Dads Can Do Shit Too

Look at the state of this….

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“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.

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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…

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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.

The Sugar-Blood Diaries: The Tallywhacker Effect

According to my latest weigh in, i’m nearly a stone lighter. Also, my blood sugar has dropped to 4.6. I’m winning!

It’s great to know that the changes which I have made are getting this sugaritis of mine under control. Especially as I have recently become aware of some of the complications which can arise from diabetes.

You see, dear reader, it turns out that having cake in your veins can cause or exacerbate all sorts of other delightful conditions and health issues, some of which are quite unpleasant. Here’s a few of the things i’m hoping won’t happen to this wreck of a thing that I call Host Body.

1) Shitty eyes.

Everyone in my family wears glasses. Shitty eyes are, it seems, a genetic trait of the McLellan clan. The weird thing is, I somehow avoided it. I’ve spent years telling people that my eyes are about the only part that works.

I really like them, too. Not aesthetically speaking, although I have been told they’re mighty purdy, but because they allow me to indulge in my three favourite pastimes. Reading, gaming and watching my expansive DVD collection. I am a very visual person.

So, the prospect of diabetes wrecking my peepers has me a tad nervous, but it’s something to watch out for. Diabetic eye disease is a collective term for an assortment of conditions which can effect we sugar-blooded folk, including cataract and glaucoma.

I have my first diabetic retinopathy screening coming up at the end of May and i’m dreading the results, but i’m also keen to get it done and dusted and see whether there’s a problem and what can be done about it.

In fact, here’s a spot of unsolicited advice, folks. We, as a race, are bloody stupid. We will put off seeking medical advice because we don’t want to be told there’s something wrong with us. Well, this may shock you but just because you don’t know there’s a carnivorous brain-weevil chewing it’s way through your cerebral cortex, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Get to the doctors, get it diagnosed, get it dealt with. Don’t put it off!

2) Crappy nerves

When I went for my first appointment with the diabetes nurse, she mentioned that she would need to check my feet for nerve damage. We’ve put it off for now.

Don’t you look at me in the way i’m imagining you’d look at me if you were looking at me, you arse. I know that goes against my advice from above, but allow me to explain.

My feet are a bloody mess of dead spots, tingly bits, scar tissue and odd, bumpy things. If you don’t know why, you can read this if you’re arsed. The point is, if my feet need checking, i’ll get them checked, but I reckon i’ll just confuse the hell out of the medical world with the results. The nurse and I agreed that they’ll need checking sometime soon, but it’s not going to hurt to wait for a while. So, to revise my position from the previous segment, it’s SOMETIMES ok to put things off, if you do so after seeking the advice of a medical professional. Can we continue? Thank you.

The reason my feet need checking is because of the damage that diabetes can do to your nerves. Peripheral neuropathy can cause pain, burning sensations or loss of feeling in the feet, as well as other body parts. Such fun!

That’s not even the worst of it. There’s a thing called autonomic neuropathy, which is both an EXCELLENT name for a band and a term which describes damage to the nerves which control your internal organs. This can cause all sorts of lovely things, like dizziness, fainting spells, digestive problems, even issues with your gentlemen’s area. Oh, speaking of which…

3) Broken tallywhacker

Yes folks, there’s a chance that my shaft could be shafted. Not that you asked, but i’m pleased to report that thus far it seems to be in reasonable condition. Some wear and tear and light foxing, but still functioning within acceptable parameters. Diabetes has other ideas, though.

Two issues which can effect a diabetic dong are erectile dysfunction and retrograde ejaculation. The first one speaks for itself, the second sounds like an even better band name but other than that i’d no clue until I looked it up. Want to hear about it? It’s kinda gross…

See when you…y’know when you’re with…when you’re having…oh lawks, it’s a tender subject. Setting aside my charming befuddlement, it’s a condition which causes semen to flow into the bladder at the point of ejaculation. Presumably it then leaves the bladder at the point of urination. This revelation led me to the point of self-immolation.

Summing up, I could wind up with a fubared phallus which probably won’t rise to the occasion and misfires when it does, none of which i’ll be able to see because my eyes will be shot to shit by that point. That’s if i’m not too busy writhing in agony as my nerves burn like the fire of a thousand suns and my stomach bubbles and boils trying to melt the lettuce I had for lunch.

Rum do, hey? Well, no. For one thing, it could be one hell of a lot worse. For another, these are just possible side effects of uncontrolled diabetes. I’m not trying to give anyone the fear by relating these things, i’m trying to explain how vital it is to take good care of yourself when you’ve got a vascular system which is full of sherbet. I’ve not had any issues with any of this and as I got a gold star at my most recent check up i’m not anticipating any.

We could all do with looking after ourselves a little better. Christ knows i’m no expert, but the one piece of advice I can offer is go and find someone who can offer better advice. Doctor, nurse, dietician, particularly knowledgeable taxi driver. Find someone who knows their shit and have them help you sort your shit out. You’ll thank me when we’re all 180 years old and still playing laser-tag.

If you want some advice which isn’t crap, try NHS Choices.

The Sugar-Blood Diaries: The Unfattening

Everyone has to find their own way when it comes to weight loss. Whatever works for you, so long as it’s not detrimental to your health, is fantastic.

At the time of writing this, i’ve managed to slough off nearly a full stone of excess blubber. I’m not sure what that is in metric measurements, but to give some perspective it’s roughly the weight of Liam Neeson’s legendary genitalia.

There’s no hard  and fast rule for weight loss, but there’s a whole world of hints, tips, diet plans and utter bullshit available to those who wish to drop a couple of pounds. I’m not, for one minute, suggesting that I can offer any more helpful advice than anyone else, but i’m more than willing to throw my  metaphorical two penn’orth into the proverbial hat. So, here’s a run down of my rough daily eating plan.

9:00am – Having fed, watered and on a week day, waved goodbye to the child units, I hungrily devour my breakfast. This usually consists of a bowl of bran flakes or a slice of wholegrain toast with the merest suggestion of a low fat, olive oil based butter alternative and an amount of no added sugar jam which is, in fairness, more like the idea of jam. Jam scented toast.

10:30am – I usually find myself a little peckish around this time. In the bad old days, i’d reach for a bag of crisps or a bar of chocolate, maybe a bag of donuts, all sugary and delicious…
Uh…yeah. That was totally the old me. Now, I tend to just drink plenty of water. Often, when you feel like you’re a little peckish, you’re really just thirsty. A glass of water isn’t quite as satisfying as a slab of cake the size of Piers Morgan’s ego, but it usually does the job.

12:00 noon – Lunch time! After screaming “THANK CHRIST!” I rush to the kitchen as fast as my worthless legs will carry me to whip up a sumptious, yet incredibly healthy repast. If it was bran flakes for breakfast, I usually opt for a sandwich. If I had toast, rather than fill up on bread, i’ll grab a wholewheat tortilla. Bread or round, flat bread which i’ve convinced myself isn’t ACTUALLY bread because it doesn’t look like bread. Either way, i’ll fill it with mixed leaves, sliced peppers, tomato, cucumber and some sort of fish or perhaps sliced meat. The key is to pack as much flavour as possible into the fewest number of calories, while also balancing the level of sugars and trying to include your “five a day” and all the necessary vitamins and whatnot. It’s a balancing act akin to juggling live weasels while riding a unicycle through a minefield, having just drank six litres of Red Bull and injected a large quantity of methamphetamines into your penis. Probably.

3:00pm – Around 3ish, I usually feel the munchies creeping up on me once again. It’s during the afternoon hunger pangs that I generally stare at the cupboards, muttering a selection of curse  words as I spot delicious things which I know that I shouldn’t eat. I fully agree with the idea that you shouldn’t completely cut anything out, as that only makes you want it more. That being said, i’m doing my best to resist the unhealthy options as much as humanly possible. I want to get a little further down the weight loss road before I start to let myself off on the odd occasion, because right now I think a single slice of delicious fruit cake would lead to a three day eating binge in which I would devour all of the food in the cupboards, the cupboards themselves and any passers by who’d had bacon in the last twelve hours. I might, at this time of day, have a small apple.

5:00pm – Time for the evening meal. One of my favourite, healthy meals at the moment is a hot crab noodle salad. I’ll give you the recipe, seeing as the BBC aren’t bothering their arse with that anymore.

INGREDIENTS:

1 packet of straight-to-wok noodles
1 spring onion
1 tin of crab/tuna
A pepper
Olive oil
Soy sauce
Pepper

METHOD:

Chuck all that shit in the pan. NOT THE FISH, YOU PRICK!
All that shit EXCEPT THE FISH goes in a pan or wok.
Cooked? Bung the fish in.
Chuck it on top of some salad.
ON A PLATE. Arsehole.

Hunger makes me tetchy

8:30pm – Marital Unit returns from work and often grabs herself something to eat. This usually begins a rage spiral in which I loathe her for eating in front of me, myself for uncharitable thoughts, the purveyors of oven chips for laying temptation at my feet and everything else in the world for being….well, for being.
Seriously, it’s amazing how irritable you can get when you’re hungry, so it’s good to find some sensible snackage. I like dutch crispbakes with just a scraping of butter. I also like fuck off slabs of lardy cake and long cold glasses of fizzy beverages loaded with enough sugar to render me unconscious at twenty paces, but arse to it, crispbakes will do.

11:00pm – Everyone is asleep. The temptation, at this point, to hoover a bag of Wispa bites in less time than it takes to say  “SHIT, THE WIFE’S AWAKE!” is considerable. Don’t do it, folks. Don’t give in to temptation and sneak a snack. It’s easy to think “I’ll make up for it tomorrow” but you won’t. You’ll eat an entire bar of Galaxy, three packets of prawn cocktail crisps and sob yourself to sleep. Maybe. You might not. The important thing  is to stay strong and if you do have a bit of an off day, try to do some damage limitation. I was gagging for something sweet a couple of days ago, so I grabbed a biscuit. One biscuit. Took the edge off and I didn’t hate myself for doing it.

3:00am – Pass out. This one is just me, I loathe sleep. I used to spend half that time snacking but now I pump myself full of water, both still and sparkling, while watching copious quantities of absolute shite on Netflix and occasionally molesting myself to images of…too much sharing? Too much sharing.

That’s all the advice I have. It’s largely worthless, but it does me good to spill my digital guts once in a while and you never know, amongst this shit shower of unwanted tips, you might find something useful. Even if it’s just the knowledge that you’d best avoid my house in the wee small hours, unless you want to see something that cannot be unseen.

The Sugar-Blood Diaries: Blood Is Thicker Than Treacle

This is the first in a new series of blog entries which will, I hope, be a reasonably entertaining and brutally honest look at my day to day life, “coping” with diabetes.

Notice the quotation marks? That’s because i’m not entirely sure that I am coping. Not in a “OH MY GOD THIS IS SO HARD!” kind of way, you understand. More like a “I kind of suck at being an adult, is ice cream good for breakfast?” sort of thing.

So, if you’d like a laugh at my expense and perhaps some useful information about diabetes and life and all that balls, then read on dear…reader. That doesn’t scan well, bad start. ONWARDS!

Saturday the 9th of April, in the year of someone else’s lord, 2016. That’s the day that I found out I was diabetic.

On the Friday night, I discovered a small lump on my inner thigh. I actually noticed when I sat on the toilet and felt a sharp pain. Obviously, my first thought was “FUCK! SCORPION!”, but after inspecting my trousers and finding no venomous arachnids within, I realised I had an abscess.

The next morning, I shot down to the Minor Injuries unit at the local hospital. I’d expected to leave with a course of antibiotics and a feeling of slight embarassment at having to hold my gentlemen’s sexual paraphernalia to one side while I was checked over by a nurse. I got both of those things, but they came with a side order of shitty news.

The nurse checked by blood sugar levels, which as an adult, should sit somewhere between 4 to 6 millimols. If you’re picturing a “Milly Mole” as an adorable mole girl in a flower print dress, you’re  not alone. My blood sugar was sitting happily at 18.5 delightful Farthing Wood characters. I’m amazed that the testing machine didn’t ask for some pancakes to go with the syrup.

We Have A Bleeder

Blood was taken, advice was given, appointments were made and I went home to start scratching sugar from my diet. As a long time Coke addict (beverage, not nose candy), it wasn’t an easy switch but I swapped out the sugary drinks for fizzy water, reduced portion sizes, changed eating habits, etc. This all came with a healthy dose of pissing and moaning about never eating cake again.

Wednesday came and I received a call from the doctor, who told me to head to accident and emergency as soon as I could…

Dear reader, I will cheerfully admit to you that, at that point, I emptied my metaphorical bowels with considerable force. A thousand questions raced through my mind. Why did I need to be seen so urgently? Was my blood caramelizing? Was I slowly turning into a delicious doughnut? Would there be adequate parking?!

If I had known that the doctor was working in A&E at the time and as it was quiet, thought that just the easiest and quickest way to see me, I could have saved myself a pair of jeans.

My levels were tested again and now sat at 21.6 adorable wee molefolk. I was weighed too and in a world first, i’m actually going to share my weight with the wide world. 22 stone. To give you some perspective, that’s roughly how much crap an elephant can put out in a day. I’m a giant elephant shit of a human being.

A week on and i’ve been ever so good. I’ve been trying to get more exercise, despite having chosen my feet from a lineup of lower limb misshapes. I set up reminders on my phone and take my meds. My diet has improved hugely.

At last count, i’ve lost roughly 5lbs and my blood sugar is down to 10.2. I plan to celebrate by snorting six pounds of icing sugar.

Arsewipes

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.

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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.