A Little Princess

Princess Farty may be a Little Monster, but baby, she was Born This Way.

Grampa

I don't really remember Granny Ethel, except that at one point she was alive and at another, Grampa lived alone. There must have been a funeral and such, but either I wasn't invited or it's all blurred into insignificance.

Most of my memories of Grampa come in drips and draps, but what I do remember clearly is that whenever we visited him out in the colonies, Grampa always served us kids lime cordial and soda water from an old glass siphon as a special treat. It tasted terribly bitter but it made us feel very privileged to be waited upon like that, so we always drank it all up. I don't recall if we were ever allowed to operate the trigger on the siphon ourselves, but somehow I doubt it.

Grampa had red hair, combed back from his forehead - which, now I come to think of it, is how I wear mine, including the ever-increasing bald patch, but so far free of liver spots. I think I have Grampa to thank for my little-remaining-hair-not-turning-grey genes.

Of course the one, truly lasting memory was of the fucking enormous tigerskin rug sprawled across the floorboards in his living room. It had a fearsome snarl permanently frozen on its face, and its staring glass eyes had us absolutely terrified. Grampa would smile and pat it on the head reassuringly, but I was too scared of those long, sharp teeth.

If there were any bullet holes in it, you'd think I'd remember that, right? Nope. I guess he must have strangled it to death with his bare hands then. Grampas are awesome like that.

I'm reminded of Grampa every time I look at my mouse mat, for some reason.

Shit My Dad Said

Some time ago.

Dad worked on the top floor of a four-storey telephone exchange. There were no lifts (elevators), but the exercise he got from climbing the stairs every morning was still preferable to the drenching he'd regularly received while fixing junction boxes in the streets of Edinburgh.

Be that as it may.

One day, a uniformed police officer turned up by his desk, puffing and wheezing.

"Good day, my good man," or words to that effect, said the filth. "Would that be your car parked on the pavement downstairs, only it's causing an obstruction?"

"Would that be the silver Bentley?" asked Dad innocuously. Dad never drove in his life.

"Ah, no sir," replied the pig. "It's a blue Ford Escort. Sorry to have disturbed you."

And off he went.

Five minutes later, with much pounding on the stairs, the rozzer was back, gasping for breath this time. "Sir! Sir! There's no silver Bentley down there!"

"Oh, my God, it's been stolen!" Sharp as a pin, was Dad.

So then he made poor PC Plod go back down again, have another look to make sure, come back up and prepare to take a statement before declaring, "Ah, wait, the wife said she would be taking it today to fetch the shopping."

He would have loved Robin Cooper.

Wedding Photos

I couldn't take my camera with me, but still managed a few before we left for the church and received some from guests. The official ones will probly be copyright or that.

Princess

Flower Girls

Necklace

Father & Bride

Mother & Bride

Bride, Groom & Chief Bridesmaid

Classy

Gaining A Son

So. Little Miss Farty is no more; now it's Mrs Drummer.

The service went very well, flower girls strew petals down the aisle as I led my daughter to meet her new husband. She didn't recoil in shock when she saw his face, which I took as a good sign.

The minister said a few words: when it came to the "any lawful impediment" part, he didn't even pause to draw breath; you don't want to take any chances with these things.

Rings were exchanged and the deed was done.

A quick pause outside for photos and then Mr & Mrs D headed down to Arthur's Seat for the scenic shots while the hoi polloi were carted off in a coach. Meanwhile the ladies and I climbed into the stretch limo and relaxed as we were transported in comfort and luxury to a classy hotel just outside the city.

Spacious grounds, sunny weather, hardly a breath of wind - hard to believe a week ago it was snowing here. A leisurely drink before the bride and groom arrived, then a blitz of photos. To everyone who asked, "But where's your own camera?", I replied that I had absolute trust in the professional photographer. Which left me free to get pissed.

The hotel staff were friendly and efficient, showing us all the way to our room. A bicycle would have helped: getting there involved negotiating a maze of twisty little passages, all different.

With the meeting and greeting out of the way, a kilted piper serenaded the happy couple into the wedding breakfast. Butternut soup, roast lamb or chicken, followed by sticky toffee pudding were all on the menu but first! The speeches.

Yes, I did do the bit about rising from a warm seat with a bit of paper in my hand (thanks to Non-Working Monkey for that), right through to my daughter being the reigning SE Scotchland Farmville Champion, which got a laugh from everyone under thirty and puzzled looks from everyone else.

And then got totally outclassed by the Best Man speech with accompanying slideshow. Grr!

Missed the first dance as Mrs F and I were up in our room trying to get our granddaughter, Princess Farty, settled. Not. Going. To. Happen. Eventually mum and dad arrived, picked her up and took her down to show her off to the guests. They were suitably impressed that at eight months she was dancing to All The Single Ladies, even though she can't walk yet.

There was a special request from Mr & Mrs D just for me - Westlife singing Amazing. Which was quite thoughtful, considering that they know full well I can't stand the talentless Irish coverband. I'm already plotting my revenge. Patience.

Three little old ladies turned up - I didn't see them arrive, but surmised that they had come by broomstick. I swear I heard one say, "When will we three meet again?"

And once we'd said goodbye to the last of the guests, and made our way back to our room, we found that we'd forgotten to pack Mrs F's underwear, my pajamas, her nightie, my jeans, any toothbrushes...as you do.

Slept soundly, then up at the crack of ten o'clock just in time for a quick shower before a fab breakfast with the folks who had stayed the night. Still wearing the kilt (see above), but combined with a t-shirt because I'm classy.

Cadged a lift home, opened the door to a bombsite. "Oh, my God, we've been burgled again!" wailed Mrs F. "No, wait. This is how we left it yesterday. Oh, lordy!"

Fast forward to Monday, where just as I was about to return my kilt to the hire shop, daughter-in-law dropped off her sons' outfits with an abject, "Sorry about the vomit." Lovely.

Oh, and if you were wondering if anything is worn under the kilt? See the labels below.

If you're not into baby photos just move along. kthxbai

Some pictures from Princess Farty's Christening on Sunday in Edinburgh's Canongate Kirk. Where the Queen goes for her churchery when she's in toon, ye ken. Tres posh.

Gran & Grandad
Proud parents
A wee hug from a cousin

Just saw the sun on this clock and took a photo. The light is over the door of the pub where we celebrated afterwards.

Royal Mile

Wordless Wednesday

Priceless

So. After the burglary, we found the bedroom strewn with the contents of the filing cabinet, which we hastily threw into a couple of boxes for later sorting. Which is what I've been doing today.

What a load of junk.

Receipts dating back to 1998, guarantees long since expired, instructions for a Soda Stream FFS. Any amount of old credit card statements going back to the dawn of time (and yes, aware of identity fraud, I had the cards cancelled on Sunday night).

And then I found this letter. I don't normally put my name up in lights on the interwebs, but in this case I'll make an exception.



Opening it, I found this beautiful picture.


And turning it over, this important document.


Some thing are irreplaceable. Thank FSM he didn't get this.

We Are A Grandmother

Baby Farty arrived in the world this morning, courtesy of Little Miss Farty. Mrs Farty and I are so proud!

In The Country

So. Back from 1960 Chillingham. Finally able to breathe again after spending three years two whole days cut off from civilisation. Ah, well, it was quiet. Click to enlarge...



We stayed in this tiny six-bedroom hovel, courtesy of the Shepherdess.


One of the several horses dotted about the place.


Can you spot all three horses in this scene?


Yup. Dead centre.


Flowers of some sort. Possibly daises.


Stoopid camera tried to brighten up this shady scene.


Geordie wheelchair. I'm here all night, folks!


Shepherdess: It would be really nice if you could get a photo of the dogs sitting together.
Dogs: What's that? You want us to run off in opposite directions?
Me: Maybe if I throw a ball for them to fetch?
Dogs: We're very good at splitting up to chase things. We're sheepdogs.
Much, much later...


Red sky at night - Windsor's alight.


I'm ready for my close-up now.

The Hymen Manoeuvre

So. Just another quiet weekend at Farty Towers. Up at 7:30 on Saturday morning for a pee. Dither over whether to stay up. For about a nanosecond. Wake up again at 9:30, that's more like it. Make bacon sandwiches. You get the idea.

Blah blah blah Britain's Got Talent crap except for that little black girl blah blah.

Blah blah blah Eurovision. Denmark's attempt to clone Ronan Keating - creepy; Germany using a stripper to boost their vote - FAIL. Russia - as host, superb production values; their own entry - not so much. France - completely forgettable¹. Spain sitting there all alone on nul points until neighbouring Andorra took pity and gave them twelve. Nope, not political at. all. UK could have done better if Andrew Lloyd Webber had stayed off stage.

Lloyd Webber

And well done to Alistair Darling's love-child on pulling it off for Norway.

Alistair Darling

Love Child

Anyway. Today. I've made roast chicken, parsnips, boiled potatoes, carrots, sweetcorn and gravy, nothing fancy. Mrs F compliments me on my cooking. Little Miss F has just gone outside for some fresh air. Drummer Boy ² goes to check up on her, then comes running back inside.

"What?" asks Mrs F, "tell me what's wrong!"

Not a word comes from him, although his face has gone a funny colour.

LMF comes running in behind him, all in a panic. By this time he's bending over, facing away from us and pointing to his back. Mrs F realises what's wrong and thumps him on the back. "Has that cleared it?" He shakes his head.

This is where Mr Farty steps up to the mark, puts his nose to the grindstone and leaps into action. I ♥ mixing metaphors. Read this bit from the bottom up.



Step up behind. Hug below ribcage. Squeeze. Hard. Again. Take a bow.

So yeah, I just totally saved someone's life. Fuck me.

Having choked up the piece of chicken that was stuck in his throat, he then showed his Scotch credentials and asked for ice cream.

"Christ, how can you be thinking about pudding at a time like this?" I asked.

"Naw, it's for my sore throat," he croaked. "That bit chicken scratched it on the way up."

So Mrs F called NHS 24 and told them all about our little drama, including me giving DB the Hymen Manoeuvre to dislodge the chicken. "What? Oh, Heimlich. Right." And they asked him to drop in for a checkup.

Anyway, he's just been to A&E³ to get it checked out and they say he'll be fine. Just so long as he remembers to chew before swallowing.

¹ No, really. I don't remember the French song. Was it any good?
² I've decided to call him this at least until he marries my daughter. It's shorter than Potential Second Son-In-Law.
³ ER

I'm Too Grown Up To Be Playing With Toys

Think I need more practice with this Tiltshift thingy.

Just Because You're Paranoid Doesn't Mean They're Not Out To Get You

So, what happened was this. Little Miss Farty sent me an email from work last night. Because playing on the internets is so much more rewarding than working she loves me so much. Scroll down to see the picture. I showed it to Mrs F and she said I should send a reply, so I replied "Haha, very funny. Get back to work." Then I hit "send", as you do.

A fraction of a second after releasing the mouse button, I realised that although her email had been addressed to my real name, Outlook had helpfully changed my sender name to "Mr Farty". Thanks, Microsoft. Thanks a fucking bunch.

So the phone rings. "Dad, did you just send me an email as "Mr Farty"?

"Er, yes?"

"Oh. Ok, 'cos I thought my computer had been infected by a virus or something."

"No, no, just my little joke, ha-ha."

"Ok, night-night then, Dad."

"Night-night, sweetheart. Don't work too hard."

And now I'm wondering whether to delete my blog, 'cos how long will it be before she decides, out of curiosity, to google "Mr Farty"?

Update: If my daughter is reading this, remember that there's more than one Mr Farty on t'internets. This one isn't me, it's a complete stranger. Plus, quit slacking and get back to work!

That email...

Always check your child's homework

Keep reading...





That mommy works at Home Depot and this was supposed to be her selling a shovel.

IT Security

Hello IT Support have you tried turning it off and on again?

Hi, it's me.

Hello me.

Can you tell me your password?

Let me think about thatno.

But I can't get onto the internets from my own account!

The account your bf used to infect my PC with a virus last month?

Er, yes. Sorry about that.

So you want me to give you my password to my account so you can infect my PC with another virus?

Yes ple- I mean, I really need to get onto the internets!

No you don't. Bye.

Smiple really.

Just A Quicky

Don't tell a soul, ok? But L***** M*** F**** is with c****.

Yep. That's totally secret.

Laters!

Random Crap

Ok. Whenever a thought strikes me, I note it down in my moby; just a couple of words or so, an aide-mémoire so that when I sit down here I can write it up in a post.

Somehow, this has run up to 48 points, many of which make no sense at all. Maybe I should sign up to Twatter and send them off as soon as they happen? Oh. Too late. Oh, well...

Jade Goody has got cancer. Now I feel bad, as if my calling her a fat ugly bitch somehow contributed to her present condition. No, wait. I didn't call her ugly. So that's alright then. But she is ugly. Damn. Now I have said it. I feel bad. Forgive me?

So who remembers Red Hat Lady from last months wedding? I was asked to email my most excellent photos to one of the bridesmaids. Who sent them on to her dad. Who forwarded them to his best mate. Who is Red Hat Lady's dad. Did I mention that I left the captions on the pictures? And that her dad is the one ogling her boobs? The dirty old pervert!

The Olympics are over for another four years, thank FSM. I only got around to watching ten minutes of Women's Beach Volleyball, after Mrs Farty went to bed. You need plenty of stamina, good hand-eye co-ordination and strong wrists for that game. And a box of tissues.

Apparently an Embra bloke called Chris Hoy has won some medals for pedalling really fast. Really, really fast. He trained at Scotchland's only velodrome, at Meadowbank stadium in Embra. And the cooncil are commemorating his achievement by naming the brand new velodrome after him. The new velodrome in Glasgow, where the 2014 Commonwealth Games will be held. And Meadowbank? Will be demolished and sold off to the highest briber, so that yet more flats/apartments can be built. Cunts.

Oh! Oh! Esmée Denters is releasing her first album soon! Squeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Shoelace burglar. Need I say more? Ok. Twat shoelace burglar.


Feminine logic. Mrs Farty took the kitchen clock down to clean it, turned it around and declared that we'd need to get a new one.
"Why?"
"Because the back is filthy."
"But no-one can see the back, so no-one will know."
"I'll know."

Some poor author (and former Children's Laureate) has had her book pulled from the shelves after three (3) parents complained about the use of the word "twat". But not until 150,000 copies had been sold. Now the publishers are changing the word to "twit". Fucksake! Oh, for goodness' sake! It's political correctness gone mad differently sane, I tell you!

Trapper keeper. WTF is that?

Pensioners are demanding that the road sign for old people crossing, a pair of hunched figures hobbling on walking sticks, is changed because it's too condescending. As it says in the Telegraph article, "A spokesman for the Department for Transport said that the sign was not intended to depict elderly people, but those who were frail." I must be getting old, I could swear that sign says "Elderly People".

Anyhoo, old people are much more mobile these days than we give them credit for. Vide:


Calling ugly ducklings everywhere! (Does that include Ms. Goody?) The mayor of Mount Isa is looking for ugly women to redress the gender imbalance in his town, where men outnumber women by five to one. The local ladies are, predictably, up in arms and calling for the mayor's resignation. "It paints the women here as second rate and suggests that men will settle for anything. He has put everyone down," said Rikki Loccisano, who unaccountably refused to be photographed.

Now. Who can tell the difference between this:


...and this?


Anybody? No? You at the back? That's right. The first one is a cute, cuddly otter and the second one is a vicious, hungry, brutal crocodile. Or is it vice-versa? And just how drunk would you have to be to get them confused? Two words: Darwin Awards.

Phew! That's brought it right down to 39. Sigh.

Wedding Way Out West

West of Embra, at any rate.

The groom had earlier said that he was planning to wear the kilt, not to the service but to the reception afterwards as a wee surprise for his bride. "Oh, really? And what's the tartan?" asked Mr Farty in all innocence.

"Och, she'll be wearin' a white dress," he winked.

***

It was a warm day as the sun valiantly attempted to break through the dense barrier of Scotch mist. Guests were congregating around the church, chattering animatedly as the ladies compared handbags and hats, while the menfolk debated the much more meaty matter of the price of a pint.

Red Hat Lady

Eventually, everyone trooped inside the kirk and picked their positions in the pews. The bride arrived fashionably late, looking radiant in her thigh-length wedding dress.

"Haud on a minute," she explained, "Ah've jist got tae finish feedin' the
wean." Shortly the infant was unplugged from her breast and thrust into the arms of a rather surprised looking matron at the back of the church. "Mind this fer a minute woodje?"

"Do you -"
"Aye!"
"And do you -"
"Aye!"
"Right. Let's get tae the bevy."

Refreshing

Invisabul Dawg

There's nothing like a long-lens camera for catching innocent moments like this one. (Little tykes refused to pose for their pictures.)
Flower Girls

Red Hat Lady veered into view. "Mr F," she declared. "You're a guid photographer." It was a statement rather than a question. Mr Farty nodded in acknowledgement and she went on. "The bride's wearing a garter," she explained, "but naebody has taken her foty with it yet. Ah was jist wondering if you might be prepared - no, dinnae fash yersel, I'll see tae it that nae charges are pressed this time. Jist dinnae drool too much. And keep both hands on the camera. And fer feck's sake try tae keep yer sporran on."

Garter Girl and Groom

The father of the bride demonstrated the Highland Stagger. Christ, in two years that'll be me, then, thought Mr Farty.
Highland Fling

Talking of which, Little Miss Farty and her beau were also in attendance. "Be careful no tae get mah feet in the foto," she warned. "Ah'm no wearin' mah shoes!"
Young Love

Being the soul of discretion, Mr Farty cropped his daughter's feet out of the picture. See?
What's Afoot?

Tattoos - the ultimate fashion accessory. Mr Farty was sooooooooo tempted to airbrush this one out.
Hot or Not?

There's something magical about a wedding. Innit?
Mr & Mrs