Birvidik

This body's knackered. I want a new one.


If wisdom lies in the ability to learn from the mistakes of others, then stupidity must surely lie in the inability to learn from your own.

A case in point:

Those readers not yet descended into the depths of dementia may remember The Unpleasantness in Marmaris some three years ago, when my unbounded enthusiasm for the marina gym led to the delights of a bilateral inguinal hernia.

Well Lefkas marina has a gym too.

Don't jump to conclusions - not even I am stupid enough to overdo the abs machine and prompt a repeat of the Gut-Popping Fiasco of Marmaris. What I did do, though, was give the free weights just a teensy bit too much welly in my puppy-like enthusiasm for getting myself into shape. As a result I now have a nasty little case of epicondylitis, AKA tennis elbow or golfer's elbow.

This is ironic, really, as I am terminally indifferent to the former of the two sports and I loathe the latter with a passion. I suspect that these attitudes are driven primarily by my complete incompetence at any ball game requiring even the slightest degree of hand-eye co-ordination. In truth I could probably be whitewashed at either sport by Abu Hamza. A video of the match would probably go viral though.

By Christ but it's painful. It has also severely curtailed my weight training activities and therefore put the kibosh on my futile attempts to stave off the effects of advancing years and return my stamina and physique to the lean, fit and muscular perfection of their former glory. On the bright side, though, it has also put the block on my playing the saxophone, much to the relief of the yotties resident on pontoons C to G inclusive.

It's an ill wind etc.

All of this stems from the seasonal nature of the yottie lifestyle and from the fact that in the winter we have too much time on our hands. This leads us into all sorts of undesirable activities. Desperation leads us to devour papers and magazines left by other yotties despite the fact that under normal circumstances we would only pick up such publications with a sterilised litter picker whilst wearing surgical masks and with brown paper bags over our heads.

My name is Bob and I am a readaholic. It started off innocently enough, leafing through the occasional Torygraph and maybe having a go at the crossword. Then I started flipping through back copies of The Economist. To counteract the effects of these I started chasing the dragon with Woman and Home. When that stopped working I dabbled in Murdoch-related substances and developed really quite disturbing, Chipping Norton based, fantasies involving Rebekah Brookes, Jeremy Clarkson and the reintroduction of capital punishment.

I haven't hit the really hard stuff, not yet at least, but it's only a matter of time before I start mainlining the Daily Mail, Hello magazine and the UKIP manifesto. From then on it will be a steady decline to the point where I start drinking G&T, buying shares in Prince Andrew, braying in saloon bars and telling everyone within earshot that climate change is a lefty conspiracy of political correctness gone mad and that if it turns out that it does actually exist then it's God's wrathful and righteous retribution for allowing shirtlifters to claim benefits by marrying their fathers.

I need help. Now.

Post Script.

You will be pleased to know that, after extensive therapy, I have kicked the habit and returned to a state of equanimity and balance. The turning point came when I read an interview with Shirley Maclean in Woman and Home. It was such a stomach-churning shit-bucket of egotistical, cynically manipulative, blathering new-age tosh that it shocked me back into reality.

It mostly consisted of repeated assurances of how wonderful she was, how she had worked with so many wonderful stars (all of whom loved her and fancied her, of course) and how she understood so many wonderful esoteric secrets of the universe that were beyond the understanding of most mere mortals. Did you realise that the wonderful Peter Sellars had a 'leaky aura'. This was not, as I first assumed, a rather unpleasant medical condition. Oh no. It turns out that "All the people he may have been in another life seeped into who he was this time around".

So that's how he did all that acting stuff. I dread to think what Johnny Depp's leaking.

On the plus side, you will see from the photograph that we participate fully in the social activities of the yottie community and that I have finally come to terms with my sexuality and now freely admit that I am a lesbian trapped in a man's body.

Eddie Izzard, eat your heart out.


PPS The next instalment of 'Three go a bit bonkers in a campervan' follows soon.