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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...
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...
‘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...
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...
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...
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....
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...
‘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...
‘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...
‘Where does Bus 16 go?’ asked the bus driver, nonchalantly munching an apple-core. The route, admittedly, was not one of his, but I was hoping for a more reassuring response from a staff member. Inside Perth Bus Station, two adjacent offices offered conflicting information, both encouraging me to secure a timetable from the other....
