I reckon we’ve just about turned a corner with Son 2 and his three day cycle of shit postponement. Of late, he manages to turf one out about once a day, post tea – pre-bath. Sometimes it’s a full blown dreadnought; other times it’s an acorn sized down payment on some future mega turd, due at some point at an unspecified time.

Well, I felt that way a couple of weeks back too. I was wrong.

This happened, as I say, a short while ago. I failed to report on it at the time as I felt a lot of my output had been quite stool intensive – in short, I felt that you (the reader) deserved a bit of time off from reading about shit.

Nah, I thought, give them some stuff about Circuses and Bus journeys. People’ll like that. They’ll share it around all their friends… Think of the ‘reach’ that stuff will generate.

But no… You want stories about shite.

To that end then:

POST SCHOOL OUTDOOR SHIT INCIDENT (PRE-AMBLE)

The events of the following tale happened one sunny Thursday afternoon, back in September. Somewhat out of the blue, I’d been asked by one of the ‘Other’ Mums to collect her boy, and look after him until about half four. In layman’s terms, that’s well shy of a play date… No commitment to providing tea or owt. No nothing, beyond ensuring that nobody dies, and that an adequate amount of juice is provided.

In order to keep your records straight, this friend of Son 1 is a young lad who – for the purposes of this story – we'll name ‘Obafemi’. Yeah. Obafemi.

Here’s a fun fact about young Obafemi: Every time he comes round to my house, him and my eldest play on the PS4. It prevents LEGO from being tipped up all over the shop.

On each occasion he’s played on the PS4, the controller has ended up covered in some undefined, jam-like “ming”. Each time, the controller has required a thorough wet wiping.

And he’s got no qualms about going for a dump at my house either. No storing it up for him.

Still. I suppose you have to cut the little buggers some slack… They’re only six.

Back to the tale:

This particular day, as I mentioned, was A Nice Day. 20 odd degrees; mostly cloudless – a cracking day for taking kids to the park, and not sitting indoors coating PS4 controllers in what might be mucus. Ahead of the afternoon School run, I packed a large bottle of juice – some sort of double strength cordial shit; I forget the exact flavour – and some bananas for extra sustenance. All of this was packed into my emergency ‘poo your pants’ rucksack – a device I’ve carried around since about May, as a precaution against Son 2’s impromptu outdoor shits (depicted in incidents such as the Exhibition Park visit, and so on.)

PRODUCT INFORMATION: THE EMERGENCY ‘POO YOUR PANTS’ RUCKSACK, PLUS CONTENTS

The Rucksack itself is a 12 year old Regatta X-ERT 20-25 personal haulage platform. Alongside its generous 20 litre central storage unit, side and top pockets, the Regatta’s Special features include:

1. An AirStream Back System
2. An emergency, fully elasticated, waterproof sheath
3. A rapid deployment, exterior luggage cargo mesh utility net

There’s not a single catch on it that isn’t broken, and the back mesh thing once had banana grated into it, which I’ve never managed to get fully clean.

At just about all times, I carry at least two changes of clothes for my youngest, plus a load of plastic bags. Most important of all however, if the full packet of wet wipes I carry in the top pocket (huddled next to the waterproof sheath).

Note: If there is ONE tool that I consider paramount to good parenting on the move, then it is a full packet of wet wipes. If you’re buying a pack, make sure it’s a good, strong formula – full of chemicals! Steer well clear of any ‘new age’, barely damp, ecological wipes. Ethics don’t clean up effluent.

It was with this fully stocked bag then – plus the big bottle of juice and extra snacks – that myself and Son 2 set off for the afternoon School run.

OUTDOOR POST SCHOOL SHIT INCIDENT (MAIN EVENT)

So, myself and Son 2 got to School alright, and collected Son 1 and Obafemi – my responsibility for the afternoon. Off we went to kill an hour in the good old Quarry Park, scene of numerous earlier incidents (See ‘Quarry Park Gravel Police).

We weren’t the only ones there. A good deal of the rest of the afternoon School Run had also turned up, swelling the numbers of people at the normally quiet park to – frankly – excessive levels. You could barely move in the sodding cat toilet sand pit thing; and the hessian swing affair was completely stowed off.

Anyway, into this maelstrom of after school shenanigans we came. Son 1 and Obafemi immediately fucked off down the hill, mugging off the wooden climbing frame – AND the big slide – in favour of joining the hessian swing queue. It was at least four people deep, and queue discipline was found wanting.

I entered the playground with the youngest, and then unslung the Regatta XL5 – leaving it propped up on one of the handy large rocks they have lying around. It’ll be fine, I thought. Son 2, being a sensible and determined little boy, then bolted for the Big Slide.

Whilst keeping an eye on the two older boys, gradually making their way up the queue, I took two, maybe three trips down the slide with the youngest. And then he stopped suddenly at the bottom of the slide. He then charged surprisingly quickly towards someone’s back gate, at the other side of the park. And then he started pulling his pants down.

“No! No!” I said, escorting Son 2 slightly further up. “You can’t have a wee there. Go a bit further up.”

Son 2 went further up. Again, down went the trousers. “Go on then. Have a wee-wee.”

No wee-wee came out.

Son 2 pulled his trousers up again; then went further up the hill. And up. Right to the top of the hill, where we’d come in. And then he pulled his trousers down for the main event.

There’s something… Some ill-defined mystery element, at play in the South Gosforth Quarry Park. Perhaps it’s spiritual; perhaps something magnetic, relating to the push and pull of tectonic plates at some deep, subterranean level. Whatever it is, it makes my 3 and a bit year old boy need to go for a big shit.

His little face did the classic wince, and out popped a great, fat turd.

Which I caught in my hand.

“Uuuuuugggggggggh… Noooo.”

Why I’d decided to catch it, I don’t know. It was probably to preserve the breach of his little undies. Regardless, the reality of the situation rapidly made itself clear. Here I was, shit in hand, with a shitty arsed child (I had to prevent Son 2 from poking his fingers into it); separated from the emergency ‘poo your pants bag’ by a distance of some 60ft. Perhaps even more.

The Other Mums present – I’m pretty confident – could see exactly what was going on. Each of them, however, stayed their hand from offering assistance – perhaps distracted by their OWN brood; perhaps prevented from doing so by some Maternal Prime Directive*, not meant for the ears of Man. Who amongst us can say?

*I like to imagine the exchange ran like this:

NOVICE MUM: (Hushed tones) – See how the Man Parent suffers O’ Leader! Can we not furnish him with some cleansing wipes?

HIGH PRIESTESS: Nay Sister! For he is an Outlander! The Scriptures forbid any such intervention! Naaaay… Let him find his own path!

…Something like that. Sisterhood of Kahn from 1970s Doctor Who.

Son 1, I thought. He’s my way out of THIS pickle.

I looked down the hill at the now ant sized eldest Clark boy, moments away from boarding the swing. I shouted for him. I shouted for him again. And again, perhaps up to six times.

Finally:

“Yes Daaaaaa’aaad?”

“FETCH ME THE RUCKSACK WILL YOU!!?”

Pause.

“Whaaaaat!?”

“THE…THE BAG! BRING IT UP HERE!”

“My bag??!”

For Christ’s sake. Why would I want your School bag for this?

“NOOO! MY BAG! THE RUCK SACK!!”

“Where is it??!”

“OVER THERE! ON THE ROCK! ON TOP OF THE ROCK!”

“Wha –“

“ON THE ROCK!!! RIGHT THERE!!! LOOOK!!”

Eventually - after an eternity of very, very public, shit handed gesturing and furious shouting - Son 1 pegged it up the hill with my back pack (and the prized wet wipes therein).

I now had the problem of what to do with the shite, which by now – whilst retaining a great deal of its original rigidity - had squelched in between my fingers a bit. After a moment of hellish introspection, I elected to chuck it on the ground, where it flattened out nicely, and matted into the long grass…

Fuck me, I though. I’m going to have to pick that up in a second. Why did I throw it with such force??

I released Son 2’s arm, and set about extracting the wet wipes left handed.**

** Which, ironically, WASN’T Cack handed!

There’s only so clean you can get a shitty hand with wet wipes. Hot water and soap – that’s your gold standard in shit hand cleansing. But, you know, if you’re out in the field you just have to go with it.

I must’ve used up a good three quarters of the packet in cleaning me; Son 2; and the incredibly shit covered grass – all the while with Son 1, and by now young Obafemi, dancing about, overjoyed at the sight of a shitty arse and hand. Cleaning the ground took an infuriatingly long time, but it provided adequate time for both the lads have a go on the swing. It had quietened down a bit. We left the park immediately after – the juice undrunk; the bananas bruised beyond repair, and perhaps tainted.

And so Son 1 and Obafemi DID get to play LEGO Star Wars, whilst I scrubbed poopy pants in an early bath. And lo’, my second PS4 controller did become befouled and icky with what appeared to be a mixture of PVA glue and sand.

POST SCRIPT

This morning - just after registration, I’m told - the Teacher declared that Obafemi would be leaving that day to attend a different School, in a shittier part of town. He left immediately after; to what may have been stunned silence… But probably wasn’t.

They’re six.

My boy, his closest friend, regaled me with this information on the way back from School yesterday afternoon. He wasn’t particularly arsed, but tried to use it as leverage to play fucking LEGO Star Wars, “because he was sad.”

I said no.

See? Pathos.

P.P.S

If nothing else, the lesson to take home here is = Always place a stool carefully, and with great respect.

Never throw one.

Thanks for reading.

xxxx

TC

As soon as your kids are out of reception and in “proper” School, organising parties for the ungrateful bastards rapidly descends into some kind of nightmarish farce – or Night Farce. Up to the age of six, you can get by quite happily without bothering – their memories aren’t up to much at that stage, and who remembers their fourth birthday anyway? Not ME, that’s who. 

In fact, as a kid, I can only really remember my eighth birthday party, and that’s only on account of an inflatable ‘Incredible Hulk’ punching bag I’d received. I’d only just opened it - and half killed myself blowing it up – when suddenly it was punched into some kind of thorn bush by some kid I can no longer recall (and probably didn’t like at the time). It completely fucked the sodding thing before I’d even had a chance to knock it about myself… It’s a memory that still haunts me, some 29 years later. 

In fact, as I write this, I’m struggling to recall even having had a birthday party after that, up until my eighteenth – where I at LEAST got to play with a lady’s boobies. Frankly, that kind of behaviour would’ve been deemed inappropriate - precocious even - for a boy of eight.

NOT that the star of the show being unable to remember the event deters some parents, no. I’ve been to full on house parties for one-year olds, with full catering and party games… the lot. Will he ever thank them for it? Doubtful.

Son 1 is in year 2 now, with October being the high point – or, if you will, apex - of party season. ALL the buggers hit seven at just about the same time, with at least six events taking place on conflicting dates and times… (I’ve made that up, but it’s a LOT). October is the equivalent of some kind of Presidential Primary in terms of the campaigning, organising and political skull-duggery involved. IS that an overstatement? Perhaps.

Last year, given the season and so on, we went with a Halloween themed Fancy Dress Party – renting out the Church Hall / function room next door as the venue. 

HALLOWEEN FANCY DRESS PARTY 2015

Said Halloween themed Fancy Dress Party required the purchase, crafting or hiring of the following items:

1. 1 x discount dancing Zumba woman in full costume, plus 1990’s style CD player with Halloween Mega mix CD 
2. Multiple, bespoke, hand-made cut out pumpkin and vampire bat decorations 
3. Bowls of fucking Haribo all over the shop 
4. Multiple balloons (which we had to painstakingly remove without bursting due to one of the kids being a “globaphobe”)
5. Several large, cheapo pizzas
6. A metric ton of Crisps (multiple flavours)
7. Cordial of assorted flavours, coming out of the wazzoo
8. 2 x 24 packs of cheap, cheap Belgian “stubby” style lager drink for the grown ups
9. …A box of wine maybe? I forget.
10. Other stuff.

I put on a pair of sunglasses; ¾ of the suit I got married in; about half a mile of compression bandages (plus safety pins) - and went as the Invisible Man. I was absolutely boiling, and on the verge of heat stroke a good half hour before the bastard had even begun. I remember the Caretaker bloke letting us into the hall ahead of the do – with me in full costume, laden with booze and pop and that. He gave me a kind of disapproving once over; then deadpanned:

“A think you’ve had an accident there son.” 

On the plus side, the party went well. A kid I didn’t particularly like fucked off home early in tears; and besides that, people genuinely seemed to enjoy themselves. I drank as much Belgian lager as I could, whilst looking after other people’s children – and then I danced to Thriller and that one by the Backstreet Boys. Yeah, that one. 

What set it apart was that no bugger else had thought of the fancy dress element. And, and this is a big And, the fact that we’d rented the hall meant that there wasn’t any restriction on how many of Son 1’s mates we could invite. We’d dodged the political fallout that comes with creating a “guest list”. 

Well done the Clarks. Well played.

Zip forward to THIS year, and we’re left with the issue of “how do we top that?” We didn’t particularly want to, is the honest truth… It was a pain in the arse.

However, things became complicated when one of the Other Mums we’re friends with – whose daughter (“Elaine”) Son 1 was once briefly in love with – brought up the notion of us having a shared birthday party, namely ANOTHER Halloween Fancy Dress Party. 

HALLOWEEN FANCY DRESS PARTY 2016

Well, we thought, it can’t hurt. We’ll lose points for a lack of originality, but who gives a shit… We’ll spread the cost about a bit, and perhaps we’re even doing the other parents a favour in terms of logistics alone. For instance: They’d only have to make the one journey. Yes, they’d have to buy TWO small, shit presents, suitable for both genders - discounting transgender kids at this stage - and they’d perhaps have to sing “Happy Birthday” twice, but so what? Think of the petrol. Think of the Carbon Footprint.

And lo, preparations did begin. My missus booked out the same hall, laying down a £40 deposit, and attempted to book the same Zumba woman and the same discount price. This attempt failed (she was all booked up, it seemed), leading to the first hurdle of the Joint Party Coalition – Find a Replacement Zumba Bint.

The Other Mum - “Elaine’s” Mum - took up the baton on this particular task, with my missus being on the receiving end of a flurry of texts on the subject whilst she was busy being sick (with that stomach bug I briefly mentioned in the last Nursery Run report). Basically, it turned out that she could get someone - a big gay man, of immense physical strength apparently – but that we’d have to shell out more than expected for his services. We hummed at harred at this, but agreed to thrash it out in our first Coalition Party planning session - which kept being postponed, and never quite managed to take place. Never mind, we thought. The place is booked for October the 29th, and we’ve told most everyone what’s happening already. Official invites can wait a few days.

THE PARTY INVITE INCIDENT

And so it was that earlier this week, as I was walking back from the School Run alongside Haziq’s Mum – that’s Haziq of the Minja Ninja incident, you’ll remember - I noticed that the young man had received a letter. In the way kids do, he’d disinterestedly shoved it into his mother’s hand, unopened. 

Haziq’s Mother – we’ll refer to her has “Hana” - opened the envelope to reveal a party invite, cut into the shape of a Halloween Jack o’ lantern. It was for a girl we’ll call “Zoe” – a pretty good friend of Son 1’s, I’d thought. I certainly get on well with her folks. 

I pretty much snatched the invite out of Hana’s hands.

The Party – a Halloween Fancy Dress Party, no less – was on October the 29th. At the same place. Two hours earlier than ours.

And Son 1 clearly hadn’t been invited.

“Fuuuuuuuuuck!” I muttered, inappropriately. No bugger is going to sit through two hours of fancy dress birthday party, and then stick around for a second, double helping afterwards. It doesn’t matter how good it is in terms of fossil fuel usage.

Plus, Zoe had invited just about every kid Son 1 would’ve brought along – plus Elaine, the girl he was meant to be sharing his party with. Yeah, SHE’d received an invite. SHE was deemed good enough.

I asked Son 1 if he had in fact received an invite, which he’d lost or hidden somewhere. 

“No. Zoe said she didn’t have enough party bags. She just had twenty party bags.”

Party bags?? You mean invites, I thought.

As I begrudgingly handed the novelty invite back to Hana - who’d commented that yes, it did appear to be on the same date and location – the thought occurred to me: This restricted numbers thing… This is kind of OUR fault for booking the big hall out. Zoe’s twenty guest party – he didn’t even make the cut of TWENTY kids – was only at that number because they’d had to book out the little side annex room.

Well. It was a bombshell alright.

When I got in, I immediately jumped on Facebook. I’m not friends with Zoe’s Dad – I’m not internet friends with ANY of the other parents – but I knew he was an actor, and I knew his name. I managed to find his Actor-y Facebook page and left him a little jokey message. It read something along the lines of:

“Hey (insert name), 

It’s Tony here from such life events as the School Run, and post School Taekwondo. 

I’ve just seen that Haziq has an invite to Zoe’s Halloween party. Interestingly, we were planning exactly the same party at the same time with Elaine’s parents. 

Is there any chance we could join forces, etc. as well? I’m just trying to gauge how completely effed we are.

Cheers!”

…To this day, I’ve not received a reply. It may well have been deleted, unread, by some kind of page admin.

As soon as my wife stepped in the door from work, I hit her with the shit storm of news. We then went into what can only be described as Full Campaign Mode.

Full Losing Campaign Mode, that is. Despite pinging phone calls and text messages around, left, right and centre, we knew the gig was up. We stood, forlorn, in the kitchen, like some losing PR team for a Presidential Candidate, minutes away from conceding defeat.

“Fuuuuuuuck!” we both went. 

“And he didn’t even make her list.”

“Weeeelll… I said I didn’t want to do fucking Halloween again anyway. Sod it.”

It was a bitter – terribly bitter – pill to swallow. We cancelled the party and ended up dissolving the Coalition that night. The Big Gay Zumba man became, once again, available. 

I’m not entirely confident that we got the deposit back.

Last I heard, young Elaine is having some kind of bullshit petting Zoo party instead. *

*Nah, I'm sure it'll be fine. 

But what of our own hurried rescheduling?

 

HURRIED RESCHEDULING

Well, my idea of renting out a bit of the Tyneside Cinema was shit canned for: 

1. Being prohibitively expensive - £12 per kid, with a bit of popcorn thrown in (but NO party bag), and:
2. Being a bit wanky. 

Instead, we’re having a ‘Make Your Own Pizza’ party at some place on the High Street. With – that’s right - restricted numbers.

There’s bound to be some kind of feud as a result.

P.S

I’ve not even touched on the actual present buying for the birthday yet. 

I’ve just started an enjoyable feud with my older brother – conducted both verbally, and via long winded text message - over his purchase, and apparent “glory hogging”, of a heavily discounted LEGO Millennium Falcon…

But that’s another story, for another time. 

Hey ho.

Thank you, once again, for reading this big, long pile of shit. Five likes or less please!

TC

FOREWORD

I must now dip - DIP mind you - into the archives for a fun tale from yesteryear. It's something that I kind of tweeted about at the time, but my wife immediately ordered me to delete it... One assumes out of fear of criminal prosecution / societal damage. That kind of thing.

(Note: As in previous cases, names have been changed to avoid any potential school run fallout; and/or mistaken pursuit by 'Dark Justice' online types... Yeah. Don't worry. It'll be fine... It's a fun story.)

Anyway, I've never written about it before AT LENGTH, which I now intend to do so for you – The reader.

START OF ANECDOTE

Let me take you back now, to the distant past. The before time... The Never, Never.

It was a time before BREXIT. The Prime Minister was still that man. Gene Wilder, David Bowie, Victoria Wood, Prince, Hans Gruber, Terry Wogan, Lemmy, and thousands upon thousands of innocent civilians were all still alive. Apart from Lemmy, who'd died the month previously now that I think of it.

The time was December, 2015.

With the School year in full swing, this was easily the 4th - possibly 5th - party I'd attended for one of Son 1's School pals. The others had been staged at the following venues:

1: At the now defunct second soft play, just off the Gosforth High Street (the one that WASN'T Captain Ted's). It may well have been called Power Zone, or something. It was a converted Church, which tells you something.*

* It doesn't. Draw your own conclusions.

2: A fucking Tennis Club - hidden, Narnia style, behind a 12ft high wall of shrubbery - where the mother served Pimms. Actually, that one was alright, despite my reverse snobbery.

3: Another fucking tennis club, this time in bastard Jesmond. It wasn't even a Tennis party... It was 5-a-side deal, where the kids displayed vastly differing levels of ability. As a general rule, the knackers tend to be very, very good at football, as they've by and large got fuck all else going for them. This particular party was quite good, as a little girl with Downs Syndrome kept nicking the cones and whathaveyou - completely preventing the coach fella the parents had brought in from conduction any kind of meaningful session.

Anyway... I digress.

This party - the one in which today's tale takes place - was at the Gosforth Swimming Pool.

Now. The Gosforth Swimming Pool isn't one of your Wet N' Wild style deals. No sir. I can best describe it as a kind of no thrills, High School kind of a pool. You get the idea... a shit hole.

CHANGING ROOM DESCRIPTION

Good ole "Gossy Pool" is the kind of a place where – and this is from a man's perspective – you have to get changed in a big, open changing room.

Usually this boils down to casually getting your cock out in front of a bunch of grandads; generic blokes (who often have their little girls with them, for added discomfort); and fucking rat bastard, foul mouthed, tubby, high school kids – who normally seem preoccupied with beating the shit out of each other, or at least slapping each other stupid with wet towels – oblivious to all the "tuts" and sideways glances going on (from everyone just trying to dry their balls in peace). That sort of thing. For a POOL PARTY, you can add to that setting the impact of 15 or so kids, plus parents trying to get ready and that, whilst not making a big deal of all the wangs flapping about.

It also has a ratty, poorly maintained set of toilets you're slightly afraid to use for fear of walking barefoot in someone else's wee.

Bedlam. That's what I'm selling here... Bedlam.

SWIMMING POOL DESCRIPTION

As per traditional swimming bath convention, the "pool" is split in 'twain, i.e. TWO pools:

POOL A: An extremely warm 25ft by 15ft* kiddie pool - though more often than not frequented by VERY old ladies – no more than 3ft deep. Probably less. Chock full of chlorine, to negate all the piss.

* Totally inaccurate. Go down there with your tape measure next time and find out for yourself.

POOL B: An incredibly cold – and I mean, cardiac arrest triggering levels of cold – 'proper' pool, with lanes and a deep end and shit. Full of actual swimmers, and people going for their bronze medallion.

As you would imagine, this 6th Birthday Party was set entirely in the super hot, bleach filled piss puddle.

...ALL of which is largely irrelevant, and merely window dressing for the tale I'm about to impart.

THE ACTUAL TALE

So.

There I am in the kiddie pool, comparing gut size with about 7 other dads (not a mum in sight, bar the birthday boy's, and she wasn't in no water... no sir). Personal space was, well... it wasn't there. Just about every square inch was full of either a child or an inflatable pool toy / buoyancy aid, and all that. It was also pretty much unbearably loud.

Into this maelstrom, somebody somewhere introduced the idea of starting a game of fucking Volley Ball – with actual goal posts, facing each other width wise.**

** Call it 20ft wide now, eh? Just for the purposes of this story.

This game started out pretty shambolic. Dads in goal, taking it easy on the little 'uns – conceding goals and such. I'd even joined in a bit when my kid became involved. No bugger was really trying.

And then something changed.

Into the water, and apparently late to the party, there came a girl with long, curly brown hair. Perhaps 10, maybe 11 – clearly a lot older than the rest of the kids. She was wearing (and I say this merely for context) lime green bikini style bottoms... And nowt else. Disturbingly, she also had a big set of fully formed breasts on her.

[...I'll pause here. Stay with me on this. The blog hasn't turned into some sort of PEE DURR fiction forum. This actually happened. I was there.]

Now, I wasn't quite sure where to look. To my mind, there must be a cut off point for parents when your little girl encroaches on 'womanhood' and certain, shall we say, conventions need to be adhered to. Mainly this involves putting a top on.

I'd looked around at the other dads in the water – no words were ever spoken, but I could sense that each of us had picked up on this big titted girl, and were all equally disturbed.

The thing is, the big norked little lady was really fucking good at volley ball. I mean... Good. The tempo of the game changed completely, taking on a nasty, unnervingly physical edge – elbows flying and all sorts. Kids were quickly ushered out of the road for safety... She clearly meant business.

And then she went in the opposing goal.

The kid had the delivery of a fucking Howitzer. BAM! BAM! BAM! Goals started raining in from this – apparently – pre teen girl, from where she was standing. In the other goal.

"Fuck me," I muttered to one of the other dads, who'd had a brief go in 'our' goal. "She's got a hell of an arm on her. Jesus Christ."

Anyway... The game, and the pool based segment of the party drew to a close. We were a mixture of shell shocked and bemused.*** Inappropriately uncovered tits forgotten – along with the Birthday Party itself – in a fog of confusion at the raw power possessed by this kid.

*** Or at least I was. I can't speak for the other adults.

Off everyone went to the changing rooms.

CHANGING ROOM SEGMENT

And THERE was this powerfully armed, fat titted girl again! In the bloke's changing room, running around all over the shop. I looked around for a Dad... No sign. Apparently she was on her own in there.

[...Again, I'll pause. I wasn't checking this kid out, you understand. Just put yourself in my shoes for a second. As a man, you don't especially want 'tweens – and definitely not girl tweens – running amok whilst you're busy toweling your barse (and trying to get your OWN kids ready at the same time – that's a pain in the arse enough as it is).]

Frankly, I was disappointed in the apparent lack of parental concern.

Still. I got me and mine dressed, and packed off to the post swim Birthday Tea party thingio.

THE POST SWIM BIRTHDAY TEA PARTY THINGIO

So there we are, in a small, over heated function room at Gosforth Pool. Loads more parents had come out of the woodwork, and were now busy shoveling in sausage rolls, whilst tending to kids in meltdown, etc. Standard fare at these do's.

In comes Big Nork Howitzer Girl again – AND I WASN'T WATCHING OUT FOR HER OR NOTHING – dressed in kind of candy coloured, striped leggings and a pink, V necked top. And wellies for some reason. That stuck in the mind.

In the context of the party, I was now able to tell who the kid's parent was: A nice, well to do, extremely well off lady I'd met on a couple of school runs. Land owner... Has an apartment in New York for work or something. Some sort of connection to Higher Education. Maybe even Oxford... I forget. She's very "right on", if you catch my drift.

The following exchange is made up, but it ran roughly like this (I was well within earshot):

Up bounds the Girl to her mother - in R.P: "MUUUUM! CAN I GET SOME MORE PIZZA??"

"Frederick, that's 6 pieces you've had already! Leave some for other people!"

CONCLUSION

...She wasn't an 11 year old girl at all.

He was an 8 year old, very, very posh boy. With severe, pronounced gynecomastia.****

**** Big tits.

The parents don't go in for all that separate gender crap, you see? Hence the girl's dress sense. and so on. THAT is what you get for being all "alternative" with your parenting... Confused strangers at Birthday parties.

Still. Good arm on the lad. One for future consideration, should any Olympic Committee Members be reading.

Well.... time I moved on down the road.

Thanks for reading.

Yours in good faith,

Anthony James Clark

xxx