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Sex And The Single Man

He isn’t getting any.

Instead: a ghost story – well, it’s better than watching television; the programmes on TV here in England at the moment would make an idiot weep.

I did once see a ghost. I was about 18 years-old and it was a strange experience to say the least.

I was doing some shopping in town when a group of about a dozen or so fast-moving people hustled past me. In the middle of this group was someone who I thought I recognised: a young man who attended the same school as me but to whom I had never spoken or personally acknowledged in any significant way.

I was thinking I recognised him from behind, when, swiftly disappearing along the busy street, he turned his head, confirming to me that it was indeed who I thought it was, and smiled benignly at me. ‘Oh it’s that fellow from school,’ I thought to myself. ‘I should make a point of saying hello to him the next time I see him.’

Later that same day, I was reading a copy of the local newspaper. On the front page was an article about a murder that had taken place a few days before, the homosexual victim of which had been discovered wrapped in a piece of old carpet and dumped upside down in a wheelie bin.

He had been fatally stabbed several times and horrifically beaten about the head. The article included a photograph of this unfortunate individual which had obviously been taken recently but before the tragic event that had lead to his untimely demise.

I was stunned.

Smiling at me from a grainy black and white image was the boy I had seen just a few hours previously as he passed me in the street. I checked the date on the newspaper. His body had been discovered five days before the article was printed.

Now that is weird.

Obamarama

I’m so bored with the USA.

Especially the new president; Barack Obama is everywhere in the media at the moment.

Yes, he may be the most powerful man in the world and all that, but there are more important issues that we should be discussing.

For instance:

There is just too much mud in Derbyshire. Where does it all come from? Audrey and I return from our walks looking like monsters from the brown lagoon;

Why do the council recycling collection men always leave an empty baked bean can and a copy of someone else’s Sunday Mail in my recycling bin?;

Why don’t Converse make a size 91/2 baseball shoe? (Their size 9s are for midgets and their size 10s are for Yetties and circus clowns.);

Why does Mr Mishri’s wife keep calling me Steve? (‘My name is Davy.’ ‘Sorry, Steve.’);

Why aren’t there more catwalk models living in the village? – why aren’t there any catwalk models living in the village?;

Why does my fool of a stepfather urinate on the toilet seat when he comes to visit and blame it on ‘the dog’? (He doesn’t do this all the time, you understand; he is usually too busy secretly rummaging through my drawers and cupboards.)

Why do all the idiot muscle men with NY beanies and white trainers around here think it necessary to own a Pit Bull-type dog?;

Why were petrol-driven model cars and fireworks ever invented?

Why do all the pretty young women in nearby Mansfield turn out to be either pole-dancers or strippers? (At least it’s easy to tell them apart: strippers can spit further.);

Why, quite simply, are there not more hours in the day?

I could go on, but I’ve just lost the will to live. Again.

Somebody ought to be doing something about these things; I think they would make interesting news items – more interesting than Barack Bloody Obama, anyway.

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