I'm With Stupid

Dressing your offspring in slogan t-shirts can be a minefield. I dress Louis in all manner of rock and roll paraphenalia, even though he doesn't give a toss about guitars. But be careful - some sartorial decisions could damage your child and make you look like a total moron...

1. BAD BOY T-SHIRTS

In Mothercare/Primark etc you can't move for kid's clothes that say 'MY DAD'S IN PRISON', 'I'm A LITTLE SHIT' and 'MY FIRST COURT APPEARANCE'. Clothes with the words 'Trouble', 'Noisy', 'Naughty' and 'Terror' emblazoned across them are not cute - they just re-affirm everybody's belief that your badly behaved kid is going to end up in a young offenders institute after being caught driving a stolen Vauxhall Nova through the window of William Hill.


2. BAND T-SHIRTS

Parents, ask yourself this. Does your kid actually like the Ramones? Or does he like the theme tune to Spongebob? Think for a minute and act accordingly.

'Damn you, Joey, Dee-Dee and those two other ones!'

3. DADDY'S LITTLE WHATEVER

Daddy has very little to do with the whole birthing process, but he's made to feel included after the event via the medium of children's clothing. Therefore Daddy this and Daddy that is written all over every single baby gro and burp cloth in the world. Other more pertinent slogans might include: 'Daddy, would it kill you to do the dishes once in a while?' or 'Daddy's on Chatroulette talking to dirty ladies.'

4. DESIGNER T-SHIRTS

When rich people aren't dressing their kids like characters from a Bret Easton Ellis novel or sending them to boarding school, they like to put them in 'casual' designer tees which cost £200. Note: making a ginger kid wear a yellow Ed Hardy t-shirt is child abuse.




5. FUTURE SOMETHING OR OTHER

Aspirational parents love to project their desires onto their children, sending them to an endless round of French/ballet/Suzuki violin lessons. So it's good to plant some subliminal career propaganda on a t-shirt as early as possible. 'Please don't let him be a binman' the parents of this kid are silently screaming, as their baby tries to eat yet another copy of Dear Zoo.



Or how about this? No pressure, like.

OH...GOODY

Remember when you used to get a goody bag at the end of a party, rather than a hangover and an STD? I still have feelings for a 2B pencil I got at Natalie Strugnell's party that was prematurely snatched away from me by my Mum because it contained lead (I mean, like DUH). I also remember with great affection this rubbery little yellow thing you squeezed in between your fingers and it popped across the room. (These were simpler times -back then people used to have a heart attack when the phone rang or there was more than one programme on the telly). Yes, no matter that the birthday boy or girl was a bitchy, ratty little stinker or that someone peed in the jelly or that somebody dislocated their shoulder during Pass the Parcel- the goody bag was always the saving grace.

Now, of course children's party goody bags have to be filled with guest passes for Disneyworld, Nintendo DSs and ipods emblazoned with pink or blue Swarovski crystals. Depending on how Sam Cam your friends are, you can come home with anything from a Slinky to a Swiss chalet style Wendy house in Val D'Isere with a built-in Smeg fridge. But no matter what the income bracket of the party-giver's parents, the goody bag staples of bubbles, sweets and a couple of balloons is still going strong. It's a tradition. Bit of harmless fun, isn't it?

Or is it?

The other day Louis went to a party and in his goody bag, he got this:

Now call me picky, but I wouldn't have thought a DEVIL SPERM BALLOON was particularly appropriate for a children's party. What next? Gary Glitter stickers? Comedy tits? A subscription to Asian Babes?

mo' money, mo' imaginary problems

No matter how much I try to convince myself that I want to live like a true bohemian - be more political, recycle more, produce free spirited children with wild hair, drink coffee out of jam jars in my studio, occasionally have a random exhibition of my belly button fluff in Berlin - there is always a little voice in my head which says: 'Fuck it. I want to win the lottery. I want to roll about in my private jet eating gold-plated Mars Bars with Kanye West on a rug made out of OWL BABIES.'

Yesterday I caught myself doing Lottery Maths. This always happens when I'm overdrawn, which I have been ever since Louis started demanding things like food, childcare and shoes. First, I imagine a nice chunky lottery win. This is harder than it seems. Too much and I have to give £50 million to Medicin San Frontiers before I can even start thinking about Mulberry handbags and diamond teeth. Too little and obviously I run out of cash before I can even sign the invisible deeds on the imaginary villa in Tuscany.

My perfect number is about £979,000, which means I don't have to feel guilty about having millionaire status, I can afford a house, a modest holiday home, and there'll be enough left to buy shitloads of Timorous Beasties wallpaper and Swedish designer chandeliers. It terms of social status it'll probably put me up there with a Primrose Hill Yummy Mummy. Along with the tasteful designer labels, I might even be able to afford a spot of drug/self harm hell - enough to write a tedious autobiography about it anyway. (By the way, you must read it - she manages to recount her downward spiral into heroin abuse AND boast about her en-suite at the same time).

Obviously, I won't be sprinkling smack on my Whole Foods quinoa salad and waking up covered in hemp seeds and vomit in time to collect Rollo and Pilates from the Steiner School. Money won't turn my head that much. But I might book myself the odd vigorous session with a Swedish masseur, and of course, I will be buying this and filling it with the finest Chateau Lafitte money can buy.

But then the guilt sets in. I didn't give any money to starving people. My family will still be living in their old houses, plagued by noisy neighbours and leaking taps. There will be recriminations, resentments - people will laugh at my diamond teeth! How will I look tramps in the eye as I sweep past them with my designer baubles? How will I look my friends in the eye as I tell them about that chic little wine bar in Cannes? How will Louis get on at boarding school while I'm skiing? Will he be permanently damaged and start wearing loafers and his collars turned up on his shirts?

It's a good job I never actually buy a lottery ticket.

Stretching the definition of fun

If you ever see a sign advertising a 'Family Fun Day' - run. Run in the opposite direction. Run to the offy. Run to the airport. Run to the nearest place of worship and swear to God that you will never consider attending another family fun day again. For it says in the Old Testament (King James version, Deuteronomy 22.6) 'And lo, the Lord saw the children of Israel queuing for sinful entertainments, and with a great terribleness he did smite them by charging £2 for an ice cream and seven fucking quid for a Dora The Explorer balloon.'

Of course, this stupid heathen ignored all warnings and took Louis to a family fun day which was - to paraphrase Iggy and his Stooges- NO FUN. The weather started out cold and immediately became blazing hot, meaning I was wading about in furry lined boots and thick tights in 24 degree heat. Kids everywhere were acting like unmedicated schizophrenics - wailing, pooing in the bushes and gnawing on their own legs. There was a bouncy castle that was more popular than Glastonbury, a real fire engine that kids could sit in and relentlessly press the 'nee-naw' button, a selection of lame stalls and an events 'arena' featuring a bum-numbing display of falconry. All the way through this I was clinging onto sanity like Wiley Coyote hanging off the edge of a cliff with a stick of 'ACME' dynamite up his ass. When, I wondered, would the much- touted 'fun' part of this family day begin?

Luckily the tedious birds of prey event was the highlight of the day, in that a falcon called Goose saw his chance for some real fun and fucked off. Watching the handler getting increasingly desperate and dry mouthed as his prize bird flew up into a thermal 3 miles over Glasgow was actually pretty funny. Running out of things to say apart from 'Goose? GOOOOOOOSE! I'm supposed to be going out tonight!' the crowd grew bored and he was left frantically swinging his meat for half an hour on his own. This had a knock on effect on the running order, holding up the following act, the Ducks of Hazzard. I amused myself for a while imagining the performing ducks in their dressing room wearing dicky bows and bitching about falcons ('Darling, he's so unprofessional - he's not even a real goose').

Then five minutes later, my friend's child went missing, causing even more obscenely high stress levels and much bollocking when he was found. After that my friend's other child looked like she was spoiling for an asthma attack, Louis broke out in a blotchy heat rash that made him look like he was made of Spam, and I got candy floss stuck in my teeth. Oh yeah, and then I bashed my head getting into the taxi in the way home and cracked my skull so hard thought I was having a brain haemorrhage. It still hurts. It ALL still hurts.

Fun.

And the ducks were shit.


I AM A FIRST CLASS DIV

One morning a week I start work in Edinburgh at 9am, thus I have to stumble bleary-eyed out of bed at 6 to be at the train station for 7. (In some countries, this has replaced cutting off people's hands as punishment for petty crimes). As I was not on the ball, I pressed the wrong button and when I was on the train, the guard informed me that I had stupidly paid over the odds for a first class ticket. Still, I thought I'd better make the best of my expensive faux pas and I wafted into the hallowed Scotrail 1st class compartment, feeling like Lauren Bacall in Murder On The Orient Express.

God, what a disappointment. No flunky appeared to carry my Louis Vuitton trunk, and the only perk I was offered was a pre-wrapped cinnamon bun that looked like a dog poo with raisins in it. Meanwhile, behind the glass sliding doors I could hear commuters laughing and having a whale of a time while I sat in air-conditioned silence with a Chinese tourist who was uncomprehendingly reading a copy of the Scotsman. Oh, how I longed to be back with the great unwashed! To feel what they feel, see what they see! To try out my happy hardcore ringtones with no regard for other commuters! To talk loudly into my phone about meetings! To read the Metro letters page while sitting next to someone with bad breath from Falkirk! Man, it's tough living in a gilded cage. That's what P. Diddy must feel like all the time.

Defrost pie, kick ass

The other day, a work colleague said to me: 'You look like a woman who's cooked a few steak pies in her time.' Of course, my earhole filter heard this as 'Whoa, ya chubby bitch- lay off the Fray Bentos!' and I immediately launched at him with a blunt object. It was only when I was fretfully dabbing at his bleeding head that I realised that he was asking for specific pie defrosting advice and he meant I look like I'm a CAPABLE COOK.

Having spent about 34 years of my life looking like (and actually being) someone who would burn toast/kill your goldfish/forget to take her knickers off before she gets in the bath, this is worrying. In terms of sexual allure, this must mean I've jumped the shark and landed on Mum Island, where everyone knows a really good recipe for hidden vegetable pasta sauce but nobody is getting any - apart from for the purposes of procreation. It means that I am no longer Top Shop, I am John Lewis (larger lady department). It means that metaphorically speaking, I have cracked heels and grey pubes and think that David Cameron is 'dishy'.

But so it goes. While I wish I could be a drunken gobshite floozy forever, in 2007 my Mum Island passport was stamped with indelible ink and now my citizenship is starting to show. And you know what, I'm proud of my new found skillz. After all, in the past 3 years I have been on a crash course of cooking, coping, cleaning, crying and carrying. And I've learned many things, such as:

1) Children are like drunk, short tempered chimps and they should be locked up
2) You must keep on top of your domestic tasks even if they make you feel like Sylvia Plath, because otherwise you and your children will die of a flesh eating bug
3) Give your child healthy meals otherwise they will turn into toothless fat prawns who wear 'Future Wag' t-shirts and break all the chairs at school with their lardy arses
4) Often you will be called on to be resourceful, so make sure you know about knots and shit
5) You will never, never get a chance to do anything you want to do ever again but you will be so tired you won't remember what those things are anyway.
6) Mums are totally hard as nails. Like cage fighters with 7 bellies.

In fact my newly acquired Mum powers came in handy on Saturday night. I'd had a trying day stuck in the house with Louis - who was acting like Mariah Carey after discovering that the flowers in her dressing room were £2 carnations from the Jet garage - and I was at the end of my tether. Luckily, I had a night out planned and went to the West End for a drink. All was well until a twentysomething student twat hijacked the taxi me and my friend were getting into and wouldn't budge. In previous years, I would have been intimidated but all I could see was an overgrown 15 stone toddler in a Superdry t-shirt. I yelled at him to get out several times, which didn't work. So I got in, got hold of his arms, and physically dragged him out of the cab, leaving him to have a wee tantrum on the pavement.

Mind you, he got off lightly. If I'd been feeling really evil I would have spat on a hanky and wiped his face as well.

THE FACE OF EVIL

When you have a child, you spend a lot of your time marvelling at their tiny little nose and their big big eyes and their rosebud mouth and their Johnson and Johnson's scented sugar-spun baby hair. (Mostly because you're too tired to do anything fun, like clog dancing or doing tequila shots strapped to the wing of a fighter jet).

Then as they get older, you participate in endless conversations with people about who he/she takes after, or whether their face is getting thinner or fatter. That beautiful face is the main feature of hours and hours of camera footage cluttering up your hard drive, and occasionally you may shell out vast amounts of money to 'professionals' to have that face immortalised in a 10" x 12" canvas style portrait - with matching coasters and mousemats and a keyring - so that you can remember this wonderful stage of their life forever.

THEN, you go to a family fun day. And you do this:

This is Louis - as Spiderman, I think.

Or Darth Maul.

Or a grilled tomato with a pair of sunglasses on.

This amazing work of art lasted approximately five minutes until a tearful incident on the bouncy castle led to what I can only describe as carnage. He spent the rest of the day looking like a shellshocked burns victim jabbering about his trauma to Sky News. Even worse, later on he wiped his red hands all over the CHAISE LONGUE. New parents be warned - face painting ruins your child and your soft furnishings. And he had pink eyebrows for a week.

my nervous breakdown will not be televised

I like watching telly. I watch lots of telly. I watch adverts for the sheer joy of watching how they're going to advertise a Toyota that looks like the last 27 Toyotas (usual answer - shot of it sleekly going through an underpass while paint bombs go off in derelict buildings) . I watch Come Dine With Me, and Timeshares In The Sun and I'm 13, Fat And Pregnant Wot You Gonna Do About It? I watch incessant repeats of Family Guy that are so old they should be examined by archeologists. I EVEN watch River City, Glasgow's impossible-to-export soap opera, which is so amateurish and baffling that it may as well be performed by a pair of giant hands moving some lolly sticks about and speaking Scottish. Yes, it's fair to say that I'm a square eyed, slack jawed, telly addled loon.

So I don't know why I'm surprised that my child is the same. Louis wants to watch telly all the time. If it was up to him, he'd have a telly attached to his forehead that played Cbeebies constantly while he was at the playground or interacting with others.

Today, I took him into town, which involved a hideously middle class trip to Princes Square, lunch, chalk drawing on the steps of the art gallery, an hour and a half in the art gallery drawing and looking at stuff, a trip to the library and 2 journeys on the train. When we got back, we went to the glasshouse in the park, looked at terrapins and geckos, went to the soft play, then to the play park for an hour. To top off this perfect mother routine, on returning home I even baked a cake, until finally giving in and putting on the box.

And still when my husband came home and asked him what he did he said: 'Watched Zingzillas'. I wouldn't mind but Zingzillas features a monkey rock band and some coconuts and it's totally SHIT. I give up. I may as well give him the remote and go to the pub.

GET WRECKED, BUY A PINEAPPLE

The Scandinavians, because they are right about everything - apart from Ace of Base and eugenics - believe that it's healthy to cut loose once a month and get completely hammered. Not like three-glasses-of-wine pissed, but full on weeing-in-a-viking-helmet-and-waking-up-in- a-skip-in-the-Lidl-car-park pissed. Now I'm an adult with responsibilities, I tend more towards dinner and the odd magnum of Sauvignon Blanc, but the other night, my decorum went out of the window.

I should have known it was going to, because I was wearing a bra that was too small for me and I'd been at a children's birthday party all afternoon which featured 22 kids and a very rambunctious game of Musical Statues. Anyway, me and my friend got billy bollocksed and decided it would be a great idea to go to a birthday party that we hadn't been invited to, so we went to Tesco and bought the birthday boy the gift of a lifetime - a pineapple and a packet of Pro Plus. Then we legged it down to the venue which was MILES away and completely empty apart from 4 uncomprehending Polish people, who took one look at our pineapple and shut the doors. So I texted the birthday boy who didn't invite us. He didn't reply. Then I realised it was next week and that now we would never be invited because we had committed a grave social faux pas.

But when you're wearing a bra that's a bit too small for you and you're carrying an exotic fruit, nothing matters. Seriously, single ladies, take a pineapple out on the pull. Everyone loves you - it's a bit like being Carmen Miranda. I even got chatted up by a man who look like Raoul Moat - what more could anyone want?