The Pirate ate my
Hamster!
The paterfamilias of
the Flagon & Gorses, being the irrepressible Pirate, seemingly wants to
exercise such control over this column that it will soon bear the heading,
“written by Dominic Horton, edited by Bob Van Vliet [the Pirate’s real name].”
(Incidentally Don Van Vliet was the real name of the late, great Captain
Beefheart; The Pirate is more like Captain Beerfart.) When we are in conversation the Pirate’s
catchphrase to me has increasingly become “Don’t put that in Lowlife” but
after saying that to me last Tuesday in the next breathe he advised me to not
let the truth get in the way of a good story.
So it appears that the journalistic approach that the Pirate desires of
me is to not write truths about the various goings on at the Flagon &
Gorses but to lie through my patched up teeth.
Mind you, given that the Pirate’s main goal in life is to peddle beer
(and drink it for that matter) he did have a valid point in censuring me for recently
writing about the joys and benefits of sobriety. But the Pirate should realise that given the
falderal quality of these dispatches that no one takes a blind bit of notice of
its contents anyway, so he need not fear that what I write actually has the
slightest bit of influence on the actions of others. Nonetheless, I have to report that I have
been to the Flagon every night this week and drunk eight pints of their
delicious beer on every visit and I feel absolutely on top of the world. Honest
guv.
Mother Teresa has
upped the ante in the Flagon by frequently warning me with the threat “Don’t
you dare put that in Lowlife.” The additional “dare” is intended as a four
letter word in every sense as it is full of devilish malice, so I heed her
portending warnings for fear of fatal retribution.
Later on in the early
evening on Tuesday last The Pirate and I were discussing counselling and the
subject of the difference between, and usefulness of, sympathy and empathy
cropped up. We loosely agreed that the distinction between
sympathy and empathy is as thus: a man is stuck in a deep, dark hole with no
way out. Sympathy walks up to the hole
and hears the man’s desperate cries for help.
Sympathy shouts down to the man, “I am sorry that you are stuck in that
horrible hole, here is a sandwich” and throws the man the food and
departs. Empathy wanders up to the hole
and seeing the man in there he jumps in and comments, “It’s ghastly down here
isn’t it mate, we are never going to get out and we are both f*cked.” While the man isn’t looking Empathy then
proceeds to eat the sandwich. I am not
sure how this adds to the interpretation of the nature of humanity but you can
all make your own mind up on that score.
Counselling did help
me overcome my recent difficulties and fortunately the counsellor didn’t eat my
sandwich. Despite the assistance of the counsellor
I am still having the recurring nightmare that has been prevalent in my night
time life for as long as I can remember but there was a pivotal moment last
week in this regard. The nightmare is
difficult to describe but it basically involves a being or a presence
travelling up the stairs towards my bedroom with what I sense to be venomous
intent, though it could be bringing me a cup of hot cocoa for all I know. I always wake up when the evil presence is
approaching the bed but before it gets to me.
But all this changed last week when the cunning spirit actually made it
to my pit and I could feel it, with what felt like clear reality, pressing down
on my body, almost like it was sitting on me.
I woke in blind terror, screaming, sweating and short of breath and
quickly realised it was just the old nightmare that had taken a sinister
turn. Pondering the unnerving dream the
following day I mused that it has taken decades for the phantasm to actually
make it to my bed and once it got there all it did was to sit on me, so I
realised that there has been nothing to be scared about all of these years
after all. It might be the case that the
phantasm fully intended to do me harm but as it has been clambering up the
stairs for years by the time it eventually got to me it was cream crackered, so
all it could do was to sit on me to catch its breath. So it transpires that the phantasm is far
less of a threat to me than the Baby Faced Assassin at the Rhareli Peking
Chinese take away.
In other news on my nocturnal
habits, I seemed to have progressed to visiting the toilet twice in the night
as opposed to once (which previously used to be at pretty much 0300 hours on
the dot.) On the odd occasion the
bathroom visits have even numbered three. (I say bathroom visits but toilet
would be a better word to use as the toilet and bathroom are separate in my
Codger Mansions dwelling; if I were to visit the bathroom for a tinkle I would
have to do it in the sink as you know men should only do this if they are sleep
walking or in the most desperate of circumstances. I don’t know why more properties do not have
separate bathrooms and toilets as it can be very off putting if you are trying
to have a relaxing hot bath while a few feet away the wife is having a
dump.) Anyway, my visits to the
downstairs toilet in the night are becoming so frequent that if it gets any
worse I might as well just make life simple and sleep on the karsi.
Despite multiple night
time visits to the toilet I have generally been getting enough sleep and I have
been partaking in a few early nights as I have not being going out as much as
previously. The only problem with
staying in more is that I have fewer things to write about and earlier this
week I was struggling to think of anything to scribble for this edition and I
was completely devoid of ideas, suffering from writer’s block. The American poet William Stafford said of
writer’s block, “There is no such thing as writer’s block for writer’s whose
standards are low enough.” It looks like
I am the exception to the rule then as my standards as lower than a snake’s b*llocks
and I would write any old balderdash just to fill these pages. Advice on overcoming writer’s block that I
read stated that, “go ahead and write drivel at first, as long as you write”
but that what’s I do anyway and I seemingly lost the ability to do even
that. Ernest
Hemingway’s advice was to avoid writer’s block was, “The best way is always to
stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next. If you do
that every day … you will never be stuck.” But as my going is never good this offers no
resolution to the problem. Anyway,
eventually enough gibberish started to flow again to populate this edition.
One person who has been purveying gibberish this week is Hugh
Pennington, professor of bacteriology at Aberdeen University, as he claims that
people who put their shopping into reusable bags are putting their health at
risk by using the bag to carry raw meat and soil-covered vegetables, as it
increases the risk of food poisoning. According to Pennington even if the raw meat
is wrapped in a separate plastic bag it is still highly risky. This is a good
example of my long held belief that there is a lot of rubbish talked about
hygiene. How does Mr Pennington think
that people used to carry their shopping in the days before plastic bags? And
does he think that impoverished little old ladies who use shopping trollies
should buy a new one specifically for each shopping trip? It is a cheap bullying swipe to have a go at
the innocent soiled vegetable; to my mind washing vegetables is a waste of
one’s time and energy and a having soiled vegetables is better than having
soiled pants. Gawd help Mr Pennington
if ever he were to be presented with a photograph of the state of my oven, I
think he would have a seizure on the spot and that he would envisage that
Codger Mansions is a rat infested hellhole.
Talking of rodents, did I mention that the Pirate ate my
hamster?!!........................
© Dominic Horton, October 2013.
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