The zipper that wouldn't budge

Two weeks ago, Mrs Jones and I attended the evening wedding reception of a friend’s daughter. Such events always provide a valid excuse for dusting off the glad rags and slipping into our favourite outfits. On this occasion I opted for my buttock-hugging royal-blue slacks, providing firm hold around the nether regions and an arse shape that screams ‘squeeze me’ to the ladies in the vicinity.

‘Not bad at all for someone nearly 60’, I muttered as I admired myself in the bedroom mirror prior to departure for the venue, an upmarket country hotel.

Two hours into the event, and four pints of cask ale imbibed, I needed my first pee of the evening. The toilets were opulent, all tiles and gleaming porcelain, the pedestal basins adorned with a variety of scented hand washes. I was the only one there, unexpected given that the occasion was well attended. I approached the urinal and pulled on my zipper; it wouldn’t budge. I tugged harder, several times, but it refused to go south.  

Standing there, shoulders hunched, I inspected my groin in search of the source of the obstruction. Drops of perspiration appeared on my forehead. As tends to happen in such situations, the awareness of being denied the opportunity to urinate was making the desire to do so more urgent. In anticipation of the embarrassment should someone enter the toilet, I moved into a cubicle so as to permit a more thorough intra-trouser exploration. With one hand on my zipper, and the other down the front of a (very tight) waistband, I pulled and yanked in a to-and-fro motion, an action that might have been open to misinterpretation if  observed by a third party. But all to no avail; the zipper refused to move, as if welded shut.

The fumblings of the hand down the front of my trousers – already growing numb through the lack of blood supply – had identified the problem: a flap of material near the fly hole that had entwined with the zipper along its full length. With increasing desperation, I reviewed my options. Perhaps I should call Mrs Jones on her cell phone, requesting she comes to my aid armed with a pair of scissors? (An option I quickly dismissed, on the basis that she would only piss herself – excuse the pun – laughing).

As my desperation escalated, catastrophic images pushed into my mind:

Wedding guests pointing at my gusset and shrieking in disgust as my trousers morph into two-tone, a deeper shade of navy extending in waves from the abdomen.

Firemen armed with heavy-duty cutting equipment rushing into the hotel to free me from my contour-hugging slacks.

Lying prostrate on the table among the Singer sowing machines at the local textile factory as the seamstresses debate how best to unpick the stitching. (Or maybe that was a fantasy rather than a catastrophic image?)

Mercifully, after a 10-minutes ordeal – one that felt like an age - my repeated tugging released the zipper and I was able to relieve myself in the appropriate receptacle. (Is there any human experience more pleasurable than emptying a full bladder after a period of inhibition?). 

And the next time I wear my favourite blue slacks, I will replace vanity with practicality, focusing on that rogue flap of material under the zip rather than the shape of my arse.

Image courtesy of hin255 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Spewing and sprawling on the Ionian Sea

When the captain of a boat sits on his own in the corner, hands over his face, his bowed head shaking from side to side, it is reasonable to suspect that all is not well.

Such was the scene Mrs Jones and I witnessed while on a boat returning to the Greek island of Corfu after a day trip to Albania. We were ensconced, below deck, in the covered area of a pleasure cruiser along with around one hundred other tourists. The Ionian Sea had been choppy since we left the port. Ten minutes into the voyage, and the boat was swinging from side to side like a giant hammock in a gale. At first it was amusing to watch: unoccupied chairs and tables sliding around like a scene from Poltergeist; young men zig-zagging to the toilet, grasping the hands of seated fellow passengers to steady themselves; and an Italian beauty, wearing more makeup than clothing, sliding to the floor and unable to get back up, her long legs akimbo.

From the outset I’d been making eye-contact with an obese, disabled Romanian gentleman sitting directly opposite, leaning forward on his walking stick, our mutual nods and smiles showing smug acceptance of the situation. Two old sea dogs like us were not going to be phased by a bit of choppy water. White foam rendering the windows opaque, as if we were all entombed inside an iceberg, didn’t worry us. Real men, made of sturdy stuff, while lesser mortals floundered. Suddenly, the boat lurched violently to starboard catapulting the 17-stone Romanian towards me; he landed at my feet with a thud.  

I, and others, feigned to stand up to help him – if we had, the pendulous swing of the boat would have put us all on our arses – but the prostrate fella oozed calmness and rationality.

‘I’m fine on the floor,’ he said, palm of his hand raised with the authority of a traffic policeman. ‘It’s the best place for me’.

And then the vomiting started. The kids who’d been screeching and running amok on the outward journey were now sat in a line, motionless, their faces displaying various shades of green and yellow. In response to their communal retching, a number of plastic shopping bags had appeared and were now being used to catch the dribbling puke. Some adults with sea sickness – including the two holiday reps – had braved the wobbly walk to the outside deck and were now vomiting over the side, their white-knuckled hands clinging to the rails.

A young man who had been laid horizontal across three seats, apparently sleeping, roused himself. He sat upright, appearing confused. In an instant, perplexity was replaced by horror and he sprung to his feet and made a dash for the toilet, his cheeks puffed out like an inflatable toad. He stumbled, falling in my direction, and for a second we were almost nose-to-nose. I resigned myself to being peppered with a semi-digested Albanian buffet, but – and give the lad his due – like a skilled fighter-plane pilot, he pulled off a last-minute swerve to the right and vomited over my shoulder into a recess behind me.  

Mrs Jones and I had remained seated throughout, absorbing the chaos around us: upturned tables and chairs randomly sliding back and forth; a chorus of retching and gurgling; white froth slapping against the windows as if the sea had morphed into a fizzy drink; and a rotund east European lying on his side at our feet, his chin resting on his hand, nonchalantly perusing the mayhem. As the boat continued to veer like a giant swing at a funfair, we had focused on the behaviour of our Greek captain. Oblivious to the stumbling, vomiting passengers, the skipper continually ventured outside onto the exposed deck – the open door letting in a howling gale – returning wet and windswept, only to then repeat the action.

But now the captain had sat down in our midst. I – and I suspect many others – looked to him for reassurance that everything was under control. But we couldn’t see his features: he was slumped, hands over his face, shaking his head from side to side. There was only one conclusion to be drawn: the boat was sinking.

Mrs Jones began texting a farewell message to the kids.

I considered ringing my son to remind him of the cabinet drawer where our will was kept.

My hand started to grope under my seat in search of a life jacket.

And then the horizontal Romanian calmly asked the question we all wanted answered. ‘Captain, is there something wrong with the boat?’

As if wakened from a trance, the captain lifted his head and looked around, perplexed, trying to locate the source of the voice that had intruded into his inner world. It took a few seconds to notice the fixed stare from hulk on the floor and realise this was his interrogator.

‘No, no, the ship’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve just banged my head on one of the rails outside’.  

Ten minutes later, the sea calmed and we arrived safely in Corfu town.

‘That was horrendous,’ said Mrs Jones as we got off the boat. ‘I thought we were doomed’.

‘Just a bit of choppy sea,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss was about.’      

 

Image courtesy of bplanet et FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 

Five things that make me angry

I like to see myself as an easy-going fella who can smile at adversity and not take life too seriously. Yet, over the last few weeks, a number of situations succeeded in triggering annoyance, even rage. Here are five of my most snarl-inducing experiences.

1. Telephone helplines where the person reads from a script

Information technology is awesome, enabling us to access the answer to any question at the touch of a button. In contrast, when it goes awry, it can cause such teeth-grinding frustration. Recently, my Internet connection ceased to function so I rang the provider to speak to an expert technician. The subsequent telephone conversation went something like this:

ME: Hi there. I can’t get an Internet connection. I’ve checked that the cables are all plugged in correctly and I’ve tried switching my router on and off, but I still can’t get online. So could I talk to a technician please?

HELPER: OK – what I’d like you to do first is to switch your router off, leave it for 10 seconds, and then switch it back …

ME: I’ve already done that – can you just put me through to one of your techy people

*Pause*

*Shuffling of papers*

HELPER: Would you now check the cable leading from your computer to the router and ensure that it …

Give me strength! If I was more compassionate I’d recognise what a shit, poorly-paid job it is working in a call centre but, at this particular moment, I want to put my fist through the telephone line and punch him in the face.

2.      People who believe they are transparent

There’s a football match I’m eager to watch so I’ve arrived at the pub early in order to obtain a seat with a full view of the television. I’m enjoying my third pint of cask ale when the game starts, and then … some bloke stands directly in my eye line, totally obscuring my view. I wait a while, expecting him to soon realise the error of his ways, but no, he remains oblivious.

After a few seconds of staring at the fella’s back, I shout, ‘Excuse me; could you move to the side so I can see the TV.’

He turns and looks at me with disdain – like he’s just seen me shit on his dining table – and, grudgingly, moves a few millimetres. If I wasn’t such a wimp – and he wasn’t four-foot wide with neck scarring and tattoos – I’d have stood up and confronted him.

Instead, I seethe in silence, muttering into the froth of my beer.     

3.      Pedestrians who don’t give way

I’m walking along the pavement/sidewalk with Mrs Jones when I notice three people, side-by-side, walking towards me. While my lady and I make some effort to make space for them, by turning to the side or adopting a one-in-front-of-the-other formation, they march on, three abreast, brushing us away from their flight path. Did they not notice us? Did they see us but thought, ‘Fuck you – we’re much more important?’

I vow that when I next meet such blinkered on comers I will stand my ground and shoulder them into the oncoming traffic (that is as long as they are not four-foot wide with neck scars and tattoos).

4.      When restaurants run out of your favoured menu choice

Following a detailed inspection of the restaurant’s menu, enticingly displayed in the front window, we enter and are shown to our seats. While the internal hunger monster forces saliva out of the corner of our mouths, we eagerly order our favoured dishes, only for the waiter to say,

‘Sorry sir, but we’ve run out of the goat’s cheese starter and the salmon main.’

Perhaps because he’s noticed my disappointment, he adds, ‘We’ve been really busy today.’

OK, so it’s the previous customers at fault for woofing down my cheese and salmon; the no-shows in the menu have nothing at all to do with the incompetence of the restaurant manager and in-house chef. After all, how could they know that demand might increase a bit on a bank holiday? 

5.      The blanket coverage of the royal wedding    

I have zero interest in the royal family. All that pomp, tradition and elitism leave me cold. So when Prince Harry recently hooked up with some wench called Megan Markle this royal wedding held the same allure for me as hearing about the marriage of a couple of strangers – that is, no interest at all.

Nonetheless, in the days leading up to the ceremony I was forced to endure blanket coverage by the media. Newspapers devoted page after page to the ‘happy event’. The TV news channels dedicated hour after hour to such riveting stuff as who would walk Meg down the aisle, what her wedding dress would look like, and whether Harry would opt for a pre-ceremony bowel movement or wait until after the service – OK, I made that last one up; but now I think about it, his colonic activity would have been more interesting than all the other guff.  

On the wedding day itself, Mrs Jones and I decided to escape the frenzy and hysteria by taking a very long walk in the hills that overlook our town. The solitude of the countryside was bliss. But when we opted for a pit stop in a rural village tavern, over the top of the bar was a small TV showing – you’ve guessed it – the royal wedding. Behind us, a group of middle-aged ladies excitedly discussed the wonders of the current queen, princes and princesses. Give me strength!

The sooner the UK morphs into a republic the better.

Photo courtesy of imagerymajestic at FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

                                             

      

  

How to never write a novel

It is often said that each of us carries a book inside us. I don’t mean an actual oblong chunk of paper swishing around in one’s intestine, but a story – somewhere in the multi-corridors of the mind - that is clamouring to get out and is sufficiently interesting to comprise a saleable novel. Sadly, as I approach my 60^th birthday, I’ve yet to find my potential blockbuster.

Instead of producing the next Harry Potter bestseller, what I have discovered is that I’m an expert in procrastination. When I sit down with the intention of crafting my masterpiece, I soon manage to distract myself onto another activity. It seems I have developed a deft range of strategies to impede and sabotage the creative writing process.  

Here are my wonderfully effective ways of putting off until tomorrow what you should be doing today:

1^st-level strategies: (before sitting down in front of the laptop)

1. Convince myself I need to use the toilet – it is amazing how paying attention to the bladder or bowel can evoke activity therein.
2. Long for the smell of cocoa beans until there is no choice but to go and make myself another cup of coffee.
3. Prod the flesh above my trouser belt to the point where vanity kicks in and I decide to go and engage in 30 minutes of high-intensity exercise on my static bike.
4. Wonder if Mrs Jones is in the mood for love.

2^nd-level strategies: (once I’ve opened the file titled ‘novel’)

1. Decide that much more preparation is required before starting my story.
2. Opt to research the history of World War II on the basis that the father of one of my peripheral characters fought in it.
3. Reread my multiple ‘how-to-write-a-novel’ books.
4. Succumb to the pull of ‘Naughty America’.

3^rd – level strategies (Once I’ve started writing)

1. Agonise over the third word of the first sentence and dedicate the next half-hour to flicking through a Thesaurus.
2. Re-read book on punctuation to decide whether to use a semicolon, dash or comma in 1^st sentence.
3. Carry out a word count every 60 seconds.
4. Succumb to the pull of ‘Naughty America’.    

4^th – level strategies (Once I’ve written a couple of pages)

1. Imagine a potential reader peeing her pants with laughter at what I’ve written (despite my novel being a crime/thriller).
2. Decide it’s crap, and press ‘delete’ button.
3. Reflect on the possibility that the fact that I loathe anything written by Ernest Hemmingway might indicate I’m clueless as to what makes a decent writer.
4. Google how to access treatment for my sex addiction.

   

  Photo courtesy of freeimages.co.uk   

https://www.freeimages.co.uk/

The things my elderly mother shouts

My father had a fall last week and I accompanied him to the hospital, along with my 87-year-old mother. The old fella spent 4 hours in the resuscitation area of the Accident and Emergency Department - part of it in a cubicle, most of the time on a trolley in the corridor. My mother and I sat with him, perched on plastic chairs. Contrary to what you might expect, this extended period of waiting was rarely dull.

My lovely mum is hard of hearing and this long-term affliction, together with some short-term-memory loss, can cause confusion and disorientation. When she speaks she tend to shout, presumably as a consequence of her deafness. Also, as she gets older, she seems to be less inhibited about sharing what’s on her mind. While sitting in the crowded Accident and Emergency Department - surrounded by bleeping equipment, suction machines and the night’s ill and bleeding casualties - she announced the following:

1. ‘LOOKING AT ALL THESE POOR SODS, WE DON’T KNOW HOW LUCKY WE ARE.’

2. (When an obese nurse walked past and smiled in our direction) ‘GOODNESS, SHE’S A FAT LASS’.

3. ‘I HOPE THESE CLICKS AND SQUISHING NOISES AREN’T GOING TO CONTINUE ALL NIGHT.’

I inform her that these noises are from emergency equipment that is keeping people alive. On hearing this, she expresses remorse, and says the Holy Trinity while making the sign of the cross.

(Thirty seconds later)  ‘THIS RACKET ISN’T GOING TO GO ON ALL NIGHT, IS IT? WHY DON'T THEY JUST TURN THEM OFF?’

4. ‘SORRY, I’VE JUST TRUMPED – IT DOESN’T SMELL THOUGH’

5. (On being told that dad hasn't broken any bones and we can all go home, mum stands over dad and says) PICK YOUR FEET UP NEXT TIME, FAT ARSE - WE'RE NOT BRINGING YOU HERE AGAIN'.

    

Photo courtesy of PaulR at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Life's too short

On the tenth day of a fortnight’s holiday in Tenerife, Mrs Jones and I were flagging. A combination of Spanish sunshine, overeating, hefty consumption of San Miguel lager and late-night revelling at the local Irish bars had left us feeling weary. At 58 years old, we don’t possess the same level of stamina as in our young adulthood. We decided on an early night – not with any intention of rumpy-pumpy, as we were too tired for that nonsense; a sustained 30-seconds of pelvic thrusting was way beyond our capabilities. The (smallish) rational parts of our brains insisted that less alcohol and more sleep would re-energise us for the remainder of the holiday.

So at 8.30pm, rather than bouncing into town, we opted for a quiet drink in our hotel bar as a prelude to bed. Perched on a leather settee, we observed our spacious and opulent surroundings: sparkling chandeliers, sturdy-oak coffee tables, mirrored walls, a bar displaying endless varieties of liqueurs and spirits, and bow-tied waitresses - in white blouses and black skirts - attentive to the needs of their guests. And oh so quiet. People spoke in whispers, as if mindful to not corrupt the sumptuous surrounds. The most noticeable sound was the clicking of stiletto on tile, as a waitress scurried to replenish a glass. Mrs Jones and I sat in silence, sipping our lager nightcaps; the heaviness of our lethargy made speech feel too much of an effort.

But then something remarkable happened.

Very gradually, we grew aware of another noise. An intermittent growling could be heard behind us, and we turned to discover the source. A bald headed man, maybe in his 70s, was slumped in his armchair, a half-full glass of stout on the table in front of him. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped in his lap. At the same table were three vacant chairs, the empty glasses in front of them suggesting recent occupation by his companions prior to their desertion.

We watched him closely. He’d clearly been there a while, as evidenced by the viscous spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. Each inward breath evoked a rasping snore followed by a silent pause, this soundless phase extending over several seconds, sufficiently long to evoke our concerns that the old fella may have expired. It was clear that the waitresses’ thoughts were along similar lines, each covertly monitoring him for signs of life as they cleared neighbouring tables. When the outbreath arrived, we could detect a collective sense of relief in the room.  

I squeezed Mrs Jones’ hand and we turned to face each other. It seemed our minds were reaching a common conclusion.

‘Life’s too short,’ I said.

***

Four hours later we could both be found in Paddy’s Bar, each holding a pint of Caffrey’s, screeching a tuneless rendition of ‘The Wild Rover’.  

Photograph courtesy of Samandale at FreeDigitalPhotos.net         

            

The joys of flying economy class

'Fourteen hours cooped up on a plane sounds like hell,’ said Mrs Jones.

‘I’m sure the time will fly past,’ I said, resorting to tame jokes as a way of getting into the holiday spirit.

We were boarding our flight from the UK to Singapore. I’m not a rich man; our allocated positions were in the economy section in the rear of the aircraft. As the only access point was at the front of the plane, we endured the passage through business class - the expanse of space sufficient to trigger agoraphobia - before reaching our seats, thirty rows of nine, resembling a tightly packed battalion advancing towards the enemy.

After the token welcome by the china-doll air hostesses – all lipstick-crusted smiles and pert rumps – we sat and observed our fellow travellers. Our attentions were drawn to a kerfuffle from six rows in front of us. A middle-aged lady was kicking off because there was no room to store her hand luggage in the locker above her seat; the hostess had placed it a couple of rows down. I leaned in to Mrs Jones and whispered,

‘Crikey! Is she worried a sneak thief will snatch and run while we’re at 40,000 feet?’

Last to take their seats were a Chinese couple, each wearing a surgical mask over their mouths and noses. They looked like they had just been dragged out of the operating theatre, in the midst of removing a gall bladder, but I was reassured to note that neither was wielding a scalpel. Is it worth looking like an utter dipstick in an effort to filter out a few contaminants?

Two hours after take-off, and I’m still struggling to activate my touch-screen entertainment located on the back of the seat in front of me. The damn thing seems defective. As I repeatedly prod the glass monitor, the obese bloke across the aisle decides to stand – to aid his circulation, no doubt – and thrusts his lardy arse in my face. My nostrils detect the lurid combination of blue cheese and old sweat. I consider asking the Chinese fella if I can borrow his mask.

Bored, without any film to watch, I try to sleep. Each time I feel I might be slipping into the land of nod, my journey is halted by a toddler shrieking two rows behind, or a fast-moving hostess wafting past my ear.

Four hours into the journey, a major breakthrough: I discover the handset for my entertainment centre located in the arm of my chair – it wasn’t touchscreen after all. After much random button pressing, I stumble upon a back episode of Friends. I steal a few moments of escapism, smiling at Joey and lusting after Rachel, when I’m jolted from my musings by a whack to the head; the woman occupying the seat in front of me had decided to recline, the thrust back so violent it seemed as if she’d taken a run at it. Worse still, the tilt of my entertainment screen was such that the glare from the cabin lights now rendered it unwatchable.

And then the in-flight meal arrived. The pleasant hostess insisted the woman in front return her seat to the upright so as to grant me sufficient room to eat, and the prostrate figure grunted, exhaled loudly and grudgingly complied. Relishing my additional cubic centimetre of space, I peeled back the foil from my food tray to be confronted with spicy chicken noodles – for breakfast! I ordered a large glass of white wine to try and dampen my growing irritation but, at my second slurp, Zsa Zsa Gabor reclined again, causing spillage – with Chardonnay dripping off my nose, I patted her on the top of her over-lacquered head to ask her to return to the perpendicular, evoking more grimacing and muttering.

Resigned to torture, I spent further hours folded into my seat, neck, back and arse all aching to various degrees, enduring that dreadful mix of discomfort and tedium. The fat man across the aisle belched loudly, his wind deriving from the rapid consumption of five cans of Tiger beer. A young couple a few rows down were delivering a decent – or maybe indecent – rerun of the Jack and Rose sex scene from Titanic, with lots of groping, slurping and audible promises of undying love.

Thirteen hours and forty-nine minutes after take-off, we landed at Singapore airport.

‘That wasn’t so bad after all,’ I said.

Mrs Jones’ expression did not require words.

P.S. I'm currently in the process of selling my house, car and body so we can afford business class on our next long-haul flight.

Photo courtesy of satit_srihin at FreeDigitalPhotos.net       

Pondering the imponderable

As I approach my 59^th birthday, my troubled mind increasingly dwells on a range of imponderable questions. If you can, please ease my mental anguish by suggesting answers to any of the following:

1. What possesses some people to pursue a career in chiropody?

Do they have a foot fetish? Or perhaps they harbour masochistic tendencies, relishing the prospect of a life spent on their knees wrestling with foot odour, nail clippings and flaky gunge?

2. Why are testicles crinkly?

Crinkles add flavour to my packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps/chips, but what do they do for those two orbs swinging – ever lower – between my legs? (Apart from making shaving a precarious activity).

3. Why does my soap dish not have a hole in the bottom?

It seems obvious, doesn’t it? In the shower, work up a lather, drop soap back in its dish and, by the time you grope for it again, it remains firm, all the excess water having drained away. Instead, when I reach for my bar of Imperial Leather it often feels like I’m dipping my fingers into a frothy cesspool.

4. Why do doctors in the gastro-intestinal department all have fingers the width of telegraph poles?

Is it an essential requirement of the job of the colon doctor to own a forefinger the size and consistency of a log? Last month, when I suffered the finger-up-the-bum check, it felt as if I’d been sodomised with the serrated trunk of a sturdy oak?

5. Why do restaurant waiters often wear polyester shirts?

Those fine young men who ferry my ale, wine and Beef Madras to my table do a wonderful job for which I’m eternally grateful. In the course of a typical day they must walk miles to satiate the appetites of their customers. And naturally they sweat a lot. So why in the name of all that’s holy do many opt to wear polyester or nylon shirts? A perspiration-and-plastic combination smells like someone’s been boiling cabbage in a communal latrine.

6. Why does my willy shrivel during a hospital investigation? 

I’m confident that my wand is, at least, an average size. When I inspect myself in the mirror after my morning shower, (and when I go to the loo, get dressed, go to bed, get up in the morning) it hangs out like a real cool dude. So why when I drop my briefs in front of female nurses during a hospital examination does it get all bashful and recoil into my abdomen, leaving something resembling a desiccated strawberry? 

These are the crucial questions that torment me. Can you please give me respite by providing some answers?




Photos courtesy of :
1. imagerymajestic at FreeDigitalPhotos.net   
2. Nat_Sticker at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A man's got to know his limitations

I’m good at some things. My Sunday roast propels fellow diners into orgasmic rapture, I’m a more-than-decent public speaker, and the speed of my mental arithmetic makes Sheldon appear mathematically challenged. Nonetheless, it is important to be aware of one’s weaknesses – in the words of Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry, ‘A man’s got to know his limitations’.

So here is a list of my limitations. And I’m not referring to the ‘I’m-not-quite-as-strong-at’ sort of deficiencies – no sirree – these are activities where I demonstrate such stunning incompetence that onlookers assume parts of my brain have gone walkabouts.

1. Opening cereal boxes

Mrs Jones begs me to ask for her help when opening breakfast cereals. By the time I’ve prised off the cellophane wrap from my Kellogg’s cornflakes, I’m in no mood to explore the subtleties of the cardboard re-fastening device on the top of the box. Instead, I assault it from the flank, penetrating it with a forefinger and tearing it open. For its remaining shelf life, it sits bloated with its inners exposed, as if opened by a stick of dynamite.

2. Singing

I love listening to popular music, but when it comes to singing I’m tone deaf. When I let fly in the shower with my rendition of the Eagles’s Lying Eyes, Mrs Jones cringes, the local authority sees a sharp rise in reported incidents of noise pollution, and the nightingales self-destruct. My attempts at the high notes have even been known to interfere with my neighbours’ Wi-Fi connection.  

3. DIY

Men are expected to shine in the Do-it-yourself department, delighting their ladies with displays of competence around the home and garden. Not this bloke; I’m utterly useless. I’ve no idea how to rewire a plug (all those colours are so confusing), the prospect of putting up a curtain rail causes me sleepless nights, and my sole contribution to assembling a flat-pack wardrobe from Ikea is checking we’ve received the correct number of nuts and bolts (as I’ve said, I’m great at counting).

My level of ineptitude reached a humiliating high last week. Armed with my brand new hedge trimmer, I strutted into the front garden to prune the bushes. Within ten seconds, I was left holding an impotent machine with a limp six-inches of wire dangling; yep, I’d inadvertently cut through the electric cord and short-circuited the house.

  

4. Wrapping presents

For 30 years, the task of wrapping Christmas and birthday gifts has usually defaulted to Mrs Jones. She excels at it. Her dressed parcels always display crisp, symmetrical edges, with a skin-tight paper covering, minimal sticky tape, and a decorative bow.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t seem right to ask Mrs Jones to wrap my gifts to her (although I have considered this option) and I’ve no choice but to do it myself. On these rare occasions, the end product looks as if it presented a moving target, one I didn’t quite catch up with. Excess wrapping paper loiters at each end of the parcel, forming unsightly bulges, and the (half-a-roll of) sticky tape appears to have been applied via a scatter gun with each piece creased and misshapen.    

5. Drawing and artwork

I can recall sitting in an art lesson as a child and the teacher leaning over my shoulder and whispering, ‘You’re bloody useless, Jones’. That man was a shrewd judge. If I’m denied the use of words, I’m void of all creativity. My attempts at drawing resemble the scribblings of a three-year-old and, if it’s not painting by numbers, the colouring stuff remains in the box.   

6. Directional sense

When God was giving out internal radars, he must have skipped my name. Either that or he had a sense of humour, and relished the prospect of me groping around the earth in a permanent state of spatial confusion. My sense of direction is dreadful. In a strange town I can enter a building and, when I exit, I often fail to recall which direction I approached from. Many hours have been wasted trying to find my parked the car. And when driving to a specified destination I’ve sometimes, after hours of futile circling, given up and headed for home - that is, of course, if I can find it. 

Thank goodness for the greatest invention of our time: satellite navigation.

Does anyone else care to disclose their ineptitudes?

What do doctor's receptionists talk about?

My haemorrhoids are misbehaving again. After completing my morning evacuation, the bathroom porcelain resembles the aftermath of the siege of Leningrad, with sufficient of the red stuff to supply the national blood bank for the next decade. So, reluctantly, I decided to see my doctor.

As per the formal procedure, I rang the health centre at 8.00 am to request an appointment. After noting my name and date of birth, the receptionist found me a slot later that morning. But the conversation was not yet over.

‘I’m now obliged to ask this,’ she said, followed by a short pause. ‘What is the problem that you want to see the doctor about?’

Somewhat taken aback by the intrusiveness of the question, a range of retorts pushed into my mind:

I’ve ruptured my foreskin while engaged in athletic love-making;

I’m farting so much I’m a fire risk when near a naked flame;

I tried on my wife’s bra and the metal wire from the left cup has punctured my lung;

My testicles are hanging so low, when I sit on the toilet they plunge into the water like depth charges.

But I resisted the temptation and, instead, told the truth.

‘I’m bleeding from the arse-hole.’

‘Oh … right … sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m told that I must ask, but it seems … it feels a bit…’

‘It’s OK, no worries,’ I said, starting to feel sorry for the lady’s awkwardness.

***

As I sat in the doctor’s waiting room two hours later, listening for my name to be called, I sensed eyes on me. When I glanced up, there were three female receptionists behind the glass talking and giggling to one another. I wondered which of the trio I’d spoken to earlier on the phone. Was it the young blonde lass, barely out of her teens; her inexperience might have been responsible for the awkwardness? Or was it the older, worldly-wise woman in the middle of the threesome, who seemed to be in charge? Maybe it was the smirking receptionist on the end, whose gaze was fixed in my direction?

And what were they discussing? The weather? What each was planning to eat for lunch? Or whether I was the bloke with rivulets of blood trickling down the crack of his arse? When I arose to see the doctor, I imagined them checking my waiting-room seat for stains.

But I subsequently realised that all my speculations were likely to be groundless. As I was leaving the doctor’s surgery, I overheard another patient - an old lady - standing at the reception window.

‘I need a follow-up appointment with the doctor,’ she announced. ‘I have to let him know whether I’m still leaking yellow goo out of my cherry.’

Clearly, the receptionists hear more spectacular stories than mine.

Photo courtesy of pixtawan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

   

The elusive cucumber

‘On your way home, will you stop off at the supermarket for some salad stuff?’ asked Mrs Jones.

My car was in for its annual service so I took the call on my mobile while sitting in the garage waiting area. ‘Yes, sure. What items do we need?’

‘Oh, the usual: lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes and red onions.’

Two hours later I returned home and deposited the contents of my supermarket bag onto the kitchen worktop. Mrs Jones exhaled – audibly – and I detected a roll of the eyes followed by an implosion of her cheeks which, after 36 years together, I knew could mean only one thing: I’d cocked up, big time.

Failure to live up to a wife’s expectation typically means that a man is subjected to a circuitous form of interrogation that is intended to shame and humiliate.

‘Where’s the cucumber?’ she asked, while her foot tapped on the tiled floor, as if delivering a countdown to the moment of my execution.

‘There,’ I said, pointing to the large, cylindrical item in front of us.

‘What makes you think that’s a cucumber?’

‘Well, it looks like a cucumber; it’s dark green, shiny and … … phallic.’

‘It’s much bigger than any phallus I recognise,’ she said, now relishing the role of the strident prosecutor. ‘That is not a cucumber.’

‘What is it then?’

‘It’s a courgette.’

‘A what?’

‘A courgette. A marrow-like vegetable, sometimes referred to as a zucchini.’

‘It looks like a cucumber, so how was I supposed to know?’

‘Maybe the sign over the box in the supermarket that read, COURGETTES, might have given you a clue.’

Mrs Jones, savouring the taste of blood, broadened her onslaught. The tomatoes were insufficiently ripe, the onions partly rotten, and the lettuce much too big and shabby. (I must admit the lettuce resembled the severed, semi-decomposed head of an obese gladiator. Although it could have been worse; I almost brought home a cabbage).    

And to add to my pain, I now recall that I don’t like the taste of courgettes. Something tells me they will be served up with every meal for a week.

   

Hovering over the cash machine

Life can be difficult for older people. In particular, advancing years and technology can be a discomforting mix, as I recently discovered when trying to teach my 85-year-old father how to use a cash dispenser.

Throughout his life, my lovely dad has always drawn his money from the local post office and, if paying his bills by cash is not an option, he has always chosen to write a cheque. Credit and debit cards are alien to him. Alas, all the post offices in his locality have shut down so he is now compelled to rely on the ‘hole-in-the-wall’ cash machine to get his hands on his money. He asked if I would show him how to use it and I agreed to accompany him.

The first time, he watched as I carried out the procedure step by step, while providing a running commentary. On the second occasion – in an attempt to consolidate his learning – I suggested that he perform the whole operation himself, while I observed. We chose a quiet moment at the cashpoint located 200 metres from his home.

The process went something like this:

DAD: Am I holding my card the right way up?

ME: Yes, it’s the right way up.

DAD: Then why won’t it fit in the hole?

ME: Because you’re trying to shove it into the slot where the notes come out; you need to put it here, where it says ‘INSERT CARD HERE’.

Card inserted, the menu of options appears on the screen.

DAD: Do I put my 4-digit number in now?

ME: No, not yet. You first need to read the options and decide which one you want.

DAD: But I can’t read them – I need my specs. (Starts rummaging in his pockets in search of his reading glasses). OK – I can see it now. So do I want ‘CASH ONLY’ or ‘CASH WITH RECEIPT’?

ME: Well, do you want a receipt?

DAD: Oh yes – I always get a receipt. You can’t trust anybody these days; they’re all trying to rip you off. I need a receipt to …

ME: So press the ‘CASH WITH RECEIPT’ button then.

DAD: Where is it now … let’s see … (Finger hovering over the screen, as if carrying out a subtle piece of black magic)? Oh, what’s happened now?

ME: It’s timed you out. Take your card out and we’ll try again.

DAD: Just my luck to get an iffy machine!

Dad inserts card again.

DAD: Do I put my 4-digit number in now? It’s 672 …

ME: No, not yet. Push this button here to say you want cash with a receipt.

Dad pushes said button.

DAD: Can I put my 4-digit number in now?

ME: Wait a moment. What does it say on the screen?

DAD: It says … (moves his face closer to the screen) … ‘DO …YOU…WANT…TO…CHECK…YOUR…BALANCE…BEFORE…WITHDRAWING … YOUR…CASH?’

ME: Well, do you?

DAD: Why would I want to do that? I wouldn’t be withdrawing money if I didn’t have it in my bank account. Me and your mother don’t spend money we haven’t got – unlike this younger generation who … …

ME: Then press this ‘NO’ button dad.

DAD: Oh, the damn thing’s timed me out again

By this point, a queue had formed behind us. Their facial expressions suggested that, after witnessing this odd couple hovering over the cash dispenser, many of them suspected I was guilty of elderly abuse, trying to rip off the old fella.

We let those waiting go before us and, about 20 minutes (and three further attempts) later, my old dad was able to withdraw his £250. He then proceeded to count it out – note by note – in the midst of passing shoppers. I think I will need to accompany him a few more times before he gets the hang of it.

Photo courtesy of jk1991 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My six enduring memories of Christmas and the New Year

As we enter into a new year, I thought I’d share with you my personal highlights of the festive season, the most memorable moments of the last three weeks. In no particular order, they are:

1. Singing with my mother-in-law

Sadly, my 81-year-old mother-in-law is afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease; her memory span is no more than a few seconds, she’s lost her sparky temperament, and - even when surrounded by her family – she sits in silence with a blank expression. Well she does until she hears Dusty Springfield.

Late on Christmas Day, when all the feasting had ended, we played some songs from the 1960s on You-Tube. Watching mother-in-law belt out her rendition of Dusty’s ‘You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me’ (word perfect, face glowing with delight) will be an image that will remain with me for ever.

2. Greeting cards from my elderly parents

Both my parents are in their mid-80s and, while yet immune from the ravages of dementia, they do tend to be a tad confused and forgetful. Sending greeting cards is a case in point.

We received a delightful Christmas card, wishing us wonderful cheer, but there was nothing written in it – completely blank. A process of elimination, and detective work of a quality Sherlock Holmes would relish, was required to identify the source.

For Mrs Jones’ birthday (2^nd January) their greetings card arrived two days late due to their decision to use a 2^nd-class stamp – my lovely mother is as tight as a her compression stocking – the post code was wrong, and their birthday wishes were to their ‘daughter’ rather than ‘daughter-in-law’. Ah well, it’s the thought that counts.

                                                               

3. Disturbing images of offspring

My two babies are now aged 26 and 22, both away from home and enjoying their lives to the full. Over the holiday period, each sent me an image that unsettled me.

Ryan opted to attend his football’s team’s annual fancy-dress pub crawl in the role of Alex, the
evil star from the cult film, A Clockwork Orange. Never one for half measures, the
resemblance with the Malcolm McDowell character was chilling, not least because he had            informed me that he’d recently rerun the film six times to get into role. I was left to hope that,
during his tour of all the local drinking holes, he refrained from beating an old lady to death
with a giant phallus.

Becca is gallivanting around the world and sent me a video of her sliding, head first at high velocity, on a flimsy piece of matting down an improvised mud slide in Brisbane, Australia. When she hit the pond at the bottom, she skimmed across the water and almost hit the banking on the other side. She afterwards tried to reassure me that the only injuries she’d sustained were 'a few friction burns'.

                                                                     

 

4. Arse grabbing

           
Shortly after midnight, in the midst of new-year revelry, the wife of my best friend grabbed
my right buttock. She can be forgiven for I was wearing my favourite slacks, the cut of which
shape my arse into an irresistible pout. The butt-clutching incident was made all the more
remarkable as the lady in question is typically reserved and self-conscious. Luckily, she was
so pissed at the time I’m sure she’ll retain no memory of her cheeky squeeze; I’ll choose the
right moment in 2017 to remind her of it!

5. A vivid dream

Over recent weeks, our house has undergone a few renovations and, as such, many workmen
have visited. One night over the Christmas period I experienced the most vivid of dreams. I
will not go into detail. Suffice it to say that it involved me, Mrs Jones, two burly builders and
a hosepipe. Watering the garden will never feel quite the same.

6. Prettiest lady in the pub

A couple of minutes before the end of 2016 I recall glancing across the table at the woman
opposite and thinking that she was, undoubtedly, the most attractive individual in the whole
pub. My second thought was that I’m so very fortunate, as the lady I was eyeing was none
other than Mrs Jones. And in addition to her beauty - inside and out - there is an additional
bonus: she can’t half hold her ale.
                                                                          

                                                                                
Best wishes for 2017 to you all.

A woman should wobble

I’ve been thinking a lot about sex and lust. (What man doesn’t; even the 58-year-old variety). And over the last few years I’ve realised that my inclinations towards the female form are changing. I find I’m less and less activated by the exposed flesh of young women, while my proclivity towards the older form seems to grow stronger with each passing year.

Of course, this transition may be an adaptive one, a part of man’s evolution. It would be crushing for a bloke to yearn after something he can no longer attain – someone like me, on the cusp of drawing his state pension and lacking both millionaire status and an enormous phallus, is never going to attract beautiful ladies who are half his age.

I should emphasise at this point that I never have, and never will, seek sexual liaisons with anyone other than Mrs Jones. But, to repeat an old adage, there’s no harm in looking. And now, when I look – in the street, pub, or on Naughty America TV – my taste is evolving in the direction of a mature spruce with more concentric rings around the trunk.

A real woman should not own a sculpted, porcelain-like, body. And boob jobs are a definite no-no; when on the move, and unsupported, breasts should not remain firm and static in their silicon straitjacket but should swing, independently of each other, like two pendulous orbs frantically striving to get as far away from each other as possible. A lipid cushion around the girth and buttocks never fails to please a heterosexual, middle-aged male, being more rewarding to touch and warmer to snuggle against in the cold of night.

Is there a finer sight than a mature, voluptuous lady – naked as the day she was born – wobbling in your direction? (Sweet baby Jesus, I’m going all unnecessary at the thought).

So if you are an 80 year-old mother of a daughter, and see me approaching, I suggest you lock her away for her own safety. Indeed, you might wish to take cover yourself as, when I think about it, isn’t there something weirdly alluring about dentures, wrinkles and arthritic limbs.       

** Alas, Mrs Jones refused to pose for the photograph - women, eh; I'll never understand them - so I had to import one courtesy of  stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos.net. **