by Tim Vine
‘I Wonder Who’s Kissin’ Her Now?’ Ray Charles sang as Paul slowly moistened his lips, running his index finger lovingly over the sickening emblem. He often spoke out loud to himself as he spent so much time alone.
‘I’m going to miss you, you beauty, and your friends. You make sure you go to a welcoming home. You never know, you might even get displayed or used, just like back in the good ol’ days.’ He hesitated for a moment, before packing up the two boxes and secreting them under the counter in the front room, tucked away in the safety and darkness of the corner.
Just as he finished, and seemingly from nowhere, a vivid memory flashed into Paul’s brain. He was back in the forest playing army games with his neighbours Jack and Alan; they couldn’t have all been much more than 8 years old. They pinned him down by them and for what seemed like hours pointed a pistol right into the bridge of his nose really hard while screaming at him again and again, ‘You will die prisoner, you will be shot!’ He could sense an unconditional power over him, and feel the spittle flying out of their mouths onto his face as hatred came hurtling towards him with the incessant shouting. They had only left him alone after he pissed his pants and started to cry. Paul remembered their bitter laughter as they ran off to go home for tea, leaving him in the woods soaking wet with urine and tears cascading down his cheeks.
Paul suddenly didn’t feel right, and the hairs were standing up on his forearms. He felt chilly. He returned to the boxes and pulled out a small magazine destined for Foul Fred. Then he pulled out a few more, opened them up and spread them around on the tops of boxes with one hand, as he started to undo his belt with the other. Six minutes and forty-eight seconds later there was an unsettling animalistic cry that poisoned the back room of the shop as the sixty-year-old Paul roughly brought himself to orgasm over one of the magazines, followed by a sharp sigh. ‘You can Fuck Off, an’ all!’ he spat up at the the Greek statue that appeared to be spying on him. He half-heartedly mopped up the majority of the mess that he’d made, and returned his vile appendage back inside his trousers whilst deciding to close early and go to the pub.
HAPPY CHRISTMAS FROM THE JONES FAMILY!!!
We’d all love to take this opportunity to wish you all the very best Festive Greetings, whilst also keeping you up to date with our Family events and our achievements over the last twelve months. It has been a year of ups and downs. But mainly ups!!!!!! We are all immensely proud of Gerry who managed to get a 2:1 in Molecular Science at Northampton University, and we’re all hoping that he’s possibly starting to think about perhaps getting a job sometime in the not too distant future!!!!!! Unfortunately Stanley suffered a second stroke back in February, as many of you will know, but he is recovering well and battling on. Thanks to God for the health service over here. Onwards and Upwards!!!!!! Rachel spent most of the summer in Ibiza, and reports back that she enjoyed a drink or two!!!!!! She’s still got a lovely tan and is in good spirits. I’ve been busy at the shop, although I’ve cut down on the hours to look after Stanley a little more. The dishwasher broke in May, but now Stanley’s around more I’ve got a new one, he even puts the plates away!!!! Of course I still enjoy the Choral Society, and am still enjoying my role as Secretary. I’m certain that it’d fall apart if I wasn’t there for Gordon!!!!!! We do actually get some singing done from time to time as well!!!!!! Our May concert was a resounding success, we had an impressive 54 people in the audience, and a lot of French friends came along too to support us, which was nice!!!!! Buster our loving dog is fine, and he still keeps us fit with his walks!!!!!! Tess the crazy cat is the same as ever, jumping over that back wall still and frightening us all, we love her!!!!!! The extension that we had planned to build over the Spring/Summer has been put on hold, but we might be starting something next year, so don’t be surprised if you bump into us down one of the aisles at a DIY store soon!! So as you can see we’ve had an eventful year, and we are hoping and praying that your year next year will be as good as our year was this year!!!!! Happy Christmas to You All, Onwards and Upwards! love from Margery, Stanley, Gerry and Rachel Jones xxxx
‘It’s fucking September and those idiot expats neighbours are sending Christmas cards out with this fucking Round Robin family bulletin shit inside on a bit of A4, like we give a shit! What the fuck is this?!’ Tom’s rant had started over the morning post. He fidgeted uncomfortably, scrunching the paper up, then tossed it aside with a sneer.
‘Who gives a fuck? I hardly know them. The summer’s not even over and they think it’s fuckin’ Christmas? I don’t even know them and they think I’m fucking interested? The only reason I even acknowledge them is ’cos I sometimes like to jump in their swimming pool if it’s baking hot! They think that putting more exclamation marks at the end of a crap joke might make it funny? NO! Cunts.’
Tom was addressing Keith who’d popped over mid-morning with some croissants, still warm. If Tom thought that this envelope bearing a ridiculously early Christmas card from his nearest English neighbours would annoy him, he clearly hadn’t noticed the handwriting on one of the other letters. It was from Sue. In fact, it was from Sue and Claude.
He picked it up and waited a second or two before slowly tearing the back, almost whistling as he extracted the note and straightened up to take it in.
Dear Tom,
It’s been quite a few weeks now, and we haven’t managed to have a proper chat about the future. Claude and I have decided that we are getting married, so I’d like to arrange a divorce with you.
I am going to the UK shortly, so I will organise an appointment with a Solicitor then, and you will receive a letter soon.
I hope that you’re doing well and are okay.
Sue & Claude.
‘For bastard’s shitting sake, mate, she’s only gonna fuckin’ marry the cunt. She’s taken a shit in our family’s kitchen sink with this affair . . . pissed on the living room floor, and now this. She’s fucking off to the UK . . . oh, fuck mate, let’s fuck these croissants off and grab us a beer out of the fridge will you?’
Tom had a face like a wet weekend. ‘Jesus, I haven’t told you, I just found out yesterday that old Auntie Mildred – bless her little cotton socks – went to bed with her hot water bottle and the fuckin’ thing only went and leaked everywhere – she probably thought she’d pissed herself at first! She burnt herself quite badly though, then went and fuckin’ electrocuted herself on the wet electric blanket as she was trying to jump out of bed. Brown bread, mate. She was only sixty-nine. Let’s get pissed.’
Even at this early hour Keith was easily persuaded to assist his friend in his time of need, scuttling across to the beer fridge. Tom’s eyes were welling up, but he didn’t want Keith to notice. He concentrated instead on his pounding red-wine hangover, unforgiving asbestos mouth and the uneasy sense of not belonging and falling apart that ensued after such a monumental emotional shock. He had spent the previous evening miserably festering on his own, half-watching cheap reality TV shows while dispatching three bottles of local plonk. With no recollection of going to bed, he had woken early feeling parched, guilty and like a broken man. A UDI (Unidentified Drinking Injury) on his left flank throbbed rhythmically, a blueish bruise that was set to spread. He pushed his half-empty coffee mug away dismissively, ignoring the delicious croissants in their warm paper bag, and with a theatrical sweep eagerly ripped the ring off the ice-cold beer that Keith had fetched.
‘Fuck ’em all!’ he toasted Keith with false confidence.
‘Fuck ’em all!’ Keith replied, aiming to maintain a similar upbeat tone in his delivery. ‘It’s an early but welcome brew, and you know what they say: it’s past midday somewhere in the world! Anyhow, it says on this tin ‘Established 1856’ and I was born in 1956, so I’m clearly meant to represent and celebrate their centenary, cheers!’
‘Oh wait,’ Tom added, raising his can skywards again, ‘here’s to Mildred the ol’ dear, who went out with a bang!’ The two men cac
kled like a pair of scheming witches.
‘Listen, Tom,’ said Keith. His expression became suddenly serious. ‘There’s an old African proverb, which goes something like this: it’s not until the peacock feeds from the dead that you realise that it’s actually a vulture. You have to look at the positive side, maybe you got out of this one just fine, you just don’t know it yet.’
Tom swigged deep from the can before fixing his drinking buddy with a huge forced smile, giving nothing away. Keith went on, ‘Everyone has a temper to a certain degree, the trick is to know how not to lose it.’ He felt good giving advice, helping Tom in his hour of need, the constantly elevated level of alcohol in his bloodstream loosening his tongue.
‘Yeah, well, that’s all very reasonable. I’ve got a bit of a situation with the bloody pigeons and slugs out the back there, they’re really beginning to piss me off too,’ Tom added.
Keith seemed to have an answer for everything today: ‘Still, you see how it’s all good – if it was rats and fleas it’d be much worse!’
Keith the alcoholic. He loved nothing more than to sit watching the Grand Prix or football, generous drink in hand, his wife’s oversize nightie warming on the electric radiator by the TV wafting her scent, emitting a sense of comfort, the fat flea-ridden cat sat square in the middle of their dining table aside the salt and pepper, smells of yet more fried food drifting over the kitchen bar towards him. The exact alcohol type or quality he imbibed had little relevance: beer, wine or spirits. There was no pattern or set attitude towards this, except the fact that it would have to be both cheap and plentiful. Pure comfort. It saddened Keith to see his friend in such a state, but he wouldn’t let him down. On the contrary, Keith would stand side by side with Tom, man to man, and drink as much as Tom needed, and at whatever time, to help him. After all, they were mates, and that’s what mates do, right? They stick together, and if Tom wanted to drink himself ragged every day, then Keith would make it his mission to join him, to support his buddy.
By the time evening came the two drinking men still hadn’t eaten. The cuckolded drunk was nearly dribbling. ‘Every time now that I think about . . . that woman . . . a four-letter word crosses my mind, and it starts with a C and ends in a T.’
‘What could that be? Curt ? Does she have a rather curt manner?’ japed Keith.
‘Yeah, right,’ laughed Tom.
‘Or is it Curd ? Is she a fan of lemon curd?’
‘Not quite! Anyway, you messed up there, that’s a D on the end of Curd!’ corrected Tom.
‘Oh, yeah, you’re right.’
‘No, it’s a bit ruder than that . . .’
‘Hey, I’ve got it . . . it’s Clit!’ Keith was triumphant.
‘No, you idiot!’
‘Ok, wait, wait . . . ’ Keith wouldn’t stop, he was on a roll.
‘You Can’t put the Coot in the Cart with your arm in a Cast, so she had an affair, it’s simple!’
‘You really are a prize knob!’ remarked Tom. They both chuckled.
A short while later, Tom was off again. ‘They’re like wine . . . good for a few days but they go off after a while. Jesus, can’t live with them, can’t shoot ’em. All women baffle me, always have. Fucking enigmas, enigmas they are, all women, all of them. You know, people think that we argue, well, they’re wrong . . . she argues. I try to be nice and when I’m kind it just goes down like a rat sandwich. It’s been like living with an annoying flatmate you don’t even like, all wrong. She’s bloody emotionally autistic. Jekyll and Hyde shit, you see, she saves the soft, smiling, fun side for everybody else and all I get is aggression and nasty anger. What a bitch, like a mosquito in December . . . a rare pain in the arse! Oh fuck, she’s even left all her shit here, I’m actually using her padded bra as a cradle for my mobile phone when I charge it upstairs – it’s perfect!’ Tom went on, and on. ‘You know, these French, they’re pretty clued up on things. I mean, they even told Sue the other day that she couldn’t give blood over here because of Mad Cow’s Disease . . . well, they got that spot on, didn’t they, mate? Anyway, enough about me, let’s talk about . . . me!’
A while later: ‘My heart has been kicked and trampled like a friggin’ rugby ball since the moment that I was born, even if it’s just a muscle which will repair, eventually. What’s so damn special about her, anyhow? She thinks she’s special, better, above us, you know? She’s mean and shallow, I’ve taken a fucking bath deeper than her! Hey, did you know that there’s no French word for shallow, when talking about water at least? They just say, not very deep! Well, too bad, because if – or when – the Titanic sinks, it’ll take everyone down with it even those fuckers travelling in First Class. She doesn’t understand me . . . never will . . .’ he drunkenly droned.
Unusually, the final tone of this particular drinking session was pretty downbeat and morose, and they weren’t even winding each other up for a laugh, as usual. Keith – not really listening to Tom’s miserable outpourings any more – was off on another tangent. ‘I’m a bit worried that when I get to heaven there’ll be no beer and cigars,’ he considered.
Keith was getting bored, and quite drunk. ‘Listen Tom,’ he slurred finally, a perfectly rounded drip of watery snot balancing dangerously off the tip of his nose, ‘I’d better be getting back to the Mrs, I don’t want her thinking that I’m pissed or anything. See you soon, mate. Chin up!’
‘Okay, fella. Scratch your crater.’
‘What?!’ uttered Keith, balancing precariously on an arm of a chair as he raised himself up to go.
‘Catch you later!’ explained Tom as they both snorted drunkenly.
‘Excrement!’ returned Keith on his wobbly journey to the door.
It was 7:48 p.m. when Keith staggered home. His face was resplendent in all its sebaceous glory, forehead shiny like cheap kebab meat. He had yet to eat anything, but had managed to match Tom beer by beer, a respectable total of sixteen 500ml cans of 5.2% strength lager. ‘Hi darling,’ he blurted out optimistically as he fell in the musty porch of the marital home, sending some empty bottle-bank-ready bottles flying with a crash. ‘Are you cooking?’
I am floating and can smell food being cooked on a barbecue. Ah, there is Rick Astley with a chef’s pinafore on, sporting a chef’s hat perched on his spectacularly bouffant hair. I am enraptured at once, yet feel completely at ease in his presence.
RA: If we were together in a train carriage, Ahmed, then perhaps I could serve you sausages with mustard in the buffet car? Do you think they’d mind if I set up my barbecue in the buffet car?
Ahmed: I’m sure that shouldn’t be a problem, Rick. I would imagine that the train people would bend over backwards for somebody of your stature, Rick.
RA: Well, then. I’d be more than happy to serve you several sausages with mustard in the buffet car of the train, Ahmed. In fact, it would give me great pleasure to do so. However, there is a minor task that you must carry out in return, before I will consider doing so.
Ahmed: Anything for you Rick, anything. I wish for nothing else but to be served meat and mustard by you in the buffet car, Rick. What is it that you’re thinking about, Rick?
RA: My desire is that you blow up the train, Ahmed. Yes, you. Yes, you yourself and a bomb. Yes, you and a bomb that you will make yourself. This is what I require of you, Ahmed. I know that you are capable, and that you are the right man for the job. You have been chosen, by no mere coincidence. This you will do for our friends and for the cause that we both know is right. If you grant my simple request then I will furnish you with many hot sausages, all splashed liberally with fine mustard, Ahmed, served just the way that I know you like them.
Ahmed: I am your servant, Rick. I aim to please, so the train will be attacked. I must prepare, mentally and physically.
Ahmed woke up with a start, drenched in sweat and feeling shaky. His penis throbbed and almost hurt as it pushed hard into his polyester trouser
s, but there was distinct pleasure there too. He was starving. All that he could hear was that rhythmic metallic jangling of a trolley being roughly shoved along the pavement outside, urgently propelling its packaged bullets of lemonade and ginger beer towards the newsagent on the corner. As the noise subsided, it reminded him of a train pulling away and off into the distant countryside. The neighbours must be having a barbecue, he could smell animal cooking over fire, and it made him ravenous like Prehistoric Man. His erection quickly subsided, and he frowned as he pulled himself up off the couch and shoved Elvis gently to wake him. ‘Come on, boy, we’ve got work to do.’ The shabby dog half-heartedly raised his head before he flopped down and sleep was achieved once again. Ahmed left him, wandering into the kitchen to make a mug of coffee. While the kettle boiled he moved over to the computer tower and belted the keyboard, the screen lighting up instantly as a soft whirring sound emanated from deep within the plastic casing. There were five emails: