I pen this at precisely 00.53 am on Wednesday, January 1st, 2003. How sad is that? Yesterday’s man. Not invited anywhere, anymore. Ex Shamble. Downhill all the way from here, obviously. Furthermore, I regret that we must begin this new year of optimism, hope and expectation, with a heartfelt complaint.

Making our stately progress home from a truly excellent New Year’s Eve party at the Sports and Social Club, the good lady and self tarried a moment at our celebrated duck pond (when I say “our” duck pond, dear reader, I refer of course, not to our duck pond but to “the” duck pond, lest you think that we have ideas above our station) to consider life as it has treated us thus far. In the case of the good lady, she felt further moved to enquire, flippantly, of our feathered friends of the canard persuasion, floating serenely in the moonlight on unruffled waters, whether they had also enjoyed their evening and noting that they were still “up.”

“Enjoyed our evening! Still up!”

Something here did not seem quite right to me. Putting it down to Dibby’s guest ale, I did a double take. “S’cuse me, dear, but did you talk?”

“Talk. Of course I effing talked” No, not the good lady, the duck. “Enjoying your evening. Still up. Pardon me, squire, but have you ever tried sleeping with all these sodding lights blazing all night. Me and my mates haven’t had a wink since before Christmas Eve.”

“Some prat from what they call the pudding or pumpkin club or sump’n sailed out here without as much as a by your leave and only strung these bleedin’ lights all over our island. Sod me, it’s been like Las Vegas ever since. If it’s not the lights it’s all them nerds out for a stroll, all hours of the day and night, just like you two. “Ooh, ain’t they lovely.” “Lovely, I’d like to go round their house and stick a thirteen amp plug up their island.” “Talking of which, have you ever put water and electricity together? No, I bet you haven’t. The Pumpkin Club have. Result. Cheap crispy fried in every chinkey in Hitchin.”

“Don’t happy new year me. Have you seen the bags under my eyes? Have you seen what the lack of sleep is doing to my complexion?”

On that note the good lady and self decided that retreat was the better course and left our feathered friends to another sleepless night . Well, you would, wouldn’t you, what with Dibby’s ale and talking ducks.

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However, if that was a low point, there have been many high points over the last year, and, indeed, the festive season.

Two Bounce has left at last although he still persists in returning every second week or so when he’s not lording it in St. Lucia or some other exotic location. Gym Babwe Low’s legs have been under the doctor for most of the year and so his appearances have been few and far between, come to think of it, not unlike his birdies on the green sward. Nudge Nudge Wallace has also been a bit crook of late but that’s only temporary. He’ll be back soon, belting out Mustang Sally again, and again, and again. Don the Dook’s tennis elbow has also seen him relegated to the sub’s bench for most of the season. I confess, there’s many a Tuesday night when I phone round when I feel like a Premiership manager. All these highly paid professionals out on the injured list. Sometimes I even have to turn out myself.

Hang on, hang on, I thought these were meant to be high points, get my drift? Fair do’s looking back, you have a point. But what about the General? Is he or is he not an inspiration to us all? We shan’t dwell upon his misfortunes over the year but his general (if you’ll excuse the pun) attitude of “oh, it’s all just a bloody inconvenience” speaks volumes. His award of the Two Bounce Trophy for Prat Of The Year was a heartfelt thank you from all his Prat mates for his immense contribution to village life.

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Then there was the Christmas Bash. A new concept for Prats, celebrate something at the proper time. Twenty two souls assembled at the Fox for the do, including Clapped Out Bristow and his, as ever, radiant lady, Angela, hard from the birth that very morning of their fourth, yes fourth, God how time flies, grandchild. A good night was had by all, OK most, all right some. One or two? Oh come on, somebody enjoyed it ‘cos they told me so. Can’t remember who it was, though.

The, for the Prats, masterpiece of organisation that was the Secret Santa seemed to work out OK and everyone fell foul of a present. Actually some people got two but it’s better to err on the safe side, eh? The best daft hat competition was won by a lady with a very questionable creation. Cap Canaveral – I don’t think so. The highlight of the evening however, was a lengthy but inspired lecture on Churchill by Don the Dook. What it had to do with presenting the General with the Prat of the Year Trophy will, no doubt, become obvious with repeated study of the video. No, Don, I jest.

Thanks, by the way, are very much due to Angela Boone for booking the venue and organising the event. Indeed, between you and me, I think we have the makings of a new social secretary here. Not an easy task, following as it does, in the footsteps of our previous incumbent, Tiggy the dog, who, you will have noted, had the advantage of two extra feet.

Continuing in the upbeat mood, Jonty and Delboy Frost. What can I say? Stalwarts to a man. Without them there would be no Prats. Rain, hail, sleet or snow they’re there. Let’s hear it for the unsung heroes. Also on the good news front, it is with great pleasure that we can announce the comeback of that legendary squash player of yesteryear but still capable of teaching us a thing or two, noneother than Mr. Peter Warner. New man, Phil Ahern has also graced the courts on occasion when he can get his act together, along with Glaxo’s finest, John Tite and Steve Goodman.

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The next event on our festive frolic was the Triathlon Miracle. When I say miracle I mean miracle. Shrines will be built, candles will be burned, Saints will be created. See, it’s all down to my sciatica. Oh yes, my trapped sciatic nerve. Oh, I know I never mention it, I know I just suffer in silence, I soldier on without a moment’s respite from the pain, day or night. You never hear me complain though.

It all started with the Pirton Players My Fair Lady when we stage crew had to hump that blasted chesterfield on and off the stage about six times every performance, not to mention the rehearsals beforehand. I felt it go on the second night. Twang, just like Ziggy’s top e-string. Since then I’ve been a martyr to the back. But I never mention it. I even went to the doctor about it, or rather, he came to me ‘cos I couldn’t walk. “Sod all I can do” was his helpful prognosis. Try an Osteopath.

Now I didn’t know much about the Osteo bit the “path” element soon became very familiar to me, linked as it usually is to the word ”psycho”.

Anyway, off I trots to the Osteo. (Oh the wounds of the written word, more deadly than the sword. Trot. Would that I could, but you never hear me complain.) This particular osteopath transpired to be a rather pleasant lady, on the surface, Clare by name. Further identification is being withheld pending the legal proceedings.

Right. This is not physiotherapy. This is also not, shall we say, massage, although on the face of it there might be some similarities, allegedly. You lie on a bed, scantily clad, while a nice lady manipulates your body. Oh, Oh, I’ve done it now. I can just hear the boys. “At last, after all these years of the Newsletter he’s finally getting down to the juicy bits”. Just like we told Don the Dook “it’ll never sell without a few good earthy bits”

Wrong. First there was Vlad the Impaler then the Spanish Inquisition. The Gestapo was smartly followed by the KGB, then we had Osteopathy. The principle is that they break every bone in your body and do so by applying leverage, using their bodyweight as the force to drive the Law of Moments. Now this woman must have been about fifteen stone and that proved to be the beginning of my demise. Contorted in the most inhuman positions, the force was applied again and again until I had barely a breath left in my body. What breath I did have was not well used. With a despairing gasp I remember uttering the fateful phrase “you know, you could do with losing a little weight” Wrong again. At no time, anywhere in the world and under no circumstances whatsoever, do you tell a woman she needs to lose weight.

I vaguely recall looking up into eyes now contorted, red and glaring. “Right, sir. We’ve only just begun.” You prat I remember thinking, why did you say that? Before finally passing out I have an equally vague recollection of a disembodied voice croak, and this proved to be my final downfall. “Barbarian. Bloody alternative medicine. You’re only one step up from a bloody witch.” You bring it on yourself sometimes, don’t you. But what was the result of all this torment and agony?

Zilch. Niente. After two days recovery, the back was as bad as ever.  "Listen, there’s a good match on the box in a minute. Where does the miracle come in?” The Triathlon, that’s where.

Jonty had the idea of reviving the Prats Christmas Triathlon, where we meet at a village inn then walk to Shillington to visit their watering holes for lunch before repairing back here. 28th December. The date is still etched on my memory.

What I put it down to is this. I don’t know if you have ever walked across the fields from Wright’s Farm to Shillington but, the soil is, let’s say, a tad “claggy”. After about ten minutes it has encrusted your boots so that they look like rugby balls, big, soggy, heavy rugby balls, and you feel like a deep-sea diver walking in treacle. This with Mrs. Hamilton McLeod setting a spanking pace up front. Well I put it down to the weight of the feet acting like traction on the back, or, it was the Miracle. Either way, I have hardly had a twinge since. Straight up.

Good, eh? Yeah, cool, but what has it got to do with squash? Nothing really. I just thought you might like to know. All life is here and I haven’t got much to do at nights now except write this garbage. Aaah! It’s bin night and it hasn’t been emptied since before Christmas.

Must dash

See yah Friday

Brian