pointlessness

“chirrup, boy” said Colin, the barman, “you be careful out there, it be a dark, cold night,
and them tracks are treachourous underfoot.” Grim meandered his way towards the exit, briefly losing his balance as he slipped on a puddle of spilt beer, grabbing hold of none other than the vicar, for support. Grim moved his head towards the vicar’s, the vicar turning his away to avoid both Grim’s gaze and his hot breath, ripe with the overwhelming fumes of beer and pickled eggs. Grim whispered slowly, his words framed by small, deep laughter, “May your God be with you, wherever you be.” He held his unsteady stance for a few moments and then moved off, finally making it to the exit door. He pulled at it, teetering back a little, took one final glance at the vicar, and went out into the cold, dark night. [crikey, I hate to think what’s going to happen next - ed.]

I’ve just had my dinner. It was, as I believe I have already mentioned, sausages (3), eggs (2), beans (57) and chips (19), and a nice hot cup of tea. Oh yes, and a slice of bread and butter. With salt and vinegar, and HP sauce, and just a dash of worcester sauce, and a grind or two of pepper for the eggs. Unfortunately, I managed to break the yolk of both the eggs as I lifted them out of the pan. This was a great disappointment to me, very distressing. I like to break the yolk with a chip and now I had been robbed of this pleasure. I ate the meal in a depressed silence.

Lurking deep in the crowd, hot and fetid, waiting, waiting. Eyes darting from side to side, tongue licking the moist air. Breathing slowed to almost death, silent but for the almost imperceptable rasp. A bead of sweat haltingly makes its way down the flushed cheeks. The sound of blood being pumped around. A light, so bright, the eyes shut tight and the head flicks and twists away. Damp, thick, air, now hot, is drawn slowly into heavy lungs. Whispers, from frightened voices, push their way through, past tears, and the awful, sickening silence. Then a scream, a shout, and the voice says, [ please put your own ending here ]

I mean really, really cold. Not just a little cold, not averagely cold, but very, very cold. My ears are cold, my nose is cold, and my feet are cold, even though my feet are in socks and slippers, and tucked under the dog. Mind you, the dog’s dead, so he’s very cold too. My eyes and my teeth, they’re cold, my hair is cold, my epiglottis is cold, the hair on my back is cold as well as the hair in my palms. And you know that little flap of skin that connects the tongue to the base of the mouth, well, that’s not so cold.

No word of a lie, I am sitting here with a javelin through my head. I won’t go into the details of how is got there as it’s both a bit boring and somewhat embarrassing, save to say it involved a trampoline and a chainsaw. Apparently, on entry it just missed my Hippocampus, but on exit took part of my ear off. Really hurt. Any road up, the world’s media are all here, and it a bit of a scrum. I’ve tried to make a run for it twice but haven’t been able to make it through the door. The doctors tell me I should make a full recovery and be up and about tomorrow. That’s a blessed relief, I can tell you.

Once, many, many years ago, I …… no, hang on a minute, it was yesterday….I attemped to sing the whole of Hamlet’s soliloquy, the ‘to be or not to be’ one, to the tune of ‘Teddy Bears Picnic’. It really is difficult, possibly one of the most difficult things that I have ever tried, so I gave up, more or less straightaway. I’m not really known for my grit, determination and drive to succeed and with good reason. But then it was that kind of day, really. It all started around midnight and pretty much went on for the next 24 hours. Hell of a thing.

Because I’m a British citizen and I live in England. Which reminds me, I must put the empties out. And have a cup of tea and a biscuit. The other day I wasn’t really concentrating when I put my tie on, and I pulled it so tight that I cut off the circulation to my whole head and passed out. When I came to, I was on the top deck of a bus (no. 137 as it happens) travelling through Sloane Square. So I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started all over again. So I passed out again. Went on like that all day.

Not surprisingly, the death of Mr. Cottlesthwaite had been met with collective cheering, albeit silent, within the village. Even if the manner of his demise had been, by all accounts, somewhat gruesome he was not going to be missed. Having been held at Her Majesty’s Pleasure on several occasions, the best efforts of the prison service had singularly failed to reform, educate or otherwise improve the moral and social outlook of the recidivist. His latest stretch, ended recently, was for an unprovoked attack on poor Miss Sweethorne, which had been witnessed and reported by the vicar. ‘Grim’, as he was known locally had, without deviation, returned to the village. That evening, whilst in his cups at The Old Brood Mare, he had declared that “there is unfinished business in these here parts”. Oooo-err.

Sometimes I catch myself gazing at my own reflection, transfixed and awestruck by my own beauty, often reducing myself to tears when I glimpse an insight into it’s destructive power. In the morning, after I’ve sobered up but still with the dregs of a hangover within me (and affecting my judgement), I will try and get a whole bacon and egg sandwich in my mouth before swallowing. I usually need to employ the use of my thumbs and palm but I’m not often unsuccessful. It’s not (probably) a pretty sight, and it’s not something that I would recommend you do on a first date, not unless you think it’s really important to show the real you.

And the part that I took was the Blind Flange. This was a particularly childish thing to do as not only did it mean that the pipe was now effectively useless, but I also had no use whatsoever for the aforementioned Blind Flange. Try shifting a Blind Flange (do not confuse with the more popular wide flange, not easily done, but some bolt-head out there might, what a laugh that would be, eh, can you imagine, doesn’t bear thinking about). No one would be interested, well apart from, obviously, an Autocue Turner. But they’ve usually got their own, and you know what Autocue Turners are like when it comes to change. So don’t even go there.