What ho, chums. We meet again, what? Doubtless you have counted the hours until this august journal was updated, cast adrift in a world gone mad without the Colonel pearls of wisdom to make sense of the craziness. Something like that, anyway.
Fear not my pretties, the Colonel's back and everything's all right. You are probably wondering what the dickens I've been attending to that was so important I couldn't share with my public. Well, to be frank, nothing much really. The occasional concert performance, the odd three-day bender, an unwelcome telephone fault that resulted in no internet access for a while, that type of thing. Oh, and a spot of bedroom gymnastics. You won't be interested in that though, will you?
I'm not one to vapour on about my exploits, such as they are, you know that and you would expect nothing less than my customary gentlemanly discretion. So I will draw a veil over the gory details. I will say nothing of the no holes-barred bump and grind boot-knocking goodness that I was hitting my fine lady with. The lord of love, the high priest of how's-your-father, the grand vizier of gettin' it on tells no tales out of school. A nod's as good as a wink to a blind man seems to cover it.
A couple of points though.
When entertaining a lady friend, the little things matter. The soft lighting, the chilled wine, the right music, all of these details can be crucial. As a considerate host, I try to keep up with informed opinion as to what is the done thing in these matters. A recent copy of some woman's magazine or other I glanced through had a feature on what music is best fitted to the making of the two-backed beast. I was somewhat surprised to note that Noddy Holder's seventies glam stompers Slade were just the ticket for the sophisticated modern woman. Fortunately, I possess a copy of their greatest hits and was able to set the stereo away just as we were getting down to the business at hand.
It's quite a rummy thing, attempting to give of your romantic best while Noddy and co are belting out "Skweeze me Pleeze me", "Gudbuy t'Jane" and "Merry Christmas Everyone".
Eventually, my paramour asked me if I wouldn't mind "turning that shite off". Fortunately, James Brown constituted a perfectly acceptable alternative. All was well, the festivities re-commenced and a splendid time was had by all.
A second reading of the magazine article in question at a later date showed that the ladies tend to respond best to the music of Sade, not Slade. I am a fool.
Of course, some time has passed since this encounter and it would seem that normal service has been resumed vis a vis the ladies. On saturday I shared my bed with a coronation chicken sandwich purchased from the long-suffering chap at the twenty-four hour garage.
At least the sandwich didn't bitch about me playing my Rubettes CD.
My friends, I bid you adieu.