Yellow Pages

Welcome to a very special edition of the Beardie Blog.

This maybe the first of many, the first of few, or the last of one.  What am I talking about?  Good question!  This weeks blog has been written for me by a guest writer!  My good friend Nicko has stepped up to the plate and written the following blog for me.  If you’d like to have a go as a guest writer, or have any thing to contribute that’s vaguely beard related (video, picture, random scribblings, etc), just drop me a line.

Hello beard spotters - it’s been another eventful week in the life of a full time beard grower!

On Monday evening I was sitting quietly ready Fly Fishing by J. R. Hartley, when there was a knock at the door. It was a strange old man sporting a grotesquely patchy beard and wearing an eye patch. “Are you a pirate?” I asked him.

“No, I’m a travelling beard salesman” he replied. “Can I come in and show you my beards from around the world?”

I told him that I already own a smashing beard and didn’t really have any more room on an already crowded chin, but as he was a fellow beard fancier I invited him in for a cup of tea. “I’ve sailed the fours seas, collecting beards from the seven corners of the world” he explained, taking some fine looking beards from his bag and laying them on the table. “Would you like to buy one?”

I explained again that my collection of beard was full when I noticed something strange about his beards. One of them had a head. “These aren’t beards” I cried “These are roadkill”. I was holding the flattened body of a skunk.

Without warning, this strange man leapt at me, brandishing a set of Remington beard clippers – my most feared adversary! With surprising strength and agility, the old man pinned me to the floor and brandished his deadly weapon at me. “Soon your beard will be mine” he shrieked, obviously overwhelmed with beardlust. I couldn’t let him take my beard – there was a lot of people’s sponsorship money resting on these whiskers and I couldn’t afford to lose a single bristle.

He thrust his shaving tool at my face – but as he swung to the left, I was able to use my well defined chin muscles to steer my beard to the right and he missed my precious facial hair. He launched at the right side of my face but again, my chin was too quick for him as I swung my beard to the left. Finally, he aimed a swipe down the centre of my beard but I parted it with ease down the middle using nothing but the phenomenal powers in my chinny chin chin – he hadn’t shaved a single hair from me. My intensive chin training over the last nine months had served me well.

I managed to overbalance him and knock the beard trimmer from his hands. “Don’t take my beards. Please don’t take my beards” he whimpered in a heap on the floor and he began to cry.

“I told you – I don’t want your beards” I said, towering over him, but I felt sorry for the man. I found an old furball that one of the cats had coughed up and gave it to him and I watched with disgust as he sellotaped it to his face.

“Thank you my impressively bearded friend” he said and I watched him hobble off up the road with his bag of dead animals before returning to finish my book on fly fishing. By J. R. Hartley.

Well, many thanks to Nicko for that excellent piece of writing!

Oh. and here’s what I look like - the beard has either out grown the viewfinder, or the photo was taken on the wonk.