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Good Morrow, steamed up Reader,
I may have mentioned to you before that I love life and live it to the full. There’s nothing like a good laugh, when things get hard. (Now if you were tempted there, to add, “As the actress said to the bishop”, then it’s all in your mind, but you’re my kind of reader. If you don’t get it, as many of us don’t, then just ignore me and we’ll move on.)
You see, I try to see the funny side of things. Take my family, and I wish you would sometimes, you may ask how we all get on. Well, I reckon that Einstein was right, ‘cos in families it’s all ‘relative’! My childhood was bizarre at times. We had a dog called Audrey and my mum called it Audrey Hepburn—you know the gorgeous one from ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s—no, the dog and my mum weren’t in the movies, but they should have been. (By the way, do something nice for your mum on Mothers’ Day. My mum was not in the movies, but she was a ‘star’ to me!)
Anyway, leaving sentimentality aside, I would like to say that I’m the only geezer I know who can say that Audrey Hepburn bit his ass on a regular basis! Top that? “Infamy, infamy, she had it ‘in fa me”, as the great Kenneth Williams said.
By the by, I’d like to say that the ass-biting days were behind me, so to speak, but my daughter has insisted on buying an overly curious and loving Cairn terrier and it has taken over from Audrey Hepburn. It heads straight for my ‘family jewels’ every time I visit. The daughter says it’s just a friendly greeting sniff. Well, each to their own, I say, but a man’s private kingdom should be private, don’t you think?
Mind you, getting back to the ol’ childhood in the west of Ireland, we had other creatures to contend with in the menagerie, and I’m not talking about my siblings. We had this cat, and I apologise in advance to all animal lovers and the ‘Elf ‘n Safety brigade, but remember my brother and I were very young and not actually qualified vets. We saw one day that the cat was sick, so we thought a little of dad’s whisky might be helpful to it, purely for medicinal purposes. Well, although the poor thing perked up eventually, in the short term it shot through the roof and was seen circling Mars. Mum decided to get in a proper vet, but we learnt a valuable lesson that day. Yes, if you want to go through the ceiling and circle Mars, then whisky your man! Remember, treat alcohol with respect. I treat it with the respect it deserves on a regular basis! (Do, of course, reader, bear in mind, I’m using my fully up to date poetic licence to make you laugh, not adjust your moral compass.)
Did I mention I’m 86? Thing is, it’s an average thing. You see, I’m 60 from the waist up and 90 in the trousers area. I think the whisky doesn’t get as far as my legs, due to the ol’ circulation—or maybe it’s the other way round!
Any road, I forgot to tell you what we did with our food as children. How we ever grew up, I don’t know. Maybe I never did. Well, we sat at table and thought it highly amusing to shove all our nosh through the holes in the floorboards. I’m sure the mice in the cellar had a field day. They should honour me with a medal or something. Although that reminds me of some ‘decorated’ soldiers I have met. We spied loads of ‘cookey’ retired Colonel types. Some would get drunk and drive horses and carts like chariots at full pelt up our main street, and that was a quiet day. One accidentally peppered his wife’s ass with a shotgun, after a few snifters. Can you imagine explaining that one down in the ‘Emergency Room’?
Well, as you can see, my youth was eventful, but I still managed to get educated and became an army officer in India. (No, it wasn’t because they were desperate; well, not in that sense. Like my hero, Leslie Phillips, I was a pretty good officer.) Thing is, I can only remember the funny bits now, like the frequent times local ‘spivs’ would approach you with the equivalent of a dirty Mac and offer you a copy of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’. They always said, “Lots of rude bits, sahib”. It makes me chuckle now how innocent we all were in many ways. I only have 3 regrets now about India. The things I didn’t manage to bring home; my priceless ‘kukri’ Ghurkha sword, that little Burmese young lady and my copy of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’! Don’t ask me what happened to them! I think they call it the ‘fog of war’. By the way, I’m still foggy on Gaddafi and Libya. Is the mission to bomb him into accepting a luxury villa in exile or am I missing something? (Unlike the Coalition ‘smart’ bombs?)
Anyway, got to go now and fill out my ‘Censeless’ form. They are very nosy. They want to know who was staying over at my gaff on the 27 March. I’ll say, “No-one but willing to consider any reasonable offer”! One of my ‘ladies’ at the shopping centre is still considering my offer to take her up the Khyber Pass, since her husband is down in the South Pole. Saw her the other day and she was talking to a lady friend. She studiously held up her handbag to cover her face. It’s obvious—she doesn’t want me to meet her friend and make her a once in a lifetime offer instead. She’s only human, after all! Before I go, a word to the wise. If you are a ‘twitcher’ like me, you know a ‘bird fancier’ ( The feathered variety, unless you are at the ‘Moulin Rouge’-better not go there). Well, normally they can’t ‘touch you for it’, but you have to be circumcised in what you say. I was at the duck pond, staring through my binoculars and I spied 2 swans attacking a small dirty coloured duck. I suddenly and innocently shouted, “Would you look at that great white pair having a real go at that dirty wee duck!” Personally, I don’t where the misunderstanding arose, but the park keeper said I was on my last warning. Hay- ho! Keep smiling and remember God loves you and so do I, even though I’m a ‘gog’ (Grumpy ol’ git)
Yours almost truly but always with youthful exuberance
The blogging Gogfather