Chuckle Logo
Hello ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dale.
First of all, please accept my apologies. I have been meaning to write this blog for quite some time. Sadly, modern day life has, until now, got in the way. Well, I say life, watching TV and lounging around eating chocolate has had the considerable majority of my attention of late. Then again constant checking of Facebook in the hope of a notification, be it a comment or a ‘like’, hasn’t helped. Facebook is the bane of my life. I’m addicted, always wondering when I will get my next digital fix..
Sorry, I diverged.
Skidzie
The truth is, I didn't know how to write a blog. I mean, where do you start? It’s hard to whittle down from a choice of literally every single thing on this wild planet to just one topic. I decided to cheat. I’m simply going to tell you a little bit about myself. My life, from the great ovarian swim, through my waddling toddler days, past my testosterone fueled teenage confusion and weaving in and out of what should be described as adulthood. Everything, all the way up to this very moment, me led on the sofa typing this. If you don’t want to know the results please look away now.
Reporting the ‘minutes’ of my life may be quite a task. I have changed my mind, instead, each week I will share with you some of the stories that have knitted the very fabric of my being. Hopefully they will make you giggle, even if they make me cry. We will start with ‘Skidzie’.

This story begins when I was just 13 years old. As a good Welsh boy I played rugby. I never missed a game or a training session. That was until one very cold autumnal day back in 2003. We were one game from the cup final, all we had to do was beat the might of Ebbw Vale. They had been unbeaten for two years, we were nervous. Half of their team turned up on motorbikes, this did very little to encourage us (I’m pretty sure that most of us had only recently been able to remove the stabilizers from our bicycles).
Sadly, I was not playing as I had been up all night being quite violently ill (imagine baking soda in cola). Our parents finally managed to shake away from the white knuckle grip of us holding their hands. They did this with a combination of kicks and shrugs, a couple of the boys received a clip around the ear and most, if not all of us heard the words, “Grow up, you’re becoming a man!”, or words to this effect. This was followed by shouted whispers of, “You’re embarrassing yourself in front of your mates!”, which in Dad terms means,
"Don't you dare let the other Dad's think that I have raised a sissy".
Eventually we are herded into the changing room, mumbling to each other in quivering voices, voices that needed no added assistance in the breaking of the fluidity of our ball dropping drools. The boys got changed. Soon we realised that we only had 14 players. I stepped up to do battle with my brothers... right after I nipped to the loo.
Every week we had an 'in joke'. Something that had to be done by the boys on the pitch. This ranged from shouting random words to skipping to the breakdowns. This week, we had to fart.
The game was going well. We were withstanding the tsunami of green and white that relentlessly came at us again and again. My bad belly was holding up. My mates were farting. About 25 minutes in, an orc that they had playing for them knocked the ball on. Scrum!
We get our bind, ready to lock horns when our hooker squeaks out a very comic bit of wind. We erupt with laughter, the ref calmed us down and we got our bind again. This time, we heard a thunderous roar. Our number 8 had just dropped the winner. After this we were all uncontrollable, even the Ebbw Vale creatures were in hysterics.
It took the ref a good 5 minutes to calm us down. We bind again, only this time to the tune of the referee offering a yellow card to the next breaker of wind.
"Crouch!"
"Touch!"
"Pause!"
"Enga...."
And then it happened. A noise that would make witch cringe or a giant cry danced through the cheeks of my bum. The referee lost it. He turned purple in the face, screaming at me whilst fumbling in his pocket to brandish a card. At no point during this match did I try, nor indeed, intend on trying to participate in the breezy joke.
Something was tickling the inside of my leg. I had shit myself. I was now in an all or nothing situation. I stripped off. I wiped what I could with my underwear and threw them to the touchline. Pull my shorts back on and join the huddle ready for the scrum.
The referee would not allow me to scrum down. To this day, I am yet to find another person who has been given sin binned for following through.
Since that day...
I have been Skidzie.

I hope you liked my blog. All feedback is welcome (unless its negative, or written in a foreign language)
(...in fact, if you do insist on sending me negative feedback, please put it in a foreign language)
I am going to begin comic reviews soon. So if you have any suggestions from objects, to places, to movies, to sport, let me know. 

Thank you.

Dale 'Skidzie' Hewings 

Comment Form is loading comments...

All rights reserved The Chuckle Magazine TM