Dads Can Do Shit Too

Look at the state of this….


“Hey kids, your mum cooks right? Bet your dad doesn’t? Bet he sits on his ass looking like a crap, Rab C. Nesbitt tribute act, huh? Eating pizza, drinking beer and failing, because he’s a dad and not a mum? Dads are shit! SHIT! DADS SUCK BECAUSE THEY HAVE NO VAGINAS!”

I may be a tad oversensitive about this issue, but it really bugs me. I hate people asking if i’m “babysitting” my own children. I hate people saying things like “I’m sure Mummy can fix that for you” when i’m sat with the children and she’s out changing the oil in the car.

I once, while out and about with my brood, genuinely heard an old woman in a bus queue say “I expect it’s takeaway tonight then!” when The Short Ones told them they were having a daddy day as mummy was working. I took great pleasure in telling this octogenarian arsewit that we were headed to the shops whilst out to pick up some nice prosciutto to pep up the lasagne I was making.  I honestly don’t think she believed me.


As a man, i’ll never be able to appreciate what it’s like to live in a society which has for years been dominated by my gender, at the expense of female rights. I won’t argue with that. I will say though that on this subject, the great sexism pendulum has swung toward men and stuck there.

That said, the main reason we papas are constantly told how shit we are is because we live in a world where we’re expected to be out winning bread. I’m not sure where one wins bread, if i’m honest. Maybe a really shit village fete?  I digress…


The point is, world, that Dads can do shit too. Marital Unit, bloody wonder that she is, set off for work at half seven today. She’s a nurse, so she is out there right now, caring for the sick, being amazing. While she does that, i’ll be home. I’ll tidy the kids rooms, with their involvement because I believe in teaching them to keep their own shit together, of course. I’ve already made them breakfast, they’ll have a nice, healthy lunch later and then I might take them out for tea. We’ll head to town on the bus, grab a bite and then go watch guys in costumes beat piss out of each other at the cinema, because my kids have been raised to know the difference between reality and fiction and Captain America: Civil War is in town and looks incredible.

I’ll parent the shit out of today and i’ll do all of it while being a big, useless, penis-having dad, ’cause #DadsCanDoShitToo.

T’was the run up to Christmas

Bad Santa
T’was the run up to Christmas and, lo and behold,
thousands of folks trudging out in the cold.
Their hands and feet frozen, the wind in their eyes.
they scrambled to get to the last few Mince Pies

The slow and infirm were trampled in the scuffle
to get to the last box of cheap Belgian truffles
While countless poor souls were lost in the fight
for a bottle of wine, to toast Christmas night.

Suddenly, the crowd spun around with a yell
and charged all at once, like a pack out of Hell.
They bashed and they battered, they pushed and they shoved
For word had got out, “M&S!” “Sale on gloves!”

“My granny would love them”,”Forget her, their mine!”
“LET ME THROUGH, LET ME THROUGH!”,”OI! Back of the line!”
From my vantage point, by a display of ties,
I witnessed the horror with my very own eyes

As each shopper vied for a place in the queue
A little old lady hobbled into view.
I cried out a warning but alas, she heard not
and was trampled to naught but a small, greasy spot

Now dashing and darting, now punching and kicking
Biting and gouging, eye poking, ear flicking
I saw one woman wield a small boy, like a club
and I watched as the poor lad started to blub

So, twas a mercy, when she swung with such might
that he slipped from her hands and flew out of sight
(He was found, safe and sound, some thirteen days later
in a display of cardigans, near the escalator)

Without her weapon, she was soon overcome
By a tag teaming granny and stay-at-home mum
With a zimmer frame shot to the side of the head
and a kick to the ribs, they left her for dead

They fought tooth and nail over jackets and sweaters
to answer the wishes of loved ones Christmas letters
While, in the background, the Christmas muzak plays
the same track repeated for twenty-odd days.

Son against daughter, father against mother
they beat seven Jingle bells out of each other
charging through the store like stampeding cattle
soon, the shop Santa was drawn into the battle.

He leapt from his stage, with a blood curdling yell
and upon the crowd of naughty shopgoers he fell.
He had such broad shoulders, with arms like two trees
and a right hook which would bring a Clydesdale to it’s knees

A fearsome sight in his suit of bright red
he hoisted one old dear right over his head
and with a dark chuckle, brought her down through a stack
of cut price DVD’s, snapping her back.

At the sickening crunch, the shoppers took pause
such was the wrath of this store Santa Claus.
They could tell without doubt, Kris Kringle was pissed…

And so, boys and girls, the moral of our story
is to be kind to others, or face an ending most gory.
And I heard Santa roar, as I ran for my life

Merry Christmas everyone.


I went to the toilet today. That’s not blogworthy, I use that toilet all the time. It’s a downstairs toilet, which is useful for someone who’s feet were designed by M.C.Escher. It’s got a sliding door and we’ve put a little reed diffuser thing in there and we’ve got nice, soft toilet paper which offends me terribly.

It’s not that i’d rather have rough paper. The stuff at school when my Host Body was young was akin to scraping one’s bum region with a handful of gravel, broken glass and thistles, which was not an enjoyable experience. No, the softness of the paper doesn’t bother me.


As I sat on the toilet, pondering the mysteries of the infinite, my eye happened upon the packaging for this delightfully gentle-on-the-rectum shitrag of ours. Beneath the name Cushelle (other brands are available) was a Koala. A fluffy, cuddly Koala.

Why? Why the bloody hell do I want to be reminded of Koala’s when i’m cleaning my patoot? Are Koala’s particularly fastidious in their hygienic approaches? Are they especially absorbent? Why does everything need a sodding mascot these days? Am I supposed to wipe my ass with marsupials? No. No, I guess not. The mascot irked me, but i’d have forgotten it after six or seven hours of red-faced screaming into the void, i’d wager. No, it wasn’t the mascot that tipped me over the edge. It was Linda.

Just to the side of the stupid, grinning Koala was a large banner with an endorsement from Linda, 62, Kent. “Best toilet roll I have used”, said Linda, apparently. Linda’s a fan of Cushelle, folks. Holds it in high regard, so she does.

Now, i’ve written a fair few reviews for Sticktwiddlers over the years. I’m forever rewriting my own personal top five film list. What i’m trying to say is, i’m used to objectively comparing one particular item to another similar item. That being said, i’ve never given that much thought to which toilet roll best cleansed my beshitted bottom. I’ve occasionally thought “Bugger me, that drew blood” or “We’ll get that one again, it matches the curtains” but these are fleeting considerations. I’ve never given enough of a damn to write in to sodding Good Housekeeping with a detailed description of my excretion escapades. Can you imagine?

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“Dear Good Housekeepers,

Today has been a wonderful day as I have finally, after years of searching, found the toilet roll which I feel that I deserve.

Every shit I have taken up to this point has been an arduous event, as I have dragged with me my sample books of various tissues and toilet rolls, my scoring charts, my video recording equipment. Diligent in my task, I recorded every movement and subsequent wiping, working my way through countless brands of toilet roll, kitchen roll, tissue, sanitary wipe and on one notable occasion following a misclick during online shopping, a copy of Katie Price’s autobiography. That was even harder on the arse than it was on the eyes, surprisingly.

All of my research has led to one, inescapable conclusion. Cushelle is the finest arsewipe on the market. Soft, strong and blissfully free of poorly ghost-written celebrity waffle. Marvellous stuff.

Cushelle are free to use my name in any capacity they see fit, in return for a lifetime supply of their delightful bum cleaner.

Al, 31, Scotland”

You wouldn’t, would you?

Mind you, i’ve wiped my own personal anus with Cushelle and it is most satisfactory. It completely failed to tear me open, spilling my innards into the toilet bowl, which is certainly a win in my book.

So, Cushelle people. if you’d like another endorsement for your product i’ve got a few possibilities for you.

“Cleaned the shit off my arse a treat”

“Delightfully soft, like rubbing your bum with a kitten”

“Best used when not dripping with chilli sauce”

“It’s a papery substance for wiping your bum”

“Bugger the three seashells!”

That last one might require some legal work.

…I am losing my patience…