I sometimes think it’s a crying shame that I couldn’t have just cloned myself when it came to having a son. God only knows what kind of whacky DNA Heidi (the missus) has thrown into the mix. She’s from about 10 countries; it’s such a mental mix the poor thing’ll probably think he’s an ostrich when he grows up. Stick with what you know, that’s what I say, and he would’ve been much better off with 100% Simon Weaver genes. Most of my ancestors come from the same muddy field in Rochdale and we are better off for it.
Think of the advice I could’ve given him.
I could have told him: “never kick a football,†as the whole enterprise would be doomed to failure from the off. “And the game is bloody stupid anyway,†I would’ve said, “what kind of cretin spends their time kicking balls around a field?†There’d be no smelly boys changing rooms, no humiliating soccer classes, no stupid Panini stickers, no shivering in the cold, and no chatting to numbskull goalkeepers between bouts of fleeing that cold, hard, dirty ball. Not for Simon MK2.
I could have introduced him to his favorite food, curry, when he was 2 instead of having him wait until he went to university at 18.
And think about Simon’s Brain? In 30 years there could’ve been a new infusion of lifeblood into the old thing. I could’ve passed the cap onto him knowing he’s got the right stuff upstairs to keep it ticking over in style. Billy’s Brain? It just doesn’t scan.
I could perhaps have also warned him about the futility of such narcissistic fantasies as wishing he could clone himself.
