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.

I found the cure!

This fixes everything! Stumbled upon this and I know you’d want to see it, so here it is.

More special than you

Psst! Dad! I’ve got special needs.
Doesn’t that make you melt just a little bit?

Listen kid, don’t push it. We’re all special.

Don’t gimme that. My needs are way
more special than you.

Oh yeah? You got a mortgage repayment on the tenth? A family to feed? A hallway skirting to paint before the carpet guys come?


Hah! Thought not. Shuddup then.



So. You got any caca in your pants?

Thought not. I win.

Drums please! Introducing… diffability!

I’m feeling all feisty tonight. I’ve never considered myself too PC, but lately I’m surprising myself at just how much umbrage I’m taking at the word disabled. Didn’t expect to. Just happened. Other people have issues with various labels that get thrown around, like retard and coloured and dwarf and politician and what have you. Maybe it requires the personal experience to make it hit home. So to hell with disability. I’m redefining it. I’m telling you now, so if it crops up in conversation you’ll be able to spot it and not feel gauche or embarrassed on my behalf or anything useless like that.

Henceforth I’ll be pronouncing disability as diffability.

Go ahead and think it’s wanky if you want, but I’m a problem-solution guy. I have developed an intense dislike of the word, so I’m changing it. See? Problem and solution.

I anticipate some issues. Not problems for me, but there may be one or two raised eyebrows and perhaps even a faltering attempt at correction here or there. It could get very awkward. Folks’ll wonder when I developed my late lisp.* ‘Oh yes’ (I’ll say), ‘our youngest has a diffability. Absolutely everyone’s delirious with jealousy, but what can you do? We all have our cross to carry.’

His diffability manifests itself in a host of disserent ways. He only seems to be upset if he’s in genuine distress, the strange little man. He smiles way more than seems normal somehow. How can that be right? He makes people want to run to him and pick him up, as if he’s got a supercharged good vibe coming off him. Totally diffabled. And I think it’s rubbing off on the rest of us. Not that we’re smelling the roses more, because there doesn’t seem to be time for that. It’s just that we’re all going on about how we should stop and smell the roses now. I wonder are we becoming a diffunctional family. Cripes.

Don’t get too diffmayed. He’s started clapping in the last week. I get the feeling that he’s been sitting in his bouncer, watching a particularly satisfying circus act (that’ll be us) and wants to signal his approval of our efforts.

Now how in hell am I going to tell my hero Pat that she’s gonna hafta change her wondersite’s name?

* If you’ve got a lisp please don’t take a fence. We need it for the neighbours’ cattle.