The pinnacle of my writing career!

Two days ago I reached the pinnacle of my writing career. No, not a blockbusting first novel (my sophisticated wit puts me out of reach of the masses). No, not the Man Booker prize (after all, any randomer can win that particular honor). Not even a poet laureate (as I like my ditties rude and rhyming). The wonderful accolade I have achieved (and I’m filling up as I type) is to be nominated for the Liebster Award by my creative blogging friend, Michael Mele – check out his blog at:

http://the-nerdy-side-of-life.blogspot.com

Michael proposed 11 profound questions - he should be a philosopher. I share my answers below:

Q1 How do you feel about taking a poop in a public restroom?

I only poop in the Jones' residence, usually in the toilet.

Q2 Have you ever stolen someone's lunch at work?

I wouldn't even consider such a heinous crime; my colleagues were all dirty buggers so I might have contracted some horrendous disease.

Q3 Do you fart in public?

Never when there are ladies around. Not even within earshot of Mrs Jones. I'm a gentleman, you see, like those fine fellows on Downton Abbey.

Q4 Stupidest thing you've ever done while drunk?

Tough one this, as I've not always conducted myself with dignity and decorum when under the influence. I've pissed in my parents' wardrobe (twice) and fell down a cavernous hole in the road - not on the same occasion.

Q5 Have you ever been to jail/prison?

No, absolutely not. I always manage to frame my friends.

Q6 Have you ever turned a pair of underwear inside out just to get another day out of them?

Don't wear any - I go commando.

Q7 Have you ever given a homeless person money just because you felt guilty, then afterwards saw them using it for alcohol and felt like an ass?

No - I never give them any money. I occasionally offer to buy them coffee and a croissant - that usually gets rid of them sharpish.

Q8 Would you rather get caught picking your nose of picking a wedgie?

I engage in neither. As an upstanding, respected, nay revered, member of my community it would be unforgivable.

Q9 Have you ever been in a house full of people who love you, only to feel sad because you didn't get any love on Facebook, Twitter or any other form of social media?

No, you can't miss what you've never had.

Q10 Have you ever voted for a president really expecting things to change for the better?

Yes, over 40 years ago when I still believed in Father Christmas.

Q11 When is the last time you wanted to punch somebody?

Never, I'm a man of peace. And besides, I could never have retained my stunning good looks going around punching people - after all, they'd hit me back twice as hard as my lame swipe.

Now for my 11 questions - and remember, you must be 100% honest, just like me??

Q1 How often do you go overboard with positive comments on someone's blog while thinking, in truth, it was a load of crap?

Q2 White wine or red?

Q3 Do you ever think, 'I'm writing comments on this blog on a regular basis and she's giving nothing back?'

Q4 If you could, which bit of your body would you exchange for something better?

Q5 Whisky or brandy?

Q6 When you reflect on your past life, do you ever wish you had slept with a few more people? (or is that just me??)

Q7 Which nationality of men/women do you find the most attractive?

Q8 How similar to your father /mother have you already become?

Q9 Dark chocolate or milk chocolate?

Q10 What's the most unusual/surprising thing you've ever found languishing in a body crevice?

Q11 If you could change one thing about your partner what would it be?

I'm now required to nominate bloggers to respond to my questions. The talented bunch I've opted for is as follows:

Can I Another Bottle of Whine with my morning quiet time?

Chiz Chat

Jimmy's Opinion

laughing my abs off

Nest Expressed

Penwasser Place

Speaking up for the Underdog

Chubby Chatterbox.

Happy blogging.

Bryan Jones

A miserable bastard

I sit at a table in the corner of the room, striving to appear as if I’m having an enjoyable evening. It is a 50^th birthday party in the function room of a local sports’ club. At 55, I’m one of the older ‘revellers’. Mrs Jones is standing on the dance-floor, engaged in animated conversation with the work colleague who is celebrating her half century. There is only a trickle of patrons at the bar; people of our age can no longer imbibe alcohol in the quantities of old.

I gaze into the flimsy froth of the pint of beer in front of me and ponder on the past parties I’ve attended. The house party at 15 years old, brimming with cheap cider and vomit; sexual experimentation and tears; fights and consequent police involvement; and culminating in the wrath of the host’s parents who return to find unconscious teenagers scattered amongst the debris and (on one memorable occasion) muddy foot-prints on the Artexed living-room ceiling.

A smirk encroaches onto my face as my mind drifts to the late 1970s and those 21^{st -}birthday celebrations. Key of the door? At the time it seemed like I had the key to everything: an exciting career; the meaning of life; and, most importantly, the one that unlocked the sexual vaults of the stunning young ladies who always seemed to be in the vicinity – although, on reflection, the last one might have been more aspiration than reality.    

I dredge my mind for a 30^th party recollection, but fail to find one; my contemporaries and I were all too occupied raising toddlers and trying to earn sufficient cash to feed our families and pay the nursery fees.  

I remember my 40^th birthday party though, on the dance-floor with a few of my old school mates, jumping around to the thump of the Rolling Stones, trying in vain to recapture that spark from 20 years before; a gaggle of sad, middle-aged men.

And now I’m an older participant at a 50^th. I raise my head from the beer froth and scan my fellow party-goers: men with grey, receding hair and beer-bellies, one of the more inebriated jiving with his wife on the dance-floor; heavy-busted women, trussed into under-sized dresses, with a swathe of overhanging flesh pushing against the zip at the back, seeking liberation; and a sprinkling of the younger generation, who have appeased their parents by making an appearance at the birthday celebration before moving on for some serious partying in the night clubs.

But not to worry, it is 11.00 pm and the convoy of taxis will be arriving in 30 minutes to return us all home before we fall asleep and risk dribbling over the furnishings.

My head droops again, and I mutter Leonard Cohen lyrics for consolation.

 The rain falls down on last year's man,
an hour has gone by
and he has not moved his hand.
But the skylight is like skin for a drum I'll never mend
and all the rain falls down amen
on the works of last year's man.

At this point Mrs Jones returns, sits next to me, squeezes my hand and smiles. Instantly, I recognise that I’m being a miserable bastard, and lousy company. What justification do I have for being morose? I’ve recently taken early retirement, leaving with a generous pension that means I will never again have any financial worries. I’ll no more have to endure restless nights worrying about work, nor the frustrations of the morning rush-hour. Mrs Jones and I are both in good health and will, from now on, be going on vacation three times each year; when not on foreign turf we will frequently be found hiking in the stunning Lancashire countryside.

And do I really want to be young again? On the basis of a 32 year partnership with Mrs Jones, I’m confident I will never again suffer the humiliation of being abandoned and betrayed by girlfriends. No more acne agonies. Nor will I worry about my sexual performance, for if the dough fails to rise on the next occasion it is not disastrous – we are involved in a marathon not a sprint.

Life is good.

I kiss my beautiful wife and, hand-in-hand, we head to the dance floor for a smooch (before the taxi arrives).      

A job well done

My eyes stray from the re-run of Friends on the television and fix upon my 22-year-old son sitting opposite me. Ryan is oblivious of my attention as he smiles at Joey Tribbiani’s inane ramblings. Over six-feet tall with a face chiselled like a sculpture of a Roman gladiator, I recognise why my eldest’s company is regularly sought by the young women in the locality. Quick-witted and bright, Ryan can find humor in most situations and, as his middle-aged dad, I often find myself the target of his quips. I reflect on how stubborn and argumentative he can be, and his low threshold for anger that, when activated, propels him into a volcanic eruption, molten lava singeing anyone within a 50-metre radius. But despite these foibles, he is an honest lad with a strong work ethic. Since leaving school at 17 he has not had a day off work, nor has he brought the police to our door. “He’s my son,” I think to myself, “and I’m so proud of him”.

My eyes shift to Becca, my 19-year-old daughter, sitting to my right on the sofa. She too is unaware of my gaze as she escapes into the world of Rachel Green, smiling and pouting in unison with the sitcom star. I recall hearing how, on her recent holiday in Gran Canaria, Becca and her friend stumbled upon a 17-year-old boy lying unconscious on the pavement, surrounded by pools of his own vomit. It was early evening and the resort was busy, but people were avoiding him, acting as if he wasn’t there. But my girl stopped to help. After 20 minutes of striving to extract sense out of the drunken youth, she was able to ring the lad’s granddad to come and collect him. Knowing the youth’s guardian was en route, Becca and her friend made to leave until the disorientated young man pleaded, “Please don’t leave me”. So Becca stayed with him until granddad arrived; the old man offered her money for her kindness (which she declined) and his parting comment was, “I hope he eventually marries a nice girl like you”. I inhale and my chest expands like a peacock’s plumage. I think to myself, “That’s my girl; beautiful inside and out”.

I become aware of being watched, and turn to my left to see Mrs Jones smiling at me. It is rare these days for me and Mrs Jones to have both of our progeny with us in the same room. After 32 years together, telepathy between us is commonplace. At this instant in time she knows precisely what I’m thinking. While our children remain oblivious to our attentions, Mrs Jones lip-syncs the words, “A job well done”.     

I'm a pervert!

Tomorrow I return to the outpatient department of my local hospital, a follow-up to my operation four months ago when I had my two most prominent hemorrhoids surgically removed. In anticipation of further fumbling around my rear exit, I ponder as to the gender of the examining doctor I would prefer. Don’t judge me, but I hope the physician pulling on the latex gloves at noon tomorrow is a female.

I got to thinking why this was so. Even a vain fellow like me is under no illusion that my bare arse is anything other than grotesque; my 54-year-old buttocks, each carpeted in a generous layer of fur, will not kindle the juices of the most desperate of spinsters. And unless the probing she-doctor gets off on humiliating males, the procedure is not going to enhance my sexual appeal.

All the women I’ve heard express views have emphatically preferred a female doctor when it comes to intimate medical examinations. As for me, I feel more exposed and vulnerable when a male is hovering around my gaping butt. Perhaps I’ve watched the movie Deliverance too many times and now harbour an irrational fear of being buggered. Or maybe it’s some primitive comfort from being close to a motherly female when I’m exposed and vulnerable. Either way, perchance all men might share my preference for female doctors when the area of interest is our private bits?

I decide to conduct a bit of intra-family research.

“I wouldn’t want some bint gawping at my arse-hole,” says my 22-year-old son when asked to express his opinion. So my “all men will agree with me” hypothesis is crushed in an instant.

Unperturbed, I wonder if it might be an age thing and that older males might concur. I ask my 82-year-old father, a veteran recipient of rectal examinations having suffered with bowel cancer six years ago.

“I’d want a male doctor every time” he says.

“I wouldn’t,” I reply, “I’d prefer a female.”

“Why?”

“Because men have a finger like the trunk of a redwood tree” I lie.

“But women have long, scratchy finger-nails” he says.

I have no answer to that succinct piece of logic.

So there is only one conclusion I can draw about my predilection

 for feminine rectal explorers: I’m a pervert.            

A sweaty Englishman

Ten years ago on a Spanish holiday, after several hours lying on a lounger under the fierce Mediterranean sun, it seemed timely to replenish my bottled water supplies. Clad only in boxer shorts and well worn flip-flops, and deploying my metronomic, energy efficient, stride pattern (head down, elbows out, short steps, shuffling gait), I soon arrived at the entrance to the small, local supermarket.

Aware of the lack of air-conditioning in this establishment, I darted towards the drinks section and soon located the hefty multi-pack of eight 1-litre bottles of water. As I headed for the check out, the stifling heat impacted upon my senses, distorting my vision and producing a soft whistling sound in my ears. Mercifully, the queue at check out was short.

The supermarket owner’s decision to bake their own baguettes in-house no doubt seemed like a winner at the time. The smell of freshly made bread at the check out was clearly meant to entice customers into an additional purchase. Presumably not considered was the impact of having a large, working stainless-steel oven positioned next to the cash till and within touching distance of shoppers waiting to pay for their goods in a non air-conditioned premise in southern Spain.

While standing in the queue, with my 8-pack clasped under my arm, the polythene wrapping accelerated my rate of perspiration. Sweat flowed in rivulets through clumps of grey chest hair and, upon reaching the imposing gut region, combined with viscous slithers of Ambre Solaire to form an alluring milk-like substance. Further south more watery, faster moving trickles could be detected as they intermittently darted into my darker recesses. Meanwhile, my already sun-charred skin was being braised by the heat from the oven.

Worse still, the queue at the check out did not seem to be moving. The obstruction was another Englishman, his two children by his side, unloading the numerous contents of his trolley. Clearly one of the few holiday-makers for whom the renting of an apartment really did mean self-catering, he was completing his weekly shop. Pale skinned and all three clad in white t-shirts and matching peaked caps, it was evident that they had sensibly evaded the sun for the duration of their stay. As his last item (a box of bran-flakes) was registered by the senorita at the cash till, there was an audible ripple of relief from the fleshy, and increasingly sweaty, masses queuing behind him.

Relief reverted to dismay when dad turned to his children and asked, “Don’t those baguettes smell lovely; shall we get some for our tea Benjamin?” Recognising that it is good parenting to actively involve one’s offspring in the decision making process, he followed up with, "Should we get four large ones or half a dozen of the small?”

Expectantly, the senorita had by this time opened the hefty oven door and, with metal tongs at the ready, was awaiting further instruction. Consequently, a wall of hot air assaulted my senses. My fluid loss was such that, despite having eight litres clasped in my hand, I was in danger of experiencing a net loss since stepping over the threshold. Feeling on the point of collapse, my poached brain tried to fathom whether it would be less embarrassing to collapse there on the floor at the feet of Mr. Sensible or to stagger to the exit and fall at the roadside. Vivid kaleidoscopic images intruded of my falling somewhere between the two options, pulling over the rack of inflatable pool accessories on the way down, and lying helplessly on my back in an oily puddle surrounded by stray flip-flops and a blow-up Dalmatian.

Movement of the queue returned my attention to the present. Baguettes finally dispensed, I quickly paid for my water and escaped onto the street outside and into the relative cool of the direct Spanish sunlight. Numbness radiated along my right arm, under which was firmly embedded my plastic coated 8-pack which by now felt as if it had fused into my skin and muscle. I squatted for a few moments in an effort to restore my usual poise, pedestrians having to swerve to avoid me.

Balance soon restored, I stood up and (with head down, elbows out, short steps, shuffling gait) set off on the return journey to my apartment complex. Having stored the bottled water in my fridge, and with paperback in hand, I returned to my poolside sun lounger.

Stripping with dignity

Standing on the stage in front of 200 spectators, clad only in off-white Jockeys, I emitted a random combination of gasps and screeches in an effort to mimic a prolonged orgasm.

It was 2003 and we were holidaying in Tenerife, one of the Canary Islands. Mrs Jones and I had met Jim and June, a fun-loving couple from London, who were staying at the same hotel. In the evenings we socialized together and, on this particular night, we had opted for a social club hosting live entertainment. The star turn had been advertised on the billboard outside as a “whacky comedienne.” Our London friends had insisted we occupy a table next to the stage so as to ensure an unimpeded view.

The support act, a country-and-western singer, had delivered some Kenny Rogers’ classics and the evening was going well. A niggling doubt that a down-turn in the proceedings was imminent first arose when the comedienne appeared on the stage; in her late forties, with multiple tattoos on her arms and rings the size of a juggernaut’s wheels swinging from her nostrils, her opening line was, “I fucking hate men, so tonight I’m going to humiliate the bastards.”        

After assaulting her audience with a torrent of crude anecdotes about the sexual inadequacies of males, she asked for six men to get up on the stage to participate in an “exciting competition.” This was my cue to slip off to buy a round of drinks. I was in no rush to be served and monitored developments on stage from the sanctuary of the bar. A couple of bold young men had strode forward and were now standing on the stage alongside my friend Jim, who had acquiesced to his wife’s encouragement. I loitered at the bar as three more victims were cajoled and harassed into submission. With six men now on stage, I deemed it safe to return to my table with the drinks.

As I sat down, the she-wolf screeched, “I’ve changed my mind, as is a lady’s prerogative. Let’s have seven of the tossers up here on stage.”

I crouched behind Mrs Jones in an effort to avoid detection, and believed I had succeeded, until June stood up, pointed at me (almost on the floor on hands and knees by this point) and yelled, “Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, Bryan.” The comedienne marched towards me, grabbed my wrist and yanked me onto the stage. Pathetically, I did not resist; she had the appearance of someone with an extensive forensic history.

With seven men now captured on the stage, the games commenced. Who could do the best penguin impression – I thought my waddle was rather impressive. Our comedienne (and master), now armed with a cane, ordered us all to strip to our underpants as quickly as possible, and threatened that the slowest to do so would receive 10 lashes across the buttocks. Hence, there I was, on stage in just my Jockeys. The silliness continued with a competition to make the most authentic orgasmic sound. After six, prolonged exclamations of panting and gasping, a Swedish man at the end of the line won the contest with a monosyllabic, “Oo!”

And then the finale. We were directed to replicate the iconic scene from the film, The Full Monty, depicting the tale of how a group of British, unemployed steel-workers form a male striptease act. By this point I was getting into role. As the seven of us turned our backs to the baying audience, and the song "You can leave your hat on" blasted from the speakers, my 45-year-old hips were thrusting and gyrating as if the lower half of my body was in the throws of an epileptic seizure, sending the female onlookers into a frenzy of desire. (I still refuse to believe that their reactions were more to do with the two 20-something beefcakes dancing alongside me). Off came our undies, revealing seven bare arses. As we swung our briefs above our heads, we turned to face the baying mob; I shielded my genitals with my hand, while my more brazen compatriots revealed everything.

leotasjane1 CC-BY, via flicr

Later that evening, when we returned to our hotel, Mrs Jones told me how dignified I had been while on stage. In particular, she was so proud of me for showing modesty in not fully exposing myself in the final scene. My humility had impressed her. What she didn’t know was that, if I had been blessed with nob the size of a baboon’s, I would have been swinging it above my head like a cowboy’s lasso.              

Greece, without the kids

We realized we’d landed in Greece when we were denied egress from the plane for 15 minutes; the captain informed us that the ground-staff at Preveza Airport had fetched steps that were too short to reach the exit door. Five minutes after our release, the comatosed Greek passport-control man beckoned us through with a waft of his hand.

I love Greece. The standard of amenities might be inferior to the rest of Europe, it has the efficiency of an unlagged water boiler, the local wines taste like cat’s piss, and its sewage system is so feeble that you can’t flush paper down the toilet but have to plop it into a pedal-bin (not great when you’ve had the Mythos and Mousakka combination the night before). But none of this matters. The pace of life is soothingly slow and the Greek people ooze a warmth that is only surpassed by the unrelenting rays of the Mediterranean sun.

Mrs Jones and I had holidayed in Greece five times before, but this was the first time without our two children, who are both now young adults. As we journeyed on the coach to our hotel, we relished the prospect of the freedom to do whatever we wanted, liberated from the constraints of supervising our offspring.

“At last we can truly relax on our sun-beds without constantly checking whether the kids are drowning in the pool,” Mrs Jones said, as she rested her head on my shoulder.”

“Yeah,” I said, “no more worries about their play upsetting our fellow holiday-makers.”

“No more having to drag the kids away from their new friends each evening to come and dine with us in a restaurant,” said Mrs Jones.

“And then having to endure their faces, resembling smacked arses, across the table as they sulked and moaned all night,” I said. Yes this was going to be a fantastic, adults only, flop-and –drop holiday.

But then I started to see things. In the restaurant on the second night of the holiday, my gaze was drawn to a family at the neighbouring table with a baseball-capped son who looked disturbingly similar to a 9-year-old version of Ryan, my first-born. While on the beach the next day, I spotted a 5-year-old blonde girl, in her first bikini, scuttling out of the sea and excitedly asking her father if she could have an ice-cream – how many times had my own daughter, Becca, extracted Euros from her doting dad for the same purpose?  

Reminders of what I had lost recurred throughout the holiday: kids asking for chicken-nuggets in the local tavernas; kids looking miserable at the meal table at being denied time from their play to engage in something as tedious as eating with their parents; over-tired kids howling in the sunset, sleep-deprived and cranky; and kids perched on their fathers’ shoulders meandering through the resort.

Although we enjoyed our Greek, adults-only, fortnight, Mrs Jones and I repeatedly engaged in watery-eyed reminiscence about previous holidays with our son and daughter. I realize now that we were mourning the ending of this most vibrant phase of family life, the chapter entitled, “taking our children on vacation.”     

On a lighter note, throughput our stay in Greece I was told that my physical appearance strongly resembled a senior Greek politician named Romilos Kedikoglou. Given the current economic crisis ravaging the country, I feared for my well-being, but I was reassured that I would be at no risk of a sniper’s bullet as long as I stayed away from Athens. When I spotted Romilus on Greek television it was like looking in a mirror. I have since discovered that that he is 73 years old, almost 20 years my senior. Either he is wearing very well, or I am decrepit; I fear it is the latter.