Jack Torrance, a Daddy Blogger from Brighton is editor in chief of “Here’sJohnny.com – A blog about being a modern stay at home Dad”
He calls himself editor in chief, but in reality it’s just him writing about taking his four year old up the park. Actually, the writing is mainly a cover so he can get some privacy to watch pornhub at night, but recently he has got some free shit and 5,000 followers on Twitter, so things are going well.
Jack needs a break. He had heard about a hotel in the wilds of Norfolk that needs looking after during the winter and thinks it will be a fantastic idea for him and his family to spend three months in the arse end of nowhere with dodgy wifi and no phone signal.
Jack goes to the interview and is impressed by the retro styling of the hotel.
“This will all look fucking great on Instagram!” Thinks Jack as he makes up new vintage interior hashtags in his head.
“So Jack, what do you do for a living?” says the hotel manager
“Well,” says Jack smugly “I’m a writer!”
Fucks sake, thinks the hotel manager, long term unemployed then.
“I run a Daddy blog, and I write for the Huffington Post. Actually, I was writing for them before everyone and his dog was doing it, so I am slightly cooler than the rest. I’ve won a Mumsnet bloggers award and everything”
“Ooo, does it look like an oscar?” Says the hotel manager, mildly impressed.
“Well, it was more a bunch of flowers in a gift bag” Says Jack forlornly.
Jack at Blogfest
“Okay, you’ve got the job. This hotel is off it’s tits spooky, the last guy went fucking nuts and chopped up his entire family. You okay with that?”
Hashtag ‘1970’s-chic’, hashtag ‘bloggerlife’ thinks Jack, not listening.
“You fucking what? Have you lost your tiny mind?” Asks Jacks wife, Tracey. “We can’t fucking stand each other at the best of times and you want us to go an live in a hotel and not see anyone else for three months?”
“You haven’t seen it yet, the potential for Instagram stories and bragging on Facebook is immense” says Jack wildly, forgetting that this isn’t One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest.
“Oooh” says Tracey, “go on then. I bet there are loads of walls to stand if front of while I take photos of myself wearing jumpsuits. I could be the next cool insta-mum.”
“Fuck’s sake Jack,” says and exhausted Tracey, “I’ve been posing with this fucking baseball bat for an hour now, what do you mean you haven’t got the perfect Instagram shot yet? I’m knackered! Just stick a filter on it and post it.”
“Now Bradley, while we are away, Daddy is going to start Vlogging. I need you to be interesting and to run in slow motion towards the camera wearing Mini Boden. Do you think you can do that for Daddy? Do you?”
“Fuck” thinks Bradley.
Tracey knew she should have brought the jumbo tampons with her. She’s going to need a shitload of Vanish to get that lot out.
A month in and Jack is getting frustrated. He has written ten blogs and not one of them has been featured on Mumsnet as blog of the day.
In desperation, Jack writes a blog about breast feeding from a father’s perspective BECAUSE THAT HAS NEVER BEEN DONE BEFORE.
Jack is a fucking maverick.
Still nothing, despite saying that women should be able to get their tits out whenever they like. Fuck you, Mumsnet.
It’s all his wife’s fault; if only she would stop bitching at him to do the washing up. She says blogging isn’t a real job. It is a real job. In two years, Jack has made £300 doing sponsored posts about Soreen and bathroom cleaners.
Out of desperation, Jack starts vlogging, bribing his family to look interesting and cool while looking off into the distance to any shite music that is free to use.
Vlogging begins to take it’s toll. The family are exhausted.
Bradley keeps writing TNUC A SI YDDAD on mirrors with his Mum’s special red Instagram lipstick and is haunted by two ghostly girls who were murdered in the hotel years before.
“Our Daddy was a better Daddy blogger than yours” taunt the girls, “he had five million Youtube subscribers and we got free holidays to Disney. Your Dad is shit, we know he bought all those Facebook follows.”
Bradley finds it hard to argue with that. He wondered why so many of his Dad’s Facebook fans were from India.
“I’ve bought tickets to Camp Bestival” says jack, “we are going to hang out with Dress Like A Mum and we are going to be cool. Do you understand that Tracey? Cool? Like, Instagram cool?”
“Oh Jack, camping? You have lost your tiny mind!” Says Tracey, worried for her safety with this maniac who wants to camp a a place where parents queue up to see Mr. fucking Maker. Mr. Maker. At a festival. Just think about that for a second.
Frustrated that the only YouTube subscribers he has are his Mum and Chris from down the pub, Jack begins to binge watch other Vloggers to get ideas.
“A HAUL! I NEED TO DO A SHOPPING HAUL!” Shouts Jack as he burst through the bedroom door, “I NEED TO GO TO PRIMARK AND BUY LOADS OF DAD JEANS WHICH I CAN TALK ABOUT AT LENGTH WHILE I HOLD THEM UP TO THE CAMERA!”
“TNUC A SI YDDAD, TNUC A SI YDDAD” repeats Bradley in a raspy voice.
“Yes Bradley, Daddy is a cunt. A massive one.” Says Tracey.
Jack gets his coat on. It might be -15 outside, but Vlogging is his job now.
“TRACEY, I”M GOING TO POUNDWORLD! I AM GOING TO DO A STATIONERY HAUL”
“But Jack, it’s freezing and we are in the middle of nowhere!”
“I’M GOING TRACEY!”
“TNUC A SI YDDAD” Says Bradley.
“Bradley, stop being so fucking odd” Says Tracey.
Jack didn’t make it to Poundland. He froze to death in a very well maintained maze.
And no one on Twitter missed him.