Wednesday, 15 October 2014

a tenth new story...'small, crap towns'

Alun feels another shit concocting in his bowels, building with the rumble of gastrointestinal thunder. Mild? Medium? Or Hot? Innocent questions, answers - drastic, gastric consequences.

Small, crap, provincial towns, cheap kebab vans, vans selling cheap kebabs.  Pizza Express have a new menu, sign at bus stop said. Hmm. Alun frowns, forehead sweaty with effort, keeping bomb doors closed, one, perhaps one and half miles from home?  Stale real ale, served with zero aplomb, I hate small, crap provincial towns. And the countryside where you find these places. Death traps, no airs, graces.

A rattling car passes by: five spotty white youths crammed inside, playing gangsta rap.  Small... crap... Shakespeare would have cried. But London was a sewer in his time; today, only the British National Party, bless ‘em, consider it a shithole, at least of the multicultural kind.  

Alun checks his wrist watch: six hours since conference end, three since pointless agony of business dinner; ‘business friends’, ‘associates’, where small talk reigned, or did it simply rain? The accountant from Cardiff, showered him, accidentally? On purpose? with cava. What a palaver! Another small, crap town.  The accountant: Rees? Whose dignity disappeared at the merest whiff of cheap booze.  Wales: born to lose – even Dylan Thomas hated, despised Welsh choirs … Walking on roadside briers, small, crap towns make one mean, nasty: out here on the perimeter, stalking the wasteland, T.S.Eliot seems fraudulent.  And then in the distance appear purple neon signs for the sanitised purple hell hole that is Premier Inn.

Alun thinks: After my poo, will it be BBC World: World Business Report? Or ‘Calendar Girls Strip Naked’, on encrypted channel seven hundred and twenty two?  

No comments:

Post a Comment