Ey Ey Ey Calm Down!!!

You ain’t never gonna keep me down……….(Part 3)

They say your past helps to shape your future.

Well the lessons i had learnt in my 26 years so far, were not helping me in any way at this present moment in time.

There i sat, alone, thanks to ScouseMum running off to to her mums at the earliest convenience to tell her of the latest developments.  Pondering what i should do, what i would say, and every other question in my head.  I decided to call my Nan.

She would tell me the truth.  The truth that, until now, i had never asked about.  A great sense of awkwardness passed over me, how was i supposed to approach this?  How would she react to the news that i was about to get in touch with someone who had obviously been an issue in the past to her and her daughter?

We spoke for about 40 minutes.  She told me how petty arguments had built up to more serious fights, never violent though, she stressed.  She told me how things ended with ScouseMum Snr moving back in with her and a then baby me and that after a few days they relocated, never to see him again.  She told me everything i asked, everything i needed to know.  I don’t know whether what she told me would have made me change my mind or not.  I just needed to know the truth.

That was it.  I was going to call.  I was going to ask every question i had just asked Nan, and if any such answer came back in any way different to what i had just been told then i would wash my hands with the whole situation.  I made the call.


Maybe he was sat there anticipating my call.  Maybe he was sat there wondering how to answer.  Maybe he was as scared to answer, as i was to call.

Maybe i’ll just send a text.

About 2 hours later a call came through.  It was him.  I took a deep breath counted to three and answered.  Turns out he wasn’t ignoring my call, he was working, a DJ, and he had just left his set to call me back.  A very short conversation passed by as he needed to return to his work, but a commitment to call me back at 11:30 pm if i was still going to be up.  I wasn’t exactly going to be able to sleep after all this, so i agreed to the call.

I don’t know how long we spoke for, time seemed to stand still, but the truth came out straight away, almost word for word as to what Nan had told me.  Alongside that truth came the other side of the story.  How he had come back night after night, trying to see me, only to be met be violent threats from Nan’s then partner, who had warned him away.  Eventually after a number of days, he returned to find an empty house, they had moved on.  He would never see me again.

The next day in work i could not think of anything else. i went home early “Sick”.

A swift phone call and we would meet that day.  The Otterspool pub on the banks of the river Mersey was to be the neutral venue.  Well, neutral because he was on his way back from the other side of the river, after visiting his friend in Ellesmere Port.  I would go with ScouseMum and The Loud One, who was 2 at the time.  He would act as a distraction and an excuse to leave if things got too awkward.  He wasn’t needed.

A few hours of tales passed.  Tales of how our lives had been, how we had both been on every website looking for each other, the fact that my name changed through marriage stopped us finding each other, the passing of ScouseMum Snr, the fact that one ex-wife of his was divorced because she burned his only picture of me, the whole lot.

I left that pub feeling somewhat different.  No Jeremy Kyle lie detector or blood test was needed.  This was clearly the man i was looking for.  The identical look of both of us confirmed that alone.  I remember, in a moment to myself, looking up to the sky.  Looking for a ray of sunshine or something as a sign that i was doing the right thing.  Something that, i had hoped, my mum would approve of.  It was too cloudy to get a ray of sunshine, and this is not the movies, things like that don’t really happen, but i did feel much better.  Almost complete.

The passing weeks led to us beginning our relationship.  Cementing our future together, meeting our extended family members, my 2 half sisters and brother, and them meeting their Grandchildren.

I also had to tell ScouseDad Snr, something i was dreading.  I sought advice from my Grandad, ScouseDad Snr’s dad.  As always, he told me it wouldn’t be an issue and to just tell him.  It would prove to be one of the last piece’s of advice he would give me.  He died not too long after.

Anyway, ScouseDad Snr took it well.  No matter what had been, or was to be, he was and still is my dad.  He raised me as his own from the day he met me, and i still call him dad.  It would be too painful not to.

To this day they have still never met each other.  Something tells me there wont be a problem when they do anyway.

Maybe my own sense of awkwardness has prevented it from happening already.

So its now 2015 and we have all grown to know each other.  We speak on a regular basis,  visit each other when we have time, and he taught me how to DJ.  I’m much better than him now.  I’ve never told the kids that he is actually my biological father and their Grandad, although i think the dancer is already piecing things together.  I don’t want to confuse them with yet more grandparents and stories of what been.  For now they are just happy to know dads friend, Barry.

As fate would have it, it turns out that he used to DJ in a bar in Liverpool that i used to visit almost every weekend.  He worked there for a number of years and we have probably passed each other by without even knowing.

He had been residing in Manchester for years, having moved from Birmingham, and was only 30 miles down the M62 all along.

Fate just didn’t want it to be that way.

They say that your past helps to shape your future.

My past has taught me that i may get knocked down, but i’ll get up again.  You ain’t never gonna keep me down.

Well that’s the past, as for the present?  All i know is, that if the past is anything to go off, the future is gonna be one hell of a ride.



But I get up again (part 2)…

They say your past helps to shape your future.

Well that bombshell that I’d just discovered certainly did shape mine. It taught me that no matter how silly an argument, they are always worth forgetting. No matter how stupid or serious, that people always deserve another chance. Things are too important to just throw away…….

So there i was, 18 years old, the world was my oyster. How are you supposed to deal with stuff like this??
All he had was my birth certificate, with a strangers name on.  They had never heard from anyone, never had a birthday card, Christmas present, Easter egg, no phone call, letter, kiss my arse, nothing.  Apparently I was a few months old when they split.

I took a decision that I didn’t want to know any more.  If he wasn’t going to bother with me after all these years then I didn’t care less.  In front of me sat a man I adored.  A man who had worked his entire life to make sure I had the best.  A man I idolised.  A man who looked as broken, upset and scared telling me this, as I felt hearing it.  A man who was everything i wanted to be when i grew up.  A man I was proud to call my dad.

It took a while to sink in but a few weeks later I was determined to carry on as normal. Nothing had changed.

Anyone can be a farther, it takes a real man to be a dad.

It must be said that ScouseDad snr did offer his help if I ever decided to try and find my biological father, but how could I do that to him??  No.  Not happening.

As I got older I began to get curious.  I had moments when I would look on sites like friends reunited, online record books, census sites.  Entering his name into the search programmes, only to be met with the same message every time.  We have found 80 people with a matching name, for more info please pay a £40 administration fee.

Now when  turned 18 i went a bit mad.  Credit cards, loans, the lot.  All blown on drink and new clothes.  To try and get myself back on my feet I had taken the decision to only have a cash card.  That way I can’t got mad on spending sprees as i wandered past shops selling the latest pair of Nike trainers.  The one downside was I could not make a payment for the £40.
I couldn’t really borrow someone’s card as I didn’t want anyone to know I was looking.  I could never explain it or try to hide it.  It was like a dirty secret.  One that no one must ever find out about.

So it’s 2009.  I’m now 26.  Social media is rife and I’m home alone with the kids (at this point in time I’ve got two, the dancer is 6 and the loud one is 2).
ScouseMum is out at her mum’s having a drink.  It’s a Wednesday.
I’ve got bored of the TV and I’m on Facebook being nosey.  Oh if you didn’t know, that’s what Facebook is for.  Nosey cunts.
So there I am reading people’s fake statuses and bitchy comments when his name comes into my head.  So I put it into Facebook.
One result.  His name.  One person.  No details, private account, just a picture.  Problem was I didn’t know what he looked like.

Ever have a moment in time where you just stare???  That was one.  Staring blankly at the screen.  Focusing on his picture, looking for a resemblance.  I couldn’t see it properly.  FUCK IT I will send him a message.  What harm could it do.
I began to type……

Hi, my name is Peter.  I’m looking for someone who may have known my mother back in the 80s.  She was from Birmingham and knew someone by your name.  I’m sorry to trouble you but if this is you, could you please let me know.  If it is not you then I would be grateful if you could reply so I can cross you off my list and continue my search.

1, 2, 3…..SEND.

Exactly 3 weeks to the day I got a reply.  His wife had seen his message on Facebook and tried to get him to read it.  He refused.  He didn’t know anyone by my name and thought it was probably some sort of scam.
Out of sheer curiosity she read it.  It turns out he had spoken of a son he had and had lost contact with when he was a baby.  She read it again to be sure.  She called him over in a different tone, he read it.
A message sat in my inbox.  I was scared to read it.  ScouseMum was sat watching TV, paying no real attention to what i was doing (this usually happens when corrie is on).  I eventually opened it and sat in silence as I read every heartfelt word.

At the end of the message, a mobile number, please call me, if you are comfortable doing so.

I told ScouseMum and in true fashion she shot off to her mum’s house,  5 doors down, to tell her the news.

What would i do?  Was i going to call?  After all this time, there he was?  Yes, I was going to call, but what would I say??

I get knocked down……(part 1/3)

They say that your past helps to shape your future. I’d agree with that statement, well, for most people.  There are some who just don’t seem to learn.  They either don’t relate current situations to past endeavors or they just don’t want to learn.  Maybe it’s a genetic thing, maybe it runs deeper.
I often see the same people making the same mistakes, being pulled up on the same things, over and over again.  I used to be the same in my younger years if I’m honest.
When will you ever learn?” Was a phrase I remember hearing a lot.
I wouldn’t do that if I were you” another popular one.
These sorts of things would always come from the older generation.  Who were they to know?? How did they understand?  It’s my life, I’ll do what I want.
Slowly you begin to relate.  Slowly, grounding after grounding you realise if I don’t do that, this won’t happen.  Learning.
We learn from an early age, so why do most pick it up, but some just don’t?

I’ve seen people lose jobs for making the same mistakes, having the same bad attitudes that have cost them before.
I’ve seen relationships just fade away after the same people do the same things with everyone they meet.  Why?  When will they learn? ?
You can try to advise someone until your blue in the face.  They won’t listen.

People need to make mistakes in order to find the answers.  Some just take longer than others.

I remember being told off every day of my young life, for one thing or another.  Sometimes I got a good crack if i deserved it.  Sometimes, just a look would be enough (I can’t wait to master “the look”). Either way I was influenced by the people who cared for me.  The people who wanted to see me grow.  Eventually it sank in.

I often wonder what happened to those who never seem to learn?  Did their parents not do any of this?  Did they have parents?  Maybe they did and they were not interested, maybe they didn’t and just longed to be noticed?

I mentioned in a previous blog that something major happened to me back in 2009.  Something that shaped my future.  Something that happened in the past.  It suddenly became my present.

Let’s jump back a bit first.  It’s needed to understand the whole picture.

For those of you who have read all of my blogs (thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy them) you will know that I lost my mum when I was young.  1992 to be precise, I was 9.
An event that undoubtedly shaped my future.  It taught me that the world can be cruel and that even the worst things can happen to the best people.
Fast forward to Saturday March 3rd 2001. My 18th birthday and ScouseDad snr decides to take his son for his first legal pint.  It was a rare thing for the two of us to share a pint.  Most of the time he was in work trying to keep things ticking over.  I’ve never known anyone work so hard.
So there we where, the two of us, sat in the Childwall abbey pub.  A place I knew quite well from Christmas day drinks and a quiz that we went to on a Thursday with my grandad.

Suddenly he begins to talk about mum.  How proud she would have been of me.  How much ive grow, you know the sort of thing.
Then he said it.
“I’ve got something to tell you”
“Yeah, what?” (Oh my god he’s bought me a car, yes!!!!)
“Erm, I don’t know how to say this really, but your mum wanted me to tell you something when you were old enough to understand”
“Ok, go on…” ( a sudden change in my voice had acknowledged the seriousness of the next few words he was about to sprout)
“Well, (long pause, swig of his pint) Erm, I’m not your biological father”


What was I supposed to say to that?  I was waiting for Jeremy Beadle to jump from behind the bar.  I’m still waiting.  It wasn’t a joke.

Remember ScouseMum (from Yorkshire) met ScouseDad snr (from Liverpool) in Birmingham?   Yeah that actually happened.  The bish, bash, bosh bit didn’t.  Well not for me anyway.

Turns out that before they met, ScouseMum was seeing someone else.  From what i was told, they had been together a while but had a rocky relationship at times and they split up after an argument.  That’s all I knew.  That’s all ScouseDad snr knew.  He was just asked to deliver the message.  A promise he had made to his wife, my mum, before she died.  True to his word as always………

Chop Chop Chop!!


So you grow up with an expectation of life. Wanting a certain number of kids, a dog, a massive house, a fast car, and loads of money………………then you leave home and the shit hits the fan.

15 years later, i have 4 more kids than i ever wanted (sorry kids, i love you all, but my plan didn’t include you initially), i’ve had 4 dogs (we now have none), have a normal 3 bedroom house, i have a slow 7 seater car, and my money belongs to Mary Floppings.

Oh, on that matter, “who are you calling Mary Floppings??” was a general bit of feedback i got when doing my first blog.

“It makes me sound like i’m some sort of failure at parenting, like i’m a flop at life, CHANGE IT!!!!” So from now on she will be known as Scouse Mum, and my money belongs to her.

So anyway, things have worked out nothing like we expected. You get to a point when you start to think about when things become enough. That was something i began thinking about a few years ago, without actually expressing it in any real way.

“Any more kids planned Peter?” Would be the common question.

“Nooooo, definitely no more for me” Would be the typical response.

Next thing you know, its 3, then 4. This needs to stop soon. I’ve only got to look at her and she is pregnant. It’s like a high stakes game of Russian roulette every time i go near her ( Throw it all on red mate).
So i took the decision to get “The Snip”. Yep, i would have a vasectomy. I began doing my research, checking on websites, finding out how long things would be sore for, what will it feel like after. You know, the sort of details you want to know.

A trip to the doctors for some eye drops was the day it all happened. After having my eye examined and my drops prescribed, the doc finished with “Ok then Peter, is there anything else i can help you with?”

Then it came, out of nowhere, without any true planning or discussions with Scouse mum. “Erm…..well actually doc, yeah there is. I want a vasectomy”.

“Oh…..ok……..may i ask why?”

(No you may not ask why, but since I don’t get it if I don’t tell you, here goes). My brain went into overdrive. “Quick think of something that makes it sound like you have actually put proper thought into this” I thought to myself. As soon as I opened my mouth it just flowed.

“Well the long and short of it is doc…” it’s just came spilling out. Like I had rehearsed the lines over and over again. By the time I’d finished I think I’d beaten him into saying yes just to shut me up. So that was it. He would send me the forms, I had some time to think about it, then I’d call to book it all in. Simple.

Once the forms had arrived I’d had plenty of time to discuss it properly with Mary, I mean ScouseMum. Although she had thought of “other ways” I was dead set on the idea. The last thing I wanted at this point was to add another to the clan in a few years. The tough of being a nearly 40 year old with another baby terrified me. No, this was it now. Job done. Game, set, match.

I got my confirmation date through and that was it. A couple of days before the due date I noticed that I’d had very little info on what to expect. How long will it take? Do I have to shave? How long before it all works again? Let’s make a call and find out.
“Hiya love, I’ve got my op on Thursday but I’ve had no info on it, can you help??”
“I’ve got you booked in for a pre op on Thursday peter, but not the actual event. That’s where you see the specialist and he will give you all the info”.
WHAT???!!! So I’ve spent the last month mentally preparing myself for nothing? TWAT!

So it turns out that not only does your doctor have to validate your reasons for the op but another “qualified” doctor does too.
Que the now well prepared speech for this guy (I’m gonna get a fucking Oscar for this one this time)

So Dr Kazakh got the works. He would be the doctor to do the op. Everything explained nice and clearly and he even qualified me to be of sound mental state. (That’s cos the kids were not here!) The risks were laid out, 1/1000 don’t work. 1/2000 have further issues. Minor op, takes 20 minutes. All sounds so simple.

So the date was set, and I even got some pre-op info through the post (well done NHS). Nil by mouth from 8 am, no drink after 11 am (seemed a bit extreme). I was to arrive at St Helens hospital for 12 midday and report to the Sanderson suite. I was taken through to the day ward and shown to my bed. Four fully grown men all looking as sheepish as school kids in the changing room. Sly glances around to see if anyone was showing signs of weakness or regret, I could see that I was not the only one have a little check.
A pile of blankets sat at the end of the bed. Along with an NHS standard operation gown. You know the type with the open access arse. Oh yeah, I’d look fit in that! No operation would be complete without those classic paper knickers they make you wear either.

Now do I get on the bed or sit in the chair next to it? It’s amazing how unsure you can be at times. I just followed suit and sat in the chair like the rest. A few minutes later a woman appears and begins to address the group. “Right gents get your gear off and into your dressing gowns and slippers, the doctor will be along shortly”
“Erm?….. excuse me………….what dressing gown and slippers???” I said.
“The ones your were supposed to bring with you” her reply.
“I’ve brought nothing but myself and my balls love” I had to try to get a funny reply in to try and cover the slight nerves that were beginning to kick in.

It turns out that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t brought anything with them. All four of us were not informed to bring anything (well done NHS)
We were given a striking NHS standard dressing gown and some lovely red socks with rubber grips on the bottom. They even said we could keep them. Whoop-di-do!!

The doctor soon began his rounds, advising us all what would be done and how long things would take. Curtains drawn around the beds, I could overhear the mumbles of each single conversation. One of the men was getting quite panicked and asked for something to calm him down. Suddenly my curtains were drawn back and there stood the doctor. The only problem was he wasn’t my doctor. He wasn’t Dr Kazakh who I had met a few weeks before. Who had told me he has never had an unsuccessful procedure. Who had actually filled me with confidence about the op. SHIT!!!

He introduced himself and explained that Dr Kazakh had needed some time off and because I was nearing the 18 week waiting limit, he would be taking my procedure. He ran through the operation in quite some detail and then asked if I had “shaved down below?”
Now there were no official instructions on the information leaflet that actually said whether or not this should be done. Luckily I had done some online research and the majority of people had mentioned that they had done it. So, my reply to the question was yes.
“Ok then, let’s see”
“I’m sorry, what??”
“I need to see the area to check it’s done correctly and also show you how the procedure will happen”

So there I was, stood there like a lemon while the doctor poked and pulled at my bits. Oh, and it hurt. He explained where he would make the incisions, how long it would affect me for, how the next week or so would go and what to do if I had any complications.
Apart from the fact that a grown man was bent down, fondling my genitals and looking up at me from below my waist, I was pretty comfortable.

3 hours (and a full series of judge Judy) later, they sent for me. I was the last to be called and so far not one of the other men had returned. (Maybe the doctor had gone all psycho and butchered them all).
They wheeled me down to the prep room and put a shower cap on me to cover my head. Then, as if it was just normal to do so, another man came in and asked me to “whip ’em out then”
What he actually meant was take off your sexy paper knickers.
So there I am, lying there with my legs spread apart and my bits on show to the world.
Dr ball cutter came in through the flappy double doors which lead to theatre and began to administer the anesthetic.
“You will feel a little scratch on each as I give it to you ok?”
Now this is where I wanted to scream “You fucking lying twat that’s more than a scratch!!!” However, I just bit my lip and closed my eyes.
The pain would soon die off as the magic began to happen. It took a good few minutes but eventually it worked.
“Ok then peter can you feel this?”
(He flicked each testicle with a force that would normally render a man useless for 2 hours)
Nothing. Not one bit of feeling.

Now that I was ready they moved me into theatre. This is the part that they definitely do not mention in any part of any pre-op, leaflet or general discussion.
The doors opened and there was Dr ball cutter. And ANOTHER doctor. Then, like the A team, from behind a screen they came. 5 WOMEN!!!

Whoah, Whoah, Whoah, Whoah, sweet child of mine. What the chuff are women doing in here???? My brain was about to explode. I’m lying here, on full show to the world, feeling alone and embarrassed as it is and now you want to bring women to the party?? How about we all just throw our keys in a bowl and make it a real party?

One of them just plonked herself on a stool next to me. “Hiya Peter, I’m going to monitor you throughout the procedure so just keep yourself calm and try to make yourself as comfortable as possible”
(Basically she was there to keep my mind off the fact that in less than 2 minutes, two fully grown men would be slicing my balls off). How nice of her.

Another woman would monitor my heart rate and temperature, (It was freezing in there as well!)

Now it was a good job that I was numb, as the third woman came over and gave the area a good wash with saline soloution. She was very particular as well.

One woman just stood there and watched. Maybe she just wanted a little perv.

The other woman came over with the operating tools and pulled all the relevant bits through a hole in the sheet that covered me. Again, all a little embarrassing.

Shoot me now, I’m done.

15 minutes later I was being wheeled back to the ward. Feeling violated, abused and utterly embarrassed. It’s hard enough building yourself up to the fact that your getting the procedure, then accepting the fondling by another man. As for the fact that they invite a crowd of females in to have a gander as well, a bit of a warning would have been nice. Or maybe even asking if I was comfortable with it. Truth be told they women were very polite and did all they could to make me feel comfortable. Still, it didn’t really help.

So there I am, back in my cubicle, feeling very weird indeed and about to put my jock strap on. I’d never worn one of these before. This would be interesting. First of all let’s have a look at how bad it is. In fact, let’s take a picture and send it to the Mrs.
I whipped my phone out, began to peel back the dressing and took a snap! Just as I did, the fit nurse pulls back the curtains to speak to me. BOOM! (There you go girl, get a load of that). There i was taking a picture of my bloody balls and she catches me red handed.
I didn’t even get embarrassed. Every other woman in St Helens hospital had seen them today, why not you.

After she had managed to calm herself, she brought me some tea and biscuits and informed me that the doctor would be back in 10 minutes to discharge me.

That was it. I was send packing no more than 20 minutes after being sliced and diced. Told that I couldn’t drive home and must get someone to pick me up (yeah that didn’t happen) and with some instructions on after care I was discharged. I had to keep the jock strap on for 7 days and couldn’t wash for at least 2 days. Hmmm???
I managed to get home, although the drive was a bit uncomfortable. There was no one in when I got home. Bliss. I made a butty and relaxed on the couch for 3 hours. Then I had to go to work. Yes work.  The instructions i was given AFTER the operation advised not to work for a couple of days or to at least stay off my feet for a good few hours (Well done NHS). I hadn’t booked the night off and couldn’t get cover. I spend the night sat on a bar stool playing music. To be honest, I couldn’t tell if I was in pain or just not used to having a well padded groin.

The next few days were how I would describe as uncomfortable. The jock strap really helped. I didn’t realise how much until I decided to wash it after 3 days. A few hours in tight boxers was deffinatley a bad idea. Letting it all hang loose was even worse. Trust me, if your going to have it done make sure you have proper tight underpants or buy an extra jock strap.
Paracetamol and ibuprofen every two hours alternatively also helped keep a constant method of pain relief in my system.
The first shower hurt to clean the area and extra care was needed to dry properly and apply new dressings. Take note, talc does not help, it just clogs the wound. The bleeding was in small amounts but would be enough to soak through the dressings. Again this would eventually stop after about 4 days.
After about a week I was ready to wear boxers again and the wound was healing well. Or so I thought. The stitches were supposed to dissolve after 3 weeks on their own. The right side incision was almost closed over and was looking good. The left side? That was being a bitch. I was developing a hole about the size of a five pence piece. It didn’t look infected and wasn’t too sore but I began to get concerned.
A few days later there were no developments. The hole still remained and a bit of “sore to touch” pain was there.
I took a trip to the walk in centre.
Once again I’d be letting half of huyton see my bits. Turns out that Dr ball cutters mate had made the knots in my stitches too big and they were restricting the wound from closing over. They had sunk into the wound and needed to be cut loose.
She gave me the choice. Either go to the hospital and get some anesthetic while they made a few snips to the stitches or she could do it here, and it would hurt.
I didn’t fancy a 3 hour wait in A&E and she had my nuts in her hand already. Besides, how much could cutting the stitches hurt?
The answer was a lot. She had to pull them tighter to get a grip on them, wedge something underneath them to keep them up and then cut the knots off with her scissors. OH MY GOD, NEVER AGAIN.
I just lay there biting my hand. Willing the pain to end. It was about 1 minute per stitch. 2 minutes in total. It felt like hours.

More dressings and another 2 days of no showering. The wound soon healed.

I’m now about 6 weeks in from my op which was the 22nd May. The pain has subsided. Nothing hurts now. The stitches have gone and just small scars remain. There is a slight bit of sensitivity if I press on the scars but nothing that effects me on a regular basis. Everything is working as normal. I have no reduction in feeling or any of the other rubbish they advise you can happen. I’ve had no sign of blood in my urine or pain when I go. As I type this I’ve just had a slight twinge, ha!!

I’m due to provide a sample for testing on the 8th September. Until then I need to “empty my tubes” about 40 times. That gives me plenty of excuses in the time being. (I don’t care if you’ve got a headache, i’ve got to do it) hahaha.

The trauma of it all is still fresh in my mind but doesn’t haunt me, unlike some accounts I’ve read.
If anyone asks me about it now I’m open and honest.
It doesn’t hurt. Hahahaha.
Well, it does but it is only for a short while. The embarrassment is worse. The after pain is not that bad. More of a dull throb and is easily managed with some pain killers.
Would I recommend it? I suppose I won’t know until it’s been confirmed as a success. Would I endorse a small bit of pain for a long term result? Yes, I probably would.
What I would say is do your homework. Expect the obvious and more. Be prepared to be man handled by more than one person. If you can, try and laugh the awkward moments off, it helps.

All in all, if it’s something that you decide to do, then do it. Make sure it’s what you want, discuss it with your partner and be ready mentally.
There are a lot of things that you don’t get told about on the NHS leaflets. The messy bits, the awkwardness, the truth about the pain.

You will read some horror stories online. Some will make you think twice. Some will make you feel ok. If you can handle the pain and deal with the rest, then you will be fine.

Only time will tell if it proves to be the right decision for me.

Let loose in BARCELONA

There are many things in life that a man looks forward to. Doing things with the family, days out, holidays, sporting events, a day out for a few pints with the lads. I even look forward to a day off from work!!
But I have not had a REAL sense of excitement for a good while. I mean proper excitement. Like a puppy with a slipper. Like one man in a room full of naked women.
Like “I’ve got a semi on” type of excitement.

Having kids at a young age took away the “Lads holidays” period of my life. Not that im complaining, but when the opportunity came for me to have a 4 day bender in Barcelona with the lads for The Gay Golfers stag do, I just had to get involved. Oh and he is not actually gay. He just has some very gay tendencies!!!

4 days with another 10, highly excitable men. Men who would become children the moment we got together in Liverpool airport and were away from the wives. Men who would suddenly think we were 18 again. Men who would not pay attention to age, injury, or bodily functions. Men who would inevitably fall foul of all of the above.


So back in October, it was decided that we would head to Barcelona to give the gay golfer a right good send off as he heads into marriage with his long time Mrs. Not your “typical” stag do destination, but typical him. A little cultured and not the wild scenes of a Benidorm, Tenerife or Amsterdam. Either way we were going to enjoy it.

The date was set for May 23rd 2015. We had a whole 6 months to wait. Or as we saw it, 6 months to plan how evil we could be to a mate and still remain invited to the August wedding. In typical modern day fashion, we quickly set up a group What’s App conversation and the fun began. What could we do during the day? How could we embarrass the stag? Who was sharing a room with who? Who is actually coming? Every question you could imagine for 6 months solid. And I mean solid. From the moment one of us woke at 5 am for work everyday, until the last of us had gone to bed at midnight, the questions, comments and taunts about each others sisters and mum’s (yes, we are men, that’s what we do!) continued to roll in.

Images of pranks gone wrong, screen shots of ideas from websites. Costumes, dildos, Viagra and quite a few pictures of me doing silly shit were shared between us.
How our WAGS didn’t lose the plot with us permanently on our phones is beyond me.

As the time passed we lost a few men for various reasons, but we were primed and ready come the 23rd. Although I very nearly didn’t make it due to a knee injury sustained just 36 hours before we left. However, no knee ligament injury was stopping me getting on that plane. So I donned the “Stone cold Steve Austin” style knee brace and hobbled along to the airport, leaving the crutches behind!!!!

4am on the 23rd of May and that Damn alarm goes off again (I hate that thing). Then I realised this was a good alarm. Now I’ve gotta get ready without waking the entire house up, which I semi successfully did. Just the Mrs was woken.
Clobber on, kiss the kids goodbye (unlucky you little buggers, I’m off to spain, were my actual thoughts), and hobble down the road to meet the lads.
3 more excited men stood at the bottom of the road and we set off for the airport.
As usual with stag parties we had t-shirts made. Not the type of tacky things with nicknames on, just enough to highlight the fact that we were a stag party. We began to hand them out at the airport. “Lee’s stag, Barcelona 2015” they read, all 6 or them. Yes, as I said, there were 11 of us. Well done trots, you’ve caused chaos before we have even got through customs.

5:30 am, and we are through customs. A few pints and a bacon sandwich before we boarded the plane, followed by 2 hours worth of subdued banter so not to annoy the other passengers.

We landed in Barcelona and headed off to our apartments. The first thing that struck me was the sheer size of the place. It’s huge!! We would definitely lose someone here.

A quick stop at a little bar for a pint and some tapas, while we figured where our apartment was, and then we checked in.
So here we were, 11 men, all alone in a city we didn’t know. Where people didn’t know us. It was just what we had waited 6 months for. What we all needed. What we all scrimped and saved for. Let the fun begin.

As with most holidays, the first few hours after you arrive are spent checking out your surroundings and finding the closest shop. Not that we bought much food. 1 crusty bread, a packet of ham, 3 bags of crisps, a bottle of jager, a bottle of rum and 90 bottles of beer. Typical men.

A quick swill and we were out. Excited to be free, we hit the drink. It would be the theme of the next 3 days.

Picture the scene, 11 men looking for the nearest drink. We found a hotel which had a rooftop bar and pool. It’s not our hotel, but fuck it, it’s got a rooftop bar!! Up we went. When we got to the top our faces lit up. A small rooftop terrace, waiter service, a pool with a sauna and a great view. We were all made up. Not that we had our swimming shorts with us but that didn’t stop 2 of the group from having a swim. It would become a daily thing for those two!
We continued to roam around from bar to bar. Stumbling on a street party with live acts on the stage at one end. The language may have been spanish, but the beat was good enough for me.

We headed to La Rambla. The main street of Barcelona. A hive of activity, especially today. It was St George’s day. The day English people are supposed to celebrate. Well we don’t, but the Spanish do.

St Jordi is celebrated by exchanging gifts, books for the men and a rose for the women. Book and flower stalls are set up along the streets of Barcelona. This curious festival coincides, on one hand, with the fact that Sant Jordi has been the patron saint of Catalonia since the 15th century; but also comes from the famous legend of St George and the dragon and the old medieval tradition of visiting the Chapel of Sant Jordi, where a rose fair or “lovers” fair used to take place. Sant Jordi is also the patron saint of lovers in Catalonia (explains a lot).

I’d never seen anything like it. The streets were packed. There was a real buzz in the air, the people all smiling, looking for the ideal gift for their partners. Rose stalls stood on EVERY street corner and book stalls lined the middle of EVERY street. The spanish all loving life, and there we were. 11 thirsty, English men, meandering through the heaving streets of barcelona……. hang on a minute, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10…… Erm, MAN DOWN!!!!!

We had been here less than a few hours and we had lost one already. So we gathered up as a group, made a few calls to his mobile, had an adult type talk on responsibility and how best to resolve this situation and came to a decision. WE SHALL CARRY ON! If truth be told our little lost soldier had traveled the world and seen more than any of us. If anyone was going to be ok alone, it was him.

More bars followed, more drinks, more sangria, jager bombs, beer, and a few stumbles on the cobbled back streets. It soon became apparent that we had done nearly 20 hours drinking. Maybe it was time to head back. After all we had 3 days of this to come.
Now where the hell was the apartment?? Good job I’d taken notice of my surroundings. I would later gain the nickname “TomTom” for my ability to get us back to civilization when we got lost.
A quick stop at a Chinese was needed though. We were starving. The poor staff looked mortified when we rolled in, but we where on our best behavior, well mostly.
Apart from when we noticed a man who looked like a British MP.
“Look it’s Ed Milaband!” Was the first shout.
“Ey, Ed, vote labour!” Oh dear. Let’s eat and leave.

Oh yeah, did I mention that we were not allowed to speak in the apartment after 10pm, due to noise restrictions and the fact that there where 3 apartments below us, all occupied by elderly people.
Well it was now nearly 1am and a heard of drunk men where trying to get home. Didn’t really work out well did it!!

The next morning we woke, surprisingly fresh, and headed out. We somehow managed to quickly agree that the beach was the place to go, although we had no intention of actually going on the beach or near the sea!

We found a great little beach bar where we had a bite to eat and of course a drink. Yes drink, it’s 10 am, what’s wrong with that?

We set about planning the day and how the rest of the week would look. The only problem with this beach bar was the 3 Chinese ladies who began to pester us for a massage on the beach. GO AWAY WOMEN!!!!

Eventually someone gave in to her constant pestering and actually got a massage. Queue the rude jokes as she smiled with joy at the thought of her 2 euros she was just earning. It’s a good job she didn’t understand English.

During our research we had been advised that a great way to see Barcelona is to do the segway tour. You know, those things with 2 wheels that you stand on and wheel around. €55 for a 2 hour tour, with a tour guide, and those stupid white helmets. It would be fun……yeah let’s do it.

Off we set to find the segway place. That was, until we bumped into the Slovakian comrade who had scooters. Not scooters as in road legal mopeds. No, these were the type of electric scooters your kids have all asked for. But adult ones!!

€15 euros for 2 hours, or €20 for 3 hours, go where you want, no tour guide and no stupid helmets. And they were twice as fast as segways.

Sorted. Quite possibly the best 3 hours of the whole holiday. We went all over the beach front. One end to the other. In and out of bars, shops and even into the marina. Well, until security stopped us.
It was definitely my holiday highlight.

The rest of the day was spent roaming the streets, drinking and soaking up the local cultures. We found another bar on the way back to the apartment to get changed.

Now not one of us smoke, but we suddenly had the urge to enter this shisha bar we had stumbled upon. (This would be funny). The next hour was spent trying to blow smoke rings and not look like a fool when choking on the smoke we had inhaled too much of. Needless to say i now want my own shisha pipe!

Tonight Was the night we were going to abuse the stag, although the word abuse is a little harsh. We had picked out a costume for him. I mentioned the gay golfer thing earlier. This was the chosen topic.
Pink polo with “Gay Golfers Association” on it. White pants, and a pink visor. Throw in the gay pride badges and flags and the striped socks we made him wear over his pants and he looked great. He was definitely the only gay in our village. He got some strange looks that night but took it all in good humor.

Now as usual, when it comes to hiring an apartment, there are certain rules. Like DON’T BREAK THE BEDS!!!
Unfortunately, at 3am, while acting like the over grown children that we are, some of us had tried to jump on each other in a drunken state, and we forgot this rule.

The next morning brought a number of surprises. One of us had lost our phone (no surprises with who though) but a big surprise was it had been found by a decent English guy who very kindly left it at his hotel reception. A €70 euro taxi ride soon got it back!
Suprise number 2 was that one of the lads who couldn’t make the trip had booked a flight and was on his way. Only for 24 hours but he would soon be here!!

Suprise number 3 would come later.

We waited for our new guest to arrive, i fixed the broken bed (deposit saved) and then the now 12 of us headed for breakfast. An Irish bar we had found the day before, called “Dunnes” was to be our destination.

On the way I had gone into one of the many official FC Barcelona club shops to get a few presents for the kids. (A decision that I would regret in about an hours time).

I left the group to go and get my bits and arranged to follow them into the bar. 20 minutes or so later I did just that. Once I got to the bar they were all sat down waiting for their food.

They had found a long table at which they could all sit. There were 11 seats. 5 down one side, 5 on the other and 1 on the end. The other end was pushed up against the wall. So rather than make a fuss I just found a table adjacent to them all and sat on my own.
When I say on my own, I was able to get involved in the conversation, but had my own table. The breakfast was ordered and the drink again began to flow.

The breakfast eventually arrived. Now it was titled “The Irish breakfast”. It looked distinctly like an English breakfast to me, except that everything was cold. Maybe that was the Irish bit! When I say everything, I mean everything. But I was hungover, my leg was killing me and I was starving, so it was devoured within 5 minutes. Now with the cold breakfast came toast. Rock hard toast. This is where Suprise number 3 came.

So there I am. Hungover, tired, in pain and for once, being calm and keeping myself to myself. (I’m one of the loud ones usually). Reading the sport section on the BBC website, eyes pinned on my phone, I was at peace with the world. Then it hit me, literally!


Que the incessant laughter. Well, from 11 others anyway. The type of laughter you get when something hilarious happens out of the blue.

Remember the rock hard toast?? Well it had just been launched across the room and hit me plumb in the forehead. In a split second I saw the toast hit the deck, the crumbs falling from my head, my sunglasses hit the table, bent out of shape, and a sense of pure embarrassment and extreme anger. The table nearly went as I flew to my feet in sheer rage. ….





Now i’m not a fighter. I can talk a good talk and can hold my own, but in no way am i a fighter. The tattoo on my arm proves it. “Of skill rather than force” it says in Latin. However for that 20 second period of vile abuse spilling from my mouth i was willing to fight the lot. All 11 of them. I didn’t care who it was, if they had told me there and then id of lost the plot.

It took me a good hour or so to calm down. We had moved on towards the marina for a drink and all was forgotten. That was until someone shouts up “WHO FUCKING THREW THAT?” No doubt I was to be the main focus of the day.

The day involved more of the same. Piss taking, sight-seeing, a trip down la rambles and of course, drink.

We settled into an Irish bar that just so happened to have the Liverpool game on. (Not that it was worth watching). Drink was cheap, sport on and music. Ideal.

Outside the young Spanish kids were playing football in the square. Imagine that in Britain. No chance. Not here tho. The kids are encouraged to play and it shows. Once the drink had started to take effect, a few of the lads decided they would teach the kids a thing or two.

The only problem was this group of 5 – 12 year olds were better than us men. 1 euro coin per nutmeg was the challenge. Well the kids ended up with enough money to buy a sweet shop. It cost us a few quid but it was worth it for the fun and also the enjoyment on the kids faces. Maybe it made us feel like we were with our kids somehow. Parental instinct or something.

A quick pit stop back at the apartment and it was on to our last night. Minus one. A little too much ale and shisha had rendered him a vomiting useless mess. He would spend the night in bed. At least he couldn’t lose his phone from in bed!

As is the norm with holidays, we found the best place on the last night.

Anyway, it was full of great music, decent booze, plenty of free shots ( why did they keep giving us free shots??), and eye candy!!!

A great night was had by all until we fell home at about 3am.

The final day involved a trip to the cathedral, not before we said goodbye to our 24 hour journey man though. A brief stop at a pub, where hardly anyone had a drink, and then to the Camp Nou. Here we all dreamed of how good it would be to watch a game or even play there. For a football fan its a place of dreams. If anyone is planning a trip there it is well advised. The stadium tour is great and you can take it all at your own speed, just don’t touch the grass!!! A plan was hatched to come back and watch a game one day, and then, after 4 days of utter chaos, we set off for the airport.

Only a short taxi ride away, it was enough time to reflect on what a great time we had had. Despite knowing most of these lads for over 10 years, trips like this will test friendships and bring you closer together as well. So many good times. Snicker gate, elephant masks, broken beds, crazy taxi men, any blozzers, drunken falls, lost men, scooters, football, viagra, rock hard toast, the list could go on. Anyway i have to get back there to with

A quiet flight home began to show how the 4 day trip had taken its toll on us all. We would land back in Liverpool at midnight and sneak into bed.

Now i need a holiday to recover.

NB: It was later discovered who threw the toast. Lets just say, for the GROOMS sake, i hope there are no bread rolls left on my table at speech time!! #Revenge #WhoFuckingThrewThat


The Morning Grind

So there i was, in the middle of a huge party. Lights, music, dancers in cages, people serving shots, everyone smiling, dancing, such a good time.

But where was i? Who’s party was it? (yes i’ve spent many a time at a parties where i didn’t know the host, but this was different)

Is that Rod Stewart? (Oh my god it is!) Ooh ooh ooh and there is Angelina Jolie and Brat Pitt!! Why are THEY at this party? Why am I at this party? What the hell is that noise? Who is playing that piano???

Now that is becoming annoying. Over and over again, 6 keys of a piano. High and low tones. Where is it coming from? SOMEONE SHUT THAT PIANO UP!!!

Oh no, now i can hear birds too. Piano and birds, birds and piano, over and over again. Why are they tormenting me??…

It all seemed to get foggy, and more distant. Then it happened,……i woke up. It was all a dream. Stupid alarm!!!!! It had begun, The Morning Grind.

There is nothing worse than the god forsaken noise of your alarm. That noise that, if like me you use your phone as an alarm, you actually choose as your alarm tone. It becomes the worst sound in the world. Its the soundtrack to your day.

Snooze……….Snooze…………Snooze (accidentally press off)…………..SHIT!!!! (20 minutes after you were supposed to get up).

Then it’s the morning routine. That thing you do every morning, without even realising your doing it.
Now i have an issue with ironing my clothes the night before. I just can’t do it. They need to be pressed that morning or my life is ruined. So firstly, with one eye open, the iron comes out. Quite how I’ve never fell back to sleep on that ironing bored is beyond me although i do have a couple of burn marks on my stomach when I’ve got a little excited with the iron.

Shower, shave, toilet, brush the teeth……….god this is mundane.

We all have the same routine. We do it everyday. Yet somehow we manage to squeeze it all in the shortest possible time. Even when we are late!!

Ready. Time to go. First though, I need to wake everyone up. It’s my responsibility to wake them all up. They cant set alarms. Even the dancer. She sets alarms,then just ignores it. KIDS GET UP FOR SCHOOL!!!! ……….and I heard that!! (some sort of cheeky muttering from under the covers)

Open the door and BANG, the cold hits you. Even in summer it’s baltic at 6:30 am.

Now since the day I passed my driving test, I’ve loved to drive. Even when I’m being used as a taxi service (this happens a lot as a parent) I still enjoy a good drive.
But the morning drive? Not a chance!

Two minutes into the morning commute and i’m onto the motorway. The M62. From my house to work is 29.5 miles. But the M62 is a different beast. It’s just 27.9 miles of utter chaos.

The gateway to Liverpool. Traffic coming in, traffic coming out. For 20 hours of each day it’s a normal motorway. For 2 hours every morning and 2 hours every afternoon it turns into Afghanistan. With zombies. Crazy, blind zombies.

It’s the walking dead in a war zone. Stephen King will write a book about it one day. Crazy psychotic zombies. Except these crazy bastard ‘s are behind the wheel of a car. Or a van. Or a million tonne lorry (polish zombies). Normal, happy, everyday people, turn into crazed monsters who forget how to drive.

Foaming at the mouth, snarling abuse at each other. 27.9 miles of pain.

This journey at any other time of day takes 30 minutes. Not at rush hour. A good hour and 20 if your lucky. Many a celeb can be spotted on this journey. Stars of note have included Rebecca Ferguson, Yaya Toure and more recently Wayne Rooney. Not that they drive any better mind!!

Still the journey drags on. “At least your not on the train” I tell myself.
The train. Feck that. Crammed into a carriage like sardines. No seats. Stood next to someone who clearly hasn’t washed for a good 2 days (blurrrgh). Having to put up with those loud, obnoxious school kids.

Although on the odd occasion something will catch your eye (Ooh she’s fit……Stop it!!) Did that person just lick my ear??? Eeeeee! Getting soaked walking to and from the station. Being delayed ALL the time.

No thanks. I’ll stay in my car. With my music. And my space. Where i am warm. Where I can make my own smells. Where I can abuse as many people as I wish. Where i am free to become a snarling, angry zombie. After all, if you can’t beat em…

Suddenly I’m here. In Manchester. Ready to work. Now all I have to do is park the vengabus in the swimming pool, I mean car park, avoid every single puddle (impossible) and arrive at work as dry as possible. Then I can start.

But not until I’ve had a cuppa. After all, what’s a morning routine without a cup of tea???

And so it begins…

To understand me, you really need to understand my past. Now i know we have all had things happen in the past that have shaped our futures, but i take genuine experiences from mine and try to relate them to events of the present.

So it all began on a cold night back in March 1983. Thursday the 3rd to be precise, when a beautiful, healthy boy was born at a hospital in Birmingham.


Fast forward 4 years and you come to one of my earliest memories. The marriage of my parents is probably the first and only real memory of my early childhood. So ScouseDad snr Marries ScouseMum (who was actually from Yorkshire) i know, wtf???

So lets recap, we have ScouseDad snr (who was actually from Liverpool) marrying ScouseMum (Yorkshire) in BIRMINGHAM???

Dad was working in Birmingham at the time, met mum, bish, bash, bosh! (or so i thought. More on that later!!)


After that i dont really have any clear memories. I remember moving to Warrington when i was about 5 as ScouseDad snr got a job back in Liverpool. Now im faced with the challenge of making the dullest accent in the world, Buuurminghuuum, be understood by the second most boring accent in the world in Warrington. (we know them as woolybacks in Liverpool)

My baby brother was born soon after, then a few years later followed by my little sister.

It is here where my worst life experience occurred. Period.


ScouseMum was born with a hole in her heart. A condition she lived with all of her life. When baby sis was born 3 months premature it put a massive strain on her heart. All of the stress had caused some major damage and the hospital had advised that a heart and lung transplant was needed.

So for the next 12 months we waited. And waited. Waiting for that beeper to go off. Waiting for a matching set of organs to become available. Watching as an 8 year old boy, trying to understand why his mum was unable to walk the isles of a supermarket unaided. Not quite getting what was going on.


The 26th November 1992 will be forever etched in my heart. The beeper had gone off the night before. We were visiting ScouseNan. The rush had ensued, goodbyes were said, and off to London they went in an ambulance. I still didn’t get it.

The next day i was picked up from school by the grandparents. This was weird. Then we got home and ………


I will revisit this event in a future blog, but as adults,we will normally have to bury our parents. Not as children.


So as the months passed and ScouseDad snr found himself with 3 kids and a full time job, we moved to Liverpool to be closer to the family. Another change of school, just after id finally picked up the Warrington accent (yes i was a wool!)


Anyway, senior school soon came along. Puberty, school trips around europe, the discovery of alcohol, and introduction to women, first jobs, college, and all of the other things that come along between the ages of 11 and 18. Another house move, although still in liverpool.


It was at the age of 18 that i met “The One”. Its said that when you meet “The One” you will know. Well Bollox to that, i did not know!!!

I was working in JJB Sports. I was walking towards the back of the shop when i broad scouse accent rained down from above. “Ey mate, can ya help me with me balls??”

Yes, those were the first words in our soon to be relationship. She was stood on a ladder, making a display of footballs, and here i was. Her knight in shining armour. There to help her in her time of need.

I was not yet aware that she was on of my good friends sisters (yeah that went down well, not) but we went for a drink a few weeks later and after a couple of dates we began to see each other. That was 2001.


By 2003 the dancer was born.

2004 we bought our first home.

2007 the loud one came along.

We then moved house in 2008.

2010 the small person came to the party.

We moved again in 2012.

By this time im beginning to believe i could qualify as a gypsy traveller!! Ooh maybe I could be on my big fat (literally) gypsy wedding in the future.

Then in January of this year the puzzle was complete. Daughter number 2, child number 4 EvieRoo was born.


So that’s it. Life as we know it. 2009 holds a huge event in my life which i will write another post about, but that’s me in a nutshell. (a big nutshell)


Someone once said to me “When life throws shit at you, sometimes you need to throw bricks back”.

Ive had my fair share of shit, but ive got a few bricks left!


I prefer to use another analogy to sum life up. I have it written on my wall to see every day.

Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.



Hello world! My first blog…..

Hi there, I’m ScouseDad.

A 30 something, dad of 4 (more on those later), from liverpool (the clue was in the name!!)

I’m also a liar. I’m not Actually from Liverpool. I was born waaaaay back in 1983 in Birmingham. But I have lived in Liverpool since I was 9, (there’s deffo a story behind that move) I have the accent and I talk the talk. Plus most of my family are from there. So yes, I’m scouse, and I’m proud.

Like most scousers I’m football mad and extremely proud of my city. (It’s the best place in the world yano). I do a bit of DJing at weekends and love to blast the tunes at home. Although i think the neighbors might not appreciate it. Anyway life’s thrown its fair share of madness at me for a 32 year old, but its all taken with a smile. After all, whats the point if you can’t smile!!

I’m new to blogging, but decided to give it a go after meeting a new colleague in work. One of my bosses actually.
She writes an amazing blog covering all aspects of her life, warts and all, and after reading it I fancied having a go myself. If I can inspire half as many people she has then i will be doing boss. (Scouse term. It means good.)
Anyway if you want to have a gander at her blog she is called Mammywoo and she is a true inspiration after what she has been through. Have a read. You won’t be let down.

Anyway back to me.

So, dad of 4.

2003 . First came the daughter (oh no i cant do lad stuff with a daughter!!!) – The Dancer.

2007. Then came the boy (Hallelujah!! The future football star, and one to make dad rich. one of each thats me done) – The Loud One

2010. Another boy!! (Now i have a few to take me for a pint when i’m old. He will deffo be the last) – Small Person

2014. Its a girl. (Right that’s it. 2 of each is perfect. Time for the snip) – EvieRoo

Judging from our spacing between each child we must of loved a world cup year. Well England hardly inspired us did they!!

So the 5 of us are all looked after by my best mate, arch enemy, mum and sister all rolled into one. Mary Floppings.

What would we do without Mary Floppings? (Well we would have one hell of a messy house)

So that makes 6. All together as a loving family.

There is plenty more to come from me. Tales of past, present and hopes for the future.

I hope you enjoy my blog and please let me know your thoughts.



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