Tomorrow is father's birthday, his 80th no less. Now the old b'stard is ok, although my mother thinks otherwise, but I am happy he's reached such a ripe old age and become the personification of Victor Meldrew in the process. So at the weekend I got him some suitable gift, whisky close on his age that I can help him consume, after all what else do you get a grumpy old Scottish git? The woman creature and I are looking for a suitable card in the shops on Sunday, preferable something espousing the glories of the great Glasgow Rangers, and the wife decides she has had enough and wants to go home, fine thinks me. The chavs appear to have woken up by this point and the great unwashed are starting to spew forth into Scotlandâs finest city, so late afternoon. âIâll pick one up tomorrow or Tuesday, since I am off workâ says Mrs Fish. âGreatâ says I. So Monday comes and goesâ¦ âNo worries, Iâll get one tomorrowâ, says she. So lunchtime today, I phone, no answer. Now as any self-respecting bloke knows, if the bint has the phone in her handbag, it might as well be buried under four tonnes of concrete. So thinking on my feet like the good sailor I am, I send a text. âHave you got the card yet?â Buzz buzz beep. Text sent. Low and behold, tens minutes later, my phone makes a wee beep and I check for the message, hoping it is from some gorgeous babe, but no it was her replying. âYesâ. Not: sort of, or kind of, but a simple YES! Happy with the situation I go back to not worrying about whatever I am supposed to be worrying about all day. I get home, amuse myself by throwing the fishlette about the room and generally causing a suitable amount of chaos. All good. I look up to see Mrs Fish taking the uisge beatha from the shelf, above fishlette height, and starting to wrap it. How can any trained observer fail to note that the silly bint was using packing tape! âWhat the bloody hell are you using that for?â says me, just managing not to deliver the kind of bollocking that would bring a tear to the eye of my old gunnery instructor. âI couldnât find any sellotapeâ, she is looking worried, the kind of look a spaniel has once it has run in, and before you beat it around the head with a passing stick. âOh for fcks sake Iâll get some laterâ. Well done thinks the fish, you stayed calm. Then the penny starts to drop. âWhereâs the card you bought?â âOh I didnât buy one, I just took one from my box of cardsâ âYOU WHAT, ITâS HIS EIGHTITH BIRTHDAY, HE IS UNLIKELY TO SEE ANOTHER, AND YOU TOOK A GENERIC CARD OUT A BOX!!!â Now unlike a spaniel, women donât always seem to know when the have done wrong, not enough rubbing noses in shite I reckon. Having had enough of her pish, I grab my rifle and head out to the local range to get out her space. Now you would think that being grumpy and pissed off would have a detrimental effect on my plinking, do you know I shot, the best card of m life. The moral of this story? Women are shite when it comes to buying cards for your old man.