I Knew About Twerking Before Miley… FACT.

Recently The Wife has been busily earning herself Amazon vouchers by doing online surveys, generally whilst übertasking household jobs; Ironing, say, with one hand whilst tapping away on her phone with the other. This is a remarkably similar system to The Child’s approach with my phone. Obviously that’s “similar” in the sense that The Child cannot focus on anything else in the world if she’s managed to pick a pocket or two and secure a phone(she ‘d have no clue if Peppa Pig literally rollerbladed drunk and naked through the kitchen)(again)(Ha! That piglet can drink!). Also, she immediately heads for the photos/videos of The Other Child/Lucas rather than making any attempt to pay her way… So yeah, essentially it’s exactly the same(FYI she has absolutely no interest in an early morning career in newspaper distribution and chimney sweeping appears to be done with a big hoover nowadays which is a nuisance, but any ideas would be gratefully received).

“Daddy I don’t want to get up at 6 to deliver newspapers!”
“Are you serious?!? You’ve woken us up at 6 every morning for three years!”
“But daddy I’m only 2”
“…take that up with the union, now on your trike”

In fairness to her, I’m not sure she’d be much good at surveys anyway, particularly as her stock answer to everything at the moment is “No it isn’t” but… well…

“Daddy Daddy Daddy… What’s that noise?”
“It’s a dog barking”
“No it isn’t”
“…it’s next doors dog”
“No it isn’t”
“Yes love look, it’s next door’s dog”
“No it isn’t”
“It’s there, you can actually see it opening it’s mouth at the same time as the noises…”
“No it isn’t”
“O… K… maybe it’s actually a pod of narwhals performing Ocean Colour Scene’s magnificent Day We Caught The Train in whale song, although being whales, to them it’s just ‘song’ ..”
“No it isn’t”
“It is, it’s like in The France, The French just call French bread, bread”
“No it isn’t”…

Anywhoooooo, the point is that The Wife’s industry has earned her lavish riches which she cashes in from time to time to invest on lovely things for the girls. She sleeps now you understand, but just before she did she was filling in some form or other about something or other, earning as she clicked away. Content and a few sheckles richer, she went off to sleep to dream about being in charge of the cake stands on Downtown Abbey or cardigan shopping or jam making with Will and Kate or whatever she dreams about.

Frankly, her industry puts me to shame, she works hard all day, she is a brilliant mother and does everything for our children(even though they are girls and one is almost definitely left handed) and despite this still manages to cram in these schemes to treat the girls. The truth is, I feel bad. Without hesitation I got straight on it and filled in my own survey… almost as soon as Match Of The Day had finished.

#YOLO

Spare A Thought For Jonnie…

This morning as I perused The Facebook this here picture popped up, as Uncle Ben(centre) had apparently commented on it…

Uncle Ben is The Child’s godfather and my best mate, in the background is Uncle Eddie, who is The Other Cild’s godfather and my other best mate. 4 years ago when The Wife and I got married these two were the best I could rustle up by way of Best Men, a sobering thought then and now.

By way of a very quick bit of background this picture was taken a couple of weekends ago at some point during the wedding of our friends Ellie and Tom(or “Clarkson” as I call him)(due to “The Apparent Lovechild Of Jeremy Clarkson And A Bear” being a trifle long winded in the nickname stakes). As The Wife and I couldn’t make it down to The South for the celebration I cannot confirm at what stage of the festivities this was taken, but judging by the state of these two it could have been any time after the confetti. I am (semi)reliably informed that Uncle Eddie is trying to negotiate an iPod in the background, whether he was meant to have taken it from the present table and unwrapped it remains unclear.

Anyway, why am I posting this, you ask despairingly? And equally why do I find it less amusing than the rest of The Facebook? Well. Uncle Ben is married to Auntie Jools and Uncle Ed is now courting Auntie “Jules”(Auntie Jools’s big sister). Confusing I know, but I met the Julii separately, on consecutive nights out many years ago and genuinely thought they were the same person and this “Helen” was some elaborate ruse to make me look an idiot(I’m no one’s fool). All very neat and convenient you may think, two mates hooked up with two sisters, it’s the dream!

Or is it? As a father of daughters, I think we should just spare a thought for Jonnie(a father of Julii) then take a quick look back at the picture… Is this really the dream? I’m on record as saying that with my two, one is off to convent at the earliest opportunity and the other one may, in accordance with some extensive background checks, be allowed to court. I’m not a monster, I’m not completely ruling out marriage I’m merely saying the potential chap is going to have to pass some fairly vigorous vetting procedures. Vetting procedures Jonnie clearly didn’t employ.

Please feel free to cancel… Please!!!

So, those of you that know me, know that by day I may well be a father (of daughters, admittedly) but by night I am a crime fighting, Superhero cook/restaurateur type. We have a small, really small, restaurant on the Llŷn Peninsula(I’m not sure we’re a restaurant and I’m not sure we’re a bistro, so I’m going with ‘restaurant’ because ‘bistro’ reminds me of a fancy pants bar I’d get dragged to from time to time in Altrincham, which secretly I never really liked)(and which, come to think of it was called ‘The Brasserie’ so errr… that logic went fabulously well).

Anyway, even as a swashbuckling Superhero type supporting a family is hard, but supporting a family as a small business owner in the current financial climate is really hard, and supporting a family as a small business owner in the current financial climate in one of the most fickle industries going is excruciating, but I love my job and I have an incredible wife who supports me and allows me to do the job I love despite the obvious side effects (currently we’re about half way in to our summer tourist season which means 12-14 hours a day, 7 days a week, not to mention the time spent in the office at home, until some point in October).

So what’s this got to do with a dad blog, well the truth is at this time of year I never really feel like much of a dad, for the next two months it’s head down and get some money in the coffers to soften the winter lull. Now at this point I will just point out, in case this smacks too much of grumpy ‘business’ chap(it’s “Supercook” remember, your first point of call if there’s crime fighting to be done or a lumpy white sauce to be rescued), that we only ever set out to do two things when we opened the bistro(suppose it is a restaurant… or a bistro… definitely not a brasserie though), we wanted to be able to pay our mortgage and I wanted to dictate my own hours so that, god forbid, I could see my girls grow up.

The Child overseeing the refurb!

It’s been incredibly hard, but we’ve got there, three years after opening in a sub-let space we have moved into our own, shiny, new and fabulous premises(hence the lack of bloggage for the past couple of months), which we own. It’s ours. It’s been the biggest stress I’ve ever had, but our family has a genuine, bona fide, family business now. We’ll grow and maybe even expand, but the foundation is finally laid. So again what’s this got to do with anything you ask (again)… because I asked on your behalf in the last paragraph and went off on another tangent… Well, here it comes…

The Wife and I support our family with our little eatery/restaurant/bistro/brasserie and it matters, not because I want to make millions, get awards or knob around on Ready Steady Cook(is it still on? It would clash with Peter Rabbit anyway so The Child would have no desire or interest in seeing whether Daddy’s green peppers crushed Ainsley’s red tomatoes if it is)(which they would by the way) but it matters because we feed our girls with the money we manage to scrape from it. As such I’m going to make a plea, to the fabulous British public, albeit the 6 or 7 of you that have accidentally stumbled across this post, probably looking for something entirely different, please remember all the little local restaurants you pass are probably supporting a family like ours. And that matters.

So if you’re not going to be able to make it, the babysitters ill or the dog’s having a bad hair day… call us! On behalf of restaurantists everywhere I guarantee we’ll be fine about it! For arguments sake we have a cancellations list a mile long(maybe a slight exaggeration, basically I just have a massive pen) waiting for tables, but if we don’t find out that you’re not going to turn up to your 7.30 table until we get a chance to call you at 9 o’clock then it’s unlikely I’m going to fill that table!

The only reason in fact for this ramble(finally!) is to get Sunday night off my chest, because two days on I’m still miffed. Basically we agreed to open early for a family (who I shall endeavour to leave nameless) not because he was a “Great British Menu chef”, but because his wife had asked really nicely, and so we agreed to come in early for them as we were full otherwise on the nights they’d asked about, but with a bit of juggling we could squeeze them in before a late booking on Sunday. As you’ve probably gathered they didn’t turn up, a “no show”. As it was early and we had time(a lot of time… due to us having opened early especially) we gave them a ring to discover they’d gone back to Cheshire(a holiday by the seaside is not much fun in the rain). Now I’m not going to go into a massive rant, but I would just like to say that I really hope that in years to come if I end up with a restaurant in Lymm and then get a fish course, for instance, through to the banquet in the Great British Menu(see how marvellously I’m avoiding actually naming anyone) that I’d actually remember how hard it was as the little guy and I’d ring to cancel the booking if I wasn’t going to be able to make it.

For the record the wages that were paid out waiting for Mr B to not turn up would have paid for a week’s supply of foam animal stickers which The Child insists on sticking on everything currently… or food obviously, but part of raising a family on a budget is prioritising and currently foam animal stickers are by far her biggest priority.

Great British Menu Winners 2013 and a pink foam cat…

My Cult: All Welcome…

Fashion is not, and this is going to shock those of you that know me, something that interests me greatly. More accurately, fashion is not something that does anything other than annoy me. I don’t like choosing clothes to wear on a day to day basis, I don’t like holding stuff while The Wife shops for clothes on an occasional basis and I absolutely don’t like shopping for clothes for myself on a biannual basis. I understand the absolute bear minimum about gentlemen’s attire which is required for me to walk the streets without being (openly) laughed at, shouted at or arrested. Essentially, after the early 90’s, when people dressed properly, I stopped paying attention.

Also, and by way of a remarkably early tangent, I don’t quite get the whole “Phwoooar! A man in uniform” thing? As a chef, I have a uniform, and I would argue that my phwoar-factor is just as high whether I’m dressed as Ainsley Harriot or an extra from Back To The Future 4 (the one where Marty travels to Manchester in the early 1990’s to get his cousin to put down the SNES controller and go to James Buxton’s house party)(just realised that there is actually a Back To The Future 4…)(Also just discovered that it’s got the chap from Juno AND the chap from The Social Network in it, which is troubling as I thought they were the same person)(also, just realised that my inner monologue has started talking over this as I type in the exact same way that the chap from Juno does when he narrates the setting up of Facemash at the beginning of The Social Network). Sorry lost my way there for a minute…

Now then here’s the thing, as I have now explained at length, (yet with an impressive and bizarre lack of detail)I struggle to understand the fashion. However yesterday I may have accidentally cracked it. Because yesterday I was responsible for dressing both of The Childs, and due to the fact that it was a hot day, I knew that meant ‘lightweight’, ‘flowing’ and ‘cool’ was the order of the day. So I dressed them in white. All white. I did it separately as well and entirely unplanned(as a chap I employ chap fashion logic to dressing The Childrens, essentially both ‘fashion and function’ both loose out to the ‘top of the pile’ factor)(as previously discussed it is hot and therefore the algorithm would probably have disqualified ski pants on this occasion on ‘function’ but as a general rule ‘top of pile’ is king), but what I basically did was dress them both in baggy white trousers and baggy white shirt/top/dress things. A look, which I now know is generally referred to around the fashion houses of North Wales and almost certainly the world as “Religious Cult Chic”.

Anyway, following my revelation, I can definitely see why they(religious cults) are so popular. I’m certainly tempted, it’s well easy. Nothing clashes! The Wife didn’t tell me off! Amazingballs! (I don’t know either, it’s what the youth say). So, while I don’t doubt that there’s some degree of happy clappery involved which I’m not sure I could blag, it would appear that my future lies in cults. Admittedly, the idea of having to partake in interpretive dance is a slight drawback but not having to wait outside Marks & Spencer’s changing rooms while two old dear discuss their favourite undercrackers is extremely attractive(why do they always put the old lady’s pant section next to the changing rooms?)(Incidentally, the answer is firstly to punish men and then when the same men are on their knees to force them to sanction and then pay £90 for a cardigan, which is exactly the same as the twelve previous ones and was almost definitely the first one tried on 4 hours earlier, just to escape)(obviously). Anyway to avoid the dancing and meddlesome holiday types, the safest bet would appear to be to form my own cult, one where we would eat crisps all day, sway self consciously to The Stone Roses rather than any of this “Oh I’m a breeze” dancing and most importantly not worry ever again about fashion and the ‘normal’ people in their carrot fit espadrilles and little trilby hats.

If we went with white I could even go to work, for the ladies obviously, they love a chap in uniform.

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Keep Off The Grass.

This afternoon it was a bit of a scorcher and so The Wife, The Child and The New Child were sunning themselves in the back garden while I hid my delicate(but highly sought after) complexion inside. The Child was squealing with delight as she kicked a ball around the garden and resigned to the possibility that this might be the only chance I’d ever get, I lathered myself in sun block, set the kitchen timer for my 7 minutes maximum exposure and headed out into the garden to kick a ball with my heir. She greeted my arrival with glee and we passed the ball back and forth a few times, after a while she was taking a touch first to control it and then rolling it back to me. Now bearing in mind she’s not 2 for a couple of days and a girl, this was fairly impressive and I found myself wondering whether I could actually cheer on my girls in girl football. In the end I decided(swayed largely by her rapidly improving technique) that being the father of what would clearly be the best player in a girl football team was an infinitely better proposition than having to hang around Hockey clubs (which often contain chaps who think playing Hockey is acceptable behaviour for a man) or trying to come to grips with the mysteries of “netball”. I will also admit that I reckon the sort of girl who would definitely play for Manchester City or Altrincham Ladies would probably not develop any meaningful attachment to horse riding, which it would appear is the most expensive hobby in the world.

Jake Moult: Not a fan of the best side, prefers the vault… Apparently.

At this point I will just digress for a second and crowbar in a quick tale from last Tuesday, when I went to my first Altrincham match for 5 years(having a restaurant, a family and living in another country do kind of hamper attendance). Old friends, the chairman pouring leftover real ale at a £1 a pint and a last minute Jake Moult winner made it a glorious evening(the less said about the second leg of this play off semi final the better). Anyway, as one of my old Atrincham acquaintances left with his teenage-ish daughter firmly in his grasp, Ballers* leant over and regaled me with how the young lady had had a party for her birthday the previous week. When asked how it had gone, my brother in arms had announced his little girl had “had her first, and flipping last, kiss” (clearly I’ve edited that). Ballers fell about laughing at the memory of the original conversation, I did not. My eyes narrowed slightly as I considered the plight of my brother in arms and silently, I vowed never to allow my ones parties.

Anyway, we rejoin the action in the back garden and The Child is now having a good crack at a Cruyff turn, which when you consider the size of the ball compared to the length of her legs is a gallant, if doomed, effort. It is when attempting this bit of classic old school trickery that she stumbled and fell squarely on her face. The Wife was there promptly and amid a flurry of “Oh dears!” from both parties, wiped The Child’s hands. “She doesn’t like touching the grass” The Wife informed me.

Oh well, it was a nice thought while it lasted.

I look forward to The Child’s first horse. Financial ruin would be marginally preferable to having to make small talk with gentlemen hockeyists outside the changing rooms. Although Harry and Jonno could probably brief me fairly accurately on the mysteries of netball whilst I waited.

Nobody knows.

* Ballers or Gary Ballboy, is an old school friend of mine, who to my knowledge still proudly boasts Altrincham FC’s appearance record as a ball boy, earning 50p a game, a share in any leftover pies and a nickname which has lasted for over 20 years.

Thursday Pukey Thursday

I think it was Irish do-gooders U2 who famously sang about “Thursday Pukey Thursday” and after today I feel a little closer to understanding the pain that people listening to U2 have to endure. For Thursday(Pukey Thursday) has not been a classic, but it’s certainly been an eye opener. Primarily it’s made me realise that my beautiful little lady is in fact a right double ‘ard b*****d.

It’s 3am and in theory, and it is still very much ‘in theory’, Pukey Thursday is over. After Wednesday’s rollercoaster evening(long story involving a bottle of Syrah)(I’ll explain at the end)(*) today we came back down to earth with a resounding “Bleeeeurgh… Oh deeee-ar”. The Child has been poorly sick all day and I’m typing this lying on a couple of sofa cushions on the floor of her quarters(and yes, for the record, it does feel a bit weird sharing this with you lot but… well to be honest I’m oddly proud of her).

She’s two next month and to be fair other than a fairly nasty flu thing which basically turned this into a plague house for a week a couple of months back(strictly speaking it turned Granny’s house into a plague house to be fair, as the ladies all got packed off there) she’s been fairly bug free so far, so today seemed to confuse her more than anything else. There’d be a bit of a whimper, maybe some tears and a puzzled look, then she’d be back to the important business of the day. Which today involved watching Lucas’s Postman Pat DVD on repeat and making endless rounds of tea and biscuits(wooden, which I begrudgingly accepted today as she was poorly sick, but as soon as she’s match fit again the deals off)(I’m not stupid). Obviously that’s her version of the important business of the day, ours seemed to mostly involve washing endless outfits, towels, muslins etc (17 outfits in a day, like a marginally taller Kylie Minogue).

Anyway, you’ve gathered now that she’s not been tip top, but what of the eye openeringness I teased you with at the start of this ramble? Well today, being a school day, I have learnt three things(so realistically it’s been more like three school days), firstly, The Child whispers and talks in her sleep more than her mother. Secondly, I am considerably longer than a couple of sofa cushions and thirdly, and most bombshellishly, that dried on Weetabix is in fact only the second hardest material in world, the strongest,hardest and stickiest is actually Weetabix Sick(sorry). Yep. I am fairly certain that the colosseum, the great pyramids, stonehenge, the great wall of China and many more ancient monuments have stood the test of time due to our ancient ancestor’s knowledge of Weetabix Glue’s incredible adhesive powers.

Apologies if any of this has made you feel a bit queasy, but it’s nothing a bit of Postman Pat and a wooden brew won’t sort.

* Yesterday’s rollercoaster evening basically involved me realising I had nothing to drink in the house(boooooo) then remembering a bottle of wine from the restaurant(delirium ensues, obviously) with a mashed cork(booooo)(almost certainly Lois or Magic’s fault) which I managed to extract and sieve (pandemonium) and then rather naively tip all over the kitchen(nooooooooo) trying to decant it from mixing bowl to glass… An emotional rollercoaster which I fear only Ronan could fully understand.

Edge Edge Right Edge Left: Why Having A Child Will Help You Conquer Street Fighter

Earlier this week I found myself having a conversation about Street Fighter, a conversation which would have bored me in 1991 when it was relevant but oddly in 2013, one I quite enjoyed. This came about whilst reminiscing with a friend, who popped up in the restaurant after I hadn’t seen her for a good 8-10 years, when she mentioned her upcoming birthday party had a Street Fighter theme(Heston and Gordon definitely nip on to the floor for quick chats about Sonic or Zelda throughout the night).

DAN WINS… (Which is a bit tight as it’s Laura’s night really)

Normally I hate fancy dress and all it stands for, although I quite liked the idea of this one, original and old school(throw in a ‘devilishly handsome’ and you could easily be describing me). Also, and please Laura no offence this is merely the observation of an elder statesman befuddled by the modern world, having seen pictures on the Facebook of her and her chap engaging in their ‘Steampunk’ering* I was confident they’d be looking to a higher standard of fancy dress than your average Mankini clad stag do invading the local.

The Child, The Ewoks And The End Of My Fragile Grip On Reality

Without wanting to concern you, your hero currently lies a grumpy, bored, beached oaf at home due to complications arising from having mental feet. It’s day two on a heady concoction of drugs and I/he(second sentence and I’ve confused myself already) feels like I’ve had a load of… Actually I’ll make no reference to any equivalent state of relaxation in case Granny reads this, let’s just go with ‘relaxed’.

“Relaxed” that is, until The Child runs and jumps on me. Which largely due to the hilarious noises and shapes that Daddy makes when she does, means The Child is currently running and jumping on Daddy at 30 second intervals. It’s no exaggeration to say I’m living in fear of The Child at the moment, she has the advantage of stealth, speed and manoeuvrability(which may or may not be a word) and she knows it. At this point I should remind you lovely people that she’s not two until next month and is 2 ft 10″ tall(86cm in new money), a fair height for her age but too small to fill me with such terror surely?

A Parent’s Guide To Using Your iPhone Without ‘Help’

Apple proudly boast that for every eventuality there will be an App, except for making phone calls more then 20 yards from a mast obviously (or using the Interweb via 3G)(or anything that may require more than 45 minutes battery life), but in theory there will be an App for most stuff. However, all this is fairly academic if you keep a child in your house as you cannot actually use your phone, or leave it in view, because your young will want it. So, as part of my “A Revised Syllabus For Baby School” series I present you with my Top Ten Tips for using your iPhone with your child in the same room.

The Twist
The simplest and purest technique, physically positioning yourself between The Child and the phone.
Advantage: Can be combined with ‘sitting down’
Disadvantage: Very short term measure.

The Stand
As with The Wife I often utilise height to my advantage and by simply standing with your phone aloft you can sometimes gain minutes of usage, unfortunately when The Child (or The Wife) realises your game they will pester and attempt to climb you.
Advantage: iPad compatible
Disadvantage: Climbing hazard

Why do women think it’s acceptable to flirt outrageously with me in front of my girls?

Now, I know it’s not really for me to say, but I’m a realist so why not? I am a bit of a dish. Devilishly handsome. A cheeky chippy*. Flame haired with a twinkle in my eye and a smile that would stop traffic. That’s according to my mum admittedly(I’ve embellished a bit), but if today’s shopping trip is anything to go by she’s right and let’s face it mums always are.

Today we sampled the delights of Cheshire Oaks Top Secret Outlet Village(or “………….” as it’s very helpfully signposted for the benefit of anyone looking for it who doesn’t work or live there). Myself, The Wife and The New Child (The Child was at Granny’s doing some sort of hand-print painting, which allowed me to wheel out my excellent “Ha, caught you red handed!” gag before we left). Just an ordinary family outing, featuring a dashing husband and father and a selection of his womenfolk. A family outing which would be marred once again by inappropriate flirtatious advances toward me by countless mothers (many with their own children present) and middle aged women. I don’t know what it is, apart from the obvious(see photos)(…& Eastenders) but whenever I’m out with The Child or now The New Child women see it as carte blanche to approach me and they’re completely shameless, not even remotely subtle.