Hen party

I am starting to worry that my future wife may be about to marry the wrong bloke. I first got this nagging suspicion when she went on her hen weekend to a country cottage spa in darkest Somerset.
During the evening's frivolities her friends, including my daughter the Fat Kid, ambushed her with a Mr and Mrs style competition in which she received presents for getting questions right about me, and forfeits if she got them wrong.
To be honest, she did fairly well until one particular question came along. It went something like this:
What is Rippers ideal fantasy?
There was then a multiple choice set of answers. They were:
a. To be marooned on a desert island with Wren?
b. To see Bristol Rovers win the Premiership title?
c. I don't remember c.

Now, in the manner of that famous daytime TV programme through the keyhole, let's examine the evidence. This should be spoken in the hideously creepy tones of Lloyd Grossman.
Solution B first:
I have been a Rovers fan from the age of seven.
During that time I have seen them hovver around in midtable obscurity, gone all the way to Burnley in a Ford Escort to watch them play, travelled the length and breadth of the country to watch mediocre rubbish thinly disguised as football in sub-zero temperatures, worn my Bristol Rovers shirt to foreign countries, drunk out of a Bristol Rovers mug, kept my fingers crossed throughout an entire Saturday afternoon in the belief this will make them play better, and sampled just a couple of real highlights - ie the win at Wembley in the League Two play-off final and pipping Bristol City to the Division One title in the dim and distant past.
I am a sports nut. I will sit all day in front of Sky Soccer Special just to follow the Gas on their travels, cursing when they lose and celebrating like a lunatic if they win. A bad result puts me in a bad move for the rest of the weekend. Wren knows this, she has suffered it first hand.
A good result, and I will have to watch every repeat of Big League Weekend 2 just to see the Gas goals over and over again.

Now what about Solution 2, A desert island?
I hate it when it's too hot and there is no cover, I don't like lolling around on the beach with nothing to do. I am not a great fan of foreign insects with 20 legs who land on you and take a bite out of you whenever they feel like it, I don't like swimming in shark-infested waters. I would be useless at catching my own food. I might be able to cook it, but I doubt whether I would have a chance because I wouldn't be able to start a fire. The last time I tried to put up a tent it collapsed on me. I failed the boy scout entry exam. I need a sanitary, spotlessly clean toilet with at least 10 spare loo rolls at any one time.
I need at least 10 roll-ups a day to keep me on an even keel. I need my sport fix or I get grumpy. I can't live without Sky Sports, and, I imagine, there would be no facility for Sky Sports on a desert island, let alone somewhere to stick the satellite dish. I love my cricket, but I doubt whether the England cricket team would be visiting a desert island for a test series any time soon.
To those who may only have a passing knowledge of me as a person, the answer is a no brainer.

Wren chose A. Marooned on a desert island. I can't believe it. WRONG!
I think she must be confusing me with Tom Hanks, perhaps because I told her of my friend Wilson, the football I won on my stag weekend to Brighton. I can't think of any other reason apart from the fact that maybe she was absolutely trolleyed out of her brain.



TALKING of strange happenings, the wonderful Withers of WoS has been sneaking off in the evenings and negating his regular custom of going to the boozer and getting bladdered every day after work. We are all a mite suspicious.
I confronted him the other day and he explained he had gone to some evening affair where journalists meet and advise charities about how to best publicise themselves.
Now, come on. Withers is far too selfish, and tight, to lift a finger to help out a charity unless, of course, there was some young flossie who had caught his eye and asked him to do it.
He denied this heavily though, and his reasoning actually did have me believing him. You will see why when you read his explanation...
"Yeh, it was like speed dating for charities. They went around the tables, met a journalist and then spent three minutes with them before moving on. It meant someone HAD to sit and listen to me for three minutes."
Yep. That's writer and broadcaster Withers for you. At least when he is writing you can turn over, and when he's on the radio or TV you can turn off. In that situation... no escape. I think there should be a charity for victims of Withers waffle.