SEASIDE PEER

I've just been down to Brighton,

I went there to play bridge.

It was peeing down with rain

And colder than a fridge.

Despite the dreadful weather

It's a very lovely place.

I got to my hotel room 

And then unpacked my case.

I looked out of the window

But saw no sand or sea

Just the lady in the next door flat.

Who was staring back at me.

I quickly turned my back on her,

Went out and locked the door.

Though we'd had some food an hour ago

I fancied a bit more.

Later, having had my fill

Of chips and battered plaice,

I went back to my bedroom, 

Brushed my teeth and washed my face.

Then, having eaten all that food

I sat upon the loo,

Adopting the position

For what I had to do.

Given my situation,

Imagine my surprise, 

When I looked up, across the room

To see that lady's eyes.

The moral of this sorry tale

Is very plain to see

Make sure you draw the curtains

When you sit to poo or wee.

WHERE'S MY GUILLOTINE?

I've just returned from a most wonderful stay in Annecy, France. This event was part of the twinning between Cheltenham and Annecy and was an exchange between Annecy and Cheltenham bridge clubs. 

Our hosts had been over to stay with us last year and it was lovely to meet them again and be the recipients of their very generous hospitality. We English were a group of eleven.

There were bridge competitions of course, plus various excursions to see the sights both of the beautiful town of Annecy and also of the amazing Savoie region with its snow-capped mountains and stunning scenery.

Of course there were also numerous meals to enjoy and plenty of wine flowing freely. On these occasions, there were sometimes as many as ninety people present. We sang, we told stories, we made lots of new friends and had one hell of a good time.

I couldn't help feeling though, if the citizens of these two great countries could get on so well together, how come the politicians can't do the same?

Now, where did I leave my guillotine?

JUST PULLING YOUR LEG

Hooray the sun's out again. That means my legs are too. I don't get enough opportunities to wear my shorts - but then there are some who would disagree.

Rest assured that I can do knobbly knees with the best of them. Mine are right up there with the Chippendales. No, no, not the male strippers, the furniture - we're talking Chippendale chairs here.

Being aware that it's best not to frighten the children, I am careful where I display my legs. As far as public areas are concerned, the beach and the boat are pretty safe but there are other places where I feel that my legs could be unwelcome.

For instance, although the normal position for the bridge club ladies' eyebrows is raised, I have no wish to be the cause of their elevation.

Indeed, it is when I see other males arriving at the club with their knobblies on show that I am convinced that I have done the right thing by covering up.

Let's face it chaps, unless your name is Rafa or Novak it is unlikely that your legs will be of any great interest to the fair sex except as a source of merriment.

I am pleased however, that we have progressed beyond the time when I recall an unfortunate gentlemen arriving at the Bristol bridge club wearing shorts. His appearance caused the loud noise of all the ladies' jaws hitting the floor at the same time.

In order to preserve the female members' modesty, the secretary had a discreet word with said gentleman and promptly sat him in a small adjoining room to play where he was well out of view. Times have definitely changed for the better.

A BRIDGE TOO FAR

It was a wonder that I ever took up bridge. My mother was a ‘golf widow’ and she seemingly hated the game and resented every minute that she was left alone while my father walked the links. They did however share the pleasure of playing bridge though there were some occasions when a ‘falling out’ meant that they had to partner a guest and play against each other to avoid total acrimony. I remember countless times as a child watching, or more often hearing, my parents playing this card game which seemed to be punctuated with bitter arguments the severity of which depended on how well Mum and Dad knew their opponents.

Thankfully at that time I had not heard of the famous ‘Bennett’ murder which took place in 1931 in America when a furious wife, incensed at her husband’s bidding and play at bridge, pulled out a revolver and shot him dead. If I had I would have no doubt have intervened to preserve the peace. Yet despite this unfortunate introduction to the game, I later took it up and like thousands of others find it hard to get through a week without a bridge ‘fix’.

I have played the game in kitchens, in gardens, in ballrooms, on boats, on my computer and of course in bridge clubs. My partners’ ages must have ranged between 9 and 90 as does the membership of my local bridge club. Despite the best endeavours of my parents, it is a very sociable game which is why I made the change from chess to bridge. I much prefer the bustle of the bridge club with the banter between hands to the library-like silence of the chess club broken only by the ticking of the many chess clocks.

I well remember my first ever visit to the local bridge club and wondering what to expect as I approached. With a few hundred yards left to walk, I suddenly froze. What if everyone wears black tie? But I need not have worried. I soon discovered that the game is very cosmopolitan and not at all stuffy.

Listening to my parents those fifty or so years ago, I learned that the worst bridge player they knew was ‘Gladys’. During one game my Dad’s play apparently went a bridge too far. My mother rounded on him venomously ‘I hope that when you die, you find yourself playing an endless game of bridge with Gladys as your partner!’ My father replied ‘As long as we are playing in the clubhouse at the golf club and I can see you eternally playing the 18^th hole I will be content!’