So, am I evil?

Well, Derrrr.... For obvs I am, you've all known me for years and you all know that I am.

But I noticed something yesterday that made me think that I might be evil in a totally new (to me) previously undiscovered way... Something I'd never previously considered as even capable of being the reason that I'd have been tarred and feathered and thrown out of the badly maintained Wacky Warehouse that I like to call 'life'.

Pretty much every day nowadays is some kind of 'Day' - I don't mean Thursday or Tuesday (Although those are most definitely both days) I mean things like these, that the UN/UNESCO ask us to casually observe:

11th. Feb - International Day of Women & Girls in Science
23rd. March - International Meteorological Day
24th. March - International Tuberculosis Day (Which can be quite noisy if the 23rd. was damp and foggy)

It continues like this all the way through the year with us having

15th. Oct - World Handwashing Day, followed by
16th. Oct - Global Food Day

And ending up with:

20th. December - International Human Solidarity Day

Then you've got 'Days' specific to your particular Country or Deity of choice, There's Saints days and other High days - Days made up by retailers just to sell stock - Appropriated Pagan days - Yearly (or bi-yearly or quad yearly) sporting events that have their own 'Day'

Not to mention things that have their own 'Week' Like 'Shark Week' for instance... And... Erm... Probably others too.

But, the one I'm talking about in this instance is a global holiday that bounces around the calendar like a frog in a machine used for polishing old ball-bearings...

MOTHER'S DAY

It's celebrated all around the world, on the Second Sunday in February, or the 3rd, 8th, 21st or 25th of March, the 4th Sunday in Lent (In the UK), the 7th of April, 8th, 10th, 15th, 19th, 26th, 30th, or the 1st, 2nd or Last Sunday of May, 1st of June, 2nd Sunday of June, 1st. Monday of July, 12th & 15th August, 2nd Monday or 3rd. Sunday of October, 14th. October, 3rd. or 16th. November, and the 8th & 22nd of December...

There are also a couple of countries that celebrate it on non-Gregorian dates using their own wibbly-wobbly date system that I'm not willing to explain. I mean, the last paragraph kind of got away from me a little - And I'll wager a £5 note against a bag of freshly collected donkey eyelids that you skipped a lot of those dates, and who'd blame you? We've all got better things to do haven't we?

But let's get back to me, and how I'm evil and so full of wrongissitude that all my toes are due to pop off my feet and into the stratosphere at any given moment.

Here are some facts that you probably already know if you've read the blog for more than a couple of decades...

• I have been happily married to the long-suffering Mrs. Dandy for almost twenty years (Yes, I'm old, I know, I've gotten over it and so should you.)
• We have two children together. Lovely, wonderful children who never give us a moment's trouble 
• My Mother, whom I may have mentioned a couple of times before whilst she was both dead and alive... Is currently dead... But this hasn't stopped her being quite a vocal part of our lives.

So, on Monday (Which happened to be the day after the 4th Sunday of Lent) - I was greeted by several, if not many, posts from people who I previously considered friends - Waxing lyrical about gifts that they had bought their WIVES for MOTHER'S Day...

Do you see my issue? My Wife is Not My Mother (Because it would make things really awkward when I did that thing she likes with the egg-whisk) and My Mother is dead, which if nothing else makes it difficult for her to open cards and things that I'd bought hastily from the petrol station and wrapped in second-hand paper that I'd saved from Christmas.

So I didn't buy my WIFE a present... You see where I'm going with this don't you? - I'm going to neither confirm nor deny that I financially assisted in the purchase of the presents/cards that one or more of my Children bought for THEIR MOTHER (MY WIFE)

When I told these fairweather friends that I have never bought anyone other than MY MOTHER a MOTHER'S DAY present, well... I can only imagine that there was a quite literal intake of breath on their part. They expressed their shock via the medium of the strongly worded reply to my admission and a couple of them wondered how I ever got allowed to use an egg-whisk in the first place with a stingy attitude like that.

But, My Faithful Bloggerites (remind me never to use that word again) what do you think? I'm interested in answers from all people in all situations, Mothers, Fathers, Kids, Male, Female, Non-CIS, CIS, NCIS, SVU, Super-Intelligent Shades of the colour Blue.

What did you do?

And much more importantly, What should I do next year? (Especially if I want to employ another piece of kitchen equipment for a use for which it wasn't originally designed?)

And to carry on the theme... Here's a nice picture about love and stuff... There's a rock shaped like a heart and everything.

Toodles! - Don't forget to leave your opinion in the space provide below...

Mirror

As some of you know, I often write stories for people as birthday presents - It's because I'm cheap, I make no bones about it. I could warble on about home-made presents meaning more, but neither you nor I really believe that do we?

The following story was initially meant as a birthday story for my agent, Andy... But it sort of took on a life of its own, then it got a bit dark, and a bit long, so I thought I'd put it here rather then on his Facebook page where people might accidentally see it.

Anywho... Here we go... This story is 'Mirror'

-oOo-

He winced at the grinding noise from the gearbox as he changed down into second. The engine note changing pitch as the tires fought for grip on the loose, rocky surface.

“Mirror, this is three-eleven, checking in.”

“Roger three-eleven,” the tinny voice from the radio was almost lost in the static that seemed to always haunt this stretch of road, “We see you at the base of the South Escarpment, anything to report?”

“Looks like there’s been a rock fall, lotta loose shale on the road. Might put me behind by a few minutes, wouldn’t want you getting worried about me and sending out the dogs or anything.”

“Negative three-eleven, we don’t worry about anything, you know that. Though for your information and safety, the dogs are already out.”

He spat a word that his Mother would have beaten him senseless for using, “Has there been a breach?”

“Seal broke during the last delivery, four confirmed losses and another two had to be annulled in the bay. They’re still hosing it down. Six dogs released, three have enabled stealth.”

“They’ve picked up the trail then.”

“Watch yourself, they weren’t coming towards you, but between the stealth and static - they sometimes drop off the grid.”

“Thanks Mirror, that’s brightened my Birthday no end. Three-eleven out.”

He peered out of the window into the fog, in this weather it would be almost impossible to spot the escaped animals until he was close enough to run over them, which he was legally bound to do. It wouldn’t be much easier to see the dogs, even the light coming from their sensors would probably be masked in the mist. The image on the dashboard scanner flickered and then cleared, for a second he thought he saw a blip amongst the fleeting interference. He knew that hitting it wouldn’t help, but he did it anyway; regretting it instantly as the pain shot up his wrist to his elbow.  “You’re getting old Andy.” He mumbled to himself as he flexed his fingers, “I'm glad this is the last run.”

The truck continued to climb towards the lip of the escarpment, the ride getting rougher as he got closer to what he assumed was the source of the rock-fall. His whole cab lurched as one of the front wheels dropped into a pothole and the ever-present noise from the cargo compartment behind doubled in volume. He banged on the panel behind him, the pain once more shooting up his arm. “Son of a…” he yelled. He was still yelling a stream of obscenities, when he crested the rise and the tire pressure alarm sounded.

The truck juddered to a halt in a cloud of gravel as he hit the brakes and he sat with his head in his hands until the strident alarm annoyed him enough that he muted it. A check of the screens told him that the front offside tire was punctured beyond the capacity of the self-inflating system to fix.

“Mirror, this is three-eleven, I have lost a wheel – Going to have to replace it manually. Any update on the dogs?”

“All dogs are now in stealth mode, it’s only a matter of time. Last track puts them over one click to the North. Do you require assistance?”

“Negative Mirror. Shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes,” he looked at his still tingling arm, “No problems here. Just let me know if there’s any update.”

He jumped down from the cab, the chill from the fog immediately dampening the sleeves of his fatigue jacket. Moving towards the rear of the cargo bay, he punched his access code into the arm that held the 2 meter high spare wheel and, as he watched, the wheel made its way forward, along the siderails of the truck, until it reached the cab. Whereupon words started to flash on the keypad’s tiny screen. Andy sighed, then looked around as he heard a rock clatter to the ground behind him. Convincing himself that it was just a remnant from the rock-fall he shook his head and looked closely at the warning. ‘Automatic hub release disabled. Please disconnect manually’

“Really?” he shouted at no-one in particular as he set to work with the contents of his emergency toolbox. He removed the hub cover and started to loosen the nuts holding the hub.  He had released seven of the twelve when the radio burst into life. The message was more interference than words. “three-elev…. Dog… three hun… Not respon…”

The wrench fell from his numb hand as a sheen of sweat instantly appeared on his forehead. “Mirror? Mirror! Goddammit Mirror – Call the dogs off!” but the rest of the message, if there was one, was completely lost in the cloud of static. He picked up the tool and feverishly started to work on the remaining five nuts, praying for the fog to clear.

Another rock fell. This time it was not from behind him, not from the way he had come, but instead it came from the North, from the direction of the Mirror… From the direction of the dogs. He finished loosening the last nut with his fingers. As it dropped to the ground, the indicators on the spare wheel went green and the auto-jack started to slowly raise the truck into the air. “C’mon you bitch.” The compressor laboured as it rose, and he lovingly stroked the truck’s smooth paintwork, willing it to move more quickly. A ram pushed the old wheel off, letting him see the huge jagged rip in the thick rubber for the first time. The arm moved the new wheel into position and stopped. Once more displaying a flashing warning on its screen. ‘Manually replace twelve wheel nuts.’ it said.  He stared at it, dumbfounded, before dropping to his knees to try and find the discarded fasteners amongst the gravel. He was replacing the third one when he heard it.

His entire body froze, except for the hand holding the wrench. He had definitely heard movement. The toneless silence of the fog had caused his ears to become so sensitive that he could even hear the thick beat of his own laboured pulse. “Hello!” he called, without turning his head, still looking at the screen, “I am Animal Delivery Technician three-eleven. Inbound, full, cold, tired and scared. Check with the Mirror.” The display changed to ‘Manually replace nine wheel nuts.’ And the noise of movement came again. He rested his head against the wheel and took several deep breaths before turning around.

She was about nine years old, covered in dust, with two clean streaks on her face where she’d been crying.  Her breathing was as ragged as his was, and probably for the same reasons.

“Please, can you help me… My Daddy said to run… He pointed this way,” She looked over her shoulder, “I ran… He said he’d be right behind me… I’m cold.” She took a step towards the truck, still frightened, but with the beginnings of a relieved smile on her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “there’s nothing I can do. You’ve already…” He took a step backwards, maintaining eye contact whilst reaching for the Taser clipped to his belt. 

Her eyes widened. “Please Mister, please help me.  I want my Daddy…”

She didn’t even notice the dog before it grabbed her. The electrical charge in its jaws knocking her unconscious before she had time to scream. It was probably for the best, she’d suffered enough.  The dog stared directly at him, the little girl dangling limply in its jaws, he raised his hands - moving them as far away from his Taser as possible.  There was a pause as it scanned him to confirm his identity, then it gave a derogatory sniff as it turned its two tonne bulk towards the Mirror and padded back into the fog.

He replaced the remaining nuts in record time and boarded the truck, leaving the destroyed tire where it lay. Reaching for the starter, he paused, then slouched back into the seat and started to sob.  The Earth was dying, some would say that it was already dead. It wasn’t so bad when the oil ran out, giant solar mirrors were built around the planet, collecting limitless free energy from the Sun. It was a boom time almost, the population skyrocketed. Nobody realised that we were running short of other key resources though. We lost Sodium first, then Molybdenum, Silicon and Vanadium. Suddenly there were millions of consumers with nothing to consume. 

It was then that they passed the worldwide ‘One out, one in’ law, where children could only be born if a member of their family died, zero population growth. They just fined the parents that had the ‘unauthorised’ children. Until they realised that the human body contained trace amounts of every element we needed, and that those elements could be released simply by feeding a living body into the lightstream of a solar collector.  They just took the 'surplus' children at first, but it wasn’t long before they took the parents too… Entire families sometimes.  It depended completely on how much space you had left in the collection truck.

The cries from the cargo compartment were getting louder, and he knew that he’d made the right decision to hand in his notice.

Steve the Hedge

Kids are great, aren't they though? I like kids so much that I went and got some of my own.  I decided to get one of each, you know, so I could experience both sides of the coin as it were.

I know that a few of you out there in the Blogosphere have children. I mean, I've accidentally read... Oh, I don't know... Literally tens of Blogs that say things like:

'And this is little Clinton taking his first steps, we bought a new deep-pile carpet for the whole house in case he falls over.'

'Jocasta looks absolutely scrummy in this Anne Geddes original Bumblebee costume that I bought from Fortnum & Mason (in the sale, Tarquin tells me that he's not made of money, hahahaha!)'

'We took the BMW so that Phillipe and Hermione could have enough room for all of their imaginary friends'

And I suppose I can sympathise to a degree, net-savvy Yummy-Mummies spending their time between glasses of Veuve Clicquot filling the empty void left in their lives after they gave up their full time job as a Business Analyst or Advertising Executive to be a real woman, just like their own Mothers', by telling their equally vacuous friends how their offspring regularly exceeds the targets that some book or other has set for them, whilst they're trying to re-invent the non-existant neon coloured school satchel market in their spare time.

But for every one of those, I have five, or maybe ten people who I follow via Twitter or Facebook that regularly say things like:

'Oh for God's sake, my idiot offspring has crapped in the bath... AGAIN! And he's NINE!'

'Well, I'd told her not to lick her fingers and put them in the socket, then there was the bang, but I knew she was OK because she was crying.'

'So, I got a call from the school and this very nice lady told me that HellChild had said "That's not a willy... THIS is a willy!" which it seems is frowned upon in a mixed ability PSHE lesson nowadays.'

See if you can guess which of the people I count amongst my friends? I'll give you two guesses, but the first one doesn't count.

Anywho, back to my own little bundles of joy... As I said, there are two of them.  The MiniDandy is a teenager, who writes a Blog (very) occasionally, that some of you even follow.  She's the thinly veiled heroine of the Edward Teach stories and is quite odd, in an individualistic, original way.  She gets her sense of humour, irony, fair play and indignation from me.  Her mood swings, irrational behaviour, clothes sense and general female-ality are all from her dear Mother.

My Son, who despises being referred to as The MicroDandy, so I won't, except just then, which he won't see so it doesn't matter.  Is a completely different tray of spiced giraffe tongues.  He's also odd, don't get me wrong, sometimes supremely odd.  I mean, you'll often wake up after having a bit of a snooze on the couch and he'll be standing there, staring at you, just about breaking a smile, then turn around and walk out of the room.  He's got a mind like a steel trap, and can find a hole in any argument faster than a Teflon stoat in a greasy Swiss cheese factory.

He's logical, calculating and almost autistically anal about things.  Which is great if you need him to remember something, I mean, he can quite honestly quote chapter and verse things that he finds interesting that have happened over the past five years.  But ask him what he had for lunch of course and he looks at you as if you're an idiot and says 'Can't remember.'  He's also the basis for the Ice-Demon killing, Pig Exploding hero, Mal Ak'hai the Hunter

But he's not one for whimsy, which can be a bit of a handicap in the Dandy household... Or at least he wasn't, until last night... He came into the living room and said,

'Dad, I've written a story, do you want to hear it?'

Being a kind and loving parent, I ignored the obvious, intuitive answer and replied;

'Yes, I'd love to hear your story.' And you know, I'm glad that I did - It's a gem.  I present it below, I have taken the liberty of correcting his spelling and punctuation, for clarity's sake.

Steve the hedge lives in fire hydrant land.
Steve is always watered, because of the fire hydrants.
But if you dig a trench, from the lake to Steve, it would make Steve very happy.

It's a thing of beauty, I'm sure you'll all agree.  It's got everything, whimsy, abstraction, nonsense, descriptiveness, at the end - fatalism bordering on the Dadaist.  I loved it. I've had it framed and I keep it on my desk.

(And yes, for the eagle eyed, that is a whiteboard with a picture of a squid on it behind the frame - What of it?)

I was slightly worried about him, in a John Wyndham, Midwich Cuckoos kinda way, but now I'm not.  He's one of the Firm now, definitely  100% on target to be a gen-u-wine, solid gold, stone cold, thousand yard staring, klaxon blaring, Dandy of the old skool...

Maybe of the new school...

Maybe that's even better...

But more likely, very much worse! - MuahahahahahaahahahahahahHAHAHAAHAHhahah!

I think we should all beware, just in case, start stocking up on tins, maybe dig a fallout shelter.  Because if either of the smaller Dandies ever makes a bid for global domination, the chances are that it's going to be him.

Yet another reason I'm sinking all of my spare cash into the space program.

The Philpott Fire

Originally posted on Facebook 31/5/12

OK Derby, I get it... We've had a pretty crappy time of it recently as far as kids being hurt and killed and feelings are running high... But some of the hate that's been pouring out of normally quite lucid people has made me wonder. I'm probably going to get pilloried for this but it's bringing to mind the old Frankenstein films with the torches and the pitchforks, and that's not a good look for anyone I know...

First of all, let's imagine that you're all right - A couple makes the concious decision to kill six of their children, by fire. If that's what happened then I hope they both burn forever in whatever portion of Hell that Satan reserves for people who commit any kind of crime against defenseless children.

Can you imagine doing that? Can you imagine looking into your own children's eyes (remember, that Jayden, the youngest, was only five years old) as you tucked them into bed, kissed them goodnight, all the time knowing that within hours you would start a fire with the sole intention of burning them alive? No, of course you can't, because you're a human being... You can maybe almost forgive the single mother who shakes her baby to death out of frustration and lack of support - But this is something so far off the scale of normal human behaviour... Unforgivable, completely - And if this is the case then I side firmly with the 'Death's too good for 'em' brigade.

But then, instead, imagine for a second that you're stuck, you're at your wits end. Maybe the bills are piling up, maybe you owe money to people at 2,476% APR, or even worse, to people who'd rather take the use of your legs away with a bat if you don't pay up. You're desperate, and you turn to crime... Not mugging old ladies, not doing over Post Offices, just a nice, quiet bit of insurance fraud. It'd be easy, take what real valuables you had to your mates house, the irreplaceable stuff.. Old photos, your Mum's jewellery, stuff like that, then just start a small fire...

Once you've tucked the kids up in bed, pour a bit of petrol by the front door, make it look like someone lit it through the letterbox. Why would the kids still be there? To make it look more believable of course - I mean, what psycho would set fire to his own house with the kids still inside? You let it burn for a while, after all there has to be some real damage. Then the fire takes hold... You never realised how fast cheap polyester carpet burns, or how difficult it is to put out, the flames spread to the stairs (all one piece of carpet, remember) and the wallpaper catches, the curtains smoulder and the poisonous smoke is filling the house. You shout for help, you yell the kids to wake them up... Maybe the smoke's already done it's work, it happens quicker than you think. You start to panic.

You try to make it up the stairs but the flames beat you back, you realise there's nothing you can do, then you hear the sirens and think everything will be OK...

But it's not, and it never will be again... How would you feel knowing it was all your fault? That through your own stupidity you'd accidentally murdered six of your own children?

Then again... What if they're telling the truth? someone HAD tried to burn down their house with them in it? And we're all so desperate for blood and spectacle that shouting 'Murderers!' is easier than thinking 'If it can happen to them, maybe it can happen to me'?

I don't have any association with the Philpotts and I know precisely as much about the case as 99.99% of other people - i.e. virtually nothing - But the above scenarios are as likely as any other one that's been made up using the freely available facts.

Rest in Peace, and I pray to God that justice is done.

By the way, when was the last time you checked the batteries in your smoke alarm?