Friday, September 14, 2007

I Would Rather Have A Bottle In Front Of Me, Than A Frontal Lobotomy

I was walking down Chiswick High Street in West London last night, when something rather odd happened to me. I had been with a mate at the George V pub, celebrating his birthday, and at about 10.30 pm, I decided to head for home. The street wasn’t well lit, having several lamps with broken bulbs, causing me to stumble a couple of times on the mountains of refuse sacks people leave against them. I could have sworn that one very tall black bin-liner actually spoke angrily at me in a female voice speaking Arabic, but I wasn’t sure.

Anyway, as I progressed towards the underground station, I noticed this chap slowly approaching me. He looked very familiar, but at first I thought he was one of those ‘fly-catchers’ that had been let off his wheels. You know the ones I mean. You see them in tacky ‘beach’ resorts like Blackpool. Chained in their wheelchairs, they stare blankly at the seagulls pecking at their ice creams, whilst dribbling out there perpetually open mouths. As kids in Rhodesia we had them also. They use to be parked around Cecil Square in Salisbury. We had no seagulls, but we used to hide in the bushes and wait until a few flies had wandered into their mouths. Then, when their carers weren’t looking, we ran over and shut their jaws with a satisfying ‘clack’ sound and held it closed as the trapped flies went crazy zinging around trying to get out. This made the ‘fly-catchers’ roll their eyes in time with the buzzing. Great fun! Quite harmless, actually. A tad like what the kids do to-day with ‘Happy Slapping’.

As I was saying, as this bloke came nearer, I realised he was obviously a tramp, and a very drunken one at that. It was difficult to get a really good look at him, as he kept doing the old drinking dance of one step forward, one left, two right and three back. The state of him was embarrassing. His shirt was pulled out, hair dishevelled; the filthy jeans appeared to have been urinated in. The piss-artist was staggering all over the place and waving what looked like a tin of beer in his hand at me, whilst mouthing incomprehensible insults. I turned around, to see if perhaps there was someone else that he was attempting to talk too, and as I did so, I slipped in a pile of dog shit that some irresponsible canine owning bastard had left in the middle of the pavement.

Slipping around in the shit, by the time I got up, the strange chap was almost upon me, yowling like some demented banshee, whilst spitting out bits of Kentucky fried chicken that had been stuck to his smoke-stained teeth. In pure terror I threw a round can I had in my hand (I must have picked it up whilst getting up from the pavement, I am a stickler for cleanliness and always dispose of rubbish correctly, even if it is not my own), but before I could react to any forthcoming counter attack, I was hit on the forehead by the man’s, three- quarters full, tin of cheap larger.

Half blinded from the blood gushing from a very deep cut on my forehead, I screamed and attempting to defend myself, lashed out at the groin of my antagonist with my foot. (The one with a lump of dog poo stuck on the end of my toe.) My ears were filled with a terrible roar of agony, just audible above a sound reminiscent of breaking glass. I would have shouted out load myself, if my mouth hadn’t suddenly been filled with pain induced vomit of semi-digested poultry take-away (some kind consumer had left it outside a fast food outlet’s rubbish bin), caused from an agonising blow to my leg. The swine must have hit me with some other object!

My adversary made a clean get away, for he was no-where to be seen. I think he had attempted to break into a chemist store, as I found myself lying on top of some shattered glass that shone like mirrors in the dim lights. The tramp had even taken some of the shards and thrust them into my body, for as my tortured leg collapsed underneath me, I started to pump out torrents of blood profusely from several deep stab wounds that had appeared all over my writhing, tortured person.

Luckily for me, an alarm had gone off, bringing the local constabulary, for without their speedy assistance I may have died. Several other commuters had passed me by without even a second glance, as I lay pleading for help. One youngster, wearing a hood and a scarf around his face, had appeared to assist me, but as I was to later ascertain, he had simply helped himself to my stolen mobile phone and the few pence I had wrapped in a Sainsbury’s plastic bag.

Obviously weakened from the blood loss, I couldn’t recall the address of my abode, so the kindly police officers allowed me to spend the rest of the evening in one of their spare rooms they kept at the station. I hate going to bed dirty, so the officers assisted me in having a horizontal shower in the back yard. They obviously have a problem with the boiler at the moment, as the water was a tad cold.

However, in the morning, the replacement shift had a Black sergeant on the front desk who attempted to imply that I had caused the damage at the chemists and would also be fined for being a public nuisance, along with other fabricated costs. He was obviously corrupt and taking bribes, as he claimed that there were several witnesses who would testify that I had thrown a can of alcohol at a chemist’s shop front mirror, and then, covered in carnivores faeces and regurgitated chicken rests, I had kicked the glass with such force, that it had shattered, where upon I had been found half way in the store, bleeding all over the carpet.

Explaining that I was presently, for the last three years, been ‘between jobs’, and was an ethnically cleansed former Rhodesian farmer from Zimbabwe, the uncouth officer of the law told me

‘What an amazing coincidence, as my great Uncle is Robert Mugabe,’ and then he struck the side of my head with a truncheon, explaining

‘that was for stealing our land, you drunken bum, now Fuck-Off and never come near my zone again.’

The blow made me soil my underpants with such emotional feelings of homesickness. I said I was shocked at the way he had responded to my plight. The sergeant then told me

‘You will be a fucking lot more shocked if I shove a Taser up your arse and do what we do to cheeky Whites back home; beat ‘em right, lock ‘em up tight and keep ‘em well out of sight!’

I can take a lot of insults but I have to complain about the way I was treated by this thug in uniform, whose wages come from my taxes. He even refused to give me a cup of tea! Worse was to come! When I finally did reach home, because I had been late, someone else had taken over my bench in the park. A disgusting creature that had dreadlocks made from matted pasta and old pizza decorating his beard. He reminded me a bit of that poor Italian fella Andrea Bocelli, who can’t see. You know who I mean, the one record producers cruly tie to a piano till he wails and yowls to be let free and they record it and sell it to the hard of hearing as ‘Western Spaghetti Rock’.

When I attempted to reason with this person, he set his dog onto me, whilst hitting me repeatedly with a white cane!

Unless civilisation is restored to this country very soon, I will seriously start making plans to emigrate back too Zimbabwe. At least the sun shines there.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

U are the limit honestly - that was hilarious - thanks!