THE JOURNEY (part1)
The morning ablutions this day were carried out with an
unusual amount of care given the recent nuts in the drawer incident. Gulliver’s bathroom was a depressing looking
affair. His original plans were to
transform the small room into a spa like haven with rough granite tiles, under
floor heating, soft golden lighting, burning incense and a hidden sound system
piping in hypnotic Buddhist chanting had not actually progressed any further
than four old candles and a bowl of potpourri that was now gathering dust on the
stained glass shelves clutching precariously to the wall dangerously close to
the light switch cord.
The bathroom suite which in effect means the toilet, the
bath and the basin were a delightful pre-eighties (I
mean 70’s) avocado green They
whole ensemble should have been snowy white with the toilet free floating on
the wall, the bath should have been a whirlpool combo and the sink should have
been set into a stunning block of hand carved Amazon (Amazon the place not the online shopping hypermarket!) fair
trade timber. As it was it was avocado
green attached to the wall with huge rusty brackets with the waste pipe exposed
for all the world to see like a PVC umbilical cord. His razor sat perched on the edge of the
sink and was a far from sanitary affair.
It looked like something Sweeny Todd the Demon Barber of Fleet Street
threw out because he was worried about the health risks it posed to his
customers. (substitute victims for customers) The blade had seen the best part of a hundred
shaves and was beginning to look like a prop from CSI Las Vegas. (NY or Miami
As he took the frightening instrument of torture in his hand
he toyed with the idea of going back to bed and phoning in sick. Then again day one of a new job is not the
best time to pull a sickie, not to mention the fat the he was skint which was
painfully evident by the lack of heating in the bathroom, in fact the bathroom
was so cold he could see his breath as he breathed. (grammatically correct?)
This had provided him with endless hours of fun pretending to be Puff
the magic dragon on days when it didn’t matter, but today he was off to work
and there was no time to emit prehistoric fire from his rapidly blueing
nostrils.
His bathroom had the cold lifeless depressing feel of a
morgue about it, it had all of the morbid sterility of a morgue without all of
the stylish chrome fittings, even the dolly in the knitted dress that covers
the spare toilet roll had a despairing glum way about her as she hung all
lopsided on the top of the toilet cistern like a miniature hooker on the dock
side in Grimsby. (apparently!)
Gulliver shaved or at least attempted to shave as the razor
which highly endorsed by professional footballers had promised to glide over
his face and leave him smooth enough to marry an anorexic pop starlet tore
chunks of flesh from his face. By the
end of the shave he looked like a man who had just thrust his head into a box
full of very angry very startled cats.
The bath had been running while he shaved and was now
approaching its limit, the hot steam rising from its murky depths and saturated
every dry thing in the room. The mirrors
dripped, the ceiling dripped the toilet paper soaked up so much moisture that
it would need to be oven baked at gas mark five for twenty minutes before there
was any chance of having a wipe without it disintegrating into a mushy pulp.
He added a huge splash of Dettol to the water to combat the
infection that was sure to infest his now crushed testicles and shredded
countenance. The water had come out of
the tap so hot it was like the run off from a nuclear reactor. Gulliver had pushed the boat out and left the
emersion heater on all night, if the water had been any hotter it would have
melted the bath.
Getting into a hot bath was a lovely heart warming
experience, a handful of fragrant bath salts, a whiff or rose petal perfume and
some Radox fruits of the forest bath soak could sooth away all manner of
ailments. The hot scented water would
envelope him in a womblike massage, easing away his worries, soothing his aches
and pains as he drifted off into an aquatic slumber as if resting on the tails
of beautiful mermaids as they rubbed his rapidly un-furrowing brow. Feeding him delicious sushi (the good stuff not the stuff laoded with Russian
Plutonium 210) and seaweed and sea cucumber wine. (is there such a thing?) (must check with the Planet
Orgasmic health food shop) (note to self: If it doesn’t exist make some and
sell it to middle class types living in Stoke Newington because its soooo
ethnic, make a fortune, retire, Genius!!)
Gulliver stepped into the bath, left foot first, the searing
heat burned into him like a James Bond death laser and he whipped it out, not
the best idea given his testicular tantrum earlier in the bedroom. He waited another thirty seconds and tried
again, again the searing heat drove him back.
He would need Red Adair and one of those sexy silver fire suits in order
to get into this bath.
“Shit” he thought, he now had to add cold water to the already
full bath. This would involve him
reaching down to pull the plug to make some room but this would entail a
considerable amount of danger, but it would have to be done. Gulliver stood above the steaming water and
composed himself, took a deep breath and like Quay Chang Cain (70’s Kung Fu
earth wandering Shaolin Monk) punched his hand into the boiling depths and
ripped the plug from its heavily stained stainless steel housing. The water flowed effortlessly into the now
gaping aperture as Gulliver ran his hand under the cold tap in the sink in a
bid to lower his burns from third to second or first degree.
When a sufficient amount of water had made its escape into London ’s festering
Victorian sewer system (no offence Mr Bazaljet)
Gulliver replaced the plug, which only served to knock the burn level back up
to third degree, and then turned the cold tap on. The ice cold water hit the boiling liquid in
the bath and made a sound like a red hot horse shoe being plunged into a bucket
of water at the Blacksmiths. Obviously
the shoe was not attached to the horse, that would have just been cruel. Unless
the horse had just done a Dick Turpin run from London
to York and his
poor shoes were indeed red hot, however this is very unlikely. Or unless the horse had been on a horse
middle management team building and bonding weekend and had walked over hot
coals to prove himself. Not that you
should feel the need to prove yourself when you have a three foot penis!
Once the water had risen to a dangerously precarious height
Gulliver turned off the cold water tap and prepared to take the plunge, literally,
well not plunge exactly that kind of lends itself to falling off a tower
block. No this was going to be a more
controlled ascent, like the ascent into Hades, given the heat still emanating
from the avocado melting pot.
The first foot went in and to be honest it wasn’t that
bad, now for the second foot, and bingo he was in, standing stark naked in the
unflattering glow of the now rapidly blinking fluorescent light, he shot a
quick glance over to the mirror facing the bath, it was on reflection (what a great pun) not the best place to put a
mirror. The blinking light and his pasty
body coupled with his still bleeding face and bruised, crushed and now swollen
testicles have him the look of some maniacal inbred called Bubba from deep in
the Bayou who had an unhealthy obsession with bearded men with pretty mouths,
his sister and playing the banjo.
The blinking disco light was highly likely to give him an
epileptic fit, he wasn’t normally epileptic but given today’s events thus far
it was not beyond the bounds of reasonability and probability that he would
develop the ailment while in the bath, have a fit, bang his head, swallow his
tongue and evacuate his bowels into the bath like a mini Exol Valdez oil spill.
Gulliver turned around facing the back of the bath, he
stretched forward dangerously overstretching on his tip toes leaning on the
sink which was secured by the big old rusty never likely to fall of the wall brackets
as he reached for the pull cord of the light switch. Now today’s events would normally
dictate that the never likely to fall of
the wall brackets holding the sink up would indeed give way under his weight
causing him to somersault forward bang his head, swallow his tongue and
evacuate his bowels all over the bathroom floor.
He managed to elongate his torso just enough to reach the
pull cord, still leaning on the avocado trough that passed for his spa like
sink. He managed to reach the cord giving
it a good hard tug, however he had overstretched just enough that his hand came
crashing through the stained glass (stained as
in filthy not as in some fabulous Germanic gothic cathedral window) shelves
sending them crashing into the avocado trough.
However on the plus side he did manage to make it back into
the upright position in the bath. The
sink although full of glass, roll on deodorant and Pizazz body spray (a touch of class for your underarms) and a
collection of brightly coloured hair gels remained affixed to the wall. Result!
Gulliver placed his hands on either side of the bath and
began to lower himself in. First his
arse touched the water and it was not too bad, a tad hot but not that bad at
all. He lowered some more, now the
bruised and battered danglers hovered precariously above the steaming
water. Gulliver began puffing they way
you do when you are getting into a hot bath.
Not entirely sure why, it was not as if it was going to cool it
off. The hot water began to swirl around
his damaged appendage taking his breath away, like evil cats do while you’re
sleeping.
The disinfectant in the water found its mark and invaded
every tiny open, pores scratch, abrasion and nick on his damaged goods stinging
him as if some blind wizened hundred year old Chinese acupuncturist with Parkinsons was giving him the needle
while bumping around on a space hopper.
The initial shock was over as Gulliver slowly sunk into the
steaming murky broth, he was throbbing down below but not in the good way,
however he was now relaxing into a pleasurable mariney slumber, a brief respite
in what was going to be an eventful day.
Before drifting off, not literally you understand, drifting
in a bath would be weird unless the bath itself was in some water rather than the
other way around or unless the bath was enormous and he did actually drift off,
finding some weird and wonderful land, or a world war two Japanese soldier
hiding on a sponge waiting for the war to end. No this was the just before
falling asleep type of drifted off, anyway before drifting off Gulliver gave
himself a thorough going over with his posh bar of soap. Well it was posh when he mum presented it to
him for his birthday some six months previous.
It was so luxurious it had its own red and gold label in the middle, the
ultimate accolade for a bar of soap.
However it had now perished to such a degree that he was technically
washing himself with the gunk on the back of the label. But this bar was indeed the king of soaps,
imperial indeed. And in case you are
thinking a bar of soap is not a great birthday present it had come with a gift
set of underarm deodorant, the ball now matted with pubic hair which was now
sitting in the sink with five kilos of broken glass some foul smelling
aftershave and some talc.
The talc being the only thing that had not been used with
any degree of regularity. Everyone knows
that talc is only ever used by mothers on their babies (legitimately) and
Mistress’s on their perverts privates! (just plain wrong)
Next was the hair, always a frightening experience. His anti dandruff shampoo was a strange milky
blue colour and always burned his eyes to the point where he was only able to
make out shapes and shadows for three minutes after rinsing. He wondered how this stuff ever actually got
on to the market, surely it should have been tested on a bunny first. Or maybe it had, maybe it had been tested on
the Andy McNab of bunnies a hard bastard of a bunny immune to torture who
pretended the shampoo was actually very pleasantly mild knowing full well that
the end user would indeed be left writhing around on the bathroom floor
screaming in agony, maybe he was a Jihadist martyr bunny suffering the torture
to further the bunny revolution. Bastard
Rabbit!
After a brief snooze and a final splash and a small screech
as the water tore into his shredded face Gulliver struggled to free himself
form the bath. Curiously much sweatier
than when he went in. He reached out for
the towel in the darkened room for the area where he judged the towel rail should
have been and not surprisingly it was just about where it should have been doing nothing much other than hanging on to
the damp plaster of the bathroom wall, sadly for Gulliver minus any towels.
So if a towel rail is minus a
towel is it still a towel rail? And if a
tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it does it make a sound?
(‘A’ Level Philosophy)
Gulliver suddenly remembered that his towel, and yes he only
had one towel was in a heap on the floor in his bedroom where he had thrown it
last night. He had been watching MTV
after a near cold bath the night before and caught sight of Christine Aguilera
in a bra and leather jodhpurs being all nasty and stuff and for a man on his own
it was all the encouragement he needed.
And given the absence of a handy pair of socks or T shirt he used the
towel, his only towel to mop up his guilty spillage.
The real sad thing about this whole shameful incident was
that he switched on half way through the three minute song and was done before
it ended.
Gulliver made his was into his kitchen and grabbed his
tea stained tea towel, yes he only had one tea towel but mercifully it was only
stained with tea, and began to dry himself off.
There was no need to mess about with making breakfast today,
as it was the first day of his new job Gulliver was going to treat himself to a
fried bacon sandwich from the greasy spoon café two doors away. The place was a
source torture to him every morning with the luscious smell of crispying pig
flesh and hot exotic teas from the far reaches of the world, or more precisely
from the furthest isle of the wholesaler on the new road as they invaded his
nostrils causing involuntary bouts of unconscious drooling.
(By the way it was the
computer programme that put the pretentious ‘ above the e in café ((there it is again)) not me, I like my Café to be pronounced Caff)
The problems of dressing today were also swept away as there
was no need to make a conscious decision on what to or what not to wear, a bit like
Einstein who had seven identical suits so that he would not have to waste any
conscious thought on his sartorial requirements for each day. In any case Gulliver didn’t’ even have one
identical suit in his wardrobe, his fashion sense was a strange cross bred
hybrid, kind of skateboard chique and Ronald McDonald leisure wear.
No today’s attire had effectively been thrust upon Gulliver
by the job centre, well they hadn’t actually put the clothes on him but they
were responsible for their presence in his IKEA wardrobe which with its cold as
the Sweeds Swedish design had absolutely no chance of being the gateway to
Narnia.
The restart officer had happily informed him, well not
happily more delightedly, well not even delightedly it was more ecstatically and
orgasmically informed him that his days on the dole (sorry I mean benefits)
were indeed at an end, and when I say days I actually mean years.
Gulliver had become a well know face at the job centre,
actually he was on first name terms with everyone there and was usually invited
to the office Christmas party, until the restart officer turned up and started
gunning for him, she actually looked like she was gurning for him but it was
actually gunning. That’s the gunning in
the hot pursuit kind of way not in the I don’t like Mondays shoot up the high
school cafeteria with my Daddie’s automatic weapons Columbine kind of way.
Although when informed that if he didn’t take the retail
security guard job he would be chucked of the dole Gulliver had toyed with the
idea of travelling to the Elephant and Castle and hooking up with some nasty
sarf London gangster types and buying a shooter off a tattooed thick necked
naughty slag in the toilets of a boozer and travelling back and shooting up the
dole office. This was however ridiculous
as there are no dodgy types at the Elephant and Castle that would sell you a
shooter, secondly Gulliver had never been to the Elephant and Castle and
thirdly could there ever really be a place in London called the Elephant and Castle? It would be as ridiculous as calling a place
Worlds End, ridiculous!
The uniform was a bedazzling combo of Draylon,
Nylon and at least two percent cotton which gave off horrendous electric shock
whenever the wearer touched a metal object
or took more than three steps. A
quick walk across a medium sized bedroom could conjure up enough static
electricity to power a small village, probably somewhere in the Amazon basin as
they only tend to have small villages and could
probably do with some electricity to recharge their Ipods and stuff,
which they had bought from the proceeds of exporting all of their fair trade
hand carved sink tops for spa like bathrooms in Kensington and Chelsea! And
by fair trade I mean not fair at all, a sink form the Amazon (must be room here for a joke about the Amazon basin) $4
each, selling in a shop in Kensington with a German name and only 3 things in
its display £3,000
The whole ensemble was an abomination in beige the trousers
were baggier than MC Hammer Pants with a ludicrously oversized hat with a shiny
peak and a great big badge on the breast pocket of his shirt which looked
suspiciously like and NYPD shield. The
words Razorguard SWAT Security were emblazoned in gold stitching across its
centre further adding to the humiliation.
Gulliver cast a glance at his reflection in the bedroom
mirror, he did appear to have an inordinate number of mirrors in his place
which according to the ancient art of feng shui was not necessarily a good
thing, especially when you are in possession of a hideous dangle bag like
his. The sight that greeted him was more
TWAT the SWAT and his aching heart sank to a very low very dark place, he had
sunk as low as he could realistically go.
He took one last loving heart felt looking at his still warm
bed, sighed loudly twisted on his heels and headed out of the door into a brave
new world, indeed a world he never knew existed before 11am except on signing
on days and when he woke up in the park drunk or was shimming down a drainpipe
to escape some middle aged bints old man returning home from a night shift down
the mines. Now being as he lived in
London there were no mines for a middle aged bints hubby to return home from
and he never actually got to grips with any middle aged bints, so in fact he did
not shimmy down many drain pipes before 11am, none in fact.
The door clunked shut with a resounding finality that told Gulliver he was indeed out
of this place for at least twelve hours, he shuddered at the thought. He raced down the nylon carpeted communal stairs
generating some serious static, like one of those scenes from a Frankenstein
movie, he grasped the handle to the front door, the metal handle to the front
door. He came to about five minutes
later smouldering and frothing at the mouth.
By the way that’s the small electrical fire kind of smouldering no the
Sharon Stone kind of smouldering.
Out in the early morning the day attacked him slapping in
the face with an icy windy fist threatening to knock him on his arse for the
third time that day. However Gulliver
steeled himself against the elements, he was not going to be floored for a
third time unless he was in a ‘Withnail and I’ drunker stupor. He made his way miserably towards the Café (bastard word 2000), the smell of the cooking
bacon enticing him like a bee to honey, although given the Café’s hygiene
record maybe like a fly to shit would have been a more appropriate euphemism.
Gulliver made his way Gingerly to the Café (I give up) that’s the same gingerly as
discussed previously, past Mr Patel’s corner shop. Now Gulliver was acutely aware that Mr Patel
having a corner shop was a very tired cliché, a possibly a racist stereotype however
it was indeed a corner shop and Mr Patel did indeed own it. Mr Patel’s shop was like a magical Moroccan
Bazaar, what ever you needed or indeed wanted was there.
It may not be immediately apparent but if stood and stared
at the place where you thought it should be it invariably would be. The shop had hidden nooks and crannies and
hidden and crammed into these dark mysterious places lurked exotic individuals,
beautifully dusky maidens who belly danced and wizened old men who charmed
snakes, or so everyone was lead to believe.
There were colourful carpets of Yak hair hanging from the
walls, myriad coloured spice jars festooned the cedar wood shelves. Elaborate ornate lamps hung from the ceiling
and the beautiful aromatic smells were like nothing on earth. Actually that’s not quite right, they were
like every beautiful smell on earth, mixed in a cosmos sized mixing bowl and
baked into the greatest granny cake of all time with a cup of piping hot sweet
tea which tasted like ambrosia itself.
That’s ambrosia food of the Gods, not Ambrosia creamed rice, which in itself
ain’t half bad with a dollop of jam, (lovely) but which is not the food of the
Gods. Well actually it may be the food
of the Gods if there was proof that there was indeed a God or Gods. Is there a God? Is there a teapot or
spaghetti monster orbiting the earth?
Who knows?
There were wonderous things from all corners of the world,
the shop was a costermongerous utopian ideal that Thomas More himself would
have been proud of. Greek humus mingling
happily with Turkish olives and pitta bread.
Jewish lutkas happily rubbed shoulders with Middle Eastern dates, Indian
and Pakistani spices got on famously, English lager had a drunken night in with
German beer and the French bread, well actually the French bread sat alone in
the wicker basket with an aloof air about it, but that was only to be expected
from the French bread. In fact if the
French bread had had its way it would have blockaded the front door so no poor
sod could do any shopping at all.
Gulliver gave Mr Patel a wave as he passed by, and Mr Patel,
well he gave Gullver a wave, one of those theatrical waves that someone who
works in theatre might give after a particularly good Shakespearean
performance. It was one of those high
twirling waves that continued right down to the wavers waist. The wave was also accompanied by a shout of
“ooh hello Sailor” which given Mr Patel’s heavy accent still managed to hit the
humiliation spot in Gulliver’s brain dead centre bringing him to a sudden stop,
which given his zombie like trudge was not really that difficult. Although pulling up at all was not a great
idea given that his enlarged Scrotum was encased in swathes of nylon, draylon
and a bit of cotton thrown in for effect.
Gulliver stopped and stopped outside Mr Patel’s and looked
in longingly as the smells wafted out and invaded his senses. He closed his eyes and for a brief moment he
was transported to a boat drifting down the magnificent Ganges
with the smell of local delicacies filling his holiday rested nostrils. But he wasn’t, he was standing in a cold
street on a Monday morning in an ill fitting uniform looking like a bit of a
twit, well looking a lot of a twit actually.
“New Job” he shouted to Mr Patel
“Well you look jolly smart young Mr Gulliver” came the
apparently sincere reply
“Do you really think so?”
“No, I lied”
“Thanks”
“You’re very welcome officer”
“Ha bloody ha”
Gulliver would have loved to stop and chat with his old
friend however he was running late, there was a bacon sandwich with his name on
it (not literally) and anyway the French
bread had decided to blockade the shop doorway because a Croissant had been
binned for being stale, such is the way of the French. French bread that is not the French as a
race, I mean they wouldn’t blockade a port and ruin the once in a lifetime trip
to Euro Disney for a group of sick orphans because a French farmer had lost a
sheep under the wheels of a British lorry delivering British wine and cheese to
Provance.
Mr Patel’s’ hello sailor comment now left Gulliver in a bit
of a quandary. He was desperately in need of the bacon sandwich with his name
on it (not literally) however the café
was bound to be full of Builders, Scaffolders and Hod Carriers, or as the
Americans would say “guys who work construction”, as cafes on High Streets this
early in the morning invariably are.
Gulliver stood outside the shop contemplating what was going
to be a humiliating and degrading experience, it was like the sword of
Damaclese was hanging over his head. He
was going to enjoy, no he was going to relish (enjoy
a lot not put relish on it that would be filth) his bacon sandwich,
toasted, however he knew he was bound to be given an unmerciful ribbing. Actually a ribbing would be nice. Ribbing is what friends do to one another
whilst partaking of Pym’s ands strawberries while punting along a Cambridge river on a
Sunday afternoon between history lectures.
Nope Gulliver was in for a right proper piss take, one of
those piss takes that make grown men cry alone at home under their duvets, one
of those piss takes that leaves you sitting naked rocking back and forth in a
hard backed chair in a darkened room in your house while Wagner plays on the
stereo. Yep indeed this was going to be
the mother of all piss takes.
Gulliver had come to know a lot of the local builders as he
had spent a lot of time hanging around building sites. He didn’t have a ‘thing’ for builders or
anything like that you understand its just he hated lying to his mates at the
job centre, so every signing on day when he was asked “have you been actively
seeking employment”? he could in all honesty say “yes indeed I have”. Although there was never any chance of being
hired, hod carriers were required to carry more than two bricks at a time,
hiring him to work on a building site would have been as about as practical as
hiring a woman in a hijab to work in a primary school.
Whilst still contemplating sitting alone naked rocking back
and forth in a darkened room defecating and decorating the room with deficatory
sludge a customer opened the door to the café.
As he did a huge waft of incinerating bacon flew out like a willow the
whisp, a particularly handy willow the whisp who punched Gulliver in the nose,
slapped him in the mouth and dragged him by the hair into the café before the
door could close or before any semblance of self respect could draw him away.
As Gulliver flew through the door time seemed to stand
still, well not so much stand still more kind of slowed down quite a lot, so
much so in fact that it appeared to actually stand still. Einstein’s theory of relativity would have
loved this moment. Well I say Einstein, it was actually Galileo Galilei (note to Queen the band not her Majesty gawd bless
her, this name in no way infringes your copyright of Bohemian Rhapsody) who coined the theory of relativity,
Einstein’s was the new theory of relativity.
Gulliver looked
accusingly around the room waiting for the first roars of laughter that he was
sure were about to erupt aw the assembled hoards of Neandethal manual workers
took in the total abomination in Nylon, Draylon and 2% Cotton. He made eye contact with a group of
particularly brutish looking brickies.
Men with huge
calloused hands, who’s weather beaten faces were covered with three days
growth, wearing denim jeans designed to show as much hairy arse crack as possible
when even attempting the slightest forward bend, with steel toe capped boots
with the shiny death metal poking through the worn leather. The brickies all
locked eyes with Gulliver en masse as he stood motionless in the doorway. He closed his eyes waiting for the barrage,
like a man in the trenches waiting for the whistle to sound to let him know it
was time to go over the top, but it never came.
He slowly opened his eyes only to find that the brickies had their
snouts back in their respective troughs consuming their set breakfasts numbers
three through seven with extra mushrooms instead of beans and extra toast for
little Ray who was peculiarly the biggest brickie of them all.
Panic over, the
sounds of the bustling café returned, crashing plates, mugs of scalding hot tea
hitting the tables and the background hum of builders talking about page three
tits, football, beer and the latest existentialist Polish cinematic offering
from acclaimed director Lech Balderdeck.
Gulliver pushed
his weary frame through the throng to the counter.
“Gulliver, what can I do for you son?” said Mario the rotund stained vest wearing
yellow fingered cliché of a greasy spoon café owner.
“I am desperate for some serious Bacon please Mario”
“Erm, ok son how about, And money is like muck, not good
except it be spread”
“Pig bacon please, not the first Baron Verulam and Viscount
St Albans English philosopher, essayist, politician, lawyer and courtier
Francis Bacon ya fat clown. Toasted bacon sandwich please Mario, very crispy”
“On plain white Son?”
“Crusty bread please”
“Ooh get you posh bread today eh”
“Starting a new job so I thought I would push the boat out”
“New job, doing what?”
Gulliver was dumbstruck, he took a step backwards and held
his hands out to the side to emphasise the Nylon, Draylon and two percent
Cotton combo.
“Oh right I see, Gay stripper”
“Bollocks!”
“It’s a mans disease son you’ll never catch it, now sit down
over there, Sally will bring you a cup of tea and the latest shipping reports”
“Bastard” thought Gulliver with a grudging respect for Mario’s
quick witted jocularity.
Gulliver pushed back through the assembled throng and sat
down at a spare table, one of those tables that is never ever balanced, no
matter how much cardboard you put under the legs it still rocked like an
inflatable Lilo in a force nine gale.
Sally appeared as if by magic by his side with a huge mug of
piping hot tea. Gulliver had always
fancied Sally Lunn, Sally Lunn being Mario’s daughter from his second or third
marriage, no one could be sure, least of all Mario himself.
Sally was always cheery and looked a bit like Kate Winslet,
an English rose who smelled of bacon and sausages, that’s Sally not Kate, she
probably does not smell anything like bacon.
She probably smells of something quintessentially British, like primrose
and lavender toilet water from Penhaligons.
In order to clear up any confusion from the off, she was / is
not the same Sally Lunn from Bath famous for her Sally Lunn Buns, that’s a big
tea cake buns and not an analogy for breast s or bottoms. (and while we
are on the subject of Sally Lunn’s Buns don’t buy a whole one for yourself, you
will never eat it all, try sharing it with a loved one of your choice)
No this was Sally Lunn from Mario’s High Street café, famous for her own buns
both breast and bum.
“There you go darling”
she said in a slightly Eliza Dolittle-ish accent as the scent of cured
pig drifted from her snow white complexion (Pale,
but not Gothic student white!)
“Cheers”
“So you’re starting a new job today I hear”
“Yep, security guard at cheapy cheaps”
“Oh right, hence the uniform”
“No its plain clothes but it’s my day off”
Sally burst out laughing and touched Gulliver warmly on the
shoulder
“Aaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrghhhhhhh”
Screamed Gulliver. Sally’s loving touch had caused a
microscopic yet instant twitch down below, this caused his thingy to push
through the gap in his Batman Y fronts thus making contact with the front of his Nylon, Draylon and two percent Cotton
trousers causing static electricity to arc across his never regions sending
shocks up and down his legs eventually earthing in his swollen appendage.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you” exclaimed Sally
“What, huh, ey?” Mumbled the still recovering Gulliver
“I didn’t realise you didn’t like people touching you, I’m
sorry”
“No, no I love people touching me”
“What!?”
“I mean its fine I like you touching me”
“What do you mean you like me touching you, it was only a
pat on the shoulder”
“No, I mean it’s fine, its nice you touching me, please feel
free to touch some more”
“WHAT!?”
“I just mean its ok for you to touch me should you feel the
need to”
“Well it’s not fulfilling any need for me I just touched
your shoulder, I was being friendly”
“I know, I know, I mean its ok, I don’t mind you or anyone
touching me, except maybe a homeless sleeping in a public toilet, that’s just
plain wrong, its just when you touched me I got an electric shock from the
static in this ridiculous uniform”
“Oh right, I see, sorry” she chuckled
“The next time I touch you I will wear a pair of rubber gloves” This line being delivered with a saucy wink.
The image of Sally touching him in a pair of rubber gloves
shot through Gulliver’s brain like an exocet missile and the thoughts of a mad
passionate night bedecked in pvc shorts and a gimp mask with Sally and her
rubber gloves a bottle of baby oil and some root vegetables was not an
unpleasant one. Gulliver knew that to try
and make a witty comment at this juncture was sure to end in Kamikaze-esque
failure. (Actually
a Kamikaze failure would mean you actually came out un-scathed so maybe it was
not the best analogy)
“Ok” he said with the best non threatening non lecherous
smile he could conjure up
A broad grin broke across Sally’s face as she winked and
nodded her head in the direction of Gulliver’s lap. Gulliver looked down at the
bulge in his trousers.
“Oh no you didn’t do that, that’s not down to you” he
blurted out in a blind panic, as blood rushed to his face turning his pasty
complexion a healthy radish reddish.
“Sure?”
“No, no I shut my testicles in the drawer this morning, its
just a little localised swelling” he stammered.
“You shut your testicles in a drawer, how come?”
“Its a long story”
“You big bragger you”
“No, the story, not my knob”
“Oh dear, poor love”
“No I mean my knob is a great size, honest!”
“Not sure if I really needed to know that ”
“I wasn’t bragging, its not a cry for help. Suffice to say my knob is great but I accidentally
slammed my testicles in a drawer and am a bit swollen and the bulge in my
trousers is just a little localised swelling and in no way connected to you
touching me or any kind of sexual arousal”
“Pity” she said in the best lecherous voice she could
summon, as she turned on her heels and headed back towards the counter leaving
Gulliver speechless.
Localised swelling!
Localised swelling what the hell was I thinking thought Gulliver, there
should have been a more witty urbane reply, but no the best he could come up
with was localised swelling. While
Sally was away Gulliver had thought of the best line ever in relation to his
swollen gesticulars however to try and use it now would be totally out of
context and would in all likelihood earn him a well slapped face. He would have
to save it for the next time someone commented on his swollen man bag.
After five minutes Sally arrived back with the bacon
sandwich, the thick crusty bread looked like a British Museum
Gulliver looked at the thing of beauty which had by now taken
on an almost religious reverence, in fact there was a burnt piece of crust that
actually looked like St Francis of Assisi
carrying a small fawn on his shoulders. Gulliver lifted the sandwich from the
plate and the napkin on which it rested like a British library manuscript, and
wondered why the hell do they serve you a greasy sandwich on a napkin that you
have to then wipe your face with? The
only thing that the napkin is good for now is smearing a fine film of greasy
butter and tomato sauce (not ketchup) all over your satisfied phizog. Gulliver took one last long lingering look at
St Francis and then sunk his teeth into the sandwich like Christopher Lee
descending on a virgin. As he did so a
fine film of melted butter congealing fat and tomato sauce dribbled out and ran
down his chin looking for all the world as if had been a teen starlet in a
culinary skin flick.
Gulliver devoured the sandwich whilst slurping huge
mouthfuls of tea allowing the whole mixture to melt into one sloppy fat filled
mess as the world around him seemed to fade away such was the all consuming
aura of the bacon buttie. The whole
process took less than five minutes, the best five minutes he was likely to
have that day, although he did not know what the day was likely to bring he was
pretty sure that those precious pork filled minutes would be among the best.
Gulliver drained the last drop of tea from his mug, let out
a resounding belch and made his way back to the counter.
“That was Super Mario”
“We aim to please son”
“And very occasionally you do”
“Up yer arse officer Dibble, that’s three pound exactly”
“Three pounds! daylight robbery”
“Just as well its only dawn then”
“Now my good man I wish to avail myself of your facilities”
“Down the end of the corridor on left, but you already know
that you idiot”
“ I was just wondering if you were going to remove the body
of the Council Health Inspector first or should I just piss over his bloated corpse?”
“Cheeky Bastard!”
“I heard Gordon Ramsay has been sniffing around looking for
tips for his next restaurant”
“That leather faced prancing Scots cock, I wouldn’t give him
the steam of my piss!”
“I know, you save that for the soup”
“Touche” conceded Mario as Gulliver turned and sauntered
down to the abomination that were the Café toilets.
Now café toilets, in fact any public toilets are at the best
of times unsanitary affairs, however Mario’s toilets always seemed to be at the
worst of times. Such were the toxins floating
around the bowls and festering in the urinals it had been rumoured that shady
looking Chechen gangsters in cheap shiny suits had been spotted scooping
gallons of grimy water from their porcelain bowls spooning the stuff into shiny
metal flasks to sell as biological weapons on the arms dealing black market, but
it was just a rumour.
Gulliver managed to negotiate his still aching parts out
through the nylon zipper and relieve himself, taking equal care when loading it
all back in however that was not the only problem which a dodgy toilet can
present, swollen sack or not. Now when I
say dodgy toilets I mean normal dodgey ones like you may find in a restaurant
or café, or even in one of those grandiose mocca serving bookshops that should
know better, not the types of dubious public toilets you would find say on
Hampstead Heath frequented by multi platinum record selling bearded Greek men,
or the type in a iffy Soho peep show with a hole cut in the partition where the
promise of glory lies beyond, no this was just the type of problem which could
be encountered in any public toilet in which an ordinary citizen might find
themselves, either by design or necessity.
The problem was getting out of the door, you see you have to
wash your hands but you also have to touch the tap which will itself have been
touched by a stranger who had recently touched his own todger or worse wiped
his chocolate starfish.
However if they had indeed touched the tap with dirty hands
they would have done so to wash them which would in turn mean that their hands
were clean when they last touched the tap before you which was when they were
turning it off, but what if they had not cleaned them properly and had left
some germ lurking on the tap? It was ok
for you to turn it on because you could wash the germs off but if you then
tried to turn it off you would have to touch the whole germ ridden article all
over again. So Gulliver hatched a plan
simple, wash your hands then grab a paper towel to first dry your hands and
then use that towel to turn the tap off (Brilliant) but then you had to get out
of the toilet which means touching the handle and what if the dirty sod before
you never washed his hands and then touched the handle?
This now means you have to gently pull your sleeve down over
your hand, turn the handle and open the door with your foot, but what if later
in the day you forgot about it and used your sleeve to wipe away some sweat
from your head or worse wipe your mouth?????
At 7am it was all too much for Gulliver to consider, he had been contemplating
a pooh but the poohing in public toilet precautions were a minefield of
intricate manoeuvres and etiquette and would take the best part of thirty
minutes to perform so he held on to his turtle and headed back out into the
steaming heaving café.
As he headed down the narrow corridor towards the main café
Gulliver could see that a number of the builders were standing, arms folded and
scowling in his direction, looking for all the world like a Neanderthal first
eleven line up. “What the hell” he
thought “why were they all looking at me?”
Maybe they are just ready to pay their bills and were unhappy about the
number of beans they had received, they surely could not have wanted to speak
to him he thought again. It was amazing how much he thought in that brief
couple of moments. He looked over to
Mario for some comfort, some solace that the brutish brutes had no business
with him. His eyes met Marios’ (in the
long distance across the room sense not in the ball to ball sense) Mario just
shook his head and turned away, “fuck, shit christ” what have I done he thought
(again with the thoughts he thought) As he cleared the corridor it became clear
that the builders were indeed there for him. He shot a panicked look over to
Sally, she just shook her head and turned away, “oh bugger” that was it he had
upset Sally and now he was going to be found in a wheelie bin covered in old
bacon rashers with a spirit level up his rectum and a bricklaying trowel
embedded in his head.
Gulliver braced himself and attempted to push through the
wall of testosterone and hair that was the builders posse, he thought that his
denial at his impending situation may rub off on the builders and he would be
allowed to float through leaving them stunned into silence and scratching their
heads and collective brain cell. The
wall funnily enough did not budge and Gulliver bounced back with a resounding
acceptance of the condemned man. As he
did big Dave stepped forward and poked a stubby friend egg stained finger into
Gulliver’s chest.
“Young Man” he said
“yes” Mumbled Gulliver
“Young man there’s no need to feel down”
“Huh?”
“I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground”
Pick yourself off the ground? Oh shit is this where I say I
ain’t on the ground and then he cracks me in the head?? Oh please God (if
you do exist, and we are not going to get into an argument with Richard Dawkins
at this moment in time, not with our hero/anti hero in such peril) make
it quick.
“I said, young man, 'cause you're in a new town there's no
need to be unhappy”
And with that the whole group began to belt out the Village
Peoples classic hit YMCA, builders were up on chairs and tables jumping around
like the opening credits to Fame, minus the New York skyline and yellow taxis,
tool belts swung, levels were used as mock canes as the whole café erupted into
the chorus. (just
a quick point if you have ever been to New York try to imagine would actually
happen if a bunch of kids in leg warmers and leotards jumped all over the
yellow taxis and early morning commuters cars….absolute bloody carnage is what
would happen.)
“ITS FUN TO STAY AT THE YMCA, ITS FUN TO STAY AT THE YMCA”
One particularly nimble plumber even did the double jump leg
split thing, he did manage to take the front row of teeth out of a parking
attendant who had come in for a quick cuppa, but as everyone knows its ok to do
that to traffic wardens (the views of the author
do not reflect those of the publisher, the rest of civilised society maybe but
not the publishers).
Gulliver looked over to Sally and Mario who arms around each
others shoulders were belting out the song at the tops of their voices. The swathe of humanity parted like the Red
sea for Moses as Gulliver headed for the door, as he reached the door he turned
on his heels came to attention and saluted the still less than mellifluous
throng as he backed out into the icy morning and the café collapsed in a heap
of laughter (that’s the people inside the café,
not the actual café) Gulliver looked back in as Sally was looking out,
she gave him a huge grin, a Nancy from Oliver wink and waved him on his way.
Women love a man in uniform, perhaps it’s not going to be
such a bad day after all he mused, he would have thought that but he had done a
lot of thinking so far toady, he could have engaged in meditation upon the point
but a good muse was more appropriate for the current epoch.
