Tag Archives: humor

5.3 The Great Escape, Part 1.

26 Tuesday Jan 2010

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Mars Pitch – Digital Colour from Warrigal

Well, after a night on Earth and a big piss up at the Pig’s Arms with the gang, I’ve really hung one on. My head hurts and feels like I’ve got a meat cleaver wedged in my brain. Anyway back on the spaceship we are headed for Zog, no not where Zig and Zag come from or anything to do with maths. Zog is a planet a long way from Earth and those ICCB cronies however Zogarins love cricket and Gordon wants me to review the progress of cricket on Zog. Zog orbits a star we call Meissa, “The Shining One” and is found in Orion. It’s quite a few kilometres away but in light years around 640 or thereabouts. The problem on Zog is that everyone is too friendly and Gordon thinks that they need a bit of Australian mongrel in them so he is sending me, the Good Father, to teach them to sledge.

As we are manoeuvring out of the solar system Henry, the navcom, calls us to the control room to view a picture taken by the ships sensors of Mars. You can see it above, so Belinda and I don our space suits and board the S.S. Nimmow with Jilligan and the Kipper to go and take a look. Now one thing that’s hard to get used to is talking to the crew from a space suit especially when they don’t wear one as they don’t breathe, man, it’s spooky.

We go up the stairs in the middle of the arena and enter the change rooms. Amazing, the walls are covered with posters from the sponsors. “The One Wipe Toilet Paper Company, proud sponsor of the Syrtis Major Cricket Club, remember you only need one wipe with One Wipe”, fantastic, can’t wait to tell the gang back at the Pig’s Arms about this one.  The next poster “Mao the chair man, for all your chair needs, call Mao the chair man on 117059322, sponsor of the Arabia Terra Wanderers”. I wonder, nah, couldn’t be.

In the next area is the Umpires Room and has a saying written on the door “If in doubt, it’s not out”. Obviously they couldn’t get leg before right either. On one of the walls is a notice board that has a memo pinned on it. It says “Calling all umpires. Now is the time to join our new society to protect your rights and income. Join the Cricket Umpires New Technologic Society” and then in brackets the acronym which I won’t post here as it makes a very rude word on Earth and there may be some kiddies reading.

We head on through the museum with pictures of little green men holding bats and wearing pads. So it was true, Mars did have little green men. One of the pictures has been attacked by a graffiti artist. Someone called “Phoenix” has drawn a circle out of the mouth of one of the players and written “Take me to your leader”. Shit, they have even spoilt the place way out here.

The intercom goes off. “Sandy, er, I mean Lord Climate D’Change. You better come back. The ICCB are beaming in a hologram”. We return to the ship and go to the Cruel Room. Belinda and I take up our seats. “Greeting Earthlings” the creature says, “My name is ToeKnee Egg, Vice President of the ICCB. We have you completely surrounded, 2 slips, a leg slip, silly mid on and short cover. I have bet my colleague Bul 5000 G.U.’s that you’ll try and make a run for it down to deep fine leg. Now that’s 5 grand I don’t mind losing to my pigeon fancying friend however if you what to surrender do so in the next hour. It would be appreciated as I have dinner to go to with my good friend Perry Kacker.”

5.2 The Umpire Raises the Ginger Part 2

14 Thursday Jan 2010

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OK, I know it’s a typo in the heading but it worked for me…

Australian coach receiving the O’Way Game advantage

I’m in Hobart an about to talk to the Aussie cricket team, you know, rev ‘em up, for the next game. The Bish has pulled some strings so I can get into the change rooms. I’ve been given some notes as to what to say as I haven’t got a clue about motivation or how to motivate others. Unfortunately as I walk in I trip and drop all the notes and when I pick them up they seem a bit messed up. In the change room I see their faces but only recognize one, the vitamin salesman, Dicky something. Always on TV telling me that the vitamins are clinically proven but then fails to say what they are clinically proven for. What he also leaves out is that a ham salad sandwich will supply you with about the same level of ingredients found in those expensive little pills.

Anyway I start “Who’s Thorn?” I ask. Dicky speaks up “There’s no thorn in our side Father” he replies diligently. “Well is says here Thorn needs to lift his game.” Just then an official approaches and reads my notes. He speaks softly so the others can’t hear “Er, um, Father, the letters must have scrambled when you dropped your notes, it’s North”. “Well” I continue “North your forms gone south so we need you to show us what you have got. The team and all the fans are behind you, we know you can do it.” The room erupts with a roar, wow, these guys are really into it.

“Now kick long to someone in a better position than you and tackle hard” I boast informatively. “But Father this is a cricket team we don’t kick or tackle” states Dicky. “Oh, well, get behind the service line and hit deep, only rush the net when you have set your opponent up” I say. “But Father that’s tennis. We’re cricketers” Dicky bemoans. “Oh, okay then hit the ball long, hit the ball high, hit the ball over the fence unless it’s still six and out” to which the team responds with a almighty cry “And finally” I add “Sledge the crap out of them” to which the team raises me up on there collective shoulders singing “Australians all let us rejoice…….”

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5.2 The Umpire Raises the Finger

11 Monday Jan 2010

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The Dresden Ashes Test of February 1945 has gone down in cricketing history as one of the most hard fought battles in the game. Whatever the Nazi First XI was playing, it just wasn’t cricket. The Allied First XI, having comprehensively lost the first innings, came back to claim a glorious victory in Dresden which set the tone for the rest of that winning season. As you can see the Allies really knew about ashes.

A little bit of mischief by Warrigal; a lot of mischief by the Allied bomber command.

We are heading back to Earth as Gordon has phoned and wants me to give a motivational talk to the Aussie cricket team before the next test. Gordon tells me that they are calling the last win “The MacKillop Test” as a miracle was performed at the SCG so Mother Mary must have done something to get them across the line. Before we leave the Cricketmanistanis leave for Althus 5 to help populate the planet, eleven wives each, but someone’s gotta do it, poor bastards.

On the way back we will be calling in on a planet, well a habitable moon, called Beephard. The Beephardians are famous for there inventions such as the Galactic Telecommunications System which over came all of the obstacles and delays in communicating with spaceships.  I don’t fully understand the science but apparently there are points in space where relay stations are placed and are held in position by opposing gravitational forces. These relays use dark matter somehow so that every message sent is instantly relayed around the galaxy to the intended recipient. Complex fiction at its best. [Authors note: Tongue firmly planted]

The Beephardians love cricket but as there world is so small they only have one main oval. The Beephardians got there name because they go so hard at everything and when they are caught in traffic jams they beep their horns incorrectly thinking that this will somehow magically resolve the obstacle so they can get on with it.

The weather in the bio is perfect at the moment. Belinda and I have our breakfast outside in the courtyard. I see Belinda is reading yet another book. “What are you reading my sweet?” I ask. “It’s a detective story called Foodge about a copper who doesn’t know he’s dead and a private detective who has a penchant for hats and blondes” replies Belinda. Hmmm, sounds different. “Who’s the author?” I push. “I think it’s a guy called E M Jay” Belinda informs. “Never heard of him, anyway I’m off to talk to Henry” I announce. Henry is our navcom and I’m eager to get home and away from any of those T shaped IUD’s that are conceivably floating around trying to prevent me from achieving something.

“Sandy” Henry says sheepishly “Don’t you think that now you are a rebel leader you need some form of name that is fierce and causes fear in the hearts of all comers? I mean Sandy is a bit of a soft on sort of name” Henry bequests. “What like Axelrod the Marauder or something? “ I proffer. “Well sort of” says Henry “but I had something more confrontational in mind like Lord Climate D’Change. It combines science with authority and provokes robust community debate. If unleashed it could give you the drum. What do you think Sandy?”. “Do I get to wear a hat, medals and braids?” I joke. “If you like” says Henry.

We approach Beephard and Belinda and I get ready to teleport to the surface. Henry calls on the intercom “Sandy, something’s wrong, our usual contact is not answering. Atmosphere is normal and grav is 0.9. I smell trouble.” “Henry, you’re a computer for zark sake how can you smell anything?” I assert “Anything is possible is space Sandy er um Lord Climate” says Henry. “Oh for zark sake my name’s Sandy” I half volley.

Belinda and I beam to the surface. We are confronted with devastation. A small group of people are milling around the square that has a cricket pitch on it. The buildings are in ruins and looks like they have been recently bombed. The scoreboard is showing none for 105 so a game must have been going on prior to the bombing. We approach an old man who appears to be mortally wounded. “Old man, old man, what in blazes happened?” “The ICCB. Hadn’t paid our fees for this game, bombed the crap out of us but look who cares are you any good at bowling? We need some wickets.”

4.4 Epilogue – The End of the First Innings

06 Wednesday Jan 2010

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When the ICCB colonised Waterworld the indigenous inhabitants were rounded up and forced to work in floating ball manufacturies. Life was brutal and often short and revolution was continually being fomented.

Digital Ballistics by Warrigal

This is a Press Release put out by the Intergalactic Cricket Control Board (ICCB) from the president Sunil Galvatron.

“It is with much regret that I inform you that the ICCB Death Ball was attacked and destroyed at 1000 hours Central Galactic Time (CGT) by rebel forces led by a renegade priest who calls himself Father O’Way.

It further saddens me to inform you that in the fighting the Death Ball returned fire at the rebels and accidentally struck the Planet Joon, which just happened to floating by, destroying it and killing all 200 million residents. The ICCB regrets incidents like this and boy, we hate it when that happens.

The Death Ball and all those that sailed on her were killed in the exchange totalling 500,000 troops and our Commander in Chief, Lord Deaf Vision. Consequently we are advertising in Saturdays press for a new Commander in Chief so any of you evil Lord’s our there who are interested in the job, please submit your CV with two referees and anyone who can pass the police clearance need not apply.

As Death Balls are very expensive all fees have been increased to meet the cost of a new one. So juniors will have to pay 50 Galactic Units (GU’s) more per game and Under 16’s up to first grade will pay an extra 100 GU’s. Now don’t forget report to the coach on the dot at 1000 hours, wear plenty of blockout and bring extra water. The Canteen ladies as usual will provide the oranges.

To the rebels the Cricket Wars have begun and I have dispatched several Intergalactic Universal Destroyers (IUD’s) to exterminate, exterminate, oops sorry, resolve the conflict with you by communication and negotiation and if necessary extreme violence”

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Michael has taken Helvi to the repair shop so she can get a new arm put on after the other one was blown off in the fighting on the death ball. It’s a beautiful sunny day in the bio and I haven’t let Belinda out of my sight since returning. Without her I would be devastated and anyway Hung would have to invent a new girlfriend for me.

George has made a picnic hamper for us of stuffed vine leaves, olives, pita bread and freshly baked spanokopitas plus baklava for desert. George has also packed us a bottle of cold Verdelho. George has style I must admit.

Belinda and I head down to the river. Dave the guitar droid is sitting on the upper balcony of the Bats Droppings and is singing Van Morrisons Have I told you lately that I love you. It doesn’t get any better than this I thought to myself but there is something I have to thrash out with Belinda.

We pop the basket on the bench and I pour us some wine. “Belinda” I start “There is something I need to know.” She turns and looks intently in my direction with that beautiful radiant smile. “What is it Sandy?” she prompts.  I gulp nervously “Well, you know how I have been mirroring a certain story and in that certain story you turn out to be my sister and that you know we have been doing the wild thing for months now, please tell me you not my sister?”

Belinda starts laughing and is now to the point where it has become uncontrollable. Tears are running down her cheeks into her stunning cleavage and her ample bosom. “Oh Sandy, now firstly you have stopped mirroring that story and secondly no I’m not your sister. Remember I’m Glenda’s little sister and Hung introduced me into the story so he could do that gag about the soggy sombrero.”

Thank Gordon for that. I mean seeing that Lord Vision turned out to be Dad one just never knows. “Belinda, I love you, you know that don’t you?” I proffer nervously, I mean I’m a parish priest for zark sake, what do I know about love and women. “And I love you Sandy” Belinda replies and with that we eat our delightful meal taking in the river scene as the music meanders through the air and the sun warms our faces. Yes, something special has happened. Life will never be the same again. Just as that thought passed through my brain George comes racing across the green “Sandy, Miss Belinda, you need to read this” George proclaims “What is it George” I ask knowing I won’t like the answer “It’s a press release from the ICCB….

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Father Finds GO’D and Gets O’Way from Himself

16 Wednesday Sep 2009

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A Dire Rectory ?

A Dire Rectory ?

Acronyms, God how I hate acronyms. Usually stupid and generally meaningless along with mnemonics they stick in your head to remind you just how stupid you really are. Remember as kids in the parish school the all time classic, ARITHMETIC,   A Red Indian Thought He Might Eat Tobacco In Church. What twaddle. Racist diatribe if ever there was one. I mean the only red Indians I knew were constantly having the shit shot out of them in country and western movies. Eat in church was a given no no and who in their right mind would want to eat tobacco for God sake. My dad used to smoke Cabin Cut, Ready Rolled, can I imagine dad hoeing into his tobacco after tea in the lounge, no way.

Anyway the one acronym that makes me tingle with pleasure is POTTY. The Potty Awards, the Priest Of The Tropical Year Awards and yes, I’m in the pipeline to win this year. See I’ve been invited to the Rectory to have dinner with the Bish and an important guest this Wednesday. Not next Wednesday or last Wednesday but the Wednesday before the Saturday night of the awards. Obviously the Bish wants to disclose that I’m this year’s winner so I can have my acceptance speech ready to rock. Oh yes, all 32 pages, ready to roll thanks to the kind Voice who helped me pen an appropriate dialogue.

I enter the Grand Dining Room at the Rectory. It’s dimly lit for the mood and a table is set for three with all of the plates and correct wine glasses. I can see this guest must be someone really special. Belinda informed me the night before that the Bish had asked her to prepare a special feast with an Indian theme, yummy, my favourite. Ah the beautiful Belinda, as the Head Caterer for the Rectory she does a brilliant job, in fact she does a brilliant head [Cut it, stop, Helvi here, now Sandy, best behaviour please, I’ve been waiting for this story, don’t spoil it, otherwise I’ll be round to stick a rollmop where the sun don’t shine] head nod, yes the nod of her head makes me shiver with anticipation.

The Bish approaches with someone by his side, a pale looking man in a flat cap “Sandy, I’d like you to meet Gordon, Gordon O’Donnell”, oh shit, it’s him, the man in the dream about his Stat-o-matic 4000 that he lent to that interminable bore Grigor Ian Chant “Yes we’ve met Bishop” I reply nervously, I mean it’s not every day you get to meet the creator of the universe. “Pleased to meet you Sandy, the Bish has told me lots about you” Gordon declares. Gee, I hope the Bish didn’t tell him about the affair with the housekeeper and my secret liaisons with Belinda. “Here’s the Stat-o-matic 4000 Your Exalted Being” I gush stupidly as I press the little gizmo in Gordon’s direction, “Please call me Gordon or Gordy, no need for formalities here” instructs Gordon as he pockets the device.

Belinda with melons

Belinda with melons

Belinda enters the room and as usual her appearance is enough to lighten any room and she directs us to the table. Food is served, Fish Pakoras and Vegetable Samosas to start plus some delightful Chardonnay from the Clare Valley. Mains are Rogan Josh, Chicken Tandoori, Palau Rice and sambals of banana in yoghurt, tomatoes with mint and hot mango chutney. All washed down with a Jim Barry Shiraz. Dessert follows as lemon ice cream and a Botrytis Riesling. I am savouring ever mouthful while the Bish and Gordon debate cricket and without the Stat-o-matic I can’t add anything much except “Oh, yes, Steve Woe was my favourite”. This stops the Bish and Gordon who after a pause burst out laughing “It’s Steve Waugh as in War” Oops. Anyway dinner finishes and the Bish goes off into another room to smoke that stinky stuff and Gordon ushers me into the study for a French Brandy that’s about 200 years old he just happened to find in his cellar and a cigar. How civilised. “Now Sandy, I’m sure you have some questions for me but first how do you feel about space travel?” Gordon asks. “Space travel? What about the Potty Awards?” I inquire lubricated by the fine wine. Gordon smiles “Don’t worry about them, that prick Basil Sauce will win this year. There are bigger plans afoot for you….”

Father O’Way goes to the Oval

26 Wednesday Aug 2009

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Grigor Ian Chant (2)

Grigor Ian Chan

Clouds are swirling through the sky as the wind blows cold from the north. Out of a large Cumulus humilis a man appears wearing a flat cap. He talks with a strong English accent “Sandy, Gordon here, I need you to do me a favour, know wot I mean, can you get my Stat-o-matic 4000 from my old mate Grigor?, I lent it to him last century and he hasn’t returned it, anyway I’m off now for a few pints of lager, know wot I mean, bye”.

I wake to smell of coffee that the beautiful Belinda has prepared for me. Only last evening I told Belinda that I was off to the cricket for the last days play. Belinda replied “Oh Sandy, can I come, I really wanna come, big time, you know, all the way, I love cricket” Well I suppose that makes one of us “Yes, of course you can come my little sweet pea” I utter. Belinda shrieks with delight “I’m coming, I’m coming, oohh, yes, yes, I’m coming, hmmm, ohh, yes, I’m goin’ down, yes, yes, the Big O [Okay stop right there, cut, Astyages here, Sandy you know that the analytical paranormalisation that juxtaposes the desensitisation of the syntax inferring Belinda is about to sexually climax over a cricket game is just scientifically flawed] [Jesus Christ give a guy a break, everyone’s a critic].

We have breakfast in the ground floor café when out of the corner of my eye I see a familiar face. It’s Grigor, Grigor Ian Chant. As he approaches I notice something in his hand “Is that a pen Chant?” I ask. “Morning Sandy, very desirable but no it’s a Stat-o-matic 4000 for Gordon. See you pop it in your top pocket and it transmits cricket statistics straight into your brain. So you can turn to the person next to you and rattle off stats in a most impressive manner. Can you pass it to the Bish so he can get it to Gordon?” I suddenly remember my dream. So that’s God, Gordon O’Donnell, the astrophysicist the Bish told me about. “Certainly old chap” I reply, “Off to the cricket you know, last days play, what, rather!” With this news Grigor erupts into laughter. Now I didn’t think my English accent was that bad. “Cricket Sandy, you? The man who hates cricket with a vengeance” Grigor bleats, Yes old boy, that is I “Er, um, Sandy old bean, I hate to tell you” Grigor boasts “but the crickets finished” “Finished” I gasp, “Finished, but cricket goes for 5 long boring days where hardly anything happens”.

I see trouble brewing, the Bish wanted me to streak or start a riot to slow the game down, oh shit, I see really big trouble brewing. The Bish will have to cough up 50 bucks to Basil Sauce and the Bish hates losing. Grigor can’t help himself now, talking advantage of my ignorance and the fact that his side won he pushed on “Well that’s your view old chap, but see we beat you inside the five days because we are a vastly superior team. You Antipodeans just don’t get it do you, we are the rulers of the game, we are bigger that big, we are blah blah blah, rant rant rant, rave rave rave…..”. I can’t stand this verbal debasement of our players and something makes me place the Stat-o-matic 4000 in my top pocket. It instantly tells me that England are rated 5th in world rankings, one behind Australia and that not one of their batters are ranked in the top ten, the best the bowlers could do was 9 and 10. The Stat-o-matic seems to tune to the needs of the person wearing the device, gee, I could even sound like I know what I’m talking about, I wonder if Gordon has one for horse racing. “Okay Grigor, now listen

Boycott Gets Hung Up over O’Way

09 Sunday Aug 2009

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O'Way tells it like it is - probably

O’Way tells it like it is – probably

So it’s back to England I go, more boring cricket, so the Bish has 50 bucks riding on it just so he can do his noodle over Basil Sauce. I hop a plane to Heathrow and sit next to this sprauncy looking bloke it a jacket and tie. “Hey mate, names O’Way, Sandy O’Way who won the cricket?” “Well old chap, names Boycott, mean anything to you? Seeing you’re a simple man of the cloth it was a no result” Boycott, isn’t that what you do when you won’t buy something at the supermarket like cage eggs, “Meaningless to me Pom, boring game played by bores”

The flight was long and strangely quiet. Me mate Boycott kept looking the other way and the in-flight movie was Flight of the Living Dead, very comforting. This gave me a chance to reflect on a conversation I had with the Bish that still disturbs me. One night after dinner the Bish offers me a glass of port in the sitting room. He gets out his pipe and stuffs some stuff in it, smelt like a skunk, takes a couple of deep puffs and holds it in. “Ahhh” he exclaims as he exhales “That’s better”. He proffers the pipe in my direction “No thanks your Worship, don’t smoke”. Anyway the Bish sits down and starts talking “You know Sandy, I’ll let you in on a little secret, there’s no such creature as God” Oh for fuck sake, a Bishop who doesn’t believe in God. “No God your Worship?” “That’s right, God is an astronaut, named Gordon, Gordon O’Donnell. He’s an astrophysicist that lives in another dimension. He’s studying astrophysics at uni and he and some class mates built this large box and made it a vacuum. The box is black on the inside and the class injected a large tube of static energy in the middle, mainly hydrogen and then fired an electric impulse at the tube. A big bang happened and thus the universe as we know it was created. Gordon and his classmates have been studying it ever since.” Christ almighty, this bloke’s a raving lunatic. “Gordon comes to Earth for the beer, he said he likes the spit roast on Joon and the women on Altus 5, these are other planets in his sector that he is doing his thesis on” Beer, roast and women, starting to sound like my kinda guy. “Gordon says just play cricket and you will be accepted into the Kingdom of Heaven” Pigs Arms! Bloody cricket, takes 5 days and still no one wins.

I meet the Australian captain, Ricky Punting, at the hotel where all the players are staying. “So Ricky, the Bish wants to know what’s up?” “Nothing Father” he replies “just need a bit of fine tuning” “Hey Ricky” I ask “Why do they call you Punter?” “Bet a journo told you that one. Look Father, there’s this bookie called John” [Stop, cut, Sandy here, Hung, Hung, HUNG! I don’t like the direction this story is taking [HOO here, Sorry Sandy, dozed off, look mate it’s like this, I’m the writer and you’re the character, so bad luck, anyway it’s a tough gig being a priest] Yeah, right thanks Hung, Ricky’s about to tell me he’s as bent as a two bob watch and all you can say is it’s tough gig being a priest, you try it mate]

“So Ricky, this bookie called John?” I prompt, “Sorry Father I have no idea what you are talking about but just remember, cricket’s a funny game” Funny alright, played in bloody heaven apparently.

The Wet Look Suits Father O’Way

05 Wednesday Aug 2009

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Father O'Way checks out one of the ultra slippery suits

Father O’Way checks out one of the ultra slippery suits

Yeah, alright, so I managed to weasel my way out of the Café Boy DeBoy in Paris full of lycra clad, er, um, men and jump a cab to the airport when guess who rings, yep, the Bish. “Sandy, get to Rome and find out what happened to our swimmers” “But Bish I wanna come home and swimming makes cycling look interesting” “Just do it. Get back to me fast and then head to bloody Eggbaskekton to find out what Ricky is doing with our boys, haven’t won a test yet and I have $50 riding on it with your old mate Pastor Sauce.” Jesus Christ, a Trotters or two would go down well at the moment.

Flying to Rome I’m seated next to some bloke called the Dalai Lama, Geez, slumming it or what. I tell him I’m off to Rome and while there I’ll drop in and see my old mate, John Paul at the Vat. This joker tells me John Paul died and that I should keep abreast of current events. A breast, breasts, yeah I like a good pair, [Stop it, cut, HOO here, Sandy, now enough of that or I’ll have to give you a spanking, a really good spanking, [[Stop it, cut, Emmjay here, just keep Sandy on track HOO, I want to know about the swimmers] Bloody hell, okay then Emm]

I head to Foro Italico for an interview with Liberty Trickerty, the famous Aussie swimmer. “Tell me Lib, what went wrong?” “Well Father” she says “ All the other teams had superior swim wear, you know the suits and my suit just wasn’t good enough”, hmmm I think, so its what suits is it “ See Father my contract with my current sponsor runs out next month and I have a new sponsor on the horizon” “Now who might that be?” I enquire, “Well Father it’s Honda”. Taken by surprise I choke on my short black, Lib smacks me on the back, I’m aghast, “Honda” I finally say “But they make cars and engines”, “Exactly Father, very fast engines” gloats Lib “I’ve signed up for the BC100, I’m gunna win big, make lots of money”. Well stone the crows, I’m short for words, my mind is racing “The BC100?”, “Yes Father the Body Cavity 100cc Honda two stroke, fuel injected, electronic ignition, marine engine, good to 100 metres below, beautiful, hey Father. The only thing is, you know in swimming when you do the roll at the end of each lap it lets out this big noise, like a giant fart but I have a medical certificate from my GP, Dr Julius Strangepork stating I have uncontrollable flatulence”

“But Libby, dear, where do you actually put it?” “Oh Father, you’re a man of the world, can’t you think of any body cavities?” she grins knowingly [Stop, cut, HOO here, Sandy, enough, I’ll get into trouble with Emmjay] “Well I can imagine my dear” I mutter, salivating at the very thought, “Don’t worry Father, I’ll hide it under my suit and I steer it with my butt cheeks” [Stop, cut, HOO here, Sandy don’t even go there[[ Emm here, I’m with HOO]] “Bless you my child, I’ll say a special prayer for you to Gordon”