Monday 6 May 2013

Girls

Poor sod.  Head down, ears back and trailing a leg. All for love, eh?

I can’t remember the number of fights I have got into over Girls.

I can remember a few spectacular ones.

I was seventeen, had just collected my pay packet and was invited by the Boss to dinner at his hotel, the Royal in Ashby, and a few drinks afterwards.  We were alone in the bar apart from two very attractive young ladies, two guys that were hitting on them as hard as they could and a barman that could have contrived a convincing display of an Egyptian Mummy in any museum.

Now don’t forget, I was a seventeen year old virgin, very fit with testosterone flowing through my veins and brought up on tales of derring do usually involving a man saving a damsel in distress.  To flinch in the face of impossible odds would hardly be Wagnerian.  My boss begged to differ and went to bed.

Clearly, these two elegant and sophisticated young ladies, dressed in miniscule skirts, impossibly high heels, strident make up and light blouses with no bras (it was a very hot and humid evening to be fair), found the pressing attention of the two gentlemen unwelcome.

Now even though I had exceeded my usual alcohol limit of a whiff of a barmaid’s cloth by about three pints of heavy, I recognized that these were Damsels in Distress and that a true Gentleman should intervene on their behalf.

The last thing I remember was the heavy faux medieval bar stool crashing into my skull.  I had just endured my very first, ‘Good Kicking’.

The two girls took me to their place which was quite close by.  We went on foot and it was the first time I had experienced anyone sticking their tongue in my ear.  The last person that had passed their hands all over my body so intimately was my mother when she was bathing her little baby in a nursery.  Now I had two girls, a few years older than me doing it on a public highway.  I can think of far more romantic places than the A50 but at the time, I just wanted to get my beaten head together in the hope I would get some, well, head.

Sadly, after burying hotel bar furniture in my swede, the attention of my assailants had been diverted to my goolies.  My eyes were closing, port had been spilt, my lips were split and the pain down below had reached my spleen. 
I made it home the following morning, pushing rather than riding my bicycle, still a virgin and it took me four days to recover but, as I explained to my father later, it was worth it to spend a night in agony wrapped in black satin sheets and lithe female limbs even if I didn’t get to shag the owners.  At least I knew what a woman’s breast felt like and learnt that heaven lay twixt their thighs.  Badly beaten as I was, I had already decided it was something worth fighting for.

Poor old Charlie, he is going through the same now.

For years Kizomba, Charlie’s father, has ruled the canine roost that is our neighborhood.  Finally Kizomba has, through Doggie, bred a true contender.  He, Kizomba, knows that of all his proliferate male offspring, Charlie is the biggest threat to his dominance.  So he is beating the shit out of him.

The thing is, Kizomba belongs to Rico, my neighbor.  Regular readers will know that there is a bit of history between me and Rico.  Thankfully, Rico and I are starting to co-operate.  We are both operating in a very corrupt environment so really it is better we combine our resources and present a united front.  Being reluctantly forced into bed together, though, doesn’t mean we have to consummate a marriage born only out of convenience.  Just as Angola was forged out of a proxy war, our war, the one between Rico and I, is now being fought by our dogs, the delicious irony being that my Champion is his dog’s son. In Doggy terms, Charlie is an adolescent male full of the juices of spring and will one day soon, chew his father's arse. 

One of the local bitches started to come on heat a few days ago and poor old Charlie lost his mind.  He disappeared for three days. 

This morning, a shade short of ‘Oh my God, it’s early’ (it was still dark), he limped back severely beaten up and whining piteously.  He is trailing one very badly chewed right rear leg and licking a few other open wounds.  Kizomba, his Dad, had clearly given him a bit of a thrashing.

So what could I do?  Obviously, I hoiked the fridge door open and hauled out a tray of steak.  I need to beef the lad up and give him somewhere decent to sleep while he recovers.  Marcia may not like it but the lad needs a safe berth so his will be next to mine; on the floor but on a bunk made of the clothes I wore that day.  That way he gets my scent and knows I care for him and he can bleed into my discarded clothes instead of the bush.

Charlie is just a dog, but when it comes to trainers, he could not have found a better one.  I am not scared of dogs and Kizomba, large and vicious as he is, is scared shitless of me.  Big as he is, last time he had a go at me I hauled him up by his ears and gave him a damn good kicking.  I may have returned home with blood dribbling down my arms and chest where he had savaged me but the bastard hasn’t forgotten.  I am so looking forward to the rematch.  This time with my dog Charlie which kind of makes it fairer.

Nothing personal, you understand.
 
'More steak and eggs, Charlie?  How about some sauteed calves liver?  I'll go easy on the onions and only use Basmati rice.  Marcia, there's some bread in the fridge, it is only three days old.  Make yourself a cheese sandwich and give me your pillow so I can make up Charlie's bed...'



32 comments:

  1. You are alive
    And you made me smile...yet again .... Was just goingto email you to see if you are ok.......
    Can you cope with people caring?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Is Osborne taxing emails yet? Fuck, I have no idea how you guys survive.

      To answer your question. Look at me as the guy face down in the dirt having been well and truly trampled and you coming up and saying, 'Do you need any help?' and me answering, 'Oh, all I can get...'

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    2. Blazing Saddles, in case you were wondering.

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  2. My first dog 'Hamlet' suffered similarly. The first time the vet' managed to stuff all the red bits back into his neck, but the second time it was fatal. My own urges were much the same, but I never got torn to bits. Our two current dogs have both been de-bollocked.

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    Replies
    1. Maybe if I was de-bollocked I wouldn't get into so many scrapes...

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  3. The tender loving care you're giving Charlie is admirable, but not quite what restored you to good health when you got into a similar scrape. Can't you rustle up a couple of bitches to lick him better?

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    1. ... or at least lend him the use of one of your legs ...

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    2. The detirmined bastard is still chasing the bitch on three legs!

      Sir Owl, my legs are so unsteady I am sure loaning him one would be a hindrance. I mean, which leg should I give him? The one that remains planted to the ground or the other that can only go round in circles?

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  4. For a hard nut, you're one helluva softie; keep it up!

    LLX

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    Replies
    1. I cry like a babe at so many films too. Marcia and I watched Empire of the Sun yesterday. I bawled when the boy was finally reunited with his parents. I can't visit the two orphanages I support without having to take a time out in the bushes to compose myself. On my last visit a little girl took my hand an earnestly told me that I mustn't be so sad and cry because God loved me. I would defy anyone not to cry under such circumstances.

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  5. This has nothing to do with dogs, but:

    time passes very slowly when you're in a hippo's mouth...

    http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/may/04/i-was-swallowed-by-a-hippo

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    Replies
    1. Most dangerous animal in Africa. The chap who probably saved the victim's life evidently did know his field first aid. I once used duct tape in desperation to close a sucking chest wound on a gun shot victim.

      I got the name for my blog when I was staying in a cottage next to Lake Kariba. I had just dressed for dinner, stepped out of the cottage and as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realised I was staring at a hippo on the lawn.

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  6. Poor old hound - but at least he has a very definite goal in mind and he's working towards it. Patch him up, give him a pep-talk, buy him a bunch of flowers to carry and send him back out there!

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    Replies
    1. I did all you suggest but fed him raw meat instead of giving him flowers.

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  7. So why has everyone skipped to the dog story, I much preferred the damsels in distress at the beginning. Any way, it's a dog's world.

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    1. Sadly, me getting a hiding on behalf of damsels in distress would remain a thread throughout my life. I once broke a policeman's jaw in Angola with a full beer bottle when I stopped he and his mate abducting a girl off the street. The only reason I am still alive is because the BBC and Reuter's correspondents witnessed the event and ran up shouting, 'International Press!' so I got away with just a rifle butting.

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  8. Snoopy sends Charlie commiserations and hopes he is better soon. Give him lots of cuddles.

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    Replies
    1. Caharlie wishes me to thank you for your kind wishes and wonders if Snoopy has a sister?

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  9. Hi. I found your blog through John's blog and I look for you regularly.
    I love your stories and often read them out loud to MOH.
    When I read this post, I thought about your approach to the dog compared to what John would do and this made me smile.
    Sue

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  10. Hi. I found your blog through John's blog and I look for you regularly.
    I love your stories and often read them out loud to MOH.
    When I read this post, I thought about your approach to the dog compared to what John would do and this made me smile.
    Sue

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    Replies
    1. Sue, I am terribly easy to find. First, lose your other half then high tail it to Heathrow and jump on the flight to Angola. When you get to the immigration desk and they ask you, 'Business or Pleasure?', you say neither, I am here to see Tom and you will get a free sympathy instead of courtesy car.

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  11. I am with Nota Bene. Your other readers too delicate to stick with the main story?

    Dogs can look after themselves. Dog up, Charlie. For heaven's sake. You, my dear Tom, on the other hand, need looking after. I have had guys fighting over me. Can't say it's a particularly edifying or arousing sight.

    Testosterone will out. And that's good. The Angel who will never seek a fight for the joy of it (unlike some of my uncles in their heyday) takes no shit from anyone. Luckily he is the type of guy who has such stature and confidence that that'll see off scum. Meanwhile, all Mama (that's me) wants is him always back in one piece, not wasting his beautiful features on beer addled brawn. Other than that, he too likes long limbs thrown all over him. As I knew as early as when he was five: Those limbs now forming a not so orderly queue.

    U

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    1. "I have had guys fighting over me. Can't say it's a particularly edifying or arousing sight"

      That is why the internet is censored. All we can get for free is violent disgusting pornography.

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  12. Hoorah. I have finally got my link back. I had to see a mate who knew what he was doing and here we are.
    I have been reading the blogs but ever since you spoke about Chelsea, it went tits up on me. A bit late I know, but, I wanted to say that Peter Osgood lived near me and I spoke with him a few times. Top bloke from a golden era.
    Glad to see that you are embracing modern technology with the video. I have no advice to offer re the dogs apart from don't get bitten. Hope all is still well. Any news on your possible visit back to Blighty?

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    Replies
    1. You knew Peter Osgood?

      I reckon my next trip to UK will be in a box. If it is, burn me and scatter my ashes across Stamford Bridge.

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    2. Only met him a couple of times. My brother is a big Chelsea fan. He might help on the ashes score.

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  13. You want to get him coked out of his head and the wrong side of a bottle of Bourbon. Then, once you've fitted lead claws to his feet and a barbed spike collar to his throat (and maybe a smaller one around his testes), it's time to get it on.

    Don't forget to take a billiard ball in a sock, too. Yes, there are better weapons, but twatting someone or something with a billiard ball in a sock is always really funny. It's odd fighting and laughing at the same time ... but I guess you knew that!

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    1. So you are alive.

      We were all terribly excited about your new site format but note that there is a distanct lack of the old IG wit and no replies to comments anymore which I note are gradually drying up anyway so perhaps not a concern.

      Clearly when it comes to leaving impressions on people's minds, you are an amateur. Only a fool would use a billiard ball in a sock. The fucking thing bounces all over the place and is just as likely to crack you in the back of your own skull.

      If you want to fill a sock with anything, it should be damp sand. Believe me, you can make your point and it leaves no surface from which a fingerprint can be lifted.

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    2. and besides which, there are none of the blunt trauma marks that would lead a pathologidt to draw any other conclusion that this was just one more drunken git who took a step too far off a cliff.

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    3. That sounds like the voice of experience. (Makes mental note for possible future use)

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    4. Split shot works even better but there are no good tackle shops round here.

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  14. Did you get your dog training ideas from Barbara Woodhouse? And why did those damsels in distress store "Twix" bars between their thighs? Very odd.

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Please feel free to comment, good or bad. I will allow anything that isn't truly offensive to any other commentator. Me? You can slag me without mercy but try and be witty while you are about it.