Spreading wifely bums and Lunch Club.

Yesterday, the usual bunch of old farts were out for some good grub and a fine dose of wife bashing. As usual, we all had our individual tales of woe to tell, but the tale of the day came from our lawyer friend, whose face seemed to be twitching with more anxiety than usual. He was always a trifle downcast anyway, something to do with his saying ‘I do’ apparently, but yesterday more so than usual.

The night before, he and his wife had been sitting down having supper, when he noticed his wife eating an extra slice of bread with her soup. After thirty odd years of marriage (so far, the most I’ve ever managed is five!), you can imagine he knew her eating habits better than his own. Anyway, he remarked quite innocently,’ You’re eating a lot tonight, dear’. Well, did he just!

Up she leapt, ‘Are you saying I’m fat!’ She shrieked. ‘Are you? Are you? How dare you, you bastard. I’m not fat! I’m not!’ She then dashed to the kitchen sink and tipped the rest of her soup down the drain.

Well as you can imagine, he was slightly taken aback by this sudden outburst, and what he perceived as a thoroughly intemperate reaction, I mean throwing her supper down the drain, no need for that was there? But as he said, ‘Jesus boys, imagine if I’d said her rear-end was spreading faster than a cow pat hitting the pavement at Mac 2?! I wouldn’t be sitting here now, I can tell you. She would have bloody well knifed me!’

Now, for all you young ‘uns out there be warned. When women reach the sagging years of milfhood, for God’s sake never, never say anything about their weight or God forbid that their backsides are spreading uncontrollably – so, read and learn young ‘uns. It’s all true believe me. Ask any middle-aged man who’s been coping with the insanity of female kind for a good few years and he’ll confirm every word.

JR

PS And don’t forget my latest novel is out in September, The Bent Brief. Refined hanky-panky, loving lezzies, murder, a nail-biting trial and a good dose of chauvinistic offence for good measure – just to keep the feminists happy! Nothing like my previous stuff.

A Welsh Cremation.

Funerals are of course a solemn and dignified affair, and the one I attended the other day was no different, except that the Pastor administering  it  was of the old school, the old school that is, of Welsh hwyl (passion) and exuberant evangelical intent.

Half way through the service ( and I was actually starting to enjoy another womb-like re-entry), the old Pastor, let’s call him Dai Knox, threw up his arms in supplication and begged to know how many Welsh speakers there were in the Congregation.

Well now, this being as far south as you can get in South Wales, only three hands went up and a trifle gingerly at that – sadly, mine wasn’t one of them.

Undeterred, Dai Knox cast his fervour around and through the Sinners and howled, ‘ Never mind, the Lord will provide and I’m going to read this hymn out loud in Welsh anyway, so sod you all…..!’ Well, not quite perhaps, but not far off.

So there we all are, in respectful silence as Dai did his Welsh bit, when all of a sudden, the Lord touched his vocal chords and the bugger burst into song!

Hands waving, religious torment spouting forth and a damn all you sinners to Hell for not speaking Welsh! Seemed to be the idea.

Well, I was always taught that God loves a sinner, so I didn’t quite grasp what Dai Knox was getting so exercised about! Anyway, as we all left the Crematorium, an old uncle of mine sidled up to me and said, ‘You know, if you ‘ain’t struck oil in 20 minutes, bloody well give up……!’

I think there’s a moral in there somewhere?

JR

My Old Headmaster……

He used to swirl in, black gown billowing authority and a ‘damn your eyes!’ contempt for any boy daring to presume. He would shout a ‘Latin Homework!’ and exercise books would be opened and raised for merciless inspection. An evil eye here, an indulgent twitch of the lips there.

A  ‘Waster!’ and a ‘Get down to Woolworths, you spineless spiv! They’re selling plastic spines, 20% off!’, implied deliverence but an ‘Out!’ meant a wait outside his study for a bit of ‘touch your toes’ PE.

Those were the days, boys knew where they were and were able to spell and count when they left.

I went to my old Headmaster’s funeral, the boy had now become a man, but I couldn’t help smiling with a certain affectionate respect as his coffin passed me by.

There are no plastic spines these days and Woolworths is no longer with us.

But ‘My Old Headmaster’ still teaches, still reminds.

JR

Shakin’ Shakespeare!

Will was writing for a commercial mass market, right? Makes you wonder what all these academic types and Trojans of literary endeavour keep banging on about, doesn’t it?

I bet our Will, wherever he is, is yet another artist laughing his socks off right now, at all the stuff and nonsense that has been lauded and applauded in his name!

JR

A Review – White Heat by Dominic Sandbrook.

I’m just about to come to the end of the above and I must say that Sandbook’s style of historical commentary is both illuminating and on occasions amusing.

I lived through the Sixties and to this day, always wondered what was so ‘Swinging’ about them.

Sandbook explains all, and confirms my own view that the only place in the UK that was ‘swinging’ was London. Everybody else just trudged through the new consumer Universe as best they could, a bit of the Beatles here, a rolled up gym-slip and new washing machine there, oh and the odd student slogan saying ‘Don’t just stand there – wank!’ If you can make any sense out of that, because I sure as hell can’t!

Sandbrook also reminds us, in no uncertain terms, of the politically incorrect militancy that had ensnared the literary intelligentsia of the time.

He alludes to some correspondence written by Philip Larkin to his pal Kingsley Amis in 1969 and I quote, ‘Fuck the lot of them, I say, the decimal-loving, nigger-loving, army-cutting, abortion-promoting, murderer-pardoning, daylight-hating ponces, to hell with them……….!’

And then to his elderly mother in 1970, ‘England is going down generally. It was shown recently that one child in eight born now is of immigrant parents. Cheerful outlook, isn’t it? Another fifty years and it’ll be like living in bloody India – tigers prowling about, elephants too, shouldn’t wonder.’

When I read the above, I cannot help but conclude that we have indeed come a long way since the late sixties. We are more tolerant in so many ways, even kinder perhaps,certainly more understanding. I also believe that in spite of all our troubles and strife, you’re still a lucky bugger if you’re born in Gt Britain – no matter whether you’re black, brown, white or just plain in between!

JR

PS I’m not so sure about locking someone up for throwing insults around though. A step too far? If not, then I surmise that both Amis and Larkin would probably be having a little holiday on the Queen were they to try writing the same  things now. Privately or not.

Bums, Bosoms And All Who Sail On Them!

I have weakened.

For some brief minutes last night, the gaudy fun of ITV took over from the pugilistic Paxman – a diversion insisted upon by my darling wife I must add. Remember? She with the wine soaked lips and a rump that still defies gravity, in spite of her Super Milf status.

Anyway, whilst being thoroughly bamboozled by popular fun and games ( I gave up on such juvenile antics years ago, my present wife saw to that), I couldn’t help but notice two particularly odd adverts.

One was for deodorant and one was for body lotion – neither of which I have ever been tempted by I hasten to add, all manly stink and sexy, that’s me………….

I observed and absorbed, all these blondy nymphettes running hands and fingertips across young bodies that looked as if they were in dire need of some good old-fashioned bangers and mash, and for a few seconds I even thought I was looking at pubescent young boys!

And this is ‘femininity’?

What’s the matter with all you diet obsessed women?

Men adore curves, we want to sail on  fleshy thighs and wanton breasts fit to crush the life out of us. Hail the true female form, the Rubenesque ideal of female beauty, I say!

Women should be women and to hell with skin and bone!!!

JR

PS Mind you, I draw the line at no curves at all, make of this what you will.

A multi-racial booze-up! Well, we tried.

Yesterday afternoon, I sat in my study and just listened.

Five interns were in our kitchen, drinking wine, eating casserole, rice and vegetarian flans whilst laughing, ribbing, poking fun and generally enjoying themselves.

But here’s the thing – there was one post-grad from Nigeria in the mix, two final year Bangalorian students, one Muslim second year and one Welsh-speaking team-leading boyo from Risca. A Pentecostal, a Sikh, a Hindu, a Muslim and a Welsh Baptist – and I’m not kidding.

As I listened, I couldn’t help but think, well now, if we can manage such racial and religious harmony, then why the hell can’t the rest of the world?!

JR

 

Screaming Munch.

If I had seen ‘The Scream’ unframed and stuck on a fridge door by some Popeye magnet, I would have assumed that some primary school five-year old was proudly exhibiting their school-work.

And arty farty types, still keep lionising the sophisticated cultural and nay, superior genius of Western Civilisation?!

JR

Our Damien.

I am surprised that our Damien hasn’t died from laughing on the way to the bank, I really am.

I take my hat off to him, for making such complete tits out of a group of ever-so-clever arty aficionados with big pockets, and tongues that simply cannot wait to lick his ever-so-clever arse, every time he drops his artistic trousers.

Good on you Damien, I mean it.

JR