It's in the genes!

A happy new year to you all! And a merry Christmas to boot!

Now I’m going to start the New Year with an apology; I’m sorry there hasn’t been a new blog for the past couple of weeks. I’ve been ill. Sad times. If I was to ever use one of those silly emoticons, now would be the time. You know the one; the colon followed by the open bracket.

Pathetic I know.

I like to think that my blog is a witty sometimes witty perspective on my own little degree of self indulgence. But let me assure you, if I had written one over the past couple of weeks, it would had the usual level of self indulgence (probably a bit more even): It definitely wouldn’t have been witty. And I reckon it would have had more than its fair share of wretched uselessness. Nonetheless if you had wanted to hear about the time I ran out of tissues after a particularly explosive sneezing fit, I could have spun a fantastic yarn. Although I did discover that I actually had a couple of spares so that story might have fallen a bit flat.

But, I’m not here to talk about me (well not this time anyway). No, I’m going to shed some light on the family tree that has spawned my now well perfected idiocy. Obviously feeling withdrawal symptoms after I properly flew the nest last summer, it wasn’t long before the parentals were looking for further entertainment. And the solution I hear you ask? Simple; relocate my elderly Grandparents from their homestead in Cheltenham to the fresher country air of rural Shropshire. Obviously unsatisfied with the lack of humour provided by yours truly, surely the logical step would be to explore the other end of the spectrum; from youngest to oldest, the talent for causing distractions is present in every generation.

Now, before I continue, I would like to point out that I really like my grandparents, both of them. I really do. But when they come up with absolute comedy gold, my fingers get twitchy and I get the urge to blog.

To get you in the picture, my granddad is now 91 and still sharp as anything. He drinks copious amounts of whiskey and smokes a pipe, which he once asked me to get ‘some of that marijuana stuff’ to have a puff on. My nanna (aged 88, although don’t tell her I told you) then chimed in with ‘yes dear, I’ve heard it works wonders in brownies.’ Ironically when she asked me on my 21^st  birthday if I took drugs (as you do) and I said only the good ones, I then had to phone and apologise.

Pure. Unadulterated. Madness. It’s in the genes, I’ll tell you that!

Anyway, seeing as the grandparents had recently moved to the shire, the parentals decided to have them over for Christmas dinner. That’s nice. Family spending time together. Three generations around the same table. Perfect.

But then, as the first course was being cleared away from the table I head.

‘Just slip it in Roy, no one will notice,’ said my nanna.

‘Well it’s not very stiff,’ responded my granddad.

WTF?!

‘It’s gone in fine before so just slide it in,’ she said followed by some deep breaths from my granddad.

As my mum handed me a plate of food to take to the table, it was with trepidation that I returned to the dining room.

‘Jack’s back now, perhaps he will help,’ said my nanna, passing me the shoulder pad that had fallen out of her jacket, leaving her looking like a lopsided Hilary Devey.

I must say I was quite relieved as it all suddenly started to make sense.

But the comedy didn’t stop there.

A few days later, they insisted on taking us all out for lunch which can be a bit of a drama in itself in as much as my granddad doesn’t have a hip, and the other one is a replacement so he’s a tad shaky to say the least. And that’s without the whiskey!

Rather surprisingly, the meal itself was actually pretty good and both of the grandies were on fine form. Until the bill arrived.

‘If you wouldn’t mind putting in your pin-code madam and then press the green button to confirm?’ said the manager.

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. Her finger very deliberately hitting each key in turn.

‘I’m afraid your pin had been declined madam. Could you enter it again?’

‘It is correct. I assure you,’ she said, enunciating each syllable with perfect Received Pronunciation. My granddad at this point took another sip swig of his whiskey.

The plunking followed, and was proceeded with the tell tale beep when the number was declined again.

‘I’m afraid you have only got one try left and then your card will be blocked,’ said the manager.

The look said it all. No words were needed. When she gets that look, no one can stop her. And believe me you wouldn’t want to either! But then again why would you, when you just know something brilliant is about to happen?!

It was with baited breath that the much anticipated finger plunked the key pad that final time.

‘What do you mean it’s not accepted?’ she said with genuine surprise. It would appear that there is something that can withstand the look.  

I was on removing the card and checking it carefully for any malfunction (she still fiercely maintained that the machine was wrong, as the so often are!) that we realised the error of her ways; it wasn’t her card. As it transpired, she had borrowed my granddads card to withdraw some money and forgotten to give it back, but the main thing she focused on was that she wasn’t wrong.

My granddad’s look said it all. But it was the swig of whiskey that told the story.

V is for Vagina

There are certain things that you just shouldn’t talk about, and others that are best kept to yourself. Like when you’re out with your mates on a Monday night and you glance at your watch to realise, “Rubbish, I’m missing Glee! I mean... football... and porn... and Die Hard,” and then quickly down your pint and put your hand down your trousers to check that you haven’t in fact grown a vagina. Or that no matter what everyone else thinks, you reckon Susan Boyle would be wild in the bedroom and that you’ve actually added her to your freebie list. Stuff like that should be kept quiet, or maybe shared with a psychiatrist in a secure environment.

Now, during my lunch-break at work, my colleagues and I whittle away the hours discussing the various tribulations of the day, moaning about that particularly annoying child or two... or 47 to be more precise, and generally entering such a vegetative state in order to allow what remains of our sanity to be nursed back to health in time for the next tirade in a matter of minutes. God help any child brave enough to knock on the door and disrupt our moment of calm; trust me, it’s not worth it. As it happened, on that particular lunch time we were having an especially enthralling conversation about a rather impressive lunchbox sported by one of the members of staff (it had a built in ice pack; how cool is that?! Get it; cool? Well I’m laughing.)

Anyway, my usual semi-comatose lunchtime state was disturbed by the comfy middle aged lady who chaperones and mollifies the community’s old folks on their weekly visit to be entertained. Cheerfully called “Wednesday Club” this is an opportunity for us teachers to talk to the crumblies about things that are young, and fun, and alive in an although-this-is-optional-you-really-should-do-it-or-else, kind of way. I already spend twenty hours a week educating wayward youths so I think I’ll spend that hour polishing my halo thank you very much. So imagine how perturbed I was when I heard this gem pop out whilst I was tucking into my lunch:

“Well last week we had a rather fascinating talk about contraception. It did cause quite a stir you know; one of our most controversial sessions.”

Y’don’t say?

Whilst I am usually pretty happy to partake in conversations of a sexual nature and am quite open-minded, the thought of a group of over 70s putting condom’s on wilting bananas (make of that what you will) is enough to turn my stomach: definitely not a conversation to be having over lunch.

Nope. Nu-uh. Not happening.

But I was not going to escape that easily. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the woman glance around the check the coast was clear, then in a stage whisper (the sort that is favoured by my Nanna when asking whether we think the two nice men over there are life partners, and pretending to be ok with it although secretly cringing) she cheerfully announced:

“It was very informative, we learnt all about vaginal dams.”

Well that got people listening. In fact her razor sharp enunciation pretty much silenced the staff room. Almost. For it was at that exact moment that, quite overcome by this sudden announcement, I lost all ability to chew and my sandwich decided that my wind pipe was a pretty good place to take up residence. Way to play it cool Jack; one mention of a vagina in an unexpected context and I’m actually choking.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept of the vaginal dam, this is a piece of later rubber used when administering oral sex in order to not have the taste the various juices secreted. Well that was the definition that I offered my various stunned colleagues. Apparently I’m a dark horse. Pah! I think it was probably for the best in that case that I chose to neglect to mention that these implements are also used when rimming. Yes that’s right. Rimming.

Thinking Hoping Praying this discourse is reaching its natural end (and if not thinking that it is probably time to commit conversational euthanasia) none of us were prepared for the final, earth shattering blow.

“They come in all sorts of flavours too, just so you can tell the difference between that and licking a piece of cling film. Strawberry, chocolate and lemon!”

As if standard minge flavour wasn’t acceptable? Or perhaps a more authentic fish flavour would be suitable? Just imagine the old dears sitting there with their knitting needles and a selection of contraception in those otherwise useless china dishes, turning into latex connoisseurs, lightly licking and commenting of the construction of the bouquet.

Did I go too far?

“Quite a selection, although the lemon one wasn’t too well received. Imagine the zing on your hoochie!” which was followed by the knowing look that Miss Marple gets when the final piece of the mystery has just dropped into place: Poor Mrs Wainwright, I did warn her that the lemon flavoured vaginal dam had a bit of a kick to it and look what came of it.

So now I leave you on this slightly disturbing thought; next time you are having afternoon tea with granny don’t be tempted to go rummaging through her draws, you never know what you might find. You can still learn a thing or two from the old folks; they’re the real dark horses!