Bodies

20th February 2007

According to the television news this morning fifty per cent of women are said to be unhappy with their bodies. It’s a good job they didn’t ask men because if they had I wouldn’t mind betting that about ninety nine per cent of them would have said they’re unhappy with women’s bodies. I know I am. Because for every woman I see who has a gorgeous figure with magnificent tits that point in front of them, long lovely legs and a pert little bottom, there at least ninety nine who either have enormous pendulous tits that point at the floor or no tits at all, legs like sparrows, or bottoms that droop down lower than a horse’s nosebag, and very often all three.
Leaving aside the fifty per cent of women who are unhappy with their bodies this leaves forty nine per cent who presumably couldn’t give a shit about having vast pendulous tits that point at the floor or no tits at all, legs like sparrows, or bottoms that droop down lower than a horse’s nosebag, and very often all three of them.
Fortunately I am not married to one of them. I am married to a woman who, though one of the fifty per cent of women unhappy with their body, it being sixty six years old for one thing, does give a shit about it. Unfortunately this means that both our bathroom cabinets, one of which is as big as small wardrobe, are filled to overflowing with cosmetic lotions, potions, creams, oils and unguents of a bewildering and never-ending variety. When she eventually pops her clogs Avon will probably go into receivership because they don’t just call at our house they camp out here.
I have to put my sole aids to keeping myself presentable, namely my shaving tackle, toothbrush, hairbrush and deodorant on top of one of the cabinets, where it vies for space, frequently losing it, with even more of The Trouble’s beauty aids. I often wish she’d settle for being one of the forty nine per cent.

Ignore this if you have already read it. My books Dear Air 2000 and Football Crazy are now in print. They are priced at £8.99 each and are available from Amazon, but readers of my blog can buy them direct from me for £7.50 including p & p. Just send me a cheque and I will send the book/books by return.

You can write to me at –

Terry Ravenscroft, 19 Ventura Court, Ollersett Avenue, New Mills, High Peak, SK22 4LL

Dear Air 2000

Football Crazy 

The Last Sunset

18th February 2007

I am reading Kirk Douglas’s autobiography ‘The Ragman’s Son’ at the moment, and very good it is too.
I quote from the book –

…I went to Mexico to film ‘The Last Sunset’, a film about incest…The Last Sunset is another example of how a studio operates. Universal insisted on controlling the production. The publicity department sent pages and pages of suggestions for alternative titles for the film, most of them atrocious:

The Magnificent Two
The Majestic Brutes
The Tragic Brutes
Seething Guns
The Fuel and the Fire
Thunderblast
Two to Make Hate
Lion in  My Path
Back Against the Wall
Trigger Talk
Death Is My Middle Name
Appointment with a Dead Sun
A Commotion at Sunset
Shoe the Wild Sea-Mare
Long Day, Short Sunset
All Girls Wear Yellow Dresses
A Primrose from O’Malley
My Gun, My Life!

My favourites from this list are The Majestic Brutes, Back Against the Wall and the quite wonderful Shoe the Wild Sea-Mare. Naturally I started making up more titles myself. The best I came up with – the film is about incest remember – were, ‘A Game the Whole Family Can Play’, ‘Move Over, It’s Only Daddy’ and ‘Fuck Me O’Malley’. I’m sure there must be better titles than this though and I therefore invite further suggestions. The first prize for the best received via my Comments facility by Friday the 23rd Feb will be a copy of my book Dear Air 2000. The second prize will of course be two copies of my book Dear Air 2000.

Ignore this if you have already read it. My books Dear Air 2000 and Football Crazy are now in print. They are priced at £8.99 each and are available from Amazon, but readers of my blog can buy them direct from me for £7.50 including p & p. Just send me a cheque and I will send the book/books by return.

You can write to me at –

Terry Ravenscroft, 19 Ventura Court, Ollersett Avenue, New Mills, High Peak, SK22 4LL

Dear Air 2000

Football Crazy

Viagra

16th February 2007

I saw on the television news today an item about baby Lewis Goodfellow, who weighed only 1lb 8ozs when he was born sixteen weeks premature last September with seriously underdeveloped lungs, and was given Viagra to treat this condition. The male impotence drug worked by opening some of the small blood vessels in the baby Lewis’s lungs to help carry oxygen around his little body. Now he is finally at home with his delighted parents. However, he was allowed home after only a month but apparently young Lewis has spent the last five months chasing the nurses round the ward.
Six months old and able to get a hard on, eh. He’s going to be a little terror when he starts playschool.
It reminded me of Arthur Simmons, a classmate of mine when I was at infants school. Until the Viagra-charged Lewis Goodfellow came along Arthur, at nine and a bit, was by far the youngest person I had ever heard of who was able to get an erection. All his classmates, me included, had to wait about another five years for this wonderful gift. Not Arthur. He could get an erection at will. He could also get one without will, which he very often did, causing much merriment for his classmates and much embarrassment for Arthur.
Maisie Marshall’s hand shot up. “Miss, Miss, Arthur Simmons had got that lump in his trousers again.”
Poor Miss Garton, her face beetroot red, always tried to ignore the problem. “Get on with your composition about Easter, Maisie.”
Maisie however was undeterred “My Mam says it must be because he plays with it, Miss.”
Now it was Arthur’s turn to blush. “I do not, Miss! It just happens.”
And it did. Often. In fact I think he spent more time with a hard on than with a hard off, if that’s the right expression.
When out of the classroom and away from the girls – usually in the boys lavatories or down the old air raid shelters – he wasn’t anywhere near so bashful about his gift, and would get out his proud penis for the rest of us to gaze at in awe on request. Sometimes without even being requested. It wasn’t very long – about four inches I would say – but as that was about three inches more than the rest of we nine-year-olds had it was well worth looking at.
He could ejaculate as well. He didn’t know he could ejaculate though, and the first time it happened he hadn’t got a clue what was happening and apparently – unfortunately I didn’t see it but I have it on very good authority  – he thought he was erupting like Vesuvius and tried to stuff the semen back down his urethra, then when it wouldn’t go down wiped his hands on his corduroy shorts. Miss Garton told the inquisitive Maisie Marshall it was wallpaper paste and sent him home for a bath.
Needless to say all the boys in the class were very jealous of Arthur and his erection. A further cause for our envy was that he was excused Religious Instruction as the teacher Mrs Dawson refused to him and his pubescence in her class.
By the time we were eleven Arthur’s erection had grown another half an inch but I don’t know how it progressed from then on as at that age we went our separate ways, Arthur to the local secondary modern school, me, having passed the eleven plus, to the local grammar school. I did see him occasionally after that when I had to go shopping for my mother as he helped out on Saturday mornings at the Co-op butchers, but we both felt it was inconvenient – and possibly dangerous given all the axes and meat cleavers being wielded in close proximity – for him to get it out in the shop.
I like to think that Arthur, having failed the eleven plus, one day reached this mark with his erection, but by the time we’d reached maturity he’d moved away, and I lost touch with him altogether, so sadly I’ll never know.
Ignore this if you have already read it. My books Dear Air 2000 and Football Crazy are now in print. They are priced at £8.99 each and are available from Amazon, but readers of my blog can buy them direct from me for £7.50 including p & p. Just send me a cheque and I will send the book/books by return.You can write to me at –Terry Ravenscroft, 19 Ventura Court, Ollersett Avenue, New Mills, High Peak,

16th February 2007 

 

Peas

15th February 2007

“Why are you sat there holding a tin of peas to your arm?” I said, not unreasonably, to The Trouble on entering the living room and discovering her in this bizarre pose.
She gave me her frostiest look, which is pretty frosty. Penguins toes have been known to drop off when subjected to lesser frosty looks. “You’ve no idea?”
I thought about it for a moment and said: “You’ve lost your marbles? You couldn’t find a tin of carrots? We’ve had the gas cut off and you’re warming them through with the heat of your body? Any of those?”
“Do you remember me asking you to bring a bag of frozen peas in with you from the corner shop?”
“Of course. But as I explained to you, Mr Ahmed had run out, had a run on frozen pea curry probably, so I got a tin of peas instead. The very tin that you are now holding to your arm, unless I’m very much mistaken my precious, marrowfat I believe.”
“And you think that will work, do you?”
“Work? What do you mean, work?”
“I knew you weren’t listening properly. The trouble with you is that you never do when I’m talking to you.” *
“I do.”
“No you don’t. If you’d been listening properly you’d know that I wanted the bag of frozen peas so I could hold it on my arm to reduce the swelling caused when I ruptured my bicep yesterday. In which case you wouldn’t, on discovering that Mr Ahmed was out of frozen peas, bought a tin of bloody peas instead!”
“Yes I would. That’s why I bought it.”
“What?” This said with utter disbelief. That made two of us who didn’t believe it but I had to say something.
“That’s why I got the tin of peas instead,” I said smoothly.
The Trouble shook her head as if to clear it. “I think I must be missing something here.”
“You are. You’re missing the knowledge that it is a well known fact that holding a tin of marrowfat peas to a ruptured bicep is a sure fire way of bringing the swelling down. Florence Nightingale swore by it.”
The Trouble was immediately apologetic. “And there was me, thinking I was being sarcastic,” she said sheepishly.
“Is it working?” I inquired solicitously. “Has it brought the swelling down any yet?”
The Trouble drew back her arm and threw the tin of peas at me. She yelped out loudly in distress, the act of throwing the tin obviously causing her great pain. I yelped out even more loudly as the tin caught me a nasty crack on the knee. In no time it became swollen. The Trouble suggested I should hold a tin of peas to it to bring down the swelling. She’s getting as bad as I am.

* A reminder for late comes to Razzamatazz. I call my wife The Trouble not because it is rhyming slang for wife, trouble and strife, wife, but because she is in the habit, especially when I have done something to anger her, of starting off a sentence with the words ‘The trouble with you is…..’

Ignore this if you have already read it. My books Dear Air 2000 and Football Crazy are now in print. They are priced at £8.99 each and are available from Amazon, but readers of my blog can buy them direct from me for £7.50 including p & p. Just send me a cheque and I will send the book/books by return.

You can write to me at –

Terry Ravenscroft, 19 Ventura Court, Ollersett Avenue, New Mills, High Peak, SK22 4LL

Dear Air 2000

Football Crazy

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