Holidays With Small People

The prospect of going away with a baby is daunting one for new parents. Even for old parents, like me. There are all the outfits, several for each day as stuff get soiled by food or worse. Then there are all the clothes for the baby.

Babies come with so much equipment that a trip to the Lakes is akin to a Space Shuttle launch. There are millions of things to remember as you need to be prepared for every possibility: being held hostage on a train for days, a nuclear attack or a sudden conversion to Judaism.

"Did you bring the nuclear deflector shields, darling?"

"Of course."

"What if he suddenly converts to Judaism?"

"I brought a kippah."

"Just the one?"

There was also a fear of what we would find when we got there. We were going to the Lake District to stay with my mate Mike, a thoroughly unreliable wastrel and one of the least sensible people I know.

Uncle Mike is known to his friends' children as Druncle Mike, as they never see him sober. Incidents have a habit of occurring around him. He may climb a tree, strip naked, get arrested or attempt a world record at any moment.

One night, when talking absolute shit in a pub, he said to me, haughtily: "I can't decide if I'm a scientist or a philosopher."

"You're neither," I replied. "You're a gaudy dilettante."

And he is. He's a retired TV producer, turned African adventurer/microlight pilot, turned interior designer, whose decorative style can best be described as Boy Georgian.

Mike was to pick us up in Preston. Would he be sober enough to drive? Would he be on time for the first time in his life? Would he remember? Because finding ourselves in a strange town miles from home with a baby, unable to speak the language, is the kind of nightmare that stops new parents leaving the house. Luckily, we had our nuclear deflector shields and a survival pack big enough to take him to his late teens.

I needn't have feared. Mike, and his young girlfriend Robyn, were there waiting for us. The only remotely unusual thing we had to do en route to Coniston was stop to pay cash to a man who had just bought a Russian submarine. Whatever.

Mike and Robyn proved to be perfect hosts and even had a travel cot ready for our little lad to sleep in.  Kit fell hard for Robyn. As soon as her spied her soft blonde hair, he perked up, winked and gave her his 'Get your coat, love,' eyes.

First off we went to a pub to watch the Grand National. We tried to get Kit to dribble on the racecard to pick a winner but he wasn't having it. Clearly he didn’t want to look sloppy in front of Robyn.

Kit was strangely drawn to beer too, but after two more pubs he alerted us to his three-pub limit. Now he tells us. 

Spud and I haven't been out much since Kit arrived so having few drinks whilst continuing with the sleep deprivation schizzle had a debilitating effect.

The next night, having eaten Mike's Beast Feast Barbeque (beef, lamb and venison) we were unable to accept his request to join him for the local pub quiz.

"Pub quiz? I'm from London, Mike. You know, the city with all the… stuff," I bluffed, unwilling to admit I craved an early night more than a general knowledge triumph over farmers.

Mike was desperate to go and to win. He had never won and new blood could help him beat the two teams that always shared the prize. Mike always came second. When he beat Ted's team, Bob's team won. When he beat Bob's team, Ted's team won.

In the morning he reported he had beaten Bob's team and Ted's team.

"Ace! You won, then?"

"No, I came second."

"Who to?"

"Sophie Ellis Bextor's team."

"Oh."

You couldn't make it up. Indeed, why would you?

Mike and Robyn showed us the joys of the Lakes, the lovely walks, scenery, waterfalls, brooks and becks. It really is the most beautiful place in Britain, something I never tire of telling people from Yorkshire.

One morning Mike brought in a newborn lamb, fresh in the world that morning. Kit was alarmed to find it wasn't a new toy and freaked when he it baaed at him. Yet later at the zoo, he was nonchalant when a giraffe leaned down to see if he had any dinner for him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It's easy not to go anywhere and stay in your comfort zone but we were glad we left it to go to the Lakes, even if afterwards we needed a holiday we weren't going to get. Having the baby in our room meant no one gets a good night's sleep. Drinking boozes and eating mostly meat also has a price.

But we learned we could go away. That Kit had a three-pub limit, likes blondes and thinks lambs are tossers.

Come To Daddy

It's a long established Dad Fact that holding a baby makes you more attractive to women. Suddenly you're a gentle protector, strong but tender, and liable to impregnate at any given moment.

Accessorising with a baby brings you more attention from hot girls than money, cars or buff pecs - whatever they are.

However, the shocking truth is that those girls are actually interested in the baby. It's not a ploy to relieve you of your sperm.  There's no reflected glory that makes you as irresistible as Hai-Karate. You are just transport.

Which is why I've resisted Scally's request to rent our baby so he can pick up women.

That and the terms: He's after a 'no shag, no fee' arrangement, which relies far too heavily on his ability to seal the deal. Especially when his opening gambit often includes an offer of tea and anal sex. Well, he's from the North. They like tea.

I remember the unsolicited female attention I got pushing One I Made Earlier around the supermarket in 1980s' Virginia. A New Romantic with an English accent and a baby, in a state where 'Dagnabbit' is an actual word? Even I’d find me difficult to resist.

But the baby is fairly hefty evidence of a Significant Other. And what sort of a cad would deny her existence/fake her death for a fondle?

"Oh my God! She's so cuuute!" said a Southern honey, who we shall call Sugar Lumps.

"Oh thank you. Such a shame about her poor mum."

"God, no! Don’t tell me she passed. In childbirth?" she asked.

"No, conception," which didn’t work as well as I'd hoped.

Kit also has the girls cooing at my side, only to dominate their attention, leaving me invisible and unheard. Imagine my frustration when approached by Super Boobs, after Spud nipped into the Costcutter.

"Oh, look at him! He's sooo sweet!"

"Thank you. Shame he'll never have a little brother."

"Look at his cheeks!" she squealed. 

"Which is tragic given my current spermatozoan burden,"

"What a lovely smile!"

"And my amazing human sex tripod manoeuvre."

"How old is he?"

She has noticed me. "Two months," I purr. Sort of. 

"Two months! Oh, he's gorgeous!"

"Yes. He looks sweet on my… buff pecs."

Spud then comes out of the shop to ask, "Is he charming the ladies again?"

"N-no, I wasn't. We were just chatting."

"Yes, he is," said Super Boobs. "He's so beautiful."

"Oh him? Yes. Charming."

On cue, he smiles and we all melt a bit.

"Aww."

"Aww."

"Aww."

Lullabies On Acid

My New Year's Resolutions for 2011 are: Put on weight, start smoking, drink more and exercise less. I'm not sure the latter is actually possible but you've got to have goals. Maybe I'll get a stair lift.

2010 was remarkable. This time last year, Spud and I had no thoughts of babies and only a vague idea that we might live together. And we expected to be living in edgy Zone 1 South London, with its characters and chancers, not leafy village South London, where there is a boulangerie, yet no kebab shop. *splutters*

The arrival of Kit meant that our housing priorities changed. An extra bedroom became 'essential', rather than 'desirable' and drive-by shootings dropped off the radar altogether.

So singing lullabies on acid to an entirely new person hadn't crossed my mind a year ago.

To be clear, I haven't whacked myself up with blotter and floated above the infant, singing out of my eye - those days are gone. But I realised that whoever wrote these ditties had access to some powerful gear.

You won’t find it in the baby books but it seems the main function of parenthood is to coax the little darlings into unconsciousness as often as possible, for as long as possible. One desperate night I turned to song, the last trick up my sleeve before brandy. A lullaby came instantly to mind:

Rock-a-bye-baby

On the tree top

A baby on the treetop? That's a health and safety nightmare right there. Who puts a baby at the top of tree? Batshit mad people, that's who.

  

When the wind blows

The cradle will rock

If the bough breaks

The cradle will fall

Down will come cradle

Baby and all

My point exactly. If the cradle isn't tethered and harnessed within health and safety guidelines an otherwise avoidable accident becomes inevitable.

Extensive research reveals (OK, Wikipedia reveals) that a likely origin of Rock-a-bye Baby is a dark tale of a royal baby swap, committed to provide a Catholic heir to King James II.  The "wind" being a wind of change that would see William of Orange depose James in a revolution. So not only is the lyric a nightmarish tale of parental stupidity, its hidden meaning is one of religious bigotry and royal twattery.

Vowing never to darken his cot with such trauma again, I tried Rockaway Beach but was drowned out by wailing. 

Ultimately you have to go with whatever works.  The tree death song it is then…

The News

“I’m late,” said Spud.

“Yes, isn’t it?” I replied, hoping to get off to sleep quickly in case she was telling me she’s pregnant.

Sleep can make many things seem better in the morning. Imminent fatherhood is not among them. Having thought I’d got it over with early in life (25), I had congratulated myself on my good fortune. The rest of my time stretched before me like an endless sea of good rockin’ times. I was almost jealous of my own superb life. The only cloud on my horizon was a death that would come all too soon; and I still wondered if I might escape it with a false moustache or by throwing my voice.

Holy. Fucking. Shite-on-a-bike, I’m going to be a dad again. 23 years after the last incident, as I like to call her.

I sat the Incident down to give her news of her impending sibling. “Ha! Your life is over,” she remarked, all too cheerfully.

“I mean, till you’re like, 70,” she said, trying and failing to pull the punch after delivery. We’ll see how she likes being known as One I Made Earlier from now on.

Next I had to tell my mate, Andy. Luckily, we were sitting down in a pub. Actually, it’s not that lucky. We’re always sitting down in a pub. Except when we’re leaning in a pub.

I could see in his eyes the realisation that our search for the best pubs in the land for a good lean would be affected. We, armed only with the Racing Post and a tiny bit of weed, sat overlooking the bay of a decaying seaside town in the drizzle. When would we next know such heaven?

But he recovered quickly, to say: “So when are we expecting little Andy?”

“Lord!” Said Spud's best mate, Scally, a large Scouse sinner who casts a deafening shadow, even in the dark. “You should call him ‘Lord’. What do you think?”

“Genius!” he replied, to himself. 

“When he gets stopped by the police and his ID says Lord so-and-so, they’ll let him on his way.” Funny, I hadn’t considered what name would be best should he/she be stopped by the police.

When I told Mike, he squeezed me so hard I may have impregnated him too. He’d like that.

Jamie cried, bless him. And my brother asked: “Do you know the mother?”

Everyone else was as pleased as Mike without expressing it physically. Except my dad.

“You bloody fool,” he said, wheeling himself out to calm down.

It’s understandable though. He is a cunt.