Musings From The Padded Cell

Tuna Man Goes Wild

“Did you recently turn into a jerk or have you been one since birth?”
Priya Ardis, My Boyfriend Merlin.

It had to happen; Tuna Man recorded his first hangover of the summer and long did he suffer. On my return home last Saturday night there was an eerie quiet and not even the usual stench of oily fish cans.

A hairbrush was on the bathroom sink; did he have a date? I was beginning to think like a worried parent, realised this was alien territory so went to bed.

Dear Rudi – well over two months and still no haircut?

Just after midnight there was a crash, a fumble of keys then a slow ascent of the stairs; maybe the ghost of Aussie Luke?

After much clattering all was silence so I pulled down my sleeping mask again and drifted off, knowing there was as much chance of seeing Tuna Man at junior coaching in the morning as Kylie Minogue in my bed.

I woke to find the doors unlocked and no sign of life. It was good to know that uptown Idle is a bit safer than downtown Jo’burg.

Chris on the pull.

Mid-afternoon he finally drifted down just at the point where I was choosing between setting the alarm off or a bucket of iced water having no knowledge of teenagers and relying on next door’s sadistic maternal guidance.

Inevitably he drifted to the comfort of ring-pull aluminium and oily fish then promptly vanished for the rest of the day missing Sunday Prayers and incurring a giant fine of a night with Big Al on him.

Money down the drain…or into some big back pocket?

Finally, I offer you a picture of an endangered species.

As we gathered for our trip to experience the worst wicket in the league –funded by the lame brains at Sport England – 1st team keeper Rob consoled us as follows.

Rob prepares to drop another bollock.

“Well at least they’ve got real tea ladies!” he chirped up clearly oblivious to mine (Mum) and Molly’s (wife) loose connections to the marvellous and much-praised Villas teas.

Of course we duly snitched to Carol.

“They’ve probably got real wicket-keepers too!” she said drily before reserving a “special” tea for poor Rob.

This Is Our Jackie Reporting At The Scruffy!

Our Jackie – Sky News, Idle.

As the rains clattered down rendering all thoughts of cricket practice useless a few weeks ago, I contemplated my options. Tuna Man was stuck to the sofa with the look a new born calf seeking out food.

Rather than have the house stink again with discarded cans of oily fish I offered to cook dinner. A grunt came back as eyes remained fixed on Sky Sports.

Having fed the waif, I departed with the Sunday paper to the sanctity of The Scruffy, conscious that Our Jackie was holding court on a Tuesday and having somewhat missed the old boot.

As I walked in I could hear her sultry tones to the scattering of desperadoes in ‘Nob ‘Ed Korna all claiming asylum from respective wives on the basis that it was too wet to walk home.

“Me arse keeps getting bigger an bigger. I just can’t stop eating” she protested as she wolfed down another handful of cheesey Wotsits. “I need to get to Fat Knackers’ club!”

The locals nodded heads in polite unison, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

Suddenly there was a mighty bang; I looked up thinking Our Jackie had thrown herself to the sticky carpet at the mercy of the locals but she was up and screaming at everybody.

“It’s a bomb!” she cried “ISIS are ‘ere they’ve bloody well found us at last!” She waddled to the window, wiping her mouth of stray Wotsits and let out another cry. “It’s a bloody car crash!”

Bedlam by The Scruffy.

I looked above my newspaper, glanced my half-full glass and wondered if a night in with Tuna man would have been so bad.

Outside Plod’s pursuit of yet another of Bradford’s Formula One wannabes had ended in near disaster and, as ever, innocents had come off worse.

A Vauxhall Astra had careered out of control crashing into an elderly man in a Smart car and shoving him against the wall of the Old Bell Chapel, on a pavement often crowded with kids.

Plod had gone off in pursuit and brought back the usual skinny delinquent who thinks that the national press will be there photographing them, hood covering their pointless identities.

Sirens were wailing and blue lights flashing at the top of the High Street; down in the village the local villains truly thought this was the Mother of all raids, the equivalent of their Zulu Dawn.

The doors of the White Swan locked in an instant and escape tunnels were sought as taxis did a booming business assisting the local criminality to escape to seek refuge somewhere safer.

The last time we had seen so many cops it was when the chippie was doing a two for one.

The Old Bell Chapel normally with numerous kids outside…consider that?

Fortunately the Smart driver was unhurt; unfortunately so was the dumb driver.

Our Jackie went into overdrive, convinced she could get Kay Burley’s job as chief reporter at the scene, flicking her hair, pushing her tits up, sticking some extra thick Avon on and grabbing her phone to start a Facebook frenzy.

“This is Our Jackie reporting from just outside The Scruffy. It’s carnage out ‘ere I kid you not…the chippie is blocked off…call the Government to get t’ army to send food supplies!”

As if to prove a point in shuffled Homeless a man who could make a street beggar look a sharp dresser, apparently on the sick again although God knows who would employ him.

“Don’t be photographing me” he groaned “I’ve still got three days left on the sick. Get us a pint and a bag o’ crisps will you?”

I realised my quest for a peaceful few hours had gone.

One more boy racer…

Soon all was calm again as mine hosts returned. Our Jackie’s fifteen minutes of fame had passed by in a flash and it was back to talk of diets, bikini lines and stray hairs.

“How’s the diet Jackie?” asked Michael the landlord, smug as a cat on his return from Fat Club having lost an ounce over the last month.

“I’ve put a bloody stone on!” said Our Jackie “now pass me some more Wotsits!”

One Hundred Years Ago

This from all those years ago…

Mr Harold Plowright, Idle, referred to the success of the recent ladies’ cricket matches between Idle and Eccleshill and suggested that the clubs should do all they could to foster such matches.

It was a capital way of raising money for the charities and it might even be possible to get together a kind of league which would stimulate interest in the games.

The President expressed the view that anything which would help to increase the interest of ladies in the game was good for the clubs. Those clubs who had the largest number of lady spectators seemed to be doing the best.

On a recent afternoon there were 600 ladies at Saltaire and 400 at Keighley, striking figures, and some of the clubs already made special terms for lady members. Very shortly they would have to insist upon special accommodation on the grounds for ladies.

Wonder if they had real tea ladies too?

And Finally

Two old men get lost in New Zealand.

Two Idlelord readers find themselves lost in an alcoholic paradise the other side of the world watching rugby; living proof that we men do not improve with age!

Have a great weekend.

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