Tag Archives: Tory Boy

Don’t Eat The Spam!

9 Jun

Sometimes, spam comments looks genuine; at first glances, I thought this was:

My brother suggested I would possibly like this web site.
He used to be entirely right. This put up actually made
my day. You cann’t believe just how a lot time I had spent for this info!

Then I thought about it: her brother used to be entirely right?  I has brothers.  I don’t thinks so….

It’s definitely spam; or the author is an only child and wishing it ain’t so.

*

On a seriously note, I heard that the illiterate emails we is getting in our inboxers are deliberate: nasty spammers want to weed out the intelligent and/or persons what can spell, becAuse they are less likely to be gullible and therefore taken in buy iritating emails.

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Does you like how I am writings in the style of spam?  It’s very pleasance.

I was going to asks you all to do similar or the sames in your comments, but yours proberly ennd up in my spam filter.

By the way, the title refers to a family story going back about six years.  My nephew and niece were staying with us for a couple of weeks and I made lunch.  Much hilarity ensued because I squirted a bottle of tomato sauce from directly over the top of a sandwich and still managed to miss.  Such are my cooking skills.

Nephew & Nice sat down with their sandwiches and Spud and Wary Boy were given theirs.  One of the boys smelled it and said, ‘I think this ham is off.’

You know how in The Night Before Christmas visions of sugar plums danced in their heads?  Well, visions of vomiting children for whom I was temporarily responsible danced in mine and I ran into the other room screaming, ‘Don’t eat the ham!  Don’t eat the ham!’

Nowadays, if I ever say the word ‘ham’, everyone in the room yells at me, ‘Don’t eat the ham!  Don’t eat the ham!’

My mistake, of course, was not to give food poisoning to my own children.   They wouldn’t have laughed at me then.  Ah well, we mothers can’t get everything right.

 

Snippet

12 May

This is a snippet of Alex as Jamie Wellerstein in The Last Five Years.  Jamie is telling the story of Schmuel, the tailor of Klimovich.

The show was Colla Voce Theatre’s début production and it was fantastic, particularly given the venue, which was practically a dungeon (two or three storeys below ground, in an old Woolworths building).  A two-hander, Alex and his partner, Olivia Doust, had roughly ninety minutes of singing between them.  Olivia had never acted before but you wouldn’t have known.  She gave an assured performance and she has a lovely voice.  Alex was in agony: he had a throat infection and said it hurt from start to finish. He spent three days not talking, treating his voice with honey and great care.

You can read a review here: Blunt Cinema.

In other news: this week, Alex is appearing in The Forgotten Songs of Lerner & Loewe.  If you are in the Sheffield area, tonight is your last chance: details here.

There was a clip available but it won’t play, unfortunately.

He’s got two shows coming up in the summer; I’ll share details when I’m allowed.

Apologies to those who feel outraged that this humour blog has been overtaken by the Alex Cosgriff Fanzine.  What can I tell you?  I’m a proud mama. 

Speaking of which, Hairy Boy was home this weekend.  He came to visit on Friday and turned into Invisible Boy on Saturday morning, disappearing to visit his friends and reappearing in time for Sunday dinner and his train home.  At least I got to feed and wash up after him.  There’s always a silver lining.

Fed Up

11 Mar

I’ve been busy with one thing and another, none of it interesting.  I’ve also had backache, headache, hipache and – of all things – leftbuttockache.

Word has been restored but I ran out of printer ink.  I don’t know how to replace the ink cartridge, but that’s a job for the Hub, anyway.  And he’ll do it as soon as I remember to tell him I need ink.  I can’t think over this left buttock shouting at me all the time.

I couldn’t get warm last night, until the Hub brought me an extra quilt and a hot water bottle.  I’m too warm this morning.

One of the dogs was sick in the hall and I had to clean it up.  I always seem to be cleaning up after one end of a dog or another.  They both need a bath and a haircut. So do I.  I bet they get theirs first.

Don’t talk to me; I’m in a BAD mood.

I did laugh one night this week.  We went to see Alex in a new play, Not From Round ‘Ere.  Think In Bruges in the Forest of Dean.  It was a farce: new writing from student Alex Bushnell, and very funny.  Alex Bushnell had a short film play at the Cannes Film Festival and was nominated for an award, and I could see why. The play needed some tweaking, as his youth and inexperience showed in places, but on the whole it was excellent.

A strong cast (no names for you, because there were no programmes available due to a problem at the printer’s.  That didn’t help my mood) included our Alex, who played seven characters, plus a couple of voiceovers and one chicken sound effect. He didn’t have a lot of lines but he made the most of them, and his simple dropping of a walking stick onto the floor brought the house down.  Sadly, there is no film so I can’t show you; but I do hope to have a photo soon of him in a long blonde wig, cheeky denim shorts, and high heels.

I can’t make fun of him that way just yet, but here’s a video of him at Sessions: basically, student karaoke.  He was one of the last to go on so he’s very, erm, merry. The paper he’s holding has the lyrics on but he forgot he was holding it; and he’s wearing cat ears just because…

Like I said, he was slightly inebriated.

It was nice to see him in a comedy; he hasn’t done one since Lend Me A Tenor: a play rehearsed and performed in a week, at school.  Sixth formers do it for fun after exams.  Here’s a clip:

A few weeks ago we saw him in a concert of André Previn’s unused score of Goodbye Mr Chips.  Not From Round ‘Ere is running until tomorrow night. Tomorrow morning he’s doing Shakespeare for Breakfast for charity; and on Sunday he’s in a preview show of The Last Five Years, which he’ll be appearing in in April, after his week in yet another play at the National Student Drama Festival. Then he’s going to sleep for a month.  Oh no, he can’t, because in May he’s singing in a concert of Lerner & Loewe’s forgotten songs.

In case you think I’ve forgotten Wary Boy, he’s doing well but prefers that I not broadcast his activities i.e. doesn’t tell me much of what he’s up to.  He did get a very nice tattoo on his forearm this week, but I don’t know how to move a photo from my phone to my laptop, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

I’m useless with technology; I can’t use it to share news and it’s always going wrong or running out or wasting my time.  No wonder I’m in a bad mood.

Look What I Did!

18 Apr

 

Somebody went to hospital twenty-five years ago and all they brought back was this lousy mountain man.

DSCF4248

Happy birthday, Hairy Boy.

Love you xx

Boromir Fed My Child Last Night

25 Sep

This is absolutely true.

But, as I have mentioned, truth is relative…

Spud went off to Sheffield University on Sunday.  It’s forty minutes away by train; nearly three hours in a car when there’s no direct motorway, you have to trek through the Pennines, and there’s a big event on.  It took two hours to travel two miles at one point.

I have two children, both sons.  For all of the similarities they have, I might as well have a dragon and an iguana: they’re both lizards but you wouldn’t let one of them near your princess or the other your salad.

On their respective first days at university, one child kicked us out the minute the car was empty; the other encouraged us to do his unpacking for him.

One boy enjoyed Freshers’ Week so much, he made a point of going back early in his subsequent years; the other had decided by Tuesday night that he’s not a party-party-party kinda guy.

One son was irritated by the amount of food I insisted he take; the other was irritated that I had only packed enough for one term.

One lad didn’t call home for the first three months and when he did, made Marcel Marceau look like a gossip; the other has called home every day, because he knows we want to hear about all of the interesting things he’s doing.

Spud called today to tell us about meeting his tutor – he and Spud are the only males in a gaggle of girls.  They discussed the psychology of favourite biscuits for thirty minutes.  Looks like it’s going to be an interesting course.

He has signed up for various societies – dramatic, musical theatre, singing…oh, and the psychology society (‘Psychos’) as an afterthought, though he didn’t pay for a three-year membership in case he’s too busy to go because he’s rehearsing.

He mentioned that he had chips on the way home last night.  A small chippy owned by Sean Bean’s family offered free vouchers for chips, paid for by Sean Bean.  Yorkshiremen are renowned for being careful with their money but he obviously broke the stereotype.

I hope Spud gets talent spotted at one of his societies, moves to Hollywood, and pals up with his chip donor so I can finally ask the questions which have niggled me for years: who on earth named Sean Bean?  And why isn’t his name pronounced Shorn Born or Sheen Been?

I’m missing my baby.  I missed my other baby when he first left home; but then he kept coming back between moves, leaving more of his stuff each time.  I don’t have space to miss him at the moment: it’s taken up with boxes of clothes (a lot), books (a library) and Yu-Gi-Oh cards (some children never grow up).  The youngest child has made up for that by taking only what he thought he might need with him (not much); leaving what he wanted to hold on to but which was not essential for uni (even less); and chucking the rest (making a butter mountain look positively frugal).

So, with all of these differences, was my reaction the same to their leaving?  

No, it wasn’t.

With Tory Boy, I was caught up in his excitement and it was only when we said goodbye that I surprised everyone – not least, myself – when I burst into tears.

With Spud, I was tearful all week but didn’t sob (much) at our goodbye because I had become so crippled by holding it all in.  Of course, he didn’t see the tears flow in the car on the way home, having abandoned me for student dissipation.

Such a good look on me, don't you think?

Such a good look on me, don’t you think?

The boys do have some similarities. Tory Boy phoned on Sunday night and we had a conversation that I could have had with either one of them after an upsetting day:

Tory Boy:  I was worried about you; I wanted to know if you’re okay?

Mum:  I’m fine, thank you, sweetie. Managing, anyway.

Tory Boy.  Good, good…so: did you cry more for him or me?

 

 

Dumb Mum & Funny Boys

7 Sep

Two daft moments from yesterday

A Serious Talk

*

I woke up at three in the morning last night and saw the hall lamp was on which meant that Spud was still out and hadn’t let me know he’d be back so late.

My text: Where are you?!!

Spud’s reply: In Tory Boy’s room.

***

*


From lookimadethat.com

Tory Boy was asking me about Holy Communion and I told him about the time I influenced a vicar.

She always used a piece of bread from her latest open loaf at home for the communion bread and, discussing it one day, I mentioned that I loved it when she used the occasional bun because of the symbolism of its wholeness/completeness/the actual breaking of bread, and so on.  She didn’t say anything but she must have liked the idea because after that, she always used a bun at communion.

Tory Boy: So what you’re saying is, your vicar thought the bun was the best thing since sliced bread?

 

That Was The Week That Was (III)

3 Sep

<b>The Tree of  War</b> - A Musical to Commemorate WW1The story so far:  Tory Boy’s guts are about to explode.

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Sunday 17 August

The Hub’s scapula was badly bruised but not broken, but he found it difficult to drive.  Tory Boy was taken into hospital on Saturday evening; I was on the first train next morning to Lancaster.  Which means I caught the bus because they were doing maintenance work on the tracks.  Didn’t they know I was in a hurry?

Tory Girl was making her way up to Lancaster from Darn Sarf, booking in at a Lancaster Travel Lodge on the way (hooray for wifi).  The train took five hours but it was worth the wait – she brought him a dinosaur sticker book, a Ninja Turtles notebook, a Spiderman pencil set and the Sunday Telegraph.  She knows him well.  She promised, if he was good and didn’t complain about the nurses’ needles, that she would buy him some Lego next day.  She made good on her promise, and threw in a dinosaur teddy for good measure.

The expression of love

The expression of love

Tory Boy had been admitted to hospital on the Saturday evening but it was Monday afternoon before he had his appendectomy – car accidents and other emergencies kept bumping him down the list.  I didn’t mind that, but I didn’t like that he wasn’t fed for 48 hours.  I suppose it helps the NHS catering budget to starve the patients.  They wouldn’t feed him because they believed he’d be next to be operated upon; but people kept crashing their cars.  It didn’t help that Tory Boy wasn’t in dreadful pain.  If it wasn’t for his rising temperature and pulse rate, you’d never have known he was one internal explosion away from writhing on the ground in agony.

I didn’t starve, of course: I had a surprisingly tasty lasagne in the inappropriately named Skylight Restaurant; which was in the basement.

*

Monday 18 August

The surgeon finally whipped out TB’s appendix around 2:30pm.  He said it was full of pus, septic, gangrenous and as close to bursting as he’d ever seen without actually bursting.  How Tory Boy hadn’t been screaming for 24 hours was beyond his understanding.  My boy, the medical conundrum.  Typical of a child who failed the HEAF test because he had the tuberculosis antibodies already, despite never having been inoculated.  His brother is the same – he also failed the HEAF test for the same reason; plus had his appendix out at eleven.  Spud is currently winning the battle of the freaks, however, because he had Shingles at age nine.

Weirdly, neither of them have ever broken any bones.

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Tuesday 19 August

While all of this was going on, Spud was preparing to leave for the Leeds music festival.  The five day trip was his main gift from us for his 18th birthday (back in January).  There was a lot of last minute shopping for camping equipment, etc.  I helped him pack on Tuesday evening; which is to say, I packed his bag on Tuesday evening: the child was prepared to survive on one packet of biscuits and ten litres of alcohol for almost a week, yet couldn’t pack a towel without his mother’s help.

The expression of dopey

The expression of dopey

Tory Boy was supposed to have been at a job interview Darn Sarf in the afternoon, but he had to cancel, for obvious reasons.

*

Wednesday 20 August

Tory Boy was released, after a flurry of texts and calls to say, I’m coming out – I’m not coming out – I’m allowed home today – No I’m not….  There was some dispute; but they must have needed the bed because they let him go.  I was on the train – a real train this time – as soon as he texted, I’ve got the drugs.

I brought him back by train (the Hub’s shoulder is going to take some time to heal – I hurt mine in January and it finally stopped aching around the beginning of August).  He went straight to bed as soon as we got in.  He lives in Lancaster but he needed his mother to look after him during his recuperation.

*

Friday 22 August

Tory Girl came for the weekend.  Tory Boy began to feel better.

Tory Boy no longer needed his mother.  Sigh.

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Monday 25 August

Exactly one week since his operation, Tory Boy was on the train with Tory Girl, travelling five hours Darn Sarf and five hours back (without her), for the rescheduled job interview. 

Spud came home, starving and stinking; not too drunk, but full of stories which can’t be repeated in a family blog.  Come visit us, however, and I’ll happily allow him to share.

*

Tuesday 23 August

Tory Boy got the job!

The expression of tolerance for a doting, blogging mother

The expression of tolerance for a doting, blogging mother

So that’s been my week (or two).  We are still busy, however, because Spud is rehearsing for The Tree of War, a play funded by the council and written by a poet vicar and a music student.  Details here.  Spud plays young Bert.

He is also packing up for university.  Or he would be, if he wasn’t spending all of his time rehearsing.  It’s going to be a last minute job; I know it.

Tory Boy went up to Lancaster at the end of last week to pack up his lodgings, came back to Stockport and went straight to hospital because he had some complications after his op.  I didn’t need a medical degree to know that they were caused by over-exertion.  They didn’t keep him in but he is on strict instructions to rest this week.  Apart from a  couple of excursions to the shops, he is resting.  He needs to leave here next week to start his new job and move in with Tory Girl – as soon as they find a flat.  What it is to be young and heedless.

Apart from this weekend’s performances, Spud is also doing a poetry reading with me in 12 days.  We’ll start rehearsing that next week.  Then we dump him and his stuff at Sheffield University at the end of the month – and I can start breathing again.

 

 

 

 

Vivinfrance's Blog

mainly poetry, also quilts, pictures, life-writing and the occasional short story.

Unpicked:Restitched

Where is the heart of Stockport?

The Jog

notices and reflections in ministry

The Cvillean

The adventures of little read writing Hood

Guernsey Evacuees Oral History

An Overlooked British Evacuation

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