Well, here we are again, what?
It appears that summer has begun, the sun is rarely out of the sky and the good people of these isles have reacted in typically bizarre fashion.Obese men parade around shirtless, sporting short trousers that bring to mind German sex tourists. Middle-aged women with badly-dyed hair don short vest tops that give an ungrateful public a view of their swollen gunts and tribal-tattooed lower backs. Who knew that the Celts were such dreadfully common people?
The old folk switch from wearing grey overcoats, cardigans and sweaters to beige overcoats, cardigans and sweaters. I have a theory that they store heat throughout the summer for use in winter, much like solar energy units.
Then there are the girls.
The modern female strives to expose more tanned flesh than the average catalogue lingerie model. Shorts are skirt, tops low-cut and cropped at the bottom. Bras push bosoms upwards and outwards for the delectation of all. It really is a treat. More on the youth of today later.
After a hard days toil, I ventured out the other evening with several of my local circle of deep thinkers. The local pub, the imaginatively-named Red Lion, has a special promotion on Tuesday nights. After paying a £2 entry fee, all drinks are £1. Being rightly suspicious of the quality of wine in such a low-rent place, I alternated between cold Guinness and bottled Corona throughout the night. The place was absolutely packed. Clearly the youth of Northumberland have a love of cheap drink that rivals the Scotsman's.
The music was largely what those in the know describe as R'n'B. However, this genre has clearly altered somewhat since the heyday of the Yardbirds and the MC5. One song, describing the attractions of a female the author was enamoured of, claimed "her ass is a spaceship I want to ride". Though nonplussed by this revelation, I was rather fond of the other tune where the chap bellows "Criss Cross!" at regular intervals. Banging shit, as I believe the "homies" say.
While enjoying the atmosphere and general bonhomie of the place I got chatting to a plump young lady who had clearly been drinking not wisely but too well. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, I enquired as to whether she was courting. She replied that she had no regular boyfriend but that she did have a few "fuck buddies". I'm afraid I may have shown my age at this point. Possibly I spluttered. Eyebrows may well have reached new heights. Fascinated, I asked how one goes about attaining "fuck buddy" status, as it seems an ideal arrangement for a chap. One simply receives a call, toddles along to the girl's "crib", fires a few shots into her and skedaddles home, weary but conscious of having done one's duty. This also obviates the obligation to listen to her tittle-tattle and yimmer-yammer, give reassurance as to the trimness and pertness of arse and breasts and generally put up with the more wearisome aspects of having a lady in one's life.
From the laughter and noncommital response to my question, I suspect that my application for this role had not been successful, although possibly my details would be kept on file should circumstances change.
An older, wiser Colonel, I strolled home in the moonlight, the birdsong serenading me as I mused on the rumminess of the world in which we live. Fuck buddies, indeed.