I’m a talented fellow, full of grandiose claims, 
for instance, that I’ve climbed every mountain in the Lake District. 

So what, I included one which is only a hill,
and alright, I exaggerated when boasting about rescuing that adventurer Ranulph Fiennes.
You know the one, who walked across Antarctica braving snow and ice.

I didn't rescue him from an avalanche, or from plummeting over a precipice,
but gave him a lift when I saw him hitching outside Keswick.

This caused an argument at the Hicklegate Hoofers,
led by a guy who insisted on lecturing us at every stop,
so I spoiled his diatribe about lead mines,
subterranean caves and archaeological finds, by loudly chewing a biscuit.

What a bunch of plonkers! 

Though I’m no good on the internet, I excel at general knowledge,
did you know the Romans brought oats to this country, thus inventing the healthy dish of porridge?

Or that Hannibal's method of beating off attackers, was to deter his sentries from falling asleep,
by using elephant dung to build fortifications, causing a terrible pong in the desert heat?

At every opportunity I tell of my achievements – secretary of Talkative Types Count,
a pressure group for those who can’t shut up, and President of North Yorkshire Timekeepers, to name a few. 

​​​​(If anyone from the latter says I was always late, that’s totally untrue).

Everything was going well, until I met that guy, Kevin.
By God! He thinks I’m mentally ill.

Well, he’s the one who takes medication for his ‘nerves’,
depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder.

He even claims I have the latter!

What a fool.

This all stemmed from when I wouldn’t buy his boots.
Naturally, I’d changed my mind when I discovered he’d worn them, all he could say was ‘You’re beyond the pale!’

To sum up, as the landlord is about to chuck me out, after I said, ‘That’s not real ale!’,
the railway station staff have gone on strike, saying it’s for higher pay, but I’ve been told they don’t want me spending hours there,
grilling a hapless assistant to get me a cheap train.

That guy I befriended, Kev, whom I once called a mate,
says he used to be a good long-distance runner,

Yet nobody’s heard of him, so a woman tells me, and she’s a Hicklegate Park Harrier.

​'When I was going, we ran 70-80 miles a week.

​​​'This fun-running lot don't know they're born, ' was his outrageous claim.

Anyway, he’s taken to hiding at my approach, and I could see him laughing, as the librarian accused me of being a pain.

Am I the only who’s always asking for wipes to disinfect the keyboard?

Don’t go yet, I haven’t finished – one more question, is there nobody left whom I haven’t bored?