.jpg)
The Dingle Has Landed
The black stretch limo rolls slowly through the gates of the compound. Screaming fans press against the rope lines, held in check by burly shaven headed security guards with tattoos on their necks. As the vehicle rolls slowly to a stop outside the house and the door cracks open, a barrage of camera flashes illuminate the scene like stroboscope lighting. What will the new housemate be like? Will he be the eye candy, the hunky man-totty the house so desperately needs. Tall? Square-jawed? Aqualine romanesque features. Cleft chin? Penetrating deep blue eyes? The crowd holds its breath in bated anticipation as out of the car emerges……
An overweight scruffy herbert with more than a passing resemblance to Captain Caveman.
"’s’up dudes?" I mumble laconically, raising one hand in greeting to the assembled throng while the other one is busy scratching my arse with a ten-pee piece I found shoved down between the seats. Resplendant in my carefully selected outfit of faded 1991 Soundgarden tour tee-shirt and combats with a hole in the knee and tomato ketchup stain just below the left pocket that I hoped nobody would notice, together with my best seven year old Reeboks with the sole only slightly flapping so they’ll last another year or so, I shamble towards the house, tripping over the bottom step and reach out by instinct to steady myself, only to find that what I have clung onto is a female Daily Mail photographer’s left breast. I grin and apologise, while completely forgetting to take my hand away.
Yes, (the other) Alan, the traditional surprise late entrant to the house, has arrived. Some of you may wonder about the name (the other) Alan, when plainly there isn’t another Alan for me to be (the other) Alan to. Indeed, I fully admit that the lack of alternative Alans is slightly worrying in this respect. However, with the name chosen before (the original) Alan failed the selection process, and feeling that changing to (not the) Alan (who originally called himself) Alan (but now the sole remaining) Alan might create a somewhat unwieldy moniker, I have decided to stick with this slighly left-field sounding title which, in all honesty, is actually somewhat appropriate to my character.
I hoik my army surplus kitbag onto my shoulder and wander on into the house. Inside the bag are five more faded early ‘90s grunge tour tee-shirts, another pair of combats (hole in the opposite knee for the sake of variety), five pairs of quite elderly Marks & Spencer bikini briefs, (carefully selected as the ones which feature the fewest holes), five pairs of socks (all requiring darning), one pair of best pulling pants (no holes at all) and in case there are any formal functions, a shirt with a collar which was once white before I put it into the washing machine with a red sock and so is now a slightly pink-ish colour.
Also in the bag are my iPod shuffle featuring nothing but the collected works of David Bowie, a copy of Wilf Gregg’s "Encyclopaedia of Serial Killers" for a little light reading, five bottles of rather nice port, one bottle of even nicer 12 year old single malt, my ice axe (the long handled one) for protection in case any of the ladies get a little too frisky (I hear that Zoe can be a real minx), and of course Spike who, as we speak, is planning a series of practical jokes to be played on Quickos and Honey Bear.
My time in the house should be characterised by sarcasm, rambling pointless anecdotes and interminably long boring stories about mountains. I have no illusions that I am going to be the winner of this contest, but will consider my tenure well spent if I can at least persuade Girl and NML to take a soapy shower together and let me watch.
The prize will be a signed copy of my book, which the winner will find an invaluable reference work and also the perfect size to put under the leg of that wobbly table on the upstairs landing.
Later dudes!
An overweight scruffy herbert with more than a passing resemblance to Captain Caveman.
"’s’up dudes?" I mumble laconically, raising one hand in greeting to the assembled throng while the other one is busy scratching my arse with a ten-pee piece I found shoved down between the seats. Resplendant in my carefully selected outfit of faded 1991 Soundgarden tour tee-shirt and combats with a hole in the knee and tomato ketchup stain just below the left pocket that I hoped nobody would notice, together with my best seven year old Reeboks with the sole only slightly flapping so they’ll last another year or so, I shamble towards the house, tripping over the bottom step and reach out by instinct to steady myself, only to find that what I have clung onto is a female Daily Mail photographer’s left breast. I grin and apologise, while completely forgetting to take my hand away.
Yes, (the other) Alan, the traditional surprise late entrant to the house, has arrived. Some of you may wonder about the name (the other) Alan, when plainly there isn’t another Alan for me to be (the other) Alan to. Indeed, I fully admit that the lack of alternative Alans is slightly worrying in this respect. However, with the name chosen before (the original) Alan failed the selection process, and feeling that changing to (not the) Alan (who originally called himself) Alan (but now the sole remaining) Alan might create a somewhat unwieldy moniker, I have decided to stick with this slighly left-field sounding title which, in all honesty, is actually somewhat appropriate to my character.
I hoik my army surplus kitbag onto my shoulder and wander on into the house. Inside the bag are five more faded early ‘90s grunge tour tee-shirts, another pair of combats (hole in the opposite knee for the sake of variety), five pairs of quite elderly Marks & Spencer bikini briefs, (carefully selected as the ones which feature the fewest holes), five pairs of socks (all requiring darning), one pair of best pulling pants (no holes at all) and in case there are any formal functions, a shirt with a collar which was once white before I put it into the washing machine with a red sock and so is now a slightly pink-ish colour.
Also in the bag are my iPod shuffle featuring nothing but the collected works of David Bowie, a copy of Wilf Gregg’s "Encyclopaedia of Serial Killers" for a little light reading, five bottles of rather nice port, one bottle of even nicer 12 year old single malt, my ice axe (the long handled one) for protection in case any of the ladies get a little too frisky (I hear that Zoe can be a real minx), and of course Spike who, as we speak, is planning a series of practical jokes to be played on Quickos and Honey Bear.
My time in the house should be characterised by sarcasm, rambling pointless anecdotes and interminably long boring stories about mountains. I have no illusions that I am going to be the winner of this contest, but will consider my tenure well spent if I can at least persuade Girl and NML to take a soapy shower together and let me watch.
The prize will be a signed copy of my book, which the winner will find an invaluable reference work and also the perfect size to put under the leg of that wobbly table on the upstairs landing.
Later dudes!
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home