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

My Funny Valentine

14th February 2007

Every time Valentine’s Day comes around with it comes messages of undying love from couples so besotted with each other that they seemingly don’t mindcalling their partner, and being called by their partner, the most ludicrous names.
A brief look through the columns of just one of the three pages my newspaper devoted to these missives of love revealed all the usual suspects. Honeypots and Honeybuns abounded, as did Sweetpeas and Cheekychops.
Gladiator, Spartacus and Hercules represented both the historical and film worlds. Popeye, Goofy and Cartman the world of cartoons.

The Animal Kingdom fetched up with a Squirrel Nutkins, seven Tigers, two Piggywiggies, a Lion, a Wilderbeast (sic), a Slimy Slug (sick), a Dobbin, a Mr Toad, the twosome of Mr Leghorn & Broodyboos and an Eager Beaver (although as this was a woman it could of course have referred not to an animal but something else). We also had, unfathomably, a Mr Sock, and a Huggy Buggy, The Perminator (must be a hairdresser), a Tubbyblubbyhubby, and
the inspired pairing of Janey Fatbum & Spanker, which sounds to me like a match made in heaven. I’ll draw a veil over the homosexual fraternity, other than to say that they were well represented, and I thought that the partnership of Jimmy Tightbum and Dyna Rod to be almost as well-matched as that of Janey Fatbum and Spanker.
Why do people call each other names like this? More to the point, how can they call each other names like this? And is it only in the privacy of their own love nests, or do they refer to each other in this manner when they’re out, and in company? ‘So that’s a pint of bitter for me, a gin and tonic for Squidgypots, a pint of lager for Toddy Tiddler, a bacardi breezer for Minxy Moo, a scotch for Bunny Wunny Wabbit and a slimline tonic for Fatarse’. It all reminds me of a sketch I once wrote for my radio series Star Terk Two, in the eighties.

 

A NEWSAGENTS SHOP. DAVE WALKS UP TO THE COUNTER WHERE THE NEWSAGENT IS SERVING.

 

DAVE: Could you put me a Valentine’s message in next week’s Advertiser, please?

 

NEWSAGENT: Of course. What would you like to say?

 

DAVE: ‘To my darling Jenny, lots of love, Dave.

 

NEWSAGENT: (WRITES IT DOWN) ‘To my darling Jennypoos, lots……..

 

DAVE: Jenny.

 

NEWSAGENT: What?

 

DAVE: Just ‘Jenny’, thank you.

 

NEWSAGENT: No ‘poos’?

 

DAVE: No.

 
 

NEWSAGENT: It isn’t any extra.

 

DAVE: I don’t want a ‘poos’, if it’s all the same to you.

 

NEWSAGENT: Right, suit yourself. (HE WRITES IT DOWN) ‘To my darling Jenny, lots of love, Davey Wavey.

 

DAVE: Dave.

 

NEWSAGENT: Dave?

 

DAVE: Yes. And another thing, you don’t spell ‘lots of love’  like that either.

 

NEWSAGENT: You do. (SPELLS IT OUT) L..O..T..Z..A..L..U..V. Lotzaluv.

 

DAVE: Yes well when I went to school it was three separate words, ‘Lots’, ‘of’ and ‘love’. So I’d like it like that, please.

 

NEWSAGENT: Well you’re the one who’s paying for it I suppose. So that’s ‘To my darling Jenny, megasqidgeons of love, Dave.

 

DAVE: ‘Lots’ of love.

 

NEWSAGENTS: ‘Megasquidgeons’ is another way of saying ‘lots’.

 

DAVE: Not on my Valentine’s Day message it isn’t.

 

NEWSAGENT: ‘Oodles of squidgeons of love’?

 

DAVE: ‘Lots of love.’

 

NEWSAGENT: ‘Lots of squidgeons of….?

 

DAVE: Just ‘Lots of love’!

 

NEWSAGENT: Right. ‘To my darling Jenny, lots of love, Dave…. (UNDER HIS BREATH)…ey diddle dum doos.’

 

DAVE: What?

 

NEWSAGENT: (COVERS IT UP WITH HIS HAND) Nothing.

 

DAVE: What have you written down?

 

NEWSAGENT: What you told me to write down.

 

DAVE REMOVES THE NEWSAGENT’S HAND FROM THE PAPER.

 

DAVE: My name is not Davey diddle dum doos!

 

NEWSAGENT: Oh come on, this is a Valentine’s Day message, people always use silly names for Valentine messages.

 

DAVE: Well I don’t.

 

NEWSAGENT: Oh lighten up will you, it’s only a bit of fun.

 

DAVE: No it isn’t, using silly names is stupid and childish, so I’ll just thank you to put ‘To my darling Jenny, lots of love, Dave’, if you don’t mind.

 

NEWSAGENT: Very well then, if you insist. (WRITES IT DOWN) ‘To
my darling Jenny, lots of love, Dave.’

 

DAVE: Thank you.

 

NEWSAGENT: And your full name and address please?

 

DAVE: Mr Dave Droopydrawers, 22…..

 

THE NEWSAGENT BURST OUT LAUGHING.

 

DAVE: Oh get lost!  

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

A Royal Occasion

13th February 2007

“And it is quite obvious from his reaction that Prince William is as excited as the next man – the next man in this instance being his younger brother Prince Harry, who is seated next to him. Seated on Wills’s other side is of course his girlfriend, Kate Middleton, who is quite obviously enjoying every minute of this truly royal occasion.”
A few seconds later – “And from the reaction of Wills and Harry it has received full royal approval. Harry now pauses in the celebrations to blow his nose – is this a royal cold coming one wonders? – while pretty Kate looks adoringly at her handsome prince, and, dare we say it, future husband.”
A few seconds later –  “Kate now points out something in the crowd to Wills. What has the vivacious Kate spotted? Perhaps a friend from the university they attended together, St Andrew’s in Scotland? She waves. So does Wills. Harry misses out on the fun as he is still blowing his royal nose.”
In and between this commentary about the Saturday afternoon diversions of a Prince, his girlfriend and his brother we saw a few seconds of the international rugby union game between England and Italy. What were the BBC commentator, director and cameraman up to? Do they honestly think that people who tuned in to watch the rugby international give a shit if Princes William and Harry are in the watching crowd? If television viewers have any thoughts on the subject at all they will almost certainly be along the lines of ‘Look at those two twats on a freebie while I couldn’t get a ticket’ and contribute to them disliking royalty even more than they do already.
Bring on the Republic!  

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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