David Bloody Armstrong…
Wears a French beret
He waves at everyone
And no one believes a word he says
So do you want to know about David Bloody Armstrong?

Well…

He arrived at work one day did David Bloody Armstrong.
And says ‘Hi, I’m David Bloody Armstrong,’ without the Bloody of course.
‘Hi.’ We all said.
‘Guess what I did yesterday?’ He said.
‘What?’ We said.
‘Sailed down the Nile on a Gnu.’ He said.
‘For fuck sake.’ Said Ted.
‘Surely you mean a canoe?’ Said Fred.
We all looked at Fred, wondered if he realised what he’d just said.
‘No it was definitely a Gnu.’ Dave said.
‘For fuck sake.’ said Fred. I think it just dawned on him what he’d just said.

You see that’s the kind of thing David Bloody Armstrong says and means.
And it does do in my head.

Played Neil Young songs in a trance he did… in the nude on an acoustic guitar at the crack of dawn, because of an allergy to a Hayfever medication…but he says he can’t play guitar usually, and then he said his mum walked in and said. ‘OOOOOOOOOO!!!! How bloody rude and crude!!!’ Not sure if it was being in the nude or the guitar playing at 6am which prompted this remark…probably both I imagine.

He’s wanted dead or alive in 36 states…ahem!

Women all run a mile when they see him. Dave just smiles at them and waves and then says. ‘I’m their very own professional Masseur you know?’

And it’s not that he’s bad or mean.
I just think the wish to impress makes him over keen.

BBC Director.
Moth Inspector.
Martian Detector.
Cricket Selector.
Porridge Rejecter.
Cornflake Collector.
River Kwai, Bridge Erector.

These are jobs Dave has had or wanted to do.
But what the bloody hell can one say?
When he believes all of this to be absolutely true.

David Bloody Armstrong, David Bloody Armstrong…I bet you’re all wondering why I call him David Bloody Armstrong.

Well one day, when he was telling me that he could only apply his much sought after special skills in either the Netherlands or America, you know all this and gibbering about other things as well. But to be honest I had other things on my mind…and listening to David Bloody Armstrong every day had reduced my will to live.

‘You know Flash I won’t leave my country for something as tawdry as big money you know.’ He said.
‘No?’ I said.
‘No, they should let me practice my much sought after special skills here in the UK.’ He said.
‘They should? Oh yes I mean of course they should.’ I said
‘Yes.’ He said.

You know I never did find out what those much sought after special skills were.

Poor old David Bloody Armstrong, portly, bald as a coot, white pallid liquidy skin and no neck, I’m afraid we used to call him Robocop we did. But to give him his due he could tell a tale without batting an eyelid, or a quiver of lip, no droplet of anxious sweat, indeed not a stutter uttered…and for once I thought he might prove useful.

‘David?’ I said.
‘Yes.’ He said.
‘I might need your help.’ I said.
‘OOOOO!!!!’ He said. ‘What with?’ He said.
‘With a little…in fact an ever so little…tiny even...what might be considered by some to be... a…white lie.’ I said.
‘OOO! I don’t do those.’ He said.
‘Yes you do.’ I said.
‘No I don’t.’ He said.
‘Yes you do.’ I said.
‘No I don’t.’ He said.
‘Yes…you bloody well do.’ I said.
‘OOOOH no I don’t.’ He said.
‘HMMMMMMM!! Tell me about the time you went down the Nile in a canoe.’ I said.
‘A Gnu…it was a Gnu.’ He said.
‘Ah yes a …Gnu…go ahead.’ I said.

A master class is what Dave gave; the art of barefaced lying without detection toned and honed to perfection, immune to any kind of female inspection. Not a judder or a shudder each word tone produced with precise inflection, no racy pace with murmured diction, his timing down to the smallest tee. His grace and elegance brought my admiration, my respect for him had elevated.And all i now had to do was apply his techniques.

So when i got home, all i had to do was walk in be very cool and say, ‘I’m sorry dear I got very drunk, and began to sway and so slept the night away at Wayne’s.’

I opened the front door and I did walk in cool, calm and very mean…but there she was standing tense but cool and looking even meaner and so I began to shiver and dither.

‘Oh and where have you been?’ She said.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Where have you been?’ She said.
‘Where have I been?’ I said.
‘Is there an echo?’ She said
‘An echo?’ I said

At this point she looked very cross and I think I may very well have forgotten my name.

‘Ok one last time,’ she said. ‘Where in fucks name have you the fuck been?’
‘OOOOOOO!!!!!’ I said.
‘Well!!!!’ She said.
‘What?' I said.

Exasperated she began to pull clumps of hair from her head and make noises I could only describe as insane…I now definitely had forgotten my name, forgotten what I planned to say and for some horrible strange reason began to think of David Bloody Armstrong.

‘You leave for work at 7am on Monday and return home at 5pm on Tuesday.’ She said.
‘Yes.’ I said.
‘So where the hell have you been?’ She said.
‘To Kathmandu on a Didgeridoo.’ I said.

Her look could not be described with words, adjectives would've only looked absurd. But safe to say she looked very perturbed.

‘I beg your pardon.’ She said
‘To Kathmandu on a Didgeridoo.’ I said.
‘To Kathmandu on a Didgeridoo?’ she said
‘Is there an echo?’ I said.

And then she hit me on the head.

‘Fine!!!’ she said.
‘Fine?’ I said holding my head.

And she hit me again, again and again, and now I’m still in the doghouse, and I don’t think everything is fine. In fact not even in the same ballpark as fine. She’s even threatened to leave…and the funny thing was I was drunk and asleep at Wayne’s, so what the fuck made me say I’d been to fucking Kathmandu riding on a Didgeridoo?

And now all I can think and say is David Bloody Armstrong, David Bloody Armstrong, David Bloody Armstrong over and over and over again