Pi$$ed Off Blog

Twunty motherfecking arshavin bar stewards.

I really want to spend all my time shouting and swearing at the moment. Happiness for me currently exists in a different country. On a different planet. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

Everything seems to have followed the bugs in sat-nav software and taken a turn for the worse. Let's make a list. I like lists.

1. My pleasant, affable, approachable and inspirational (at times) line manager, Alan, has been inexplicably replaced by a complete willy wonka. Nothing remotely untoward has happened so far, but I've this feeling of dread it's simply a matter of time. He just has one of those personalities that you cannot warm to, even in the current frozen conditions. Hard to believe he's married and has fathered no less than five little Handymen (although at least two of them are female).

2. My youngest son continues to soldier on with a broken arm, and despite remaining cheerful most of the time I think it is really starting to get to him, especially as I insisted he remained indoors all of yesterday. Cold and snow and ice and broken arms are seldom amiable bed-fellows.

3. My middle son has lost his is-she/isn't-she girlfriend and definitely his best friend, just because (or so he says) he did what any hot-blooded hormone-choked teenager would do upon accidentally-on-purpose finding mistress palm and her five lovely daughters pressed against an is-she/isn't-she girlfriend's burgeoning love-pillow. Again, Gabe wears a brave face but I can just tell with the amount of distant looks I see from him that at times he really misses her.

4. My fitness route for the year suffers more postponements than tonight's football schedule. I actually ran on Thursday and Saturday last week, and on Saturday I got through two and half tough-ish miles at nine minute pace, which I felt significantly jolly about. But on Sunday I tripped in the kitchen on absolutely nothing, caught myself on the work surface to prevent myself from encountering the laminate flooring extremely sharply, and wrenched my back again. It's now far worse than it ever was. Not that running was an option last night in eight inches of snow, of course.

5. I haven't had a drink for two days. Okay, this should be a positive, but I like drinking. I only know I shouldn't do as much as I do. I need a little knob (insert your own joke here) on the side of my head that I could use to turn up, down or even off, my desire for that delicious firewater.

6. …Andrew…

So, the list is in reverse order, as clearly Andrew should be number one. He's caused me more grief than all the other aspects of my life added together over the past three or four months. I try so hard to be a good father to him and more importantly, a good friend, but seldom do I get the feeling that such attempts are appreciated, especially the times I've bent over backwards to accommodate him and the extra needs his sexuality seems to cause. He's so damned unpredictable, I can't keep up with which version of Andrew is currently in vogue or which of his heads currently resides upon his razor-sharp shoulders.

I think on Sunday I had every right to ask the questions I asked, having been told my fifteen-year-old son may be engaged in a relationship with a man close to thirty who carries the not superfluous characteristic of being his former mathematics teacher. But according to Andrew I have no business whatsoever in asking a thing. Indeed it was exceptionally presumptuous of me to contend that any aspect of any relationship between Andrew and Mr Aldridge (first name David, but for understandable reasons I cannot find myself using that name) is in anyway anything to do with me.

Not fair, and I'm so bloody angry about it.

But I'm a bleeping idiot, according to Andrew, who knew I'd bleeping react like this. Excuse me? Surely the way I should have reacted upon hearing that a thirty-year-old bloke *may* be in a relationship that *may* be $exual with my fifteen-year-old would be to spend every waking moment hunting the twunt down then stabbing him repeatedly through the heart with a short, rusting tube of metal specially sharpened at one end? But I haven't, so kudos to me. Besides, I wouldn't know where to start. Well, obviously I do but as Gabe and Lukas's school's been shut for two days I haven't been able to commence my manhunt, and I'm sure school's are not in the habit of giving out the addresses of teachers to livid parents.

I should at least confront the school about this, but what if I'm jumping to conclusions? For all I know Mr Aldridge may just be presenting my son with a needed sympathetic ear, and no other parts of his body. If I bounce in, giving it both barrels, I could ruin an innocent man's career, and permanently darken my relationship with my eldest.

Andrew is no help:

Q. Are you having $ex with this man?
A. Of course I'm bleeping not you bleeping bleep. You think I'm a bleeping bleep? So you think he's a bleeping bleep? You're the bleeping bleep if there is one.

Q. If he gay? Is he in a relationship?
A. It's none of your bleeping business.

Q. Is this where you have been the past two nights?
A. I refer my learned colleague to the answer to the previous enquiry (paraphrased, I was getting tired of all the bleeping swearing)

Oh God. Whenever I think about it all I just get this burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. Why do I have to continually deal with these things? Why isn't my life normal? Why don't I have a happy marriage with a lovely, supportive woman. with a bright-faced, sporty, knicker-chasing son and a sweet-natured, chaste and pure blonde-haired daughter? Why did my life turn out this way? What wrong turning did I make, or choice did I not make?

I'm not ready to deal with all this again. After my exciting and interesting November and December, January was bleeping boring, and I loved every second of it.