Dad here LOLing, LMAOing and ROFLing all at the same time

Saturday, the day my father often calls me. You might know Clive he has appeared on these pages before, mostly being angry about some uncouth customer with a tattoo and an Arsenal shirt wanting to know why they don’t have ketchup or why the sausage roll had chocolate inside it.

‘It’s a pain au chocolat!’

Aside from this my father is a very ambitious, driven and passionate man. But he is also frustrating, completely disorganised and well, a bit mental. He owns something called the Town Mill Bakery; a company which ‘puts fresh bread straight back into the hands of our customers by bringing baking and bakers back to the high street and away from soulless, faceless industrial units and lorries trundling up and down the motorways’.

‘Yeah whatever mate, have you got any sticky buns? No? Well this is too poncy for me; I am off to Gregg’s for a cheese and ham slice and a can of Coke.

Anyhoo, being the pioneering businessman that he is, he knows that he needs to use Internets to get his message out there on how they bake bread in an organic, fair trade, all the ingredients contain real artisan baker’s fingers in type way. And my Dad fucking loves the Internet, he thinks it’s brilliant and by far the most significant invention of the last 50 years. Trouble is he has not got a single fucking clue how to use it.

The best analogy that I could come up with today, is that he is like a 13 year old boy with a hard on, £100 and a date with Kelly Brook. He knows what he wants to happen, so desperately he can visualise it in his head, but has no idea whatsoever on how to get there or where to even start. In short Dad has no strategy. For Dad, strategy is an obstacle not a means for getting from A to B.

Now this can be charming, people say ‘oh he’s a bit out there’, ‘he’s an enfant terrible who lives life by his own rules and consequences’. For me, who has dealt with this for the past thirty odd years, it’s just psychological equivalent of rubbing your knuckles on a cheese grater. Not least when we have our Saturday talk and he asks how Twitter/Facebook/Tumblr works and how he can get one. His logic for asking me is that as a teenager I was able to tune in the telly and therefore am an IT genius and a social media expert – well why not, everyone else seems to be?

Have you ever had to try and teach someone in their sixties how to use a social networking site? Then have you tried it with someone who is as belligerent and impatient as my father? I think only probably bomb disposal in Helmand Province might beat it for stress levels. All the little niggly bits that we are use to doing to get these accounts, like put in your email address (’I don’t know it, I never use it’), some pictures and set a password that you can fucking remember are the norm, but Dad does not see why HE has to. So then asks me to show him, then gets bored and asks me to do it for him, because according to him I am good at this sort of thing and like it.

His timing is impeccable when asking for this advice. I am normally in the middle of a meeting, making dinner or (ahem) otherwise engaged. In other words, doing things that are of personal interest, but these are of no concern as he needs know to how he can register his Oyster card right now. He lives in Dorset but still has to have one. No, me neither. My default response has now become ‘JFGI’, which I had to explain means ‘Just fucking Google it, Dad’. Now, Internet abbreviations that’s the next minefield for us to cross, as not only is Dad dyslexic but he has whole a new language to learn.

To give you an example, when I told Dad I was writing this blog I sent him the title. He responded with:

‘Very funny, when I read that I laughed out loud’

To which I responded

‘You mean you lol’d’

Eight hours later I got another email saying

‘Lol…I just got that!’

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Enjoy while you can ladies, because soon it will all be mine

I have realised that in my cupboard I have a large number of pieces of Tupperware. The thing is, I did not buy a single piece of it. It has all been hoarded from ex-girlfriends. So: some people take money from their partners and rip them off; some keep underwear as trophies; I, however, keep stuff that stops my bread from going stale. I don’t see this as thievery but merely practical and environmentally friendly, because Tupperware’s never something a man sets out to buy – not when he’s single anyway. That’s because lunch normally consists of a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle and two packets of pickled onion Monster Munch.

So how does a guy come to be in possession of, and keep Tupperware? You know how it is: she does a nice thing and makes you lunch and then you go off with the box it came in, saying you’ll clean it and bring it back but you never do. But that also means that’ll be the one and only time that she makes you lunch, as the next time she offers to do it she’ll say that she didn’t have the last bit of Tupperware back, so until then she’s not lending you anymore… But already the deed is done and you have the Tupperware in your cupboard for keeps. And on the whole, I would say that I have come out of the deal quite well.

Because when is there an appropriate time to give the Tupperware back? You don’t just turn up with it if you’ve used it that day and you’re staying at hers, because you will have never, ever, washed it up at work. Who would do such a thing? It’s not even proper Tupperware until at some point in its life it has supported its own ecosystem for at least a week, then you can marvel at the smell you’ve created and then impress her with it.

There is great intellectual profit to be had from comparing the lover to the calibre of Tupperware I managed to snaffle. One particularly good piece comes to mind: made of sturdy thick plastic that is unlikely to buckle under any severe pressure, and can be locked reliably, which meant that it stayed clean on the outside and dirty on the inside – a bit like the girl I got it from.

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Since my new year got off to its stunning start, I have been debating a return, at some point, to the world of internet dating. When I first went on one of these sites I was pleasantly surprised by how the concept worked so well. It got rid of all the trepidation: you know that someone fancies you, you know what they look like (sometimes), and you are meant to be able to deduce whether you actually have something in common.

But revisiting the site (it’s the one where you’re someone’s friend) got me thinking about how annoying some of these profiles can be; and can I be arsed to traipse through all these profiles to find a good one? And there are loads. Initially this is fun, but as someone said to me, then it does feel like you’re perving in some kind of cyber pub, rather than looking for someone you genuinely want to be with. Maybe that’s just me.

One of the most common annoyances with internet dating profiles is that they try to cover all the bases. If I have to read another profile about a person that is equally ‘at home’ going to a pub as they are to a club, going to a festival or chilling at home, bungee jumping or fucking fly fishing, then I’ll scream. If you don’t give us a point of reference, then it’s difficult to start a converstion for fuck’s sake!. Then girls write about what a great friend their girlfriends are, and all the girly things about them they adore.  They say things like: ‘She loves Gok’s Fashion fix and watches it religously every week’ — oh yeah, because we men love that show. Or it’s: ‘She’s such a good listener and you can turn up with a bottle of wine and tell her all your troubles’. Good God! And my personal favourite: ‘If she was a character from Sex in the City …’.  Men absolutely, positively, and without a doubt could not give fuck what character she is from Sex in the City … unless it’s Samantha, of course.

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Oh my good God! Once could have been a mistake, then second was annoying, but the third time is going to make me completely stop going to a clothes shop to get a garment for a lady friend. You see, I asked for full details of a specific item to be written down, she didn’t want to initially, but I insisted because I am right. And now you have all you need, because you’ve prepared this like an SAS strike. This is so there will be no uncomfortable moments of being in a women’s department or shop, looking like an undie sniffer. Confidently, you walk up to the shop assistant with all the relevant details in your text, email or printed-out web page with a picture of the fucking thing on it. You ask her:

“Can I have the so-and-so in this size? Look there, I have even brought along the specific stock code to make sure that this is exactly what she wants.”

She looks at you, smiles and says:

“Yes of course, we have it in stock. But …”

What do you mean “But”? I did everything I could; I have the picture and everything!

“Which colour would you like it in?”

Oh fuck! And the assistant then presents you with every single colour of the spectrum, some of the hues only visible to women. You can’t tell the difference. And don’t even bother to try making the decision because you can visualise the disappointment in her face when you present her with it – as if to say how could you possibly think that this would be my colour, you don’t know me at all!

But all is not lost: thanks to the genius of modern technology you can call and find out what she wants. No fucking hope. It gets worse now. I call and ask her through gritted teeth.

“Hi, I’m here in the shop. What colour did you want that top in?”

“Ooh I don’t know, what have they got and what do you think?”

Fuck, fuck, fuckety, fucking motherfucker! On one occasion this conversation happened to me while I was on the other side of the Atlantic with about ten minutes to get to the airport. Tactfully, but in fact clumsily, you try and get a decision out of her.

“Hon, this really isn’t the time. Which one do you want?”

Well done son. Now you’ve fucked it.

“Look if it’s that much trouble, I’ll go and get it myself on Saturday.”

Arrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!

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Today I heard the most wonderful news, my prayers had been answered and I though that rest of my day would feel like I was sitting in chair made of clouds that was surrounded by kittens to nibble at my feet. That’s right, that Zelda from Terrahawks faced, sycophantic silly bitch that has tortured my weekday mornings, Jo Whiley has been removed from her morning slot on Radio 1. No longer will I have to listen to her get so far up some band’s arse she needs a snorkel, go on and on about how amazing some new tune is and then slag them all off when it’s no longer cool. That’s right fuck off grandma; let someone actually new, exciting and funny be on the BBC’s groovy and happening radio station that the kids all like.

So Auntie who’s the replacement? Some one that represents Britain’s young in the modern digital age? Someone that is down with it, but also eloquent and witty? No. It’s Fearne fucking Cotton. I hate to use this phrase, but talk about from frying pan into the fire. I had the misfortune to have to listen to her all the way home in the car while travelling home from North of England on Sunday. During this journey I was very seriously contemplated asking Miss Rant to rip my ears off and stuff them up my arse so that I would no longer have to her inane drivel. I know that you might suggest that I changed the channel, but that would have meant local radio, and there’s only so many times you can hear someone bleat on about the wheelie bin problem.

Anyhoo, in mild celebration of the Whiley’s demise, here is Lily Allen giving Jo what for in the only way she knows how. I liked Lily before I saw this, and now I love her so much I would happily crawl through a barrel full broken glass just pick the peanuts out of her shit.

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I just needed to get that out, you know, like when you’re really desperate for  a wee. All the way home on the bus, I was thinking you self-righteous cow. I wouldn’t mind if I was a repeat offender, but this was the first (and now only) time that I forgotten to give that shitty token in. Bring back the card operated lockers  we used to have, the ones we liked remember, and none of this would have happened. Anyway I have one of those little pound replacement tokens that you use in supermarket trolleys now. That’ll show her.

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For a man short in stature and even shorter on temper it, always concerned me whether it was a good idea for his health to enter the service industry. My point is vindicated by this rant and his lack of patience with less the observant customers.  If you wish to witness him lose his rag first hand, get yourself along to the Town Mill Bakery. Then all you have to do is ask for marmalade with your toast  (expect some sort of grumbling response about there being no orange groves in Dorset) or the music to be turned down.  Ooh, a personal favourite of mine, ask for ketchup with anything. That really pisses him off.

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You know what’s like, you’ve bought this shiny new piece of kit, that does all the things you think it should, or have you been told that it does. And for the money you’ve paid you would it expect it to. When a problem arises you’re surprised, perturbed and once again, given the money you’ve paid, would expect a certain level of helpful after sales service. But no, you’re confronted with Simpsons’ Comic Book Guy levels of smart arsery about the lack of knowledge you displayed when first purchasing.

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