driving me crazy

After I wrote about the effects of ageing on my eyesight I read a similar themed post over on my blogger friend Tony Van Helsings site.
It got me thinking.
There are some things that you really do need to consider giving up as you get older.

And I'm not just talking about the fact that I might look a little bit silly at a rave in my glow-in-the-dark clothing, not that any of it fits me anymore. Besides all that bouncing around just makes my feet ache, and I need a week to recover even though I'm home and in bed with a cocoa by midnight.

My Dad is in his eighties.
Ill health has begun to affect his mobility in the last few years, but I obviously get my inability to get my brain to understand that I am no longer 25 from him.
Because up until a couple of years ago if you put this man in charge of anything with an engine he thought he was either a formula one driver or captain of the boat that holds the sea-speed record.

He was never concerned with the fact that his car is very old or that his boat is very small.
Size matters not, and it's "all the other silly bastards" who are at fault, never him.

Nowadays his car is so knackered I doubt it can go faster then the average milk cart, and most of the time he keeps his boat moored at it's week-end location and catches the ferry over to it.
But this was not always the case.
Dads boat looks very similar to this . . .

Except it's not as sea worthy.
Probably due to years of being "worked on" by Dad, the same man who once spent an entire week-end putting up shelves that fell down within half an hour of putting stuff on them. Actually most of my power tools were bought for me by Dad, because he knows if he wants something done I will make a better job of it than he can.
Apart from the boat, that is entirely his domain.

We live in a city that has a large Naval base, a continental ferry port which also deals with container ships, a smaller ferry terminal from which catamarans and smaller boats run, and a Hovercraft terminal right on the beach. Spend an afternoon sat on our seafront and you will see endless boats and other sea vehicles of all shapes and sizes pass by.

And occasionally a crazy old man dodging between them.

Not to scale. Shipping channel is six miles wide, 

if it looks crowded here than the reality is worse.

Dad told me "those ferries are fucking dangerous, a few times they've nearly hit me and they all seem to think that because they're so big they have the right of way".
That's because they do.
Dad was in the navy when he was a young man, so naturally he knows what he's doing and it's the captains of the various ferries, container ships, frigates, aircraft carriers and destroyers who have no idea how to manage their vessels.
And the Harbour Master needs firing. . . according to Dad. Because he has no idea how careless those big ships are and how dangerously their captains drive them.
Do you drive a boat ? Steer perhaps.

One day I was round my sisters and the TV was on although we were talking and not paying any attention to it. The local news came on and there was a story about someone being charged with causing a nuisance to shipping in a small private boat - we both stopped talking and sat there waiting to hear the newscaster say our Dads name.
Because we just KNEW it was going to be him.
It wasn't, thankfully. But it SO should of been.

My sisters mother-in-law lives where the smaller ferries are heading to, and she had the hardest time trying to find a polite way to say to Dad that there was no fucking way she was going to do what he suggested.
Let him take her and her kids over rather than "wasting" all that money on the ferry.

According to Dad the reason he now keeps his boat permanently at the week-end location is because it was getting too dangerous to cross - nothing to do with him, just they are "letting too many other boats use the water" and he was worried for his safety.
Now he knows how his daughters have been feeling for twenty fucking years.

Unfortunately the same cannot be said about him driving on the road.
Except that nowadays his lack of speed is the problem rather than too much of it. I stopped accepting his offers of lifts a long time ago, white knuckle rides are not my thing. But one day before I wised up he was driving me home and turned a corner without slowing down causing the poor man who had just stepped into the road to cross it to jump back.
And Dad ?
He stopped, I thought to check the fella was ok. But no, he wound the window down and shouted at him to "look before you cross the fucking road".

I wish he would just give up his car.
Every year he says he is going to, he no longer goes very far in it anyway, but he never does.
For someone who has always been reckless at the best of times, when you put the issues of old age into the equation it goes beyond stupid and into the range of fucking dangerous.
Actually scrap that.
It's always been dangerous.

I think there should be some system in place that means that when you get older you have to prove that you are still capable of driving. We all know that as you age your physical capabilities can lessen, and not just your eyesight. Dad has arthritis in his knees that makes it impossible for him to climb my stairs, he cannot sit on my sofa because he can't get back up from it and walks with a stick, yet he drives a manual car.
I worry about him, and of course anyone else that might be involved if he had an accident.

Because, of course, it wouldn't be Dads fault.

I'm not saying that all old people are bad drivers, nor do I think that all bad drivers are old.
I've never managed to learn to drive and not for the want of trying.
But my last instructor refused to give me anymore lessons because apparently I am "a liability" and he was worried "for my car and my own personal safety".
I thought I was doing ok.
I'd got to the point where he no longer had to tell me 'clutch, brake etc' - just where to go, and we were driving through a little village high street. The car had five gears, so I was damn well going to use them, and as we turned into the road I was going (or so I thought) a bit too fast to be able to stop before I hit either the double decker bus that was coming towards me or the policeman on a pushbike in front of us.
So I hit the policeman.
Not badly, I wasn't going that fast. Really I just clipped his back wheel and he wobbled a bit before kind of stepping off. When he saw it was a learner driver - and the look of terror on my face - he just waved us on.

But when we pulled up outside my house and I wanted to book my next lesson the instructor wasn't exactly happy.
I guess lack of driving skills are another thing I've inherited.

Dad was always giving me advice to "help" with my lessons. The one I remember was "when you approach a bend in a road drop a gear (sound advice so far. . . ) then as you get to it go up again and drive into it ".
Hmmm.

Lately I've been thinking that I might try to learn again, I'm not as reckless as I was when I had those last lessons, they were quite a long time ago.
But I might just get behind the wheel and turn into Lewis Hamilton.

I am my Dad's daughter after all.

i wish i hadn't heard that

RIP Joe.

A man and a legend.

I do like boxing, it's the only sport I really watch, although I think it's been a long time since the sport had a true champion like it did in the days of Frazier, Ali, Foreman and their like.
And Sugar Ray was CUTE.
Maybe Tyson could've been, but he let himself down outside the ring. Rapists have no place in public adoration.
We've had a few half decent UK fighters - but none that come close to the greats.

I got my love of the sport from watching those guys with my Dad.

My blogger pal Al, over at Penwasser Place wrote a post about his time in the US Navy and Veterans day. My Dad was in the Royal Navy in his younger years and the comment I left there made me think of a couple of funny things.

My parents split when I was 14. This was not at all a traumatic thing for me, in fact it was a bit of a relief. All I remember them ever doing was arguing so it was no shock - sometimes I think I maybe saw it coming before they did.
I was a Daddys girl - still am really - but as I hit full on puberty and rebellion and began the five year war with my Mum, so Dad became my ally (he no longer needed to back Mum up to keep the peace) and his flat was my refuge when I wanted to escape. Mostly I think he respected, especially by the time I was about 16 or 17, that I was growing up and let me make my own huge mistakes decisions and then bailed me out talked it through with me.
As a result of that we can talk about things that maybe some Dads and daughters can't.

This is not always a good thing.

He's in his eighties now and not in the best of health although still very independent, but I like to hear from him every day. We do this via the daily filthy text joke.
I frequently have a conversation where I will read one to a friend. . .
"Who sent you that?"
"My Dad"
"Your DAD sent you THAT ???"

He once told me the story of how he ended up getting circumcised by a Navy surgeon, apparently Dad was not lacking in size and the doctor ("He was fucking faggot too..") asked him to drop his trousers then lifted the offending appendage up with a pencil and made a complimentary remark.
At which point Dad replaced his clothing and told him he "best get someone else to do the op because I'm worried what you might do to it when I'm out cold . . ."
He had shared this because I thought Son might've had a problem and I'd asked his advice.
TMI Dad, TMI.

Not the first time he put a picture in my head that I really didn't want to see.

One night he had gone out and met a rather nice young lady who had agreed to go home with him. He said he knew she was a fair bit younger then him but although he was in his early fifties at this point, Dad has always looked a lot younger then his years. (I love him for passing those genes to me). So he gets back to his flat and the female spots the picture of me and my sister when we were teenagers on his wall.
She points at me and says
"That's ..............isn't it ?"
Dad asked her how she knew me.
"Well I don't really know her, but I remember her because she was well known in the year above me at school".
Dad called her a cab.


The saying is that sailors have a girl in every port and I once asked my Dad if he did.
"No, but I once caught a nasty dose of the clap from a prostitute in Korea that I had to get rid of before I got back home to your Mother".

When Son was first at College he had kept mentioning a girls name, and one day when he was kind of distracted I said it sounded like he had a girlfriend. . .
"Nooo, she just comes round and gives me a blow job when you're at work"

Great.
So now my Son was also putting pictures in my head.
There are some things a Mother just doesn't need to know.
Or a daughter.

Because when I relayed this story to Dad. . . .
"Lucky bleeder, when I was his age if I wanted one of them I had to pay for it".

You think ?

My favourite of all his stories though is not at all rude, but from when he was a boy growing up in a city that was getting bombed by the Germans.

Dad, as usual, had left for school in the morning but also, as usual, had not actually gone to school and was instead playing by the locks. In those days where there is now a train line there was a canal.
During the morning, the Luftwaffe had decided to drop a bomb on Dads school.
Luckily there were no casualties and all the children were accounted for. . . .apart from Dad.

When it was the right time Dad had made his way home.

Meanwhile a policeman had been despatched to the house to give his Mother the bad news.

He said as he walked in the front door my Gran screamed, lunged at him, hugged him then hit him and continued to switch between the two for quite a while.

Dad has told me that he is writing all his memories down.
I have suggested to him that he should get a computer to do it, but he says he likes writing by hand. In a way that's a bit of a shame because I'm sure it would make for a great blog.

Either way I can't wait to read them.
Even if some of them are bound to give me nightmares.

He's a bit of a legend himself.

And just to prove my point, here's a selection of this weeks jokes from Dad.
Enjoy.

Today my mate was doing a crossword and asked me if I knew the medical term for a swollen vagina.
He's a thick cunt.

I was down the gym this morning when I noticed a hole in my trainer big enough to get my finger in.
Anyway, she's now made a formal complaint.

My dysexic friend told me he was going to be covering his penis in black shoe polish last week-end.
I said to him "you idiot you're supposed to be turning the clock back".

A priest booked into a hotel and told the receptionist he hoped the porn channel was disabled.
She said "no you sick bastard it's ordinary porn".

A man was in court charged with murdering his pretty young wife. The judge asked him what he had to say in his defence.
"Well your honour I came home and found the dirty slut in bed fucking my best friend so I shot her"
The judge said he thought that was fair enough and asked the man what happened to his best friend.
"I wagged my finger at him and told him he was a bad dog".

Went to bed with two Thai girls last night. It was like winning the lottery, we had six matching balls.

miss doolittle

One day, if I ever marry a old rich man win the lottery and get the huge house with a massive garden I plan to have a pet goat. I don't really know exactly why I like them so much but I do, especially the weird eyes.

When Son was a lot younger we used to spend a fair bit of time with my friend Carlene, she had a boy the same age as him so they could bugger off and do whatever ten year old boys do and she and I could gossip, smoke and drink brandy coffee.
We figured it wouldn't hurt if you put it in your coffee.
Well until you've had about six anyway.

One day I went round there and she had a goat at the end of her garden, I was straight out there making friends with it. For weeks every time I went to see her (which was a bit more often once she got the goat) I would take it food, it didn't take long for it to recognise me. Her garden was on two levels and the goat lived in the lower bit furthest from the house but as soon as it saw me it would stand by the fence waiting.

I was very fond of that animal.

Carlene was Jamaican, and an amazing cook so we would often go for dinner.
This particular Sunday there we are tucking in. . . .
"What have you done to the mutton Carlene it tastes really nice?"
"It's not mutton it's goat".

Yup. Bitch fed my friend to me.
I'M A CAPRICORN THAT'S FUCKING CANNABALISM.
I thought I was going to be sick.
And as I ran to the toilet, which was at the back of the house and meant going through the utility room, there was the remainder of it on the freezer waiting to be butchered.
I was very very sick.

Not goat . . . and I'm starving just looking at this.

Given a choice even before that I would not eat goat, the other thing I have no desire to ever try is rabbit. When I was a child my Dad kept rabbits, they were pets but he always used to tell me that we were going to eat them. We had two females and they were allowed to breed a couple of times a year but for some reason they would only ever have two, until one year my favourite produced six babies.
Dad insisted that these were going in the pot.

I wasn't having that.
My Dad worked shifts so he wasn't always home in the morning and when he wasn't there I used to feed the rabbits before I left for school.
So I decided (I think I was about 8 at the time) that I was going to find them new homes. I put the baby rabbits, who were a couple of weeks old at this point so tiny, in my bag (how my Mum didn't notice I don't know, I guess she was busy), took them to school and gave them to my friends.

How could anyone look at this and think . . . dinner.

When I got home from school I made sure it was me that fed the others so nobody else went and looked.

Later that evening there were a few knocks on the door.
Concerned parents returning the new pet their child had brought home from school.

I didn't get into trouble, but after that my Dad agreed that no rabbit would ever make it to the cooking pot. Actually I don't think any ever would've, he loved those rabbits as much as I did, I remember when one got injured and died and Dad cried more then me and the sister.

Although Dad has since shattered a few animal illusions I still had from my childhood.

When I was very little, maybe 5 or 6, we went on a family holiday to a big house on the coast in Devon. Dad and the uncles went fishing a few times and me and my cousins wanted to have a go, I remember how excited I was when I pulled (with a bit of help) my line out of the sea and there was a fish on the end of it.
Years later Dad and I are talking about fishing (well he's talking I'm pretending to be interested) and I said that I still remembered the only time I had ever fished, and that I had caught one.
"No you didn't, I bought that fish earlier and put it on the line for you"

Hmmm.
It get's worse.

We had this huge black cat called Bobby that was forever catching birds.
One day Bobby had caught a baby sparrow and trapped it behind a bush in the garden. I rescued the bird, it had a damaged wing but there was no blood so I knew it wasn't badly hurt. At the time Dad was decorating our front room so he let me keep the bird in a box in there. I used to feed it mashed up cereals and seeds on the end of a matchstick and for a wild bird it became really tame. I could get it to sit on my hand, and got it to start flying as well.

I knew I would have to set it free, and it was getting to the point when I knew that would be soon.
One day I came home from school and the bird was gone, Dad said that he had opened the window and it had flown away. I was a bit sad as I had wanted to be the one to let it go, but I was also really happy that I had saved this bird and got it back to health.

Again years later.
Somehow the bird came up in conversation.
"Do you remember the sparrow I saved Dad ?"
"No, don't think I do."
"Yeah you do, I had it in a box when you were decorating the front room"
"Oh that one, yes I do, the one that Bobby got in and killed."

I love my Dad very much but BASTARD !!
What the fuck.
And I thought I was a cunt.

I didn't mind finding out that Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy were really him, in fact I had my suspicions long before I knew the truth but why did he have to tell me that ?

Which reminds me of another time illusions were shattered.
When son was little Dad used to take him to his works Christmas party for the kids of employees.
One year the man who normally acted as Father Christmas let them down at the last minute, so there they are with 60 kids and no Santa. Being rather short and rotund Dad volunteered to step in, but in case Son decided to look for him (highly unlikely when he was busy tucking into sausage rolls and cake - he's his mother's son) Dad told him what he was going to do.

So they have the big build up to Santa's grand entrance, you know the kind of thing . . . sleigh bells and HO HO HO heard in the background.
Some guy with a microphone is doing the whole "listen kids . . .guess whose coming"
IT'S FATHER CHRISTMAS !!!!!!!!!!!!

And a voice from the back shouted . . . .
"That's not Father Christmas, that's my Grandad".

Family trait or what ?

The inspiration for this came from reading one of Drone's rememberies posts, after you've left me a comment telling me how fucking amazing I am pop over there and have a read.