“You’re not the only one.”

Posted on by JonnyB

Submissions are open for this – a Lulu-published book in aid of the Warchild charity.

In the manner of Shaggy Blog Stories (which is still available – go buy one), Peach, who occasionally lurks in the comments box, is donning an Editor’s hat. She will look quite fit in it, with her woman’s face.

There’s a bit of a wider remit than for SBS – i.e. it doesn’t have to be funny. What it does have to be is under 1500 words and about ‘something you’ve been through from any aspect of your life that you want to share’.

I am trying to think of something, as I only really ‘do’ funny, apart from bits that are meant to be funny but don’t work out that way. I may write a short Misery Memoir about living next door to Short Tony.

Either way, please do get involved. There are full details over at Peach’s site. Go have a look.

I make a shocking discovery.

Posted on by JonnyB

The LTLP gazes unusually kindly upon me as I stumble round the kitchen. I have returned from a memorial service that has made me a) maudlin and sentimental and b) horrendously and embarrassingly pissed thanks to the generosity of the family concerned, and the fast-track ‘get horrendously and embarrassingly pissed’ gold card facilities of the Village Pub.

There is a crashing noise from next door, announcing the fact that Short Tony has returned also.

Something to eat is a priority. The LTLP offers several options, none of which seem quite right in the circumstances. There is something nagging at me. It is unusual to have something nagging at me that is not her, and I spend some time trying to identify the source of nag. Eventually I dredge up an old memory, of a man coming to the front door bearing a leaflet.

“You do?!?” I splutter at the telephone, incredulous, like a younger J.R. Hartley with half a pint of Adnams soaked into his shirt. “My name? It’s…”

I get on the phone to Short Tony. “I’vefoundakebabshopthat’lldeliver,” I slur. “To the Village.”

There are disbelieving noises at his end of the line. “It’s just,” I continue, “that they have a minimum order requirement.”

“Sorry. I’d love to,” he slurs. “But I’m cooking some pasta. For the diet.”

There are disbelieving noises on my end of the line, followed by a short argument. I ring off, and crossly ring Big A.

“He’s gone straight to sleep,” barks Mrs Big A. “No – he will not be having a kebab. I’ve cooked him dinner. I had cooked him dinner. And what the hell have you lot been…”

I ring off once more. Boooooooooo – nobody else wants a kebab. In the end I order sixteen pounds worth of kebab for myself and fall asleep during the first one.

I’m not sure how I can possibly get across what an implausible yet marvellous thing it is to find a kebab shop that will deliver to the Village. It is like a magic doorway of sustainance leading out from isolational hell. The only realistic parallel I can think of is that of a starving village in Africa where Oxfam have gone and built a well. And we didn’t even expect Oxfam to come to do all the kebabbing for us, which sheds some perspective on that continent’s difficulties. I will inform Bob Geldof and the man from Toto.

The Cottage smells of kebabs the next morning. I consider microwaving one up for breakfast, but decide against it.

Snooker update.

Posted on by JonnyB

At the beginning of the season, the league organisers took half a look at the Village team playing before allowing us all a generous handicap of 21 points. That meant that we got a 21-point head start against basically anybody who had ever picked up a snooker cue in their lives, ever.

Half way through the season, following our regime of practising, completing league and cup games, and playing semi-competitive matches amongst ourselves, they have come to regret their decision. As from the start of 2008 they have decided to up our handicap to 28 points, this being the maximum that anybody can have.

We were determined to prove them wrong in the first home fixture under the new regime, and thus pulled out all the stops and raised our game accordingly. After losing five frames to nil, we decided to stay for a practice frame amongst ourselves. The opposition elected to stay and watch because ‘it will be entertaining’.

This week we pulled off a huge coup, playing one of the best teams in the league!!! Medium-sized John required a snooker – which he got!!! Before we lost five frames to nil. I proudly took my opponent to a black-ball finish, as I started with a 28 point lead and he kept fouling. But I then missed the black ball completely thus conceding the frame.

There is something honourable in being so bad at something yet persisting. There is a piety yet a self-fulfilment that one simply does not get with success. Years back, everybody laughed at Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards for being a fundamentally blind rubbish ski-jumper who practised by crouching in his skis strapped atop a plasterer’s van that sped round the streets of Gloucestershire. But he was one of the true English heroes, and so are we all.

I go to the builders’ yard.

Posted on by JonnyB

I am always intimidated by builders’ yards.

The people that run builders’ yards have some sort of infallible ESP about you as soon as you walk in, no matter how you act or dress. This time, I cross the threshold with a bullish air, determined to radiate confidence in my abilities to choose building materials. Unfortunately, loud sirens immediately wail out, and a big neon sign with pointy things starts flashing ‘not a builder! not a builder!’ above my head.

I swat at it, irritably.

“Er – how much is that?” I ask the man, waving at some fencing and attempting to look as if I spend my entire life buying and putting up fencing. I give the fence a sneer.

“That’s… about twenty,” he replies, having sized me up. Damn him. I do not have the courage to ask what factors affect the ‘about’ aspect of the cost. I nod sagely, before remembering to shake my head at the ridiculous price he is asking for his fencing when I could get it for half that from any number of my usual fence suppliers.

“Is that including or excluding VAT?” I ask, cleverly.

“Including,” he replies. This is annoying. He should have quoted me excluding, as I am clearly in the trade.

I give a ‘that is inconvenient as now I am going to have to work it out excluding as actually all this stuff is to do with my successful fencing business’ type shrug. “Fine,” I tell him. “Have you got any – ummm – I need some wire like chicken wire,” I ask.

“What sort?”

“Well – chicken wire,” I clarify, trying not to give him the impression that I am one more idiot who has decided that by keeping half a dozen hens in his back garden he is suddenly an important part of the stewardship of the countryside.

“What size holes are you after?”

I am stumped by this. I haven’t a clue how big the chickens will be.

“One inch, or two inches?”

I’m fairly sure that even Short Tony and I will be able to get the chickens to the sort of size where they won’t be able to get through either of those gauges. He gives me his price, which I write on my important scrap of paper.

“Thanks,” I say, all my price research complete.

“You’re welcome.”

“Yes – I’ll measure up and pop back to order it,” I promise. “With my van.”