Porcine excrement

Here's an extract from my much-neglected anthology of child torture. Sorry, travels with my infant sons. I would call them little bastards, but they resemble me in far too many ways.

The little bastards, sorry kids, have challenged me to shift more than ten copies of "Can We Go Home Now?" Maybe this extract will persuade you to help me win:

Lemmy's Biercafé
"What do you want?"
"A bacon and egg sandwich."
"A restraining order."
"A pint of Mild."

They didn't have any of these. But the orders did range from the unrealistic to the fantastic.

I'm sitting on a separate table to the kids. It works better that way if I want to write. I would complain of the kids spoiling the day with their antics. In reality, they've given loads of material. What's more important - fun or good material? You know the answer.

You want a description? Alright, brown café, corner location, some sort of music theme. They're playing - and have photos of - early 70's music stars. Is this life on Mars? Musically, yes. Brown wood, board floor. I'm bored. Chairman of the bored. There's a noticeable lack of Iggy here.

"I told you we'd have fun." I always say that. Luckily, today it was true. The kids love the idea of somewhere that invites mess. You're expected to throw your peanut shells on the floor. It's a big hit. I'm as happy as a porcine animal in excrement. They shut up and are just are revelling in litter. Perfect. Whisky time for dad.

Mmm. Maybe that's not such a greeat advert. Not sure what sort of day I was having then.

Want to discover more of my fatherly failings? Buy the effing book. Though I prefer to call them eccenticities rather than failings. But that doesn't alliterate. Unlike buy books.