Skill, Rope, Worm

As he awoke he just couldn't shake it off; worm was bored. He came to realise that he'd spent the last 3-months of his life (that's how long he had been alive if you were wondering why I was being so precise) doing exactly the same thing: manoeuvring in a random direction in the earth, eating soil, avoiding obstacles and on the rare exciting day (if nearing death can be classified as exciting), avoiding being dried out (as he often broke the surface and ended up out of the soil) or even worse, plucked from the earth by a blackbird. Yep, boring.

But alas, an idea. Just yesterday, worm had discovered a piece of string on his soil-ridden journey and remembered where it was. With haste, worm set off on the 90-minute journey to the end of the cabbage patch he occupied. Pushing it to the surface - and ensuring that it was behind the cabbage leaves - he decided to learn a new skill. 

It was a struggle at first. Acknowledging he didn't have hands or fingers (the challenges of being a moving pink tube), it was a big challenge just wrapping his two end pieces around the string. It took around 3-days to learn that. But no pain, no gain! Onwards, worm developed this new skill and with a flip of his head and tail, the string flicked into the air and in one circular motion, revolved around and smacked him on the underside.

With a grunt and a strain, worm attempted a jump. It was pathetic as far as jumps were concerned but it was enough for the next flick of the 'rope' to fly underneath him as he jumped. Encouraged, he tried another. And another. Exhausted, worm would carefully hide his new toy under a wilted and fallen leaf and return the next day to persevere. 

Within two-weeks, worm had learned a new skill. He had achieved what he finally wanted from life after discovering that string, fame and notoriety as the world's first rope skipping champion. And worms, bugs and other creatures of the soil would gather each day around the cabbage patch and cheer their new hero along. Worm was never bored again.

Hedgehog Names For Sale

Spiky Susan 
Pincushion Peter
Sammy McSharpy
Snuffling Sid
Ooh Yabastard
Thorny Subject
Dangerous Dave
Spiny Sid
Problematic Paul
Barbed Barbara
Spinous Shaun
Pointy Pauline

Walk On By

I love the darts, have done since I was a little lad. Oh but how it has changed from those days, where overweight men would stumble to the stage (it wasn't really a stage then, more just a dart board amongst the fans), fag in mouth, red-eyed from a few beers (and the rest) to play in a match where the prize probably topped at £10K.

Now, you get the same overweight men but no ciggie or booze. They walk onto the stage (yes, a proper raised stage) to their theme tune, thousands of adoring fans in fancy dress signing along, Sky Sports cameras the lot and playing for incredible life-changing amounts of money. It's a slick production.

It's the theme tune I want to talk about though. And every time I see somebody walking on to their choice of music, how I wish I has stuck in down at South Shields Snooker Club all those years ago and advanced to the heady heights of becoming a professional. Not for the money, not for the fame, no. Just to parade on to MY tune, the adoring fans singing MY tune and the whole world hearing MY tune.

But what would that tune be? Like being asked what my favourite song is, it changes each time I think about it. Being music obsessed, I'm not shy of choices: 

Anarchy in the UK by the Sex Pistols
Out Of Control by The Chemical Brothers
The Model by Kraftwerk
This Charming Man by The Smiths
I Am The Resurrection by The Stone Roses.
It's My Life by Talk Talk 
My Perfect Cousin by The Undertones
New Rose by The Damned

I could go on. And on. But the point I'm making is, I want people to be hearing decent tunes, I'm not even bothered about the darts. Tunes that should be heard and sang from the rooftops, not some cheesy chart crap. Proper music. Yep, if I was a professional darts player, I'd probably put more effort into settling on my choice of tune that 2-minute walk-on than the standard of darts. Hey, it's important. But I'd probably never reach a conclusion anyway.

What would your choice be? And if it's something I don't approve of, I won't watch you. 

Jim

Jim was always a special lad. Special in the sense that he seemed different to other boys and girls of his age. Growing up, he was never detached from his peers, pretty much the opposite really. 'Uber-enthusiastic', his parents used to say. 'Never stops, always happy, always with a suggestion or comment, rarely a dull moment', is what his teachers used to say. 

So, what made Jim 'special'? Well, as above, on the outside you would say he sounds like any other young lad. Over-talkative yes. Duracell-like battery of energy, yes. But nothing and nobody could explain the real thing that made him stand out from the crowd; Jim talked to cats.

Again, I hear you contest, 'Well, most kids talk to animals yeah? Especially their own pets?' But no, Jim could talk to cats, and they appeared to understand every word that he said.

It all started when he was about 3-years' old and a visit to his Aunty Sarah's house. She had just taken ownership of two tabby kittens from the local shelter. On this day, they were doing what kittens do, literally shredding the house apart. Up and down curtains, chasing imaginary mice, sliding across the floor, clawing at anything that dangled (they seemed to particularly enjoy the dangly bits at the bottom of the extremely expensive settee which was losing value at every scratch and bite). 

"Be careful Jim", his Auntie Sarah said. "They might seem cute, but they'll turn on your little hands like fluffy ninjas before you know it."

But Jim didn't care. He was off, chasing them upstairs and around the bedrooms, giggling with abandon. It was like an instant bond.

Ten-minutes had gone and things were noticeably silent upstairs. Even on a quiet day when just one person was in the house, Aunty Sarah would exclaim how you would still hear the kittens tearing the place apart, jumping off cupboards and play fighting without a care. But this didn't seem right. So, they did what any other inquisitive family would do and sneaked upstairs to see what was going on. 

And there on the spare bed sat the two kittens and Jim. Jim sat cross-legged, back straight and almost conducting an invisible orchestra. But instead of an orchestra it was the kittens, also sat bunched together, never taking their eyes from Jim as he spoke an unknown language and moved his hands in a silent rhythm. The cats seemed to know exactly what he was saying as after a brief pause, they would both let out a soft, identical 'mew'. Jim would mutter more of this language, move his arms a little more and the cats would repeat. As they peeped from behind the door, Jim would change the tone and pitch and chatter at length, and both kittens would roll silently over onto their backs, legs in the air and just lie there, motionless. Then Jim would let out a strange sound, almost like a tropical bird, and the cats would immediately jump up and sit back into position.

"What are you doing?" exclaimed his slightly concerned and confused dad. And as Jim slowly turned his head, they looked into intense green feline eyes, half-closed in a relaxed state of emotion, just like the kittens. 

The Dentist

The smell hit me before the vision. Minding my own business - or trying to whilst nervously awaiting the dentist - my head jerked up quickly as it intruded my nostrils. Imagine the sharpness of cheap vinegar, perhaps used to clean a public toilet combined with an out-of-date egg sandwich and it might offer some description. Vile.

He shuffled in through the doorway like a wounded soldier, a slight limp which brushed the carpet as he slowly inched towards the receptionist. I don't know why, but I looked at the shoes before the face. A battered pair of Adidas ZX750s - the choice of the 90s football terraces - which were long past any sensible foot protection hung sadly from below some tattered, red tracksuit bottoms. They looked as though somebody had taken a cheese grater to the toes, shredded and revealing. Tragic really.

The tracksuit bottoms were overly baggy and covered in what looked like an oil slick, with a waist that was stretched beyond its limit and hanging limply from stick-thin legs. And no top. Yes, naked and hunched with scabbed skin leaking yellow fluid that will forever haunt my dreams. The ribcage was pressed tightly against the stretched, hairless skin and resting on sloped shoulders lay greased, red hair that was long overdue a good scrub.

The smell seemed to emanate from a mouth that was slightly gaped, a swollen slug-like tongue hanging between chapped and crusted lips. The eyes were almost sleeping, dusty eyelashes that appeared to be stuck together with an orange, dried substance. And he was strangely silent, just the merest of breathing could be heard.

And as he reached the receptionist, long fingers bearing curved, yellow talon-like fingernails aggressively pushed the bell. And from those lips came the immortal words: "Have you got any slots for next week please?".

Onions Are Great

Onions are great. When you hear people turn their nose up at onions, I feel a combination of sadness and happiness, knowing they eat them unknowingly - pretty much every day - as they are 'sneaked' into most savoury shop-bought foods (think crisps, ready meals, combined spices). It's true though, they simply don't get enough respect. This pungent root that can force the hardest of blokey blokes to blubber like a baby (slight exaggeration) as they attempt to slice and dice one for that evening's tea (and let's face the fact, it's normally the first ingredient on the list). 

'Finely dice and gently sauté one medium-sized onion in two tablespoons of olive oil', the recipe says. But that's just the beginning. They set the scene for any savoury meal, the hidden assassin of tasteful delight that lurks in the background, laughing at the onion haters and offering a depth of flavour that just wouldn't be there without it. And there are so many varieties! Over 600 they reckon. But how many do I know? Spring onions, red onions, pickled onions (those tiny, sweet ones), and I've seen a yellow or a purple one in one of these artisan food fayres where everything costs more than a fiver. Yes, even an onion. 

But give me the humble brown skinned onion any time: small ones, medium ones, massive ones. Slice them into rings, dip them in batter and fry them. Blitz them into a puree with garlic, ginger and chilli and there's the basis of a superb curry. Raw red onions in any salad or lightly pickled and eaten in sandwiches or on a taco. Sliced and put into a cheese and onion pie or heck, a bucket of them cooked slowly with thyme and butter, whacked into a pie crust, topped with Parmesan and slowly cooked for the most amazing onion pie ever. Patiently cooked down until golden and sweet, it makes the most unreal soup in the world, French onion soup. Big chunks of raw white onion mixed in with tuna and mayonnaise. Oh, I could go on. But I'll stop here as I've set my daily writing buzzer for 12-minutes today and it's about to pop. 

So, all hail the humble onion, a beautiful, versatile vegetable that is often sneered at and reviled for its stink and tear inducing properties. But I'm not having that. Respect to the layered one. Hold one aloft and make a song up about it, wandering around your local town proudly singing your onion-based tune with pride and abandon. Yes, you may get some funny looks, people avoiding you or at worst, arrest. But it will raise crucial awareness of this wonderful vegetable and soon have everybody agreeing with you; onions are great.