I go to the chemist!!!

I have to wait for ten minutes whilst the lady pharmacist prepares my medication that is not for an embarrassing complaint at all, oh no.

A spritely old man wanders in to the shop.

I don’t know what it is about me. Whether it’s because I look approachable, friendly, vulnerable, lonely… or whether I’m just too polite to do the English thing and just blank people. But I seem to have this aura that makes people who I don’t know start talking at me.

“Such a beautiful day,” he remarks, not in a remark-like way, but in the sort of way that indicates a long conversation is to follow.

“It’s certainly hot out there,” I reply, politely, hoping that he is in the chemist to purchase deodorant.

“But I’ve had a lousy one, you know?” he continues.

“Ah. Really.”

“I was in the Post Office drawing out money, and they asked me to put in my PIN number. Well I know what my PIN number is, it’s 3108. So I typed in 3108 and it didn’t work. And they said I must have got it wrong, but I said ‘no’ as I know it’s definitely 3108. And I asked them why I needed to do this and they told me it was more secure, but if my pin number of 3108 – and it’s definitely 3108 – doesn’t work then how am I meant to get my savings out?”

I make ‘help me’ gestures behind the back of the Pharmacist.

It seems obvious enough what is happening. The elderly man is not who he is pretending to be at all, but an imposter – probably some sort of long-lost brother. The real elderly man is lying at home, having been horribly slaughtered. This imposter is about to draw out his victim’s life savings using the cash card and PIN number (3108), but is first making sure that several witnesses can testify that I had known this number. Later on, I will find the cash card planted amidst my personal belongings, along with the murder weapon, an old silver snuff box and a packet of Werther’s Originals.

I back out of the shop, clutching my box of perfectly ordinary pills.

It is a sad, sad, comment on the state of Britain today that this sort of thing should be commonplace on a routine trip to the chemist.

Crime – violent crime – is out of control, and politicians do not seem to want to do anything about it.

The bowling green is tucked away behind the village hall.

I approach it nervously, wondering if I’m at the right place. It is my first competitive game. Well actually, it’s my first game full stop. A man had rung from out of the blue telling me to turn up here. I had expected some form of trial or practice session first but no – I am straight in at the deep end for round one of the cup.

Sporty Kev is my team captain. This is good, as he’s the other person there who I know. Unfortunately, being team captain he gets to stand at the other end all the time, shouting at me to aim it at his foot. I shake hands with my other team member.

The opposition seem very nice. Going first is an elderly lady with a bad hip. She is very good.

I have made a list of all the sports I know. Team sports, individual sports, mixed, men-only, women-only, sports with horses, with balls, with bats and racquets, on grass, on tracks. Now the one thing – the only thing – that all these sports have in common, is this. No matter how new, rubbish, useless or hamfisted that you are, you are very unlikely to be beaten at any of them by an elderly lady with a bad hip. That, to me, is the definition of ’sport’.

We proceed to get stuffed.

Her bowl lands right next to the white thing. I have my first go, and my bowl goes about a grillion miles past everybody else’s. Her next bowl lands right next to the white thing again. I pick up my bowl for a second go, but unfortunately it seems to have been sitting in some goose shit, and I get goose shit all over my hands. My towel is stuck in my pocket, so I get goose shit all over my trousers as I try to pull it out. By the time I’ve wiped the bowl, everybody is looking at me and I send another poor effort down, this time stopping about 8000 yards short of the cluster.

“Never mind!” shouts Sporty Kev, and everybody is very nice. I scrape smeared goose shit from my clothing.

My next go is a lot better, and lands encouragingly near to where I meant it to.

“Never mind!” shouts Sporty Kev.

By the end of the game, I have picked it up a bit better, and am enjoying myself. Our team gets hammered, but we win on two of the other rinks (a bowling term, I gather), and draw another. So we are through to the next round!!!

“I really enjoyed that!” I say, as we leave the field of play.

But I don’t half ache today.

“All I am saying is that it is extremely unjust.”

I was having an animated conversation with Narcoleptic Dave and Big A in the Village Pub. Throughout my life I have always tried to stand up for what I believe is right, even if it means being unpopular (although not very unpopular, I would draw the line at that).

“Oh, I agree with you,” said Narcoleptic Dave, taking a glug of Stella from his glass.

The Well-Spoken Barman arrived at our table bearing a bowl of hand-cooked crisps. We tried to gloss over the fact that Mrs Narcoleptic Dave had fallen asleep.

It was frustrating, however. Knowing that Miriam from ‘The Apprentice’ had been unfairly sacked, and not being able to do anything about it.

“I liked the way,” I continued, “that she was very magnanimous afterwards. It was just like Nelson Mandela when they let him out of prison. But without Tracy Chapman doing a concert.”

Sometimes it is very disheartening having a widely read Internet Web Log. Even though I have lots of people who hang on my every word and would do anything I told them to, I feel impotent and helpless. It is a bit like the bit in the Superman film where he got cross then sort of span the world backwards to change things. Except I do not have super powers. (Except invisibility).

But what can I do? I don’t know. I must have lots of readers at the BBC and at Amstrad who can change things. The final show is being filmed tomorrow, there would still be time for a production assistant to run round to her house and say: “oh golly Miriam, we’re sorry, when he said ‘you’re fired’ he didn’t mean it, it was one of the others really.” And everybody would understand and the BBC would come out of it very well.

If this happens then I promise to watch the BBC all the time in future.

And buy lots of cheap shoddy electronic goods.

Here’s the announcement of the new Pope, as the newspapers reported it yesterday:

The Mirror:
OUR FATHER WHO ACHTUNG IN HEAVEN

The Express:
OUT OF CONTROL -
Whilst a million British Catholics are turned down for the job, this man slipped from country to country and now lives in luxury at their expense.

Daily Mail:
POPE HOUSE PRICE SHOCK

The Guardian:
TORY TURMOIL AS NEW POPE ELECTED
Inside: Paul Carr on how Bloggers influenced the cardinals.

The Sun:
WITH JOYOUS LOVE FROM OUR HOLY FATHER
Inside! Send them home; look at that ugly slapper; burn them, etc.

News of the World:
NoW MAN INFILTRATES PAPAL CONCLAVE -
Red-robed reporter in shock security expose

Metro:
POPE JOHN PAUL ‘IS DYING’

PR Week
VATICAN COMMUNICATION STRATEGY LACKS INTEGRATION -
Man in wanky glasses slams chimney system

Richmond and Twickenham Times
RESIDENT ANGER AT POPE CHOICE -
‘Council did not consult us’ claim residents of posh street.

Lynn News (King’s Lynn):
NEW POPE’S WEST NORFOLK CONNECTION -
North Lynn couple once holidayed in Austria, which is quite near Germany, where he came from

I go for a run.

Run! Run! Run!

Up the hill past the shop, then left onto what would be a delightful little green lane but is, in fact, dog shit alley.

There is a new flashing sign!!! It flashes when you go above 30 miles an hour. (I was not running faster than this, a car just happened to pass me and got flashed). It was very exciting, and the car slowed immediately. It was still going faster than me though. Next time I will try to beat the sign and make it flash.

The flashing sign would have been more effective in traffic management had the flashing sign erector people not accidentally placed it the wrong way round. So it flashes you as you leave the village for the derestricted bit, rather than as you enter the built up area.

‘Built up’ being a relative term.

Run! Run! Run!

I jog down the grassy lane, leaping gracefully. I am in a good mood and have remembered to go for a wee wee before I left, unlike Paula Radcliffe who I have written about before and who seems to think that she is a small child and can go for a wee wee any time and anywhere she pleases.

Honestly, I am a better runner than her.

I have not been running for ages and I can feel it. Craig and Charlie burst from the MP3 player with their motivational running music, but I am gradually slowing down.

And then it happens.

I stagger to a halt. My shoulders slump and I shake my head. I have not pulled a muscle or had a heart attack. I am suddenly and inexplicably too knackered to carry on running.

This has never happened to me before. I wheeze and pull my lead-filled legs back towards the direction of home.

I am not a better runner than Paula Radcliffe after all. How depressing. I have broken down just like she did at the Olympics. Boooo!!! For a few minutes I thought I had discovered a world-beating talent that I did not know I had. But I am just her equal.

I check my pants just to see if I have soiled myself. But I am clean. So I am a bit better than her after all.

Short aside…

This week, I’m taking part in a series of interview/debates about the General Election at Ben’s site, Silent Words Speak Loudest.

There aren’t any jokes, just a bunch of normal people chewing the fat. If you’re after jokes, This is this is well worth a peruse.

“There you go. Room 123, sir. Down the corridor.”

“Thanks.”

I wandered out of the foyer, just catching the start of the next interaction at the reception desk. “I’d like to complain in the strongest possible terms about my room…”

Room 123 was certainly down the corridor. There is a law in country house hotels that states that your room is never actually in the country house, but has to be situated in a late-sixties concrete annexe that has been bolted on the back by somebody who forged their architecture certificate.

I hiked down the corridor.

Our room was not exactly how the description on the leaflet had portrayed it. It was a sort of cross between a hotel room and a place to which Mr Howard would send people for processing. I gazed sadly through the window out onto the Gatwick flight path.

Dinner was interesting, and silver service (of course). The melon starter was, well, melony, but was nothing compared to the beef, which appeared to have been sourced from the Screwfix catalogue. But there was wine – lots of wine – and the goodwill and cheer from being there to support a Good Cause.

“This is all odd, isn’t it?” I remarked, as I sat back with Short Tony, Big A and the womenfolk (that is a really good and useful word that I haven’t used before). The fact was, that we’d never been out of the village together before. It was like one of those sitcom Christmas specials where you take the normal characters but set it overseas for no particular reason.

I had another drink whilst Big A hit the dancefloor like a man gesticulating angrily to a friend at a seventh floor window.