I had a bit of a chocolate overload this Easter. And not just to eat.
We were up at my parents for a family get-together on Sunday. When the subject got on to chocolate my dad seized his opportunity to tell us how he’d been texting Ivan Martin.
When my dad refers to radio personalities it’s as though he’s best of friends with them. He’ll say things like “I was in the conservatory with Frank Mitchell this morning” or “I was in the car with Jerry Lang last night”. Anyway, he told us he’d texted Ivan Martin that very morning.
The bearded disc jockey had asked listeners to text in with chocolate-based songs or artists. The first texter had went for Hot Chocolate. His poor effort had inspired dad to up the ante.
His story of texting Ivan Martin was pretty straightforward, but somehow in retelling it my dad managed to stretch it out to a good 10 minutes. In telling us his tale my dad managed to meander his way through a series of urban myths and the entire thought process behind his eventual text message.
Then more people came into the room and he was egged on to tell the story again. This time it was the Director’s Cut including deleted scenes and commentary from the six people who had already heard the epic adventure.
It was even funnier the second time round. By now you’re probably dying to know what my dad texted Ivan Martin. Well, I’ll warn you, if you suffer from a pun allergy, look away now, because the following sentence contains puns.
In response to Ivan Martin’s request for chocolate-based hits dad texted ‘Careless Wispa by George Michael’.
Anyone who regularly reads this column will be used to long, drawn-out stories with questionable punchlines. At least now you know where I get it from.
The bald truth
Karen and I went for a picnic on Saturday to celebrate one of our friends’ birthdays. Rachael would not be pleased if I mentioned her age, so all I’ll say is she’s a prime number less than 40.
The picnic was a bit of a family day out with lots of our gang bringing their children.
It must have been the father in me coming out because I ended up playing catch with a child for nearly an hour. Don’t worry. I knew his parents. I didn’t just single out some random child with a ball. The game of catch we played wasn’t exactly fair. The rules were I threw the ball to him, he whacked it up into the air and I had to catch it no matter what direction it went or how far away it raced. If I didn’t catch it he was sad. If I did he was happy.
We managed 12 in a row and he was giggling and laughing as like a maniac. Then he came out with a line I’ll never forget.
“You’re completely bald,” he said. I was back down to earth with a bump.
Being a child must be like playing Catchphrase. If you see it, say it.
Karen’s not had it easy these last few weeks what with the old morning sickness. I’d always thought it was a bit of a myth. Possibly an urban one. Now I’ve discovered that it’s not just morning sickness. It’s afternoon, evening, and middle-of-the-night sickness as well.
The irony is not lost on Karen, who describes it as not being able to drink alcohol but still suffering from a permanent hangover.
I had a few drinks over Easter. I felt bad about it because of Karen’s abstinence from booze, but I struggled on. One morning in particular I woke up gasping for water, with my head pounding and my stomach doing somersaults.
I described my symptoms to Karen. “You’ve got a hangover,” she said.
“No, no, no,” I argued. “It’s not a hangover, it’s sympathy pains.”
I’m off next week and I’ve been informed that Jenna and Clint are putting their heads together to do the column in my absence.
It should be interesting, the last time Jenna and Clint put their heads together one of them ended up with a split lip and the other concussed.
The answer to last week’s teaser was: the eight-day clock won’t run at all without winding.
Here’s this week’s teaser: Rain, snow, sleet - what is the fourth main type of precipitation?