Après Moi, Le Déluge
"And a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did I."
Up early this morning, awakened from a short and uncomfortable sleep by the sound of female laughter, the doorbell ringing, someone rapping on the glass. I struggled out of bed and staggered onto the landing. More laughter, retreating footsteps. By the time I got to the foot of the stairs, silence.
My visitor had stuffed a twenty pound note through the letterbox. When I opened the door, I found a carrier bag filled with bread and milk and a note that said "Buy yourself something nice."
I puzzled over this, but not for long. Twenty pounds is twenty pounds, and it was already approaching eleven o'clock. If I was going to shop, I had to be fast. I wasn't being caught in the midday sun again.
Four hours sleep had other ideas, though, and I lacked the energy for a shower. Instead I settled into a long, hot bath, resigning myself to starving until the evening. I've been in worse situations, and I had cigarettes.
When I emerged it was a little after twelve. I thought vaguely about returning to bed, but it was too hot. I was already sweating and it was as tough to breathe inside as it probably was out there. My eyes fell briefly on the banknote, sitting crisp and new beside my computer, and I remembered going out to the garage to fetch my bike last night, remembered glancing over at the tarpaulin in the corner and the machine it hid. I could, I really could, I'd thought to myself. But I hadn't. We cover things with tarpaulins for a reason, and that reason is not always vanity.
I dressed quickly and snatched my stepfather's keys from the table as I left the house, making sure no-one was watching before sprinting down the garden and into the cool darkness of the garage. There it was, that ominous green tarpaulin, just shapeless and grimy enough to suggest some old wreck, perhaps a lawnmower or some kind of ancient bicycle, something embarrassing. But I knew the truth.
***
The local paper came today. I was outside watering the flowers in the middle of the afternoon and some pre-pubescent girl yelled "Oi, mister!" and launched the thing at me from the pavement. To my credit, I caught it one-handed whilst keeping the hose trained on my mother's thirsty geraniums with the other.
A little later, in the kitchen, I unfolded the thing and settled down to read it while I waited for my lunch to cook. I knew immediately that I would be blogging it, and here's why:
I don't normally read the local paper. It's boring, the journalism is of a woeful standard, and nothing interesting ever happens in Borehamwood. Or at least, that's what I'd always thought. But for those of you who believe I exaggerate in these matters, this week's (30/7/04) Borehamwood And Elstree Times covers some extremely weird shit, from innocent civilians being attacked by an army of rats, to a man sent to jail for attacking another man with a chainsaw, to festival-goers being frightened by clouds. It was an awesome edition of the much-maligned weekly, and I'm glad I took the time to read it.
Rats are running amok in a row of houses, screamed the front page, to the point of settling down to watch television with residents. Can you say 'genius'? Intrepid journalist Martyn Kent, in the FIRST LINE of his report on this insane story, already had his tongue planted firmly in his cheek. I can just picture him now, typing away on yet another small town article, bored to tears of these small town people and their small town hygiene problems. "You wouldn't have rats," he mutters darkly, "if you bothered washing once in a while. Fucking Borehamwood scum."
More disturbing, though, is the following nugget: At least four houses in Newcome Road have a similar problem, she explained. One householder had even found teeth marks in her soap.
Believing that soap-eating rats were stretching the boundaries of credibility just a little, I looked it up. Check this out.
Norway Rat Species (Sewer Rat)
Digs burrows along foundations and under debris piles, often found in basements.
Can enter homes through toilet pipes.
Prefers meat and fish, but will eat anything.
Very aggressive, strong burrower and excellent swimmer. Large range - may travel 50 yards from nest to find food or water.
The article in the Times seems to gel with this information, suggesting that the rats are indeed coming up from the sewers, gnawing through plaster and even floorboards to get to any source of food, including soap. However, JUSTICE has reared its magnificent head in the form of Mrs. Lesley Cuthbertson, who has taken to killing the Dove-devouring fiends with her bare hands. "Some of them scream before they die," she commented, "it's horrendous and very traumatic."
Martyn Kent, Giant Soap-Eating Sewer Rats, and Lesley Cuthbertson of Newcome Road, Shenley, The Darkened Room salutes you all.
***
My stepfather is something of an idiot-savant when it comes to mechanics. He can do just about anything with a couple of pieces of metal and a soldering iron. And that is his one saving grace, in my eyes. He would have gotten along just fine as a member of the A-Team.
This, though. This is his masterwork. Stripped of the tarpaulin it is magnificent, yellow and black and shiny in the darkness like an evil chrome wasp with wheels. Yes, it says Suzuki on the side, but that is merely a label. Written somewhere on the warhead that fell on Hiroshima was the word 'bomb', and you'd have been a fool to take that at face value.
I wheeled it out of the garage and onto the front driveway, surprised by its lack of weight. I have ridden a big bike before, and I know how difficult they are to lift. Usually, if you drop anything of 600cc's or higher, you're going to have a struggle getting it upright again. Not this bike, though. I could have lifted it off the ground, had I been of a mind.
I straddled the seat and and twisted the key in the ignition. The bike started easily and quietly, but when I checked the thing was in neutral and gave the throttle just the slightest of twists, it roared like an angry tyrannosaurus, the vibration rushing up my arm like an electric shock. I quickly eased off, and in the silence that followed, a single tile fell from the roof of my house and a child burst into tears.
I had considered taking my trip to the supermarket as I was, but the more I learned about my stepfather's machine, the more I felt sure it would be prudent to grab my leathers and helmet.
It was closing on one o'clock when I finally eased out of the driveway, keeping it as quiet as possible in order to avoid alerting the neighbours. Indeed, I made sure I was well away from Crown Road before I finally screwed on the throttle and went for it.
Jesus. Suddenly I was travelling at about a million miles an hour down Brook Road, the scenery around me stretching and warping like something from Back To The Future or those crappy bits in Star Wars where they go to light-speed. I clung to the handlebars for dear life, feeling as though my leathers would be torn from my body any second, the faceplate of my helmet moulded to my face, the reinforced plastic shaped to my mouth, forever, to the form of my final syllable, which was 'fuck'. Before I had time to wonder whether I could actually get my fingers around the brake lever, I'd been blasted out of Brook Road and across the roundabout as though shot from a cannon, and I was already leaning into the tight right-hander that marks the entrance to the supermarket car park. For all its speed, though, the Wasp cornered like a unicycle, defying the laws of physics with effortless grace. I overtook several family cars on the inside, laughing manically as I caught a frustrated dad giving me the finger, then levelling out and finally slowing the thing down, looking for a place to park where it wouldn't attract too much attention.
***
Sadly, the Times didn't see much to shout about in the chainsaw incident. Apparently, it was enough for them to briefly mention that a Borehamwood man accused of attacking a neighbour with a chainsaw was due in court today. Perhaps next week we'll learn how the very same Borehamwood man managed to take the judge's arm off at the shoulder and behead several jurors before being restrained by police. I'll try and remember to look for it.
In the meantime, BOREHAMWOODSTOCK. Yes, the event took place, and The Times has all the coverage. According to reporter Charles Whitney, a rock 'n' roll revival took place in Meadow Park On Sunday at the Borehamwoodstock music festival. Hundreds of people watched the one-day extravaganza, which kicked off with the amateur rock competition Battle Of The Bands.
Hundreds of people, eh? In the photos, it looks like a couple of mums with pushchairs. Some extravaganza. Still, let's not be downbeat. The Battle of the Bands was won by local lads Stifla (An American Pie reference? Say it ain't so), who were awarded with a voucher for ten hours of studio time. The article then goes on to give honourable mentions to Rewind, who apparently whipped the crowd into a frenzy, and The Looters, neither of whom I've ever heard of.
But trust the Times to give us a genius closing paragraph: The only disappointment was the weather, as dark clouds discouraged some people from staying for the whole event.
DARK CLOUDS? What the fuck is wrong with you people? I don't care if you'd forgotten to waterproof the baby carriage. They don't run away from clouds at Glastonbury, I'll tell you that for nothing. Most years it's like Monsoon Season out that way, but that doesn't stop anybody from going to see Oasis or Paul McCartney. But not you fuckers, oh no. A few dark clouds and you abandon the mighty Stifla. You bastards. You RUINED the festival. RUINED IT.
***
There were crowds outside Tesco, sitting in groups of two or three up against the fences, some of them holding signs. I wondered, briefly, what the fuck was going on. Then I realised. Big Brother. It was the parasites. My week had come full circle.
I turned the bike around and drifted quietly over to the fence, letting it roll rather than gunning the engine. That might attract attention. It was a target that was too good to pass up, these starfucking bastards with their signs and their cheering and their empty little lives. I didn't want to murder anyone, that would be a bit much, but all those outstretched legs...
The Wasp exploded into life with a monstrous roar that echoed across the car park. Before the Big Brother parasites even knew what was going on, I was gone, launching the bike away across the car park and out onto the high street. It had been like riding at high speed over railway sleepers, and I knew it would be a few more moments before many of them realised that they no longer had legs.
As for me, I could do my shopping at Sainsbury's this week.
Up early this morning, awakened from a short and uncomfortable sleep by the sound of female laughter, the doorbell ringing, someone rapping on the glass. I struggled out of bed and staggered onto the landing. More laughter, retreating footsteps. By the time I got to the foot of the stairs, silence.
My visitor had stuffed a twenty pound note through the letterbox. When I opened the door, I found a carrier bag filled with bread and milk and a note that said "Buy yourself something nice."
I puzzled over this, but not for long. Twenty pounds is twenty pounds, and it was already approaching eleven o'clock. If I was going to shop, I had to be fast. I wasn't being caught in the midday sun again.
Four hours sleep had other ideas, though, and I lacked the energy for a shower. Instead I settled into a long, hot bath, resigning myself to starving until the evening. I've been in worse situations, and I had cigarettes.
When I emerged it was a little after twelve. I thought vaguely about returning to bed, but it was too hot. I was already sweating and it was as tough to breathe inside as it probably was out there. My eyes fell briefly on the banknote, sitting crisp and new beside my computer, and I remembered going out to the garage to fetch my bike last night, remembered glancing over at the tarpaulin in the corner and the machine it hid. I could, I really could, I'd thought to myself. But I hadn't. We cover things with tarpaulins for a reason, and that reason is not always vanity.
I dressed quickly and snatched my stepfather's keys from the table as I left the house, making sure no-one was watching before sprinting down the garden and into the cool darkness of the garage. There it was, that ominous green tarpaulin, just shapeless and grimy enough to suggest some old wreck, perhaps a lawnmower or some kind of ancient bicycle, something embarrassing. But I knew the truth.
***
The local paper came today. I was outside watering the flowers in the middle of the afternoon and some pre-pubescent girl yelled "Oi, mister!" and launched the thing at me from the pavement. To my credit, I caught it one-handed whilst keeping the hose trained on my mother's thirsty geraniums with the other.
A little later, in the kitchen, I unfolded the thing and settled down to read it while I waited for my lunch to cook. I knew immediately that I would be blogging it, and here's why:
I don't normally read the local paper. It's boring, the journalism is of a woeful standard, and nothing interesting ever happens in Borehamwood. Or at least, that's what I'd always thought. But for those of you who believe I exaggerate in these matters, this week's (30/7/04) Borehamwood And Elstree Times covers some extremely weird shit, from innocent civilians being attacked by an army of rats, to a man sent to jail for attacking another man with a chainsaw, to festival-goers being frightened by clouds. It was an awesome edition of the much-maligned weekly, and I'm glad I took the time to read it.
Rats are running amok in a row of houses, screamed the front page, to the point of settling down to watch television with residents. Can you say 'genius'? Intrepid journalist Martyn Kent, in the FIRST LINE of his report on this insane story, already had his tongue planted firmly in his cheek. I can just picture him now, typing away on yet another small town article, bored to tears of these small town people and their small town hygiene problems. "You wouldn't have rats," he mutters darkly, "if you bothered washing once in a while. Fucking Borehamwood scum."
More disturbing, though, is the following nugget: At least four houses in Newcome Road have a similar problem, she explained. One householder had even found teeth marks in her soap.
Believing that soap-eating rats were stretching the boundaries of credibility just a little, I looked it up. Check this out.
Norway Rat Species (Sewer Rat)
Digs burrows along foundations and under debris piles, often found in basements.
Can enter homes through toilet pipes.
Prefers meat and fish, but will eat anything.
Very aggressive, strong burrower and excellent swimmer. Large range - may travel 50 yards from nest to find food or water.
The article in the Times seems to gel with this information, suggesting that the rats are indeed coming up from the sewers, gnawing through plaster and even floorboards to get to any source of food, including soap. However, JUSTICE has reared its magnificent head in the form of Mrs. Lesley Cuthbertson, who has taken to killing the Dove-devouring fiends with her bare hands. "Some of them scream before they die," she commented, "it's horrendous and very traumatic."
Martyn Kent, Giant Soap-Eating Sewer Rats, and Lesley Cuthbertson of Newcome Road, Shenley, The Darkened Room salutes you all.
***
My stepfather is something of an idiot-savant when it comes to mechanics. He can do just about anything with a couple of pieces of metal and a soldering iron. And that is his one saving grace, in my eyes. He would have gotten along just fine as a member of the A-Team.
This, though. This is his masterwork. Stripped of the tarpaulin it is magnificent, yellow and black and shiny in the darkness like an evil chrome wasp with wheels. Yes, it says Suzuki on the side, but that is merely a label. Written somewhere on the warhead that fell on Hiroshima was the word 'bomb', and you'd have been a fool to take that at face value.
I wheeled it out of the garage and onto the front driveway, surprised by its lack of weight. I have ridden a big bike before, and I know how difficult they are to lift. Usually, if you drop anything of 600cc's or higher, you're going to have a struggle getting it upright again. Not this bike, though. I could have lifted it off the ground, had I been of a mind.
I straddled the seat and and twisted the key in the ignition. The bike started easily and quietly, but when I checked the thing was in neutral and gave the throttle just the slightest of twists, it roared like an angry tyrannosaurus, the vibration rushing up my arm like an electric shock. I quickly eased off, and in the silence that followed, a single tile fell from the roof of my house and a child burst into tears.
I had considered taking my trip to the supermarket as I was, but the more I learned about my stepfather's machine, the more I felt sure it would be prudent to grab my leathers and helmet.
It was closing on one o'clock when I finally eased out of the driveway, keeping it as quiet as possible in order to avoid alerting the neighbours. Indeed, I made sure I was well away from Crown Road before I finally screwed on the throttle and went for it.
Jesus. Suddenly I was travelling at about a million miles an hour down Brook Road, the scenery around me stretching and warping like something from Back To The Future or those crappy bits in Star Wars where they go to light-speed. I clung to the handlebars for dear life, feeling as though my leathers would be torn from my body any second, the faceplate of my helmet moulded to my face, the reinforced plastic shaped to my mouth, forever, to the form of my final syllable, which was 'fuck'. Before I had time to wonder whether I could actually get my fingers around the brake lever, I'd been blasted out of Brook Road and across the roundabout as though shot from a cannon, and I was already leaning into the tight right-hander that marks the entrance to the supermarket car park. For all its speed, though, the Wasp cornered like a unicycle, defying the laws of physics with effortless grace. I overtook several family cars on the inside, laughing manically as I caught a frustrated dad giving me the finger, then levelling out and finally slowing the thing down, looking for a place to park where it wouldn't attract too much attention.
***
Sadly, the Times didn't see much to shout about in the chainsaw incident. Apparently, it was enough for them to briefly mention that a Borehamwood man accused of attacking a neighbour with a chainsaw was due in court today. Perhaps next week we'll learn how the very same Borehamwood man managed to take the judge's arm off at the shoulder and behead several jurors before being restrained by police. I'll try and remember to look for it.
In the meantime, BOREHAMWOODSTOCK. Yes, the event took place, and The Times has all the coverage. According to reporter Charles Whitney, a rock 'n' roll revival took place in Meadow Park On Sunday at the Borehamwoodstock music festival. Hundreds of people watched the one-day extravaganza, which kicked off with the amateur rock competition Battle Of The Bands.
Hundreds of people, eh? In the photos, it looks like a couple of mums with pushchairs. Some extravaganza. Still, let's not be downbeat. The Battle of the Bands was won by local lads Stifla (An American Pie reference? Say it ain't so), who were awarded with a voucher for ten hours of studio time. The article then goes on to give honourable mentions to Rewind, who apparently whipped the crowd into a frenzy, and The Looters, neither of whom I've ever heard of.
But trust the Times to give us a genius closing paragraph: The only disappointment was the weather, as dark clouds discouraged some people from staying for the whole event.
DARK CLOUDS? What the fuck is wrong with you people? I don't care if you'd forgotten to waterproof the baby carriage. They don't run away from clouds at Glastonbury, I'll tell you that for nothing. Most years it's like Monsoon Season out that way, but that doesn't stop anybody from going to see Oasis or Paul McCartney. But not you fuckers, oh no. A few dark clouds and you abandon the mighty Stifla. You bastards. You RUINED the festival. RUINED IT.
***
There were crowds outside Tesco, sitting in groups of two or three up against the fences, some of them holding signs. I wondered, briefly, what the fuck was going on. Then I realised. Big Brother. It was the parasites. My week had come full circle.
I turned the bike around and drifted quietly over to the fence, letting it roll rather than gunning the engine. That might attract attention. It was a target that was too good to pass up, these starfucking bastards with their signs and their cheering and their empty little lives. I didn't want to murder anyone, that would be a bit much, but all those outstretched legs...
The Wasp exploded into life with a monstrous roar that echoed across the car park. Before the Big Brother parasites even knew what was going on, I was gone, launching the bike away across the car park and out onto the high street. It had been like riding at high speed over railway sleepers, and I knew it would be a few more moments before many of them realised that they no longer had legs.
As for me, I could do my shopping at Sainsbury's this week.
posted by Michael at 2:11 PM
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