Skip to main content

The Secret Diary of a 2 Year Old

Curled one out during lunch so finished the meal standing up. Might seem a tad uncouth but three months ago I would’ve just sat down again and squashed the fresh bumfudge in my undercrackers together like a fecal flapjack. So, you know, progress.

Already had a bump on my fod the size of a golf ball and then went and twatted my head right into the oven. Looked like a fucking Klingon.

Watched Peppa Pig then ate a ham sandwich. Felt uneasy. Wasn’t sure why.

Accidentally slept in till 8.45am. Daddy was dancing all over the bedroom like a tit and said he felt like ‘Travolta’ who must be some ancient sleep goddess from nordic times. Anyway, whoever it is he was fucking annoying with all that energy and happiness and shit. Won’t be doing that again.

Some older lad was acting a total scrote down the soft play this morning with the chaps. He shoved my mate Snotface (don’t know his real name), lashed a ball at Badly Applied Leaky Nappy Girl (don’t know her real name) and then ran through the toddler bit terrorising Gareth (real name). Everyone froze so I sneaked up, picked my nose for a bit, shoved my hand down my kecks and then touched this big boy’s sandwich. If you don’t want your tuna butty to taste of stale piss, bogeys and toddler arse then don’t mess with the under-3 club, fuckface.

Whipped my pants off at the park and ran round shouting at everyone like the local pisshead. Mummy made me get dressed. Once again, it’s one rule for Pando and another rule for the rest of us.

Slipped on a noisy book today and really hurt myself. Lay in a heap on the floor crying and the bastard thing was trash-talking me. Totally humiliated. Waited till later on and then ripped the gobby thing to pieces. It was still talking as I dismantled it piece by piece. Probably begging for mercy. Knobhead.

I post a new Secret Diary to my FB page every Tuesday...I'm a stand up comic, dad of twins and parent blogger...


Popular posts from this blog

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

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 waffle.  I'm also heading b

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