- Forgot the bastard Harvest Festival until the moment we were leaving for school. Had to send child 1 with a rusty tin of kidney beans and child 2 with a box of lasagne sheets. Thank fuck the local food-bank don’t rely on self-absorbed arse-holes like me for donations. Oh wait, they do.
- Got the following message from the teacher in child 2’s reading record: Have given S these books for another week as he said he has not read them yet. Yep, I’ve had over a week to read these with him and I’ve not even taken them out of his bag.
- Put child 2 in the wrong boxer shorts on Wednesday. You see, it’s P.E. on a Wednesday. It’s of paramount importance to him that he wears a particular pair of boxer shorts on this day so that his bollocks don’t come out at the sides when he’s getting changed in front of his friends. Let’s just say I was entirely to blame for the inevitable free-balling situation at changing time.
- Used Grand Theft Auto as a baby-sitter for my 5-year-old whilst I applied fake-tan. To be fair I put it on mute.
- “Recycled” school uniforms for 4 days in a row and will almost certainly send the buggers in the same attire tomorrow.
AND THE SHIT MUM AWARD GOES TO …..
Remember those days when you first got together and had regular serial shag-a-thons and your tits didn’t look like windsocks and your pre-baby fanny didn’t look and feel like it’s got the vaginal version of Bell’s Palsy and your man didn’t pick his arse in front of you?
Spontaneous sex is now a lost art, and quite frankly it faded out a bloody long time ago. There is the issue of kids of course, but even if they are not around, ample time needs to be earmarked for me to give my fanny a quick shave and for him to wash his knob in the sink.
Sexy time is now always premeditated, requires some rather strategic planning and follows a predictable series of steps. Who said romance was dead? (Give that man a cigar!)
Step 1: Husband tries to initiate sex using one or more of the following methods:
- Sneaks up behind me and puts a bag over my face (just kidding)
- Takes a £20 note from his pocket and throws it on the bed (again, just kidding. Though that could work)
- Slaps me in the face with his penis (not kidding)
Step 2: I establish probability of intercourse (see bar chart below)
Step 3: Adequate time is allocated for aforementioned fanny-shaving and cock-washing. Whilst splashing willy around in the sink, husband takes the opportunity to tell me how lucky I am to have someone so well-endowed.
Step 4: Husband goes downstairs to get sky remote to poorly illustrate point made in Step 3, using sky remote as a comparison tool for his semi-on.
Step 5: A suitable spunk-rag is located for dealing with the aftermath of what’s about to go down (which, by the way, probably won’t be husband). Usually an item from the dirty wash basket, such as husband’s T-shirt. Or jimjams belonging to one of the kids – what they don’t know won’t hurt ’em.
Step 6: Husband starts erotic proceedings with a final couple of inquiries:
Step 7: Shit gets underway:
Step 8: Tandem crab-walk onto carefully laid-out spunk rag to collect spillage. Slim chance of pillow talk. Small chance of spooning. High chance of husband farting. Straight to sleep.