Worthing Flash

  OUT FOR THE COUNT                        By David Silver A hesitant but persistent knocking on the castle front door roused Count Dracula from his deep daytime sleep one cold but bright winter's morning. Reaching into his pyjama pocket for his Raybans, the Count slid aside the lid of his coffin, climbed out and stumbled downstairs. "Might I point out that I do not do daylight hours," Dracula reprimanded his bewhiskered, red-suited caller. "Sorry, sir, but this is an emergency," responded Santa Claus. "It's Christmas Eve and I'm down two reindeer. The idiots attended a festive stag party last night and are too hungover to drive my sleigh." "And that is my problem how exactly?" snapped Dracula. Santa tried a placating smile. "Well, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind flying around for a few hours delivering Christmas presents in your . . . er, neck of the woods. It would certainly ease my burden." "Ho! ...

Among my treasured childhood souvenirs is a 1951 soccer annual which I stole from my brother in 1952. But my most prized possession is -- or to be more precise, was -- a letter sent to me by Doris Day in response to a fan letter I sent to her. The missive from Ms Day read: 'Dear David, it is always a pleasure to hear from my young British friends. 'I wish you every success in your endeavours and hope that you, too, will find success in life. Kind regards, Doris. 'P.S. It is very warm here in Hollywood. I hope it is warm where you are.' Warm? Blimey, it was freezing cold where I was -- a draughty terraced house in a cobbled street in murky Manchester. But my 12-year-old pumping heart was positively on fire the morning I picked up Doris's letter from the hall mat. I must have read the thing a hundred times before bolting down my breakfast and belting round to my pal Eric's house. 'Guess who's written to me!' I yelled through the letter ...