LIVING A BOY'S ADVENTURE TALE

Even as a child, Boris Tattersall had always dreamed of competing in the Norwegian Hopping Championships. But Boris had been born in the UK, which meant that his involvement should not have been possible.
Most people would have been deterred, but not Boris. He spent years working out a way to get involved and even more putting his plan into action.
The first thing Boris did was enrol in language classes. It took five years, but Boris stuck with the classes until he could speak Norsk fluently. Next, he bought the Rough Guide to Norway, a book about Fjords, a traditional Norwegian costume and all the albums by Norwegian pop group a-ha - including solo work by Morten and Magne, the various releases by Pal's "other band" Savoy, and the seminal a-ha live 'Homecoming' DVD. Then he renewed his passport, moved to Norway, finally got a job, lived there for a decade and successfully applied for citizenship after marrying a local girl called Linnea who he had courted for five years. Finally, there was only one thing left to do: so Boris chopped one of his legs off.


Two days before the championships, a very happy Boris Tattersall hopped on board a plane bound for Norway, having spent a few days back in Blighty visiting his mum. Not even the fact that he had to sit next to a boring overweight poetry-writing pillock from the Cotswolds could dampen his spirits.
"Would you like to hear some of my poetry?" asked the pillock, out of the blue.
Boris shrugged. "Why not?" he said.
The fat pillock cleared his throat theatrically, then recited his ode, a poem entitled 'The Blackbird'.


"What was it thinking about
Staring down the chimney pot
The blackbird
Framed by sloping roofs
Wires and aerials
A breeze getting up
Pink and pastel evening sky
The noise of the locals
At their barbecue below
And the blackbird
Nothing more than a silhouette to me."


"Very good," said Boris politely, when the recital was over. Even that strange outburst had not dampened his spirits.
There was an awkward silence. 
"So, why are you going to Norway?" the boring fat pillock asked eventually, in his spectacularly monotone voice.
"I live there," Boris stated, with a grin. "But more importantly," he added excitedly, shifting in his seat and indicating his one remaining leg, "I'm going back to take part in the Norwegian Hopping Championships!"
The boring pillock pulled a face. "Oh." He did not appear to be very impressed, but to be fair, he had the sort of demeanour that suggested that nothing would ever impress him. 
"I'm going to stalk Morten Harket," the pillock said after a while. "As you probably know, a-ha decided to call it a day back in 2010. But I'm going to read Morten my poetry in order to inspire them to get back together."
Boris was impressed - this bloke really was boring. "Well, good luck with that," Boris said politely, before donning a pair of headphones and taking a look at the in-flight entertainment provided by the airline. A music video was playing. It was 'Take On Me' by a-ha.


Up in the plane's cockpit, the Norwegian co-pilot was at a loose end and reading a glossy magazine.
The English pilot was at the controls. He had been flying the plane solo, but was satisfied that everything was as it should be, so he glanced over to his co-pilot and tried to engage him in conversation. 
"What are you reading?" the English pilot asked of the Norwegian.
The co-pilot looked up. "An interview with Morten Harket."
The English pilot squinted over at the magazine, and saw a full page photo of a man standing next to a swimming pool.
"Really?" The English pilot was surprised. "That looks like John Barrowman."
The Norwegian co-pilot, a burly fellow, wasted no time getting to his feet and rolling up his shirt sleeves. "Are you calling Morten a puff?" he asked aggressively, and punched the pilot square in the face.
Two minutes later, the aeroplane crashed into the sea.


Boris Tattersall did not make it to the Norwegian Hopping Championships. In fact, he was languishing in one of Norway's fine hospitals when the championships took place. On the plus side, the whole thing was broadcast on the telly. 
Three days into his hospital stay and Boris stared enviously at the TV as Lars Larsen, a one-legged native of Trollstigen, was handed the winner's trophy by somebody who used to be a member of a-ha. 
Boris was confused. He could not work out which ex-member of a-ha it was who was on the telly. Boris thought about asking the patient in the bed opposite, but realised that the patient had been paying the television no heed and had, in fact, been busy scribbling in a notebook for quite a while.
"Would you like to hear my latest poem?" asked the fat boring patient eventually, looking up from his notebook for the first time in an hour.
Boris sighed. He was wondering how to turn the poet down politely when the ward's third patient, a man whose face was entirely wrapped in bandages, urged the boring fat patient to read his ode.
The bandaged patient had not spoken much over the past few days, but each time he had, something about his voice had seemed awfully familiar to Boris. It had a distinctly American lilt to it.
"Hang on a moment," said Boris. He turned to look at the mystery man, convinced that he had finally worked out who lay there behind those bandages. Boris lifted a finger, pointed it at the man and asked, "Tell me, friend - are you John Barrowman?"