Paul Spillane: Nuts n Bolts

I don't know who she is, but she's probably right

I am currently residing in Ireland at Her Majesty’s pleasure (My Mother) and amazingly just when I thought my number was up and I was on the scrap heap of life I managed to get myself a bird and two excellent offers of easy money; could things be going any better? I’m over the initial lull one falls into after a great holiday and now, like Jodie Marsh I’m ready to get my head down wherever possible to earn a few quid.

Upon my return I thought money was going to be a problem and I had investigated how much I could sell one of my kidneys for (apparently my kidneys combined are worth less than the kidneys you get in a pie at your local chippy), I needn’t have worried.
First off an email was received from a bloke called Igor who apparently needs my help to get 25 million dollars out of his country and if I play my cards right I’m in for a right chunk of it, get in yeah!
Just when I thought things couldn’t be going better financially I only go and get another offer, this time from a solicitors office in Nigeria who are having trouble locating some chap who has copped a decent inheritance, again all I need to do is assist them and I will be taken care of, see, karma works.

The bird thing is a little different, her name is Boris. Now ‘Boris’ is not to be confused with a ‘Geoff’. A ‘Geoff’ as we know has a meat n two veg where there should only be smooth lawn; Boris on the other hand is a racing pigeon who has been either
Blown of course.
Got herself injured.
Is a slack arse that decided to stop in Ireland to be fed and watered before finding pastures new, we already have much in common.

Boris is not wating her time whilst staying here

Last week in London I caught up with many friends who responded most heroically to my current financial status by buying me drinks and the odd meal. My mate Steve even had the courage to put a roof over my head for a week as well as let me abuse his travel card, cheers fella.

I also had the joy of attending the christening of one of my cousins new born. Little Emma was the star of the show and even her uncle dropping on her head couldn’t stop her from smiling away to all and sundry.
The funniest tale of the day involved my cousins husband Steve, my cousin Danny and my good self. Discussing many matters over a few ales Danny informed us that he had recently had 6 bolts inserted into the base of his penis, I kid you not.
You can probably imagine the scepticism with which Steve and I greeted this remark and after a bit of to and thro we agreed to inspect the recently impaled member. We convened at the gents and Danny proceeded to get out his tackle and show us the much discussed metalwork.
Had Steve and I given it much thought we may have realised that have such a number of bolts inserted you need a rather big todger (I for instance could barley fit a pin head through mine) so we were as shocked as much by the size of the thing not just the boltage. One can only imagine what the bloke who entered the toilet from the public bar thought (we were in a private function room), when he was greeted by the sight of Danny waving his pierced member around like a light sabre whilst Steve and I both had our chins buried into the palms of our hands inspecting the show.
All four of us immediately proceeded to use the urinals in utter silence. In fact had one of Danny’s bolts fallen out it would have deafened us.

Obviously not Danny's but you get the idea

Sadly I missed one of the great nights on the drinker’s social calendar, Brigadier General Night at Sandown racecourse. Anyone who’s anyone that’s involved in gambling is there, normally as a guest of Betfair (or like me on the coat tails of someone who is invited by Betfair).
‘He who is blessed’ made the mistake of inviting a few of us a couple of years ago to the VIP box courtesy of Betfair, in fact when he found out all of us he had invited were going to turn up he didn’t arrive until the last race, which was a wise move, we were hammered beyond belief, luckily so were the other 20 odd thousand race goers that night. I spoke to him about this years event and it was the same as ever, 20,000 drunk race goers whilst he’s picking 25-1 winners every other race.

The reason I couldn’t make it was I flew, like Boris, to my parents house here in Ireland for some much needed love and attention, I got the love but cunningly my folks had booked to be away for most of most visit so the attention was less than I’m used to.
Now I have a great relationship with my Mum but I feel my blog may have opened her eyes to the fact that sometimes I can be, err a little irresponsible.
They went away for two days leaving Boris and I here to fend for ourselves. She left a list of instructions that if I had actually read would have taken me until the time they got back to finish.
Reminders such as ‘Paul, lock the doors’, ‘Paul don’t leave the oven on’, ‘Paul make sure the washing machine door is closed if you use it’, ‘Paul remember to get dressed when you get up’. I knew she was worried when she left a note for Boris saying ‘Boris, please look after my son’.
Still before she left she cooked me my favourite meal of chops and roast potatoes, there’s nothing in the world tastier than your Mum’s cooking. My sister and brother in law came to visit me on Saturday and we had a great night, in fact to quote Ailish “Dude our parents have deserted us, we have to raid their wine cellar”,
I got the looks, she got the brains.

Possible more good news on the horizon, I fly off to Barcelona this week for a meeting that could, if I’m lucky, lead to a little work during the summer, but like a one legged high jumper, lets aim the bar low.
If that does not work out I will be stuck in Spain with the beach a 5 minute walk away and a little borrowed money from my parents in my pocket, every cloud etc. I wonder if I can sign on?
Well I’m off to feed Boris some salted cashews and top up her drink, I hope she’s not one of these fussy birds who insist on ice in their Magners.

Here are some holiday snaps from the last 6 months for your amusement.

PERTH

'Tighter than a submarines door' was how one of his friends described the ever cheerful Scott. Here he is wearing the latest WBA top not realising that green and gold are Australia's colours which led him to being called 'Ladyboy' by one Aussie wag

Myself, Thommo, Flip and a more appropriately dressed Scott, get in yeah!!! Great chaps to watch the 3rd test with were we handed back the urn (on loan!)

MELBOURNE