You still have milk delivered in pint bottles with foil tops? I thought that was against EU regulations?

In the good old days, when fish and chips came wrapped in last week’s ink stained newsprint and ten bob notes lasted till next Wednesday, many’s the early morning, after a hard night’s partying, listening in a stoned daze to all four sides of Umma Gumma played extra loud on a distorted gramophone, we crept unseen up garden paths to steal refreshing pints of Gold Top from unsuspecting neighbours to drink for our breakfasts.

This bloke clearly has seven brothers or sisters. His three uncles or aunts remain childless.

Did one team beat another team at football last night? Isn’t it the cricket season yet?

What’s with this new fangled font? On my puny laptop it’s barely legible.

There’s a vigorous water fight going on in the garden at the moment. This must mean summer has at last arrived.

Crud had its beginnings on the beaches of Portugal, before Solid could talk. That was when I carved my first bat, out of a piece of driftwood, using a hand drill. It’s hanging now, in the Crud Museum. At that time, it was exclusively a volleying game, since the ball didn’t bounce on the sand. The essence of the game then, its only purpose, was to keep the ball in the air. The longer it stayed afloat, the stiller the mind became, the greater the sense of harmony.

There’s nothing wrong with evolution, though.

My Crude bat has been hung up; but by all means play on, those who wish. I might have a go at Crude Lite, but essentially, fron now on, I’m a Crudman.

The only permissable footwear for playing Crud or Crude can be found at this link:

www.mbt-uk.com/

Due to the enormous cost of these ludicrous shoes I am confident they will never grace the No 1 Court. For those who truly suffer, thin silk socks can be worn but penalty points will be docked.