Forgive me if you have heard this story before, but it is a post modern classic and as such needs airing as much as is humanly possible.

It was the summer of 1999 - which could almost be a Bryan Adams song when on a cool summer’s evening I heard the haunting sound of a young girl in distress.  My sister had been into the bathroom and at roughly seventeen times the speed she went into the bathroom, she recoiled back with a sound that were this a Harry Potter novel, would be described as the scream of a banshee; but it’s not, so I will describe it as a quite loud scream.

At once I strode braveley to the scene of the incident.  Mostly because inbetween the screams and the hyper-ventilation there were the words, “David, there’s a moth, get it out!”.  So like a prince upon his steed I stepped into the breach and faced the creature.  It was quite a big moth, all told, but its time had come.  It was to meet its match in me, a princely thirteen year old aboard his imaginary steed, and a princely thirteen year old with a plan.

I made quickly for the cup we had so often used to wash our mouths out after brushing our teeth with and filled it.  The plan was simple; I would throw water at the moth, sticking it to the wall (thus, preventing it from moving and escalating the incident further) and then I would simply pick up the moth in a piece of tissue and flush it down the toilet like many a dead goldfish before it.  Genius.

Correction; not genius.  Actually, really bloody stupid.  As I enacted the first step of the plan - the throwing water bit - it became clear that the moth knew what I was up to.  This was no common moth, it was a moth of intelligence and speed of thought!  As the water left the cup the moth speedily flew from its post, the same post it had been sat at for the last two minutes, and began to circle me.  I was at once vulnerable, I had not prepared for an aerial attack and I was unnerved.  Maybe coming in aboard an imaginary steed was foolish, perhaps a literal bug zapper would have been appropriate - like the one on the Tesco Deli Counter - that would have done the trick far better than my mind horse.  It certainly would have helped solve what happened next.

As the moth circled I caught the glint in its eyes.  It was hatching a plan of its own, and besides flailing wildly with my abnormally stringy limbs I was powerless to stop it.  Powerless to stop it as the moth flew straight in my ear.  In days to come my father would say that it obviously saw the light on the other side.  My father is a git for saying this.  My head is full of brains, but brains that at that very moment were being knawed by a hungry, giant, evil moth!  I had to do something.  And like most thirteen year olds, I did what we all would at times of indignation and hurt; I told my mum.  Now if you’ve ever had to tell your mum that there is a moth stuck in your ear then you will know that it is a tricky thing to do.

“Don’t be stupid, go to bed.”  was the initial response.  This was not helping.

After some minutes explaining at a steadily increasing volume, I had my mother’s understanding.

“I’ll get a torch and some tweezers.”  She said, in her calmest voice.

“No you won’t, we’re going to casualty.”  said my father with less calm in his voice, readying the keys for the attentively waiting Suzuki Vitara.

“I didn’t know it’d do 98.”  My father said as we walked past the Friday night drunks and through the front door of Casualty.  “Right, let’s get this sorted.”  He opined, more to himself.

The Doctor was a Greek man, with a thick accent, and when there’s a live moth in your ear, beating its wings on your ear drum that can lead to a combination of factors where comprehension is not at its peak.  He tried tweezers, he tried flushing it out, he tried tweezing whilst flushing it out.  He was only succeeding in angering the moth.

It was at the point when the doctor proudly pulled out one sixteenth of a wing that the staff nurse pushed him aside with the ethereal words, “Let me have a go!”.  Within seconds the moth was fluttering in a pair of tweezers, being paraded around Casualty with the nurse exclaiming, “Look what I pulled out of that boy’s ear!”

She walked back in the room and asked what I would like to do with it.  I asked her to put it on the floor.  With a swift stamp I finally showed that moth who was boss.  The prince on his steed had done it.  My sister was ok to use the bathroom once more.

When your partner wants to watch Top Gun with you.  Unless otherwise stated, I always want to watch Top Gun.

I am sitting in my living room and a thought pops up in my head.  I don’t think I’d like to be Barack Obama.  It’s not that he isn’t inspirational enough, clever enough or that he isn’t enough of a pioneer of our times… it is for one simple reason.

At some point during every conversation Mr Obama has with someone (I imagine, I’ve not been present at all of them) he would have to answer the same question:

“What made you want to become the first black American President?”

And I have never wanted to be the first black American President.  I’d feel like a fraud answering a question that gave the implication that I did.  I also don’t think I’d like to be John McCain, because he’s over 70 and at 24 that’d mean wishing away a fair few years of my life.

Maybe I’ll stay away from American politics entirely.

Did the Shep gain the second ‘e’?

Let’s face it, noone’s heard of a Sheepherd…

I hadn’t really thought about it to be honest.  I had my weight predominately on one leg, one arm on the hip and the other casually turning chicken drumsticks on the bbq (charcoal, naturally, I’m no cheat.)

“People will start asking questions, you look like a Julian Clary impersonator in the middle of singing ‘I’m a little teapot.’”

I’m sure that a Julian Clary impersonator wouldn’t be operating a bbq, I thought with mild scorn as a non-vocalised monologue formulated in my head.  Just because you’re not ready for my maverick meterosexual stance!  Maybe I’ll start being even more outlandish with my standing.  Tomorrow I may go for both hands on hips… and no bbq!  Ha!  Take that society!  I shun your rules and expectations and stand as a man who likes to put his hands on his hips!  In years to come people will follow my lead, they will look at me in the street and nod in appreciation for making it ok for hand and hip to meet in public.  I will be a pioneer.

“I say people will start asking questions, they already have.  That guy was asking for your number.”  My friend says in hushed tones.

Perhaps the world isn’t ready for my outrageous posturing?  I quickly fold my arms and look for a can of lager to hold… Blue WKD, that’ll do.  Who looks like Julian Clary now?

“Yes”  I said, not expecting the kids to squeal and run quite as quickly and/or loudly.  The fact that he was walking on a lead, at a virtually Cruftsesque heel was beside the point, according to three 6 year olds he was a vicious creature who may tear off their limbs and deposit their half eaten carcasses in a hole so he can finish them off later.  He is only a Scottie - it’d be a bit much to expect him to have an appetite big enough to finish them in one go.

I can only imagine the story they relayed to their parents when they got in from their adventure.  Hopefully their parents aren’t as gullible as they were - although it could be something in the family geneaology - or I’ll be expecting to see the rozzers with a warning about the behaviour of my uncouth anti-social dog.

What can I say?  When presented with the opportunity to give some small children good material for playground banter I grab the chance with both hands.  So the next day when a young girl says,”Is he tame?”

I reply, “No.”

Tears well up in her eyes and a dark patch on her trousers.  She may just keep that story to herself.