I still miss him

I was Bloggered yesterday and for some inexplicable reason, could not post on my own blog but I could post comments on other blogs. Perhaps it was my turn to have all my electronic communications and data surfed by the NSA and GCHQ using PRISM to find out if I am, in fact, The Angolan Connection.

I coined a term a few posts ago, 'Gogglers', those who use Google Glasses and deserve a kick in the googlies. The latest term I shall use from now on is being 'Bloggered'. I think it neatly sums up some of our experiences with Blogger and yesterday I was well and truly Bloggered so the post I really wanted to go up yesterday, only appears today, If Blogger were half decent and had a sense of humour, they would dispense with the enormous variety of truly uninformative error messages, useless in that they only tell you what you already know and not how to resolve the problem, with a far simpler one: 'You've been Bloggered.' Right this second, as I type, a message has popped up (or should I coin another term and say 'Pooped up') telling me that there was an error saving or publishing my post and that I should please try again before giving me an option to 'Ignore Warning'. Guess which button I clicked on.

Just recently, I have been complaining about disturbed sleep patterns. Once again this morning I was wide awake before 5 am. Now this is very irritating given that the amount of weight I am putting on due to enforced inactivity clearly means I am still a growing boy and, as we all know, growing boys need their sleep. I am then faced with a choice. Sit in the jango so I do not wake Marcia and Alex and be eaten by mosquitoes or just lie quietly in bed with a racing mind? Why is it that I can't concentrate on the nice things of my life? Why is it that the only files my mental search engine can find are unpleasant ones? Everything from excruciatingly embarrassing moments to the howling mistakes I made, such as leaving the Army for love; my first wife hated being an Army wife but nevertheless ran off with another bloke two years after I resigned my commission, taking my SL Mercedes along with her. I know which I miss the most but such an admission would upset the feminists.

For the last week, however, floating there in the semi-conscious zone between sleep and wakefulness every morning, I have dreamt of my father. Vivid dreams in full Tecnicolor. I have never, ever, been able to recall dreams with such clarity. He is evidently not particularly impressed with me but, rather than dress me down as an employer would an unsatisfactory employee, he talks to me as a father counseling a son in grave danger of severely disappointing him. It is a pretty bloody sobering way to start the day but I think that's his intention. Still, I am so pleased to see the Old Man again, and looking so good for a man long dead and buried, even if the nice bits of our increasingly regular morning conversations are laced with acerbic wit at my expense. Dad, if you're reading this, if you want me to pay attention, then at least offer me a decent coffee at that Godawful time of the morning.

Everyone, and I mean Everyone, knows that God is an Englishman. But I have my doubts. Unless my father has scored the celestial nightshift (and who knows how long a hevenly apprenticeship might be when one has all of eternity to play with), heaven must be on a different time zone. If it wasn't, why doesn't he contact me during normal office hours? If heaven, God's HQ, is on a different time zone, it can't be in England, can it? Unless, of course, God is also an expatriate escapee... Since my last employers, based in Dubai, used to call me at 4 am, I can only assume that Heaven is somewhere around the UAE. Imagine the reaction when the locals discover that the top Christian has been living and operating undiscovered in their midst for two millennia? They should not feel too bad about it though, as I have it on good authority (Sky News) the UK Border Agency is just as efficient.

I am sure heaven is not in Angola. God would never have had his residency visa application approved. I mean, what would his criminal record sheet look like? Encouraging incest (Adam, Eve, two sons, one murdered; where did the rest come from?). Criminal damage and mass murder by flooding the World. The subjugation of women. The destruction of several cities and all their inhabitants (Sodom, Gomorra, Jericho et al). Plagues in Egypt and the ever trendy slaughter of first born sons. Turning water into wine thereby evading alcohol duties. The Crusades. The list is endless. Which country with even half decent border control would let a homicidal religious maniac like that get past immigration in the first place, much less let him stay?

Anyway, I digress. My father would have been 85 yesterday, the 7th of June. Instead he died young of a massive heart attack (Yeah, thanks for the genes, Dad. I'd sooner have had a pair of Levi 501's) and I miss him terribly.

Father dressed for the beach
About the only time I ever saw him not wearing a tie.
And yes, he was a Real Man, he wore a vest under his shirt.

I'm sorry Dad, I did remember your birthday, it was just that I was Bloggered.  If there is a heaven, do me a favour and put a word in so that when a Blogger encoder arrives there, you can send him straight to hell.