Dear World..

My letter of observations to you, through a grumpy git's eyes!

Dear World.

It’s a funny old thing don’t you find? Being one amongst billions? I mean, you wouldn’t exactly know would you? You’re just a mahoosive sphere of rock gas and other scientific stuff. Which whilst I am in an ‘honest moany grumpy old git’ type of a mood, I don’t mind admitting I don’t understand. I haven’t got a Scooby Doo. Oh my science teachers would be so proud!

I just take it for granted that like some tiny little, and at times, mentally unstable ant, I scuttle around day to day. Somehow being kept alive by the oxygen which invisibly surrounds me. Come to think of it, the oxygen is about the only thing we all get for free these days isn’t it? No doubt though, it won’t be long before a government somewhere will find a way of taxing us on it! The thieving little toe rags! I can see it happening one day. I mean, who would have thought a pint of beer would be so flipping expensive these days? If you’d told me back in the 90s I would be paying between £4 to £6 for a pint of beer, I would have thought you needed help.

Not that I drink much these days. Anyhow, you don’t buy beer, you only rent it. One or two pints, or if I am feeling particularly brave and want to play ‘let’s see how long I can hold on before I piss myself’ roulette, I may push the boundaries and have 3. Never a 4th though. I’m not mental!

Then, the inevitable will happen. It would seem much earlier these days, but then again I am a gentleman of a certain age. Pfft! Gentleman? Who the plonker pulling pillock am I a kidding? At best, I am a Dad bod, moob carrying, most certainly should be wearing a training bra, grey salt n pepper styley hair, eyesight of a squinty mole type of a guy. At worst.. all of the aforementioned, whilst being even more of a grumpy old git than usual.

The pressure of said consumed alcoholic liquid will push down on my bladder’s panic button like an overweight rhino addicted to a diet of cream slices. So 3 pints would be my absolute limit before needing to attend the yawning white funnel. A 4th? Nooo! That’s insanity! That’s pride suicide. It would take me a few minutes to realise why my crotch feels all warm and fuzzy! By then of course it would be too late. I would then have to embark on the walk of shame to the toilets whilst parading what looks like a dark and damp satellite image of a continent taken from space emblazoned across my trousers.

And why dear world, is it, that things you expect to happen don’t? Only last week I went to a gig. The man in question I went to see is irrelevant, however, he is of advancing years. Still a superb musician and singer, a blues legend. However, such a gig attracts a certain audience. To be honest, it did look like the local ‘old folks’ home had had a break out. To be honest at times whilst observing the folk around me, I could of sworn some of them were searching for their ‘carers’ One old guy wandered past me, and I use the word wander kindly. It was more of a confused shuffle. In fact at one point during the evening, I did question whether I had lost consciousness and awoken amidst an OAP Zombie apocalypse. All dribble and dentures, with the unnerving odour of urine and biscuits!

My son attended the gig with me. He’s 18. I think he felt as though he’d accidentally stumbled upon God’s waiting room.

I actually felt like a young man again! OK, so I am only 51, almost 52. Believe me, I feel considerably older on many a day. Especially when my legs don’t always want to work properly. When they don’t, I can resemble an oversized infant who’s long overdue a nappy change!

During the gig, my bladder department radioed through to the control room between my lug holes..

“Bladder to control, receiving over?”

“Bladder to control, receiving over?”

“T H I S IS Bladder to control, receiving over?”

“Oops, ‘ang on, Control, receiving”

“Bladder to control, what are you doing you Wuck fit?”

“Control, No need to be rude bladder.. I was.. oh look, flashing lights..”

“Bladder to control, you were zoning out again weren’t you?”

BLADDER - “Control”?

CONTROL - “Possibly”?

BLADDER - “Give me strength!” “Control, we need to get to the disposal area”

CONTROL - “Roger that Bladder, I’ll let legs know”

BLADDER - “Well done Sherlock!”

CONTROL - “Rude” “Control to legs, receiving?”

LEGS - “Yo”!

CONTROL - “Proceed to disposal area, Bladder needs to unload”

LEGS - “Yo!”

CONTROL - “Is that a Yes legs?”

LEGS - “Yo!”

CONTROL - “Why do I even bother?”

I managed to get myself to the lavatories, and lo and behold there’s a queue. Not a particularly big queue, but a queue nonetheless. I then start to wonder after a minute or so of waiting, is this particular establishments lavatory operating “a take a ticket” and wait your turn policy? I can see no ticket dispensing machine however. Whilst waiting, I become aware that it is the same 2 gentlemen standing in front of the urinals. They were standing there when I walked in to the lavatory room. And some minutes later, they are still standing there.

Are they OK? I ponder. Good grief, that’ll just be my luck. The one time I come to a gig where the majority of the clientele appear to have been “dug up” I time visiting the conveniences when two of them simultaneously decide to shuffle off this mortal coil!

“Are they taking the piss?” I think to myself. Hopefully not I conclude, hopefully they are trying to decant it!

All is well however, they both start to move, and shuffle over to the sinks to wash their arthritic ridden bony hands. As a person myself with hands full of Osteoarthritis, I can almost imagine their relief as the warm water hits their bony digits.

It’s now my turn to evacuate my rented beverages. And then, and why is this always the way? Another chap shuffles up to the urinal next to me. Whilst I am engaged in dispensing of Doom Bar’s and Coca Cola’s finest, I become aware, that the chap next to me appears to be having some issues. Either that or he has stage fright! I wonder if I should start to give him some encouragement. Become some sort of bizarre urinal cheer leader! I think the little skirt and Pom Poms might actually suit me!

Give me an I! Give me a C! Give me a A! Give me an N!

Give me a P! Give me an E! Give me an E!

With a grunt and a noise similar to that of an articulated trucks air brakes hissing, he starts to go! I feel like applauding him! Probably not very appropriate though.

That’s what I think I will no doubt turn into though as the years proceed. If I am blessed to have a few more decades on you world. I think I will probably turn into an even more mumbling grumpy old git, who enjoys nothing more than finding the delight in saying the most inappropriate things, at the most inappropriate times.

You know, like at a cremation service. Break into “It’s getting hot in here” by Nelly!

Or at church, into as many conversations with the vicar as possible, insert the phrase “Said the actress to the Bishop!”

Yes, I know world. It’s immature and daft. Do I care? Sometimes too much.

Will I continue to care so much as I mature like a soft smelly blue cheese?

Probably not.

Yours sincerely World.

Dom G.

PS - Don’t think this is the only letter I will be writing to you.