Over-Risque in Lower Risby

                                                             The wildlife vet didn't want to be photographed...

I keep my onstage material clean.

As the booker from Bocking (I know, sorry…) said to me, over the phone, ‘Thank for you for the reassuring guarantee your material is squeaky clean.’ See? Squeaky clean. ‘And thank you in advance for bowdlerising your Royal Marine chum…’

I had, as I do, forewarned of one potential issue when I’m telling about that Royal Marine chum, Stacks.

He and I met in Basra; and after I let slip that I was being paid to entertain troops there, I saw he was giving me side-eye like a rhinoceros having an enema.

I said, ‘They have to pay us so they can insure our lives. Can you imagine getting a letter saying re going out to Iraq or Afghanistan, we in all honestly can only guarantee your safety up to ninety percent?’

He came back with, ‘No, I can’t imagine. But then, the MoD wouldn’t likely send me a letter saying re me being on the front line in Iraq they in all honesty couldn’t guarantee my safety up to minus buggery percent.’

Back to the bowdlerising business with the Bocking booker (sorry, I know…)

He said, ‘Our issue is, we will have a former Dean of Christchurch with us on that night. His Grace has informed us he would countenance a…a…if you will…buggery. At a push.’ Oopsy, now. ‘And we hope you won’t feel the need to be any more near any knuckle than that.’

I didn’t. And don’t.

However, during my highly raucous talk to the Risby WI, a member asked me why I had gone out to Iraq and Afghanistan to entertain; and I said, ‘Money. But also a realisation that squaddies in war-zones would be the toughest crowd ever, and all later audiences by comparison would be easier to handle.’

‘And have they been?’ the member asked. She had very thin, precisely curved gums.

‘For the most part,’ I said. ‘However…’

One Saturday, Café de Paris front of house somehow let in a Dagenham stag-do. I pulled the best man up onstage. 

When I introduced him as (accurately, mind) Joey Essex’s chubby uncle, the crowd saw and guffawed. He responded by removing (and brandishing at me) his prosthetic leg. Which had them in (perhaps a tad squeamish) uproar; and I knew they must be thinking I couldn’t possibly have anything to say here by way of a put down.

Except — I had previously experienced a similar loosenable leg scenario, when I gigged at the Marmalader’s Club annual supper. At the time, having nothing, I faked a laugh, clapping as the retired Commodore performed a smoochy waltz with his leg cradled to his breast.

Mortified, I was.

Later I thought of the perfect line. But of course could never have the opportunity to use it, surely — when would this same scenario ever crop up again?

Oh, me of little faith.

I could — oh, yes — use that line now, two decades and more later, on this particular Saturday night at Café de Paris, directed at Joey Essex’s chubby uncle…

At this point, retelling the stag-do story to the Risby WI, I realised the line in question was far from being suitably bowdlerised. 

‘Oh, now, ladies…this is going to be a bit of filth too far,’ I said. ‘So, shall we not?’

The ladies eagerly gestured for me to continue.

Alrighty then…

‘I said to Joey Essex’s chubby uncle: I doubt you could grab your middle one. It being in-growing.’

Well, let’s just be thankful the ex-Dean of Christchurch wasn’t there to witness me best a Royal Marine’s buggery.

Sorry, I know…

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