D’ya hear yer man

Last week Yer Man was a spritely specimen of a man in his early thirties.

This week he is officially too old to be getting up to shenanigans, tomfoolery and general horseplay.

I turned 34 on Saturday and it’s fair to say I’m starting to act my age. I’m beginning to make involuntary noises when getting up and cutting the grass is my number one priority on dry days.

I’m not at all sure I like being 34. Being 33 meant I was still in my early thirties, at 34 I’ve moved on to mid-thirties, which is dangerously close to the precipice that is ‘The Big 4-0’.

And with a child on the way, I’ve started doing that thing whereby you work out what age you’ll be when your offspring reaches certain milestones.

For example, I’ll be 38 for my kid’s first day at school, I’ll be 50 when they’re learning to drive, I’ll be 52 when I buy them their first pint and I’ll probably be in my 150th year by the time they offer to buy me one back.

Someone joked that my age now matches my waistline. I’m not sure whether or not to take this as a compliment because it’ll be another two years before my age catches up with my waist size. Even then, the alignment of age and waistline is dependent on me not putting on any weight in the next 24 months. Alarmingly, given that my food to exercise ratio is becoming more skewed in favour of peanuts than press ups, it could be that never the twain shall meet.

And for that reason I’ve decided what I want for my birthday next year. A bigger belt.

Bird flies away

Mr William Bird is gone.

I’m anticipating that your first question will be, ‘Who is Mr William Bird?’

Mr William Bird was our pet name for our car. C’mon, don’t tell me no one else gives their car a pet name.

Sadly William, who’d been our mutual friend for eight years, was deemed incapable of coping with the demands likely to be put upon him by the forthcoming addition to our family, so we’ve swapped him for one of his brethren who has four-doors and a bigger boot.

We’ve decided to call our new car Dirty Harry. The reason he’s called Dirty Harry is because it’s my responsibility to clean him.

So there you have it, proof, if ever proof was needed, that I’m acting my age. I’m 34, I’m soon to become a dad, my waistline is expanding exponentially and I’m now the co-owner of a four-door family car.

And as I look out the window, I’m thinking to myself, “If it stays like this, I might be able to get the grass cut tonight.”

Big Chief Hitting Bull

I told you a couple of weeks ago about my dad’s bullseye success.

His good run of hitting the bullseye continued on Sunday when we took to the oche for a few games of darts. In the space of three games he hit the bullseye an impressive five times.

His new darts nickname is The Bullhitter. The first time I saw it written down I assumed he’d left out the ‘S’.

James in Wonderland

Myself and my friend James got cultured up to the eyeballs on Friday night at Belfast Culture Night.

We took to the streets where we were entertained by slamming poets, dancing monkeys, an opera in a barber shop, a five-piece band in a caravan, a Second world War veteran who was friendly with George Formby, a female gospel choir, a best-selling author and three blokes dressed as Roy Walker from Catchphrase.

When James returned home and told his housemate Neil about his adventures, Neil suggested he’d fallen down a rabbit hole and advised him not to be drinking any more magic potions.

Neil immediately texted me to ask for verification of James’ tall tales. I told him it was all true, but he was rather sceptical. I was disgusted he didn’t believe me. If you can’t trust a journalist, who can you trust?

Weekly teaser

The answer to last week’s teaser was: the last egg stays in the carton.

Here’s this week’s teaser: Why are so many famous artists Dutch?