The scientific approach to integrating Down syndrome

‘Get off those stairs!’

‘Do NOT pull
your brother’s hair!’

‘Christopher’s all threw clothes Who floor over the?’

‘What do you think you’re doing
on the back of the sofa, young man?’

‘Get off
those stairs!’

‘Put down the saucepan lid, please! Daddy needs a shush day.’

‘When Andrew sees
what you did to that jigsaw
you are dead meat, mister.’

‘How did you
get in THERE?’




Oh dear. I think we’ve gone and integrated the littlest one.

Our Jacob: powernapper

So I’m in the office at home, working away, and after oh I dunno, ten minutes the repetitive sound finally manages to get my attention. ‘Hello, puppy calling do you want to play with me?’ Another Vtech chart topper in the endless hit parade of drives-you-demented ditties that they have.

There are two standard voices that come with Vtech toys, the English one and the American one. Both of them are unhinged. The English one comes with an absolutely impossible pertness from a cheerful school of elocution that has NEVER existed outside of the minds of directors of pertly cheerful British war movies from the forties. You wonder how many fluffy woodland creatures had to suffer to counterbalance this sheer evil naiceness.

The American one sounds like it’s been sleep deprived and force fed pure sugar for days and is GOING TO MAKE YOU CHEERFUL IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO! Smile with me!!

But I’m going mildly off topic. I’d been at my desk, remember. And after ten minutes of the insanely happy ‘Hello, puppy calling do you want to play with me?’ I wondered why Jacob was being so quiet. This was what I saw outside the office door.

Move round to the side and you see where the insane jollity was coming from.

He slept that way for ages! Hard pillow, crap soundtrack, he didn’t care! And if you look close, you can see the marks on his face from pushing the big Vtech button.  We all got scarred by Vtech, although I think they’re mostly disappeared.

Course, the mental anguish you go through never really leaves you, does it? Fellow sufferers know the insane stare. They’d sympathise if they weren’t already driven to distraction. All it might take to push them over the edge is to whistle a tune from the First Steps Baby Walker.

That Vtech will mess you up. Kids, I know what I’m talking about. That Vtech will mess you up. I think I might be even repeating myself over and over. I know for sure Jacob’s mother does. Watch out, that Vtech will mess you up.

I’ve seen the unwitting mums, pushing it on their kids. It tears families up, maan. And woe betide you if you mix it with alcohol. It might seem funny at midnight, but at seven a.m. Satan’s sour refrain (You know it. It goes ‘Hello, puppy calling do you want to play with me?’ over and over and over again) will steal your very soul. (Now alternatively that could be a Christmas party hangover, I will say. The results aren’t all back from the lab.)

Have a Vtech Christmas everyone!!! 😦

All a y’awl! Lookid me crawl!

Stop press: The following giant baby has been spotted terrorising the lower-lying levels of a suburban house in north Dublin.


The giant baby is armed and somewhat toothed but not quite legged yet. At-risk items include stools, coffee tables, clothes horses, bigger brothers’ casually discarded toys, artwork and shoes etc, telephone wiring and dog tails.

Do not approach giant baby!

Deceptive smile will lead to vicious dribbling. Reports of gleeful hair pulling cannot be confirmed but make no mistake, this rapid moving critter is leaving a wake of destruction in his, er, wake. You have been warned.

Coming next: Giant Baby Lab Attack!!

This blog’s SUPPOSED to be about me…

Seeing as nobody else is doing anything about bringing the glorious minute-by-minute news of me to you, my fashion-starved friends, I’ve once again had to take control of the the entire internet to update you all. The world is in imminent danger of economic ruin and unimaginable collapse, it’s true, so why not check out my big white boots?big-boots-1

Aren’t they cool? And has anyone ever shown a pair of dungarees how they should be worn more successfully than I do? That’s right, they have not.

I admire you for your intelligent and insightful analysis, all of you. I totally dominate the camera. And the catwalk. Not so much catwalk as crawl perhaps, but I wouldn’t be the first supermodel not to be able to hold themselves upright on a given day, would I? Heh heh. Oh listen to me! Who am I to fire cheap shots at a much maligned segment of society? Forgiveness!

And just in case you think I can’t act up with the best Naomi Campbells and Kate Mosses, check me out here after I fell off the bar stool at some after-show party in Kensington last week. (I’m posting it here because that way I have some degree of control over those infernal paparazzi, and because I can trust you good people not to tell everyone else.)


Ha ha ha hic! Shares in me are on the floor!

Ha! Fooled you. I hadn’t been drinking at all! I was just stress testing the furniture round these parts. Something tells me it’s going to get a lot of testing. And stress. What do you think of my mechanic chic?

Ooh... be two weeks before we get a replacement for this gasket, love
Ooh… be two weeks before we get a replacement for this gasket, love.

Ok, enough of the small talk. I have actually been working too, you know. Apart from now pretty much owning the downstairs and forcing the Big Ones™ to actually sweep/clean the floors every so often, I have also started talking. Whole sentences. (Oh, have to tell you this one. Stubbleyman, in bed a couple of days back, was trying to squeeze those last 15 mins out of the cosy duvet, or comforter, for you up-and-at-em Yanks among my clearly superior and discerning fans. Normally I’d just be awake, wondering if they’d ever feed me again and yakking my stream of consciousness babble, right? But just to throw it out there, I decided to say I wanted to be fed and forthwith if you please, my good man. I think ‘More nam nams‘ was how it came out, or possibly even ‘Mah nam nam‘, but you catch the drift. Man! He was out of the bed like a ricocheting knife off Herself’s week-old lasagne. I think he dislocated his gossip bone in the race down the stairs to tell Herself about the genius they’re slowly realising that they got lucky with. Wish you coulda seen it. Oh yes, I have finally discovered the secret of the guilt trip, and by golly I’ll be exploiting it.)

I’ve also seen fit to let them know that I am fully aware of where their noses are. Well if they’re silly enough to ask, it would be rude of me not to answer by honking good and hard on said proboscis, no? I’m just about beginning to do the hug thing too, but I’m not sure they’re ready for it yet. Whaddya say, Elbog?

They’re also starting to annoy me with flash cards and repeating words over and over again. What a pain. If I say ‘Ball’ back to them do you think it’ll make them go away? Or will they just harrass me more? What should I do, gentle readers?

Put the kettle on! There’s visitors!

Seems that while we’ve been blogging, Jacob and I, the cyberbell has been ringing and a neat queue has formed at the door. The lovely India Knight has linked to us at The Times Online and now we’ve been caught napping.


This blog hasn’t had a lick of paint in forever, Jacob’s been hopeless at encouraging me to post new info, he hasn’t written a sodding thing himself since he turned fourteen months last week and now we’ll really have to organise our shoddy categories so people can muddle around in a vaguely not lost way. And as if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, these aren’t even my best y-fronts.

Ach so what! This is us, you’re most welcome to our place and don’t worry about the snow on your boots.

Happy birthday to me. Hurrah etc.

So, a week ago I was a size zero. Then the goshest thing happened. I woke up and I was one! One what, you ask? Shaddap smartypants, I reply.

Anyway, here is a fabulous pictorial memory book of my greatest ever first birthday, last November 16th 2008. A day already legendary in my mind, let me tell you, and for no very good reasons. Read on, and prepare to have your innards churn…

junk-pressiesA whole year of me-ness. What could possibly be nicer for that bunch of yokels I live with, more life affirming and pleasant? That’s right dear readers, absolutely nothing. It is for you I write, because let’s us face it, they won’t get my pithy understatement. But they could have tried to get me some nice presents at least, no? Look at this tat. A boombox that lacks boom and could fit in my nappy undetected? A Thomas the Tank Engine camera THAT DOESN’T BLOODY WORK!? Where’s the iPod? The champers? The dancing girls? Bah!


Well I suppose I should be happy that they stuck a candle on a cake that whatsername ‘baked’ for me. Digestive biscuits smothered in chocolate. Nice. Nice potential at least. If you happen to have teeth. I tried to give a few of the gathering vultures the evil eye but feh, they all love you when you have a big fat cake. There were ten people involved in this travesty of a party. I’ve got prizes* for anyone who can guess which one of the ten didn’t get a lick of his own birthday cake. Go on, have a go. Can’t win if you’re not in.

(* Prizes include fabulous mini-boombox complete with blue and also exciting branded camera with blue and black. In plastic only.)

Now I’m not bitter. Far from it. I take people as I find them. And when I find them proposing a train trip to a north Dublin seaside town on the SIXTEENTH of an arse-freezing NOVEMBER, then I name them as idiots.  Yes, a train trip. Won’t it be jolly! No it bloody won’t! It’ll be freezing my wotsits is what it’ll be. Get me in the gas-guzzling seven seater NOW you fools! I am a BABY! I cannot SURVIVE in these conditions. I DEMAND

Did they lend an ear? Gah. There is much I could teach you about the human condition, if you cared to listen. Not only did they ignore me, the beautiful birthday boy of needs most minimal and non-disruptive to their frankly puzzling lives, they also thought it would be fun to give ice cream to the brothers. Not me, of course. It was only my birthday after all. (You’re beginning to see the pattern here, I trust. Thank God you’re there because if it wasn’t for you nobody would hear me. Nobody at all.) (Also, there’ll be an address for donations for the rehousing thing somewhere at the bottom.)they-got-ic-cream

alien-babyAnd from there it went rapidly downhill. More freezing of rear in the pitch dark ‘playground’, all in the name of ‘fun’. Oh don’t mind me, I’ll just make like Monkey No 3 in this triangle of idiot. At least the upside of it is that not a single one of them noticed the arrival of Alien Baby in her trans-galactic Alien Baby Buggy there on the left. Oh God the pleasure I will have when she topples their pathetic world! And then we shall rule togeth- ahem, where was I? Sorry, I drifted there for a minute…

Oh yes, there was the mild compensation of this too:


‘Hey Edge – er, I mean, you guy from the house I live at…’
My double chin’s only puppy fat, dawg! What’s your excuse? Nyah hahahhahhahah!

And don’t you lot dare pity him! He needs all the educational readjustment he can get! Jacob’s fadder* indeed. Want to see what he thought was the funniest thing all night? Go here. I’m not even going to do the dweeb the favour of posting it here. It isn’t funny or clever – and no sniggering there, you at the back. You know who you are!

* Thanks for that, Carl.

Yes we can!


Ok, so you’ve got a black man…


…and he’s moving into a white house


…thanks to a lot of blue voters?



My name is Jacobama and I endorse this message.

Note from Jacob’s campaign advisor

And well done to all you red voters out there who made your votes count too. Didn’t mean to exclude you all, and glad to see everyone making this whole voting lark work so well.