BORE TO DOOR

Ennui. Toe-curling boredom. I am in the middle of assessing oral examinations and becoming increasingly desperate. I am considering hitting the cue button, fast forwarding the lot and randomly throwing darts at the mark sheets when the doorbell rings.

I am so excited that I dash outside into six inches of snow wearing only slippers, underpants and a T-shirt. I throw open the gate and just have time to register a gaping mouth, raised eyebrows and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles before my Alsatian bitch bounds lustily twixt me and the gatepost letting out a baritone woof of triumph as she goes.

The effect is satisfyingly spectacular. At first sight, she would appear to have started a jumble sale. Attempting to get off the ground in panicky little steps is a random collection of multiple layers of winter coats, scarves, fur-lined ankle boots and a fox stole.

The dog escapes its orbit, heads off at some speed and whatever it is gives up its attempts at flight. The clothing allows itself to believe once more in the laws of gravitational attraction, the shock waves subside and it settles itself lumpily around what I now perceive to be a rather severe looking woman of what used to be called a certain age. Her shoulders lift almost imperceptibly as she rallies her inner troops and draws nearer. I am impressed by her powers of recovery.

“I wonder if I could interest you…”

“Madam, you already have.”

“It’s for the church, you see. People usually give…”

“Oh, I’m sure they do. Giving is so much more rewarding than receiving, is it not? And may I ask just what it is that you are proposing to put my way?”

She has the look of one who has been hit by a trout and is expecting another one along at any moment.

“Oh, I’m not actually giving anything…I was rather hoping you might care…”

“Ah, there you’re out of luck, I’m afraid. Should you have caught me last year, my charitable spirit might have flowed from the horn of my conscience as the waters upon Shem, Ham and Japheth. Unfortunately, care is the very thing I have resolved not to do this year.”

“Well, it’s just that fiscally, we find ourselves in a bit of a pickle.”

“It would concern me not a jot were you up to your mandibles in lobster bisque. You might care to try diluting the communion wine. I understand the Austrians have a flair for that kind of thing. Now, pray excuse me, I have a flock to gather.”

She looks momentarily as if something rather distasteful and malodorous has settled on her upper lip and promptly disappears from my horizons.

And suddenly, I feel a whole lot better. I call the dog and head back inside to warm my gonads by the fire.

THE GAY GORDON

I was at a ball on Saturday. Studiously sober, I might add. I was however, engaged in light conversation by a rather attractive, if expensively upholstered, lady at our table.

"You look like a gay boy with that ring on your little finger."

Later in the evening she asked me if I would have a mind to steer her for a couple of circuits around the parquet.

"Sorry, darling. Gay boys don't dance."

REVERSE PSYCHOLOGY

At the same ball, a carnival themed affair for charity, several teachers from the local music school entertained the great and the good with their party turns.

Idris gave us a rendition of 'Yesterday' in English but sung as if it had been written according to Hungarian phonemic conventions...kinda 'Yeshtairdoi', if you see what I mean.

She then followed this up with an air of Schubert's, performed in full diva mode, complete with feather boa but, quite deliberately yet excrutiatingly, just off-pitch. Try it some time, it's harder than you think.

As a result of this show-stopping performance, she was later approached by one of the local notables who enquired as to whether or not she would be interested in the post of musical director and conductor of the town choir.

Hmmmmmmm.

POETIC LICENCE...REVOKED

You just know you've seriously goofed when you check your mailbox first thing and find a single word message suggesting that you are an adroit practitioner of solo sex.

You may glance at the empty bottle of Ardbeg and remark to yourself that you were sure it was at least half full. You may even be taken aback by the fact that your previously virgo intacta bottle of Bruichladdich has also taken a serious hit.

You may think to yourself, "My god! What have I done?"

But whatever you might do, do not...I repeat, NOT...attempt to retrace your steps in cyberspace. The embarrassment will be too, too acute.

"I didn't, did I?"

I bloody well did.

Oh, well. To those who fell victim to my Friday night frazzle, as recipients of either the maudlin or irrationally ranting and offensive, please help yourself to the usual ameliorations and apologies from the box in the corner. There should be one or two left.

Now, pray excuse me while I dissolve.

KAN GOES WALKABOUT

"Into my heart an air that kills
from yon far country blows.
What are those blue, remembered hills?
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content.
I see it shining, plain.
The happy highways where I went
and cannot come again."

RAIDING THE LIBRARY

I see Unluckyman has it all arse over tit. Us wiping their arses by the same score on Saturday. Now that's romance.

LINES I WISH I'D WRITTEN

Part 1

You KNOW something's SERIOUSLY wrong when you're naked, on your knees with your cock in one hand, an electric cutting tool in the other, and wearing goggles.

FROGGY BOTTOM

I am lying supine on the sofa when a shadow falls over the TV screen, obscuring my view of the rather dire Blackburn Chelsea game.

Froggy, for it is she...a picture of innocence in pink pyjamas: "Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"This is the end for you."

"What do you mean?"

An evil smirk spreads across her face, she turns through 180°, cocks up her right leg and lets one rip. A snorter.

That's my girl. I wonder what the Hungarian is for skid marks.