TALKED into taking part in an inter-parish charity football match for the church roof appeal: a project, according to our vicar, which is ‘close to all our hearts.’
The Lockleys’ project to get a new flat-screen TV is closer, to be honest. Having risked life and limb to aid the church, I intend to ask the CofE for a donation towards our telly.
The Rev Ricky, our trendy vicar, has told me on more than one occasion that all men are equal in the eyes of God. Yet the cleric, who proved a demon on the wing, called me a useless, fat prat after I slipped on dog excrement and fell on him.
The motley crowd of kids who fringed the unkempt pitch didn’t help by shouting, ‘that man’s got breasts’ every time I made a mazy run. At one point, I engaged the hecklers, telling them they’d get man-breasts too, when they’re 50. Three of them cried and, I’ve been told, one is still so traumatised by the thought he wets the bed. Come the next charity fixture, he's going to get that thrown back in his face.
I somehow made it through 90 minutes and managed to kick the ball once. It hit a passing tractor.
We were pitched against a team from the neighbouring parish which included Old Tom, who once had a trial for Racing Club Warwick, and his son, Daz, who once had a trial for taking sat navs out of cars.
Warwick ‘let Tom go.’ The judicial system didn't let Daz go. He served six months in a young offenders’ institute. Presto, the children’s entertainer, also turned out and the younger spectators were disappointed to discover his feet weren’t really three feet long.
He played as if they were, though. Every time he missed, water came out of the fake flower pinned to his shirt.
In a nip-and-tuck encounter, we lost 17-9. The vicar, in his match report for the church magazine, described it as ‘a great lark, thoroughly enjoyed by players and spectators alike.’
At the final whistle, he accused me of being at fault for four goals and dubbed me the worst footballer it had been his misfortune to play alongside.
That’s unfair. One of our team stopped for a smoke mid-way through the second-half. He was a pipe-smoker.
It also rained continually on the demented individuals who turned up to watch. The same group have weekly outings to see the cows being milked. And when they got wind a badger had been run over they hired a minibus.
A parasite that had lain dormant in the treacle-thick mud attacked one spectator’s foot and he will require surgery. It was hard to believe as they bundled him into the ambulance, his ashen face creased in pain, that this was a man who had indulged in a great lark.
People react to great larks in different ways, I suppose. He reacted with intermittent, blood-curdling screams.
None of the above, salient points appeared in the vicar’s jolly report. There was only a paragraph on another page announcing that the parish is praying for Kevin and his family during the anxious wait to discover how far gangrene has spread up his foot.
If amputation is required above the ankle, there’ll be another charity soccer match – for him.
The match raised £57. Another £142,000 and the roof will be fixed, which is a lot of football.
TOOK the wife for a meal at a really swanky restaurant.
The menu included a ‘daub’ of beef.
I haven’t seen a daub of beef since Aunt Maggie died. She had no teeth so we took her beef, put it in the blender, then daubed it on the plate. When she had pizza, we had to look away.
I didn’t have the daub of beef because my teeth are OK. I plumped for the wild pigeon. I asked if a tame pigeon would be cheaper because it’s easier to catch, but they didn't have any.
Odd that. There were thousands in the shopping centre only yards away.
“Would you like that with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar?” asked the waiter.
Dunno, how long do you drizzle for?
“Seconds, sir.”
That’s a sudden shower, surely? “Forget the drizzle of balsamic vinegar,” I told him, “but if you’ve got any Daddies sauce, I’ll have a steady downpour.”
Not much meat on a pigeon, I can tell you.
“How did you find your bird, sir?” asked the waiter.
By lifting a lettuce leaf!
WENT out for a meal with friends and knocked over a bottle of wine. It’s the terrible silence that follows such a public faux pas that hurts the most.
At school, such a mishap would spark roars and stamping of feet, which I preferred to the shocked looks of fellow diners.
“Believe it or not,” I shouted at guests in a bid to make light of the dining disaster, “I only had two sips. I'm not drunk.”
“Just useless,” hissed She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed.
“Daddy,” piped-up one little girl at an adjacent table, “that man has spilt his drink all over the table.”
“I know, I know,” I snapped. “Very observant. Brown Owl will be very proud of you.”
“Is everything OK, Sir?” asked the waiter, eyeing the vino-stained carnage and sodden clothes.
“Marvellous,” I felt like telling him. "I always pour the entire contents of a wine bottle on my table cloth to test the temperature. It seems fine – I’ll have another.”
“Perhaps you’d like another table, Sir?” enquired the waiter, attempting to mop up around us.
We’re sitting in puddles of warm house red. What do you think? “No, I rather like the sensation of wine dripping onto my crotch?”
“Could’ve been worse,” I reasoned after we’d been re-located.
“How?” demanded Julie. “Were you thinking of buying a bottle of paint stripper?”
After paying for the meal, I invited our friends back. “We’ll stop at an off-licence and buy a couple of bottles.”
“No need,” said one shaken colleague. “I'll be fine sucking my shirt.”
JOE’S mates indulged in a sleep-over at Chateau Lockley last weekend.
One was OK – chirpy, and polite, another chewed his nails and grunted.
When he wasn’t grunting, he was eating. Sometimes he grunted while eating, which was a tad off-putting.
“That lad is weird,” I told our son after the youths had packed up and gone. “I couldn’t understand a word he said.
“He thinks you’re weird,” flashed Joe. “The only thing you said to him during the entire two days was, ‘you’re sitting on the TV remote’.”
The channel changed every time he shuffled on the settee. He should’ve sussed that out for himself.
He mumbled something on leaving which could have been, ‘thanks for having me.’ Or could it have been: ‘I need the lavatory.’?
THREE bloody minutes I smashed that tea tray against my head while yodelling ‘Mule Train.’ Were the X Factor judges impressed? Were they heck!
“Pleeease Simon,” I pleaded. “I know I can get better – the deep gashes in my scalp will heal in three weeks. I’ll even use an iron next time. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” I blubbed. “That, and licking my elbows.”
Simon Cowell would have none of it. He said I couldn’t sustain a showbiz career by hitting my head with a variety of household implements, but could sustain double vision.
“Mike Lockley!” I sneered at Cowell and Co, pointing an accusing finger at the panel of so-called experts. “Remember the name – because after another five years of banging my head with a tray I won’t.”
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