The Wolf of Budapest
I’ve been on a stag do in Dublin and I am unbelievably tired.
The first two days were craic (not crack) filled, but it’s now day three and I just want to go home. In fact, I would trade in one of my testicles if I could be immediately teleported back to my sofa in Budapest, where I would then proceed to nod off whilst watching House of Cards with my ladies. Alas, my flight isn’t until the evening (Damn you Ryan Air!). We are staying in a squalid little hovel in an area of the city that’s bursting at the seems with dodgy looking council estates. For some peculiar, unknown reason our accommodation also constantly smells of sausages.
All of the other members of the stag party apart from me have been forced to check out already, so as it stands there are currently twelve, tired, hungover men with luggage in my room. Some of the guys are sleeping on the floor, three others share a bed, one has been gazing out of the window for about two hours, while another makes some tea. We look like Albanian immigrants waiting for a phone call to say that someone needs some tarmacking.
To make matters worse, there’s a big gaelic football match taking place today meaning that it's the busiest day of the year for the city. The result being that we need to get to the airport five hours before our flight or risk not being able to get a taxi.
After five long hours sitting in a Burger King in Dublin Airport (I should have set up a Justgiving sponsorship page), I get on my flight, the plane is pointed in the direction of Budapest and off we go. I skilfully manage to avoid buying scratch cards, we land, and I depart looking like one of The Walking Dead and fighting the desire to simply drift off in to a lovely coma.
I eventually make it home to our nest. I open the front door and my wife flings herself around me. She is beyond ecstatic to see me. I haven’t been greeted with such boundless enthusiasm since I had a puppy as a child. The puppy often weed on me in joy. Thankfully I have toilet trained my wife to a slightly higher standard..
I sneak in to the bedroom to say hello to my sleeping baby girl. I peer in to the cot. I see two large, wild eyes glaring back at me through the darkness. Either my wife has swapped our newborn for a bushbaby or this little human cub has decided to tear up the night and day rulebook.
That night I sob into my pillow as Mila screams. ALL. NIGHT. LONG.
Eventually, extreme tiredness takes over, the screaming becomes background noise and I fall asleep. A couple of ours later and I am awoken by an alarming smell. My hungover brain has a horrible feeling that it knows where this smell is coming from. I look to my wife for help, but she is nowhere to be seen. All I can see is a wild eyed baby, staring back at me from her cot.
Mila makes a noise which I think is baby for “Are you going to change me or what you lazy twat!?”
I know what I have to do, but I don't want to admit it.
Reluctantly, I decide that I have to do my duty and I cautiously lift my tiny baby girl out of her cot and take her to her nappy changing table. Like a nerd carefully unpacking a new iPhone I begin to remove her outer layers.
Oh the horror! THE HORROR! What’s that coming out of the nappy? Is it a monster? IS IT A MONSTER!? Surely this filth has come from a darts player after a curry night in a Weatherspoons rather than from my sweet baby girl. It’s gargantuan! Also, I don’t know how, but she’s even managed to shit on her chest!
Fighting the urge to wretch for risk of adding vomit to this already beastly mix, I set about the clean up operation. I’m like The Wolf from Pulp Fiction, if the Wolf was incredibly squeamish, bad at his job and sweated Guinness profusely. The filth is on my hands, it’s on her clothes, it’s around her nipples, it’s on the nappy changing table, it’s engulfing me!
At this moment my wife emerges from the bathroom, sporting a beaming smile.
“Do you know who our baby reminds me of on her ID card?” my wife asks.
Still covered in shit, I rack my brains for famous babies or babies that we both happen to know, but I’m struggling. My head is pounding and my brain is close to death. All I can think of is Ross Kemp. I shrug.
“Bill Murray!” she says.
I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting that.
“Her face. She has the same face as Bill Murray.” she adds.
I stare at the face of our beautiful, seven week old little baby girl, covered from head to toe in shit and it hits me.
My wife has just ruined Ghostbusters.