"Uncle Boycie..." i said one night at one of our informal 'pyjama' parties, "What's the difference between a good cricketer and a bad cricketer?"
"Eee flint'ee," he mumbled as he tucked me into the top bunk, "That's right easy that is. A good cricketer plays wit' straight bat and good feet. A Bad cricketer plays wit' willy tucked between his legs so he looks like a woman wit' a hairy front bottom. Thats why that fat tw@t Gatting can never pick out t' ball in't corridor of uncertainty."
With that he gave me a little peck on the forehead and wished me a good night. His breath smelt of ale and greyhounds.
It is a fond memory and a lesson that i carry in my heart nearly twenty years later.
Uncle Boycie had been like a father to me in my formative years, dressing up as father christmas and watching me at the school sports day. I never knew my real father. He had been melted by a rogue Gowerbot whilst i was still just a child.
I remember Uncle Boycie pushing harmie and I on the swings. He would take us to the park in his regulation blazer, tie and panama and watch harmie bowl heads up bouncers into my face, then mop up the blood with his club hankie.
If you are reading this now, Boycie, i just want to say thanks. Thanks for being there to bath me and teach me how to read and spell and learn about Good and Evil in cricket.
Thanks Boycie, you are a true AV