Nelson is expecting our usual festive fortnight of drunken debauchery. He’s going to be severely disappointed.

I have decided that I am not going to have anything to drink at all – well, hardly anything. I may have a glass of sherry on Christmas Eve but that will be it. And maybe a glass or two of wine on Christmas Day, but nothing more. Well, maybe a pint in the pub while mother is preparing lunch, but that will definitely be it.

And of course, Nelson and I will have to pop into one or two of the local hostelries on Boxing Day and then again on New Years Eve; but I won’t be drinking anything other than mineral water. Okay, maybe I’ll have a white wine spritzer or even a half-pint of Guinness – or two. But no more. All right, maybe one more – but that will be it. Definitely.

I am definitely not going to drink this Christmas.

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The one he held last weekend featured some of the loudest explosions known to man. If it wasn’t for him, I would have to resort to other means to make sure my little dog was frightened out of her wits for three hours every November 5th.

Next year I will try to persuade him not to have a repeat performance. To accomplish this, I plan to use the carrot-and-stick approach: I’ll take a huge carrot and stick it up his f*cking arse.

Actually, I was a little more prepared for Bonfire Night this year. There was a programme on  the television a few days ago in which a helpful veterinarian described various methods one can employ to help your dog endure the inevitable terrifying noises.

One of these methods involved putting a children’s t-shirt on your pet, or in fact buying a tight jacket made especially for dogs and cats. Apparently, this instills a feeling of calmness and security in your pet by making the animal more aware of its own body and helps it to ignore the devastating explosions coming from outside.

The only thing small enough that I could find was an old pair of boxer shorts that my ex-wife had bought for me one Christmas. As I struggled to put these on Audrey, she looked at me with her big brown eyes, a little embarrassed, as if to say, ‘This isn’t very rock ‘n’ roll, is it?’

They were not all that tight in the end. I had to improvise further by using one of my favourite paisley-patterned silk scarves to help wrap them snugly around her furry little body. It seemed to do the trick, however; she didn’t seem to be as panic-stricken as usual when all hell broke loose next door around six in the evening.

I looked at her under the sofa dressed in her skin-tight little Calvin Klein boxer shorts and thought: If anyone comes in and sees this, it’s going to look a little weird.

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He must be wondering why he suddenly finds himself in such frosty conditions when only a few days ago he was warm and snug in a much cozier environment.

When we passed him this morning, Audrey looked at me as if to ask, ‘When are the horses going to be stabled for the winter?’

‘When the evil farmer decides they’ve suffered enough.’ I told her.

I know horses are fairly hardy creatures – and I am certainly no farmer – but it seems to me that a newly-born foal should already be stabled. But what do I know?

‘The horses are cold,’ a small Asian boy observed as he passed us on his way to school. ‘It’s time they were hibernating.’

‘Horses don’t hibernate, little fellow,’ I informed him, trying to be helpful.

‘Oh yes they do,’ he replied. ‘And monkeys.’

‘The only animals that hibernate in this country are dormice, hedgehogs and bats,’ I continued.

Silence. Then: ‘You’re weird.’

I just can’t win.

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‘Are you two drunk?’ I asked, incredulous.

‘You better believe it, Davy-Boy!’ Reg bellowed. ‘Been on the whiskey all night and all bloody morning, too.’

‘Wanna make something of it?’ slurred Nigel, looking very unsteady on his wobbly whiskey-legs.

I pointedly ignored him. ‘Being drunk this early in the morning will lead you to only one place, Reg,’ I told him. ‘Hell.’

‘Or the pub,’ replied Nigel.

‘Same thing around here,’ I informed them both.

It looked like Nigel had vomited sometime in the last few hours down the front of his nylon raincoat, and Reg had on carpet slippers, no socks, and what looked suspiciously like pyjama bottoms. I was embarrassed for them. I know that people around here do not always represent the pinnacle of urbane sophistication, but the pair of them looked like escaped mental patients. (Again, not something out of the ordinary for many inhabitants of the village.)

‘We’re celebrating I.T. Boy’s divorce,’ said Reg. ‘Came through yeshterday.’

‘I.T. Boy?’

‘Nigel.’

‘Yesterday? That was quick.’

Nigel leaned dangerously close to my face. ‘Not quick enough. I hate that lesbo bitch,’ he hissed. ‘When I get the chance, I’m going to shoot her in the back and make it look like suicide.’

‘You haven’t thought that through properly, have you.’

He toppled backwards into a shopping trolley, but before crashing completely to the floor, regained his balance at the last minute – as drunken people are surprisingly able to do sometimes. I held out my hand to assist him but he didn’t take it. He made a big show of straightening himself, of drunkenly dusting down his stained coat, before half-fixing me with his eyes and loudly declaring: ‘I don’t need anybody to help me. You or anybody. You especially.’

Why am I not surprised he works in I.T.?

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‘I’ll have a treat, please.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’ll have a treat, please,’ I repeated, holding out my hand.

‘But . . . erm . . . we ain’t got any.’ He looked around rather dejectedly at his small cohorts dressed as witches, ghouls and zombies and shook his head. They all shrugged in unison.

‘You didn’t come prepared? You haven’t properly thought this through, have you?’

‘What?’

‘I’m just pulling your leg. When you said “Trick or treat” I thought you were . . . never mind. Let’s just say I never like to miss a comedy open goal when it’s presented to me. Ha ha.’

‘You’re weird. I’m telling my mum.’

I did have a treat in the end: an early night and twenty pages of John O’Farrell’s An Utterly Impartial History of Britain.

Rock ‘n’ roll, eh?

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An old girlfriend from your schooldays will e-mail you out of the blue saying: ‘I’m divorced now. We should go out for a drink sometime.’

Your anxiety attacks will start again.

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We here at Enormous HQ have puffed up our very proud bosoms and girded our loins to enable us to loudly proclaim: Welcome to the fold, Ryan Noon!

Imagine someone incredibly handsome and charming with the talent of Mozart, Steve Nieve and Jools Holland all rolled into one, and you will be getting close to the skill and natural endowment that belongs to our new member. He’s amazing.

We all agree that Ryan is like a hot, sugary mug of musical tea, and are very proud to have him on board.

Now: CALLING ALL BASS PLAYERS! Get your arses in gear and come and join the best band in the world.

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I’m going to have a fight on my hands again, I can feel it. Still, being English, one doesn’t like to complain. Mustn’t grumble, and all that.

The subject of demons reminds me of a bumpy journey in the back of a Ford Transit to a gig at the Marquee in London many years ago. Tom, Slaughterhouse 5’s chief roadie, was reading the Dean Koontz novel Demon Seed. Occasionally prone to the odd vocal ejaculation, he looked up at me and asked, ‘Do you think sperms ever have a wank?’

We all laughed so much we almost crashed into a coach full of mooning schoolchildren. Boff the drummer nearly soiled his britches.

It was Dave Graham, ace bass player and comedy genius who eventually replied to Tom’s earnest enquiry. With astonishing wit and perfect timing, he pointed at the band’s rhythm guitarist who was driving the van, and said, ‘I bet Steve’s do.’

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As happens regularly in my dreams, Audrey could speak English. She said ‘Here are your  pyjamas, father. You forgot to put them on.’

‘I don’t wear such things, darling,’ I told her. ‘I’m an ex-punk rocker. You know that.’

‘But these are your special pyjamas,’ she insisted, ‘the ones you bought in the Bahamas. The ones with the big bananas on.’

‘Oh, those.’

‘Yes, your Bahamas banana pyjamas.’ I smiled at her sweet furry innocence.

There was suddenly a big noise from outside. Clang! Audrey jumped and looked at me with urgent concern in her eyes.

‘It’s all right, girl,’ I told her. ‘It’s just Jennifer Aniston delivering our money.’ She relaxed with a doggy groan. ‘What are you dreaming about?’ I asked her then.

‘I was dreaming about who would win in a fight between a monkey and an emu,’ she said.

‘Monkey, definitely.’ I mused.

When I eventually awoke, I felt even more joy due to the fact that I didn’t have a hangover. I was such a good boy again last night. I had so little to drink, I was seeing single. I hate hangovers. Being hung-under is eminently more preferable. It is always a tremendous relief when I wake up without one. I am always reminded of Wodehouse on the subject when he wrote: ‘The cat stamped into the room.’

Well, that’s all from me for now. Must dash. I am about to savour my Monday morning eleven o’clock orgasm.

Pip-pip!

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He has said before that he would love to join the band, but, apart from his duties with the Babysitters, he was telling me that his wife is due to give birth soon and that he would not really have the time or the energy to properly commit to Enormous. Stupid women. Stupid babies. What happened to rock ‘n’ roll?

Aside from his skills on the bass guitar, Walt is a clever and very witty man. I mentioned this to him during our conversation.

‘Yeah, bass players are traditionally regarded as being even dumber than drummers, aren’t they.’

‘That’s true, Walt,’ I told him. ‘And drummers, by definition, apart from being incredibly stupid, are also very, very annoying. All of them.’ I then remembered an old muso joke: ‘Hey, Walt, what did the bass player get on his IQ test?’

‘Tell me, Davy.’

‘Dribble.’

‘Ha, ha.’ Then he outdid me. ‘Here’s one for you that demonstrates the point even better.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘Did you hear about the drummer who arrived at the gig only to discover he had locked his keys in the car? It took him an hour to get the bass player out.’

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You will renounce alcohol.
After a few months you will nounce alcohol again.
You will go on to renounce alcohol once more.
(You will probably nouce it again next week.)

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She was jogging towards me along the footpath that leads over the sheep fields to the Memorial at Crich. I recognised her as she drew near and my heart sank. I used to dislike her intensely. She was the receptionist for a studio I worked in Mansfield and we never got along. I knew to a moral certainty that I was not about to enjoy our encounter.

‘Davy?‘ she panted as she drew near.

‘Well, well. Hello, Kristin. How are you? I haven’t seen you in years.’

‘Fine. Fine. Just moved into a new house in Blackwell with Jeff – you remember Jeff?’

‘Of course. Good old Jeff. How is he, your Jeff?’ I had no idea who Jeff was.

‘Davy, you’re looking absolutely wonderful. I can’t believe it! Really athletic and toned. You must work out a lot.’

Old animosities were suddenly forgotten in the parade of years. Kristin was my new best friend.

‘Well, actually – ‘

‘You must come round to visit. Jeff would love to see you again.’

‘Yes, I – ‘

‘Come to one of our swingers parties. You’d be very welcome with a physique like that.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You’d be very popular with all of my special lady friends – and one or two of my older male friends, too. You’ll make the hairs stand up on the backs of their little legs, you really will. Tuesdays. Eight o’clock.’

I tried to smile. I tried not to say anything. I was afraid that, as usual, in so doing, my mouth would slip and I would offend. But I did say something – and it wasn’t what I was expecting to hear come out of my mouth. It was this: ‘Yes, quite. That would be delightful.’

I think I’ll forget about jogging for the foreseeable future and confine my workouts to the gym in the village. It’s a good gym – small, but good.

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I have never spoken to her but I find her rather irksome, to say the least. In fact, she annoys the hell out me – and Audrey. I firmly believe that certain people should not be allowed to own dogs, and she is one of them.

Her’s is very large and aggressive. Due, no doubt, not to the animal’s fundamental nature, but to the woman’s lack of proper control over it. The Labrador is obviously a lot stronger than she is – despite her substantial weight – and is always in danger of breaking loose from her grip and advancing menacingly toward Audrey with resolute intentions of canine assault.

The problem is, instead of walking away from us, she stands her ground and waits for us to pass. She even does this if we turn and walk in the opposite direction: she will go the other way around the footpath until we inevitably encounter each other again. To me, this is madness; she is mentally ill. She is certainly a very obtuse individual. I think it would benefit everyone concerned if she were put down out of my misery.

Each time, as we draw near, she keeps up a teasingly hissed set of commands under her breath to the dog that rise in intensity and amplitude. ‘No, no, noo, nooo, noooooo. NO! NO!’ Then as we move past, her voice rises to fever pitch: ‘No, Albert! No! NO! ALBERT! NO! ALBEEEERT!’

This is rather like telling the animal: ‘Wait, wait. Waaaiit, waaaaaiiittt. NOW! ATTACK! ATTACK!’ Excited beyond all bodily control, the dog is straining like a frothing monster, trying to break free and begin its violence.

This pantomime happened again today. But to make matters worse, on this occasion, Audrey pulled so hard on her lead that I slipped and fell on to the wet grass. I landed heavily on my hands and knees and was stunned for a moment. Blades of rain-soaked grass were like dancing sarabands before my eyes.

When I stood up, the woman had gone and Reg was standing there in her place. ‘Where did you come from?’ I enquired of him breathlessly.

‘I was watching you, Davy-lad. With the bird.’

‘Bird?‘

‘She’s gorgeous, she is.’

‘That stupid woman?’

‘She might not be your type, Davy-boy, but she certainly boils my potatoes, if you know what I mean.’

‘Boils your potatoes?‘ My voice was getting a little high in pitch.

‘Oh, yeah.’ He enthused. ‘I’d fuck a wall if I thought she was behind it.’ An image sprung into my mind that I don’t thing I will ever be able to successfully erase.

‘Reg!‘

‘Sorry, Davy-me-lad, but that blondie is special. She’s lady-gold.’

I tried to speak and gasp at the same time but found it impossible.

‘Lost for words, eh, Davy?’

‘I am, rather. You amaze me, Reg, you really do.’

‘Oh, I know. It’s difficult to be amazed and speak at the same time, Davy-boy. That’s called multitasking. Men can’t do it. You need a woman for that.’

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‘Is your dog a bitch?’ This was a question I had been asked before.

I knew, of course, that the regular reader would assume I was using heavy irony when I referred to the filthy working-class peasant children of the village who look like urchin extras from Les Miserables as delightful. They are anything but. ‘Excuse me?’ I sighed.

‘Is your dog a likkle bitch? Do you ‘ave anal wiv her?’ This made them all laugh riotously.

I considered my reply carefully. ‘There are five thousand comedians on the dole in the United Kingdom and you’re making a joke? Shame on you, young fellow.’

‘Eh?’

I delivered next a compliment of questionable sincerity. ‘Personally, I think you are hilarious – a comedy genius. But many would think you callous, that you are doing honest and hard-working comics of this country out of a job with your amusing remarks.’

‘Are you gay?’ Again, much laughter.

I gave up.

We headed home via the footpath that circles the old colliery swimming baths. ‘I fancy a big cup of Earl Grey and one of those lovely scones from the Co-op when we get back to the house. Come on, girl, hurry up.’

Looking at me sadly with her big brown eyes, she seemed to say: ‘I am a bitch, you know.’

‘Only words,’ I reassured her. ‘Only words.’

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You will try really hard to like Charlie Parker.
You will realise you don’t like Charlie Parker.

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Another old song that has been recorded over the years in different forms. If  I recall correctly, there is actually a cheesy Country and Western version of it somewhere.

As with the other podcasts, this performance was recorded live in the studio. Graham Boffey and Nelson Galaxy were helping out on percussion and beer-spilling respectively. I added the Hammond B3, backing vocals and symphonic strings afterwards as an overdub.

Burt would be proud of me.

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If you have a loud piano or a big organ, leave a comment here or contact us via mail@enormousreloaded.com.

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Apparently, according to the local vicar – a wiry man with bushy eyebrows like those belonging to Hilary Duff – the Baby Jesus himself had a word in the Pope’s ear and told him to inform the local church authorities that it is permissible for little dogs to wander around the picturesque churchyard.

Up until now, the vicar has rushed out from under his pulpit and demanded that we leave said area immediately whenever he spied us innocently endeavouring to stroll around it as part of our evening itinerary.

So nonplussed was I by our repeated exclusion that I lied and told him that my trusty manservant of twenty-five years, Smythe, was buried there and that I should like to visit his grave occasionally with my dog of whom he was especially fond. I didn’t tell him that we wander around there freely when he is not in attendance – which is often.

The tour around the yard comes at the end of our evening walk once a week. Set atop a rather steep hillside, it is a outstandingly flowery and well-maintained garden for such a parochial place of worship and provides excellent views of the Amber Valley and the surrounding countryside beyond. Audrey is very fond of the Prayer Tap which is handily situated at the northern end of the church where we often alight for several seconds to allow her to drink of the Holy Water which gushes from it’s rusty nozzle.

It appears that as soon as the Pope became aware of our illogical exclusion he kicked some clergy-ass and made the necessary phone-calls.

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