Daily Mail Eurovision Song Contest hoax (Rousse)

It had all been such a rush that none of us – not even E – had remembered to print off boarding passes for the flight from Birmingham. So here were all three of us forking out an extra £20 each for a tiny slip of paper that would permit us to fly.

Then E spotted the two bottles of perfume in my hand bag. “Are those more than 100ml?” she asked. On learning that one was 150ml E offered to pop over to Boots to buy a couple of empty containers into which we could divide up the liquid.

While E was away I slowly edged up the queue to show my boarding card and passport. When my turn came the official took one look at the passport then reached for a pair of scissors. She started to trim the maroon edges. Then, in a complete frenzy, she chopped my passport up into a hundred pieces.

“Why are you doing that?” I cried.

“Because you are an impostor” she replied loudly. “It says here in the Daily Mail that you are the Macedonian voice coach to the 2012 winner of the Eurovision Song Contest. This means that the papers that you have just presented to me must be fake!”

I later learnt that this was an elaborate practical joke orchestrated by my German friend WB.

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Matt LeBlanc meets Rob Brydon (Rousse)

I offered my only (very loose) connection with show business as a conversation opener to my new friend Matt LeBlanc. On learning this intelligence of Rob Brydon, Matt replied “Well that’s a coincidence. I was at Rob’s new show last night.”

I wondered if Matt had gone in disguise to avoid the attention of female audience members.

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Fashion advice for brides: never wear jeans (Rousse)

We arranged to meet at A and C’s house in the Lake District. TPR and I arrived first and were just getting dressed when N and S came up the stairs. As I struggled to pull on a pair of knickers that was far too small, I asked S’s advice as to what to wear: jeans or a skirt?

“You know that you should never wear jeans”, she replied. “Remember what your sister J told you at your hen party.”

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A crowded holiday with basking sharks (Rousse)

How many people can you fit on to a tidal rock for a family holiday? In our case it appeared that the invitations were unlimited. Here were gathered: my parents; my sister J; my niece A; an aunt; two cousins (one force feeding the other); P and S; L, T, T and K; half the people I had last seen at a school reunion in November 2011; and a Cuban impostor (or so my father claimed).

When it was finally time to leave my sister J and I wandered off together to observe the basking sharks just beneath the cliffs. By this time we both agreed that none of the people listed above would ever want to repeat this joint holiday experience.

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Rousse avoids alien abduction

It was not unusual for a Hawk jet to startle walkers as they hiked to the headland, but this aircraft was flying really low. On its second approach it came even closer, perhaps only 30 feet over our heads. Then we could see that it wasn’t a Hawk jet at all, but a yellow cigar-shaped space-ship.

It landed on the heather, the lid opened, and out stepped a family of aliens. Their form was humanoid, but it was obvious that these were not of our species due to their bright purple peeling skin. The mother of the group approached and stretched her hand out to me. I almost took it, but with seconds to spare I saw that this was a trick. If I made physical contact with the alien, then I too would become contaminated with the purple skin complaint. Worse still, I would risk possible abduction to the home planet as the latest recruit to the alien species.

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Tiffin for tiger (Rousse)

The old lady was out walking her pet in the park again. Everyone scattered. The day before the tiger had breakfasted on a large black dog. What would be on his menu today?

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Corridor chaos and a Carlisle curiosity (Rousse)

The new corridors on campus were far too narrow. They were also windowless, and nobody thought to post any signs to the walls. As soon as the students returned for the new year, it would be chaos – and perhaps even a fire hazard.

I pondered all this as the train pulled into Carlisle. When I realised that this was my stop I hurried to pull on my coat. As usual I struggled with my paralysed left arm and had to ask for the help of a stranger. The woman standing next to me was curious. She followed me off the platform and on to TPR who was waiting for me in our red F-reg Peugeot 205. I turned to her and shouted “If you really want to find out more, please do what everyone else does and stick my name into Google!”

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Wedding preparations and wolves (Rousse)

S and A’s wedding rivalled the Olympics for scale. Everyone was invited. I loved it, especially since so many of my own friends, relations and work colleagues would be there. These included:

  • my sister J and her family
  • all the delegates of Online Information 2012
  • newly married TD, her groom, and his bunch of young, good-looking single friends (who would do very nicely for two of the adult bridesmaids: A’s twin sisters)
  • even SL from the Isle of Man, and her school friend S!

The night before the event TPR and I arranged a night out for all but the immediate family members (who would have loved to have come out, were still busy at the house making preparations). The plan was to meet downstairs at 4pm, walk to the refurbished swimming pool at the Botanic Gardens, then go for a curry afterwards. It would be a lovely evening, so long as everyone survived the first stage of the walk: crossing the field of fearsome wolves.

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A Jack Vettriano original (Rousse)

Usually I didn’t have much to do with my widowed colleague X. His fearsome office wife guarded him jealously with an arrogant form of possessiveness that bordered on the pathological. In short, if you came too close, she’d make it clear that there was only one person in the world suitably qualified to keep X company, and that person was her.

For some unknown reason the office wife was away for the day. Her post unguarded, I made my move and plonked myself next to X on the dark green sofa. Between embraces we chatted with an admin colleague seated opposite us on another sofa, opening her Christmas cards.

Suddenly we were interrupted by cries from the street. A dead body lay in the middle of the road at the junction of Morningside Road and Merchiston Place. On learning the victim’s name most assumed that he was some random Italian tourist. Only I seemed to appreciate that we had a dead celebrity on our hands. The “Italian tourist” was none other than the Scottish painter and publisher Jack Vettriano.

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Rousse forgets to dress

For a change I turned left as I passed through the gate, climbed the hill, and headed out along the coast road. Just outside the hotel gates a rather rough wedding party was gathered. The poor podgy bridesmaid wore a vile silver Andy Pandy suit. How appalling for her!

I walked past the family and down to Portobello beach where my bare feet sank into the sand. It was only then that I realised that there was something more shameful than that bridesmaid’s outfit: going out for a walk completely naked.

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