the irregular photo of the day

Cheeky, originally uploaded by tygerland.net.

Another one of mine. Seeing as Vitaliya starred yesterday.

Managed to catch the little bugger looking cheeky, but there was some noise due to light (poor ISO selection and flash). Decided to run with it, and cool the colours and make it look a bit Holga’ish.

Ivan Cameron

I cannot, for a single second, understand what David and Samantha Cameron must be going through right now.

I know people who have lost children, even one whose child lived with illness all his young life, only to succumb to leukaemia at around the same age as poor Ivan - nothing can compare to the helpless devastation Ivan’s parents must be experiencing.

I’m not going to go on. Enough will be written. But needless to say, we all send our condolences and thoughts to the Cameron family.

On car seats

Jesus, getting the kids in and out of the car is a drag.

Child car seats, and now those bastard compulsory booster seats, must be specially designed to make journeys as stressful as possible.

I think companies are mandated to make them dysfunctional. There I am in the back of the car, doubled over like a porn star being drilled by a moustachioed washing-machine repairman, trying to get two pieces of metal into an impossibly small slot while my kids wriggle and squirm like captured fish.

Maybe child car seats are a subtle weapon in the war against climate change. The government, it seems, are committed to making every car journey as painful as possible.

It was raining this morning, and both of my children have the sniffles. It made sense to keep them dry and warm in the car, but I spent all morning dreading the rigmarole of getting the little scamps into their seats.

The wife is over in Paris for a week with her sister, so the opportunity of getting out of the school-run this week is non-existant. Tomorrow I’ll put an extra layer on the kids and brave the winter air sans automobile. I guess you win, Al Gore. You smug big-faced bastard.

BJ the Mayor Bear wrote about car-seats a few years ago, so I’ll leave you with opening paragraphs of his rant ::

Of all the sensations of joy and release that Nature in her kindness has bestowed on the human race, there is little or nothing to beat the moment when you get rid of the baby’s car seat.

It beats getting off a long-haul flight. It beats taking off a pair of ill-fitting ski-boots after a hard day on the slopes. It verges, frankly, on the orgasmic. As you take the wretched thing to Oxfam, you thank your stars that never again will you have to grapple with that incomprehensible buckle.

Never again will you stand sweating over your baby as it screams and writhes and sticks yoghurt in your ear. Never again will you have that struggle of wills, as the child’s efforts to escape become ever more desperate and violent, and you grow later and later in setting off on your journey.

For children and parents alike that precious moment – when it is deemed that the offspring are capable of sitting on their own in the back with only a seat belt – is one of the pleasures of growing up. It is a rite of passage, a moment of pride and childish prestige.

It is, therefore, utterly incredible that the state should now be trying to prolong our national car seat agony. How old do you think they have to be before the nanny state will let your kids sit in the back without a car seat? Did I hear six? Did I hear seven? No, my friends, we are being asked to put our children in plastic booster seats until they reach the ripe old age of 12 or attain a height of 135cm, whichever is the sooner.

Seriously?

So funny I fell over ::

We can be sure that most of these reforms will be enacted. While Labour’s Left will resist many of the tougher proposals, the Conservatives are offering bipartisan support for the bulk of the Purnell program. Twelve years after U.S. president Bill Clinton signed the welfare reforms enacted by the Gingrich Congress, Britain will finally begin to catch up.

Apparently, Britain is about to wake up and embrace the hugely successful welfare reforms that have made The United States such a beacon of social stability and moral virtue. As Mike Power puts it: “We are going to learn welfare lessons from….wait for it…the US ! Ha!”

Indeed.

Yeah, it could only be that delusionally wet sycophant Tim Montgomerie, writing for The National Review.

Someone should drop this daft myopic fuckwit off in the middle of the East Baltimore projects or in working class Michigan. He can then start lecturing random strangers on how good they’ve got it.

Being Tim Montgomerie should be a crime in this country.

Meltdown at PMQs

So yesterday there was a rather distasteful kafuffle at PMQ’s over the political fallout over the sad story of Baby P.

I just said over at Justin’s that this is a case of shame on both their houses. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder…

Cameron must be getting pissed off with Brown’s constant and blunt refusal to answer a straight question. And it is the duty of the LOHMLO to hold the government to account. I can understand if Cameron becomes annoyed if the PM continues to belittle his questioning by his avoidance techniques, but then Cameron should have risen above the fray once it was clear Brown wasn’t going to retract the accusation of playing party politics.

Had he made his feelings clear and moved on, he would have been the Statesman to Brown’s partisan beast.

In truth Cameron probably did see capital in this line of question. It’s in his nature. Anyone who watches Cameron closely could say he is anything more than a political animal. He’s never convinced me of any hidden intellectual or ideological vigour. He’s a careerist and a prominently placed spin-doctor.

That said, Brown was a fool to challenge Cameron - as the questioning itself didn’t provide clear political malice. It was a reasonable line of questioning (even if it was probably tinged with a deliberate intent to show Labour in a bad light - not that this is necessarily a bad thing, as Labour do have serious questions to answer).

Had he any real class though, Cameron would have called Brown on his slur, and moved on. We don’t pay Cameron to be overly sensitive.

For a brilliant analysis of a terrible day for Westminster, try Septicisle’s article at LC. (update) I did start reading the comments on Iain’s predictably hyperbolic outrage post, but really many of these people are so partisan and reactionary, it’s a waste of my time. I think Iain is a very talented writer and I can’t say I dislike the guy, but his penchant for exaggerated outrage is tiresome. I really wish he could return to his more independent musing.

Neither of two party leaders excelled yesterday.

postman pat

It’s just dawned on me that the hateful bastards in charge at Postman Pat PLC, have changed the the bloody theme tune. No longer is it “Postman Pat and his black and white cat”,no, it’s been replaced by a forgettable generic effort that washes over you like elevator muzak (hence why i just realised it had changed). It’s awful.

But why change it? By all means bring back Pat - one of TV’s more genteel and honourable characters, but why change one of its classic tunes and replace it with god-awful aural tedium?

Mind you, the new theme is more suitable than this intro (seriously, NSFW).

danilo

casting the net - kicking brown when he’s down

Nice and early. The blog review is up at LC.

Mrs. tyger and the kids are back. Toys are strewn across the floor and I’m constantly running up and down the stairs taking the boy to the loo (ah, the joys of toilet training). Of course the independent-minded little git has no intention of using a potty, rather like the way he flat refuses to use a beaker. Grrr.

casting the net - revisiting iraq

Today’s blog review highlights the latest dispatch from Michael J. Totten, who has revisited the Iraqi city of Fallujah - the site of one of the biggest battles of the latest Iraq War (Operation Phantom Fury was an infamous siege where US forces used chemical weapons – namely White Phosphorous - on suspected insurgents).

The blog review can be found at LC.

There will be no blog review tomorrow - or, probably, any activity on tygerland.net - as I’m going to the airport to collect the family. I’ve been on my own for 5-and-a-half-weeks, so I can’t wait to have some life in the house again. Everything is ready: the floors are scrubbed, the washing is done, the bathroom is clean, and I’ve even cleaned and disinfected the fridge. We’re talking serious brownie points here, people.

heat magazine picks on a disabled kid

Heat magazine is the bible of the celebrity-obsessed masses. It’s the magazine of choice for those who think Amy Winehouse’s drug hell constitutes “current affairs”. And it is the rag most likely to be read by a person who hasn’t had a decent night-out unless they’ve had a fight in kebab shop, been scuttled in a shop doorway, and puked on a friend. In short: It’s for fucking morons.

Last night my Brother-in-law asked me if I’d “heard about Heat Magazine?”

“No.” I replied. “What about it?”

“They’ve given away a sticker with Jordan’s nipper, Harvey - the disabled one, with the words: “Harvey wants to eat me!””

“Don’t be fucking daft.” Was my reasoned reaction.

“Seriously, dude. They’re in the shit.”

“Whatever!”

This morning I Googled “heat magazine jordan harvey”. He was right. That’s exactly what Heat magazine did.

Only a Grade-1 prick would come up with an idea like that. I wonder who, among the myriad of cretinous wankers at the Heat offices, thought of that one? Let me quote Brand Republic’s coverage…

Harvey was born with a rare disorder called septo-optic dysplasia, which causes blindness and growth hormone deficiency among a range of other medical problems such as visual impairment and weight gain.

So here is a poor disabled kid - half blind and hugely overweight. And Heat Magazine, that bastion of today’s hip young things, is encouraging its readers to take the piss. That is just fucking sick. I don’t give a shit whether Katie Price (AKA Jordan) courts magazine attention (Heat included). There is absolutely no argument, whether based on free-speech or anti-political correctness or whatever, that excuses this behaviour.

According to the Brand Republic article, there were 30 complaints to The Press Complaints Commission. 30? Just 30? Clearly the Heat readership are bigger nob-sacks than I thought. Anyway, Heat magazine has now apologised for including the sticker. And honestly, I don’t want to make trouble, but there is a line in the apology that really bothers me (emphasis is mine): -

We now accept that that the decision to include this sticker was a mistake and we recognise that it has caused offence, not only to Katie and Peter Andre, but to a number of readers.

Seriously? You mean there was a time when you didn’t think this was a bad idea or that it would cause offence to Katie Price? Are you people for real? You’re on the right planet, right? Earth?

This is the sort of thing, if there were justice in the world, that should put a publication out of business. Heat Magazine serves no purpose beyond dumbing down the population and feeding a sick celebrity circus. Heat doesn’t have anything of worth to say. It’s just a cheap vehicle for vacuous garbage. Oh, and it thinks picking on on disabled kids is funny. Fucking die you bunch of cocks.

on halloween

Halloween, originally uploaded by fabbio.

Tonight is Halloween.

Now you can call me an old-crank spoilsport if you please, but I just don’t get why we’ve bought into this American holiday (although, yeah, I can totally understand why retailers have embraced it). I know kids love sweets, horror and creepy crawlies, but usually, at least in our town, they’re older kids after cold hard Stirling.

“Sweets?

What? Haven’t you got any money?”

You see what I’m getting at? In many cases, Trick or Treat’rs are gangs of bloody teenagers crawling the streets hoping to get enough for a few cans of Old Wife-Beater - or Stella, as it’s more frequently known. It’s not about the spirit of festival or even a cheeky nod to our historical dalliance with witchcraft, it’s about fleecing people out of cash.

I’m sure when my kids are a few years older (or maybe even next year for the boy) I’ll be dressing them up and taking them down our street. But I’ll be conscious of so many occupants who dread the doorbell. Will it be a hand-full of *supervised* cutiepies dressed as skeletons, or half-a-dozen dickheads with a £1 plastic mask and their hoodies drawn up.

I know I sound terribly Daily Mail, but I’m just not looking forward to tonight. Maybe I’ll camp out on the roof with an air-rifle - that’ll really put the heebie jeebies up the little shits.

Happy Halloween.

up since four

More of this. Knackered today. Watching Zombie Hotel. Don’t ask.

when you just know you’re not going to get anymore sleep, but you try anyway

tyger jnr. is two-and-a-half and has just begun coming into our bed in the night.

I suppose we’re very lucky that the boy hasn’t started this before now. But he’s always been prone to waking up at around six - just when a lie-in was in the offing. You lie there, slowly stirring to hopeful cries of “papa.” You know that further sleep isn’t going to happen.

Now it happens in the middle of the night. No warning. You just get the sense that something small, possibly something damp (if the nappy has slipped again), has entered the bed. Occasionally, he’ll be content to be carried back to his own room, with a complementary bottle of warm milk. But more and more he trundles back, bottle in hand (the fraud!), and is tucked up before I’ve had chance to climb in myself. In the middle too, between Mrs. tyger and myself, which means a spoon-snooze is out of the question. Grrr.

This morning he crept into our bed at about 05:30. He wiggled into his usual spot, not unlike an overgrown caterpillar (well, one dressed in Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas anyway).

He didn’t, alas, have any intention of sleeping though. Thus began the daily ritual of the “sleep-off”. Mrs. tyger and myself will both try our best to present the best possible example of someone absolutely shattered and in need of the one available lie-in spot. The loser of the sleep-off is saddled with a couple of hours of Cbeebies and the chance to try and get as many Rice Krispies down the boy’s throat as he or she can. I say “he or she,” but what I mean is me. I have never won a sleep-off yet.

And so this morning, like so many before it, I found myself blinking in the darkness reaching for a warm sweater en route downstairs. The boy doesn’t watch much TV. We try and keep it to just in the morning - and nothing with adverts. I tend to use the time to write a blog post or read a chapter of a book. A cup of tea and a slice of toast doesn’t go amiss, either. To be honest, and don’t tell Mrs. tyger this, I rather enjoy it.

Good morning.

the sprogs are back in town

And so the quiet isolation is over. Mrs. tyger and the cubs are back.

Quite a shock to the system. The house took all of thirty seconds to look like a bomb had gone off. Cars, trains, toy phones, and balls were strewn all over the floor. A return to brief, broken sleep has also thrown me somewhat.

Still, it’s great to have voices and play in the house again. Oh, and the fridge has more than cheese slices in it too.

empty house

Having an empty house is not always great.

I know some of you stressed-out dads would not agree. “BLISS,” you’d scream. “HEAVEN,” you would no doubt cry. But seriously, and I say this with the absolute minimum intended smuggary, it really isn’t that great. I have been alone here at chez-tyger for over a month now, and I’m finally starting to give in to cabin fever, pissing in the corner, and eating directly from cans. I haven’t yet begun scrawling threats on the walls, but let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time.

Yes, you can finally dust off your jazz collection and give those yet-unlistened Christmas presents a good play. And of course you can at last tackle the extended version of the Lord of the Rings DVD box-set. I even resorted to reading the Harry Potter books - all of them, in little over five weeks… surprisingly good (well not that much of a surprise, I guess. I mean, the bloody woman’s richer than Croesus). But once the books have been read, the music exhausted, and you’re finally fed-up with reheated Chinese food and smoked turkey sandwiches, you begin to yearn for the warm care of a woman.

You miss the kids too. While normally I’d agree to group-sex with a gang of repressed Republican congressmen, just for an afternoon away from the madness, after a few days of solitude and silence you sort of wish the little monkeys were around. Knocking stuff over, cracking their heads against cupboards, and typing gibberish on your laptop - it’s all rather endearing in its absence.

So next time you’re dreaming of peace and quiet - yearning for freedom and space, be careful what you wish for…