Moobs

Staying with us at the moment are my sister-in-law and her three boys (all 6 or younger). I am their “favourite uncle”. Given that they only have two that is not an impossibly difficult accolade to win. I secured the title by spending my time with them throwing them in the air and tickling them. A simple but effective strategy.

The evening they arrived I was out entertaining clients. At 6 am the following morning I awoke, head thumping with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. The three boys were scratching at the door like cats. “Is the tickle man there?” “Uncle Moobs, get up now please”. I stuffed a pillow into each year and groaned. Small boys are not so easily put off. David, age 4, is particularly persistent. Having winkled me out of bed, he stood in front of me looking at me seriously. As I was plainly unwilling to perform my avuncular duty I required goading into it.

David: You’re fat Uncle Moobs

Moobs: I cannot deny it

David: Hmm … you’re fat and bald!

Moobs: Steady on old chap that’s a bit harsh

David’s Mum: David!! COME HERE NOW!

David: Why?

DM: I want to lecture you.

David pads away in his slippers

DM: When you stay in someone’s house you must be nice to them. Go and tell Uncle Moobs that he is a handsome prince.

David pads back and fixes me with a level stare

David: Uncle Moobs you are … a fat balding princess!

Having found out that my Gran was a study-neglecting boatie amazon I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to discover that my grandfather was a 24 carat dude. Just look at the way his pipe smoulders with attitude. Tragically born too early for the boy band success that would undoubtedly have been his in a later generation he had to settle for the Rotary Club.

This epitome of the Edwardian Englishman turns out to be Welsh. He hid it all his life.

Many a man has a sport fantasy. Mine is playing for Chelsea. I know this is true because I occasionally literally dream about it. Unfortunately, my subconscious is distressingly frank. In my dreams I do not score the winner at Wembley. Instead, I train with the squad and stand at the back thinking “bugger, how the heck did I get into this mess?” I then miskick and foul until the reserve team coach suggests I go take a shower. It’s barely worth falling asleep for that kind of nonsense.

P was a junior international for Scotland in Lacrosse. I’m in awe of her (that being only one of many reasons). If I tell her it must be amazing to have represented one’s country she looks at me pityingly and explains that there weren’t that many junior lacrosse players to choose from. So?!? If I could invent a sport and get it internationally recognised I would do so if it meant the merest hint of that kind of glory.

If I can’t play for Chelsea (and I’m assured that I can’t) the one thing that lingers in my fat-clogged heart as an impossible dream is rowing in the Boat Race. I could bore for Britain (is that a recognised sport?) on the topic of just how extraordinarily fit and dedicated you need to be to row in that race. I did some rowing “back in the day” and indeed was once in a crew which received some coaching from Sean Bowden, Oxford’s coach. He was so terrifying and the regime so tough that I promptly retired.

The peak of my career was rowing against Steve Redgrave’s crew in the Head of the River (a race rowed on the Thames in the reverse direction to the Boat Race). My crew gave his a decent run for its money. He was rowing for Leander and came second whereas my crew came … about 600th.

Chez Moobs we are split P being Light Blue to my Dark Blue. Following the time-honoured tradition between us, Oxford’s stupendous win today means:

(1) I am the best person in the house; and

(2) I get to have my wicked way with her.