I defy anybody not to have seen the story of Bernard Jordan, 89, and his “great escape” from his care home – fulfilling a wish to attend the D-Day commemorations in Normandy last week – and to have watched without a lump in their throat.
Wonderful stuff from another era and all carried off with grace, charm and a cheeky wink of an old boy’s eye.
Boys own stuff because boys will always be boys.
You Read It Here First
I wrote last week that the only way to shake up FIFA and Sleazy Sepp would be for a major sponsor or two to start to get restless. Sony appear to have broken from the pack, perhaps in a fit of pique given Japan was one of the losing bidders to Qatar, but refreshing nevertheless.
Whether FIFA’s internal inquiry, led by its own appointed attorney Michael Garcia, sheds any light on the bribery allegations one remains sceptical. For mad as a hatter Blatter though, surely it is time to go.
Blatter plunged new depths by stooping for the racism card to defeat the Sunday Times allegations. Football will always be tarnished with this man at the helm but it appears the man from the land of the cuckoo clock has finally gone cuckoo too.
Saturdays With…Snowy?
The weather forecast had been set in stone for days; there were heavy beer clouds up there in those leaden skies and anybody who had whitened boots for the weekend ahead was hopeful at best.
Parlous of players, our Stiffs had had to issue an invite for his annual appearance to Brittle Bones Patchett. Known from his “glory days” as a bowler, a dilapidated body had forced an early retirement into dog walking so surely not a return as a batter?
We convened around 10.30am – Major Binns and I – to assess the obvious; t’was a Bear afternoon once more and Big Al would be salivating like a porn star on overtime.
I reasoned that at least the threat of Patch scoring more runs than me – and precipitating an early suicide – was a bonus from the clouds. A fat lad, swinging wildly around the wide arc of his belly, negating years of technical coaching for me, would not be good for the soul.
Our spiritual leader Molly – at least where afternoons in the Bear are concerned – was on his annual jaunt to Epsom showing fellow junior coach Marsy how to destroy all bodily functions inside three days.
We called the game off and switched our phones away from all Big Al contact.
I held out until five; it was a sterling effort before the barrage of “Bear? Just a couple? Honest!” texts broke me down. Weak I may be but beer is the fuel of the soul.
Soon enough, Drunken Doctor David rolled up with Snowy, his last remaining dog following the tragic loss of Alice, a Bear regular and devotee of Tetleys. Another man unable to resist the gravitational pull of ale and an escape from the Missus.
Convivial conversation ensued until David began to feed Snowy with a Peperami stick. As we have suffered on numerous occasions, these treats make the little fellow emit gas the like Saddam Hussein used to spray around the Middle East.
After whipping the little fellow into a frenzy, cruelly he withdrew the treat. Apparently, any more than half a stick makes Snowy kidnap material. Soon the Drunken Doctor was off to the loo with a somewhat hopeful request to look after the now placated Snowy.
As soon as David was gone, Snowy sensed weakness in his new carers. As I had no idea what to do with a mutt jumping up and down, there was only one way to restore order so I stuffed the remaining spicy length into his willing gob and sought my pint and continued peace.
Drunken David came back and, seeing a comatose Snowy, sussed a rat.
“You’ve killed her!” he shrieked, albeit that Snowy was farting as contentedly and prolifically as ever under the table with regulars dispersing from the bar as if there was a fire or Our Jackie had another low cut top on.
“Jill will bloody kill you and me.” And we both knew that was true. He gave me a withering look but he knew he had been hopeful at best to put me in charge.
Kindly David offered to not mention a thing in return for another pint; I was happy to pay the bribe and Snowy continued to fart happily under the table for which we were grateful – in a way – as at least it confirmed she was not dead yet and there was no queue at the bar.
The old man took it well, reasoning that if he was to get a battering from the feisty Jill on his return, better to be numbed by a few more beers. Thoughtfully, he also bought me a Peperami too, although sticking it in my pint was a bit childish from a 70 year old.
Still, with the chippy closing it’s doors it looked like this would have to do for Saturday dinner.
By now Luckless Linda had arrived to collect Big Al in time for his No 71 with loyalty bonus from Greengates Gardens and Drunken David was resisting all urges to jog Snowy home to get the gas out.
If the cricket season continues in this vein I may need AA come September.
Everybody’s A Salesman
Normally I dread a dental appointment for obvious reasons but ever since falling off a six-foot fence at Christmas, the shame of confessing to nice man Andrei how I scraped my front tooth, has been weighing heavily.
We went through the usual preliminaries.
“Do you smoke?”
“No”
“Do you drink?”
“A bit” said sheepishly.
“Over 30 units a week”
“Depends if Big Al needs keeping company” I offered hopeful he would change the subject “course I do!”
I explained that the reason I, as a normally responsible 51 year old, had fallen off a fence was most likely because that particular night I had probably had my weekly allowance in one go. And that Joe Lawrence had encouraged me to garden hop on the way home.
These days the dental practice is part of a large group and you only have to look around reception to realise that there is now a corporate sell here with all manner of products on offer.
So Andrei must now sell as well as offer torture, whereas nice old Mr Spencer simply gave you that routine “…sound, sound, sound….oooh….kerr-ching…pension time!”
Fortunately, Andrei is as bad as I am at selling.
“Have you got an electric toothbrush?” he asked.
I showed him my mobile phone and suggested he already knew the answer. Not put off just yet he pointed out how much better these were – on special offer in reception by coincidence – keeping me in the dreaded chair far too long.
I don’t go to the dentist to do anything other than try to get out as quickly as possible. Flogging me a mini-vibrator is not enhancing my customer experience one bit.
“If you stopped drinking for one week you could save enough for one” he offered as one final stab from the sales manual. Time to go seek a pint I thought, see you next year.
Picture of the Week
Advice For The Young At Heart
I was offered the following book – “Fitness For Over 50s” – at the gym the other day after morning spin class with the Desperate Housewives.
In it there are very helpful sections on panic attacks (brought on by fit girls half your age in tight fitting lycra at the gym) and chronic conditions (post drinking the gym’s coffee).
I noticed the sections on arthritis and dementia so sought out Auntie Christine from the office for a first hand view.
Moron Update
At last one of the half-wits that have been disturbing the local area on their souped up skateboards has been prosecuted.
Sadly the judge backed away from a custodial sentence – bad enough – but it was the comments in mitigation from his solicitor that hacked me off most.
Trying to excuse the lad’s actions because he had had a tough upbringing was pathetic. Why not simply state that there is no defence for endangering peoples lives, taking up expensive police resources and for destroying the peace that most people crave.
The solicitor will doubtless be an educated bloke and will probably live nowhere near the affected areas. What a waste of a good education if you cannot distinguish between right and wrong.
We cannot keep excusing cretins like this nor simply tag them and hope for the best. It’s like slugs, there is no point in moving them on as they will only keep coming back. Stand on them…hard.
Ugly Runs
An old colleague of mine was lamenting how the game of cricket has changed over the years, especially with the attitude of youngsters to batting.
“Nobody grafts, gets ugly runs anymore. It’s all crash-bang-wallop and back to the iphone!” he lamented.
“Come along Saturday mate if you want ugly” I promised, my fate once again in the gift of Specsavers.
Patch says
Now now willy. My time will come. Not yet have I made my way to the crease and I’m still only just behind you in the batting averages