Men’s Organs and Balls.
Some years ago, I had a very entertaining lunchtime.
To be honest, the lunchtime started at 10.30am and ended shortly before 4.00pm.
Leaning against a wall, I was waiting for the good lady to pick me up from town. As I leant against the wall, a uniformed person approached me and asked if I was okay.
In my town, there exists a thing called a Police Community Support Officer (PCSO).
I looked at the PCSO and said, “You’re a PCSO, aren’t you? And I’m guessing you’re a woman, yes?”
“Yes, sir, I’m a female Police Community Support Officer. Do you need any assistance?”
Now, some of you reading this may be thinking that I’d had far too much to drink, but, in fact, I hadn’t. I’d had a few beers, but that was all. However, for some reason the need to be mischievous was upon me. Uniformed people do that to me.
“So,” I said, “what exactly do you do to deserve such a fine uniform?”
“Sir, I support the community and I’m here as backup, should it be required.”
“Good, because I’m in need of some support.”
I released the wall of its duties, put my arm round the PCSO’s shoulders and leant against her, belched, smiled and informed her that I would also shortly be needing some backup.
“Why are you going to need backup?” She cautiously enquired.
“The wife’s on her way to pick me up,” I answered.
Within seconds the wife’s car pulled up and the passenger’s side window was lowered. The PCSO looked in, “Is this one yours?” She asked.
“No,” replied the missus and drove off.
The PCSO took a few steps away from me and started talking to her shoulder.
I was beginning to think that perhaps I was a little tipsy.
“Well, PCSO, the support was adequate, but the backup was awful. Why are you talking to your shoulder?”
“I’m calling for backup.”
“I thought you were the backup. Are you talking to yourself?”
“I have a communication device on my lapel. Please step away, sir.”
I was released from the cell at a little past midnight, without being charged, and the good lady found it within herself to collect me at one o’clock.
On returning to the home that I’d provided for my wife and family, I made the good lady a bedtime drink, poured myself a wee dram and, feeling quite awake, grabbed the TV guide to see what was on offer for late night viewing.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough drink?”
“Obviously not, you’re still talking to me.”
“Why don’t you do something?”
“I am doing something. I’m reading the TV guide.”
“Why don’t you get a hobby like other men?”
Again, I’ll say, that at no moment during the day had I been drunk. I had become a victim of circumstances and had been punished for simply having a sense of humour.
“A hobby? I don’t have time for a hobby.”
“What you mean is, it would interrupt the time with your friends down the pub. Why don’t you go out with my brother sometimes? He’s always inviting you and he’s said he doesn’t mind you messing about with his organ.”
I must point out that the missus was referring to an organ of the musical variety. Four years ago her brother decided that, with no knowledge of music and with no assistance whatsoever from a tutor, he would master the electric organ.
On the rare occasions that we visit her brother, I have to sit through endless hours of dive bombing stuka-like noises emerging from his organ while his wife, who, for some strange reason has always fancied me, sits opposite wearing a very short skirt, parting her legs and giving me the vertical grin.
“Messing about with other men’s organs isn’t for me darling. You’ll just have to accept that I’m more of a beer and hot dog kind of guy.”
“You really make me angry! You’re just lazy!” She shouted. “My brother gets a lot of satisfaction playing with his organ and so do others. Just last week, Jenny (his wife) invited her friends round to have a go on his organ.”
I’d had enough.
When all else fails there is only one way to shut the old cow up.
“Look, Nicole, it’s just not my thing.”
“You did it again. You called me Nicole. My name’s not Nicole. Why did you call me Nicole?”
“I don’t think I did call you Nicole. Why would I call you Nicole?” I replied.
“You’re thinking about that copper-head, Aussie actress bitch called Kidman again, aren’t you?”
She stormed out the kitchen shouting, ”You and Nicole can have the spare room!”
Over the next few weeks, I began to think that the wife might have had a point with this hobby thing. Since my false arrest, very little had happened. Nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.
Though, one evening the wife did run into the front room hollering, “it’s got worms! It’s got worms!”
She dragged me from my armchair and pulled me towards the office.
As I contemplated the severity of the pain I was going to inflict on the cat, Bunty, if I turned the corner and discovered that he’d shit a load of worms onto my office chair, the wife continued shouting, “it’s revolting! Disgusting!”
There was no sign of Bunty in the office. I looked about and asked, “where are these worms?”
“Look!” She cried, pointing to the computer’s monitor.
“Oh, that’s alright. That’s just where the grandson’s been using the computer. It’s always virused-up after he’s been on it.”
I took a closer look at the image on the screen, “hey, that’s one of those butt plug things.”
“Make it go away! Make it go away!”
I looked at the missus. I thought about investing in one of those plugs for her mouth. How on earth I ever built up the enthusiasm to sire five children with her was beyond me.
“If you would, for the love of god, just shut up for a minute, I’ll do exactly that.”
She looked at me suspiciously, “My grandson wouldn’t look at that filth. He’s not at all like that…you’ve been using the computer a lot recently.”
“Bloody hell woman, I’ve been married to you for over forty years! Do you really think that I still have any interest in the opposite sex?”
“No daughter of mine would raise her son to be like that!”
“Like what? What’s so terrible? On the screen is an attractive lady who just happens to have a piece of plastic wedged up her arse and our grandson’s fifteen years old and invariably walking about with a stiffy. It’s normal!”
The wife threw up.
Right, back to hobbies.
Eventually, I took up ten-pin bowling. It seemed that quite a few of my mates at the boozer were receiving similar bollockings from their wives for having no interests other than those connected to drink, pubs and having a laugh. So, we established ‘The Dam Busters’ bowling team.
We bullied the landlord of the alehouse into buying us T-shirts by threatening to never again use the top shelf of his bar.
For a few months we would arrange a weekly, evening match against other bowling teams.
We were awful. The other teams soon discovered why we’d called ourselves ‘The Dam Busters’. In Barnes Wallis fashion we would launch our balls and drunkenly laugh ourselves to the point of being ill as we watched the balls annihilate the pins three lanes down from ours.
We had a great time. And we continued to have a great time right up to the point when the wives thought it would be a good idea to set up their own team and enter the same league as us.
One fateful night ‘The Dam Busters’ were drawn against the wives’ team. It was a mission too far. The casualties were appalling.
‘The Dam Busters’ team was no more. Never again would their balls be used.
On the bright side, the wives went from strength to strength and became fanatical ten-pin bowlers never missing a match…which meant the lads could fit in another poker night.