Farewell Mad Dicky

There comes a time in a young chap's life - come on Beattie, you know what I mean - when the parting of the ways become unavoidable.

Like Peter and Jordan.

Romeo and Julian.

The Lone Ranger and Tonto and Jay Silverheels.

The Marching Band of the Coldstream Guards.

Gerry and the Lacemakers.

The Cheeky Girls and Limbo O'Piky.

Freeman, Hardy & Willis.

Steve'n'Spielberg.

Lulu.

And so it comes to that point at which Dicky is departing the good ship UNSIONTM in order to pursue his dreams with Mellifluous, his Lady Luck.

I can almost imagine him now, sat at a table of hard-bitten card-sharps, as he trumps away until he's the only one left.

There will always be a place here for Dicky.

But sadly, not a job.

Robotwatch X

I am hugely and indubitabubbly indebited to my fact-checker and researcher Monsieur Tiny Braisby (the world's smallest typographical error and simultaneously at once the most testosteronically-challenging waistcoat model) for pointing me out at the above tomes.

Yet more evidence of the lunatic Wackson McJackson's fungi-fuelled fear-mongering.

I have put a petition on the Number 10 website for petitioners and such, and you can sign it too at http://www.raygunblastandradioactivemiseryaheaddangerwillrobinsondanger.gov.uk

Rome: The Infernal City

As a great admirer of Prof. Dan Brown's historical masterpieces "Daemons and Divils" and of course, his prima inter pares, the one that makes you realise how useless all his other books are, "The Dave Inchy Code", you will be delighted to hear that Rome has been successfully repaired.

As has Il Duce the Papa.

Following that unfortunate incident with a comet it was grand to see the oul' feller up and about in time for Matins on Sunday. (Matins, for the Heathen Ben-types out there, is a bit like elevenses with a bunch of friends round for a sing-a-long.)

Yes, there the little chap was bright and early up on his viewing platform in St.P's Quadrangle waving with his only good hand (following another unfortunate incident in which he broke his wrist and has regrettably been forced to give up his ambition to be the world's second greatest ping-pong player).

He chanted away a bit in a number of foreign languages and then went back indoors (imagine a weather-clock without the missus and you'll get the effect) to be carried around in his sedan chair a bit by faithful retainers. This ritual aspect of religionosity should not be belittled - and it is apparently the only way they can get him settled for his afternoon nap.

I'll be back in Blighty on Tuesday with the customary sweets and gifts for my own acolytes.

I will be holding a press conference in the afternoon of that same day, Tuesday, to announce my intention of setting up a London branch of Il Duce, with attendant regalia. It looks to be a good job, and I'm the only man for it.

Softball 2

I really don't know what all the fuss was about - a bit of a knock on the noggin and half a pint of blood lost.

Some people just have no idea about sporting endeavour.

Softball

Reconstruction of actual event

by people who know what they are doing.

Yes, you might well think it's some awful affliction of the nether regions of the gentlemanly sex.

But, no.

It is a pastime.

A pastime which seems to be one of the easiest ways of acquiring - voluntarily - injuries of varying levels of seriousness, ranging from a slight bruise to a full-blown cut.

Or so I must believe based on the reports reaching me of last night's historic efforts by a heroic band of hastily-volunteered incompetents known as the Club Derrig Irregulars against a bunch of tooled-up hooligans hailing from a local biscuit manufacturer.

After hours of battle on a rain-soaked pitch, in conditions that could only be described as 'mild' the result was:

Club Derrig Irregulars: 1 split lip; 1 bash on the bonce.

TUC Hooligan Army: 1 split lip.

I am therefore delighted to declare the Club Derrig Irregulars the winners by a lumpy skull.

Bring on the return match!

Hot Dang! I'm an organiser!

Howdy, pardners!

I'm a-been organised, yessiree! Got myself a real cute little baseball cap and all.

Up top aways you can see me in all my glory scouting about on one of them "mapping exercises" and scarifying up some new members in a green-turf site.

Hot-diggety-dawg and keep on the sidewalk you jaybirds!

Now y'all be good little chill'en, you hear?

Adios

Poker result

Quite flabbergasted me, it did, to be informed that Tallulah managed to win the once-in-a-blue-moon annual Festival of Poker, hosted in Club Derrig last Friday night.

She says, "That moneymaker Evans fella - what a walkover. There I was sitting on my ace in the hole and he's all bullets and flushing down the river on his flop. It's all flapdoodle and macaroons round here, now! PUT THAT AWAY. Hi-diddle-dee-dee, a pineapple's life for me. LATER! I'M BUSY! Oh, give me fourpence and I'll go away."

I can only congratulate the mad old bird and commiserate with Dicky.

Results Update: 3rd - The Genius Amanuensis; 2nd - Tallulah; 1st - Mad Dicky.

T' Smiths Reform!!!!

At last.

The news I've been waiting around for all my life since 1987.

T' Smiths have only gone and reformed!

Yes, it's time to hang out the bunting, stuff a gladiola down the back of me trousers, and put the old hearing aid back on.

I am hugely indebted to very many people, but on this occasion it is to a Mr. Simon 'What's On?' Watson, for sending me this short piece of film of them en studio rehearsing for their return to the world's stage, where they belong upon, and always have done, and ever more shall be so on.

It''ll be no more of the solo tosh churned out by the Lord of All Miseriness. Yes, I can now confess, it was all a pile of pants despite my fervent advocacy of it at the time. Absolutely shocking drivel and not fit to wipe the cheekiness from the cheeks of the Cheeky Girls.

Hooray for the best thing ever.

Derrig Gear - De Rigeur!

Yes, it's sweltery-hot-get-the-old-knobblies-out-in-the-sun-type-weather and I'm a-dithering over my trouser-length options.

It's a toss-up between the 4 styles shown above, which I think show just the right amount of leggage - not too far above the patella - and have a gentlemanly and dignified look.

But - and I don't know if it's just the heat talking - I am tempted to be bolder.

I have been toying with the prospect of something that shouts 'fashion', 'mode', 'he-man', and 'look at me'.

Something like this, perhaps?

Do let me know which look you think I should be "rocking".