Have I been wrong all this time? (Spoiler: No. Maybe, a little.)

I’ve always kind of hated text speak. ‘m8’? What the fuck? How hard is it to type ‘mate’? Useless cretins. I’ve only ever used ‘lol’ twice, and both times it was sarcastic for things that were decidedly unfunny. Emojis and all the associated pictures that you can add to your messages feel like an evolution of that text speak that annoys me so I don’t use them. I never mind it when other people use them, but because text speak always annoyed me, I’ve always refused to use them myself. They say a picture paints a thousand words. Well, give me the thousand words any day. Words can make you understood if you use them correctly. Words have immense power. Power to uplift, power to crush. Power to deceive (just ask most of the UK press).

I’ve tried at times to describe, a little, what it means to me to have Rach in my life, and how I might have turned out without her in older blog entries. Most people know a little about how it feels to be in love. About how having someone there to support, share and experience with makes everything make a little bit more sense. And because most of you know, I’ll not waste time trying to explain how she fills up my heart and soul with a warm glow every day, or how literally everything would be worse without her.

Instead I’ll come to the point (such as it is). She uses smiley faces, colourful heart pictures and other types of emojis in her texts to me. When she affectionately calls me a dork because I have to finish on the hour when doing overtime, not half-past or quarter-to, followed by a smiling face, or a kissing face and some hearts, it genuinely makes my day. I grin and have that little floating-on-air moment you have when you get confirmation that someone you love loves you in return. And I got it because of the emojis I refuse to use.

Still not doing text-speak. Always ‘you are’, or ‘you’re’, never ‘ure’. But knowing now how they can sometimes brighten a day, I may occasionally start using a picture or two. To be honest, the thumbs up in Skype is also a pretty useful thing when you’ve got nothing else to say, but saying nothing feels a little rude. So, maybe the occasional picture along with the words isn’t so bad after all.

Getting older? Sure. Wiser? I couldn’t possibly say.

I just had a birthday. 39. Thirty-nine! How did that happen? It’s a weird kind of hinterland age – half the people I know insist it isn’t old at all, while half are either too polite to agree or are in the same boat with me.

It’s strange, because I still feel like the same person I’ve always been – you don’t feel older exactly – you just are. Sure, you have more experience so might have made different decisions knowing what you know now, but that’s hardly something new.

I am making a bit more of an effort to take joy in the moments and places I can find it, because it feels like it’s more important at the moment in a world where too many people seem bent on making life as joyless as possible. So I took some time off work, bought some new CDs and Blu Rays and soaked up as much of the best parts of my life as I could. Went to the beach with my family on the weekend. The sun was shining but the sea was most definitely still cold. My eldest loves the water though, so I allowed her to convince me to get in, and had a great time just spending time not as a parent, but as a play mate, just remembering the simple yet potent joy of being young and spending a day at the beach.

I felt a few things wrapped up in a towel drying off afterwards. One of those things was cold. However, another was refreshed and enlivened. It seems that the way to stop myself feeling old is to act as though I’m still young! Is that wisdom? I don’t know. Sounds a little bit like it.

New occasional feature: Ending with a song relating to the post:

Oasis: Stay Young. “Stay young and invincible.”

Some of the ways in which having kids has ruined me.

When people talk about their kids, it’s often in the kind of way that makes me want to puke. Not the declarations of love and happiness – that’s normal, but the suggestion that they are something other than regular kids. You know, not every kid is a world class genius sports star in waiting. Sorry to disabuse you of whatever notion you might have had. Of course, I too get ridiculously proud whenever one of my girls does something cool like spell a tricky word or ask a perceptive question, so I can’t really rant too much about that.

The honest truth is there are some things having children has made worse, not better. My bank balance. Traffic jams. The already crippling overpopulation problems. Also, my enjoyment of fiction, in all its forms. I cry far too easily now, and I’m blaming my kids. Jeopardy or tragedy involving children or even young adults, with a focus on the lost potential of a young life lost. Depictions of cruelty to, disregarding of, or annoyance with children (not that I don’t get annoyed with them. So I’m a hypocrite. Shoot me). Now that I have an intimate knowledge of just how dependent children are on constant, unconditional love and acceptance to develop through their early years, these things shown on film or TV, or written into books leave me a wreck. That never used to happen.

Seeing them becoming more sophisticated with every year on the one hand makes me eager for some of the things I’m looking forward to sharing with them, while on the other makes me increasingly fearful that an inevitable misstep will leave them going down a different path to one I wish for them. It’s sometimes enough to make you sick with fear, this crushing feeling of responsibility. It can also lead to a determined resoluteness to do your absolute best for them, come what may, which can be freeing, although too often is restricting instead.

Quite a few of the people I know who are also parents will talk of what they might have made of their lives had they ignored this biological imperative to reproduce. Where they might have gone, what they might have done. This, I am certain, does not make them unfit parents, but more realistically human. For sure I’ve missed out on some probably fantastic experiences because I had children. It is okay to lament the loss of this other life.

But. Like the majority of those other parents, given the chance not to have them part of my life, no matter what other eventuality might persist, there is nothing that could remotely tempt me. To watch day by day as these individuals take shape, with their own thoughts and their own ideas, is incomparable. It makes living with the sickening fear born of the creeping feeling of inevitability that you're bound to do something that messes them up irrevocably worth it.

Growing up, guitars and good friends.

When I was in my teens, the big musical thing was Britpop. Now, that isn’t my fault, so don’t be too hard on me. The thing about music is it isn’t necessarily what’s best in a technical sense that becomes your favourite. Sure, everyone can appreciate decent lyrics and great playing. But your favourite music often becomes your favourite because of how you felt, or what you were doing, or even how old you were when you heard it. So when I first really got into music, following a brief flirtation with the mighty Jovi, it was to the strains of the Britpop movement. Blur’s Parklife was the first record I truly fell in love with (and to this day I remain so), but Oasis slowly eclipsed Blur as my favourite. As with so many of today’s leading guitar acts, Definitely Maybe inspired me to buy a guitar. I lacked both the talent and the will for it to go any further than a hobby, but being able to play first Oasis, and later Stereophonics, Blur and Weller was among the greatest joys of my teenage life.

One of my childhood friends, Ian, loved Oasis as much as I did, and there is no doubt that we bonded tremendously over this mutual love. Entire weekends would disappear learning Slide Away or Champagne Supernova; Ian singing, me playing guitar. Our friends were probably bored half to death listening to us, but we didn’t care. Then we got older, and things change as they always do. Girlfriends, jobs, moving all conspired to move my guitars to a cupboard under the stairs. Late last year Ian died of a rare form of Leukaemia, and now I find myself remembering all those weekends spent playing guitar. Turns out I can’t listen to Live Forever all the way through without crying anymore.

We never did get a band together. But in the end that isn’t what matters. What matters is the comfort of the memories I have of those years. There has been much talk of Ian looking down on us and the things we’re doing with approval and love. If you’ve read enough of these you’ll know that in my heart that’s a belief I can’t share, but at times like these I feel and understand the need people have for it, and I cannot give enough kudos to the vicar who spoke at Ian’s funeral, who happily admitted that he had been tasked with giving the ceremony just enough religion ‘to get him in’, and the good grace with which he managed this.

Thoughts now turn to those guitars, gathering dust under the stairs. I think maybe I’ll bring them out again into the light of day and give Don’t Look Back in Anger a whirl. It feels like a modest tribute, but somehow the most heartfelt.

Further adventures in parenting and crushing self-doubt.

I get told often by people that I’m a good father. Of course, as nice as that is to hear, I know enough to recognise that the opinion of one person, or several people, as much as I happen to love and respect those people, doesn’t necessarily make it true. I know that my kids are happy and loved, but is that enough? It won’t be too many more years before the influence I have over them becomes less than their peers and current cultural guff.

Katie can sometimes be reluctant to join in with group activities and parties, preferring instead to play with her sister who is half her age. I don’t really think this is anything to worry about, except I remember how it felt at school to be outside the groups, to feel awkward around the other kids. At a fairly recent birthday party she went to, a few of the other kids clocked that she wasn’t wearing different shoes, but the same ones she wore to school. When questioned on this, she merely looked at the questioner as if she didn’t understand what she was being asked, or what the point of the question was, and carried on dancing. The pride and love I felt for her on witnessing this was like nothing else. As is the feeling I get when I see her devouring book after book, and writing her own stories (she recently wrote one about a Christmas tree that was sad because it hadn’t been decorated).

She'd rather sing along to Disney songs or stuff from my collection (she's currently digging Lana Del Ray's Dark Paradise) than listen to One Direction sing about how much they want to shag people (almost all pop music, regardless of how innocent it seems, is about sex. Don't pretend it isn't). I've not forgotten the Jessie J incident, and I know this happy arrangement can't last, and I'm mentally preparing for that as much as I can.

But this lack of interest in other people’s opinions of her can’t last. Not to put too fine a point on it, it’s difficult to get through childhood without being irreparably fucked up by parents, peers, teachers, randoms or any combination thereof. I hope my two are strong enough, and I hope I can help them through.

Why? This is why.

During my Interweb adventures recently, I came across a strange thing. One of those single people, waxing lyrical about how amazing being without a lover is. It would seem this person considered being in a relationship pretty much equivalent to death. Why would anyone want to be with the same person for months, years, or, worse, their entire lives? While I was glad this person was so happy with their state of affairs, I felt it might be worth exploring that question. Why would anyone want that? Well, in my case, here follows just a couple of reasons.

Because she couldn’t step on an insect for any amount of money – she could not live with the guilt. Because she loves to run for the sheer love of running, not for competition, not for ‘self-improvement’ (ugh), but for fun. Because there is nobody she won’t see the best in – a skill with empathy unmatched by anyone else I’ve ever known – a skill I’ve learned much from. Because even after 16 years, I still want to jump her bones every single time I see her. Because she loves me for (or in spite of) the silly things I spend time and money on. Because she saved me from all the other lives I might have lived without her. Because when our daughters are grown, they will look back and consider what their mother did for them, and what she instilled in them, and they will be overwhelmed with gratitude.

Cherryade and Chocolate Eclairs.

When someone you love, someone who’s been a fixture of your life for, well, your whole life, is gone suddenly, it is a strange feeling. For a while, I hadn’t even been seeing granddad with any great regularity, but occasionally we’d go and visit. He was in his late eighties and hasn’t exactly been well lately, but it is still an unpleasant experience. The three grandparents I grew up with have now gone, all in the last five years, and I find the things I retain of them are a collection of memories, triggered by tastes, smells and days of the week.

Any Sunday lunch I eat is judged according to how close it was to my nan’s, and the mingled smells of make-up and cigarette smoke remind me of her. Visits to National Parks would always remind me of the funny stuff my first granddad would sometimes come out with – while on holiday with family to Lanzarote, we went on an excursion to Timanfaya National Park, which is on the site of a dormant volcano. Upon arriving, granddad took one look around and said “There aren’t many people at the park today, are there?” which has always cracked me up. And my last granddad who went just recently? Late Sunday afternoon in Winter, before driving home through Christmas lights, snuggled down in the back seat in my duffel coat, we would go to granddad’s and he would have fizzy pop and sweets for us, my favourite being cherryade and chocolate eclairs.

It is sad that they’re gone, and I hope my parents cope OK with being the oldest generation in our family now, but I’m glad I have these warm comforting feelings to drawn upon and remember them by. After all, that’s what grandparents are for, isn’t it?

What the hell happened to Aberystwyth?

So we went on holiday for a week to Penbryn, which is on the Welsh coast about 30 miles South of Aberystwyth. The holiday was marvellous and the place is lovely - quiet and relaxing with dramatic scenery and plenty of beaches. On the way there we stopped for a while in Aberystwyth. For a long time, Aberystwyth was a bit like a second home for us because Rach got her degree there and we'd spend most of our weekends there before I went back to my University in Stafford. There's an old assumption that the English aren't fond of the Welsh and that, well, just about everybody hates the English. Anyone with half an ounce of sense can see these for the bollocky generalisations they are and that while there are a few people who act that way, they are in a retarded minority. Which is why YOU SHOULD NOT TAKE THE TITLE OF THIS BLOG POST SERIOUSLY.

Anyway, we came to love Aberystwyth, and while there was one local shop close to the University buildings where the shopkeepers would start talking loudly in Welsh every time you walked in the door, most people were lovely. We loved going out of an evening, we loved spending time on the beach, and generally being together there. I will spare you the mushy romantic bollocks, but it's safe to say that the time we spent there was very special to the both of us.

Cut back to our lunch stop en route to Penbryn. We attempt to park, but the only free space has some pleb standing in it like some kind of statue erected in honour of pricks. We stop and Rach opens the window and politely asks if he's saving the space for someone. I think his unfriendly grunt was supposed to be an affirmative response. Instead of pressing the matter, we just move on - there's no telling what the crunt might do to our car if we argue or force him to move.

We find another car park - the fee is a £3.00 flat rate whether you're staying for 10 minutes, 2 hours or all day. This is infuriating and as it turns out seems to be the same for every car park in Ceredigion. This is bloody ridiculous, but that's another subject, which I won't waste time writing about. We need cash for the car park, so me and Katie head off to find some while Rach and Emily stay with the car. The first place we come to is a Co-op where I buy some chocolate and get some cash back. No fucker in the vicinity smiles at me, Katie or anyone else. It's seems grim and unhappy compared to what I remember. When walking back to the car I see the first car park we tried - the crunt is still standing in the place. Maybe he's mental and not actually holding it for anyone.

While there, we also see a hen party in full flow along the sea front, with a group of girls staggering around and generally acting up. This is at lunch time. It will only take a few more of these to turn our beloved Aberystwyth into Blackpool.

I'm not an idiot. Not completely, anyway. I know that this doesn't mean my Aberystwyth has gone, but just that I got a bit annoyed at some dick standing in a parking space and let it colour the whole visit - after all, why should I have a problem with a group of women celebrating their friend's upcoming marriage? I don't and I got a bit annoyed at myself for getting annoyed at them. If you follow me. It's just that this visit has kind of tarnished the place for me a bit now. I'm going to go back one day I think, just so I can reacquaint myself with the Aberystwyth that my wife and I found and loved when we were teenagers.

How my marriage saved my life and stopped me from becoming a self-hating wreck.

I've decided to write about how I am in awe of a woman. So in awe of her that I continue to be amazed she decided to marry me. Honestly, I still occasionally expect someone to tell me it's a big joke, as if anyone like her would ever settle for a douche like me. Obviously, as you'd expect, I think she's beautiful. As reasons why I love her so much go, however, that's a fairly poor one. I've known some gorgeous women (and men, for that matter) who have been complete bastards (and indeed, we've probably all come across an uggo with a heart of gold), so for the basis for forming a long term relationship it's no more than a starting point. Also, it's kind of on the subjective side, and there are no doubt people who genuinely wouldn't understand where I was coming from with the whole finding her beautiful thing. So, there's got to be more, right? Right.

Most people, at some point in their lives, hate themselves. They hate their own stupidity, they hate the way they look, the way they feel, or something. Well, I'm most people. If I was someone else, I don't think I'd really enjoy spending time with me. So if I hadn't met my wife and hadn't married her and started a family with her, where might I be? In reality, there's no answering that question, but I feel sure that it would be dreadful. Instead, I'm married with children. For a lot of people, this would be a nightmare, and like most people, I don't like kids very much. It is true what they say about it being different when they're your kids though. Loving my own children is (as it is in most people) an automatic genetic response to procreating (neither would I want to change that response even if I could). This is very different to the way I feel about my wife. She saved my life. To have the certain knowledge that, barring any utter catastrophe, the way I feel will be reciprocated for the majority of the rest of our lives is to be content. I'm still no big fan of myself, but when I consider that this amazing woman thinks I'm worth the effort of marrying, I remember to go a little easier on myself, because if she loves me, then I can't be all bad.