My publisher, who was almost always ever-present, changed like a carmeelia and he disagreed with me in totem. We couldn’t agree on a motive or a logi for the book of isms - most of the time I thought he was just picking hairs! Anyhow, the printing costs were not a viable opposition and eventually that made the whole thing unfinancially viable, so I put a scotch on that.
When my original ideas became a damp duck I went back to using A4 fullscrap paper bound in vanilla folders. This was a bit of a hatch-up job but it reduced the costs to within a touch of a coin away from viability, but not quite unecomical. Very quickly my official book of isms was ready to hit the streets. It wasn’t too florid or flowerful but by this time it was into the tunnel and all the water’s out and let’s see how it sucks.
I didn’t like putting my head on the line again, but the proof’s in the pudding and I thought I’d hit the nail on the thumb this time. I was right. The money I began to make from the sale of those isms folders began to set me up for life. I’ve got more money than Methuselah. This on-the-peg suit I’m currently wearing in my seventh, so if you double that I must have 12 or 16.
Things just got better and better. My previous car was a Fiat Accompli with a three speed gear box and a fifth gear, but now I’ve just bought a Volvo 760 Jumbo. It’s got a refinery over the Renault 12 and lots of opulent extras such as stereo with double Dolby and a heated rear number plate. I almost crashed it last week. I was caught in a nose-to-nose tail-back when, flashing it’s horn and honking it’s lights, an autojugger skidded across the road and hijacked itself in front of me. Luckily I managed to escape unhurt.
I went to watch Frank’s favourite football team ‘Socrates’. The opening parade was great - a march past by the Royal Arse Hortillery - they certainly pulled out all the stumps. At half time I bought some dark chocolate - I love Cadbury’s Bovril. Socrates are a run of the middle of the table club (depending on which side of the fence you talk to) and play in a Celtic strip of green and white striped hoops; they look just like zebras. They were playing a team from Crystal Palace who had just scored 25 goals in 25 games ....... that’s virtually a goal a game. Socrates played well that day, the crowd were standing on their heads clapping their hands. However, I do miss the match by match commentary you get from the radio. John Motson is a great commentator but I've noticed that his ears have been flattened by wearing microphones over them for so long. Last week he got a bit carried away and said "You join us just in time for today's Wee-Tears derby game: Sunderland versus Middlesbrough."
Socrates' goal keeper was as busy as a one-legged man in a forest fire; he was super fast and had quick reflections. Their number 11 was useless, as usual; he had all the day in the world to play that last shot, but they keep playing him at inside left when everyone knows he’s a down and out winger. The centre half was brilliant running down the left flannel cutting through the defence like a knife through hot butter; his last shot on goal went as straight as a whistle. Socrates held on to a slim lead and, as full time approached, the crowd were on the seat of their chairs screaming ‘Come on, referee, blow your watch!’. Socrates won 2-1 and there wasn’t a dry house in the stadium. The lads are hoping to move on to better things this year and win the FA cup and league triple ......despite half their team being decimated.
I’m going to the boxing match tonight to see Frank Bruno - the great white hope. Frank’s got legs like the elephant man. And Eric Bristow’s playing darts in the social club on Saturday night; there’s only one word for that - ‘Magic Darts’.
However, back to the subject of isms from which I keep dississapating. I have a tendency to divulge a bit from the point .......
