First, punk drummer Sonny Starr who is so thick that light actually bends around him rang about eight o’clock this morning pleading for some ‘emergency studio time’. Apparently, his band Vince World and the Powertoys whose songs about ‘hot chicks’ with long legs and large ‘Zeppelins’ have been attracting some industry attention lately. I don’t believe for one minute that any record company would ever sign his awful band but according to Sonny ’somebody massive’ is showing some interest. There again, like a lot of musicians, he is always telling stories without being unduly burdened by veracity.

‘You’re not using the studio,’ I repeated. ‘You’ll have to record your emergency demos somewhere else.’

‘No offence, Davy, but you are a bastard,’ he hissed over the phone.

He’s probably right on that one.

I have just about had it up to here, however, with bands and their songs that not only objectify women, but often belittle and demean them, too.

Next, while Audrey and I were running home over the rec’ to get out of the rain, Nigel-the-dickhead came bounding up to us to tell us what a wonderful night everyone had had in the pub celebrating the return of his wife. ‘She’s not lesbo any more,’ he proudly informed me. ‘Just couldn’t live without me.’

‘Did she realise what she was missing, Nige?’ I asked, tongue firmly in my cheek.

‘Of course. You see, unlike you, Dave . . . ‘

‘Davy.’

‘ . . . unlike you, I know how to treat a woman. I know exactly what they want. Dave.’

I can’t help thinking his errant wife must have had an ulterior motive for going back to him. Something to do with money, no doubt. Or am I being cynical? I simply don’t think any member of the female sex would ever find that tedious man with greasy hair and a face like a bag of frogs – ugly frogs – attractive in any way whatsoever. But that’s just me.

Once again I had been forced to spend a wonderfully edifying few moments being lectured at by Nigel on the subject of women and their desires. I was so happy.

When I got home all my teeth fell out.

Share This

‘Planning another daytime drinking session, chaps?’ I asked breezily.

‘We’re celebrating,’ Nigel beamed.

‘You were last time if I remember correctly. Something to do with the Pope being Catholic?’

‘He’s not, is he?’ Reg seemed rather taken aback.

‘My wife’s coming back,’ Nigel declared. ‘We’re having a party at the Pig and Whistle to mark the occasion. Everyone is invited. Even you.’

‘I don’t think the landlord will appreciate you bringing loads of your own booze to his pub.’ I warned them.

‘Gay Gene?’ Reg looked genuinely bemused. ‘You know Gay Gene, don’t you, Davy? He’s very accommodating. He lets anyone do anything, usually. As long as it’s all done in his pub and not down the road in the Royal. They ought to shut that place down.’

‘I don’t know him that well, Reg. Unlike you and Nigel, I have never penetrated his intimate circle.’

‘Eight o’clock tonight,’ Nigel interjected. ‘There’ll be karaoke, dancing, lesbians, black pudding sarnies, pickled eggs, and a raffle.’

‘Hmm . . . pickled eggs, you say?’

‘Yep.’

‘I’ll be there.’

Share This

To which you will reply: ‘I was dreaming about Jesus, sir.’ (You were actually dreaming about going to buy batteries for a man.)

As your teacher stares at you with undisguised hatred in his eyes, you will be overcome by a fit of yawning which you will suppress by coughing nervously and by scratching at your nose like a chimpanzee.

‘What do you want to do when you eventually grow up, boy?’ He will ask you.

This will be your reply: ‘Live in a windmill and solve crimes, sir.’

You will be put on detention for three weeks.

Share This

There were one or two dribbling slack-jawed yokels in the aisles so I went straight to the counter. ‘Can I have a box of that lovely Earl Grey tea you stock, please, Mr Mishri? Twinings, I believe it is.’

‘Oh, no, no no, no, no, Mr Davy, you certainly cannot, my young sir.’

‘You haven’t run out, surely. I think I’m the only one in the village who buys it. Ha ha.’

‘Well that’s just it, you see, Mr Davy, sir. Nobody else likes it.’ I could hear mutterings of concordance coming from the back of the shop near the pork scratchings section.

‘I know. I just told you, I – ‘

‘You haven’t been in to buy any since Christmas, Mr Davy, sir, you see.’

‘That’s because I bought some at Christmas, and now I have run out, so I am . . . Oh, look, it doesn’t matter. Do you have any bottles of Stella in the cooler?’

‘I can’t afford to buy you special tea, Mr Davy, and then not have you come in to make a purchase of this item on a regular basis.’

A fat, planet-sized woman standing behind me was tutting and sweating. She was muttering something under her breath that sounded like, ‘Voodoo, voodoo, magic bingo voodoo,’ which unsettled me slightly – as you can imagine – and inflamed my impatience further.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go to the Co-op.’

As I was leaving, Mr Mishri’s wife popped up from behind the counter and began berating me with a stiff finger and her usual mournful rectitude. ‘Hey, Steve, You should stop dying your hair! Get some smart clothes and find a nice young girl to settle down with.’

Apart from her getting my name wrong again, Mrs Mishri’s trenchant observations and comments did not sound too dissimilar to those often levelled at me by my mother. In fact, they were exactly the same.

‘You always look so lonely, Steve.’

‘Good grief. I only came in to buy some bloody tea.’

‘No need to swear, Steve. And you can’t park there, you know. Did you not see the sign? It’s a big sign, Steve.’

‘It’s a broken sign,’ I informed her in exasperation. ‘It says No -king. I thought you were both staunch republicans.’

She shouted something else but I was already getting into the car. It was probably, ‘Thank you. Please come again.’

When I got home, I glanced at my reflection in the hallway mirror. I was not surprised to see steam hissing from my ears.

Share This

Enormous are so pleased to have finally found someone who is not only gorgeous and extremely talented, but a thoroughly lovely and agreeable chap to boot. We are all going to really enjoy booting him in the months and years to come.

Hurrah! Now, time for some furious drinking.

Share This

Last night, I had just finished the vocal to new song The Girl Who Turned Into Herself, and, as I was tidying the studio, Audrey looked up at me with her big brown eyes as if to say: ‘Hey, father, you’ve just done a great job there, why don’t you reward yourself with a small glass of that lovely claret that grandma left you this afternoon?’

‘That’s a very agreeable notion, my girl,’ I informed her. ‘And, you know what? I think I jolly well will. But let’s not tell John, eh? Ha ha.’

Of course, I didn’t just have one glass. I had both bottles. My normally extra-strong resolve completely disintegrated after the third glass.

I blame Audrey; it was her idea.

This morning I feel fit and healthy and generally absolutely wonderful. (I’m holding up a big sign at this moment that says IRONY on it.)

Share This

When they arrived, John thrust a box of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts at me. ‘Have one of these. They’re gorgeous.’

‘No thanks, John,’ I told him, ‘I don’t want to end up like one of the waddling spheroid people I keep bumping into around here. Anyway, I thought you were trying to lose weight?’

‘I keep telling him . . .’ my mum interjected, ‘what with his heart problems and everything . . .’

‘I’ve had three of the buggers already. Tell your mum a little of what you fancy does you good.’

‘Why don’t you tell her yourself, John?’

‘I can hear him you know. What did he say?’

‘Have you forgotten to put your hearing aid in again, mum?’

‘What? A bee? What bee? Where?’ She began vigorously wafting the air around her head. ‘I hate bees.’

‘I’ll have it, then, if nobody else wants it.’ John flopped down on my sofa, put his feet on my antique wooden coffee table and set about demolishing the last of the doughnuts. ‘Here you are, Audrey . . .’

‘What?’ I exclaimed. ‘You know she can’t have anything like that, John.’

‘Yeah, yeah, diabetic, I know.’ He mockingly made quotation marks with his fingers.

‘Why on earth where you going to give her a piece of your bloody doughnut, then?’

‘A little bit won’t hurt her.’

‘Good grief! When are you going to – ‘

‘What? Betty who? Who’s Betty?’ My mum called from the kitchen where she was busily putting the kettle on. She is always putting the kettle on, my mum is.

‘Nothing, mum.’

‘What?’

‘I feel a bit sick now. And you’re right, Davy-lad, I am supposed to be watching my weight. I feel a right fool now for eating all those.’

‘H’m.’

‘But I can’t help myself, you know. No will power. I seem to spend most of my life these days trying not to be an idiot.’

‘Really, John? How’s that working out for you?’

Share This

‘You’re early.’

Indeed. I often come prematurely.’

‘Eh?’

‘I told told you before, Nige, I just can’t resist a comedy open goal when I see one.’

Reg had asked me to call at his house to help him with a problem he was having with his computer. He was nowhere to be seen.

‘Reg told me you were going to pop round, but I’ve already fixed the problem. I don’t know why he asked you for help, actually.’

‘Me neither, Nigel, what with you being a PC expert and all.’

‘Macs. I never touch PCs if I can help it. They are basically shit.’

‘Hmm. Where’s Reg?’

‘Church.’

‘Church? Jesus.’

‘I’ve been telling him he ought to get baptised. Well, actually, the Lord told me to tell him.’

‘Don’t tell me. You’re a Born Again Christian, aren’t you Nigel?’

‘What if I am?’

‘It just doesn’t surprise me, that’s all.’

‘Have you been baptised, Davy?’

‘That really is none of your business, Nigel.’

‘Well, you should at least come and say hello to us at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses in Kirkby. And from what I’ve been hearing about you, you should make it sooner than later.’

‘Goodbye, Nigel.’

Share This

Share This

‘Since when have you been a hippy from the sixties, Nigel?’ (As you are probably aware, Reg’s pretentious friend sets my teeth on edge, even more so when he speaks to me with a bizarre accent.)

‘You look like an Irwin, man.’

‘Eh?’

‘You look like your name should be Irwin. Irwin Lawrence.’

‘Have you been drinking with Reg all day again, Nigel?’

‘Nope. Been buying olive oil for the dips, baby, you dig?’

‘Why are you talking like an idiot?’

‘We’ve got chicks coming round to the house tonight, man. It’s Reg’s idea to have a sixties themed evening. I’m making the dips. Dug out my old kaftan this morning, I did. Know where I can buy any incense in this square village, baby?’

‘No.’

‘You should come, Irwin, man. One of the chicks coming is a sixty-five year old virgin.’

‘Stop calling me Irwin.’

‘You got it, man. Crazy.’

‘Good grief.’

Share This