All that comes with it

“Where can we take a slightly hyperactive 2 year old for a fun day out?” We asked ourselves.

“I know let’s take her to a building full to the brim of sharp swords, pointy spears, spiked clubs and every other dangerous weapon you could possibly think of. That should be nice and child friendly.”

Kerry, Amy, and I went to the Royal Armouries today to meet Kerry’s brother Neil and his girlfriend Lea for lunch. The Armouries is possibly my favourite museum ever. Not only is it is the repository for the Queens collection of arms, and has everything from King Henry VIII’s armour to Zulu warrior’s spears, but it also has daily live interpretations and exhibitions. Last time I went I saw two stuntmen demonstrating the fencing techniques of the 16th century while acting out the combat scenes from Romeo and Juliet. I also saw a guy showing how to put on full plate armour and an actor pretending to be a Scottish bandit on the run from the English. All that and it’s completely free! Marvellous.

This time we saw a falconry exhibition. Amy was fascinated by the Owl that was brought out, but was less enamoured with the hawk which the falconer kept flying over our heads. Unfortunately it began to rain before the jousting exhibition was due to start; but Amy saw the horses in the stables anyway so she was happy. When we left I asked her what was her favourite bit was and she told me it was the parakeets. I think I must have gone to the toilet during that bit.

It was nice to meet up with Neil and Lea; we haven’t seen them for a while. Neil has shaved all his hair off, probably to make him more aerodynamic when he’s chucking himself out of planes. He’s also grown a beard, probably out of hero worship of me; it must have broken his heart when he saw that I’ve shaved mine off.

When we’d finished at the Museum we went to mothercare to stock up on various baby type things. With any luck our visit to the hospital tomorrow will result in them deciding to induce Kerry. She’s becoming really uncomfortable and is understandably worried about the baby’s size. We’re not holding our breath though; if they decided just to let her get on with it could well be another three weeks.

Surfing the net this morning I came across this. A headmistress in Norway has introduced a ban on boys at her school standing up to pee. The local nutcase politician eager to get his name in the papers has declared that:

“When boys are not allowed to pee in the natural way, the way boys have done for generations’ it is meddling with God’s work. It is a human right not to have to sit down like a girl”

Now I’m not too sure about that. I can’t recall the lyrics “Pointing Percy at the porcelain” being alongside the purple headed mountains in the hymn All Things Bright and Beautiful. And as for human rights, I think it’s a little premature to get the UN peacekeepers involved. But still, this has reminded me of one of my perennial rants.

Toilet seats.

Every bad observational comedian has a number of standard routines they fall back on. “Why do you never see any white dog poo anymore?”, “Have you ever noticed you can’t hear what the guy’s saying at the drive though?”, and of course “Why do men always leave the toilet seats up?”

I have yet to hear a good argument as to why men shouldn’t leave the toilet seat up. For a start, the laws of gravity dictates that it takes less energy to put it down than it does to lift it up. If a man has to replace the seat he is going to have to expend energy both lifting and lowering the seat. The woman on the other hand expends no energy at all; she even gets to sit down. This hardly seems fair.

It’s not really an option to leave the seat down to pee either, we already have enough problems aiming without reducing the diameter of the target. Now it seems even sitting down and peeing is ruled out with the revelation that it is both against Gods will and convenes the European Human Rights Act. Therefore there is only one solution available to us:

Behold, the Wizz freedom!

I hate my friends. Not only are they very cool people, but they are very talented too. The bastards.

This evening I went to see “Wanted – One Body”, a murder mystery comedy directed by my friend Craig and staring my friends Becky, Paul and Rich. I refuse to mention the fact that they made a relatively bland script sparkle with a combination of magnificent performances and wonderful physical comedy. I also won’t mention Becky’s masterful portrayal of a cold and haughty murderer, or Paul’s burly and threatening performance as a rugged chauffeur, or even Rich’s fantastic bumbling and cowardly junior solicitor.

It was a great evening’s entertainment which I would recommend to anybody if it weren’t for the fact that tonight was the last night. Whenever I see my friends exhibit their many talents I feel a mixture of pride and envy. Pride that I know people who are able to act, direct and generally perform as well as they do; and envy because I know that I can’t. Still, I suppose my abilities lie in different areas. I bet none of them can burp on command as well as me.

Not only am I a Yorkshireman, I am a proud Yorkshireman. I drink beer not cider, I eat cheese with my Christmas cake, and I’ll always choose a white rose over a red one. One of the most distinctive features of this identity is my accent. While it isn’t that strong, it is still recognisable; and my vocabulary is liberally dotted with the odd region specific word here and there.

As I’ve mentioned before I’m very pleased that Amy shares my accent. But sometimes it goes a bit too far. For some time now she has been pronouncing the word “baby” as “berbi”. I don’t know where she got it from, we assume it was nursery, but it really irritates me. Similarly she has just started missing the H’s off a lot of words. Yesterday while walking the dog we had the following conversation.

“ ’olly, ‘olly, come back ‘olly.”

“No Amy, its Holly. H… H… Holly.”

“Yes daddy, but sometimes she’s called ‘olly isn’t she.”

I’m not sure how to handle this. The liberal in me says that every form of language is valid; English is a continually evolving creation that belongs only to those who speak it. Any attempt to create elite standards or rules to contain it is like building sandcastles to hold back the tide. However the class snob in me thinks that when she speaks like that she sounds like a chav.

Which is awful. I truly believe that the word chav is a horrendously prejudiced term; it dehumanises and alienates the socially excluded underclass. But that doesn’t mean I want Amy to be one. My hypocrisy knows no bounds on topics like this. I am a strong believer in state schools, and would never consider paying for private education for my children. Yet when we moved we deliberately chose a middle class area with good schools to live in, therefore indirectly paying for a better quality education via the inflated house price. Steve reports similar dilemmas on his blog.

I don’t know what the answer is. They say a liberal is just a conservative that hasn’t been mugged yet; perhaps there’s some truth to that.

Anyway, here’s a nice picture of Amy and Holly.