It was a super sensational night at The Scruffy last Sunday as Mick the Quiz was scalped in aid of Cancer Research, raising over £600 in the process and ridding himself of his prized mullet, a top his head since the Sixties. At last the rumours that it was a “rug” could be scotched.
The locals gathered early, some in hope of a free haircut, the rest as usual because they had nowhere else to go. Mick was sat there in his usual seat looking more gloomy than usual ahead of testing the IQ levels of Idle’s finest.
Soon he was perched on a stool like a condemned man, wrapped in a smock as a few bemused hounds – canine not the local talent from the Swan – looked up from the floor as Mick absorbed his last few minutes looking like a Bay City Rollers roadie.
With a last few comforting words from the crowd of well wishers – “get your nuts done and I’ll buy you a pint” – the whirr of the razors overtook a hushed silence, as even “I’m A Celebrity” was ignored by the motley mob.
High rolling Gary Tipper had thrown his generous donation – 15p – into the pot and offered to double this if Mick went “all the way”; several of us looked at Gary unsure what he meant but, fortunately, Mick was not to be tempted and Gary put his 15p towards some more fake tan.
Twenty minutes later, with Mick looking more like Bamber Gascoigne than Woody from the Rollers, it was all over. Congratulations to Mick for a great effort.
Cheeky B*st*rds
Our politicians are claiming hard done to and are seeking to grab a ridiculous 11% pay rise just because some “independent” body has recommended it. To justify this they claim that they deserve parity with the likes of surgeons and captains of industry.
They also claim that to get the best in Parliament you need to pay accordingly which is, again, utter rubbish. Most MPs don’t rise to the top by stellar ability – if they had that they would be doing proper jobs.
They climb on the back of the local party machines and all of a sudden the village idiot is standing for election.
As a consequence we get a bunch of MPs unable to offer a serious opinion upon the weather, should they fall foul of the party line. In the pockets of either big business or trades unions, beholden to the party whip you can find greater originality of thought in a local nursery.
The public’s general perception of MPs ranges from crooked to devious to downright evasive.
When was the last time you can remember one answering a question honestly without reverting to some spin doctor’s scripted evasion tactics? And when did anyone ever say we got that wrong?
In times of general pay restraint this is obscene and ignores the real hardship ordinary people are facing out there.
And on a payment by results basis most would be lucky to still be in a job.
Jobs For the Boys
As we are getting our cricket arses kicked Down Under at the moment perhaps it’s time to reflect, in the depths of winter, on the state of the grassroots game here now that we are clearly not kingpins at the very top level anymore.
Falling participation numbers, clubs battling escalating costs yet still paying mercenaries and kids unable to muster the attention levels past consuming a Mars Bar, offer cold comfort for the future of our summer sport.
The man in charge of club cricket at the English Cricket Board, ex-England captain Mike Gatting, has put his name to the grandly titled “National Club Strategy” document and what a dismal read it makes.
Most of you that read this blog don’t give a stuff about cricket so, suffice to say, those that do have a read of this and hold your breath when you get to pages 18-19 of the pdf document.
Delusional, detached and depressingly ignorant of the issues the game many of us love faces, this document is living proof that the ECB just do not get it. Then again, when the champagne is flowing at Lords who really cares?
First Time
Be honest we’ve all been there at some point, miles from the comfort of our own quiet personal space; food consumed and now rumbling and bubbling, with attempts to squeeze a bit of air out of the tyre before it bursts futile.
As Christmas approaches there will be the traditional sprout assisted writhing in armchairs, nervous shuffling from side to side and strange noxious smells coming from Auntie Gladys again. The dog knows he is about to get an unjustified kicking and so scarpers quickly.
As your belly starts to rumble like Mt Vesuvius, you sit there thinking of home and your own stool passing your own…(No!…Ed). Eventually, you have to go and in an instant there are people queuing outside like the New Year sales, tapping their feet.
Of course, in the early days of any new relationship where starry, boggle-eyed perfection is the aim of the game (what after all these years?…Ed) the human body’s many frailties can be challenging and unpredictable here as well.
As far as our most basic act is concerned, most of us behave as if we had never had a poo in all our life, particularly playing away from home. Timing when on “manoeuvres” is everything; one must adopt rigour in planning and a visit before leaving the sanctity of home is well advised.
Farting en route in the car – windows fully open – is also good planning but not without spare boxers for the hoped for overnight stop.
However, if all else fails then you have to face the sudden reality that you may turn her bathroom into Fukushima should nature call.
If the need arises, you hold out as long as you can and then you suggest she plays that music you really hate and as loud as she wants; you make your excuses, shut every door en route as a sound barrier, use her favourite scarf as a draught excluder and then check out the new den.
Toilet roll…check. Air freshener…check. Window reachable in case of emergency…check. Pan brush…check! A quick flush of the toilet to create more diversionary noises then you lunge into position…happiness at last.
How long do you stay, after all at home its always the Sunday Times Sports Section and where better to sit and chill for a few hours contemplating life?
Sheepishly you eventually come back down just as she is about to report you as a missing person, having cleaned her bathroom so thoroughly it looks like an operating theatre.
Stinking of lavender air freshener, rosy red cheeks having been sat in the freezing cold for an eternity, hands covered in newsprint, you possess that smile of sheer relief; ring a bell or two or is it just me?
Brave I am Not
This week I had a filling for the first time since I was a teenager and the white fear was back. As I gripped the sides of the dentist’s chair, I prayed they would knock me out and send me home in an ambulance.
A bead of sweat ran down my back and there were a thousand places I would rather have been, even facing Mitchell Johnson in Perth or at a Cliff Richard concert.
My nice Eastern European dentist suggested I try this without anaesthetic presumably because they are hard as nails in Bulgaria or wherever he comes from; or maybe that the NHS really is broke.
“Raise your hand if you feel any pain” he advised and I promptly nearly knocked him out.
Out came a needle big enough to knock out a cow as the nurse held my hand and offered me a star if I was good. Soon I was seeing stars as then came the whirring noise – was I back in The Scruffy again – maybe it would be okay and all I would get would be a shaved head instead.
Soon my mouth was numb enough to make me sound like a retard but the job was done and I was free to flee down the stairs and out the door. No more stealing my mum’s fruit pastilles…although she was pleased with my star!
Louis Gacquin says
I’ve no idea who Mick the Mullett is, but that picture at the top of the page is definitely Molly in a wig
Christine Harrison says
You should try our dentist, Allan just stares into her gorgeous eyes and drifts away into a dreamland.