HEREWITH, ONE SHAMEFULLY OVERDUE ARTICLE FOR MY DEAR, DEAR FRIENDS AT DAWGZ TODAY. BLESS YOU LUVVIES, BLESS YOU ALL. ----- From your mate, Tel-Boy.
‘I SEXUALLY ASSAULTED THE POSTMAN - AND IT’S ALL MY DOG’S FAULT.’
Tragically, the above statement does not announce Jerry Springer’s latest exhibition of maladjusted humanoids. It’s a statement of fact. I have assaulted the postie. The attack was directed at a part of him that is often used for sexual purposes - and I swear by Almighty God, that it was absolutely the bloody fault of that hairy git of a dog of mine.
Oh, I’m the one who’s laying awake nights, expecting the old bill to boot the door in at any minute. And it’s me who fully expects to be carted off to Newgate poxy gallows, thereby to hang by my bits until I, or they, fall off. But, as countless innocent men have cried before me, ‘ I ain’t done nuffin’ Guv’nor - honest I ain’t.’ In anticipation of your launching a global, ‘Free The Addlestone One!’, campaign, here’s what happened.
Crufts started it off. I attended on bull terrier day and three times made my footsore way to the splendidly spotty Dogs Today stand. There, on each occasion, I was completely ignored by my previously esteemed (not now matey) editor, who was allegedly off being famous on the telly all over the place. So, I went away to sulk among the bull terrier folk and their superb exhibits. After basking among the bullies for an hour, I’d almost forgotten about my cruel treatment at the hands of this magazine’s Obersturmfuhrer, and was engaged in happy chat with a kind lady who told me that she ‘really, really loved the Morris articles’. I was just thinking that I’d record what this blessed soul was saying, for later playback to our own darling of the media, when another lady approached us and doubled my fan club at a stroke.
I loved it, I did. Each splendid (and most attractive, may I say) woman sought to outdo the other with kindly compliments. Anyone with an ounce of class would have blushed to their boots and writhed in embarrassment under this hail of approval. Not me. Certainly not. I kept reminding the ladies about various Morris episodes, which sparked off fresh waves of incoming appreciation. I wasn’t so much fishing for compliments, as deep-water trawling.
This flattery-fest culminated in an offer from my first fan, which the second one took as a challenge. No, not that kind of offer. I was to be presented with a hand-knitted jumper, which turned into two jumpers the instant that fan number two sussed that she was being outdone and matched the offer.
Even I was feeling a tad toe-curly by this time, although not sufficiently so to withhold my address, of course. After fielding just one more blissful salvo of appreciation, I left Crufts, smiling the smile of one who is about to acquire a brace of wooly-pullies. Of course, I tried a final, pathetic attempt to hook up with La Cuddy, but quelle surprise, she was auditioning for Wish You Were Here, or something, so I went home in as much of a huff as anyone with two fine jumpers to their credit, could muster.
Spookily, both jumpers arrived on the same morning, along with the usual stack of wasted trees in junk mail form. The bundle was so large and squishy, that my small and compact postie had to carry it with one hand on top of the pile and one below. I went to relieve him of this burden, and seeing that I am six-foot four, he stood on tiptoe to present the stack to me at a more convenient height. Being a courteous and postman-appreciative fellow, myself, at the same time, I went low on my parcel grab stance. Thus, instead of connecting securely with the parcel pile with my lower hand - I grabbed the postie’s crutch. Got me a fine handful, too, I did.
"Whoah-up!" shouted postie, backing off hurriedly - and who could blame him - as he dropped a shower of Royal Mail on my doorstep. I went purple and spluttered repeated apologies to his retreating front, due mainly to the fact that he wouldn’t turn his back on me until he’d reached the safety of his van. I’m sure there was more fear than pain in that man’s eyes, when my hand closed on his …er…’male-pouch’.
So that’s me down as a raving bloody pervert, then. I have to blame Morris, because without him I’d have never written these articles, then those lovely women would not have made me jumpers, the postman wouldn’t have delivered them - and I wouldn’t have grabbed his crutch. Morris, it must be said, has got me again.