Sunday

Not So Pale Rider



Some people have the morals of zoo animals. I should know, I once put the heads of two uncouth gentlemen into a suitcase during an overnight train journey from London to Glasgow. No need to panic and believe at this point that you may well be reading the diary of a seemingly bowdlerising madman. My colloquialisms are merely running amok. I eventually let them out for air once they had finally understood that foul language and an ability to play the anal trumpet does not impress ladies in enclosed spaces. Funnily enough, they alighted well before they reached the end of their intended destination. We politely rolled down a window and bon-voyaged their luggage a few miles further on. I had no regrets then, or now, although in hindsight it was politically incorrect of me to create litter for rats to inhabit amongst the nylon robes of my fellow ex-travellers. In Glasgow, keeping rats is now encouraged just in case the need arises to cultivate a new ear upon its back should you ever walk in upon the wrong bar fight.

Turkey is where you eventually go when you have made a complete pigs ear of your life. It's full of Russians and Chechen's who look as though they are damaged extras from a Bruce Willis movie. When you have more than five of them sitting around a restaurant table it can look as though an angry child has run amok in a Mr Potato Head factory. But they have morals and codes, they also detest the work-shy detritus of today who spit, fart and play loud music in public places instead of contributing to societies needs and expectations. Their days of living amongst a fimicoloud, drenched in ambeer and wearing threadbare jackets with the pockets stuffed full of rotting turnips are over. Most of them own English football clubs, machine gun factories, or are employed as advisers to those still searching for plainly-in-sight members of the Taliban. They seek out a different kind of rat, but instead of eating them they exchange them for remuneration to create even more roorback and mayhem. The wheels turn, the rats once again peel away and hide.

I sip my tea in a small dismal cafe to the south of middle-Englandshire, my eyes hungrily devour the words informing me of the latest scandals. It is full of stories about disreputable newspaper editors who hack the iphones of murdered children while their parents sit at home awaiting the dreaded official knock on the door to inform them that their world is just about to end. Girouettism abound, they twist and bend with the wind in order to deceive and writhe back to the ultimate safety of the gutter they helped create. I shake my head in disdain as I read about firefighters who walked away from their colleagues at the scene of a huge fire in order to piss and moan about pay-rises in the comfort and safety of a bar. I hang my head as I see pictures of a retired schoolteacher beaten and raped by asylum seekers fresh in from the endless boats that continue to dock unheeded. The promised chiliasm has all but failed. Gerontocracry has definitely failed us all.

When the time finally arrives, when my services are again sought after, when it comes a time for someone other than the current adhocracy. Someone tall enough to stand and be willing and able to deal with those members of the public who continually refuse to live by the rules of decent society, I shall step forward and grasp the rusty sword of justice. A new zeitgeist has dawned. Armed with a bar code reader an indelible ink pen and my trusty sawn-off, I shall read, mark and under the new three strike rule, remove those who create an unsightly stain on society. Child molesters, muggers, those rats amongst us who continue to harm the auld and the frail, murderers, priests, TV presenters with bad haircuts as well as rapists and kiddy-fiddling disc jockeys will all fall at a single stroke of my pen. Those who have carried out a misdemeanour such as poor-parking, littering or wearing too-tight trousers past the age of thirty, will be banished to a dismal, dirty hole in the ground, surrounded by barren landscape, water-sodden trenches and inhabited only by strange animals, natives speaking in tongues, surviving on food salvaged from rotting fields of soured crops. It will be known henceforth as London. I shall be the solitary figure wearing a raincoat made entirely out of seal guts, riding upon the back of a pale horse and wielding a great scythe.

There will be no food preparation this day, instead please see photo above and then add hot water, while I seek salvation under the warmth of my hotel duvet and slink further into my seemingly endless funk.

56 comments:

  1. Replies
    1. In all honesty, I was always too tall to ride a horse properly without looking a complete tube. Siobhan and me often spoke about galloping along the warm waters of the Med, but the image was always ruined by the thought of my feet ploughing up the sand like a gigantic muck-raker.

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  2. Interesting. I just Googled suitcases and body parts in Scotland and sure enough your handiwork pops up to the surface. Remind me to never share a train ride with you.

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    1. Very witty. What else should I expect from a lazy ultracrepidarian, one that closes early on a Saturday eve when all about him, people are looking for a cheap kebab and a little companionship only to discover that he has decided to close early?

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  3. Anonymous9:56 pm GMT+5

    Not all asylum seekers come to rape and murder. Some genuinly come for protection from being murdered and to work and support our family. To stereotype is to intimidate and harangue those forced to live in tower blocks and are afraid to go out after dark. Asylum seekers turn to Europe for salvation against crimes of murder in their homeland where they are sought out for weakness.

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    1. Point taken. Although it is rather moot. So tell me, exactly which part of the pretend third world cesspit should we accept the honest murderers and rapists in from? Only, I'm a little confused as to why the crime rate amongst your fellow seekers has quadrupled yearly since the migration began in 2002.

      Even stranger is the fact that your I.P and location matches exactly with a rather immature fellow who sends comments to me on my fitba blog. Coincidence perhaps?

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  4. Sounds like it's time to head home. Mid-England seems to sour your temperament as much as the world's ills.

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    1. Agreed... I'm hoping that good news on Tuesday will allow me to escape finally.

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  5. Funk now is it? Had you down as a ballad type. C'mon I'm buying.

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    1. Aye, funk indeed. The past three weeks has been one hell of a song and dance. Time to face the music, eh?

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    2. Hey, they're playing our song. Pint?

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  6. London? More like Sunderland amongst the mongrels.

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    1. Och, are you still crying over the fact that the Mackems have better looking munters than to be found over in Shields? Accept it son, move on eh?

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  7. The melancholy of middle-Englandshire does NOT seem to agree with you.
    Hie thee home dear Chef!

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  8. Aye hen, my bags are packed and my shoes nicely polished behind the double-locked door. I need sunshine and succour afore I am right again.

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  9. Continue to seek salvation amongst so many of the sinners mentioned by your own lips, for you shall lead them all back into the valley. No horsemen will bring about your salvation, no scythe will ever be sharp enough to cut your cloth according to your sins. Salvation and the path to salvation is only available by accepting the Lord into your life.

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  10. It's a miracle... you are absolutely correct. It's as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. How could I ever have been so blind?

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  11. Best I can do from here is offer you a hug...if the Wee Man will let me stand on his shoulders first. That should get me to at least chest level, right? :)

    As a child, I use to hug one of my great uncles around the waist as I was (and still am) a towering 5'1", and he was a sinewy 6'4". When he asked why, I told him it seemed wrong for him to bend down so low and possibly throw out his back while I tried to strangle him with a hug as my feet tried to stay on the ground. He laughed...and until the day he died, I greeted him with arms around the waist with his around my shoulders. It was a wonderfully safe feeling.

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  12. I'll take that hug from you hen. I remember the early days when I was my daughters hero, their knight in shining armour protecting them from the world. They will always be the age of four in my mind, the best age, an age when all of my children were under my roof and under my protection. Sadly times change.

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  13. I take your point, Chef. We’re going a bit overboard on this political correctness thing. I'm not saying that we should go back to the days of the Wild West, where most arguments were settled with guns, but just let’s not fall into the trap of becoming so civilized that we end up shooting ourselves in the foot. :)

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  14. Leni, it's been a few years since you last appeared here, I'm pleased to see you again. Too much time is taken up with tolerating the members of society who are without human morals. We live amongst those who have no respect for decency or other people's property. I'm tired of it. I'm old school and resent the freeloaders who live off the state and give nothing but attitude to the genuine members of the community.

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    1. Dear Chef, it's my pleasure to visit your house again.Blame it on Herr Mago! I left Blogland for some time and I'm catching up with some old bloggers I enjoyed visiting, among them you. You have been long missed, btw ;)

      On another note, I agree with you: it's not a matter of tolerance, but of respect. Many people are taking advantage of the confusión between these 2 concepts.

      Be well!

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    2. And you hen, I've taken the liberty of adding you to my regulars VIP list on my sidebar. For old time sake, eh?

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    3. I feel very honoured, dear Chef. A toast to this wonderful reencounter!

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    4. My glass is raised hen. Cheers!

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  15. i believe the society you seek is in Singapore. a good caning for leaving chewing gum on the sidewalk certainly sets the tone for any further infractions...

    sorry to read that you're funk'd. got my own funk a' brewin'... kids, eh? i just wanted someone to send off to university. this has been far more angst and effort than i signed up for...

    now, quit hoggin' the duvet and get yer big feet on your own side of the bed. that is your foot, right?

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    1. Kids eh? we make them, we raise them, we protect them. In return they give us sleepless nights and stomach ulcers the size of Andy Warhols glasses.

      Singapore you say? Perhaps you would like to show me the sights when we are finished doing what we are both doing?

      No hurry though, time for another stiff one. We've still got a whole chapter of the Kama Sutra to finish before the dawn and a fifty year old bottle of the finest malt to keep us going.

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  16. Sounds like it's time to head North my friend. If you are starting that crusade please bring me along, I am comfortable on horse back and have my own arsenal, and am willing to do the "Dirty work" if you know what I mean!
    I thought we had 3 points on Saturday but 1 will do.
    Cheers.

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    1. I'll send a mount for you sir. Bring with you only what you can carry on horseback and a thirst that would kill a camel. I have a side-by-side that would fit nicely in those hands and help bring justice to the house of Scotland. We ride at dawn!

      As for the 1-1 draw..... we escaped only by the skin of Charlie Mulgrew's front teeth. Lucky us!

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  17. That's the thing about seemingly endless funks. They do end, don't they? It only seems like the torment will continue in perpetuity. I'll write you a prescription. Please listen to Ray Charles' Greatest Hits Vol. 2 and afterwards wash it down with War All the Time by Charles Bukowski. Have a strong cup of coffee. Spike it if you'd like but don't go overboard. Get a good night's sleep. Tell someone you love them. That'll do it.

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    1. Your words of advice must taste sweet today Mr Exile. I accept them gratefully with a salute to your worthiness. All is good again at this end.

      I shall raise a glass with the little singing fella in your honour later this week.

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    2. If you insist. Would you like a tray sir?

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    3. You really want a reply?

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  18. Ha Ha same old Cheffie. I only put up with you because your bigger n me.

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  19. Everyone in Glasgow is bigger than you old son. That's because you are a weak Geordie maggot suffering from rickets and persistent sores from bed-wetting. Remember one thing. Fraser Forster turned down your mob for mine. Nothing more for me to say..... how about you?

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  20. Away man. At least I'm better looking.

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    1. Better looking over your shoulder for the next few months in case I catch up with you Mr Harris. Mind you, looking for a midget with a monobrow in Newcastle is akin to a needle/haystack scenario, would you not agree?

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  21. It's well seen the climate doesn't agree with you....the climate in any sense.

    The turning of every decency on its head to hurt the vulnerable and help the vile makes me wish to run amok - well, walk amok to be more accurate.

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    1. Indeed, dear lady. I refuse to stand back and become a victim to those who ride roughshod over the vulnerable. We are not born as men, it is something we must grow into. And grow we shall!

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  22. Oh what ails thee knight at arms , alone and palely loitering - under thy duvet in a funk.
    My Scottish/Irish friend in a panic?
    Never - only if someone dear is in trouble. Hoping this isn't so. Take heart.

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    1. I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful - a faery's child, her hair was long, her foot was light and her eyes were wild.I made a garland for her head.

      And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; she looked at me as she did love, and made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed and nothing else saw all day long. For sidelong would she bend and sing a faery's song.

      Panic is for the natives dear lady, I am made of a more sturdier stuff. Alas, being the father of teenage childer however, can make many a man raise his head to the heavens and ask that all important question; 'why me?'

      Steering the good ship Jimmy from troubled waters and ensuring that the crew aboard follow the rules can be a tad difficult at times. All good this end at last. Setting sale for a brief home visit and then back to Shangri-La where I can sleep comfortably in my own bed.

      I appreciate your kind words my dear, especially as I know they are truly meant.



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  23. Anonymous2:33 am GMT+5

    DIY pot noodle chef? I was expecting something more hearty at this time of year.

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    1. Aye, not my finest hour I will agree.

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  24. Replies
    1. Oh indeed. 1 oh to be precise.

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  25. The heid on me the morning. Sorry drowning can be such a task. Oh Amsterdam!

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    1. Cheap brandy will do that to a man. We need a striker. We need a decent striker. We need a decent striker now.

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    2. I believe we are in need of s decent striker.

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    3. I still have my boots hanging up in the loft, perhaps I should show them how it should be done, eh?

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    4. I'll give NL a call, let him know the big fella is making a comeback. :)

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  26. "Rules of decent society"......has a nostalgic meaning here.

    Africa, where the asylum seekers come from.

    A bit like Brazil, where the nuts come from. Just bigger and badder.


    xxx

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    1. Aye, the last time the big bad ones came to blow up the airport in Glasgow they didn't get to leave... Instant justice.

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  27. Hmmm.............our charming locals are a bit less sophisticated.

    Knobkerrie and panga be their weapons of choice, along with the inevitable necklacing.

    Equally as effective, no less savage.

    xxx

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    1. Myself, I always found that a panga was harder to conceal in my waistband compared to a trusty length of lead pipe. Fashion and weapons of choice, something I longer concern myself with, thankfully.

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  28. I hope your mood has improved by now... I had taken cover... and have only just felt safe enough to pop up and comment.
    Yours, as ever, the ancient ginger ruin with the windy buttocks.
    Sx

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  29. My dear Scarlet, fear not how you tread in my general direction whenever I am torn-faced or just plain old grumpy. A gentleman never takes his feelings out on womenfolk, that would be very wrong. Your young, rather striking self, is always welcome to comment, or gossip in your case, whenever the mood suits. All I ask is a few moments notice in order for me to crack a window ready for your trumpeting fanfare.

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Thank you, the chef is currently preparing an answer for you in the kitchen. Do help yourself to more bread.