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Getting Old!


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I've absolutely no problem with the ageing process. I'm more than happy to be the age that I am and frankly, I wouldn't want it any other way.

The fact that I'll never see my testicles again is of no concern to me. As my waist size gradually catches up with my years upon Earth I know that unless I take the trouble to stand above a mirror my testicles will never be seen by my eyes ever again. I'm comfortable with that.

I'm also content knowing that I talk to myself and have done for years. Truthfully, I enjoy talking to me. I find myself to be a very interesting character and given the choice I'd rather It be me than some other fool who you've no wish to talk to down the battle cruiser.

Whether its my thinning hair, an ability to repeat myself over and over again until someone says, 'we've heard that before' or that when I gaze into the mirror to shave I no longer recognize the man I once was, I couldn't care less. I'm happy getting old.

What does bloody bother me is humming. Yes! Humming. I wake up humming, i spend my day humming and I've absolutely no control over it. Worse still, its Delilah! This song, originally gifted to us by Tom bloody Jones is a melody strongly associated with men who get drunk and for no apparent reason, climb upon a table in the pub and start singing it. This is the tune I hum over and over again.

It's bloody relentless. I'm humming the blasted tune now!

Couple of weeks ago I was sat in the fourth row at The London Palladium listening to bloody Nadine Coyle, her of Girls Aloud, who was appearing on the Michael Flattley production, Lord of the Dance. Dangerous Games. While she was slaughtering some melodic ballad I was humming Delilah.

Course, not only did everyone around me here my senile humming, bloody Coyle did as well. As she gradually raised her tones to follow the progression of chords in the song, she glanced down at me, threw me a glare which moreorless said, 'I'm going to jump off this stage and crack your skull if you give me one more note from Delilah'.

Course, whilst no words were exchanged, I gave her a look didn't I. I moreorless said, ' just you bloody try it Coyle. Leave that stage and attack me with your hand held microphone and I will defend myself'.

And, on the subject of Girls a bloody Loud, if bloody Cheryl Cole or whatever her name is nowadays, delivers me more tears on the Xfactor I'm for turning the tele over. She's got that Scarey bloody Spice doing it as well. They're trying to outcry oneanother. It's a bloody disgrace to light entertainment.

Bloody Scarey Spice my right nut! There's nothing Scarey about her. If she wants to meet Scarey she should pop down the Commercial for an half and hear the list of girls we'd like to kiss. That'd scare her. That'd make her think that perhaps she ain't as Scarey as she claims to be.

Anyway, I'm content getting old!

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I'm a hummer!


I find it very therapeutic!


My most favourite is Jerusalem......plenty of light and shade in that for the ardent hummer. It reaches a wonderful humming crescendo, which has often turned heads at the self service tills in Sainsbury!


I like to tell myself that the furtive glances my Jerusalem humming generates, are admiring ones.


They're not, I know that really.


Ah well. This world would be a very boring place if we were all the same!

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In fact, thinking about it, if I were to hum my favourite tune on The X Factor and Simon Cowell were to critique my performance, he would probably say that the reason he makes that show is to find people like me.


Louis Walsh would say that I reminded him of somebody I don't remind anybody else of.


Then they would all agree that I made that tune my own.


At which point I would cry. And Two Wheels could switch over and catch the end of Strictly.

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There were tears on Strictly tonight.


There's no escaping them.


Kleenex will soon be sponsoring them at this rate.


Meanwhile, over at X Factor, it was eighties week. Allegedly.


I love the eighties. I didn't recognise a single tune after they had put the inevitable "updated twist" on it.


More tears. This time, mine.

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Grid Knocker. Oh I've got a list alright. A long list and many of the names on my list are still alive thank you very much. But I ain't publishing my list. Why? Well, if they all board the P&O Ferry from Dover to Calaise at the exact same time intent on purchasing duty free tobacco and for some odd reason they all collectively decide to jump from the Orlop deck and into the brine never to be seen again, I'm going to suddenly become the prime suspect because of me blasted list. So I ain't falling into that trap.

Mind, I've got a list of woman I wouldn't want to kiss and Kerry bloody Katona of Atomic Kitten is on there. If on New Years Eve she came staggering up to me and said, 'Hello chuck. Fancy a slice of this lovely Arctic Roll that I acquired from IceLand', I'd tell her to clear off, explaining, ' I've no desire to kiss you missy and even less to help you resurrect your career advertising Iceland food'.

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