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I am now the go-to for pizza in our house as I refuse to share my secret recipe with my wife. I have become Pizza Dad

Bill Linnane


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Pizza Dad is the domesticated equivalent of BBQ Dad. Picture posed

Pizza Dad is the domesticated equivalent of BBQ Dad. Picture posed

Pizza Dad is the domesticated equivalent of BBQ Dad. Picture posed

There’s a carwash place in my hometown that does a roaring trade. I pass it most days and there is often a queue of five or six cars. If someone happens to be in the car with me they get the full rundown of my thoughts on paying someone to wash your car: look at those fools, paying someone to do such a simple task, slouched in their heated leather car seats like the useless lumps in Wall-E floating about on their hoverchairs.

There is some added vitriol in the rant if I spot someone I went to school with in the queue, more again if they are driving a nice car. But nobody in our family is under any illusions — paying someone to do a simple job you could do yourself is a bourgeois obscenity.


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