Y’KNOW the bearded bloke in the illustrations for 70s best seller, ‘The Joy Of Sex’? I’m sure he delivers our milk.
He looks exactly like the drawings – a bit older and not naked any more, but a dead ringer. Until I clock him in one of the sexual positions in the adult manual, I can’t be sure, though.
And that’s unlikely. Milkmen don’t usually adopt the “praying mantis’ pose – not even when picking up the empties. I could buy a dog and use it to force the milkman to strike a sexual posture, but it’s a lot of trouble. And a bloody embarrassing court case. Yesterday morning, I casually introduced the subject into a conversation about needing an extra pint of ‘stera’ at weekends. “I’m sure I’ve seen a drawing of you in a book,” I probed, “entwined in the throes of athletic sexually activity.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells,” he answered breezily after a minute’s thought. “I appeared in a Birmingham City programme once, wearing a donkey jacket, holding a rattle and with one of those great big, false hands.”
“Of course,” I exclaimed, colouring slightly. “That’s it! I must’ve seen that and confused it with 56 erotic illustrations. Funny how, at first glance, a man in a donkey jacket on the terraces can look like something out of the Kama Sutra.”
“Easy mistake to make,” said the milkman before retreating down the drive whistling.
Everybody had that book. My dad hid his among other manuals, which caused confusion. Twice he and mom mistakenly tried to spice-up their love life with a Hillman Avenger owners’ guide.
Hours of fumbling under the sheets in a fruitless search for a brake fluid nipple.
The “Brew Your Own” booklet was even worse. Dad would leave mom to ferment for hours – in the airing cupboard. I found their copy, but it was simply littered with big, medical words – like appendix. Where’s the appendix?
“It’s at the back,” explained Julie. I’ll need a little bit more to go on. “Of the book,” she added.
What did they do before ‘The Joy Of Sex’ was published? Ask our milkman a lot of embarrassing questions, I suppose.
“What man needs a book to find out how to make love?” I reasoned during an impassioned speech in the smoke-free Jug and Jester.
“That’s right,” Colin concurred. “You get video or DVD these days.”
“No one has to be taught the art of reproduction – it’s an instinctive part of our make-up.”
“That’s right,” added Colin. “Sex is the most beautiful, natural thing money can buy.”
“It is not an act so complex that manuals are required,” I told the gathered drinkers. “A naked man and woman share a bed together...”
“You are bloody kidding me!” shrieked Colin, before adding: “If one has left his vest on, does it still count?”
HUNDREDS we’ve spent kitting out our son for a return to education after the long summer break.
This school uniform lark is a rip-off – and I’ve complained about it term after term. I even wrote to Joe's headteacher, asking if there was any chance of making Leamington FC tops the school uniform.
He'd have none of it. I’ve even tried copying the school crest, but got the Latin wrong. Joe was the only kid who went to school with the SOS “help – my centurion is on fire” on his blazer pocket.
It’s not what a child looks like that counts, it’s what he or she achieves in the classroom.
“Is that why you sent your son to us in a World War Two German stormtroopers uniform?” asked the head, Mr Himmler, in a particularly snotty letter.
It was on special offer at the Army and Navy store. Buy two, get an Iron Cross.
“Our greatest objection was not to the battle fatigues,” wrote Mr Himmler, “it was to your son's refusal to remove his gas mask. We also felt the tin helmet was inappropriate during football matches – and made life extremely difficult for the nit nurse.”
Him up the road has been granted dispensation by the education authority on the grounds he dropped a TV on his toe and can't work.
He dropped the telly on his toe while trying to escape the TV detector van.
He should’ve got a licence, but the set would've weighed the same, I suppose.
His three kids are allowed to go to school in Manchester United kits. Their studs have ruined the assembly hall floor. They support Leeds, but staff feared they may be mistaken for school crossing wardens in the white and yellow.
“It is our duty to prepare pupils for employment,” added the headteacher. “They will, doubtless, be in a work environment where certain dress codes have to be followed and certain attire deemed desirable or undesirable. Our aim is to replicate those regulations and restrictions as far as possible.”
“Joe,” I shouted, “you know you wanted to do something in forensics. The head says it's OK to wear the paper bodysuit.”
I FEEL very, very old. I’ve always said that I've got more hair now than I had 30 years ago – if you count the wiry stuff sprouting from my ears.
But now that's gone grey and only a fool boasts about grey ear hair. During my time on this planet I’ve seen the departure of 27 Blue Peter presenters, ten Doctor Whos and the creation of 15 new crisp flavours. Whatever next in this turbulent, ever changing world? Cod flavour, probably.
“Who would've thought,” I mused, “that a whole nation would one day stave off starvation by simply turning on a tap.” “You're talking about irrigation in Africa,” nodded Julie. No, I’m talking about Pot Noodles.
“You can do things that men half your age can’t do,” reasoned Julie, “like sleeping in the afternoon and urinating for ten minutes.” She’s right. But a grainy, black and white picture of myself, and classmates, in our weekly paper’s “Past Times” nostalgia feature has made me painfully aware that I’ve been on this planet a long, long time.
What hurts the most is they didn't include my name: I was simply “?” in the long caption. They had Eamonn Mumford’s name – and he joined a monastery at 18. And a kid from Austria who was on a two week school exchange.
They even had the school cook who was sacked after doing something unspeakable with the chocolate slab pudding and pink custard. He served it to us!
I rang the editor, with the curt answer: “Still here.”
“So you're the fat one, third left, bottom row, with the greasy hair and a stain on your shirt?” he said. “That's probably a mark on the original picture,” I explained.
“The greasy hair or the stained shirt – or all of you?” he asked.
I pointed out the reason the reader who helpfully provided the picture didn't know my name was because I'd received special one-to-one help for long periods of my school life. “From the maths teacher?” No, the nit nurse.
He stressed the paper was perfectly within its rights to reproduce the 37-year-old print because the school and my parents had agreed at the time that it could be viewed by a large audience, thus placing it firmly in the public domain. “Are your readers really interested in an ancient picture of Mike Lockley?” I protested.
“On the grounds no one can remember you, I'd say no,” assured the newshound. “But one of the lads became quite a prominent surgeon.” Heart or brain, I asked? “Tree.”
The editor intends to run a follow-up on the picture, with missing names included. “Do you have a particular memory of your time at the school?”
I told him I certainly had. Once they “debagged” me, hung my trousers from the rugby post and put boot polish on my bare backside.“And did the lessons learnt at school help you in your career?” “They certainly did,” I stressed. “I’ve been a writer for over 30 years and not one person has managed to smear shoe polish on my buttocks.”
MY mate says his elderly father has one foot in the grate. I told him he meant ‘grave’, but he insists he’s right. They’re looking at cremation.
WENT into our chippie and asked for fish and chips twice. Owner said he heard me the first time.
I HAD a lonely childhood. I was the kid next door’s imaginary friend!
TIP OF THE WEEK... Olympic athletes, hide the fact you’ve taken steroids by running a bit slower.
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