What ho, folks.
Sorry for neglecting you all, had a spot of medical bother. I went and broke my leg while playing Association Football. That's the story anyway, you know the score, official secrets and all that rot. Anyway, suffice to say I spent a week in hospital and so far a week and a half at home with a plaster cast on.
This installment will consist of some of my half-baked musings as I lay a-tossing and a-turning in my weary infirmary billet. Without aggrandizing myself in any way, I would have to say that the nearest comparison would be Fyodor Dostoevsky.
In 1849 our man Fyodor was exiled to Siberia where he endured four years of hard labour. His memories of these times are collected in his celebrated "House of the Dead". I've read this book and he doesn't mention piss once. Clearly I am better than him. Anyhow, without further ado, let's grip it and rip it.
This tasty beverage appears to have lost any health-restoring properties it may have had when I was a stripling. This is probably not unconnected with the shedding of the sticky orange sellophane wrapping it once sported. A kind of fizzy pop Samson’s locks type of deal.
The eager beavers who have taken over the Lucozade empire since Old Man Ernie Lucoz passed away have re-positioned the Lucozade brand. No longer the sole province of pyjama-clad youngsters tucked up in bed with a Beano and a bowl of soup, these days Lucozade is marketed mainly towards tracksuit clad sports poseurs. There also seems to have been an attempt on the Irn Bru niche market of the hungover weekend party animal. However, this has proved less successful with the true alkies, tiprats and radgies showing an admirable brand loyalty to the Caledonian girder-derived restorer.
Passing water while hunched over a plastic bottle in bed is a rum old do. Attempting same feat while a thin curtain separates you from a ward full of wheezing oldsters and busy nurses going about their business is even less of a walk in the park. On one occasion I was there fully seven minutes before any business resulted.
I imagine this is what “erectile dysfunction” (being a big puff who can’t get it up when you’ve got a lass there, choking for it) must be like. Although at least in that instance you would have some tits to look at.
However, when urinating in bottles, there is always the danger that once you have started to “speak”, you may have too much to say. The consequences of such an incident would doubtless have a deleterious effect on one’s prestige among the nursing staff. Nobody could feel truly at ease knowing that others refer to them as “Old Pissybed”. Thankfully this situation did not arise. The Colonel has the bladder muscles of a young Sly Stallone. Yes, look impressed.
In fact, on the final evening of my confinement, I judged this matter to a nicety, leaving just an inch below the stopper of the bottle, just enough to let the liquid “breathe”. The nurse who came to take it away was mightily impressed with my efforts, making comments to this effect and showing off the bottle to her partner on the ward as if it were some notable sports trophy.
“Hey, I’m dead proud, me” I piped up, to beaming smiles all round. Good times, my friends, good times.
It can scarcely have escaped your notice that we have recently witnessed the World Snooker Championships. Won, you will recall, by that fat lad. A great sporting occasion, you will agree.
We all know it, we all love it. An ideal way of passing the idle hours when confined to bed, I think you'd agree.
There are however, a couple of flies in the ointment.
Firstly, advertisements just look wrong when worn on waistcoats and dickie bowties. Yes, your garish nylon football shirts, yes your Formula 1 motor cars, by all means plaster them with hoardings for lager beers and online casinos, but formal evening wear? I rather fancy not. Sort it out David Vines.
Finally, a special word for the good people who make up the audiences at the snooker. My word, what a motley collection of Ocean Finance poster girls, porridge-countenanced youths in bulging replica football tops and glakey, four-eyed “George at Asda” types who appear as though they can only achieve arousal when watching “A Question of Sport”.
Still, they’re a very “knowledgeable” crowd, by all accounts. And at least they aren’t motor sports enthusiasts.
See you next time, douchebags.