Dancing has rules and those rules should be followed. If you should find yourself on a dance floor amidst discoing and gyrating Travolta’s, let yourself go. Be rebellious and unleash the hidden extrovert within you. Don’t be afraid. Forget your presence, your situation, yourself. Let your movements be your words of expression and your pleasure the feeling of self-satisfaction. Be bold. Be memorable.

If you should find yourself in the corner of a bar that just happens to be playing your favourite tune, chill. Be cool. Control yourself. It’s okay in this situation to allow yourself some modicum of self-expression, but not too much. Be conspicuous, but discreet. Involve your friends but don’t do the Bump or the Funky Chicken with the pensioners in the next booth. You’re probably there with your children and they haven’t seen you behave this way since you got 4 numbers on the lottery and spent $87 on booze at the local gas station. You’re creating memories here, and not just for yourself. Your future employer, insurer, doctor or gynecologist could be in this bar. Build bridges of empathy, not bridges of beer cans.

Concerts are great venues and events for dancers, unless you belong to that selective and rare breed of dancer, the flipper. You can’t flip in a crowd, never, no way. Front flips, back flips, sideways and half cartwheel flips are definitely out of bounds at a packed arena concert. Crowd surfing from the stage is one thing, but a double back summersault onto the shoulders of some tattooed freak from Freemantle is not good. Your arms never dance at a concert, unless you can keep them in a vertical position for 3 hours, and no Guantanamo Bay detainee has managed that yet.

Religious dancing has its own restrictions. Basically, swaying and hand clapping is good, but God hates The Grind. If you’ve ever watched The Blues Brothers you probably have the wrong impression of religious dancing, and your attendance at some local congregations might be refused on the grounds on promiscuous subversion. If you like to dance in church, be a catholic. It’s not allowed, but you’ll be instantly forgiven and go to heaven.

Family event dancing is my own particular favourite. It’s the only time you can get really close to relatives you fancy without producing physical extremist offspring or odd looks from auntie Hilary, although there is always a drunk cousin at these occasions to distract people if you want to push your adolescence incense a little further. Whatever, this situation is easy to deal with. Start a family fight because this attracts more participants than dancing.

Anyway, the reason for this blog entry is to tell you that bedroom dancing should follow a definite protocol.

If you ever hear a familiar and inspiring tune whilst languishing in your bed with your partner, simply bounce. That’s all, that’s it. Just bounce gently up and down. It’s the universally accepted and recognized, choreographed, rehearsed and globally understood method of portraying ones gratitude and happiness at the melody playing in the background. Never do real dancing in bed. Don’t throw any moves or do any acrobatics. Bounce. When in bed do bed dancing, not dance dancing. Dance dancing is for dancing, bed dancing is for people who like to sway whilst they lay. Trust me?

Steve

 

I indulged in a little special relationship thingy last night, if you know what I mean? I was great. I always am. Some people are great scholars, poets, artists or performers. Others are renowned academics, entrepreneurs, orators or just damn good eggs, but I’m great at the special relationship thingy, if you know what I mean? Hey, don’t take my word for it. Just listen to what my wife said to me last night.

“You were great.”

You see, what did I tell you? I was great. I was too. I didn’t need any instruction or anything. I’m a natural, I’m gifted. I’ve reached the pinnacle of performance at the special relationship thingy, if you know what I mean? I don’t need to revise, practice or warm up. Just give me the time and the opportunity and I’m your man. In fact, I have it down to such I fine tuned art that I don’t even need that much time anyway. Yep, that special relationship thingy is definitely my area of excellence, if you know what I mean?

But sadly, that’s where it all ends. I’m absolutely rubbish at everything else.

There isn’t another manly task, household chore or do-it-yourself job that my wife trusts me with without leaving me a note. There are notes everywhere. There are notes in the sitting room about what temperature to put the heating on, what time to put the heating on, even what months of the year I’m allowed to put the damn heating on. There are notes in the kitchen relating to the microwave oven, the coffee percolator, the dishwasher and the washing machine.

Defrost sauce for 5 minutes.
Four scoops of coffee.
Put the knives sharp end down.
Don’t ever wash my satin blouse on 90 degrees again!

Hell, I can wake up in the morning and find a note on the dresser telling me there’s a note on the calendar. The note on the calendar will tell me the recycling needs to go out. The recycling bin will have a note on it........

“Hey, you were great last night.”

“Not now, love, I’m talking to the people.”

Where was I? Oh, yes, the damn recycling bin had a note on it saying, Recycling bin. The note on the recycling bin saying, Recycling bin, was just above the printed sign on the recycling bin saying, ‘Recycling Bin.’

“But I just wanted to tell you before I go to work, tiger, you were fantastic.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Oh, there’s a note on the bathroom door. Bye.”

So off I go to the bathroom to check out the latest note of no trust; Flush before I get home.

If I’m real quick I can catch her before she pulls off the drive. As quick as I can I run down the hall and open the front door...... “I KNOW WHAT A FECKING RECYCLING BIN LOOKS LIKE!”

I thought I was in trouble when she got out of the car and stomped over to me, but....

“I just can’t leave you. Do it to me one more time, spongy bum.”

No instruction necessary.

 

I’m so please to have writing.com as a writing resource because without it, I wouldn’t be able to tell you........

1. I went to see Evita this evening at the Hippodrome theatre in Birmingham. It was great. No, it was really great! Abigail Jaye was the lead as Eva Peron and she belted out Don’t Cry for me Argentina good and proper. She played the part for all its emotional value and hit every note. Okay, so I do have one gripe. Che was gay. He was completely camp and minced around the stage in some sort of homage to the subversive alter ego of Frank Spencer. I actually thought I heard him say at one stage, “Ooh, you are a Juan!” Anyway, we were front row in the stalls and the show was wonderful. The lass that sang, Another Suitcase in Another Hall, was great. I do love the theatre.

2. I had a little exchange with my 3 year old grandson this afternoon.

“Connor, do you want prawns and rice with granddad, or would you prefer fish fingers?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“No, we’re not having it now. We’ll have it later. We’ll have it at dinner time.”

“Oh, right.”

“So, prawns or fish fingers?”

“I’m not hungry I said.”

“I know you’re not hungry now, but this is for later. We’ll have this later.”

“Oh, right.”

“So, prawns or....”

“I said I’m not hungry, granddad.”

“But you’ll be hungry later, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good, so later would you like....”

“Granddad, I told you I’M NOT HUNGRY!”

“Shall we play with your hotwheels?”

“Yeah!”

I really don’t know what I’d do without writing.com, or grandchildren.

 

A shameless plug for my home town, Bewdley.

1. The Mug House.
This is my local watering hole, and where you will find me most Friday evenings.
"Mug House" was a seventeenth century term for an alehouse, allowed to retail ale, porter, wine and spirits. The first recorded landlord was John Smith in the 1820's, though the licence probably dates from 1798. Reduced to beer house status in 1836 by John Smith to save on licence fees, the Mug House in 1841 was one of 71 public houses recorded in old Bewdley, the highest concentration of licences per head of population in the UK. The Old Mug House Inn has witnessed many changes over the past 211 years, but has remained as originally intended by John Smith, a social centre for the community. Whatever, I usually stagger out about midnight, get a kebab, and fall in the river!

2. The riverside.
The rear of my home backs onto the river Severn. It is the longest river in Britain, some 220 miles from source to sea. The name Severn is derived from the Latin word Sabrina, previously Hafren in Welsh, which means "boundary". Its source is in the Plynlimon Mountains in West Wales and it flows through the counties of Powys, Shropshire, Worcestershire and Gloucestershire, finally flowing into the Bristol Channel. I have 3 dogs and they love the river. In fact, they permanently smell of the river the dirty devils.

3. Bewdley in flood.
Unfortunately, Bewdley is liable to flood most years. We now have a state of the art flood defence system, which was first used on 4th February 2004. I am lucky enough to live just higher than the highest ever recorded flood. The picture shows the view from the rear of my house and includes, Taboo, one of my 3 dogs.



4. Bewdley Museum.
Housed in a historic and unusual 18th century butchers shambles, this unique museum illustrates the growth and trades of the town as well as the crafts of the surrounding Wyre Forest area through fascinating indoor and outdoor displays.

5. Bewdley Beer Festival.
Classic! Enough said.

6. Bewdley Festival.
Annual event held in October. Musicians of many persuasions – classical, folk, jazz and pop, as well as comedians, magicians, dancers and famous speakers on every topic. A rich feast of entertainment

7. West Midlands Safari Park.
About a 15 minute walk from my house. My grandchildren love this place, and so do I.

8. Local Wildlife.
The River Severn is the most important feature in Bewdley. The river is home to lots of freshwater animals. When walking alongside you can't miss the swans, ducks and moorhens. In the riverbank you might see a mink scurrying around looking for food or perhaps an otter, an endangered species in the UK. If you’re really lucky, and believe the Roman legend, you might see Sabrina, the goddess of the river.

9. Forest of Wyre.
Used to be a medieval hunting ground, and covers the three closely linked towns of Bewdley, Stourport, and Kidderminster.

10. Queen Elizabeth II Jubilee Gardens.
This is a small area of 8601 square metres located towards the centre of Bewdley, behind the museum. Beautiful ornamental gardens set within a conservation area, ornamental fish ponds, enclosed by old listed walls, and a ‘Green Theatre.’ Throughout the summer there are open air concerts for everyone to enjoy. We take our own chair and a bottle of wine. Great!

11. St. Ann’s Church.
The current church dates back just over 250 years, and the tower 50 years more, but there are records of a church on this site dating back to the mid-1400s.

12. Bewdley Bridge.
The bridge was built by Thomas Telford in 1798. It cost £11,000. It replaced the old bridge built in 1470 that was washed away in the great flood of 1795.

Credits.

The Mug House. http://www.mughousebewdley.co.uk/
The river Severn. http://www.severntales.co.uk/index.html
Flood defences. http://www.bbc.co.uk/herefordandworcester/features/2004/02/bewdley_floods.shtml
Bewdley Museum. http://www.museum.com/jb/museum?id=40714
Beer Festival. http://www.bewdleybeerfestival.co.uk/
Bewdley Festival. http://www.bewdleyfestival.org.uk/
Safari Park. http://www.wmsp.co.uk:8080/safaripark/WebObjects/safaripark.woa/wa/default
Local Wildlife. http://www.bewdleyheritagetrail.com/wildlife.php
Wyre Forest. http://www.wft.co.uk/
Queen Elizabeth II Jubilee Gardens. http://www.wyreforestdc.gov.uk/cms/non-lgnl-pages/community-and-partnership-serv...
St. Ann’s. http://www.bewdleyparish.org.uk/parish/parish_st_anne.html
Bewdley Bridge. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bewdley_Bridge

 

I want, just once in my life, to dance a slow dance with a beautiful woman who looks me straight in the eye the very moment before she kisses me plum on the lips without her having to stand on her tip toes. I want her arms around my shoulders as her hands gently touch the nape of my neck without the blood rushing to her legs as cramp strangles the romance from the moment and an attack of pins and needles sends her upper limbs into spasm. I want to whisper sweet nothings in her ear without lower lumber pain stiffening my spine and softening my ardour as I’m locked into a hunched position. I want to see the color of her eyes, not the lack of color to her roots as they shine silvery under the mirror ball I’ve just bumped my head on. I want to be the same size in bed because contrary to popular myth, we’re not all a perfect physical match made in heaven between the sheets.

The roof lining of my car wears out before my tyres. I want to hold the steering wheel somewhere above my legs, not between my thighs. I’m tired of people asking me why I always arrive late. “It’s because my left knee obstructs the Sat Nav and I don’t know where the heck I am most of the time.” My right knee operates the left indicator every time I use the footbrake. Getting in and out the damn car is like doing sit ups but with more head trauma.

I dream of falling every night because there’s never anything under my feet. They just dangle there in mid air as my subconscious terrifies my sleeping mind with a nightmarish bottomless abyss whilst I search for the short woman I was sure I came to bed with? “Where are you?” I ask.

“I’m down here,” comes a voice from under the covers. “I just wondered where your feet are.”

Then there’s an awkward moment as she falls off the end of the bed and lands in a heap on the floor. “You found them then.”

“Yes,” she says, “And I’ve hit my head on something.”

“That’ll be the mirror ball I broke earlier.”

And another thing, why do people insist on telling me I’m tall? Have you ever said, or heard someone else say to a complete stranger who they’ve never seen before, “You’re fat.” Or, “You’re ugly.” No you haven’t because It’s just not the right and proper, fair and reasonable, polite and courteous thing to do. But a million strangers have felt it entirely acceptable to exclaim, “My, you’re tall.”

“Yes, I know I’m tall, you moron. I’m reminded every time I look at my reflection in the mirror ball and see the bags under my eyes from the nights I lie awake terrified to sleep in case I hit the ground and never wake up.”

Shirt sleeves are never long enough, and my inside leg length to wait size circumference ratio is still a mathematical mystery to modern science. E = MC² where E is elongated, M is mirror ball and C is, “Careful, the last person who tried to find my feet fell…..”

“Ouch!”

“Mind the…..”

“Double ouch!”

 

”You’re not man enough to handle it. Give up, forget it, it’s not for you.”

The voice in my head has been almost ever-present for a year or so now. Always there and if not ridiculing my aspiration then just silently lurking in the background, waiting for the moment to puncture my dream with common sense, with the sensible solution, the voice of reason; with reality.

”You think you’re ready for this, really? Don’t be so foolish. Grow up. Get real.”

I remember the first time I thought about it, the joy and the optimism. The anticipation of the pleasure I could give to so many by sharing my precious gift. You see, that’s how I think of it, as a precious gift. I feel suffocated by the aural barriers my nemesis drowns me with.

”No, you can’t do it. It will never be, NEVER!”

But there’s this other voice, you see. A voice that teases me with desire, with words of temptation so strong my resolve is weakened. The constant fight within me between the right and the wrong is as torturous as real and tangible pain. It hurts me.

”You can’t do it. Not now, not ever.”

”You can do it. You’re strong enough, you’re man enough. If you want it enough, it’s within you to achieve it.”

But is it really achievable? You know, what if the voice of doubt is right? After all, if you hear the doubters long enough you can easily be persuaded that they’re telling the truth.

”I’ve told you before, NO!”

”Yes, you can do it.”

Hold on, wait a minute. I know that voice.

”I said no. Over my dead body.”

”You can. Tell her you can.”

It couldn’t be, could it?

”No, no, no!”

”Yes, yes, yes.”

I know that voice. I know who it is.

”No!”

“What?”

”I said, no.”

“You’re my wife, aren’t you?”

”Who else would I be, you moron?”

“The other voice, the other voice is the voice in my head. You’re just always there, nagging and moaning and going on about this and that."

”What are you on about, you dreamer?”

”Tell her. Tell her now.”

“Well I’m telling you now, I’m having that 55inch, 1080p, HD ready 3D television with 2 pairs of glasses whether you like it or not!”

”No you're not.”

”Yes you are.”

"Yes I am."

More importantly, why am I doing it, whatever ‘it’ is?

I’m talking about blogging of course. What on earth do we think we’re doing when we post our thoughts and opinions out there in the inter-web-world? What will it achieve? Who are we doing it for? What is blogging?

For my part, I often find myself popping online and posting some random writing on the topic of stationary people, love masks, or dishwashers. I’ll have some flash thought run through my mind over lunch and wrestle with the words all afternoon until I can log on. I’ll then pour out my heart on the topic of microwave dinners, and elaborate my expressive missive until it runs off in tangents of its own confusion and develops avenues of provocative opinion I never imagined as I ate my Pot Noodle (Bombay Big Boy). I’ll feel relief once I’ve unloaded the weight of expression I’ve carried home, or perhaps elation, or sorrow. It’ll be a load off my mind.

But what defines that process? I still don’t know what blogging is.

Well I guess we’re all going to have our own specific definition of blogging, something that fits with our own need or desire to blog. Generally speaking, well, I believe it’s just a written expression of a thought or opinion. But can it really be summed up so simply?

It’s my own belief that blogging is a very personal expression of opinion and is therefore too complex to describe in a way that fits all. To one person it may be an electronic diary entry. To another it might be a provocative catalyst of subversion. An expression of love to one, a damned venting of eternal frustration to another.

So what is blogging to me?

I sum it up in the summary of the folder that contains my journals. I describe my blogging as, “A collection of my thinking’s out quiet.” Actually, and to tell you the truth, I’m such a forgetful old codger that the only way I can remember my own name is to write it down!

Blogging: An electronic finger in the ribs…….. “Steve, my name is, STEVE!”

Is Anybody There?

Should I share with you
My inner most thoughts and dreams
Sort of, spill the beans

Tell you everything
My hopes and aspirations
Dreams and creations

Do you care at all
About events in my life
My troubles and strife

Or do I just vent
For no one to ever read
When my heart does bleed

Anonymous words
Sent into some cyberspace
No one cares, no face

Do you really read
The babblings that I send
Or not, just pretend

I think that you might
And that's the reason I do
So read, and thank you

 

I so wish I had a song.

You know, a special song from a moment in time that fills me with wonderful memories and profound emotions every time I hear it. What a precious thing it would be to have such a song. To feel the past revisit me one more time as the music awakens thoughts and feelings from an experience that once touched me in a different way. How beautiful it would be to close my eyes and relive the greatest times of my life through the words and tune of some legendary musical mystro. Oh yes, how magical that would be.

Well actually I do have a song, but what I mean is I wish it was a better song. My song is rubbish.

I wish I was filled with love and longing for a time gone by every time I heard, Fields of Barley, by Eva Cassidy.
I want to be moved to tears as I remember the time my heart was broken when I hear, Both Sides Now, by Joni Mitchell.
How wonderful it would be for some significant event to be recreated by, Bridge Over Troubled Water, by Simon & Garfunkel.
If only, He Ain't Heavy... He's My Brother, by The Hollies, would remind me of a wisdom I learned as a younger man.
Tony Bennett doesn’t remind me of my wife when he sings, The Way You Look Tonight. My credit card does.
In My Daughters Eyes, by Martina McBride, doesn’t remind me of my own children. My credit card does.

No, my song is something rather different.

I did a silly thing once. I met this woman and we went off on holiday after knowing one another just 4 weeks. Not just a holiday but 6 weeks in a campervan touring Australia. What was I ever thinking of? Oh well, we fell in love and got married a couple of years later.

My song is, Home Among the Gum Trees, by John Williamson.

http://youtu.be/iQhn6G7q8Yg

 

Sometimes, and without consciously knowing it, we can find ourselves repeating everything we hear.
Perhaps this has even happened to someone we know?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You have the right to remain silent.”

“Silent?”

“Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

“A court of law?”

“You have the right to speak to an attorney.”

“An attorney?”

“If you cannot afford an attorney..........”

“An attorney?”

“.... one will be appointed for you.”

“Appointed?”

“Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

“Understand?” I suddenly realized I was repeating everything the officer was saying to me.

“Sir, do you realize you’re repeating everything I’m saying to you?”

“I’m repeating everything you’re saying to me,” I said, realizing I was repeating what he had already told me a was repeating. I had to snap out of it before they locked me up for being some sort of mad repeat offender. “I’m sorry,” I added, by way of an apology.

“So do you understand your rights, sir?”

“Understand.”

“I have to warn you, sir..........”

“No, I wasn’t repeating what you said. I was just saying, yes, I understand.” I didn’t understand. “But I don’t understand. What have I done?”

“I’ll ask the questions if you don’t mind, sir. Now then, what have you done?

It seemed I’d just repeated him before he’d actually said anything. This was a new twist. “I don’t know what I’ve done. What have I done?”

“I won’t tell you again, sir, I ask the questions. You know what you’ve done, and I know what you’ve done. Now why did you do it?”

I didn’t know what I’d done, let alone why I’d done it. But if the officer knew what I’d done why didn’t he tell me? After all, if I repeated what he told me I’d done he could pretty much take that as a confession. “Officer, I really can’t think of anything I’ve done that could cause you to arrest me. Honestly, I haven’t done anything.”

“There’s been a theft, sir, I heinous crime of culinary passion involving a birthday cake. Can you tell me where you were between 4pm and 4.14pm this afternoon?”

“I was online. I was visiting writing.com.”

“So you admit it, sir, you admit being at the scene of the crime?”

“Scene of the cri.....” I managed to stop myself in time. “I’m still not with you, officer. What crime?”

“Tell me, sir, what’s that between your teeth?”

I sucked my teeth. “That’s, marzipan.”

“And that, sir, on you top lip, can you tell me what that is?”

I licked my top lip. “That’s, cream.”

“And there, sir, on your shirt, can you tell me what that is?”

I looked down at my shirt to where a small piece of sponge lay between my third button and buttonhole. I tasted it. “It tastes like vanilla sponge,” I said.

“Sir, earlier today between the hours of 4pm and 4.15pm a vanilla sponge cake with marzipan and cream which was made to celebrate the eleventh birthday of writing.com was, without care or conscience, eaten in its entirety. Now, is there something you want to tell me?”

“It wasn’t me I tell you. I had vanilla slice from the bakers for lunch, that’s all. I would never..........”

“Ok, sir, we’ll have to do this the hard way. Right, name?”

“StoryMaster.”


 

If there’s one thing that annoys me, rubs me up the wrong way, gets my goat, drives me up the wall, pisses me off big time to the point of total maniacal rant and rave with bulging eyes and steam billowing from my nostrils it’s.......

You’ll agree with me when I tell you, trust me. It’s happened to us all, oh yes, we’ve all been on the receiving end of this major misdemeanor, this health and safety catastrophe, accident waiting to happen, moronic, foolhardy, reckless, thoughtless, inconsiderate deed of significant inconvenience. Minding our own business, going about our everyday life when suddenly and without warning we’re thrust into the midst of panic and confusion as mayhem ensues, children are trampled, women collide and grown men cry. The normally sane and passive turn into resentful hate filled victims who bay for the blood of the irresponsible culprit (or would if they weren’t too busy trying to stay on their feet amongst the stampede of concertinaed casualties).

Do you know what I’m talking about yet?

This may have happened to you on the street, in a corridor, a doorway, or at that most dangerous of locations, the bottom of an escalator. Yes, I’m talking about the stationary person!

The person who suddenly, and seemingly without any need or reason, stops dead in their tracks. Just stops for goodness sake, just stops! Why? Does this person get wound up in the morning and then just runs out of energy? Is it like some strange standing still narcolepsy? Some living rigor mortis that only affects the seriously stupid? Tell me, please, what is it that causes this sudden state of motionless madness? Don’t they know the trouble they cause for the poor unfortunates behind them that suffer injury, and worse, have to do the embarrassing side-step-skip-dance thing to avoid falling headlong into the person in front of them?

Please, if you’re one of the stationary people, get moving!

 

Have you ever thrown your head back, rolled you eyes and let out an almighty, “Arrrgh?” Have you? Were you alone? Of course you were; you were remembering some really embarrassing faux-par from the past. You know the sort of thing, a moment from your own tarnished history when you crossed the socially accepted boundaries and made a monstrous fool of yourself, or worse, you said or did something you either instantly regretted or learned to regret over agonized, cringe filled time.

Well there’s no going back, my friend. You’re burdened with this regretful memory for the rest of your life, and furthermore, time does not take away or heal this real life ‘fail.’

Few of us have said or done something so bad we wish we could erase the memory completely, and let’s be honest here, if you have then you’re top of the list of potential future faux-par’ers. For you, once bitten twice shy does not compute. The rest of us put our social misdemeanors down to experience and learn from our mistakes. But what if you could erase your memories?

You can’t be selective here, it’s all your memories or none at all. Could you live without all your wonderful and beautiful memories in order to remove the bad and painful ones?
Or how about if you just didn’t ever want to make a foolish faux-par in the future? Would you be prepared to live the rest of your life without creating any future memories?

So basically that’s the question, or option. Live your life without your memories, or never create a new one?

For me it’s easy, although quite a hideous choice to have to make for most. You see, I’m one of those poor unfortunate people who has a memory so bad I want it taken from my mind immediately, now, please! In 1998, whilst on vacation, I walked out of the shower and sat on my ex-wife’s curling tongs!!

 

I walked to the supermarket this afternoon to buy pasta, mushrooms, cheese sauce and beef mince. I fell over eleven times. By the time I got home I had a bag of lasagne!

I mean, what happens to balance as you get older? Okay, so my balance isn’t helped by the fact I’m now eight times heavier from the waist up as I am from the waist down, and when you’re as tall as I am (6’3’’), the leverage principle means I can topple over with an accelerative rate of Pi to the power 4! Basically, that means I have a big bruise on my ass!

The only saving grace is the fact it’s -8 in sunny Worcestershire this afternoon. At least that means my ass is frozen numb and immune from impact trauma pain. But the trouble is, what if I’d really hurt myself? I mean, I’ve showered and changed my underpants just as my dear old mam said, but what’s the use of clean pants if your manhood is shrunk to the size of a mushroom stork? I can hear the nurse now….

“Doctor, we have a ‘late’ middle-aged man with no penis and a bruised ass. What should we do?”

“Turn off his life support. It’s what he would have wanted.”

“Actually, Doctor, that is a mushroom stork,” I’d say, optimistically, remembering what was in my shopping bag.

“Oh dear, then the head is missing.”

“TURN OFF MY LIFE SUPPORT!”

 

I’ve mentioned in other blogs that wonderful addition to my bedroom furnishings, that provocative disguise, that erotic facade. Yes, I’m referring to my wife’s eye mask. That thing she bought at an airport some considerable years ago to block out the light or omit the disturbing sight of a perturbed trolley-dolly as she hurries to standard to collect sick bags from fat, working-class, package-holiday holidaymakers. And my wife, being a woman of fiscal servitude, still has that original eye mask, although it’s now been to thirteen countries and has its own passport.

So, we call it the love mask because when at home, she wears it in bed. That’s all, that’s it. There’s no profound, basic instinct, Debbie does Dallas reason for it. She simply wears it in bed and we call it the love mask.

Actually, I call it the love mask. She calls it an eye mask. It’s a minor detail.

As an eye mask it has predictable qualities. You wear it as an eye mask and it masks your eyes with admirable ease and subtlety. To the unsuspecting observer who might catch a passing glimpse of you as you sleep whilst wearing the eye mask, you would look like someone who is sleeping whilst wearing an eye mask. It’s just an ordinary eye mask. You wouldn’t ever consider using it in any other capacity. I once borrowed it as part of my Lone Range costume at the Christmas fancy dress ball. I don’t even remember being there. I didn’t see a thing all night. Well I remember one thing...

My wife was a beautiful cross dressing Tonto with skimpy leather top and dress. She said, “Hey, Kemo Sabe, buy me a drink.”

I spun round left, turned, and spun round right. “Who said that?”

She tapped me on the shoulder, “It was me, you dummy. Wait here, I’ll get the drinks.”

A few minutes later a waitress walked by with a tray of champagne, “Drink?” she said.

“I’d rather take you home and stick this love mask on you and.....”

“Whoa there, Kemo Sabe,” said my wife, just in time.

Anyway, you can see that it is perfectly designed to meet every user expectation in the field of eye mask technology.

As a love mask it has endless unpredictable qualities.

More next time............. x

 

I’ve been away on business this week. I’ve been to Scotland.

Scotland is one of the most visually stunning, picturesque, scenically beautiful, aesthetically pleasing places on the planet, period. To pinch a line from the Story Mistress, “I am all visual, if you want to impress me, show me Scotland.” It’s magnificent.

It rained the whole time I was there!

It just rained, period. It was brilliant rain, the sort of rain that fell upon magnificent mountain and glorious glen, but it was, nevertheless, just wet miserable rain. It rained all the time, and it rained everywhere. The British nuclear submarine fleet is based in Scotland for this exact same weather phenomenon. Even in dry dock the submarines are under water. The submariners don’t even have to travel to work, they just get picked up at home by HMS Scotland as it sails down their street. This is a wet country, and I mean wet.

Also, Scottish people call their children after themselves. So Hamish and Mairi will call their children, Hamish and Mairi, but they will be known throughout the family as, Young Hamish and Young Mairi. I would have though Wet Hamish and Wet Mairi would have been better but there you go.

So anyway, you end up with several generations of the same family all with the same name, except they are all Young Hamish, or Young Hamish’s Hamish, or when it gets really complicated people start talking in tongues; “Hamish, have you seen Young Hamish’s Young Hamish’s Young Mairi?” Which is like asking if you’ve seen someone’s Great Granddaughter, or something?

Young Mel Gibson was Scottish, once. Seriously though, if you watched, Braveheart, it wasn’t true. Did you see it rain once in that film? The battle of Bannockburn might have been a magnificent victory for the Scottish, but only because the English thought it was a land battle, not a naval battle!

Anyway, the purpose of this blog entry is to pay homage to the wonderfully successful Scottish historical figures and celebrities who have, and continue, to promote this beautiful wet country.

Young Captain Nemo
Young Jacque Cousteau
Young Flipper
Young Namu the Killer Whale
Young Jonah

 

Arthur Mann

I’ve often wished I had an interesting name like, Arthur Mann, or as I read recently by a talented WDC author, Frieda Frisby. But I haven’t, I’m just good old..... no, Kooka Roo isn’t my real name.

Anyway, I thought of Arthur Mann today because I heard about an incident at our local Day Spa.

They do everything a person with day spa requirements could ever wish for, at our local Day Spa, apparently. I have to take their word for it because I don’t really know what goes on in that or any other day spa. I know what happens in a Turkish Bath. You get flogging to within an inch of your life by a huge hairy loin-clothed Asian guy who then lathers you up with soap suds and throws you in a freezing cold pool. I know what happens in a gym (I’ve seen pictures), a rehab’ clinic, the hairdressers, shoe shops and florists and all other establishments that women hang out in, but a day spa is just too vague a title for me to know for sure what goes on.

Until now!

My wife has opened a fashion accessories shop on the ground floor of our local Day Spa, and it’s opened my eyes to all manner of female secrecy. You see, to get the use of the ground floor space all she has to do is act as the receptionist for the spa, so she knows everything that goes on. Now it’s not like the Hippocratic Oath or anything, I’m not breaking the law by knowing about Mrs. Dawson’s fake bake requirements. It’s like gossip, from a reliable source.

So the scandal is this....

A woman phoned in (we’ll call her, Judy) and asked for an appointment. Judy wanted several treatments including;

a Brazilian. This is what my wife calls, “A neat lady garden.”
Hopi ear candles. My wife said these are like Leaches for Hippies.
a full Swedish, which is what I would have!
a lip and cheek wax, which is what I would have?
a half leg. Women had hairy legs?

It was the half leg that caused the SWAT team to turn up at the Day Spa.

Judy arrived bang on time and apparently all her treatments were successful. Unfortunately, due to a terrible and tragic accident some years ago, she had lost her right leg and half her left leg.

Now the first thing I’ve learned about day spas is, the staff aren’t best bright. Or to put it another way, they’re dumb!

Day Spa assistant, Gemma, said, “Trim, Hopi, Swedish, Lips and full leg. That’ll be $145 please.”

“No, I had a half leg.”

“That was one leg from top to bottom, one full leg. Have you considered our special on nail’s and nose? Painted and plucked in a color of your choice.”

“No, I had a half leg, not a full leg.”

“Hot stones are on special offer all day Wednesday if you combine them with buttock cellulite cessation suction serum.”

“No, you’re not listening to me. I had a half leg wax, not a full leg wax. I only have half a leg.”

“Yes, that’s one leg from top to bottom, whole leg from Brazilian to knee and have you considered our under arm skin peel and car valet service.”

“You valet cars? Forget it, just change the bill to a half leg......”

Okay, so it might or might not have happened, but my wife has opened a fashion accessories shop on the ground floor of the local Day Spa, and the staff there are totally, completely, STUPID!

Arthur Mann is here:

ID: 1694082   (Rated: 18+) No Tears Left  Not as sad as it sounds! by Ĥans Ŝumman

ID: 1061216   (Rated: E) Uncle Peter  Uncle Peter couldn't stay alone anymore. by Chewie Kittie

That’s what I am, apparently, a wimp. But not just a wimp, not just your ordinary common or garden living amongst us wimps, oh no; I’m the worst kind of wimp, I’m a whimpering wimp.

I got in from work one day last week and my wife said, “I’ve banged my arm on the cupboard door.”

Well, to be honest she didn’t just say it, she said it with one of those, pity me, voices, one of those voices that indicates profound hurt and discomfort. One of those voices I usually use when I’ve forgotten some minute detail in the day that she asked me not to forget several days ago after 3 glasses of wine and I should forget at my peril. You know how it goes, “I’m sorry my little butterfly, it just seemed to slip my mind,” and she rushes off muttering something like, ”I’ll do it myself I suppose!” And it’ll be something really significant like partially close the venetian blinds in the spare room.

Anyway, I got in from work one day last week and she said, “I’ve banged my arm on the cupboard door.”

“Oh dear, are you okay?”

“No, I’ve got a big bruise.”

She showed me the injury on the inside of her left wrist and left thumb. It was right then and right at that precise moment that I had one of those mental blocks that can indiscriminately and without warning affect the most diligent and loyal of husbands. Even now as I think back and relive the regretful incident in my tortured mind I can see that what I should have said was, ”Oh, darling, come and sit down and let me make you a cup of tea and attend to your every need for the rest of the evening, and probably the rest of your life.” Yes, if I’d have said that then I wouldn’t be here spilling my regret and remorse over you lovely people. No, I’d be invited for spontaneous outdoor naughtiness by an appreciative and loving wife who adored my every sympathetic attention. But the mental block descended and my fate was sealed.

I said, “There’s nothing there.” The swarm of hornets in my tummy started stinging at once, at the same time as my spine went cold and the blood drained from my face. The rest is all rather predictable. There was a price to be paid for my foolishness and I just had to endure the torturous hours, days or even weeks until she collected.

And so it was that in the early hours of this morning I paid my dues.

I woke up screaming.

“Kooka, wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

“Oh, darling, it was awful. It was getting me. Was I screaming?”

“Yes..... erm, no, you were whimpering.”

“I was screaming. I was screaming your name, screaming for help.”

“No, you were making little baby noises like the big dopey wimp you are. You big soft whimpering wimp.”

This morning she called her mother, our friends, and my mates at the rugby club..... ".... and the big baby was whimpering like the big soft wimp he really is. All night long, whimpering, help me, help me, the scary thing is chasing me"

I will never not see her bruises again.

The truth is I was screaming, they were just dream screams. Dream screams are real screams, just more controlled, and not to be mistaken for dreams about screaming which are something completely different. I’m making excuses now, probably because I’m a wimp.

 

I’ve been to paradise but I’ve never been to me.

What?

Now I know that means something to somebody, it has to, it was said by a woman and women never say anything that doesn’t mean something on some level, even if that level of understanding hasn’t yet been achieved by man on his evolutionary journey to feminism. To be fair, it needn’t mean anything at all in the sense that man understands logical verbalisation because women are capable of saying things that mean something very different to what they actually said, and get this, they expect you to understand what they never said but didn’t mean if only we had been listening.

Take my cup of tea in the morning for instance. For 27 days straight I’ll be woken by the sound of a hot cup of Earl Grey being gently placed on my bedside table followed by a cheery, “Morning, darling.” Then all of a sudden, and for no apparent reason, I’ll be woken by the question that can mean only one thing.... I’m in big trouble.

“You want tea?”

“Uh, what, what?”

“YOU WANT TEA?”

Now I don’t know if she knows that I know the correct answer to this question is, “Erm, no, thanks.” Even though the truth is, “Well, yes, of course!” I am forced to contradict my instinctive and preferable reply in order to demonstrate that I understand the question, which I don’t. My refusal of the cup of tea is actually only a stalling tactic to give me time to interpret the underlying definition of, “You want tea?” A question that has only one certainty; it has nothing to do with tea! My next move is pure genius. I don’t say a word, the balls in her court.

It doesn’t take long. “Are you getting up or not?”

I have her this time because I know what this means, it means get up! However, through my sleepiness, or maybe just pure stupidity, I say, “Yes, when I’ve drunk my tea.” I cling to the forlorn hope that she interprets this as meaning something different to the sarcasm with which it was actually meant. Unfortunately the whole misunderstanding thing only works one way. I must remember this.

So now there’s only one thing for it, and I thank God for giving this line to me, for enabling me to encapsulate a lifetime of learning how to understand the misunderstanding that is woman with one, perfect, profound question. Right now I will demonstrate an almost sixth sense, and subliminal, telepathic ability to read not only her mood, but to see her every want and need. I tilt my head slightly to the right, gently engage a tight lipped smile and nod slowly as I say, “Is there something wrong?”

She’s immediately impressed, and so she should be. I didn’t learn that line until my mid-forties, and after a broken marriage and three restraining orders. If only she, or any woman, actually knew that these moments of misunderstand are futile in the morning. After all, you’re probably naked and we’re just looking at your ass thinking, ”I wonder if I’ve got time before I have to make my own tea?”

 

I’m on holiday this week. I mean, to be precise, I’m at home and not at work which isn’t exactly a holiday at all. I mean, holidays involve packing, flying, sunshine, romance, hangovers, timeshare stalkers, unfamiliar insects, bad air conditioning, my very white legs turning crimson and, finally, the stark realization that I’m some considerable years older than the women I’m wanting to ask me, “Excuse me, big boy, would you rub this suncream on my back, please.”

But at least I’m not at work. At least there’s that...... or is there????

I have one word for you, one word to turn your hair white and fill you full of apprehension and anxiety... BLACKBERRY.

I mean, do those things have an OFF button? Even if they do have some manual, technological, physical off button, there’s that button in your head that never turns itself off. That little voice that says, “Go on, check it out. It might be a wonderful message that changes your life.” It isn’t. It’s my boss saying, “Sorry, forgot you were on holiday but if you pick this up can you check the attached spreadsheet and let me have your comments/feedback.”

So I’m at home checking out Facebook and YouTube to see what the latest fads and fashions are in case a young chick asks me to rub suncream on her back, which is unlikely as I’m sat on the deck in the back yard, but hey, stranger things have happened, as facebook and YouTube are proving.

“Girl Make Out With Dolphin’s.” Well I suppose she was holiday at the time and suffering from heatstroke or something. What she needed, instead of a randy undersexed marine mammal, was an older, wiser, more experience guy to rub suncream on her back.

Well that’s YouTube, what about Facebook?

I just don’t understand a word anyone says on there. It’s like a website dedicated to mobile phone text language.

So what shall I do with my week off? Bugger, it’s just you and I my friends.... and no offence intended, but, I don’t know who the hell you are! But if you’re under 30 and want suncream rubbed on your back................

 

I decided to test the capacity of the dishwasher to the limit, so I pulled out the top tray and flung it across the kitchen. Then a tore out the bottom tray and headed down the yard to the workshop.

“You pervert!”

Is that bitch stalking me? Instinctively I pulled the tray into position to cover my genitals. Unfortunately, my penis just flopped between one of the wire slots, and as I edged my way, crab-like, down the yard, .....

Why is it in the these situations that we (men) feel it necessary to make feeble attempts to cover our front bits, whilst turning our back bits away from the gaze of an unsuspecting and unintentional voyeur? Surely our back bits are less offensive than our front bits? Anyway, in this particular case, I wish I hadn’t!!

..... the movement of my shoulders caused my dick to bounce up and down in a mocking, waving motion.

“I’m calling the cops, you flasher!”

“Mrs. Sullivan, it really isn’t what it seems.”

“Tell it to your lawyer, you sex maniac.”

I was at the workshop now, and as I slipped through the door, “I can explain. It’s all in big misunderstanding.”

“Not that big, sicko!”

Right, my plan was to cut away the sides of the bottom tray of the dishwasher to enable me to fit two alloy wheels and low profile tyres covered in brake dust, oil and road kill to, well, teach it a lesson. Unfortunately, I had trapped my own watering whooshing tool within said tray and was starting to go a dark shade of purple in the nether regions.

I was going to need help.

“Mrs. Sullivan!”

 

For the last several months weekends have been rather quiet round here. I mean, I’ve always looked forward to and enjoyed the weekend but lately, due to a change in circumstance, weekends have taken on a whole new and exciting experience.

About five or six weekends ago my wife was poorly, and she was poorly for a whole year before that, so weekends had their own predictable pattern. Mrs. Roo was usually exhausted due to her chemotherapy and I was usually exhausted due to Mrs. Roo’s chemotherapy. You see, chemotherapy is exhausting; more about that another time.

So now I have a fully functioning, fully fit, fully cognitive, fully fulfilling wife.

No!

I have a post-chemotherapy, over excited and appreciative to be alive, under sexed, every day is a blessing, take me now, live for the moment, there’s no time like the present, what you waiting for, shall we do it again nymphomaniac who dresses like my wife and looks like my wife but.....

God damn, I was fitter when I was exhausted than I am now!

Well this weekend I have the weekend off. I work in Foster Care and this weekend there is a big soccer tournament for a lot of young people who are cared for by our organisation. I’m going to Nottingham in the morning, watching wonderful young people enjoy themselves all day, then staying over and going to the casino. Hey, we all have our vices.

Old chemo-nympho will light a candle in the window so I can find my way home, but how long it stays there is another matter!!??