Flies round the Pokiepot

So I took in ten batches of Pokémon cards to school today as planned, carefully bagged up in those little zip-top bags that you find on the pavement when those silly people have dropped their special herbs.

I gave away the first 3 bags easily. But after that, the word got around, and at break-time, I was mobbed by hordes of eager card players all wanting to upgrade their collections. Having created each pack randomly, and planned to dole them out randomly, I was trying to be a blameless benefactor but when guys started saying he's got a better Mewtwo than me and how come my pack doesn't have a Trimbapoo like his, it all got a bit complicated. I should take the rest in on Tuesday and have done with it.

So in the afternoon I played Klash of Klans Royale instead, because sometimes you don't want a quarter pounder.

Even later, I had pasta with Double Cheese Upgrade sauce, garlic ciabatta and mixed peas/sweetcorn. So what is this magic sauce, I hear you cry? Well, let's go back to basics. When a traditional public schoolboy meets the tragic reality of actual real life, his first questions are Where is my food, and Why has my laundry not been done.

These are reasonable questions for those who have not had enough spanking, or maybe the spanking of the right sort. So after a period of starvation and Chinese take-aways, the lost schoolboy will either read a cooking manual or make an alliance with some pliable female who thinks (probably incorrectly) that she will be recompensed in the long term. In our case, Jof taught Bud to make a cheese sauce, like her Lancastrian ancestors. But, now that Jof has to have sensible meals of minimal calories, Bud has to make sufficiently interesting cheese sauce to fill my demanding tummy: all hail the Upgrade.

It is not enough that your sauce has ketchup mixed within: it must also have chopped prawns, or in this case, diced ham. Only then will the deserving child absorb so much that he can barely fit in 2 kiwi fruits and a custard before the main evening milk. It's a tough life.

A Clockwork E-Z Peel Generic Citrus Fruit

Gosh, I'm getting really good at this getting-yourself-up business. I can now cheerily wave goodbye and close the door on my domestic life at exactly 0829 every day, just like countless generations of homogenized husbands, off to the City, or t'mill, or the Mastodon hunt.

Anyway, school was the usual roundelay of reading, writing and 'riffmatic, and was therefore unremarkable until we finished the class book, bet you didn't even know we had one. For the last X weeks we've been reading Anne Frank's Diary in the little leftover windows of time at the end of the gruelling day, where we can lift our collective noses from the grindstone and enjoy some gruel. And since the girlies chose this book, it was the chappies' turn to choose the next one.

What meaningful tome could follow on from the thought-provoking diary of an innocent captive girl, condemned to die pointlessly before her story could be heard? What intellectual titan would slice the Gordian knot of opposing priorities and choose a book we all could love? And what balanced democratic system would choose a heroic elder statesman to wield the finger of ultimate power?

Well, we knew the answer to question 3. We have a plastic cup with a load of ice lolly sticks in it, with the name of one member of the class written on each, and the teacher pulled one out. It was a girl's name: as was the next, and the next. Finally, a male lolly stick was pulled from the cup of fortune, and lo and behold, it was the name of possibly the most Norbertronic sneezebucket in the whole class, and we knew we were done for, for he is a spanner, and not even an adjustable one.

So, what book did he choose? A Clockwork Lemon? Warren Peace? Tequila Mockingbird? The Blueberries of Wrath? No, we got a 10-page fairy adventure where the cathartic climax involves a fairy pulling a fallen stone off a friend who has got stuck. And, hoist by our own petard of misfortune, there was a wailing and gnashing of teeth, for we had missed our chance and the girls would be choosing the next class book again.

At home I sorted my entire collection of approximately 600 Pokémon cards into equal piles of 17 with a rarity on each pile and a stack of Code cards and Energy cards on the side. I shall give them away to deserving Pokémon players at school over the next couple of working days, because I don't collect any more and I could use the space. And maybe some new friends. I did keep my 10 rarest ones in the loft to give to my own kid, alongside my boxed collection of Mr Men books.

And a Pair of Snow Buntings in a tree

Woke up today to a hilarious Trump victory in the US election. Actually, I didn't notice. What I did wake up to was my own alarm clock set at a sensible time: I then got up and did everything myself including telling my mother off for getting my breakfast ready, because I was supposed to be doing everything myself. These helicopter mummies ...

Everything was wet and windy. Apparently the seafront was deserted apart from lots of old men in stripy trousers* with giant zoom lenses on their cameras, because of a pair of Snow Buntings which had lost their way, only to be chased off by a dog off its leash.

Bud got an interview which is like a first date with a company. So he bought a suit because the first thing you do when you get a date is buy glad-rags. I am looking forward to my first date because I already have a suit.

After school I missed the turning-on-of-the-lights in town because I brought Sham home again. He had his iPad and I had my phone and we Klashed our Klans together on my bed for 2 hours and we were loud.
*Ruling the world with plastic smiles (and yellow toupees)

Poo Bleater

I got myself ready for school and did everything by myself. Just before leaving I checked that Jof was still alive but as she was on a day off, she hadn't got up, perfectly reasonably, and he doesn't get up, being unemployed.

The only other thing of note from my entire school day was discovering that what I really want, what I really really want is a DS because of yet another Pokémon-related game that you can only get on DS apparently. So I texted the good news to Okely Dokely (not the Flanders-themed thrash metal band of the same name) who was standing about 12 feet from me at the time, so I was able to tell him that I was texting him, and ask him if he had got my text.

Later I had a good go at learning my lines for the Festival of christmas and played Jof at Totopoly.

You know the good old-fashioned program called 'Blue Peter', with its black & white format, field trips to village fairs and hygienically-challenged guest animals on the show? Well, they also did a good line in cutting and sticking (ask an adult to help you with this) and creating various birthday cards, castles and particle accelerators (ask mummy to save you some washing up liquid bottles).

And so following their most famous line "Here's one I made earlier", any prefabricated, pre-assembled or custom-made artefact is called a "Blue Peter". And indeed, using only 2 toilet roll tubes and no sellotape or sticky-back plastic whatsoever, I made a terrifying Viking Horned Hat! Although this one will have to be called a Poo Bleater. And Vikings never had hats like that, they were made up in cartoons.

As a ten year-old Brit who is mostly into Minecraft, I have no strong opinions on the outcome of the American Comedy Show sorry election happening tonight. But I am aware that one of the people fighting is a woman: and I do have name-recognition of Trump, and I know that people are laughing at him and hoping he'll win because of being a nutter that shouts funny things. Coincidentally, I am a nutter that shouts funny things too, so maybe it takes one to know one.

Fractional Distillation

Another day of good news! My Lego-Robot group has been identified as the primary Coding Team in the school and (together with some hangers-on to make the numbers up to 10) has formed the Nucleus Accumbens (reward circuit part of brain controlling desire and lack of inhibition) of the school team to go forward to the regional finals in January. Perhaps one day I'll be a Professor of computer science.

And there were fractions and assemblies and spellings and yada yada.

But best of all I get to do extra Robotics and Coding during school hours (and I might miss some French) and I even get to come in on the next inset day which is lucky as it's Bud's signing-on to the Benefit-Scroungers day, so I won't have to visit the Jobcentre and see how mortals live.

Later, we took a rucksack to Giant Tesco for their Rucksacks for the Homeless appeal. Then, because my christmas jumper was 3 sizes too small, I selected another from the splendid range of elf costumes, flashing reindeer and cartoon jumpers, all with similar themes ie the picture of a fictional character and a humorous motto adapted from its original meaning.

Then just before the checkouts, we picked up a Chocolate Orange, realised we hadn't brought any money with us and put it all back. I played Minecraft while he went back to the shop and bought the items. It is lucky I haven't inherited his IQ, wouldn't want to be both a supermodel and a genius.

I'm now a proper Scout Scout, even if I don't have any badges yet and my shirt is 17 sizes too big. I haven't even got a woggle. But these are just mere details and now I'm into the big time with the shooting and the night hiking and the fundraising and so forth.

On the way in, I was insisting that we should bring in our wartime memorabilia again to show off for Remembrance Sunday, but we've already done it twice in 6 years so are holding off for another year or so. Fortunately, the previous Quartermaster had brought in a trestle table of wartime equipment. He's more into webbing and bayonets and knapsacks and belts but he did have a Lee Enfield and some speedloaders so that was fun.

Anger by Fiftieths

In a typically slow start, I never got out of my dressing gown all day. Jof was ill which is unfair as she didn't have any beer at the bombing last night, and I got very angry when told to put the tablet, X-box or phone down and go and do some homework, who do these people think they are, anyway. I was so distracted by the haunting thought of a Minecraft video going unwatched, that I got my fractions homework wrong. Of course, being told to get off the tablet, X-box or phone to go and correct it rubbed salt in my wounded pride ...

So here for no better reason is a Spanish watermelon-style ceramic bowl with some attractively mottled castor oil plant seeds that we shall plant next year. These plants (Ricinus communis) contain the well-known super-poison Ricin, but also look so good the council plant them in the parks as a flowerbed centrepiece.

Beer and Bombs 2016

Up in a relaxed fashion, slow breakfast, the usual. We have a PuddleParty today which is the traditional beer'n'bombs associated with the demise of Mr Guido Fawkes all those years ago, in fact I hardly remember him. This is why there was a 5 litre keg of beer, 22 rockets and 18 shot tubes (also known as Roman candles, although I call them spark fountains) by the front door.

Acting was mixed. While us chaps had a great time playing hide and seek, my performance may not have been optimal because I hadn't learned my lines. This is because the actual live performance seems so far away (less than 3 weeks) that it's practically someone else's problem and besides, I've got Minecraft videos to watch, and Klans to Klash against.

My role in the Festival of Christmas is part of the 'Street Entertainers' group: a many years ago, the town had its own real-life entertainers: here is an old article from 20 years ago.

Little-known settlement Portsmouth is the prime site for mentally-challenged artistes of this category; although it has its fair share of mumblers, shouters, sneezers etc, it specializes in voluntary traffic directors. These colourful characters staff the convoluted highways and byways of downtown Pompey. Loitering on street corners and roundabouts, they provide a quality service of arm-waving and gesticulating (based on the actions of actual traffic policemen) that can all too easily bring free-flowing traffic to a grinding halt, at which point they spring into action and target the trapped motorists. Several directors operate in the city; they assign themselves their own junction and man it rain or shine. The ultimate expression of self-belief was seen in 1994 when two rival directors fought for control of the Lake Road roundabout in a vicious turf war.

These Street Entertainers have long moved on from this part of space. But now we have religious nutters! Some are muslim, and they sit dourly by the railway bridge behind a desk and hope against hope that someone will come and ask them for a leaflet.

Some are evangelists. They stand by the bus station and at least hold out their leaflets, in the vain hope that somebody will want one.

Some are the Creation Science Movement, and they sit in a US-funded dinosaur museum opposite the same bus station and hope you'll be convinced by their hilarious displays.

But my favourite are the shouters, particularly the short angry one who stands in the town centre and berates you for not having already realized that the jesus prophecy will save the shining angels in a revelation of holiness and whatever. Today he was handing out free DVDs so we just had to have one.

This edited-for-believers treatise on evolution and how it's all wrong really and you should just believe in one of the gods we've made up was produced by American televangelist Ray Comfort, whose outstanding proof that god exists because of the way a banana (the atheists' nightmare) is shaped has to be seen to be, er, believed. But for now, here is an excerpt of his argument.

Now if you study a banana, you’ll find on the far side there are three ridges; on the close side, two ridges. If you get your hand ready to grip a banana, you’ll find on the far side, there are three grooves; on the close side, two grooves. The banana and the hand are perfectly made, one for the other. You’ll find the maker of the banana – Almighty God – has made it with a non-slip surface. It has outward indicators of inward contents: green, too early; yellow, just right; black, too late. Now if you go to the top of a banana, you’ll find – as with the soda can makers, who’ve placed a tab at the top – so God has placed a tab at the top. When you pull the tab, the contents don’t squirt in your face. It’s just the right shape for the human mouth. It’s even curved towards the face to make the whole process so much easier!

Now that's some excellent work, quality claptrap.

Later, I grudgingly did some line-learning so that my next performance would be a little better. When I put my mind to it, it's a sponge.

Even later, us kids had an excellent party at Ben's place and the adults stayed out of the way and talked rubbish and we had light sabre fights outside with fireworks and played hide and seek and X-box and Jof drove us home.

Golems and Lava-Dogs

Everything was great until PE. We played Bench-ball and my team was pants. In my end-of-day report I was most vehement about how useless and plain of features my team-mates were.

Anyway, Klash-of-Klans has made a comeback and for the hopelessly out-of-touch older generation, that's just another set of indecipherable rubbish to babble about. Plus we can then say "You don't know the evolution of a Level 19 Strappon? god, you're so uncool" and feel superior.

So Sham and I made a new Klan and loads of cool people at school asked to join it, and I took Sham home and we played X-box Minecraft again until we played Hide-n-seek because you're never too old to hide in a laundry basket.

Today some of my new Scout Scout kit arrived: 2 generously proportioned shirts, and a belt. It is amazing how, when you order MEDIUM of everything, that the shirt would comfortably ensconce a Hagrid, but the belt (with shiny Scout Logo buckle) would barely encompass a Dobby. At least I have the chance of filling out the shirt as time goes on, but the belt will have to go.

Now, for those older, stupider people out there that just don't understand, here's a whole set of reasons why you'll never be good enough.

A Damask Conversion

Another standard day at school in which we all had to watch each other PEE (Point, Evidence and Explain) in literacy, to show we'd comprehended the salient points in a prose passage, usual stuff.
Like several others, I've now stopped going to Normal Maths, as I attend Uber-Maths and Hyper-Infra-Maths classes, leaving Normal Maths for the people still doing their 1 times tables. And Child A got sent to the Headteacher again for shouting and throwing pens, a future manager there I think.

I had an appointment straight after school to get measured and fitted out for my period drama costume for the Festival of Christmas. This is why I was last out of school. Anyway, we drove through the hordes of students milling around aimlessly (hardly hitting any) and parked up at the theatre. The Boss-man identified some broken chairs and an old sound system that deserved to go to the tip and we loaded it up.

Then the nice costume lady (who also plays the part of Queen Victoria at the Festival, so is a very important lady) stuck bits of costume on me until I could pass for a downtrodden 19th century child worker. I have a large outer coat in thick damask material and fingerless gloves and 7 advanced vitamin deficiencies which I have to carry with me to put on at the last minute. I won't be wearing 'Star Wars - First Order' socks to the performance.

Je veux me Suicider

Well, not every day can be a good one. First, we had an hour of French and 5 minutes in, I was suicidal. It's lucky I'm a super-human demi-god destined to lead the known world against the alien invaders (further details TBC 2033), and am above such things.

Anyway, after an hour of foul Francophonery, I was free and teased poor old Okely Dokely by hiding from him all break.

I have an upcoming public performance at Her Majesty's Royal Naval Dockyard, same as last year, playing a Victorian street urchin. Last year I was a chimney sweep, this time I'll be Actor #1 in a tragic tale about child slave labour and poor working conditions before the advent of the Health and Safety Police, leading to a death on the job. How uplifting, I hear you cry, well it certainly is uplifting when one of the characters gets his neckerchief caught in the axle of the mill and is hoisted aloft to his death by strangulation, oho.

So we went through my lines, with my assistant voicing Actors 2-4 and Narrator, in a variety of accents somewhere between Billingsgate and Whitechapel. I have the biggest part, and if I can pull it off, it could be my big break!

Speaking of pulling it off, first I had to try on my old warm undergarments from last year, picture definitely not available. The Dockyard is a cold and windy place in winter, especially when you're standing out there all day begging for sixpence, Guv'nor, to clean yer chimbley. So you have to wear leggings and extra layers underneath your costume. And just because you're wearing leggings, it's got nothing to do with being a girl, apart from where it stops your peanuts getting frozen off, and making you into a girl, er.

And every time you put close-fitting clothing on, you are reminded of Stupid Sexy Flanders on the ski slopes, whose tight-fitting ski-suit makes him feel like he's wearing nothing at all, nothing at all. We like doing the quote and the special movement so much, Jof has banned us from saying it, so we do it when she's out. One pair of leggings wouldn't have fitted a hungry 4 year-old so let's hope that the charity shop can sell them to a hungry 3 year-old.