Every so often I feel like a bit of a moan: why is it that all these people who’ve suddenly discovered the countryside during lockdown think that someone else is going to pick up the rubbish they chuck all over the place? Crisp packets, fizzy drink cans, paper hankies (man size), bumper bags of assorted mini chocolate bars (empty of course), I even found a discarded pair of brown lady’s knickers (sorry, I mean a brown pair of lady’s knickers) on the way to the sea a week ago and yesterday, while walking through the forest a pair of man’s black designer underpants. And it’ll only get worse over the Easter weekend if the weather’s good. I daren’t be a good citizen and pick the stuff up in case it’s infected with Covid. What’s a chap to do? We tried, many years ago (60 to be precise), me, my junior siblings and the kids next door, and organised a ban march and toured the town carrying banners banning school uniforms, smoking, two tone horns, cruelty to animals, work, ban marches, LITTER and anything else we disapproved of. Things have only got worse since then because no-one listened.
Kids in those days ate what they were given or they went hungry. Today’s children seem to be given a choice and even then often refuse to eat what’s put in front of them. The only time we were given a choice of lunch was once a holiday: our favourite was kidney cooked in its fat (baked in the oven to make it crispy and edible), spuds mashed with beetroot (because it made your pee pink, which was fun) and for afters, toffee pudding (condensed milk boiled in the tin for two hours, very filling, very sweet, very sickly). But try to give that lot to kids today, especially the offal, and they’d run a mile. Such a pity as offal is cheap and delicious. Mind you, it can be too much of a good thing. Once, in Crete (on business of course) we were taken to a special taverna halfway up a mountain whose menu specialised in parts of the animal that weren’t normally eaten: Kokoretsi (heart, lung, sweetbreads, kidneys and other innards wrapped in lamb or goat intestine and spit-grilled over charcoal), Ameletita (literally, ‘unspeakables’, fried sheep’s testicles), and Gardhoumia (stomach and offal wrapped in entrails) with a meze of liver, pig’s ears and brains to start.
Talking of offal reminds me of the sad demise of Iain Pattinson who, as I’m sure all my Loyal Readers will know, was the genius behind I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue. For 27 years he wrote the gags, the funny links, the letters from Mrs Trellis from North Wales (Dear Mr Titchmarsh, never let them tell you that size isn't important. My aunt told me that, but then all my new wallpaper fell off) and the delicately crafted but wicked double entendres for Humphrey Lyttelton’s ‘ever-lovely Samantha’, the show’s much alluded to yet silent scorer, who happened to be a raving nymphomaniac. Here are some of his best:
Samantha has to nip off to the National Opera where she’s been giving private tuition to the singers. Having seen what she did to the baritone, the director is keen to see what she might do for a tenor.
Samantha has an Italian gentleman friend who has promised to take her out for an ice cream and she likes nothing better than to spend the evening licking the nuts off a large Neapolitan.
Samantha has to slip out now. She’s agreed to go out on a trawler to learn all about fishing and has already made many friends amongst the crew. She’s particularly looking forward to helping to toss the buoys over the side of the boat.
Samantha tells me she has to slip across to Regents Park Zoo to help look for a missing snake and she’s promised not to return until she finds the keeper’s adder behind the reptile house.
Well, I'm afraid it doesn't look as if Samantha's going to be able to make it for this half of the evening at least. She's had to stop off to see a grumpy, old gentleman friend in Stockport, who doesn't like spending his money. He's been phoning her constantly, angrily demanding a visit. Samantha says she doesn't really mind handling his testy calls, and she says if she butters him up properly, she can occasionally get him to splash out.
Samantha is off to see a chef gentleman friend who is renowned for his fine-quality offal dishes. While she's very keen on his kidneys in red wine and his oxtail in beer, Samantha says it's difficult to beat his famous tongue in cider.