Anyway, I've taken up Yoga. A mate's missus suggested it after she most probably got bored of me whining on about being stiff all over come a Monday morning. The class is taken in this big old fashioned 1930's style house around the corner from me. The kind that always seem to be converted into about four student gaffs these days. Yoga's not as poncey as I thought it'd be. It's mostly birds who go to the class.
It turns my stomach when some of them start bending all over the show. Some of them are way too skinny. If you ask me a lot of them could do with eating a few meat pies. I tend to sit at the back of the class out the way.
(Above: Keith Moon - could knock out the Seeker on my arse cheeks)
There's one exercise called the dancing dog, or the ferret face, or something like that, and my bowels felt taut and hollow enough for Keith Moon to give a damn good thrashing. There's this other exercise that when you're doing it you're looking over your shoulder behind you.
It was about this time that someone towards the end of the class let one go. Nothing serious, but with enough gusto to get the old ear 'oles pricking up. As I said it's mostly birds in there, so naturally, all these skinny birds who probably live off lentils start looking back at me as if I'm the one who's just guffed.
On the way out my mate's missus asked if I was responsible for the 'trouser squeak,' as she called it. I put her straight. "If I let one go, you'll know about it," I said. It won't be some pathetic little semi-quaver either, it'll be a deep sounding baritone followed by a godawful stench after all the crap I've eaten over the last few days. I'm not really sure if that made it worse. So from now on at Yoga it seems that I'm that bloke at the back who guffs.
For more guff on Burridge visit the Times by clicking here
Oh yeah, apologies to Juddy, (picture below stolen without permission from Friend face), who claims he wasn't hanging out his arse on Saturday morning, just very very tired.
