Premature Ejaculation

At a services halfway up the A1 somewhere near Doncaster, there was an advert on the men’s toilet wall that read;
“1 in 5 men suffer with premature ejaculation.”

Surely it’s the women who suffer isn’t it?

Though I wouldn’t know…

…I’m normally asleep by then.

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Love is a Tug of War

Love Is A Tug Of War

Love is a tug of war,
A war without any hope.
I take the strain,
You complain,
Then you drop the rope.

Normality does not suck.

For Fathers Day I had the choice of
what to do.

I chose to drive to the seaside, watch My daughter’s donkey ride, share a paddle with her in the sub-zero North Sea, lose at the arcade machines, have my arm mangled and half eaten on the ghost train (not by a werewolf, but by my 5 year old girl), eat ice cream despite the windchill, over eat my fish and chip dinner, sing loudly on the way back home after nailing eye spy for half an hour. Heaven.
Normality is heaven.

It is.
I promise.
(Though sometimes only bad news make us ever really appreciate that.)

So to all the Dads, happy Father’s Day.
To all the mums, thanks for making our day even more special.
To all our kids, never stop hanging off our necks (we like it really.)

And to all those who may not have seen their dad’s today because they are no longer with us, remember something good about them and say a toast.

My mug of tea and smoke later will be for you pops.

Now…got some sand to get out of my toes.

Laws of Blogging 3 – Copying

Not mine, but so good
My thoughts drip to flood
To copy you a poem from a worn out book.

It’s sad that I should plunder
Another cloud’s thunder
But my words are far too simple and easy to overlook.

For my words sometimes fail me
Or like fanfares can hail me
Mine – rhymes of flatlines, theirs – of how the earth shook.

But to impress you I lose
The desire to choose
To copy you a poem from a worn out book.

Death of a friend

Dying is about the person.
Death is about everyone else.

It is 15 years since I lost my Dad.

Whenever I look back, it is with fondness. Great memories of holding onto his stubbly chin for a shoulder ride. How he always smelled of creosote or just plain old outside. How he used to do a 14 hour shift then fall asleep reading me and my sister a bedtime story. How he could build a shed in an afternoon and still have a bit of wood (and time) left over to help me make a crossbow to fire Mum’s clothes pegs at the neighbours windows. He’d even fetch me the pegs.

I can remember near the end, when he was fighting to stay around to see the cherry blossom. Prolific this time of year.
Whenever I see it I think of him.
How he fought, his breathing machine rattling on for one more breath. His family rattling alongside him through the dark, painful, destroying hours where we clung onto him as he dwindled away. Where we fought to stay awake, to hear his next breath; to make sure he did not die alone in the dark.

Like I said, Cherry blossom is prolific. It brightens up our world for a few days then fades away. We remember the vivid colours it shouts into spring, not the brown, desiccated remnants that lie on the floor then disappear on the breeze.

Though cherry blossom saddens me, just a little, the colours and joys prevail. Like death and life I suppose.

Like father like son.