Skip to main content

The Secret Diary of a 2 Year Old (Part 51)

MONDAY
I specifically asked for beans WITH toast and they gave me beans ON toast. Pricks. Then they wheeled out that trademark backtracking bullshit that the toast was unscathed (even though it was dripping in depraved bean juice) and that the beans were also fine (even though they’d been polluted to high buggery by that disgusting toast). Both items are quite lovely on their own but put them together and they become the stuff of nightmares, like Mummy with wine.
TUESDAY
On the packed bus this morning I pointed directly at the large lady next to us and shouted MOO-COW dead loud. Mummy went bright red and told me to shush but this woman clearly had a picture of a moo-cow on her bag so I’m not sure what all the commotion was about to be honest.
WEDNESDAY
Was messing about in bed tonight and Daddy told me to stop but I carried on jumping up and down with my blanket over my head while pretending to be a zoo. At this point he’d normally threaten to send me to bed but I was already in bed so I felt completely bulletproof and brimming with confidence so I poked my head out and I could see in his eyes that he was all out of options and his entire justice system had been crushed. Glorious!
THURSDAY
Daddy told me not to go near the plug sockets. Funny, I’d never even noticed them before. Gonna investigate the shit out of them tomorrow.
FRIDAY
Why do they waste their stupid adult breath asking me if I want a yoghurt? Of course I want a bloody yoghurt! Do they really think I was forcing that vile main course down my neck for any reason other than to engineer this archaic reward system in my favour?
SATURDAY
Had some visitors come over with their kid who is the same age as me which, according to the Big People, is apparently all I need to be friends with someone these days. (Have they not heard of shared interests or repartee?) This new ‘friend’ of mine took great pleasure in playing with my favourite blue spade which normally wouldn’t have been a problem as I would have just violently snatched it back off her while screeching but she did it while I was having my nappy changed so there was fuck all I could do about it. She knew what she was doing, I’m sure of it, the little blue spade stealing bastard.
SUNDAY
Mummy told me what that strange eleventh finger-thing between my legs is. Apparently it’s ‘my willie’ and ‘we all have them’ although I couldn’t find Mummy’s and Peppa Pig doesn’t appear to own one either. When I found Daddy’s I pointed and laughed and he probably thought it was just that toddler laugh I do when I discover new stuff but I honestly couldn’t believe how tiny his was.
BUY MY BOOK HERE.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

We Have a Winner!

Ladies and gentlemen - some news! One recipient of my newsletter is now the 'lucky' (ahem) winner of an exclusive gig from me IN THEIR HOUSE! And that person is... Lyn Morter!  Well done, Lyn! (Btw, if anyone from  Ofcom  is reading, you can check the legitimacy of this result via the  Facebook Live video  I did last week.) When I informed Lyn that she'd won she simply said, 'I've never heard of you' and 'How did you get my phone number?' so I'm sure that will be a great gig for everyone. (Only joking. She was thrilled.) Thanks to all of you for entering. But what now, Sam?  I hear you screaming at your smartphones. Well, I'll be taking things a wee bit easier through August, spending some much needed time with my family after all the touring. But just like that former Governor of California of Austrian descent, I'LL BE BACK (sorry) in September with more blogs, videos and general waf...

The Time I Screamed at my Kids

Before my kids arrived I swore I’d never shout at them. But choosing how to approach parenthood before your kids are born is like a caterpillar deciding what kind of butterfly they’re gonna be while they’re still building the cocoon. ‘I’ll still do loads of charity work, of course. And I’ll be REALLY nice to moths too, even though they’ll probably hate me because I’ll be so bloody gorgeous.’ Theory and reality are like sugar and shit. I’ve raised my voice to my kids more times than I can count. Often just to shout ‘STOP SHOUTING!’ which I’m aware doesn’t set a great example. ‘You should NEVER shout at your kids.’ And that’s fine. In theory. Because everything’s fine in theory. The Slimfast diet is a piece of piss until day two when you’ve had three hours sleep and someone offers you a Wagon Wheel. Of course, I never WANT to shout at them. I love them more than words can describe. But those you love are also the ones blessed with the innate ability to boil your piss q...

The Time I Smeared Shit on the Duvet

My wife and I developed our parenting systems through trial and error. One of the earliest rules we’d introduced was that if it was after 5am and one of the babies became unsettled, we wouldn’t waste our time trying to get them back down in their cot - we’d just bring them in with us. After a nice cuddle in our bed, they’d normally settle back down, barring the occasional impromptu fanny gouge or affable bollock kick. (Babies are the most violent sleepers on the planet, easily capable of committing GBH in the middle of reaching for their dummy.) Our twins were six months old. I was fast asleep. At least, the deepest sleep you can get once your kids arrive. My pre-kids sleep used to be the nocturnal equivalent of deep sea diving. Nowadays I’m lucky if I can submerge my toes in a puddle. Early on, my sleep was lighter than a Ryvita biscuit who’d been having it off with a helium canister they’d met on Tinder. Everything woke me up. Some nights I’d just lie there, bewi...