Birthday Party

Rex was nine and had a party at home for all the boys in his class. I, of course volunteered to help out with my whistle - I consider myself quite the expert now after coaching mini rugby. I thought to keep it simple - football and Dial a Pizza - my princess baked a cake.
Except I'd forgotten one universal truth - that all boys are not created equal. One did not want to play football. He said, "I'm not a sporty kind of guy. I prefer to watch the television."
Another one walked our dog all afternoon.
And as for the rest - one arrived with an arsenal of guns and ran around shooting the footballers, so two footballers grabbed the (plastic) cricket stumps to use as weapons against him. Before long it was a full blown war - I blew and blew on my whistle but nobody was listening to me.
And they ate all the pizza before I got even one slice of it.

Small Mercies

They say accidents always happen when the dad's in charge. Today Rex played in his first rugby match and got kicked in the head only once. "Tis only a scratch, son," I told him when the side of his face swole up. "We'll pack it with ice before we go home and your mother kicks up a fuss."
My mate's son was not so lucky. While Stan was in charge at home the cub fell backwards through a plate glass door and cut himself to ribbons. The blood was pumping out of him. Stan thought he was going to bleed to death. He wrapped him in a blanket and raced with him to the hospital.
He's alive, thanks God, but has 300 stitches.
I can't even start to imagine what Stan's wife said to him. If she's speaking at all.

Pushy Parent

For my sins I coach Junior Rugby. I blow a whistle and teach the Under 8's how to throw and catch, and we play touch. In all the years I've been coaching I've always felt faintly irritated with super-enthusiastic dads, standing on the side lines, shouting impossible instructions to their sons. I have always had to bite my tongue to stop shouting, "If you want to play rugby, the training session for the Golden Oldies is Tuesday night..."
This year my son Rex moved up into a contact game and I've turned into the sort of parent I hate. In fact I'm worse than the average dad - today Rex was playing scrum half and I actually went on to the pitch to tell him he was standing in the wrong place; I told him to move to the base of the scrum.
They say, don't they, that it's your own bad habits that you cannot tolerate in other people.

Crash

So it wasn't as dramatic as this, but I had a car accident this morning. I was slowing up, approaching the red traffic lights on a six lane highway and a bloke in a hurry rammed into the back of me. Then he jumped out of his car and shouted, "I'm late for a meeting."
"Listen mate," says I, "You've hit my car. You're going nowhere," for in Bahrain it's the law that you've got to wait for the traffic police when you have an accident.
Bloke was not impressed. He said, "But the accident was your fault, not mine. Everyone knows in this country we do not stop for red lights."
This is, of course, the reason the law insists we remain at the scene of an accident until the Traffic Police arrive.

Hair Cut

Today I would like to eulogise on the joys of getting a haircut in the Middle East. I'm a man of a certain age, a short back and sides sort of man, and my hair is pretty grey - and I want to keep it that way! Yet I find this impossible to explain to the pretty young girls at the regular hairdressers - they keep showing me photos of male models' hair, blokes young enough to be my children, and trying to persuade me to try a little hairdye.
In the Indian barber shop nobody speaks any English. When it's my turn in the chair the barber keeps cutting till I shout "Stop". Then he gives me a shave and a head massage - sounds kinky but it's very relaxing. I pay the princely sum of a couple of dollars. I am a very satisfied customer.