Good With Colours?

Isn’t it curious how even at a very young and tender age, you can just tell when something or indeed somebody is not just quite right. The person in question was one Rowland Green and the source of this feeling of general unease was his clearly strange and un chap like behaviour. 1

Now this was 1977 and of course I had heard the terms poof, poofter, shirtlifter and the like being bandied about by my uncles and other male relations. However being only seven years old and still wet behind the ears I had no idea what being a “poof” actually entailed, never mind the nuts and bolts or the mechanics of being the aforementioned.2

I had therefore fallen into the trap of believing that all gay lords were of a certain stereotypical type, i.e. men who dressed as women, walked around like a mincer and had a predisposition towards musical theatre.3

In the case of young Rowland however we just all thought he was plain weird, as he never played football with the rest of the chaps, instead preferring the company of girls and much to our horror actually took part in their lunch time skipping competitions. 4

Then it happened, that fateful morning at the arse end of June. “See that Rowland?” “My father said that his dads an idiot, that his big brothers a half wit and he is probably a poof!” “You know!” “Tries to screw other men up the arse!” Said the silver tongued Nimble as he entered the cloakroom. 5

Now don’t get me wrong I did have an inkling that being an arse bandit was not anything to be proud of or boastful about. But confirmation of what these sexual deviants actually got up to in public toilets the length and breath of the land filled my heart with dread.6

From that moment on the gloves were well and truly in the “Off” position as poor, poor, pillow biting Rowland, bore the brunt of the entire years homosexual jibes.7

Truth be told however we were only seven and as was the case with my good self, we tended to deliver these homophobic lines third hand and not in possession of the actual full meaning of what we had just said.8

Examples ranged from Knumbnutts telling Rowland “The only musical you should star in is The Pirates Of Men’s Pants!” To a badly misguided Phil da Block letting slip what his Grandfather had said the Sunday previous when half way down a bottle of whisky. 9

This time however I quote verbatim.10

“That Adolf Hitler had, had the right idea with these people and he should have been given a bit more time to put a few more of them up the chimney!”11

Clearly not a liberal man or the type of fellow who gave any credence to considered opinion.12

Let us wind the clock forward nine years and it is now 1986. 13

Uphill gardeners are now commonplace throughout society, in fact if truth were told to get on in life you needed to be one of two things, firstly a card-carrying member of a Masonic lodge or you dropped anchor in poo bay a.k.a. were a sausage jockey. So it was a straight choice then, either roll up your left trouser leg and bear your left breast or drop your trousers, touch your toes and take one up the tail pipe.14

Certain south coast city’s famed for their fagotry aside, Masonic lodges the length of the land must have had waiting lists the length of your arm when faced with such a dire choice.15

Like Nostradamus looking forward through the mists of time Nimble’s Grandfather, alas now long dead, must have been some kind of a soothsayer. As not only was he spot on with his prediction that Rowland was in all truth a raving whoopsie, but also that his older sibling Tommy was in all honesty not a “Half wit”, but more of a complete moron, as he had taken it upon himself to run off and join The French Foreign Legion.16

“Marche ou creve” as we all know is the Legions mantra, which when translated in to English means “March or die!” and not lets all get stripped off for a game of poop stabbers leapfrog. 17

Now to gain acceptance in to an organisation such as The Legion I can only image you have to meet a pretty strict set of criterion. Firstly I can only assume, that you must be declared clinically bonkers, secondly you must be a psychotic lunatic, thirdly and most crucially you must be a very, very, very hard bastard.18

Tommy Green not only met but also exceeded all of the above criteria. If the truth were told, I knew some very hard chaps but none of them, to a man, would fancy their chances in a fist fight with Tommy and herein lay the basic problem. Tommy was not only a double hard bastard, but he also took umbrage at anyone who even suggested that his camp as Christmas little brother was a switch hitter. “Did you call my wee brother a poof?” Snarled the deranged ex Legionnaire as he came dashing, hot foot over the road at me.19

Oh spoons!20

No time for an answer, a swift size ten in the nether regions and a rather hefty roundhouse right hand to the left ribs and I was down on the ground gasping for air.21

Top marks to him for scoring a bull’s-eye on my nadgers and of course for being a prick!22

My one and only encounter thus far with the mentalist and hopefully my last. Alas not so, as that August Swoopsters father, being a member of the green welly brigade, had arranged a job for us grouse beating up one of the local glens. 23

Guess who was working on the same shoot?24

Was it a shapely blonde nymphet who liked to talk about football and could not resist the smell of Old Spice aftershave?25

No! It was Terrible Tommy and his equally mad cohort Bongo. I kid you not, Bongo, what is more he was also an ex Legionnaire and just as mental if not more so than his hat stand chum.26

Still we didn’t have to put up with them for long as the rozzers turned up mob handed, armed to the teeth and dragged the potty pair off to gaol. 27

What was their crime I hear you ask?28

Hold on to your hats, the two of them were later found guilty of bludgeoning the aforementioned Bongo’s parents to death at their farmhouse in deepest darkest Wales.29

At the time the case made the national news.30

“String them up!” That’s what I say and incidentally, we should possibly consider hanging murderers as well.31