Eish – I needed a break. Pushed it a bit far, but I have gone over 95% and run it past another mate – it is looking good. I thought I should take the day off, but after messing around - I felt the urge and did this in less than two hours. Forgive any p and g mistakes. Go on - have a laugh…
North Wales, sometime last year. (I think.) A true story.
The Gokwe Kid digs around hard in his stainless steel pot that contains his cutlery collection. No matter how often he gropes around, the only fork about is one used for poking at pickled onions at parties. He cannot afford either of these and now he concluded that at least five, maybe six forks had mysteriously disappeared out the kitchen. The world’s greatest bush detective started to think…a sign of imminent chaos.
First he looks to see if maybe they had flown out the window- a flock of forks. This solution was induced by the second tin of beer, which the great sleuth uses to grease his brain cells, as being impossible because he has no window in the kitchen. He also didn’t bother to raise his eyes and stupidly look at the extractor fan’s grid just in case they had been building a nest there. Perhaps they had made a stab at doing a runner? After all, as far as the Kid could recall, they all had four prongs to leg it on.
Scratching through his decrepit track suit bottoms at his anal orifice (as sadly his disabilities didn’t allow his arms to travel further up then his facial one), he thought hard. Staggering to the floor, he took a peep under the fridge – perhaps they were chilling out there? None to be seen and the cleverest of thoughts entered his frontal lobe. ‘How the hell am I going to get up?’
With the pain in his back nullified from mulling the problem over with some more tins that were now rather easy to get hold of, he miserably concluded he would have to purchase some more forking forks because the truth had finally hit him. Over a period of binges he had tended to throw the fork, along with the plate scrapings, into the rubbish bag.
Things are not simple living in Britain’s version of Gokwe. Although the electricity works, most of the inhabitants lack the spark of brightness. Even Polish immigrants don’t bother looking for work here. The Kid kits up and drags his aging, creaking screeching bag on wheels, with telescopic handle, down the long hill. His body, aged from fighting gooks three decades ago and nothing to do with alcohol and tobacco, weaves expertly between wonderful examples of starving Irish made rock walls, and the Snowdonia National Park wild bush. It reminds him of home – the Great Zimbabwe Ruins - when he fell pissed out his head down the narrow path from the acropolis.
The old bag will be needed. At least whilst he is forking about he can pop into the Co-Op and get some light refreshments for the empty fridge. But first he has to replace the things he needs to remove food from his plate - so he went to the bank first to see if the cash point would say yes for a change. Fortified with a fiver, the Rhodesian X-Factor winner is instantly recognised by a fan driving a large vehicle –
“Get off the fucking road you drunken dick.”
The Kid waves enthusiastically onto his back. How the people loved him and so in tune. The shouting fanatic knew he was on the rocky road looking for forks and was the great Dick of the Bushveld.
Now on a mission, the Kid studied the front of a large shop called ‘The Factory Shop’. This was obviously a shop that had not been fabricated, but what happened to Woolworths that had been there the last time the Kid took off his shades? Had they forked off too? He didn’t care; they had gone the same way as Rhodesia – well forked.
The BSAP’s finest works out how to enter the place. After lingering a little too long at the women’s lingerie and concluding he would look daft wearing a nylon leopard skin thong to remind him of the good old days, he snoops out the forkers who are hanging around with some right sharp characters called knives. They can only be messed around with by adults. Dangerous things indeed and the Kid quickly spots what he needs and enters the realm of the towns' intellects – the cash desk.
Idling swaying to some canned camp music, whilst some ancient crone attempts to work out how to enter a PIN number, the Kid looks idly down at his would be purchase and…
He has KNIVES. How can this be? Confused. Has he lost it totally? He looks down at his feet. The left shoe is right, the right shoe is right also, he hadn’t left it behind. No, he knew the difference and being the wicked wit he is and gagging for a laugh (and a drink), and as he is next in turn after the old bag finally remembered her birth year, he switches to the Russian accent he picked up from questioning questionable gooks and says to the young girl at the desk –
“Zis is nife, Yes. It say nife? Yes?”
She looks. She looks at the product, looks at the Kid - who has now placed a finger up his right nostril and has wide staring eyes.
“Erm, actually they are not. I go quickly and get the knives.”
As the girl moved from behind the counter, the Kid pulls finger and stops her. Switching to his arrogant Rhodie/BBC News Reader pseudo accent
“My dear, I know perfectly well they are forks – for forks sake.”