I returned home this evening, having taken Mrs S out on a tour of the Midlands, to be greeted by a message from BT, which was in the form of a text message read out by some chip thingy. It told me, in a voice that sounded like Stephen Hawking being fellated, that the fault on my telephone was fixed, and to please contact BT if there was still a problem. I was tempted to reply that my telephone was still faulty, because incoming messages now sounded like Stephen Hawking being fellated. But I didn’t. (At least I haven’t up to this point). I fear that this is one of many symptoms of my growing old, and that I am losing the urge to practise immaturity at every opportunity. This lost chance is not the first time that I have failed to be silly just for the sake of it, and this is vaguely worrying. Whatever age I reach on this lovely little planet of ours, I have no plans to make any staggering pronouncements as my last words, but I do hope that there is somebody there to say “What will it take to make you grow up?” as Mr Reaper twiddles his scythe (pause for sniggering at what may be taken to be a euphemism by those of an adolescent disposition).
I should make it clear, lest I am accused of some ism or other, that I have no objection in any form to Mr Hawking or anyone else being fellated. I would just rather not be party to it, through any of my senses. In return, I promise not to bore you with my anecdotes in that particular arena, even though having Penelope Cruz under my desk is getting a little tedious, and I may have to make some public pronouncement soon to curtail her activities.