Ohh, my Nephew Michael likes this one, what with him being in a pop group and reciting his poetry out of his published book and all that. He thinks that he is a proper star, he does. The only thing is, that he ruddy well isn’t, apart from in his own minds eyes of course. And that’s what this card is trying to tell you. There is something that you reckon that you are pretty good at, and you might just be letting it go to your head. Watch your step. Pride comes before a fall.
That’s not to say you shouldn’t enjoy doing the things that you are good at. Just don’t take it for granted that everyone else will have the same opinion of your abilities as you do. My Raymond’s brother Cyril always fancied that he was a dab hand at the mouth organ. He ruddy wasn’t. He could only play one tune and that was “D’ye ken John Peel (with his coat so gay?)” and he couldn’t even play that properly without making little grunting noises and all dribble going down his chin.
That was just a party piece though. He never seriously fancied a life on the stage or anything. Not like our Michael. I’m sure he thinks that he’s the real deal. Like that Bonio out of U ruddy 2. The thing with these pop stars, is that before they know where they are they start believing that they don’t have to obey the same rules as anybody else. Then they are running around without any clothes on spilling their drinks all over the place willy nilly, and driving their cars into swimming pools. Not that our Michael has ever done that, but he did reverse his Citroen Picasso into one of them metal bollards at ASDA once. He cracked his ruddy back bumper. And I blame his obsession with pop music. He was probably thinking about doing pop concerts rather than where he was going. Typical.
Four things that you might do this week (i) Take up a musical instrument, if you haven’t already. If you have, try a different one. The humble mouthorgan is a good place to start. Don’t borrow anyone else’s though. One Christmas, I had a go at blowing on Cyril’s organ and when I sucked it all tobacco flavoured drool came out of it and into my mouth. Disgusting! (ii) Have a night in on your own, or with a very close friend, and behave like a pop star. Take all of your clothes off and have a few drinks in the niff. Remember to draw the curtains and turn the heating up though. What goes on in the privacy of your front room should not be viewed by any Tom Dick or Harry passing by outside. (iii) Do something that you think you are good at. Don’t worry too much about what other people might think. Just don’t get too big headed, imagining that they might think that you are really good. On the other hand, don’t hide your light under a bushel. Whatever one of them is when its all at home (iv) If you do drive to the supermarket, concentrate on your driving. And Don’t Forgrt to use your ruddy mirrors.
I wouldn’t normally waste my time writing about such a ruddy waste of space, but my nephew Michael has been going on at me. He used to worship him when he was a teenager, and even now, when he is in his ruddy fifties he still thinks it is clever to use him as an excuse for not tucking his shirt in properly! “Sid Vicious died that we may live!” he says “not so that we have to worry about tucking our shirts in all the time.”
Also, some bloke who reads what I put on WordPress and writes a blog called “the offensive playbook” suggested that I should write about Punk Rock because he “thinks I would like it” or something. Well I don’t! Its too noisy and its not big and its not clever to ruddy well swear all the time. Its cleverer if you can entertain people without being rude. Like George Formby could. And his dad before him.
Any Road Sid Vicious wasn’t even his real name. He was called John Ritchie. And he was in the most famous Punk Rock group of the 1970s, the “Sexy Pissers” or something, that’s what they called themselves. In my opinion they were just trying to be clever, by swearing. Again. They used to sing songs about dead bodies and be sick on stage and Sid even used to cut himself a bit, so that he got blood all over his chest, Silly ruddy idiot.
He was always taking drugs and stuff like that and in the end he found himself a girlfriend who was no better than he was. Most people like him manage to get themselves a girlfriend who acts as a bit of a calming influence, and they settle down and have kiddies, but not Sid. He had to start seeing this Nancy Spongebob, who just made him dafter and got him into taking even worse drugs.
He stopped being in the Sexy Pissers and moved into in a run down hotel in New York with her. He did a few Punk Rock concerts on his own, but he had taken that many drugs that he couldn’t even remember what song he was singing half the time. Then one night he went to bed with Nancy, and when he woke up in the morning, he found her stabbed to death in the ruddy bathroom.
It looked like a clear cut case, and the coppers had him locked up in prison. But of course nothing is ever as it seems. Some folk say that a drug dealer came in and did the stabbing in the middle of the night. That makes sense to me. If my Raymond ever found out that I had forgot to lock the front door before we retired for the night, he always used to say “We might be murdered in our beds!” and if Sid and Nancy were high on drugs, they probably wouldn’t remember to lock their door. Any Road, Sid’s lawyer managed to get him out on bail, and he even got to go back to England.
But once he got home he had a party at his Mam’s house, and the next morning, they found him laid out in bed, dead of a drugs overdose. Some people say it was suicide because he wanted to be back with his Nancy. Very romantic. But to be honest, its not exactly a Barbara Cartland story, is it?
Any road, I hope that our Michael and that Offensive Playbook bloke are satisfied, because I’m not going to be writing about that long haired American youth who shot himself in the face in the greenhouse. Ruddy attention seeker.