Friday, October 28, 2005


Ahoy there, shipmates. Get out your seats and let's get ill.

Or, not, as the case turns out to be. You see, the D-Day referred to above stands for "Discharged". Today, I left the care of the Intermediate Legs and was released back into society.

Amid some emotional scenes, I took my leave of the physio staff and the fine men and woman who make up the Intermediate Leg class at the local infirmary.

For the final time I strode out into that gym to gurn and sweat my way through the feared friday step session. In a final cathartic act, I mastered the fiendishly complex "triple V-step, take it to the corners, then high knee" manouevre while keeping time to the pumping sounds of a dance megamix of "I am what I am". Pretty hot stuff, I think you will agree.

With hour two came the ultimate circuit of exercises. All manner of running, stretching, balancing, bridging, squatting, lunging and flexing movements were undertaken under the watchful eye of Anna the physio. The watchful eye being the right one. The other, or left one, being of course the crip side.

I think it is fair to say that, while I will never attain the physical prowess of Wolfs from "Gladiator" or Brian Jacks from "Superstar", I have become a tolerable performer on the wobbleboards, often completing the full minute on one leg without overbalancing. For any ladies reading this, I apologise for getting you so excited with these tales of heroic physical achievement.

You may wish to get yourself a glass of water and attempt to calm yourself before continuing.

From the gym to the fitness room and the closing act of this most rigorous of training programmes. The "Specifics" class. A set of bending and stretching calisthenics designed to turn the spindliest, flabbiest of injured legs into an instrument of honed, taut, iron flesh that could have been forged in the devil's own smithy. You can wear ankle weights as well. I wore the purple one.

That's the second heaviest one. I am skill.

The class over, I retired to the exercise bikes for a gentle cool-down spin while well-wishers wished me well and several not unmanly tears were choked back.

Many long weeks ago I walked into that hospital a nobody. A putz, a schmuck, an eedjit, a jack ass, if you will. Today I walked out a somebody. Anyone who has served with the Intermediate Legs is part of a family, an elite, a bunch of fellows and comrades and that stays with you for life.

There is a bond forged when prancing like a tit to "We all sleep alone" by Cher. When you have seen your buddy fall off a wobbleboard with only ten seconds to go, it brings you closer together. And when you have crowded round the water cooler waiting for those fat fucks in "Legs for Beginners" to finish with the gym you have experienced the true brotherhood (and sisterhood) of the Intermediate Legs.

I'll bid you adieu now, I seem to have something in my eye.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Dog in the manger

We meet again, what?

I normally leave this thing alone for a week or so at a time, to let you suck on the bones of my deep-fried truth nuggets, as it were, but my failing memory has been jogged and recollections of tall tales from the weekend come flooding back.

You know as well as I that there is only so much time you can spend debating the merits of your local sports team before the conversation drifts towards matters of a sub-navel nature. For the less well-educated among you, I am of course, referring to "the sex" or "having it off".

One of our little group of thinkers said, a propos of nothing, "You know, I've only had anal sex about ten or a dozen times".

This was clearly meant to confound and astound us that The Great Lover had not, as we may have suspected, been kicking in more back doors than Regan and Carter.

Indeed, there was quite a hush in the conversation, broken only by my enquiry "What's the matter, did it hurt your little arse?"

He didn't like that.

Eager to make amends, I related this sorry tale from my own past.

"It was the late eighties, you couldn't swing a cat without tripping over drugged-up mancunians in bell-bottom trousers or ageing scousers becoming aroused when discussing adidas trainers they had worn.

They were great times, my friend, the second summer of love was in full flight and even an old fuddy-duddy such as I was capable of getting some.

I had been "doing a bit" with an older lady for a couple of weeks when it happened.

After an evening spent drinking in low taverns and the Cooperage night spot, we were sharing a tender moment in her boudoir. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, affording an opportunity for the lady's springer spaniel to make an appearance.

Far from acting the jealous guardian of his mistress' domain, he was keen to join in the fun. To this end, he proceeded to give my exposed bottom a thorough licking. He couldn't have lapped more attentively had he been adminstering to his own ballbag.

You can imagine the horror and disgust I must have felt.

Well you imagine wrong, smarty-pants, it was fucking brilliant. The added stimulus perked me up good and proper and when proceedings concluded I went off like a bottle rocket.

My lady friend, while slightly bemused by the canine assistance, was rather pleased with the additional vim and vigour it brought to our cavortings. In fact, this added frisson prolonged the relationship long past its allotted shelf life.

If the truth be told she wasn't the most beautiful woman and I, young fool that I was, believed that every woman I looked at was mine for the taking. Yet the lure of unorthodox bedroom antics constantly drew me back.

That, and popping around to take the dog for a walk.

It all ended badly when she discovered I had started smearing the old tea-towel holder with Pedigree Chum.

I've forgotten her name now, but I'll forever cherish the memory of Scamp and his delightful rasping tongue and cold, wet nose."

I told them that story and they called me a lying old porvort.

Let me tell you this, my internet pals, that story is as true as my name is Colonel Knowledge.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

My sexy ass has got you in a new dimension

Don't try to deny it, my friend, you know it has.

Forgive me such base sloganeering, my virtual compadres, but this type of thing really draws in the punters from the search engines, believe you me. You would be shocked and appalled at some of the filth that people are looking for when they stumble on this fragrant little patch of cyberspace. Who knew that so many that so many website hits could be garnered from folk who take a keen interest in bukkake, eh?

That's bukkake. You know what bukkake is, don't you? (That's enough bukkake - Ed)

Anyhow, moving on to slightly less unpleasant topics, aren't there some dreadful hobbledy-hoys out there? Walking our streets, riding on public transport, fumbling with their purses at the head of irate supermarket queues, these human tics are everywhere.

Only today I was riding the omnibus when this dreadful fat Benny-the-Ball looking teenage girl got onboard, all surly and pouty. A mere two stops later she was up and dinging the bell, wanting to be off. Naturally I felt moved to comment.

"Hoy, pork-rinder!" I called out, "You just got on. You could have walked that distance in two minutes."

"I don't do walking" she replied with a haughty, withering glare before flouncing off to alight the vehicle. Bear in mind that this was not Paris Hilton or Naomi Campbell brattishly insisting on a limo to take her from a movie premiere to an after-party, this was a portly little beetle-browed scratter on board an Arriva bus in Ashington.

I ask you.

The elderly are no better either. Whether it be dogs-arse mouthed old biddies blethering away about late-arriving buses or befuddled old codgers constantly scowling, twitching and muttering away to themselves, no bus journey is possible without a rash of these superannuated pustules clogging up the aisles with their sour-faced grouching and enfeebled complaining.

Now, nobody could ever accuse me of being mean-spirited, niggardly or negative. I do not come on here spouting bile without some wise words of instruction to act as a kind of karmic counterbalance.

"A kind of karmic counterbalance", eh? A bit of spin on the ball with that one and we haven't even got to the honeyed words of wisdom yet.

Well, to be brutally frank, there is no advice to be had here. I am a gentle and refined soul. I go home of an evening, I eat some olives and stilton, sip a decent red and put away a cutlet or two while enjoying the music of Lawrence Welk. I get myself off to bed at a decent hour and curl up with the latest Proust. I live simply and do nobody any harm.

All I say is this. If you have neglected to wash and stink to high heaven, if you think an omnibus is a fitting place to have a loud, cackling conversation with one of your dreadful friends or if you think that the world needs to hear your stupefyingly ill-informed opinions on "the coloureds" then beware. Anyone engaging in this type of anti-social behaviour within my orbit risks a kick in the cunt.

I'll bid you good day.

Monday, October 10, 2005


"Marriage is an institution. But who wants to live in an institution, eh? Ho ho!"

Not my words, the words of Liverpudlian, gap-toothed, eighties TV unfunnyman Jimmy Tarbuck. Well, it might be all well and good for an ageing, golf-obsessed comedian to disparage the holy state of wedlock, but the other week one of my pals was scheduled to appear before the registrar and plight his troth.

And what a plight it was.

The day begun with a slightly overdressed crowd of wellwishers hanging around at a bus stop, waiting for the charabanc that would whisk us off to Ponteland for the social event of the season.

A little fashion tip if you are attending a wedding in the near future. Do not wear a black suit, black shirt, black tie combination unless you relish the prospect of enduring every would-be funny man in the tri-county area asking you in a ribald way if you have attended a funeral earlier in the day. Man alive, that doesn't take long to become tiresome, no sirree.

Yet, mark the sequel. As the day draws on, champagne is quaffed and the company sits down to a beef dinner, who looks foolish when they spill gravy on themselves? Is it the man in the sober black attire? Or is it Johnny Wiseacres in his light-coloured shirt and loud tie? I think you know the answer.

I won't bore you with the full details of the ceremony, the decor, the vows, what the bridesmaids wore, that type of caper. This, after all, is not OK magazine. I will confine myself to a couple of minor observations.

This was the second wedding I have attended in a matter of months where the disc jockey at the night time "do" did not officially ratify the union by playing out "Hi Ho Silver Lining" by Jeff Beck. It has always been my understanding that a marriage has no legal standing unless this particular seventies floor-filler has received an airing. Sort it out Jimmy Savilles.

The wedding evening fistfight is an ancient and glorious tradition. Surely a gathering of Irish relations, Northumbrians and Geordies, on the pop all day should throw up one or two outbreaks of fisticuffs, some say chin music, others say pagger. This new generation of binge-drinking, iPod toting, Playstation and polyphonic ringtone junkies are clearly nothing more than a bunch of lily-livered, pantywaist, cheese-paring sissies.

Finally, just because you have found a life partner and a helpmeet to spend eternity with, it doesn't mean everyone else has. Invite a bit of spare to your wedding. What is the earthly use of having a collection of tidy boilers in posh frocks, no doubt with the full kit on underneath, stockings, sussies, posh knickers, aal kinds, if they are all with their husbands or boyfriends? Eh? Eh?

Unworthy quibbling aside, a splendid, drunken time was had by all, and indeed, sundry. Lots of cold drinks, some dancefloor action (a mixture of Motown, Madchester, Studio 54 disco and Ceilidh jigging) and then ho for home in the charabancs.

Hats off to the happy couple, may their marriage be a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

If anybody wishes to point out that the quotation at the start of this entry is in fact from American humorist Henry Mencken, please don't. In my mind it will always be Tarby.