It’s the little things that make me laugh in life. Yesterday I witnessed a spherical chap order a Diet Coke with a large bag of chips. Well, it made me smile. And so did a telephone call from my pal, Eunuch. I’ll let you in to my private life – well, his – and introduce him, shall I?
Eunuch once grappled with asexuality. But he is now showing worryingly libidinous traits. He has struck up a relationship with a Russian lady on the internet, and things are rather hotting up. Her daily epistle – by email with tasteful photographs – continues from behind the Iron Curtain, with ever-increasing signs of seriousness.
He telephones me via loudspeaker today – he happens to be soaping himself in the shower, at the time – to ask for my home address. ‘The Russian embassy need it for her visa,’ he explains casually. Heavens, I don’t mind my place being used for a spot of romance while I’m away but this is starting to smack of KGB. Or identity theft, at the very least.
‘I’ve told her not to come until July, but she’s trying to bring the date forward to next week,’ he adds, lathering his undercarriage. Dubbed the “Kazan kiss of death” (by me), her pictures are rather titillating; I can see what’s got him so worked up.
Well, who am I to stand in the way of young love, eh? And what can go wrong? Eunuch plans to impress her with a cup of tea, out of a roadside van, on the way back from Gatwick Airport. Good luck mate – we all have our fingers crossed.
Meanwhile, the AC/DC tour potters along – today we are in Leipzig, achieving rather less than I would have liked. I borrowed a broom, you see, from Number One – our lead driver. Now take into account that he’s had this broom for nigh on a decade; perhaps you can picture him understandably peeved when, within four eminently gentle sweeps, it snaps. Whoops!
So, instead of investigating the old town – the world’s first newspaper was published here in 1650 – I’m fooling about in hardware stores, desperate for a replacement brush. And I’ve had to appease Namibian today too, because, like nearly all of us, including me, he hit the roof of the stadium this morning.
He is ruffled, knee bouncing up and down nineteen to the dozen with nerves. To look at him, anybody would think that the world had collapsed. My placatory, ‘What’s the matter, fatty? There’s no damage done,’ does little to soothe him. Honestly, why these buildings’ entrances are made so low that trucks can’t get in without a scrape, I shall never know..