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In a moment of wild, youthful dementia, I once dropped acid with a Womble. There, I’ve got it off my chest. It’s so long ago it can’t hurt anyone now.
He didn’t set out to be a Womble, just got lucky. When I first met him he dreamed of becoming a rock star. Didn’t everybody? Oh, it was just me then. And him.
Some years afterwards we literally bumped into each other as he wombled out of a door onto Notting Hill’s Westbourne Park Road straight into my path. Like a tatty, old winter coat emerging from hibernation, he looked a right two and eight, to employ the vernacular of the time. Desperately in need of a fix, he was dirty, dishevelled, and more than pleased to see me again, even though he couldn’t remember who I was. There are episodes of my life I would rather forget. This isn’t one of them. I dropped Acid with a Womble. I think it might be the start of a series.
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Ah, but which Womble was it? Tobermory, Uncle Bulgaria, Orinoca……
That´s the question that´s been puzzling me all these years. I have the suspicion he never knew. I mean there were the other Wonbles with no names wombling about, weren´t there? I don´t know, I usually switched off as soon as I heard the theme tune.
Bernard Cribbins should have stopped after his great hit: ´Right said Fred´
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