Category Archives: Comedy

Good evening, and welcome to my blog!

This is another trip down memory lane to a time long ago, where my judgment was just as rubbish as it is now!

Hey – at least I’m consistent.

Here it is:


Making a Name For Myself – Not In a Good Way

There are certain things in life that don’t mix; Nitroglycerine and Epilepsy, Sword swallowing and the hiccups, Solitaire and Schizophrenia, to name a few.

One other thing that doesn’t mix well is my sense of enjoyment and the good idea department of my brain. Yet again the combination of these has led me to disaster.

Last night, I went out with friends to a local comedy night. There were three comedians and a compere – all of which were very good. We were sat behind the front row of tables, which afforded us the luxury of not being picked on by any of the acts on stage. The compere picked on a few people, but we were safe.

There was a break between each comedian for people to get more drinks or spend a penny, and it was during one of these breaks that the trouble started.

Me and my mate were late walking back to our table due to the number of people queuing for the toilet. Our route back took us right past the front of the stage – where the compere was warming the crowd up for the next act. As I walked past level with him, he said something (i forget what) to me. My response – and I don’t know why – was to reach up and pretend to tickle his testicles. I then carried on and returned to my seat. At the time, tickling the balls of the compere seemed a great idea – I was enjoying myself, I was out with friends, it was all good.

Of course that was it – I was the centre of attention for the next 5 minutes, and was referred to by the compere every time he came back on stage. To cut a long story short, I came away from that night with the title of “Larry The Ball Tickler”.

Naively, I thought that name was only relevant within the confines of the venue. I forgot that many of the people who went to the Comedy night would also go back to the same pub we did afterwards, and that all of them would call me by my new title on sight. So my new name stuck with me last night. How long this will run for, is anybody’s guess.

In future, I think I’ll keep my ideas, and hands to myself.


Good evening, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

My little girl is unwell in hospital, and is having a really rough time. My fiancée is with her, and it’s hard for her to see our baby suffer. It’s hard for me being at home – I visit, but I worry about them both, and I just want our little one home.

If all of that wasn’t enough, last week my future Mother-In-Law got bitten by a bat.

I know!!

It’s true what they say: if it’s not one thing, it’s your mother!

So, because the best way for me to combat my stress and worry is to laugh and see the  lighter side of things, I have written the following poem about my Mother-In-Law’s adventure with a creature of the night.

I hope you like it.



Me Mother-In-Law was bit by a bat;

No – I couldn’t believe it either.

I was visiting my daughter in hospital when they told me

So I popped down to A&E just to see her.


At first when I entered the waiting room

I couldn’t see her in any of the chairs.

Then my eyesight was drawn to the ceiling

Following the line of all the other patient’s stares.


There she was, hanging upside-down from a strip light;

With her knickers on display to the place.

Well, I assumed that it was my Mother-In-Law

‘Cos her skirt was now covering her face.


God only knows how she got up there,

But we fetched her down so as not to offend.

And sure enough, it was my wife’s mother

(who I’ll now recognise from both ends)


I asked her what the hell she was doing,

And how the devil she got bit by a bat.

She said it happened in doing a good deed

By rescuing the thing from her cat.


She went on to say she saw it last evening

Sat quite calmly in front of the TV

With the cat close by in attendance

Watching “Cash in the Attic” it seems.


While she spoke, she showed very weird behaviour

She was fixated by a fly on the wall

Her head twitched and jerked rather oddly

And she wasn’t herself – not at all.


Expanding her tale, she continued

Telling how she feared for the little’s bats life.

So she wrapped it up carefully in a tea-towel

To release it back into the night.


Wrapped up, she moved gently but quickly

So that the trauma to the bat wouldn’t linger

But the bat couldn’t tell her intentions

And as released, bit her right on the finger.


Understandably this caused her some discomfort,

And although curses she does not usually utter

Her neighbours noted hearing in the darkness that night

Someone clearly saying “OW! You fucker!”


After not too long, she was seen by the doctor

Who thankfully said Rabies was ruled out.

However her hearing aid batteries had packed in by now

So several times the Doc had to shout.


It’s been three weeks now since she was bitten

She’s recovered well, I’m pleased to report.

But some aspects of her behaviour still concern me

Like her sleeping hanging down in her porch.


She’s been seen less often in the daytime

But has been flitting here and there in the night.

Being deaf, she doesn’t have much sonar

So she relies much more heavily on sight.


In the darkness of course this is a problem;

Her eyesight is 78 don’t you know.

She gave me a heart attack last Thursday night

When she smacked into my living room window.


But I guess we should be grateful for small mercies

We’ll get used to her as time goes by.

And having some bat traits are an advantage –

She keeps down the moth numbers at night!!

Good evening, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

I like going camping.

But I don’t like the almost symbiotic stress that always comes with each and every camping trip my family go. Every time we set off in a happy, and excited mood which lasts roughly up to the point when we have to set the tent etc. up.

This poem is about one particular cause of stress, that we still haven’t managed to get right – in spite of having the same difficulties on concurrent camping weekends.


The Airbed

A new airbed we sought, and one for camping was bought

T’was a double – velour top and sumptuously deep.

With electric plug at one end, for compressed air to send

as itself it inflates – which is sweet.


Now, in tents it is true; plug sockets are few –

I suppose that is part of the charm.

But I’m no camping chump – I had purchased a pump;

Double-action – to save aches in our arms.


The bed was high-tech, and the air intake spec

was “Inflate” (obviously), “Lock”, or “Deflate”.

All set on a dial, so choice wouldn’t be a trial –

A dial, that I would soon come to hate.


One fine weekend last March, we at last had the chance

to take the air-bed on its first trial run.

The instructions were easy; setting up would be breezy

Which was bound to make camp sleeping fun.


We unpacked it with haste, for success we could taste

in anticipation of sumptuous reclining.

My family couldn’t wait, so as I pumped at a rate

They just stood there, mouth open, admiring.


As I pumped up and down, air was forced ‘cross the ground.

To the bed through a tube it was rushing.

But to my shock and surprise, the bed failed to rise

and the sight of its limpness was crushing.


“Patience” I said, “It’s a very large bed –

to inflate it will be time-consuming”

And with a confident grin, my pumping again did begin

But inside, I was secretly fuming.


With a fury I pumped, and my heart it did thump

as sweat poured in torrents down my face.

Every breath out was snorted, and my face was contorted

but the damn bed – it wouldn’t inflate.


Tired and exhausted, to help I resorted –

With my family, we pumped as a team.

My fingers were twisted, and my palms hot and blistered

Which is the first time since I was a teen.


I was hurt and perplexed – and in no little way vexed

as to the reasons our efforts weren’t fruitful.

The minutes ticked by, but the bed wouldn’t rise

And I was ready to give it a boot-full.


The bed lay there limp – though you could have inflated a blimp

With the amount of air pumping we had mustered.

I now held a grudge – though the bed wouldn’t budge

But just lay there flat, like a bastard.


I checked my equipment, offended – which at my age is recommended –

But found it to be working and true.

I could not understand, why the bed failed to expand

And I just didn’t know what to do.


Then, with a simple smile my son said, “the dial

Is only used for electric inflating.

And though your efforts were great, with the dial on ‘Inflate’

Air was just passing through and escaping.”


With that he turned the dial back to ‘Lock’, and with speed that did shock

Had the airbed inflated perfectly.

Trembling with rage and fatigue, I admit I did jealously seethe

At the bed now inflated correctly.


But in the wisdom of youth, I did learn a great truth:

impatience doth man’s best hopes hamper.

And as I look back now, I make this new vow;

Next time, I’m buying a Camper!






Why the Chances of Going Shopping Without Getting Enraged is Approximately 3,720 – 1

Hello, and welcome to my blog.

As regular readers of my blog will know, I am a great believer in the beauty of the human spirit, and how each of us has the ability to bring light and joy into the lives of others every day. We are, by nature a laughing and caring species – and I am proud to include myself as one of you.

EXCEPT – when I’m walking behind you out shopping. In that scenario, I’d happily kill you all.

I don’t go shopping very often, so when I do I always know where I’m going, which shops I’m visiting, and I don’t hang about. Time is money, people – and as I have little of either, I literally cannot afford to be stuck behind people shuffling along in a little dream, oblivious to everything around them.

I’m fortunate enough to live in a part of the world which has both natural beauty and plenty of history (a bit like me, really). Because of this, at this time of year there are a lot of tourists around – who apparently haven’t seen shops, or buildings before because they slowly walk around looking up at the building that used to be something important, but is now a drive through spray-tan and vajazzle boutique. Whilst I recognise and welcome the valuable income that tourists bring to my little corner of the world, I do wish they would recognise that stopping suddenly in front of me when I am walking at speeds of up to 4.75 miles per hour, could result in at the least embarrassment and minor injury, and in the worst case, an intimate moment and a court appearance. And if the slow walking and sudden stopping wasn’t bad enough, what also appears to be a habit of every other person out in town is the fact that they window shop – from twenty-five feet away!.

The pedestrian “area” of my local town centre is about half a mile in length, and is about sixty feet wide. It is lined on both sides by shops – all of which have lovely window displays, specifically designed to entice and lure customers in. So why do people choose to stop smack bang in the middle of the main thoroughfare and peer from a distance at the items in the window!? I lose count of the times I have nearly rear-ended an elderly couple who have stopped to discuss whether the shop in the distance has shoes in her size. It’s a shop! not a great white shark ! You can approach it – and even go into it if you like to have a better look. I’m fairly sure that the owners of the shop would like you too!!  But no, please don’t take my word for it – please do stay completely still… will make it easy for me to bludgeon you both to death with your wheeled trolley!!

It honestly is like a scene from a zombie film at times – loads of shuffling figures, with vacant expressions on their faces, arms outstretched with the head tilted to one side. I have to plan my route ahead because they keep changing direction or coming out of nowhere to thwart my progress. I feel like the Millennium Falcon escaping from the TIE fighters in the asteroid field in ‘The Empire Strikes Back’. Sometimes, I even hum the piece of music that accompanies that scene. If you still can’t picture that image, you can watch the scene HERE.

I know I could shop online, and I honestly do consider myself a real “people” person.


Just not when you are in my way.

Hello, and welcome to my blog.

I struggle in the mornings.

Not in the terms that I’m not a morning person – quite the opposite. I admit that I find breaking out of the gravity of my comfy bed difficult, but once I’m up I am all good. No, what I struggle with is maintaining a serene façade as I try to encourage the children to get ready in time to leave the house. Unfortunately, the time we leave the house is purely based upon the time that I need to go to work, so the urgency I impose upon the kids is all mine, not theirs in any way. In fairness, our older child Barnaby is very good at getting himself up, washed and dressed. It’s the younger child, Betty that needs more encouragement – and that is what I struggle with.

There is roughly one hour between the time the kids get up and the time we (I) need to leave the house. Below is a transcript of some of the conversations I have with them in that hour:

Getting out of Bed

Me: Kid’s! time to get up!

Barnaby: I am up!

(I walk up the stairs and see Barnaby led on his bed in his pyjamas)

Me: Barnaby – no you’re not, you’re just lying on your bed. Betty! time to get up!

Barnaby: But I’m not in my bed, so I am up!

Betty: Five more minutes!

Me: (to Barnaby) Just come down and have breakfast. (to Betty) No Betty, come on now.

Betty: I’m stretching!!

Me: Come on you two!!

(a low growl eminates from Betty, and Barnaby accompianies her with some inaudible teenage muttering)

At the Breakfast Table

Me: Betty what do you want for breakfast?

Betty: (grunts)

Me: Do you want porridge?

Betty: No!

Me: Choco Hoops?

Betty: No!!

Me: Honey loops?

Betty: No!!!!

Me: Well, what do you want?

Betty: I DON’T KNOW!!!!!

(I walk into the kitchen, and continue with what I was doing)


Barnaby: What??

Me: What’s the matter Betty?

Betty: Barnaby is looking at me!!

Barnaby: I’m not!

(I walk to the breakfast table)

Me: Come on now Betty, what are you having for Breakfast?

Betty: I’m Tired!! I don’t know!!

(I sigh, and walk back to the kitchen and make her lunch)

Betty: I want porridge.


Time to Go

Me: Guys!! time to go!!

(this is the moment Barnaby decides to start preparing his bag etc. for school)

(Betty walks into the kitchen without shoes – or socks on)

Me: Betty!  your socks on!………where are you going? (as betty goes into the dining room)

Betty: I’m getting my doll.

Me: Leave the doll, and get your socks and shoes on! Barnaby! are you ready?

Barnaby: Just coming (there is no sounds of any movement)

(I’m now pacing the kitchen, before walking to the lounge where Betty should be putting on her socks)

Me: Betty have you………put that down and get your socks on! come on!

Betty: Larry…..?

Me: Yes?

Betty: Can I bring my rainbow unicorn to school?

Me: no……yes…….I don’t know – just hurry up and get your socks on! Barnaby!! are you ready yet?

Barnaby: Just coming. (still no movement heard)

(Betty now has her socks on and his moving towards the shoe cupboard)

Me: Right, now get your shoes on Betty……, not those shoes, they are mummy’s……..yes they are pretty, but you need your shoes.

Betty: Can I wear my sandals?

Me: Your sandals? No, not for school.

Betty: But my shoes are too tight. My feet hurt.

(my pulse has quickened and I can feel the veins bulging in my head)

Me: What? well you’ll have to wear your shoes for now and we will look for shoes at the weekend. BARNABY!!! GET A MOVE ON!!!

Barnaby: Just coming.

Me: Come on Barnaby, we need to – Betty, get your coat on. Just get a move on Barnaby, we need to go!!

(the “We” is actually, “I”)

(Betty comes into the kitchen carrying her coat – which she drops onto a chair)

Me: No – Betty, put your coat on………don’t fiddle with that….just get your coat on.  BARNABY!!!!

Barnaby: What? (he suddenly appears behind me fully ready to go)

Me: Oh….you’re ready. Right, come on Betty, grab your stuff and lets go.


We leave the house, I drop the kids off, and go to work.





The Everlasting Plaster Reminders, and…..Trophies From The School Of Stupidity

What is it with the glue they use on big plasters? This picture is of my arm four days after I gave blood. Standard procedure is that when you have given enough blood, they put a small dressing over the point where the needle went into your arm, which you are supposed to leave on for six hours. I followed these instructions to the letter (my letter being “i” for idiot) – but when I took off the small dressing / big plaster – it’s a grey area where one becomes the other – the adhesive from the dressing stayed on my arm. I shower everyday, and yet these final globules of “plaster gunk” refuse to go.  I’ve washed them, scrubbed them, picked at them with my fingers, my teeth, a knife, a knife in my teeth, my fingers in my teeth, my teeth in my fingers, and a knife in my fingers – all to no avail. I’m left with what looks like the bite mark of a ravenous hillbilly. No doubt, I will be scarred for life.
But I don’t want another scar thank you. I already have quite enough:

Apple scar. I got this one trying to cut an apple in half. I was holding the apple from the top, much like a spin bowler holds the ball in cricket, and was forcing a knife up through the apple from below. Suddenly, the force I was exerting on the knife became greater than the resistance of the apple, and I sliced through the apple – and very nearly my index finger. Although I can remember doing it, I’m not sure how old I was. Whatever my age, I was stupid. Could have been yesterday then.


Toys R Us scar. I was working on the night shift at Toys R Us Basildon, and was pulling a flat cart out to the warehouse, The doors to the warehouse were solid apart from a narrow window with a metal surround. I went to push the door open with my left hand, and my middle finger slid down a sharp edge of the metal window surround, scooping a small section of my finger out. It bled like a git, but being the senior staff member on duty I had to stay until the day shift arrived (about six hours later) before I could go to A&E to get it looked at. The worst part was when they nurse had to scrub the end of my finger clean – it hurt so much I nearly hit the roof – which wasn’t that far away, as I am six foot six inches tall.

St Anselm’s scar. At school, I was a timid soul – terrified of everything and everyone. Also I had a small circle of friends – so small in fact that I didn’t fit in it – so I often ate lunch alone. Crying. That’s not true – I didn’t each lunch. So one day, I’m sat under the stairs that lead up to the language block. In my school, the underside of the stairs was encased in concrete, and I was sat beneath this. Suddenly there was a banging on the door, and I was so surprised at this (having been pleasantly in my own little world, where I had friends and lunch), that I jumped up and cracked my head on the corner of the concrete underside of the stairs. I instinctively put my hand to my head, and when I looked at it, it was red with blood. And this scar is the permanent reminder of those painful, unhappy days. And of how clumsy I was (am).

Batman scar. This scar might be a little difficult to see – if you look at the creases in the middle of my finger are, and then scan them to the left, you will see the scar. I got this scar without even realising it. I was taking my son/nephew to the cinema for my Birthday. Yes I said son/nephew – he was neither, but my relationship with his mother at the time was a little bit complicated to explain. Anyway, we were going to see one of the Batman films – the one with George Clooney as Batman maybe?. Anyway, for one reason or another, we arrived late at the cinema, and it was dark as we made our way to our seats. As we sat down, I felt a sharp pain in my little finger as I leant against the back of the seat as I sat. The pain went as quickly as it had come so I thought nothing of it. At the end of the film, when the lights came up, I saw that my little finger had been bleeding profusely – and that I had cut it on an exposed piece of metal at the back of my seat. And do you know what? I didn’t even complain to anyone.

So, those are my scars. You will note that all of them have been incurred in one way or another by my own lack of thought. It’s quite surprising that I’ve made it to this age really.  But these are not all of my scars – I have a couple from a leg operation that I only show to people that really like me.
No-one has seen them.

The Revenge of Frankenstein’s Dinner, When Polite Conversation Goes Too Far, and Three Piece Suite is a Crowd.

I may have to dash off at a moment’s notice. In the Bar of my stomach,  tonight’s dinner is causing trouble and is in danger of being thrown out – through either the main entrance, or out the back with the rubbish (if you get my drift). What worries me is that it might try to leave by both exits at once.

Tonight I finished off the second half of my now infamous “What’s Left In The Cupboard” Bolognese – and I’m regretting it. I have a slight cramp, and my stomach is making some very odd gurgling noises. This “Frankenstein” of a meal, made up of individual components that never belonged together, is wreaking havoc. In the 1931 classic “Frankenstein”, the monster is chased into old windmill, which is then set alight, burning the creature to death. Maybe a really hot curry would have the same effect on my ‘creation’, but I’m not prepared to try it.


I did have a nasty taste in my mouth though, so I decided to see if some chocolate might help. In my experience, chocolate can help with most things – sadness, frustration, loneliness, boredom, lack of inspiration, the controversial Evolution vs Creationism debate. You name it – chocolate can fix it.
So I am in Co-Op at the checkout, and I decide to buy some Lottery Tickets with my chocolate.  I don’t mean pay for them with my chocolate – I mean buy the tickets as well as the chocolate.
Anyway, as the assistant is getting my tickets, the man queueing behind me says “You’re not going to win you know – I am”. Now, this is standard procedure. Whenever you are behind someone getting lottery tickets, you have to tell them that they can’t win, because it is your turn. It’s a kind of un-written rule. So I wasn’t surprised when I heard this man say this to me.
Being a friendly kind of guy, I didn’t punch him to the floor, but engaged in a brief light-hearted conversation. Well it started out light hearted – but then I sort of spoilt the mood somewhat. We were going back and forth about how I was going to win, and him saying no he was etc. and then for some reason I said
“You watch me win. And when I do, I’m going to get publicity and when they give me the cheque on telly I’m going to look into the camera and say ‘take that, bloke in the queue at Co-Op!'” And as I said that, I blew a raspberry.

And stuck two fingers up at him.

Right in his face.

I don’t know why I did that. I just got a little carried away with the jollity and the friendliness of it all, and ended up insulting a complete stranger.

The smile on the man’s face evaporated faster than…….the liquid that evaporates fastest in the whole world (Liquid Helium appears to be a contender), and all he said was “We’ll see.” I knew that I had overstepped the mark by a good mile or so, so I took my tickets, mumbled the words “no offence”, and left as quickly as possible.

I tell you something – at this moment in my life, when it comes to making myself look like a complete git, I’m doing with both my eyes shut and one arm behind my back (metaphorically speaking).

When I moved into my home I bought a new 3 piece suite from DFS. I got a Three Seater Sofa, an Armchair and a Tub Chair. I fully intended to use all three pieces, but have discovered that I am actually neglecting one of them.

The Sofa

This is my sofa. The seat on the left is where I am sitting while I type this blog. It’s also the seat where I watch TV, eat my dinner, and scratch myself.
I have actually had four people on this sofa once. Not in the biblical sense. But this sofa is the main seating object in my lounge. The stripy green cushions were purchased by me separately, and they go rather well with the curtains, don’t you think?

Tub Chair

The Tub Chair is also in my lounge – but I don’t sit on it myself. I keep it for visitors who don’t want to sit next to me on the sofa, or for visitors who can’t fit on the sofa with four of our already on it. When I recently had friends over to watch the Haye vs Klitschko fight, the tub chair was in prime location to see the action.
I wasn’t sitting in it.

Armchair – neglected

My Armchair is upstairs in my bedroom facing my bed. To be honest, as you can see, I use it as a dumping ground. At the moment it has a washing basket full of clean clothes on it, and the jeans a t-shirt I wore last night. It has only been sat in twice – once by me, and once by my mate Steve who said that one night he would break in and be sitting there looking at me when I woke up the next morning. In  just his pants.
I keep leaving my bedroom window open, but he never shows.

I feel a little bad about neglecting my Armchair – not only because I’m still paying for the Suite and should be getting all the use out of it I can, but also because the Armchair would be a good place to sit and write my blog, write some stand up, and do sign language. In the lounge it’s too easy to distract myself by turning on the TV or the Wii.

I think I’ll try it out over the weekend. Who knows? I might be inspired to write something amazing…..