COLLIDED cars with a dwarf in one of the narrow country lanes that thread through our picturesque parish.
He jumped out of his vehicle and shouted: “I’m not happy!”
“Which one are you then,” I enquired?
FROWNING uses more muscles than smiling.
So next time you see someone grinning, remember: he’s not happy, he’s just lazy.
MY uncle - a circus clown - died recently. All his friends went to the funeral in one car.NUMBER One Son’s GCSEs went better than expected, with the exception of home economics - cooking to you and me - and science.
Joe got an E for his gastronomic expertise.
I asked his teacher, who has developed a pronounced twitch since the 16-year-old joined her course, what that was equivalent to.
She said it was equivalent to a restaurant being closed down by environmental health officers - or a really bad case of the runs.
Mind you, an F is rats in the kitchen. An E is simply finding their droppings.
Even worse, my wife helped the 16-year-old prepare for the practical part of his exam, grandly entitled A Culinary Journey Through Italy. It should have been entitled A Culinary Journey Through Italy With Quite A few Toilet Breaks Along The Way.
Julie even made a number of miniature Italian flags to be placed on the table in a lame attempt to woo the examination panel.
The flags were the most edible part of the feast, apparently.
Certainly the least poisonous fare on offer - and she used lead paint.
If they’d just eaten the flags, Joe would’ve got a C.
I’m simply glad his cookery lessons are over. We no longer dread Thursdays: the day our son would bring home cuisine - I use the term in its loosest sense - he’d created in class and force us to eat it.
People have played Russian roulette with lighter hearts.
Returning with botulism culture on a Petri dish would’ve been easier to prepare and have the same effect. Julie said Joe forced the food on us because he wanted good grades.
I think he wanted the house and car.
“This looks great,” I’d lie. “I don’t know what it is but there’s scrambled egg in it.”
“It’s trifle dad,” sighed the defeated fledgling cook before storming upstairs.
“That’s an interesting arrangement,” I once commented, spying the unusual mix of textures and colours.
“It’s the cover of my exercise book,” sniffed the youth, “I had a bit of an accident.”
Football stewards prevented us from taking his ‘shortbread fingers’ into the Coventry City ground, fearing they could injure someone.
I told them they already had: I’d stopped four times for the loo getting there - and it’s only a 25-minute drive.
If those were fingers, they didn’t belong to anyone who wanted to play the piano.
The stewards feared the rock-hard ‘nibbles’ - ‘nibble’ one of those and you’d never play the mouth-organ again - could be flung into the throng of supporters, causing serious injury.
“Who is going to hurl these shortbread fingers,” I asked, brandishing one of the charred biscuits, “besides a food critic - or Joe’s teacher?”
They said Cardiff City supporters.
NUMBER One Son’s science exam didn’t go well. I asked him what he got on it and he said: ‘Saliva, mostly.”
“All the questions were stupid,” seethed the youngster.
“They wanted to know about the mating habits of African clawed toads. What good will that ever be to me?”
I’m not sure. Bachelorhood brings with it dark, desperate times.
I’m equally unsure about the mating cycle of the African clawed toad because Morris - the toughest kid in our biology class - prised the male from the female while they were still in the throes of reproduction.
They’d been locked together for four days and Morris said he’d simply got bored with it, which suggested he was interested to start with.
It was a protest. He felt more attractive creatures should be used to illustrate reproduction - like bunny girls.
Joe has excelled in maths and art, which explains why he’s so good at painting by numbers. If anyone needs a new lick of paint for an abacus, he’s your man.
After reading, writing and ’rithmetic, 90 per cent of what you learn at school is meaningless tosh, our son reckons.
“Be honest,” he asked, “have you ever used long division outside the classroom?”
Once. But the other shoppers in the Sainsbury’s queue threw spuds at me.
He’s set his heart on being a ‘well-wicked gangsta pimp’, like the rappers he listens to - and believes there’s a university course that provides such a qualification: on graduation day, successful students don’t get a scroll, they get a big fedora hat and pair of platform shoes.
If that career path is blocked, he’ll settle for being a plain old pimp, though the company car’s not as good.
Joe’s ne’er-do-well mate, Shane, has done badly in his exams, which gladdens She-Who-Must-Be-Obey-ed greatly.
He wanted to be a welder but didn’t get the necessary qualifications. He can still weld, he pointed out defensively, but not motor vehicles, planes or ships - unless they start being held together by superglue.
Shane simply went through the multiple choice part of the science exam, ticking ACDC in that order - a tribute to his favourite heavy metal band.
There were a lot of Bs this year, apparently.
“I’ve learnt my lesson, Mr Lockley,” pledged the hairy youth, undeterred. “I won’t make the same mistake in the resits.”
Are you going to revise this time, I asked?
“No - I’ve started listening to Abba.”
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