THREE - GROWING PAINS

Time flies, aeroplanes crash - our young 'erbert under the spotlight was growing up fast.  At one year Nobby got his first tooth, sported a mop of thick black hair and had a disturbing trait to neglect all his toys and be quite happy chasing a paper ball all over the lime green and chocolate oil cloth found covering the living room floor of Nobson Towers.  At two he reluctantly abandoned the breast, weighed a good 2 stone 3 pounds and was a keen daily devourer of 3 bottles of Bisto Gravy, 7 jars of Clapps Chicken Flavoured Baby Food and 1 bowl of Nesco Ice Cream.  He still had an obsession with all things round and knocked lumps out of his dad's now balding head when he found him snoozing after a good old fashioned Sunday dinner.   When Nobby's third birthday came he was referred to as a 'Bonny Lad', he used to love sucking on an uncooked lump of Chiver's Jelly and was seen roaming around the house, usually clad in a Mr Ed T-Shirt, a pair of Pinky and Perky shorts (no reference to his testicles intended) and a pair of blue, hand knitted booties.  His hair had grown at a rate of knots, his mum Hilda attempted to take up the role of in-house, budget barber and used the trifle bowl to shape the hirsute barnet - alas Nobby looked like a right twat!

On the day of Nobby's 3rd birthday, on the 4th of May 1964, a small family gathering had been arranged to celebrate the occasion.  Nobby's one-eyed Uncle George came and gave Nobby a toy tool kit, Auntie Edna and her hunchback husband brought a toy truck with building blocks and their introverted son kindly left his bedroom for the first time in 6 months and donated a King Kong colouring book with wax crayons.  Alas Nobby had no grandparents as they were killed in the 2nd World War.  Mum's parents were blown to bits whilst purchasing some Saturday night fish and chips at Greasy Lens in Wycombe and his Dad's entire family disappeared within deepest Borneo whilst on an expedition looking for the mythical 3 Nutted Wildman.

On the day under the dubious spotlight, the proud parents made a Bird's Trifle but the candles placed in the creamy topping sank without trace as the consistency was more akin to dishwater rather than something thick and edible.  William did manage to fish out one candle with his delving arse-scratching fingers but was given a dig in the ribs and a stern look and abandoned the other 2 waxy structures with a sheepish smile.  The damaged delicacy was served, 'Happy Birthday' rung out as the radio was lowered and 'Don't Throw Your Love Away' by The Searchers was posted into the background.  Now it was time for the present from Mum and Dad.  Nobby sat all agog, the occasion was getting overwhelming but the nerve held and his chubby fingers reached out for the proffered prezzie.  Receiving with wide-eyed anticipation and primitive understanding his chubby digits went to rapid work and the papery flesh of the neatly wrapped package was torn asunder.  It may come as no surprise to all reading this that the contents of the parcel was a Cudley Tigers baby football kit (complete with green flashed boots) and a deflated leather football that only needed inflating to bring weeks of chaos and a life of great joy.  Within minutes of opening his present Nobby was stripped bare and duly dressed in his kit, Dad went to his shed and beneath his home brew manuals and the odd, rather questionable magazine, found his bicycle pump.   The ball was engorged with air and given to our young budding sports star.  Carefully forced into a pose with hands on hips and one foot on the ball, photographs were taken.  When the mini-photo shoot was done mum picked up the ball and held it out for Nobby to hoof.  The plea to perform was understood, Nobby advanced and swung a chubby shank, the ball stayed untouched, but Mrs Nobson's left knocker didn't half take a belting and the merry air suddenly took on a more sombre tone.

The party ended with obscenities flying, a tanned arse for our tit-kicking 'erbert and a falling out between the relatives.   As a result of this accident Mrs Nobson had to have her left nipple removed 2 years later, the operation took place 2 weeks before Nobby started school - now that was an interesting time to say the least.

TWO - THE SQUIRMING YEARS

6 months had passed since Nobby Nobson had graced the unpredictable stage of the world, it had been a trying time for the parents, patience was wearing thin, the initial novelty had packed its bags long ago, buggered off to a seaside resort and was replaced by the problematical figure of frustration.  Mrs Nobson was in a state - her hair was perpetually unkempt, her fingers were darkly stained due to her increasing tobacco reliance and her bluing nipples permanently throbbed whilst hanging in depressive lethargy from her bloated and blue veined mammaries.  Her rear and legs constantly ached, her shoulders sagged and the only pleasure she now got from life was the late-night 10 minute cuppa and a budget roll-up stood on the back door step thinking of less flustered days - she was pretty sure family life shouldn't be like this. 

Mr Nobson however was faring well, he was up with the lark 5 days a week, out to work before his son began hollering for tit-based nutrients and back home for an hour in the evening for a quick bite to eat before he popped down the local pub, namely the The Sow and Scrotum.  It was in this haven he indulged in the working man's art of talking bollocks, playing darts and offering bigoted opinions on the footballing world.  Would Brian Clough's quiff get any bigger and would he add to his Sunderland goal scoring tally?  Would Blackpool's Jimmy Armfield make the latest England line-up and forget about worshipping Satan?   Would Don Howe maintain his consistency in the rear ranks of West Brom and avoid the humbling realms of baldness before the age of 30?  It was all up for debate whilst pints of Watney's Red Barrel lubed the larynx and many a bonse was scratched with contemplative care.   On Saturdays our studious shirker watched Cudley Tigers compete in the Midlands East Division 2, had a few jars after the match that more often than not resulted in a late night and a foul-mouthed cussing from his rankled lady as he staggered through the door whilst both pie-eyed and incapable down below.

During the month of an inclement November it was on one of those weekend night's a momentous occasion occurred.  Billy Nobson arrived home tiddly, he needed a widdly and so, after negotiating the front door with its key-hole problems and with pants partly lowered, the stairway was mastered and the comfort of the khazi was duly found.  The leakage was had, but due to a wave of nausea the thought of pulling up the trousers was not an option so, with trollies descended and ill-fitting underpants leaving one teste exposed, our alcho-hero made his way to the bedroom.  On faux tiptoes the darkened room of slumbering promise was entered with bated breath, Billy’s best drinking sports jacket was flung to the toy-strewn floor with loose change and keys flying this way and that, his shirt was ripped off to the pinging escort of popping buttons and the rasping of tearing underarms - this was a stumbling silhouette to behold.  Breathless, our befuddled sot reached out uncertain digits and, with an inane snigger escaping his chapped lips, he found the secure edge of the hard-worked mattress.  A big heave, a sigh of relief and a complete collapse onto the awaiting springs of sweet sleep inducing safety, goodbye oh swirling, sickening world, hello to the land of 'Z's'.  The realm of drunken dreams was expected, but all promise was blown away by the yells of a woken baby, a baby needing the comfort of his mum's snoozing warmth after another heavy night of tummy trouble, a baby once away with the fairies in the mysterious unknown world of soporific Heaven, now in the wide awake bog-lands of hungry Hell.  It was a shame that the peregrination into slumbering pastures of perfection was smashed wide apart - shit does indeed happen and has no respect for age whatsoever.

 And so, as pisspot carcass fell upon the tiny tot, an impish reacting leg shot out and caught something oval, hairy and dangling from a rather sweaty area of Mr Nobson's framework.  Chaos ensued, Mrs Nobson screamed sweet merry Hell as she bolted upright in bed with bloodshot eyes agog. The squashed sprog tore the air a new arse and turned an unholy shade of crimson and a hopping and agonised Billy Nobson clutched his groin, cradling his bruised-to-be conker and damning the Gods of Justice to a life of eternal toil.  On the positive side though, tonight was the night that Nobby Nobson kicked his first ball, it was the start of a long and wayward journey - watch this space!

ONE - ENTER YOUNG NOBSON

4 May 1961.  The Royal Bremner Hospital in Wincheston was being battered by an unruly storm.  The rain came down in spiteful spears, the wind blew like a demonic fart bursting from the buttocks of Hell and the chill in the air cut into the flesh with relished venom.   And yet, atop the external tumult an agonising scream rent the air from the 4th floor of Maternity Ward 10 accompanied by language not even fit for the lugs of ye olde Beelzebub himself.  Within the stated room, that was quickly steaming up despite the opened windows, a scene of unruly embarrassment was taking place, especially for one Hilda Nobson of 223 Fairfax Grove, Cudley.  Being held prostate with maternal smock raised and legs held wide, a brace of trainee midwives tugged at the spongy bloody structure of a new born head that was vulgarly bursting from Mrs Nobson's rather tender and somewhat grotesque private quarters.  Striving with all their might to pull a fully-developed baby into the big wide world  the midwives took hold, tugged, lost grip in the glutinous mush and fell base over apex into the onlooking eyes of the rather ruffled Dr Flange (an irritable customer indeed with a perversion for all things 'gynaecological' - it isn't a good combination).  Several times this event occurred, each time the midwives were left with ruddy, perspiring faces and great fistfuls of dark, matted pubic air and of course, general gunk.

'Tis no good' stated the rather perturbed Doc, 'we must go for the full on ear grip and, to put it quite blatantly - pull like buggery'.

With a resurgence of hope, a quick wipe of the hands and a look of steeled determination the two tuggers took up their positions and grabbed a lug apiece.  They looked at the doctor for the countdown, all the while Mrs Nobson tried to squirm into an agony free position and ease the uncomfortable lump from 'down below'.  An occasional spasm from the sprog brought more wrenching hollers, the baby was getting restless, time was now of the essence.

'And after 3', issued the rather wound-up Doctor, ' 1 and 2 and 3 - pull, pull, pull ladies, give it all you have got girls'.

Meanwhile...

In Waiting Room 4, a Mr William Nobson the 3rd was on his 4th untipped Woodbine of the hour, had already become cuticle-redundant and had developed a facial spasm of the most distressed order.  With each holler the twitch became worse, with every minute that passed our waiting father-to-be seemed to visibly lose weight and stature.   At 5ft 3 inches these were dangerous times indeed but the creator of the cacophonous calamity above his noggin was not one to crumble easily and as he puffed and paced and squeezed his sphincter he stood firm and awaited some good, relieving  news.  For 2 hours he hung around in an anxious stupor as the inhuman oral expulsion grew in intensity and whilst the Old Spice underarm deodorant he had applied that morning grew less and less effective as the furrows in the brow and the clouds of noxious tobacco smoke became and more more noticeable.

Suddenly, and in fact quite ominously, a silence came, the storm outside had abated, the horror-show up above had seemingly died a death - Mr Nobson caught his breath with fag in mouth, stood quite still for several minutes before the cigarette burnt down and singed his puckered lips.  A spit of the dimp, a somewhat mild expletive given to the circumstances, a stamped foot and then a cry - a cry of a new borne babe, a cry of fresh life, a cry from the seeded creation of the proud father to be.  Mr Nobson stood upright, his chest swelled and when the nurse arrived to congratulate him on the birth of his baby boy, he duly wept like a good un' - ooh the big daft sod.