Nothing lasts forever. Some things appear to, such as the pantomime staged by your local Amateur Dramatic Society where people of sound mind endure a few agonising hours on the cusp of storming the stage with a Samurai sword to bring the show to a premature end.

However, everything eventually will turn to dust. A few things have disappeared from my own life in recent years, including a tolerance for socks without elastic.

Today, I pull my socks up so high they give me a scrotal rash.

My female admirers have also departed. I would proudly announce to my Aunty that the boil on my elbow had burst twelve months ago to the day on the 15 th October Now I stand there every morning staring at the chest of drawers trying to remember which one contains my y-fronts.

Chimpanzees in Dungarees — The Collection is an assortment of items either long gone or on the slippery slope to oblivion.

The timeline of life used to follow an established sequence: Born — Piss yourself — Dribble porridge down your front — Go to school — Fail your exams — Start a job — Find a girlfriend — Get married — Move into a house — Have children — Lose interest in everything — Retire from work — Dribble porridge down your front — Piss yourself — Die.

Today, the beginning and the end are largely unchanged, though I have bucked the trend somewhat, being in full time work yet at the second wave of porridge dribbling.

However, the middle is all over the place and tends to be the exact opposite of what used to be. It is now: Have children — Move into a house — Get married — Find a girlfriend.

The little nipper enters the world, and this sparks them into finding a suitable place to live, now that the converted cupboard in the city centre apartment block is considered inappropriate for bringing up a family.

However, a few weeks after the occasion, the groom finds himself a new girlfriend called Chuenchai and buggers off. Babies, for example, only arrived after the wedding.

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In another reflection of our more tolerant and compassionate society, nobody other than your year old Aunt Agatha refers to the child of unmarried parents as a bastard.

Therefore, you should not expect an invitation to a future wedding to read something like this:. He earned every badge and award available, his shirt adorned like a World War I veteran, and many a scoutmaster admired his woggle.

He even dressed like a scout outside of school, the trademark colours of his wardrobe being shit brown and snot green. If I had been older, the evening might have given me three of the most precious hours of my life, feeding a procession of anecdotal memories, but at the age of thirteen, it was a harrowing experience.

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Men dressed as women, boys dressed as girls, all singing flatter than the salt plains of Bolivia, it was the longest evening of my young life from which I emerged and remain scarred.

Thus Bob-a-Job week was born.

Bodger was tailor-made for the work involved, as he was extremely good with his hands, especially his right hand under the covers at night.

So he washed cars, cleaned windows, repaired shelves and tidied gardens, though inevitably, some of the public took the piss. The few wee jobs included painting the outside of the house, repairing the roof, and changing the gearbox on the Austin Cambridge, all done for the cost of just one shilling.

The scout movement has suffered a gradual decline over the years, and although it continues to survive, it does look increasingly from a different time and age.

Amazingly, the Gang Show is still with us, which is a bit like discovering that Adolf Hitler is alive and well, but Bob-a-Job fizzled out a couple of decades ago.

This section was nearly called Boys Called Colin, my deeply unfashionable middle name.

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Colin Powell calls himself Coe-Lyn, instantly applying a modicum of cool and mystique. Colin, with its new pronunciation, could conceivably make a comeback.

But the same cannot be said for Keith. He just was.

He could lift a cow with one hand, chew iron, and spit rust. To shave his giant chin, Dan called upon a blowtorch and a chisel, and to part his hair he fired a pistol shot.

Most famously of all, the oversized cowboy loved nothing more than tucking into a gigantic cow pie with a massive piecrust and two horns sticking out either side.

Dan was the most popular character in The Dandya comic that at its peak sold two million copies per week. He first appeared along with the new publication in and was initially a desperado on the wrong side of the tracks.

However, he evolved into a hero, most notably during the Second World War when he shot down German planes and sank U-Boats, with his peashooter of course.

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ByThe Dandy was shifting an amazing million copies a year. Sadly, time was not kind to Dan, and as the decades passed, society became a very different beast.

The publishers felt obliged to tone down the big man somewhat. His habit of smoking through a funnel had long gone, but they made him lose weight, exchange his firearm for a water pistol, and when the BSE crisis hit the beef industry, he stopped eating cow pie.

The publishers announced its withdrawal from the marketplace, the final printed Dandy appearing at the newsagents in December of that year.

There was but one consolation for the fans of the cow-pie munching, politically incorrect cowboy. The supermarket is a very scary place to be at Halloween.

I was recently looking for a greetings card in a large out of town store, when I was accosted by a terrifying noise coming from the next aisle.

It sounded like the collective wheezing and rattling from a hospital asthma ward where the inhalers and nebulisers had been contaminated with the exhaust fumes of a Lada Riva Estate.

It may already be too late for Tesco and Sainsbury’s, the rise of Aldi and Lidl looks unstoppable. Dresses for Women, Mini Club Dresses different sizes, designs, cuts Though I think I’ll still sneak in baking.

I walked past the Freddy Kruger masks, the dismembered hands, the meat cleavers and skeletons, until I discovered the culprit. It was some kind of talking corpse with an accompanying drone straight out of a Hammer House of Horror soundtrack.

It struck me as bizarre that these products were being aimed at kids. Halloween is now massive, second only to Christmas in terms of seasonal revenue to the large supermarkets.

It was Duck Apple Night, and it was all about an apple in a washing up bowl or an apple on a bit of string. Duck Apple was a game where a bucket or a bowl was filled with cold water and the eponymous fruit.

The objective was to dip your head in the water and lock your jaws around the Cox. In the unlikely event this text becomes an audio book read by Stephen Fry, I might have to edit that line.

The apple bobbed about in the water like a dinghy in a hurricane, and the only way of taking a bite was to submerge your head and get soaking wet.

My reward for this early version of water boarding was a gobful of cooking apple about as sour as a pint of undiluted vinegar.

We rarely had normal fruit in our food stocks.

The cupboards were so bare, even Old Mother Hubbard used to take the piss. You then had to try and take a bite without wedging the fruit against the sides, countless children thereby perfecting an effective impersonation of Quasimodo sniffing glue.

It was another game for the brain dead, adding poignancy to the fact that the talking brain dead now occupy prime space on the Halloween toy shelves of the supermarkets.

And conclusive proof that this shift has been retrograde is provided by the phenomenon of Trick or Treat, now an ever present annual irritation to the average grumpy householder.

When my grandmother passed away, I inherited three goldfish. And this aquatic gift proved to be something short of a blessing.

And Watsonc7, I have several types of Brie in my refrigerator that would be perfect with Lindy’s bread. Imaginary Animal exercises Works in Progress 1. Basic black jersey bra and knicker set zombies I love those socks! Her mind was preoccupied as she rounded what was possibly the most dangerous corner of her walk home.

For a start, fish are crap pets. They give you absolutely nothing in return for feeding them daily, cleaning their tank, and furnishing it with a model of an ancient Greek temple designed by a three year old with impaired vision.

What more could any pet reasonably want? There was a time when every house had a goldfish, yet those who did are likely to have forgotten the fact.

Unfortunately, I had conveniently forgotten that my real first pet was a goldfish won on the hoopla at New Brighton Fair, christened Alan.

Their widespread popularity arose because a goldfish in a plastic bag was the standard prize awarded to a child at every travelling or seaside fairground stall.

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Three darts in three playing cards meant you won a goldfish in a bag. First in the donkey derby… goldfish in a bag.

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Three balls in the bucket… goldfish in a bag. Children would return home from a day out at the fair with nausea from the merry-go-round, the onset of tooth decay from eating too much candy floss, and a plastic bag full of water with what appeared to be a slither of carrot floating inside.

I suppose you had to feel sorry for the goldfish. Even if its memory was only three seconds, it was three seconds of sheer monotony and tedium, recalling its round and round the bowl again daily routine.

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I see the attraction of keeping tropical fish, with the endless varieties and vibrant colours providing a bewitching visual experience.

A proper aquarium is required with an electronic heat pump and all the related gear. Tropical fish demand a greater investment of equipment, money and time, and it follows there is a greater return on this investment in terms of satisfaction and reward.

The old fairground prize of a goldfish in a plastic bag has been outlawed. It is now illegal to give live animals as a prize, thereby cutting off the main supply line for the golden tiddlers, and this is good news… and I should know, having been scarred by the triple inheritance from my nan.

The buggers lived fifteen years, like me, growing bigger and uglier every year. It will help put things in perspective. Anybody attending Grammar School in the s was presented with a list of items required for the start of term.

This included a school blazer, trousers, socks, shoes, cap, gym kit, fountain pen, pencil, sharpener, rubber, tolerance of sadistic prefects, and a haversack, although regarding the latter, there was the usual gender divide with the girls required to have a leather satchel.

The haversack was made from a canvas material thicker than Kevin Potts from Class 1D and could only be purchased from the Army Surplus Stores. It had originated in the military as a means of carrying spare ammunition, food rations, and a gas mask, but we used it for books and stationery.

The watchword for the school was uniformity.

No deviation from the dress code was acceptable. Yet, the haversack was the only means of establishing any kind of individuality. It started with writing your name and class number on the outside, but by the end of term, there was your football team, favourite music acts, and the odd picture of the odd teacher, although most masters were a bit odd.

The haversack was a badge of identity worn over our shoulders with pride, although not so for one poor guy called Colin from our year.

A few hours later, news broke that Manchester United had hijacked the deal at the last minute, signing Macari from under the noses of Liverpool.

Disappointment compounded by shame produced a heady mix for Colin to deal with for the rest of the year. The haversack eventually gave way to sports and messenger bags and lost its place as the mandatory carrier for schoolboys.

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I have fond memories of mine, though whether Colin does is somewhat doubtful. When I was a young lad, boys played football and girls played hopscotch.

The girls would toss a small stone into one of the numbered rectangles and retrieve it by hopping through the spaces to retrieve it.