Gobbin’ off …..

Footy players, chiselled athletes, fit as butchers dogs and packed full of skill. I mean, have you ever tried to do what they do as second nature?

I tried it once, and only once. I was playing a fairly low grade crunchie, aggro-packed match against some suppliers to our Company. They were dead, dead fit… I’ll rephrase that, they were extremely quick, had boundless energy and generally played us off the park. I suppose it was their licensed way of getting back at us, of turning the tables and wreaking a bit of revenge for all the nagging and moaning that we, as master clients did on a day to day basis.

Tackles were flying in. The pace was frantic, in an elderly pedestrian struggling along a street kind of way. Soon, my bloated, blubbery body began to react. I looked down to my thighs, marbled like a well slapped slice of corned beef, knees buckling under the strain, heart and lungs in danger of packing up forever.

My mouth began to flood with gob. I felt sick, the riptide within my throat was in full spate – and rising by the second. I must get rid of this stuff flooding into my mouth – no problem there then, I’ll just do what every footy player does as second nature and spew it out, onto the grass.

I ball. I masticate. I manoeuvre. I tongue the gobbette to the front of my mouth and ffffffttttthhhhhhuuuummmpppppphhh. It’s gone…… and oh my God it’s coming right back at me. The orb has just assumed poly-elastomic properties - I didn’t fully expunge the mass. It does a full 180 …… one end lands straight onto my chin and the other flops right down onto my nice shiny, sponsored shirt.

Have you ever tried to wipe sloppy white stuff from your front? I’ll rephrase that, have you ever tried to get magnetic gob off the front of your chin and footy shirt whilst making a fantastic last gasp tackle to save a certain goal?

No, neither have I. I was so preoccupied with trying to wipe sticky bile from my front, chin, hands and sleeves that their number 10 nipped round me and slotted home from 18 inches.

So how do the Pro’s do it? They ‘vent’ like a turbo thrusted jet engine – from every facial orifice. Nothing ever lands on them does it? That is until one of them scores a crucial goal – then does a 20 yard knee slide, lubricated by onerous cobs of ductile gob. Sometimes, it’s a wonder they can get up from the floor, such are the adhesive qualities of ‘GobStick’.

How did I cure my inability to yocker successfully? Every time I trotted out onto the green sward I would take a nice crisp ironed ‘kerchief with me. When I felt the need to ‘gob’ – I simply whipped it out of my pocket and pressed it to my mouth ……… civilised and stylish.

A wamm bamm alluuma, awam bam bam….

Whilst watching ‘Pop Idol’ on the box on Saturday, Gareth Gates made a guest appearance. My 12 year old son reckoned that he would be able to beat him in a combative game of ‘Snap’……..

Talking about ‘Pop Idol’ – who the hell is voting for old ‘twitchy face boy’ - or indeed, the big boned Scottish lass?

I mean, in the last couple of weeks, 2 drop dead gorgeous and talented contestants (Roxy – grrrrr and Suzanne) have got the order of the Cowell – unbelievable!

Chris, the bespectacled blinky, twitchy warbler, somehow, somehow survives every week. Dr Fox reckons he looks a ‘tad’ too much like a Vicar. I think he looks several tads too much like an ostrich – and a whole lorry load of tads like a crap singer.

The word ‘key’ clearly does not register with Chris. Why use one - when several, both ‘on’ and ‘off’ (but mostly ‘off’) can be inserted at will.

Then there is Michelle, the Scottish mama – a good, competent ‘club circuit’ singer ….. but in a shallow, vacuous competition were image is everything, she’s no pop idol. Dr Fox reckons she looks a ‘tad’ out of place, and a ‘tad’ tattily dressed. I think by that he meant she was a few ‘tads’ too heavy – but was just a ‘tad’ too cute to say it out loud.

I reckon Simon Cowell has had a little bet to himself that he can get her to at least the last three – just to prove to himself how ‘svengallian’ he can be. I really do believe he likes manipulating an entire nation. Maybe he should become a politician.



All new, the all new spanking brand bloody newness that is the ‘All New Top of the Pops’

Talking about pop svengallii – Andi Peters has been brought in by the Beeb to vamp up Top of the Pops by kicking some arse, and ringing the changes.

Memo:-
To all those 40 something, balding, pony-tailed, open toed sandal wearing production people currently inhabiting the Top of the Pops office – start emptying your desks guys, you’re history. My new broom is sweeping clean the inertia and smug brained sameness that currently infests the show.

Regards,

TOTP Executive New Broom Meister - Andi Peters.

Andi’s ‘brave new world’ headliner for the second ‘All new TOTP’ show is……. ‘All pout, Posh Spice, Victoria Beckham’ …… "Whoopp, whoooop, whoooop."

Abso-bloody-lutely all-new revolutionary… not

A grouse, an elephant – and a little bit of bully......

So there we are, getting well pissed at a birthday party for my old college chum, Rodger.

To put it bluntly, Rog’ is simply brilliant. A consummate artist and sculptor – a master of watercolour, oils and acrylic. You can see his stuff in any supermarket or off-licence. Rodger painted the little game bird picture on the front of the ‘Famous Grouse’ whiskey box and bottle – as well as the big black and white bird newspaper adverts. His humour is offbeat and highly original and during the years, he has made many friends all over the globe.

Rog’ has done real well from his painty talent – he’s been everywhere, done everything and met everyone who is anyone. He’s even had tea with the Queen Mum - and when she was still alive! He exhibits his stuff in a Bond Street gallery, owned by one of Prince Chaz’s bezzy mates. He used to live just outside Chorley, but has moved to richer climes.

Basically, Rog’ is well connected and well heeled – so what can I, his old college mate, get the man who has everything - for his birthday? What can I get the geezer that has the weirdest sense of humour and the fattest wallet I know?

Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think …….

Alfreda comes to the rescue. Had I seen this advert? Did I think Rodger would have any of this?

I seriously doubted it. Why would anyone buy a bumper big tub-full of that?

Anyway, after a bit of thinking and umming and arring, I thought ‘what the hell – why not’. And within the hour, we are off to Chester.

"You want a ‘bumper big’ tub-full of ‘it’ – right?"

"Yeah – the biggest bumperiest tub–full you’ve got."

"Round the back"………

"Do you want me to put it in the boot"

"Please – and can you stick a bag or five around it?"

We get back, wrap it up and head for a small village in the Trough of Bowland for Rodger’s party.

"Here you go Rog’ – many happy returns"

"Great, thanks …… what can it be?"

"Well open it ….. and find out, you big softee!"

Rodger and his wife excitedly unwrap the bumper big parcel.
Several guests start to sniff the air…….

"Wow"

"Whoa"

"Errrrkkkk"

"Shit"

"Precisely"

"Shit?"

"Yup ……. 20 kilos of it"

"Of shit?"

"Absolutely, 20 kays of prime pachyderm poo"

"What"

"Elephant shit. Best manure from the biggest land animal in the world, courtesy of Chester Zoo".

"Chester Zoo … Poo?"

"Correct"

Rodger’s wife disappears in disgust clutching a whole bog roll to her mouth. Just then, one of Roger’s posh mates, some poncy Lord dude or other who had spent years on the African savannah saunters past…….

"Ahhhhhh – Rhino shit"

"What?"

"Rhino shit. It’s Rhino shit, definitely"

"Definitely?"

"Weeeeeellllllllllllll. It could be buffalo….. or zebra – at a push"…. …… He grabs a bit between thumb and fore finger then thoughtfully massages it and sniffs it, like he’s Tonto or something.

"No. Definitely rhino"

"Sorry Roger" I blab – "I bought it in good faith – as Elephant Poo, I’ll take it back and change it if you like".

Roger refused – and saw the funny side, thank God. Because by now, big bumper tub is humming very, very hummily. And the joke, well the joke was, what do you get someone that has everything? – Why, Elephant shit of course. except that this may be elephant, or it may be rhino, or it may be bleeding zeb bloody ra.

Anyway, whatever it is, it stinks to the highest heaven. It really does smell – and the moment has passed, mainly because of Jungle Jim coming along and giving us the great white hunter ‘Daktari’ stuff…..

Rog’ dumps the dump into the garden.

Thankfully, there are lots and lots of old college mates to chat to and drink with. Pretty soon I’m well on the way to being pissed.

Then we see him…. Then we see some geezer we all recognise. He apparently lives in an old converted railway station, virtually right next to Rodger’s house.

I dig Ralph in the ribs.

"Is that?….."

"Yeah, I’ve already had a chat with him"

"Tone, have you seen who’s over there?"

"Wow, let’s go over and have a word"

"Hang on, hang on….. remember ‘West Side Story’ …. ‘Got a rocket in your pocket, stay cooly cool boy. Take it slow 'n' daddy-ohh don’t be a fool boy, just play it cool boy, real cool"

I try to click my fingers but I’m just too pissed.

We huddle.

"So that’s settled then, I’m saying this. Tone, you’re going to say that – and Ralph, you know what you are going to say?"

"Got it"

We saunter over, nonchalant like, as natch as 3 pissed, overweight saddos about to meet a ‘z’ list famous dude can be.

We stand, wobbly in front of the great man.

Finally, Ralph slurs "Alright Jim, how the bloody hell are you?"

Before our target can answer, we blurt out in turn…..

"I’m ‘Super"

"I’m Smashing"

"And I’m bloody Great!"

Cue hysterical laughter, made even funnier, (especially when you are pissed) by our target’s dead pan expression.

We giggle our way back towards the bar.
I mean, it’s not as if anyone would have ever said ‘Super, Smashing, Great’ to Jim Bowen before – is it?