With all the noise and lights blazing down on the sea wall of late I haven’t been sleeping too well, and I have a headache, so how about a good joke? Well, I think it’s funny. This is another one from Diana’s After-Dinner joke book…

In a National Hunt race at Aintree, a jockey takes a nasty fall and breaks his collarbone before a highly important race. The trainer hurriedly employs the services of an old pro who is a little past his sell-by date. In briefing the the old pro about his horse, the trainer insists that the jockey must assist the horse over the jumps by yelling, ‘1-2-3 jump!’ as he approaches each fence. He assures him that the horse has a great chance of romping away with first place provided the jockey follows his orders.

The old jockey mounts the horse and canters down to the starting line. He is sceptical about the trainer’s orders and fears that the other jockeys will laugh at him if they hear him saying ‘1-2-3 jump!’ before each obstacle; he is sure they would think he had lost it!

The race begins and the horse rapidly builds up a lead of two lengths prior to the first jump. As they come into it, the jockey decides to ignore the 1-2-3 bit and the horse bulldozes straight through the fence, nearly unseating the rider in the process. The same thing happens with the next two fences, in spite of the tugs on his bridle. There are bits of twig and leaves now hanging off both horse and rider, and most of the field have passed him by. Other jockeys are shouting derisively as they stride past. The old pro is feeling that he’s been given a rum ride as the horse crashes through yet another fence. Now four lengths adrift at the back and with only five fences to go, he thinks he has nothing to lose by trying the stupid ‘1-2-3 jump!’ And lo and behold, the horse sails over over the fence so smoothly that he has already closed the gap with the horse ahead.

The jockey thinks, “Well blow me down, if this works I may save my reputation in the weighing room afterwards”. Next jump, ‘1-2-3 jump!’ and he sails over again. Only three to go and he’s past the two back markers. Next jump, ‘1-2-3 jump!’ and he’s in the middle of the pack; one more jump and he’s running third, and going like a train. The other jockeys are shouting at him but he’s ignoring their taunts. The last fence; ‘1-2-3 jump!’ and he’s over, neck and neck with the leader. It’s a two furlong run to the finish and his horse is flying. Over the line nearly two lengths ahead and he’s feeling elated, despite the bits of twig still stuck under the saddle.

The owner and trainer meet him in the unsaddling enclosure.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” the trainer yells. “That was the most dreadful exhibition of jockey-ship I’ve ever seen. You didn’t talk him over the fences at the beginning.”

“The horse couldn’t hear me,” he lies.

“The horse isn’t deaf, he’s blind!” says the trainer.

Just recently I have been seeing flashes of flashers as I fast forward through the adverts on anything we’ve recorded on Channel Four; also, there have been newspaper photographs of nudists being interviewed on morning television shows. I haven’t watched the Naked Village programme or seen the interviews – can’t say I’m that interested in films of naked people (with the possible exception of Brad Pitt). But, of late, you cannot get away from seeing snippets of them! This particular lot of naturists are currently enjoying their “fifteen minutes of fame” owing much to the fact that they live in a Hertfordshire village called Spielplatz (German for playground – watch out on the see-saw!), which was founded as a nudist colony in 1929 (as I discovered in the Mail Online). However, this information is by-the-by, simply a bit of background to set the flavour for today’s blog post…

This morning, while Chris and I were still in bed, the telephone rang. Now I would have let it ring but Chris is conditioned to jump up and run to catch it. I heard it ring first (Chris is, as you must know by now, a tad deaf) so, with a little urgency in my voice, I said:

“The telephone is ringing.”

Rather naughtily, I wondered if Chris would jump out of bed and rush up the stairs, as per normal… because he was stark naked at the time. He did! But the caller had rung off by the time he reached the telephone.

“Darling,” he called down from the top of the stairs, “it was an Australian number. Perhaps it was Mary trying to get in touch. Do you want to come up and check?”

Well, what else could I do? Unusually for me (considering the coldness of the season), I had discarded my convict-style onesie during the night in favour of my birthday suit. Mindful of the men in orange working on the sea wall repairs below, I ran as-quick-as-a-flash up the stairs; there before me was the unusual sight of a nude Chris sitting cross-legged at his desk (modesty preserved by the angle of his crossed legs). I don’t know why I should find that funny but I laughed like Calamity Jane when she saw ‘Wild Bill’ Hickok dressed as a squaw (my favourite bit of the film).

“What’s so funny?” my husband asked.

“Nothing,” I replied, trying to keep a straight face.

Time was of the essence – the caller, perhaps my dear sister, would be waiting for a return call – and Chris repeated the number aloud so I could check through our address and phone book. All the while, as I bent over to look through the book on the kitchen table, I kept having mental images of the nudists from Naked Village. At last I found the number, not Mary’s but our friend Roland (the Bird man from Brisbane); it was a mobile number, too expensive to call abroad on the regular home phone service – it would be better to call it through the Skype phone service. And while Chris, still nude, sat at his desk and made the Skype number arrangements I stood in the doorway to the kitchen and looked at my refection in the slimming mirror at the end of the hall. Yet again I was laughing like Calamity Jane.

“Oh dear,” said Chris, knowing that I would be thinking about writing my blog sometime soon.

Presently, Roland picked up his receiver.

“Hello, this is the Naked Village,” I laughed.

There was a pause while Roland’s brain computed, then he chuckled. Of course he knew it was me; on occasions I am Scottish Janet, Doctor Finlay’s housekeeper, or Suzy Wong from the Chinese laundry – why not the Naked Village?

Chris just said, “Oh dear!”, and patted my bare bottom as he passed by.

Below are some of those images that flashed through my mind…

Poor Chris, he can’t stick me when I have “the com”. Poor me, I can’t stick watching certain television programmes (recorded, by necessity) unless I have “the com”. And if you’re not one hundred percent sure what “the com” is, well, neither am I but they used the expression quite a lot in Crimson Tide, the 1995 film (starring Denzel Washington and Gene Hackman) about a mutiny on an American nuclear submarine, during which “the com” was frequently passed (or taken by force). Speaking of which, we nearly had a mutiny in our lounge room last night. I’ll let you guess what programme we were watching… and no, don’t jump the gun (or nuclear missile), it wasn’t Crimson Tide.

I have the com. Fast forward (at top speed) five minutes of glitzy razzle-dazzle cavorting; slow down fast forward a tad in order to see in a brunette wearing black (the viewing public objects to her wearing any other colour) and a blonde in a white evening dress – they are being escorted down the steps on either side of the stage; slow down to normal speed to watch the blonde simper into the camera and the brunette crack a pre-prepared joke; fast forward (top speed), ah, wrong button – missed a whole chapter – good, the contestants have made their entrances. On normal speed, three men and a woman appear – they are twirling, extending, hip-wiggling and preening their way to the judges station.

“Oh no!” I exclaim, “Why do the judges have to do that?” (They used not to.)

Fast forward rapido for one minute, miss the first bit and go back, ah – the golden ball! The celebrity rapper doing ballroom (or is he a DJ?). Remarkable performance, so remarkable that the entire audience is on its feet.

“Look at them all on their feet,” remarks the blonde, waving her hand…

Fast forward to judges remarks:

“Marvellous”, “Marvellous”, “Try holding your little finger up a bit..”

“Boo, boo, boo,” the audience booms.

Fast forward to the scores – a seven (dagger looks from another of the judges and boos from the audience), an eight from daggers, and so on… Thank goodness I have the com. Fast forward to the Cha Cha Cha (or is it the Samba?).

“Just look at the audience on their feet for you,” commiserates the blonde, putting her arm around the morning television presenter.

“How ridiculous, she’s going to cry again!” I can’t hold back, even though I know Chris hates my commentary.

I can sense Chris wincing.

“You were fantastic, but there wasn’t an awful lot of Cha Cha Cha,” says one of the judges.

“Yes you were fantastic,” gushes the blonde, practically hugging the morning television presenter, “aah, are you crying?”

“There you are. She is crying!” I turn to Chris.

He says nothing.

Need I add more? They swanned and they gushed, and that was just the judges; the celebrity contestants were talented, wonderful and perfectly precious. I imagine you get the picture, which is more than poor Chris does when I have the com. I was fast forwarding through the fourth lots of tears (from one of the male contestants on this occasion) after twenty-thousand standing ovations and fifty thousand fulsome compliments, and, admittedly, I may have cursed or sneered for the umpteenth time, when Chris grabbed the com from out of my hands.

“Why do you bother to watch it at all if you hate it so much?” Chris asked in a raised voice and added, “I’ll switch it off!”

“I can’t help it if I’m more discerning than you,” I grabbed back the com.

I fast forwarded, rather adeptly, I might add, until the end of the final dance, when I willingly relinquished the com and asked Chris to turn off the recording (I don’t know how to turn off our modern television). The control room had been a rather frosty place after the attempted mutiny but with the cheesy grin show over, and the com on the coffee table, there was nothing more to be miffed about. Luckily neither of us went ballistic.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to play a few games of Backgammon before going to bed?” Chris inquired by way of an olive branch.

The cold war was definitely over.

And incidentally, I still want to watch the final next week, but you know – I must have the com.

Carlos’ ice-cream van is parked at the side of a road. Lights are flashing, music is playing and a big queue of excited kids stretches down the street. But there is no sign of Carlos. An astute policeman (they do exist), who is walking down the road, wonders if something is amiss. Where is Carlos? Why is he not serving the children with ice-creams?

He goes over to the van and peers over the high counter. He spots Carlos on the floor. Lying extremely still, Carlos is covered from head to toe in chocolate sauce, strawberry sauce, nuts, coconut, hundreds and thousands, a chocolate Flake and little jelly bits.

“Get back kids,” the policeman directs the children away from the scene.

He steadies himself with a hand on the counter and he takes out his mobile phone.

“S…S…Sarge, g…, get, someone down here quick,” he stutters. “I’m afraid it’s Carlos, the ice-cream man… He’s topped himself!”

Below are some photographs from Carlos’ family album.