The Bizarre Letters of St John Morris
Chapter 2: Dr Joined-Up-Writing
St John spent the next few weeks watching TV, reading, and eating spaghetti on toast, but primarily, he spent his time writing. During this sabbatical he formed an unlikely friendship with a tin of ravioli called Glen, but the relationship had come to an abrupt end when Mrs Morris had forgotten to buy more spaghetti, so St John had eaten Glen in a fit of hunger, followed by a fit of grief.
It was a grey Thursday morning and St John had a half-past-one appointment with Dr Joined Up Writing, a psychologist to whom the school counsellor, Pea-bole The Great, had referred him. The sessions with Pea-bole had proved a welcome distraction from the monotony of lessons. St John had been made to read to a Christmas cake with whom he became enamoured and he had also developed a great respect for Pea-bole after noticing a hand-crafted certificate which was displayed on the wall of his office.
"What's that", St John had enquired.
Pea-Bole lied and said it was "For neat work in various battles; Rorke's Drift, Agincourt and Tunbridge Wells, I fought with great valour in all four". St John and Pea-Bole would talk about all manner of subjects. St John preferred little brain teasers such as 'Who is the biggest, Dom Perignon or Tutti Frutti?' Or, 'What does a snakes navel taste like?' but Pea-Bole just instigated perpetual dialectic on the merits (and of course demerits) of using Toblarones to paint one's living room. Now, Pea-Bole had handed the therapeutic baton to one of the greatest minds in the field of psychology, Dr Joined Up Writing.
St John sat at the wooden table in his bedroom and tapped his pen on his blue Griffin Savers dictionary. For the first time ever, St John struggled to write. Usually, he would have an idea, pick up a pencil and write frantically for an hour or two, but this was the mirror opposite, he had the pencil in his hand, but nothing in his head. He opened a can of Quatro and went down to the kitchen from where he retreived a handful of fig biscuits. He took the ring pull he had detached from the Quatro can, broke it in half and, using the curly bit, fired the ring across the room. This gave him an idea for a new type of ring pull, but, just as he started to write to the chairman of Coca-Cola, it was time to set off for his appointment with Dr Joined up Writing. Never mind, he thought, he had at least a twenty minute bus journey on which he could write, so he gathered his toolbox, his A4 lined writing pad, and a blue Staedtler Stick pen, and set off for the bus stop.
St John's journey gave him enough time to write to Coca-Cola and to continue his mothballed story about the lizard.
In the waiting room of the offices of Dr Joined Up Writing, St John sat, peeling a sticker off a pensioner's hat. Inside Dr Joined-Up Writing's office, a consultation was taking place between the doctor and Andrew Puddleduck.
"I don't really think I've got a major problem or anything, I just like me beer and that", protested Andrew.
"Well, what is normal?" asked Dr Joined-up Writing. "Before any of us can determine a rationale upon which we may base a socially accepted definition of normality, we must first ask ourselves whether social norms and philosophical norms are the same thing".
"Eh?" came the puzzled reply from the Puddleduck.
"Yes, for instance, take myself. Would you think of me as normal?"
"Err...", said Andrew.
"What if I was to tell you that I sometimes think that my forearms speak to me, and the bricks that live in my bedstead...?
"Well I err...", said Andrew.
"And if I were to tell you that I once was questioned by an officer of the law, concerning issues that I cannot disclose. Would you think that I...was normal?"
"Look, I only wanted to have a quick chat. The wife asked us to come and that, like I said, 'cause of me drinking and that".
"Ahhh, but you avoid the question dear boy. Perhaps you think it odd that one such as I should shave my nether regions. I wonder, could it be that it is you who are afraid that you too may be ready for the loony bin? Oh, yes I've seen you coveting my leather sheath inside which lies-. A-ha! Yes, I thought so! I know only too well that the secret of my receptacle has been divulged to you and your kith...and kin!",
Dr Joined Up Writing stood up and leaned over the desk, "Well you ain't getting it!", he screamed.
The doctor slumped back in to his chair, red-faced and exhausted from the exertions of his outburst.
"Err, same time next week Doc?" stammered Andrew. Dr Joined-Up Writing held his head in his hands,
"Just f**k off", he sobbed. Andrew shook his head, scowled, and did as the good Doctor bade.
The sound of the doctor sobbing could be heard from the waiting room, muffled only by the plasterboard walls and hollow-core office door with its cherry veneer and brass nameplate.
St John stared at the old lady with interest and proceeded to return her sticker by placing it forcefully on to the lens of her glasses with such pressure that the lens popped from its frame and momentarily stuck to her eye socket, before the indented skin expanded back in to shape causing the lens to fall and drop down the front of her periwinkle imprinted blouse. This was not a malicious act, rather a function of his lack of understanding of societal niceties. It didn't occur to St John that this act of barbarism towards a pensioner could, or would, cause any upset or harm. If it had occurred to him, he certainly would not have done it.
Dr Joined-Up Writing blew his nose. The receptionist called the next patient,
"St John Morris, go through please". St John picked up his toolbox and went inside.
"Ahh St John, so nice to meet you young man", said Dr Joined Up Writing. St John sat down and poked at the cactus which sat on the windowsill. There was a long silence while the doctor perused St John's files and St John poked the spiky plant. "So, you like to write stupid stories do you?" said the doctor, abruptly. St John furrowed his brow and stared at the doctor curiously. "A most unhealthy business which simply will not do! You cannot allow this fascination, this unhealthy obsession to continue. I know about these things", continued Dr Joined-Up Writing. "I am paid, as a representative of the British Medical Association to know. To diagnose, to detect, decipher and weed out these 'people'. I know the shame, the opprobrium, the self-hatred and the dogs' shits that are posted through my letterbox, so I'll thank you not to condescend to instruct me in the field in which I am paid handsomely-", he paused and smiled, "-to be an expert". "I know only too well about you lot. You come in here with your...", he stopped abruptly. "What's in the box?" St John stared at the doctor but did not acknowledge the question. The doctor gave the toolbox a couple of small kicks. "Here boy, here. The toolbox, the toolbox. What's in here boy?" St John looked down at the toolbox which he had brought with him to the surgery. The doctor narrowed his eyes and drew close to St John. "You let me see what's in there boy". St John just stared so the doctor picked up the toolbox and placed it on the table in front of them both. "I'm going to look inside this box boy, to see what secrets you keep", and he opened the lid. A strong odour wafted from inside of the box and a few drops of brown water dripped from the lid on to the doctor's large old wooden desk. "F**king hell. It stinks", gasped the doctor. "What have you got in there, you little bastard?" St John smiled,
"Karen!" said St John.
"Karen? Karen?" roared the doctor, this time turning puce. He picked up the toolbox and threw it to the floor with such force that the lid flew off and shattered. The remaining bulk of the toolbox and its contents bounced up against the wall causing a gush of the pungent brown liquid to splatter across the beige paint, leaving a Rorschach inkblot-like stain from which five droplets raced each other to the skirting board.
"You little prick. It's a whelk...it's a...it's a...dead whelk!" St John nodded. "How dare you. How dare you bring that f**king thing in here!" screamed the doctor. "I'll show you what happens to whelks", and the burly doctor took his telephone receiver and, for about ten minutes, battered the gastropod in to a thick paste which resembled a cocktail of snot and a crushed Cadbury's mini egg.
Kneeling over his conquered enemy, sweating, panting and exhausted, the doctor came to his senses, took a final deep breath and slumped to the floor, his forehead resting on the whelk-coated carpet. He looked up at St John who, for the past ten minutes, had been dialling the number 4 on the desk telephone and had hardly noticed the doctor's merciless and persistent thuggery.
Dr Joined Up Writing regained his composure, stood up and swelled out his chest.
"You boy!" he roared. "You! Run. Flee. F**k off. Vanish from my presence and take the foul stench of your sordid secret with you. I'll do all I can from this end, but I do not hold out much hope. It may be that we are too late. I shall need to consult my oyster (you and your f**king whelk), in order that we may, lest we become too consumed by our own shortcomings, find some way to end this hideous torment".
St John left Dr Joined Up Writing's office and wandered into the waiting room. He circled around the four banks of chairs and finally decided to settle next to an elderly Muslim gentleman with a beard which had been dyed sunburst red, the same colour as a nineteen-eighties Ford Escort RS Turbo. St John had always been a fan of the RS Turbo, mainly due to the colour coded rear spoiler and air vents in the bonnet that distinguished it from the more common and less powerful XR3i.
St John curled in to a ball on the seat next to Ashraf and rested his head upon his knee, Ashraf's white cotton robe proving an uncomfortable pillowcase as it allowed thick, black leg hairs to protrude and spear St John's face. St John felt a dull thud on his cheekbone and a hotness expanded across his face, over his nose and eye-socket, finally settling near his ear. He looked up, directly in to Ashraf's dark but sparkly eyes, which sheltered beneath his unruly jet-black eyebrows.
"No!" said Ashraf, shaking his head. St John wrinkled his nose as if impersonating a rabbit, uncoiled and staggered in to the disabled toilet where he sat and shat for about half an hour, his eyes closed and a smile of utter contentment upon his face.
Meanwhile, crackling over the intercom in his secretary's office, the sound of Dr Joined Up Writing removing his trousers wasn't heard, followed by, for what was to be the last time, his broken, soulless voice,
"No more patients for fifteen minutes".
The ambulance arrived forty-five minutes later and Dr Joined Up Writing was pronounced dead at the scene and his body was transferred to the city mortuary pending post-mortem by the coroner.
Inside his office, Dr Joined Up Writing's desk started to shake. With no one there to stop it, it shuddered until the screws began to come lose. Eventually, the noise was so vociferous and incessant that Dr Joined Up Writing's secretary, Mrs Handsel, came to investigate. She opened the door and saw the great oak desk almost leaping off the ground as it oscillated from side to side. She walked over to investigate, wondering what could be causing it. Not being of a spiritual bent, she never for a moment considered that it could be the ghost of Dr Joined Up Writing, in limbo and awaiting screening and acceptance into heaven. Quite right too, as it wasn't. She put her hand on the desk and the vibrations began to subside until it rested, calm and inanimate, as a desk should be.
.........................................................................
The Bizarre Letters of St John Morris
Chapter 4: Climbing Up
Benk Road was a long, straight, tree-lined road, which should, perhaps more correctly, have been called an avenue. The large, Victorian terraced houses were mostly fairly well-kempt and the inhabitants, generally, were a mixture of upper working class and lower middle class. The distinction being that the former had material aspirations whereas the latter had intellectual / social aspirations. St John and Mrs Morris lived at number sixteen. Next door to the Morrises lived an upper working class family, the Bensons.
At one time, the Bensons and the Morrises had been quite close, but since the arrival of St John and the gradual exodus of the conformist members of the Morris family, the Bensons had become somewhat weary of them, what with St John licking the grass to see if it tasted of titanium and Mrs Morris waking around like one of the living dead, so they tended to keep a polite distance.
Roger Benson was a 54 year old works' manager for a company which specialised in the manufacture of rolled steel rings. He had joined the company as an apprentice at the age of fifteen and had worked his way up to the position of manager. He had taken great pride in his ascent through the hierarchy and had worn with pride the various attire which denoted his rank. Mrs Benson worked as a secretary for a local fruit wholesaler and, facilitated by the output of Mr Benson, she had produced three offspring, born in spring. The total yield was two boys; Hancock (eighteen), Frank (sixteen); and a girl, named Bridget (unspecified). The two boys worked together in a factory which made bathroom fixtures. Bridget worked in the fruit wholesalers with Mrs Benson. The family unit was completed by Marmaduke, their ginger car.
Like most families, the Bensons had their share of undulations of fortune, though usually, not quite as strange as the Morris's. Recently, though, their youngest son, Frank, had developed a fixation with climbing up chimneys.
"Well, it's like Mallory said about Everest, it's just because it's there. I just see a chimney and I think I'm going to climb up that", said Frank.
"But you can't just go climbing up things", protested Hancock. "You'll get in to trouble".
"Well, what about that fella from Bolton? He did it. So why can't I? He got on the telly with it, didn't he? He had his own programme and everything. I could do that...once I'm famous. He did steam trains and all, and narrow boats and old factories. I could have a programme about me bike, and dogs and that".
"No one's interested in your old Grifter, or your dogs, or seeing you climb up any lamp posts either".
"Why not?" persisted Frank.
"Because it's not entertainment is it? People don't want to see you hanging off the side of a steeple eating a corned beef sandwich. They want proper entertainment".
"Well what about on Channel Four last week? There was that guy with the rubber suit who sets light to his shites".
"Fair enough, I'll give you that one", laughed Hancock.
"Hey, I've just remembered, did you hear about that fella at work?" said Frank.
"What Phantom Wanker?" said Hancock.
"No, the guy who's face...phantom who?" asked Frank.
"Phantom Wanker, the lasses in the offices told me about him. He's always in the park with his dog and a can of apple Tango".
"That's not a wanker, that's Mr Randall. He just walks his dog", said Frank.
"Not what I've heard!" said Hancock, tapping his nose.
"No, anyway, it's not him, said Frank. I'm on about the bloke from stores who ate that infected asparagus and all his face swelled up".
"What are you on about now?" asked Hancock.
"I'm telling you. He ate some infected asparagus and his face swelled up", said Frank indignantly.
"Infected asparagus? Who came up with that load of rubbish?" said Hancock scornfully.
"It was health and safety I think. They did some tests".
"Tests. What tests?"
"Well they'll have investigated it, won't they? And err, done a, well an, err...investigation!"
"Will they?"
"Yeah", said Frank
"And found some infected asparagus?" said Hancock, incredulously.
"Yeah!", insisted Frank.
"You're as bad as him next door you are", laughed Hancock.
"No, listen. Hear me out. What I was going to say was that he's from Southampton, isn't he?" said Frank.
"Who is?"
"The bloke who's face swelled up"
"I don't know, is he?"
"Yeah"
"So?"
"Well!"
"Well what?"
"Well, you know what them lot are like from down there. You can't tell a word they're saying".
"What's that got to do with asparagus?"
"Well, you never know do you?"
"You're are. You're as bad as him next door, said Hancock. He's crackers as well".
"What, St John? I'm not like him, he's mental. He told mum she had to keep away from their garden because he was growing a string of diesel powered runner beans that he was going to send away to fight in the Boer War".
"I know", said Hancock shaking his head. "Remember that time when dad got that letter from him saying that he was going to see a solicitor because dad had interfered with his cormorant? Dad was fuming".
"Yeah. I'd forgotten about that. I'm not like him!"
"Well, what about that time when you asked for a measuring wheel for Christmas? Mum and dad went round all the shops trying to find one. You looked a right tit. What did you want one of those for?"
"I just like measuring things".
"Yeah, and you went embarrassing everyone again, taking it to Asda with us and clicking all the time".
"Well, mum and dad bought me that button didn't they? That was just as bad and I never even asked for that", protested Frank.
"Button?" puzzled Hancock, "What button?"
"Yeah they bought me that button as well".
"What are you on about about now?"
"That same Christmas they bought me a button. I used to press it".
"What did it do?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, what was it for?"
"It was just a, well, just a button".
"You can't just have a button".
"Well that's what it was".
"What's the point of a button that doesn't do anything?"
"So you can press it. It was good. If I ever got bored I'd think, I know, I'll go and press my button".
"But, you can't just have a button for a button's sake. A button is to, well, it has to do something. Hang on a minute, are you on about that night-light?"
"Night-light?" puzzled Frank.
"Yeah; big round white thing that lit up when you pressed it",
"Yeah that's it; my button".
"That was a light".
"Was it?"
"Of course it was. Why do you think it lit up when you pressed it?"
"To show you that you'd pressed it".
"So, you're saying that you thought it was a button, the sole purpose of which was to be pushed, and you're also saying that you thought that it lit up, just to confirm that you'd pushed it?"
"Yeah"
"You are, I'm telling you, you're worse than him next door".
"Stop saying that. I'm not like him at all".
"Well, maybe not that bad, but you're definitely not normal, and it's definitely not normal to go climbing up things all the time. Anyway, it's not just that, what about when dad got you lined up for that job at his work. All you had to do was to go in and have a chat with the boss, and what did you do?"
"Yeah, well, I was hungry".
"Come on, what did you do?"
"F**k off".
"Fancy taking fish and chips in to an interview!"
"Well, I didn't know did I?"
"How can you not know?"
"Well, no one told me that you can't take fish and chips to an interview"
"As if anyone needs to tell you".
"Look, I don't want to talk about it anymore".
"And what about when you saw that bloke on telly blow up that chimney? You were on about it for ages. Then mum found you on the roof in the middle of the night, with an air bomb strapped to a can of Mr Sheen. It's not normal is it?"
Frank looked at the floor. There was a brief silence. "And why were you naked?"
The next day Mrs Benson was standing in the street, shading her eyes from the sun and berating her youngest son.
"Frank! Will you get down from that lamp post", she shouted. "Why aren't you at work?"
"But Mum, I've only just got to the top. It took me ages. I've got my sandwiches and a can of Lilt. Can't I just stay up here for a bit?"
"No Frank, I'm not having the neighbours calling you names again. You're to come down at once".
A small crowd had gathered and some of the neighbours were leaning out of windows, gossiping and giggling.
"What are you lot laughing at?" shouted Mrs Benson.
A middle-aged lady who had been riding a bicycle had stopped to see the spectacle.
"It's Spiderman", laughed the lady.
"What did you say you fat bitch?", Mrs Benson snapped back. "Yeah, you. You've no room to talk when you've got them bin men coming and going at all hours. Yes, don't think we haven't all seen them. No wonder they take your black bags when they won't take anyone else's. They're not supposed to do that. It has to be in the bin. So shut your mouth and get back in side you filthy bastard. I'll be on to the council about you. Go on, all of you, piss off back inside". She looked back up at Frank furiously. "See what you've done now Frank, get down! They'll all think you're puddled".
Frank sighed, "Ok then", and, reluctantly, he descended the pole.
That night, Hancock was lying in bed trying to get to sleep.
"Here, does that spectre still live next door?" asked Frank.
"What do you mean?" replied Hancock.
"You know, we used to have that spectre living next door".
"Spectre?"
"Yeah, you know, that apparition, used to come round and scream at us and tell us to kill ourselves when we were watching telly".
"You mean Julie with the mini-skirts and corned beef legs?" said Hancock.
"Yeah, that's her, lived next door".
"She wasn't a spectre".
"Wasn't she?"
"Of course she f**king wasn't, she worked at Halfords. Drove that Montego".
"Oh yeah, the ginger one".
"No she had dark hair".
"Not her, the car".
"Eh?"
"The car, it was a ginger Montego, I remember it"
"Ginger?"
"Yeah. It was a ginger colour".
"You can't say a car is a ginger colour".
"Why not?"
"You just can't".
"But it was, I remember it and it was ginger!"
"Yeah, I know. It was a gingery colour but no-one says cars are ginger"
"Don't they?"
"No, they call them burnt orange or try to pass them off as gold, but no one has ever, anywhere, ever, bought or sold a ginger car".
"Well, I don't care", said Frank. "Her car was ginger". There was a few moments silence. "So why was she in our living room screaming then?"
"I can't remember now. She was probably trying to tell you that her car was orange not ginger".
"No, that wasn't it". Frank sat and thought whilst playing the intro to Gold by Spandau Ballet with his hands on the duvet. "Hancock", he said.
"What?" said Hancock.
"Was she an apparition?"
Hancock shook his head in disbelief and rolled over. Suddenly he sat upright and looked at Frank.
"Hey, what happened out in the road this morning then?"
"I don't want talk about it", said Frank, abruptly.
"Were you up on the roof again?" said Hancock.
"Look, I don't want to talk about it, OK!" insisted Frank.
Frank and Hancock, their eyes closed, lay on their respective beds, the silent tranquillity of Benk Road interrupted only by the sound of a Subaru Impreza being driven too fast, followed by the echoes of a tortured scream emanating from a teenager being attacked for his mobile phone. Other than that and the barking dogs at number twenty one, the stray cats shagging each other and the blaring happy hardcore from the open window of the council flats at the other end of the road, and the resonant retching of the drunk who was expelling his evening's ingestion over Mr Cryer's petunias - complete, unadulterated silence.
"Mum made a right fool of me", said Frank.
"Did she hit anyone this time?" asked Hancock.
"No. She just called the vicar's wife a filthy bastard". There was another brief silence which was interrupted by the two of them laughing uncontrollably.
"But, why did she tell us to kill ourselves?" asked Frank.
"Shut up and go to sleep!"
The next day, Frank and Hancock were in the breakfast queue in the subsidised canteen of their workplace and were still discussing the recent chain of events.
"I might hand my notice in this month", confided Frank.
"No egg, just sausage and tomatoes", he said to the lady serving the "Seven items for £1.50" breakfast.
"Why?" asked Hancock.
"Well, I want to go full time with the chimneys", said Frank. "Two punanis please".
"What do you mean full time? asked Hancock. "It's not like you do it for a job. You don't get paid for it".
"Two what?" said the massive woman behind the counter.
"That guy on the telly does", said Frank. "Two punanis, you know those bread things".
"You mean paninis", snapped the humongous woman.
"Yeah whatever", said Frank.
"Yeah, but that's his job", said Hancock. "People want him to do it and they pay him. You just climb up lamp posts. People would pay to keep you off them".
"He doesn't just climb up them, he blows them up as well", replied Frank.
"Yeah, because people want him to. Listen, don't you be going blowing up chimneys without being asked, you'll get locked up", warned Hancock.
"I know", moaned Frank despondently.
As they sat in the canteen eating their breakfast, Hancock's can of Coke began to rattle.
"Stop doing that with your leg", he said, kicking Frank in the shins under the table.
"Oww, get off. Stop what?"
"Ratting the table, it's annoying", said Hancock.
"I'm not rattling anything", insisted Frank.
"You are. You're doing that thing with your leg again"
"I'm not, honestly", said Frank. Hancock looked under the table.
"Well what's making that rattling then?"
"I don't know".
"Must be the machines gone funny again", said Hancock. Frank picked up the can of Coke and finished the last dregs before belching, crushing the can in half and throwing it in the bin.
Muffled by sandwich crusts, crisp packets and soggy tea-bags, the can continued to rattle inside the bin, but nobody noticed.
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The Bizarre Letters of St John Morris
Chapter 5: From the Point of View of a Lime
It's interesting being a lime, especially one who is essentially a bog-standard citrus fruit, but has been anthropomorphised by a maladjusted mind. Of course, there are trade-offs; on the one hand, I don't get eaten but on the other, I lead a solitary existence, either here in the fruit bowl, next to the serving hatch in the kitchen of the Morris household, or in St John's Morris's pocket. St John cossets me when I'm with him, but there are long periods of boredom when I'm alone, but at least I do get to observe things from a different perspective than, say, a human person may do - a bit like a fly on a wall, I suppose, but a lime on a table.
I find it more difficult than most to write a chapter in a book. The reason is that I have a wide variety of influences. Of course, you could argue that any literary contribution from a lime is either:
a, A marvellous, miraculous achievement for which we should celebrate and extend hope that other limes, indeed fruit of any nature, may throw off the shackles of their birth / DNA.
b, The product of a severely twisted imagination.
c, A welcome alternative to trying to guess whether D.I. Johnny Spuke will catch the serial murderer before another prostitute is killed.
As a proud lime and, as St John's best friend, I lean towards both A and C, and I'm sure that most of you will agree with this inclination, if only for the fact that if you have got this far in to the story without thinking B, you must be 'one of us'. So, welcome, friend.
I was telling you about influences. Well, let's start at the end. According to St John, I am (this week) a sixty two year old Portuguese spinster called Ranjit. I once almost married a huge Turkish delight called Warwick, but he turned out to be a Wispa in disguise who was a bigamist and had a string of confectionary wives across the country. I was born in Setubal and I served as an infantryman in the British (due to my dual nationality - my mother was a lemon from Torrington Hall) army during the Second World War. After being demobbed in London, I applied for a job at Ardenac and Stallfrig, a small, family-run tailors shop in Savile Row. After five years, I worked my way up to the position of assistant manager but there was a scandal over a missing ten shilling note so I gave notice and moved to Sheffield. It was there where, in between whippet training, spitting on cobbled streets, mindless violence, fourteen hour shifts in the mill and urinating on public monuments to the civically altruistic, artistically prevalent and noble of birth, I grew to love the English language. I listened to Radio 4, I looked up words that I didn't know, and I read books.
It was whilst listening to Radio 4 that I heard a presenter, or guest, I forget which, refer to something as Dickensian. Firstly, I had to consult the dictionary in order to learn that it was a reference to the author Charles Dickens (Why did I write the author? We all know who the Dickens Dickens is/was). So, now I know the answer, but still I don't quite get the rules for the working out. I am pleased to have gained the knowledge but I am plagued by a lack of understanding. Who decides that things of Dickens' ilk are Dickensian? Does this only apply to Dickens and a select few others? Freudian, Kantian, Churchillian, Machiavellian etc., or can the -ian be appended to any surname? Can post-modern feminist views be Street-Porterian? Are unionist views on Northern Ireland Paisleyian, or even IanPaisleyian? I dread to think what Ian Gillian of Deep Purple would be. Hang on, what about Thatcherite and Blairite? What's happened to Ian? Who traded Ian for an ite? Did anyone tell Ian that he was being usurped? 'Shh, Ian's gone for an ite!' What's the rule and who decides it? What's de rigueur for Stephen Fry? Is it Fryian, Fryite, Fryish? Somehow none seems quite right. And, to return to Dickens, who decided on the intonation? Who ruled that the syllable stress should be on the ens - Dickensian? No one says "I love to read Charles Dickens". It's the Dick that gets the stress - Charles Dickens - so who decided to change it when saying Dickensian?
Anyway, the point is, I love words and language. Not to mention science, philosophy and the humanities, but I have no schooling in them whatsoever and very little opportunity for self-expression in these areas. But, I also have a very silly sense of humour. So my identity flits constantly on a sliding scale between Waynetta Slob, Evelyn Waugh, Peter Cook and Brian Cox. Consequently, the result is a schizophrenic writing style, borne of an environment which eschews anything outside the realms of popular-culture, and tended with a pathological love of language. Anyway, enough about me, let me get on to what I wanted to tell you.
One afternoon, when St John was in the back garden, milking a perch, and Mrs Morris had gone to the market to look for a cooper with a lisp, I struck up an interesting conversation with some uncooked rigatoni that had fallen behind the breadbin. He had just got off the phone with his grandfather and was livid at the story that the pensioner had recounted about the difficulty he'd had in removing some sausage meat from the inside a cinnamon tree, so I tried to council him,
"Think of Saint Stanislaus", I said, but he was inconsolable and threatened to punch me if I 'looked at his bird again'. I heard later, through friends, that he'd been seeing an OXO cube and they'd recently been going through a bad patch due to his possessiveness. Luckily, before he could 'wall me up', we heard an almighty screech and a Subaru Impreza came roaring up the street, the dump-valve spitting like a Llama. Well, I stood at the window, trying to see what was going on and the car pulled up at the bungalows across the road, and out gets an old lady. She must have been at least eighty five years old. Honestly, you should have seen her. She had to hoist herself out of the bucket-seats and she doddered round the boot where she extracted her walking frame. Once she was securely in place within the frame she closed the boot, flicked on the alarm and made her way inside. That was in April last year and ever since then she's made the same journey every day. All she goes out for is the pensioner's staple of either a half-tin of Heinz Baked Beans, or a normal size tin of Campbell's Cream of Chicken soup. To be honest, I think she's either in charge of the drugs and prostitutes, or she's got Alzheimer's.
It's not just the things I see though; sometimes I hear interesting things as well. One day I was sitting on the sideboard when Mrs Klopper from over the road at number thirteen called round to see if Mrs Morris wanted any help with anything. Well, Mrs M just sits there, like she does, staring into space while Mrs Klopper natters on and on. I think she only comes round because she knows she's got a captive audience to talk at.
Anyway, she starts on about this guy who is a shepherd but he doesn't have any sheep because they all hate him, so he just f**ks about on a hill. I was sitting there thinking, well, he can't be a shepherd if he's got no sheep, and what's he doing on a hill on his own? I never did find out, but I will. One day, I will.
The street on which I reside, Benk Road, is inhabited by lots of other varied and interesting characters who often pass in front of the window as they go about their business. In fact I can see one of the neighbours out of the window now, it's Private Benjamin trying to act cool by licking the icing off Chris Packham's legs. Packham doesn't like it and is screaming whilst Vince Burnham, the village tobacconist (who has recently been released from an open prison having been sentenced to two years for melting down Damon Albarn's crucifix and reworking it in to a fruit bowl) tries to prise her off.
Packham lives across town but I once went to one of his Virgin Vie parties and had a really good time watching Chas having a paddy whilst trying to put on Dave's socks, before realising that he only had two feet, compared to Dave's three. The party was sparsely attended, save for Chas, Dave and a few of Packham's immediate friends. There was Arctic John, a businessman from Salisbury who doesn't hold water, Bruce Knott, a social worker from Cumberland who spends his lunch hour picking his bum, and Judith Glycerine, the reformation pig.
Private Benjamin lives next door but one to Bob Cryer from The Bill, I once saw Bob crouching down behind a sycamore tree and using his nose as an Allen Key to release a starving rat. He rents out his garden shed to Gary Dirts, a radish who I've seen playing Swing ball against the French Revolution. Cryer is married to Roxy out of Roxy Music who has devoted most of her career to trying to decipher the meaning contained within Jimmy Corkhill's appendix scar. Prior to her marriage to Cryer, Roxy was cohabiting with Ron Todd and his Treble Clef.
Just up from Bob Cryer is Mr Chadwick, the articulate organist who likes to confront store managers about their lack of action on anti-Semitic graffiti in Prague.
The house next door to him is usually empty as it's County Durham's weekend retreat but, for a time, Tobak Davenport, who is a cross between some Sugar Puffs and Lynn Faulds-Wood, was squatting there before being removed by the local constabulary after he went round to complain about Luther Blisset's pet turkey fouling the communal herb garden.
Then, of course, there's Mrs Klopper over the road, and the old lady with the Subaru, and the Bensons who live next door.
Next door to the Bensons is Emmet Frag, a retired pacemaker who is credited with inventing the notion of happiness. He's currently working on a method for categorising ducks based on their singing voice. He's also the owner of the world's largest collection of tenor geese.
Across from Frag lives a huge meringue with polio who drives everywhere in a beautifully restored Hillman Imp. There were, for a brief period, rumours about his suitability for the clergy, but they were found to be both spurious and malicious, and started by his mother.
Next door but one is Quinlan Broddle, a Viceroy with a fear of gardens. So much so that he sold his garden to Virgin Atlantic and his erstwhile front lawn is now a runway where miniature helicopters and packets of crisps undertake sorties to 1940's Dresden where they have made several dozen unsuccessful attempts to rescue the Quaker Oats man, who is being held captive by the SS on the basis that his hair looks like ice cream.
Three doors down from him resides a mysterious and beautiful Afghan Princess who plays Ultravox records at high volume. Not much is known about her except that she keeps a life-size glove puppet of Jacques Villeneuve under her bed and her father owns a rug shop in Dewsbury market.
On the other side of St John's house is a fake egg timer who can't maintain an erection. He shares the property with a glossy beef burger called Tom, who has been painted by a seven year old magistrate in order to be entered for this year's Miss East Lancashire competition. Next door to them is a Dundee cake with a lisp.
At the far end of the street are two houses which have been turned in to flats. I'm not sure about a lot of the inhabitants, but I do know that there's an oval who secretly wants to be a square, and two rhomboids who can't see eye-to-eye on anything.
In one of the top flats there's a picked dill cucumber called Fergus Burns; his only claim to fame is that he once touched Colin Farrell's pet leotard. The caretaker of the flats is Old Man River who's cohabiting with a pine kernel.
I cannot deny that Benk Road is a wonderful place to live, although people watching through the net curtains can become tiresome, so I like to interrupt the tedium by watching the television set. No one calls it a television set these days but I like to remain true to the original definition. After all, television is the medium, not the device. Having said that, it's not the device I am watching; I am watching the medium of television, which is displayed on the television set, so therefore 'I'm watching television is correct but, 'I'm watching the television is wrong' - a bit long winded, but there you go. Either way, it's infinitely more interesting than when we just had a radio. I would just sit and stare at the wall because radio, by its very nature, just isn't a visual medium. I did toy with the idea of making finger puppets to accompany the audio broadcasts but I thought it would be an appalling idea, so I didn't bother. Anyway, that's not as bad as when we had neither radio nor television set; we'd just sit and look at the wall in silence.
Those days weren't all bad though. The lack of passive stimulation meant that we had to be creative and concoct our own fantasies - I remember how granddad was known all over the county for his yearning for vulpine affection. Still, some of us had less carnal fantasies and were able to apply our imagination to more savoury matters. I, for example, won a certificate for a drawing of Leonard Rossiter which I submitted to my teacher.
So, now, I just sit here, watching the world go by through the net curtains and watching The Bush Tucker Man with St John. It keeps me occupied in my twilight years and I shall be forever grateful to St John for affording me the opportunity to watch the world go by as no other lime has done before[1].
[1] Except for my cousin, João, who lives on the top of a termite mound in Sao Paulo.
