe…

ME!

Want to know the answer? Click here to go to ‘In The PowderRoom’ and find out. I may be biased but I really do think this one is worth the extra click!

p.s. Kathy and Kristy – I haven’t forgotten you, I’m just a little behind with things at the moment…

10K Run - Training Report #3

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 12:14:00 +0000

The quiet streets suddenly echo at the sounds of my flat feet slapping hard against the tarmac. My shins cry with every landing.

Yes, I’m running again.

Foolishly, I have completely inadequate trainers on.

As I have never in all my life been accused of being either athletic or fashionable, the kind of footwear I use for the gym has never been a concern. Currently, I have two pairs of trainers (if you are reading this from across The Pond you probably call them something else, use Google if you haven’t figured it out yet) and neither of them are what you would call – good ones.

The pair in my gym bag at work is ok. They are very basic Nikes and were in a sale, due to being three years out of season when I bought them, ten years ago. I’m told they would be absolutely fine for playing tennis in, but not much good for running. Who knew there was a difference?

My pair at home, however, is something special. I bought them four years ago in an emergency when we were going on holiday and I’d failed to bring my gym pair. They cost a monumental £5 and were from Asda (To save you ‘Merkins some Google time just call it Wal-Mart). I can assure you they were overpriced. I might was well slip on a Verruca sock for all the use they are. Not only are the souls shallower than Paris Hilton’s but they are almost a full size smaller than whatever the little label stitched into them says they are. In short, they were absolutely fine for playing badminton with my kids at Center Parcs, but running further than the length of my nose in them gets painful.

My toes, curled up against their will, dig into whatever that soft bit of skin is that they join onto and with absolutely no cushioning under me at all, my shins receive the full force of my oversized waistline upon them.

There is no way out of it; I’m going to have to go shopping for some running shoes.

How do you even start with that? What kind of trainers are good for running in? What’s the difference? How do I know if I’m wearing running shoes or tennis shoes? I’m feeling stressed just thinking about it.

But I need something better because I’m hurting. I went out yesterday and ran 7Km and my legs are wrecked, my shins splintered to smithereens. There’s no way I can take a step further than 7K until I have some better footwear on, I’m not even sure I should repeat my current distance in them. Do any of you sporty readers have any suggestions as to what decent but cheap trainers I can buy and from where?

I’m prepared to hazard a guess that running hasn’t suddenly made me a fashionista but can it be making me an athlete?

Surely not.

A moment to treasure

noreply@blogger.com (Glen) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 18:40:00 +0000

The clock silently reveals that the time is two o’clock in the morning but nobody knows that because everybody is sleeping.

Not everyone.

A sixth sense tells your slumbering mind that something has changed. A hand carefully nudges your shoulder to confirm this.

“Dad.” A whispered voice enters your conscience and you slowly open one bleary eye.

“Dad.” There it is again.

Your vision slowly focuses on the young boy standing by your bed.

“I was having a nightmare”

No further words are said. No further words are needed.

You close the eye and pull back the cover.

A small body climbs into the bed and you feel its warmth as it snuggles up into you. You wrap your arms around the child and pull him closer.

Four seconds later, your son is snoring.

Five minutes should be enough.

You wait. You can barely stay awake but you’re quite enjoying the moment. Perhaps another two minutes.

Wordlessly you pull back the duvet and tap his shoulder. He knows what to do, he’s been here before.

You follow him back to his own bed and tuck him in.

He smiles as you kiss his cheek and is asleep before you can walk through his door.

Being a father can be hard.

But sometimes.

Sometimes.

It really is worth it.