Rusty me
Apologies if this column is a bit rusty. I haven't had a pen in my hand for the last couple of weeks except when I've been putting my signature to drinks bills of varying degrees of ridiculousness.
The highlight had to be paying six dollars for a can of Boddingtons. In the cold light of day that was four pounds for a tin of beer. And the waiter still seemed to think he was going to get a tip. Here's my tip, sort out your prices and you might get a few more people into this deserted furniture showroom you have the cheek to call a bar.
You wouldn't think it to hear me gurn, but I had an absolutely fantastic holiday.
On our travels through Canada we spotted two black bears, a pod of whales, dolphins and porpoises and two bald eagles, though I think the politically correct term is follicly challenged eagles.
One of my favourite things about being away is that when we arrived in Canada we went back in time by seven hours. I loved the fact that for the duration of my holidays I had gained seven hours on everyone back home.
It made me wonder - if one half of a pair of twins emmigrated from Northern Ireland to Canada and the other never left home, would that mean the Canadian twin would always be seven hours older even though they were born at the same time?
I'll probably include more pearls of wisdom from my holiday as and when I remember them. I expect my memory will be jogged when I go through our holiday snaps - all 1038 of them. To say Karen got the use out of her new camera is an understatement.

Ch-ch-ch-changes
Loads has happened since I've been away included a change in personnel at the 'MAIL'.
Jonathan Bell has moved on to pasture news in pastures new. I'm going to miss him - his unusually short legs, his regular blunders, his grinding gears and most importantly the fact that he laughed at most of my jokes even if they were at his expense. Fare ye well, my friend - perhaps we will cross pens again some time in the future.
Jonathan's replacement is Ruairi Creaney. At Jonathan's leaving do on Friday night the girls from advertising decided Ruairi looked liked Colin Farrell and as well as replacing Jonathan as the new reporter he has also replaced him as the office beefcake.
I once held the role of office beefcake. It was one Friday afternoon in May when everyone else was out of the office. Then the window cleaner turned up and I had to relinquish my position and go back to being the slaphead who sits in the corner.

Mild frustration
Writing this column can be so frustrating sometimes. There's nothing worse than having to consign a funny story to the waste basket because it either gets lost in translation or requires details that are unsuitable for a family paper like the 'MAIL'. For example I'd love to tell you about Sunday night's awkward run-in with a drunken man from Peru whose only friend was his Capital One Visa card. Or the rugby linesman we met on Saturday who was far too willing to volunteer excerpts from his lovelife as he jogged up and down the touchline. But sadly I can't, won't and shouldn't.

Weekly teaser
The answer to last week's teaser was: a piano. Here's this week's brainmelter: What is the one sport in which neither the spectators nor the participants know the score or the leader until the contest ends?

Food for thought
In the last few months I've learned how they came up with the idea for the Gremlins movie.
For the uninitiated, Mogwai start out as cute, cuddly, happy-go-lucky creatures, but start messing about with their feeding habits and you'll unleash a world of pain, ie Gremlins.
It must be an age thing, but I've started to notice that simple changes in my diet can have huge consequences.
When I was younger I remember being like a bin - constantly being filled and emptied (so to speak) with no ill effects.
Not any more. Now when I drink fizzy drinks like Coke or Irn-Bru of Fanta I'm guaranteed a sleepless night due to the sugar rush. Even the thought of Red Bull is enough to keep me up until at least 4am.
Foodwise, the consumption of gassy foods, vegetables or pulses provoke an almost instant reaction - a reaction which it's recommended to remain downwind of.
Ice-cream never used to give me a headache, but now I have to pace myself when tucking into a knickerbocker glory or '99'. And now when I eat junk food it makes me feel sick - who would have thought?
A dream of mine was to one day live in a house made of cheese, but now the merest sliver of dairy product is enough to send me the nightmare zone to do battle with knive-wielding maniacs, killer rats and angry ex-girlfriends.
The worst thing I've noticed about this eating sensitively that I've developed with age is that the more I eat the more weight I gain. Can someone please explain?

Bad reception
A while back I wrote about the Lurgan Mail's Westlife-obsessed receptionist Jenna and told how she formed a 'solo queue' at 4am to get tickets to see her favourite band in Sligo.
The concert was last Friday and it was billed as an 'intimate homecoming gig'. There were 10,000 people at it - that's a ratio of 2,500 fans to every member of the band. Westlife concerts are to intimacy what paintballing is to sensual massage.
In the past few weeks Jenna has taken to playing Westlife on her CD player when she's at the front desk. For those of you that aren't familiar with the layout of the Lurgan Mail office, behind the front reception desk is the men's and ladies' toilets.
I was down in reception the other day and I heard the most excruciating noise - it sounded like someone having a painful bowel movement. Then Jenna turned off the Westlife CD and everything was OK.

Barmy Obama
I'll not take credit for this next gag - I was sent it by text message:
Experts are worried about President Obama's mental state after he pledged millions of dollars of aid to Northern Ireland following the tragedy of Hurricane Higgins.

Weekly teaser
The answer to last week's teaser was the nouns were all used to describe different groups of animals and insects: a school of fish, a murder of crows, a plague of locusts and an army of ants.
Here's this week's mindbender: The maker doesn't want it, the buyer doesn't use it, and the user doesn't see it. What is it?

Regardless of how good or bad The A-Team remake is, the original crack commando unit will always hold a place in my heart.
The new film version of the eighties TV show is out now and, as fate would have it, I found this childhood sketch of my favourite vigilantes in a clear-out of my parents' shed recently.
I must have been around six when I drew it. Try as I might I don't think I could ever recreate its unbound innocence. I love the way BA's tattoos are too big for his arms and how I've reinvented Amy as that creepy girl from 'The Ring'. Face is meant to be the 'looker' of the group, but in my depiction - with his doorstop nose, demented grin and ill-fitting hair-do - he looks more like Dirk Kuyt than Dirk Benedict.
It's been ages since I've seen The A-Team even though it's regularly repeated on TV and available to buy on DVD. Like most kids' TV shows - it's just not the same watching them through adult eyes. As a child The A-Team kept me amused for hours, long after its Saturday afternoon slot, without having to ask why no one ever got killed and how come - no matter where the gang ended up - there was always a blow torch to hand. And why it was that anyone who needed help could always manage to locate The A-Team, yet the military police - with all their training and experience - couldn't track them down.
My cousin Mark and I were hooked. I remember we used to pretend we were The A-Team every dinner time back at primary school. Most of the time was spent arguing over who was going to be BA, which left about five minutes to chant the theme tune, pretend to blow up the caretaker's shed, then get back to class.
BA wasn't the only character we argued over. When we decided to play Ghostbusters we'd argue over who would be Peter Venkman, for Star Wars re-inactments we got into rows about who was going to be Han Solo and with Indiana Jones we both coveted the role of Indy.
I remember one day my cousin came up with an ingenious plan. We would form a gang of our favourite heroes and that way we'd get to do all the theme tunes and play at least two of our preferred roles. Mark assigned himself the parts of BA Baracus and Peter Venkman and I would be playing Han Solo and Indiana Jones. Perhaps if I hadn't been so wet behind the ears I'd have realised I'd been tricked - when it boiled down to it I was an eight-year-old boy pretending to be Harrison Ford (Makes me wonder - ED).
Still, I wouldn't have changed those dinner times for the world. If we were kids in today's society who would our role models be? The cast of Glee? I can just imagine a typical dinner time arguing over who would be the geekishly adorable one with the sensational hair and who would be the geekishly sensational one with the adorable hair.
I don't envy kids nowadays - I pity the fools!

Weekly teaser
The answer to last week's teaser was: one big pile.
Here's this week's puzzle. What do the following nouns have in common: school, plague, murder, army?

A cluster of spiders
There's only one thing worse than discovering a huge spider lurking in your house.
It's watching helplessly as the huge spider evades your bid to capture it and scurries off into an unreachable nook.
Knowledge is a very dangerous thing. It would probably have been better to have never known of this particular spider's existence. Karen's screaming alerted me to its presence and I approached the creepy crawly confident of making a clean catch. My reactions must have slowed in my old age because the webspinner anticipated my cumbersome advance and bolted to a crack in the skirting as fast as its overdeveloped legs would carry it.
Now that Karen had seen this gargantuan spider and watched my botched attempt to capture it, there was talk of moving in with her parents until I could provide proof the monster was gone.
A few hours later the mammoth beast reappeared and I thumped it with a copy of the Lurgan Mail (I like to get value for money out of the paper).
I'll let you in on a secret - I don't know if the spider I squashed was the same one Karen had spotted earlier. But rather than dwell on the possibility that the original spider could still be at large and further open up the possibility that a cluster of spiders could be lurking in every cold, dark crevice of our home, I kept my mouth shut.
Oh, what a twisted web we weave.

Just desserts
I read this week that a restaurant in Scotland is serving Buckfast ice cream.
It sounds like a recipe you could only ever come across by accident, perhaps if a vagrant were to gatecrash a children's party.
Every time I think of Buckfast, I think of the time I met Caprice - my one, and probably only, celebrity interview. During the interview we got on to the subject of local delicacies, so of course I told her about the virtues of Buckfast tonic wine. After getting her all hot under the collar about Lurgan Champagne I couldn't very well leave without getting her a bottle to take home with her.
When Caprice came over to Craigavon she was a successful model, actress, TV personality and businesswoman.
Since then she's got arrested for drink-driving and just this month she was snapped by paparazzi sporting a black eye.
Maybe I should have taken her for a Cafolla's ice cream instead.

Alternative authors
There's not enough authors about today using pseudonyms. And even the very few writers who do use pseudonyms never pick comedy ones.
Reggie Mental would be a brilliant name for somebody writing books about the military.
Or what about a prayer book by Neil Down?
'Perfect Soup Accompaniments' by Roland Butta?
'A Short History Of Dinosaurs' by Terry Dacktill?
'My Favourite Vegetable' by R T Choke?
'The Art Of Bullfighting' by Willie Makitt and Betty Wont?

Weekly teaser
The answer to the last teaser which appeared in the 'MAIL' was: if you remove the first letter of each word and move it to the end, the word will read the same backwards. Here's a reminder of a couple of the words to make the explanation make more sense... banana, dresser, grammar...
Here's this week's puzzle. Mr Dorightly enlists the help of the children of his neighbourhood to help him clear away the leaves around his house. The children make three huge piles of leaves at the front of the house and two big piles at the side. Mr Dorightly makes fives smaller piles in his back garden. He instructs the children to divide all their piles in two to make them more manageable, then put all their piles and his piles together at the back of the house. How many piles of leaves will they have by the end of the clear up?

School's out
The schools finished last week and I must say I was a bit jealous.
The thing I loved about school was having a definite beginning and end to each school year. You started in September and finished in June, not like the world of work which seems to be this never ending cycle of slog and grind where one week blends into the next, punctuated only by 'blink and you'll miss them' weekends and holidays which generally involve trying to fit a year's worth of DIY into a fortnight or perhaps a few days looking at the inside of a caravan as the summer rain beats a hypnotic rhythm on the leaf-covered skylight.
What I liked best about school was the last day of term when you were allowed to wear whatever you liked and bring your favourite games into class. I noticed a good few trendy kids on the train celebrating their last day at school last Wednesday, but was dismayed with their choice of entertainment. I counted at least six or seven of them zombified by a Nintendo DS, others were zoned out, listening to the latest hip and happening beats on their iPhone while downloading the next unnecessary app. I'm sure I even spotted one of them with a new iPad. What happened the days of Buckaroo and a 500-piece jigsaw?
I can still recall making a big impression when I turned up in my turquoise shellsuit with six sets of top trumps, my miniature and full-size versions of Connect Four and a huge pile of football stickers for swapsies.
That was about two weeks ago if my memory serves me correct. Clint said he didn't mind the games or the shellsuit, but I was going to have to change my hypercolour T-shirt because he had the same one and he'd bought his first.

Acting my age
When I was given the task of arranging a romantic dinner for two last Friday, it should have been a straightforward exercise.
My objective was to book a table at Chiquitos in Victoria Square. It's a strange combination of a family-friendly, Mexican restaurant that sells pitchers of tequila based cocktails. For that reason when making the booking I was asked if both my party were over 18.
"Yes, unfortunately we both are," I replied, bemoaning our advancing years.
When I told Karen about the same conversation later on, she had a slightly different interpretation of my response.
"So you're disappointed that you're not going out for dinner with some wee 17-year-old hotty?" she said.
"No, of course not, you know fine well what I meant," I replied. "Anyway, why would a 17-year-old hotty be interested in going out for dinner with me?" I asked, fishing for a compliment.
"If you think you're getting a compliment you've got another thing coming," said Karen, reading my mind. "And besides," she added. "Don't you think you're a little bit immature to be hanging around with a 17-year-old?"

Golfing hazard
Lurgan golfers beware - there's a new hazard at the ninth hole.
Several players were put off their shots recently by the dazzling effect of a pair of luminous green socks worn by one of the club's senior members who was resting on a nearby summer seat.
The same socks have also been spotted on the washing line in Woodford Park where they've been playing havoc with flights in and out of Aldergrove and have been blamed for temporarily blinding a pair of starlings.

Weekly teaser
Apologies for the absence of the teaser last week. I got carried away with my historical ramblings. The answer to the last teaser was: Although the professor lives in Lurgan, there was nothing to say he left from Lurgan that morning. He was staying in a hotel in Bangor. He got in his car and drove south west to Belfast then after the lecture at Queen's he continued south west until he ended up back in Lurgan.
Here's this week's teaser: what do the following seven words have in common?
Banana, dresser, grammar, potato, revive, uneven, assess

Lurgan is 400 years old this year. It doesn't look a day over 350.
This week's paper comes with a supplement commemorating the last four centuries in the town. The following work of fiction is my contribution to the 400th birthday celebrations.
Imagine if you will that you're in the back seat of a cab driven by a delusional taxi driver known only as The Lurgan Liar. He's been there, done that and is selling the T-shirts out of his boot. Prepared to be regaled by his embellished tales of Lurgan characters he's encountered over his many, many years as a taxi driver...

"Not far to go now. Should be there in about 10 minutes. Do you mind if I smoke? No? That's no problem. I'll just have a puff on the oul pipe instead.
"Here, did you know that Master McGrath has been in the back of this cab. He made a right mess. Took me ages to clean up after him, so it did. But you can't be too tough on him. I was giving him a lift home after his third win at the Waterloo Cup. He was some pup. You know that ballad they have about Master McGrath, I wrote that, so I did.
"And you know that George William Russell? I gave him most of his ideas for books. It was me who told him to go for the AE pseudonym. A lot more catchy.
"I used to play a bit of football back in the day, so I did. I've played with the best of them me. Used to do nets for a local team. There was one day we were playing in this big cup final down the park. It was against Glenavon and they had Stevie McBride, Wilbur Cush and Jimmy Jones up front. None of them could get past me. Then this wee ginger fella came on for them and scored the winning goal. Lennon I think his name was. Wonder what he's doing now. To this day I still maintain he was a good yard offside.
"I did a bit of boxing as well, so I did. I was unbeaten in Lurgan until that Ike Weir fella came along. I've seen a few boys about the town on a Saturday night throwing punches, but Ike could have knocked them out blindfolded with one hand tied behind his back.
"The only bloke I knew that could have give Ike a run for his money was Field Marshall Sir John Greer Dill. Hard as nails that boy. Me and him started out in the same battalion, but I never saw any action 'cause of an ingrowing toenail. Foot problems run in our family, you know. That could have been me with the avenue named after me, but for my big toe.
"Not long now. Don't worry, I know a short cut. Don't worry about the meter, it's forever playing up. We'll sort out a price when we get there.
"I didn't always used to a taxi driver, you know. I used to be unemployed, so I did. I remember a good lot of years ago me and a mate of mine were really hard up and we decided to indulge in a spot of grave robbing. I regret it now, but times were hard and needs must. You'll probably not believe me, but one night when we tried to cut the ring off some oul dear she ended up coming back from the dead. You can laugh, but I'm telling you, that's how it happened.
"Did you know I used to be great mates with Charles Brownlow. You know the one with the house and the big pool. It was me who dug that. All on my own. I used this big flat shovel I bought over in Portydown. I called it a Lurgan spade. How ironic is that?
“Here we are. That’ll be 80 poun' on the nose. What do you mean you don’t have any money on you?”

Forlorn father
Sunday was my first Father's Day as an imaginary dad.
Wolfie was over in Scotland with imaginary friends of ours and their imaginary son Amadeus. I didn't hear from him all weekend. He never called, he never sent a Father's Day card, not even a text.
I phoned him on Sunday night and he said those words all delusional dads fear - 'You're not my real imaginary dad'.
He explained that someone else had invented him before I did. I was gutted. I'd been rejected by someone from the land of make believe.
So there you have it. Wolfgang has gone to live with his real imaginary dad and I've found a way of writing him out of this column. It's for the best - it was all getting a bit surreal.
Now it's time to convert his imaginary playroom back into a spare bedroom so our new lodger can move in. His name's Jack Bauer, but for some reason he's insisting we call him John Smith. I hope he's not going to be trouble.

Carry On Dictator
On Monday North Korean dictator Kim Jong Il lifted his censorship of national TV to allow his people to watch a live broadcast of the North Korea vs Portugal game. And what happens? The national team only go and lose 7-0 to the Portuguese. The farcical situation is not unlike something out of lost script of 'Carry On Dictator'.
In our house we watch very little 'live' TV. When I get home the first thing I do is flick on the Sky Planner and see what I've got stored to watch. I'll start viewing a saved programme and if I don't like the look of it after about five minutes I'll delete it. Then I'll move on to the next show with my thumb hovering over the yellow button which could signal its demise should any of the programme's contributors do anything to evoke my wrath.
Old Kim Jong Il isn't the most popular of tyrants, but I fear Kim and I might not be that different when it comes to censoring television.
On the subject of tyrannical rule, just this week there was a serious breach of human rights at my parents' house. Dad was deprived, not of his right to life, his right to liberty or his right to free speech, but of his right to 'Lewis'. Before he'd even had a chance to set eyes on the TV detective show he'd recorded, mum had deleted it from the Sky Planner. Erased it from memory. It was as if Lewis had never existed.
I suppose it could have been a lot worse - she could have taken the series link off 'Last of the Summer Wine'. Even Kim Jong Il wouldn't be that heartless.

Namedropping
My congratulations this week go to Graeme McDowell - not only for raising the profile of Northern Irish golf with his win at the US Open, but more importantly for striking a blow for all those, like myself, who spell their first name the vegetarian way - without the 'ham'.

Weekly teaser
The answer to last week’s teaser was: the man is pointing at his son in the picture. When he says 'that man's father is my father's son' he's referring to himself. Therefore 'that man' is his son.
Here's this week's puzzle for you to solve: Professor Brightspark lives in Lurgan. He drove to Belfast one morning to give a lecture at Queen's University. When Professor Brightspark finished his lecture, he got in his car and continued driving in the same direction that he drove earlier, and yet managed to be home in Lurgan before nightfall. How was this possible?

Load of junk
The junk emails I’ve been getting lately are out of control. Here’s one I got last week...
Dear Beloved,
I am at the end of the road, and about to donate a huge sum of money through you. I promise that your assistance would benefit you greatly. This email was sent via my personal assistant (Tambry Driskell). Please contact me for more information, using my private email address.
Remain Blessed,
Mrs Helen Keith Abery
A number of questions spring to mind. If she’s at the end of the road why doesn’t she just call round with the money instead of sending an email? How much is her personal assistant getting paid to send these stupid emails? Why does she want to give all her money to a complete stranger, wouldn’t it be better to give it to her overworked personal assistant? And, last but not least, how can a lady be called both Helen and Keith?
Then I got this missive, apparently from the FBI...
FROM FBI OFFICE GET BACK TO US IMMEDIATELY IF YOU DONT WANT TO GO TO JAIL?
What ever happened to agents bursting through your door with the handguns cocked saying, ‘FBI - you need to come with us, sir’? These days they just send an email.
Fed up with being bombarded with these nonsensical ramblings, I’ve decided to come up with my own junk email. It goes a little something like this...
Alright mate,
I think it’s time I gave you back that tenner you leant me at university. Don’t tell me you don’t remember. We were at that party where the fella swallowed the goldfish and the girl from the faculty of science was sick into the ice bucket. Anyway, I’ve come into a bit of money and I thought it was about time I sorted out all my debts. All I need is your bank details and I’ll send you a money transfer straight away. Oh, and if you’d be so kind as to send me your home address, employment history and the names and ages of any dependents that would be awesome.
Keep ‘er lit,
David Sarah Vuvuzela

Happy birthday Jamesy
I’m going to take this opportunity to wish my mate James Stewart a happy birthday. He turns 30 next Tuesday.
You may remember James as the man who lost the keys to his new car on a rollercoaster in Blackpool.
In secondary school James achieved notoriety when reading the role of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. In James' adaptation, the Jewish moneylender asked for repayment of a 'pound of fish' - an altogether more reasonable demand than the 'pound of flesh' in the original story.
Many have admired James' athletic physique. His lithe figure allows him to fit through a wire coathanger with ease and he has honed the ability to shut his body down at will. Usually after three beers.
Danger is James’ middle name though he really should get the ‘d’ dropped by deed poll. To say James has a lot of pent up aggression would be an understatement. If you want to sample his ire just tune his radio to Cool FM.
James is a master of disguise and has been known to assume the identities of Brian Hall, Nigel Reid and Miss Marple to name but a few of his covers.
James' last year in his twenties was christened 'The Year of Anarchy'. During this year James went off the rails a bit and developed a terrible addiction... to The Caravan Channel. It's 166 on Sky if anyone's interested.
James was the best man at my wedding and as you may have gathered I've never had the chance to get my own back. Until now!

Weekly teaser
The answer to last week’s teaser was: £13,212. Here's this week's teaser. A man points at a photograph and says, 'Brothers and sisters have I none but that man’s father is my father’s son'. Who is he pointing at in the photo?