100 Words: The Physical

When I joined the army I got a physical examination right at the start- we all did, all the new privates lined up together and displayed their own privates for inspection.  Not much fun but one thing did happen to lighten the mood.

The guy next to me had quite a large one and the doctor, upon seeing this, took out his pencil and lifted it for examination, clearly amazed at the size.

“Blimey,” he said, “I bet this fella’s been out of his cage a few times.”

“Aye,” replied the recruit, “But he’s never been on a perch before.”

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Written for 100 Word Challenge #403 on Velvet Verbosity; the prompt was the word Perched.

250 Words: The man who yelled, “****!”/The man who threw the egg; AKA The **** and the egg

So safe in your cab, your daytime cell of metal and glass.  So safe at 30 miles per hour, only at the scene momentarily, just for the appropriate amount of time.  So quickly the word is yelled.

So happy in your moment of genius, no doubt the mate, the provider of banter, of cheap thrills.  So much of a laugh, no doubt, in your world.  Not in mine.

So unconcerned at the hurt caused, even though it was meaningless, impersonal.  Yet it still felt so sharp and left questions spinning in my head as I carried on walking up the road.

*

So safe with your mates, in your leisure time pod of metal and glass.  So safe at 20 miles per hour, only at the scene momentarily, just long enough to take aim, throw, and see the results.  So quickly the item can be hurled.

No doubt a look of anticipation as your arm drew back, as it flew through the air.  No doubt a look of joy, success, as it hit, exploded and spread.  No doubt you all laughed as you drove away so safe, so glorious.  No doubt you were congratulated, more or less clapped on the back.  So much fun in your world.  Not in mine.

So unconcerned at the hurt caused, even though it was random, impersonal.  Yet it still felt so sharp and left questions as I carried walking onwards, as I cleaned it away in the pub toilet, trying to hold back the tears.

≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 9

The paint on the ground at the park's entrance read, "DOGS". I could see people beyond but; signs are rules we must obey so I walked away.

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Note: My next Tweet read: "Last tweet based on a true story. Well: the sign exists but I saw it on the way out of the park (read square/gardens) so it didn't happen." Helpful, I know. It happened in Northampton Square, London.

250 Words: Three pints of Young’s Special Bitter, my brother (three pints of Foster’s) and a Carling Cup Final defeat (bit late, still topical!*)

Got the call just before two and quickly finished my tea before walking into town, ringing David on arrival. The Ashes was rammed so we looked elsewhere: with Earl’s also packed, we checked the Druid’s and Society Rooms: neither, unsurprisingly, showing the game.  The Albion was shut so we took overheard advice and went to The Old House At Home (quite a strain on the word count, that one) which was full but we got a place to stand and watch. 

The match passed by, interesting but goalless.  The atmosphere inside the pub was heated with chanting from both sets of fans.  Mind you, a lot of our fellow punters looked a bit scary and there seemed a slight air of menace. 

The first explosion was the worst.  A great flash, deafening bang and smoke soon rising from the ground.  At half time a miracle occurred and we got the table we’d been standing by.  I then briefly escaped the heat to get cash, being successful at the second machine, nodding hello to a man from the first. 

The second half drew to a close with extra time to come.  David went to the loo leaving me holding on.  He returned with pints and said something about being threatened.  I went anyway and some of the scary looking people were very courteous on my return. 

The penalties went the wrong way and we left abruptly.  It was a long walk home (made longer by my searching shops for part-baked bread).

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* At the time of writing

250 Words: Annoying the staff at a well-known High Street bank

So I’m in a well-known High Street bank filling out a paying-in slip of a (pay) cheque (the biggest I have EVER received; which is nice) and there is this beeping coming from my right.

I try and ignore it, continue with the slip- writing out the date, account details, amount or whatever but eventually look round to see money sticking out of a cash machine, its owner having left the building- something I know because I have checked.

I go back to what I was doing, thinking it’ll get sucked back up, it’ll be fine.  But the beeping, it continues- it gets in my head, stirs it around, increases nerves and/or tension and, naturally, I panic and take the money.

No, no, faithful reader, I don’t put it in my pocket.  Yet.  I pop it in front of me for the mo’, see if the chatty chap who left it returns.  I pay in me cheque, cash in pocket now, but still there is no returning recoverer so I approach a member of staff and explain what has happened.  She doesn’t seem too bothered, I don’t think.  Until I hand her the money.  Then she looks agitated .  I sort of murmur the question, “Would it have been sucked back up?”  She seems to say, “Yes” and is clearly perturbed at the extra work that I have given her.

Balls and tools.  Guess I’ll leave it if there is a next time.

She thanked me, though, all the same.

250 Words: Three pints of Guinness and a League Cup title

I was almost ten minutes late.  I left it 'til the last minute and found The Orchard Spot wasn't showing the game, leaving me rushing to The Kentish Yeoman.  I got my first pint in, took my pitch and begun to hope.  Bobbing and weaving to see around those ahead, I watched the game unfold; the wrong way in the first half.

At half time I tried to find another pub due to to racist remarks against Drogba following his goal.  The Rose seemed to be shut so I returned.

A second pint bought and I saw Spurs take the game to Chelsea eventually earning a penalty.  I thought handball, the linesman said a push.  Still, with almost too much calm, Superstar Dimitar converted and a larger cheer than that for Drogba was heard.

The third saw me through, cursing the fact that Zokora cannot bloody shoot.

At full time I downed what was left and had a pee before:

Extra time and I was 10 pence short of a fourth.  I resorted to crunching a mint.  Jenas put the ball in; Woodgate connected; Cech palmed onto Woodgate's head; massive smile on my face.  But so long to go.  Nerves in the pub; relief at saves and misses; applause for Robinson.  And finally the final whistle at an odd but beautiful moment (the best part of a scary minute late).  Joy unbound as the players collected the prize.  I walked into the rain ecstatic, a wee glistening in my eye.

250 Words: Customise your drink

Thus commanded the sign on the wall of the coffee house.  It was directly underneath a no smoking sign, which seemed an odd partnership to me at the time but isn’t really important now.  Although that latter order I could live with.  What was I supposed to do to appease the first demand?  I’d already bought and started my small white Americano and I had entered Gormenghast.  I couldn’t very well march back to the counter and say, “Oh I forgot, can I customise my drink?”  And I had nothing with me.  You can’t customise a drink with a book, a notepad and a pencil.  If anything, the staff should have forced me into selecting customisation condiments.  Or at least offered .  Customise my drink?  As if my life wasn’t complicated enough without these inane orders.  I’d a train to catch for one thing.  And I was concerned about the power Steerpike was gathering about him.  Horrid little upstart.  And I was with him all the way when he escaped the kitchen and scaled the ancient walls.  Now I feel quite bad for any respect I felt for him.  He wouldn’t customise his drink on demand.  He’d dispatch with his swordstick or plot to slowly bring down these tin coffee gods and end all their demands.  Customise my drink?  Whatever happened to free choice and the customer always being right?  I’ll have my coffee how it comes, thank you very much…. actually, I did choose to add  milk, didn’t I?

250 Words: Paul Robinson's first goal for Tottenham Hotspur

"England's number one!" sang the Watford fans, referring to their goalkeeper.  The Spurs fans sang the same back much louder, defending the regular England keeper.  Forward and back this went- each set of fans putting forward their man’s case.  

Then, shortly after the hour mark, Robinson silenced the Watford fans and sent the Spurs fans crazy.  As he prepared to take a free-kick, 80 metres from the goal and way out on the touchline, I had a pessimistic moment and worried about the consequences should the kick fall short.  

But by the time it was taken, following a Watford substitution, I had forgotten this and watched the ball sail harmlessly through the air over everyone's heads.  

It was left for the keeper, who misjudged the bounce.  As the ball began its journey over his head, expectation mounted among the fans- we could see what would happen…

I began my celebrations before suddenly remembering who had taken the free kick.  At which point I began to celebrate all the harder.  As did the majority of the ground.  Like we had won The Cup.  The last time I witnessed such frantic celebration was after Nielsen's last minute winner at Wembley.

As a kid, my footballing dream was to throw the ball back.  As I got older, it became seeing a goalkeeper score.  Through a freak goal I‘ve got there.  And I shook with excitement for quite some time.  I saw the Spurs keeper score and I felt on top of the world.

250 Words: Aesthetic insanity

I like to vary my walks home to add a kind of variety that in other areas can be lacking.  Sometimes I walk across the concourse and through the station’s vaults.  To do so I go down an escalator, above which are pictures of food, presumably available in the shops at its bottom.  They have been placed, I would guess, in an attempt to excite the taste buds and whet the appetite in readiness for the walk past the food shops that is imminent and avoidable only by doubling back.  

However, every other picture is in black and white and, next to colourful neighbours only serve to give the opposite effect.  The black and white food looks off to me.  A tomato looks blue in my mind: putrid and inky on the inside, the olive both crisp and hard.

I travel down the escalator fearful of what I will find.  Maybe mould growing across peaches like unwanted affection spreading its greasy hand upon a tender thigh?  

Or perhaps meat rotting and smelling like a thousand rank farts and causing innocent patrons to evacuate their stomachs all over the floor.  

Maybe even mutated and passed-it food that has become jaded and evil.  Will there be an army of these blue tomatoes waiting to smother me under their mushy weight?

Of course not but the aesthetic insanity of those photographs doesn’t make me feel like purchasing any food.  Instead I only want to walk on with blinkers shielding me from anything untoward.