.. here’s the weather report.
‘Wear a coat as it’s pissing down out there.’
Happy New Year
Myself and Horace hope that 2020 brings you all the love and luck you have ever dreamt of.
XXXXX
This week, I seem to have been mostly mistaken for…
A complaint’s desk called Howard!
Dear B.B. bloody so-called C!
Please, please, please give us our men back for the football.
I don’t have anything against women per-se but I like to hear from men that have played the game, and watched the game, at a high level, and certainly a higher level than Arsenal. The women have their own game I seem to recall. And, before you start, this letter is not sexist in anyway, shape or form as I really fancy that Alex Scott.
Also, while we’re on the subject, some of my best friends are a woman. Namely Big Buxom Sue, 28, from Birkenhead!
Yours sincerely
Remington Marriott O.B.E. and Bar
P.S. You do not see men commentating on the Netball, do you?
P.P.S. No really, you don’t do you?
P.P.P.S. And don’t get me started on BT bloody Sport!
Greetings…
May you all have a wonderful Christmas and a fantastic New Year.
X
The gull
Alone with my thoughts, and following the zig-zagging coastal path, I gazed upon a heron gull in a clear blue sky. And I watched it circle. Just circle, high up on the thermals without a care in this world or for any of the things going on far, far beneath the wind holding up its wings.
It looked so carefree and so happy, gradually drifting out to sea, simply going round and round with the slightest of effort and with only the occasional thought of a lazy flap…
Without the slightest thought towards us or of us, stuck all the way down here on terra firma, causing untold damage and revelling in harm towards each other. Even during such a lovely sunny day.
I watched that soaring gull circle and glide back towards me, till it was high over me in the clear blue summer sky…
And then the bastard thing did shit upon my head!
Horace Wimp, this is your life. Part 2
‘Nanny Wimp tried to love me, or at least she would have done if she could only work out what it was that I was supposed to be? An initial expression that had screamed, “What sort of abomination against the forces of natural law is this?” etched across her face and proving impossible to hide.
“He’s… beautiful,” she lied with fingers crossed, shrugging her shoulders and squirming with embarrassment.
“Are you sure they haven’t given you the afterbirth by mistake?” she asked innocently at the Christening, just as the Vicar was trying to work out which end to dunk into the font first… Finally giving up and deciding to leave it to the fates of God. “I have always said that you can’t trust these modern hospitals.” My paternal grandmother lit another extra strength Capstan and thumped her chest with a curled fist, while simultaneously retching.
“That’s got the bugger.”
Mum and Dad were both obviously shocked and extremely hurt at such an outrageous slur upon their first born, whatever I was. Mind you, they hadn’t thought of this eventuality and upon reflection they both agreed that it was definitely something to bear in mind. Perhaps they should talk to their lawyer? Perhaps they should get a lawyer?
But then, there was Nanny Cole, standing proudly around the stone font in her Sunday best, watching me scream and kick with every splash of burning Holy Water. I was her first grandchild, her pride and joy… Her rather hairy pride and joy. Forever smiling, forever giggling. She didn’t care if I was a boy, a girl or, come to think of it, even homosapien, just as long as I was healthy and had ten fingers and toes in all the right places. Well, near enough. Who was counting anyway? As she held me in her arms and made strange gurgling sounds, she didn’t care if I was the son of Beelzebub, for I could do no wrong in her eyes, which, fortunately for me, were somewhat short-sighted.
“Who’s a pretty boy?” she cooed in peculiar baby tongue, gently opening the bottom drawer of the antique bedroom set where I slept, along with seventeen shirts from British Home Stores, countless pairs of socks, some washed, and a five legged spider named Harry, who was two months behind with his rent but claiming squatters rights and the cleaner duvet… Her pride and joy.’
Horace Wimp, this is your life…
‘From such humble beginnings in Portnall Road, London, where Oliver Twist roamed free, picking pockets and singing to his heart’s content, Mum and Dad, as they had suddenly become known, had been presented with a beautiful bundle of freshly washed towels. Cocooned within this warm enveloping shell, a laughing baby boy with a head of spun blond hair gazed up at them with clear blue eyes and giggled affectionately. My mum and dad looked at each other warmly, pride clearly visible, tears of wonder falling unashamedly down their rosy cheeks. Yes, their baby was indeed beautiful.
Unfortunately, because life can be a real bitch sometimes, this wasn’t their baby gazing up at them in wonder. Due to overwork, incompetence and English being the third language on this particular ward, the nursing staff at Paddington’s hospital had surpassed themselves yet again, making another truly terrible mistake that they now, urgently, sought to repair, before anyone of importance noticed and any real damage was done to promising careers.
“Di!”
“Feck!” with a harsh Irish lilt.
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” screamed a South African and an Australian in complete unison, with heads in hands.
Within seconds, this smiling bundle of endless joy had been wrenched from loving arms with red-hot crowbars and replaced with something that London Zoo were later to term officially as, “The Missing Link”.
“What in Hell?”
Three wise men and one village idiot, who had travelled the length and breadth of the Edgware Road faithfully following the brightest star, now dodged security in an attempt to gain entry: for this night had been foretold by an extremely concerned angel of the Lord.
“Kill it!” they demanded, hammering fists against the windows. “Kill it!”
It was all too much for my dear mother, who cried out with anguish, having to be heavily sedated, leaving my distraught father with the unenviable task of searching for the give-away sign of the anti-Christ hidden somewhere under thick tuffs of body hair. But happily, for me at least, all he found after several hours of fruitless searching, was a crooked “Made In Taiwan” label, stuck to the bottom of my left foot, and a large “This Way Up” sticker plastered across my right eyebrow.
My mother and father were soon dissuaded from trying to drown me in an unused specimen jar and were quickly evicted from the hospital in an old wheelbarrow, thrown unceremoniously into a crowded street, sobbing hysterically and pleading for a refund.
“A pint of beer!” my dad threw himself at the mercy of the registrar. “That’s my final offer. And we’ll say no more about it. He’s got to be worth that to medical science, surely?” But it was no good, the big double doors slamming shut, security guards standing firm. He sobbed on the street, his howls heard throughout west London.’
From the novel, “Reluctant Country Boy”.
