The Former Lord Of The Dance

Readers of the chronicles may be a little surprised to discover that I have always considered myself a bit of a mover and groover. Suffice to say as a young man, when co-ordination could mostly be relied upon and I could move my legs for more than a few minutes without pulling a muscle I would often be found prowling the dance floors and disco's in and around my home town, 'presenting my moves' or 'throwing some shapes' as we used to say.

 Although vaguely reminiscent of an extra from the set of footloose, I considered myself to be more akin to a strutting peacock doing a little bit of showboating. Indeed I considered I had a collection of moves that even the great Michael Jackson himself would have been envious of! I was especially proud of my step over pirouette on one leg which is still remembered fondly by myself and.....well just me really.

This rhythmic cavorting had only one purpose, which was to present my 'talent' and associated wares to the assembled ladies and hope that they were slightly the worse for wear due to copious consumption of alcohol and had sufficient strength beer goggles on to appreciate the finer aspects of the good ship chirps. They would then form an orderly queue in the hope to be the girl chosen to accompany me home. 

It seems however that a queue is not a queue unless there are people in it, and I am left totally baffled as to why I would invariably end the night eating a kebab while waiting in line for a taxi with my mates. This was even more galling when the aforementioned 'mates' would all be literally crying with laughter at the apparent failure of the step over pirouette on one leg resulting in my discovering break dancing years before it ever became popular culture as I crashed to the floor with one leg still turning like a helicopter rotor blade!

So fast forward 30 years to Heebie jeebies nightclub in Liverpool at three o'clock on a Friday morning. Needless to say our group of shall we say 'mature' years must have looked like the cast of cocoon on a night out when we walked in to a heaving mass of mostly student revellers, most of whom looked to have had more sambuca's than was clinically safe.

To my, and likely everybody else's relief the place is packed so there is no chance of the step over pirouette on one leg, thus saving the likely embarrassment and general mayhem that would surely have followed, plus the money the NHS would have had to shell out to put me back together again afterwards!

Nevertheless I am strangely caught up in the modern club music sound which I can only describe as Zombie house garage thump, everything seems to pulsate and oscillate and there is a strobe light which seems capable of performing laser eye surgery at 50 feet thus nullifying the need to ever go to spec savers again.

I soon realise that my companions have all started to move their bodies in a strange and somewhat amusing way and before long I can feel that I too have started an alcohol induced rhythmic swaying which if left unchecked will likely degenerate into middle aged man twerking, which some of you will know is somewhat unsightly and frankly disturbing!

Despite this obvious danger I begin to move my arms in a way which I am convinced demonstrates my superb body popping ability, sadly it only served to demonstrate my undeniable drink spilling ability and alerted a young lady nearby who had clearly recently completed a first aid course and is convinced I am having a seizure.

Fortunately our group contained two consultant physicians so I was able to elicit a second opinion which was rather fortunate because though it did not provide me with a totally clean bill of health, it was enough to make my young saviour desist from wrestling me to the ground to place me in the recovery position!

So it was at 3.23am on that Friday morning that I had the latest in a long series of light bulb moments. I realised that I was no longer king of clubs, no longer the Lord of the dance, there was to be no more step over pirouettes on one leg. With a heavy heart and an equally heavy head I filed quietly to the entrance, said goodnight to the doormen and disappeared into the night,... to queue for a cab.

True Love

Two things happen whenever I attempt to tell porkies to my better half, The first is I develop a slight ssstammer which of course underlines an anxiety caused by the certain knowledge that I will  inevitably be rumbled and the second is my good lady adopts a condescending 'don't lie to me' tone of voice similar to that of a primary school teacher who has recently won the smug teacher of the year award from the University of Smug, which confirms that I have indeed been found out.

 Bearing this in mind it is all the more incredible that I try it on in the first place as any attempted deceit is almost certainly doomed to failure and I must suffer the excruciating embarrassment of having my story picked apart and exposed for the flimsy fabrication that an eight year old would find wholly unsuitable as excuse fodder to run past their mother.

"Why do you lie?" the smug primary teacher asks;
"BBBBecause I'm good at it" I lie,
"Why are you stammering?"
"BBecause I'm stressed, anyway you shouldn't mock the affected!"
"It's afflicted"
"What?"
"Afflicted, The phrase is you shouldn't mock the afflicted"
"Since when have you become a primary school teacher?, that's your sister"
"It's in the genes"
"Oh really"
"No I'm lying"
"You're not stammering"
"No, I'm not stressed"
"You're smug though"
"No I'm not"
"You are!, You're like a squirrel who's just received the nut collector of the year award from 'Bushy tail magazine'"
She laughs in the old infectious way that attracted me in the first place.
"Give me a hug you silly old fool"
"Loves you" I say, without a hint of a stammer.

No Dope! Chirps Is Going for Gold

As this is an Olympic year and the prospect of a parisian summer spectacle gets ever closer, I think the time is right to bring to your attention my own recent attempt to climb to the top of the podium in my chosen sport and at the same time become a local sporting legend.
Following about 6 minutes training and preparation before lunch one day I was ready to participate in the infamous Janner game, held over twenty minutes in Tesco's car park.

 All the big names in alternative sports were there including Charlie 'chippie' Buttey, who along with being a respected Welly boot thrower, also claimed his day job to be a proficient carpenter & joiner but sadly he couldn't even join up his writing. 

Mickey Taker, a prolific moaner and benefits claimer was also present along with Flatiree gimmepinumba, the current worlds top e-mailer scammer who flew in from the back of a Vespa scooter when his front wheel hit a very nasty rut and catapulted him out over the handlebars. 

Unfortunately his scooter was rendered totally useless as the front wheel had a puncture, you could say Flatiree had a Flatiree.............,

Luckily there was a break in the weather, which allowed us to safely remove our waterproof shell-suits and undertake 30 seconds of warming up, which consisted mainly of taking long drags on some West Indian Woodbine's and a few swigs from a bottle of Gunge home brew, which despite having a taste similar to turps mixed with battery acid, proved surprisingly popular! Saying this of course may lead you to believe that the event was not being taken seriously but nothing could be closer to the truth...

There followed a very stringent dope test, which I am proud to say I passed, (apparently A1, right up there with the best of the best!) It must have been a very good result as the examiner couldn't contain his delight when telling me the good news!

"Oh yes" he said barely able to keep a straight face,
"You passed the dope test alright, don't worry about that son!"

In the event itself sadly it was a case of what might have been..Representing my native Kernowstan in the A4 paper aeroplane hurling competition I made a very promising start, hurling an impressive 4 metres and 20 centimetres with my first attempt. 

Better was to follow when having 'fouled' with my second round hurl I threw a massive 4 metres 95 centimetres (a personal best!) in the third round. Unfortunately for me, before this monster throw could be verified by the Marshall, Mr Richard Monitor, affectionately known as 'Dick Measure' by the competitors, a Highland Terrier called 'Plops' rushed from the crowd /trio  (delete as appropriate) picked up my slightly crumpled origami and rushed off with it teaching it a damn good lesson, furiously shaking it's head from side to side before dropping and peeing on it.

Of course it goes without saying that having been on an incredible 'journey' to get in the peak of physical out of condition for this event 'Plops' became an even less popular dog than that other hound that roamed just up the road at Baskerville Hall.

I suddenly felt the need for some lighter liquid refreshment than the effluent on offer at the event and so I trudged rather unsteadily off in the direction of the pub, (the effects of Gunge beginning to take a firm hold), to reflect on my day. My misery was now complete as it had begun to rain steadily, so I turned back in the hope I could rescue my waterproofs but to my horror I caught sight of plops furiously humping them while proceeding to drag them through a large muddy puddle.
That was the moment I realised that my chances of ever winning gold at paper plane hurling were roughly the same as Plops becoming best in breed at Crufts, not a barking dogs chance. 

Ah well there's still time to find another sport to try, I've heard intermediate bullshitting is fairly easy to learn, I might give that a go, Bring on Paris!!

Authors note: All characters are completely fictional and are used only with humorous intent and any similarity between them and any living people is completely incidental.

The Importance Of Being Cutest

How come whenever I am under the weather and generally feeling like I'm top of the grim reapers 'to do' list, I am invariably diagnosed as having man flu, which as all men will know is a potentially life threatening condition but bizarrely seems to have a medical seriousness classification from women roughly similar to hiccups! 

The considered opinion from these female 'medics' is that the ailing patient would be best advised to take 2 paracetamol and 'grow a pair'. 

A pair of what? New lungs?

This of course contrasts sharply to when the pet dog is off his food for a day.

He is whisked off to see the modern day equivalent of Dick Turpin, i.e the Vet and has a blood and urine test and later an ultrasound scan. After all this there follows the earnest enquiry, 'Is there anymore you can do for him?' 

WHAAAAT!!!

I am therefore left in little doubt just who is considered to be irreplaceable in our household and who is likely to be put out with the recycling!

I realise that the dog has such a hold on the affections of my beloved due in no small measure to his 'cuteness'  that equitable treatment in the malady department will be forever denied unless I am able to reproduce this appeal myself, in which case my life would become exponentially easier and more comfortable, so I hatched a devious plan.

I always try to learn from others who seem to be able to influence people, feel happy in their own skin and live the life that they desire with little or no effort!

With this in mind I have taken this past week to curling up on the sofa and snoring loudly, waking only to receive nourishment and copious amounts of affection.This strategy seems to work very well indeed for our Cocky Spaniel so I figured I would give it a try.

As experiments go it could not in any way be deemed a success, indeed it would seem that there is the very real danger that trying to 'be more dog' can have serious repercussions on the harmonious house front and put certain baggy parts of my anatomy in grave danger! 

I found out to my cost that no amount of my trying to give it the old puppy dog eyes can in any way replicate the real thing, which is a tad annoying when 'he' makes no effort to be cute and alluring but nevertheless succeeds on all levels while I retain all the allure of a sumo wrestlers mawashi after a particularly long and arduous bout!

This being the case I have decided to rouse myself from the couch and attend to some jobs around the house. As long as I don't make a complete dogs dinner of these chores, I feel sure that enough brownie points will be accrued such that I return to my rightful place as Mr cutie Luvva man, as past failings will inevitably fade from the memory.

Now I should point out to any aspiring house husbands three very important points that should be considered prior to tackling any household works:

1) Pick a chore that is obvious to see has made a difference. An outdoor example here would be mowing the grass.

2) Always check for time saving hacks and pitfalls to avoid on youtube before commencing if not completely sure of how to achieve your goals and then decide whether you have either the nous or inclination to take on the task.

3) Ensure you have an excuse clear in your mind for using when the wife gets home if you have failed to at least start something!

Hopefully, if you follow these guidelines you will always have things under control, at least in your own mind!

Wait a minute, I haven't done any chores around the house today and the wife's due home in ten minutes!

Horse dung! I can't think of a good excuse as now I'm annoyed and confused, which before anyone else says it, is not an entirely unique situation. Recently lycra clad pedal pushers, outdoor masterchefs and birds with flash waistcoats tweeting too much have all either annoyed or confused me! Oh dear it's all too much for me, I feel ill, the man flu's back.I think I'll just curl up on the sofa again and go to sleep. I bet when my girl gets home she'll think: "Aw, he must be feeling rough again but doesn't he look cute"

A creature with puppy dog eyes and a dog trying to look cute!