D’ya hear yer man

Yer Man on the Olympics

The big draw for me has been the chance to watch minority sports that wouldn’t normally receive major TV coverage. Prior to the Olympics I’d have guessed the Men’s Uneven Bars was a specialist pub crawl rather than a highly-skilled gym routine. And as for the Ominium Scratch Race, upon first hearing the title of the event I presumed it was an intergalactic DJ battle. It turned out to be a contest for cyclists, though no less exciting than my first presumption.

I remain baffled by the Modern Day Pentathlon. Pistol shooting, fencing, swimming, show jumping and cross-country running aren’t exactly modern day pursuits. I would suggest the format is changed to include knife fighting, quad bike racing, paintballing, internet shopping and cross-platform social networking.

Yer Man on a trip to the seaside (August)

It wasn’t exactly Castlerock ‘n’ roll, but the breath of sea air was just what was needed for all the family. In saying that, the sea air seemed to get as much blame as it did credit.

For example the sea air was credited with Lucy getting a great night’s sleep on Friday, but on Saturday morning, when she roared like a maniac and refused her bottle, the sea air was to blame.

The sea air was also deemed responsible for both my increased appetite and my dad being off his food. And when we thought we’d lost Lucy’s red cardigan the sea air was the main culprit until it turned up in the folds of Karen’s coat.

Over the weekend we paid a visit to Portrush where my dad told us of some of the memorable incidents that had taken place on family trips to the north coast down through the years. He told of the time that my granny fell and broke her leg (or maybe it was her hip) while out for a stroll on the first day of their holidays. He also recalled the time his brother Harold, in his excitement to get into the paddling pool, ended up face first in the water. His fondest memory of the north coast was the time he was in the car with Jackie Denver and their vehicle was struck by a miss-hit tee-shot from a nearby golfer. It makes you wonder why they kept going back.

The most memorable part of the weekend for me was letting Lucy loose on the East Strand at Portrush and seeing her reaction to the sand. She seemed to enjoy shovelling the grains and sculpting castle-like shapes in the sand. Next time we might even give her a bucket and spade.

Even though we only spent a couple of days up the north coast it was with great sadness that I bid farewell on Sunday to the apartment in Castlerock that we’d spent the last couple of days in. There may even have been a little tear in my eye.

I’m blaming the sea air.”

Yer Man on the new addition

Early next year (2013) a new addition is due to arrive in the Cousins household.

The new member of the family will have a thirst for milk, will look good in dungarees and is likely to leave a trail of destruction wherever they go.

That’s right, we’re adopting BA Baracus.

I’m kidding of course. We’re having another baby.

Yer Man on putting the clocks back (October)

When tasked with putting the clocks back, the only clock I couldn’t adjust was Lucy’s internal body clock. Oblivious to DST (Daylight Saving Time) my daughter has been waking, not one, but two hours earlier than her regular 6.20am slot.

The result is I’m very tired.

But rather than accept my status as a sleep-deprived martyr I’ve decided to tackle head-on the problem of the clocks going back.

After much head-scratching, soul-searching, number-crunching and lateral-thinking, I’ve come up with a solution:

After adjusting your clocks for DST -1, tune your television to Living +1 and wait a few hours until equilibrium restores itself naturally.

Yer Man on makeshift banners

While driving down the M1 the other day I noticed a bedraggled bedsheet hanging over a motorway bridge which appeared to be advertising the fact that Jim or possibly Jean had just turned 50 or maybe it was 60.

I don’t see the point in broadcasting birthdays by this means. Not only is it irrelevant to 99.9% of the people who drive past it, but even those who are ‘in the know’ will do well to decipher the message being conveyed by the makeshift banner.

Wind and rain are pretty much guaranteed on the hour every hour in this country which will inevitably whip the sheet out of shape and cause the lettering on it to blot into an indistinguishable smear.

After a few hours in the elements it looks more like a dirty protest than a celebratory gesture.