realrusswrites

[realrusswrites]

Mother’s Day Drawings

With Mother’s Day approaching, many children celebrate the occasion by drawing pictures of their mums.

As a child, I did likewise. The hair colour rules were simple. You’d use a black crayon if your mum had black hair. Brown crayon for brown hair, orange crayon for ginger and bright yellow crayon for blonde. You’d use a green crayon if your mum were a punk or alien and a pink crayon if your mum dyed her hair with food colouring or vanilla essence.

You’d draw a u-shaped mouth if she were happy, a n-shaped mouth if she were unhappy and a simple hyphen if she were just plain bored.

All mums were drawn wearing triangular dresses in bright vibrant garish purple and orange colours because it was an era where mums liked to dress to match their wallpaper, sofas, and curtains.

Whilst some women wore jeans or trousers, to draw a long-haired woman in trousers would just make people think your mum was Queen guitarist, Brian May.

No matter what shape or size the woman was, no child ever drew a fat mum. If anything, all mums were drawn as painfully anorexic.

It was compulsory to draw your mum with arms of different lengths and normally one more muscular than the other, depending on which arm they used for housework.

Many mums’ hands were drawn with either matchstick fingers, resembling snowman twigs or big oversized round hands because children would only see their mums wearing oven or boxing gloves.

To save their children drawing knees, mums were genetically engineered not to have any and no child knew how to draw feet, so mums were always depicted wearing Ugg Boots long before they’d been invented.

If honest, if any mum actually resembled their child’s drawing, the kids would just stay in school and refuse to go home because their mums looked bloody scary.

However your children have depicted you. If you find yourself with green hair, a muscular longer arm, knee-less and wearing a triangular dress and Ugg boots, know that depiction is coming from a genuine loving place as you stick it on your fridge door and pray for them to grow up and turn into Banksy.

[realrusswrites]

The Masked Singer

I’ve recently been spending my Saturday nights watching The Masked Singer

.In the first series, the audience got removed after shouting “Take it off!” and left the studio without knowing the singer’s identity to save any social media spoiler alerts.

What a terribly wasted night out that would be.

Only some crew and family and friends remained and it was cleverly edited to look otherwise.

But it still leaves many other questions unanswered…

Why is there a panel?

Why is Rita Ora there when she could be out at illegal birthday parties?

Why is Davina McColl getting more and more naked every week?

Why can't we just play along at home without their ridiculous guessing suggestions?

Why would they say it's The Pope?

Why would The Pope be dressed as a pineapple, walking along Clacton Pier giving out obscure clues to his identity?

Surely, he's learnt not to do mindless TV since his appearance on Bargain Hunt?

Why am I now wondering as a Catholic how many Hail Mary's I now have to say for saying that?

Why am I wondering which costume I would choose and thinking "toilet"?

Why can I not get undressed these days without shouting "take it off" to myself?

Why am I equally disappointed when I see the final reveal?

With this in mind, why do I feel that if I appeared on Naked Attraction, I'd look and fare better if they kept all the shutters down and didn't reveal me at all?

Why do I care so much?

When did my life get up and walk out the door of its own accord and leave me like this?

Maybe I just watch because I like to celebrate how far celebrities’ careers have fallen. It's a very British thing to bask in other people's perceived failure. 

Like many, ironically thinking about and applauding how rubbish other people's lives have become to make ourselves feel better about our own lives whilst sadly devouring crisps on the sofa on a Saturday night.

[realrusswrites]

Dying For Love

With another full lockdown in Britain, traditional dating has gone by the wayside as the 2-metre distance rule makes it impossible to date naturally.

Being ridiculously single again, I know I don’t want to go on a date in a freezing cold January/February, whilst sitting at opposite ends of a park bench, wrapped up in duvet coats and eating sausage rolls from Greggs like 2 homeless people.

I definitely don't want to shout the personal details of how someone with my intelligence, dazzling charm, wit and slight modesty issues, got to be on a dating site, nor my hobbies and interests and life plan through a mask.

I don't want to wear a surgical mask on a date.

Some people don't mind a bit of doctors and nurses role play. But the thought of one person feigning a broken arm whilst the other loosens their clothing and pretends to perform outdoor surgery with a wooden fork from the chippy like a passing improvising paramedic isn’t as appealing.

I don't want a romantic walk with someone 2 metres apart like she’s the mum and I'm her toddler, dawdling behind her.

Technically, you can spread out and hold hands but people will just swear at you because they'd have to step into road traffic to walk around you or leapfrog you.

What can you do romantically 2 metres apart?

You can't even go to a park and play ball games or frisbee or push your partner on the swings, go on a picnic or feed the ducks without needing a gallon of hand sanitiser.

We’re barred from all pubs, clubs, gigs, shows, cinemas, museums, and sporting events and visiting cafes and restaurants are off the menu.

Roll on springtime and I'll revisit the idea of traditional dating but I know my luck.

I'll probably go on one date, kiss someone goodbye on their doorstep, catch Covid and die whilst listening to Alanis Morissette’s ‘Ironic’ in the ambulance.

Hopefully, I’ll keep you updated.

[realrusswrites]

No Thank You

I get mildly irritated by people who don't say “Thank You” when you let them through. I do seem to spend an awful lot of time standing sideways on the pavement or walking behind street furniture to allow other people to pass.

(Yeah, Russ, that's borne from your childhood insecurities, your constant need of acceptance from others and willingness to please other people at all times at the expense of yourself... Or it's your strict catholic upbringing that makes you unnaturally kind to other people... Or... You just hate bumping into people and landing flat on your arse on the pavement...?)

Whatever, the reason, it really hacks me off. I always thought that “with age comes tolerance” but I just seem to be getting grumpier. But the nearest I've come to confrontation with these people so far is to just roll my eyes and mouth “FFS” (Obviously, not the letters FFS, - that would be weird) once they've passed and can't lip-read me.

It's worse when you let one person through and suddenly a flash mob appears and bustles past you without any acknowledgement of your kindness.

I’m pretty tempted next time to say: “A thank you would be nice!” But I will check on the size of the person first for self-preservation purposes, obviously. So, it will probably be a deaf one-legged gran, then?

Wot? "I'm a lover not a fighter" (Michael Jackson – “The Girl Is Mine”) which is a mantra I've used so many times - normally after someone's clumped me around the head.

Which is good because they stop and say “Hey, isn't that a Michael Jackson song?” And whilst they're thinking of which one it is, I make my escape.

I’m tired of always being the one to move out of the way. At 6ft tall and 13st, I’m quite difficult not to see. I don’t wear a cloak of invisibility.

But even with Covid 19 social distancing measures, people still seem to think that they can walk through me, like I’m made from clouds or will just vaporise on impact.

Really, they should go to Specsavers, where naturally, I’ll be holding the door open for them. 

[realrusswrites]

Tanning Salons

My High Street is about to get a new Tanning Salon in a prime location - the corner of the High Street and the first shop you see when arriving from the train station and between McDonald's and Wetherspoons.

It's also a premises where the past half dozen businesses have failed in and lasted 6 months because my town doesn't do niche. It's not Brighton or Hastings.

Anywayze, here's the thing...

I will assume for observational comedy sake that it will open between 9-5.The people who, for whatever reason are not working between those times could find the opportunity if they so wish, to go outside, maybe walk around a bit or go outside and sunbathe if they want to and, I'm guessing, if they do this often enough, they'll, by design or accident, get a tan and for free.

So why would you pay for (a) a fake tan where, and listen carefully to what is wrong with this sentence, “some stranger asks you to remove your clothes and paint you with a spray gun” (you can't even find that stuff on YouPorn). At worst, you look like you've been paint-balled with faeces.

Or (b) You lie on a sunbed (no thanks, not after the watching the scene from Final Destination 3) and come out looking like you've lost the fight with a Marmite jar.

And years later, after using sunbeds, no one thinks you're remotely attractive as your skin is the same colour and has the same properties as a shrivelled onion. Everyone regrets it.

The people who ironically could benefit from a tan (and we've established no one benefits from a sunbed tan), are workers who ironically cannot go because they work the same hours as the tanning salon is open. Which is why, whenever you walk past a tanning shop, all you can see are inactive bored receptionists listening to iPods.

Possibly because seeing people painted or cooked isn't a spectator sport, although in lock down, I've been known to watch anything.

I give the shop six months before becomes a shop where you can swap old comics.

[realrusswrites]

The Non-Essential Column

The government recently re-introduced the re-opening of non-essential shops. Yeah, because the one thing this country has been missing is a “non-essential” shop.

Oh, but apparently they have, as swarms of people crowded into Sports Direct because the one thing they decided en masse that they wanted, having spent the past 3 months in lockdown where they haven’t walked or ran anywhere, was a new pair of trainers.

Similarly, people flocked to Primark to buy non-essential outfits for all those nights out and social gatherings that they won’t be having anytime soon.

I needed to buy a couple of birthday cards and, whilst I could easily have argued they were non-essential, I’m not sure the intended recipients would have felt the same and argued strongly that they were

.Imagine my disappointment when I discovered that my local Card Factory was still closed. Maybe they had collapsed? Maybe it had folded?

Whatever, you’d think they could easily have let us know by putting a card in the window?

Given the many times that I have been unable to safely social distance in that shop – even when alone – I will assume they were still working out how to open safely.

Many people flocked to hardware stores but one of the advantages of being a single guy living on his own during the lockdown isn’t that I don’t have d.i.y and decorating to do, it’s that I haven’t got anyone telling me that it needs doing this minute.

Sure, I have paint, but providing I use it before it turns into a hideous oily, gloopy mess, through years of stagnation, I’m not unduly bothered about using it anytime soon.

My flat is filled of non-essential items. I have a drawer filled with kettle leads in case one day I go to a shop, buy a kettle and say: “I have a lead. Can I just have the kettle and maybe a discount?”

And I have 36 tea-light candles for when I decide to open my own church or have a romantic night in with myself.

And, with no pubs or restaurants opening until next weekend, I’ve booked myself in for such a night on Thursday. Not that it was essential. 

[realrusswrites]

War Songs

I really hate the thought of getting old. Whenever I see news footage of the elderly in old people's homes having a sing song, it's always bloody war songs. Chelsea Pensioners yesterday singing “Well meet again” again. Surely, by now the generation of people wanting these songs have died off? My dad was 90. He wasn't a big fan of war songs. He preferred Elvis and early rock 'n' roll, Sinatra, the crooners, some country/western and more contemporary 50's and 60's stuff. Surely old people are of an age now where they prefer that too? Stop reminding them of the miserable war. Give them something to smile about. No wonder old people are miserable. Wouldn’t you be after getting falsely promised that you’ll have a fun night in the communal lounge and then being fed Battenburg Cake and forced to listen to “The White Cliffs Of Dover.”? If you’ve ever been there, you’ll know it’s not a great location to sing about and explains why the follow up “Hoorah For Dymchurch” was pulled. I know there was a war on, there was rationing and that's why they only had two singers and only four songs to listen to for six years but that's no excuse. Also, they'll more likely be healthier as they'll be up and moving about, dancing to Elvis (until they dislocate their hips), instead of listening to Gracie Fields dirges in their Dumbo floppy eared chairs and hitting balloons with sticks. I've seen the future. It's not pretty. How long is this gonna last? Will our generation have to put up with this? If I go in a home (possibly next week) and they start playing bloody war songs at me instead of uplifting Morrissey I'm having a good ruckus. If I'm dying, I'm not having family around the bed singing “We'll meet again,” or “Good-Bye-ee” because I'm not having morbid sarcasm. They can piss off. Put on some Bunnymen, Suede, Vaccines or Killers or any Britpop and I'll be fine. Just putting it out there. End of rant. “Tablets, nurse...”

[realrusswrites]

Stupid Local News

With The Coronavirus dominating all the international news headlines, I was surprised and intrigued to see today that the front-page story of my local newspaper reported a plane crash. However, the story is about a model aeroplane that crashed into a lady's garden and can definitely be filed under the title of “Stupid Local News”. Now, no one was injured and there were no fatalities. In fact, the nearest anything got to being injured was the pet dog who, just twenty minutes before, had his picture taken sunbathing in the very same spot the plane crashed into. (True). Strangely, as is the norm in local news, there is no picture of him pointing to the crash spot but maybe he was too embarrassed by the publicity? But hey, it didn’t stop relatives and neighbours saying that “someone could've been killed”. Now, I'm not sure what the mortality rate is for being hit on the head by a model aeroplane but I'm guessing it's pretty low, if indeed, any stats exist at all? It did slightly bend a washing line en route to landing which begs the question, how rubbish was that washing line? Apparently, the person responsible for his aircraft losing power and crashing is mortified by it all and is inconsolable and in hiding. All the lady has to do now is sweep up a bit of mess from her garden whilst tutting the words “bloody stupid men, eh?” No one from the Aviation Authority is coming out to look for the Black Box Flight Recorder. Somehow my local paper has ran two pages on this like it was on a par with The Twin Towers Attack of 911. And to think I used to work for this newspaper group. Frankly, I’m a bit embarrassed. I could never write such crap... Obviously. Now I’m just wondering what next week’s headline will be… “Boy Kicks Football Over Neighbour’s Fence”. “Two Inches Nearer My Head And I Could’ve Died!” Said Ted, 49. Seriously…?

[realrusswrites]

The Brady Bunch

During the lock-down, with my lad grown up and living away, I haven’t had to deal with entertaining the kids, so I can’t imagine what it would be like for families like The Brady Bunch. For those who don't remember The Brady Bunch, here is what it was about according to the TV theme song... With some extra details... #Here's the story of a lovely lady# (Be honest, she may be “lovely” but she often heard voices in her head). #Who was bringing up 3 very lovely girls.# (a: Over-use of the word “lovely” - Lazy song-writing and b: Don't feel too sorry for her, she was claiming CSA). #All of them had hair of gold# (Weird. Bet The kids from The Village Of The Damned laughed at them?) #Like their mother’s.# (Probably a hair-dye from Poundland accident). #The youngest one in curls.# (Technically, more like ringlets). #Here's the story of a man named Brady.# (Brady Brady? Hate lazy parents who cannot think of anything to name their kids. There was no way I was gonna call my lad Connor O'Connor because it would sound like he had a bad cough). #Who was busy with 3 boys of his own# (He was a Catholic Priest). #They were 4 men living all together, yet they were all alone.# (Technically, they were involved in a Housing Benefit scam, claiming 4 Housing Benefits for one property). #Until one day when this lady met this fellow.# (“Fellow” Victorian term for Chappie). #And she knew that it was much more than a hunch.# (Until then, he had carefully concealed his back problem with his full-face profile picture on Tinder). #That this group must somehow form a family# (“Somehow”? Marriage, perhaps?) #And that's the way they all became The Brady Bunch.# And they all lived happily ever after, terrorising the council estates. Every day, scared neighbours would peer out from behind net curtains and say: “There goes The Brady Bunch.” So now you know. Don't say I don't teach you anything. Yep, my solitary lock-down is going very well, thanks.

[realrusswrites]

I’ve Never Known Anything Like It

I’m getting irritated by people who say, in relation to the Coronavirus, “I've never known anything like it.” Every time I've reluctantly gone out, people who are supposed to be social distancing, have said that to me. Of course you haven't known anything like it, unless you remember the Spanish Flu Epidemic of 1918? None of us have known anything like it. That is why it is helpfully called “a time of uncertainty.” And do you know what I've never known anything like? So many bloody idiots saying: “I've never known anything like this” and I've known people who witnessed the trial of O.J. Simpson and watched Torvill and Dean’s Bolero at the 1984 Winter Olympics and saw QPR beat Manchester United at Old Trafford 4-1 on a New Year’s Day. What exactly haven’t they known? The weird smell of unpolluted fresh air? The ghost town like, deserted, desolate, tumbleweed strewn high streets? Then they clearly haven’t visited Sheppey on a Sunday. Maybe they’re used to a hairdressers mysteriously opening every week and didn’t expect them all to close simultaneously? Maybe they haven’t witnessed people being told by a policeman to “go home and stay there”, when they’re not even drunk? Or maybe they haven’t seen caution tape stuck to the pavements outside the entrances of supermarkets that are supposed to represent two metres of distancing but in, reality, have been measured by an old guy called Ken with no idea of the metric system of measuring and thinks it’s about 4ft-ish? Maybe they’re astounded by the number of bookcases, mantelpieces or fireplaces people self-isolating on TV seem to have in their homes as they haven’t seen a coal-man for decades and are wondering if they are burning the books for warmth? Can they just shut up. I'll just take it as a “given” that you haven't known anything like it, unless you're around 108 and a Spanish Flu survivor. Now, move along before I have you arrested for making an “unnecessary journey” into my bloody face! Grrrrr!

[realrusswrites]

10 New Iceland Coronavirus Shopping Rules

(1) Stand outside on the pavement in a queue 6ft behind each other. Great exercise as you'll find yourself 3 miles away and in the next town.

(2) Operating a slow one in, one out policy, you'll get called inside eventually, so take a sleeping bag.

(3) Baskets are placed just inside the door, presumably because thieves would nick them if they were left outside and sell them for scrap metal?

(4) Once inside, you are only allowed to walk forward in the first aisle, so make sure you carefully choose what you want as you pass because you won't be allowed to come back down it. One woman tried it because she'd overlooked the diet coke and she got taken away in handcuffs. Well, she got told off by the security guard for almost causing a major security incident.

(5) Resist having a distance panic attack when the guy ahead of you suddenly reverses his trolley towards you to pick up a pizza.

(6) When waiting at the till, stand 6ft behind the person with 3 trolleys. (There's a war on, y' know?) And only move forward to the red square to unload your shopping when that person is packing at the far end of the till.

(7) For the length of the till there is a no waiting/standing zigzag exclusion zone to protect the cashier. Only when the customer in front has packed and left, will you be ushered forward and then you must move right through to the end, not stand in front of the cashier and pack at a safe distance.

(8) Ensure on leaving that you have bants with the door security guy, saying something like, “my partner only sent me out because she knows I'm expendable.”

(9) Return home and shoot yourself for going out after telling everyone the previous day that you definitely, definitely wouldn't.

(10) Don't be me. Stay safe. And now, I'm now officially done shopping for a month… I hope!

[realrusswrites]

Bedtime Story

When I entered the bed shop I wasn’t expecting to see a showroom the size of a football pitch with nicely made up beds along the walls. I felt like I had walked into a very posh 1960’s empty hospital ward. Using a telescope, I could just make out the figure of a female sales assistant walking towards me. I explained what I had seen online and wanted. The exact headboard, the firmness of the mattress and the type of base – I decided a sliding door divan would be easier for me to hide away from the world than contorting myself into 4 drawers. She then asked if I’d like to try the mattress and walked me over to a bed where two other female assistants were standing. I now had some embarrassing decisions to make. How comfortable should I get? Should I take off my quilted jacket or leave it on for realism? Should I take off my shoes? Should I change into my pyjamas and set an alarm clock? The reality is, it’s very difficult for a guy to get comfortable on a mattress in a showroom when he is being watched by 3 women or anyone. Should I appropriately behave like a dog and lie down, sit up and roll over? Was I supposed to stand on the bed and jump up and down like on a trampoline and do body tucks and star jumps? Maybe I could test all the mattresses in one go and bounce around like Tigger, leaping from one bed to another? What is the protocol here? Having seen how many beds and mattresses there were in the showroom and fearing that I may get asked to try them all in some kind of nightmare version of Goldilocks, I just sat on the bed and gently rocked and patted the mattress and said: “Yes, that’s fine.”

[realrusswrites]

The Coronavirus

I’m no Super forecaster (although I fit the description of “social misfit and weirdo”), and despite what the Health Secretary says or doesn't say for fear of causing mass hysteria, I predict with the oncoming Coronavirus that by late March, we'll see British people panic buying in supermarkets, raiding their shelves for groceries, stocking up on medical supplies, calling 111 and self-isolating. The advice currently includes “wash your hands at every opportunity” because “Use Carex, it could save your life!” is deemed unnecessary scaremongering. I suspect when the first British person dies (because we're not very empathetic to foreign tragedy “it's over there, it doesn't matter”), we will suddenly go into a frenzied, panic stricken meltdown and their poor relatives will be interviewed by Philip Schofield and Holly Willoughby on This Morning via Skype wearing cheap masks from Homebase. We’re already closing schools and workplaces, it’s only a matter of time. It’ll be like 28 Days Later on the streets and then, like in any rubbish apocalyptic Sci fi, film, when you think it’s the end of civilisation forever and that all hope has gone... The Sun will come out and kill the virus stone dead. Normally rain stops all alien invasion but it's the same principle. Then we’ll talk about it for years, like it resembled the great 1919 Spanish flu pandemic that killed millions - because God seemingly loves a global purge every 100 years? In the meantime, my friends, best run into Curry’s now and buy yourself a chest freezer for extra food or to hibernate in until summer - because preserving yourself cryogenically is recommended for our species survival. That’s my advice and you can thank me later. Take care out there. “It’s in the trees, it’s coming!” as said in The Night of the Demon and The Hounds Of Love by Kate Bush. We should all be preparing now. I’ve just bought 79 loaves of bread.

[realrusswrites]

Shocking Award Ceremonies

The Brit Awards are not aimed at my age demographic. Luckily, TV executives commissioned “Walking With Dinosaurs” to cater for my need to see and relive my childhood. But I watch the awards anyway solely in the hope that something unexpected happens – like when Jarvis Cocker upstaged Michael Jackson or Madonna tumbled off stage with a wardrobe malfunction. These were things you had to witness for those next day “water cooler moments”. Today, most things that were once considered shocking at music award ceremonies have become the norm. Someone in an outlandish outfit (obvious), someone trashing their drum kit (yawn), someone swearing (standard), someone using their music to make a political point (fair enough). So now, the most shocking thing is that very few winners seem to know how to deliver a thank you acceptance speech as they seem either overcome with emotion or copious amounts of free alcohol that turns them into bumbling, gibbering wrecks. How difficult is it to say thank you to those who voted for you, your family and friends and your management team who made your success possible without going completely off script and embarrassing yourself? Surely, you owe these people those 45 seconds? Surely, if you know in advance that you are up for an award, you will at least have something measured and coherent prepared in advance in case you win. And it must be easier to write a short thank you speech than an acclaimed song. As a teenager, I once won an annual school award for “The Best Achievement In Work.” Collecting my trophy from my English teacher, I was overcome with shock and crying with emotion. In my defence, that was simply because I genuinely didn’t know such an award existed because I never paid attention in end of the year award assemblies, probably because I was sat at the back still studiously copying all the work of my classmates?

[realrusswrites]

Fatal Attraction

After 11 years, spawning 8 marriages and 6 babies, ITV announced their Saturday night dating show, Take Me Out is being cancelled. With viewing figures dropping, youngsters decided they didn’t “likey” it anymore and preferred spending Saturday evenings in the aisle of Nando’s than on the Isle of Fernandos. Other Saturday night dating shows have also fallen by the wayside. There was a revamped Mr & Mrs show, where couples had to answer 3 random multiple-choice questions each about their partner and if their answers corresponded, they’d win a cash prize. The questions would be ridiculously easy, like: “Which of these things did your husband say he preferred doing at weekends? (1) Fishing with his mates, (2) shopping with you or (3) getting run over by trucks?” But still women got them wrong by ridiculously choosing the answer 2 when it was clearly answer 1. Blind Date was extremely popular during my youth. It was the programme everyone watched on Saturday nights whilst preparing to go out for the evening whilst hoping that none of the poorly dressed, desperate, egotistical contestants lived anywhere nearby. My nearest real-life experience of blind dating was when I went “speed dating” and found everyone high on crystal meth. They’d clearly misinterpreted the poster. Undeterred, my 2nd genuine speed-dating attempt was also very strange. It was like a small game of musical chairs where you had just 3 minutes to “interrogate” the person opposite before moving onto the next one. Imagine my dismay when every woman asked me if I owned my own home, did I have a good job, what was my salary and did I drive? Now, admittedly, they all have a relevance when assessing a potential partner but I was hoping that whether I was kind, caring, honest and loyal were more immediately important than being financially stable. And only appearing on dating show Naked Attraction would’ve been more of an eye-opener.

[realrusswrites]

Bubs In Pubs

There are many things adults shouldn’t do whilst under the influence of alcohol. Operate heavy machinery, drive cars, embarrassingly post on social media or cowardly dump their partners by text. Following some unruly behaviour (I’m guessing crayoning “devil” on their children’s foreheads whilst they slept, not shaving off their eyebrows), the Wetherspoons pub in Gravesend recently displayed a poster informing customers of their national enforceable guidelines not to serve adults more than 2 alcoholic drinks if they have accompanying children. Aimed at protecting kids from harm, the rule says adults can only be served a second alcoholic drink if they have a sit-down meal. Obviously, this policy will horribly backfire if the children start a food fight. After the 2nd drink, the staff would legally refuse to serve alcohol to the customers because being drunk in charge of a child under 7 years old in a public place is illegal according to the 1902 licencing act. Anyone found guilty can be fined or sent to prison for a month, where, ironically, some parents would probably appreciate the peace. But whilst the pub ruling reprimands the adults for not looking after their kids properly, the guideline is actually there to stop the children from being unruly by running around the pub unsupervised or bumping into tray carrying staff and unsteady customers. If anything, they should display posters on every table saying: “Children behave and stop embarrassing your parents, this isn’t a playground. Sit down, keep quiet, eat your food and leave your parents to relax, drink and play Bubble Breaker and check football scores on their phones. It’s what they’ve really come out for.” Some adults, like my late dad, would bar children completely from pubs. He strangely relented when I turned 18 and could legally buy him a pint. Whilst others suggest providing on-site softball play areas for the children, so beautifully giving the drunken adults somewhere nice to be with their kids and somewhere comfortable to sleep off their hangovers.

[realrusswrites]

Paint Traumatic Stress Disorder (Part One)

With the new decade starting, I decided to freshen up my flat by painting 7 door frames, 2 doors and the skirting boards in the hallway and bathroom to cheer myself up. In the words of Liam Neeson in Taken, “I have a particular set of skills – unfortunately painting isn’t one of them,” so I decided to watch 5 YouTube videos on “how to paint a door.” I know, it’s a door, it’s paint and a brush. How difficult can this be? In the hardware shop, I discovered a paint roller with a built in continuous pump to give an even finish and stop you from “re-loading” the roller and a paint spraying gun that supposedly got the job done more quickly but you had to dress like Michael Myers – from Halloween, not Austin Powers – in overalls and an ice hockey mask to use. Both seemed ideal and surely, only hiring a professional to do the job for me would’ve been a better option but no, as far as I was concerned, those guys in the YouTube videos had their doors painted within minutes with a standard brush, roller and drip-tray and those were my weapons of choice. I also bought enough masking tape and plastic dust sheets to leave the shop assistant wondering if I was decorating or if I had committed a mass murder and was hiding all the bodies? Once home, I laboriously taped, dust sheeted and prepped. At which point I discovered that my lounge and kitchen doors have small windows above them. Windows that serve no valuable purpose whatsoever as they don’t open and you have to be 7ft 6” to see through them. The sole reason for their being there is to make painting the door frames even harder as you have to tape over the glass. Unfortunately, I found that within 5 minutes of undercoating the first door I was incredibly bored and wondering what the hell I had undertaken? Next week: What happened next…?