2nd Jan - My Teddy Bear

Yesterday was an enjoyable day, or at least, it would have been if my team (Arsenal) had avoided their natural habit of conspiring to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory (yes, you read that correctly). I did make a bit of a new friend, though. I don't know his name, but he's big and a bit scary and dresses like a mod-rocker. I think he's about 60, with a portly stomach, and a balding head. Probably how I'll look in 30 years' time. He wears a checked shirt, tucked into his jeans and big ol' Doc Marten boots in case any young ruffians need a kicking, and he has big Bradley Wiggins-esque sideburns. 

I was in the pub, you see. Watching the early kick-off (London's most successful team of all time, versus the oil-rich trophy purchasers from the blue half of Manchester). I was alone, and on the diet cokes (what an absolute lunatic I am), and I'd settled in to watch a bit of the pre-match build-up. In doing so, I was able to snaffle one of the best seats in the house, one of those high stools on a table surrounded by other saloon style chairs - which I expertly used as foot rests - right in front of the big screen. I say 'right in front', truth be told, it was more to the side, as around the main table gathered a group of mid-life crisis types. They knew the all barmaids names and judging by the purple-ish tint to their skin, weren't afraid of a few premium ales, on a daily occasion. You know the sort, see the kids (or grandkids) once a month, ex-wife's a bitch, love Clarkson, hate the price of petrol, real Brexit-supporting 'men'. Far too masculine to embrace the lone Gooner in the corner, who - between you and I - used L'Oreal Men Expert moisturiser on his soft yet supple skin every morn, noon, and eve. 

I knew I'd have to lower my vocal tone a couple of decibels and puff the chest out a tad when they quipped musings over towards me on account of my blatant red and white striped scarf. My weapon of choice? Tactical knowledge, mixed with a potent blend of 'Gammonism', rather than my usual sophisticated Alex Scott-style insight. "Keep 'im quiet and you'll 'av 'alf a chance today guv'nor", I snarled at the City-supporting Wiggins wannabe, whilst nodding my head at the TV towards the apple of my eye, my darling Bukayo Saka. "What do you make of that Xhaka then?", came the reply. "Wellllll...", I stretched out in my seat, now entering full Kray mode, raising my tone to Level 3 on the cockney-o-meter... "Fucking idiot ain't he." The men chuckled and jeered in approval, sort of like that weird sound you hear in the House of Commons when one of Boris' cronies makes a vile joke about poor people. For the rest of the game, the anti-EU brigade would regularly ask my opinion on flashpoints of footballing focus, and when City eventually nabbed their predictable winner with the last kick of the game, their 'leader' came over and shook my hand. "Fair game," he said. I squeezed his giant sausage fingers as hard as I could. "Fair game," and then sniffed the back of my hand to my nose and skanked away. "See ya later fellas". Had I earned their respect? Absolutely. Was I excited to go home and marinade in a fragrant lavender-infused bath 100% vegan bath-bomb? Absolutely.

Which brings me onto today... 2nd January. "Why is a 31-year old bloke writing a blog post about his cuddle toys?" I hear you ask. But I'm not. I'm writing about my son, Edward (or 'Teddy' as I've always affectionately labelled him), because today, is his 9th birthday. Now then, don't get me wrong... I could bore you for another 3,000 words or so on why he's so incredibly special, but the truth is, I'm aware there's nothing worse than hearing all about someone's sprog or why various parents insist on telling Facebook that 'Henry is mummy's brave little soldier xoxoxo' every time the tooth fairy drops a COVID-contaminated 50 pence piece under his pillow. So instead, I'll leave you with a few observations... 

Teddy was always rather unique... 1 in 80,000 in fact, in the sense that he was an en caul birth (Google it), and furthermore, was born at home. The idea of doing so in a paddling pool was briefly discussed, so I could activate my role as one of those pathetic garden gnome type men you see at water-births, using their rod to fish the turds out of the water. Eventually, his birth was a combination of an iPhone on speaker mode, on the arm of the sofa, as NHS Direct barked instructions at me on how to deliver a baby in my somewhat ambitious role of makeshift midwife, whilst awaiting the actual arrival of the real nurse to our front door... A race tenser than the Verstappen-Hamilton rivalry. 

Since then, his brother, George, has been the one to inherit the smouldering looks of their devilishly handsome father (*blushes*) at a similar age, but Teddy's individualism in appearance has certainly found a balance in terms of the personality traits he's picked up from his old man. Ruthlessly organised, to an almost pedantic level, he's pro-active, intelligent, highly inquisitive, and fiercely independent. He also serves as the family 'leader', looking after George, (even though the latter is a year older), and protecting him with stunning dog-like loyalty. Above all, Teddy is superbly polite, but has a real witty sarcasm and sense of humour about him. Any opportunity to seek humour in a situation is one he'll hunt out immediately. Edward isn't 'mummy's brave soldier', but he certainly is, 'Daddy's Teddy Bear'. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I've still got half a giant Cadburys football and a 6 pack of Mince Pies leftover from Christmas to eat... It could be a busy night! x