Blonde Hair and Tyrolean Slopes

As it's too hot to sleep I decided to muster up some snow and ice.

I spent a week in Austria with my own fully qualified ski instructor. I had no way of knowing that he was a ski instructor of any kind until he told me. He had a very attractive wife but she wasn't saying anything about his instructor skills, skiing or otherwise.

On the first morning I mastered reverse skiing and falling over, how to get up with assistance and how to manage it on my own if I was desperate. In the afternoon we moved on to getting back up a gentle slope and snow plough something or others. I perfected getting up without assistance. You can't beat having your own personal instructor.

That evening I sensed that training was about to go into second gear. My personal fully qualified instructor and his young wife seemed keen to plan a visit to a more demanding slope so that they could actually do some skiing. I was invited along.

When we got off the ski lift the following day I found myself at the top of a slope that I couldn't even have walked up. It reminded me of pictures I'd seen of Everest's South Col.

"Follow me. We'll traverse and then turn, traverse then turn," he said and set off across the slope. Eventually, and not without major misgivings,I set off in pursuit. I was still traversing at high speed long after he'd turned and was heading in the opposite direction. The skis had no brakes, I didn't know how to turn and I was in a foreign country. I decided that the only way to stop was to sit down. At some point the left ski travelled at right angles under the right ski. There was a loud crack from my left ankle and I mastered collapsing in a screaming heap. At least I was no longer traversing.

Two hours later I was in the plaster room of the local hospital where a blonde angel was examining an x-ray of my ankle and I was examining her plaster of paris dusted cleavage.

"No bones broken, just ligament damage," she announced and smiled. "Damage to ze ligaments can be more painful zan a clean break." I tried to look her in the eye but found it difficult.

I was smitten, helplessly adrift on a plaster of paris dusted sea of desire. I would have done anything, even hopped all the way back up that damn slope for her.

She rolled a tubigrip support over my foot and ankle and told me to immerse ze foot in hot and zen cold water every two hours, to take painkillers and to see my own doctor when I got back to Bogsville. As I left the hospital I spotted her climbing into a gleaming Maserati with one of the doctors. I stood and waved as the car disappeared from sight.

As Larkin said, "Nothing, like something, happens anywhere."

At least I always get a warning when it's about to rain. A stabbing pain in ze left ankle and a vision of blonde hair and breathtaking, Tyrolean, plaster of Paris dusted slopes.

Bogsville's Buck Nekkids are back

Bogsville's Buck Nekkids are at it again. Just about everywhere it seems. New York, Barcelona, Belgium, London, and Brazil have all caught the Buck Nekkid bug.

Kikka Tush and her pals in the Bogsville Buck Nekkids have gorn global.

Not for those of a nervous disposition

Just felt I had to pass this gymnastics clip on. Don't try it at home as they say. You'll probably have to select your own player preference from the drop down box.