Hymn

Crabby

Now, I’m a dead ringer for a pirate. I think it’s the wooden leg. Of course it’s not all Ho-ho-ho-and-a-bottle-of-rum. More than once, I’ve felt the strong arm of the Royal Navy as I’ve gone about my business. Indeed, I hardly wear my eye patch these days for that very reason. And poor Polly - she’s still looking for a shoulder to fly on.

So, with my nautical appearance, it’ll surprise you to discover that I’ve never been particularly close to a lobster. I once became friends with a hermit crab but nothing came of it. Nope, never been near a lobster, not touched one, let alone eaten one but here in the crustacean-catching capital of Cornwall, well, when in Rome, eh?

Not wanting to rely too heavily on my natural sea-going facade, I called on my inherent skill at disguise to blend in. Never failed me yet. I ambled to the quayside resplendent in the finest Fisherman’s Jumper that Marks & Spencers had to offer, some rolled up trousers and Wellington boots. I carried my pipe for added authenticity.

“Ah-ha! I’ve come to catch me a lobster, me Hearties!” I declared.
‘Fah-coff yer stew pedpric’ Said the nearest barnacled-trawlerman

Not understanding the ancient local dialect, I laughed merrily, made my apologies and looked for someone for spoke English.

“Ahoy there!” I called to a man working outside Harveys - A Fishing Family from 1860. “I’m looking for a lobster.”
‘You are, are you?’
“Yes, a proper pink lobster.”
He stared back. There was something familiar about the way he looked at me. I recognised it but couldn’t quite place it.
“Do you work here?” I wondered.
He glanced down at the Harveys crate of fish at his feet and the overalls with Harveys emblazoned on them. He took off his Harveys baseball cap and scratched his head.
‘Uh huh.’
“So, it’s mister Harvey is it?”
‘No. I’m Smith.’
“Right.” I’d clearly made a friend. “Can you help me catch crabs?”

Now, I suspect this goes without saying, but naturaly I caught them myself. With my own bare hands. From the cruel and untamed ocean. Great ugly sea monsters. My God, what a struggle! What a fight! Man against beast. Life and death.

Of course when I say ‘caught’, I obviously mean pointed at. And when I say ‘my own bare hands’ I obviously mean the gloved hands of some ruddy fisherman. And for ‘cruel untamed sea’ read large concrete tanks. And helpfully, they came with rubber bands around their claws. Mind you, I suspect it was still pretty close to the real-life experience of tossing about hauling up lobster pots. I could see a glint of new-found respect in Smith’s eye as I bundled the three shellfish into my orange and green tartan shopping bag.

Little S didn’t take to them, as I let them scuttle around the kitchen floor in front of her. Knowing her as well as I do, I realised immediately that she was probably upset at them being bound. I released their claws to show them in all their glory. This didn’t help at all. Within moments assorted lobster legs littered the floor and S was screaming hysterically.

T raced in, still dripping from the shower.
‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

She hoisted our distraught daughter into her arms and away to safety, muttering under breath as she left.

I looked at the prehistoric armoured tanks wheeling the floor, chopping wildly at each other.

Right - separate pens, I thought.

Did the little fuckers appreciate my attempt to take them out of harm’s way? Oh no. Little bastards. Bloody lethal, those claws. Still, after a bit of effort, and the loss of a few more legs and nearly a finger or two I deposited one in the sink, one in the bath and one in a bucket outside.

Still, all worth it in the end - only a third of the diners were violently ill for the next couple of days, S stopped shaking and is pretty calm so long as she doesn’t see anything with more than four legs and my fingers are healing nicely. Another triumph, all in all.

Somewhere Else

I'm not here.  Of course some might say, I am regularly not all there.  Now I'm not here either.

I'll be away for a few days.  It's not like that curious incident with strangers out in the New Mexico desert, the ones who looked a bit peaky, a bit green.  And it's not like the unfortunate misunderstanding with the Royal Protection officers and the salami.  Nor, I hope, will it have anything to do with a three-legged basset hound called Hilary.  Although sadly, all these incidents seem to keep repeating themselves like an enormous cucumber.

Let's just say I'll be 'away.'

In the meantime, I'd like to commend to you some of the excellent blogs I read regularly.  Of course, they're all excellent, as you know I wouldn't waste my time on nonsense, but here's a smattering:

James' allotment has more cabbages than I thought one man could squeeze into a shed;

Although all of London's menfolk are queuing up, this Girl's stuck on one particular fellow;

Simon is the world's most prolific blogger with his observations on everything rock 'n' roll which prevent him from doing any work whatsoever;

Edvard has some particularly sharp observations about his life and travels and the occasionally odd girl from Harrogate;

And recently I've started to enjoy the thoughts of a woman who can't sleep.

I hope you enjoy them as much as me.

Needless to say, I will endeavour to keep myself out of trouble for the next few days. c

Tall Tail

Most days I am woken by an erect tail rubbing my toes.  I always surprised to see it poking up at the end of the bed.  Some people say I’m a lucky man.  I’m not so sure: I don’t always want my cat stroking me with his fluffy appendages.  Especially first thing in the morning.

This morning, he didn’t.  Although he meowed, there was no rubbing.  There was no stroking.  There was no proud greeting.  He was limp.  Droopy, floppy, broken.  Now, that’s got to be upsetting for any male.  Even more so for one who’s already has his balls chopped off.  He looked disconsolate.

“Hey, Boy, what’s up?”  I asked.
He looked back with a level of disdain only cats can muster.

His tail was doing some very odd things.  It had adopted the shape of an ‘n’ for a start.  Now, I’m not a veterinary expert, but I suspect this is not a normal and healthy exploration of new body poses by an avant-garde feline.  I’d even go as far as to say something might be wrong.

Of course, I should have known better than to try to stroke it better.  It really, really didn’t make anything better at all.  Nothing at all.  Not one thing.  In fact, it’s the closest I’ve ever come to petting an atom bomb.  If scientists could harness the violence that erupted in the milliseconds after my fateful words “Come on, Boy, let’s have a little look at it” they’d solve the global energy crisis overnight. 

Even for a veteran like me, used to my psychopathic cat exploding at the slightest provocation, such as breathing, this was quite startling.  T and I retreated behind the duvet as its outer covering is torn to shreds.

“I think he might be hurt.” I announced after some consideration.  Such insight, such brilliance - sometimes I scare myself.

‘I think we should go to the vet.’ She responded, ‘And by the way, you’re bleeding over my clean sheets.’

T had clearly lost her mind in the blind fury of the situation.  The vet?  Take our cat.  To the vet.  Our cat.  The vet.  Our cat.  She had gone bananas.  We had to have a new kitchen the last time we tried to take our cat out of the house in his carrier and the neighbours moved to Stockport.  Surely she wasn’t serious.

“Couldn’t we do something else?”
‘Like what?’
“Erm, put a splint on it.”
‘You think he’ll let you?  You want to try?’

I looked at the bloody stumps where a great pianist’s fingers once were.  She had a point.

“Couldn’t we just sell the house to a vet?  Wouldn’t that be easier?”

T gave me a look that appeared surprisingly cat-like.

“All right” I said meaning the exact opposite but recognising a battle lost. 

I fetched my welding gloves and put them on over the ones I wear for gardening and the leather ones I’m supposed to drive in.

‘My God!’ said the vet half an hour later, ‘Have you had an accident?  Sit down, sit down; I’ll call an ambulance.’
“No, no.  Please don’t bother.  We’ve brought our cat.”

He looked at the vision of peace and contentment sat quietly in the carrier.

‘This little puddy tat?’

He looked at my bloody face and back to the cat without making any connection whatsoever.  I knew that this was going to be messy.  Messy in the same way the Charge of the Light Brigade could be described as a tad messy.

‘Right.  Well, we’ll have a look at him then.’
“What, on your own?  I don’t think that’s wise.”
‘It’s all right we do this sort of thing all the time.’ 
“Still, I think it’s worth taking some precautions.”
‘Don’t be silly.  Leave him in our capable hands.’

T went and locked herself in the car outside.

Unlocking the cage had quite a dramatic effect.  It was not unlike switching on a circular saw with whiskers.  I felt quite sorry for this young man, fleeing in blind terror from this maniac of an animal.  I held the door open as he escaped the treatment room.  He slammed it shut behind us and slumped panting against it.

‘I think we’ll need to sedate him.’ He gasped, ‘I’ll get the tranquiliser gun.’
“Smashing! We’ll collect him later.” I chirped, rubbing my hands together gleefully until remembering how much they hurt.

We have Gizmo home now.  The vet wheeled him out like Hannibal Lecter and I couldn’t help noticing the number of fresh scratches adorning every member of staff.  I think I heard someone sobbing in a back room.

“Thank you very much.” I said. “He is still sedated though isn’t he?” I added nervously.
They nodded sullenly.
“Thank you.”

We’ve unlocked his cage and are waiting for him to come round. 

We waiting, locked in the bathroom.  With a chair against the door.

Sniffer

In dogs, it is a positive boon. Indeed many make a very success career out of it but there’s no excuse for a middle-aged man. Even in scuffed shoes. And looking for a new job. It didn’t stop him though. From sniffing for a hundred miles. In a sealed train carriage.

In fact, at first I wondered if it wasn’t the pneumatic door gone wrong such was the regularity and rhythm of it. Not just the odd breath here and there but every single time he inhaled. Sniff, sniff. Every single bloody time. Every single time.

And it’s not a sound one can ignore. -sniff- It’s not like a close relative’s fart or door-to-door salesman ringing the bell. -sniff- Of course I tried to block it out. I buried my nose in a newspaper. -sniff- I started humming gently. At one point I burst into a rousing chorus of Jerusalem.

Still it was there. Like a rush of air through the valve of a unicycle’s tyre bumping down steps.

I started thinking bad thoughts. I thought about loading a horse’s nose bag with pepper and putting it around his neck. I imagined placing a frizzy-haired child beneath his nostrils so that he’d choke on her inhaled locks. I considered releasing millions of Mayflies in the hope that they might nest in his nasal passages.

Of course I did nothing. But seethe.

And he did nothing but sniff.

But the Good Lord knows how much one man can take. Just at the point when I was calculating the likely success of bludgeoning him to death with a rolled-up newspaper, we arrived at my stop. I prized my fingernails from the Formica tabletop. Feeling shaky, I rose to my feet. Like a blind man I felt my way to the door. I fell onto the platform and into quiet non-sniffing paradise. I was free.

But as the train doors closed, he destroyed my ecstasy. The sound of a single sniff slipped out. I snapped.

“A handkerchief! A handkerchief, you bastard!” I screamed, banging wildly on the window. “A handkerchief! Use a fucking handkerchief!”

The train was moving now.

I ran alongside, walloping the glass with my fist.

“A fucking handkerchief! Use a handkerchief! A handkerchief!”

I remember firm hands taking hold of me then nothing.

How Does Your Garden Grow

My Beloved does despair. I don’t blame her: I can barely look after myself. And now I have a small child. It does not bode well. Really, shouldn’t here be some kind of suitability or competence test?

Still, what safer place could there be than the garden? Fresh air. Soft grass. Pretty flowers. Birds in the trees. Sharp multi-bladed tools scattered around.

While I busied myself slicing through my electric hedgecutter’s cable, twice, little S was at liberty to become one with nature.

She shuffled across the lawn decapitating every daisy she saw. She chased the cat out of the garden completely. She found the freshly dug flower bed. She squealed with delight.

I smiled warmly at my little mud lark, forgetting momentarily that I have a high-powered cutter in my hands and pruning the roses a little more severely than I’d planned. Still, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - best to keep one’s bush neatly trimmed. Everyone always comments on mine.

I turned the implement off. And retrieved something that looked suspiciously like a cat’s collar from the teeth. The garden was quiet. A little too quiet. S wasn’t giggling anymore. She was chewing.

She wasn’t holding a worm in her little hand. She was holding half a worm in her little hand. Now I’m sure a bird, flying overhead, had simply dropped a half-eaten one and little S had found it. Or perhaps, just like that unpleasant incident at the transvestite cabaret in Berlin, someone had been surprised by a novelty sausage and tossed its remains as far away as possible and into my garden. Or perhaps one of the wriggly things had tried to climb the hedge, I’d inadvertently chopped it in two and one half had crawled back across the lawn.

Shit. She was eating a worm. Sorry, she had eaten a worm.

I considered my options. I could leave. Immediately by the fastest gypsy caravan in Warwickshire. I could confess all and move my things into the shed. I could pretend nothing had happened and carry on cheerfully, never mentioning it again. The course was obvious.

I scanned the garden to see if there were any witnesses, trying to recall the number of the Russian fellow I’d met while queuing for Cornish Yarg the other day. None of my neighbours were around. I smiled to myself and glanced back at the house.

T was at the window. She was simultaneously very pale and black as thunder. She jabbed the window angrily. I’m not sure but she seemed to be mouthing something quite violent at me. I wondered if she suspected anything.

She did.

I have moved into the shed.

Still, I’m not sure what all the fuss was about. Never did me any harm. Actually quite like them. Once you’ve rubbed off the mud, obviously.

Not Too Knightley

It’s not every day you get to meet a Hollywood film star. Unless of course, you are a Hollywood film star in which case I suspect the novelty quickly wears off. Until the drugs or a sycophantic PA kicks in. But, and this may disappoint you, I am no superstar. In fact, the most glamorous thing that has ever happened to me was travelling in a taxi that once carried the drummer from Bucks Fizz. At least that’s what the driver told me. So, it was with some nervous excitement that I prepared for tonight’s celebrity movie screening.

While many attractive women now have restraining orders against me, there are still the odd one or two that haven’t cottoned on the peril stalking them or whose lives have been blissfully unspoilt by any contact with me whatsoever. That offers me a surprising and frankly, dangerous, amount of freedom.

I sat on the front row. Little more than a quick lunge away from tonight’s beautiful guest. And my, she was beautiful. Thankfully no-one noticed my lolling tongue.

I had a cunning plan. Not quite as clever as my scheme to confuse Madonna into adopting me as her next African baby, but pretty smart all the same. Even if I say so myself. Now, without wanting to give too much away, it involved me talking to her and the question and answer session at the end of the film. I don’t want to bore you with the finer points of my technique but let’s just say all that raising my hand practise throughout the day certainly paid off.

Now, you’d think, after all those court appearances if nothing else, I’d be reasonably adept at public speaking. Sadly not. Admittedly tonight my elocution was further impaired by my floppy mouth organ and the torrent of saliva cascading down my chin, but even by my sparkling standards, this evening’s attempt at talking to an attractive woman reached a new level.

I had spent the day rehearsing my question. Something that would demonstrate my understanding of drama, highlight my wit and woo her with calm sophistication. You know, all my defining characteristics. Needless to say, the drooling helped no end.

My chance came in the silence that immediately follows any request for questions. I nearly chickened out but my reaction to being elbowed by my chaperone was mistaken by the compere as a signal.

“Yes, the man at the front with the pink lollipop. Oh, I’m sorry, it’s not a lollipop. Yes, you.”

‘Hanna-umph-ey-wassa-isum?’ I said clearly.

“I’m sorry? What?”

‘Hiff-le-iddy-mi-on-fe-fi-fum?’ I repeated, making an effort to enunciate.

He looked at me. She looked at me. The rest of the audience looked at me (at least I could feel their eyes burning into the back of my head, which I think indicates some kind of interest).

‘Wizzum-cam-is-fella-do-wah-diddy-diddy-dum-diddy-day?’ I really couldn’t make it any plainer.

There was a pause. And silence. Obviously stunned by the calibre of the inquiry.

She simply nodded. There was curious look in her eye.

‘Hmm.’ She said. I’ll never forget it.

“Well, thank you. And anyone else?” the MC asked hopefully.

Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer. I could tell she was smitten. And frankly who could blame her? Until some insensitive oik, oblivious the first shoots of young love blooming at the front of the auditorium, asked some stupid question about motivation and the rehearsal process. I mean really.

All too soon the session was over. She left with what I can only describe as undue haste as I started over in her direction. Overwhelmed with emotion, I daresay.

But all was not lost. As I left the building, in a side street just behind, she was waiting. Now the untrained eye might assume she was hiding or waiting for a car. Not me. I knew. I had captivated her.

‘It was me!’ I said boldly, lunging towards her.

She recognised me, of course, but weakened by burning passion, stumbled backwards. Luckily her PA/ minder caught her and by some fluke accident opened the door of a passing cab and bundled her inside. I think she was as concerned as me. I banged on the door trying to alert the driver to his mistake but couldn’t seem to catch his attention.

I chased them down the street.

I caught a last fleeting glimpse of her as she craned back out of the rear window. She was clearly upset. Like I say: you can’t blame her.

Down Under

‘This country’s shit.’ The girl from Down Under said as she and her two friends stumbled into the carriage. They collapsed in a jumble of arms and legs before promptly and consciously putting all six feet on the seat in front.

‘I’ve been here three years now and it’s so fucking dull.’ She bellowed, forgetting that she wasn’t in the empty wilderness of Western Australia, where presumably shouting is the only way to communicate between Outback farms.

‘It’s boring as shit. There’s nothing to do and the weather’s crap. It’s never sunny and it fucking rains all the time. It’s fucking shit.

‘And the people! My god, the people are boring. They don’t ever do anything. And they don’t know how to have a fucking good time.’ She continued. ‘They’re all boring fucking wankers.’ She was really getting into her stride and making friends all over the place.

We ‘boring fucking wankers’ on the train around her stayed mute, quietly wondering if she might dispense with sentences altogether and simply string together profanities in ever more complex combinations. But she surprised us.

‘Look, I’ll prove it. Does anyone want a shag? Does anyone want to shag me?’ she invited her hapless audience.

‘Come on, does anyone want a shag? A free shag.’ she repeated in case anyone had missed her the first time.

A queue immediately failed to materialise.

‘See?’ she turned to her companions as though vindicated and apparently delighted that no-one on the entire train wanted anything to do with her.

‘I don’t know why I stay in the fucking awful country’

Some of us were wondering exactly the same thing.

Reveille

I had begun to wonder if our gothic Trumpeter had lost his trumpet, a terrible thing to happen to any man. Apart from the occasional swish of wings, it’s been remarkably quiet for a few weeks now. In fact I can’t even remember the last time I heard him trying to wake the dead with his horn. It was always early Sunday morning, you see. Heaven only knows why that’s the best time for him. Perhaps Saturdays are good hunting nights and he feels the need for early morning celebrations. Still, it’s not the way I like to start the day. It’s not quite as bad as tinnitus but at least ringing is appropriate on the Lord’s Day.

But he is no better. I mean his trumpeting is still appalling. Absolutely bloody awful. Barp, barp, burp. Barp, barp, burp. It sounds like he’s sneezing into a bucket. Now, the whole sum of my musical ability is playing a CD so I can’t really comment but perhaps he should reconsider his orchestral ambitions. After two years of practise, he still can’t hit three notes in a row: I can unwrap parcels more tunefully.

Still, it can’t be easy for him - I don’t think brass mouthpieces were designed for a gob-full of fangs. Maybe he should think about something that requires sucking and give up on hobbies where he sucks.