Musings From The Padded Cell

G’Day From Perth.

“First you forget names, then you forget faces, then you forget to pull your zipper up, then you forget to pull your zipper down.”
Leo Rosenberg

Villas Sign New Overseas.

Legends of the past.

Legends of the past.

The club received a lovely email out of the blue recently from ex-player Keith Morritt now resident in Perth, Western Australia.

Keith was delighted to find the club in his words in “rude health” after all these years though sad to hear of the passing of so many of his team-mates from yester-year.

I understand Keith was a stylish batter and excellent fielder back in the days when bats did not look like railway sleepers and the sliding stop was for football only. Now 83 years-old he’s also thinking of a comeback next season.

“They reckon I’m a fair dinkum Aussie these days so I’d ‘ave to come back as your overseas mate” he said “but I see the fella you had from the pussy footers over in Melbourne sank more pints than batters!”

Keith was at pains to point out that his night-clubbing days were well and truly over and that he would be an impeccable house guest requiring only a hot glass of milk and a bed-pan.

“How’s about that young fella Adams?” he asked “liked the odd sheila and a few cool ones in the long grass as far as I remember?”

I told him Mike was a sprightly seventy-six, had indeed married a sheila conveniently called Sheila, was now on sheila number two and would still be having the top-end had he not collapsed in a heap attempting a comeback at seventy-three a few years ago.

“I’m happy to take first hit as I see you went for youth in the summer with a 53 year-old. Tell him to watch the old master!”

I told him it would be lovely to have someone I could run outrun in the middle apart from Worthy and the skipper.

“No worries cobber!” said Keith by now over-dosing on Aussie-talk “I’ll see you in a few months for a tinnie or two! Tell the sheilas a real Aussie’s coming!”

The original Critics' Corner Charlie Dalton, Haighy, Donald Jowett and dear old Eddie Naylor who's wreath was laid to rest in CC.

The original Critics’ Corner mob…inc Charlie Dalton, Haighy, Donald Jowett and dear old Eddie Naylor who’s wreath was laid to rest in CC.

So there you have it, our overseas is sorted and Adams from the top end too. Critic’s Corner will soon have to start selling season tickets; the glory days are back.

Sexagenarians Still Do It.

A great story from the local rag a few weeks ago with a landlord convicted of selling viagra to his punters.

In his defence, counsel had argued that the tablets were for personal use to which Chairman of the Bench, Captain Alan Wrigley, responded with: “All 500 tablets?”

Persevering admirably in defence of her sexagenarian client she said he had “bought different types to try them out…”. God loves a trier so they say.

And following on ever so neatly…

Tales From The Scruffy – “I Only Came In For Three!”

Asylum seekers welcome.

Asylum seekers welcome.

There I was perched on my stool sat with Big Al and Little Nephew; we were like the Three Stooges as Norman the transgender barmaid entertained us with a road map of his/her new tattoo on his/her bulging bicep.

Big Al had made the above statement but we were not sure whether he meant pints or hours; it’s best to keep these things open-ended. If they can do it with Brexit then what harm a man’s pleasures?

Three ladies suddenly strode in upsetting the flow of the evening ordering pints of cider and looking like they were out for longer than three of whatever your chosen currency.

After the first pint was downed landlord Michael reached for his bottle of Black Sambuca – hidden away from Norman and Our Jackie should temptation curse their souls – and lined up three shots for the ladies ignoring our pleading eyes.

We watched with amazement as the first lady demonstrated her technique.

Leaning forward over the tiny shot her mouth opened like a great white shark enveloping the defenceless prey as she grabbed it with her teeth, slung her head back and in one backwards motion, downed it like an oyster.

As she landed the empty vessel back on the bar I noticed a crack down it’s length, teeth marks in it’s neck and winced. She looked at me quizzically.

“What’s up with you?” she asked “Not a drop spilt!”

She winked at me as she wiped her mouth before splattering her lips with some more blood-red lipstick and ordering three more beers.

As her mate got out a tobacco pouch and started to flip roll-ups one-handed once more I knew The Scruffy was never likely to be the place I met the woman of my dreams.

Once more Big Al would have to do.

And Finally.

A little gem posted on Facebook from a regular reader here – you know who you are – and very apt.


Have a great weekend.

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