Peter “Vaseline” Throb, 36, of Prestatyn, cracked the World Pole-Sitting record today by a full 3 hours, having squatted atop a 40 foot quivering rod for an astonishing 2 days, 2 hours and 38 minutes. Speaking after being lowered from the pole by a Sea King helicopter – “an accident waiting to happen,” said one of the organisers later – Mr Throb squeaked, “It was something I’ve always wanted to do after watching Dale Winton on TV.”
Curiously, Mr Throb and the previous record holder, Simon Staines, had never heard of one another before this event, but have since become firm friends. Despite appearances to the contrary, both men are happily married and intend to stay that way, though Peter’s wife, Thelma, will, perhaps, have the last word.
“I’m thrilled that he’s taken the record, but I don’t want to see him sitting on anything cylindrical again”.
“One of the greatest days of my career.” said Martin Wholenutt after winning through to the final of the Table Football Championships in Cockfosters yesterday. Martin, second striker from the left on the leading rod, scored the winning goal, but acknowledged the part his three fellow strikers played in the victory. “Smithy took some heavy hits throughout the game, all of which sent him reeling, but Clarky and Wilko’s movement off the ball drew our opponent’s attention long enough to allow me to knock in the winner.”
Martin, needless to say, is looking forward to the final, but there were worries over his fitness as the match ended. “I splintered the left side of my chest early on and my head was spinning as the final whistle blew, but rest assured, a quick sanding and I’ll be starting alongside my team-mates in the final.”
Latest News: The Patagonian Tiddlywinks Open was called off after it was discovered that most of the qualifiers were drunk and that the British team’s discs were two millimetres smaller than the rest.
‘Outta me box’ : A Goalkeeper’s Tale
Watching a game the other day, I was startled to observe how the ‘keeper didn’t touch the ball with his hands at any point in the game. He regularly came out of his box to kick either a backpass or a so-called through-ball back upfield. It got me to thinking… In the owd days a goalie had to be half-baked to even try and stop the ball, it were more like a meteor than a simple bladder type thing and when the centre-forward let go we’d take our life in our hands, even though we had some really hard-wearing woollen gloves on.
There were no better relief than a bloke would dribble his way into the net, rounding you with ease as a gust o’ wind got into his shorts and carried him up and over your outstretched arms. All you could do was watch and in the pictured case, pretend to be a bird of some grace, landing on the ball as it nestled in the net like one of your most treasured eggs. There were no such thing as today’s offside nonsense; some strikers used to park themselves in the box and bring sandwiches waiting for the play to reach. Me dad told me that his dad, being somewhat shy – he turned down a move to Darlington because he was afraid of the crowds- never left his six-yard box in a twelve-year long career. His teammates once tried to entice him out with a box of cigars, but he sent a dog to fetch ‘em for him. He let in a goal in that match because of the smoke in his eyes.
There were one match when me dad, a goalkeeper of ill-repute -tho’ all us ten kids still loved ‘im despite mother running off with a cricketer for the cut of his creamsin the act of gathering a modest shot, got a whippet caught in the left leg of his shorts, but he didn’t realise until late into the second-half, when it was too late for the thin, little beggar. Me dad’d kept a clean sheet up to then, but he certainly didn’t when the police turned up at our door next morning.
The dog was only a prize-winning racer, owned by the Chief Constable! Me dad was never quite the same as he took to wearing bicycle-clips just above his knees to avoid such a repeat. Needless to say these metal objects hampered his agility and even stopped the blood in his legs on too many occasions, as goal after goal went through his numb legs. Not only did he lose command of his area but he’d lose control of his legs and resembled Bambi on a bad day. He also got cold sweats when being carried past the dog track.