My drug shame

Sorry I haven't blogged for a bit. Stuff happened and, well, that's about it. Anyway, all's good now and all I can say is that they won't find the body - so we're all ok.

My lack of blogging meant I failed to share a story that I had published on the highly amusing www.b3ta.com site. They were asking for 'your drugs stories' and rather than the time I played 3 hours of 'loopin louie' whilst eating wagonwheels (you can draw your own conclusions) I went for a more wholesome tale. So I sent the below. It is utterly true btw, and I thought it was worth sharing.

When I first began driving I borrowed my mum's car a lot. Enjoying the freedom of the road I soon stocked up on indie compilation tapes and sweets and visited friends around the country.

One evening my mum came back from work and asked to sit down for a serious talk. She pulled out a small white tablet embossed with a letter on it and said to me, with tears in her eyes: "I found this in my car. I want you to answer me straight. Is this drugs?"

I took it off her, looked at it (I'd obviously dropped it in the car) and told her the truth in a calm tone of voice.

"No. It's a Smint."

What a load of rubbish

I've been down in the dumps recently. ACtually, that joke doesn't work as well these days when you have to say "I was down at the recycling centre today" - honestly, progress is ruining old gags. Thankfully someone I work with told me he was going to speak to someone about getting his eyes lasered and I did the old "I've come to get my eyes sorted" - "That's as maybe sir, this is the butchers". Some gags progress can't touch.

Anyway I digress.

I've been down at our local rubbish emporiums recently, shifting the usual from the garden - leaves, branches, Myleene Klass's still twitching corpse - and it's been hard work, thankfully the hourly trips to the dump offer comic gold.

Firstly there's the brilliantly random signage. They've got a big area for scrap metal so they've painted in 3 foot high letters "SCAAP", forgetting that the letters A & R are not the same.

Then there's the brilliant sign on the landfill skips that say "NO CHILDREN". I'm very close to walking up with a smallish bin-bag and asking the men at the dump 'I need to recycle these children, if so - which area?'

And the men who work there are brilliant, sometimes helpful, sometimes overly interested in my rubbish. I brought an old lawnmower down and some chap immediately said "I'll help you with that". But when I passed the area for electrical goods later it wasn't there, I imagine it's on ebay by now or he's riding it round the back of the dump. I once got rid of a pool table and I was assailed by about half a dozen workers who were all determined to "get rid of that for me". It's like The Wombles meets Shameless.

The final thing about the dump is that it instills that primal spirit in me - I am man, I have been to dump - making me feel I could easily pop home and assemble furniture or perhaps kill a mammoth before tea.

I didn't by the way, as I wouldn't know which recyling bin to put a mammoth in after I'd killed it.

Criminally bad timing

Just a quickie today - a story of bad timing that, thankfully, has ended up with me just blogging about it rather than being in a cell or something.

The other day me and the missus were out gardening. I was doing my manly "mow the front lawn with ipod on" and she was in the back, decimating weeds. Lisa then spotted that one of the trees in our garden was dangerously branching out onto the road over our wall and that the stem was splintering away.

We decided to take emergency action and cut the branch off. As it was about 12 foot long it was left precariously balanced on our fence - half in our garden, half now all over the road. We couldn't shift it from the just garden, so I climbed over the fence - next to our For Sale sign - using a stepladder, swung the ladder over the wall and got down the other side. (Bear with me).

I grabbed the long branch and leaves and moved it off the road and then shinned back up the ladder to get it back over the fence.

So there I was. In the scruffiest clothing I had, unshaven, up a step ladder, by a fence, next to a for sale sign...when the Police video van happened to drive by. Spot me. And reverse up the road.

I couldn't have looked more suspicious if I'd had a bag with 'Swag' written on it. Or perhaps be brandishing a candle stick yelling "I'm coming for you Colonel Mustard."

Thankfully a quick chat to explain I was the homeowner and trying to shift a dangerous branch was more compelling than me trying to break into a vacant house. But, my lord, I felt guilty. After a few minutes they were satisfied with my explanation and I was able to get back into the garden.

I found Lisa hiding behind one of the trees, having remained utterly silent throughout the whole incident. She whispered to me "I didn't know what to do, so I just hid the saw." I think we've watched too much CSI, with priority number one being 'hide the murder weapon'.

Thinking about it now, whilst the Police were right to stop why would a burglar also be tidying branches up - presumably a very thoughtful horticulturarly-minded one - and be armed with a saw (not the best weapon for burglarly, unless the homeowner is ostensibly wooden.)

A best of all? They didn't find the body we'd just buried...

Balls

If you've come here expecting a testes-related post, I apologise, it was just a ruse to get you to read about my sporting prowess. Actually, the idea of a testes-related post did lead you here then I'd be considering therapy about now.

I'm not the best sportsman in the world, but I'm not the worst. Last night I played cricket for the first time in 10 years. I've not really played much before, in fact the last match was for charity and I ended up nearly breaking the ribs of a batsman. Not with my bowling, he was on my team and I ran into him with the handle of the bat. And I got run out. Oh, the unfairness.

Anyway, last night I made up the numbers in a game and something happened I'm now convinced that I am blessed by the sporting gods, but only for about 2 minutes in whatever sport I play. Everyone had to bowl in the 20 over match and after 9 overs (i.e. the rest of the team had bowled) my turn came. I stepped up, chucked a half decent, possibly spinning, ball down the pitch and the batsman launched an almighty slog at it. It sailed majestically over my head and towards the boundary. But not far enough to the boundary, as I watched in amazement it dropped into the hands of a fielder.

Colman's lifetime figures. 1 ball. 1 wicket. 0 runs conceded.

As the fielder trotted over, beaming, I announced to the team my retirement from the game. They didn't take me seriously. They should have of course, because in came a huge man who - after prodding defensively at the next 3 balls - hit me for two sixes in a row.

Colman's lifetime figures. 1 over. 1 wicket. 12 runs conceded.

So I wasn't the Phil Tufnell I was hoping for, but that one moment of unexpected joy sums up my sporting career. I've never won trophies or medals, but I've always had a few great moments. Let me stress now, I haven't made any of these up, if I was going to do that they would be a lot more impressive.

Football
Asked by a bloke I drank with in Torquay if I'd fancy playing for The Kents Cavern pub, I sat on the bench in the first half before coming on at the start of the second. The game kicked off and a few passes later and our winger was bearing down on goal, but as he went to shoot he was tackled and the ball shot across the pitch straight into my path - first time shot, goal. In under 25 seconds on my debut. First touch of a ball.

Rugby
At school we had sports tops that were reversible. Red on one side, red with a big white stripe on the other. As we warmed up in a class v class match it started to rain, and when it came to kick off I realised I had to change my top. Sadly the rain had made the top so wet it was proving impossible and I had one arm in the top when the ball was punted forward straight to me. I caught it and, with just one arm in my top, somehow managed to sprint full pelt (I was 11) and beat the ENTIRE opposition team before touching down. All with one arm in my top.

Darts
My brother and I used to spend a lot of time playing darts, as it was a lot cheaper than pool (skinflints eh?). Usually our games of 301 took about 20 minutes, often getting down to a double 1 finish. Then one night I threw a treble 20, a treble 20 and, without hestitating, another treble 20. A 180. I leapt in the air whooping, so much so that a nearby dog went mental with fright - whilst my brother was on his back waving his hands in the air sharing the emotion. Yes, we had been drinking.

Golf
Well, pitch and putt. And this really isn't made up. The Three Hammers golf course in Wolverhampton runs alongside a dual carriageway. On one hole I sliced the tee shot, it flew off, hit a tree and pinged out through the hedge onto the road. There was an almighty crack as it clearly hit a car. Bricking it, I ran off the tee - sure that the next thing I would hear was a crash. I didn't. Instead I got to the green to find my ball sitting there. It had sliced, hit a tree, gone through hedge and hit a car at the exact angle and speed to put it back over the hedge and onto the green. I putted in for a birdie.

So those are my sporting triumphs. No, I've never won a cup (or that many games of anything really) but the mad highlights reel that plays in my mind has those few moments listed above and that's good enough for me.

On wearing a kilt

I wore a kilt last weekend. Alright, plenty of you reading will find this an utterly common experience and half of you probably wear things like dresses and skirts all the time. I know for a fact two of the blokes reading this do. But as it was only my second time I thought it was worth talking about.

Anyway, it was my second Scottish wedding where I've worn a kilt. It wasn't a cunning survival plan to stop the Braveheart like masses tearing me to shreds - Englands performance in the World Cup has tempered the traditional north/south hatred. We're now all as bad as each other.

No, it was a choice thing. I wore a kilt a few years back and was thoroughly happy to do so. Here's a rundown on my kilt wearing information for those of you considering.

It's comfy..once it's on
I say comfy. By that I mean once you are strapped in. And that takes some time. Once the kilt is on, the dress shirt, the waistcoat, the socks, the shoes, the laces, the heroin needles, the metal belt, the shortbread, the deep-fried mars bar, the imitation plastic knife, the stock 'flashes', the sporran and the jacket. I had help from the wife this time, last time I did it on my own. It was like watching a laboratory mouse try to assemble an IKEA dressing table when he's been given the instruction manual for a 1982 Sony Walkman. But as I say, once you are in it's all very comfy. It holds you in place and makes you stand upright. And yes, the breeze is lovely.

Sporrans are cool
You can get more in a sporran than you think (no sniggering) - it's positively TARDIS like. But when you fumble for loose change you are aware that people might think you're doing something dirty. People will also hit your sporran (men and women). I think this is a custom, it could just be a way of warding off sexual predators.

Don't go to the toilet
Honestly. Hold it in. Whatever it is. To do one thing requires a lot of sporran rotation/kilt pleat holding. To do anything more than that requires a team of four, chicken wire and high powered magnets.

It stays with you long after you've finished
The kilt is a comfy thing, but you feel like you're still wearing it a day later such is the weight and tightness of the whole ensemble. It's like you've looked at a kilt shaped lightbulb all day and all you can now see is that silhoutte. But in muscular form.

I'll do it again
Sadly the chance of more Scottish weddings hangs with two cousins and at 10 and 14 they are still a little way off being married yet. But I guess I'm available for parties dressed like that, so maybe I'll get a gig doing Scots-a-grams.

Maybe not.