Virtual reality

'Don't believe what you read in the press' is something that is often said, but I suspect taken with a pinch of salt. And I guess I should be in a better place than most to judge...given my long and less than illustrous career as a PR, often quoted as saying, 'Never let the facts get in the way of a good story'.

The boy should be more cynical than most...his mother was much revered as a supreme example of the art of the PR. But like all young poeple, no matter how street wise he is innocent and therefore slightly gullible. That, however, seems to have changed in a revelatory flash akin to discovering that Father Christmas doesn't really exist (I still live in hope personally).

A couple of years ago, we had our bathroom completely revamped. Though small, it has turned out quite spectacular...a combination of my design awarenes and a builder who was good at guiding me...see www.tsarine.co.uk. At the time she said that my washroom would be photographed for Homes and Gardens magazine...but nothing much happened after the photographer came and went. Until a week ago, when ex-girlfriend rang to say she was looking at House Beautiful where there was a double page spread of my bathroom. Now apparently owned, designed and loved by Sue The Builder. Much chagrin on my part. On his return to the family nest, the boy was shown said article and his outrage was somewhat escalated from my own. I think if IPC (the publisher) had been close, a brick through the window would have been the order of the day. So there we have it. Nothing in the papers is true. The world is a tissue of lies. Hopefully the boy will recover to this devastating leap into the adult world of unreality.

Surf's up

When The Boy's away, it's a good time for him to have a break from me and vice versa...or so the teacher said to all the parents when they disappeared off to Zermatt earlier this year. None the less, the house always seems a little empty and motivation to do anything domestic goes out the window. I do resist the temptation to call to see how he's getting on...but the wicked witch of the west always insists that he rings me. Usually, as it's under duress, the conversations are short and uninformative...and end with me encouraging him not to worry about calling me if he doesn't need/want to. So it's been a surprise that calls this week have been full of excitable news about his latest holiday ventures. Yesterday, he learnt to surf and is insistent that he needs to buy a surf board....fortunately as the waves in Brighton don't lend themselves to this particualr sport, then it should be an argument easily won. Or will it?

Statistically sound

I'm taking advantage of the boy's absence to get a lie-in (he has an uncanny ability to rise early, which doesn't seem natural for a teenager) and the good weather to cycle the twelve miles into the office. I've got a fantastic gadget that tells me all sorts of things including the fact that essentially, I cycle downhill to the office and uphill to get home in the evening. I suspect I would be happier if it was the other way round. My travelling experiences lead me to the following conclusions:

1. As a car driver I do an emergency stop no more than once a year. As a Vespa scooter rider, it's once a month. And as a cyclist it's once a day.

2. Cyclists are a menace. They have no regard for the rules of the road, consideration for other road users...or even for themselves. I came to this conclusion any moons ago, but am pleased that even as a cyclist my conclusion is still right. I should point out that I do stop at traffic lights.

3. Cars are usually pretty law-abiding...but Vauxhall Astras and Audi A3s are invariably driven badly and should be avoided like the plague. I have a much longer list of dangerous road users, but as it is not in any way PC, it will have to remain in my head.

4. Vans are driven faster than they should be, and always come much closer to my shoulders than I would like; Buses are the worst at pulling out in front of you...or worse still when you're three-quarters along the side forcing you to stop mid-road or swerve into the on-coming traffic; lorries are fine...but never cycle up the inside as they have a habit of turning left with the likely outcome of squashing you into jam

5. Exercise may make your body ache, but makes you feel mentally alive, colours become more vivid and shapes sharper

There are no Daleks

The Boy has gone off to spend sometime with Grandma in Wales (as opposed to Grandma in Cyprus). It's become an annual ritual, providing me with something of a break...and indeed him too. We were up early on Saturday to ensure we had time to stop off at the designer discount outlet in Swindon...I'm not much of a fan, but it has given us two pairs of Quicksilver trainers for a grand total of £18 in the past, so I'm not one to turn my nose up at it. Unfortunately, declining to purchase a pair of jeans that he would have grown out of in a fortnight induced a sulk meaning there were no trainers deemed worthy. I, on the other hand, managed three shirts and a pair of shorts for 30 hard earned quids.

At the outlaws (a phrase coined by the boy's mum...my own phrase for the grandmother is 'Wicked Witch of the West' in honour of his mum's love of Wizard of Oz) there was only one embarassing moment. Somehow over lunch the topic of the boy leaving home came up...the boy asserted that I had said he was being thrown out when he hits 18...my defence that I hadn't said that, it was just that I couldn't see why anyone would want to stay at home when they grow up was met by a stony silence...particularly from the 51 year old uncle who still lives with his mother, The Wicked Witch. We moved on.

I left to go and visit Hereford friends, and a joyous paddle down the River Wye. Very much to be enjoyed, and for once I didn't fall in. Commenting on the scenery, one of our party stated quite clearly, 'Look there's a Dalek'. Two of us heard it quite distinctly. Her defence that she had in fact said, 'Oh smell the wild garlic' was dismissed, and we spent the rest of the day looking for Daleks.

Long Way up

About four years ago, the boy and I settled down to watch something called The Long Way Round...which featured Ewan MacGregor and Charlie Boorman riding round the world on motorbikes...I think we were faintly confused with The Motorcycle Diaries which featured a young Ernesto Guevara metamophise into 'Che' whilst travelling across South America on a mtorobike. As it turns out both are worth watching...several times. The Long Way Round has had a profound impact on both of us...Fred has become desperately interested in motorbikes (boo, hiss - I hope it's a passing phase. I've told him several times that he's not alllowed one until he's thirty-five, his initial acceptance is now being negotiated downwards and I wonder when he'll realise that at some stage he'll be given the metaphorical key to the house and I'll have little say, though plenty of sagely advice), and I now long on a daily basis for the time when I'll be able to stop the daily grind and do my own Long Way Round. Target date is the day the boy leaves school and packs his bags for university.

The follow up to The Long Way Round was The Long Way Down..and this weekend we had our own version....dubbed The Long Way Up By mountain bike from the coast to forest...depending on how you measured the map, some 100-120km. We left sharply at 7.00 am on Saturday, having spent Friday on pre-expeditionary preparations. Finding a route had to say the least been challenging - so a note to Sustrans - please put detailed National Cycle Routes on your web site. An hour out of Brighton, and early fatigue had set in - we both needed a break, and vivid memories of an earlier failed solo trip came flooding back...I guess the land must be slightly inclined and it was an effort and a half. Overcoming this, we had many enjoyable sights on the way...being overtaken by six ice cream vans was a curious joy, and led to rousing cheers from the both of us...plenty of vintage vehicles on the way to the Ardingly vintage car, van, truck, bus rally...a steam-engine fair at Tandridge and not far off that a monstrous climb up to the North Downs with stunning views over Sussex and I guess Surrey.

Taking a novice 13 year old through the middle of central London on a cycle may have been brave or fooloish...there's always a fine line I think, but we made it without incident. Our pace was quickened as we went past key markers - Croydon Town Hall (?!!), the first congestion charge sign, forst site of the Gerkhin, Borough High St, Tower Bridge, the first green space after the smoke, school and then home. 10 hours door to door...not fast, but more than good enough. Our success was exhilarating beyond belief...for the boy a fantastic achievement and the high ensured that our aches and pains quickly passed.

Young friends

Two or three years ago, a client started talking about something called Facebook...it was going to be really big in the very near future. I did as I should and duly signed up, whilst thinking this was nothing more than a dating website. My account laid dormant for a very long time until it became apparent that most everyone I now is on Facebook...and has upwards of a hundred friends. Making me Nicki no mates with a grand total of six. Of course, social networking sites have indeed become the next CB radio, eight track player and micro-scooter rolled into one. I've now added a few more friends and am pleased to have reached a respectable thirty plus. Deciding what to allow your offspring to do on the web is tricky (see previous posts), but I didn't feel that Facebook should be excluded. Naturally the boy's quickly gained several hundred (slight exageration) friends and has added so many applications that he knows his genetic strengths, what kind of superhero he is, what breed of dog he is, and more worryingly he knows how horny he is and what kind of sexy friends he has. But in general he has stuck to the straight and narrow. And hopefully the unfamilar birth date is a deterrent for prowlers. Today I had a friend request...a name I didn't recognise, so clicked the link. An unknown 13 or 14 year old girl looking for 'dating'. She's a friend of a friend's daughter...so let's hope that it's a windup, rather than a naive and precocious girl passing her contact details around until the next pervert finds her....Daily Mail readers should have a field day.

...and whilst we're on the perv trail, greetings to the person who came to the blog whilst searching for 'boys, porn, men'. It keeps my fatherly protective responses fine tuned...but don't let me catch you down a dark alley.

For the high jump

Friday was Vis day (Viz Day? Do the fat slags come along to seduce innocent young public school boys...not sure)....in normal parlance this is Prize Day...dutifully I avoided the two-hour long ceremony (well the boy wasn't getting a prize, and I've had enough of chearing everyone else's offspring on) but attended the Chapel where the boy was performing in Latin. Oddly though, he was narrating so I didn't understand why he'd been practising his Latin. It was uproariously funny...everyone laughed their heads off, but I suspect that's because we were told to rather than because we could pluck our rusty Latin out of the deep sewers of memory. Play over, the teacher thanks us for coming along, so I wandered off to the Headmaster's garden (evidently 'headmistress' has gone the way of 'actress'...slaughtered on the alter of political correctness) to grab tea and a bun amongst the other parents. At home, the boy complained that I hadn't seen the Latin play...my defence that I had done and had photos to prove it was somewhat undermined by him pointing out that I'd seen the first play, but he'd been in the second play AND HE'D TOLD ME THAT. Apologies mean nothing when the need for imposing guilt was paramount.

Revenge, sweet revenge came all too soon. Sunday was Old Boys day...and amongst the many opportunities was the chance to leap over the high jump bar. I looked at it, and as it was so low I though I could just about step over it. A dozen tries and one bloodied elbow later I had to admit defeat...still mystified that my mind and body were clearly in two separate worlds. The boy was collapsed on the floor unable to stop the hysterical laughter. One day, one day he'll suffer the same humiliation....!

Life's pants

Somehow the boy has run out of pants...he's always had a mountain of them, but just suddenly unless I wash on a daily basis (and even in our sexy shiny black steam-powered machine I hate washing) he doesn't seem to have any. I've tried to make the point that stashing his pants behind the bathroom door is not helping, but even the threat that I'm not doing any washing until clothes that need washing are in the washing bin hasn't brought any joy. I have a feeling that there are twenty pairs hidden under the debris which covers his bedroom florr, but to be honest I'm too nervous to start looking. Even the local council's health and safety officer would probably run a mile at the site of his room. I don't mind so much...after all he has to sleep there, but regularly the piles of 'stuff' start spilling out into the corridor...and it is at this point that my bellowing starts. It's usually followed by a farly sulky evening...and I just know that I am the worst father in the world, I simply don't understand and it's just not fair. Still where would life be if we didn't have stereotypes to keep us going.

Back to pants. I decided that I had to do something when he started pinching mine...I think there's simply something wrong with that...although I have a sneaking suspicion that mothers and daughters exchange clothes all the time. So in a subtle case of revenge, I went to Next, got the style that he likes...cotton boxer shorts...in suitably restrained black and beige patterns, which he put on today...they're too big to be warn under his gym shorts, but he couldn't have any of mine, so presumably, he had a a pant valence whilst running the 1500m.....

Ashes to ashes

Three generations travelled together to bid farewell to the oldest. In the car was one grandfather, three fathers, three sons, and a grandson and two brothers. It's an old riddle, but never more appropriate. The brother, the boy and I travelled north to sprinkle the ashes over The Roaches...an impressive rocky outcrop near Leek in Staffordshire. Our journey fun...lots to chat about...and it seems death brings the opportunity to relive our memories...and I hope rekindle our lost relationship. Having picked up the urn (a little secret...it's more like one of those sweet jars from which you could choose a quarter of lemon sherberts, or bullseyes, or mints...and so on), we drove from our newly discovered stepmother...actually we'd known (of)her for thirty five years, but it was only eight weeks ago that the old man had revealed they'd been married for four years. What seemed from base camp a short hill walk turned into a climb worthy of an expeditionary force. One of us bounded up like an antelope, the other weazed away from the classic combination of asthma and marlboro whilst the other clung closely to the slope from a recent outbreak of vertigo. A motley crew, but we made it. The brother wanted to send a letter to the father, but unseasonal gale force winds made this a challenge worthy of fitting a rich man through the eye of a needle...when the paper eventually lit, clearly the obstinancy of the intended recipient held true...taking some twenty minutes to burn through. At the point of sprnkling the ashes...it's amazing how bulky incinerated human remains are, we simply said goodbye, not knowing what else should or could be said. The brother emptied the pot...with ashes flying into the air...much as you might see someone's spirit fly up to heaven in a B-movie. That was it. The end, a few tears...but not as painful as expected...a relief really. Lunch beckoned. Hopefully bonds remade. For the boy, his second funereal experience...and maybe he will see that it can be good to let the pain out and that from death there can be good. I'd like to think so.

Sporting heroes

Saturday is school sports day and I've been instructed to attend from the start at 9.30 all the way through to the eventual end as the sun begins to takes its leave for the day. My attempts to be let off on the basis that some events happen during the previous week, and the boy's only race on Saturday is the relay were brushed aside on the understanding that he is team captain. Not sure how that equates to my attendance, but evidently I must show the same commitment as him. I have a feeling that my intention of taking iPod and good book will be met with disapproval...but perhaps I can make myself useful as unofficial House photgrapher. It had better not be raining.

His star is in the ascendent, having already come third in the 1500m and for the second year on the trot winning the javelin...an unusual talent inherited from his mother who threw for the county - amazing what parents pass on to their offspring. Seruptitious questions of whether I ran the 1500m were met with blanks on my behalf as they were clearly aimed at assesing whether he was beating me (yet again)...I decided to let pass his comment/question "But you did win the cross country didn't you?" as this is his interpretation and I have only ever said I ran in the school team...generally my performance kept me towards the back of the field, but I feel a clear sense of responsibility to keep him on his toes......

Lead by example

At the grandfather's funeral, I gave a short oration. Accustomed as I am to speaking in public, this was a particular challenge...avoid the quivering lip, the emotional hesitation and to say that the grandfather may have been much loved, but was hardly a shining example of fatherhood. I settled on a lighthearted canter through some reminisces of highlights, low lights and just moments in time. The key phrase was that a father should inspire by the things they do well, and children should learn from their father's mistakes.

This weekend was the London to Brighton cycle ride...unfortunately the boy is still too young as you need to be into the second year of teenageship to qualify....next year then. However, in the spirit of the boy having a new cycle (Ironhorse) and my one (Scott) just coming back from being serviced, we decided to check out our cycle legs. Our route to Cuckmere Haven, some 17 miles away, took us along the sea front and directly into the 27,000 charity riders. Directed by smiling, enthusiastic yet firm marshalls straight into the finishing straight we were claqpped and cheered as we tried to shrink smaller and smaller. Maybe we should have grabbed a medal, or at least a free bottle of water but honour dictated that once we'd crossed the finishing line we pedalled as fast and as hard as we could. Hopefully an inspiring mistake...and a tale that went down at both school and office on Monday morning.

Much further on, and after climbing a particularly steep hill on the Downs, we came across a sign dictating 'No cycling'. A wry comment from Dad about how could they let us come this far and only then tell us not to pedal, was met by some pretty harsh comments from walking woman about how we shouldn't be off roading. Sudden loss of humour led to the comment that she should grow up or die. Cutting comments I do well...but perhaps these are things the boy should not learn from.

Household chores

Ironing is the worst chore of all..no sooner has the iron cooled, than there is a new pile of smelly, crumpled clothes waiting to to be washed and de-creased. A year ago the purchase of a steam generator iron made the arduous task a little easier and more interesting for about as long as it took me to realise that the iPod whilst doubtless convenient, still played exactly the same music collection that was beginning to weary when played on the CD...and the shiny new fully-featured mobile phone still received the same (few) calls from the same people that I'd been in conversation with for the last twenty years.

Faced with the challenge last night of either doing the ironing, or the Dysoning, the boy chose the iron. Strange choice, but in his own words 'I like ironing'. Twenty odd shirts later he was done...whilst my cleaning efforts finished ten minutes before. The shirts were mostly crease-free and certainly well-hung. And the transformation of my evening from one of forced-labour to one of beery indulgence was complete. Long may the boy find the household duties something as new and exciting as the first time he went to the Science Museum so that selfishly I can have a chunk of r'n'r when I return from the labours of the office.

Like father Like son Like son's son

So the blog hesitated for a couple of weeks...life was interupted with the not unexpected death of the grandfather after five weeks in hospital. Pneumonia finally got him, but a decade of Parkinsons had done for him really. The boy's reaction was harsh until it was pointed out that the books he was currently reading were his grandfather's. I guess that the death of a 78 year-old who you barely know, and whose mental faculties were close to those of a five year old, is nothing by comparison to the passing of your mother. However, there can be upsides to death. Not the least of which is the funereal gathering of the relatives. Our family has grown distant over the years...a combination of growing up and growing away, family disagreements and divorced parents and poorly established relationships at a younger age. So the boy has never met most of them...my offer to collect two sisters and a brother for a journey from one end of the country to another put many things right...it's amazing that eight hours of conversation can be sustained with hardly any effort; interupted only by the inconvenience of the cremation procedings and the shedding of a few tears. The great uncle has matured well...and pictures of him in uniform for National Service were impressive. A brother that perished during the Korean War (tho he was in Malaya) were equally valuable in building an honourable ancestory. Tales of youthfulness...and a lovers lane in Hornchurch were eye-opening. The two sisters were equally amusing...especially the one who at the age of 70 has picked up her latest toy boy...and was clearly in for a treat that night.

Promises of meeting again 'soon' will hopefully be fulfilled and will justify the £5 investment in signing up to genesreunited to build the slowly growing family tree.

Porn again

My older brother was always a great source of naked women from an early edge. Perhaps his over eager interest of members of the opposite sex accounts for him having some six or seven children...at the last count. No doubt his offerings has encouraged my own healthy appetite for the fairer sex. I remember both magazines and even some Polaroid pictures...the magazines being of the 'tits and fanny' variety, whilst the photographs were somewhat more graphic, and a good substitute for sex education in class. My interest in sex stimulated at a young age has stayed with me throughout my life...and I've had a healthy number of girlfriends...or at least bed fellows. I have to say though that sometimes, celluloid girls are a lot easier than flesh and blood.

One day arriving home from school, I was seated in the living room, and to my horror, laying on top of the magazine rack were my brother's and my girlie mags...if I remember rightly, the Polaroids weren't there (thank heavens)...a somewhat stilted and embarrassed conversation with our mother followed...but I can't for the life of me remember what was covered. Clearly it didn't have the impact it should have done, as I've been reaching for the top shelf ever since...well not for a while, but the principle is still there.

I've been quite liberal and trusting in allowing the boy free-reign on his laptop...on the odd occasion I've checked there's been nothing untoward - until this weekend. A check onto some of the web sites revealed some pretty naked women...if I'd lingered longer I may have seen to what extent they were showing off their bodies, and to what extent they were enjoying themselves. Impressively enough for a boy that's top of class in English, he'd returned several times to a web site called Literotica...not sure that it's up to the boys standard of writing...but it was pleasing to see that words rather than pictures seemed to be the destination of choice.

The much planned conversation with the boy about the luscious ladies took a more rambling approach than expected...and I'm glad to say both of us kept our heads well down and eyes averted. But I'd like to think that the point was firmly made - nudity is banned when you're thirteen because it is much more corrupting than when you're seventeen years and three hundred and sixty six years. So the short and short of it is that there's nothing wrong with porn...ranging from bikini-clad girls on the covers of boys mags to page three girls, all the way through to full on sex in magazines and probably more importantly easily viewed on the interweb. BUT...anything that involves violence or degradation is wrong. Full stop. Women are humans...and the celluloid sex you see is fantasy performed by actresses - on screen they are always 'up for it'...but see them on the street and they are humans again with mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters they have good days and bad days and they deserve as much respect as anyone and everyone else. Look, when you're older, but not too often and keep your mind on the more important things in life.

With parental controls in place, the computer is returned tomorrow.