I don’t care if you are Jarvis Cocker, peaches do not go on pizza.



A few months off the old writing game and what’s occurred? Well, by not blogging the world didn’t end. But it did go entirely mad.

Those Little Twists adverts by Sainsburys in the middle of Cold Feet? No. Peaches do NOT go on pizza. Thank you.

Donald Trump could be US President in two months. A man who’s filed for bankruptcy four times to get himself out of financial trouble could be in charge of the world’s largest economy and its nuclear codes? The man can’t even sort his freaking hair out, so this is a terrifying prospect.

Not as terrifying as peaches on pizza, but I digress.

The Great British Bake Off going to Channel 4? That’s a bit like Manchester United selling Cristiano Ronaldo. Crazy, and something they’d never do. The world will surely end. Not with a bang, but with a soggy bottom. Perhaps Channel 4 should combine some of it’s most popular shows into one great uber-show? The Great British Bake Off Gogglebox Sex Box on Benefits?

Any road up, despite the world going to hell in a handcart, I’ve remained remarkably unchanged. I have the usual aches and pains, with neck surgery looming large on the horizon. The summer holidays went by without any limbs being lost, and was rather fun. We went to Disneyworld, somewhere my younger me always wanted to go, but never thought he’d ever get to. More of that in another post…

The children are all well, thanks for asking. My daughter will be 6 in a month. 6! Blimey! I can’t get my head round this. She’s almost a teenager! She’s 6, but when we meet she still asks to be carried as we walk along the road. Part of me thinks we spent ages teaching you how to crawl, bum shuffle, stand and then walk, and now you want me to carry you? But then I give in, because I’m me, and I shouldn’t chide myself too harshly for doing so. I carry her for a little while, as long as my aches and pains allow, and tell her one day she’ll be as tall as me, and when I’m old and frail she can carry me. It’s a harmless indulgence I can never say no to. One day she won’t ask anymore.

The hair, mine obviously, not my daughters, is disappearing from places I want it, and increasing in places I don’t need it, which just seems cruel. Old age plays such tricks on you, and since we last had one of these little chats, I’m a year older. And that’s the very least of it.

My memory is going and I’m not sure if this is a sign of a bad wind moving in, or if I’m just a bit of a scatterbrain. I regularly talk to myself in the kitchen as I’m cooking, usually uttering “Where have I put my wallet/keys/shoes?” after putting things in the wrong place. I put the sweetener in the fridge recently. And the blender attachment in the cereal box. I’m basically turning into my nan.

Which isn’t totally a bad thing, as my gran was terrific. Well, I guess it could be a bad thing if I wore a pale blue gingham housecoat while doing the cleaning, like my gran did. The neighbours would talk. More. I mean I’m turning into my gran in my outlook, and this is a good thing. Of the bunch, my gran was the best, and more of that in another post. Lets just say, if I was Gerald Durrell, my book about growing up would’ve been called My Family and Other Wankers.

Plus, my gran lived till she was 87. If I could be more like her in that sense, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Men in my family have a tendency to die rather youngly.

So yes, that was summer. And despite changes in the world, one will continue to blog on, and the world will continue to spin on its axis.

All is good.

Apart from the whole peaches on pizza thing. That’s just fucking wrong.

Anyhow, how was your summer? I’ll get the kettle on and you can tell me all about it…

Thanks for reading.