My baby girl thinks I’m pretty great

Posted: November 8, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter, Observe my tips | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I took her to the shops today.

She had a massive poo whilst driving there and she handled it like a champ. So did I.

In the rear-view-mirror, her face was doing the typical contortions of one expelling, what I’m sure we can all agree is amongst the worst things ever, a poop – whilst Daddy is singing along to Jessie-Jay on the radio in an attempt to make the whole scene more…musical?

By the time we arrived, her complexion had returned from hellish-rouge to healthy-human, and the gargles and goo-goos were back aplenty, ready for a nappy-change.

Then came my might – the thing of which I am without question the best of in the world:
distractingly amusing sounds and funny faces.

It’s a big difference between babies and men. I’ve never encountered a face so funny, or a sound so amusing, that I wouldn’t know my nappy was being changed.

My daughter was oblivious. At seven months, she generally is.

The amount of things my daughter doesn’t pick-up on is only dwarfed by sheer number of things she picks up and puts in her mouth.

But in the car’s boot, with nothing in reach to distract, it was down to the irresistible power of my face and the sounds that come out of it to make the following two minutes less awful.

There was poo, there was laughter, and there was the risk of each overwhelming both of us – but we persevered, and went shopping.

The dirty nappy went in the shop bin, my daughter went in the pram, and I went into performance mode.

An integral part of fatherhood is taking blows to the brain.

They’re both the height and depths of humour, and like her older siblings, my youngest baby girl loves to laugh at when I do what I do best.

A proportion of those impacts are something I suppose I’m proud:

  • My son (6) hitting me in the head with sporting equipment, for humorous purposes.
  • My eldest daughter (4) hitting me in the head with props, for amateur dramatics purposes.
  • Me (36) hitting myself in the head with whatever is nearest to hand, for competitive purposes (can’t let me son out-do me)
  • And my wife (N/A) hitting me in the head, for reasonable purposes.

The third of those – hitting myself in the brain – goes down something-smashing when it comes to fathering a baby girl.

If you’d like some hints as to what to grab for self-brain-bashing, I’d recommend whatever is nearest to hand for the sake of speed, but noise and colour should be appreciated for the awesome power they hold: like tins of beans and tinsel.

There’s a lot of tinsel at the shop, for arboreal/cultural purposes at this time of year, but no one there knows it’s also for brain-bashing purposes. Same for the tinned beans – it’s got nothing to do with fibre.

I’m struggling to write this blog, due in part to the regular severity of the impacts to my brain which cause such delightful bursts of laughter or, even better, the shining smiles of pure happiness from my baby girl.

It’s also due to the effects of the lychee-liqueur which has thus far turned out to be a wonderful purchase, with the promise of it being less-so tomorrow morning.

Then came the pram ‘uh-ohs’ – in which I push the pram, daughter nonchalantly perched within, away and panic in what I’d best describe as in a ‘flappy headed’ way, before pulling her back with a hint of a jolt but with my own laughing smile upon arrival – matched and soundly beaten only by hers.

She really is the most adorably scrumptious of little things that there ever could be, and you might feel the same about your offspring but I’m right because this is my blog and I’m right.

Take your own kids shopping – I’m occupied with the best thing since someone had the bright idea of having things under the sun, and sliced bread.

Due to what I presume to be a clerical error (by which I mean ecclesiastical rather than administrative) – I find there are no baskets proffered in the shop entrance, meaning I have to load items for purchase beneath the pram itself.

Here’s an opportunity to vanish and return, aka ‘Peekabo’.

With each item loaded onto the conveyer belt towards the till, I duck out. Briefly (and I really do mean briefly – I doubt I’ve ever been briefer), I’m away and suddenly I’m back – and sure enough I’m hitting myself in the same head from which funny noises and faces are emitting.

And she’s smiling joyously. The kind of joy you don’t remember.

From there it’s pay, parking ticket, load stuff in the car, daughter in her car-seat (featuring multiple checks on the way home to ensure I definitely packed her), visor down as the sun sets early this time of year, bish, bash, bosh, I’m a dad.

And the smiles and laughter, in addition to the excited little kicks of the even-littler legs, tells me all I’ve ever really needed to know: my baby girl thinks I’m pretty great.

Sam

Rolling pins: them, me, and the ancient argument as to what constitutes a ‘pin’.

Posted: November 2, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I appreciate there are going to be some alternative definitions from my own, as to what constitutes a ‘pin’. I also know that some of these are going to be ‘factual’.

But what pride themselves on in terms of correctness, they more than let themselves down in accuracy.

A pin is something that you can pin with. If a thing cannot pin, a pin it is not.

Rolling pins – they’re not pins. They’re my ultimate bed fellow of the realm we can all relate to: something you enjoy having around, regardless of its purpose.

I can picture a medieval woman, house-bound, subjugated and bored, being told the local ravishers are on their way to commit their namesake.

Thankfully, she has a rolling pin, which must, simply ‘must’, have been used at least once in human history to defeat the bad guy.

Got yourself a villain? Bop him on the head with a rolling pin.

Got a yourself a villain nearby but just out of reach? Throw a rolling pin at him, the distant git.

Baking?

Baking and interrupted by a villain?

Bop him about the head and neck with a rolling pin, before returning to the esoteric application of a rolling pin outside of villain-bopping and household defence (plus all around justice): somehow flattening dough.

I’ve never really been able to use a rolling pin for anything other than a really good time thrashing it about and some amateur Morris dancing (I haven’t landed a paid Morris-dancing gig yet, but I hear its all about persistence. Keep at it and eventually someone will pay you to leave. They won’t threaten – you’ve got a rolling pin and a fucking hanky.).

When at school I put the rolling pin to dough and nothing really happened – certainly not cakes or bread or whatever it was I was being taught. Least of all flattened dough.

As I got older I treated myself to a basic, this’ll-do, rolling pin, in preparation for the day in which I’d be bopping anti-social behaviour in the face.

I’ve still got it. My wife uses it for cooking every now and again (and bloody again), whilst I prefer to chase my children with it – so the whole family gets good use out of it.

In the event of a fire, or perhaps some near-world-event, if I’ve time to grab something from the house before dashing for the village hall, I’m grabbing my rolling pin. And kids.

And people at the village hall would be pleased, commending me for bringing so jolly-decent a thing as a rolling pin to the end of the world that the whole Parish can find some relief from.

I don’t know if it would necessarily aid in clearing rubble in search of wounded, or be massively handy when it comes to building a new basic infrastructure system once the fallout has cleared, but it wouldn’t half give me confidence in the new world.

Such confidence, that in fact it would aid in clearing rubble, and in developing basic infrastructure. Because we’ve got a rolling pin.

But it’s still not a ‘pin’.

Spur of the moment, I’m going to rename them to “Oods”.

I like that, it works, and I like that and it works.

And even if it doesn’t work, you can’t deny I like that.

Sam

HEY, 1800s USA, get your own huddled masses

Posted: October 5, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Being European – I can assure you we worked jolly hard to have the huddled masses we’ve earned over the millennia, to the point that we’ve begun to enjoy huddling en masse.

We call it ‘a nice get-together’ with everyone ever.

And huddled masses don’t come easy.

You need to prioritise turnips, parsnips and several other bullshit vegetables that are fantastic long-term (shelf-life, if you’ve a shelf to be able to implement such a phrase) but are sadly lacking when it comes to reasons for living.

That’s the formulae for masses and huddling.

And frankly the United States should know better – especially in the century in which it was actually happening. Plus it is simply audacious to covert another continent’s huddled masses – it simply generates traffic for ferries and that is most unbecoming.

And the 1800’s USA isn’t the only historical era of a country that requires a good telling-off.

It’s easy to pick-on 1930s Germany for obvious reasons, but how about the pre-Christ Rome? Can you think of a nation with a greater need to get a grip that the one that decided ‘outwards violently’ was the means to a comfortable life?

Yes, it certainly did lead to a comfortable life for many Romans at the time, but not the ones required to be violent and certainly not for the ones required to have violence visited upon them like some grotesque form of stabby-tourism.

Remember the Franks? No-one does, they became both forgotten and French – and Rome should apologise for the latter.

Then there’s everything China did to the Chinese for a period of time that exceeds the history of the planet.

I believe ancient Chinese politics was interrupted, rudely, by evolution of the original mammals at some point, according to the most excellent of Chinese record keeping (the Tang period suffered an economic disaster as fish became land-dwellers: the fisherman were furious about all the time they’d wasted being on a fucking boat).

And then, of course, Genghis Khan needs a good rebuking too – primarily on the grounds of murder.

But when it comes to the USA sidling up to my – MY – huddled masses and treating them with the lack of contempt they deserve – that’s an overstep that I cannot ignore.

Therefore I wrote a blog, and now really must move on to other things.

All the best to you, huddled or otherwise,

Sam

Covered in crab and grinning: the bad decision of the week

Posted: August 3, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Adventure Forever | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Yesterday we were at the Brickfields in Lower Halstow, Kent. There’s an intriguing history to this place, but finding out more about that is up to you – I’m busy blogging.

My family and I go there every once in a while, to be outside, watch the boats and the herons, and mainly to scroll through the mud and shells with our eyes and fingers, looking for preferable pottery.

‘Preferable pottery’ is what stands out most to you at the time. There are a million fractured segments of all kinds of earthworks there: the classic blue and white (which you can still find far from the estuary shore – in fields up hills), to glass bottle heads, brown jug handles, and pieces of pottery with an array of colours – depicting floral scenes, boats and ships, and sometimes words.

I like reading pottery – that’s my kind of preferable.

Yesterday’s preferable pottery read: “….ING THE TEETH & GUM…”

Underneath is featured what appears to be a glorious hair-do, or equally glorious wig.

My wife picked up one bit, for the obligatory fun of it (you could tell because she said so), my daughter picked up a few pink pieces, and my son a few hundred. My youngest daughter chose not to get involved, being 5 months young.

We only keep a few, sprinkling the rest back along the shore line, telling first-time visitors that we do this every week with our own supply of broken china to supplement the shoreline pottery becoming depleted.

Whilst my wife, son and youngest withdrew to eat M&Ms, my eldest daughter and I continued to search for pink pieces, and were quickly diverted in attention upon discovering we could explode crabs.

The long-dead, sun-dried crab corpses, which if you give a little finger-flick can cause them to explode in exactly the way you’d want a crab to explode.

We had a really great time, and my wife was horrified.

As my son raced over to take part too (who wouldn’t, aside from my wife?), I found a larger crab claw that was, I now know – regrettably, fresher.

Fresher – not fresh.

It wouldn’t explode, but giving it a little squeeze in the right places, you could penetrate the exoskeleton (most unpleasantly – this is all awful), and tug what I supposed to be tendons and make the claw pinch.

We all smiled.

And then a memory from the depths of our DNA, that crawls from the soul – up the spine – and straight out through the brain in all directions, said GET AWAY FROM THAT SMELL.

We all ran. Pursued by the stench.

The smell of rotten, long-dead-but-not-long-enough crab flesh was now all over me, my children, and worst of all – my finger tips, potentially ruining everything I was forth-hence to touch and even-more worst of all: type.

We all did that thing fathers, sons, and daughter do, which was to run separately in different directions whilst simultaneously arriving at ‘destination mother’ and, my word, we were loud and smelly.

My children demanded direct attention in some vague form, whilst I knew what I needed – babywipes, anti-bacterial gel, and for my wife to smell my fingertips.

Two out of three ain’t bad, but even as I write this 24 hours later, the pong is being bounced off my keyboard with every letter and I’m reminded of my bad decision of the week.

We went out for lunch afterwards, at a garden centre, whilst I walked like a surgeon post scrub-up, till making my way to the toilets and washing my hands multiple times before I caved in to desperation and slathered my hands in pure vinegar.

Nothing worked. Even time, known for decimating empires, wasn’t making a dent on this particular fragrance.

I’m going to be that guy who stinks of seaside-death, and slightly of vinegar, from here-on.

Still, at least the kids got to see the way a crab’s claw works. And the importance of hygiene.

Even from the worst decision of the week, there was an upside.

At some point we were covered in crab and grinning, albeit before the whiff.

Adventure forever.

Sam

Hey, stop being a dead guy

Posted: August 1, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Being all deceased in the corner over there.

Knock it off.

Act your age – you’re not ancient yet.

You’re starting to pong though.

Yes, ponging might be a sign of vibrant living, but I think you’re being a dead guy.

Is that your coffin?

Oh, you like coffins do you? Convenient and simple?

Well no, I don’t like them actually, I think they’re morbid to the point of you being a dead guy and you won’t admit it.

Look! You’re all stiff. Very inconvenient, what if there was a fire?

Convenient for a cremation, oh yes very droll, what with the coffin and all.

Definitely ponging though.

And you’re swelling, don’t deny it.

I’m not going to get too close, in case your pong pops. Gross.

Maybe if you behaved a bit differently, conducted yourself more properly, you wouldn’t give off this deadness.

It’s all about your attitude.

You’re coming across as someone who’s just wasting their time.

Stop being a dead guy, you big smelly metaphor.

Sam

Claivoyance: my new side-racket

Posted: July 17, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I am not clairvoyant in regard to any supernatural ability or actual belief in communing with the dead.

But I am prepared to say similar things for money.

Some people need a side-hustle in today’s (and yesterday’s) economy, and other’s – like me – need a side-racket.

Blogging will only take you so far and frankly the criminality just isn’t worth it anymore.

So why not lean into the supernatural, and why not be openly honest about it being both completely nonsensical and something out of which I’m looking to make the most?

For example, right from the get-go:

“Oh it’s your deceased grandmother and she’d like to say hello.”

Possibly (I don’t know – I’m not clairvoyant)…

“Not the living one, the other one. The deceased grandmother that without question died and that we can’t prove isn’t telling me to tell you that everything’s going to be alright and that you should leave a considerable tip.”

And it is at this moment that, with no morbid disrespect meant, I truly do hope you happen to have a dead grandmother.

“By the way, this might not resonate, but your great-great-great-great-great grandfather is exceptionally proud of you. You might not know his name or what he looked like, but he’s pleased as punch as to how you’ve turned out and he’d also recommends a significant tip.”

I can even be vague if you’d like.

“Also, that thing that happened at that particularly non-specifiable time that you might recall…we’ll I’m aware of that.”

I could get a little wooden caravan, or…just a car (perhaps a wooden one)…and could host clairvoyance get-togethers amongst those that are looking for hope from someone distinctly unqualified to provide some, albeit at remarkable value for money.

Bargain hope – you need crystal balls to dish that kind of humanity out.

“Now, let me deal my tarot cards.

“Will it be Death, will it be Love?

“Ah, the Pick Up 5 Uno card. That’s worse than Death and Love, but at least Napoleon, Caeser and Alexander the Great can relate – they’ve had similar bad draws, and they’re all playing it in the corner. They can’t find the Risk box.“

Napoleon would make a tremendous ghost, being of average height in the corner and French – very spooky. Very French. Very average-height for the time.

People might flock to me to hear my relayings from the afterlife, inspired by 100% fiction (maybe 97% fiction, since I believe Napoleon, Caeser and Alexander the Great have all died at some point).

Actually, maybe just one flock, filled with those quite prepared for me to miss-guess their dead cat’s name from 1992 after multiple attempts, or to miss-diagnose your financial worries as gout.

Being honest and open about my lack of belief or particular supernatural powers, might ease their frustrations about the fact people die, including – eventually – them.

They’re just looking for a little bit of hope after all.

And I’m willing to give them that, at any price.

Discount wonder, half-price divinity and “I’ll knock a bit off since it got wet” belief.

Maybe even Bring and Bless in Bulk.

Sam

P.S – I also bend forks. You just grab them and bend them, and then you have that bent fork you really, really needed. Possibly some hope too.

Character flaws: something to stand on.

Posted: June 11, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

When struggling, generally, I turn to writing.

I turn to it, because it is always behind me. Creeping up in prose.

Maybe I should do it more, since it’s inevitable, and I don’t like being crept up on.

Regardless…when I do turn to writing, amidst struggles, I like to focus on my weaknesses.

Humour makes the world go round, and sideways. My blog, and to a lesser extent – my life, is world-like.

Weaknesses, mine in particular, are a wonderful source of humour.

Like learning from my mistakes. I don’t indulge in that sort of thing.

I mentioned ‘turning’ earlier. Well, it’s more like spinning.

I 360 myself and step straight upon the rake that sent me spinning in the first place and ask myself: “can you believe this?”

Stupidity is the essence here, not the identity.

I’m not stupid, I know that much, I’m just struggling with lower level stuff, like progress.

I don’t progress, since I’m still figuring where I am. It’s hard to move forward from nowhere in particular.

You’ll know some people are goal-orientated. I’m not, but what is that ‘not’?

What’s the opposite of goal-orientation?

Procrastinating-manifestation? I do nothing, therefore I don’t?

Ultimately, I’m capable of the same errors I committed 20 years ago.

I’m terrified of my capacity to enjoy doing nothing, being swallowed up by demands upon my time; such as progress and learning.

It’s just not me. These are my essential aspects, the character flaws that make me.

Something to stand on.

Deduct these flaws and I’m still spinning, but the pirouette of my failings gives way to a roundabout with no exits, and other such awful metaphors.

I like not progressing.

I’m just more-me than ever, and I don’t require a goal to justify my existence, continuing or otherwise.

That being said, it does cause issues. Like boredom.

And so, I turn again to writing.

The other issue is that I upload my writing to a blog, this one, and then people like you have it thrust upon yourselves and have to deal with it.

Good luck.

Can’t blame me, I was just spinning.

Sam

The Pope has died. I’m available.

Posted: April 21, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

It is the 21st April 2025 and the Pope has died.

I’m sure he was as positive and negative as any of us, despite the hat.

Coincidentally, I’m available if anyone is looking for a bit of Poping in their area.

I’ve done it all before in a very non-literal way.

I’ve never kissed someone else’s baby, nor someone else’s feet. But metaphorically, I’ve kissed many, many feet. Fewer babies (fewer baby’s feet), but still, I’m very forgiving.

I’m so forgiving, that frankly that’s the end of that sentence.

I’m so forgiving. So there.

Am I pious? More so than you!

Am I devoted? Kind of.

Am I observant of ecclesiastical doctrine? No.

However, if you’re looking for judgement – I’m you’re guy, and that’s your own fucking fault.

From most of what I can see, the previous Pope (prior to me – white smoke incoming…) there was a need for a little bit of change.

What change?

You know exactly what change was needed.

It’s the change that mattered to you.

That particular thing is so vitally, immensely important that it requires immediate attention obviously.

What that particular (etc., etc.) thing was, I’ve no idea, but to be clear – I’m still very happy to be Pope if you’re looking for one.

Can I make a difference as leader of one-point-something billion Catholics?

Undoubtely.

I can ruin things for everyone.

And if you thought the Catholic church had issues now…wait till you see what I’m willing to condem.

First of all – those who don’t like and subscribe immediately.

Second, those who constantly ask readers/viewers to like and subscribe. Get your own religion, loser.

Third, ah I’ve run out of steam. Work in the morning, no one is paying me for this, etc again.

Etc a third time.

A fourth etc, and RIP to the previous guy (I’m sure, really, he’s letting the big-guy know we all say “hi”) but by gosh I just need to log off now because this is just simply, frightfully, awfully, ongoing.

Amen (no offence).

Sam

25th anniversary of a new millennia – China has dragons!

Posted: January 1, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Happy new year!

I hope you had a good one. I didn’t really have ‘one’ – having slept through the celebrations.

I’ve had worse – such as the beginning of the year 2000, which today is the 25th anniversary.

I poked myself in the eye with a Union Jack flag, which was a crap start to the millennium.

And since then I’ve felt unappreciative of the timing of NYE.

It’s always 1000 years since 1000 years ago. Today is just 25 years since a particular 1000 years ago.

Tomorrow, a different millennia will have passed.

Whoops, there went another just then, but that might have been an adorable little century.

There are beginnings and ends across eternity, and I find focusing on only one beginning and end is just a little meagre.

All that time, all those stories, happinesses and sadnesses, era defining events redirecting courses of a trillion ships, and reliable irrelevancies, the things we’ll never know but still happened and will continue to tomorrow onwards…. saving consideration of that solely for each 31st December is a disservice to the time that has passed.

Plus, and more importantly, firework shows are dull.

It’s hard to get a good narrative going with a fireworks show.

They’re very samey – very quickly – so once you’ve seen the first minute of a fireworks show, you’ve already seen the rest. The first 60 seconds is all you need.

After that, you start to feel a bit dopey realising you’re part of a crowd all looking up at the same thing, like a cow in a herd only you’re doing something far less exciting than eating grass.

And it’s not just in-person. If watching-back the following day, you really needn’t watch a New Year’s Eve firework show specific to that year. I can watch 2008’s show and it’s genuinely much the same, as is 2010 in Paris, 2015 Sydney or 2022 NYC.

You also needn’t re-watch just on New Year’s Eve – August is doable too in case you want to insert some boredom in your summer.

I think the narrative issue is because a NYE firework show has to start with a relatively big bang and it struggles to temper its storytelling from there – unlike China’s drone-show last night.

Starting slow, building-up a story, with fewer bangs meaning you could hear the softer music, unleashing the fireworks towards a crescendo featuring a dragon which was so cool that I’m now delighted to announce it was real.

Yes it was.

They had a real dragon.

A real dragon, made in China.

Still, firework shows remain a broadly dull engagement.

I can picture someone in Ancient China living their Ancient Chinese life, attending a firework show for some national celebration, slowly realising they’re board too – partaking in an already old-age custom continued down the line to me as I watch London’s 2024 firework show above the Thames – also bored.

As well as the lack of dragons, I think the issue is the setting.

A dark night’s sky is a perfect blackly-blank canvas to hit with all those colours, but its a bit distant. If you go to a fireworks show, the fireworks aren’t actually there where you are.

A firework beneath your duvet first thing in the morning however – that’ll stay with you, and yes – so will the burns, but let’s focus on the memories.

Real dragons beneath the sheets would also result in burns, but perhaps this is something we just have to appreciate in the passage of time.

Anyway, happy new year.

But remember: millennia happen every day. As do their 25th anniversaries.

Sam

Aerodynamic nipples and the rest of us.

Posted: December 27, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

So, nipples.

Nipples.

Not very aerodynamic, are you?

Admit it.

When top-speed and head-first, humans (and yes I’m talking about the very specific circumstance of being fired out of a cannon whilst naked) are rather let-down by their nipples, which quite simply go against the flow.

There are other body parts that create similar issues (I’m looking at you genitals), but it’s nipples that are the focus of today’s blog.

Now I’m prepared to admit there are many uses for nipples, mainly in early-life, adult aesthetics and general humour (I’m not saying nipples aren’t funny. Everyone knows they’re funny, especially whoever named them), but otherwise they’re a massive liability when it comes to being fired naked out of a cannon, or taking part in a super bowl half-time show.

And I don’t know about you but I’d love to be fired out of a cannon.

I’d like everyone locally to watch and cheer as I survive.

It would also be a hell of a way to die. Doing something, perhaps not heroic, but definitely touching that line between brave and foolhardy. Definitely ‘doing something‘, either way.

“He died doing what he loved: tempting it.” they’d say.

Or “Those nipples let him down again, honestly – he always gave them too many chances.”.

Regardless, I’d happily be fired out of a cannon as a way of living life to the full or ending it, especially now I’ve said my piece about nipples.

Genitals can will have to wait their turn another day.

‘Every willy has its week.’

‘Every foreskin its fortnight.’

‘Every labia its lunar cycle.’

I suppose, of course, if things were to be more nipples-first, the issue of aerodynamics would be the rest of us – not the nipples.

Nipples would be innocent in that scenario. Guilty ribs though.

Wow.

I’ve disproven my own view via a matter of perspective. It was never the nipples, it was the POV and the rest of us.

I’m still going to continuing with blaming the nipples though, as they rarely have anything else blamed on them – compared to the rest of us. I find, from the opinion of others, the fault is not in our stars but usually my “stupid big fucking feet“.

They’re not even that big, but they tend to be perfectly big enough at the precise time to be exactly what isn’t needed – depending on the scenario.

Like nipples in a cannon. Poor little guys.

Sam

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