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I’m spoiled, really. How many men can boast of owning a helicopter? Holy Cow, very Fifty Shades. It comes with its problems, naturally – e.g. time to fly it – but these are by no means insuperable. But in order to fly such a precision machine, one must don goggles, pervert gloves – Holy Fuck,…
The other evening I received a text message from a pal. It read: ‘Been on www.grannyslappers.co.uk? The lecturer from Putney is gonna get my knob asap.’ Well, I was touched at his evident warmth for this girl, a creature that he would no doubt run a mile in tight shoes for. In fact, wanting to…
I’m being ridiculed. What for? Well, for mentioning that I thought Morgan Freeman was sex on legs in the movie Along Came a Spider. What’s worse, though, is that the man passing judgement is my pal Eunuch, a chap who admits to finding it ergonomically impractical to wear one’s girlfriend’s knickers. ‘You’ll always call me…
‘Ready Dad?’ I asked. The last thermos lid had been screwed on tight; walking boots had been donned. ‘More or less,’ he rejoined, scampering out of the conservatory door. ‘What do you mean by less,’ I pressed. ‘Well, I’ve just got to wander round the back of the garage for a wee-wee.’ Does the word…
It’s an abomination. You won’t believe this, but Gemma “Blast her Eyes” Atterton didn’t email me last week. Extraordinary, I know, given my frightfully generous offer of a bath, but I guess she was either on a tight filming schedule or didn’t have access to Wi-Fi. No, I’m being obtuse – obviously, she was too…
Down on Hastings seafront is a hodgepodge of film lorries. ‘Expecting any stars, are we?’ I asked a chap unloading his van. ‘Heaps of them,’ he said brusquely. I felt like one of those imbecilic fatheads (also known as fans) that have seriously approached me on a U2 Tour, asking, ‘So which truck…
If you happen to be passing Lyme Regis in Dorset, pop into The Fossil Shop for a journey back in time. From behind a replica shark jaw – replete with real, 250-million-year-old Florida shark teeth – emerges a shopkeeper. ‘All right?’ he asks cordially, and proceeds to explain how the fossils are created. ‘The…
Coo, this clay is heavy. After a good deal of waggling – or is it wiggling? – my leg is once again mobile. But simply lifting the mud-caked foot requires the strength of a superhuman; the weight of the boot – needing both arms to lift it – is like constantly dragging a medium-sized child…
‘Is there a path, Dad?’ I holler. Ahead of me, an intrepid figure – beneath a cap with “Sports” marked on the back – flails among impenetrable brambles. ‘Yes, if you’re a badger,’ he yells back. Blood is leaking from his left forearm. We are trying to walk the South West Coast Path in Dorset:…
‘This is where my route falls down,’ admits my father. ‘I don’t know how to get back.’ Taking a sanguine view, he pours our well-deserved tonic – a flask of tea – and consults the map again. His finger traces the disused railway line we’re cycling along, and he absent-mindedly eats my last apple and…
