Forget my birthday

Today I get older but I really don’t want to concern you with that. It’s not important. I just found out that today is the anniversary of something of much more note – and I can’t believe that I only just heard of this recently.

Today, December 14th 2018, is exactly 100 years since the first general election in the UK where women were allowed to vote.

I honestly had no idea that this coincided with my birthday, and it completely overshadows an event I really don’t care much about any more anyway. Today is definitely a day to celebrate. Our nation took a massive step forward after the Armistice was agreed with Germany. The Great War ended, a General Election was called and 8.5 million women were given the vote.

100 years on and things are definitely better for women than they were back then, though there’s still room to go. So if you insist on giving me a present, there are two options:

  1. Do something nice for a woman in your life – mum, wife, partner, daughter, co-worker, I don’t care.
  2. Donate some cash to the Blue Dragon Children’s Foundation. Info can be found on their website.

My third dad-day (well, one of them)

Original image (c) Soapylove (some rights reserved)
Original image (c) Soapylove (some rights reserved)

Today was Niamh’s third birthday. She’s the youngest of our three kids and the only one I’ve been around since day one (well, day minus 275 approximately if we’re going to split hairs) so the only one I’ve seen grow up from that squidgy, rather disgusting beginning (talking about the birth, not the other bit this time).

Three years ago today I was fortunate enough to be by Gillian’s side (and not holding her hand, I was warned about that) as she popped Niamh out like a cork from a bottle, much to the surprise of the midwife who had assume she was – as usual – in for the long haul. That evening I dressed Niamh in her bedclothes for the first time and left the two of them in the hospital when I headed home.

Tonight I got Niamh ready for bed again and it’s no less special than that first time. Just with more cuddles and kisses and giggles. And I still can’t bear to walk away and leave her, even though nowadays she’s only a few steps away in her room.

It’s staggering how the time has flown and how this screaming, bawling, pooping, peeing… thing, big enough to hold in one hand has turned in a screaming, bawling, pooping, peeing bundle of absolute all-encompassing wonder and adoration who now makes my arms and back ache when she insists on being carried because I’m too damn soft to refuse her.

Roll on the next three years. Or thirty. I need at least one kid to look after me when I start wetting myself again.

Cool blue

I just have to say a quick “thank you” to the beautiful Leah for the dinky birthday present she sent me last week. Blue, starry fairy lights. USB-powered blue, starry fairy lights. Seasonal and geeky!

I wish I had a camera. Not just to show you what they’re like dangling around my monitor, but to show you the office window from outside in the dark. While I’m sat here I don’t notice how bright they are. I only spotted last night that once the office lights are off, the whole rooms glows blue. From the street it looks like an alien abduction is taking place!

So thank you, Leah. You’ve helped brighten our office up! Nicely complimented by the pink snowflake screensaver on my Ubuntu laptop as well.

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Alcopoop

Some typical alcoholic beverages.

I would like to introduce a new word into the English language (assuming I’ve not already been beaten to it):

Alcopoop (noun) – the thick, turgid yet also somehow sloppy and always sweet-smelling shit that you have to force out of an arsehole that seems too small the morning after an excessive intake of alcoholic beverages.

Yeah, I had a good night. Much alcohol was downed and I even had a birthday “dinner” at the hotel. All the staff signed a card for me (that I’ve lost – it’s in the hotel somewhere), sang “Happy Birthday” to me and then we went out and got trolleyed at Bar’Dup.

I’m not that bad, surprisingly. But my credit card is still in the pub. And has been since Friday.

Great present, though – a 3-0 away win at Portsmouth. A goal from birthday boy Michael Owen, and it turned out that a guy I was sat with in the pub also had his birthday yesterday. As did his flatmate! We got free Jagermeister shots from the bar.

I generally don’t “do” birthdays, but I had a cracker this year in part mainly to hanging out with a great bunch of people. Thanks to them all!

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Happy birthday to me

Here's to the birthday boy!

Fuck’s sake. Thirty-fucking-five.

At least I can legally fuck someone half my age. Which isn’t really what one should be crowing about on a birthday, but other than that there’s not a lot else to gain.

I reserve the right to say “fuck” a lot on this post as I’m older than you. You young bastards.

At least I’m in a nice place – Chamonix, again. And I believe I’ll be in the bar from around 14:00 getting fucking hammered (while Newcastle likely suffer the same fate on the telly – ah well).

Happy birthday to me. Bah fucking humbug.

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