A Special Delivery

I got a text this morning from Laura announcing the birth of her son Leo. Both of them are doing well so I thought I’d celebrate by letting my tics make the official announcement (and offer some sage advice on the art of parenting):

Tiny little Leo came into the world on a hovercraft. He was delivered by Brian with a spatula and a Cup-a-Soup. Return of the sperm. I’d like to welcome to the world: Leo, Brian and AIDS. Not AIDS. Biscuit. Nana. I’d like to welcome the Nana of sheep to the living room. Biscuit.

So Leo was born today at forty-eight hours after sheep. He’s going to be very good at Spanish. It’s quite likely he’s going to be good at football, and fighting with his mind. He’s going to be able to do mind-reading tricks like Uri Geller and a horse called Daniel.

He might have the dancing skills of a loaf of bread, but the catapult ability of a sheepdog called Heart. He’s going to be full of heart and full of kiwi fruit. He loves kiwi fruit, even though he’s only a few tiny hours old – a few teeny tiny hours old.

Brian. Brian was the midwife. Biscuit. He mopped Laura’s brow with a sandwich bag motherfucker. Nana. I do love Nanas. Biscuit. Bees. Biscuits. Tidal wave.

There’s a tidal wave of love in the room. I’d like to introduce you to a tidal wave of love for little Leo, for little tiny Leo, little 7lb bag of love jugs. Love jugs! He’s a little bag of love jugs. He’s like a little beetle. He might be like a little squirmy beetle, a little squirmy cute beetle. Lovely. I love Leo. I haven’t met Leo. I love Leo. Brian loves Leo. Brian.

Brian didn’t drop the baby. Just to be clear, Brian definitely didn’t drop the baby. Biscuit.

Some parenting advice for fools: don’t drop them on their heads, don’t shake them like Louise Woodward, wrap them up when it’s cold, bathe them (sometimes), don’t let them drown, teach them to be a better person than Harold Shipman, always let them see their Nanas, and don’t feed them French toast too soon.

Welcome to the world Leo. I’m looking forward to singing you a song about fucking sheepdogs. Bye, bye!

Festive Outburst:
“Fighter pilot Santa.”

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