The World of Sherby57

Fancy eggs.

Like a Glaswegian traffic management official, I find myself contemplating a march.  But in my case it’s the month that I’m thinking about – March the month – not an organised procession in celebration of fake tan.  At least, that’s what I think they’re marching about.  My whole understanding of it is fuzzy at best.  E.g. Why are they always bloody fighting about it?

Yes, March has, quite literally, marched past me.  But don’t worry, this inexorable advance of time through the incrementation of days has not left me bereft of insight.  Or, for you lot, I have learned some things from the month what has just happened.

Things what I have noticed, number 1:

Traditionally, March is the month when tattooed men start to walk around town centres with their tops off due to the temperature finally exceeding 5 degrees.  This year, however, the weather failed to move in a warm direction so instead of wanton displays of beer guts we’ve been treated to satirical banter along the lines of “global warming, ey ey ey ey? etc”.

Things what I have noticed, number 2:

In a month in which lambs are renowned for gambolling in the fields, I asked myself why they’re allowed to set up a casino in a meadow in the first place. Ha ha ha. Gambolling sounds very much like gambling.

As well as noticing things, I have also been capable of remembering things. E.g:

As the first daffodils of the year emerged breathlessly from their soily homes, I was reminded of a love letter that I received at the age of 18 from an (not-very-secret) admirer.  She declared that if I didn’t go out with her then I would be “as gay as a daffodil”.  The lesson here is that, despite their jaunty yellow colour and effeminate name, the humble daff is resolutely heterosexual.  Grrrr. I’m a real tough guy.

“Golly gosh,” I hear you cry.  “You’ve been incredibly insightful this evening.” Thanks, you’re too kind.  “But,” you continue. “What is it about March’s intrinsic nature that has allowed you to make such astute observations? Well, in the words of Craig David:  “Spring has sprung all over my boink.”  And it has.  It’s sprung every-freaking-where.

Thusly, in an attempt to follow the traditions of your so-called “normal” society, I decided to have a good, old fashioned spring clean.  This consisted of:

• Take the spring from its housing and clean the flange.

• Buff up the coil.

• Touch up any rust spots with special paint.

• Stress test/Calibration

• Bounce, bounce, bounce!

But Spring isn’t the only thing that sprung up in March; it was also time for Easter, the slaggiest of the public holidays. Oh, Easter, why do you move, year after year? Why can’t you just stick to one date like the good girl that is Christmas? Don’t you realise what you’re doing to me as you flt seductively between March and April? You’re a tease, dammit.  A dirty filthy tease and I can’t get enough of you.

Ahem.

For those of you who aren’t aware, Easter is a sort of religious thing.  Many years ago, Jessie, a chocolate obsessed rabbit, went on holiday to Rome.  In them days they didn’t have cars, so Jessie had to ride into town (from the airport) on the back of a donkey.  As he was a rabbit, he had no concept of speed limits, and soon found himself apprehended by the local constabulary for a minor traffic violation.

The case was brought to the small claims court, which, bizarrely, was presided over by the Roman emperor, Punchy Pilot.  Jessie’s lawyer advised that he should just pay the fine, but being a rabbit and understanding neither English, Italian, nor Latin, he decided to plead not guilty.

Big mistake.  Punchy hated when he was late for dinner and the extra time needed to complete the case meant that his novelty painted eggs would have gone cold by the time he got to them. Punchy was properly pissed off and took it out on Jessie.  He was sentenced to eat his own weight in chocolate.

Now, anybody with a basic grasp of rabbitine physiology will know that chocolate is toxic to rabbits and Jessie promptly died.  His mother, popular TV cook Mary Berry, was gutted.  She baked a special cake in his honour, but ultimately she didn’t feel it addressed the injustice that had been perpetrated. Poor Jessie.

Anyway, 3 days later, Jessie’s body was in a cave or something and it turned out that he’d only had really bad indigestion and was actually OK. Everybody cheered and they had loads of lettuce and carrots to celebrate.

And that’s the Easter story.