Last updated at 10:23, Friday, 19 February 2010

AS ONE of life’s great incompetents, the things I can do even reasonably well could be written on the back of a postage stamp with a heavy duty bingo dabber – and still leave room for the Lord’s Prayer.

And sadly none of the modest list of accomplishments I do possess is of any practical use whatsoever – or gets me into trouble.

When I was at primary school, I was a member of the school football team, as odd a collection of misfits as ever hoofed a size-five casey.

I had few footballing skills, but possessed a mighty left foot which could be guaranteed to clear the ball should it come my way.

On the pitch, my clearances were arrow straight, but one playground kickabout was a different matter.

A shot by Barry Reader had beaten our ’keeper Ripper Blyth, and was heading straight between the duffel coats that marked the goals.

Somehow, I managed to get back and swung the mighty boot to hammer the ball away.

However, instead of screaming upfield, the ball bananaed away, and smashed straight into the staff room window.

For a millisecond, nothing happened – and then the window exploded into a million fragments.

The glass was immediately replaced by the furious faces of most of the teachers, as they tried to find the boy who had filled their tea, sandwiches and fancy cakes with tiny shards of glass which were still being swept up three months later.

My fellow footballers had melted away like Aberdonians on a flag day, and I was left alone to face the wrath of the staff.

I believe they drew straws to decide who would have the pleasure of giving me six of the best, and unluckily for me, the only male teacher won.

He was an expert whacker, but what really hurt was being stripped of my purple prefect’s badge.

I also like to think of myself as a reasonably competent driver – an opinion not shared by Mrs Hextol, I must add.

However, whilst I can get from Thurso to Truro with the greatest of ease, I can never find addresses when I actually arrive at my destination.

For a good number of years, I had to visit the Darlington College of Technology on a regular basis to supervise journalism exams, and although it is probably bigger than several Tynedale villages, I never once went straight to it.

Several times, I could see it in the distance, or on the opposite side of a dual carriageway, or out of the corner of my eye, but I only ever found it completely by accident.

One of my more unusual skills is the ability to ping pips for vast distances.

For those who never read the children’s classic The King Who Pinged Pips, this involves eating a ripe cherry, and then seizing the stone firmly betwixt thumb and forefinger, and squeezing it violently.

The stone then shoots away with considerable velocity, over quite remarkable distances.

I was once on holiday in Spain, charged with looking after the children while Mrs Hextol browsed the gaudy stalls of a street market, where voluble traders glibly endeavoured in many tongues to pass off counterfeit clothes and jewellery as the real thing.

The children were given a two kilo bag of cherries to tuck into while Mrs Hextol haggled, and were soon ruddy faced and sticky, as well as terminally bored.

To distract them, I set up an empty Coke tin on a distant wall, and showed them how to ping pips at it with sufficient force to send the can spinning spectacularly through the air.

Alas, their accuracy left much to be desired, and eventually, we took to pinging pips at each other instead.

Inevitably, one of my pips missed its intended target by a millimetre and whizzed over the heads of the market throngs before striking a particularly villainous looking stall holder just below the left ear.

We stood transfixed as the Senegalese giant issued a mighty roar, and picked up one of the genuine artificial samurai swords from his display of African crafts, and began whirling it round his head in a belligerent manner.

Then he rubbed the burgeoning swelling under his ear and said in broadest Cockney: “ Bleedin’ flies!”

We were still shaking when Mrs Hextol emerged from the crowds with her usual collection of towels and tee-shirts, eyed us in a suspicious manner, shook her head and swept us back towards the beach.

First published at 09:44, Friday, 19 February 2010
Published by http://www.hexhamcourant.co.uk