Saturday, 5 July 2008

I Was Once Cut Man to the Queen of England

Despite the government's recent change in policy regarding the acceptable size and weight of pollonium-equipped accoutrements, I am still clinging on to my old Sokolov 116 walking cane. The hip young-folk of Manchester - with their Dali moustaches, Paisley ties and pencil skirts -find no end of merriment in the spectacle of my generous frame ambling along Oxford Road at one or two AM, seeking out cigars and fine liquor. I have become a sort of roving landmark, and locals often point me out to visiting friends, giggling heartily into their home-knitted scarves as they do so. I find all this to be in poor taste, and if they come within slashing range, I often give them a good dose of radiation poisoning. Blighters.

Just last night, as I was re-buttoning my trousers after a particularly good whizz against a fine old oak, I heard someone approaching me from behind, tittering quietly. You've given the game away there, I thought, and I span around with my cane raised over my head, intending to give the interloper a good swipe. To my astonishment, the figure with whom I was presented was none other than a policeman, and a woman policeman at that. I barely managed to check my attack, and for a moment I saw a look of sheer, unbelieving terror explode across her face. This look, however, was quickly replaced with another: apoplectic rage. 'Sir!' she cried, 'put that stick down right now!' I was so taken aback by the situation, that I immediately complied, dropping the cane at my feet. 'Were you, sir,' she continued, 'about to strike a member of Her Majety's Constabulary?' I hardly knew how to reply. 'Madam,' I said, 'I am deeply sorry, I took you for a young stumplicker, out to cause me a mischief or more.' She did not respond to this, but bade me kneel down on the floor, which I did with some difficulty, owing to my girth. Once I had assumed this disadvantageous position, she moved around behind me and fastened my hands together with her handcuffs. She then proceeded to kick and punch me into a state of unconsciousness, in full view of a dozen or more onlookers, who gathered about us and cried out encouragements.

When I awoke the following morning, I found myself naked and tied to a chair in one of the abandoned buildings that lie on the outskirts of the city. My body had been completely shaved, and the words 'twat' and 'cock' had been smeared across my chest in a mixture of gold paint and human excrement. I eventually managed to free myself, only to discover that the building in which I had been placed was none other than the old lace factory on Tungsten Lane. I managed to gather together a few tattered souvenirs of this once proud establishment, from which I constructed a pretty decent looking three-piece suit. I put it on, and, my nudity thus concealed, set about looking for something to eat. Using the hunting skills I had developed during my time as a fugitive from justice in the Spanish Alps, I was quickly able to capture three plump rats, which I then used to concoct a simple but very edible stew. My hunger sated, I settled down on the dirty, peeling floorboards and began to compose a theory of being. Over the next two weeks, I worked most industriously, and by the time I emerged from the former lace factory, with an array of homemade garments tucked under one arm and a bag of rat meat for the journey home clutched in my free hand, I had completed my masterwork: Being Time and Time Being and So Forth.

Having secured an international publishing deal for the book, I am now on the cusp of becoming a celebrity philosopher of the first rank; clearly, what had initially appeared to be a traumatising experience was actually most fulfilling! My only regret is that, since my retreat boasted rats in such plentiful numbers, I got even fatter during my time there. I now weigh 476 lbs.

No comments: