Family

A couple of years ago the thought of a Saturday without my girls would have filled my guts with a gnawing emptiness. This weekend I have moved on enormously.

I didn’t rail pathetically at my ex like the powerless loser that I used to be. More to the point, I didn’t allow myself to waste the weekend moping about and pining fruitlessly for my girls either.

I watched Dark Night on Friday evening with my patient wife. Today I received my 16GB iPhone after multiple attempts with broken credit. Then my wife and I test drove a Fiat 500 around Hyde Park. It was funky, stylish, chic and cheeky. Long term readers of this blog might recall my beloved Smart Roadster; well this had a similar feel, albeit with greater refinement and more driver aids. We fell in love with it.

Then we popped into Selfridges for some Skippy peanut butter and some Oreos for the girls. Then back to the flat.

My friends came over and while I set up my iPhone they kept themselves busy with geeky computer stuff.

Later we had a lovely dinner prepared by my lovely wife and finally, we played four player split-screen Call of Duty 4 on the PS3. Beautiful.

I got to speak to my girls briefly because their mum took them to the Qadiani Cult Camp, an annual gathering of brainwashed Punjabis in some field in Surrey. No matter. I have had a beautiful weekend so far. AlHamdulillah.

(The best part is that I’m blogging this from my iPhone.)

I have been trying to return my phone to T-Mobile for some time. It’s one of those MDA Vario II things with the slidey-outy-keyboard. Since last January, it’s made it possible for me to type out SMS without having to discard my quarter-century worth of typing experience in favour of a stupid teenager-oriented system. It also makes multi-part SMS and email a whole lot easier.

I’m not writing a commercial for this expensive toy, I’m writing about why I can’t return it. It has faults. The phone is awful. I fail to get signal in Oxford Circus and Bond Street. Can you imagine my facial expression right now? Ugly, isn’t it?

I can’t get 3G signal, or any kind of data connection sitting still in Grosvenor Square. You might ask why a Suspect Paki would be doing trying to get a 3G signal near the American Embassy. I was actually trying to work out the quickest walking route to the nearest mosque (the one in Mayfair) using Google Maps Mobile Edition. (I’m not really making this sound less incriminating, am I?)

The scroll-wheel jumps in the opposite direction randomly, intermittently and in varying amounts, which makes it about as useful as a heart surgeon with delirium tremens. The vibration feature sometimes takes a holiday without letting the boss know (I’m the boss) - and the latest joy, the keyboard doesn’t always listen to me, which is really rather insulting. I can understand why people don’t listen to me, but when devices play dumb (hold on…they are dumb) I get really cross.

These problems have been mounting and recently finally came to a head today, when I bit the bullet and decided to call the OTT cheery-by-script people at T-Mobile, who practically insist on calling you by your first name, even when they can’t pronounce it.

Having done absolutely nothing other than verify my number (it’s the one I’m calling from, the one you see on your screen, the one with the account allocated against it active for 14 years, shit-for-brains), they finally take two minutes to say goodbye, wishing you a wonderful life, a Happy New Year, a successful marriage and bon voyage. Just hang up the bloody phone already!

So I want to return the device.

Only I can’t. I made the rather dumb decision of insisting on synchronisation of my Windows Pocket PC phone with my Mac. Apple say it’s possible, pointing me to Mark/Space who sold me the software to do it. Only, it doesn’t sync everything. Most importantly, it doesn’t sync my SMS messages.

At this point, people around the world are losing their connection with me and falling asleep through a complete lack of empathy. That’s because most people don’t keep their texts. Not the way I do any way. You might be wondering why I don’t save the important ones to my SIM card? I do, but with around 6000+ of them, a lot of them multi-part, I run out of SIM space rather quickly.

6000+ text messages. Why? Well I love to keep all the texts my eldest sends. There are thousands. Even her missed call texts I keep. My kids are my life. Older readers know what I’m talking about. Let’s leave it at that for now.

Mark/Space promised that their Missing Sync software would do the job for me with version 4. I upgraded and paid them what they wanted for the second time

It didn’t work. I tried maybe half a dozen or more beta versions of their software after upgrading to version 4, simply for this single feature. I wasted my money and my time. It has never worked and I doubt it will ever work. I finally ran out of patience. Many ran out of patience far sooner than me.

If you have a Mac, please do yourself a favour and avoid using a Windows Pocket PC or Smartphone device if you’re going to let the Missing Sync software anywhere near it. It freezes a lot, can’t be bothered to sync half the time and most annoyingly, doesn’t do SMS properly. When it works, it does a good job of the contacts, address book, diary and other such simple stuff. It pretended to to music and photo, but never was reliable enough or flexible enough.

Having finally lost my patience, I also lost my integrity. I sold myself to the dark side. Opening a quarantined browser window, just in case, the hunt for PC backup software began. (Cue Psycho violin stabs)

I came across Sprite Backup and for once, the demo version of some seemingly useful software appeared not to be crippled. I read everything I could on it and even dropped the guys at Sprite an email. (They had been attempting to steer my down a web-based contact form, which employed a pet hate of mine - the insistence on user account creation before you are allowed to even contact them. There is nothing about this crime in shari`ah, but I would propose the same punishment as for theft.)

I took the chance and made a couple of backups. It appeared to make a full backup of the phone’s memory. The next step was to restore. This seemed to freeze half way through. I panicked because my phone was now empty, everything had gone and I was already imagining the type of swearing I would employ in my email to Sprite. I calmed down and realised that it hadn’t crashed, it was just taking its sweet time.

On the third attempt (I cancelled the first two), I let it continue. Three hours later, there was a perfectly restored phone.

Tomorrow, my phone goes back to T-Mobile. Thanks to the people at Sprite in New Zealand, I will be able to get my phone fixed, safe in the knowledge that on the replacement, I will still have the messages my beloved daughters sent me.

Jailed by CSA - Fathers 4 Justice Barrister

The barrister for Fathers 4 Justice was yesterday jailed for 42 days for refusing to pay child support to his ex-wife because their three teenage sons spend half their time with him.

Michael Cox, 43, from Hythe, near Southampton claimed the system treated him as an ‘absent parent’ despite the fact that he cared for the children for half the time.

During the hearing, which was closed to members of Fathers 4 Justice and the public, Michael Cox’s 13 year old son Matthew burst into court in tears to plead for his father not to be jailed.

His ex-wife, Lesley Peach also begged the court not to jail Cox because she would be forced to give up work and onto benefits if he was locked up.

Said Cox, before being sent to Dorchester Prison, Dorset to serve his sentence, ‘I feed all of my children, I clothe them, I house them – all my money is spent on my family. The CSA gives me no assistance for that and is trying to force me to pay that money twice over. I say that makes it oppressive, unjust and discriminatory in its action.’

Said F4J founder Matt O’Connor, ‘Michael’s stand was principle, courageous and defiant. We believe he has been scape-goated because of his involvement with F4J and because he is a barrister. In effect he has become a political prisoner jailed by the CSA in a secret court for discharging all his responsibilities to his children.’

‘He has become a Guantanamo Dad.’

The ultimate conspiraloon might believe so. I just think they’re incompetent. (At least I know how newspapers come up with headlines now…just tell a great big lie and put a question mark at the end)

i have emailed YouTube with my counterfile, which they at first rejected due to a supposedly incomplete portion (which they didn’t point out at first!). I updated the counter-notice and retried. Since then, and it’s over a week now, I have emailed them on over a dozen occasions, but received no reply.

This is frustrating, but it’s clear that I’m going to have to knuckle down for a long battle. Suits me fine.

The Ahmadis have got away with defending their confusing, paranoid and vulgar “prophet” for far too long and I will use all legal means to pursue this.

Let’s get this clear, I have no issue with ordinary Ahmadis. Many of them think they’re Muslims, but they’re wrong.

My job is to pull the curtain away from the Wizard of Qadian and reveal him for the ugly charlatan that he is. Ahmadis should hopefully wake up and rejoin the Ummah once they see what he was really about.

As for YouTube, any advice welcomed, but I will try fax next as they don’t respond to email.

Update 1 - 26/6/7

7 hours ago, and not long after the above post appeared, YouTube finally responded to my counter-notification and informed me it had been passed on. The Ahmadiyya now have my home address, my personal mobile telephone number and my email address. We’ll see what happens on the intimidation front.

They have already been at my ex-wife, reducing her to tears, brainwashing my kids and exerting social pressure on my mum, where she felt compelled to beg me in tears to stop my action, lest the “wrath of God” destroy me. Much as I have my problems with my ex, she doesn’t deserve that, after all, what is it to her? Why did they drag her in and humiliate her? With my kids too?

That’s what cults do.

I made it past 40. I’d like to say I defied the doctors, but that’s not true. Without Dr. Valabhji (Diabetologist - St. Mary’s Hospital) I probably wouldn’t be here today. Well, I’m here. Hobbling post-surgery, recently hospitalised for fuck - knows - what - bugs - are - cooking - but - I - did - have - a - flu - jab - recently, no foot pulses and recently hit by a couple of mini-strokes, but in the words of a friend who saw me the other day “You look a hell of a lot better than you sounded from your blog”. I do. It’s always been that way. People must think I make it up.

My children didn’t call or text. That hurt. It shouldn’t. I’m 41 for fuck’s sake. And I know it isn’t their fault. Kids don’t really remember dates. I know this much though: their mother does remember dates. And she should have reminded them, because when they find out, they’re going to feel very bad about it. She would rather that they forget me. She has said as much many times in front of the kids - “Why don’t you just stay away? We don’t need you!”. Imagine how that hurts the kids. Imagine how confused they feel at being told such a load of shit by their primary “carer” and “protector”.

I am sure some plausible story will be invented. That was always the case before, it is just more that way now.

My brother called me earlier to wish me a happy birthday. I sounded a little down because the kids hadn’t called. He asked me when I had last been allowed to see them. I couldn’t remember. It was a long time ago and I have had a lot on my plate. The Emotional Terrorist will act as if she never stops them or me. She is well versed in the most advanced techniques of Implacable Hostility. In fact, she wrote the book - and she’s the only living tenth dan master in this black art.

So she should have reminded them. For their sake if not mine. I give them money to spend on their mum in advance of her birthday. And if they were living with me, I would make sure that they remembered. It would be the right thing to do.

So no, it shouldn’t hurt. But it does. It’s not their fault. I looked at their pictures, I read my eldest’s old texts. I recalled the good times - and there have been many - before and after our own private holocaust.

I felt bad today for my wife. She is such an amazing, wonderful human being. I am so lucky to have her. I was moping and distant and I tried not to be and she tried to ignore it whilst staying supportive. She knew I was pining for them. She had asked me what I wanted for my birthday weeks in advance. “I would like the girls to come over”. We both knew that wasn’t going to happen, but like the child of divorce hoping for their parents to mend their broken lives again, one hopes in vain, hopes for no gain, hope’s a pain.

One less friend this year. I used to have a friend who promised to be friends for at least another couple of decades. This friend, call the friend Z so as not even to betray the sex, (I owe Z that much) dumped me by text a few months ago because of my blog.

Well I still stand by what I said. I say fuck Israel, I say Hezbollah are a legitimate resistance, I say the Palestinians are wronged and oppressed, I say the Zionists are evil, I say the jury’s out on Hamas, I say the West is Islamophobic to the extreme and I say I’m proud to be a Muslim Londoner who despises the actions of the Zionaxis. If I had been white and said all this, I doubt I would garner so much suspicion or revulsion.

Anybody who has my mobile number and who doesn’t like the sound of it, feel free to TEXT “DUMPED” to me.

Imagine my surprise when out of the blue, moments after I put this post up, Z texts me a belated happy birthday, oh around 00:10.

For months, I have been bewildered. I thought about sending back Z’s books. I maintained my dignity, and felt strongly about my position. I couldn’t do it. The books are still in a pile, because sending them back would have been too final and I wasn’t the one trying to hammer nails into the fucking coffin of a great friendship over a lousy fucking text message.

So I am confused. I don’t think Z has betrayed me. (God I hope not!) I think Z has too much self-respect for that.

I am hobbling back onto my feet. I went to the office today on crutches. I got a seat on the bus in a flash on the way out. On the way back some youth was occupying a disabled seat and actually made me stand. If my knees had been better, I might have clubbed him with my metal crutches. Then again, if my knees had been better, I wouldn’t have needed the seat, nor would I have had the crutches. What made me more angry was that he was with some girls and he was making all of them stand. Chivalry has been wiped out in a generation.

I was delighted to be contacted by a few friends and family wishing me a happy birthday. Delighted because at 41, you really expect people to stop bothering!

Not one’s kids though. Just over 20 minutes to go. Like a child waiting for a best friend to remember, or for its parents to heal the divide, I wait and I hope. It’s never the child’s fault. And one day, what I have sown, I too shall reap. As did my father. God rest his soul.

I hate EastEnders for how it drives a knife through the heart of society, casting child against parent, going against every decent principle the human race ever created in a Satanic drive for apathetic anarchy. Every plotline is about kids standing up to, belittling and trashing their parents. No consequence is ever revealed. Where do you think kids learn from these days?

I last heard from my children exactly four weeks ago today.

They made it clear that they didn’t want me to contact them. I can’t think of anything to do. Nobody could possibly understand this type of pain except those who have gone through it. It’s not even like I can imagine the worst. I can’t imagine anything and I am not allowed to know anything. Schrodinger’s Kids.

Their mother has been spreading crap and lies and garbage about me for years, I can deal with that, but when my kids accept it as gospel truth after making EastEnders like assumptions about me, well, I am utterly paralysed. I am already beaten.

• I can’t open my mouth, my kids, propped up by their Emotional Terrorist mother, won’t listen to me.
• I can’t visit them at school, they don’t want to see me - and their mother would report me for harrassment.
• I can’t call them, my calls are ignored.
• I can’t text them, my texts are ignored apart from the one instance where their mother told me I would “just have to wait!!!!!!!!” - the exclamation marks affirming her orgasm of Munchausen-by-proxy syndrome. She revels in pain, hers, theirs, anyone’s. Pain is her god.
• I can’t write to them, my letters would be torn up after having every word twisted into its illogical opposite.

My ex wrote the book on spin. She’s so good at it that the kids don’t see it, funnily enough, neither do most people. I was lucky enough to have seen friends of hers see what she was really like, without me having to say a word.

When I spoke to my beautiful girls to tell them I was married, their mother was there, twisting every word I said, turning everything into fighting and confrontation. She is a Pain Dispenser and she is getting them hooked. Otherwise even I would have believed her image of me.

A month gone. And it will get harder and harder for my kids and impossible for me. I am their father. Why should I continue to bow down to them? I don’t believe I should have to do that anymore. I have proven myself, it’s not a parent’s job to bow down to their kids - we are the lost generation - having to humble ourselves before our parents and our children. Their mother will rejoice as she experiences climax after climax of pain and agony and suffering and degradation and humiliation and utter madness.

I can’t even seek legal advice, even though they are living in hell (which I can’t describe in case social services take my kids away from their mother) because my kids more than anything don’t want that. They suffer from Stockholm Syndrome you see.

My hands are utterly tied, so I am reduced to looking at their pictures, watching their videos, singing the songs I made for them and when I have a quiet moment and I am absolutely certain that nobody is around, allowing myself to come close to tears, but no further. They need a father who loves them like I do, but they are being denied. And absolutely nothing can be done. Not a single friend I know has the answers. Not a single counsellor. So I pray and hope and pray and hope and pray and hope. Insha’Allah.

After all, if my kids don’t even want to talk to me, then what hope is there?

I was always a great father to them. I never swore at them, never belittled them, always praised them, always bolstered their self-image, was always affirmative and supportive and encouraging, played creative games with them, made songs for them, spoiled them rotten, hugged them often, told them I loved them so much that they got bored of it, spoke to them gently, taught them the stuff that a mother is supposed to teach them and all this while being mocked and belittled and humilated by their mother who actually did pretty much nothing.

Given the current, diabolical situation in the Lebanon where the Zionist pigs are running wild in a perpetual orgy of West-sponsored-child-murder, I really shouldn’t give a shit, but I do. I cry at the sight of Lebanese children killed, but my children are my children and knowing how they are suffering right now is not easy for me, given that I am not being allowed the opportunity to parent them out of this difficult period.

They don’t want me - hey ho. I just have to deal with it, but it would be a mindless, stupid tragedy if anything were to happen to any of us while we weren’t talking. Nobody knows what tomorrow will bring, why deal with it like this?

What choice do I have?

A trusted and respected friend feels uncomfortable reading posts about my family. He knows who he is and should feel free to skip this post.

I love my wife. And I love my children. The two are certainly not mutually exclusive. They never can be. My wife is my soul-mate. My children are my flesh and blood. They are the most wonderful children in the world. I have fed them, clothed them, raised them, nurtured them, taught them values and I have broken their beautiful hearts.

Their mother made it clear that I should “give them space”. Interesting, that. I was never afforded space as a child. I have not heard from them in a week. I have tried to contact them, to no avail. I have called the school to find out if they’re there, and they are, so they are at least in the country, for now, allaying my worst fears.

Children need two parents. I have no intention of deserting them, giving up on them or “moving on” from them. They are too much part of me, and I am too much a part of them, for that to ever happen. They need me, now more than ever, and yes, I need them too.

I won’t go into details, they are not necessary. What is important is that I love them, I will always be near them (mother permitting) and I will not walk away from their lives. I still have much to teach them and I know they still want me in their lives, even if they’re unhappy right now.

The upset will lessen, and what I have given them, my love, my time, my patience, my support, my understanding, my care, my affection, my creativity, my knowledge, my lessons, my fun, my cooking and my silly songs will still be there and they will remember. They will come to learn that my wife is no threat to them, that she has allowed space for them and has encouraged it, that she knows how much they mean to me and she values that. Without her unconditional and unwavering love, kindness and support, it’s conceivable that I might not have been alive to love my kids today.

I miss my babies and I know they miss me too. Insha’Allah, it will be OK. It will.

I recently got married. I am very happy with my wife. She is a wonderful woman.

My kids don’t want to see me at the moment. I’m not sure how long that will continue for. I want to write about it, but I need to make sure I strike the right kind of balance and allow some perspective.

My kids are wonderful. They are not in a good situation. When they wanted to see me more often and were courageous enough to say so in front of their mother, her response was a flat “I don’t want you to spend more time with your dad”. Now that they don’t want to see me, her response is an equally balanced “That’s fine by me, don’t see him for as long as you wish.”

It’s a bitter-sweet time, but having weighed everything up, I feared it might be this way.

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