I am not a traveller. I'm not a taker of trips. I'll make an exception for Blackpool, of course, my deep-fried neon holyland. Last time I went to Blackpool, the first thing I saw when I got off the train was a pregnant woman dragging on a Lambert while her shaven-headed toddlers gobbed at the gulls. When I die I will go back to Blackpool and suck suggestive confectionary with the one-armed angels in an infinite Penny Arcade.
But sometimes you just need to get away from it all, so the other day I packed some sandwiches and a salacious paperback and wriggled off on holiday underneath my bed. It was the holiday of a lifetime - no sun, so sand and no sea, although after one too many pina coladas I had an uncomfortable encounter with an imaginary cocktail waiter and before I knew it, I was up the duff.
After a brief gestation period, during which I almost did a wordsearch in Chat, my jaw sagged and my gall rose and I hawked up an infant all over the clues. We regarded each other with some mistrust until he slid down the magazine in a log-flume of afterbirth and swaggered off downstairs with my fags under his arm.
And that's how Baby Mumps came to live in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. Baby Mumps with his bumfluff 'tache and Color Me Badd on his boombox, a flick-knife down his Chelsea boot and a stash of Razzles behind the bleach. I've decided to adopt a rather laissez-faire approach to parenting.