What happened at the bus stop

Friday, 8pm. A bus stop in Brixton.

George has so far this evening enjoyed three craft ales: she is lubed up but by no means langered, and is on the phone to Will.

Enter, stage right, a villain. The villain is an older gentlemen with white curling hair, a Barbour jacket and a flat cap. In some ways he looks a little like Terry Terry but he is not Terry Terry, he is a villain.

George, chatting lightly on the phone, attempts to board a bus. The villain, purposefully and with full intent and malice, elbows her in the boob (right).

George: Woah!

Villain (sneering): Yeah, woah.

Will (on the phone): What’s happened?

George: An old man just elbowed me in the boob.

Will: What?

George (louder, with intent to shame): An old man just elbowed me in the boob!

The villain leans forward and says, sotto voice: I may be old darlin’, but you look like a gorilla. And I’m going to have you killed.

George, bold and unafraid: You! Are a moron.

George boards the bus and rides it gaily home. If he’d said she looked like an orang-outang she may have taken his threat more seriously.

George does not look like a gorilla. The man was a fool.

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Sir David Attenborough interview. I don’t make this stuff up.

Remember a little while ago when I interviewed Sir David Attenborough at seconds’ notice and asked him about dogs, despite dogs not featuring at all in his new show? Do you? Here is a reminder.

And here is the published article, as it appears on RadioTimes.com. They said it’s “really fun”. I’m choosing to see that as a good thing.

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A dog’s life

My friend and former band mate Ang sent me a story written from a dog’s perspective today. It reminded me that I once wrote a character dialogue from Sam’s point of view for a fiction writing class.

The class leader did not get it, even though I read it out in Sam’s voice. In fact, she thought my character dialogue was based on someone with different educational needs.

I suspect she was a cat fan.

Here is Sam’s story.

Hewo! Hewo! It’s good to see you, oh yes it is, yes it is! How has your day been? My day has been good, yes!

I had a banana for breakfast! A banana! Though I didn’t peel it myself. If I could peel bananas I would eat nothing but bananas forever. Maybe apart from meat, I like meat too. Mmm…meat. I also like carrots and apple cores and gravy and crisps and, well, there are lots of things I like.

After my banana I went to the park. The park! I love the park. In the park I went running. I love running. I went running around the swings, I went running around the slide and I went running over to my friends who I saw on the park and we all ran together! It was so much fun.

After the park, I saw a cat! Stupid cat. I saw the cat but I pretended I did not see the cat because cats are stupid and they do not always run away when you chase them and some cats have claws. Stupid cats.

And when I got home I had a light sleep. And the sleep was good because in my sleep I was running! I was running and I was chasing and in my dream I saw a cat but it was a good dream because the cat ran away! I was so excited I twitched all over even though I was asleep which is a good trick.

But I only had a light sleep because I had to keep half an ear out for bad people and bad cats because that is my job. Defender, yes!

And after my sleep, you came home, yes! I heard you coming because I had half an ear out and I’m ever so good, yes I am. Oh yes I am.

And I’m so pleased to see you! Now you’re home everything is brilliant because I like you and you like me and that is good, yes!

We play now? I have lots of toys.

Sam and midget hand

Sam says, “Hewo!”

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When George met Dave: how I ended up unexpectedly interviewing Sir David Attenborough, Ronnie Corbett and Anthony Head

A TV launch event, 10am. George weirds about considering a breakfast cava as her request for interview time with Jarvis Cocker has been turned down, so she has nothing to do but get morning level squiffy and enjoy the screenings.

A TV PR with whom George once spent a very fun evening drinking at another event approaches and, after exchanging pleasantries, mutters, furtively, “Do you want time with Attenborough?”
“Are you serious? Yes. Yes! I haven’t prepared any questions though.”
“That’s okay. You need to follow me. Now.”

George is hustled into a lift, taken to the top floor and enters a white room. The only people present are Jarvis Cocker, Charlie Higson, four PR people and Sir David Attenborough, who is being interviewed on camera by Sky.

George asks the PR, “Can I have time with Jarvis?” thinking that she will make use of the time that Sir David is otherwise engaged.
“No,” says the PR emphatically. “You cannot have time with Jarvis.”
“Can I show Jarvis a picture of Philly Terry wearing Pulp merchandise knickers that say ‘Are You Sure?’”
“Only you can decide that,” says the PR.

Then George is rushed to a white sofa and Sir David is brought over for an interview that George has had no time to prepare for and has not seen a single episode of the show for which he is promoting the second series.
“So, David,” says George, confidently, and just remembering to switch on her dictaphone, “What’s your favourite breed of dog?”

A short while later, George is recovering in a lower room with a milkshake when the PR approaches again.
“Thanks for setting that up, it was amazing. Happy Birthday by the way.”
“No problem. I hear you are a fan of Ronnie Corbett. Do you want time with Corbett?”
“Of course! I love The Two Ronnies. Err, I haven’t prepared any questions though.”
“That’s no problem. Let me find Corbett.”

The PR talks into his phone, then turns to George, sadly.
“I’m sorry, Corbett has left the building. He wasn’t here long.”
“Was he only here for a short time?” asks George, and she and the PR fall about laughing at George’s razor wit.

The PR’s phone rings and he turns to her, excitedly. “I was misinformed, Corbett is still here. He has been spotted downstairs by an owl. Follow me.”

George runs downstairs and is briefed by the PR in the manner of a West Wing corridor chat. “Ronnie is about to leave the building. You have minutes with him. Minutes.”
“Understood,” says George and racks her brains for Two Ronnies questions.

The interview is not going well. Ronnie does not know quite what to make of George and seems a bit put out that George presumes he is deaf even though he is, most definitely, a bit deaf. George desperately decides to pull out all the stops and goes in for the killer interview question.
“Ronnie. Tell me about your dog.”
“Well,” says Ronnie, “He’s a rescue Lurcher/Schnauzer cross.”
“So, a skinny dog with a beard?” asks George, and suddenly everything goes a lot better.

Later, George and her excellent friend Cat Collins are given a last minute interview with Anthony Head. He brings up dogs without being asked. He is an excellent man.

Post script: Sir David Attenborough’s favourite dog is a Labrador, the same breed as Sammy Sammy No Balls. George did not show Sir David a picture of Sam. She is, at all times, a professional journalist.

What Jarvis didn't see

What Jarvis didn’t see

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A true and accurate report of what happened when Bez met Philly Terry

The place: Shangri-La, Glastonbury festival.
The time: Party o’clock (around 3am), Saturday morning
The scene: The Glastonbury gang: me and Philly Terry, Katrin Geilhausen – formerly of The Schla La Las, Will, Nat and various others are dancing in the Acid Lounge. The air is hot, the music is banging and the drinks are flowing, except Nat’s freshly-bought cocktail which goes flying as I am performing a particularly vigorous mashed potato.

Soon, a weary but cheery break-out gang of me, Philly Terry and Katrin, head out, deciding to make our way back to camp Terry before the sun comes up.
We walk past Bez’s Acid House where two years previously, I tell the girls, I had seen Bez ‘performing’ (shouting “808 Staaaaate” and trying to get scantily clad girls onstage). But, alas, no Bez is performing tonight and we continue on our way through Shangri-La.
Suddenly, the crowd parts and, there in front of me, just an arm’s breadth away is Bez!
He is dancing, well, moving up and down, well, swaying on the path.
“Bez! Bez! Alright mate, Bez!” I say, as though Bez is my dear old chum who I haven’t seen for a while.
“Urrrggghh,” says Bez and pulls me in to kiss his dry, leathery, cheek.
“Bez, mate,” I say, “I’m a huge fan of your work. I love what you’ve done with the Acid House.”
“Urrrgggh,” says Bez, and his head nods appreciatively, or possibly spasms.
The conversational ball is back in my court and I’m unsure where to go with it as I don’t know what Bez just said or if Bez can see me any more.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes, “Bez, have you met Philly Terry?”
Philly Terry has met many of my friends this weekend and been a hit with all, how could Bez fail to fall for her charms?
“Urggggh!” says Bez, and pulls Philly Terry in for a kiss of his dry, leathery, cheek.
I’m on a roll and Bez will soon be our best festival pal! He loves us!
“Katrin,” I ask, deciding to go for the same trick twice. “Have you met Bez?”
Katrin wrinkles her nose and shakes her head dismissively. Katrin does not want to meet Bez.
There is a short pause, which I quickly cover with conversational prowess, “Bez mate, we’ll be back tomorrow, see you then.”
And I clap Bez on the shoulder and we stagger off to find our tent.

We never returned to Bez’s Acid House.

Bez could have been our friend.

Bez could have been our friend.

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A (short) Winter’s Tale

I must have written notes for a Terry blog when I was squiffy on Cointreau at Terry Towers because I’d forgotten about them until now.

As it’s past Twelfth Night, and as I can’t remember much more (Cointreau), here they are in their nude form. Enjoy!

• “You know Mike Stevens, who I work with,” says Terry.
“No, Dad,” I reply, honestly.
“No, you wouldn’t know him,” says Terry, and launches into a long story about Mike’s holiday request for 1 January, a national holiday.
Terry winds up by telling me, “He spends all his money in the brass shop anyway.”
“The where, Dad?” I ask, innocently.
“The knocking shop,” says Terry. “You know, Mr Magoos, in Birkenhead”.

• Terry is considering a holiday in New York, so I ask him what he wants to see – what really says “New York” to Terry.
“Macy’s, the Empire State Building and Brooklyn Bridge,” he says, after much prompting.
“Not the Statue of Liberty, Dad?” I ask, surprised.
“No, that’s French, why would I want to see that?” Terry replies.

• I craft a dog nappy from a carrier bag before taking Sammy Sammy No Balls for a festive stroll. Sam doesn’t seem to mind.

• I dress Sam in Philly’s bra and knickers. All Terrys find this hilarious other than Philly who flies into a Christmas rage just because her bra is now muddy (or worse. Sam is a notorious pissy paws).

• Parish carol service. Terry has many talents but music is not one of them. He is, in fact, tone deaf. I have a strident and tuneful voice and Terry is confident I am singing the right notes, so sings along with me, in falsetto.

• I ask Mrs Terry if I can open a bottle of Pouilly-Fume from Terry’s wine cellar (garage) or if she’s saving it for something special.
“Oh no, Sweetheart,’” says Mrs T. “The celebrations start now you’re home.” Mrs Terry then makes me wrap my own gift, in front of her, on Christmas Day.

• “What’s your favourite vegetable, Dad?”
“You can’t have garlic, Dad”.
“Alright, onion.”
“You can’t have onion, Dad. It’s cheating.”
“OK, chilli.”

Hold onto your hats for the next exciting installment, when I’ll probably write about Easter* in July!


Christmas Day in Terry Towers.

*Except I won’t write about Easter as Terry and Mrs Terry are going on a bloody cruise.

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One night with Terry, one night with Terry

A glimpse into life at Terry Towers.

I was home for just a few hours on Friday night. My train got into Chester at 8:15pm, when I was promptly goosed by Sam (“Out of all the people here, he smelled you!” says Mrs Terry proudly as Sam sticks his nose in my crotch) and I hit the sack at 11pm, but Terry Terry and Mrs Terry do not need much time to shine.

These are the top three events from my three hours chez Tez.

1.Terry and I discuss a dog rape story we’d heard about in the news. Terry claims to know all about it, but is surprised when he sees a picture of the dog as he was expecting a smaller mutt.
“He’s quite a big one, you could get all your tackle in him,” says Terry. There’s a silence in the living room, broken by Mrs Terry who says “Well, the Welsh roger sheep”.
This is the last time we speak of the dog rape.

2. Mrs Terry is keen to demonstrate Sam’s new trick: toy recognition. She claims that Sam can identify all the toys in his toy mountain by name, and bring them when asked.
“Good boy, get Duck. Get Duck, Sam. There’s a good boy,” she trills. Sam shakes rabid foam from his lips and runs to his toy pile. “Here he comes” says Mrs Terry confidently, “bringing his duck.”
“Quack quack!” bellows Terry in encouragement, “quack quack!”
Sam enters, carrying a toy gorilla. Terry claims Sam is suffering from performance anxiety brought on by my presence and suggests I leave the room.

3. Rooting in the Terry pantry for gin, I find a Fray Bentos pie. I think it’s for one of the various charities they support but when I’m taking a photo for Philly Terry’s amusement, Terry comes into the kitchen.
“What are you doing with that?” Terry demands. “That’s my treat.”
The next day Terry and I visit a food fair where Terry spends £20 on olives.

Bring on my Christmas visit to El Porto!

Side note: Terry and Mrs Terry now spend more on Sam’s health insurance then on their home insurance. Strongly suspect Sam may have nudged Philly and I out of Terry’s inheritance too…

Terry’s favourite child, right.

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