I’ve just checked Google, and it turns out I was wrong when I said yesterday that Hartlepool was the teenage pregnancy capital of Britain. I believe that this used to be the case, but we seem to have now been beaten by Burnly. Damn! We are no longer the champions.
I feel a sudden urge to do my bit to get us back to the top of the league once again. I am a proud Hartlepool lad, and I refuse to stand idly by while Burnly take the prize that is rightfully ours. And thus, I have no choice but to sleep with lots of teenage girls; they have to be of legal age obviously, I’m not a paedophile, just a pervert, albeit a pervert attempting to masquerade his perversion under the veneer of town-based patriotism. No, I am joking, obviously I’ll be doing this to put Hartlepool back to the top of the teenage pregnancy league where we truly belong.
To massively bastardise the words of Chumbawamba: we got knocked down, but we’ll be up again, and we’ll get up again by getting lots of teenage girls knocked up, coz we ain’t gonna be kept down … below Burnly. In fact, I think this should be Hartlepool’s anthem, designed to galvanise men and teenage girls of legal age to have sex for the honour and the glory of their home town. I will be seeing Neil from Chumbawamba on Wednesday, and so I will ask him whether the band would be interested in recording my song for this noble cause. I can’t see why they’d say no.
Sadly I have to leave Hartlepool in a couple of hours, and I doubt that’s really enough time to make any notable progress. I would need to find a teenage girl, check and then double check that she was of legal age, and then have sex with her. I doubt that two hours would yield any more than one teenage girl. And even that single bit of sex doesn’t necessarily mean that a pregnancy will occur, we’d still have to rely on the sperm making contact with the egg and fertilising it, which even for someone as virile as me, is still not a certainty. It would be a shame if I’d ended up having sex with a eighteen-year-old girl, only to find that it had been a complete waste of my time. Naturally, I’d be pretty pissed off about that, as I’ve got better things to be doing with my life than wasting it having sex with eighteen-year-old girls. I’ll be back in Hartlepool in May though, so I’ll make a concerted effort then. In the meantime, if there are any Hartlepool-based teenage girls listening or reading this who fancy joining me in doing their bit for their home town, get in touch with me. Again, I want to stress that I am only interested in girls of legal age, and I’d prefer it if you were closer to eighteen than sixteen, to avoid me possibly getting into trouble over any Gray areas. Although, if you’re sixteen and you have a Gray area, then you’ve probably got other things on your mind, and you might want to get some medical advice on that.
Just because I’m not able to do my bit for the cause until May, it doesn’t mean that the men and teenage girls of legal age can’t start without me. What are you waiting for? Come on! Lie back and think of Hartlepool!
Death was very much still the main theme of the day back at my family home in Hartlepool. Dad has been trying to tell me about his will, and to talk me through its various elements. I put up quite a bit of resistance, as I really didn’t fancy having this conversation. I told him that I am satisfied with just knowing what he’s written in his will once he’s died. After all, it would be a shame to ruin the moment by providing spoilers.
Dad has also just emailed me a copy of his diaries from thirty years ago that he and my mum wrote when I had cancer and became blind, as well as the diary he wrote just after mum died when I was twelve. He explained that he’d done this so that I had them to read when he’d gone. I have asked him if there’s something he’s not telling me, but apparently there isn’t. He is absolutely fine. He just seems to have acquired a new unusual hobby that involves him fixating on his own death and chatting about it to his increasingly concerned sons. I really think it’s his new hobby, as he doesn’t sound downbeat when he talks about it; he genuinely sounds jolly, as if he’s merely chatting about going to the shops or something.
I am of course relieved that my dad’s death doesn’t seem to be imminent, mainly because I’d be hugely sad, but also because it would be a shame if he never got to see all his hundreds of grand-children that he’s probably going to end up with if I do decide to go ahead with my campaign to get Hartlepool back to the top of the teenage pregnancy league table. Although, the stress and mayhem caused by all those grand-children will probably end up prematurely killing him. Actually, it’s likely that it will kill me first, as I’ll probably end up dying of exhaustion due to my none-stop impregnation marathons, meaning that I’ll probably end up dying before I get to see any of the children I’ve spawned; although, there’ll be so many that I wouldn’t be able to get personally attached to them anyway, and would probably simply just view each child as a point which brings us closer to teenage pregnancy capital reclamation and glory.
I think my dad’s matter-of-fact attitude about his own death is influenced by his fiancée Irene, who is very much a hardened, down-to-earth, no nonsense Yorkshire woman. She is certainly not abashed about discussing biological matters. The first time she cooked a meal for my dad (which was a delicious curry, beautifully and diligently prepared) she carried the plate over to the table, plonked it down in front of dad, and proudly declared, “there you are, now that’ll make you go in the morning.” Not “Bon Appétit” or anything pretentious like that. She’d spent hours in the kitchen making this meal, but before he’d even taken a mouthful of it, she was already commenting on its exit from him the next day.
So I think that Irene’s unashamed frankness about stark biological inevitabilities has rubbed off on dad, at least I hope that’s all it is, otherwise these Dollops are about to get rather depressing and introspective. I’d still throw in a few jokes for you though, don’t worry. In fact, I’m wondering if my dad put any jokes into his diary entries. Maybe he’s not sending me them because he’s thinking that he might die soon, but actually because he thinks they’re hilarious and might provide me with an award-winning standup show.