Afros & Apostrophes

That was an interlude, weren’t it.

So, a new year has begun. Apparently it’s traditional at this time. Still, more days are always welcome, ain’t they.

Of late I’ve been silenced. Some skinny-trousered squirt spilt luke-warm Super Malt over Mr. Tjinder’s fat-fibre web connection and spooked it. I’ve tried hollering through a rolled-up programme on matchdays but my words disappear amid the chat and blether of the black and white masses.

To be honest, I’ve forgotten most of what’s happened, and remembered a lot of what hasn’t.

But life, as ever, continues to veer from the prosaic to the poetic and back again. And although I haven’t read the book, I know it remains a queerly-waddled world. For starters, there’s a tennis player called Mardy Fish.

Still, so long as your braces remain taut and your shirt-collar’s kept scrubbed, life will deliver larks ‘til the coffin shop calls.

Admittedly, I’ve been frustrated at being unable to discharge my bulging lexicon into your yearning maws, so here’s a few aide-mémoire from the Maurice Moleskine:

One day, I found a box of greengrocer’s apostrophes and went ‘round randomly adorning the stall-holder’s signs. There’s nothing like a bit of grammatical terrorism to keep the cold at bay, and it’s always good to see plum’s, fire-lighter’s, and duster’s selling well!

On another occasion, I caught some nippers giggling over a postcard of a fat man on a motorcycle. Then one went past. It was a riot.

I’ve noticed that the voluminous afro hair arrangement is in vogue amongst the young ‘uns ‘round here, but it’s too late to lionise Kareem Abdul Jabaar, I say. Trumps corn-rows though, sartorially-speaking.

Mainly, I’ve been spending a lot of time teetering on a stack of milk-crates on Stevenage Road trying to meet Mr. Haynes’ stare in the hope that there might be some transference of greatness. Alas, sublime balance is not something we share. Thank heavens for Holloway’s Ointment – “it cleanses before it heals!”

Must go, some coves have brogues to polish: the Kettering mosh-pit has left them scuffed beyond acceptability!

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!