A Broken Man

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Once, when I was a young lad, I was kneeling on my skateboard, plummeting down the hill outside our house. God alone knows what speed I’d reached—maybe as fast as 5 or 6 miles an hour—but I certainly felt the G-forces as I swerved violently to avoid something (probably a white dog turd) and neither boy nor machine could handle it— the skateboard rolled over, I was flipped off and slid on one knee for several painful inches on the gravel in the gutter in the street.

A cry of “Ouch!”, then one of “Mum!” then a lot of sobbing filled that little street in SE London. A hole the size of a jaffa cake had appeared in my knee and a torrent of claret was making it’s way out if it, down my leg and into my sock. No stitches were deemed necessary by my parents, so a lint pad, savlon, a crepe bandage and a safety pin were administered. Job done. The scar of the hole is still there, 36 years later.

When I was 15 I was playing rugby at school and was involved in a rather violent tackle. I fell heavily onto the ground and felt something crack under my rugby shirt. “Ouch”, I exclaimed. I lay where I fell for several moments before the sports master arrived to examine the damage. After a bit of prodding and squeezing I was deemed fit to continue the match. A tad surprised by this diagnosis, I spent the next several minutes running around the field trying to catch and tackle with my left arm, while my right hung limply down by my side. The master relented and called me off the pitch. Turned out I’d broken my collar bone. Bloody painful as it was, it got me off that year’s internal exams as I made a decent case that I couldn’t write with my left hand—my right being attached to my arm which was in a sling.

Over the years of playing rugby and cricket (while rarely training or keeping fit enough to play these properly) I’ve dislocated my right shoulder, popped a few rib cartilages, broken fingers on both hands, sprained both wrists, and developed shin-splints, tendonitis, back spasms, and jock-rot. I’ve had stitches over eyes, and strapping on legs, I’ve lost the ability to throw a ball because my shoulder is so weak now, and I regularly get cramp in the ribs as a result of the aforementioned popping.

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So it was with a misguided sense of confidence that I took to the cricket field yesterday to ply my trade as an ever-slowing fast bowler. It was a friendly affair and no-one was expecting to break sweat. All went well for the first few overs. I took it gently, mincing up to the wicket and tossing the ball in the general direction of the batsmen. Not much happened— they didn’t score many runs, but I didn’t take any wickets either. All very gentle. So I decided to up the pace.

I was warmed up by now (though of course I hadn’t done anything so stupid and stretch-off). I went to the end of my run-up. Turned and charged (ish) towards the batsman. Two strides before I was to deliver the killer of all out-swingers I felt a sharp pain shoot up the back of my left leg. PING! I’d either been shot in the leg by a sniper hiding somewhere in the outfield, or I’d damaged a hamstring. “Ouch!” is close to what I cried. “Oh BOLLOCKS!!!” is closer.

I hobbled off to lick my wounds (which, as my wound was just below my arse, is a good trick if you can do it) and limped around the field until the end of the match. Sod it. I was annoyed at myself and depressed at my lack of fitness. Dunno why—I’ve never been fit. But something goes through your head when you play sport that makes you believe you can do all the things you could do 20 years ago. Perhaps if I substituted pints for practise I might have had half a chance. But what fun would that be?

So I’ve two weeks to heal my aching limbs before I’m asked to play again. No doctor will be called. No masseur will be summoned. I’m very much into the self-healing way of life (not to mention self-harming). I’m laid-up on the sofa beside a cup of tea and a packet of nurofen. Every-so-often I apply a packet of Sainsburys frozen peas to the troublesome area of my body, once in a while I’m forced to negotiate the lavatory (not a story fit for Sunday morning breakfast reading).

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So that’s my Sunday buggered. No barbeques, no gardening, no wandering around the village enjoying the sunshine. Just the sofa and the Sunday Times. And the sodding British Grand Prix is the only thing on telly.

Standing Your Corner

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As if the result of the first British Lions test wasn’t depressing enough:

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Britons ‘shun birthdays and pubs’

The Press Association

The economic downturn is making Britons mean, with people ignoring friends’ birthdays and refusing to buy rounds of drinks in the pub, a survey has showed.

Nearly a third of people said they would no longer buy a round of drinks when out with friends for fear they would end up out of pocket, according to Moneysupermarket Vouchers.

Four out of 10 people also admitted they now carefully study a restaurant bill to ensure they only pay for what they have ordered, while 27% said they no longer bought their friends birthday presents.

Is anyone else out there thinking what I’m thinking? I reckon this ‘economic downturn’ must have been going on for the last 25 years. I have always ended up in the company of those who are bit backward coming forward. Beer ain’t cheap, I suppose, but if you haven’t got the money then don’t come out and play. Isn’t it always the same few people who end up getting clobbered with the big round, and always the same scheisters who have to leave, seem to be in the loo, or out of sight when it’s time for them to stump-up?

Pint

They often use the tried-and-tested method of getting to the boozer first, when there’s only a couple of you at the bar, buy a round of two drinks and then that’s it for the night—even when five or six others arrive. If they can hang on for another half-dozen rounds, these master tacticians will manage to leave the pub or fall over before they’re called up to contribute to the night’s merriment.

There is, of course, a simple way around this: make sure everyone plays by Greaves’ Rules, as my regular reader will be fully versed in. Amazingly there are still those out there who have never read the great William Greaves’s words of wisdom. Put em right!

Who among us hasn’t watched from a safe distance, (normally at backward square leg, saving the one) while a group of young ‘uns (usually students) approach the bar and each individually, one-after-the-other, order their own drinks ? (a cider, a WKD, a Vodka Red Bull or worse, a Malibu-and-something). The beverage is served then the ubiquitous small-change purse is held up, tilted at an angle as a collection of coins slide out and fingered through while the buyer comes to the right amount. A drink costing 2.95 will usually be paid for with seventeen different coins, with nineteen different denominations. With the amount of 1ps, 2ps and farthings this lot carry around with them, they are never without the correct money (hours of touture when you happen to be standing behind them in the queue for the bar).

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As an aside I’d like to point out that that Lesbian Vampire Killers was released in the UK on March 20. Yet the poster advertising it still hangs in the gents (Dan, Dan’s gents) in my local. I wonder why?

I digress.

There’s a english language school in Blackheath and every Thursday night in one of the village pubs where the scene above is acted-out with the added complication of eight or nine students (known locally as the Mind Your Language cast) speaking eight or nine different languages and offering the bar staff a bewildering array of foreign currency. Whatever they’re teaching them up at the school, lesson one isn’t :” Excuse me barman, can I have a pint of extra cold Guinness and a pickled egg, please?”.

Through a series of pointing, nodding and smiling, they return to their table with something vaguely close to what they fancied then proceed to sip, squirm then share each others tipple as they laugh about the stupid English and their rank ales and lagers. We all know that feeling of sampling the local brew. Having travelled my fair share of the world and drunk in a goodly number of its bars and pubs, I’ve never been shy of sampling what the natives drink. Never one for visiting “Ye Old Red Lion” in Marbella, or the “Traditional Oirish Pub” in Tripoli (and we all know the type of Brit to be found therein), it’s always a thrill to enter a hostelry offering potions and tinctures unknown to the bar staff of your local highstreet boozer.

Italian leather coin purse pic

How well I remember my first encounter with grappa in a hotel bar in Milan (in fact I don’t remember much after the second one), or that old bloke in the police bar in Bermuda who once poured me a glass of the island’s special dark rum (his toast being “here’s to whatever happens next”). Drinking Dark and Stormies as the sun sets over the Caribbean or gallons of Three Coins in a bar in the Dutch Fort in Galle, Sri Lanka are always the sort of fond memories I like to take home with me from my little trips. After ten days in the States I even found a beer which I could taste. Honest.

So here’s to the foreign students supping on their first pint of warm British ale. Here’s to the 19 year old lad, studying music at Thames Poly (sorry, Greenwich University) who dares to buy his very first pint that he’s seen those old blokes enjoying. Welcome to our world of exciting and exotic brews and potions. Treat the barman well over the next few decades and he’ll introduce you to untold treasures and pleasures from his House of Fun. Drink to excess what you love, shun and spurn what you hate— there’s plenty of alternatives and options for every taste and you’ll find one you like eventually. But whatever you do, do me a favour: Buy your fucking round.

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Lions, Tigers and Beers

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So what’s it gonna be? The Lions first test? The British Grand Prix? The US Open golf? or the 20/20 World Cup final? If none of them tickle your ivories then maybe you’ll wait until Monday to soak up the action from the All England Club when Wimbledon kicks off? Whatever is your cup of assam, you’ll be hard-pressed not to run into a magnificent sporting event this weekend. Unless you’re me, of course. Saturday sees me donning white flannels for my second full cricket match of the summer. Not quite a crowd-puller of the same magnitude as the above events, but important none-the-less. My reader will be well aware of the damage the last match did to my body, so let’s just hope I’m better prepared for this one—three weeks between matches and doing nothing but drink beer is the proper preparation, right?

So anyhow, I shan’t be plonked in front of the telly to watch the Lions take a mauling, and doubtless I’ll be in a curry house on Saturday night rather than seeing if Tiger’s leg holds up during the third round of the open (though by the sounds of it he’ll be swapping his sand wedge for a rubber ring if the predicted deluge hits New York).

Come Sunday I have nothing on the cards so I should be ready to soak up the weekend’s remaining action. SHOULD be. If only I hadn’t told my satellite company to stick their digi-box up their arse last year. I used to pay around 40 quid each month for their service and a jolly good one it was too. All the sport and movies you could wave an enormous remote control at. But each time there was a fault in the picture (about twice-a-year), or my box refused to record (once a week) it was a painful drawn-out process to get the tv company to attempt to fix it.

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I even once bought a “new” box from ebay in an attempt to get a decent picture, but that worked for 3 months before it too collapsed. The tv company’s usual method would be to send a signal down the line to clear the fault. Here’s a tip: it never ever works. They tried that three times with my last box. Didn’t work. So I asked if they could stop sodding about and send a man round.
“Do you have insurance, Mr Bealing?” asked the girl on the optimistically-named ‘Help Desk’
“I have no idea” I replied.
“Well it will cost you £75 to get an engineer round if you didn’t take out insurance” she informed me, helpfully.
Mildly peeved, I said “I really have no idea if I took out insurance. It was a long time ago when I signed up, but YOU will know if I have it, as you’re looking at my details on your screen, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t access that information, but if I book a call-out to you we will charge your account £75 if you haven’t taken out insurance” she read from her card, rather labouring the point.
“No, I tell you what, just disconnect me, I’ve had enough of you lot” I’d now lost my world-renowned patience.
“Well don’t be like that, Mr Bealing, I’m merely informing you that it’ll cost…”
“Look, darling, I know you’re only doing your job, but I really couldn’t give a monkeys any more, just cancel my subscription”

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After an elongated telephone rally she finally put me through to the Taking-calls-from-pissed-off-customers Department where we continued to knock it back-and-forward.
“Mr Bealing” the lad on the other end announced, as if it was his name, not mine “I understand you wish to cancel your subscription?”
“Correct”
“Could you tell me why you would want to do that?”
“It’s not what I want to do, it’s what I’m doing. I’ve had enough.” I smashed the answer back at him.
“Which football team do you follow ?” That one came right out of the blue and momentarily caught me off-guard, like a wonderfully disguised pass down the tramlines. I regained my composure and realised where this was going: how was I going to watch my team play on tv without receiving satellite tv?
Lovely back-hand coming up: “Charlton Athletic“. It was the first time I’d ever said those words without sounding apologetic.
“Charlton?” he choked. It had worked. Clearly no-one had ever said that to him before. The chances of them broadcasting a Charlton match were about as likely as them showing a funny Owen Wilson movie. He was beaten by the pace, direction and guile of my answer. Point won.
“Well what if I give you one month’s subscription free?” he offered meekly, the strength sapping from his legs.
“That’s 40 quid! I pay you 40 quid-a-month for your service and when YOUR box breaks down you’re gonna charge me 75 quid to repair it. YOUR BOX. The one I rent. FROM YOU.” Advantage me.
Last effort: “Mr Bealing, what could I say to you to persuade you not to leave us?” he grunted (clearly trying to put me off)
It was a limp effort, a soft dolly of a lob, right above my head. “Well,” I wound myself up “you could say Mr Bealing, we will send an engineer round immediately, at no charge, and while we’re at it we’ll throw in a couple of free porn channels for nothing and my sister to watch them with you”. Game Set and Match to Mr Bealing 6-4, 6-0, 7-5.

We shook hands over the telephonic net and he went off to contemplate his defeat, while I took the plaudits from myself. I waved to the crowd (me in the lounge mirror), I felt empowered emboldened and lots of other words starting with em, most of which made no sense at all. Ever since that day, whenever I hear satellite or cable tv mentioned in conversation I’m compelled to say “fuckem” under my breath. If I wanna see sport I now have to go up the pub to watch it. Which is a real shame, as you can imagine. And yes, I know the Grand Prix’s on terrestial, so I use that as an excuse to go to a pub without a telly. And, as tennis isn’t a real sport either, I expect to do the same for the next 2 weeks.

Grunt.

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Iran the Country Into the Ground

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It’s a familiar, depressing tale of an abuse of democracy. The masses exercised their right as a nation and went to the polls, the result was a clear vote of no-confidence in the ruling party, but the incumbent regime refused to acknowledge the will of the people and ignored the result. Riot police took to the streets suppressing any voice of dissent, and people disappeared without trace.

The election, seen by many as the first real chance to rid the country of this hard-line, extremely unpopular ruler, were overseen by neutral observers from El Daily Taligraph and all the indications were that President McMad Ahmanidiot was in for a bloody nose. But the ailing leader of the once dominant Nula-Bour Party flatly refused to accept the will of the people, and it was clear by this morning that he had no plans to leave the office which he’d enjoyed ever since he’d seized power from the Huge Profit Toh Ni-Blah two years ago. The President, his fingernails missing ever since he was tortured in a north Tehran restaurant by Ni-Blah’s henchman Ahlistah, showed little sign of remorse or regret over his flagrant denial of the facts in front of him—indeed he appeared on the popular tv channel YusufTube smiling out of context, praising his people, and promising to clean up politics and government.

C'mon then yer bastards ! Who wants some ??

C'mon then yer bastards ! Who wants some ??

Things hadn’t been going well for McMad as disaster followed scandal, followed crisis for his embattered ruling party. Earlier in the year several of his closest allies and advisers had been exposed as being corrupt. Some had been found to have claimed tens-of-thousands of Iran Rials (1 rial—$0.000008) for second tents, one claimed expenses for belly-dancers for her husband, others bought Persian rugs and camel-houses using taxpayers money.

In the run-up to the election, four of the President’s favourite members of his harem resigned (in what was to become known as The Night of the Wrong Wives) and all seemed lost for the Government. Yet Ahmanidiot stubbornly refused to go when the results came in last night. The head of the feared riot police, the notorious Nah Kar of El Yard ordered his men onto the streets, and thousands of young protesters were cornered (by a tactic know as Wilson Betty and Keppelling) and there were even reports of an aged papyrus vendor being indiscriminately attacked and murdered by thugs with shields and clubs.

A meeting of the Tehran Young Toorees at The Shah Magdela Snatcher Memorial Execution Square

A meeting of the Tehran Young Toorees at The Shah Magdela Snatcher Memorial Execution Square

The leader of the opposition Tooree party, Sheikh Karmarohn called foul and demanded McMad bow to the country’s will. Karmarohn and his other six sitting MPs, have been clamouring for Ahmanidiot to ask the supreme leader, Ayatollah Kweenee to dissolve parliament. Traditionally elected by the wealthy and privileged, these Seven Pillocks of Wisdom have recently attracted a wider support from across all sections of the country, with policies such as pulling Iran out of the Middle East, tax breaks for camel owners and even calls for the return to government of the once-hated, now ailing Shah of Grantham. Some observers feel it only inevitable that The Toorees join forces with the hated ultra-nationalist and anti-semitic Iranian Jackboot Alliance (IJA), who have become a major threat to Karmarohn’s party forming the next government.

But for now Ahmanidiot looks to have weathered the storm. Expect swathes of new initiatives and decrees to issued from the Government over the next few days and weeks as MacMad seeks to consolidate his position, not just within his own party, but with the demoralised electorate. The secret but widely-rumoured program to plant huge fields windmills in the desert to capture energy for “peaceful” means shows no signs of letting up. The controversial McIDiot card scheme still seems set to be put into practise, and fears remain that all the time the President is advised (some would even say bullied) by the sinister Sheikh Mandy Al-Petra, things are unlikely to get any better.

Sidwaddel, Tehran at 10, back to you in the studio

One For the Strasse

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I used to like drinking. A lot. No, sorry, that wasn’t grammatically correct, let’s try again: I used to like drinking a lot. During my 20s and early 30s, when I was playing regular sport and was not fit, but a lot fitter than I am now, I used to enjoy the prospect of stupid and borderline-suicidal drinking-sessions. For example, I remember one Easter rugby tour to Limerick in 1994 when I can’t have slept more than a few hours and must have consumed at least 10-12 pints of guinness a day, for four days straight (though as we know from Greaves’ Rules we shouldn’t be counting after the second round). I must confess to having a slight hangover for the rest of the week when I returned home and to work, but the point is I got through it relatively unscathed.

Our lads appraise Ireland

Our lads appraise the facilities at a club in Ireland

Rugby tours were the fixture on the calendar when you knew that you and 50 of your closest mates would travel to some part of europe and get completely shit-faced, play rugby and get completely shit-faced again for four days and love every minute of it. No shirking was allowed, anyone caught avoiding beer was either punched or doused in ale—then handed a fresh pint, sleeping at the bar was a no-no and, for the youngsters, even eating was frowned upon. One year in Blackpool a mate and I, in attempt to escape the carnage in the bar, went to a local cinema to hide and slept through Reservoir Dogs. When we returned to the hotel bar and our deed was discovered we paid the price of mockery and derision from our peers. We brushed it off and, having had a couple of hours of shut-eye, continued to drink through the night— thus negating any benefit that our trip to the Odeon may have given us.

That’s all in the past now. It’s not that these booze-fests don’t continue at my rugby club, or any number of the thousands of clubs up-and-down the country, it’s just that I just can’t take it anymore. Drinking a gallon-or-two in a day still holds it appeal to me and is not beyond my talents, but having to get up the following morning and do it again, and again AND AGAIN scares the life out of me. But it’s not that I don’t like a sharp single-or-eight on a special occasion. I remember sitting in the newsroom at The Daily Telegraph one day in 1991 when the BBC news on tv announced the shares were suspended in the shares of MGN (Mirror Group Newspapers) pending further announcements. Robert Maxwell had thrown himself/had been thrown overboard from his yacht in the mid-atlantic, missing presumed dead. The howls and whoops of laughter that went up that day were only drowned out by the pop of corks and the chink-chink of glasses as the massed ranks of journalists celebrated the death of a crook. Fleet St being what it was, everyone knew someone who had been fired, turned over or shit upon by the Bouncing Czech and the party went on long into the night. It’s always easier coming into work with a hangover if everyone you work with has one too.

There have been some great leaving dos and wakes over the years too— when the drink has flown in the City Golf Club, The Punch, The Old Bell or any number of those lovely old boozers in EC4, or even E14, WC2 or SE1—in fact anywhere where we could raise a glass to the dearly departed or the damn-right-lucky to get out. The more I go to and the older I get, the less I drink and the more it hurts. Hangovers are a terrible thing at the best of times and I’m here to tell you that they don’t get any easier. It’s called getting old, I guess, but we mustn’t give up the fight. Only the other day I was involved in a Danny La Rue memorial session down my local. It lasted for no more than three or four pints, and in truth I was on my own but I was damned if having no-one to play with was gonna stop me from marking the life of the great man or woman.

Off for a Sharp Single now. Toodles.
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Clamadvert

Battle-Scarred Galactico

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It’s a funny thing, this working-your-notice lark. It just doesn’t seem right: I haven’t had a row in the office for ten days now. I’m not saying I’m walking around with a bloody great smile on my face ( I do have an image to maintain) but through a system of calm meditation, deep breaths and mantras I have, so far, been able to keep the lid on it. “It doesn’t matter anymore, it doesn’t matter anymore” I chant to myself as the next idiot lines up to make my life a misery. So with half a skip and a third of a jump and smidge of how-do-you-do, I inch my way towards my goal of getting out of here. Walking around, trying not to to engage in anything too heavy, with that thousand-yard stare usually adopted by characters in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, or by Charlton fans at 4.45 every Saturday afternoon. I feel drugged. I feel distant. I feel detached. I feel thirsty.

To be honest, most of the chaps (and chapesses) around here are all-round good eggs, and welcome to marry my sister (or brother) any time, if indeed I had a sister and I knew where my brother was. Yes there are a couple who I would gladly insert an Hewlett-Packard inkjet printer into, but by-and-large they are top people. If I’m frank, this is where the similarities between me and Christiano Renaldo end. I’m not sure he’s gonna leave too many friends behind, and he’s been detached from anything that doesn’t directly concern him and his ego for years—not just since this morning. Wayne Rooney will be treating himself to an extra pie-and-a-grannie Happy Meal as he looks forward to next season when he realises that someone might actually pass him the ball. Let’s hope Wayne manages to get in just one more stamp to the goolies before the Portuguese ponce departs.

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There are obvious differences, of course: I’ve not been poached for £80m to join another team, for starters. No! Not even close, honest—even though some might say I’m worth it (others differ). My remaining weeks here will involve what to take, what to leave, what to transfer to my old office to my new one. Obviously I won’t be stealing from my present employers, but there are a few things here I own, have bought or have been given that will be just as useful in my new life—so bollocks! There’s a leaving drink to sort out, of course, I doubt if Ronaldo will have one of them. If he does, do you reckon it’ll be down his local boozer, with him stumping up 50 quid for ham sarnies (just in case there are women there) ? No, nor do I. I bet he’s not worrying, either, if there’s any way he can get Chas n Dave to play at the pub to give him a right good knees-up for his farewell.

Yes, I do hope I’ll be a little more missed from here than Ronaldo will be from Utd. I would like to think I haven’t upset quite as many colleagues over the eight years I’ve been here as he has in his term in Manchester. (okay! no-one count em up). We’re obviously two highly-skilled professionals and have rightly gleaned many awards and plaudits from our peers. But whereas he is and big-headed, self-centered, selfish, earringed, one-trick-pony little arsehole, I have never worn earrings.

Everyone would get a little bit grumpy after 8 years in the same job ? Trouble is, I was like that after the first fortnight.

All Together Now…

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Pour Me Another Tequila, Sheila

(Chorus)
Pour me another tequila, Sheila.
Take off that red satin dress.
‘Cause I crossed the border,
And I beat the dealer for all of that gold in Juarez.
I feel like ol’ Pancho Villa, Sheila,
And I’ve got the pesos to spend,
So pour me another tequila, Sheila.
And lay down and love me again.

No I can’t tell you about it.
Don’t mind the gun by my bed,
But I feel kind’a naked without it,
And it eases the fears in my head.
I never trusted in woman,
But Sheila I trust you tonight.
So pass me the salt and a lemon,
Bend down and blow out the light.

(Chorus)

Sheila I’m hearin’ your heartbeat,
But I’m hearing footsteps outside.
The courtyard is crawlin’ with them Federales
And Sheila, there’s no place to hide,
but I don’t know who could have tipped ’em,
nobody knew it but you,
but I never have trusted in woman,
Sheila, here’s what I’m going to do.

(Chorus)

Yeah! Pour me another tequila,
I’m gonna put on your red satin Dress.
You put on my clothes, and you go face the dealer.
Sheila I wish you the best.
I never trusted in woman,
Sheila I trusted you tonight.
So pour me another tequila Sheila,
And I’ll run for the border again.
Yeah! Pour me another tequila,
Sheila, as I ride for the border again.

It’ll Never Stand Up in Court

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Was Carradine killed by kung fu assassins?
Yahoo: Mon 08 Jun 11:17 AM
David Carradine was killed because he was investigating kung fu crime lords, his family have suggested. The Kill Bill star, 73, was found dead in a Bangkok hotel room last week, with a rope tied around his neck and manhood. While Thai police initially suggested it was a sex act gone horribly wrong, the actor’s family have claimed that he was killed for investigating secret societies in that area.

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The lawyer to Carradine’s family, Mark Geragos, was asked on Larry King’s US chat show if the Kung Fu star was “interested in investigating and disclosing secret societies?”
To which, Geragos replied, “Absolutely. And so there is a suspicion that if there was some foul play, that may be the first area they should look.”
Geragos has also revealed that the actor’s family have urged the FBI to investigate Carradine’s death.

First up, the answer to that headline is : No

Secondly, if I ever end up dead, and my body is found next to a copy of Wisden and I’m wearing a mink glove, please do not call in the FBI to investigate my death. I am not investigating any secret societies in the Blackheath area, and the only contact I have from Asia is the delivery bloke from the Golden Dragon who never fails to add free prawn crackers to my weekly delivery.

It never ceases to amaze me what people are doing to themselves (and others) in the comfort of their own homes or hotel bedroom, and indeed how many of these deviant sexual practices end up in someone snuffing it. It’s true that I do experience some arousal at the sight of a cover-drive, or a leg-spinner plying his trade at The Oval, but I’d like to think that whatever the degree of excitement I thrash myself into, I would pull up short, as it were, of coming to a sticky end.

MP Stephen Milligan’s body was found in rather embarrassing circumstances after his apparent penchant for electric flex and satsumas had done for him. But, again, there are those who believe he was the victim of foul play. I’m sorry but if I’d murdered someone, I think I’d be getting away from the scene of the crime soonest, rather than dressing up the corpse in stockings, relieving the kettle of its lead and raiding the fruit bowl. And anyway, did they run out of bananas—the pervert’s friend???

You can’t legislate for what people strap onto and insert into themselves to get their kicks, and anyone who says you can deserves a good spanking. I remember Carradine had to put his wrists on a red-hot bowl every week while Kung Fu was on, so presumably his pain threshold was higher than most. Please leave us with the image of him in that ridiculous bald wig, as well as the memory of his nasty bastard Bill. If he happened to like a little bit of how’s-yer-father, that’s his funeral.

Anyway, must dash—Australia vrs Sri Lanka is on the telly. Oh God!!! Quick Nurse, the screens! It’s happened again.

263985~David-Carradine-Posters

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