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Jan 26th - Beyond the Grave – a journey to Loughborough. - see BB
Feb 9th: A disclaimer: the views expressed in the following piece of writing are those of the individual and not necessarily those of Nottingham Hockey Club.
To help you decide whether you should continue, we have used a certification system like that used by the British Board of Film Censors. This will warn you about the nature of the content. This week’s is PG* There is no swearing but the piece does include some imagination, a difficult-to-spot reference to a ‘lady part’ , a science fiction apect, a dream, some dangerous imaginary flying, even, dare we say, a white rabbit. Oh, and there is some satirical humour too. Stop now if you have any doubt over your ability to laugh.
We have a HELPLINE for anyone who is upset or affected by any of the issues covered in these pieces. If you are, then kindly call us on 0115 9622288 where one of Experian trained phone operators will offer counselling or, if they can’t help, provide you with the contact details of an agency that can. To ‘Gnome of Loughborough’ who left the message last week: have you tried the exercises yet? If it’s still a bit tight, use vaseline or ky jelly, whichever you keep in your sock drawer. You’re probably worrying over nothing: someone of your age is unlikely to have a prostate problem – though, from what you say, it could well be you are anally retentive – get it checked if the itchiness persists. Right, hope that’s cleared up your problem. Pass on my love to your mother…
Glad it’s night and the pipps – flying saucers over Bridgford.
Singing Canaries Seven, Squawking Geese Too.
I was in bed by 11 last Friday – my favourite dream starts at midnight and I wanted to be ready. In my favourite dream, I take the form of an eagle, and I sail high over the Himalayas, spying down on the yaks, the yetis and the bald holy men who inhabit these mystical realms. But, as deep sleep came, this was another dream altogether, as weird as weird. We, the Geese of Goosedale, were playing a game of hockey inside a giant cage, fenced off on all sides, with bars criss crossing overhead and a crowd of ghoulish faces who watched the event like visitors to the primate house. The umpires had the heads of pigs, but walked upright. They were like humans, but only with trotters instead of hands and feet. Both wore little pink waistcoats and one even had a curly pink tail. They squealed instead of whistled (obviously, for they could not hold whistles in their trotters – that would look ridiculous) and they were naked from the waist down, their coarse white hairs, with the wobbling layers of pink skin beneath, shone under the glow of a blood red moon, under whose eerie light the game was being played. I say played but really it was being spoiled by the PIPPS** whose insistance they were the most important ones on the pitch lead to feverish squealing over all manner of alleged tackles and imaginary offences. The one with the tail was particularly officious, even to the point of being aggressive, he’d award decisions from a full 80 metres away, flourish his yellow cards with the enthusiasm of the pope at a Hitler youth rally and took every opportunity to halt the game and call players over for stern warnings delivered from his foaming mouth and accompanied by a stare as fiery as the moon beyond the cage.
Suddenly, the game stops and everyone looks up to see a perfect flying saucer hover over the pitch. 5 mechanical grappling hands extend from the space craft and pull away – clunk, clunk, kerching – all the bars, the fencing and the roof. Everyone is gazing upwards as a trio of space suited ‘Greys’, the wee alien fellas we all know, with the embryo like features and eyes like blue bottle flies, slide down three silver ropes to land on the half way line. Then, two giant tentacles reach down and curl round the waists of the PIPPs, whose anguished squeals shriek out into the empty sky, fading to whelps and then silence as they disappear into the stomach of the ship. A broad white light beams down to flood the pitch, which magically, starts to grow underneath the players feet, the astro grass like real grass, to become a surface as pristine and exquisite as the Upperthong Bowling Green in West Yorkshire ( which is almost as smooth as Snelus’ Scotal Sack, but not quite).
The wee fellas read out a declaration: “We come in peace to restore parity and fair play to the astral game of hockey which has been taken over by the dark forces. We will umpire according to the Universal Rules of yin and yang, balance, harmony and the natural ebb and flow of all things. We will be as unobtrusive as to be unnoticeable.”
True to their word, the game recommences and develops into a mesmeric contest with me scoring the winner in a 10-9 victory.
Then I woke up to the crazy world where everyone dreams they are awake. You know the world is going crazy when the Prime Minister is a cyclops, the first black president of the US Corporation is an eighth cousin of Dick Cheney and a freemason to boot, pole dancing kits for 11 year olds are available in Woolies, Monica Kaplinsky claims she has a brain cell and is not simply a face round a talking vagina from which seaps the satanic juice of media distortions and propaganda, when men in positions of authority shave their testicles and ‘Brown Balls Milliband’ is not a lurid tabloid headline but a trio of senior cabinet ministers.
Yes, the world is crazy, kids, and anyone who says they are sane is certainly not to be trusted, for he is a deluded fool, a dangerous politician or an advertising executive. They may even be a MIPP – though not in the Telford region and certainly not in the leafy suburbs where the good burghers of Bridgford play. Astral love to everyone.
* – which means if you are, say, the president of a lowbrow University athletic union, and you are not able to read some of the longer words, you should only proceed if you are sitting with your mummy, her comforting breast at hand, just in case you feel faint at any point and need to draw on some milky sustenance.
**PIPPs – pigs in pink pullovers. © MJK
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