It's not just dads who can be embarassing.

Club Mum, although not on a par with Club Dad, is not a pretty sight. And when Club Dad and Club Mum merge it becomes Club Parent.

Yikes.

On one particular holiday, the flight home was early in the morning. So my parents decided they'd spend the evening in the bar with the friends they'd made on holiday. Bit of a mistake, as they hadn't bothered to pack the suitcases beforehand.

So getting back to the hotel my parents (eventually) get everything packed and we leave. My mother seemed to have particular problems in dragging her suitcase down the corridor. Obviously, when you're pulling a suitcase it's easier when you move in a straight line rather than zig-zagging down a corridor.

Of course, it got a lot easier when my sister and I asked 'shouldn't the wheels be on the bottom?'

But that's not the end of the story.

After takeoff on the plane, my mother went to the toilet and didn't come back for some time.

Don't be disgusting.

My father had also been gone for some time (I asked you not to be disgusting) and then two strangers took my parents places in the seats next to me.

Rather than summary adoption, my mother had passed out en route to the pisser. But you can always rely on dad to look out for mum. The couple who'd given up their seats asked the air steward, in a very concerned manner, if there was anywhere she could lay down. Cue my father's sensitive retort:

'How about the wing?'

And then hopefully will detach itself from the continent and drift down towards Antarctica, giving the rest of the EU a break.

Are Spanish people the new Americans? I appreciate that's a heavy insult, and one of my friends is Spanish, but having suffered the agony of living with French people and worked in a bar populated with Yanks, I have to inform you that you are worse than the two combined.

Are any of you capable of having a conversation at a normal volume. Do you even know what 'conversation' means? It's not when two people of at close proximity and of normal audition bawl at each other for a couple of hours.

And take the following scenario: you're in a restaurant, you're seated next to a table of ten incredibly loud people. All ten are talking at the same time and nobody is listening. Are these people:

(a) Spanish.
(b) Spanish
or (c) Spanish.

Maybe I've just met the wrong Spanish people. So far I've managed to get two evicted from places I've lived, and was pretty close to the hattrick a couple of months ago. My friend, however, has managed a series of relationships with Spanish senoritas. However, I don't remember doing anything to deserve my luck. I'm not responsible for my father's actions in Spain when I was 14, nor for all the pissed up British arseholes who head over there each summer and vomit in your streets and shag loudly in your building sites nice hotel complexes.

And another thing: you're not getting Gibraltar back. Ever.

See Dad - I knew I'd make you proud one day.

It may seem paradoxical but, apparently, the older you get, the more influence your genes have on your behaviour. This would go some way to explaining why I'm gradually becoming ever more like the old man. It would also go some way to explaining my growing fondness of John Wayne films, the sudden urge I had yesterday to lay paving slabs (it being a bank holiday and all) and my hatred of the Spanish.

But in a more global sense, part of becoming more like the old man is that growing tendency as you get older to not care so much what people think of you. That is just the first step to going over the precipice of cool and ending up in Dadland.

Growing up it seemed to me that all parents were oblivious to (a) good taste and (b) social decorum. And no more was this evident than on family holidays. If you think Brits let it all hang out on Club 18-30 holidays, this is nothing compared to Club Dad.

Yes, at Club Dad, all dads will walk the beachfront in undignifyingly short shorts, will patronise foreign waiters and tell your holiday pals' parents every last embarassing tale about you. And one particular incident epitomised the true spirit of Club Dad.

One of my father's rare attempts to converse with the natives occured while he was on his daily beachfront walk and a dodgy paella kicked in. He sent my sister and I off to scout out a public convenience, but when you're laughing really hard it's tough to walk, let alone run. In his desperate state the old man manages to get hold of one of the locals and pleads:

Hey, amigo. El toiletto?

Bears do not reside in the UK.

As a young lad, I went on the rite of passage trip that is cub camp. Rather than a sweet Wonder Years moment where I pecked a brownie on the cheek, I found out that adults are lying manipulative sick f*cks who will take advantage of any situation to have a laugh at someone else's expense.

An important thing to learn in life.

But this wasn't what I wished I'd been taught at school.

On this cub camp, a group of elder scouts decided to take a load of us cubs out for a midnight tour through the forest, which become more like an initiation ceremony for new recruits into the SAS. I don't remember the parental consent form saying they could do this, but they did.

As we went out into the dark (with one torch between 20 of us) we were told that there were bears in the forest, and when we were told to 'GET DOWN!', we had to get down, regardless of whether we were getting down into grass, gravel or bear shit. Even if it meant getting 'a stone in our balls' we had to 'GET DOWN!'

Now the prospect of facing up to some pissed off grizzlys, or 'getting down' into some bear shit, naturally upset some of us young cubs (myself included) and a select group were led back to camp (myself included). Now at the time my logic was pretty good: I may have been led back to camp like the little scared cub I was, but at least I wasn't going to get eaten by a bear.

Not that there was ever any danger of that.

Still, it wasn't all bad. Being the first back in the tent meant I got to sleep furthest away from the door, and when my two compadre cubs got back later in the night they paid for their braveness by being bit by a ferret that snuck in through the half-opened tent flap.

Not a bad night's work that - escaping a bear and a ferret.

Still, when I later learnt the truth about bears and their natural habitat I did think to myself, 'why the hell didn't they teach me that at school???'

Some of you may be aware of the recent claims by former miners for compensation due to the work-related condition of 'vibration white finger'.

And if you're not, don't worry: there'll be a punchline at the end of this anecdote.

My father had been successful in a compensation claim for VWF, although I'm not clear if he does actually have the condition. Now this compensation success had sparked a fire in my father. There'd been years of not winning the lottery, but he'd hit the jackpot now. Everytime I was home and a personal injury claim ad was on the TV his eyes lit up. I'm pretty sure he was reading my psychology textbooks while I was walking the dog in order to see if there was another syndrome he could claim compensation for.

So a bit of numbness in my father's wrist became carpal tunnel syndrome. My mother, who genuinely did have CTS, spent ages coaching my father on the symptoms to report. Not an easy task, because if there's one condition my father does have it's chronic bullshitter syndrome.

Like most fathers in their mid 50s, my dad long ago left the real world as we know it. Decades watching John Wayne films, Sharpe and reading Frederick Forsyth had taken my father into a fantasy world where he had battled Napoleon, rode the wild frontier on horseback and been a top MI6 agent infiltrating the KGB. Hence my father's symptom report for carpal tunnel syndrome initially sounded more like the feedback from an amputee.

After some months coaching my father, he was finally ready for his examination. My mother dropped off my father at the surgery and waited for him to emerge from the consulting room. After 20 minutes my father came storming out of the room, face all purple and sweat pouring down his face.

So they go out to car and my father (for once) has nothing to say for himself, and is just sat there bolt upright with shock etched into every pore of his face. My mother asks, 'father of TKK, what happened?' There's a pause before the old man coughs to what took place:

'They gave me bloody electric shocks!'

Rather than the cushy eliciting of symptoms and diagnosis my father had expected, the consultant had put small charges of electricity through his wrists. Of course, if he hadn't been faking exaggerating it, he wouldn't have felt a thing, and his arms wouldn't have danced around as if they were on a puppeteer's strings.

But if you thought this experience would teach my father a lesson, then think again.

He won his carpal tunnel syndrome compensation claim.

The blind date a.k.a. the setup.

When friends offer to set you up with a friend of theirs, you know you're in a bad state. It's almost as if you've contracted some form of dating dementia and aren't capable of living without supported loving any more.

A friend of mine set me up with a friend of hers, and gave me all sorts of promises. It seemed that my date to be was well very endowed and 'a bit of a goer'.

Well I sure liked the sound of her.

Unlike the sight of him her.

The minute we saw each other we both thought 'who the hell have you fixed me up with here!', although I was pretty offended that she hadn't noticed my look of horror in the same way I'd detected hers.

It made for an uncomfortable start to our double-date dinner, with her clearly swallowing the evolutionary bollocks that men will shag anything to ensure their reproductive responsibility in life is done.

Sorry, luv, but my genes aren't that selfish.

Anyhow, as the evening progressed and she realised I wasn't about to start playing footsie with her under the table any time soon she actually relaxed and we got on reasonably well.

I was now so past the point of trying to make a good impression that I was reeling through my repertoire of offensive jokes (sample: how can you tell if a woman is coming? Who cares.) and smoking two cigarettes at a time, with a cigar chaser.

At the end of the evening I chalked it down to experience, vowing never to allow myself to be set up with anyone again.

A postscript to my WDGW is I met this girl again a couple of years later and my friend was clearly right about her: she definitely was a goer.

We were in the basement of some bar in Victoria and her and a couple of friends were molesting random men as they came down the stairs. (I felt sorry for the guy carrying the tray of drinks - no way to defend himself.)

My then girlfriend looked on appalled as my former date and her co-molesters systematically harassed every man with a pulse. Of course, I thought it appalling as well, and agreed with my girlfriend completely. Naturally, I made no mention to my ex-girlfriend of my being set up with this wallflower of a girl a couple of years previously.

Because this isn't 'when relationships go wrong'. It's...

'When dates go wrong...'

Does the above bring back any memories you thought you'd long repressed? Have you been on a blind date? Have you been on Blind Date? If so, share your dating tragedies with Timekillingkid. And if you are blind and would like to go on a date with TKK then I have to say that he's really, really good-looking.

There seems to be a bizarre campaign in the media at the moment for all us Celts to put aside lifeling national enmities and back the English in the world cup.

Yeah, right.

Now I don't mind following the 'English' in the cricket as it's more like watching a Commonwealth team than anything else (try and find Pietermaritzberg on an English map). But in terms of players and supporters, the football team is something else.

Do you really think us Celts are going to paint St. George crosses across our faces and stand shoulder-to-shoulder (or should that be beerbelly-to-beerbelly) with such English national 'treasures' as Chris Moyles, Keith Allen and David Cameron?

Yeah, right.

But then again, maybe it's not such a bad idea. Maybe we should all rush out and buy Neil and Christine Hamilton's world cup song and make it No.1. Maybe we should all whistle the Great Escape theme and make dive bomber movements with our arms when England play Germany. And in the 13th minute of the quarter finals when Michael Owen limps off injured and Sven makes his cunning tactical substitution we can shout out, 'the boy Hargreaves - he knows how to turn a game!'

So when you English all wake up towards the end of June after another penalty shootout defeat, 2000 English fat blokes are locked up in a German cell and you can hear Neil and Christine singing on the radio how 'we're going to win the world cup!', you'll realise just how bloody ridiculous your arrogant triumphalist xenophobic nationalism is to the rest of us, and why no Celt worth his/her salt will be supporting you in the world cup.

Football's 'coming home'???

Being deported, more like.

Does anyone know any painters who can get their assigned job done without (a) painting the carpets/floors as they paint the ceilings and b) working without smoking, whistling and reading The Sun while they're on the job???

I've been stuck in my flat for the past few days as they arsed about worked on the landing area outside my door. To add to my torture it seemed they couldn't paint unless they had a cup of tea in one hand and a fag in the other (which is probably why they got fuck all done). There I was trying to revise and not smoke, and for five hours a day I have the odour of cigarette tobacco wafting under the door. Bastards. It's like going to Weight Watchers class and holding a tray of freshly cooked bacon outside the door.

And do painters get handed out regulation painting t-shirts for working in? It seems they must (a) only stretch down to belly button height, (b) be incredibly thin to the point of being translucent and (c) be some horrible pale green colour. Every time I stepped outside of my room it was like the Valley of the Man-breasts I was walking through.

Just imagine the following scenario:

England win the World Cup, and as one of his last acts in office Prime Minister Tony Blair awards knighthoods to the entire England squad.

Think hard of the implications of this.

Sir David James.

Sir Joe Cole.

Sir Peter Crouch.

And worst of all: Sir Owen Hargreaves.

But on second thoughts, as an unabashed republican, nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing the Queen humiliate herself by knighting such a band of fuckwits...

Arise, Sir Sven...after you're done shagging your latest piece.

It's long been my contention that the harder you try to look, the more ridiculous and camp you can end up being. A pretty good example of this phenomenon can be seen in the posters for ex-SAS tough guy Chris Ryan's new paperback, Blackout.

Now the posters I saw on the tube this morning publicise his new book and have a select review quote from the Daily Mirror emblazened across them. The review quote bellows: 'Chris Ryan - Hard as nails!'

Now this quote may have been intended to make Mr. SAS look the Guvnor, but with a little textual deconstruction you can get a totally different reading.

First of all you have the quote, 'hard as nails!'

Hard as nails.

And there was me thinking that was emergency rations and grenades in his pocket.

But if we unpack the nail simile a little more we get some further information. Anyone who's ever tried to put shelves up knows all too well that nails bend very easily.

Bend very easily.

So rather than conveying a tough guy image, the ad is giving the impression that not only is Chris Ryan totally up for it but he's up for anyone.

So there ya go. Chris Ryan: hard as nails! or Chris Ryan: 'erect and with his trousers round his ankles'.

You be the judge.

I'm sure I can't be the only one whose 'local' bank seems to be moving further and further away from them. And by bank I mean a fully-staffed bank and not a cashpoint or a cornershop ATM.

But apart from the inconvenience, what makes it worse is the long-term effects when local branch closures lead to holes in the wall becoming holes in the high street.

My local Lloyds TSB closed their tiny bank on the Seven Sisters road about two months ago, and already it's a derelict drunks' doorstep.

The cashpoint was just boarded up with a couple of sheets of plywood, the front is already covered in graffiti and a mountain of junkmail is building up behind the door. This also has a knock-on effect on the other shops in the street, and it's local businesses/residents as well as the bank's customers who pay the price of their money grabbing saving activities.

I'm sure when you're making billions in profits you'd obviously notice the odd grand or two being lost, but any chance the banks could ensure another business was moving in before they pick up their money and pack up their tent?

Failing that, use something other than plywood next time, cheapskates.

I dunno if this is just a London thing, but I can't help noticing that pedestrians seem to love taking ever more risky chances when it comes to crossing the road. But what makes it even more hair-raising is the reluctance of some people to trot that little bit faster when they're faced with the prospect of being thrown over a windscreen.

What's at the heart of this is your average metropolitan's sense of 'capital cool'. It's like, 'hey, I'm all London cool! I'm not going to run in front of people and look a bit silly, even though 50 tonnes of metal is heading towards me - I'd sooner be run over than let that happen!'

I reckon the real reason these jaywalkers refuse to speed up is because running would be an acknowledgement that what they're doing is pretty dumb, and they made a bit of a mistake when it come to the speed-distance calculation.

To all you drivers out there: speed up and run these idiots over!

To all you pedestrians: you're not the Fonz! Just wait for the little green man!

The reason I ask is have you ever noticed how long it takes them to choose a tin of food in the supermarket? Now taking into consideration their reduced motor skills and vision, they still take bloody ages to pick up the tin, put it into their basket (or inside pocket if they're shoplifting) and then move away from the shelf so I can do my own shopping.

I think if I was that age I'd be high-speed zimmering it around the supermarket, ever fearful that I was going to drop dead in front of the Morrisons ownbrand tuna. Or even worse, popping off into the petit pois and fishcakes. Expiring in your own armchair in front of the telly while Jeremy Kyle is on is a perfectly respectable way to go. Haemorrhaging headfirst into the Monster Munch is just too undignified for words...

And continuing my hate campaign against the Holloway Road Morrisons, I thought nothing better exemplifies how desperate this place is than the announcement I heard in the store today: their customer service representative is called Igor.

"Igor to customer service, Igor to customer service'.

Doesn't inspire much confidence in getting a refund for that pensioner finger found in the ownbrand fishcakes, does it?

I would like to upload the following apology typed for me by my political advisor.

Yesterday an entry of mine entitled 'Bitching about other people's blogs' was uploaded which went into graphic detail about blogging acts too revolting to describe here. I would like to apologise for any offence or distress that was caused. In my defence, exam pressure and the stress of going bald led me to my moment of madness, not to mention having dreams about marrying another blogger on BCUK.

I would like to reiterate that I do not think the Top 20 should be abolished; that it's perfectly acceptable to blog gratuitously on completely irrelevent matters to maintain a Top 20 spot; that relying on cartoons cut and pasted from other sources as dominant content is fine and dandy; and that a system where one person can add 60 page views is perfectly democratic and not banana republic-esque at all.

The Right Honourable Time Killing Kid, MP.

Or how to use borderline racist humour for a cheap laugh.

A friend of mine, I'll call him IDV, took his new young strumpet out to a Chinese restaurant. Now you could describe my friend as being 'careful' with his money.

A more blunt description might be as a tight-fisted, penny-pinching, CD-lending but never purchasing, cheap son-of-a-gun, but being tactful I'll instead use the euphemism of 'careful with his money' to describe him. Certainly not a case of 'hey, big spender!' when he's in town.

Anyhow, he orders his food and the waiter gives him some helpful advice. Now I'm quite sure I'm about to misquote the waiter, but it'll prove more difficult to secure the cheap laugh I'm after if I'm factually correct. My friend only wants to order one side portion of rice with his food, but the waiter is really trying to help him out with a bit of insider knowledge, as well as potentially boosting his image (hey, big spender!) in front of his date:

Waiter: No, no! Velly small portion. Must have two!
IDV: No, no. Velly small wallet! Must have one!

Confucius and TKK wept...

When dates go wrong...

Does the above bring back any memories you thought you'd long repressed? Do you know what time the Chinese man went to the dentist? If so, share your dating tragedies with Timekillingkid. And if we do lunch, we're definitely going dutch.

Today I'm starting a new crusade and am seeking campaign donations. My manifesto has only one pledge: to abolish the Top 20 blog chart at blog.co.uk.

Now I know all too well that bitchin' about the Top 20 is a popular device used by those looking to pitch themselves into the Top 20. I've done it; I've read other blog entries that complained one day and were Top 20 the next. I've also read plenty of moans about how accurate the pageviews are at blog.co.uk., with some people even having their own 'independent' pagecounting system.

And I know I could quit grumbling and stop checking the Top 20, but I'm sure all writers share the common concern of wanting their stuff seen by a pair of eyes other than their own. Disagree and I'm telling you your pants are on fire! If you didn't want your stuff to be read you'd just keep a diary and lock it in your drawer after your latest entry.

Besides an audience, it's also nice to read other people's stuff, and the Top 20 is a good promotional window for that. But after a while being in the Top 20 seems to be a self-fulfilling process, and it appears to be more of a priority for some people to cling on to their Top 20 slot than actually write anything halfway decent.

And some people are clearly taking the piss. I noticed one blogger who'd already blogged four times today before 10.30 a.m. on topics so mindless that their uploading can only have served one purpose: to put them in the new blogs window so as to grab a few more pageviews and keep them in the Top 20.

So as I grab the rostrum ever tighter and the steam carries on pouring from my ears, I say scrap the Top 20 and just have a random selection of featured blogs each day.

That way we have no desperate manipulation of the pageviews or the new blog window; no more complaining about the Top 20; and maybe, just maybe, a higher standard of blogging and a fairer system of blog coverage on the site.

Ooh, bit of politics there, ladies and gentlemen!

Of course, if I'm in the Top 20 tomorrow I'm entering this post into the memory hole...

The Kid's a born politician.

Vive la Top 20!

Anyone noticed any difference to the tube since 'part' privatisation?

Me neither.

I seem to remember the Government promising that the new public-private partnership would fleece the public lead to a new and improved service, and that stations would be much cleaner.

Course they are.

Northern Line platforms are particularly notorious for dirt, and a few years ago I was out on a date with me new Julie. Being the hip and happening kind of guy I am I was leaning against the platform walls and generally looking enigmatic and shady. The tube pulled in and we both hopped in, me still looking cool as hell.

Or so I thought.

The Tube platform walls are in constant need of attention from messrs Sheen and Muscle, and while I'd been leaning back I'd been smearing soot over my hands, to the point where it was a definite case of 'soots you, sir!'

As I got on the tube I'd clearly been wiping my face with my hands as I now looked like I was travelling to an audition for the all new Black & White Minstrel Show. I no longer looked enigmatic, but I definitely looked shady.

The first time I became aware of this was when my beau started giggling and walking away from me (Is it coz I is black?). Rather than gob on a hanky and help me wipe it off she decided to walk up the carriage and snigger at me.

If I had've been more sussed I would have done a bit of miming and dancing and made myself a bob or two. But I didn't, which means...

When dates go wrong...

Does the above bring back any memories you thought you'd long repressed? Have you overdone the facepaint when getting ready for a date? If so, share your dating tragedies with Timekillingkid. And if you go want to go that extra mile, bring a chamois and meet him on the Angel Islington southbound platform at 8pm.

Now I consider myself a hip and happening kind of guy but occasionally, only occasionally, I do stumble on the pavement of cool and lose my poise. Happens to the best of us from time-to-time.

However, the worst thing is when your stylistic stumble is in front of someone you're attempting to project a shady and enigmatic image to, by which I'm obviously referring to a pretty young lady where I work.

Unfortunately for me, I spotted this particular strumpet just as I'd shovelled half a snickers bar into my gob and then flooded it with 100 ml of Diet Pepsi.

As she came towards me I attempted to flick a casual wink in her direction when she passed by, as opening my mouth would have showered her with Snickers and soda. Instead, my motor cortex got a bit confused (had a heady night and six-hour exam yesterday...) and decided to jerk my head like I was about to have a fit.

The only comfort I can take from the incident is she was on the phone as she walked past and didn't seem to notice me, although if I saw some Snicker snacking fitting freak walking towards me then I'd have diverted my attention elsewhere as well.

And the moral of my story?

Sometimes it pays not to get noticed.

That way there'd actually be column of yours worth reading. I suppose as it's an obituary it won't technically be your own work, although that's probably another thing in its favour.

Hey now, what's that sound? It's MM scraping the bottom of the barrel for his latest idea.

Things me and my girlfriend argue about. Bloody hell... Jesus and TKK wept. Again.

I was almost tempted to have a sex change, bump his girlfriend off, seduce MM while he's all heartbroken and shack up with him. That way when he wrote his latest 'whimsical' article it would read as follows:

Things me and my new girlfriend argue about

My new girlfriend says I'm a completely talentless hack who stretched out one incredibly thin idea to the point that it became transparent, much like my originality. We argued about this until she hit me with a brick. I much preferred my old girlfriend. We used to have whimsical arguments about where we'd sit in the cinema and stuff. Now I get hit over the temple with a brick. My head hurts.

Actually, that concept suddenly seems a lot more workable.

The shredder.

The goddamn shredder.

What is it with people and this bloody invention? My parents bought one for Christmas and they were practically orgasming as they fed their old bank statements into it. The poor dears are convinced that someone is going to steal their identity from them at any moment and empty their bank account (no danger of that, my sister beat them to it). The only way to protect yourself, it seems, is to rush to Argos and buy a cheap white plastic shredder that breaks within two days. It's all a bloody conspiracy. All across the land shredder manufacturers are laughing, laughing, at Joe Consumer's gullability.

And the worst thing is the way some people will stand there and shred paper for ages like some obsessive-compulsive, oblivious to how much they're driving everyone mad. It's like the shredder has some hypnotic power (which would explain why people are buying so many of the fuckers).

And why does no one ever empty the shredded paper bag afterwards??? I've seen people jumping up and down on the bag, trying to push the paper down, instead of performing the much more effective task of just emptying it and putting the empty bag back in. But obviously that can't be done as that would be, like, beneficial to other people. And we can't have that. Smacks of socialism or something.

The worst shredding experience I had was when this guy pulled up a chair in front of our office shredder and sat there shredding for what must have been an hour until we had to stop him because of the burning smell coming from the machine (the aural torture not being enough he had to give it an olfactory aspect as well). And y'know what the worst part of it was? When we stopped him it turned out he'd only been shredding one sheet of paper at a time...

goddamn shredder.