Forget rubbing shoulders; it’s all about rubbing noses now. I’m assuming that you all have a nose, though I apologise if you don’t and this whole Eskimo Kissing thing is causing you distress. For those of you who do have these aforementioned facial appendages, I’d like you to utilise them in the creation of the Eskimo Kissing music video, which (as I said in my last blog post) I want to go viral (the video that is; I’m not saying that I’d like your noses to go viral).

My idea for the video is a collage of very short video clips consisting of people rubbing their noses together. I want nose rubbing videos recorded from all sorts of locations: on trains, busses, boats, in forests, in church, factories, shops, restaurants, pubs, up a tree, in the sea, in a tent, on a bloody bouncy castle – wherever, anywhere will do. I want people of all ages. We might even get some animal nose rubbing action sent in. Imagine that. Wherever, whoever and whatever; as long as it’s nose rubbing, I want it.

You can send me videos or still photos. Either upload them to somewhere and email me the link, or
send them to me as an attachment via email. My email address is: david@davideagle.co.uk
Or you can comment on this blog post and send me the link that way.

Just a short video of you rubbing your nose with someone or something. That’s all we need. If you do fancy doing something more creative that you think will work then feel free. This is your song just as much as mine. You don’t expect me to take full responsibility for all this nonsense do you?

I would also like any recordings, either audio or video, of you saying, shouting, or whispering, “nosey nosey”. I don’t care how you say it, or how many of you are saying it, I just need clips of people saying “nosey nosey”.

So please, get to work. Send me your nose rubbing videos and photos, and your “nosey nosey” recordings . Upload them somewhere or
email them straight to me.
Let me know that you’ve made a video and where I can find it.

OK team, it’s time for you to get to work. Make a blind man very happy. Get involved. You nose it makes sense!

I’ll be back tomorrow with a progress report.

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In case anyone has stumbled across this blog post and hasn’t heard the Eskimo song yet, you can download it here. You can read this blog post about how it all began.

Mr Blobby, the Crazy Frog, Barbie Girl, the Cheeky Girls, Bob the Builder, ScatMan John, the Fast-food Rockers, and me. What a party that was!

I list these names because they have all been involved in novelty hit songs. I have created (in my not so humble opinion) a novelty hit song, and in the future I hope that this song will earn me as much respect and reverence as is afforded to these other aforementioned esteemed luminaries of the novelty hit song world. Well you’ve got to dream big.

Yesterday I explained (as best as I could) how this song came about. Today I do not intend to write a great deal, because I want you all to listen to my song. I will then give you the weekend to digest what you’ve heard, and then I shall be back early next week to discuss how we progress from here. As I said yesterday, we need a video that will go viral and I want you all involved.

Download the Eskimo Kissing Song here.

Lyrics

Some couples they like to French kiss,
But me and my girl we’d rather give all that a miss,
We’d rather kiss the Eskimo way,
Rubbing our noses is the perfect foreplay.

Because we’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
We’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
You’re my Eskimo girl, I’m your Eskimo guy,
Touch my nose, don’t be shy,
Nosey Nosey!

I’ve been with so many girls who’ve rubbed me up the wrong way,
But the way that you rub me, you know I’m always gonna stay,
We’re gonna demonstrate our love like the Eskimos do,
We’re gonna stick together just like igloo.

Because we’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
We’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
You’re my Eskimo girl, I’m your Eskimo guy,
Touch my nose, don’t be shy,
Nosey Nosey!

Well it’s been such a long time because you’ve had a bad cold,
But now you say it’s cleared up and so are passion takes its hold,
We’re rubbing our noses, girl you know how to please,
The moment is so magical until you start to sneeze.

She said she loved me, and then she sneezed; well that was mucus to my ears.

we’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
We’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
You’re my Eskimo girl, I’m your Eskimo guy,
Touch my nose, don’t be shy,
Nosey Nosey!

I look around me. My palace is festooned with gold discs and trophies. A myriad of photographs adorn the walls. They comprise people of all ages, from all of earth’s countries. And all these people are engaged in the same activity.

There are thousands of celebrity faces: Hollywood stars, pop singers, politicians, sports stars. There are photographs of royalty; our very own queen of Britain even features, obviously not wanting to be exempt from this craze that has pervaded the planet.

I turn around and focus my attention on the large collection of photographs of beautiful women that fill this particular section of the room. They’re all smiling great big smiles. I recognise that smile all-too-well; that’s the smile of a lady who has spent some quality time with David Eagle. How many beautiful women have graced my life over the last year? I lost count after the first month.

As my eyes move around the room, I observe the immense magnitude of what I have created. All these people: politicians, pop stars, footballers, actors, beautiful ladies, children, animals – even the extra-terrestrial life form that we dramatically became acquainted with at the end of 2012 – all looking back at me, wearing wide smiles. And of course, everyone of them is engaged in that same ubiquitous activity: nose rubbing. Because 2013 is the year of the Eskimo kiss. And it’s all thanks to me!

A year ago today was when it all began; July 21st 2012. Who would have thought that this day would have been the catalyst for all the fame, all the awards, all the celebrity parties, all those women? Certainly not I, as I took my seat for what I assumed would be an innocuous and uneventful train journey. But as the train pulled away from Newcastle station and made its course to York, I was starting an altogether different journey, one which would prove to be much more significant and life changing.

There’s a part of this story missing. It will have to stay missing I’m afraid as I have no idea what it is. I am not aware of the event that caused what happened to happen. I assume that there must be some reason why my brain would suddenly become super-active and start rapidly churning out the lyrics to a song about Eskimo kissing. But I cannot imagine what possibly made such a thing occur. I had no plans whatsoever to write a song, and I had not been conscious of thinking about or hearing anything relating to Eskimo kissing, yet here was my brain spontaneously composing a whole song on that very subject.

I spent the first half of the train journey typing profusely on my laptop as I try to keep up with my crazed brain’s lyrical deluge. By the time the train had reached Darlington I had a document with pages of lyrics. At this point my brain eventually capitulated its relentless spewing, and I was able to look back over what the heck I’d actually written. I liked it; but I couldn’t possibly use all these words, there was too much.

Half an hour later, the train pulled into York. I closed my laptop, satisfied that I had managed to redact the reams of words down to a three verse song.

As I walked out of the station and down the street, I ran through the song in my head. I knew it off-by-heart; it was as if I’d known it for years. I felt fully alive and energised by this odd event. But what to do about it? Surely I am too busy to spend time recording a silly song about Eskimo kissing. But I couldn’t get the song out of my head, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to ignore its hold over me. This whole experience had been too potent for me to simply ignore and do nothing about.

I arrived at my friend Ben’s house. We were meant to be going out in York for my birthday, but when I arrived at his house and he asked me what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go, I instantly replied, without any deliberation “I want to record my novelty hit song, and I want to go to number one”. And so, instead of celebrating my birthday by going out drinking, we spent the night and early morning recording the song that a few hours ago hadn’t even been conceived. And Ben no doubt mused on why he couldn’t have opted for a normal friend who was happy to just go out on a Saturday night and drink himself almost to oblivion.

So that’s the first part of my plans kind of achieved. The song is recorded. Getting to number one will probably be a little more tricky, and take a little bit longer. I say that I have “kind of” achieved the first part of my plan, because the recording of this song is probably only going to be the demo version, as it was recorded in a bedroom in 8 hours. But it’s a good place to start. If I’m going to get to number one though, we’ll have to make a professionally produced pop recording with an accompanying music video.

On Thursday evening I will upload the song and release another blog post. Then I will await your thoughts. Then we’ll take it from there. I have got ideas for the video and I want you all involved. I shall explain more when you have heard the song.

In the meantime, enjoy your final day of sanity before you are thrown into the brave new world – a world that is united by the Eskimo kiss. Mark my words: in 2013, the Eskimo kissing song will be everywhere. But tomorrow, it will be hear, for the first time. So, until tomorrow friends …

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We’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
We’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
You’re my Eskimo girl, I’m your Eskimo guy,
Touch my nose, don’t be shy.

I had barely arrived at the bus stop before an old lady approached me and began to talk to me about her cat. This seems to be what old ladies at bus stops do, or at least the old ladies at bus stops in Billingham anyway. I used to travel this bus route on a daily basis for a year, and rarely would a week go by without an old lady talking to me about her cat.

I’m convinced that some of these old ladies don’t actually ever get on any buses; they just wonder over to their local bus stop of a morning if the weather’s nice, to spend a few hours chatting (generally about their cats). They have seemingly researched all the bus numbers and time tables, but I don’t think they’ve done this for the conventional reason; I think they’ve armed themselves with this knowledge purely as a means of providing them with a suitable conversation opener. All they have to do is wait for a moment of weakness from someone, such as a glance at the time table, a puzzled look, or a person quietly musing about when their next bus is due, and they’ll be straight in there. They’ll give you the information you were looking for, but you’ll get it at a price, that price being a litany of superfluous trivia about an old lady’s cat.

Being blind, I am perfect prey for these old ladies. As soon as I approach the bus stop, they are on to me. They want to help me apparently, but I know their game. “Which bus are you wanting?” they ask, affecting interest. I tell them. “O dear, you’ve just missed one”, they gleefully inform me, “which means you’ve got plenty of time to listen to a couple of anecdotes about our cats”.

“oh, I haven’t seen you at this bus stop for a while” said today’s old lady. I explained to her that I now live close to where I work and so generally I don’t need to make the bus journey any more. “Oh, OK”, she said, and then, without a moment’s pause, began, “Well, you’ll remember my cat bobby of course”. This was not a question; it was a statement. She seemed to have no doubt in her mind that I would remember her cat Bobby, and that I would obviously be looking forward to receiving an update on him. Incidentally, if you should find yourself in a similar situation to the one I’m describing, here is some advice that you would be wise to heed (take note, I am not a novice in this matter): do not ask questions, or offer thoughts; just let the cat-talk wash over you while you think about something more interesting, and believe me, thinking of something more interesting will not be a challenge. The old bus stop cat ladies are not interested in your opinions; they simply see you as a transient passive recipient for their cat anecdotes. If you half listen to what their saying and simply smile, nod or frown depending on the nature of their tale, then you should get away relatively mentally unscathed.

I hope you are not going to be disappointed by my exclusion of the old lady’s cat update. I was not really listening. It had something to do with a trip to the vets, but I’m assuming by the lady’s tone that the cat survived this experience, which is a pitty because this means she’ll have future cat anecdotes to impart. If you are interested to hear the story though, then I’m sure you’ll be enlightened if you hang around the bus stop opposite Asda in Billingham. Just go up to the old ladies congregating around the bus stop and ask if any of them are the owner of Bobby the cat. You’re bound to find her. Perhaps if Dave Gorman still reads this blog (because he definitely used to) then he may take it as a challenge to find this lady. Going around the country to track down characters that he reads about in blogs is the kind of thing he would probably do. I would advise him to put this particular episode somewhere in the middle of his book; it’s hardly the big opener or grand finale.

During the woman’s lengthy disquisition on her cat, my bus pulled up.

“Well, it was good seeing you again, and thanks for telling me about Bobby. Give him my best”, I said as I moved towards the bus. “Oh yes, I’ll tell him you were asking after him” replied the old lady, without a trace of humour in her voice.
“I’m glad to see you’re still doing well” she said as I reached the front of the bus queue, “we were wondering what had happened to you”. “Well don’t worry, I’m fine, as you can see I’m not dead”, I heartily responded as I stepped on to the bus. And fell face first on to the ground. I had my accordion with me, as well as my laptop and other stuff for work, and I had forgotten how much weight I was carrying. In my haste to get away from the old cat lady, I made a clumsy step on to the bus. As I stepped up my bags slipped. I tried to straighten my bags and somehow got my cane caught in between my legs. The cane tripped me up and the combine weight of my bags sent me down.

I tried to rise as gracefully as possible, then turned to face where I had just come from and shouted, “Don’t tell Bobby about this. I wouldn’t want to become a figure of fun amongst the cat community”. I thought a bit of humour might alleviate people’s concerns, but all it seemed to do was cause confusion and further concern among the passengers, especially the passengers behind me who had just heard me shout something about cats in their faces. The woman had probably already gone, running home to tell Bobby the good news that I was still alive. The passengers probably assumed that I had knocked my head during the fall, and that I’d started spouting nonsense about cats in my semi-concussed state.

As I settled in to my seat, I began to chuckle to myself. This probably helped confirm people’s suspicions about my sanity. The reason for my chuckling however was due to me imagining the irony of the situation, had my fall been fatal and resulted in my death. It would have been a pretty ironic way to die. I had just pronounced with a grin on my face to the old cat lady, “as you can see I’m not dead”. I then promptly fell face first on to the ground. Had this fall resulted in the end of my life, these haunting words would have been my last.

“Can you tell us what happened just before he fell please madam?” the policeman would enquire of the old cat lady, who would have been sighted as a key witness.

“He said … he said … as you can see I’m not dead. Then he fell on the ground, dead”.

“Haha .. ahem. Well, thank you Madam. We will be in touch if we require your further assistance in this matter. Thank you, you’re free to leave”.

“Thank you inspector. But before I leave, you’ll want to be hearing about Bobby of course. Well he’s been to the vet, just for a checkup you understand, and …”.

Obviously I didn’t die, as you’ve presumably realised, given that I’m writing this blog. So I suppose the incident was a bit of a none-story really. If I had died then this blog post would have been much more exciting, because there would have actually been something of note to have told you. But I wouldn’t have been able to have written the blog had I actually died, so I’m in a no-win situation with this post. Still, this blog entry could have been a lot worse; at least you didn’t have to read all about Bobby the cat and his trip to the vet.

The 109th Young’uns Podcast is available to download.

This week: We play a track from the Young’uns new album ‘When our Grandfathers Said No’, which is released in September on Navigator Records. We also give an insight into the recording of the album. Our special guest is Rebekah Findlay; two songs from her new album and a chat on the phone. We commemorate the Jubilee celebrations in our own unique style. We tell about how our folk music nearly killed a couple of children. Sean Cooney teaches us some primary school songs. It’s the first instalment in a new drama series exclusive to the Young’uns Podcast: we present the story of Iggy-Jiggy-Barbar the dancing sheep. And a Young’uns Podcast wouldn’t be a Young’uns Podcast without a few puns thrown in for good measure; this week it’s salad and pig puns – now we’ve got your attention.

Download the podcast here.

Subscribe to the Young’uns Podcast for free

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“Hey, I’ve just met you and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me maybe”, declared Carly Rae Jepsen, just before I hastily retuned the radio. What exactly is so crazy? If I’ve understood her correctly: she’s just met a man who she finds attractive; on the basis of this she gives him her phone number and suggests that he calls her. This kind of thing happens to people all the time; even to people like me sometimes. I don’t see why she believes what she is doing is so radical.

Thinking that I might be doing miss Jepsen (I assume she’s a “miss” if she’s giving her phone number out to men) a disservice by dismissing her song based purely on a chorus, I went on the Internet and listened to the whole thing. Perhaps this wasn’t simply another one of those trite girl-meets-boy songs. A girl giving her phone number to a boy could hardly be described as “crazy”. But Carly had quite clearly stated that “this is crazy”, and so perhaps I should give her the benefit of the doubt and listen to her tale.

Maybe the man she’d just met was the groom at a wedding, and she had been the photographer taking the wedding photos. After she’d spent half an hour photographing the happy couple, she then realised how attractive the man was. Rather than simply ignoring her desire, like surely most people would do in such a situation, she decided instead to proposition him by delivering those now famous lines. “Hey I’ve just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me maybe”. Well she’s right; that is crazy.

If this was the actual story, and the man decided to call and something happened between them, then I think that it’s more than a little insensitive of Carly to then go crowing about what has happened in a song. Hasn’t she done enough damage? I think it’s also a bit insensitive of the public to support, even reward, Carly’s actions by buying the single, causing it to go to number one.

But as expected, this wasn’t the scenario that Carly was singing about; she was merely, as I assumed, telling us that she’d met a man who’d she’d given her phone number to and then suggested that he called her – crazy!

While we’re on the subject of crap song lyrics: the other pop song that riles me is ‘Hot and Cold’ by Katy Perry.

The first line of the song says, “you change your mind like a girl changes clothes”, presumably intimating that this particular person changes quite a bit. You with me? Good. As the song progresses, the listener is left in no doubt that this is precisely what Katy is insinuating. The whole sentiment of the song is that this guy is always changing: “you’re hot then your cold, your yes then you’re no, you’re in then you’re out, you’re up then you’re down”. The choruses and verses both reiterate this one fact throughout the song. “We used to be Just like twins, so in sync, The same energy, Now’s a dead battery, Used to laugh about nothing, Now you’re plain boring …”. OK, so she’s ramming the point home that this person is always changing. You still with me? Excellent. OK then. So imagine my surprise when in the final verse, after everything she’s just sang, Katy then declares: “I should know that you’re not going to change”.

What!? What are you going on about Katy? You’ve just spent the last 3 minutes bemoaning that the person in the song is always changing. You can’t then, by way of a conclusion, summarise the situation by saying, “I should know that you’re not going to change”.
No, that is completely in direct opposition to everything that you’ve just said. But then, even more absurdly, she attempts to back up this contradictory conclusion by saying: “coz you’re hot then you’re cold, you’re yes then you’re no, you’re in then your out, you’re up then you’re down” etc. So she’s contradicted herself twice. How can she be so thick? And anyway, the demo version of the song was much better than the released recording; it had a flailing Russell Brand recorder solo.

For a moment, I began to doubt the credibility of Katy Perry as a sincere and authentic artist. I was beginning to think that she might be just in it for the money and the fame rather than trying to express anything poetic or profound. But then she released firework with that ore-inspiring, apposite line, “do you ever feel like a plastic bag?” and immediately my heart screamed: “yes, Katy, yes, I do! All the time. Finally, someone who understands exactly how I feel. Oh Katy, you have connected with me on a level that no one else has done before”. And so all was forgiven.

There is further evidence of Katy’s tendency to contradict herself. In ‘I kissed a girl’ she sings the line, “it felt so wrong, it felt so right”. So maybe Katy is just generally a very confused woman.

Now, some advice: if you’re a pop singer struggling for something interesting to sing about, then you can always borrow some ideas from this blog. I think my last blog post about my printer at work would make for an excellent 3 and a half minute pop song, especially if we can get some Russell Brand recorder playing on it.

In other news: the 109th Young’uns podcast is just around the corner. BUT please don’t strain your neck in an attempt to see it; you’ll only do yourself an injury. We should be exhibiting some tracks from the Young’uns’ new album, which has just been mastered and is now in duplication. Perhaps when it’s released, Katy Perry or Carly Rae Jepsen will write a blog about it, picking holes in all the lyrics. There are no songs about my printer at work on it unfortunately, but it’s worth you buying it anyway. You’ll have to wait and see whether or not Russell Brand makes an appearance with his recorder. Oh, what the hell, the news will be out there sooner or later anyway: there’s a version of his Andrew Sachs song on it, with Russell doing his lead part and the Young’uns doing a specially arranged version of Jonathan Ross’s backing vocals. No recorder though; we couldn’t afford it.

I woke up in the morning with a spring in my step. At least, I’m assuming that the spring in my step was there when I first woke up; I obviously didn’t discover it until I was out of bed and engaged in the act of stepping. To be honest, the precise moment that the spring in my step was first present isn’t really the salient point here; all you really need to know is that, at the moment when it mattered, i.e. when I was stepping, the spring was definitely there.
But why was it there? Don’t look so worried, I’m not expecting you to have an answer; it is a rhetorical question. It is just another one of my many ingenious dramatic devices that I employ from time-toTime in order to create a certain amount of tension. But is it really necessary at this particularly early stage in the story to build tension? Come on, answer me! I said, is it really necessary? What’s wrong with you? Can’t you tell the difference between a rhetorical question and a genuine one? No, obviously not, shut up, that was a rhetorical question you fool, I don’t need you to answer! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lose my temper. Join me in the next paragraph where I promise to be the perfect gentleman.

I made the journey to work, past the infamous Pelican crossing – yes, the very same. It now has a commemorative plaque on it incidentally, that is inscribed with: “as made famous by David Eagle”, and then the URL of the blog post in gold lettering, https://www.davideagle.co.uk/from-chickens-to-pelicans.OK, I’m exaggerating, as you may have suspected. It wasn’t the full Url; it didn’t have the “HTTP://www.” prefix. Well you can’t expect the council to fritter away money willy-nilly, especially in this current climate.

I entered my office. The spring was still very much apparent in my step by the way, just in case you were wondering. I would have told you if it had gone. What kind of a writer do you take me for? That was a rhetorical question.

My spring-loaded step transported me to my computer. I switched it on. Opened the document. Entered the print menu. Selected my printer from the list of networked printers. Hit the print button. Sat back in my chair, and waited. And then, that message appeared on the screen. That same-old message making that all-too-familiar proclamation: “sorry, the device cannot be reached”. The device cannot be reached? But you are less than a metre away from the “device”, you stupid computer! You are practically touching each other. In fact I am pretty sure I can sense the sexual tension in the room between the two of you, you are that close.

But what had gone wrong? I thought today was meant to be a new beginning? Yesterday, for the first time, having worked in this place for a year and a half, the printer had finally worked. After 1 and a half years of this same message telling me that my “device can not be reached”, it had finally capitulated and had started working. When I first started working here I was a much less cynical and more optimistic person. I suggested to the IT people that the problem might easily be fixed if we connected the printer to the computer via a cable; but my suggestion was immediately dismissed. The response from IT was that this would only add “unnecessary complications”. In fact, it seemed to appear that any intervention at all from the IT department would have added “unnecessary complications”, since the IT department’s solution had been to simply ignore the problem and do absolutely nothing. But then yesterday, completely unexpectedly, an IT man had ventured into my office.

“ah, hello, I think you must be lost” I gently told the man. I made sure to adopt a calm and collected approach with him, after all it must have been terrifying for him to have found himself outside the confines of the IT department. Goodness knows how he had got here. In all the time I’d been working here I’d hardly ever seen anyone from the IT department. But when on the rare occasion that they did respond to a call, they had always come in pairs. In all my time in this job, I had never seen a lone IT man. But now here he was, standing in my office, this living, breathing paradox, this lone IT man. This needed to be handled with tact, I thought. Perhaps he had set off with his companion, but somehow they had got separated, and now he’s come wondering aimlessly into my office. I could mention my printer problem to him, but this was hardly the time or the place. It must be distressing enough for him – bracing this unfamiliar territory alone, unable to reach his IT friend – without adding further trauma by suggesting that he tries to fix an IT problem. Hmm, perhaps they should have connected themselves together with a cable.

The man’s response to my gentle greeting took me by surprise. He did not seem dazed, confused or afraid. He informed me, in a very jolly tone, that he was here to fix my printer. Well, now it was me who was feeling dazed and confused. I asked him to repeat what he’d just said, which he duly did, and yes, I had heard him correctly, he had said that he had come to fix my printer. I stood there shocked. And then I flung myself at him and embraced him, which was a bad move because I got tangled up in a cable. What was he doing with a cable? Maybe he was connected to his friend after all. I extracated myself and apologised, explaining to him that his statement had come as a bit of a shock to me. He chuckled and made his way to my computer. Hang on a minute. He chuckled? An IT man with a sense of humour?! In all my time working here I had never seen anything quite like it. He then did something that completely knocked me for six. He reached behind the computer, and connected a cable. My goodness, so that’s what the cable was for. He then moved over to the printer and connected the other end of the cable to the back of the printer. He then went into the print menu, selected the printer and hit the print button. And the printer burst into life. It started to print!

“”There you go” he declared cheerfully, “just needed a cable connecting. This particular printer isn’t really compatible with the network, you see”. I stared at him in amazement, not only because he had just fixed my printer by attaching a cable (which I had posited as a solution to the problem over a year ago), but also because he had actually spoken to me in clear English, rather than just muttering incomprehensibly and then slumping out of the room.

“What a brilliant end to the working day” I thought. “This would be a new beginning!” But as we’ve already established, it wasn’t. Because here I was, the very next day after this miraculous event had occured, and the printer was not working. But the IT man had fixed it. He had connected it with a cable.

And then it came to me: perhaps he had done the job surreptitiously. Perhaps he is a rebel IT man. After all, he was working alone. Perhaps he is an IT insurgent, on a mission to do good in the world, to go against the grain and … fix IT problems. I should have known that these orders couldn’t have possibly come from official channels. He was jolly, he was working alone, he fixed my IT problem in a matter of seconds without any fuss and without the usual literny of nonsensical excuses – the deluge of IT jargon. He had spoken in plain English. He had used a simple logical solution. He had used a cable. He had a sense of humour! Of course he was a rebel.

O no, he had probably been found out. He was probably being reprogrammed at this very moment, screaming in torment as management signed him up for yet another pointless NVQ with endless amounts of theory work; that would keep him away from interfering with any real IT problems for a good while. Yes, the IT department had obviously found him out, and then under the cover of darkness had come into my office, wrenched out the offending cable and burned it.

I checked the back of the computer. There was no cable. I checked the back of the printer, just in case it had somehow merely become disconnected. But the cable was gone.

But how did they find him out? I thought back. Had I said anything about it to anyone? Yes, unfortunately I very much had. I had spent the remaining half an hour of the working day celebrating this extraordinary event by printing out letters to all of my colleagues, apologising for the times that I had hijacked their printers and thanking them for their patients and understanding over the last year and a half. I then shared with them my excellent news that an IT man – of all people – had come into my office and fixed my printer. Therefore, I would no longer be annoying them on a daily basis; well, at least, I wouldn’t be annoying them about printing, I could now focus my efforts on devising more creative and entertaining ways of annoying them. I printed all these letters out and then hand delivered them to all of my colleagues.

So basically I had told everyone. Someone must have been a whistle-blower, and reported what had happened to IT. I should have known, there was bound to be someone who sympathised with the enemy. And now that poor IT man had been found out. And it was all my fault.

I picked up the phone and dialled a colleague. I was sure that this particular person would not have been the whistleblower; I was positive that I was safe confiding in him. I explained that my printer was once again none-functional. He seemed nonplused. “But it’s never worked” he replied. How could he have forgotten? “It was fixed yesterday, remember?” But he didn’t remember. “We chatted about it at length. I was over-the-moon. I gave you a hand delivered letter that I printed on my printer, telling you all about it”. “I didn’t receive a hand delivered letter, I certainly didn’t have a conversation anywhere near as dull as that, and anyway, yesterday was Sunday”.

Yesterday was Sunday? Of course it was. But I don’t work Sundays, and I was off the previous week, and it certainly hadn’t been more than a week ago when it had happened. It was yesterday. I was sure of it. That’s the reason why I had woken up with a spring in my step, because it was my first day at work with a functioning printer. This meant that I would no longer have to annoy my colleagues. I might finally be liked. I might even be popular. I had sown the seeds of peace the day before with my personally printed, hand delivered letters. Today was going to be the new beginning.

I cast my mind back to last night. Now I came to think about it, I wasn’t particularly enthused about anything before I went to bed. It was when I woke up that I felt the excitement and had that spring in my step. O no, it must have been a dream. My colleague laughed at me. I hung up.

I must have dreamt the whole thing. Of course it wasn’t real. It was too unbelievable to be real: the jolly IT man who actually fixed computer problems, who spoke in plain English, had a sense of humour. Of course it wasn’t real. Of course it was a dream! It was obvious.
But then the worst part about the whole thing hit me. What kind of man in his twenties has a long and detailed dream about his printer at work? But not only that. What kind of man in his twenties has a long and detailed dream about his printer at work and then wakes up that morning feeling elated because his printer is fixed, and then runs to work in excitement, impatient to print out some documents? Certainly not the kind of man that I wanted to associate myself with. Has my life really become this dull? Evidently yes.
I decided that this incident would serve as a wake up call. I thought I was a man of excitement, adventure and ambition. But my dream and then my real-life response to it had shown me what kind of person I had become. What ever happened to all that ambition? All those ideas? What happened to those dreams? I was going to bring the adult chicken comedy movement into the 21st century for goodness sake. I used to think big. Well from now on things would be different! I would heed this wake up call. It would be a catalyst for change. From now on I would live a more exciting and adventurous life. I would once again be that man of ambition and energy that I used to be. I would recapture my youthfulness. It hadn’t disappeared entirely, it was just lying dormant, in need of being reawakened.
Well, from this moment onwards, things, would, be, different!

But first I had to get these documents printed. I walked down the corridor and asked one of my colleagues whether he would mind me using his printer for a bit. OK, well maybe I’d have to wait until the end of the working day before I could start thinking about reawakening my youthfulness. But I bloody well would do it. Just as soon as the working day was over. And I’d had tea. And done the ironing. And finished my tax return. And … O fuck!

Dear Madam, I imagine that it is very unlikely that this blog post will actually reach your attention, but I will write this anyway in the hope that it might and so that I can offer you an explanation about the traumatic experience you faced in the Park last week. My intentions however are not entirely pure as I am also writing about this incident because I believe that the general readership will find it funny, although there is also a good chance that many will be horrified. And so with that hopefully tantalising introductory paragraph, let me attempt to explain myself.

The story starts fairly innocuously, certainly not as excitingly as my previous blog post which saw me standing at a Pelican crossing. My friend Phill and I decided to toast the gloriously sunny day with a visit to the park. Phill brought his guide dog but I didn’t see any point in taking a cane since the park is only a minute’s walk away. Had I taken a symbol of sight loss then the whole sorry affair would have been avoided.

As soon as the guide dog gets a whiff of the park he always speeds up. There was also a strong glare from the sun on this particular day and so I made sure that I was keeping up close to Phill and the dog so as not to lose them.

So the dog tares off as expected and I run after them, making sure that I am right behind. We turn a few lefts and rights and then the dog slows down to a much more leisurely pace. Thank goodness, this is a much more suitable speed for a hot day. I am aware though that the dog will probably speed up again at any moment and so I make sure that I am hot on their heals.

As we progress we start to make a few more turns. We gradually increase speed. We are suddenly making a lot of sporadic turns, left then right, left right, right, left (I’m sure you get the general idea; I probably don’t need to elaborate on the nature of turning, you’re presumably all reasonably familiar with the concept). Then the dog increases the speed even more. We are running again. The turns become more and more sporadic. I manage to keep up though.

Eventually after another minute of running and frantic turning we came to a stop.
(Apologies to any grammar pedants reading this by the way. I am aware that I was using the present tense to describe events that took place in the past. I was doing it to heighten the drama, and I’m sure the none grammar pedant readers were appreciating the thrilling narrative that I was creating and were on the edge of their seats, with me all the way, feeling my every turn and speed change. But I will revert back to the past tense for the time being so that the grammar pedants don’t take umbrage, stop reading and seek refuge in the solace of their Lynne Truss book.(Incidentally, A word of advice: you can buy a used copy of Lynne Truss’s exposition on English grammar and language “eats, shoots and leaves” from Amazon very cheep, but be warned, some pedants take a strangely perverse pleasure in grammar and there are a number of rather dirty pedants out there who may have been reading the book while engaging in certain activities. My advice is to play it safe and buy it new. There is a rare sexually transmitted disease going around among English grammar pedants that experts believe is being passed on through used copies of “eats, shoots and leaves”. The NHS tried warning these people by sending a leaflet about the disease to everyone on the government’s database listed as an English grammar pedant, but unfortunately the message never reached them due to an ill-conceived comma in the first sentence which meant that the leaflets ended up in the bin, unread and unheeded. So yes, my advice is place it safe and buy it new, or make sure you sterilise it before reading. Or on the other hand, you could just stop being so pedantic about grammar and continue reading badly written drivel like this blog).

I was sweating and panting due to the last few minutes of exercise. In fact I was sweating and panting like a peverted pedant with a Lynne Trus book. As I got my breath back I turned towards Phill and the guide dog. I bent down to stroke the dog, and as I did so I gave a contented sigh. “aaaah, excellent” I sighed.

But my sigh, exclamation and broad smile quickly evaporated as soon as I realised in horror that I wasn’t stroking a dog. I was stroking a child who was sitting in a pram. The woman who was holding the pram gasped and pulled the pram away. The pram struck my leg as she reeled it round. As soon as I realised what I was doing I also pulled away, but the woman wasn’t going to be tempered by that, after all, let’s face it, it was the tinniest of consolatory gestures after what she’d just been through.

Presumably I must have lost Phill and the dog almost as soon as we entered the park gates. They must have ran off somewhere and I – my sight being even more impaired than usual due to the glare of the sun – mistook the woman pushing a baby in a pram to be Phill and the dog. So I made sure that I followed right behind them, a lot closer than any innocent man would ever dream of following a woman pushing a baby. I suppose this explains the increases in speed and the sporadic turns. I thought it was a bit of an odd course we were taking. She was obviously trying to shake me off and check whether I was definitely following her, hoping that I would relent and leave them alone. But I had no intention of relenting and leaving them alone. I was hot on their heals, and, as it transpires, hot on their wheels. Every turn, every increase and decrease in speed, I matched. Eventually she came to a stop, presumably in the desperate hope that I would overtake her. “Surely he won’t be so bold as to stop right by me and try something? Not in a public park in broad daylight?” she would have thought. But of course she was wrong. I stopped immediately after she did. I stood right next to the pram. I was panting and sweating; that probably didn’t help. Then the worst part: I bent down, reached into the pram and stroked the thigh of her child while sighing contentedly and intoning in a low slow voice, “excellent”.

I barely had time to register what had just happened. The woman rapidly turned the pram around and made to head in the opposite direction. But I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let the poor woman think that I was a child molester who had been following her for over five minutes in order to stroke her child. I was desperate to justify my actions, to explain that all of this was a misunderstanding. Then we could both go on our way, both of us feeling better about the situation. The woman’s mind would be put at ease. Perhaps she would even laugh about it once she realised the ludicrous mistake. Perhaps she would be so relieved that she would embrace me. She would burst into tears and in her relieved and impassioned state she would tell me about how she has been so scared and worried of late since the child’s father had left her. How would she manage to bring the baby up all by herself? I would be so relieved that I’d survived the whole ordeal without being physicaly abused, and in the heat of such an unlikely and emotion-fuelled moment we would fall in love.
I would pull her close, kiss her softly, and tenderly tell her that I would stay by her side forever, that I would be there to comfort her and cherish her, that I would take it as a personal responsibility to rear her child. Perhaps “rear” would be the wrong word to use given the circumstances.

Anyway, none of that happened … surprisingly. I got a bit carried away. I suppose I’m just a bit lonely at the moment, and someone has stolen my copy of “Eats, Shoots and Leaves” so I’ve had very little relief, if you know what I mean. Sorry, back to the story.

In my desperation to qualify my actions I intercepted the woman’s path, standing in front of the pram and halting it with my foot. Now was my chance. I would have to say something immediately otherwise she would think that I was stopping her from leaving and that I hadn’t finished with her and the child yet. This would obviously freak her out even more. O my god, I was now stopping her from leaving. This is exactly what she’d be thinking! She was definitely starting to panic now. She didn’t say anything; she just gasped and tried to pull her pram around me again. I really had to say something quickly, otherwise she would leave thinking that she had been followed by a child molester and would probably be afraid to venture out again. I moved around so that her path was once again blocked. I opened my mouth to speak, looked into her eyes and then … “come on David, speak! Say it is all a misunderstanding, tell her that I am blind. You can make everything OK just by those few words”. But where to start? It seems so simple now, with the benefit of hindsight, but in the pressure of that moment I became completely lost for words.

I thought about the ridiculousness of what was happening. I could sense the woman’s panic increasing. I had now blocked her path twice. The whole crazy, farcical situation suddenly hit me. How had I got myself into this incomprehensible fix?

So what did I do? What did I say? I did what I often do – like many people do, not that I want to excuse myself – in overwhelmingly embarrassing and awkward situations. I started laughing. I couldn’t help myself. It just happened. Waves of uncontrollable laughter came over me. I tried to stop myself. I coughed, I spluttered as I tried to stop the laughter, I slapped myself in the face in the vain hope that I would come to my senses in time to redeem the situation. Obviously this display did nothing to quell the woman’s fear. She was being confronted by a man who had just followed her for 5 minutes, stroked her child and who was now spluttering, laughing, and slapping himself in the face. She turned the pram around again. I was too busy doubled over laughing, tears rolling down my face to stop her. She broke into a run. I desperately, and with a great effort, pulled myself straight, stopped my laughing and shouted “sorry” in her general direction as she tore across the park. So at least I got the sorry out in the end; I’m sure that made everything better and she’ll be fine.

It is difficult to know quite what to offer by way of a conclusion to this tale. The moral of the story is? Hmmmm. I’ve not heard any reports of a child molester on the loose, and believe me I would know, I like to keep my finger on the pulse about that sort of thing. O dear, I think I’ll go before I dig myself into an even deeper hole, although the hole might come in handy if I need to hide from her very angry husband who may be searching for me.

If it’s any consolation I did feel bad about it, but look on the bright side, I may have managed to reach the poor lady somehow through this blog post and offered her some blessed relief. At the very least I have probably given entertainment to a few of you with a warped sense of humour, and repelled and appalled a good many more of you. I bet you wish you’d gone for the Lynne Truss book after all?

I have been patronised by a pelican twice in the space of a week. “Say no more David, we know exactly what you mean, we’ve all been there”; only I doubt you do know what I mean. You are probably thinking that I am referring to an animal. But no, this is not your everyday story about a condescending Pelican; these tales occurred at a pelican crossing and it was two humans that did the patronising. “Aaah, well that’s much more exciting and much less predictable and commonplace. Pray, do continue”. Thank you. I do miss our little chats by the way.

OK, so now we’ve established that my story is a great deal more exciting than you thought it was going to be, let’s begin. But where to start. “How about the Pelican crossing?” Ah yes.

Imagine if you will in your mind’s eye – I assume that you do have one, and that you’ve done the proper upgrade and everything, otherwise you might feel a little dizzy – that I am standing at a pelican crossing. This is nothing out of the ordinary; I have to cross this crossing everyday too and from work. I am currently standing at the Pelican crossing, waiting for the green man, having already pressed the button – I hope you’re following this OK. I have been waiting for about half a minute; sorry I can’t be more specific than that, I didn’t realise I’d be recounting this incident back to you in a blog so I wasn’t really taking much notice. I was just standing, waiting for the green man. I’d like to think that I looked nonchalant and at ease, like this whole standing-at-a-pelican-crossing-waiting-for-the-green-man thing was no big deal, that it wasn’t phasing me in the slightest. Because it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. But I obviously wasn’t convincing the woman fifty metres or so down the road, on the opposite side, who was now running towards the Pelican crossing shrieking, “Don’t move, don’t worry, it’s all right, I’m coming! It’s OK, I’ll help you, stay there son, I’ll get the button for you”.

“please,”, I thought, “come on, green man. This woman obviously thinks that I don’t know how to operate a Pelican crossing. Beep now and show that just because I’m blind, I am not completely deficient in the comprehension of the basic rudiments of Pelican crossing operation”. That is exactly what I thought, word for word; I was starting to take note now, as I realised that this situation wasn’t your average humdrum pelican crossing incident and that I’d probably write about this in a blog – I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to write something about Pelican crossings since I started this blog, so any excuse would be graciously seized.

But the green man did not answer my prayers; I was starting to doubt his existence – I know, I should have faith, happy are those who have not seen etc. The Pelican crossing did not beep and so I stood there as she ran and shouted at me to be still and be calm and that she would be with me in a few seconds. She then reached the Pelican crossing box at the other side of the road. She pressed the button and shouted across to me “I’ve pressed the button for you, it will beep now, and you can cross”. I prayed once more to the green man that the Pelican crossing wouldn’t beep at that exact moment. At least if she had to stand there and wait a few seconds before it beeped then she might entertain the notion that I might have actually pressed it myself.

Unfortunately, yet again the green man failed to heed my prayer. Well that’s it, I won’t be making any more child sacrifices to him; he’s had it. No sooner had she spoken these words, the beeping commenced and I crossed the road while the woman offered words of encouragement and reassurance. “That’s it son, take your time, you’re doing well, I’m here”.

I reached the other side of the road. I turned to the woman and paused. I wanted to remonstrate with her and explain that I was aware of the basic principle of pelican crossings, and that in fact I had pressed the button awhile ago and was merely waiting for the green man to do his thing. In fact, it is she who seems confused as to how the whole Pelican crossing thing works, as she intimated that the Pelican crossing would beep immediately after she pressed the button, and this is not the case, most times you have to wait a bit. Granted she was correct on this occasion and the green man did beep straight away, but that was just coincidence, unless she have some psychic connection – a special relationship – with the Green Man; I’ve read about the existence of such people, the chosen few, perhaps she’s made more child sacrifices than I have. I wanted to let her know how embarrassing it was for me and how she had obviously just assumed, because I was blind, that I would be unable to operate the pelican crossing by myself. I wanted to rant at her about stereotyping, labelling people with disabilities, making sweeping, ill-founded assumptions etc etc. But in the end I just said thank you and walked off.

The next day on my way home from work I was presented with the opportunity to gain my revenge on such patronising members of society.

I walked up to the Pelican crossing, pressed the button, and waited. You see, I wasn’t lying about knowing how to use a Pelican crossing. As I waited, I could hear the conversation between a man and his child who were at the other side of the road. The little boy was messing around trying to clamber up on to the pelican crossing pole. The father was doing his best to stop him but to no avail. But then the father must have noticed me, and an idea hit him. “Son, look” he said, “you see that man at the other side of the road?”. The boy stopped his clambering. “Yes daddy” he replied. “Well, that man is a blind man”. The father was obviously very pleased with himself, having found a good distraction from the pole. “That means he can’t see”. “wow!” gasped his son. Evidently this fact had impressed him. “Now, we people, you and I, know when to cross because of the green man, but a blind man cannot see the green man”. The little boy made a noise of understanding. “He will wait and listen for the beeping. The blind man will only cross when he hears the beep”.

The father was talking kind of in the style of David Attenborough.
He was discussing me as if I was a fascinating creature, “the blind man” and talking about me crossing a road as if it was some interesting ritual.

“You see now,” he continued, “there are no cars in sight. We could cross the road now because we can see that it is safe. But the blind man will stay until he hears the beep”. “O no he bloody well won’t” I thought. The child made another impressed noise. He was obviously taken by his father’s knowledge. I stepped out into the road and strode purposefully to the other side. When I reached the pavement, I turned to the father and his son and gave a cheery wave, then walked off into the distance.

Behind me I heard the child shouting “Daddy! You were wrong. He crossed before the beep. Look, he’s there. Daddy! You were wrong”.

“Hah, yes little child, your daddy was wrong. He thought he understood the workings of “the blind man”. But he quite clearly didn’t. In fact, he was “the blind man” in this little tale. Let this be a lesson little child. Tell it to your friends at school. Let this parable spread throughout the playground like wildfire. Let it journey through cyberspace, through Facebook and Twitter. May it set the heart’s of a generation ablaze and give life to a more enlightened breed, one which refuses to countenance ignorance, stereotyping, labelling, assumptions, social ills that have held human evolution back by centuries. Let this action create piece, harmony, equality.”

To be honest, I wasn’t thinking any of that, I was still smarting after yesterday’s incident and I simply saw this as sweet revenge. But I am sure that all of the above- peace, harmony, equality, a more excepting society, a new enlightened generation, a glorious utopia – will all be a by-product of my actions. So well done me.

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Finally, in other news, I am trying to create a website for myself rather than just a blog, and shortly there will be dedicated pages for The Young’uns Podcast, David Eagle’s Pick and Mix and other projects.
Davideagle.co.uk
is the web address, so if you’re visiting the old blogger page, the one that’s listed at the top of Google searches for David Eagle, then you should stop doing that and go to davideagle.co.uk
instead, because the old page will be leaving us soon. There are lots of other exciting things happening that I’ll hopefully be able to tell you about really soon.

Thanks for reading.

Download the audio version of this blog post here.

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This weekend saw me sitting in a pub with some friends hypothesising the etymology of the “why did the chicken cross the road” joke. There was a group of us, all men, and we had, before this particular conversation, been discussing proper men’s topics like sport and women. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea and think I am in any way ponsey and not a propper man, o no, it was just that somehow the conversation had temporarily strayed from sports and women on to the etymology of the “why did the chicken cross the road joke”. We would of course get back on to sport and women in due course, but we decided it would be OK to discuss the etymology of the “Why did the chicken cross the road” joke, just for a little while, it wouldn’t compromise our statuses as red blooded males.

An Internet search yielded the website whydidthechickencrosstheroad.com which, although not offering any information regarding the joke’s provenance, did nevertheless prove to be an interesting find. The website boasts an impressive collection of chicken jokes; impressive in terms of volume that is, not necessarily quality. The jokes are sorted into various categories, the first of which being “adult chicken jokes”. How could we not click that link? What red blooded male when offered the opportunity to read an adult chicken joke wouldn’t say yes? Exactly. And red blooded males is most definitely what we are.

Upon clicking the link we were presented with a disclaimer which warned us that these adult chicken jokes were of an adult nature; presumably these adult chicken jokes were also of a chicken nature—just hazarding a guess. We were prompted to click a button to confirm that we were aged eighteen or over. We clicked to confirm that we were and waited in anticipation for the page to load. If ever there was a reason for the pub to have free wifi, this was surely it.

We sat further forward in our seats, leaning in conspiratorially, testosterone levels rising at the prospect of what we were about to read. We tentatively glanced around the pub to check that there were no minors who might unwittingly overhear what was about to be read. None of us wanted to be responsible for giving a child their first sex education lesson courtesy of an adult orientated chicken website. That’s the very kind of thing I’ve been determined to avoid all my life, and so far I’d managed to avoid it pretty successfully, and I was keen to keep it that way.

The page loaded. In contrast with all the other categories—the celebrity chicken jokes, historical chicken jokes, religious chicken jokes, political chicken jokes—which all have a surprisingly expansive selection, the adult section only contains two jokes. This seems to suggest that adult chicken jokes are a bit of a niche market, whereas there is a lot more of a demand for political or religious chicken jokes. But surely there must be a demand for adult chicken humour. There was a whole group of red blooded mails all sat in a pub, craning forward in anticipation for such a form of comedy. Maybe this genre is simply undiscovered, an as of yet untapped gold mine. Just remember that I was one of the first people to expose the genre. Just remember that when you’re sitting in front of the telly watching Michael Macintyre’s Adult Chicken Comedy Road Show.

I will now include these two jokes in this blog, saving you the need to visit the adult chicken website yourself and sparing you the possible embarrassment and incrimination that might be caused if your wife or girlfriend should find the site in your history. I know it’s only natural, you’re a red blooded male for goodness sake; but unfortunately your partner just won’t understand. Trust me.

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Joke 1. The Chicken and the Egg.

A chicken and an egg are lying in bed. The chicken is leaning against the headboard smoking a cigarette with a satisfied smile on its face. The egg, looking a bit ticked off, grabs the sheet, rolls over and says … Well, I guess we finally answered “THAT question!”

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Once upon a time there was a horse and a chicken who were good friends. They lived on a farmyard with lots of other animals and were very happy. One day, while they were playing near the farm’s pond, the horse stepped into a hole of quicksand. The horse rapidly sank and was yelling for his friend, the chicken, to save him. The chicken thought for a minute, then ran back to the farmhouse, and jumped into the farmer’s 735csi BMW. Luckily, the keys were in the ignition, and the chicken managed to start the car, and put it in gear. It raced over to the sinkhole, where the horse had almost disappeared by now. The smart chicken tied a rope around the back of the BMW and threw the other end around the front legs of the horse. The chicken hopped back in the driver’s seat and stepped on the gas. Ever so slowly, the horse eased out of the quicksand and jumped to safety. The horse, still on shaky legs, stuttered: “You just saved my life. Thank you!” The chicken just said, “Don’t mention it – That’s what friends are for!!” They returned the BMW and went out to dinner together in the barn yard.
A few days later, the horse got up from a good night’s rest, and heard some muffled cries for help coming from the backyard. The horse followed the sounds and came upon a terrible scene. There was his best friend, the chicken, stuck in a hole of quicksand! The sand was already up to its neck-feathers and the cries for help had almost stopped. The horse took a quick look around: No rope in sight And the farmer had gone to town with his BMW. What to do? The horse took a deep breath and spread his body and legs out over the hole. His member was dangling down right above the poor chicken. “Here, my friend, grab my thingie and I will pull you to safety!”. With its last bit of energy, the chicken grabbed a hold of the big horse-thingie and the horse straightened its body, pulling the chicken from its trap. With one big step, both were on solid ground and safe. The chicken slumped down on the ground, exhausted: “Now You saved my life, my friend!!” The horse just smiled. And what is the moral of this story? … If you’re hung like a horse, you don’t need a BMW to pick up chicks.

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Obviously again we all burst into raucous laughter. My goodness, what fun. We were real men, telling adult jokes with rude words, like “Thingy”. I hope my family aren’t reading this; they probably don’t even think I know such naughty words as “thingy”.

The barman looked over at our group once again, inquisitive to know what we were laughing about. “I can’t believe that footballer missed that penalty, the bleeding … nincompoop!” I shouted. There, that would fool him, he would just think we were having a typical conversation that typical red blooded males would have about sport, laughing at a bleeding nincompoop of a footballer who’d missed a penalty. He really did look too innocent to hear an adult chicken joke, especially ones about horse’s thingies. It could scar him for life.

“Who’s that?” asked the barman, coming over to our table to collect our glasses.

“What?” I replied, trying to think of a footballer who might have missed a penalty who would deserve to be branded a bleeding nincompoop.

“Who are you talking about”? enquired the innocent barman.

“o, er, o, you mean that footballer who we were just talking about?” I asked, deliberately stalling for time while I desperately tried to think of a name.

“Yes” he immediately replied, somewhat thwarting my stalling efforts, the little swine.

“You mean the footballer who missed the penalty? The one I called a bleeding nincompoop”? Damn! That was two questions in one. I could have stalled for longer by asking them separately. I am losing my composure and thus my ability to stall effectively. Perhaps I should develop a slight stutter the next time I respond; but he’d heard me talking fine before that, so that wouldn’t work. Why weren’t my friends helping me here? Surely one of them must know the name of a footballer who missed a penalty recently, someone who we could all laugh at and call a bleeding nincompoop and thus resolve this awkward situation? But no, I knew it wasn’t going to happen because none of my friends are actually true red blooded males, and they don’t really like sport. And I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but I’m not really a proper sports loving red blooded male either. I know, I lied to you because I was embarrassed that you might think I am a bit ponsey and not a real man for discussing the etymology of the “Why did the chicken cross the road” joke. I knew I’d get found out eventually. And I was being found out right now by a young barman intent on knowing which footballer I was referring to. There was nothing for it but to come clean.

“I don’t know. We weren’t really talking about football,” I admitted, “we were checking out an adult chicken website. Here, look”. I thrust the phone towards him. This would teach him for being to inquisitive. He was about to get an unexpected education, a rude awakening. He was about to read words like “horse’s thingy” for the very first time.

“Get the man a stiff drink” I whispered to my friend, “he’s going to need one. We might have to give him … the talk”. But the barman didn’t read the adult chicken jokes. He looked very concerned and immediately withdrew.

I am obviously being sarcastic about the graphic nature of these two jokes. There is next to nothing adult about these adult chicken jokes, certainly nothing that warrants a disclaimer and a button you have to click to confirm you are eighteen or over. To be frank, I don’t really think the Adult Chicken genre has properly developed yet. For a start there only seems to be two jokes in existence, and those jokes are far too timid and safe to satiate people’s appetite for Adult Chicken humour; if indeed there is actually much of an appetite in need of being satiated. Something needs to be done, someone needs to stand up and be responsible for taking the Adult Chicken comedy movement to the next stage. I will be that man!

Well, I did the standing up part almost immediately after we informed the barman that we weren’t interested in sport but rather amused ourselves looking at adult chicken websites. A group of men had overheard our declaration and were looking at us a bit disconcertingly. They looked like proper red blooded males and didn’t seem to be too approving of our unusual pastime and so we promptly stood up and left.

So the standing up part had been accomplished, that was fairly easy; but what about the other bit: being the man responsible for the development of the adult chicken comedy movement? That might be a bit more tricky. I had stood up many times in my life before, but I don’t mind admitting to you that I had never once before been responsible for developing the adult chicken comedy movement and taking it into the 21st century. This was something new to me.

I have decided that the best way to advance the genre is to firstly add some more jokes. The genre isn’t really going to get much attention if it only boasts two jokes, especially jokes of such a mild nature.

At the bottom of the website there is an option that lets you submit your own chicken joke. It is time that someone answered to that noble calling and advanced the genre beyond the paltry (and yes that was a deliberate hilarious pun) couplet that so far exists. I am that man! I will compose another adult chicken joke, a proper adult chicken joke, with proper rude words and scenarios that will cause you to completely re-evaluate the way you have always thought of chickens. You will never be able to think of a chicken as a sweet innocent creature again. I will taint your outlook on chickens forever.

Someone last week asked me if there would be another David Eagle’s Pick and Mix. At the time I said yes, but perhaps now I will never get the time due to my commitments to furthering the Adult Chicken Comedy movement. I may even have to give up The Young’uns. I’ll keep you posted.