The Great Buzz About Town

I was out walking one day when there suddenly came a buzzing sound in my right ear. I waved my hand in the general area in an attempt to get rid of the irritant, but the buzzing continued and my hand struck something large and hairy. It was not, as I had suspected, an insect buzzing about my ear, but a great big fat man with long dark hair and a big dark beard.

'Excuse me,' I asked him, 'but why are you making an irritating buzzing sound in my right ear?'

'If you had the capacity to understand why I'm making an irritating buzzing sound in your right ear, then you wouldn't need to ask me the question in the first place,' growled the big fat man, in a big, fat voice.

This was an infuriating reply and one I could not counter without making myself even more ignorant in the eyes of the fat man. I would have to ponder my next move as I went about my usual business, trying to pay as little attention to the man as possible. He continued following me, walking sideways like a crab and bending down a little to buzz in my ear.

I went to the butcher's and bought a sufficient amount of minced beef. Then I went to the corner shop to buy tinned tomatoes, tomato purée, an onion, some garlic, a packet of spaghetti and a bottle of red wine. We got a few strange looks, the buzzing fat man and I, but people were generally too polite to ask any questions.

'I'm making spaghetti bolognese,' I told the fat man when we were back out in the street.

'If you were making spaghetti bolognese,' said the fat man, 'do you really think I'd be buzzing like this in your right ear? I'll answer on your behalf: No, I wouldn't.'

Again, this was hard to reply to. Had I thought about things for a moment, I would have realized that the only thing I had to do to get rid of the fat man was go home and begin cooking my spaghetti bolognese, but I was blinded by exasperation. Instead, I decided that I deserved a pint or two for completing my errands, and for putting up with the fat man with minimal protest. So I headed to the Blind Drunk and ordered myself a pint of bitter.

'Would you like a drink?' I asked the fat man.

'No...bzzzzz...thank...bzzzzz...you.' he said. 'I'm...bzzzzz...driving.'

I drank off my pint quickly and ordered another, but the alcohol did nothing to ease my predicament. I decided to go about the pub and ask people whether they knew why there was a big, fat, bearded man making an irritating buzzing sound in my right ear. I had to do this quietly of course, because I didn't want the fat man to think me ignorant for not knowing the reason in the first place. It was important to me that I didn't make myself appear stupid to him.

I talked to several people, but nobody could help me. I was about to give up hope when I spied a small, thin bald man sitting alone in a corner by the window drinking what appeared to be petrol.

'Is that petrol you're drinking?' I asked him outright.

'The finest petrol in town,' he said without turning his gaze from the window, 'I'm celebrating.'

Ah, so he was celebrating. Now it made sense.

'May I ask what it is you're celebrating?' I enquired.

'I am celebrating everything,' he said, 'but mainly the fact that I can see again after having the hair removed from my eyes.' As he said this, he flicked his head several times, presumably forgetting that he no longer had to get the hair out of his eyes. He was completely bald now, so whoever it was that had removed his hair had done a very thorough job.

'Can I get you another petrol?' I asked him politely.

He turned to look at me: 'Thank you very much,' he said, 'that's very kind of you. But why are you shouting?'

'I'm sorry,' I said, 'I'm finding it rather hard to hear myself speak because this gentleman here is following me about and buzzing in my ear.'

The thin bald man, seemingly noticing the big fat man for the first time, sat up in his chair.

'Ah, it's you is it? You great big buzzing Jemima.' The big fat man ignored him, and concentrated fully on his buzzing.

'Excuse me,' I said, 'but do you know this man?'

'Of course I do,' replied the bald man, 'that's my cousin.'

'So, why is he buzzing in my ear like this?' I asked him excitedly.

'It's really very simple,' said the man, 'he has serious mental health problems.'

With that, the big fat man stopped buzzing, shook his cousin's hand, gave me a hefty slap on the back and went over to a ruddy-faced gentleman who was sat with his wife at a table nearby. He bent down to the man's right ear and began to make an irritating buzzing sound.

I thanked the bald man profusely, bought him a big glass of petrol and went home to cook my spaghetti bolognese.

Later that evening, as I sat in my comfortable old armchair sipping a glass of red wine, I was suddenly struck by the terrible silence. It was unbearable, and I had to put on some loud music to ease my nerves a little. My thoughts then turned to the ruddy-faced man who was sitting with his wife in the pub. I felt insanely jealous of him. Not because of his wife, she was an old boot, but because of the fat man making the buzzing noise in his right ear.

The next morning, I got up very early and went in search of the big fat man.

A Terrible Bit of Bad Luck

As Stan Stanleyson lay bleeding to death on the floor of his local shop, he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief. He'd been involved in an altercation with another man, who'd turned out to be a little on the angry side, over the last remaining packet of Fruit Pastilles. It appeared that they were both rather fond of Fruit Pastilles, but the other man was clearly a little fonder of them than Stan, and he'd pulled out a large kitchen knife and stabbed his rival in the chest to emphasize the point.

Now Stan lay there awaiting death and/or an ambulance, quite contented, with a smile on his face. He'd never really been any good at life. In all honesty, he'd found walking about, sitting down and all the rest of it a real struggle and this would be an excellent excuse not to have to bother with any of it ever again. Besides, he had been a firm believer in reincarnation for as long as he could remember and was looking forward to returning as someone or something with a little more energy and enthusiasm.

The ambulance eventually arrived, but death had arrived before it, and although the paramedics did their utmost to resuscitate Stan, it was impossible, not least because of his unwillingness to be resuscitated. He was happily on his way to the next life.

You can imagine Stan's disappointment then upon realizing that reincarnation was a falsehood, and that he would in fact just have to lie there dead for the rest of his days. When this had finally established itself as reality in his mind, he regretted his over-exuberant passion for Fruit Pastilles, and he also realized that he had very happy memories of walking about, sitting down and all the rest of it, and felt an unbearable longing for these things.

'What a terrible bit of bad luck,' he thought.

Frank Hughes: A Woman Like No Other

Frank Hughes was a woman like no other. To begin with, she frequently wore trousers. Who ever heard of a woman wearing trousers? Secondly, she had very short hair. Who ever heard of a woman with very short hair? Nobody in the town had ever heard of such things, but they were a tolerant bunch and therefore she was allowed to go about her business without interference and was even liked by some.

Rumours had followed that perhaps she was a woman who loved other women, mainly on account of her trouser-wearing and short hair, as well as her fondness for pipe smoking, gambling and swearing. These rumours had even gone so far as to place her in a relationship with Jim Kelly, the firewoman, although they had been dampened somewhat when Frank Hughes was seen laughing heartily the day after Jim Kelly was killed in a fire at the fire station, when all the fire crews were out extinguishing other fires. Who ever heard of a woman who loves other women laughing heartily the day after the woman she loved was killed in a fire at the fire station? Nobody in the town had, that's for certain.

It had become such an accepted fact that Frank Hughes was not only a woman, but a woman that didn't love other women, that nobody batted an eyelid when she got a job as a train driver, grew a beard and announced her intention to take up Greco-Roman wrestling. This was a hobby that developed into a passion for Frank, and after several weeks of intensive training she was about to take part in her first bout at the local leisure centre. There was only one other lady wrestler in the area and that was 'Hairy' Harry Carter, a fearsome character who worked as a doorwoman at 'Rusty's' nightclub in the neighbouring town.

It was a wet November night, and due to the paucity of night-time attractions in the town, a fair crowd had gathered at the leisure centre. They saw a fearless battle, and Frank more than held her own in spite of her inexperience. However, late on in the bout, as she executed a particularly complicated clinch, a little chap and a pair of hairy conkers popped out at the side of Frank's lycra wrestling outfit. The referee couldn't help but notice and she was disqualified on the spot, with 'Hairy' Harry Carter declared the winner by default.

"Well I never!" said folk in the town later. "Frank Hughes was a man after all!" And this was true. Unless she was a woman who had become a man. But who ever heard of a woman that became a man?

Bedtime

It was an evening like many others for William. He'd had a hard but fulfilling day at work, enjoyed an excellent tea of dumplings and sauerkraut and had now put on his slippers and settled down in the lounge to read the paper. His two young fair-haired sons, fresh out of the bath, were sitting on the carpet in front of the fire watching a cartoon on the television. William pulled down a corner of his paper to look at them and felt immense pride. He then glanced at the clock and realized that it was past eight, the boys' bedtime.

'Right boys,' he said, using the exact same words he'd used every night for years, 'it's bedtime I'm afraid.'

The boys didn't stir, but continued to watch the cartoon as if nothing at all had happened.

'Are you listening boys?' ventured William again. 'I said it's bedtime.'

After another moment's silence, the two angelic boys in their jungle pyjamas, their golden hair still damp from the bath, turned towards their father and held up a middle finger each.

'Up yours, you tit!' they chimed in unison, before laughing uproariously and giving each other congratulatory slaps on the back.

'Come on now boys,' said William timidly, 'you've had a fair deal. I'll tell you what, you can read for a bit in bed, how's that?'

'You can read for a bit in bed more like,' piped up the eldest. 'Now go on, fuck off out of it, we're trying to watch this.'

William folded his paper sheepishly, tucked it under his arm and headed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

He paused momentarily at the foot of the stairs to listen to the boys, who had started chattering as soon as he'd left the room. They were swearing so prolifically that there was little room left for meaningful conversation. William shook his head and smiled, thinking to himself: 'My boys are becoming men'. Then he climbed the stairs and went to bed, where he read his paper for a while before falling into a deep sleep.

The Little Terrier

I was standing patiently at the bus stop one day, when a small terrier sauntered towards me before cocking its leg and urinating all over my trousers. I am accustomed to receiving abuse from folk in the town, on account of my molten-faced appearance and disgraceful body odour, but to have a dog ridicule me in this fashion was a little too much to bear. Fortunately an opportune moment presented itself for me to exact immediate revenge. The bus I had been waiting for was approaching and after casting a quick glance around, I booted the little dog under its front wheels. When I recall, as I frequently do, the yelping noise the dog made as the wheels of the bus squeezed the last bit of air out of its body, I feel a certain amount of regret, and not only because of the delay the 'accident' caused to my journey. I wonder if perhaps the dog wasn’t ridiculing me at all, but merely marking its territory.

Dancing Butterflies

A few months ago, I was sat out in the garden enjoying the sunshine, when a pair of pure white butterflies appeared in my vicinity, as if from thin air. I gazed at them with astonishment as they danced around before my eyes like a pair of flipping twats. I simply can't abide butterflies and their impudence in invading my privacy so rudely and unacceptably filled me with disgusted amazement. I immediately charged off to fetch my gun with the intention of showing them exactly who it was they were dealing with.

I will admit with hindsight that my choice of implement with which to teach the cheeky butterflies a lesson was somewhat misguided. Perhaps my purposes would have been better served by a net, which I could have used to pluck them out of the air before throwing them to the ground and crushing them with my boot. As it happened, my wild gunfire was easily evaded by my insect foes, but not so easily by one of my neighbours, who was killed instantly by a stray bullet, making a complete mess of the clean clothes she was hanging out to dry in the process.

These days, I have a lot of time on my hands to contemplate this unfortunate incident, having been sentenced to twelve years in prison for manslaughter, on the grounds of diminished responsibility. The worst part of the whole affair is that the white figures dancing before me weren't butterflies at all, they were in fact flashing white dots that had began to appear due to years of excessive drug-taking and lack of sleep. They remain with me as a constant reminder of what happened that sunny afternoon, but I derive some consolation from the fact that they're not real butterflies. If they were, I cannot predict what my reaction would be, although it would surely result in time being added to my sentence. You see, I really hate butterflies.

Two Lads With Stolen Names Become Somewhat Intolerant

It was a day with no weather when Bibi-la-Grillade headed on foot across the grey old city, which he inhabited by fluke of birth, to see his friend Mes-Bottes.

As he turned the corner of Mes-Bottes's street, one of a dizzying maze of terraced housing which filled the grey old city, of which he was extremely proud, he noticed a man ironing an unidentifiable item in the middle of the otherwise completely deserted street. It was Mes-Bottes, standing alone, slowly and absent-mindedly moving the iron backwards and forwards and staring blankly back down the road towards Bibi-la-Grillade. There were no people and no cars. All the people had gone on holiday to Spain or somesuch, and all the cars had gone with them.

'Mes-Bottes! My friend Mes-Bottes!' Bibi-la-Grillade sang out in a faux operatic voice as he approached, flailing his arms dramatically. 'Tell me why, oh why, are you standing in the middle of the empty street ironing an unidentifiable item?' This last part was a blatant lie, for Bibi-la-Grillade was already close enough to be able to identify the unidentifiable item as Mes-Bottes's left hand.

'Oh, it's you is it?' said Mes-Bottes, staring straight through his friend and continuing to iron his left hand metronomically.

'Why of course!' replied Bibi-la-Grillade, still singing when speaking would have been more appropriate. 'Why do you behave so coldly towards your old comrade?'

'Oh do shut up, you opera fuck!' cried Mes-Bottes. 'Can't you see I'm in no mood?'

Bibi-la-Grillade was taken aback. He'd seen his friend in poor spirits on previous occasions, but this downright hostility was new to him. He decided to proceed with caution, beginning with speaking instead of singing.

'There now, there now,' he said, as if he were trying to soothe a baby. He slowly approached the angry Mes-Bottes and gave him a warm but unreciprocated hug.

This was too much for Mes-Bottes. He dropped the iron to the ground and wept loudly, making such a racket with his heavy sobs that some slates were dislodged from the roofs of the houses and came crashing to the floor. It's perhaps fortunate that there were no cars in the street because the slates would undoubtedly have damaged them, and the noise of their alarms sounding would have been unbearable.

'There, there,' continued Bibi-la-Grillade still hugging his friend to bits. 'You just let it all out to your old friend Bibi.'

'It's my wife!' screamed Mes-Bottes in a quivering falsetto. 'She's run away with Il-Ne-Comprend-Pas from number twenty four, and worse than that, they've taken the car with them.'

Bibi-la-Grillade let go of Mes-Bottes abruptly and looked at him in shock.

'The car?' he asked, 'the fast black car with the brand new tyres?'

'Yes!' wailed Mes-Bottes 'the fast black car with the brand new tyres and the sun-roof! Aaaaarrrrrgggghhh!'

'Well, we'll just have to see about all this,' said Bibi-la-Grillade. 'And where might they have gone to, these two....these two....fucking....jugglers?!'

'They've gone off to Spain or somesuch with the rest of them.'

'Spain or somesuch with the rest of them?!' Bibi-la-Grillade was angrier than ever now. 'And what on earth is the matter with our grey old city? Eh? Why go to Spain or somesuch? Why not just stay here and visit places here and talk to the people here? Fucking jugglers! They make me sick!'

'She said my left hand was too wrinkled,' cried Mes-Bottes. '"Il-Ne-Comprend-Pas has a left hand as smooth as a mole," she said.'

'Yes, and I bet he leaves a great big pile of soil everywhere he goes too, the trumpet.'

'But wait Bibi-la-Grillade,' said Mes-Bottes in a suddenly hushed tone, pointing downwards and nodding his head in the same direction. 'That's not everything.'

Bibi-la-Grillade bent down to have a look what the hell all this new fuss was about and found a young man, no more than twenty years old, with massive, black, curly hair and a beard to match, cowering under the ironing board. He wore a stained white vest, a pair of three-quarter-length shorts and beige slip-on shoes and chewed his nails devotedly, muttering indecipherables under his breath with a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He was utterly filthy and the smell off him would have done for a man of weak constitution. Put frankly, he stank of a mixture of several different kinds of shit.

'My sweet Lord!' cried Bibi-la-Grillade, drawing back in disgust and putting his handkerchief over his nose. 'What the buggering hell is that?'

'That's The-Shady-Character,' whispered Mes-Bottes. 'He's been hanging around ever since my wife ran off. D'you think it's a sign?'

'A sign of what? That if you don't have a wash you get to stinking? No, no, no we can't be having this. Not in my city. What did you say his name was?'

'The-Shady-Character.'

'The-Shady-Character? What kind of daft bloody name is that?'

'I think he might be English.'

'English?!' roared Bibi-la-Grillade. 'Well what on earth's he doing here then? He should piss off back to Spain, or wherever the hell it is he's come from. Now look here,' he continued, bending down to address The-Shady-Character, but keeping his handkerchief clamped over his nose. 'For starters I won't be calling you by that daft name of yours; from now on you're Shut-Up-You-Stink, got that?' Shut-Up-You-Stink nodded in acquiescence, utterly petrified. He looked as if he were about to literally fall apart with fear.

'Now the next question,' Bibi-la-Grillade went on, 'is what the hell is to be done with you? Would you be willing just to piss off at all?'

Shut-Up-You-Stink shook his head sadly as if such a thing were completely impossible.

Bibi-la-Grillade turned to Mes-Bottes and shrugged his shoulders, pulling a face which suggested that was the first and last of his ideas and that he was about to wash his hands of the whole affair. However, Mes-Bottes appeared to have found inspiration from somewhere and beckoned him over for a private conflab.

It was decided that they would hang Shut-Up-You-Stink from a lamp-post as punishment for the fact that Mes-Bottes's wife had run away with Il-Ne-Comprend-Pas and the fast black car with the new tyres and the sun-roof. Both were happy with this conclusion and Shut-Up-You-Stink seemed resigned to his fate, almost relieved that the wait was over.

So, with a little difficulty, the compliant Shut-Up-You-Stink was carried over to the nearest lamp-post and hung. Not hanged by his neck of course, Mes-Bottes and Bibi-la-Grillade weren't animals, but hung with the rope around his waist so that he just dangled there looking daft and helpless. With hindsight, there is little doubt that Shut-Up-You Stink would have preferred the two men to have been a little more ruthless. After hanging him up, Bibi-la-Grillade and Mes-Bottes embarked on a three day spree to both celebrate and forget, leaving Shut-Up-You-Stink to endure a painfully long, drawn-out death as he was slowly eaten by seagulls.

When the two men returned, infiltrated by the inevitable darkness of thought that a three day spree conjures up, they wept for hours in each other's arms at what had become of their new friend.

A Go on the Game

'Alright mate.'
'Alright.'
'What's that you've got there?'
'Just a game.'
'Is it yeah? A new game is it?'
'Yeah.'
'Let's have a go on it then.'
'Nah.'
'What d'you mean 'nah'? Why not?'
'Dunno.'
'I thought we were mates. We are aren't we?'
'Well, not really.'
'What? Why not?'
'Well, it's just that every time I see you, you punch me in the mouth. I've lost loads of teeth because of it.'
'Hahaha!! I don't do that do I?'
'Yeah you....Oww! See, you've just done it again now!'
'Shit, yeah! I have haven't I?'
'Yeah, you have!'
'And I do that every time do I?'
'Every single time.'
'Sorry mate.'
'Don't worry about it.'
'Can I have a go on the game then?'
'Go on then, but only while I wipe this blood off.'