Fin

FIN - for a bit

Ever so busy

Thanks for looking in and for kind words

Some kind of service will be resumed when new transmitter is switched on,

Meanwhile

The Test Card

Picture of scarey clown with lecherous look in one eye, and small girl with balloons, surrounded by patterned frame with BBC logo at the bottom.

The scene played out to the sound of a long continous tone or a selection of lift music.

Could've Been a Lady

And the dance continued. On and on, our merry band wending its way through the holiday camps and leisure centres of the land. A travelling band of Minstrels paving a scorched path of dance and mystical magic, Two weeks extended into four, Guido and Stephanie delighted at the success of the show and their reintroduction into Showbiz Society. Bob and Jean the only casualties, press ganged at a coastal venue into a return to the Choppy Main and a new challenge demonstrating the Magic of Ballroom to seafarers on the P&O ferry “Pride of Bilbao” while battling the rise and fall of the Bay of Biscay.

After the initial giddiness of running away with a dance circus had diminished I settled down to a steady routine of life on the road. Seven shows a week, each night a new venue. Wake early in wherever we are staying, into the minibus and van and on to the next venue by midday. Set up in the afternoon, quick run through of performance, back to digs for meal and change, back to venue. Perform, glasses of fizz to acknowledge triumph, pack van, sleep. Same again. Monotonous though it may sound, it was all still relatively new to me. Other hoofers had their own ways of dealing with the repetitious days, To Sweaty Pauline, a new day, a new palm. Khan Astrologer of Doom lived the part twenty four seven, doom lay all around. Guido and Stephanie were under the most pressure, onstage for over half of the show and troupe leaders; they are busier than most, but as yet, no cracks showing. The biggest surprise to everyone, performers and audiences alike, has been Ivanka. The cross dressing Cossack has gone down a storm every night, and has displaced Khan as the penultimate act of the show; a move that Khan had predicted a week ago. The two continue to share a room, Khan confident in his prediction that Taurean Ivanka will be usurped amidst fire and thunder, and no good will come of this change in the running order.

Ivanka has grown into her role, and may have had his/her head turned by this elevation in status. Keen to attain the next stage of gender realignment he/she put in a request for an increased performance fee. Guido and Stephanie quietly reminding him/her of visa regulations in the UK and what they do to cross gender Cossacks in the barracks of the Caucasus.

This was the first real incident of creative tension between Troupe leaders and the popular Cossack who held the belief that he was fast becoming the future of Light Entertainment. At that night’s performance the air crackled with creative tension. Khan foreseeing trouble repeated his prediction of Fire and Thunder to the troupe and as I moved into Svetlina mode and climbed the stage I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that all was not well.

Blending Science, Art and Dance, the routine begins with me assuming the position of Vitruvian man behind a large circular screen. I am displayed en silhouette, standing still for thirty seconds before the first Doo Doo Doo of the title music from Tales of the Unexpected strikes up. For the next thirty seconds it is a slow swaying of hips with arms outstretched, the arms are than introduced for two minutes of free style swaying before finishing in the position of Bruce Forsyth’s “The Thinker” As Guido has commented, it is a stunning opening that could only be improved by the addition of a full orchestra.

Returning to the dressing room and slipping out of my Lycra body stocking, the tension remained. Pauline was now on stage after some nifty sword work from Willie Watson. Glistening with palmistry pride she had maintained her run of discovering a Dragon Slayer on every day of the week, a surprise to Pauline who had only ever previously come across them at the weekends.

Next came Khan, keen to regain his place as number two in the line up, he was carrying out on the spot readings for whoever was born under the sign that the Sun currently happened to be in. In Astrological terms death defying stuff, the audience struck dumb by Khan’s reading for the man who had his birthday the next day,predicting the death of his cat in the morning and a particularly nasty and messy event late in the day on the way back from a celebratory evening out.

Ivanka followed on. A staid performance, in which he/she seemed to be holding back, a going through of the Cossack motions, just doing enough in a Russian Steppes kind of way that did not quite match previous performances. Then It was Guido and Stephanie. Freestlye Salsa movements from opposite sides of the stage, each night a new move, electrifying stuff that drew gasps from the audience. A sensual Rhumba to follow and then a super Samba, lost in a dance bubble they carried the audience away on a magic Latin carpet. Completely transfixed no one noticed the subtle change in beat. Ivanka irked by her pay dispute and emboldened by Oestrogen, was in control of the music and had skilfully segwayed the music to a new track, storming the stage with a high and low kicking Cossack routine to Hot Chocolate’s “You Could’ve Been a Lady”

Professional to the last, Guido and Stephanie adjusted to the change in beat and proceeded to dance the ladyboy Cossack from the spotlight, escorting him via a routine of tangoesque rushes to the side of the stage where he/she became wrapped in the stage curtain, eventually pulling the curtain down with a crash along with several lighting units.

“Fire and Thunder I tell you! Fire and Thunder! AAAGGHHH!”

boomed Khan as he dashed across the stage arms outstretched in a diversionary tactic that pleased all the audience bar one, who returned home to check on his cat and cancel his birthday celebrations. Guido and Stephanie took the applause and we all returned for the end of show Hokey Cokey except for Ivanka.

I don’t know where this leaves the tour now, Ivanka is piqued at his/her treatment and failure to achieve top billing. Khan has yet to predict the end of the world but I can feel it coming on, and just how many Dragon Slayers does one need to discover. Stephanie says the show must go on, but I just don’t know. I have spoken to husband several times this week, and the kids came to a performance with Grandma which was fantastic. Secretly I think they are quite proud of my new career, but I can’t leave them for much longer. We have to sort something out soon. We are all suspended in a dance/football limbo and must find a way to move forward.

Time on my Hands

Two weeks have flown by. My Svetlina, the dancing shadow? A triumph! Every audience we played to joining in with the title music to “Tales of The Unexpected” A throbbing mass of people waving their arms and singing along. “Doo Doo Doo do do do Doo Doo Doo do do do Do Do. No need to fret about my appearance, I am a dancing shadow, just wiggle and dance, wiggle and dance. I have never been in such good shape.

The kids are ok, I ring them every night. Of course they ask when I will be coming home, to which I can only reply soon. Daughter tells me that Husband has worn out his Bill Withers album, playing “ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone” into the early hours, which induced a pang and a gulp. Son is secretly quite proud of his Mom. Granddad told him that lots of people used to run away with the circus when he was a lad; Grandma had gone off several times during the past few years but never with a circus so it was a first for the family.

Guido and Stephanie are over the moon with the success of the show. Ivanka, formerly Ivan the heavily bearded Transvestite Cossack, has gone down a storm, bar one night when he wore inappropriate underwear during his mini skirted Cossack dance. Bob and Jean, between cruises, have unfortunately fallen out, Jean’s head momentarily turned by the fleet-footed Scottish sword dancer Willie Watson. The two males of the ménage a trios exchanging places, Bob proving to be a rather dangerous sword dancer and Willie providing an unusual interpretation of a Viennese waltz with several leg cross overs and bended knees when a simple point of the toe would have done. There! you see, I am even beginning to sound like a dancer with all this technical talk, anyway Guido and Stephanie were so enamoured by the way the tour was progressing that they added extra dates and extra acts. Chief among them Sweaty Pauline the Palm reader, her favoured sobriquet - Sweet Pauline, suffering from a misplaced vowel in the programme, and “Khan the Astrologer of Doom”, no encouraging forecasts with this one. The two were to fill in between the dance acts. Plucking people from the audience, Pauline builds em up and fills them hope, thirty minutes later Khan knocks then flat with a swish of his cloak and an astrological projection that leaves them wondering if they will make the end of the show. Guido and Stephanie swiftly taking the stage with a fiery Salsa to reassure everyone that all is well and that despite Khan’s forecast, the dance lives on.

I’ve never mixed with mystics before, the closest I’ve come? A roomful of faux wizards and witches at a Harry Potter theme party. With our merry troupe expanding and rooms at a premium I was required to share with Pauline; Khan striking an instant rapport with Ivanka, the pair agreeing to hunker down together until more rooms were available.

I had not shared a room with another person since my student days, Pauline was not that sweaty and neither was she that mystical. She snored and looked a little liverish in the morning and she couldn’t predict what holiday camp we would be staying in the following night. We talked a little, late at night, while battling to dispel the highs of the evening’s performance in an effort to attain sleep. I explained that I was temporarily running away from a life of football, I was missing my family but could not go back to what had gone before. Pauline, glistening with an evening of satisfied customers, turned on the light,

“Show us your hands love”

I sat up on the side of the bed and presented my hands,

“Colour’s Ok, shape wise I’d put you as Spatulate with a hint of fire, your Mercury mount is well developed and Venus mount suitably fleshy.”

And so she went on: this line does this, this line does that, islands on my life line, tridents on my heart line, whorls on my finger tips and an apex on my Luna mount, finally consulting a crumpled chart to declare my best suited role in life to be a Dragon slayer

“It’s an old chart!”

Pauline, declared as she returned to her bed.

“Sorry Pauline, its just…. Oh I don’t know, thanks for the reading it has really helped and I promise to fully appreciate my fleshy Venus mount, but I think I am going to sleep now”

I turned off the light, Pauline snored, and I toyed with the idea of Palmistry in football; coaches picking teams by examining hands rather than assessing fitness and ball skills. Obviously a Goalkeeper must have hands, preferably big ones at that. A line of intuition would be a desirable trait on the palm of the aspiring keeper to predict opposition attacking moves. Any sign of the Girdle of Venus, a marker of sensitivity and inner turmoil, then keeping is not for him, if the ball goes in the net, you have to move on. A definitive moniker for the defender is a high set apex on the Jupiter mount that suggests a stickler for correctness, while prospective midfielders should display a loop of serious intent in the whorls below the middle finger. Strikers should not display a line of fate. The tip of the middle finger should be flexible, denoting a gambler, which is just what you want around the box. Substitutes should have a fork leaving the line of fate around the Luna Mount signifying patience, and the manager should have a Mount of Jupiter to die for.

What have I done? Twenty minutes pontificating about the merits of footballer’s hands when I have pledged my short term existence to the world of dance. Is my life missing a soupcon of the dreaded football?

Whatever

After the plumbing disaster of last week, and husband’s indifference at my Saturday morning dance tryst with Guido, I had been left in an emotional limbo. The excitement of the morning, the thrill of the dance left me feeling more alive than I had for weeks, only to be lain flat by husband’s reaction to my plight, Indifference hurts!

Years ago and capable of stirring to great heights of passion, his first reaction would be to rant, rage and sling Guido out on his ear. This would be followed by a prolonged period of dark brooding before making up passionately some hours later. Now his first concern is locating the stopcock and brooding about selling a bloody Iron! Indifference hurts!

He can still stir himself to great heights of passion as long as he is standing on a white line, watching twenty-two boys chase a stupid white ball around. There he will rage against indifference urging the boys to show the same passion that he is displaying, play for the shirt and do of their best. To him this is when Indifference hurts!

To the footballer indifference cannot be tolerated. It is a black and white world with no room for shades of grey. Us against them, all for one and one for all, a legitimate reason to show passion in a game where a shrug of the shoulders and a “whatever” has no place. To the footballer on the field, and the end result for the team Indifference hurts!

Normally in these situations I would come up with an indifferent eleven, a fantasy footballing side, a mental fight back against the footballing machine. First name on the team sheet was Catherine Tate, Am I bovvered? indifference on the edge. A back line of Frenchmen relying heavily on the Gallic Shrug, and a Swiss midfield, neutral to a man backing not one side or the other. The masters of sitting on the fence, Worzel Gummidge. Phil Drabble and Jack Hargreaves, the three man strike force. All playing under the tutelage of a French manager whose main half time mantra is “comme ci comme ca” It was a feeble effort and one riddled with my own indifference to the task. His indifference away from the field of football was catching. Indifference hurts!

Helpless and unable to get him to show passion about anything but football, I have had a Gloria Gaynor moment and “got up and walked” He tried to stop me and briefly displayed feelings that had long been hidden away from the football pitch, but I had to go, walk out the door, don’t turn around now. I was still welcome but I wanted more. Guido and Stephanie keen to resume their dancing careers had put together a small band of hoofers to embark on a two week tour of spectacular dance. A two-hour show where Guido and Stephanie’s’ Latin dance headlines. Bob and Jean, between cruises, do the ballroom. Ivanka (formerly Ivan) a heavily bearded Russian transvestite dances Cossack style in high heels and mini skirt followed by Wee Willie McWatson a small and elderly kilted Scotsman who dances with swords. After my morning session with Guido in the kitchen “en silhouette” drew rave reviews from the villagers passing by, Guido has persuaded me to open the show dancing behind a screen to the opening music from “tales of the unexpected”. Football is no longer on the menu and I am no longer Soccermom, but slinky hipped Svetlina the dancing shadow. Tonight will be our third performance of the two-week tour. We are ensconced in a holiday camp in the depths of winter; the place is shabby and cold. The first two nights were a triumph. After my five minutes of wiggling I get to watch the whole show, returning for the group Hokey Cokey at the end. The dance is fantastic, the days are long but fun. Of course I miss the kids, and I miss him and home, and I think that after the two-week tour I shall go back, but just for the moment, Indifference no longer hurts.

Livin La Vida Loca

Christmas come and gone and a return to Football madness in the New Year, with three weeks passing since the last football fiasco, husband and son having kittens at the prospect of pulling on the studs again. I too had reason to be excited about the coming Saturday, I too would be pulling on a stud, Guido having relented to my request for an individual dance class at our spa day had agreed to come around when I was home alone and give further one to one instruction in return for me raising a small discrete group of like minded individuals who were keen to be instructed in all things Latin and Ballroom. Just a small class to get him back on his feet after the furore over his and Stephanie’s unfortunate arrest in the med on a yacht. So with husband and son away on footballing matters Guido was popping around on Saturday morning for a one-hour session. On a need to know basis I decided that this was one that Husband did not need to know about, especially with the pre match tension he would know doubt be enduring that morning.

So with the ready excuse that I would be spending the morning listing many of the Christmas presents that he had bought for me on ebay, namely the Teflon coated corset with Kevlar supports, the eau de toilette titled “fishee” that comes in a goldfish shaped bottle, and the Iron, yes an Iron, purchased, he proudly told me, after a particularly convincing advertising campaign that ran along the lines of:

“Need to impress someone you love? Say it with an Iron”

Must have missed me that one. Anyway husband didn’t seem to mind, thank goodness for ebay, at least I could choose something that I really wanted and all that, he chuntered as he put on his coat and left the house on the coldest morning of the year so far.

Up into the shower, put on the top that revealed eye popping décolletage that I wore to our first lesson, with jeans and heels for luck. Pulled the curtains, moved back the furniture and waited for his Latin loveliness. Brief pangs of guilt at the thought of husband and son wending their way in the cold to some far flung field that were instantly dismissed by the ring of the doorbell. My heart jumped, butterflies fluttered in my stomach, suddenly it all felt rather naughty. I opened the door and with a nervous giggle invited my dancing matador across the threshold,

“Ah……. you are wearing the outfit that you wore when we first danced”

He said, kissing my hand and moving through to the lounge. Speechless I snapped myself back into the room with a note to self,

“Careful, he’s a live one this, just do the dance then show him the door, dance dance dance”

Thoroughly ensconced in the lounge Guido was changing into his dancing shoes, waving his arm he said,

“Cherie this room will not do. We cannot dance on carpet. The floor it must be hard and firm, springy with slide, it must be the kitchen, now come”

He leapt to his feet and pulled me through to the kitchen, where I remained still speechless as he transported the kitchen table and chairs into the lounge.

“It is not much but it will do, now Cherie”

The kitchen looked out across our drive and the road beyond.

“But Guido we will be seen”

“You wish to hide your dancing? You should be proud to dance with Guido”

And with that we began to Salsa, no room for a tango or Cha Cha Cha, just a simple salsa step, back and forth to my daughter’s Now 62 CD. Hip movement? Check. Correct hold? Check. Back straight, chin out? Check. We are dancing, we are flipping well dancing. On to the next song and an introduction to a simple Rumba, Guido encouraging me to be more carefree in my movement, oblivious to the passers by who were transfixed by the shapes I was throwing in silhouette through the window with my dashing dance partner. Some repeatedly walking by just to take in the passionate dance framed by the fridge and the oven.

And then in one of those brief periods of time when a million critical things seem to happen at once, the wheels came off our dance journey. Leaning back gracefully with arm extended waiting for Guido to pull me back to his embrace I felt a drip of water on my head, looking up I could see a huge damp patch on the ceiling.

“Oh bloody hell, I think a pipe has burst, Guido are you any good at……”

Ding Dong the doorbell rang

“Oh get that Guido, I will have to turn the water off”

Bending down on all fours and shoving my head under the sink I heard a familiar trans Atlantic Drawl

“Oh good grief, Brandi what the hell does she want?”

“Guido!!! It is you, I could see you through the window and I thought to myself that’s Guido, that’s Guido, so Honey I just had to……”

“Guido, could you turn the tap on and see if I have turned the water off? I cried from under the sink”

I could feel Guido leaning over me just as the sound of the dripping through the ceiling turned to a torrent, unfortunately at the time Ricky Martin was belting out Living La Vida Loca from the CD player, drawing further squeals from Brandi who on hearing the line

“She’ll make you take her clothes off and go dancing in the rain”

Leapt under the dripping water peeled off her top layer and swinging it around her head.

“Come on Guido whadda ya say ??”

I was still head stuck in cupboard with Guido pressed up against my backside trying to reach the tap when in walks husband.

“Hi Brandi, Guido good to see you, where have you been? What are you doing down there darling?”

He calmly inquired despite the bizarre highly charged scene set out in front of him,

“Game was called off, frozen pitch. Have we a burst pipe? Not surprised in this weather, oh well got all day to fix it. You turn the water off in the garage love.”

And off he went to the garage. Brandi towelled off and put back on her damp layer, and Guido withdrew from his position and put on his going home shoes.

“Good to see you again Guido, have you moved back into the area? Nasty business about that yacht, how is Stephanie? always a pleasure Brandi”

Husband inquired as he escorted Guido and Brandi off the premises, returning with a click as he closed the door behind him. Bracing myself for a row I struck a defensive pose.

“I can’t believe they didn’t have the sense to call the game off earlier, it would have saved us all a drive, the ground is as hard as nails.”

And with that he went off to the garage to mend the pipe. Not a word about Guido, or the position he found us both in when he walked in the door, or mention of a half clothed dripping Brandi swinging her top around her head to the pulsating beat of Ricky Martin. Just the game, the tap and the bloody game, THE BLOODY GAME! I could have been stretched out naked on the kitchen table with Guido tickling my feet with sticks of celery and he still would not have seen beyond the bloody game.

A little chastened and sad I withdrew to our bedroom emerging after a few hours to explain how hurt I was by his indifference. Was he not jealous at finding me alone with another man and an ageing nymphomaniac? Was he not hurt that I had not done as I said I was going to do that morning and had arranged a secret dancing tryst? Did he not feel anything at my apparent deceit?

Looking up from his pipe bending machine he turned to face me, he looked sad, I could see emotion in his eyes, he did have feelings, he did care, he opened his mouth and croakily whispered

“I really thought you’d like that Iron, it was a bloody good bit of kit”

Before bowing his head and returning to his bent pipe

AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

Private Dancer

After a frantic week, in which I became the first person to successfully appeal against an appeal and Grandad became the first person to be voted out of the allotment, I had another Saturday of my touchline ban to serve. The man at the house of the Terminally bewildered that serves the Football authority, bemused at my request for my appeal to be thrown out but eventually succumbing to female charm and wit and reinstating my touchline ban.
Sanctimonious Sid - Husband is still peeved. Tarnished the good name of the club and all that. But hey! I’ve got some seriously steamy treatments booked. Where football is concerned I am full of disrepute and I deserve my ban.

So, it's out the door with the farcical footballers and off to the shops with teenage daughter. Flip Flops, towel, swimsuit and goggles packed and off to the Spa.

Ginny picked me up along with Maya and Georgie and we entered the sanctuary of a football free environment. Off with the clothes and the outside world and on with the flip-flops, robes and our first scented candle of the day…. Heaven I’m in Heaven.

The morning schedule was fairly relaxed, with no treatments booked until the afternoon. Heading for the pool and a swim and a chat, lots of cane furniture, off white cushions and plenty of greenery, magazines to read, and two well-positioned and well-proportioned young members of staff on hand to ensure our safety and tend our every need. If the Olympics ever introduced the combined event of swimming and chatting we would have it in the bag, both individual medals and relay. After a swim it was off to the shed to sit under various coloured bulbs that promise to improve skin tone, well being and wealth, I don’t get this bit and am never quite sure as to whether we have turned the thing on.

Lunch followed, with a nice bit of fish and a glass of white Rioja, before we split up for our individual treatments. Georgie and Maya were having powdered Octopus beak rubbed into their eyelids for that sparkly eyed “I live under the sea” look, Ginny was due to go out to a party that evening so had opted for the complete clams’ liver facial. I was due to be “de knotted “ in the massage room. After the stress of the previous month I had opted for the “rough and ready” option and prepared to be pummelled.

The room was empty when I entered; I removed my robe and lay down on my front on the soft massage table. A little zizzy from lunch I momentarily drifted off, to be awoken by the click of the door as the man with the hands entered. Starting in the middle of my back he worked his magic up and down my spine. Firmly and with some urgency he melted the knots sitting in my upper back gently working his way down over my Gluteus very maximus to my thighs and calves; up and down, round and round, practiced actions to melt the stiffest of sinews.

But there was something about these hands. Hands that I had felt before. The touch, the grip, the easy action. I raised my head and turned to complement my Mark Anthony and…

“Guido!”

We stared for a second before…

“What are you doing? This is not dancing, Stephanie…… wha”

Guido stepped forward and handed me my robe, I swung round onto the side of the table. He and Stephanie had been cleared of the allegations of lewd behaviour on a package tour yacht excursion and had returned home. Unable to restart their dance class after the publicity, they were keeping their heads down and pursuing other interests until the dust settled and they could return to their life long passion – dance. I didn’t remark that they seemed to have a few other sordid life long passions as the image of husband in a Jacuzzi with Brandi and Stephanie popped into my head. But instead assured him that I would love to attend any classes they put on in the future, the dancing had been fantastic.

Over my shock at the identity of my touchy tormentor and with my session still twenty minutes short of closing I suddenly came over all strong and empowered, maybe I was a little too relaxed, maybe the massage a little too good but I beckoned Guido to the table, I was the customer, he was there to serve, tossing back my head, I leaned back on the table..

“So, Mr nimble feet….do you do any extras?”

Guido spluttered,

“I..I…I…I………”

“Not that Numb Nuts, Dance! ………..I want to dance!”

And so we did, an unusual fandango in flip-flops and a restricted space, but dance it was, relaxed, steamy sensual and passionate. I left the room in a state of ecstasy, greeting the girls who unaware of my massage room exertions commented on how well I looked and vowed to book a massage on our next trip. Another hour of reading magazines on chairs that wobble before it was time to go, and so with a whiff of Clam in the air we returned home, the car followed by seagulls for much of the journey home and a reintroduction to life, as we know it.

I'm a Liability get me out of Here

Thanks to my two-week touchline ban, a football free Saturday void of footballers and teenage daughter who was encouraged to overnight at her friends’ house. An early departure for the car crash of a football team to an away game near the coast, so a leisurely breakfast with the papers and an episode of Quantum Leap on UK Gold, I could get used to this “bringing the game into disrepute” lark.

But what to do with the rest of the day?.

To Iron or not to Iron?

To Dust or no to dust? …you must be joking.

Today I have some much needed retail therapy to catch up on, and next Saturday a full day session at a spa where I shall be massaged with exotic oils by a toned young man in tight shorts, read magazines in wooden cubicles under different types of lights, swim without the interference of boisterous/drowning children or the latest round of bombathons, dine lightly on food drizzled with the same exotic oils that were rubbed into my body and wash it all down with a large glass of something dry bubbly and white. But that is for next week, this day is for shopping.

After a quick shower the phone rang, it was Ginny. Ginny has no male offspring, only two young girls and Tom, an organic husband who spends most of his time on his allotment where he grows misshapen vegetables that Ginny struggles to peel, subsequently they eat out a lot.
After ten minutes of chat and an agreement to meet in town for lunch Ginny remembered the initial reason for the phone call. Tom had been at the allotment the previous evening and had witnessed a disturbance on Grandad’s patch involving Grandma and a group of boys did I know what it was about?

I didn’t but would check on my way shopping.

Grandma was home alone when I knocked, and after a brief round of pleasantries she came to the reason for the disturbance. During a brief discussion between the two silver scrappers about the current line up for "‘m a Celebrity get me out of here", Grandma had expressed disappointment about the absence of the lovely Jason Donovan, who had done so well in one of the series past and would be her choice of Tarzan should she happen to be stuck in a jungle. Grandad, irked at the thought of being cuckolded by the antipodean Joseph hit the roof. A tirade about the youth of today ensued, the show was filmed in the car park of a hotel, and during his time in Malaya with the army, Witchety grubs were for high days and holidays.
Grandma responded with a challenge to Grandad; if it was so easy why didn’t he go on the show, which led to a lot of harrumphing and snorting and an agreement to start training by living in his shed on the allotment for a period, surviving off his small area of land. Grandma would stay at home, fill in the forms and visit him once in the morning and once in the evening. Unfortunately after last night’s visit which was Grandad’s third night in the jungle/allotment a group of local youths had got wind of what was going on ( no doubt from Grandma) and were issuing Grandad with challenges to consume various plates of creatures dragged out from his compost heap, which he did, with a

“you young buggers don’t know you’re born”

A little concerned at Grandad’s sojourn in the jungle/allotment I agreed to accompany Grandma on that morning’s visit where the local youths or Grandma had daubed his shed with the slogan “I’m a liability get me out of here” Grandma hurried down the path and Grandad emerged from his shed.

“Hi love, you’re doing really well, they have agreed to include your time here as part of this year’s programme. Cameras have been placed in some of the trees around here, and last night everyone voted to keep you in, keep it up, I will be along this evening to tell you if it is your turn to leave the jungle”

Grandma grabbed my elbow and ushered me away,

“Not a word to anyone, if he wants to play silly buggers I’m going to teach him a lesson. He will be home on Sunday.”

Dumbfounded I dropped Grandma off, is this what husband and I had to look forward to in later life? A prolonged battle between the inhabitants of Venus and Mars.

I shopped and lunched with Ginny before returning home, stopping off at Grandad’s allotment on the way. The local youths had slung a rope over a branch of a tree that bordered Grandad’s allotment and were lowering a half eaten bag of chips down to him, stopping with the bag just out of his reach.

“ Yo Grandad Mears, If you want to earn more meals for the camp you’ll have to finish off them snails”

They taunted

Grandad reaching up to try and grab the chips with his hoe.

I chased the youths away, and handed Grandad some sandwiches I had bought from the garage.

“You can’t give me those love, I’ll be off the show, they pick all sorts up on the cameras and microphones.”

As he handed them back to me.I left for home, hoping that Grandma would have him home soon.

I was met at home by a buoyant father and son and a sleeping teenage daughter.

“Hey Mum, Dad copied you and you’re coaching methods and we won one nil”

Husband and son’s team had taken the lead through an own goal late in the first half. At half time son and his mates had suggested to Dad that he speak to Brandi and her Floaters who happened to be at the game. The Floaters had performed at a seventies revival night the previous evening at the nearby holiday camp, Brandi happening along for the ride. Aware of the proximity of today’s game to the previous night’s “gig” the Floaters had agreed to return the favour and come and support Brandi’s cheer leading.
Husband said that he thought this particular coach may be immune to Brandi’s charms but he would ask Randy if he would run the line for the second half, which he did.
The opposition striker straying off side continually, leading to

“Hi, Randy, Aquarius, and I like my football played onside”

accompanied by a side stepping finger clicking routine by the remaining Floaters and a falsetto

“He’s offside…….offside, offside”

“mmmmmMMMMM….see ma flag, its in the air cos you’re offside”

Replied Randy with the red flag.

With no rule in the book about adding time for routines performed by seventies R&B bands, each offside incident took upwards of a minute out of the game. Husband and son’s team triumphing by a goal to nil, and the Floaters selling several tickets for that night’s performance.

“There’s mileage in these distraction tactics I tell you”

said husband opening the mail and reading an official looking letter.

“Fantastic, your appeal has been upheld and your touchline ban rescinded, common sense at last”

"WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Yes Your Honour

After the match day madness of the other week, I naturally assumed that my brief time in the glare of football’s spotlight would be over. Alan and 606 had moved on, husband was back at the helm of his floundering ship of football and I had retreated back into the shadows of match days content to ignore the game, chat with friends, listen to my ipod, admire any eye candy that may be refereeing the game and get through the ninety minutes of tedium as best as I can albeit with a hundred percent success rate in football management.

Three weeks passed before one morning I received an official looking envelope by registered delivery. On opening the expensive envelope I discovered that I was to be charged with bringing the game into disrepute;

Result! recognition at last! Somebody on the same wavelength as me with an equal disregard for all things football.

Reading on down the letter, to discover where I was to pick up this award and whether it merited a new outfit it became apparent that this was not some like minded individual but someone who couldn’t be further from my train of thought. I had been in charge of a football team and knowingly fielded more than eleven players on the field at the same time. Despite my well-intentioned motive of “giving everyone a go” the lecherous cove who had been transfixed by Brandi and her gang had reported the team to his local Football Authority who had taken it upon themselves to send me this letter; I was to attend a hearing in two weeks at the county Football Authority headquarters.

Now I found it laughable and was not the slightest bit concerned by the apparent gravitas of the situation. Husband was all of a dither over the future of his club, while son prepared placards for his friends to carry to the hearing. I convinced Captain Ditherspaz that the occasion merited a new outfit and was granted leave from one match day to go and choose an appropriate outfit, which I did along with a selection of matching shoes, accessories and lunch.

On the way home I saw Brandi for the first time since the match in question, she was entering her cottage’s garden, dressed in trademark plastic stilettos, tight t-shirt and short shorts accompanied by a group of four African American gentlemen, who my son would term as “dudes”.

I stopped the car; I had felt a need to make some kind of peace with the ageing high kicker since I had used her charms so mercilessly in my football management career.

“Brandi I just wanted to sa……”

“Squeeeeeellll…….honey you have just come at the right time, these guys are old friends of mine from the seventies, come and meet the Floaters, they had a hit and used to warm up some soccer matches with my girls”

Brandi ushered me towards the quartet in white suits and shades, who had worn very well if they had indeed had a hit in the seventies.

“Hi, Randy, Aquarius, and I like a lady who’s good in the kitchen”

“Float, Float on…”

Sang the other three, while clicking fingers and stepping from one foot to the other

“Hi, Larry, Libra, and I like a lady who knows what she wants“

“Float, float on….”

“Hi Felix, Sagittarius and I like a lady who takes it silky slow”

“mmmmmmmmmMMMMM…….. Take my hand, and come with me to wonder land”

Sang Brandi before dissolving into fits of shrieking laughter,

“You Guys,….. Sorry honey they do that little gag every time, seeya round”

And with that she was off into the house with her Floaters.

Perplexed I drove home and dug out my old Top of the Pops albums to try and find a picture of the Floaters and ascertain if it was they who I had just met. My search briefly terminated by husband’s anguish at discovering the sheaf of receipts in my bags from my day at the shops.
A quick google of “Floaters” revealed an extensive range of self-contained sewage treatment devices so I called off the inquiry, and set about assembling my outfit for the following day’s appearance in “Crown Court”

The next morning Husband was up with the lark, and bringing me breakfast in bed.

“It may be your last meal for a while, not sure what the food is like in prison, although Jeffrey Archer didn’t look bad on it”

He was quickly followed by daughter, who had not seen this time of day since primary school; if I was not coming home could she have my new boots. At the very least she expected me to be wearing some kind of tag around my ankle which would prevent the wearing of said boots, and by the time I was released/untagged the boots would be out of fashion so it would be best for everyone if I just gave her the boots now…..

“NNNNOOOOO……. I will be coming home at the end of the day after we have got through this latest football induced charade and I will be wearing my boots!!!”

Up and dressed for my morning in the dock, and on with the power clothes, not the ones that I had purchased the previous day, they were for casual, social and everyday wear. I already had my outfit for today hung in the wardrobe; pencil skirt with jacket in light charcoal, plain white blouse with top two buttons undone, sheer tights and medium heels, hair up and glasses in pocket, minimal accessories and briefcase rather than handbag, A vision of powerful femininity that screamed, don’t mess with me.

Husband and son accompanied me to the house of the terminally mad and bewildered, which housed the Football court. My briefcase was checked on the way in for weaponry and we were escorted through to a waiting room. We were second up in front of the beak, after a throng of eight year old boys and girls who had received a similar charge as myself, after they discussed some of their recent under eight football matches with their parents when they got home, The Football authorities apparently having banned all reporting of some junior matches lest anyone should find out if they were doing well or not.

Children suitably rebuked and escorted crying from the court we were on, three men behind a desk, all of a similar age and all attired in what must pass for Football authority smart casual. Blue Nylon blazer with gold buttons, white shirt, blue tie with football on, cream staypress action slacks and well polished but reasonably cheap shoes. Bits of paper in front of them, five minutes of drone, with stern and grave looks over glasses before being asked to stand and issue my reply which I did,

“Guilty as charged throw the book at me”

Which they did, and boy did they feel good doing it, not in a misogynistic way but in a “don’t muck around with the boys in blazers, football is a serious game kind of a way”

I rose, thanked them profusely for their time and wise counsel and left the room.

Husband and Son met me outside.

“Your out……….. No fine? no tag?, no punishment?”

“No, no fine, no tag, just a two week touchline ban, I did ask for four weeks but they declined, a football free fortnight….bliss”

It's a game of two halves Alan

Football management, is not as easy as it would appear. The common misjudgement frequently made by the uninterested observer, reality striking when shoved into the pool on which they have thrown some scorn. Now don’t get me wrong, this is not a “Yes brother I have seen the light, I am healed” moment that would befit some religious satellite channel from across the pond. No, I am happy to concede that football management was harder than I thought it was going to be and that is all the ground that I am prepared to concede.

It started on the morning of the match in which husband and I were due to “take the team”. Unfortunately on the previous night husband, filled with amorous ideas, had made a clumsy pass with some dodgy oysters and a distinctly disturbing Dutch film, the main theme of which seemed to involve a great deal of soft focus naked cycling around tulip fields, culminating in a rather stilted romp among some rosy red round cheeses. Anyway I wouldn’t touch the Oysters and stuck to Liquorice allsorts as Mr & Mrs Humpentulipbang went about their business. Husband scoffed the whole lot of Oysters and subsequently spent the night in the loo throwing up.

Unable to take his place on the touchline I was left in sole charge of Match Day. Son was up with the lark, loading up with carbs and bananas and requesting a programme of warm ups, which I provided with a ten minute work out of picking things up off his bedroom floor and a pile of clean washing to put away. Warm ups complete we packed the car and headed for the ground.

Grandad currently home alone after Grandma’s latest bid for freedom was to meet us at the ground. Grandma had not been seen for over a week after going to Homebase with Sheila to return a carpet cleaner they had hired for the weekend. After a ten minute discussion on the downfalls of living with Grandad they had apparently just “kept on driving” It wasn’t the first time. Two years ago she had gone out to the Ice Cream van full of anti Grandad ire, purchased her 99 mit flake, made old Carllucio an offer he couldn’t refuse and embarked on a two month tour of Europe selling Ice cream all the way to Croatia, eventually ringing Grandad a fortnight later from the nearby service station after hitching her way back to Blighty with a Slovenian trucker. This time Grandad wasn’t too worried, the Rug Doctor Satellite was tracking their every move and had put a crack team on their tail to repatriate the errant carpet cleaner and ageing Thelma and Louise.

Nets were up lines painted, all I had to do was get the balls out of the bag and do the “front of house” bit, touch up the make up before glad handing and meeting and greeting the opposition. The boys came through the gate to be followed by a slightly oily looking coach, who shook my hand firmly made a crass comment about women and balls, winked and slapped my behind as he went on past to the dressing room; What a lech!

Gathering my charges I made them run round in circles as I had seen my husband do on several occasions, got them to do a few flappy things with their arms and some forward rolls before giving them a ball to kick at the goal but without hurting the goalkeeper’s hands. The referee called the boys together,the team assembled a whistle was blown and the game kicked off. Job done, easy this football, the Lecherous coach and his cronies positioned themselves on the far part of the pitch and started issuing what must have been technical advice as they kicked the ball at our keeper who dived and caught the ball,

“What a save from our boy Dave,
He’s a dish and he’s our fave
He’s so cute with those gloves on
Come on Dave lets have some fun! YEEEEEAAAAH!”

Brandi! What the bloody hell is she doing?

And there she was gold shorts, gold trainers, gold vest and gold pom poms with Bingo wings Beryl and a brace of Brandettes by her side, three different sizes and shape of the female form kicking and shaking to varying degrees their way along the touchline.
David, our shy Goalkeeper, couldn’t kick the ball away fast enough.

I tried to match the Lecherous coaches advice with some shouts of Come On, Well Done and Bad Luck but his organising and advice appeared to be making the difference, as they eventually scored a goal.

“Woe is me, and what bad luck,
Now our side is really stuck,
The ball is in the back of the net,
Come on boys there’s still time yet”

Good Grief!

The half time whistle blew and Grandad came with me to gee the boys up and dish out the drinks, which after a few minutes caused the boys to spit and splutter,

“Grandad, what the hell is this? “

Son cried out,

“ Meal in a cup lad…. Pork Dripping Smoothie, made em last Sunday. Just what you need, they’ll all be drinking them soon”

He said proudly,

“Good Grief Grandad, what next? Ships biscuits and hard tack, here boys have some water, and just do your best”

The boys plodding back to their positions with the taste of salted Pork fresh on their lips to continue the game. As the oily opposition coach walked over to make some patronising comments about “doing my best” I had a flash of inspiration. Brandi and her gang had been entertaining the crowd at half time with a corner flag twirling routine in the centre of the pitch. The two self conscious linesman had been encouraged to join in with their flags and the merry band were just marching their way back to our side of the pitch. I hailed Brandi and suggested to her that it would be only fair to spread the Brandi experience amongst the whole crowd and would she consider moving to the other side of the pitch to entertain the opposition crowd.

“Gee Honey, you are so right, it is just give give give with you all the way down the line, come on girls”

And off they went high kicking their way around the pitch to the other side.

Within five minutes the flow of technical advice from the coach had ceased altogether, stuff the football, Brandi was the one who needed the coaching, as the lech of a coach joined in several of their routines, slapping backs, squeezing thighs lost in the haze of a gilded pneumatic middle aged cheerleader. I found three spare players on the sideline who I encouraged to go and join in, our extra numbers making a difference as we scored three goals and won the match, If the Lecherous coach hadn’t been so distracted maybe he would have done the same, the referee didn’t seem to mind, he too was distracted by all things Brandi who rounded off the match with a centre circle victory performance and chant,

“Well done Boys you did the Job
You are definitely Top Knobs.
You won the match with skill and guile
We’ll all remember this one for a while”

I think this was one of Beryl’s,

The opposition left the field bemused at the sight of the Brandettes kicking and twirling their way from the field with their coach as fifth member in only his boxers and vest, using his tracksuit top and bottoms as Pom Poms.

I’m not convinced the distraction ploy will work the next time the team play, but as my husband said from behind the bathroom door,

“Three points is three points, but I’m not sure what Alan will make of your tactics when I ring him later”

“That’s great son you must be delighted, let’s hope she’s learnt her lesson and that football is a serious game not to be taken lightly, thanks for calling 606 with a happy story for once, now its over to Len on line 2 who was at the Spurs game today, Len…… ”

Yes Alan?????

I am Strong, I am Invincible I am Woman!

After my brief foray into the world of the online auction, all hell has let loose. Husband was recognised by several people during his appearance on 606 that developed into Samaritans at six. He has been overwhelmed with messages of support from the footballing community; I however have now become a figure of hate to several people around the village, and have received several items of unsavoury mail. My husband receiving advice from various quarters, the most bizarre coming via text

“Yo ho man is dissin yo man, smack dat ho up!”

Husband taking it to be an early yuletide greeting.

Husband has actually behaved rather well over the past few days. Taking the view that most people had overreacted to my actions on ebay, All’s well that ends well, and if some striker from a tribe of monopeds is set on the road to soccer stardom, well husband can take satisfaction from the fact that he did it in one of his old boots.
The incident has again been discussed on the midweek 606. Alan Green remains outraged, but then that is his resting state. Several callers questioned a woman’s role on the touchline, seeking a male only environment, where cigars can be smoked and pegs taken without the need for social niceties towards the fairer sex, as it was in the days of Clive of India, When men were men etc etc……... There have been predictable comments about sticking to cooking and staying in the kitchen from the usual dinosaurs although one particularly feisty lady called in to say that fans should be made to sit boy/girl/boy/girl like she had done in school, the atmosphere would be much improved and a little enforced contact between the sexes may actually narrow the divide that exists between them over the game of football. To my surprise husband rang the programme and was put straight through to Alan; after the boost to the ratings following Saturday’s performance, our phone number was marked out as one to watch out for. He agreed with the previous lady’s comments and suggested that the way forward was to increase the involvement of ladies in the game of football to further their understanding of the game and its nuances.
Initial feelings of pride, at husband’s conciliatory tone and peace keeping efforts, were dismissed by the realisation of what he was actually saying, leading me to shout

“ Hey Mr Boutros Boutros Ghali! Put the bloody phone down, its less football I need, not more!”

A shout that was picked up on the programme and broadcast to the nation, leading Alan to resume his agitated state, picking the scab from the scar created by my auctioning off of husbands football gear, and opening new wounds with countrywide accusations about my unabashed unapologetic stance over my actions.

And so, to placate my long list of recently made enemies, and to draw a line under this whole affair, I have agreed to become more involved in husband and son’s football team. For one week only I shall stand on the touchline facing the pitch and fill the role of assistant manager. I will wear a tracksuit, trainers and baseball cap replete with sponsor’s logo. Husband will then ring through to Alan Green in the evening with reports of my epiphany, Alan unable to show any interest in a happy heart warming tale, will then direct his outrage elsewhere, and we will return to where we were three weeks ago.

Initial feelings of admonishment and being taught a lesson were soon dispelled by a few glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. If I am to do this football management thing I will do it my way, stamp my personality on the team for this one game. Show some of these cavemen who have had a one week licence to verbally abuse my very being, that I won’t be cowed.

I am Strong………………………………………strong

I am Invincible…………………………………….invincible

I am Woman………………………………………womaaaaaaaan!

I then went on to pick a team of like-minded women who have railed against a male dominated world over the past few years.

In goal I would select Emily Pankhurst. Suffragette and Derby disrupter, particularly adept at diving at the feet of fast oncoming objects. At right back I would have Pocahontas who kept some sailors from taking over her island while dealing with a particularly loved up John Smith. Left back would be Linda Carter as Wonderwoman, with a brace of broads with balls - Madonna and Grace Jones in the centre of defence. In a four woman midfield I would have the girls from Sex and the City, with Maid of Orleans and hopefully the 18 yard box Joan of Arc, in attack alongside Boudicea – on loan from Norwich. Margaret Thatcher would manage the team, as I doubt she would settle for the post of assistant, with Florence Nightingale as team Physio and Mother Theresa of Calcutta as Director of Football.

Go Girls!