“I blame my mother for my poor sex life. All she told me was ‘the man goes on top and the woman underneath.’ For three years my husband and I slept in bunk beds.”
Joan Rivers
Once again my week began surrounded by the old dears at Pensioners’ Pilates, the token male surrounded by old biddies wriggling like grey seals fighting for space on a crowded beach.
The Iron Lady arrived sporting her umpteenth change of hair colour this year; MI5 would have no chance tracking her. With biceps a Russian shot putter would be proud of, she announced to her flock that we’d had it “too easy” last week.
Several old dears wondered if this was…IT!
She was also in the mood for love with a soundtrack straight from late nights many moons ago including Diana Ross, Lionel Richie, Gladys Knight. I fought the urge to snuggle up to an old gal.
True to her word she pushed us through a series of punishing exercises until the climax, a moving plank as she termed it, rather cruelly looking my way.
Beginning in the upright position, this involves slowly lowering one’s pelvic floor to the ground before lifting slowly back up. Edna winked that she’d last tried this in the blackout back in the war.
A few faces looked worried; fine getting down but would they ever get back up? For my part it went completely tits up.
As I lowered myself down, the track suddenly changed and a husky Motown voice started with a “Hey Baby!” In an instant I lost the “moment” and collapsed face down, giggling like a moron, never to rise again.
And there in a nutshell is my life.
Long Live The Local
Rumours abound that the Budget will see an increase in beer tax, in part to pay for Mother Theresa’s pledge that austerity is at an end.
This would reinforce my long held belief that politicians are lazy, opportunistic idiots. They know the typical profile of the average pub goer, judging us to be inflation-proof and an easy target.
It may be true that my generation will simply pay up but the longer term damage to a hugely valuable industry would be clear for all but the most short-sighted Chancellor.
Sign here if you believe in people power.
Pillow Talk
Having evicted Microwave Man it was time for the annual fumigation of the spare room again. At this point in the year I am reminded how old certain bedding is largely by it’s colour.
One look at the pillows and it was clear that these were beer and pizza scent; I may have exported a disease ridden cricketer.
With a heavy heart it was off to Dunelm, the one-stop shop for clueless men. And small wonder we avoid places like this; I swear choosing a car was easier. I engaged with an assistant for a quick and painless exit.
“Do you sell pillows?” I enquired which, admittedly, was not a good start. She nodded with that look of “we’ve got a right one here”.
“Yes. How do you normally sleep love?” she asked which I found a strange question.
“In my bed of course.” I replied wondering if I looked homeless in my Raymond Town autumn 2017 collection.
“I meant do you sleep on your face, on your side or bloody well stood up” she said warming to her task.
“How do I know when I’m asleep?” I countered muttering touche!
Clearly sensing a threat to her lunch break and, quite possibly, afternoon tea, she boldly explained the range of soft to hard pillows, a choice of fillings more extensive than Gregg’s pasties and asked whether I had any allergies. Tempted to reply that I was allergic to home furnishing stores I resisted.
“Do you know any that repel beer stains?” I asked.
Gently escorting me by the arm she led me to the till clutching some pillows called Forever Full, whatever that meant; I swear she watched me every step out of the place confident it would be years before I came back.
One Hundred Years Ago
Of all the sad tales from another age, if you read one then read this – Teenage flyer put up a grand fight – which describes bravery that today’s youth will never – hopefully – need to replicate.
Wear your poppy with pride.
April Fool?
Some stories I read and instantly check the date. But is this the world young lads like the one mentioned above sacrificed themselves for – see here.
How can the term man-size be offensive? What size are we supposed to sodding be.; by the same logic the term feminine is too? Is it time for LBGT tissues? Where do you stick them?
What kind of organisation employs lame-brained, half-wits who actually think this is a good idea?
Leave a Reply