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!