God’s balls, Father
oh, sod, I said GOD’S BALLS, FATHER.
Humph… sntft. What is it? What’s seized your piss-addled brain the night?
Oh, did I wake you? Apolo-
You did and deliberately, you inadequate pancreatic wretchery. For what craggled notions am I dragged from me som…sombre… somnabulances?
Oh, just… well, blast and blood, I was trying to decipher these here notes I’d left myself. Sweet nothings on a train ticket’s back, but they were important to me last night.
Grrmmm. Balls. Let’s have a gander.
Well, I think the scrawlings about the Cerulean giants, with hairs of flame, that might be about Brian Blessed. I remember him distinctly, ringed with marigolds.
Brian Blessed’s so short of arse he’s asked Pavarroti for a loan, closer to Lautrec than Finn MacCool. Can you not read your own hand?
I fear I may have been under several influences, hence the suppurative hieroglyphics and the pleasant drooling marks. My arm’s sodden too. You’ve known my talk since my early days – perhaps your gimlet will have more luck?
Well, there’s something there. An inkling – long ago, in a land resounding with silence, you –
Cut to the chase.
You were pissed on expensive cider, you were at the Green Man Festival, you only enjoyed the silent movies and the Bengali breakfasts.
Balls. Is that it?
Nah. Nah. You wanted driving lessons, a new hard drive, some presents, and to write a story about an engraver writing down a text no-one can read for the benefit of future generations. Pretenious twat.
Oh. Well, drunk or not, I had ambition then. Perhaps I should drink more.
If it would cease such prattling, what’s the harm? You also scrabbled here about renovated pubs and your love of fine chips. Definitely in your cups and no worse.
Ah, yes, I’ve found new bumps on my head. Must have crackled my pate somewhere as well.
Says nothing of that here. Though I remember the soft caps you used to wear against such eventualities… There’s a gap for drool…I think you must have rested your head here, as there’s a guard’s validatory stamp on your cheek and then there’s babble about us people never looking up any more, missing the moon and the crenellations of dead architectures appreciated only by pigeons. And something about why you’ve got John Cale’s 4’33 on yon leccy music device and, yes…! you talk of clumsiness. You were terrified that the swinging’s of the virgin pendolino would upset your excessive pizzle in the train’s toilet bowl, so you tried to flush quickly and stuck your arm under the tap.
Dampness explained, wonderful. My hangover’s cutting in, out with my final words if you please.
Wined in the Parisian Café Carmen by Nazis and whores, you won a five hour game of poker, for naught, and drowned your sorrows in rural beer festivals (Elton and Wincle) galore.
Hence the head.
So the noggin, yes.
I’ve heard enough. Budge up, I’m going to bed too.
God’s balls, Father
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