Graduating Magnum

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. That's me.

Although I'm an absolutely shit runner and would like to have bridesmaid status (rather than a white dress wearing virgin I am in fact just a homeless, Big Issue seller peeking through the window outside the reception venue), I thought I had this blogging status sewn up. Proper brided up, white dress, bouquet and cheeky blue garter belt, the works.

Then Richard Cronin turns up like Dustin Hoffman in the final scenes of The Graduate and I'm knocked back into bridesmaid territory.

If you have no idea what I'm wittering on about, Richard Cronin is an Irish runner, now ultra runner, and supreme writer of blog material. His online action can be accessed here: The Beirut Taxi.

I think you'll agree that his writing knocks the bollocks you're reading now into a cocked hat. I'd like to say that I hate Richard but he's a fine human being and an all round good guy. OK, so he chose to wear those fuckin' awful running sleeves in last year's River Ayr Way Challenge, but you can't blame a Paddy for dressing up.

While we're on the subject of dressing up, I'm really happy to remain a bridesmaid in the fancy dress stakes to individuals like my buddy Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper who can be seen here in a number of guises:

As is demonstrated above, there's absolutely no way that I could ever hope to campaign against the Hooper in a dressing up game. The man is the absolute meister at things fanciful. So when I got invited to a fancy dress party I groaned.

The party in question was the celebration of a 50th birthday and was based on a Hawaii 50 theme. Yours Truly decided on a Magnum era, Tom Selleck stylee (probably better than his Two Men and a Baby work which has a limited Hawaiian connection).

So I'm off to the local fancy dress shop like George Michael on way to the opening of a new public loo. Luckily I'm familiar with the lovely owner, Sharon Alexander who sold me the pirate flag that dropped me in such hot water four years ago. So I'm guessing that she's an experienced dressing upper.

'Shazza,' I say. 'I'm going to a party and need to look just like Tom Selleck.'

'You fuckin' knobcheese,' replies Sharon. 'Tom is a tall, good looking individual and you're a little idiot. I'm a fuckin' fancy dress shop owner, not a fuckin' magician.'

So in between dusting her till and filing her nails Shazza throws a wig and a stick-on tash at me.

'Put them on. It's the best of a seriously bad job. That's £97.30,' Sharon proclaims (actually she charged me £7.00 and offered discount.....poetic licence doncha know).

So I don said wig and tash, safe in the knowledge that I am Magnum P.I.

As was pointed out to me.......

'No, you're Bobby Ball ya twat.'

Laters.