boxer - wibbler.com

An Open Letter to Dublin Trippers

Posted by | Uncategorized | 8 Comments

An open letter to those joining me on the birthday trip to Dublin
“Dear All,
It has come to my attention that plans may be afoot to compromise my wellbeing on our celebratory trip to Dublin.

I would like to make it clear that my parents are aware of the potential of their little son being harmed, and my mother is especially concerned. You will, in her own words, “have [her] to answer to”. She means business. My dad has also been a bit of a boxer in his time, and his fists will no doubt like to have a few words with your facial features should any lasting damage occur.

I trust you will bear this in mind as you tie me upside down to the front of a moving train.”

Fancy Dress party

Posted by | Uncategorized | 3 Comments

Last weekend, Jac, Nick and I popped up to see some friends in London. Simon H, unfortunately, was “unavailable” (those inverted commas are purely for the overinformed). It was initially a fancy dress get-together, but, scared by the mere thought of what Jac and I might concoct, the ‘fancy dress’ aspect was duly cancelled 3 days before the event. This was like a red rag to a bull. After calming the hosts’ fears, and assuring them that we were just arriving in normal clothes, we rolled up on the mauve doorstep in Balham, South London, with the most stupid outfits we could find. Jac went so far as to buy a costume, while I had dressed so fancily that no one could recognise me when the door eventually opened. As I presented myself at the door of the living room, the whole place went as quiet as the Queen Mother, as 22 normally-dressed people stared. In retrospect, I should have waited for Jac before entering, being only a minute behind me, waddling up the road dressed as an elf.
I tell you, trying to have a conversation with Elvis glasses, a huge afro wig and a bushy moustache is no easily flippable pancake. Remarkably hard. As the evening wore on, and the initial raucous laughter had died down, I wondered what on earth possessed me to slip into this overly hot rubbish. I duly changed, and as I poked my head out of the bathroom, I could make out the shape of Jac (don’t even ask me what shape Jac is…), suctioned heartily to Mel, hostess for the night. Again.
So, a jolly good night was had. I got drunk and was challenged to a wrestle (humble apologies to the opponent for his shredded boxer shorts…); Jac lost some more of his short-term memory (“I’ll have some garlic… what’s it called?” “Bread, Jac” “Oh yes, garlic bread”); and we all unfortunately confused the word “pansies” with the word “panties”, consequently thinking that Elli’s panties always face the sun, and must be watered at least once a day.