Who let the dogs out?

You haven't lived until you've visited a Pet Expo. The Pet Expo came to Dublin in October.  We simply had to go, not only to see all the ridiculous gadgets you could buy for our fluffy friends, but also so our kids could do something other than playing in the rain.  Playing Noah's Ark in the rain isn't that much fun after a while.  We just had to go because our kids love animals - especially dogs.

We went on Sunday afternoon, thinking we were outsmarting everyone by going on a holy day. We thought less people would be attending the expo.  Boy were we wrong!  2000 other people had the same idea, meaning we had to queue for 15 minutes before we were let in.  It was bizarre standing outside waiting, as we were surrounded by the strangest of animals.  No, not the other visitors, but snakes, dogs, spiders, cats and birds.  All of them going outside to get some fresh air and to have their pictures taken.

My dear wife had received a family voucher for the expo, which had expired 24 hours earlier, but the friendly cashier didn't seem to mind. That's what we love about Ireland. They are not strict about those things.  The kids were getting excited and dragged us through to the ticket stand. My son was dragging me to the toilet.  Drinking 0.5 liter juice while waiting outside was putting unnecessary pressure on his little bladder.

The first thing we noticed when entering the expo was the strong smell of animal feces.  It gave the experience a more authentic feel to it, as you had feces from all parts of the World.  It just made me wonder what they did with the dogs.  Was there outdoor facilities for canines or did they just have to hold it in?  Anyway, it made me look closely at where I stepped, hoping to avoid any squishy piles.

I couldn't believe the amount of stalls they crammed in.  Worse.  I couldn't believe what some of the stands were selling.  Dog therapy and massage!!  It was difficult to picture our Bernese Mountain Dog (Angel) with a cucumber face mask, while getting a pawdicure (pedicure for dogs). They had all kinds of outfits. They even had a fashion show!

We had agreed not to buy anything, or very little if possible. My daughter  and wife only bought 3 bags worth of accessories; back pack for our St. Bernard, Ultimate Dog Grooming kit for the Bernese and a Superman outfit for the Labrador.  I bought something that might have been on TV Shop, a non-spill drinking bowl.  My wife doubted my abilities to spot good deals, but having used the non-spill bowl for a few weeks, I must admit that it actually works.  I don't spill anymore and my dogs like it too.

In the middle of the expo area, they built a dog agility track.  I have always been amazed by those games when watching Crufts, and now we had a chance to see it live.  The dogs loved it and our kids were enjoying the show immensely.

After the agility show, they showed some dog training tricks and games.  I suddenly realised that dog trainers are a different breed of humans.  Appearances didn't seem to matter. They all used the same gadgets; little pouch for goodies, super tight T-shirt (no matter what size they were) and an over enthusiastic attitude.  I could just picture a movie with Will Ferrell, similar to "Blades of Glory".

Anyway, after 2 hours of walking around at the expo, witnessing the madness of dog breeders and holistic dog food from Scotland, we decided we had had enough.  Last stop was the face painting stall for kids.  They refused to pain my face!!

Irish Super Gnomes marches on...

Lucky me, I was invited to the Ireland vs. France match, a game that on paper looked to be in France's favour.  This was not just any game. It was a VERY important qualifying game for both Ireland and France.  Either country had to win in order to secure their tickets to the WC 2010.  The best team over two games will head to South Africa.

The game was taking place in Croke Park, Dublin's main stadium that has hosted many great events such as U2 360. It is the venue for multiple GAA games (hurling and gaelic football) throughout the year.  Hill 16 was built from the rubble left on O'Connell Street (Sackville Street) after the 1916 rising.  So, there's a lot of history and nationalism breathing within the giant Croke Park.  I've watched a couple of Hurling games from Hill 16 and the atmosphere is fantastic.

This time I was going to see The Green Army play Les Bleus, not from the stands but from premier level (also known as premier boxes). So that also meant free food and drinks.  As I've said in previous blogs (Chelsea CL game and FA Cup 2009), the only way to watch football is VIP style.  That said, I would love to see a game any time.

My friend and I arrived at the Croker around 18.00 to participate in the pre-match drinking games and view a few celebrities, mainly ex-Irish football players.  It was bound to be a great evening. I was certain Ireland would come out all guns blazing and running over the French frogs.

Even the Pope and Cardinal Desmond Tutu gave their support and blessings, hoping that the Irish would qualify for the World Cup in South Africa 2010.  Ireland was bound to win, considering that there are millions of Irish people outside of Ireland, in every country and any remote corner of the World, ready to support their relatives.  These numbers include, of course, all Americans that have 1/8 of Irish blood in them, who visit their relatives in Mayo every 10 years.

The game was OK. Ireland unfortunately lost 1-0 to France.  For 90+2 minutes the boys in green fought the battle, but not bravely enough.  On paper, France should have beaten Ireland 10-0. However the French didn't play with any passion or desire to win. They were even arguing with their coach.  The Irish focused mainly on defense, only bringing 2-3 forward. So, no wonder they didn't score.  Technically, the Irish simply weren't good enough.


In spite of this, the atmosphere in Croke Park was fantastic.  72000 Irish and 2500 French spectators must have been overwhelming for both teams.  Even if I'm not Irish, I felt proud being there and participated in singing the national anthem.  Did I cry?  No, but I probably farted quietly.


The Irish team received strong support even after being 1-0 down.  There's still a chance of Ireland qualifying for South Africa, but they have to win in France!  It's unlikely they will, but there's still hope for the green army.


I woke up the following morning, wondering if the taste in my mouth was that of defeat, but I soon realised that it was simply a combination of shitty burgers and too many pints of Guinness.  My kids were so happy to see me that they jumped into our bed, hugging me, not caring that my head was bursting.  They just didn't care that I had a minor hangover and why should they?  I just knew that I was getting too old for this shit.  My body and head just can't handle 7-8 pints of Guinness.  As Dubliners would say "I've got an arse on me like the back of Batman's car after all that Guinness last night".

I wasn't too sure that Ireland was the strongest team, so I had to compare a few key points, which should determine the true winner.  (France left and Ireland right)

• 65,000,000 vs 4,500,000 people - history shows that the Irish are stubborn people and they DO NOT want to be ruled by anyone (although they pretend to be British sometimes).  They will never follow bigger countries blindly (just the US and Britain). The Irish are always up for a good fight, so just because they are out-numbered 14:1 doesn't mean they will lay down their defenses.  Thierry Henry might be the best striker in the World (5 years ago), but the Irish have Dunne in defense, all pumped up on Guinness foam.
• GDP €2.6 trillion vs. GDP €282 billion - it is not all about money, but it would certainly help Ireland a lot, and make sure it is not stuck in the arsehole of the World's economy.  I'm "delighted" that we let banks and property developers ruin the Irish economy!!
• Thierry Henry vs. Robbie Keane - Henry has scored tons of goals for France, England and Spain. He must be considered as a top striker in the history of football.  However, Keane does not score many goals for Ireland, but scores many goals for Tottenham Hotspurs (England).  But, he's lethal. He runs around on the pitch like a little Tasmanian Devil. He's everywhere on the pitch; assists, free kicks, defending, getting water bottles, arguing with the ref and brings the crowd along. 
• Kronenbourg 1664 vs. Guinness - doesn't take much consideration or debate.  Guinness has it all; flavour, alcohol and it is filling as a meal too.  1664 is like drinking Mountain Dew. It's also bright yellow like pee.
• Pixies vs. Le Petit Prince - another easy win for Ireland.  Pixies are cute little fairytale creatures, whereas the Prince is an annoying little boy who has a problem with Baobab trees. He dies too. 
• Sarkozy vs. Brian Cowen - OK, France wins this one.  Sarkozy is short, elegant, well spoken and has his country under control (including economy).  Cowen is the direct opposite; butt ugly, chubby, poorly dressed, speaks funny and he has no control of his country and its economy.  You could say they are the Beauty and the Beast.
• Leon vs. Ray (in Bruges) - Yes, Leon is one of the coolest assassins in the movie industry, but Ray must be the funniest.  So, the winner is Ray.  Why?  Well, Leon is a loner and weirdo who dies in the end to save an obnoxious teenage girl.  Ray wins the girl and he doesn't die...and he karate chopped a midget.
• Brie vs. Cheddar - right, this is personal.  I hate cheddar with a vengeance.  It is hard and it has no taste.  Brie on the other hand is smooth, soft and delicious.  Also, France produces an abundance of different cheeses, whereas Ireland primarily produces Cheddar.  The only thing cheddar is good for is Macaroni and cheese.
• 4 seasons vs. 2 seasons - they call Ireland the Emerald (green) Island for a reason.  It rains every 2nd day here, so everything is therefore moist and green.  Ireland has two seasons; rainy and more rainy season.  Ideally, it would be great with a nice warm summer once in a while.

Overall, France unfortunately lost the competition here, but Ireland lost the first leg of an important football game.  So, who is one step closer to South Africa?

The Irish supporters are absolutely fantastic.  But, Ireland will have one big problem if they qualify because they don't have the dough to travel to South Africa.  On the other hand, nothing has been better for the economy than increased loans and credit card debt, so it might just be dragging Ireland out of the void.

Personally, I didn't care who won or qualified - no disrespect to any of the two countries.  My country, Denmark, already qualified by winning their games. They have also started to compose the Danish World Cup football anthem.

I wonder if the horrid twins Jedward will be singing for Ireland next year, if Ireland qualifies?

I hope Ireland qualifies so they can spice up the World Cup. Let's wish them best of luck for their next game in Paris.  Go buy shamrocks and pray to St. Patrick that they'll make it.

Choose your weapon mortal!

Getting the kids ready for bed is a challenge for any parent, no matter the age of the child.  In our little household, getting the kids to go to bed, and wash their faces and brush their teeth, can be a struggle.  They don't want to go to bed and they will find any excuse to avoid putting on their pyjamas or jump into bed.

Coming from Denmark, brushing teeth has been forced upon us through school education. Obsessive school nurses shoved a fluor tablet in our mouth to see where we had cavities or made us drink fluor liquid to clean our teeth - gurgling this vile drink for 60 seconds.  My parents made me brush my teeth every evening and morning, to avoid me getting too many cavities.  However, this strategy failed completely, as I have more fillings than Irish roads.

So, last night was no different, as my wife and I worked hard to get the kids to co-operate.  I normally attempt to entertain them. So, I started to tickle my daughter a tiny bit.  Playing a bit before bedtime happens to be a nightly ritual, partly to persuade them to brush their teeth.

Brushing teeth is always something that is a major challenge for us parents, not brushing our own teeth of course, but getting our kids to brush their teeth.  I've lost count of the amount of times my daughter has claimed to have brushed her teeth, only to find her toothbrush still in its packaging or it is dry as if it has been lying in the desert for weeks.

Through my connections at work, I've managed to secure a forensics kit that will tell whether my daughter has brushed her teeth or not, but somehow my daughter doesn't really care.  I can conduct these types of tests in the comfort of our own home. However the only problem is that the results take 7-10 working days and samples collected from home are not normally admissible in a court of law.  Yes, my daughter knows this and pleads the 5th every time she's challenged.

After tickling her for a while, my daughter got more and more frustrated. She suddenly stopped all movements and stared at me intensely.  She barely moved her lips and uttered "I will challenge you to a sword fight! Pick your sword wisely mere mortal infidel".  For a second, I thought we were re-enacting scenes from Highlander, a movie she has never seen of course, and smiled.  But, she repeated the line and moved a step closer.

Now, this was getting freaky. It reminded me of the scene from "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly" (me being the ugly of course), and I started to whistle the theme song in my head.

Suddenly, she jumped forward and ran into her room, getting her weapons - a giant book and the biggest hair brush she could find.  I panicked and grabbed the nearest weapon, the vacuum cleaner tube, and took Aragon's fighting stance.  My daughter moved around me using deadly ballet steps, and sliced the air with the brush, and charged at me with the Irish Fairy Tale book.

The next few minutes was a battle for life or sleep.  My daughter made all the sounds (some gun sounds too) and we fought bravely.  My wife and son had to seek shelter on the bed, and they were both cheering on our daughter.

I felt a pain in my side and collapsed on the floor. Slowly, I looked down towards my belly and side, and discovered that I had received a deep paper-cut on the third belly tire, and slipped into the sleep state.  I had lost the battle and my daughter was standing both feet on my stomach smiling down at her victim.  The screams of victory and defeat deafened the room, and I made a few last jerks before finally falling asleep.

Goodnight my dearest, see you in the morning.

Needle in a Belly

During my wife's third pregnancy she was required to have a test done on the baby, about 3 months into the pregnancy.  This "innocent"test is called amniocentesis.  You might wonder why this had to be done, since we have two beautiful kids already.  Why couldn't they pick a name for this procedure that one could actually pronounce and remember.  Well, this test is carried out on most women in their mid 30s, but especially if you have had a baby born with a disability in the past.  Our son was born with Down syndrome and my wife has past her mid 30s with a few years. So, we tick both boxes.

From what I've been told, and what I've experienced, the amniocentesis test is a VERY uncomfortable test.  In short, it is a gigantic thick needle forced into the woman's belly that is slowly moved into position to extract amnio liquids from the womb.  To make matters worse, all this is done WITHOUT anesthetics!!

We went into hospital to get this test done and I don't blame my wife from being extremely nervous.  For the record, I'm terrified of needles and will most often pass out if I'm given an injection - no matter the size of the needle.

They called us and we were brought into this little sterile examination room, which was very warm.  My wife reluctantly revealed her belly and the doctors explained (in too much detail for my liking) what they were going to do.  Again, let me reiterate, NO anesthetics.

The procedure starts with a quick scan to find the fetus and a suitable position far away from the fetus.  This in itself is almost impossible, as the womb is small and the fetus moves at this stage in the pregnancy.  The nurse found a spot and cleaned it with disinfectant. She then handed a needle the size of a drinking straw (in length) and the doctor slowly pricked the needle through the skin.

My wife (god bless her) was in agony and she was sobbing quietly.  Imagine pricking yourself on a needle, but to continue to push it into your finger anyway.  The amount of pain generated is ridiculous.  And here comes the slap in the face.  The doctor suddenly said to my wife: "You have to stop crying and lie still, otherwise we have to do it again".  Every time she sobbed a bit, her belly moved, so the needle retracted a bit and/or it could move the fetus.  Hitting the fetus with the needle would simply be lethal.

For your information, I absolutely hate needles.  As soon as I saw this needle, the size of a ninja sword, the blood drained from my head.  However, I had to be strong for my wife, as she was the one who was in real pain - I was just a wimp!  So, I was putting on a brave face to be strong for the both of us.  This is VERY difficult when you sit in a 10 x 10 room, face-to-face with a doctor, nurse and wife.  Not to mention the thousands various medical equipment in the room and a monitor right next to me.  The heat in the room didn't help either.

I refused to look at the procedure itself, as this would certainly have knocked me out. So, I was trying to look at my wife or around the room.  Looking at my wife meant seeing her in pain, which I don't like.

My eyes wandered to the left, only to be caught in the tractor-beam of the gigantic 10 inch needle being pushed into my wife's belly. It was gently pushing her flesh inwards.  I was panicking!

Forced to look elsewhere, my eyes caught the monitor which was scanning what was happening to my wife. I could again see the needle slowly being pushed through skin, flesh and placenta. Suddenly the room started spinning and the blood was draining from my head.

Trapped in a living needle nightmare!  How much longer could they possibly punish me?  Have I done something wrong in a previous life as a needle-maker?

The doctor spoke calmly, "We have to do it again.  Your stomach moved and the needle came out of the placenta".  So, the horror started all over again.

Just so you understand, in order for the needle to penetrate the placenta, the doctor has to tap on the needle top, forcing it through the placenta's membrane.

After 14 minutes of hell, my nerves were shattered. They were finally able to extract the fluids they needed and we could go home.  My wife had to take it easy for a couple of weeks, so no heavy lifting or other activities.

The sea lion's mating call

We are in mid October and it is the season of various viruses being shared in public places, especially in offices with air condition systems.  If one employee has a cough or cold, then everybody on that floor will have it within 2 weeks.  That's just one reason I dislike air condition systems.  It's not that AC system aren't handy. It's just this whole social aspect of sharing diseases that is simply ridiculous.  And more, shouldn't we be more careful in these swine flu days?

So, at the beginning of last week I developed a bit of a tickle in the throat, which slowly developed into a cough.  Instantly, my female colleagues suspected the Man Flu, which is level 11 on WHO's pandemic scale - way above the more known deadly killers like Swine Flu and the Black Death - except this one doesn't kill, but merely paralyses the male chromosomes for a short period of time.  Either that or it is simply a urban legend developed by the female workforce.  Us men wouldn't fall victim to any viruses or other strange phenomenon, which will make us stay at home for a couple of days looking for affection and attention from our partner, would we?

I was slowly developing a dangerous cough which made me sound like seals found in Howth harbor.  I realized how bad I sounded, when people started to throw dead fish at me and when I lost my voice.  It was at times like being back in puberty, when the voice has these funny pitches and drops, to the amusement of bystanders and family.

My wife occasionally feeds our kids Manuka honey, which has healing powers, to help them fight an infection.  But not  me, I'm a man. A man doesn't need these remedies or other prescriptions. My powerful body will fight off the bad cells naturally.  The real reason for my dislike of honey is because when I was a kid I developed a phobia for honey. The smell, texture and taste makes me gag.  The cause is actually very traumatic for me, as it reminds me of the pain the nuns in my kindergarten put me through, every day for three years. They fed us kids with a tablespoon of honey EVERY morning.  That would break any man. Even a tough viking like me.

On Thursday evening my voice decided to go on holidays, leaving me speechless for the first time in my life - literally.  Whenever I attempted to say something to my wife, or reply, the only thing that left my lips was a weird ghostly voice - resembling a mafioso character in Mickey Blue Eyes.  You can call me Don Brix Calzone.

Sure, a good night's sleep would cure anything, so I headed to my favorite destination - Narnia Middle Earth.

The next morning hadn't changed much, except me hairdo that made me look like the Lucan Twins from X Factor (except I am twice their age and I can sing compared to them!), and my voice still sounded shite.  I had to go to work, as I had a business presentation.  Luckily I didn't have to talk much. I was the co-pilot controlling the slides instead.

Like every morning, I had to record my greeting on the voicemail system.  I'm 100% certain that any caller would have mistaken my greeting to be either a devilish backward recitation or some pervert stalker - but it had to be done.  People just didn't take me serious, with a voice like a teenage mutant mafioso twit.

Thank God It Was Friday, and I had to leave at lunch time to pick up my daughter from school.  I survived Man Flu!

Toxic Waste

During the latter part of 2007, we had decided to pimp our crib.  Obviously not the bling bling MTV style, but expanding our house our way.  And, during any large scale renovation work, we had to move our stuff into storage.  What better place to use than the converted attic?  Our kids were too small to have it as a bedroom and we never really spent time there.  Slowly, old furniture, moving boxes, clothes for charity found their way to the attic. The famous storage room.  Yes, my back was killing me. Deep inside I truly believed that I would develop Jean Claude van Damme biceps from lifting all these boxes.  Most of you, who have met me face-to-face, will agree that this change didn't happen.

Last month, we got a surprise message from some close friends. They were going to visit us.  We were delighted and we knew we had plenty of space in the attic.  All I had to do was to go through the stuff in the attic, which we assumed was a piece of cake.  It shouldn't take that long, we said.

The attic floor space is 20 m2 and it was packed to the last inch. So, getting into the attic was a challenge.

The Big Clean-out day came around quickly and I put on my hazmat suit.   For those people who haven't read Zombie Survival Guide or seen Resident Evil 2, a hazmat suit provides protection from hazardous materials, and might be combined with breathing equipment.  The more advanced versions come in shiny silver, which is similar to mine.  You really don't want to spend too much time in one of these suits or you will lose weight due to excessive sweating.  Imagine the smell inside the suit.
- by the way DO NOT fart when wearing a hazmat suit!

Dressed as something out of Moonraker, I ventured up the stairs. I was horrified of what was stacked in front of me.  Boxes and bags bulking to the ceiling. I had to work slowly and carefully.  It was amazing how much stuff we had accumulated over the years. I was finding stuff that I didn't know we had.  Perhaps the gremlins had been moving stuff from our Indian neighbours?  I didn't know that we owned large pieces of the Berlin wall or a treasure map to Atlantis.

We had no choice but to continue to clear the attic, as this was the only place our friends could sleep.  I was not prepared to share our bed with them, and I was sure my pregnant wife would kill or cause other bodily harm if that was going to happen.

I was lost in the attic for most of the weekend. I only came back to reality for meals and the occasional liquid refills.  I was starting to lose my mind and it started to dawn on me that I might not survive this expedition.  My family was thankfully going to start the rescue mission, Monday morning.

In the 10th hour, I discovered some unknown plants and animal species, which I proudly terminated with our Dyson Anti Asthma vacuum cleaner.  Some of these organisms would have attacked me anyway, so it was a question of being killed or kill them.

The worst thing about clearing out storage areas, indoor or outdoor, is when you open a box that contains memorabilias such as pictures, articles, VHS tapes, etc.  I got carried away with some of these boxes. I got fairly emotional when seeing pictures of the kids when they were just born, my own kindergarten pictures and family videos - so much that the hazmat suit would become all foggy.

Having spent so many hours in the attic, I was starting to see things.  The freaky thing is when you start to see movements (or at least you think you see movements) or when you think bags make strange sounds as if somebody was trapped inside.  I vaguely remember investigating a movement, when suddenly my wife tapped my shoulder.  A combination of fear and panic engulfed me. I screamed like a little kid and jumped to the floor in fetal position.  My wife seemed somewhat surprised and startled, but managed to pass me my coffee.

Gradually, I was able to see the carpet again and the attic was starting to look like the room it used to be in its glorious days.  The room was ready for our visitors, and we had a "new" room to inhabit again. A room that will be very handy once the 3rd dude arrives in April.

Phase II involved water and soap, and lasted almost 20 minutes.  All garbage had been removed. All the stuff we wanted to keep was organised and put into storage.  The room was ready.  However, I still don't know when we bought the full size Jesus marble statue? Maybe Dobby (Harry Potter's house elf ) can  explain it to me?

Regards
Sole Survivor

Gooooood Mooooorniiing Ireland

I always try to buy something for my wife and kids, when away either on business or going home to meet the family + friends.  Some would probably call it a bribe to ensure that your wife still loves you and that your kids will hug you when you return home.  They know they get something.  I hate buying sweets, mainly because I end up eating most of the stuff anyways and I forget to exercise, which normally results in me wearing a few extra rings around the middle.  And, believe it or not, our kids actually don't like sweets, e.g. chocolate, drops, etc.  So, this makes it extremely silly of me to buy sweets for the family.

Last year, when going to Frankfurt on a training course, I found this lovely clock for my daughter.  Back then, she didn't know how to tell the time, but there was something cool about having a clock in your bedroom.  We didn't install batteries either, primarily because we didn't have any batteries.

Anyway, during our daughter's recent room make-over, I decided to surprise her by installing batteries in the alarm clock.  Was it a wise idea?  No!

A few days later I was dreaming being somewhere in Narnia or Middle Earth, fighting giant Playmobil and Lego armies, when I suddenly heard a bell chime in a distance.  These bells didn't belong in Narnia or Middle Earth.  I was slowly being dragged out of my dreams, back to reality.  It was an alarm clock, informing the family that we had to get up.

But, I was the only person who heard this beeping sound.  It was still pitch black outside, and inside.  I could hear my daughter faintly crying for help, so I woke up.  I had to rescue her.  So, I got out of bed and stumbled my way through toys, shoes and clothes, towards the annoying sound.  There's nothing more annoying than hearing a sound and not being able to stop it.  The sound came from our daughter's bedroom.

Along the way I bumped my toe on the corner of the door.  In order to avoid screaming out in pain, I quickly put a towel in my mouth (I thought) and continued towards the sound on my knees.  The "towel" was in fact a pair of dirty boxer shorts, leaving me with a weird taste in my mouth.  We have wooden floors, so by the time I arrived at the source of the sound, my knees were bleeding.

I found the fecking clock - the nice alarm clock I had given my daughter, which she was so proud of.  My daughter was sitting with the alarm clock in her hands, and when she saw me she said "Dad, the alarm clock works.  This is brilliant!  Thanks".  I could see her white teeth in the darkness and hear that she was extremely happy.  I took the alarm clock away to turn it off, but I just didn't know how to turn it off.  Left with no choice, I ripped out the batteries and the house went silent again.  I could only hear the deep breathing of our kids, my wife's snoring and the 3 dogs farting.  Yes, my daughter had fallen asleep again, within seconds of turning off the alarm.

Limping back to my bad, I glanced at my own alarm clock and discovered that it was only 04.30 in the morning!  Still another few hours to sleep, but would I be able to find my way back to Middle Earth?

Sleep tight everybody
- JudgeBrix the Ugly Morning Fecker Ogre

Carplicity

A few years ago, during the Celtic tiger heydays, my wife and I had a bit of extra cash and we were the owners of two cars; one each...wow!  This was in fact a normal occurrence in those days, as everybody absolutely needed the extra car and it was so easy to get money off the bank.  Having more than one car per household quickly became a norm and many houses in our estate had 2-4 cars.  Now, the same households still have 2-4 cars, but now all of them are for sale, so they can pay off their debt.

We each needed a car because we were both working. We had one SUV and one old banger (Renault Megane).  It just made sense as we both had to leave the house, at the exact same time every morning, both going towards the city to work, but in one car each.  My wife was actually following me.  We wouldn't have been able to do this without two cars.  Both cars would be parked all day in the office car-park.

Public transportation in Ireland was OK 6-7 years ago, but it wasn't ideal to use buses during the Tiger days.  Do you think I'd walk 0.5 mile to the nearest bus stop from my house and 1 mile from the bus stop in town to my work?  This would mean exercise and I might loose weight and get in shape.  It's much more fun to sit in a car, in rush hour traffic for almost an hour each way!  I only had approx. 10 miles to work and there was absolutely no way I was risking my life on a bicycle.  These fecking male teenage drivers in their pimped up racer cars (Toyota Corolla probably) have no respect for bikers, and neither does the rest of the Irish automobile population. In fact, I don't think half of them should be on the roads as they never had to sit a driver or theory test.  Over here, you simply get the provisional license without knowing anything. It's like buying sweets in a vending machine.  You might sit a theoretical test, but you don't need to pass it to drive home using your provisional license.

Another reason not to ride on the metal horse was that my work didn't have any shower facilities and I don't think my colleagues would appreciate me sitting in my sweaty smelly clothes all day.

As the kids came along we soon discovered that there was no point in me driving the SUV, because my wife needed it to drop off the kids to the creches - much more comfortable than the old banger!!  So, I started to drive the unreliable wreck instead.  Thankfully we have roadside recovery included in our insurance.  Little did I know, that it would become invaluable.

One Friday evening, going home from work, my journey took me through a less attractive part of the inner city.  Like any other major City, evening time equals rush-hour traffic.  I was queuing at a traffic light and as it turned green the bloody car stalled.  It wouldn't start again, so I started to push it up on the sidewalk.  As in Resident Evil, weird creatures came out from the doorways, dragging and dangling their limbs.  I must admit, I was slightly nervous and expected them to attack me - perhaps they would even sexually abuse me while listening to the Pogues' "Christmas in New York".  But, to my astonishment, they started to help me and even started a conversation.  I had no idea what they said, mainly because of their strong inner-city accent, but also because they were half drunk.  I called road-watch and they came to my rescue almost 2 hours later, leaving me stranded on a Friday evening, in the rain.

Another time I got stuck in the outskirts of the inner-city, but this time nobody helped me push the car, so I pushed the car myself.  I was soar three days solid.

This went on for another few months and we finally agreed to sell it, which we managed to do.  I only got two calls from the new owner within 2 weeks, but the deal was done and she now owned the old banger.

So, against all odds, I was now forced to use public transportation, which actually wasn't so bad.  I could sleep on the bus, while listening to my iPod.  I'm not too sure if I snore and drool, but there's not much I could do about that as I was out cold as soon as I sat down.  It was worst when it rained.  The bus would steam up completely and all people would be soaked.

Within 2 months I bought my hog, my Vespa scooter.

Being Number 1...

How do you know if you've been a good dad, and importantly, if you are a good dad?  In my humble opinion, there is no formula and there is no course you can take to become a good dad.  It's not like you get a certificate from the School of Excellent Parents. It might surprise some men, but you cannot sit an online exam on Facebook either.  You can only do your best.  The amazing thing is, your kids will love you for who you are - perhaps not as much when you embarrass them in front of their friends, such as singing, teaching the kids how to break dance or simply just kissing them in front of their friends.

This sounds very flower-power-ish and free spirited, but honestly, relax and enjoy being a dad.  I try to most of the time, but they can drive you up the wall at times too. Looking back at those incidents, you can only laugh at them.  I was pretty annoying at times when I was a kid, according to my dad, but I totally refute that statement.  He can't prove that I broke the fence in the back garden or caused the dog to have explosive diarrhea.

The best thing about being a dad is when you come home and you are greeted by the little devils. They run towards you while they hide the permanent makers behind their backs, trying to eliminate evidence of them drawing on the walls.  When you then ask them "did you do this?" they just stare at you with their Bambi eyes and say "no dad, those paintings have been there all the time!".  You gotta love them.  I'm positive it has nothing to do with them seeing their parents decorate the walls with Disney characters, thinking it would be OK to add their own take on Woody or Buzz.

It's magic when they come up to you and beg to see a movie with you on the sofa. They hand you the DVD and you insert it, only to discover that it has been used as a hover-board across the kitchen floor tiles, rendering it useless.  We've bought so many replacement DVDs of their favorite movies, only to find that they too suffer the same fate as the previous 10 copies.  We've learned from our mistakes and have copies stored on the Mac now, so they can be streamed to the TV. Bless Apple.

BUT, one thing that we men can do, and something that the kids do not want to do with their mums, is to play with Lego, trains, Playmobil, toy soldiers, cars, etc.  And, this is to the delight of us dads.  As my previous blog states, we men LOVE to play with toys again and we will use any excuse to prove this to the kids.  I once played with Lego, building castles and jungles, and didn't even notice that my son was asleep and my daughter had gone to bed - it was only 22.30 (10.30pm) in the evening.  If it hadn't been for my wife,  I would have played all night.

It is also fantastic to play games with your kids in the pool, again, games that mums don't want to play (throwing the kids in the pool, up in the air, etc.).  My daughter especially likes sitting on my shoulders while we venture into the deep in the pool. She once told me to freeze, so she could pee on my shoulders!  My son on the contrary would act like a real man. He'd jump out of the pool and stand quietly and pee on the edge of the pool - making it look casual, as if it was just water running down his legs.  However, somehow I don't think my son will ever forgive me for taking him down the longest and coldest water slide in Latin America - in Costa Rica.

As parents, you just want to make sure your kids are having fun and that they love you.  Although the Beatles once sang, "can't buy me love", by God do we still try.  Especially your first child is spoiled rotten.  They need to get the best beds, sheep skins, designer toys and furniture, and of course the best holiday destinations.  How many kids out there can proudly say they've been to Mexico, USA, Costa Rica, Dominican Republic and several countries in Europe, by the time they are 5?  Not many. We discovered this year that spending a lot of money on holidays doesn't really matter, as long as they spend time with their parents.

This year we saw, what my wife and I would normally consider boring, so many things with our kids around where we live, and we had a blast.

• My son pooped in the car while on a road-trip and we just laughed about it - a few hours afterwards of course.
• Build our vegetable garden and planted useful crops such as leeks and brussels sprouts. We can sell them at the market now. We have so many.
• Our daughter tried horseback riding, fell off and still loves it.
• We visited far away places, at least it felt like going back in time, when seeing small villages (with issues) in Northern Ireland.
• I pooped my pants when I crossed a rope bridge in windy and rainy conditions.
• My wife learned a new skill, taking over one of my male dominated areas, and became BBQ master of the house.

Kids also know when to embarrass the hell out of you, in public.  Going to the hospital with my son is a learning experience for any man, and to witness how he gets into the nurses bra and claps their bums within seconds is the work of a true master - and he gets away with it.

My clever little daughter speaks English and Spanish fluently, and demonstrated her ability to switch languages on our recent trip to Costa Rica.  She knew that people there spoke Spanish, so she quietly said to my wife one day at the pool (in English) "Mum, look how fat that woman is".  The woman next to us, the target, looked across and simply smiled at my wife - she spoke English!!

Kids are so honest, all the time. I'm now known as the annoying donkey (Shrek movies) by my daughter, as she thinks it's annoying when I hassle her to go to bed.

So, how do you know if you are a good dad and parent?  I have absolutely no idea, but I'll ask my kids.

I try to, most of the time, to smile when they misbehave.  I might have a little outburst when they pour juice into my keyboard or delete an entire music library from the Mac. Then I realize that it was I that showed them how to use the Mac, so it's my own fault, right?

My advise to you, man to parent, is to let your hair down (if you've got any) and enjoy being a parent.  I'm dreading for my kids start to play away from the house, meeting friends at the corner-shop and having sleepovers. I would be up all night, worrying what might happen.  Why can't they just have sleepovers via Skype?  There must be some technology you could avail of, to keep them safe.  What's wrong with inserting tracking devices in your kids, to keep them safe?  Imagine combining the tracking with Google maps and you would know EXACTLY where they are - except the image would be static of course, but you get the point.
- I'll probably call in a few favors if a guy breaks my girl's heart.

By the way, is it wrong to teach your 5 year old daughter to play Half-life 2 and Command & Conquer?  I just need somebody to play against!

The way to your woman's heart...

It has for years been a lost art to buy presents for your girlfriends / wives, and it is something that we men struggle with every year.  I've browsed the Internet for years now, trying to find the right present for my wife, but the various results are based on me having €10 million or more in the bank.  And more so, what does the internet know anyway, it doesn't know my wife.  So, I'm left to decide myself.

The classic items that most guys buy for their misses are lingerie.  I strongly believe, and I might write a thesis about this behavior one day, but most men tend to compare their wife with the shop assistant.  This is a classical schoolboy error, as the girl in the shop is NOT the same size as your wife.  As a result, men buy the wrong sizes, often way too small below and too big on top, which will have a negative impact on the mood of your wife.  Despite this known fact, men don't seem to change their behaviors and continue to go to these exotic shops. The real reason is most likely that men go to these shops only to be able to look at half-naked women without getting into trouble.

I too have bought my share of sexy lingerie for my wife and she too would have to change the lingerie because of the sizes.  So, a few years ago I decided to do something about it and I wanted to buy her something special - don't we all.  Guys, if you get it right, you get rewarded.  It is therefore in your interest too to make your wife happy.

In the name of sharing, here's one for the guys, when buying presents to their girlfriends.  Making presents special, no matter the occasion, is essential.  You want brownie points, right?  So think about what you buy.  Buying presents to your partner is an International challenge, so this should work across the World.  These are successfully tested.

• 5 Senses - it might not seem that romantic, but find something that will awaken her 5 senses.  One year, I bought my girl something for each of these senses, and my God did it work!  You can of course choose what you want, and it does not have to cost a fortune, as long as your wife will like it.  Here's my list:
• Sight; her favorite movie, "Giant" with James Dean and Elizabeth Taylor
• Feel; extremely soft silk scarf
• Smell; a new perfume
• Hear; a music CD
• Taste; cooked her dinner
• Body Sensations - these would be presents that obviously focuses on her body, and NOT in a sexual way you pervert - so, no toys!!  I would recommend something more like:
• Nice smelling soap
• Soft body lotions
• Body scrub soap and sponge
• Natural Beauty - this can cover different events, but make sure you keep the presents the same. So if you want fashion then stick to a set of matching clothes, not multiple different shirts.  The same goes for make-up.  As you can see, this can be used for several birthdays, but do not use this theme twice in a row.
• Sporty Spice - is an opportunity to get her some sports equipment.  Please be careful, as this can backfire if you buy her the wrong thing like a scale, too small sports clothes or a running machine.
• Relaxation (my favorite) - is particularly useful if you've had your first child.  Your wife will be exhausted, so give her spa treatments or massage packages for a local spa.  She will REALLY appreciate this.

A lot of men would commit crimes against the female figures, by buying chocolate.  Chocolate will be accepted with a big smile, but as soon as the chocolate is gone, your wife will hate you - at least for a short while.  How could you be so cold!  She will blame you for gaining weight and then you will get the toughest question in the World, "Do I look fat in this dress?". Mate, you are walking on very thin ice.

The best present I ever bought my wife, was on a holiday to Cancun (Mexico).   We had invited the in-laws to Mexico and on a particular day we went shopping - as you do with your wife.  My wife and her mother entered an exclusive gemstone shop.  I spotted some jewelry that I knew my wife would love, ring and ear-rings.  Sneaky as I am, I persuade my mother-in-law to get my wife to try the ring, as it is crucial to get the right size.  When we later that evening celebrated our 5th wedding anniversary, I gave her the present - bingo!  2 million brownie points for me.

I've never been a huge fan of flowers, mainly because it is so common, but also because it is VERY difficult to drive a scooter with a bouquet of flowers.  The odd surprise works much better, such as taking her out for dinner or asking her on a date to the cinema.  It doesn't really matter if you've been going out for years, it is just the gesture of spending time alone.

This has worked well for me, but if anything in your plan backfires, after having used my suggestions, then I pledge the 5th Amendment (you do it on your own risk).

Pregnancy for men, third child...

The middle of 2009 was the time the fecking recession hit our family and where we had to take certain measures to reduce luxury spending. It unfortunately included traveling abroad.  So, there are a lot more staying at home evenings and short excursions around Ireland.  Nothing wrong with that, we actually have had a blast on our excursions.  So, in mid September we happily informed our families that we were expecting our third child.

So, how did family and friends react to the news - again?  Well my parents were initially excited (for the first 5 seconds of the phone call that is) on our behalf, but then my mum asked "... how do I do this on the Mac?".  You have to expect that friends and family are no longer as excited on your behalf, as with the first two, but by large they were all very happy for us even if they were somewhat surprised that we were planning this during a recession.  In my opinion, having a baby doesn't really impact the recession.

Some would say that the novelty of having a baby wears off when having kid number 2 and by kid number 3 it is just something that has to be done.  WRONG! Your wife (or girlfriend) will experience new pregnancy symptoms that she swears she didn't feel before or she might say that this baby is much better.  However, from talking to other families with three kids, the third pregnancy is for some reason worse. Everything seems to be intensified, including your wife's short-fused temper.  And on top of that, you still have to mind the other two kids!

My wife previously never really experienced morning sickness. This pregnancy ensured that my wife felt morning sickness with a vengeance.  For the record, morning sickness is not only restricted to the morning. My wife was getting sick throughout the day... (evil laughter)

As an example, I'm Danish and enjoy pork meatballs, pork chops, pork roast, pork sausages, etc.  BUT, my dear lovely pregnant wife developed a certain nausea whenever I cooked anything with pork.  This resulted in us eating couscous, shitload of pasta, fish, poultry, vegetarian food and beef.  Every time she smelled heated pork (fried, roasted, nuked, me, etc.) she almost vomited (sometimes she did).

Previously my wife would have craved and eaten anything that we had, but this time it was more controlled - for a while at least.  Her portions increased gradually during the pregnancy, but because of the busy schedule with the other two kids, she walked off most of the food quickly.  However, she developed a worrying fetish for crackers with pate, fresh lemonade and all kinds of fruits. She was eating very healthy this time.

One of the enjoyable side effects of being pregnant, well more after giving birth, is that my wife suffers from the Dolly Parton syndrome.  Depending on the milk production, the breasts swell up to oversized proportions.  Unfortunately this is for show only, as they apparently get really sensitive due to the pressure produced by the milk inside.

A less attractive side of the Dolly Parton syndrome is that your wife (partner or girlfriend) starts lactating and needs to relieve the pressure either by breastfeeding or pumping.  The latter can be somewhat frustrating at times.  While you are watching a thriller or horror movie, you all of a sudden hear this humming / buzzing / squeezing noise, only to discover that your girl is milking herself.  Nothing sexy about breasts making farting sounds. It can ruin the suspense in any movie.

After the baby was born, we had 2 hours to ourselves while all the kids had gone to bed, so we had some nice food I cooked.  We were chatting away and I was enjoying a glass of wine - ahhhh, just like old times.  But, instead of a nice dessert, my wife pulled out the breast pump and started extracting milk.  At that moment, you realise that romantic dinners will not be the same for a while.
Our freezer is full of breastmilk, and I've considered making ice-cream, cheese and other dairy products from it, but I'm not sure how our guests will react.  Also, it tastes rather funny in coffee.

During the pregnancy, my wife had to have her fluids in the womb checked.  This is test is called the amniocentesis test and is basically a needle inserted in the womb (through the belly) and the fluids are analysed.  The main purpose is to test for any chromosomal abnormalities such as Down Syndrome. The test is conducted mainly on women over 40 or if you have a child with e.g. Down Syndrome.  Our son was born with Down Syndrome, so we had to get it done... click here to read about the Needle in the Belly.

Another thing is that when a woman is pregnant, no matter if it is the first, second or third, she gets REALLY tired.  I have on multiple occasions attempted to have conversations with my wife, only to discover that she has fallen asleep and she is sitting in the sofa drooling.  Again, you love your wife for better and for worse, so I simply place a towel under her chin and let her sleep.

Despite this sleep issue, my wife refuses to go to bed before 21.00 - "Only kids go to bed before 9 o'clock news", she says.  And then she wonders why she's exhausted the next day.  In fact, I can't drag her out of bed and she does not complain about my snoring any more. She is so far away in Never Never Land that not even Peter Pan knows where she is.

The ever lasting question during our third pregnancy (please note that I said our) was whether the baby would come early like the other two, or if this one would come on time.  We just wanted the baby to be born closer to the due date this time. Our families were more interested whether it would be a boy or a girl. We didn't mind if we were having a boy or a child, but various family members started to bet early in the term.

One thing I "missed", but my wife didn't, was meeting the doctor for her monthly / bi-weekly check-ups.   Despite working with sensitive women, hormones and mood swings, he said things as he saw them.  He cracks me up, but I had to laugh inside, otherwise my wife would beat me up after the sessions.

Anyways, we were of course very excited and looked very much forward to our third wonder.

------- Suggested reading:
"Ready or Not!" - a star is born

First day of school [skool] for my daughter [daw-ter]

As parents you measure your life in milestones based on your children's activities.  The fact is, you no longer have your own activities and if you did, these would be very short and scheduled when the kids are asleep.  But, luckily the majority of people you socialise with are probably in the same situation, so going to the local pub once every 6 months should be possible.  Gym?  Haven't been to the gym for decades.

So, it is no surprise that when your child starts school, this big day is a major event and it is vital that both parents attend.  Our big day had been in planning ever since our daughter was born.  In Ireland, you have to register for school as soon as possible, to make sure the child gets in (ridiculous). So we registered our daughter 18 minutes after giving birth.  Felt stupid filling in forms still wearing the surgical outfit and goggles.

Our daugther started school, Junior Infants, last year.  It was somewhat surreal to attend the introduction meetings during the summer where the principal talked about what to expect.  This in itself was in hindsight planned at a ridiculous time.  It was in the evening at 19.00 (7pm), when kids are meant to be sleeping - at least ours.  If you don't have a babysitter and two kids, then this becomes a challenge.  Therefore, most parents attending this meeting had brought their kids along, making it almost impossible for the principal to speak.  Funnily enough, as soon as the principal stood up on stage all the men fell silent, and I did too.  I guess we all had some run-ins with the principal when we were kids. Now, we wanted to behave when the principal was nearby - a natural reaction, a power that comes with being The Principal.

All the proud parents attended the two hour long briefing on how important it is to drop off your kids and leg it, as well as the method they use to teach kids how to read and write.  They use phonetics, which is basically pronouncing the sounds of the letters when spelling.  For me, it was a challenge to understand my daughter for a few weeks after she started, as she was using these sounds for a lot of words.  It would be the same if you were to read [reed] phonetic /fəˈnɛtɪks, foʊ-/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [fuh-net-iks] writing [ra:i-ting].  Gradually, this becomes your second language when you do homework with your child and you have to have full conversations using the phonetic language (which doesn't exist by the way).  Having spent two hours on really uncomfortable chairs, we left the school no wiser and probably even more nervous about the Big Day.

This is were the madness began.  My wife wanted our daughter to have enough different outfits to last her the first school year, resulting in a shopping spree in Zara, H&M, Next, Benetton, Designer labels, picking up 238 outfits with matching accessories.  Slightly exaggerated, but we bought a lot.  This was pre-recession of course.  Due to the recession, my son will probably inherit all the clothes, hand-me-downs, when he starts school, which would make him a perfect target for being beaten up. Nobody, except Scottish kids, wear kilts to school!!

We also bought her a new school bag, with wheels on, and a lunchbox.  I provided some pens and paper, sponsored by my work. She was ready to take on Junior Infants.  We should have known better, but I gave her a pencil sharpener, which lead to all pencils being sharpened until they were an inch long.  I could not borrow more pencils from work, so we had to buy her a new pack.  All her books were bought as soon as we got the book list.

The Big Day finally arrived and my daughter was ecstatic. This was it, out little girl was all grown up now, leaving the house for a part-time school career.  Yes, she had attended play-school, but this was different and it felt different too - probably because my wife was sobbing the days leading up to the 1st day of school.

We left the house earlier that morning, to make sure we were on time, only to find that all streets within a mile were blocked by cars.  All parents in the area were taking their kids to school too - weird!  Luckily we had VIP parking in the area.  Dressed in the latest kids fashion, we proudly walked to school and made our way to the yard.  All kids were so excited, but the parents even more.

ALL parents, including ourselves, had brought along any film camera we could find, to document the special moment in our lives; mobile phones, digital cameras, video, polaroid, etc.  You name, it was there.  Every step you took, you were asked to get out of the frame or got a video camera in the face as the proud father was following his child walking with the school bag.  I was exactly the same, honestly, and I was even using a 'clapper' for the various scenes.  My wife was so embarrassed everytime I screamed "Action!".

The teachers came out of each classroom, calling in the kids, and this is where emotions erupted.  Remember the scene in Indiana Jones, where the Nazi woman looks at the Jones' and screams "ALARM!"  It was like scenes from Titanic. All mothers holding on to their kids and whispering "Don't let go!"  In every direction you looked, people were crying and kids screaming.  I think the parents were the root of the problem. I had to be dragged screaming (and most likely crying too) out of the room by the school caretaker, holding on to my daughter and her table + chair.  My wife was locking herself to the rail, in the yard for some reason like some tree-hugger. She kept scratching me when I was trying to remove her from the rail while she was crying uncontrollably.  It was absolutely chaotic.  I remember seeing one parent pretending to faint hoping to delay school start - how childish!  All this caused our poor kids to get scared and start to cry.  I'm sure the teachers were dreading this day all summer.

Most kids sat in their chairs and were innocent spectators to their parents behaviours, not knowing how to react. They were just looking forward to their first day in school.

After the civil war scenes had finished with most parents receiving detention from the principal,  school finally started. All parents walked calmly to their cars.  Most women were still in tears and trying to find ways to run back, but their husbands held them back.

My wife picked up our daughter after lunch and she had had a blast in school, making so many friends and playing in the yard.  She ate her lunch and she was basically delighted to be in school.  The drama went on a few more mornings, for the other kids of course.  My wife had her moments every evening, questioning if our daughter was ready for this, quietly crying in the bathroom.   I was ordered to delete certain parts of the recorded footage, still and moving images, so I guess censorship still applies in some countries.

Anyway, we survived our daughter's first day in school. Now we are already planning our son's first day in school.

Good luck to all the new parents.  I've heard they have riot gear on sale in London, after the recent summit.

Tribute to weekdays

A poem by the late Danish poet, Dan Turell.  I've tried to translate it, while still making sure it makes sense.  I'm sorry if it doesn't.

I never really understood or appreciated Dan Turell's poems when I was younger. It is something that changes as you get older as you begin to understand the meaning of his poems.

I like weekdays
Most of all, I like weekdays
Slowly waking up to familiar views
that are not entirely familiar
The family once trustworthy and sleepy and distant strange faces

The morning kisses
The mailman slamming the letterbox
The smell of coffee
The routine walk to the cornershop for milk, smokes, newspaper
I like weekdays
Even through all the irritations
The noisy bus that drives past the door
The phone that disturbs the most beautiful, clearest still moment in my aquarium
The birds squeaking in their cage
The old neighbor looking
The kid you have to pick up in the creche, just as you got started
The everlasting grocery list in the pocket
with the usual requirements for meat, potatoes, coffee and bisquits
A quick drink at the local
when everybody meets with their grocery bags and wipe sweat from their foreheads
I like weekdays
The daily agenda
even the biological agenda
The unavoidable routines in the bath and on the toilet
The mandatory shave
Letters you need to write
Rent payments
Balancing the accounts
Dishes
The fact that you ran out of diapers or cello-tape
I like weekdays
Not in contrast to parties, smokes and dancing
That has to be done
even with all the leftovers
So much unsaid or approached
hanging in the air afterwards
Like a psychological hangover
that only weekday can fix with morning coffee
Great with parties!  Room for euphoria!
Let the thousand pearls bubble
But what happiness to afterwards lay down
the rest of the weekday's bed
to the known and yet unknown forecast


I like weekdays
I love them
Completely and totally love weekdays
I love weekdays very much

The story of the Shitter

One of your less cool and interesting experiences through life, and its weird little u-turns, is visiting the worldwide facility for assisting you with number 1 and 2 - The Cubicle Toilet adventure.  Cubicles have been around for centuries and they are one of the less amazing inventions left by the ancient Roman an Greek civilizations.  I'm sure every great ancient civilisation across the Globe have had their take on cubicle toilets - and neither of them has managed to make this a glamorous event.  Sitting next to somebody pooping, while talking, is not my idea of a friendly conversation.  It's beyond me, but some public toilets in ancient Rome were designed as a giant bench of stone, with holes that was used by the public.

Certain things must, for the sake of humanity, be left to the private space of a lockable toilet - preferably in the comfort of your home.  On the other hand, I do understand that business and shopping areas are forced to create some toilet facilities for employees and visitors. And it is not feasible with only one toilet.  Imagine the queues.  Obviously, and for the record, I'm only talking about toilets designated for men.

OK, the worst thing for me when going to these small public toilets, is the fact that some men strongly believe that once they are inside their little cubicle, they are sitting in a soundproof room.  You know and you have heard what I describe, but there's nothing like sitting next door to a guy who grunts and farts loudly.  I'm finding it hard to sometime contain my laughter.  Even worse, you know that you might have to face that person, when you both are done with your assigned jobs.  You wash your hands, but can't help glancing at the door with the weird noises. You rush and wash your hands, spraying water on your crutch, making it look like you peed on your pants, all to avoid having too meet the fart dude. This is in particular a difficult and awkward moment at work, especially when you think you know the person!

The freaky thing about work toilets, is when you are aiming for the urinal, and all of a sudden the door is forced open by the cleaning lady.  She's cool about the whole thing and gets on with her cleaning duties, all while you try to cover yourself.  If you are sitting on the toilet, then you would probably just lift your feet while she is washing the floor from underneath the door.

What about transportable toilets, normally used for concerts?  People think that, just because it is made of plastic, they can spray pooh and pee the inside of the cubicle, not considering the next visitor.  You open the door, only to be greeted by a smell that would trigger WMD or biohazard alerts, but you have no choice but to enter.  The biggest fears I have in these rooms are that:

1. It is normally so dark inside. Only the light from a ridiculous vent on the roof is lit up so you have no idea what you might be stepping on.
2. 9 out of 10 times, there is no toilet paper, or anything resembling paper, meaning you might have to rip up your smoke pack (if you smoke) or some other paper-like items, just to finish properly
3. The seat!!!  Is there a seat and what state is it in?
4. Don't drop anything into the hole! I read a scary story about a woman who managed to drop her purse into the hole. She got stuck with both arms while attempting to reach it.

Something that amazed me as a kid, was the Italian hole-in-the-floor toilet.  As a young boy visiting Italy a lot, this always proved to be a HUGE challenge.  Squatting down, holding onto one or two handles (two if you were lucky), while attempting to aim and hit the bloody little hole.  I had loads of accidents as a kid, mainly peeing on my pants or dropping a cake on the step - never the hole - and I have since stayed clear of those public toilets.  I would rather walk an extra mile, squeezing the cheeks or bladder, until I would find a suitable toilet.

I also remember having to visit an outdoor toilet, a small cabin away from the house, when going to Sweden and Norway with my parents when I was only 6 or 7 years old.  Again, you have to open the door that DOES NOT lead to Narnia, and sit on this wooden plank with a hole.  You have no idea what's below and I felt sorry for my dad when he had to empty the toilet on those holidays.  The smell was unbelievable.

My worst experience EVER, was having to pooh in a trash-bin next to a church in Greenland.  There were no toilets or trees for miles and miles, so My dad held me while I did my stuff - not the proudest moment in my life, but I really had to go.

Most of public toilets, and pub toilets, often remind me of warzones.  Men are culprits for treating these toilets with little respect.  That's why 99.9% of these facilities smell of pee - old pee.  You can only breathe through your mouth, although it still gives you a burning sensation at the back of the mouth - some acidy stinging feeling.  Horrible, but again, you gotta go, so you make the visit quick.   Women, for your information, a large majority of men do NOT wash their hands after their visits!

One aspect of visiting public restrooms is the amount of graffiti and greetings written by previous visitors.  How they find the time to write these messages is beyond me, but fair play to them.  Some funny quotes:  "If you can read this, then you are peeing on your shoes!!",  "Paddy is gay" (so what?)  and "I hate everybody" or the international version "SHIT!"  You could probably write a book about this phenomenon, but I'll leave that for somebody else.

When visiting Paris some years ago, my wife told me that I had to visit the toilet.  This particular bar was dedicated to the Pope, Virgin Mary, Jesus and all the saints, so it was a somewhat new experience buying a pint.  Anyway, I do not know how my wife knew what the inside of the men's toilet looked like, but I ventured in.  Sweet Lord, the toilet walls were covered in all kinds of pornographic pictures, which would surprise even Larry Holmes.  No wonder the queue to the men's room was so long!

My American high school experience, almost 20 years ago, introduced a new cubicle experience.  The toilets didn't have any doors!  This was mainly to prevent drug use. but it meant that you were doing your stuff among friends and foes.  I know we are talking team sports in the US, but some things are individual sports.  I had no problem holding in number 2 for days.

Fart, grunts, smells, chatting and pee covered floors!  What we men have to overcome just to relieve ourselves. You girls should be lucky that you have to sit down, and I hope you have a better toilet culture than men, when visiting toilets outside your home.  Men can, on the other hand, pee anywhere in the Wild - and some men I'm sure will attempt to do both too, if they are really desperate.

Once at a festival, I saw this punk woman who wanted to pee among us men, against the fence.  She dropped her leather pants and knickers, and held on to the fence while starting to pee.  But, with all the pee from us men, the place was a bit muddy.  With a whoosh, her right leg and then her left leg slipped, and she sat down bare assed in the mud - man, all the guys along the fence we pissing and laughing at the same time.  I'm sure she would never try this again.

These were some of my weird moments and experiences with the cubicle latrine -nothing amazing or fascinating, and to some probably a ridiculous blog - but hey, it might spark a few funny comments from you too.