February 2008 Archives

I'VE stood on the terrace or in the pub and watched penalty shoot outs for club and country end in dismal failure or glorious success...and only a true football fan can know the gut wrenching turmoil involved.

But I watched my eldest lad step up to the plate in the semi finals of a county cup game tonight and it was far, far worse.

Two apiece at full time, extra time couldn't separate them so it was down to the dreaded spot kicks.

MY SEVEN-year-old daughter Jess was asked to trace her hand onto a piece of paper and write down the names of two best friends and three 'adults who help her' above the fingers.

Lucy and Ellie were both there for her mates along with grandad, Aunty Jill and mum.

My so supportive eldest lad Nick was beaming as he broke the news to me that I didn't figure in the 'top three grown-ups'...even though Jess rarely sees her aunt.

So I decided to do something about "worming my way onto the list" (my wife's words) in the only way dads know how - bribery.

SOME things in life are just priceless.

That moment when you first set eyes on your newborn child, their first day at school, their first dance trophy or goal.

But this week I was lucky enough to experience something truly magical - that moment when my 14-year-old son finally realised the meaning of hard graft.

Many years ago I watched the brilliant Dave Allen describe in one of his superb sit down monologues how his children spoke a different language.

I didn't have kids at the time but laughed at his excellent understated delivery...but I'm not laughing now.

I'm getting rather concerned that this new blogging lark is bringing out the child in me.

We've just had the initial viewing figures through for our blogs and my colleague Paul Fulford, who frequently behaves like my fourth child, has been bragging that his is number one in the charts.
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I've spent years trying to convince my two lads that there's a lot to be said for supporting a lower league club - and finally the Premiership has come to my rescue.

Their ludicrous plan for a 39th game has at last made my two realise that the Premiership exists only to line the pockets of the chosen few who care little for the soul of the national game.

I've just been informed by my wife that I'm "drinking too much".

I don't think a large glass of red or a couple of bottles of Bud every other night is "too much" but a look at the recyling crate suggests she might have a point.

So to remedy the situation I've taken to buying this fizzy stuff - I started with the pretentiously named Cranberry and Aci presse - at a couple of quid a throw to fool my body into thinking it's booze.

I just got through the front door from Tesco laden down with shopping (plus a few beers for the England game) when I was confronted by a 14-year-old Mr Angry.

"Where are my tracksuit bottoms?" he snarled accusingly as if I'd borrowed them to nip to the shops despite our vastly differing waistlines.

There can't be many dads who play football at a decent level with their boys, so I count myself pretty lucky to be still finding the net in my early 40s with them watching on in awe...well maybe not.

Occasionally I get comments like "yeah, not bad", and once Nick even complimented me on a magnificent finish with the outside of the foot that Christiano Ronaldo would have been proud of. I almost fainted.

Just back from a meeting at school where parents gathered expectantly to hear details of their little darlings football coaching trip to Spain.

Moulded studs are essential, two T-shirts, limit the spending money (yesss!), packed schedule...all the usual teacher warnings about behaviour, lights out etc - and then came the catch!