I read this, with complete disregard for the ten-minute time slot and just for shits and giggles, at an open mic last night instead of the usual poetry or a short story. It went down quite well. Be warned: from the outset it goes for the cheap lavatorial laugh and it is, both in blog and open mic terms, HUGE, with a word count a tad under 3k. So take it or leave it, and don’t say you weren’t warned:
Up Yer Bum (AKA The Fantastic Voyage)
A few weeks ago, having reached the age of eligibility, I received an RSVP from my local hospital regarding a screening event they were planning. ‘Great,’ I thought, ‘I haven’t had a night out in ages.’ Sadly it turned out this wasn’t the star-studded cinematographic premiere I had hoped for at all, but an invitation for an examination to determine whether I might be at risk of developing bowel cancer. Additionally, rather than being an evening event worth digging my glad rags out for it proved to be an afternoon matinee. Still, beggars can’t be choosers and I have to take my fun where I can find it these days, so I put my X on the dotted line and signed up, figuring it was a sensible idea even if the main feature was unlikely to fizzle and pop with the kind of gung-ho, balls out, action and adventure I usually look for from my onscreen entertainment. I have, in relation to other conditions, had several doctors insert a stiff finger (appropriately gloved and lubed, of course) into my back passage over the past couple of years, and while it is not a sensation I particularly relish I have been reassured following these undignified probings to hear that my prostate feels pretty much how a prostate should feel rather than resembling a bag of variously sized marbles or a burst balloon. That said, the finger-up-the-bumhole examination is a cursory one at best, so the opportunity for a more in-depth study, seemed, in best belt and braces tradition, too good an opportunity to overlook. Continue reading
… but here’s a blog. Sort of. It’s actually just a ‘focussed freewrite’ from the prompt Phobia I started as an example for my writing group, but it ended up being a bit longer than anticipated. So here it is. Warts and all:
When I was very small I had no fear of spiders. In fact, I seem to remember quite liking them. There was an old water trough in the playground of my primary school and when I wasn’t rolling marbles around in it I would sometimes race spiders in the bottom. I have vivid memories both of watching the races and collecting the participants from various hidey-holes around the school. I also recall collecting spiders and their cobwebs in traps I made from privet branches I would pull off the bushes around my front garden. I would strip the leaves from the branch and then bend it in a loop to form an oval. You could place this loop under a web and then lift the whole thing, including the spider who had woven it, free. I think this game was mostly played in autumn, because the webs were easier to find and more prolific on cold mornings and the frost trapped on the silk painted pictures with them.
Whatever my feelings regarding spiders, my brother Robert – four years my senior and the bane of my life – was terrified of them, so from time to time when he had really upset me I would go on the hunt and round up half a dozen or so of the ugly little buggers and pop them in his bed. This may seem mean, but by comparison it was small tatas – Robert would climb into my bed while I was sleeping and piss up my back rather than get up and go to the toilet. Continue reading
Here’s to a better, fairer, kinder 2015.
Well here we are on the Christmas Eve. Exciting, isn’t it? Merry Christmas & Happy New Year from David & Ben. x
X is for X-Rays: I recently fractured my ankle while running (hope to get the Frankenboot off for Christmas but jury still out at the moment) and it’s made me more aware of the silly little things (like crumbling tarmac on verges) that can trip us up and our own fragility when we do so. The Christmas holiday period is really just a broken limb disaster waiting to happen, what with climbing up on ladders/chairs/partners’ shoulders to hang decorations and dress trees, tripping over newly acquired toys left on stairwells, lugging furniture about to make room for party games and/or extendable tables, dancing and charades… And that’s without taking bellyfuls of alcohol into consideration – how any of us survive is absolutely beyond me!
On top of that there’s all the things we might accidentally swallow – Coins (Christmas pud); Keyrings (Christmas crackers); Shells (nuts, Lidl lobster); Date stones (dates); Board game tokens (Monopoly houses and pieces, Triv pie pieces, Miss Scarlet – the list is endless); Bottle tops and corks (alcohol cabinet); Bleach (cupboard under the sink); One of Aunt Mabel’s mince pies (Auntie Mabel’s house) – and any of these could necessitate X-Rays and/or MRI scans. And it goes without saying that tempers get frayed at Christmas too, and frying pans, coffee mugs and fists may present further hazards that need avoiding. Mistletoe is poisonous, by the way.
Keep safe and well this Christmas, eh? And if you can’t be good be careful. Don’t have nightmares… Continue reading
Well here we are on the Eve of Christmas Eve and…
Wassailing: I had cause (don’t ask me why ‘cos I can’t remember) to refer to wassailing a couple of weeks ago, and having only ever encountered the word in written form made the unfortunate faux pas of pronouncing it as writ – i.e: Wass-ale-ling. Some smart arse was quick to point out that it’s not Wass (rhymes with ass) but Woss (as in Jonathon Woss), and that the Ale is silent (“…”). I got the Ling bit right, apparently, but there’s not much that can go wrong with that, is there? What I should have been saying, then, was Wossling. Go figure.
Words like wassailing are a minefield for the bookish autodidact, and having spent my formative years playing hooky from skool (well, more a case of walking out and never going back than playing hooky per se) rather than attending I’ve learned many words directly from books. And rather than consulting a dictionary with those strange hieroglyphs (which I’ve never been able to decipher) to denote correct pronunciation I have generally had a stab at them myself; usually with disastrous results. Continue reading