Friday, 24 April 2009


Nature has compensated for stealing hair from my head (and re-laying it everywhere else) by rarely giving me zits. I think I had two, three tops when I was thirteen and another one on my twenty first birthday and that is it. (And here’s where I take a little time out for the benefit of any non-Scots reading this and give them a new word to play with. Plook. Scots for a zit.)
I digress. Where was I? Ah yes, no hair, no zits.....until today. I have a lump at the side of my nose that makes me look like I’m trying to grow a new nostril. With a nice yellow crown.
My feeling is that fresh air is excellent for one’s offspring so I took my zit for a run in the car this evening. It was parents’ night at the school. My son wasn’t in attendance as he and Supergran had gone to the Braehead arena to see some half-naked men in lycra and tattoos (who knew it would be such an appealing combination) body-slam each other on to a square of canvas while pretending they are in a competition. Yes folks, WWE is in town and Gran and grandson will be whooping it up with the worst of them. Gran is taking her favourite Rey Mysterio mask with her. Works well with the blue rinse. Joking. She doesn’t have a blue rinse, she’s much too trendy for that. It’s purple. (And no, she doesn’t read this)
Before leaving for the school I debated long and hard about squeeze or not to squeeze? That was the question. In the end, because it is nobler in the mind and because of the size of said plook – we’re talking the ability to fill several custard pies – I decided I didn’t have the time to clean up the resultant sea of troubles.
My son has two teachers. They job share. They don’t look old enough to have kids of their own, let alone have spent enough time at college learning how to teach other folks kids. They say you’re getting old when the police look young. Let me add a few other professions to that list – teachers, doctors, dinner ladies.
In any case I needn’t have worried about my singular breakout of acne. One of my son’s teachers was having – how can I put this delicately - trouble with her T-zone. I couldn’t keep my eyes off. I had one mountain peak. She had the Andes in miniature stretching up and down either side of her nose. I was hoping she would unbutton her top two buttons so I could have something else to vie for my attention. I caught her staring at mine and briefly wondered if we should start up a convention. In the end I chose not to. My membership would only have been temporary, whereas she, I fear, would have been a life member.
What is the evolutionary purpose in acne? Eh, Mr Darwin? Bet the turtles in the Galapagos Islands weren’t able to tell you that. The books say that nature is supposed to have a design for everything – what’s acne all about? Maybe the clue is in when it strikes. In the teenage years. I’m nodding slowly as I write this. What else is going on during that time of torment? A storm of hormones. The girls are uber-fertile. The boys are walking erections. That’s it. Drum roll. Acne is nature’s contraceptive. Nothing like a plook bursting over your feeble moustache to cool your ardour.
....and welcome to the School of Half-Baked Ideas and Piss Poor Theories.
It’s getting late and I’m rambling. Off to bed now. To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay there’s the rub, but I hope mini-me doesn’t get rubbed all over my nice clean pillow cases.
ps – the report was great. The wee fella’s doing us proud.


  1. Michael, have you ever heard the expression 'Too Much Information'? I'll be losing sleep tonight.

  2. Can't think what you mean, GP. Was it the custard pies wot done it?

  3. Michael
    You always said you would be published.

    Peter C.

  4. Too, too much information, Michael. I have a sensitive stomach. more information. I was having to read with my hand over my eyes as in technique for watching scary scary movies. Stoap it. I too will not be able to sleep this night.


  5. Ignore them all Michael, tell it like it is.

  6. Can't help myself, Bill. The weird thing is, I can edit the disgusting stuff out when I'm talking. But when I write its as if some strange being takes me over and I cannae stop.