The Thing Is with Steve Canavan

She thinks this because we have a second child on the way, due to arrive on planet earth and destroy my life further in March.

I’m not sure how this state of affairs has occurred since I’m still not overly keen on the first child we’ve got.

Sometime last year Mrs Canavan suggested we begin trying for a baby, which annoyed me at the time because it was midway through the second half of Manchester United v Liverpool.

Anyhow, long story short, Mrs C got pregnant and the end result, as so often happens after someone gets pregnant, is that we’re going to have a baby.

This has resulted in all sorts of unwelcome turns of events, Mrs Canavan, for instance, declaring we must move house because ours suddenly isn’t big enough.

“It’s got three bedrooms, why is it not big enough?” I asked.

‘Because’, she said, as if I were the thickest person in Britain, ‘we’ve not got a play-room.’

I asked what a play-room was.

She tutted, shook her head and declared: ‘It’s a room where we can put all the children’s toys and they can play in there – all my friends have one.’

I had to take a step back in disbelief and then, when I’d regained the power of speech, pointed out that I didn’t have a play-room in my house when I grew up, neither did Mrs Canavan, nor did anyone I know, and yet lo and behold we’ve all turned out okay.

I told her to stop being so middle-class and to get a grip. This, in turn, resulted in her accusing me of being tight with money (a ridiculous suggestion; only the other day I spent £1.30 on a tube of shower gel) and led to a very tense evening when we didn’t speak for the entire duration of Holby City.

The compromise we’ve since reached is that, rather than move, we’re going to have an extension on the back of the house. This is going to cost a small fortune but at least we’re staying put and thus it feels as though I have won the argument, which is always crucial in a relationship.

The other thing Mrs Canavan claimed we needed was, as alluded to at the start of this week’s diatribe, a new car.

She wants to replace her little Ford Fiesta with, as she put it, ‘a family car’. Is there any more depressing phrase than family car? It’s the moment you forever wave goodbye to your youthful and carefree days. A family car means you are now purchasing a vehicle not because you like the look of it, but purely to fit people in. No longer are you buying something that goes fast and has a fancy sunroof, you’re buying something with an excellent safety record that has been recommended by Which? magazine. God, it’s depressing.

Mrs Canavan, who must spend an inordinate amount of time pondering and planning these things, told me we’d be putting both child seats in the new car and would use the vehicle for family outings.

I was going to argue but - because as every man knows the one thing more pointless and futile than arguing with a woman is arguing with a pregnant woman – instead I made a lengthy sighing noise meant to indicate annoyance and irritation and chuntered, “fine, but I want nothing to do with the whole process”.

The reason for this is that I detest cars. I have no interest in them whatsoever. I know this makes me odd for nearly every male I know loves nothing more than to discuss the anti-locking braking system on the new Toyota or how the Mercedes X288 handles around corners. But it leaves me cold. A car is simply something to use to get from A to B, or A to Z depending on how far you’re going. I don’t care what turbo it has, what the exhaust is like, whether it has sensors, or what the top speed is. I just want it to start when I turn the key.

Thus it was that Mrs Canavan arrived home the other day in some big silver thing, with a big smile on her face, and announced, ‘I’ve got a car – do you want to come for a drive?’

“No,” I replied, “I’ve driven cars for the last 22 years and I’m pretty sure that, unless it takes off and flies to the far side of Jupiter, this one will be pretty similar.”

She did, however, insist I go out and fit two child seats in the back. We now have a sensible family car. My life is officially over.

The round’s on you Oliver!

I have a new hero – a chap called Oliver Struempfel.

I daresay you’ve not heard of him – not least because he lives in Germany, so you’re unlikely to bump into him when you nip out to get milk – but that’s a shame because he deserves recognition. Struempful (I like that name, it sounds like ointment for athlete’s foot) is the world record holder for pint glass carrying, managing to walk 30 metres with 29 full pints of beer in his hands.

Twenty-nine. How did he do that? The most I’ve ever carried is five – two in each hand, with one wedged precariously between my forearms in the middle.

Struempful, however, is a past-master. “It’s serious stuff,” he said, talking about his achievement. “I have to go to the gym five times a week.”

Which, given what he’s a record holder in, sounds daft. Until you see the footage of him carrying the pints that is, and realise that you need muscles the size of a small town to lift that many full beer glasses.

So well done, Mr Struempful, who now, presumably, is the most in-demand barman on the planet.