Hello everyone and welcome to Ms Beverley R as a new reader.
Fate is a funny thing? Ha ha ha ha. No – funny peculiar silly bollocks…
A few years ago, R Bev was bullied into singing a song at a Knottingley RUFC free-and-easy night. For you uninitiated, that is a night when everybody and anybody gets on “stage” and does a “turn”. Stage means the front of the club really – you might get an orange box if you’re lucky. Turn means act – a bit like X-Factor – no, a lot like X-Factor really – with the good, the bad, the ugly and the downright shite.
Anyway – R Bev was the SuBo of the evening. I mean no offence by this and I am by no means comparing appearances – rather – singing voices. The only thing Bev did wrong was a poor choice of song…
Nobody’s Child – Nobody’s fucking Child – Fucking hell Bev – what possessed you? Not a dry eye in the place – follow that!
Several winters passed and me, Mar and two (unfortunately ex-friends) of ours were in a pub in Snaith when Bev came in. We informed Carol (ex-friend) who was (probably still is) a member of Snaith Church Choir and herself a very good singer in an operatic sort of way. Carol turned every song into an aria.
In time, Bev and Carol became good friends and Carol nurtured Bev until she became a semi-professional appearing in pubs and clubs the length and breadth of Yorkshire. I’ve watched her a few times and she certainly deserves to be a chart-topper. The only difference between Bev and Subo/Jane McDonald/Shirley Bassey/that bird from Thorne who always pretends to be from Doncaster/Cilla Black/etcetera is that the others were in the right place at the right time and had a break. One day Bev.
We have rain forecast for tonight – 9mm to be precise – shame I don’t understand metrics.
My mate Albie (ably assisted by me) have been putting us up some Mosquito Nets or Fly Screens if you want. It was quite a tricky little task and the three we did look great with another three to do plus one for a sliding door.
This task was hurried along by the appearance of a cockroach in the bathroom the other night. I didn’t tell Marian as I didn’t want to worry her. She’d gone to bed around 1.00 a.m. and I followed shortly after.
I switched on the bathroom light (which is outside the B/R) and opened the bathroom door. There was this fucking big cockroach – that big (you now have to imagine me with my hands about six inches (that’s two metres for you youngsters) apart. My immediate response was to close the bathroom door and shout for help. Then I realised I was “IT” – I WAS the help.
I re-opened the B/R door to watch Cocky climb into a little basket where we keep spare toilet rolls. Aha – gotcha I thought. Right – remove basket to outside – shout a lot and scare him off. I looked for something to slip through the basket handle to drag it outside. I found a plastic fly-swatter which wasn’t strong enough. Try two. That worked. I slowly dragged aforementioned basket through the house. I’d just passed through the open B/R door when cocky decided to have a look at what was going on.
He decided he liked life in the B/R so thought he would climb out of the basket. His first mistake. I smote him mightily with one of the swatters. Much to my relief I had smote mightily enough to kill him but not release the hundreds of eggs which everyone knows are released when a C/R is killed. I manoeuvred him on to the flat part of one of the swatters and triumphantly carried him out of the house singing a triumphant song – something like “I got you, you bastard…”.
I dropped him over next door’s wall where he remained for a day or so and the disappeared. He either came back to life and scurried off, his friends/family dragged him off for a decent cockroach burial or something ate him. PYO ending.