Switzerland is really, really expensive.

I discovered this when parting with TWENTY-FOUR EUROS for some chicken nuggets and allegedly loaded fries (slapped with some plastic cheese and approximately three cold bacon bits) from a Burger King, seven hours into a drive which had taken us into Basel city centre in rush hour traffic, then through approximately 7,000 tunnels.

Louise and I had taken it in turns at the wheel, while the boys had been good as gold, reading their Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Percy Jackson books, and playing Top Trumps: Baby Animals Version (the elephant calf is almost unbeatable.)

It had, though, been a long old day, so I felt a Burger King was a justifiable treat.

Never again.

We were staying in Isenthal, a beautiful mountainside village, three miles up a steep, winding road from Lake Lucerne, where, if you don’t pay attention to the timetables (we did not), you face a nauseatingly stressful tête-à-tête with a bus.

We arrived at our Airbnb, a wooden lodge rented out by a friendly middle-aged lady, at dusk.

After a stroll around the tiny village, the boys found the playroom where they began assembling a Lego Zoo, an activity which has, in the past, lasted for several days, while Louise and I sat on the balcony, breathing in the freshest of fresh air.

“Ahh,” I said. “It’s so peaceful here.”

Three minutes later:

DING DONG. DING DONG.

We were staying directly opposite a church, and I was deeply concerned that the bell had chimed at 8.45pm. Did this mean it was going to ring every fifteen minutes?

At 9pm, my fears were confirmed when the bells launched into an elaborate minute-long performance.

“That has to be the last hurrah before they turn them off?” Louise said.

“Surely they can’t go on all night? When’s the cut-off?”

9.15pm:

DING DONG. DING DONG.

Now, look, I will admit that my “sleep hygiene” wasn’t the best. I’d wolfed down the substandard Burger King, necked three cans of premium lager, then eaten almost an entire Toblerone directly before climbing into bed, but getting any sleep - any sleep at all - with the bells chiming seemingly directly into my skull every fifteen minutes was, frankly. impossible.

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That first night, I tossed and turned, growing increasingly frustrated as I read a 2017 BBC article about residents successfully overturning a decision to stop the church bells ringing overnight. Apparently, 81% of villagers said it DIDN’T AFFECT THEM.

“We need to leave,” I said to Louise at 6.30am. “We simply need to leave Switzerland. It’s too loud here.”

When did I become my dad?

We didn’t leave.

After two coffees and a subtle “pull-yourself-together, Andy. For the kids.” snap from my dear wife, we set off for a day of hiking in the Swiss mountains.

The walk began with a cable car ride that would take us up to the start of the trail. I’d anticipated queues at a ticket office and groups of fellow hikers being marshalled by helpful staff in high-vis jackets. Instead, we arrived at a tiny wooden hut to find a cable car hanging motionless from the wires, and a man - one man - with a neck tattoo, smoking a roll-up.

“Um, do you work here?” I asked him.

“No.”

“What do we do?”

He pointed to a phone inside the hut.

I picked it up and was greeted by a German-speaking man who promptly hung up on me.

“Dickhead,” the man with the neck tattoo said, and I was unsure if he meant me or the other guy.

He then picked up the phone himself and spoke animatedly in German for a few seconds.

“You can get in now.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

So, with the kind assistance of this mysterious stranger, we prised open the cable car doors ourselves, climbed aboard, and waited for it to wobble into life.

Neither Louise nor I are fans of heights, and the ride up was terrifying.

Jacob, on the other hand, absolutely loved it.

When we pulled up at the top, we were met by a man, presumably the phone operator, who asked for FIFTY euros. This would get us back down later too, he told us.

Bargain.

As we started on the trail, the boys charging ahead, looking, rather ambitiously, for bears, I noticed a tiny cottage high up in the mountains, totally isolated from civilisation.

“I might see if I can stay there tonight, Louise,” I said. “Surely they don’t hear the church bells?”

“Do you plan to talk about anything other than church bells today, Andy?”

“Hang on, what’s that noise?”

Around the corner, we emerged into a field of cows who all had, I kid you not, giant bells hung around their necks.

The only reason for this, as far as I can tell, is that Swiss people - even Swiss people living in remote mountainside huts - have no interest in ever going to sleep.

So, the rest of what should have been an idyllic Alpine walk was soundtracked by the incessant clanking and chiming of these stupid, massive cow bells.

After leaving Isenthal, we had a five-hour drive to Lake Garda, which we were supposed to be sharing, but such was my sleep deprivation, I couldn’t safely operate a vehicle and felt riddled with guilt as my wonderful wife took the wheel all day. At least I can be counted on as a superb in-car DJ.

“I can’t listen to any more Flo Rida, Andy. I just can’t.”

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We broke up the long haul in Monte Tamaro, a spectacular mountainside resort overlooking the valleys of southern Switzerland, where we’d booked to go bob carting. For the uninitiated, this involves sitting in a little sled with wheels and flying down a mountainside rollercoaster track while singing the Cool Runnings theme tune (optional).

It was fantastic.

On my second go, I went with Joshua and decided to film the ride on my phone in one of those videos that you think is a good idea, but never, ever watch again. Midway down, as we were whizzing around a corner, I lost my grip of my new iPhone - that had arrived two days before we left - and watched it fly out of my hand and bounce down the mountainside.

So, while Louise and the boys were going down for a third time, I slogged back up, attempted to clamber over an electric fence, mistimed my stride, and electrocuted myself in an area I really, really would rather not have electrocuted myself in.

Thankfully, the phone was intact, but I guess I got what I deserved for not living in the moment.

The excitement continued after lunch when we visited a nearby water park with a lax attitude towards height restrictions.

“Do you think it’s a good idea for Jacob to go on the rubber ring ride, Andy?”

“Yes.”

Unfortunately, he was too small for the ring so, by the time he reached the bottom, he’d slid halfway through the middle, his heels were level with his head, and he was clinging on for dear life as he bounced into the splash pool.

Fortunately, Jacob was uninjured, and a few minutes later, Louise witnessed an even less responsible dad who told his two children, aged approximately 3 and 4 to WAIT AT THE BOTTOM for him, then joined the queue, clutching his giant rubber ring.

After an action-packed afternoon, we got back into the car, ready for the final two-hour drive to Italy.

“Did you buy a parking ticket, Andy?” Louise said, as we approached the barrier to get out.

“I did not.”

With a queue of cars waiting behind us, I paced around the car park looking for the ticket machine, eventually finding one and paying for our four-hour stint.

TWENTY-FOUR EUROS.

Absolute rinse.

I could’ve bought nine chicken nuggets and some loaded fries with that.

*

Thanks for reading! As always, please restack this if you enjoyed it, and share your own tales of bells, bobsleighs etc. in the comments.

The next stop in this travel series will be wonderful Italy.

Finally… if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider becoming a paid sub or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Andy

Buy me a coffee...

When Louise and I were in our early-20s, we were bumming around Southeast Asia, staying in cockroach-infested hostels, getting (bad. very bad) matching tattoos and figuring out what to do with the rest of our lives. One evening in Thailand, while the waves lapped on the white sand and midges chewed my ankles, I distinctly remember having a conversation about how, if we ever had kids, it would be amazing to show them the world.

“We might even be able to afford to stay in proper hotels by then?” Louise said.

This was a valid point given we’d been awoken the previous night by a topless Scandinavian man bundling into our dorm at 4am while singing “You Can Call Me Al” loudly and inaccurately.

15 years and 2 sons later, with middle-age staring me (not Louise, she’s a bit younger) down the barrel, we found ourselves in the fortunate position of being able to realise the dreams of our Singha beer-fuelled younger selves. Joshua is 8 and Jacob is 6 so we are currently in one of parenting’s sweet spots: out the other side of the baby/toddler trenches and before they don’t want to hang around with us anymore. The timing felt just right and, with our employers being very, very reasonable, we were going on a mammoth road trip around Europe, visiting France, Switzerland, Germany (for about 4 minutes) and Italy.

Trying to put the weird clunking noise, and temperamental, sometimes sauna-temperature, aircon to the back of our minds, we stuffed our Dacia Sandero with the bags for life that we (Louise) had meticulously packed, and were ready to take the old war horse on, quite possibly, its last adventure.

On the drive down South, a man in a white van cut in front of us, so Louise raised her middle finger at him and shouted, “YOU TWA… YOU TWIT!”

The man responded with an obscene hand gesture that seemed an unusual response to a woman.

Three minutes later, traffic ground to a halt near the Dartford Tunnel and we stopped directly alongside our nemesis. For the next HOUR, traffic crawled forward a few feet, stopped, crawled again, then stopped again.

Louise, me, and the van man all stared straight forward, pretending this wasn’t happening, but it was, I think, the most awkward stalemate of my life.

“Shall we just make up with him, Louise?” I said.

“Absolutely not.”

We spent a couple of nights at Louise’s mum’s house in Kent before going through the Chunnel (I still say this because I am a Millennial and, according to some sources, “an embarrassing man.”)

Emerging into France at the other side will never not be a thrill, and with the start of holiday optimism in the air, and because my knowledge of pop music stalled in 2011, I turned up the volume for “Good Feeling” by Flo Rida.

“Mummy?” Joshua called out from the back.

“Yes, Joshua?”

“When did you meet Daddy?”

“20 years ago.”

“And when will you leave him?”

Thanks, pal.

A few hours later, we arrived at our first stop: a Novotel in Reims, opposite what has to be one of the biggest Carrefour supermarkets in the world. Lugging a car and roof rack full of belongings into our room on the third floor was a gruelling task and I reminisced about the backpacking days where one rucksack each was all we needed.

“And you’re certain - absolutely certain - that both boys need their own white noise machine?” I asked, sweat dripping down my temples.

Louise gave me a look to indicate that Joshua’s earlier question might not have been too wide of the mark.

That evening, when we headed out to get some dinner (loads and loads of carbs from Carrefour), I turned to my wife.

“I really am grateful for all the planning you’ve done for this trip,” I said. “Now we’re away, I promise you won’t have to make all the decisions, and I will be a useful and responsible adult.”

Four seconds after saying this, I walked through an open door to leave the hotel. Only it wasn’t an open door. It was very much a closed glass door, and I absolutely SMASHED my head, stumbled backwards, and felt like I might pass out.

Louise and the boys were howling with laughter.

Not a shred of sympathy between them.

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Reims is in the heart of the Champagne region, and we had an enjoyable day visiting the Pommery and Taittinger houses. The Pommery cellars, deep in the bowels of the city, are enormous, with a labyrinth of dark rooms filled with art displays that I didn’t really understand.

“This feels like we’re in an Indiana Jones film, doesn’t it?” I said to my family, but loud enough for the other tourists to hear me.

Silence.

Note to self: expand film reference repertoire beyond the Indiana Jones and Back to the Future trilogies.

As we were sipping our complimentary glass of champers, the boys necking Sprite in flutes, I thought back to that beach in Thailand, when we’d dreamed about one day taking our children travelling and staying somewhere a bit fancier than a pokey hostel populated by pissed Scandinavians. Noticing a twinkle in Louise’s eye, I wondered if she was on a similarly nostalgic trail of thought.

“Hey, imagine if we became known as a Champagne family, Andy?” she said. “You know, whenever we have people over, we offer out glasses of Champagne?”

“What? Every time?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware you married a Civil Servant?”

Next time I looked, I was lugging a case of six bottles of Pommery through Reims in searing summer heat.

We’d booked a guided tour around the Taittinger House, where a handsome Frenchman in a tuxedo showed us around the impressive chalk quarries and the ruins of an ancient abbey. He occasionally paused and asked if anyone had any questions, and a 7-year-old Swedish boy in a Gyökeres Arsenal shirt would fire out a succession of complex queries, “How many grapes were used in that bottle there?” “How many bottles of Champagne are there in the world?” “Why is that there?” The guide initially smiled and gave his best stab at answering, but after a while he was clearly thinking, “C’mon, parents?”

“Right,” he said at the end, “Does anyone - do any adults - have any questions?”

Jacob, who is very much 6-years-old and not an adult, shouted out.

“What temperature is the bottle you are holding right now?”

As we were leaving, I spotted the handsome tour guide sat on a kerb, bow tie removed, aggressively smoking a cigarette.

The Novotel had a lovely outdoor pool and bar area, where we spent the afternoons and early evenings. Louise and I were sharing a bottle of wine (that I’d smuggled in from Carrefour because you can get away with this kind of thing when you are nearly 40 and with your family) while the boys were animatedly playing with some fake Lego building blocks on the floor.

A Dutch boy with white hair ambled over and sat down with them.

“Ah, isn’t that sweet?” Louise said, as the kids played amicably together.

“It is, but why are Europeans so, so confident? Why is that?”

The Dutch boy assembled an impressive and intricate Minecraft sword, before his mum called him back over, and he looked upset to have his fun cut short.

Joshua looked at the Minecraft sword for a second, clearly mulling it over, snapped it in half, then walked over to the Dutch family and asked if the boy wanted to keep what was left.

The boy looked at the decimated remains of his creation, and his lip started wobbling. Joshua tried to explain that he wanted to give him something, but he couldn’t simply afford to give away that many blocks, but this sweet sentiment was sadly lost in translation.

The boy’s mum, who was drinking an Aperol Spritz and unaware of the intricate Minecraft sword, barked at her crestfallen son, “SAY THANK YOU, WILLEM!”

“Thank you,” Willem said, very quietly.

At sunrise the next morning, we waved goodbye to the Champagne region (while our already overloaded roof rack said hello to a case of six bottles of champagne) and set off on a 9-hour drive to the Swiss countryside.

Temporarily forgetting what country I was driving in, I looked the wrong way at a roundabout, and cut in front of a Frenchman who had to slam on the brakes.

He gave me, very deservedly, a raised finger.

I did not respond.

*

PART TWO IS HERE!

Thanks for reading. It’s great to be back on Substack and I’m looking forward to catching up on other writers’ posts. As always, please do like, restack, and share your own travelling tales in the comments.

You will be delighted (maybe...) to know that there will be at least two, possibly even THREE, more parts to this travelling series. Next stop: Switzerland.

Also, on a different note, one of my best mates has just released a new album. He’s an excellent singer-songwriter, and his latest release is a concept album about booze that I’ve been listening to loads on holiday. Great lyrics and some very catchy tunes - I highly recommend it.

If you have Spotify, you can listen here:

No Alcoholic by Digsteven

Finally… if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider becoming a paid sub or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers! 🍻

Buy Me a Coffee

Before he took over, the barbershop down the road was something of a poisoned chalice, changing hands every few months. The writing was, quite literally, on the wall for the previous owner when he named the shop after our local area but spelled it completely wrong (why nobody checked this is simply staggering). After a brief tenure, during which he once gave me a bad haircut, then showed me a really, really long video of him playing a guitar solo at a wedding, he disappeared and was replaced by my current chap: a Kurdish man in his mid-thirties with an excellent beard and a winning smile.

Out went the incorrectly spelled shop name; in came an enormous flatscreen TV, which permanently plays dubious covers of mid-noughties R&B songs on YouTube and the rest - well, the past year or so, which is unheard of for this shop - is history. Over this time, we’ve had various exchanges that have stuck with me. Some bizarre, some unexpectedly deep and others (see #1 and #4) where I have simply been a moron.

1. “What’s your job, boss man?”

   “I’m a civil servant. How about you?”

   How about you?

2. “Is it just you who works here?”

   “No, my brother is my business partner, but he’s never here.”

   “Oh, why’s that?”

   “He loves the gym. And women.”

3. “Can I ask you something, boss man?”

   “Go on...”

   “Do you ever want to punch someone - like really punch someone - in the face?”

   “Um, no. Not really, no.”

4. “The man up the road is charging more than me, and he’s shit. He is a shit barber.”

   “Is he?”

   “Totally shit. Do you think I should put my prices up?”

   “I guess so, yes.”

   The following day, he raised his prices from £14 to £17 for a gent’s cut and finish, so my shrewd business advice has cost me approximately £50 a year.

5. “Do you guys plan to be here long-term?” I asked.

   “The only thing that would stop me is if someone killed me. If someone walked into this shop and killed me.”
   “Oh.”

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6. “How many kids do you have, boss man?”

   “Two.”

   “That’s not enough. You should have at least ten.”

   “That seems quite a lot?”

   “Making babies is fun, no?”

7. A few weeks later...

   “Any more babies on the way?”

   “No, I actually...”

   “Don’t tell me, boss man… don’t tell me you’ve had your balls cut off?”

   “I mean, that’s not quite how it works.”

8. A very, very drunk man falls against the shop window and slides down to the floor.

   “Can you go and sort that out, boss man?”

   “But...”

   “Come on, it’s like your job, isn’t it?”

   I take off my cape and go and ask the drunk man if he’s okay. He tells me to fuck off, then staggers up the road.

   “Thanks, boss man. I would’ve punched him.”

9. “Do you think I should dye my hair?”

   (My hair is almost entirely grey now and I’m considering my midlife-crisis options.)

   “Absolutely not.”

   “Why is that?”

   “Your hair is a sexy colour, boss man. A very sexy colour.”

   I left the shop walking on air.

10. After a lengthy silence, he stops trimming around my ears, and we make eye contact in the mirror.

    “Can I ask you something, boss man?”

    “Go on...”

    “Do you think Covid was real? I don’t.”

    This was a VERY long appointment.

11. “Do you want your beard doing, boss man?”

    “I don’t have a beard.”

12. “Ah, who’s this then?” I say, on seeing a cute toddler sitting on the counter.

    “My son, boss man! He’s working with me today.”

    “Should… um… should he be drinking Boost energy drink?”

13. While paying for my six-year-old son’s haircut a few weeks later:

    “Do you want a treat, little man?”

    “Yes!” my son replies, while I fear what it could be: a bottle of Stella? Some cigarettes?

    “Here you go, little man.”

    Fortunately, it’s just a gobstopper of perfect choking-hazard size.

14. “Hey, boss man. Have you ever jumped off a boat, drunk?”

    “As it happens, yes.”

    “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

    “Yes. Yes, it is.”

15. The man from the shop up the road wanders in. It is called Just Phones but, as far as I can tell, sells only vapes (perhaps they employed the same sign-installation company as the previous barber owner?).

    “How’s it going, brother?” he asks.

    “Not bad.”

    My barber stops cutting my hair. The man from the vape shop stands in the middle of the shop for a really, really long time. Nobody says anything.

    The man from the vape shop eventually leaves.

    “Are you two friends?” I ask.

    “No.”

Now, I’m no Poirot but… I wonder if this is the man he wants to punch in the face?

During my recent pre-holiday haircut (a 1.5 into a 2, back and sides, with a bit of weight off the top, in case you were wondering), the conversation took an unexpectedly serious turn. My barber began talking about his childhood in Iran, family members and friends who had died in the war, and the difficult journey that eventually brought him to West Yorkshire, where he’d settled with his wife, son, and potentially many more children.

As he spoke, I realised how wildly different our lives have been. While I’d been pratting around in Thailand on a gap year, he’d been fleeing conflict and starting over in a new country, moving from town to town (he really, really hates Leamington Spa) and building a new life. Of course we’re not going to see eye to eye on everything.

But beneath the odd conspiracy theory and occasionally alarming turns of phrase, I’ve grown to really like him. He’s a lovely bloke, and it’s great to see him making a success of a shop which, I cannot stress enough, has been run into the ground by every one of his predecessors. Besides, for two people with such different backgrounds, we sometimes find common ground in unexpected places.

As I was paying up for my trim, he looked me in the eye.

“Do you know who can fuck off, boss man?”

“Go on...”

“Nigel Farage. Nigel Farage can fuck off.”

*

Thanks for reading! As always, please do like, share, comment, or tell me your own barbershop tales. Surely people have some good ones?!

With the summer holiday starting, this will be my last Substack post for a few weeks. So, huge thanks to everyone who continues to support The Flagging Dad, and I’ll see you on the other side.

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Have a fantastic summer, everyone!

Cheers! 🍻

Buy me a coffee...

I woke up in a terrific mood last Saturday. The boys had slept through, the sun was shining, and it wasn’t my turn to clean out the guinea pigs. Life was good. For at least twelve minutes. As I was getting out of the shower, Louise emerged on the landing clutching several pieces of paper.

‘I think this might ruin your weekend,’ she said, then paused for, in my opinion, quite a lot longer than necessary.

‘Why? What is it?’

‘The letters had been going to our old house. I opened them because they were addressed to me.’

‘Okay. What do the letters say?’

She eventually handed me the papers before walking downstairs, shaking her head.

It turns out that over the past few months, I have driven down a bus lane in Bradford FIVE times, racking up £495 in charges. Just to clarify, I have no recollection of doing this. Bus lanes are not a vice of mine. I am not an outlaw who likes to live in the margins (or, in this case, the margins of Duckworth Lane, Bradford).

I admit, though, that I am not the most observant of drivers and rely almost entirely on our sat nav. When people (ok, men aged 50+) ask for specific details about my journeys, I can never provide a satisfactory answer, and they sigh while thinking: how can he not know what the M56 is? Five fines for the same mistake feels a bit harsh, doesn’t it? Surely one would do the job.

I tried calling several numbers but had no luck in locating a human, so opted to punch myself in the thigh fairly hard before sending a grovelling email to Bradford City Council. An automated reply informed me that I would get a response to my appeal within 6 to 12 weeks. As I sat on the end of the bed with my head in my hands, Louise returned.

‘Did you tell them I wasn’t driving in any of the cases?’

‘Yes.’

‘Also, you haven’t forgotten you’re taking the boys dinosaur hunting, have you?’

‘No, of course not.’

Louise has discovered a new augmented reality app called Love Exploring. The premise is that you go to a park and look for dinosaurs to appear on a map on your phone. Like Pokémon Go, I imagine, although I’m not really an app guy. More a Nokia 3310-type.

Keenly avoiding any bus lanes, I drove the boys to Meanwood Park. Joshua immediately understood the idea, taking my phone and excitedly tracking down a Triceratops. Jacob did not have such a sound grasp but, desperate to be involved, started shouting and trying to grab the phone from Joshua.

‘No, Jacob! Go away!’

‘No, Joshua! You go away!’

This tête-à-tête rarely ends well.

Eventually, I snatched the phone slightly too aggressively, which killed all enthusiasm for the dinosaur hunt, and we headed, instead, to the playground. Taking two young children to a playground is stressful and, dare I say it, not much fun.

Fortunately, we were the only people there and the boys were content being pushed on the swings. I sent a picture of the happy scene to Louise as evidence that they were having a great time and I am an excellent father. The replying dots began bouncing.

‘Jacob is too small for that swing. He’ll fall off and bang his head.’

A few minutes later, two lads, around 18, stumbled by, chatting animatedly. They were wearing shirts and drinking cans of Red Stripe.

‘Yes, brother!’ one of them shouted. ‘What’s going on? You having a good one?’

Brother?

Evidently, he thought he was still in a nightclub.

‘Morning, lads,’ I offered, continuing to push a stiff roundabout too slowly for Jacob’s liking. ‘Yep, I’m having a good one.’

Ah, to be young again, I thought, then felt a pang of jealousy. I countered by assuring myself that the lads would soon be facing debilitating hangovers. Although it’s unlikely they will be worrying about a lengthy standoff with Bradford City Council in which the best possible outcome is only paying £99, isn’t it? Also, I highly doubt they will be spending their afternoon cleaning up guinea pig shit.

They win. Being young is fun.

As we were heading back to the car, we gave the dinosaur hunt one final go but, within an arm’s reach of catching a Diplodocus by a bin, my phone died.

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In the afternoon, Louise’s mum and sister arrived for a weekend stay.

‘I’ve done the guinea pigs. We’re going to take the boys out, Andy,’ Louise said. ‘I take it you want to watch the match? There’s beer in the fridge.’

That’s odd? I thought before snapping up her offer before she could change her mind. Leeds won and it was a blissful two hours.

Later, after the boys’ dinner, the plot thickened.

‘Don’t worry about helping with their bedtimes tonight, Andy,’ Louise said. ‘We’ll do it.’

I am sure that in years to come I will reminisce about their baths and bedtime stories with great fondness but, in the present, occasionally getting to swerve the chaos is something of a treat. What the heck is going on, though? What does she want?

It turned out, not much. The only caveat was that I had to pick up our takeaway: a solid trade-off. Perhaps my wife was just being nice? It was beautiful weather, so I cycled to Wing-A-Ding chicken in Horsforth. When the guy said it would be a short wait, I sat on the grass, cracked open a beer, and soaked up the evening sun. This day had really turned around.

He handed over my order in two brown paper bags, then frowned and advised me to be ‘extra careful’ if I was planning on carrying them on my handlebars.

If you think you know where this is going, you are 100% correct.

I made it halfway home but, crossing the bridge by Horsforth train station, one of the bag handles SNAPPED and chicken and chips spectacularly exploded onto the road. A queue of traffic formed while I attempted to salvage what I could from the detritus. When someone beeped, I didn’t look up.

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Thankfully, I’d only lost three barbecue wings with the main casualty being a portion of loaded fries. As cars began to slowly flatten cheesy chips into the tarmac, I sat on the pavement, feeling extremely sorry for myself. Also, I had no means of transporting the remaining food home. I called Louise.

‘There’s been a disaster. Can you come and help?’

After I’d explained what happened, she questioned why a simple task was beyond me and accused me of being overdramatic. I thought this was a bit rich given the pause before she’d handed over my fixed penalty notice was deserving of an Eastenders ‘DOOF, DOOF, DOOF, DOOF…’ but didn’t mention it.

As I was waiting for her, something happened that neatly sums up the difference between men and women. A man drove past, pointing, laughing, and doing a hand motion to indicate I must be drunk, which was only very partially true. Minutes later, a woman pulled up and, with a warm smile, handed over an ASDA bag for life. She had seen the incident first-hand and gone home to get it. If, on the off chance she ever reads this, she is a true hero and I would like to buy her a portion of Wing-A-Ding chicken by way of thanks.

This offer does not extend to the pointing man.

Back home, we plated up the food and I was pleased to discover we’d overordered anyway. I hadn’t ruined our evening. Aside from a touch of gravelly seasoning, it was just about fine; the buffalo and blue cheese wings were superb, and I couldn’t recommend Wing-A-Ding highly enough. The cynics among you might think I am subtly sneaking some local advertising into my book. I assure you I am not. However, if Wing-A-Ding do fancy slinging a few quid my way, it wouldn’t go amiss.

Depending on the response from Bradford City Council, I’m going to need all the help I can get.

*

Thanks for reading this chapter of The Flagging Dad! Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy.

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Buy me a coffee...

Louise and I have been threatening to go on a vineyard tour for a decade, but it’s never quite materialised. I once bought a voucher for her birthday, but it expired before I booked it so, that year, I effectively got her nothing. She occasionally brings this up. On our honeymoon, we went to Lake Garda intending to spend the week drinking fancy wine in the Italian sunshine. However, our life timeline was slightly skewed (Louise was 12 weeks pregnant) so we visited zero vineyards. She did, at least, have the pleasure of watching me polish off a complimentary bottle of Prosecco at the hotel.

‘Will you slow down, Andy? You’re becoming loud and annoying.’

Anyway, third time’s a charm.

Having thoroughly scrutinised the terms and conditions, I booked a tour and tasting session at a vineyard in North Yorkshire. Deciding to make a weekend of it, we roped in the in-laws and stayed in Knaresborough overnight. After getting the train through and trying to suppress that nagging guilt that creeps in whenever you leave your children, we arrived at our B&B, a small cottage on the riverside. Louise knocked on the door several times to no response, so I nudged it open, and we wandered into a tiny reception area surrounded by some sinister foxhunting paintings. There was also, curiously, an enormous bucket of Maoam sweets on the desk.

‘Hello?’ I shouted.

Nothing.

Three Maoams later, we heard footsteps and a man in his fifties arrived. He was wearing a pink t-shirt and, if I’m being honest, a pair of too-short shorts. He looked furious.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’

‘Hi, we’re booked in for the night,’ I said.

‘Shh! Not so loud!’ he said (for the record, comfortably louder than me). ‘Is it the room for Louise? I wasn’t expecting you so early.’

He’d told us to arrive at 10.30. It was 10.23.

‘Can we check-in, please?’ Louise asked, shooting me a glance.

‘Well, you’ve left me with little choice,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The room isn’t ready yet, though.’

‘Can we leave our bags here?’

‘I suppose so,’ he said, followed by an audible sigh.

‘Ok, we’ll go for a walk,’ she said. ‘Will the room be ready in an hour?’

‘I would have thought so. Wouldn’t you, Louise?’

I could almost hear Louise’s internal monologue weighing up the pros and cons of snapping.

‘Oh, before you go out, for god’s sake, make a note of the door code,’ the man said, pointing to a laminated piece of paper on the wall. ‘Some guests don’t bother. Idiots.’

‘Right. Bye then.’

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I was impressed Louise held it together and we laughed it off over a coffee before a scenic walk. One summer, I visited Knaresborough with some mates, and I was so appalling at rowing I was asked to hand over the oars to a more capable man. It was very, very undermining. Still, I managed to put past traumas behind me, and we had a lovely morning. At one point, we even managed a 10-minute conversation that wasn’t about our children.

Returning to the B&B to get changed, our host was nowhere to be seen but, credit where it’s due, the room was delightful; fluffy pillows, flowers, hot chocolate and marshmallows. He’d left no stone unturned. We got changed and had a beer while waiting for our Uber to arrive. I rarely use Uber, for some reason remaining staunchly loyal to our local taxi company despite the fact a car has failed to show up on two of my last three bookings. Once, when missing kick-off at Elland Road was at stake, I became so stressed that I kicked our wheelie bin.

We passed our cheery host on the way out.

‘Oh, I see you two have started drinking early,’ he said.

‘Well, we are on holiday?’ I said, thinking, does he know this?

‘Ok, well enjoy your afternoon and, for goodness’ sake, don’t forget the door code.’

Following a nauseating journey on winding roads, we arrived at the vineyard where our Uber driver got out of his car, then stood, hands-on-head, staring into the middle distance for an inordinately long time. He appeared to be pondering some of life’s big questions. I hope he’s okay.

The first part of the tour was a wine talk by the owner, a charismatic middle-aged man, in a gazebo. We were joined by around thirty other people including a hen do, a group of middle-aged Germans and a pair of long-haired men in tie-dye t-shirts. I hadn’t seen such an eclectic bunch of people in one room since my speed awareness course.

The presentation was interesting enough and we were given some taster glasses before a Q&A session. This didn’t go quite so smoothly as a solemn man with a ponytail kept raising his hand and asking unnecessarily intense questions.

‘Do you ever worry that you and your wife drink too much?’

‘Um…’

‘Do you ever look back on your life and think: have I made the right decisions?’

‘Ok, let’s wrap things up there. Who wants to see the gin distillery?’

Louise and I had afternoon tea and, showing our wild side hasn’t deserted us, shared a bottle of sparkling wine, leaving us in good spirits as we upped to leave.

‘I can’t seem to get an Uber?’ Louise said.

I got out my phone. No signal.

The next part of our romantic weekend getaway? A 2-mile walk to a train station along an A-road in pissing rain. Lesson learned: pre-book taxis home from vineyards.

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We returned to our strange B&B for some downtime (scrolling through our phones in silence) before heading into the bright lights of Knaresborough. The streets were deserted, but we lucked in and found a tapas restaurant with a heated beer garden. There was a lively atmosphere and being somewhere other than our living room on a Saturday night felt something of a novelty. Due to a backlog in the kitchen, a barman wearing a shark tooth necklace treated us to complimentary drinks so, by the time our food arrived, post-dinner cocktails, possibly even dancing, had been mooted.

Twenty-five minutes later, we’d eaten our body weight in protein and carbohydrates and slumped spectacularly. Conversation had petered out and Louise looked ready to fall asleep in the remainder of our patatas bravas. It was 8.30 pm.

‘Is it acceptable to go back to the B&B now?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

I tried to justify our pitifully early night as the result of a busy day, but the fact is, we are in our mid-thirties with young children and will probably never see midnight again.

We arrived back at the B&B to something of a commotion; a Range Rover had pulled up outside, bad dance music blaring, lights beaming, and an enormous muscular man was pacing around, rattling on the door. He was wearing more wet-look hair gel than I’ve seen on a head since the 90s and, not that I want to cast aspersions, almost definitely on cocaine. In the Range Rover, a young woman, heavily made up, was smoking an enormous vape. It was not a typical Knaresborough scene.

‘Are you staying here?’ said the man. ‘We’re booked in but nobody’s answering the door? We’re going to Viper Rooms in Harrogate tonight. It’s her birthday. Is there a hot tub in here? Is it hot?’

It was a lot to process.

‘Umm, we’ll go and get the owner…’

I punched in the door code three times. It didn’t work.

Eventually, the owner arrived, still wearing short shorts. Still furious.

‘What on earth is going on, Louise? Who are these people?’

Following a long few minutes, it transpired that the party couple did not have a luxury hot-tub room booked in the cottage. According to the enormous man they had been victims of a Facebook scam, though he was vague about the finer details. He assured the woman they would still make it to their VIP booth at Viper Rooms, but she appeared unconvinced.

‘Idiots!’ our host said as the Range Rover drove away.

‘Speaking of which,’ he said, turning to me, ‘what did I say about remembering the door code?’

*

Thanks for reading this chapter of The Flagging Dad! As ever, please do like, share, or leave a comment about your own experiences, or anything else that springs to mind. I’ve had a surprisingly ego-boosting influx of new subscribers over the past few days, so if you’re new here, welcome! I hope you enjoy my nonsense.

My recommended Substack reads this week, both World Cup-related, of course, are:

• In which I compare myself to a World Cup football coach by

• Mexico played England and it was magnificent - by

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my writing by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Buy Me a Coffee

Louise recently treated me to a solo night away at the local spa hotel to crack on with some writing, which was very thoughtful indeed. My wife is a wonderful woman and/or a woman in need of a break from her irritating husband.

Before the big weekend, I stocked up on essentials and bought a fancier-than-usual writing pad from what used to be WHSmith but is now, apparently, TJ Jones? (When did this atrocity happen?) Then, with my eyes starting to stream, I went to Boots to buy some antihistamines.

They were aggressively advertising a buy-one-get-one-half-price deal on Benadryl.

“Can I have two packets, please?”

The woman at the counter eyed me suspiciously.

“You can only get one, love,” she said. “They contain pseudoephedrine, so, you know...”

Three quick points:

1. I’d just sneezed four times and had red, watering eyes. I was, quite clearly, a legitimate hay fever sufferer.

2. As a nearly middle-aged man wearing a high-vis cycling jacket, I don’t think I could look less like a crystal meth manufacturer if I tried.

3. They really need to rethink that buy-one-get-one-half-price deal.

I stuffed the writing pad, solitary packet of Benadryl, and the rest of my belongings into a trusty shoulder bag, which has seen many a sight over the years (predominantly the soulless bedrooms of budget hotels on European stag dos) and I was all set for my first ever solo retreat.

Louise and the boys dropped me off at the hotel at 10am, and I gave everyone, in hindsight, over-the-top hugs and farewells, given I was staying 2.2 miles from our front door for exactly one night.

“Morning,” I said to the receptionist.

“Check-in’s at 3pm, love.”

“Ah.”

“Make yourself at home, though. Grab a coffee.”

I walked through to the restaurant and ordered a flat white, but it didn’t feel appropriate to get my laptop out in a room where a man and woman in their 60s were sitting silently picking at their poached eggs. So, unsteadily carrying my cup and saucer, I wandered around the hotel until I found a meeting room on the second floor.

Where was the light switch?

I sat on a chair, opened my laptop, took a sip of coffee, and got…

No, this wasn’t right.

It just wasn’t right.

How was I supposed to start my magnum opus in a dark room with a flipboard in the corner, “Second Quarter KPIs” written in garish green marker pen?

I felt a pang of panic. I’d already been there for 20 minutes and, so far, done no writing. No writing at all.

Thankfully, beside the restaurant was a “summer room”, which turned out to be perfect. A comfy sofa by the window overlooking a pond and, crucially, lights that were switched on. Deep breath. Crisis averted.

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I’ve been writing for over a decade now, but this was the first time I have ever had such a large chunk of time to dedicate to it. After the shaky start, I put In Rainbows on (my favourite writing album) and it was, I’m pleased to report, a successful morning.

Over the next few hours, I finished the first chapter of my new book, and chipped away at a synopsis, getting surges of excitement that I might just be onto something this time. I’ve never thought of myself as an especially productive man (Louise would vouch for this) but, as I munched a celebratory tuna wrap and had a dangerous post-2pm latte, I felt a smug sense of satisfaction.

Perhaps I could be a full-time writer one day?

I checked my Buy Me a Coffee account…

One day.

As per my strict plan, I went out for a post-lunch jog on Otley Chevin.

Four minutes after setting off, it started absolutely hammering it down, and two minutes after that, I rolled my ankle on a grassy knoll, felt a sharp pain, and tumbled into the mud.

Did I make an embarrassing and, in hindsight, over-the-top shrill squeal of anguish?

I’ll let you be the judge.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to start chapter two in A and E as I managed to run it off. And run I did. All the way down the Chevin into Otley, where I took one look at the steep, winding road back up to the hotel and promptly booked an Uber from a Shell garage.

On getting back, my room was ready and, after a shower, I was ready to crack on with my writing. I settled into a corner table in the small, empty hotel bar, ordered an eight-pound pint of Guinness, and opened Microsoft Word.

“RYANAIR ARE A F*CKING DISGRACE!” a middle-aged Scottish man shouted to his mate as they walked in, dragging large suitcases.

Not far behind them, a mixed group of ten or so others arrived, complaining about cancellation policies and dragging a frankly obscene amount of luggage.

In the blink of an eye, the small, cosy bar filled with a wedding party who were very, very pissed off and, it soon became clear, intent on dealing with this by getting very, very pissed.

I turned the volume up on Spotify, but it was no good. I was too distracted.

“I was once on a flight and a man was sick on his lap,” a woman was telling her friend behind me. “All over his lap.”

I drank another pint of Guinness but, rather than turning me into Ernest Hemingway, I just became drowsy and, when I smelled melted cheese coming from the kitchen, very hungry indeed.

Before I knew it, my laptop was closed and I was wolfing a goat’s cheese and caramelised onion pizza while contributing - effectively, I should add - to a WhatsApp chat about footballers who have played for both Leeds United and Norwich City

Louise had booked me in for the twilight session at the pool and spa and, feeling the buzz of two pints of Guinness more than I’d like to admit, I bounced up to reception.

“Hi, I’m booked in for 7pm,” I said.

“You need to be out by 9,” the man said, sternly. “Possibly earlier.”

“Why’s that?”

“I need to lock up.”

“Oh.”

After putting on my white robe and slippers, I headed, first, to the outdoor hot tub. My plans, however, were thwarted by an athletic couple in their 20s who were - and I’m aware this couldn’t make me sound more like a middle-aged dad if I tried - canoodling. Very heavily canoodling.

I simply couldn’t get in.

So instead, I swam a few lengths, then sat in the sauna with two hairy businessmen who were talking, very seriously, about business.

“Do you think Mark is up to the task?” one said.

“No. My instinct is saying no.”

Poor Mark.

I checked the hot tub again to discover, I kid you not, another canoodling couple. C’mon now?

At 8.40pm, it was finally free and I lowered myself in, exhaled, and felt the tension in my shoulders finally easing.

At 8.42pm, the Eastern European man appeared, and stood, hovering over me.

“You need to get out soon,” he said. “I told you this.”

He showed no signs of movement.

I got out.

Back in my room, I read through my morning’s writing, made a couple of edits, and felt satisfied that, while I hadn’t been as prolific as hoped, I’d at least achieved something.

As tempting as it was to join the remnants of the angry wedding party who now shouting at a rugby match on the TV, I decided to call it a night at 9.45pm. What happens on tour, stays on tour.

Just as my eyes were dropping, though, I had a thought:

I think I’m hungry.

Suddenly, I was in big, big trouble…

Hang on, I am hungry.

The bar has stopped serving food.

I ate that pizza at 6pm.

I don’t have the car.

I can’t access food until 7am tomorrow.

That’s 9 hours away. NINE HOURS.

How long can a man survive without food?

At 1am, stomach rumbling, I put on The Sleepy History podcast – it was an episode about Ibn Battuta, an Arabian traveller from the 14th century. However, rather than soothing me into slumber, I found myself getting fully invested in his tale.

This guy had travelled over 70,000 miles. He’d survived pirate attacks. He had TEN WIVES. It was fascinating.

I’ll just have a quick look at his Wikipedia…

And so on.

Until the wood pigeons were cooing and I accepted that, on my solo relaxing writing retreat in a night in a spa hotel, I’d barely slept a wink.

The plan was for Louise to pick me up at midday but, given the circumstances, I threw in the towel and asked her to come at 9am.

“How was it?” she said in the car park, then took a look a look at the rings around my bloodshot eyes, the bag slung over my shoulder. “Oh, God, Andy. What happened?”

So, while I might not have got quite as much writing done as I’d hoped, and I ended my first solo retreat looking “10 years older” (Louise’s words), it has at least provided me with the material for this very Substack post.

So I suppose, in the end, it was worthwhile after all?

*

Thanks for reading! I haven’t written on Substack for ages due to an irritating health issue flaring up at the same time as a new job (and the World Cup) starting, but it’s really good to be back.

Please do share your own writing retreat stories, good or bad, or anything else you fancy and I’ll be back a week on Thursday with the next installment of The Flagging Dad.

Finally… if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Andy

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Quick note: I accidentally published this chapter a few weeks ago (the fault of my chubby thumbs when I was scheduling posts.) I deleted it when I realised I’d ballsed up, but I don’t know - and don’t think I will ever know - how to recall emails, so if you have already read this one, apologies for the duplication!

Jacob has started waking up at 5.30 am every day without fail. Could he not, at least, have the courtesy to push it back to 6 am? I can psychologically deal with a new day starting at 6 am. Anything earlier tends to result in a morning of intermittent visits to the biscuit tin, at least one avoidable disagreement with Louise, and a decent amount of time spent sitting down with my head in my hands, sighing.

Ever the team, Louise and I take it in turns to do the sunrise shift. On my watch, this currently involves sitting Jacob in front of hypnotic YouTube videos of an anonymous hand playing with toy diggers until the caffeine kicks in and I have the energy to read him a book/change the channel. Recently, however, our arrangement has hit a significant stumbling block as, when I walk into Jacob’s room, he takes one look at me and screams, “NO! NOT YOU, DADDY! MUMMY!”

I have attempted everything I can think of to calm him down: books, TV, looking for buses out of the window (admittedly, there is not much action at this time) and, once, in a desperate measure, encouraging him to examine a slug which was, for reasons unknown, in our living room.

Nothing works.

He just shouts in my face, whacks me with his milk beaker, wriggles free and stands at the bottom of the stairs screaming, “MUMMY! NOW!” until Louise appears in a dressing gown in the glow of the bedroom light and shoots me a look of disdain.

From the moment she picks him up, Jacob is absolutely fine, but for the next 30 to 45 minutes I feel stressed, guilty that I cannot facilitate my wife having a lie-in, and disappointed in my inability to look after my own son.

A few days ago, I came up with a solution and bundled Jacob into the car for an early morning drive. He shouted, “NO, DADDY! MUMMY!” until we were past Otley, and it felt quite a lot like I had kidnapped him.

Unable to pull my weight with the early mornings, I am trying to contribute to other areas. I have, for instance, actively participated in Louise’s pursuit of a guinea pig hutch. Spoiler: we are getting the boys two guinea pigs. Louise decided this was an excellent idea after Joshua formed a bond with a TOY guinea pig at Tong Garden Centre and I can’t say I’m thrilled by the idea. The only pets I have ever owned were some stick insects I got for my 10th birthday. Due to being unusually tall and rake-thin at the time, I was self-conscious and, to be honest, found them quite triggering. Thanks, Dad. So, I feel both underqualified and anxious about our new venture. Bringing two new lives into our house feels reckless when we are just about hanging in there as it is.

Louise sourced a high-end cage at a great price (her words) on a Facebook buy-and-sell group, and I enthusiastically agreed to go and collect it. It was only after I had said yes that she revealed two pieces of significant information:

1. I would be collecting it at 9 am on the Monday morning after my birthday.

2. From Keighley.

On Sunday, my mate had treated me to fancy tickets at Elland Road, which included speeches from Leeds legends and a free bar. Despite a 3-0 hammering, we decided to take our revelry into town afterwards, and ended up the only customers in Hotel Chocolat while the staff swept the floor around us, turned off the music and willed us to hurry up with our Piña Coladas which were, in hindsight, a very, very silly thing to be drinking at that time.

As you can imagine, I was feeling far from salubrious as I arose (in the spare room/doghouse) on Monday morning. Or, to put it in less pretentious terms, I felt like I had been repeatedly whacked around the head with a spatula. With the rain hammering down and my original plan of watching Lorraine and feeling sorry for myself now firmly off the table, my mid-thirties were off to a very poor start indeed.

There was a risk I was still over the limit and, even if I was not, I was too frail to be tasked with lifting a large object into a boot on my own, so my dad was roped in to drive his hungover adult son to Keighley in the rain. Proud dad moment. Now, I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but he is not the smoothest of drivers and does not use his sat nav, despite admitting midway that he has not been to Keighley in “over 20 years, Andrew. Maybe more?”, so it was not a straightforward journey. It took us over an hour of winding country roads to get there, with few words uttered other than me requesting that he pull over in a lay-by because I thought I might be sick. Eventually, we arrived at the address to find the guinea pig hutch on the drive.

It was enormous.

“I don’t think it’s going to fit in the car, Andrew,” my dad said.

It did not.

We went home.

Undeterred, the following Monday Louise informed me that she had found another guinea pig hutch and asked if I could pick it up from the other side of Leeds. Sensing a chance to finally crawl myself out of the birthday blowout-induced doghouse, I agreed again. This time, I was met by a friendly woman who invited me into the back garden to see a guinea pig hutch the size of a small house. I genuinely could have lived in it and had a reasonable quality of life. I expressed my doubts to the woman, but she was determined and went inside to ask her husband to help. Given his scowl at having to put down a can of Carling and pause a documentary about the Royal Marines, I sensed he had not signed up to this.

The husband’s mood further descended when he discovered I had not yet taken out the child seats and stood in silence while I faffed around and made lame jokes about my lack of practical skills. We both knew full well that the cage had no chance of fitting but, with our wives’ opinions at stake, went through the motions anyway. After heaving, manoeuvring and grunting for a few minutes, we gave up the ghost.

“Shall I help you carry it back to the garden?” I asked him.

“No.”

After I arrived home empty-handed once more, Louise, in my opinion, absolved herself of much responsibility, instead blaming the Facebook sellers for their low-level spatial awareness. She then bought a guinea pig hutch from Amazon in approximately 90 seconds. After calculating that I had wasted four-plus hours of my life, though, I am not going to let this one lie. Louise owes me. In fact, next time I am unable to settle Jacob in the morning and he wakes her up (tomorrow. 100%), I am not going to feel all that bad about it.

*

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy.

My recommended reads this week are:

• In All Honesty .... - by - includes some excellent writing advice and a funny survey.

• Also, I always enjoy ’s Substack and her new book, Receipts From the Bookshop is out today! (Congrats, Katie!) I’ve just ordered my copy and really looking forward to reading it.

Finally… if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Andy

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Buy me a coffee

This is the latest chapter of my book The Flagging Dad, which I’m serialising on Thursdays.

A week after returning from Suffolk, we went to Filey for a long weekend with my parents, my brother, and his wife. I’m aware that going on two holidays in short succession is not deserving of sympathy but, with the crumbs from the boys’ A14 food fight still speckling the back seats, this did feel a bit soon to be reloading the car with travel cots, blackout blinds and buggies, and clambering back in.

Hello, Dacia, my old friend.

Thankfully, Filey is not as far away but the standstill traffic from near York was predictably soul-destroying and my attempts to kill time by watching Sweden vs Slovakia on my phone resulted in a cricked neck, and an irritated wife.

We arrived early evening and, in familiar footage, a frenzied Joshua refused to get into bed and started tearing around the house, booting things. Louise and I had planned for it this time, though; we would simply ignore him and let him stay up until he ran himself into the ground, which created a relaxing start-of-holiday vibe for the rest of my family. We sat on the sofa, pretended we were fine and poured drinks. Joshua, though, is no fool, and he scampered towards me and kicked my beer over.

‘Whoa! What was that for?’ I asked, slightly raised voice.

‘Shh! Don’t pander to him, Andy!’ Louise said, before suggesting I cared more about beer than our son’s well-being, which seemed, in my opinion, quite a leap. Eventually, we gave in, and Louise picked him up, shouting and thrashing, and took him to his room while I mopped the floor with a wet wipe.

My dad, who’d been for a bizarrely timed bath, emerged a few minutes later.

‘Andrew, I’ve just heard Louise telling Joshua she’s going to put him in the car and take him home? That would be a shame.’

Louise had sunk two glasses of Pinot, and I was reasonably confident this was an empty threat. I sometimes think my dad has forgotten almost everything about raising young children and the accompanying psychological battles. He insists our early years were the best time of his life, and my brother and I were ‘no trouble at all.’

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The following morning, Jacob was up for the day circa 4.45 a.m., making his presence known. I took him downstairs and sat, glassy-eyed, watching an Albanian tractor festival on YouTube until 6.30 a.m, the time when I’m prepared to actively engage with my children. When the rest of the house started to emerge, I was ready for lunch. Ready for a nap.

The house was a fifteen-minute walk from Filey beach and, on the scenic stroll down, I ploughed myself with caffeine and pulled myself together. With Joshua building a sandcastle with my mum, I breathed in the sea air, watched the morning mist rising over Filey Brigg and felt upbeat about the weekend ahead. My moment of quiet contemplation, though, proved costly as I’d taken my eye off the ball.

Or, to be more specific, my youngest son.

Jacob, fully clothed, had waddled towards the sea, and I watched, in slow motion, as a wave no higher than 10 cm swept him off his feet and clattered him into the drink. I ran over and picked him up, but he was drenched from head to toe, wet sand in his hair and very, very pissed off.

We’d been on the beach for sub-5 minutes. Of course - OF COURSE - I’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes, and that scenic stroll I mentioned was quite a lot longer, and quite a lot shitter, when riddled with guilt and carrying a bawling 18-month-old who couldn’t be wetter. After a bath and a change of clothes, he was fine, and I remain hopeful that he hasn’t developed a lifelong phobia of the sea.

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The sun broke through the clouds in the afternoon, and we spent an enjoyable few hours on the fields outside our house, the extra childcare on offer allowing my brother and I to have a lengthy game of badminton while simultaneously drinking cans of Neck Oil.

After an early night, Jacob broke his personal best the following morning and was up at 4.20 a.m., shouting ‘Tractor! Tractor!’ I have made a rod for my own back with the morning YouTube sessions. Since becoming a parent, I seem to be forever making rods for my own back or, in this case, Louise’s back. It was her shift.

Later that morning, we walked along the beach into Filey where we had lunch in a café served by a waiter who looked no older than eleven. I should have handed in Joshua’s CV - these nursery fees are stacking up.

We’d planned to visit Sewerby Hall in the afternoon but, pushing buggies along wet sand, the walk back had proven slightly (far) too long, and we were happy to spend another afternoon lounging around. Well, let’s be honest, you don’t do much lounging when you’ve got young kids, do you?

There is no rest.

On the final day, we took the boys to Scarborough, where I once went for a wonderfully silly weekend away as a teenager. Pizza Hut threatened to call the police on my mate after he abused the Ice Cream Factory offer by sharing out his unlimited portions and, sipping Lambrini with the sun setting behind Scarborough Castle, I kissed a girl, then approximately TWELVE MINUTES LATER, saw her holding my mate’s hand while still wearing the coat I’d lent her. Good job I’m over it now. Totally over it.

For reasons I can’t fully remember, we were turfed out of the house we were supposed to be staying in and ended up sleeping in a park in the rain. No tent.

Anyway, this time around, a visit to the Sea Life centre was comparably chaotic. Joshua, an aspiring doctor, had diagnosed himself with an unspecified foot injury and insisted my mum carried him most of the way around, and Jacob, making his aquarium debut, was bouncing off the walls, shouting at stingrays, trying to clamber into the seal enclosure and only loosely complying with a one-way system, which earned my dad and me several scowls.

When we got to the gift shop at the end, Joshua’s injury miraculously healed and he ran around waving a plastic shark while Jacob rifled through a box of slightly-too-small bouncy balls. Not fancying ending the holiday by performing the Heimlich Manoeuvre, I tried to usher them outside, but Jacob was having none of it and toddled back into the aquarium, chased by my exhausted dad.

Eventually, as often seems to be the case, we resorted to bribery and bought the boys a rubber stingray and a small plastic fish in a Sea Life Centre-branded cube. By the time we were finally outside, my dad looked utterly fraught. I got the impression the afternoon may have sparked some more accurate memories of early parenthood.

‘I think I need to go for a quiet cup of tea, Andrew.’

Later on, I asked my mum whether it was really the case that John and I had been no trouble when we were children. She took a breath and looked into my eyes.

‘No, Andrew. Your dad is mistaken.’

*

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy.

has kindly asked me to participate in her excellent “Parents Who Create” interview series, which will be up sometime next week. Loads of fun - thanks!

My recommended reads this week are:

Why I Studied AI Despite Hating It - the AI diaries - by - Really interesting take on AI (just seen there’s now a second part up too! Excellent.)

A Brief History of Men Avoiding Eye Contact With Each Other by - thoroughly enjoyed this one (some of the deepest conversations I’ve had with my mates has been while watching lower league football matches that we have no invested interest in.)

Finally… if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Andy

Buy me a coffee

This is the latest chapter of The Flagging Dad, which I’m serialising on Thursdays.

It was our fourth wedding anniversary recently - our Linen Anniversary. Linen does not scream out good times, does it? To me, it brings back harrowing memories of working in a hotel for minimum wage while a moustached manager berated my inability to fold bed sheets and firmly suggested I should pursue an alternative career path.

Anyway, undeterred by its underwhelming title, Louise and I celebrated in style, child‑free. To kick things off, we went for a spa morning where we had massages and, like an ageing alcoholic millionaire, I sauntered around wearing a sparkling white bathrobe. Afterwards, we ate far too much cake in the restaurant and, when we got home, I suffered a spectacular sugar crash before falling asleep on the sofa watching Married at First Sight Australia.

In the evening, we went for a big night out (my mother dropped us off and picked us up). After a Thai meal, we ventured into Headingley and reminisced about the good old days when we lived here in our early twenties, although the twinkle in Louise’s eye faded when she recalled the time(s) I made her sit in The Box with me and watch Soccer Saturday in its entirety.

‘Hang on, we’re not even watching football? We’re watching some men talking about football? For three hours?’

‘Exactly.’

What a charmer I was.

We headed into a new bar where the average age appeared to be thirteen, and I pointed out to Louise that it was formerly the Yorkshire Bank, a fun fact confirmed by the barmaid. I was about to regale some hard-hitting anecdotes from my time as a Yorkshire Bank customer but, having already spent a chunk of our special day asleep, thought I might need to up my game if I wanted to make it to our fifth anniversary.

My direct debit tale would have to wait for another day.

Looking for an opportunity to lift the mood, on top of our wine, I asked for two tequilas.

‘What the hell, Andy?’

Louise politely cancelled the order, then shot me a look as if I had suggested we buy some heroin.

So, the barmaid had witnessed the following: a man talking about where an ATM used to be situated in Yorkshire Bank, then badly failing in a transparent attempt to claw it back and prove he is, in fact, a good time guy. I imagine this looked like a horribly mismatched Tinder date. Was she giving Louise a sympathetic ‘we’ve all been there, love’ look?

I felt like shouting, ‘Look! This is our wedding anniversary! Our Linen Anniversary!’

Instead, we sipped our wine in silence for a bit then estimated what time Jacob would be up the following morning. My prediction of 5.45 a.m. was bang on the money. At least we were hangover free.

In the afternoon, we went to a food and drink festival at Harewood House, which is an aggressively middle‑class way to spend time. After a round‑the‑houses journey intended to give the boys a chance to nap (they did not), we arrived late in the day, with the only available parking half a mile away from the first food stall.

Jacob boosted morale further by doing his trademark trick of refusing to walk or sit in his buggy, and when I tried to put him on my shoulders, he kicked me in the face and screamed, ‘Mummy!’ as though he were the victim. Louise took him and instantly calmed him down, which angered Joshua as he wanted her to pick him up too. Both children often want to be held or carried by Louise simultaneously and physically push me away when I approach.

This is not good for Louise’s opinion of me as a father. Or her back.

After bribing him with promises of ice cream, Joshua reluctantly agreed to go on my shoulders and, as we traipsed through the long grass, the pollen triggering an attack of hay fever, he tugged at my ears to indicate which way he wanted to go, leading us past a heavily pregnant woman who looked too hot and quite pissed off with the world.

Louise gave her a warm smile, then turned to me.

‘Aww. I miss being pregnant, Andy.’

‘Don’t you dare...’

When we finally got in the mixer, Joshua clambered down from my shoulders and ran towards an enormous inflatable funhouse.

‘Can I go on it, Daddy?!’

There was a long, snaking queue of sugar‑high children with tired parents, and I foresaw the next half an hour of my life. I did not like it one bit. As I was longingly eyeing up a beer tent, Joshua darted off under the ropes.

‘Oi, come back!’ I shouted after him, but it was too late. He was throwing himself around and grinning from ear to ear, no longer aware of my existence. Nobody else had noticed, though. He’d got away with it. Remembering a time in my mid-teens when I had successfully shimmied over a wall to sneak into the Original Oak beer garden, I felt oddly proud of my son. Obviously, the right thing to do was to get him off, say sorry to the ticket man, flash some apologetic smiles to fellow parents, and join the back of the queue.

I did not do this.

I did something else entirely.

I stood quietly by the side of the inflatable while keeping a loose eye on Joshua having the time of his life. For free. Having not queued at all.

What have I become? What kind of an example am I setting?

Joshua eventually got off, ginning and rosy‑cheeked with hair matted to his forehead. We found Louise and Jacob and I spent approximately one week’s wages on two stone-baked pizzas and some cheesy chips, before laying out a picnic blanket. The only let‑up with young children is when they are eating or sleeping and, for a few blissful minutes, we munched our food, enjoyed the sunshine and, aside from my nagging guilt about encouraging a three‑year‑old’s criminal activity, felt life’s stresses drift away.

‘Well, this is just lovely, isn’t it?’ Louise said.

‘It sure is.’

Rarely one to just enjoy the moment, though, I had spotted an opportunity to further enhance the situation. A trendy alcohol stall offering free taster shots had caught my eye.

‘Fancy a tequila, Louise?’ I asked.

‘No.’

*

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! Incidentally, our ninth Wedding Anniversary is coming up in May - our Pottery Anniversary. Perhaps we’ll watch Ghost to celebrate?

Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy.

My recommended reads for this week are:

• The Reverse London Marathon - by - excellent account of a bonkers running event.

• Dispatches from Southwest France: March and April by - funny and entertaining diaries. I’ve been enjoying Alix’s Substack and recommend subscribing.

• When A Humor Writer Gets Depressed - by Smith - it’s great to see Lindsey writing again and she gets some nice quips into a moving post.

Finally… if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Buy me a coffee

This is the latest chapter of my book The Flagging Dad, which I’m serialising on Substack.

It takes a long time to drive from Leeds to Suffolk. A really, really long time.

The first half was fine; Joshua and Jacob slept for most of it, and a Spotify playlist I’d made weighted (arguably too heavily) towards early noughties RnB classics boosted the holiday mood. Post-Peterborough, though, was a different matter. The boys remained very much awake, playing a game which involved little more than throwing grapes at each other and screeching, and Louise abruptly turned the radio off as I sang along to Nelly, indicating that she was no longer enjoying this particular ‘Ride Wit’ Me.’

Inevitably, on the final stretch we got stuck behind a tractor, with Louise berating me for not having the confidence to overtake, an emasculating double whammy highlighting both my shortcomings as a driver and my lack of assertion as a man. Useful material for the therapy sessions I will no doubt have in my forties.

At least Jacob, a John Deere enthusiast, was grinning from ear to coconut macaroon crumb-covered ear, pointing and shouting, ‘Tractor! Tractor! Tractor!’ When I made an interesting and relevant comment about Ipswich Town being known as ‘The Tractor Boys’ it was the final straw, and Louise let out what I can only describe as a yelp of anguish.

We finally arrived in the early evening, agitated and dishevelled, my stubble noticeably longer than when we’d left Leeds. The boys tottered off to play with Louise’s mum and sister while Louise and I grimaced, then unpacked the car in silence, before I assembled a travel cot designed to tip me over the edge, and Louise intricately sellotaped blackout blinds to the boys’ bedroom windows. I didn’t know blackout blinds existed until we had children, but I now genuinely think my wife would sooner go on holiday without me than them.

Now the boys are a little older, we assumed it would be fine to put them in a room together. It was not. Jacob fell asleep instantly, but Joshua, excited by the new environment, turned buck wild and refused to get into bed, preferring to charge about the house, shouting. In hindsight, we should have remained calm, let him stay up for a bit, and waited for him to fatigue. Instead, I chased him around the house while explaining that we hadn’t been on holiday in ages, and saying, ‘We just want a bit of break. Please? Mate?’

He was, at best, unsympathetic.

Circa 9 p.m., Joshua agreed he would go to sleep on the proviso that it was in our room, so Louise’s mum pumped up an inflatable bed to facilitate this. I appreciated her efforts, but the bed was bizarrely shaped, and I understood Joshua’s point when he refused to lay on it. Or go near it. Eventually, the solution was for Joshua to get into bed with Louise while I, a six-foot-four man, spent the night half-on, half-off a toddler’s inflatable mattress which resembled a rubber dinghy you might buy from Aldi.

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Fortunately, Louise and I are well-trained in functioning on little sleep, and, after the now familiar large coffee/small squabble breakfast combo, things took an upturn. It was a beautiful day, and we headed to Southwold, a charming seaside town a few miles away. This is not a slight on the Northern coastline I know and love, but I immediately noticed there were considerably fewer bad tattoos on show. I have a very, very bad tattoo, so I am not being snobby, by the way (I’m a probation officer, for god’s sake, I’m as non-judgemental as they come.)

As an unrelated observation, I didn’t spot a single vape shop or Staffordshire Bull Terrier in Southwold.

We had a lovely time; Joshua paddled in the sea, giggled, and built sandcastles with Louise’s mum and sister, which gave me confidence that he has not, in fact, transformed into Damien from The Omen, and Jacob, a lockdown baby, just seemed delighted to be somewhere that isn’t our house.

Over the following three days we visited Aldeburgh and Thorpeness, paddled in the sea with Joshua, collected pebbles in a pot with Jacob, ate numerous ice creams, pottered up and down the pier, drank Adnams Ghost Ship (me), and questioned whether three cans of Adnams Ghost Ship is necessary before dinner (Louise). It was pretty great. Relaxing? On the condition that everything we did fit into the parameters of the boys’ naps, nappy changes, meals, dietary requirements, preferred activities, and occasional mood swings, it could not have been more chilled out.

Evenings on holiday have changed a bit, I’ve noticed. What used to be prosecco, Pictionary and talk of a taxi into town has made way for sipping herbal tea and feeling like it’s a genuine achievement to stay awake until Gogglebox finishes. At least I was back in an adult-sized bed, as Joshua had reluctantly agreed to sleep in his room, so the dinghy/mattress was deflated and shoved back in its box where it will hopefully remain forever.

On the last day I said I’d book us in for dinner at a country pub. The first result on Google, The Red Lion, sounded ideal, and I sorted it within minutes, hinting to Louise that she might want to praise my efficiency. We went for what was meant to be a short walk through some fields beforehand, but both boys pratted around spectacularly. It was also swelteringly hot, and, while I’m no weatherman, I can’t imagine the pollen count has ever been higher anywhere in the world. By the time we were back in the car, my eyes were puffed up and streaming, and I took it personally when Louise asked if it was necessary to blow my nose with such ferocity.

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Louise’s mum and sister arrived at the pub before us and rang with dire news. I had booked a table at a different Red Lion. A family-unfriendly Red Lion, several miles away. As Louise and her sister calmly discussed alternatives over speakerphone, I did that thing where you snap at your wife because you are annoyed with yourself.

Men are great, aren’t they?

Gladly, all was not lost. By chance, we drove past a pub with a thatched roof boasting a ‘world class’ beer garden which was empty. We were allowed in on one condition: the children must remain seated at all times ‘because of Covid.’ We said we would try, but it might be a touch unrealistic for a 3-year-old and a toddler to stay still. In response, the lady said ‘rules are rules’ and we would be ‘thrown out’ if we didn’t adhere to them. Trying to restrain the boys with one hand while eating fish and chips with the other, while hawk-eyed staff hovered around our table, wasn’t quite the pub trip I’d envisaged.

Overall, though, it was a brilliant holiday; Suffolk is delighftul, we lucked in with the weather, the children loved it and, if it wasn’t six hours away, we would go again in a heartbeat. We were sad to be leaving.

Approximately ten minutes after saying our goodbyes to Louise’s mum and sister, our morale dropped some more. Joshua said he needed the toilet, Jacob was shouting, and we were stuck behind a tractor again.

‘Hey, Louise,’ I said, trying to cheer her up. ‘Did you know when Norwich City and Ipswich Town play each other, it is affectionately known as the Old Farm Derby?’

‘Aargh!!!’

*

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! Please like/share if you enjoyed it, and I always enjoy reading people’s comments. Have you been to Suffolk? What did you think?

As per my new thing, here are a couple of posts I’ve enjoyed on Substack recently

• A silver smile above my house by - a delightful piece about a moonlit evening stroll.

• Big Feelings by - lovely read about a father-daughter trip to Iceland.

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Andy

Buy me a coffee

This is the latest chapter of my book The Flagging Dad, which I’m serialising on Thursdays.

Jacob is teething. It is hell.

He wakes up several times per night, bawling, and will only allow Louise to comfort him. If I try, the second I enter his room he becomes considerably more distressed and, when I pick him up, attempts to claw at my face and chop my neck. This does little for my self-worth and less for my wife’s opinion of me as a capable husband and father.

The bigger issue, though, is that he likes Louise SO MUCH he refuses to let her put him back in his cot. She can rock him for an hour and he can be snoring like a warthog, but as soon as she tries to lower him down, his eyes open and he starts howling.

This is where I step in. Jacob begrudgingly accepts me as a tolerable halfway house and will remain asleep if Louise hands him over to me. The transition from me to cot is not as extreme and, after I have rocked him for 3-5 minutes, he will let me put him down.

He is reasonable like this.

I appreciate that Louise is putting in the harder yards here. In footballing terms it is the equivalent of her running the length of the pitch, beating several defenders, then squaring it to me for an open goal, but at least I am not completely useless (sometimes I blaze high and wide and we start from the beginning).

On one particularly torturous night we had to repeat our fun system for four hours until Jacob finally settled, and we clambered back into bed as the wood pigeons were starting to coo.

“DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!” Joshua shouted from his bedroom.

It sounded urgent.

I got up and staggered to our elder son’s bedroom.

‘Are you ok, mate? What’s up?’

‘Do sea urchins have eyes, Daddy?’

Obviously this woke Jacob up and the day began.

Black coffees. Cereal in silence.

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Jacob is 15 months old, and I’d thought (prayed) we would be getting out of the woods by now. We are very much still in the woods. The kind of in-the-woods where it is getting dark, you are potentially a bit lost but not ready to admit it, and the battery on your phone is worryingly low. We could be here for a while.

In more positive news Joshua is now a fan of mine again. We were in the car and he said, from nowhere, ‘I like you now, Daddy.’ He has offered no explanation as to why this was not the case for nearly six weeks or what has happened to make him change his mind, but I’m glad we are back on track. It would be nice to have both sons like me at the same time, but you can’t be too greedy, can you?

Louise too? Let’s not push it.

With Spring in the air, we spent a long weekend at Louise’s mum’s in Kent. On the drive down I further boosted mine and Joshua’s camaraderie by giving him an irresponsible amount of McDonald’s fries at a service station, our first dining out experience in months. My Big Mac looked to have been slapped together by someone who had hooves for hands, Jacob, overwhelmed by seeing humans that are not in his immediate family, kept trying to climb out of his high chair and onto the table, and a man in a high-vis jacket sat nearby was eating chicken nuggets with his mouth open, loads and loads of ketchup on his chin.

Barring Jacob’s night-time shenanigans and the accompanying whispered bickering between Louise and me, it was lovely to be somewhere other than our own house for a couple of days. We had riverside walks and picnics in parks, and similar to my probation clients on an electronic tag, good times were had between the hours of 7 am and 7 pm.

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Good times, however, were conspicuous in their absence on the journey home. Jacob saved his worst until the last night, refusing to be put down by either of us, so Louise eventually brought him into our bed where he squirmed, shouted and scratched at my back all night. At one point Louise told me to get out and ‘find a sleeping bag.’

‘From where?’

‘Go and ask my mum.’

‘Hang on a second? Wake up your mum and ask if she has a sleeping bag?'

‘Just get out, Andy.’

I curled in the foetal position on the floor using a child’s towel as a blanket.

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Before we got in the car, our eyes were stinging with exhaustion and, aside from Joshua (fresh from a straight 13 hours’ sleep and three crumpets for breakfast), the mood was sombre. My main concern was not falling asleep at the wheel, but I could see Louise becoming increasingly agitated that Jacob’s morning naptime was approaching and he was showing no interest in nodding off. No interest at all.

Before having children I had no idea that your lives become entirely dictated by their naps. I wish this was not the case. When Joshua was a baby I suggested we try a more casual approach towards naptimes and was met with a look as though I had suggested we drop him off at a pub in Beeston and leave him to fend for himself. I have not mentioned it again and nod in silent approval when Louise talks about the importance of routine.

If Jacob misses his morning nap he becomes ‘overtired’, a dreaded term that usually means the day is going downhill/ruined. As he started to cry in the back, Louise tried to calm him down with a nursery rhyme.

My wife is a wonderful woman and she has many talents. Singing, though, is not necessarily one of them. Jacob responded to her soothing tones by shrieking like a banshee while Louise continued singing “Old McDonald’s Farm” aggressively loudly, straight into my left eardrum.

After half an hour of agony, during which I mulled over the option of opening the door and slinging myself onto the A1, Jacob finally had mercy and fell asleep. Quiet apart from rain pattering on the windscreen and the hum of Classic FM.

Bliss.

‘Daddy?’

‘Yes, Joshua?’

’Do sea urchins have ears?’

*

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy.

As per my new thing, here are some recommendations for this week:

• I’m a sucker for silly youthful nostalgia, so I loved this one from Lewis: School disco - by Lewis Holmes - The Ledge Beyond the Edge

• And, I thoroughly enjoyed Daniel Puzzo’s post about the kids (at least, some kids) being alright: The Kids Might Be All Right, After All - by Daniel Puzzo

• I went to a gig at Brudenell Social Club in Leeds last night, one of my favourite venues in the world, and saw Olive Jones. It was a brilliant set and it was so refreshing to see that not a single person was on their phone at any point. Highly recommend her new album - listen here: Olive Jones | Spotify

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Buy me a coffee

“Do you fancy a Reformer Pilates taster session, Andy?” Louise asked, as I was attempting to scrub the remnants of a toad in the hole from our stupid stainless steel baking tray.

“Not really, no.”

“Well, I’ve signed us both up now.”

“What is it?”

Three days later, I was hunched over in the reception area of a bright white fitness studio in a converted loft with a too low ceiling.

“Morning, loves,” a cheery woman said. “Have you both got your grip socks?”

“Our what now?”

“Oh, you need to wear grip socks to take part in Reformer Pilates.”

“We didn’t know?” Louise said.

“No problem! You can buy a pair here. They’re only £12 each.”

The probation service is currently locked in a heated pay dispute and as it stands, I do not have the disposable income to justify spending £12 on some bumpy ankle socks.

“That’s completely ridiculous?” Louise said (my wife has no issue with honestly expressing her opinion. No issue at all). “We’ll just go home then.”

Another woman, who appeared to be wearing only a bra, bounced into the reception area and had some hushed back and forth with the receptionist as to whether we could safely - and legally - participate in a Reformer Pilates class without wearing grip socks.

“Ok, you can come in,” the woman in the bra said. “But there might be some activities where you can only watch.”

“I’m not sitting and watching,” Louise said to her. “If we have to watch we’ll just go home.”

“Ok, fine…” she said, “but get some grip socks before next time. They’re a quid on Amazon.”

She led us into a studio where our fellow taster classmates - all women, all wearing grip socks - were doing some preparatory stretches. Was a small part of me concerned that they might see me, a nearly middle-aged man wearing a pair of Sondico football shorts, as a bit of a creep? Absolutely.

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For the uninitiated, Reformer Pilates involves sitting in a “reformer”, a small sliding bed on a pulley system with ropes and springs attached to it that looks, quite a lot like, a Medieval stretching torture device. After clambering into them, the instructor gave us some basic instructions, but I wasn’t fully paying attention because I’d got the 1992 pop-reggae hit “Informer” playing in my head on a loop.

She walked around the group, checking we’d properly strapped ourselves in, then started us out with some basic arm stretches, while telling us how to breathe. It wasn’t too demanding and feeling a satisfying pull in my shoulders, I began to feel quite relaxed. Midway through, though, there was a loud bang from the room next door, and our instructor stopped and shook her head.

“What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know?” said a classmate who resembled a Love Island contestant.

“ADAM! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

The banging stopped.

“Right, hamstrings next…” she said. “Strap in.”

Lying on my back, I hooked one foot into the strap and lifted my right leg toward the ceiling. I try to maintain a moderate level of fitness but something I don’t do - something I’ve never done - is stretch, and with my leg cocked in a 60‑degree angle, my knee inches away from my nose, I felt like I was going to topple backwards.

“Whoa… stop there!” the woman said, pace-walking over to me. “You’ve got the settings all wrong.”

Still in my painful and very silly pose, she addressed the group.

“This man…” she started. “This man is showing us what happens if you don’t adjust your seat to reflect your height. This is exactly what you shouldn’t do.”

She helped me get my foot unhooked, then said,

“Don’t worry, mate, I once had a man who couldn’t get strapped in at all. He couldn’t do ANYTHING.”

The humiliating Reformer Pilates class was the latest in a long line of things my Louise has talked me into over the years.

When she was in one of her “let’s get a dog!” phases, she signed us up to walk strangers’ dogs on borrowmydoggy.com, hoping it might sway me. We went to the local park where we met a fraught-looking woman in the carpark. She was struggling to keep hold of a young German Shepherd who introduced himself by bounding towards me, jumping up to my chest and attempting to lick my face.

“He’s not for the faint-hearted,” the woman said. “Haha.”

“Right. Haha.”

Whichever direction we tried to walk in, the dog jolted the other way, barking and snarling.

“Ok I’m going to let him have a little run around,” the woman said, undoing his lead.

“I’m sorry, you’re doing what?”

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Within seconds, he’d started a fight with a Labrador whose owner snapped, “If you can’t control your dog…!” while Louise and I just stood there with apologetic smiles and I thought: this isn’t our dog? We don’t have to be doing this on a Sunday morning?

“If you take him out on your own next time, you’ve just got to be careful around children,” the woman said in the carpark. “He sometimes thinks they are dogs.”

There wasn’t a next time.

Perhaps to get over the trauma of borrowmydoggy.com, Louise later signed us both up for a group meditation session. I have written about my attempts at mindfulness before and, look, I’m not knocking it. In today’s demanding world of rolling news, doom-scrolling and the multi-view option Discovery Sports where you can watch FOUR football matches at the same time (why? Why would anyone think that is good for their mental health?), I can completely see the appeal of switching off.

After doing some “in through the nose, out through the mouth” stuff while a woman in a floral dress talked about “Gentle Loving Kindness” for slightly too long, she excitedly told us about the second half of the session, “a sound bath with Steve”, and a middle-aged man in an Airwalk T-shirt entered the church hall carrying, I kid you not, an enormous didgeridoo.

Now, this might have been okay, but the first noise to come from his didgeridoo was a stream of high-pitched staccato squeaks.

“Sorry, guys,” he said, stony-faced. “My breathing is a bit off because I’ve got a cold.”

Louise slowly shuffled away from him.

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, Steve would play a few deep, relaxing notes, then lose his breath, and the sound would descend into a Year One recorder lesson before he’d say again, very seriously, “Sorry, guys,” while his face got increasingly redder.

Everyone in the circle tried to pretend this wasn’t happening and everything was fine, but everything wasn’t fine at all and I knew that if I made a split second of eye contact with Louise, we would start creasing it and we’d be asked to leave. Alison Hammond got some bad press for laughing during Charlotte Church’s sound bath and, honestly, she wouldn’t have stood a chance here.

Despite our new endeavours rarely going smoothly, it is, of course, good to get out of your comfort zone, isn’t it? Without Louise encouraging me to try new things, I would likely be retreating further into my armchair, eating Ginsters pastries and considering signing up for the full Sky Sports package.

Also, they don’t always end after one session. While I was sweating and toiling, Louise thoroughly enjoyed her Reformer Pilates and has now signed up for a weekly class and she seems fully committed.

Her grip socks have just arrived.

*

Thanks for reading! There are many, many more examples for this topic so I might well do a follow up at some point (just a few days ago, Louise “stumbled across” some DIY, plastering and joinery courses at the local college…)

Please do like or restack if you enjoyed this post and I’d love to hear your own experiences of trying (or being talked into trying) things outside your comfort zone.

Finally, if you’re feeling generous, please consider buying me a coffee or becoming a paid subscriber below.

Cheers and until next time!

Buy me a coffee

This is the latest chapter of my book The Flagging Dad, which I’m serialising on Thursdays.

Things keep breaking.

A few days ago, I sat on the toilet seat while giving the boys a bath and it snapped in two, which did little for my confidence and prompted me to cancel my request for a packet of Jammie Dodgers in the weekly shop. Then, the lock on our baby gate just flew off for no ostensible reason, so it now dangles open, unable to perform its one job.

Children smell weakness and, since it happened, the only thing Jacob wants to do is climb up the stairs. As a result, my life has been reduced to picking him up from the bottom step, moving him somewhere else, then jogging after him as he immediately toddles back over, giggling. I never thought this was how my adult life would turn out.

I used to have dreams.

Eventually, I had enough and, after wrestling him back into the living room for the 29th time one morning, I dragged the sofa in front of the door.

‘Phew,’ I said, sitting down on the sofa/barricade with a coffee, pleased with my problem solving skills. Jacob had moved on from his stair‑climbing obsession and was now happy whacking an empty milk carton on the bin, so I felt little guilt and thoroughly enjoyed not moving for a while.

After finishing my coffee, however, it dawned on me that I was effectively holding him hostage, and this was unlikely to be viewed favourably by Louise. Or social services. I shifted the sofa, Jacob slung the milk carton on the floor and immediately toddled back over to the steps and we danced our dance once more.

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In more positive news, Jacob has turned one, so he is officially a toddler meaning our baby‑raising days are over. We are not going to be one of those couples that get both children to school, see some semblance of our former lives return, look back on the early years through rose‑tinted glasses, then have another one.

It is categorically not going to happen.

My mum and dad came over for his birthday, and we had a lovely afternoon. Of course, Jacob had no idea what was going on, but Joshua was thrilled to open some presents for him, and I was thrilled to sit down drinking overpriced IPA in trendy little cans while my parents did the lion’s share of the childcare.

Over dinner, Joshua began telling a (possibly fabricated) story.

‘My pet peacock lives outside, Grandad…’

My dad looked confused, then replied, far louder than necessary.

‘Sorry, Joshua, I didn’t catch that? Your pet peacock DIED?!’

A long silence followed while we hoped Joshua wouldn’t burst into tears.

‘Right, who’s up for cake then?’ Louise said, shooting a glare at my dad.

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Gladly, Joshua didn’t seem to have been too affected by my dad’s morbid comment and, while we were singing ‘Happy Birthday’, he jumped down from his seat and dashed over to sit on his potty while simultaneously smashing on a flashing drumkit Louise had bought for Jacob. Now, I’m all for encouraging new hobbies but surely it goes without saying that nobody wants their child to be a drummer? What was she thinking?

The day after the party saw a considerable comedown. The children had eaten too much sugar, I had, depending on who you ask, drunk too many IPAs, nobody had slept well, and it was bitterly cold. Staying in, though, is simply not an option, so we bundled the boys into the car and drove to Thorp PerrowArboretum.

Having arrogantly turned down Louise’s suggestion that I should wear two pairs of socks despite being very, very aware of my longstanding circulation problems, I couldn’t feel my feet from the moment we left the car and kept stamping on the floor to warm them up.

We wandered around for a bit, reminisced about the last time we were here when it wasn’t sub‑zero temperatures and the bird sanctuary wasn’t closed, then sat down on a frosty picnic bench for lunch.

‘What the hell are you doing, Andy?’ Louise said as I stamped my feet under the table. ‘Stop it!’

In an act of kindness/exasperation, she then took her own thick socks off and gave them to me, along with the now familiar, ‘it’s like having three children’ snipe (I can confirm that taking the socks from your wife’s feet is not good for the male ego. Not one bit.)

Not long later, we’d all had enough and trudged back to the car. The boys fell asleep on the way back, so the only sound was the heating blaring and an occasional tut from Louise.

We were home far too early and, with the children having already napped, the afternoon was long and unrelenting. Joshua charged around, waving a toy stethoscope, shouting, ‘I am Doctor Joshua!’ while Jacob seemed intent on seriously injuring himself and requiring the services of a more qualified medical professional. When Louise clocked me checking the football scores on my phone rather than monitoring him climbing up the sofa and onto the windowsill, she was furious.

‘For God’s sake, Andy! You’re such a half twit!’

Better than a full twit, I guess?

Just before tea, I noticed Joshua had gone quiet which is usually a cause for concern and so it proved. I found him in the kitchen with his trousers down then watched in stunned silence as he pissed on a chair.

‘I’m so funny, Daddy!’

After we mopped it up, Jacob slipped on the wet floor, whacked his head, and started bawling and Joshua, feeling guilty about his part in the accident, responded by very deliberately throwing himself onto the floor and pretending to cry. I sat him down and tried to have ‘The Boy who Cried Wolf’ chat but, in doing this, lost sight of Jacob.

No prizes for guessing where I found him.

*

Thanks for reading this installment! Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy.

I’m going to take a little pause from The Flagging Dad over the next couple of weeks as I’ve got two new posts bubbling, including a collaborative long-read with two excellent Substack writers, which has been loads of fun (and should be up soon).

Finally, for anyone in my neck of the woods, you might be interested to know that Mill Media, who run really good local papers in Manchester, Sheffield, London, Birmingham, and Glasgow, are looking to set up a new title in Leeds. I’ve signed up and think it sounds like a great idea. You can read about it here.

Cheers and until next time!

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This is the latest chapter of my book The Flagging Dad, which I’m serialising on Thursdays.

‘It’s just not worth it, we’re never going on holiday again,’ I said.

It was 9 a.m. and we were still in our car in the drive. Louise hadn’t yet put the key in the ignition, but going away with two under 3s was already looking like it may be a bridge too far. Our average night’s sleep per night over the past week had been sub-4 hours, Joshua was shouting about a mislaid Triceratops, Jacob was crying, and my knees were nearly touching my chin as the space where I would ordinarily put my feet was occupied by a giant arts and crafts box, a bag full of soft toys, and the board game Cranium.

Louise and I were on frosty terms as she’d accused me of not pulling my weight with the packing (she’d taken particular umbrage with my ‘unbelievable’ decision to sit down and eat a slice of toast at one point) and I felt aggrieved that a toddler had more legroom than me.

The 2-hour drive was a slog. Riding shotgun is a considerably worse option these days and, with a baby sensory soundtrack in which the woman was, in my opinion, trying too hard to show off her operatic vocal range, I spent most of the journey twisting myself around to pick up toys, feed pots of quartered grapes to Joshua, and attempt to settle Jacob.

‘Can you just tickle his head, Andy?’

‘For how long?’

‘As long as it takes.’

It took until past Barnsley.

When we arrived in the Peak District, I unfolded my long frame from the car and briefly felt as if I might crumple to the floor. However, the moment Joshua saw Louise’s mum and sister, he started bouncing with joy, and collective spirits lifted. Once I’d stamped out the pins and needles in my legs, I started to feel excited about the prospect of being somewhere other than our own home for a few days.

In my former life, on arriving at a log cabin, I would be in the hot tub with a glass of fizz within 10 minutes of arrival. An old-school hip-hop playlist? Perhaps a cigar? Nowadays, it’s a different story involving sterilizing bottles, putting up blackout blinds, installing baby cameras, and completing a risk assessment of the premises to identify anything that might put a child’s life in danger.

None of this is conducive to that, ‘Ah, we’re on holiday…’ feeling.

The feeling of switching off in general is a thing of the past. Gone are the glorious days when I would get in from work and have a cup of tea and a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch in front of Neighbours. When Joshua was a baby, I came up with an inventive down-time alternative where I’d sit in the car on our street for 5–10 minutes.

‘What are you playing at, Andy?’ Louise asked, tapping at the window one evening.

‘Huh? I’ve just got back?’

‘Why were your eyes closed?’

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Our cabin was on a working farm which was ideal for Joshua who adores animals and it was lovely to see him feeding/chasing'/shouting at the animals while grinning from ear to ear.

Also lovely: when Louise, her mum and sister took the boys out one morning so I could sit in the hot-tub eating Joshua’s iced gems while watching Alessandro Del Piero’s Best Ever Goals on my phone feel grounded in nature while taking a precious moment for mindful self-care.

I wasn’t a mere passenger for the whole week and cooked dinner one evening. To show off my culinary capabilities, I went for spag bol. Louise’s mum offered to help with the prep while I put Jacob for a nap, but I assured her it wasn’t necessary as I had plenty of time and ‘I used to work in an Italian restaurant.’ (two shifts as a pot-wash at Salvos, 2003).

After a familiar battle - ‘Just go to sleep, Jacob. Please?’ - I returned to the kitchen, flustered, to find Louise’s mum had got out the ingredients and chopped the veg.

‘Honestly, you didn’t need to do that?’ I said, ‘I’d got things under control…’

‘I just thought it might help, Andy?’

‘Thanks, but I am capable of cooking spag bol…’ I said, conscious that I was, perhaps, acting like a bit of a prick.

‘Ok, I’ll leave you to it,’ she said and went to sit on the sofa.

A few minutes later, she returned to the kitchen to find me hunched over the frying pan, cursing.

‘What are you doing, Andy?’

I’d neglected to take that piece of paper off the mince and just chucked it into the pan, so I was now trying to pick the smouldering fragments out with a fork.

‘Nothing, it’s all fine…’

To Louise’s mum’s great credit, she passed no judgment, helped me with this intricate task, and did not mention my secret ingredient to anybody. Paper or not, it was a bang average dinner. Insufficiently seasoned.

While the holiday had moments of real joy, and it was a relief to have an extra pair of hands with the boys, going away with young children - including one who is prone to bouts of irrationality and starts every day at 5 a.m. - is draining. By 8.30 p.m. each night we were done in and the board games had stayed firmly in their boxes.

On the final night, though, Louise and I wanted to prove that we are still capable of having adult fun, thank you very much. We agreed we would play ‘at least one’ game and have a couple of drinks. No matter what.

I was doing Joshua’s bedtime routine and it had all gone smoothly. Just as I’d said goodnight and was contemplating whether I’d go for whisky or wine, he sat bolt upright.

‘I want a toy, Daddy!’

‘You’ve already got at least seven in there, mate?’

‘Nooo! Another one! Now!’

I went to the living room where Louise’s mum handed me a toy cabbage, but Joshua deemed this an insult and hurled it across the room. Louise, who’d had a similarly tough time settling Jacob, went to the car and returned with an alphabet snake. He was having none of it.

‘No!!!’

In the height of battle, there is a tendency for parents to snap at each other, which is better than snapping at the children, I suppose.

‘For God’s sake, Andy!’ Louise said. ‘Why do you make such hard work of everything?’

Recalling the Eastenders episode where Tiffany discovered Grant was having an affair with her MOTHER via a baby monitor, I was aware that Joshua’s was switched on and our spat was being broadcast live in the living room.

‘Oh, just piss off…’ I silently mouthed.

I’d forgotten that Louise is an expert lip reader.

‘NO! YOU PISS OFF, ANDY!’

Eventually, we got Joshua to sleep, but tension was palpable as we returned to the living room and in the kind of strop a Kardashian might throw, I poured an aggressively large glass of wine, grabbed a towel and stormed out to the hot tub. A few minutes later, Louise joined me, and I did that thing where you pretend to be engrossed in a book when you very, very obviously aren’t reading. After I’d eventually apologized and blamed my dickheadness, once again, on being very, very tired, we settled our differences.

With it becoming worryingly late (8.45 p.m.), we headed back inside, poured our drinks and sat down on the sofas with Louise’s mum and sister.

‘So, who’s up for Cranium?’

Jacob started crying.

*

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy.

If you’re new to my Substack, you can read the intro/first chapter of The Flagging Dad book here, and I’ve now added a link at the end of each post that takes you to the next chapter (thanks to and for your supportive comments last week which gave me the nudge to get a bit more organized with this!)

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Buy me a coffee

This is the latest chapter of my book The Flagging Dad, which I’m serialising on Thursdays.

Sleep deprivation is killing us, and Louise and I are squabbling more than ever. One evening a couple of weeks ago, what started as a minor domestic gripe (I hadn’t got around to clearing out the shed, but it was very much on my list) escalated into both of us delving deep into our back catalogues and replaying one another’s lowlights reels over the past 15 years. As a result, I decided to go for a walk, not slamming the door on my way out but shutting it slightly harder than necessary.

I considered going to the pub, but decided this would be too cliché for a recently stormed-out-of-the-house man, so went, instead, to Tesco Express. As I eyed up a large Peroni, I reminded myself of the stock advice I offer probation clients, regarding alcohol ‘never being the answer’, and reconsidered, arming myself instead with a large bag of Haribo Tangfastics.

It was a beautiful Spring evening, so I pace-walked through the fields near our house and, munching on my sweets, put the squabble into context, and felt my mood lifting. I’d apologize when I got home, save Louise a couple of sour cherries, and all would be well in our world.

Twenty minutes later, however, darkness had descended, and I was lost. Genuinely lost. In a field full of horses.

As one trotted towards me, panic set in, and I frantically tried to retrace my steps before giving up and garden hopping through a stranger’s property to get onto a familiar road. If they’d spotted me, a nearly middle-aged man, high on sugar, scrambling around on their land, they would have been within their rights to call the police. Returning home in a police car would have done little to placate my wife.

I stuck to well-lit roads for the remainder of the walk, and, by the time I got in, the thick air had cleared. I didn’t mention I’d got lost.

Since that sorry night, though, it feels like we may be turning a corner. Jacob’s sleep is improving (expectations are low; we convince ourselves that two wakeups and a 5.30 a.m. start is ‘pretty good actually’), and, with the world’s reopening sweetly coinciding with a spell of sunny weather, positivity is in the air.

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We went to the local cricket club on Saturday afternoon where we met some friends, sat down with cold beers, and it felt just like the old days. For at least fifteen minutes. It was then my shift, and I slotted into the familiar role of man chasing around after his children with a flat smile on his face, trying not to spill his pint.

With a flurry of Moretti-fuelled vigour, I asked the boys if they fancied going for an adventure. This was met with cheery approval from Joshua and our friend’s son and tears from Jacob. You can’t please everyone. The adventure, a walk across a football pitch holding big sticks, started brightly. Joshua and his pal were chatting and giggling away, and, after picking him up, Jacob’s crying had settled into a more amiable whimper. Serenity, though, rarely lasts, and, for no discernible reason, Joshua suddenly sat on the floor and started shouting.

‘No. It’s not fair, Daddy!’

‘What’s not fair?’

‘I want Mummy!’

This again? C’mon, man?

He stood up and darted off to try and find her. His pal, however, was keen to continue our adventure and started sprinting in the opposite direction. This presented a dilemma: which child do you go after? You can’t lose a friend’s child, can you? I mean, ideally, you shouldn’t lose your own either. Really, the minimum requirement of this adventure was to return with all three children intact.

After some quick pondering, I decided Joshua could fend for himself and jogged after his pal who, to his credit, was reasonable about us wrapping up the adventure early. Fortunately, Joshua remained within eyeshot, and I was relieved to see he was now lying down, digging his hands deep into the soil. By the time we’d caught up with him, his bad mood was a thing of the past. He was delighted to be reunited with his mate and they ran off holding hands, singing. Harmony restored. I would return a hero.

‘Is that it?’ Louise said as I sat back down at our table. ‘You’ve been gone for ten minutes, Andy?’

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After Joshua and his pal had a wrestling match that teetered on the edge of becoming a real fight, Louise gave the boys a snack, which calmed them down, and it turned into an enjoyable afternoon. It was great to be around people that aren’t in my immediate family again, and, with ‘You Can Call Me Al’ blaring out from the cricket club speakers while the sun beat down and the smell of fried chicken drifted through the air, I felt contentment washing over me.

As we were about to leave, though, I did a customary pocket pat and discovered I was sans phone. There was a time - approximately fifteen years - where losing my phone happened with alarming regularity, peaking in my late teens with THREE in a fortnight. Proud mother. However, as I’ve matured/stopped drinking to excess while wearing jogging bottoms with shallow pockets, my ability to keep hold of my belongings has improved, and this was very annoying indeed.

A sombre rerun of our adventure and a half-hearted wander around the cricket pitch yielded nothing, but I didn’t want to ruin the collective good mood and assured everyone, perhaps too loudly, that it didn’t matter and I could live without a phone.

No problem.

When we got home, it dawned on me that I couldn’t check the football scores or participate in a very active pun-based WhatsApp group with my friends, and I started to miss my phone dearly. Rather than accepting I might be at fault, I arrived at the conclusion that a friendly man I’d spoken to in the queue for the bar was a skilled pickpocket and he had stolen it. It was the only plausible answer.

‘He knew what he was doing,’ I told Louise, scowling. ‘The scumbag.’

My number then called Louise. A lad had found my phone lying on the floor outside the toilet. I cycled up to the cricket club, handed him a tenner, and we had a good laugh about it. He was, I think, quite pissed, but very pleasant and by no means a scumbag. Faith in humanity restored, phone back in pocket, I was in an exceptional mood by the time I got back.

‘What a great day, things are looking up,’ I said to Louise. ‘What shall we do tomorrow?’

‘Have you cleared out the shed yet?’

*

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy. I’ll be back with the next chapter next Thursday and I’ve also been working on a collaborative post with an excellent Substacker which should be up soon too.

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Buy me a coffee

Since becoming a parent my drinking habits have evolved with weekend binges making way for 1-2 glasses of wine after dinner (most nights) as a reward for getting through the day. The French do this, which means it’s fine, right?

There is no point in drinking to excess when you have young children as you can never truly lose yourself. Not really. I’ve found there is now a reverse effect where anything beyond a second drink makes me worry about things more. What if they’re up in the night and I don’t wake up? Will this next sip tip me into hangover territory tomorrow? Am I a terrible parent?

All the good stuff.

In my 20s, I used to excel at living in the moment, no consideration for tomorrow; the type of man who’d take little persuasion to have a third pint, then a fourth, then a taxi to the casino on a Tuesday night. Nowadays, if my pal suggests a pint - ONE PINT - after 5-a-side, I look at my watch, shake my head and make my excuses. I’ve seen that glint in his eye, what if it turns into two? I wouldn’t be home until 10.30 p.m. Who does he think I am? A maniac?

The exception is, of course, the stag do: the opportunity for men in their thirties and forties to take a brief holiday into their former lives. As it was my brother’s, and I was best man, Louise gave me her blessing, although I did notice something of a pattern where, whenever I mentioned anything to do with it, she would go a bit quiet with me for the next hour-or-so.

As much as I adore my family, it turns out that raising young children is relentless, physically and emotionally draining, and considerably harder than you can ever, ever imagine so… I was ready for a short circuit breaker. While you might think I was excited about 48 hours of hedonistic excess, I was mostly just looking forward to sleeping in past sunrise.

I opted for Liverpool after Louise indicated she’d rather we stayed in the UK in case ‘something happens’ and I needed to get back. My argument would be that wherever I am in the world, if I’m drinking from a fishbowl with a curly straw and wearing only one shoe, I am unlikely to be of any use as a father and husband for at least 48 hours.

I am skint, and likely will be for the next 4-5 (18?) years, so opted for accommodation within my modest budget, failing to consider that my brother and a lot of his friends are non-skint solicitors. Therefore, the general response to my hotel choice was comparable to Louise’s reaction when I first mentioned the stag do.

When a man from Liverpool sent a private email informing me the hotel was ‘the absolute pits’ and miles away from anything, something had to give. After some taxing admin (stagmin?), I cancelled and upgraded to a marginally less shit hotel in the city centre before organizing a casual itinerary consisting of entry into Heebie Jeebies nightclub on Friday, followed by football golf and dinner in fake Irish pub on Saturday.

Highbrow stuff.

As is usually the case on stag dos, the first hour or so, in a generic trendy bar, was civilised enough; handshakes, bar snacks, back-patting and the odd critical comment regarding my original hotel booking. Then, entirely out of context with the conversation and the general mood, a usually quiet, mild-mannered guy said, fairly loud, ‘Paul Hollywood is a C*NT!’ and in that moment I felt as though I’d been transported into a different world, far, far away from nappies, sleepsuits, sterilizers and blackout blinds.

Two hours later, we were in a Bierkeller with my brother on stage, wearing a mankini, while a middle-aged Scouser in Lederhosen poured beer down his throat through a funnel. I glanced at my watch and considered how Louise would be giving the boys their bath around now and felt a touch melancholic. Then, accepted a stein from Paul Hollywood’s detractor and joined in with a German drinking song while my brother was rocked around on a pretend boat, too aggressively, by the Lederhosened man.

Around 10 p.m. we moved on to Heebie Jeebies and, while “Breathe” by Blu Cantrell (feat. Sean Paul) played, a young woman wearing strong perfume ambled towards me.

‘I like your shirt,’ she said. ‘Do you want to dance?’

I looked at my watch, shook my head and made my excuses.

Still, for a man with rapidly greying hair and rings around his eyes, her offer did my ailing self-esteem no harm at all. That she was visibly drunk and kissing a man dressed as Marty McFly before Blu Cantrell’s verse had started is by the by. What I’m taking from our exchange is that I have impeccable dress sense and I’ve still got it. Definitely.

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Despite getting back to the hotel in the small hours, the long lie-in I’d been anticipating didn’t happen and, at 6 a.m., on the money, I was up. Throbbing head, bad stomach and jitters, but wide awake. So very wide awake.

I left my brother snoring in his mankini and headed downstairs, with little plan other than imagining my morning would likely involve sitting on a bench with my head in my hands at some point.

In a café across the road, I spotted two men from our group, also dressed and ready for the day. I went to join them and learned that they also had babies and had woken up at 6 a.m.

Will I ever have a lie-in again?

While the three of us were livid about our internal alarms, it turned into one of those spontaneously terrific mornings; we had a full English, strolled around the docks and, by 10 a.m., were sat in The Cavern, drinking bloody Marys while a man with a ponytail played acoustic covers of Beatles songs. When we arrived back at the hotel, my brother was still in bed, and I felt very smug indeed.

‘Morning. What have you been up to?’ I asked, before humming the riff to “Day Tripper.”

Footgolf at Aintree was good fun but the early start was taking its toll and, by 4 p.m., as we jostled for space in a crowded sports bar and watched a rugby match I had no interest in, I felt my eyes drooping. It’s okay, I told myself, smashing cold water into my face from a sink while a muscular Australian man said, ‘someone’s had enough,’ to his mate, and they both laughed.

Pull yourself together, Andy! I told myself. This is your brother’s stag do and you are having A GREAT TIME. Besides, only 12-14 hours left. You can do this.

We had dinner in the Irish-themed pub and, gladly, a couple of new arrivals boosted the collective energy. I’d neglected to book anywhere for the second night but, having enjoyed Heebie Jeebies, I suggested we return. I’m sure Liverpool has other nightclubs, and this was not my most imaginative decision. Perhaps I was hoping that another woman would compliment my shirt?

As we weren’t on the guest list, we had to queue up in the drizzle with people conspicuously younger than us for far, far too long and the collective energy was waning. When we finally got to the front, I ensured that everyone in our group got in but, when it came to my turn, stumbled and kicked a step.

‘Not tonight, mate,’ the bouncer said.

‘I’m sorry…’

‘You’ve had enough, mate.’

‘It’s okay, I’m not drunk, I’m just very, very tired. I was up at 6 a.m, you see. I have a baby.’

‘Go home.’

There is no comeback from here, is there? I was incensed. Out of 15 men, why had I been singled out? Sure, I’d kicked a step, but I’d stayed on my feet. Wasn’t that enough? My brother and a couple of others reluctantly left with me and we headed, instead, to a rock and metal club nearby. Being thrown around a mosh pit to Rage Against the Machine, an unsuitable soundtrack to many a family car journey in our teens, felt like a fitting end to the weekend.

Only it wasn’t the end.

Shortly afterwards, I lost everyone I recognized and finally succumbed to sleep in a dark cove at the back of the club where I was awakened by a cleaner gently shaking my shoulder the following morning. I stumbled into blinding daylight, confused, queasy and, if I’m being honest, close to tears. I’m too old for this nonsense, I thought, as I considered whether it was acceptable to be sick in a bin.

I didn’t want to be in Liverpool on a stag do anymore.

I wanted to be at home with Louise and the boys.

That was the only place I wanted to be in the world.

*

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! I’d love to hear your own tales of stag/hen dos so please share if you fancy. I will be back next Thursday with the next chapter!

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider becoming a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Buy me a coffee

This is the latest chapter of my book The Flagging Dad, which I’m serialising on Thursdays.

Louise and I have started a new arrangement where one morning or afternoon per week, we are free to do as we please. No spouse, no children, no chores. On my first go, I tried to do some writing but, with inspiration not forthcoming, found myself mindlessly scrolling the internet.

‘Daddy, can we play?’ Joshua asked.

‘Not now, son. Daddy’s busy,’ I said, studying Ben Affleck’s Personal Life section on Wikipedia. Before I knew it, my time had ebbed away and, unfulfilled, I was tagged back into being an active husband and father.

On my second attempt, I knew the key to making the most of my brief holiday from domestic life was to get out of the house, and decided to drive down to the canal and go for a jog. I got in the car, turned the radio on considerably louder than Louise likes, took a large gulp of Lucozade and felt invigorated. The good times, though, did not last.

I reversed straight into the wall outside our house.

From the moment I inexplicably drove a quad bike into a bollard on a teenage holiday in Malia, I knew I was destined to be a bad driver, and I have, over the years, proven myself spectacularly right. Through the rear-view mirror, I looked at the pile of stones and debris on the drive, panicked and fled the scene.

After driving a mile down the road, heart pounding, I saw sense and drove back to check the extent of the damage. Thankfully, the scratch was not too bad, a mere addition to a collection of previous scrapes from the time I drove into a static bus.

I rebuilt the wall to a passable standard before setting off again and finally made it to the canal where I pounded along the path in scything rain while fretting over the car, the wall, and Louise’s likely reaction.

Perhaps I should lower my ambitions next time and just take a long bath?

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With or without children, getting out of the house at least once a day is essential, isn’t it? If it gets past lunchtime and we haven’t left, the tension is palpable. I often feel I am one more, ‘What’s that? Why?’ away from standing in the back garden and screaming into the sky.

Or getting in the car and ploughing into a wall.

Over the past few months, we have pushed the pram along every street within a two-mile radius of our home (no ginnel surprises me anymore) and clocked every park, pond, field and woods in North Leeds multiple times. There isn’t a blade of grass I have left untouched at Golden Acre Park where I feel I know the swans on a personal level.

On pulling into the car park a couple of days ago, Joshua started shouting.

‘No! Not this park again! So boring, Daddy!’

I deceived him by parking in the hotel across the road and heading in a different entrance. It worked this once, but I fear he will soon be on to me.

At weekends, we liven things up with daytrips to new places. There are plenty of interesting family-friendly places within an hour’s drive of Leeds if you just Google it. Who knew?

A new favourite is Piglets Adventure Farm near York, although our trip was not entirely plain sailing. When we arrived, it was lashing it down, so we took refuge in a giant tent where Jacob whacked Louise’s coffee onto the floor then, in the melee that followed, Joshua darted outside, out of sight. Gladly, Jacob did not burn himself and, after being that guy - the man shouting a child’s name while jogging - we found Joshua sitting in a tractor.

Despite my low-level resentment that Louise had not bought a new coffee but kept asking for sips of mine, the day improved markedly, and we had fun on a fairy trail, then, in a bizarre and slightly too loud activity, fired a swede out of a vegetable cannon.

Joshua had been eyeing up the piglet train all day and, being reckless, rule-breaking parents, we permitted him to go on it despite it being for age three and above. Seconds after the train departed its station, he decided he HATED it, and what followed was a heart-breaking five minutes as we watched him bawling his eyes out in his piglet cart, powerless to help. Gladly, after plying him with two Soreen bars, he was fine.

Louise and I, though, were not fine. Absolutely riddled with guilt.

As is the case with daytrips, by the time we left, everyone was done in. If both children sleep at the same time, car journeys can provide a pleasant bit of respite and a chance to decompress. This is, however, a big if, and on this occasion the stars did not align; Jacob decided to start bawling seconds after Joshua nodded off, which woke him up and irked him no end.

‘Stop crying, baby! Now!’

Louise, who was driving, assured me the answer was to put the song ‘Say Hello to the Sun’. On repeat. In my opinion she disproportionately rates the calming impact of the song but she vehemently disagrees with my argument that the white noise of football crowds on 5Live is an effective baby soother.

I am sure there is a way you can repeat a song on loop on Spotify, but I have not yet figured out how to do it, so every time the song was reaching its conclusion, Louise snapped, ‘Andy!’ and I glumly pressed the back button while the children howled and thrashed in the back. It felt like that scene in True Romance, where the relaxing music is in stark contrast to the chaos unfolding around it.

Joshua nodded off after twenty minutes and 9.5 plays of ‘Say Hello to the Sun’ but Jacob was having none of it and sat, saucer-eyed, occasionally making weird roaring noises. In what seemed like a calculated move, he eventually fell asleep when we were 200 metres away from our house, so we started doing some laps around the local area.

‘All things considered, that wasn’t too bad, was it?’ Louise said as we passed my favourite ginnel. ‘Where shall we go next Sunday?’

‘Next Sunday, you say? You’ll have to count me out, I’m afraid. I’ve pencilled in a long bath.’

*

You can read the next chapter here: Stag Do - by Andy Carter - The Flagging Dad

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy. You might have noticed my last post didn’t allow comments for a while - please be aware this was because I pressed the wrong button and not because I was being antisocial!

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider becoming a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

Buy me a coffee

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Following a little break over the past few weeks, here is latest chapter of my book The Flagging Dad, which I’m serialising on Thursdays.

We pick things up in August 2020. Joshua is nearly three, Jacob is six months old, and we are flailing in the brutal throes of sleep deprivation. Everyone is trying to return to some semblance of normality following the latest lockdown and listening to Folklore by Taylor Swift.

A few days ago, I was stood in the queue in Tesco Express and stooped down to kiss Jacob on his head. At least this is what I thought I was doing. What I was actually doing: kissing the top of a box of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes which I’d been absentmindedly cradling. In my defence, I’d been holding Jacob for much of the day and forgotten I was alone in the shop as I am very rarely alone anywhere. Not even the toilet.

We moved Jacob into his own room a few weeks ago hoping it would improve everyone’s sleep. However, he wasn’t on board with the plan and every 45 minutes, like clockwork, he would roll onto his belly, spit his dummy out and start bawling. After a few nights, we buckled and brought him into our bed, something which Louise’s Mumsnet forum would call a ‘clear backwards step for your LO’ (little one). Given his tendency to lie horizontally, crammed between us, where he can kick Louise in the face while simultaneously scratching my neck, this has not improved matters.

To escape his nightly attacks, I gradually shuffled to the very edge of the bed where I lie in the foetal position, hoping I don’t fall off. One morning when Louise took the boys downstairs, gifting me what should have been a glorious couple of hours with a double bed to myself, I still woke up clinging on to the edge as though I am a tormented character from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Once again, something had to give. Well, in this case, someone. Me.

Not for the first time, I was booted out of the marital bed and told to make my own sleeping arrangements. Our spare room currently resembles a charity shop which has taken donations during lockdown but not yet re-opened, so my best option was to drag an old mattress downstairs and lie on the floor next to the double bed. The old mattress, it turns out (and I apologize to anyone who has ever attempted to sleep on it), is like lying on a pile of Slinkys. Also, with it being crammed in between the bed and the wall, the enclosed space makes me feel quite a lot like I am in a coffin.

While the move has seen (very) mild improvements in our sleep, the Slinky coffin means I’m continuing to live in a state of bleary-eyed, cereal-kissing delirium. Joshua is keen to point out when I look particularly bad.

‘Daddy’s eyes SO red.’

‘Thanks, son.’

My appearance was further hindered by my hair, which had grown beyond the awkward stage with greys starting to dominate and weird wispy tufts sprouting out of my neck. It had not looked this bad since Louise gave me blond highlights for a holiday to Tenerife but, having drunk approximately 1.5 bottles of Pinot, went freehand instead of using the provided cap and splodged dots of wildly varying sizes all over my head. I did not, as I’d hoped, look like Pacey in Dawson’s Creek.

Anyway, back in the present, to freshen up, I went to a local barber. As I was waiting outside, I considered a few stock questions to ask: ‘Any holiday plans? Read any decent blogs by local probation officers?’ etc.

I sat down, told the guy what I was after, then asked, casually, how his weekend had been.

‘Fallen out with the missus and I’ll tell you one thing, pal - if she was a man, I would have smacked her in the face.’

Smacked her in the face?

I wasn’t sure where to go from here. If I was at work, I would definitely challenge this comment. In a pro-social, non-confrontational way, of course. As I was on an admittedly extended lunch break and not on the clock, I swiftly shifted conversation to football. I did not want to risk irking a man who was conceivably dealing with anger management issues and wielding a pair of scissors.

In the end, I was pleased with my cut (and found out that he also wanted to smack the entire Man Utd team and Brentford’s centre-half in the face.)

The following day, my mum and dad came over to take Joshua out. My dad had also had also had eventful trip to a barber recently and was sporting a cut more appropriate for a member of One Direction than a retired librarian.

‘He just kept shaving the sides, Andrew,’ he said, looking at the floor. ‘But he’s left the top long. Why would he do that?’

My parents help out where they can with the childcare, which is greatly appreciated. On this particular day, however, things did not run so smoothly. Before they took Joshua out, my dad went to the car and returned with his toolbox which, for reasons unknown, he takes everywhere with him. He said he was going to take the remaining side of Joshua’s cot down to turn it into a bed and it would take ‘no more than 10 minutes.’ He definitely did not need help and I should get on with my work.

Half an hour later, he shouted downstairs. Half an hour after this, the two of us were in the garden sawing pieces of wood, sweating and swearing. In short, destroying the cot beyond repair.

As this was going on, Joshua had stumbled across an old Secret Santa gift of Louise’s - stress balls shaped like a pair of testicles - and was charging around, waving them above his head. If social services had happened to call by and seen his choice of toy along with the decimated cot in the back garden, questions would have been asked. Anyway, the upshot of the morning drama: Joshua, like me, now sleeps on a mattress on the floor. And I’ve asked Louise to find a safer cupboard for her filth.

On Saturday, following another rough night, we decided to pay for a call with a sleep expert. In our former life, a treat might be, I do not know, a meal at the new French restaurant. Now, it is a stalling FaceTime call with a woman we have never met. The lady seemed to know what she was on about though and offered some suggestions. One idea she was particularly passionate about was this:

‘Some babies sleep better lower down, so try taking Jacob’s mattress out of his cot and putting it on the floor.’

You’ve got to be kidding me?

*

You can read the next chapter here: Everybody Needs Some Time On Their Own - by Andy Carter

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy.

Also, if you didn’t catch it, I was delighted to write a guest post for recently, which is here if you’re interested: A Day in the Life of a Probation Officer

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider becoming a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!

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Happy New Year, folks! It’s good to be back.

Just as a quick one: before Christmas, for reasons unknown, Substack unsubscribed me from loads of publications. I’ve tried my best to rectify this, but if you’ve seen me pop up as a new subscriber and thought I was acting weird or blowing hot and cold like the girl I fancied when I was in Sixth Form (admittedly, to great effect), worry not, it was just a tech glitch. I might have missed a few, so if you’re one of them, apologies and just let me know.

Ok, here we go…

I am rarely one to question my wife’s motives. However, when she put: ROBOT WARS MOST DESTRUCTIVE BATTLES!!! on YouTube at 7 p.m. on December 22nd, then, once the boys had started tearing around the house shouting and pretending to be robots, poured herself a large glass of wine and said, “Right, you’re doing bedtimes tonight, Andy,” I did wonder if it had something to do with my perceived lack of involvement in the Christmas preparations.

In hindsight (not at the time - attempting to engage two wrestling robots in Christmas Tales for Children was gruelling) this was completely fair enough. While Louise had planned ahead and calmly and efficiently sorted out 95% of presents, like stereotypically useless men up and down the land, I waited until a week before Christmas to do anything. Anything at all.

The boys had mentioned some specific Pokémon cards they were after, and I assured myself that, if I sorted this one thing out, I’d at least done something worthwhile. Unfortunately, if you order items from eBay on 18th December, the expected delivery date is the 27th and I found myself sending a pleading (and, honestly, quite pathetic) direct message to THE_WELSH_POKEMON_QUEEN, asking if she could bump to first-class to give me a fighting chance. She kindly agreed but, for the next four days, all I could think about was the prospect of my failed Pokémon promises ruining Christmas.

Mercifully, they arrived just in time.

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The morning after Robot Wars, we drove down South - really, really far down South - to spend Christmas with Louise’s lot. After a six-hour slog, which included my entire family turning on me for my “baffling and selfish” decision to take a detour to get a tuna crunch baguette from Thurrock Services, we arrived in Kent.

For the past few years, we have stayed at Louise’s mum’s but, with the boys getting bigger and four in a room not facilitating the best sleep last year (“Do you have to breathe like that, Andy?”), we opted for an Airbnb near Headcorn.

Arriving at the cottage, Joshua and Jacob were full of festive cheer, bouncing around the cottage and throwing cushions at each other, while Louise and I unloaded the car and considered whether it was feasible to convince a five and an eight-year-old that Santa was going to squeeze down one of the narrowest chimneys I’ve ever seen (it wasn’t, he used the door this year).

Eventually, after watching a cheap animated take on The Nutcracker on Amazon Prime, the boys agreed to go to bed.

“I’m pretty peckish,” Louise said. “Fancy a cur...”

“Yes.”

I drove down the road into Headcorn to find the streets lined with hundreds of people - children in glittery festive outfits, adults glugging cans of lager.

I rang Louise.

“Headcorn appears to have turned into Glastonbury? What the heck is going on?”

“I have no idea, Andy.”

“Well, there’s nowhere to park? Where can I park, Louise? I DON’T KNOW THIS AREA.”

“Look, I’m trying to watch Below Deck here. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

I finally found a spot behind a van on a country lane half a mile from the curry house and did some research on my phone. Turned out I’d accidentally stumbled upon the Headcorn Festive Tractor Run. Obviously.

As I fought through the crowds to get to Krishna Curry House, anticipation was building and when a John Deere draped in tinsel, blaring out “Is This the Way to Amarillo?” appeared at the top of the high street, it would be no exaggeration (ok, only a slight exaggeration) to describe the scenes as mass hysteria.

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I started to get quite into it, and with 10 minutes to spare until our curries were ready, I popped into a bustling Sainsbury’s Local to buy a beer to accompany my tractor-watching. On the booze aisle were a bunch of very excitable and very pissed men in their early 20s who were shouting at each other about the pros and cons of booking an Uber to Ashford.

As I gingerly reached through the group to grab a can of IPA, something horrific happened. My hand was knocked, or it slipped, or - look, I don’t know exactly what my hand did - but I do know a bottle of Oyster Bay merlot ended up shattered on the floor, shards of glass and red liquid flooding the aisle like a crime scene.

The bottle most likely would have remained intact if the boisterous blokes weren’t there, but I can’t blame them. I undeniably got the final touch.

My Headcorn Festive Tractor Run debut had taken a dark turn.

I ambled over to the shop assistant, head down.

“I’m so sorry...”

Gladly, he turned out to be one of the nicest men in the world and assured me it was no problem at all, these things happen, “especially on days like today. Haha!” and no, he absolutely did not want me to pay for the broken bottle.

Give that guy a promotion.

Anyway, after all that, I’m pleased to report the tikka masala was terrific.

The boys woke up at 6 a.m., on Christmas morning but, bless them, they didn’t want to wake us up (they did wake us up because we heard them banging around but that’s beside the point...) and didn’t barrel into our room until at least 6.18 a.m., carrying their stockings, and shouting, as excited as kids at Christmas should be.

Opening their presents was all very lovely and magical etc., but one snag.

“Are you feeling alright, Andy?” Louise said, amidst the piles of wrapping paper, chocolates and Squishmallows. “My throat is a bit...”

“Yep, me too,” I said, blowing my nose.

“Daddy, you look TERRIBLE,” Joshua said.

“Thanks, son.”

After double-dropping Lemsip Max tablets and deciding the best approach was to just pretend that we hadn’t woken up with really quite heavy colds on Christmas Day, we drove up the road to Louise’s mum’s house.

Last year, we made a fatal flaw in drinking two glasses of Buck’s Fizz before lunch leaving us both knackered and unable to drive/housebound for the rest of the day. Learning from our mistakes and further exemplifying my progress as a man, I stuck to 0.0% Guinness this time around and only slightly devalued my actions by saying, “Honestly, Louise, I’m actually enjoying not drinking,” at least seven times.

The boys’ big present this year was a Nintendo Switch, which was very exciting but, obviously - obviously - we couldn’t figure out how to link it to the TV and rather than playing multiplayer MarioKart, our sons had to listen to their dad, once again, whingeing about simpler times when you only needed one TV remote to work a TV.

Still, they had a blast getting doted on by Louise’s mum and sister and were delighted with their lot. Jacob later informed me that his “favourite present” was not the Nintendo Switch that we worked our arses off to buy, or the special Pokémon cards that had stripped me of my dignity on eBay, but a fluffy cat toy with an ice cream attached to its back that cost £3.99.

Christmas with young kids is, of course, joyous but it’s full-on, and as the boys were distracted with some metal puzzles, I subtly slid out of the living room for a reflective moment. When I returned (approximately 22 minutes later), Louise shouted across the room:

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, ANDY?”

Now, the truthful answer would have been this:

“I’ve been standing in the garage, where I’ve on my phone looking at Leeds’ rivals’ fixtures over the course of the festive season, taking into account how many of their players are away on international duty for the African Cup of Nations, and estimating how many points they might get.”

But... I couldn’t say this, could I?

So instead, I muttered, “I’ve just been, um, in the toilet.”

And the atmosphere went a bit weird.

“So, um, anyone fancy going for a walk?”

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Following a brisk stroll through the fields by Leeds Castle, we returned for the roast dinner. Now, look, I have to tread carefully here as my choice of words about Louise’s mum’s Christmas dinner on Substack last January were taken out of context (I said she’d “rustled it up” but meant this in jest, alright) and like a flailing politician, my attempts to explain myself only made things worse.

So, to avoid any further issues/Louise, her mum, and her sister taking the piss out of me for a year again, there will be no such error of judgment this time around.

Here goes…

Louise’s mum put in lots of time and effort and made a wonderful Christmas dinner that we all very much enjoyed and very much appreciated.

There.

After watching The Scarecrow Wedding (not a patch on The Snail and the Whale, imo) the effects of my second Lemsip Max dose were waning fast, and I started to feel quite a lot like I’d been smacked in the back of the head.

It had been a delightful day, but when we returned to the Airbnb, Louise and I were done in - ready to flake out on the sofa, eat Lindor chocolates and test out my new electronic foot massager.

“Hey, Daddy...” Jacob asked. “Can you set the Switch up to this TV?”

“Ah, sorry, it’s nearly bedtime, mate. Tomorrow?”

“Can we watch Robot Wars then?”

“Absolutely not.”

*

Thanks for reading! I hope everyone had an excellent festive season and is in bright spirits for 2026. Please do like, share, and comment about absolutely anything you fancy.

I’ll be back next Monday with - wait for it - my first ever post for paid subscribers only: Conversations as a Probation Officer (part 3). If you’d like to read this/support my writing, please consider becoming a paid subscriber here:

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You can read the previous parts here:

Conversations as a Probation Officer

Conversations as a Probation Officer (part 2)

The serialisation of my book, The Flagging Dad, will pick back up from Thursday 22nd for all subs.

Cheers and until next week!

This is my final post of 2025, so I just want to start by saying a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has read my nonsense over the past twelve months. Your subscriptions, shares, and Buy Me a Coffee donations etc. really mean a lot. Cheers!

Ok, here we go…

From Bonfire Night onwards, our lives are nuts for three months. Joshua’s birthday is in November, then it is Christmas merriment for a month (although this seems to get longer every year. Looking at you, John Lewis advert) before Jacob’s birthday in January. Obviously, this is all nice stuff and not cause for complaint, but I was listening with keener ears than usual to an all-staff call about a potential pay rise last week.

“Doesn’t look like it’s happening anytime soon,” I shouted through to Louise, who was in the kitchen, banging around with the Nespresso machine. “For f*ck’s sake!”

I looked back at the screen, and my stomach sank. Inexplicably, my mute button on Teams had flicked off. I had 100% (ok, 85%) put it on at the start of the call, so who knows what sorcery was at play. AI? I think if in doubt, you just blame AI for everything now, don’t you?

“Do you think anyone heard me?” I asked, heart pounding.

“I have no idea, Andy,” she replied.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I said. “WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW, LOUISE?!”

She walked past with her coffee and went upstairs.

Nobody said anything in the comments, which was cause for relief, but I still found myself in a deeply heightened emotional state on the living room sofa for the second time in a fortnight (targeting middle-aged suburban dads, John Lewis knew exactly what they were doing this year).

I was back in the office the following day and made a point of having a very casual, non-potential-pay-rise chat with a colleague who had spoken in the meeting.

“So, did you, um, catch the game last night?”

We had a three-minute discussion about Dominic Calvert-Lewin’s aerial presence with no mention of me saying “For f*ck’s sake!” to over 100 people, so I think I’ve got away with it. No big deal. I’ll just have a mild nagging anxiety about it in the back of my head for, I don’t know, the rest of my life?

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Continuing my sparkling form, in the days leading up to Joshua’s birthday, I had back-to-back horror shows on the school run. In the morning, I was talking to one of the mums about birthdays (I deal with what is in front of me, ok).

“My birthday is a bad one,” I said.

“Oh, why is that?”

“It is on September 11th.”

“Ah.”

Joshua, who had been chatting away with her daughter, stopped in his tracks.

“What happened on September 11th, Daddy?”

No. No. No. Does he listen to EVERYTHING?

“Um. Don’t worry about that now, mate. Hey, what are you doing in P. E. today?”

“Don’t change the subject. I want to know, Daddy. What happened?”

Make. This. Stop.

I am a firm believer in being honest with your children, and they do need to know about the realities of life etc., but I couldn’t do it. I could not tell my son about one of the most horrific terrorist attacks of all time at 8.37 a.m. on a drizzly morning in the school playground.

“It was just, um, a significant day in history. We can talk about it later.”

“I want to know now. I am going to ask someone else…”

He ran over to ask his friend’s mum what happened on September 11th while I considered whether I am cut out – y’know, really cut out - to be a father.

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On the afternoon pick-up, I had the following conversation with another one of the school mums (mercifully not the one who Joshua had fired difficult questions at earlier):

“He can’t wait for Sunday, Andy. He’s so excited!”

“Ahh. Good stuff…”

Sunday? What’s happening on Sunday?

“Are you all set? I don’t envy you!”

“Ha. Yep. Exactly. Ha.”

WHAT THE HECK IS SHE ON ABOUT?

As I got back to the car, I realised Sunday was Joshua’s party.

Sunday was my own son’s 8th birthday party.

It’s a good job bad things come in threes, because things picked up after this and the party was a success. We (ok, Louise) had booked tickets for him and his friends to watch Zootropolis 2, followed by a Maccies. We arrived far too early and killed time with a 20-minute, pound-plundering stint in the arcades at Hollywood Bowl - quite possibly my least favourite room in Leeds - before heading next door to Vue.

Even before we had given the kids the bags of contraband Haribo we’d snuck in, they were buck-wild, tearing around the foyer, shouting and sliding on their knees.

“Right, see you in a couple of hours then,” I said to his friend’s mum as a plastic ball whizzed past my ear.

“Great. I’m gonna go to the gym for a bit. In fact, I might just sit in the steam room and kick back.”

C’mon now?

After the foyer frenzy, the kids were, by and large, well behaved, and from the snippets I caught when I wasn’t doing toilet runs (one boy went FOUR times), it seemed like a fun film. With Joshua beaming and his pals dancing along to the Shakira song at the end, it felt like a good time had been had by all.

Aside from the stress of ordering thirteen Happy Meals with varying sides and drinks (when did Oasis Zero become an option?) on that screen, while children ran around shouting and throwing straws at each other, then having to reorder for a lad who, after being presented with his burger, decided that he didn’t “actually like ketchup,” then returning to the screen by which point a queue had formed so he had to wait FOREVER for his non-ketchup burger, McDonald’s went well too.

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The following Friday was, as Louise puts in the joint calendar, CHRISTMAS TREE DAY!!! I am still not convinced this is an actual day with a title, but I am no Scrooge and duly went to our jam-packed-full-of-shit shed (my second least favourite room in Leeds) to drag out our tree, which somehow manages to be both very fake and shed pine needles.

Louise spent a good fifteen minutes untangling the Christmas lights before, in heartbreaking scenes, the wire snapped as she was plugging them in.

“You need to drive to Morrison’s, Andy.”

“But…”

She pointed to her glass of wine which, if we’re really splitting hairs, had barely been touched at this point and she would have been, very much, within the legal limit.

Upon my return, Louise and the boys had made good progress and, with The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl playing on the radio and the tree lit up with my Morrison’s 200 LED multicoloured chain lights, I felt the warm fuzz of a new festive season.

“Will the Elves be back tonight, Daddy?” Jacob asked.

I’d forgotten about the F*cking Elves on Shelves.

I like to think of myself as a relatively creative person (admittedly, I like to think of myself as a lot of things) but there are some areas where this is not the case at all. I can never, for instance, come up with a witty pub quiz team name or think of anything interesting or heartfelt to write in birthday cards. Imagining fun things for an Elf on the Shelf to do for TWENTY-FOUR nights in a row falls firmly within these blind spots.

“Yep, of course, Jacob!” I said, through gritted teeth. “I wonder what mischief they will be getting up to this year, eh?”

A couple of days later (the Elves had been hot air ballooning and playing Cluedo), I was whinging about it to my dad.

“Life is busy enough at the moment and it’s just another thing…”

“Why don’t you just throw them on the fire, Andrew?”

“I am not going to do that, Dad.”

Was he joking? He didn’t look like he was joking.

Either way, I chose not to take his advice and found a solution elsewhere. I am, generally speaking, anti-ChatGPT and worry about AI coming for the creative industries and it’s potential to wipe out the human race etc., but - and this is a big but - it is very helpful for Elf on the Shelf ideas. Very helpful indeed.

We’re going to be fine.

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As I am writing this, we are gearing up for the school nativity. In my proud role as husband of PTA Chair, I will be selling mince pies at the entrance, and there is plenty of festive fun ahead over the next couple of weeks, including my “Padel Christmas Social” (I haven’t played padel in several months, so Louise is sceptical about this).

With this being my final post of the year, though, I felt I would end with a little 2025 summary. While I appreciate this may not be a popular stance, and if you turn on the news at any time on any day it does not necessarily feel like it, I think 2025 has been ace. On a personal level, we are talking right up there with the best years of my life.

Before I argue its case, here are the other contenders:

• 1996 - Year 6. Big fish at school (benches in assembly), Euro ‘96

• 2002 - Year 10. Fake ID, white Lightning cider, guitarist in a (terrible) punk-rock band 🤘

• 2006 - Travelling with pals, start university, meet Louise.

• 2017 - Get married, become probation officer, Joshua born.

• 2020 - I know, objectively, this wasn’t a great year, but Jacob was born, so I have to include it, don’t I? We had a Gousto subscription for a while, too.

So, onto 2025…

Louise is flying: an amazing wife and mum, getting nominated for awards at work, chair of the school PTA, and on the board of directors for a charity, while still somehow managing to always be there for us. The boys are brilliant ages, and while the clock is ticking, they’re not embarrassed by me yet. They’re settled in school, doing well in their sports classes, and have discovered their true passion in Pokémon cards. So, so much Pokémon. They have a lovely relationship with all their grandparents (unless they overheard my dad’s elf suggestion) who we’re fortunate to see regularly and, as far as I can tell, they’re having a good time, most of the time.

We’ve had some fantastic holidays to the Lake District, Menorca, and - possibly the best holiday of my life - our road trip to France in the summer. Also, while it felt like the longest and most draining weekend of my life at the time, I now look back at helping out at Joshua’s Beavers camp with an odd fondness (apart from the session where the leader, a man called “Cheetah”, gave me nothing but a piece of rope and told me to entertain 30 marshmallow-wired children for an hour).

I’m becoming established on the school-dad pub quiz scene, where there’s one guy who always unnecessarily suggests, “One more for the road?” (you need people like this in life), and I still see my childhood friends regularly. Despite our wildly different career paths, when we meet up nothing has changed and we still talk the same old bullshit and crack stupid inside jokes we’ve been making for decades.

Work continues to be bonkers, but I’m still glad to be doing it, and Substack has become the perfect hobby for life’s in-between moments, helping me connect with some great writers and make my podcast debut (thanks, ).

I’ve read some great books, just about managed to keep in touch with new music, and watched some cracking TV. Finally, as the sweetest of cherries on top, Leeds United won the Championship title with pretty much the last kick of the season.

So, all in all, a good one.

Apologies. That got all got a bit sentimental there, didn’t it?

I blame the John Lewis advert.

*

THANK YOU once again for reading The Flagging Dad this year! Please like or restack if you enjoyed, and I always love to read any comments.

I’m a sucker for end-of-year lists, so thought I’d finish with a list of Substacks I’ve enjoyed in 2025 and recommend checking out (I’m sure there are loads more, so apologies for the no-doubt glaring omissions…)

• - Mistakes Were Made

• - Roads to the Past

• - How to Evolve

• - Musical Chairs

• - Ninki Substack

• - Out of the Woods

• - Receipt from the Bookshop

• - Being in Words

• - The Train to Titsville

• - A Patch of Sky

• - A view from here

• - The Ledge Beyond the Edge

• - Knott, A Newsletter

• - T with Tess

• - The Feeling of Life

• - This Woman’s Work

• - Reconnecting…

• - The S is a 5

• - The Nous Trap

• - Disorderly

• - Normal London Bloke

• - The Bleating Goat

• - Teacher by Trade, Mentor by Mistake

• - Camomile Tea and Economy Vodka

• - She’s Gone Chilaquiles

• - Not Normal

• - Pandora’s Box of Shit

• - Advocating for the Ignorant

• - Baby Brain

• - Bearly Politics

• - This Very Moment

• - Wendy’s World

• - Swamp Ruby

• - The Woes of Wendy McWaffle

Finally…. if you’re feeling especially generous this festive season, please consider becoming a paid subscriber or buying me a Baileys below.

Buy me a Baileys

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! See you on the other side! 🎄🎄🎄