Sponsored Walk

I was thinking about doing a charity walk to Brighton and back. Then it occurred to me that it might be a bit too ambitious. I’m not the fittest person around, what with all the laying about in bed and constant boozing. Not to mention the chips, cakes, kebabs, marijuana, fizzy pop by the bucketful and my intravenous coffee intake. A little too much self abuse leaves the old legs a bit wobbly, too. That doesn't help when you're clinically obese and have twenty stone of lard to cart about. 

 

Anyway, I decided a walk across all the Thames’ bridges in London might be a bit more manageable. Decision made, I had another beer, put a couple of pasties and a tray of chips in the oven, smoked a fat joint and set about planning the route. Cross over bridge, walk along, cross back, walk along, cross over next bridge ... I’d almost plotted very nearly five bridges in my A to Z - three actually - when I got to thinking about how tiring it would be. Not only that, but there was the wear and tear on my shoes to consider and being London, there would always be the chance of a light drizzle, or of it being just a bit too warm.

 

My bridge walk was starting to look like a bridge too far, especially considering the bad name I would end up with for taking a cut from the sponsorship proceeds to cover necessary expenditure on lager, burgers and sweets; plus the shoe wear and tear thing, of course. It’s not as though I can afford to sue anyone for defamation of character, so they could call me all the thieving lowlife scumbags under the sun and get away with it.

 

I suppose I could have done the walk and just kept all the money raised. Selflessly walking over all those bridges would be damned hard work, after all (particularly if it did turn out to be just a bit too warm) and surely deserved some kind of reward? It’s not as if I actually know any skint cripples who need the dosh. They all get more benefits than I do anyway and they don’t even pay rent in those homes.

 

If I did go down the route of trousering the cash, I realise I would have to keep quiet about pocketing it, but figure I could avoid possible prosecution by saying that had been the plan all along in really tiny small print at the bottom of the sponsorship form. You know, a bit like the sort insurance companies use to get out of ever honouring any claims. It’s OK for them to take the piss out of their customers, but if I helped myself to a few measly pounds meant for less fortunate bib-dribblers, suddenly I’d be the bad guy! Not sure if keeping the cash could be described as an act of God, though. That might be pushing my luck a bit.

 

I haven’t even got many friends, so probably couldn’t raise more than about thirty quid and that wouldn’t exactly give sight to the blind, or tongues to those talking-difficulties types who grunt and wave their hands about a lot. Might be just as well to give the idea up as a bad job. My shoes have already got holes in them anyway and all that walking would only make them worse.

 

There's that possible light drizzle to take into account as well. If that didn’t hold off, I bet I would even be condemned for buying an umbrella, or for sitting in the pub all day drinking the sponsorship money away until it stopped spitting outside. These charity donors are always tight like that. Don’t see them doing a bridge walk when it’s drizzling, or a bit too warm. Oh no, all too happy to leave that to genuinely concerned people like me. Hypocrites. 

 

Sod it. I think I’ll smoke another joint and eat some toffee instead. Don’t suppose any of you fancy sponsoring a bacon-sandwich-athon? No?

 

Sleepathon?

 

 

 

 

Arachnophobia

When I was a young boy of eight, I knew this evil little swine called Tom who used to catch spiders, pull all their legs off and collect them in a matchbox. He had hundreds of them in there.

 

One day, Tom offered to show me his much-prized, though gruesome leg collection and as I leaned over to take a closer look, the rotten sod pretended to chuck them at me. Well, always having been completely terrified of spiders, I panicked and jumped back, in the process accidentally smacking my sister in the face with my elbow and making about two pints of blood gush out of her nose.

 

So it wasn’t all bad news. Fat cow.

Icy Wasteland

I was watching the news the other night about some awful disaster, when I became transfixed by the image of a young, half-starved boy. He was trudging through a huge snow drift, whipped by howling arctic winds, every step obviously costing him a great effort. Wrapped in a threadbare blanket and little else, his feet were protected against the freezing temperatures by only a skimpy pair of socks and thin, open-toed sandals, more appropriate for a desert than an icy wasteland.

 

I was absolutely horrified. I’d never seen anything so terrible, or quite so pathetic. I ask you, socks with sandals! Didn’t his parents ever teach him any fashion sense?

Pet Ferret

I was sitting on the bus the other day thinking about the two pet cats I used to own and how I would spend half my life cleaning out their litter tray, or picking up sicky fur-balls, when I began to wonder if a ferret wouldn’t be a better bet. A better pet, actually.

 

It seemed like a good idea at first, until the ferret I was imagining turned nasty and bit me. Flipping painful, I can tell you. Made me realise just what poor old Richard Whiteley had been put through on his afternoon TV show all those years ago when a piece on ferrets went sour and the one he was holding locked its teeth on his finger and wouldn't let go. The ferret wrangler telling him it was only playing didn't cut much ice, that's for sure.

 

To get my imaginary ferret off, I had to force my mobile phone into its mouth to prise its jaws open and it hurt so much, I got really angry and shouted at it and waved my bloody hand in its face.

 

“Look what you’ve done, you spiteful little git!” I yelled. “I saved you from the ferret sausage factory out of the goodness of my heart and just look at the thanks I get!”

 

A moment later, a girl walked past the bus toting a fine pair of baby feeders and attention grabbed, my pet ferret ceased to exist. Sad really. Even if it was a bit aggressive.

Fear of Flying

I have a mate who is absolutely terrified of flying. He’s never been abroad for a vacation unless he could get where he was going using boats, trains and coaches and eventually, sick of wasting half of his leave days travelling to and from his holiday destination, he decided to do something about it and booked himself onto one of those fear of flying courses.

 

He went last weekend. It crashed. No survivors.

 

I suppose I should have said “had a mate”

 

A fear of static caravans may have been a safer option.

 

Or milk floats.