It was a bright, cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen

And suddenly... Monday!

Well, I don't know about you guys, but that last weekend just zoomed past. I got the precise total of no things done at all, watched a bit of TV, ate a wonderful roast pork dinner, Sat through 'Battleship' with liam Neeson and that geezer what played Gambit in the X-Men film - I hope you guys did nothing of any import too.

-oOo-

So, today's Blog is a character assassination of my Brother, well no, it's not really... I love my Brother, if I had to make a list of the people who've helped me out most over the last forty years, he'd be at the top of it. But when we were little and everything, he was a monster. (At least, according to my Mother, who relayed these stories to me, although she did have a reputation for embellishment - So, whilst they are, to the best of my knowledge true, there's a possibility of artistic licence in the details.)

Love you Man!

Let me do a little scene-setting. My Brother is ten years older than me, born in the fifties, grew up in the sixties, went to Uni in the seventies, got married in the eighties, rode the promotion rocket in the nineties, retired in the noughties and now lives in his hollow volcano, super-villain hideout in the Mediterranean eating Greek food and playing Star Wars: The Old Republic.

My earliest memory of my brother is, of course, one of torment and torture. (quelle suprise I hear regular readers gasp) When I was but a mewling, pewking, babe in arms, he was my babysitter whilst our parents desperately tried to have a social life. Remember this was the seventies, and parents having a social life was not yet frowned upon. As my Brother was a fairly normal pre-teen, his brand of babysitting often involved putting me where I would be least trouble and continuing with... Whatever it was he did... Watching TV, eating more walnut whips than was strictly good for him and suchlike.

His safe-place of choice on this particular occasion was a doorframe mounted baby-bouncer. If you haven't seen this kind of contraption, it comprises a clamp, attached to the top of the doorframe, then a long spring, some 'safety' straps and a seat, with holes for the feet, sort of like a plastic nappy. (One wonders if this is how fetishes start?) I was a needy child, which in fairness hasn't changed that much, and I enjoyed this contraption, but only if it was moving. Every once in a while my brother would wander over to me and give me a push, that would see me bouncing, or swinging, depending which way he pushed, into paroxysms of happy gurgling.

I guess on this one occasion, I had become particularly needy, and there was possibly some frustration on his part. But the next thing I knew, he'd taken hold of the 'gusset' of the bouncer, took a few steps back and let go. I went shooting into the other room, the spring stretched, then contracted, and sent me shooting back into the living room. I understand that I quite enjoyed this... Initially. Until he tried it again, and on this occasion took a few more steps back.

This time, I performed the same repeated trip between the two rooms, but at a higher speed, with my head snapping back and forth like an acid-fuelled Woody Woodpecker, and... Are you familiar with the latin phrase ad nauseum? - Seemingly, I went slightly past that point. Well, let's say that I'm glad that I didn't have to pay for a new carpet.

-oOo-

The second incident is a Christmas story, one overflowing with comfort and joy. Our Father, at the time, worked at an electrical shop, and as such was the go-to guy for Christmas lights. We had everything it was possible to get; Flower-shaped ones, Snowflake-shaped ones, Cold-cathode ones that flickered like candles and, my personal favourite, a string of fairy lights where every bulb was a mini lava lamp - I poop you not! - All running on 240 volts, no transformers, no 'Ideal for outdoor use' labels, proper man's electricity, with all the danger and fire-risk that that suggests.

The setup for this story is the same as before, parents out, Brother babysitting, although I think I was a little older, maybe four or five. And I'm not sure how the subject came up, I think we were shining torches up each other's noses to make them glow red. And then 'someone' suggested that if I were to put a fairy light bulb in my mouth, my whole head would probably light up.

I think he paniced when he heard the crunch of broken glass, and ran to get a towel from the kitchen and 'encouraged' me to spit the razor-sharp shards into it. I can't remember that there was a lot of blood, which was definately more by luck that judgement. It's not an experiment that either of us were in any great hurry to repeat - And I suggest you do not try it at home, or at B&Q or Asda.

(And to clarify, the bulb had been removed from the light fitting, I mean, he wasn't mad or anything)

-oOo-

My final story for today is one of mayhem, death and destruction. It is the tale of a young child, sadly robbed of his innocence too soon, cruelly snatched from under his Mother's wing and thrust into the harsh, actinic glare of the real world with not a thought for his wellbeing, future trust issues, or length of his limbs.

The stairs at my parents house were (and still are for that matter) very steep. My Dad would often arrange for Chris Bonington to come around to the house and give us tips on how to scale them safely. (Especially the difficult overhang on the West face) There was a family of goats on the third step from the top that you had to give a portion of your packed lunch to before they would let you pass. Standing at the top, you got the same view that Hawaiian cliff divers get just before they take a deep breath and make like a Puffin, only the sea is made of deep-pile berber that the landlord got cheap after one of his other tenants 'tripped and fell'.

Steep, right?

Anywho, we used to play a mean game of cops and robbers, did my Brother and I. Well, I say cops and robbers, it was more sort of beat the poop out of me (in a brotherly and loving fashion), tie me up, stow me somewhere where I wouldn't be found too quickly, and then wander off and do something more exciting. On this occasion however, there was some 'Escalation' as I believe it's called in serial killer parlance. There was the standard light beating, as one had come to expect, possibly a chinese burn or two, and then my hands were tied together with one of the many ties that my Father regularly got for Christmas but never wore.

Then the other end of the tie was loosely tied around the banister rail... As I am a kind and loving person, who never holds a grudge, I'll describe what happened next as me 'losing my footing'. Have you ever fallen downstairs? it used to be a weekly event for me when I lived at home. It involves a kind of rolling motion, designed to spread the trauma over your whole body. That can't happen when you're tied to a banister. So my ass took a real pounding.

No, there might be a better way to say that... Aw hell, you've read it now anyway.

He was very apologetic, once he'd stopped laughing and came downstairs and untied me.

-oOo-

So there you go, my Mother couldn't stop interfering in my life even after she died, my Father made free and easy with the Lords' little feathery creatures and my Brother was, well, one hesitates to use the words 'Fratricidal Maniac' doesn't one?.. So let's say, just a completely normal Big Brother - He even painted the number 101 on our shared bedroom door.

And David Attenborough was no-where to be seen

As promised on Friday, today I will regale you with the story of the day when I trod on a penguin.

It started like any one of a thousand other Saturday evenings, the kids had gone to bed, there was a half-decent film about to start on Sky Premiere (other broadcasters are available), dinner had been successfully eaten and all was right with the world. Apart that is, from one glaring omission...

The whiskey, and its partner in crime, the slightly oversized glass, were still in the kitchen - a whole floor away, rather than being on the table next to the sofa - within lunging distance. I stretched out my hand and concentrated reeeeaaaaly hard... But unlike Luke, in the Wampa cave, with the lightsaber, it didn't spring into my outstretched paw. I asked Mrs Dandy if she was thinking of going down to the kitchen for anything in the near future, but the withering look she gave me told me that I was actually going to have to get up and service myself.

So I struggled to my feet, trudged the length of the lounge and started downstairs - The thought of impending alcohol the only thing keeping me going. It was this momentary lapse of concentration and premature ribaldry that led to my, quite literal, impending downfall.

We've all trodden on things going down the stairs haven't we? Especially those of us lucky enough to be blessed with children. But how many of us can say that we've trodden on things that are roundish, possesed of small, almost fur-like injection moulded feathers, usually found in the antarctic and of a piscavorian persuasion? Contrary to millions of years of evolution, the penguin (for it was he - But I was unaware of this fact at the time) flew across the stairwell, bounced off the clock and disappeared into a boot that I wear very infrequently.

I however, performed an almost perfect vertical triple salchow and finished with an impressive three point landing, the points being the heels of both hands and my left buttock - The assembled audience of the downstairs bookcase, my cashmere crombie and my amusingly ironic cowboy hat all gave me 6.0 for execution, but minus several million for good thinking*.

I proceded to slide down the remaining stairs in the style of a dimensionally blessed Homer Simpson, complete with the '*bang* Ah... *bang* Uh... *bang* Sunnova... *bang* d'oh...' soundtrack, belting my wrists and behind on every single step. When I came to rest, in a heap, at the bottom of the stairs, I noticed that my left forearm looked a bit 'funny' and was flopping about to the point where, apart from the excruciating pain, I could have quite easily done the David Brent, floppy arm-y dance without relying on the optical illusion.

I cradled the offending limb, in much the same way as my Father did the frozen pigeon and let out a distress call to alert Mrs Dandy that her assistance was required. She came to the top of the stairs and peered into the gloom.

'Are you OK?' she asked, 'Only, I heard a noise'

'I'm fine,' I replied, calmly, 'I could do with a hand in the kitchen if you've got a second.'

'The film's due to start, shall I pause it?'

'Yes, that'd be for the best, it might take a few minutes.'

I stood up, gingerly, and walked to the kitchen, opening the door with my good shoulder, I turned to Mrs Dandy and said,

'I need you to hold something for me and not let go.'

'Oh, really?' She replied, smiling, grasping the wrong end of the stick entirely.

'No, not that, this.'

I proffered the limb in question. which took this opprtunity to flop alarmingly in the wrong direction. Mrs Dandy's visage took on an ashen colour and she backed away.

'Erm... nope,' she squeaked, quite sensibly, 'Go to the hospital.'

'Casualty? On a Saturday night? With my reputation?', I quipped, trying desperately to make her feel more comfortable, 'Look, all you have to do is hold on, it's a really simple dislocation, as it swings, I can feel it wanting to go back in.'

On the whole, this didn't have quite the calming effect that I'd initially thought, and Mrs Dandy's complexion went from grey to white.

'OK, really, just grab my wrist, I'll try and pull it out of your hand, but don't let go - It'll pop back in, then we can go and watch the film.'

'Erm... I don't know.' She said, reaching for my wrist.

I contemplated yelling out as she touched it, but thought better of it. She took hold, braced herself against a cupboard, and closed her eyes, pushing aside the obvious similarities to our wedding night, I gritted my teeth and yanked my left arm back. Apart from a few stars appearing behind my eyelids, and having to resist the urge to invent a couple of new expletives, nothing happened. It seemed that Mrs Dandy hadn't been quite prepared for the violence on the movement involved. My arm waved around at my side like a particularly boneless octopus.

'Shall we give that another go?'

'No, just go to the hospital...'

'Look, really, it will only take a second, you just really need to hold on.'

So, my wrist was dutifully grabbed, the slack was taken up, nods of implied readiness were exchanged and I threw myself backwards. This time Mrs Dandy was ready, she kept hold of my wrist, my humerus and ulna seperated and reloacted with a loud *schlock* and I swore, loudly and earthily.

'I'm just going to have a bit of a sit-down,' I said as I slid to the floor, quite dizzily.

The rest of the evening passed without incident, the occasional twinge perhaps, but nothing more than that. The bruising came out nicely and the story joined the ranks of those that get told when anyone mentions falling down the stairs, whisky, dislocations, stairs, McDonalds, hats, trees, carpet or the number 43 bus (i.e. any time I can shoe-horn it in)

In actual fact, nothing was really mentioned about it until a couple of weeks later when I decided to wear a particular pair of boots. Giving rise to a phrase that I have only uttered once, but may well have printed on a T-Shirt one day;

'Why is there a penguin in my New Rocks?'

　


*(c) Douglas Adams 1978