The man, the legend.
When I were a nipper, if my Dad was frustrated with the speed of something, as he often was, he would exclaim: "It's like watching grass grow!"

And for years, I thought that "Grasgrow" was someone on television.

In my mind, Grasgrow was a man who had a regular post-bedtime slot, perhaps on BBC 1. He would comment in his twinkly Irish way on the events of the day, then round it off with the music of Simply Red, or some other similarly inoffensive, middle-of-the-road crooners.

Pausing only to adjust his toupee, he would smile as he read news of the strikes and discontent of the mid-to-late-eighties, his cheerful demeanour giving you that warm "Ah, to be sure, it'll all work out in the end" feeling.
He would have to be Irish, I reasoned, because the only other media personality my father detested enough to refer to solely by his surname was 'Wogun'.
Warm, wise and genial, Grasgrow was the voice of sanity in a crazy world.

When I got a little older, and my bed-time got put back a bit, I asked if I could watch Grasgrow now.

Of course, the truth came out and I was utterly crushed. Partly because my boyish dreams had been shattered, but mostly because for the following fortnight nobody who knew the story could look at me without breaking out into peals of hysterical laughter. Even my teachers.

And that, your honour, is why I skinned those cheerleaders.
(universalpsykopath loves what you've done with your hair., Wed 18 Jan 2012, 17:14, 2 replies)

Heh...Grasgrow
I imagined that whole post as read by a small Chinese person.
( snee held his breath since, Fri 20 Jan 2012, 8:18, closed)

And that , your honour, is why I skinned those cheerreaders

(universalpsykopath loves what you've done with your hair., Fri 20 Jan 2012, 11:27, closed)