Last night, Scaryduck Jr donned his Beaver Scout uniform and went for his first ever outing with the group - a trip to the council offices to meet the Mayor of Weymouth and Portland.
I know from first hand experience how dull these events can be both for His Excellence and for the visitors, so I primed The Boy with one or two questions to spice things up a bit for all concerned.
“What, exactly, do you do?”
“My Dad says that in an age of budget cuts and soaring council taxes, the post of mayor is an expensive anachronism, wasting money that would be better spent on providing better services to residents.”
“Can I come to the next public flogging?”
“Do you always wear your robes of office to the Luv-a-Rub Massage Parlour, or is that only on official business?”
They were permitted to touch the Mayor’s staff, which is three hundred years old and has “a big round knob on the end.”
The Mayor’s Parlour is now on the “Never Again” list.
You may have noticed previous posts regarding what is passed off as “entertainment” in my locality. Sunday sees the arrival of Jimmy Cricket at the Weymouth Pavilion, a hideous pile of concrete tacked onto a hideous concrete pier, and alas, the only decent sized venue we have in the town.
God bless Jimmy, I’ve nothing against him, but its the support acts that make me cringe. He’s got a whistling act, someone who plays the xylophone, and I’m pretty sure that at some stage a drunken Scotsman appears to play the spoons. If it wasn’t twelve quid for a ticket, I’d be there in a flash. And that’s pretty much the pinnacle of popular culture in the town. Being a holiday venue, the place is swarming with end-of-the-pier acts, plying their grim trade from holiday camp to holiday camp, with awful karaoke cover versions, unfunny stand up acts and non-magical magicians. Oh, and clowns.
Clowns exist for one thing and one thing only: to be evil and eat childrens’ spicy brains. That’s two things, and the sooner that fact is drummed into the minds of our impressionable youth the better.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Weymouth. The beaches, the countryside, the relaxed pace of life, the great carved wang on the hill just up the road - it’s just that there’s far more inordinately cheerful people per square mile than I’m used to, right?
And Christ on a bike, we’ve still got the Barron Knights and a night of accordian music to endure. Is there no end to this torture?
Just over a year ago, uber-geek Wil Wheaton unwittingly got me into this blogging business and gave my writing the kick up the arse it deserved. So if it wasn’t for the Head Monkey, I wouldn’t be where I am now - sitting up half the night beating my brains out for content to please you, my faithful readers. Punk. Wil’s got a book out, and apparantly it’s rather good.