Oh, my poor nerves

ISN'T he amazing? Well he thinks so.

Today out self-indulgent columnist James Marston tells the world what he thinks.

ISN'T this world cup thing proving to be a pain in the bustle?

God it's getting on my nerves.

Every time I switch on my television the screen in the little Ipswich sitting room is filled with awful people cheering and men running around in shorts hugging each other.

And if that isn't bad enough the moment you pop out for a spot of luncheon or a six o'clock lime juice and gin you are bombarded with evidence of a distasteful resurgence in English nationalism as well as the ubiquitous wide screen television.

Also, I'm getting annoyed now, the other night when England played some far off Caribbean nation which is probably much better at cricket anyway, there was a tremendous din in the town centre.

I nearly looked out of the window of my little Ipswich sitting room to find out why but I already suspected-rightly it later proved that England had won a match.

Is there really any need for every driver to sound their horn for half an hour afterwards though? It completely spoiled the last ten minutes of Priscilla Queen of the Desert.

But, my dear readers, I am a cynical hack and easily bored. I suppose for some the world cup-and I'm talking about football not chess or anything-is exactly what they want. Bread and circuses and all of that.

I've no time for it.

I'd rather listen to the Archers or thumb through my well-worn copy of A Shropshire Lad.

“If you can reach me by railway….” And step two three four and rock rock and walk walk walk.

I've decided I quite like the Rumba and while the rest of you are enjoying a mid week BBQ, with a selection of meats and a glass of Chenin on a Wednesday night spare a thought for me.

As I sashayed around the dining room at Holywells High School with long-suffering-dancing partner friend Jess everyone else in their right minds were enjoying the oh-so-rare long summer evening.

Last week we did a nice little casino step in the cha cha cha and a whisk and chassé in the waltz. A few tricky manoeuvres in the quickstep followed, a reverse turn, in fact.

Thankfully the experienced instructor Pat came to my aid when the class, by now a little confused and over-burdened with new steps, started to recap the Tango.

Just as I was flicking my beautiful head to and fro and starting to enjoy myself to the strains of some Argentinean melody.

Everything went wrong.

Poor Jess was getting her toes stubbed, my coordination completely failed me and the next thing I knew I was being calmed down by the best in the business.

“Watch my feet,” said an exasperated Pat as she bundled Jess out of the way and grabbed me.

I meekly followed in her talented wake.

“Yes but I can't do it!” I wailed. “I keep going wrong.”

The still smiling Pat nodded - in agreement I suspect.

A bit of concentration makes a lot of difference though and finally as I took Jess into my arms and prepared to impress a serious demeanour fell over my face.

“I can tell you're concentrating James,” young Jess said, “You aren't talking and you're sticking your tongue out.”

I closed my mouth.

And do you know dear readers, as soon as I started to take it seriously; I found I could do it. I, or perhaps I should say we, can now for a fair execution of the progressive turn and the closed promenade.

Admittedly we can only do eight steps and a little bit but it's a start.

I've already begun to check the charity shops for a pair of tight black trousers and a cummerbund.

It was on it's last legs two weeks ago.

For those of my fans who haven't graciously written in expressing concern about the trusty rusty Rover, even though I know you meant to, I have good news.

Though the car was turning heads for the first time ever - due to I'm sure the atrocious noise coming from the exhaust region rather than the patchy paintwork and lack of trim-I drove it to the Boss Hall industrial estate to get fixed.

After lifting my trusty rusty to a height above his head, a friendly mechanic summed up the problem in words that meant nothing to me.

“The rear end is completely blown through.” He said with a concerned look on his face.

“How much?” said I with an even more concerned look on my face.

Let me run up a costing for you.

When people say “those five minutes seemed like a life time” I now know what they mean. My heart was racing, I paced up and down awkwardly, I smoked, it was like having a baby-but without the compassionate midwife.

In due course the mechanic ambled over to me. “Forty quid plus VAT,” he said.

As the news sunk and tears of inexpensive relief sprung into my eyes, I thanked God for the trusty rusty Rover one more time.

The sad thing was though, it was much quieter on the way home. Far fewer people looked in my direction.