As I pointed out on the comments the readers of these scribblings are folk of a high intelligence level. (FishHawk posts here also by the way) Add to this a few friends, yes I do have them although heaven knows how they remain friends with me, and one of them revealed his intellectual capacities this morning. The postman arrived early, and girns somewhat when I refer to her as 'postman,' and proffered a small, unexpected, packet. Smiling sweetly she appeared to be giving me the 'glad eye' but then kicked my shins and left me pondering the handwriting on the address. The constant use of e-mail means few addressed items arrive through the dirt covered hands of my postie and this leaves the opportunity to recognise handwriting, especially legible handwriting, as rare. I rushed up stairs as fast as my knobbly knees, and new bruise, would allow, and ripped the brown paper from the packet like it was Christmas morn.
Inside my eagle eye beheld a pair of 'Fuzzy Dice!'
I must make clear for the Johnny foreigner types among my limited readership, (that's limited in numbers not 'limited' in anything else my lawyer insists I should make clear) that this has special reference regarding where I live. I now reside in Essex a county with a reputation all of its own. During the eighties when Maggie Thatcher was destroying all the good and throwing thousands out of work while shovelling huge sums of money into her friends hands the term 'Essex Boy,' or indeed 'Essex Girl' took on new meanings. Their particular, noticeable, accent, the 'Essex Boys' amazing ability to attract money towards himself, and his fascination with the Ford Capri car (complete with 'his and her' names on the top of the windscreen, usually 'Tracy' or 'Sharon' over the passenger side and 'Dave' over the drivers) a fascination topped with the ever present 'Fuzzy Dice' dangling like his morals in a position designed to block his view. Therefore when I opened the packet this morning I laughed out loud, and still do when I think of this! 'Essex Girls,' on the other hand were never renown for their intellect, they tended to become 'Jordan' or 'Kate Moss,' or are they one and the same? I can never tell. The jokes about them abounded. However the only one I can remember is, "How can you tell when an Essex girl has an orgasm? She drops her kebab!" Today those women are the mothers of all the 'Chavs' the nation has produced. One day they will work out who the fathers are.
Must go, I have to look for a Ford Capri going cheap. (That's cheap, as in price, not cheep as in er, 'cheep,' by the way....)
