It's kind of ironical that in my last post I complained that if my broadband access went down, I would't suddenly find an army of do-gooder platypusses campaigning for better living conditions for the Newsdesk. And now here I am under a baking southern sun, saving the the little freaks of nature without even the most basic of internet connections. I guess the platypus just doesn't really care about the web.
I've found myself in a fairly isolated part of the world. I feel a bit like Leonardo di Caprio in the Beach. Dippy and myself made the long drive to Lismore yesterday to pick up some much needed reserves. I've parked myself in an Internet cafe while she's off seeing a man about some mushrooms.
I checked out some of the news from back home and was tickled to see that Dave the roofer was absolutely spot on with his inside knowledge of Cheryl Cole upping and leaving her love rat footballer husband Ashley.
Speaking of Dave. I got an email from my Edmonton-based roofing friend that Gill finally gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. I wasn't really sure how I'd feel about the day when it finally arrived.
For those of you not familiar with the backstory, this time last year Gill Nelson and I were a serious long-term item. But things didn't really work out, for one reason or another. Then Gill found herself preggers after we'd spent a steamy weekend at Centre Parcs, but then Gill revealed that actually the baby was a result of a sordid one nighter with my friend and friend of the stars Dave the roofer.
The thing is, as anyone who reads this blog will testify, I am a forgiving man. Like George Harrison to Dave the roofer's Eric Clapton, I handed over my Pattie Boyd without so much as a fight. Which considering my mastery of Judo is bloody good news for Dave. I don't think Harrison had the advantage of being martially arted. I think he was probably just scared of Clapton, who was quite tasty with his fists after a night on the sauce.
Anyway, Gill gave birth last week. It was on Valentine's Day as a matter of fact, while I was making my reacquaintances with Dippy. I didn't know about this sweetness of ironic fate, as the email would sit unread for a week until I got to Lismore.
It's swings and roundabouts in the playground of l'amour. And no doubt it's sometimes slides. And climbing frames. Well, it was this once at Butlins in Skegness, I met a girl called Jane from Doncaster, she was as big as a house. I'd always been told that the fat ones are more appreciative. Jane wasn't though, she just laughed at my old feller. How was I supposed to perform in the face of ridicule. It wasn't my finest hour (it wasn't even my finest five minutes).
But when I read Dave's email and saw the picture, my heart melted. Childbirth is a grizzly business, I should imagine, but once they clean the little blighter up it probably seems a lot nicer. Apparently, women release some sort of hormone during birth that blocks their memory from the pain enabling them to go through the ordeal time after time. It must be the same hormone that makes them forget the times you've carried the shopping home after day-long marathon session down Oxford Street, yet remember the time (and always bring it up at dinner parties when you reach for the second bottle), that you once peed in the wardrobe after a session of different kind! lol ;-) only kidding ladies!!
Naturally, Dave wanted to name the boy after his own father, Dave, but Gill put her foot down and insisted that they name him after her father Richard. As a compromise Dave insisted that the boy's middle moniker be that of his long-standing, long-lost friend. That's right, yours truly.
Richard Barry, Dave the roofer's son, weighed in at 7llb 8oz and is fighting fit. I think I'm going to cry readers. Oh no, here comes Dippy with the drugs, I'd best be off. I'll try and log on again soon, but you might have to wait a few weeks....
ps. love you all