Young lad and old dog, out on the razzle

AS I write, a little red line has appeared on a piece of plastic in front of me – and I am delighted because it is just the one red line, not two.

Had that sentence appeared at any other time in history, anyone reading the words would have wondered what it was about… But in our strange new world many readers will realise I’ve been using one of the NHS Covid self-testing kits they’ve been doling out to all and sundry.

One red line on the test module means negative. Two lines would… Well, would probably have made me feel instantly ill because, like many other folk, I have psychosomatic tendencies.

If someone says there’s a sickness bug doing the rounds, I’ll feel nauseous in a gulp. I once told a doctor I felt “blood-pressury” – probably because I’d recently been told I had hypertension.

She laughed. Apparently, you cannot feel blood pressure. So my symptoms – which amounted to what it must feel like to be a kitchen pressure-cooker – were either new to science or I was going round the bend. I was convinced that if someone had shoved a broccoli floret into the Hesp skull, the vegetable would have cooked in seconds.

In fact, it turned out my blood pressure had reduced and when she told me the new reading, the sensation went away within seconds.

I write about all this because there must be thousands who now have such thoughts while waiting for that little red line (or lines) to appear.

But also because I have been out and about this week and not one, but three people I bumped into, have said nice things about this column – and then added that they like it best when I waffle on about my family, my dog, my regular balls-ups and my personal life in general.

“My mum loves it when you write about your lurcher’s sex life,” said one, causing me to think that no other newspaper columnist on earth would ever garner such a comment.

She was referring to the old dog, Monty – one of those quiet thoughtful types who was wicked on the side.

It’s the quiet ones you want to watch out for… I have often heard that said. Butter wouldn’t have melted in Monty’s mouth, but as soon as your back was turned he’d be “out on the razzle” – which was a term countryfolk used to employ if someone had been out doing a bit of youthful “rutting”.

I am sure none of you want to know this, but in keeping with my promise to those readers this week I’m going to write it anyway.

The first time I ever heard the term “out on the razzle” I had just experienced my very first night with a member of the opposite sex. I cannot remember how, but I found myself at a party in the Blackdown Hills.

I didn’t know the farmer’s daughter whose celebration it was, but it was in a large old pile and her parents had withdrawn to a wing of the farmhouse leaving we youths to run wild in the rest of the place. And it seemed the farmer’s daughter was just as keen to “razzle” as I was.

I am ashamed to say I cannot remember the name of the first person I ever slept with, if I ever knew it – which I imagine is not entirely unusual.

The whole sordid thing is a forgotten blur now – probably it was thrilling, nerve-racking and hopeless all at the same time.

Anyway, I was ushered hurriedly out as dawn broke and it was a long, rather bewildered, walk I took down over the Blackdown escarpment under the great phallic symbol that is Wellington Monument.

Eventually I reached the Taunton road where I began hitchhiking. Within minutes a nice old yokel in a filthy old van picked me up and the first thing he said was: “What be you’m doin’ out so early?”

He then answered his own question by sniggering, with knowing gusto… “You dirty blighter! You’ve bin out on the razzle, haven’t ee?”

It was probably with nervous pride that I admitted I had.

Anyway, old Monty used to go out on the razzle. His successor, Finn, is quieter on that front, owing to the fact two very relevant appendages were removed when he was young.

I am looking at him now, having taken my computer outdoors for the first time this year.

He is lying on the grass doing what he often does, and which is an odd thing for any dog to do. His handsome head is cranked back to the perpendicular so he can look directly up into the blue heavens to watch the birds flit by.

Which is, kind of, what I used to do when I was 18.

Now I’m 64 I do stranger things. Like visit an amazing pop-up arts event at a secret location in the Somerset Levels this weekend. Anyone can go, but you must book a slot for the drive-thru exhibition – which you can do by visiting https://hatchart.weebly.com

There… Covid-free, I have managed to reveal some embarrassing personal details and plug an event for some friends.

All part of the service.

I look forward to more feedback next week.

It seemed the farmer’s daughter was as keen to ‘razzle’ as me, but I can’t remember her name