Everything Found In 'Little Tiggy’s Adventures' Category

Stage fright? Me?

When I was five years old I became convinced my best friend’s dad was Frank Zappa. I’m not sure how I came to that conclusion. Their surname wasn’t Zappa, there were no guitars or gold records on the walls of their modest townhouse, and Captain Beefheart never joined us for milk and cookies. But my friend’s dad had a big moustache and long hair just like Frank Zappa, so that was good enough for me.

I made another showbiz pal that summer, when my parents took me camping in Scotland. Leaving aside ethical debates about child neglect and whether Social Services should have been informed, I actually enjoyed spending a week camping in a cold, muddy field. And the reason? Billy Connolly was there!

Every evening, soggy campers would gather in the campsite’s musty clubhouse, order pints of Guinness and settle down for a night of music and comedy. And who was providing the entertainment? Why, a tall Scot in a kilt, with long wild hair and a bushy beard! It must be The Big Yin himself! This was better than playing in Frank Zappa’s back yard.

That was him! I think.One night, Billy announced he was to perform a magic trick and needed an assistant. I must have looked like a ginger midget on speed as I pushed my way to the front screaming “Me! Me! Pick me!” He didn’t really have a choice.

“Helloooo! What’s yur name, lassie?”

I was star struck.

“Erm… I… I can’t remember…”

“Hello, I Can’t Remember! That’s a lovely name!”

Billy winked at the giggling audience. My parents looked worried.

“Would ye like to help me perform a wee trick?”

“I don’t know. Is it with fire? I don’t like fire.”

“Well, yees, it does involve me burning a magic pound note… tell ye what, how’s aboot singing a funny song insteed?”

By this point, stage fright had kicked in.

“I don’t know any funny songs…”

Billy was beginning to panic. His assistant was letting him down.

“I know, I’ll sing a song and you can dance! Can ye do that for me, lassie?”

“I… want… Mummy!”

I ran off the stage in tears. I just couldn’t match Billy Connolly’s wit and charm. I’d ruined his show!

Once I stopped sobbing and calmed down, I begged my parents to take a photo of me and Billy, so I could at least brag to the kids at school. They didn’t need to know about my lackluster stage performance. This would leave little Robbie Jones’ photo of him with Cliff Richard in the dust.

My dad couldn’t understand why I was so obsessed with this campsite entertainer.

“He’s Billy Connolly, Daddy! He’s the funny man!”

My dad smiled, grabbed his camera and wisely kept his mouth shut. I’d find out one day.

Just one thought. How did I, at five years old, know so much about foul-mouthed comedian Billy Connolly? It’s a good thing Social Services never found out.

Jobbies.


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Evil kitteh. Don't look into the eyes!

I’m about to be shunned by the entire internet. Friends will turn away and my readership will plummet. But before you go, dear reader, please hear me out (and to be fair, have I ever been wrong in the past?) How can I say this…

Cats are evil.

A familiar sight during my childhood.I’m sorry! I know many of you have cats and love them to bits. But they are the devil’s pet! I have been at war with cats for as long as I can remember. My earliest childhood memory is of being attacked by a grey furball that decided chewing a baby would make a nice change from a half-digested starling.

Fluffy the cat made my childhood a misery. That dastardly kitty tried to kill me when I was a toddler. It was Christmas Day and I was innocently watching TV, chocolate-smeared and engrossed in The Wizard of Oz. The scheming feline deliberately jumped on our enormous over-laden Christmas tree, bringing it crashing down on my head and plunging thousands of pin-sharp pine needles into my skull.
“Mummy!” I screamed for days after. “I want a dog!”

Owned.My parents eventually caved in and bought me a dog. That will teach that bastard cat. However, my parents plumped the most timid, scardey-cat Collie they could find.

Fluffy ruled poor Sniffles with a rod of iron. Sniffles waited patiently as Fluffy polished off his bowl of Doggy Chow. He slept soundly as Fluffy ripped the defrosting chicken to shreds and sicked up chicken bones around the house. He wagged his tail and lolled his big pink tongue as Fluffy pounced on my head and dug her claws into my eyeballs. So much for my canine protector!

So you see, I don’t have much luck with cats. Any other animal is fine. Put me in a cage with a man-eating wild creature and they’ll just lick my face. Here’s a real, it’s-true-and-not-Photoshopped photo of me with a crocodile.

Tiggy and Charlie the crocodile. Yeah, really smart.

See? I’ve tickled a crocodile’s belly and even stroked a bear’s paw (it was still attached to the bear). But put a wide-eyed little kitten in my lap and in less than a minute I’ll be dripping with blood and covered in cat fur.

There must be a way to make cats like me. Start smoking catnip? Toss kitty treats in my path wherever I go? Or accept that me and the feline world will never see eye-to-cat-eye and just buy a large shotgun?

And did I ever tell you about the time I got attacked by a Shetland pony…?

They have a worrying catnip addiction over at Humor-Blogs.com


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Pee-aaawn!

Kids today – they don’t know they’re born, eh? I never had a Wii, cell phone or the internet when I was growing up. But I don’t envy the toys and gadgets available to today’s kids. Well, maybe I’m a bit jealous. As a kid I would have happily sold my pet hamster for a cool Japanese robot or for all that Star Wars merchandise. It’s not fair!

I want to be a Jedi warrior! Not fair!When I was a child all I wanted in the whole world was a Star Wars light saber. Every Christmas I’d beg my parents for that glowing plastic sword. And every Christmas I got Barbie dolls and Fuzzy Felts. That was great, but I reaaaallly wanted a light saber. A cardboard tube painted bright blue just wasn’t the same.

Starved of futuristic weapons and plastic movie merchandise, I had to make my own intergalactic entertainment.

Pee-aaawwn, Pee-aaawwn

Every weekend my little buddies and I congregated in my bedroom with a tape recorder, two plastic ray guns and a huge bottle of tartrazine-laden orange soda. We wrote, directed and starred in an awesome space adventure show called, well, Space Adventure.

Robots are cool. Even with the sniffles.I played a Princess Leia-type heroine with a flowing white gown and an alarmingly bloodthirsty outlook for a seven-year-old. My friend Sam was the ship’s commander (it’s not fair, I wanted to be commander – so much for women’s lib) and snot-nosed little Danny was DZ-7 the robot. He didn’t really relish the part as he had to spend the whole afternoon speaking in a monotone American accent. “Beep…power-failure-in-reverse-thruster-four…beep”. In hindsight, I think he would have preferred to have played Princess Leia.

We spent the whole weekend running around my bedroom, I mean Starship Eagle-5, battling fires in reverse thrusters and zapping menacing borgatron robots (also voiced by Danny in a snuffly monotone voice). “Pee-aaawwn! Pee-aaawwn!” we squealed as we pretended to fire our ray guns. Commander Sam shouted “We’re coming down too fast!” way too many times.

Aren’t Kids Irritating?

We're coming down too fast! Again.My poor parents. Their peaceful weekend was shattered by the sound of screams, thudding feet and pee-aaawwn pee-aaawwn. They were then treated to our evening presentation of Space Adventure, and were forced to listen to a three hour recording of what they’d just heard all afternoon.

If only we had been able to spend our free time glued to the internet or playing video games my house would have been a lot quieter, not full of rampaging small children waving ray guns and spilling orange soda on the carpet. But what a dull childhood that would have been! I wouldn’t have swapped Space Adventure for anything.

Strangely enough, I recently discovered that snotty little Danny now works for a major electronics company… that makes production line robots. I hope he’s not secretly working on borgatrons.
Pee-aaawwn!

 

They’re coming down too fast and need to fire their reverse thrusters over at Humor-Blogs.com

 


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Another flaming birthday.

Children’s parties are a disaster waiting to happen. Assemble a bunch of restless children dressed in their best party clothes and fill them with sugary pop and Cheetos. Then run.

Create further chaos by hiring a children’s entertainer to keep the little darlings amused.

The local magician’s audience for the day was a gaggle of noisy seven-year-olds at a birthday party. They chattered and fidgeted on the community hall floor as the magician dabbed his aging face with make-up in the washroom. He lurched onto the stage from behind a cloud of white smoke. The children cheered. Looking like Peter Reveen’s long-lost brother, his polyester sequined jacket glittered in the lights and his bouffant dyed-black hair and pointed beard shone with lacquer. Behold the Great Lorenzo! He looked neither Great nor Italian, but the children were mesmerized.

The birthday girl was summoned to the stage, nervous and giggly in her pretty party dress. The Great Lorenzo whipped up a couple of balloon animals before her eyes, tugged her braids and asked her to help perform the Greatest Trick Ever Seen! The children cheered, waving their Cheeto yellow hands in the air.

The Great Lorenzo - either For Hire or On Fire.The Great Lorenzo opened a glittering magic box and pulled out a velvet bag full of ingredients. They were going to make a magic chocolate cake! The little girl rummaged through the bag and dropped eggs, flour and magic dust into the box. Now to bake the cake! The Great Lorenzo waved his wand and dropped a burning match into the box. Abracadabra!

A massive yellow flame shot from the magic box. The little girl screamed and ran off the stage. The smell of burning bouffant and melting sequins wafted across the hall. The children cheered. “It’s alright kids, everything’s fine!” squealed a voice from behind the flames as a fire extinguisher was rushed to the stage.

The Great Lorenzo emerged through the choking black smoke. A showman to the last, he was not going to let the kids down. He stumbled towards the little girl, who had peed her pants in terror and was crying in the corner. He presented her with a slightly charred chocolate cake. The children cheered again. He really was magic after all.

I don’t know what happened to the Great Lorenzo after that. Maybe he ended up performing in some smoky nightclub in Las Vegas. Maybe he never performed again. And the little girl? That was me. And I’ve been terrified of chocolate cake ever since.


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