THE MAJESTIC PAVLOVA (part one).  

Buddhist_Monk 42M
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5/12/2006 7:34 am

Last Read:
5/16/2006 10:09 pm

THE MAJESTIC PAVLOVA (part one).

Chapter 1): The Majestic Pavlova!

Where shall I begin? It was the year of our lord 1996…. Well, actually I say “our lord”, but I obviously mean “their lord”, my lord as it happens has been in a perpetual state of comatose oblivion since he set himself his most ultimate challenge to date, focused all his high powered omnipotent, omniscient, nay infinitesimal, powers of supernatural perception & conception on the matter in hand……. & discovered (or should I say created) the most volatile drug cocktail ever known throughout the infinite realms of universal existence, & promptly celebrated by downing its entire entity on the evening of the 9th day of creating his masterpiece. Needless to say, as an evolved consequence of these events my own personal spiritual guidance had been somewhat lacking in terms of positive direction throughout the extent of my rather insignificant, often abhorrent, life. I had on occasion been tempted into sojourning under the wing of “their god” only to be found out (rather embarrassingly) as the impostor I most certainly was, leading to my prompt rejection & subsequent ejection from “their community” via the greater good of said god that I was attempting to infiltrate myself underneath in the first place. I had been driven to these deceitful extremes over a debilitating number of years through the misguided hopes that by feigning belief in & compassion for “his/her” virtues my life would suddenly become subject to a mesmerising injection of love way up high on the plains of nirvana….. Buttercups & daisies, & happy fluffy bunnies bouncing over sun-kissed meadows wearing rose-tinted shades.
Love, with the associated material comforts of such love-strewn nirvana (of course!); nice house with a nice BIG garden, finished of at the end by a little picket fence; private swimming pool perhaps; fancy car; fancy restaurant food rotting in my fancy guts; fancy social group of equally fancy people living in a mutually fancy state of fancy love & respect for one another; even fancier dark skinned nymphomaniac goddess of love shagging me fancy senseless on my fancy black satin-sheet sprawled fancy bed while I speak to my fancy personal assistant on my fancy mobile phone expressing my fancy concerns for the starving millions & ordering her (obviously a sexily intelligent fancy blonde fair-skinned personal assistant) to send another two hundred million of my fancy fortune (obtained virtuously, & without causing any relative debilitating effects upon any other living being in the known universe) to those poor suffering children, oh what a fancy compassionate man I must be etc… etc…. (Irony? Fancy that!). Indeed, that is where the story begins! Good guess, take a short few moments to pat yourself on the back for your persistence to date, now strap yourself in to that cosy place you have found yourself in today, & enjoy the ride…..


“Ello Chris………….”
“Oi, Chris, I said ello…………..”
“Oh, bloody-hell don’t bother then.”

Chris wasn’t much for talking in the mornings, or at any other times if the truth be known. It was a funny old relationship we had developed over the years, but I had seen worse. I was getting ready for work but I was having some difficulty finding a red sock. I always liked to wear one red sock & one green one on a day like this (preferably plain, but little patterns were acceptable, as long as they didn’t have sheep on them). I could never find anything in this crappy room. I was living (if that’s what its called) in a huge rotting complex of tunnels, seventy-two separate rooms housing desperate lonely souls, passageways, damp-ridden walls, leaky roofs, south Vietnamese pot-bellied pig shit up to my ankles, Hardman House, Liverpool, L1. The blitz, followed by an unimaginable number of years of post-war piss-ups, dossers, heroin addicts, hookers, all that’s wrong in the world as some would like to have you believe (the place served a stint as a brothel, & a sailor’s haunt some time in the not too distant past….. I often wondered what had actually taken place on that bed I had been “left” to rest my weary head on, what unspeakable events lay ingrained, dried up inside the once porous wooden tissue of that bringer of comfort to me). Combined with the inhabitants that seemed to have a penchant for hiding bits of dried pasta around the place (the stuff was everywhere, & I mean everywhere) eventually it had all taken its toll on the building.
The landlord gave up caring about the place sometime in the late sixties, & there had been three more landlords since then that cared even less about the place, all hiding far away in London somewhere…. If they really existed (I often mused over the possibility that the place belonged to hell, run by Nosferatu as a halfway house of some kind). The corridors reeked of damp musty rotting structural diseases, & when it rained pieces of the ceiling would fall down onto the windingly uneven floors. The communal gas dryer lived in the basement at the end of endless dark passageways like a retarded monster chained up deep below, as far as possible from the civilised world above. It even breathed fire (albeit out the back) when some poor unfortunate soul was driven through desperation of cold damp rot to use the wretched creature in a futile attempt to avoid the dreaded “Hardman House pneumatic flew” due to wearing clothes that could never possibly hope to dry, not even in a million years, not in that place.
One day I came home to a plethora of fire engines & a disgruntled looking Massive Bloke stumbling about the street outside with black soot on his face, & I found myself feeling quite nostalgic & bizarrely saddened for the beast below us that had finally breathed its final fire-ball, taking out the greater part of the basement cave & Massive Bloke’s monthly wash along with it in a last blaze, a glorious bid for freedom perhaps. To any “normal” human being this may all have added up to become a matter for concern, but then any normal human being would not have subjected themselves to living in Hardman House. For the most part the tenants took it all in their stride (literally, striding over the ceiling as it progressively became the new floor). Of course, it was the cheapest place around (£20 a week, including all bills), but it was a real ramshackle of a hole, we all knew it (those of us who still had some vague capacity for comprehension, not yet one of the environmentally lobotomised but not too far off). The “Zombies”, as they were known to Chris & I, had it easy, don’t know they’re born (literally), living in a void of ignorant bliss. Some days I would wake up & yearn for the madness to set in, so that I could happily join Psycho Derek sitting in the corridor in a pleasantly soothing warm-pool-bath of my own dehydrated piss…… Lucky bastard!
Every so often I would find a piece of dried spaghetti wedged under the carpet. At first I thought it must’ve been home to some Italian squirrels during the years it lay dormant after the war. But Italians don’t have squirrels, & anyway no rodent Nazi sympathisers would have felt safe enough to lay low in an English city where the walls have eyes & ears as big as they do in Liverpool, not to mention the huge noses! I suppose it could only be explained by the existence of some hybrid squirrel folk that were so paranoid about the coming of the year 2000 & all its impending prophesies of DOOOOM that they hid spaghetti rations around the place while twitching each others noses, terribly exited by the prospect of their ingenious pre-emptive food stashing ploy that would ultimately see them controlling pasta rations, & thus, the world, when the inevitable happened & all hell broke loose upon the earth because computer systems could not cope with a date that begins with a number 2. Christ, most my days begin with a number 2, was Chris’ take on the matter. Anyway, I didn’t mind the squirrel folk & their pasta hideaways, I quite like squirrels, I even left some pistachio nuts in place of any mouldy spaghetti I came across, just in case they were on to something…. Couldn’t see the poor little buggers die of hunger after all their efforts if the shit ever did hit the fan.
My neighbours? Ha! Love thy neighbour, as the good book says. Even if he does happen to be a homicidal maniac whose sole intention in life is to separate the skin on your face from the rest of your body, by the use of a simple but effective blunt fire axe technique. Do I sense a note of comprehension somewhere that suggests quite possibly that no such neighbours would be living next door in nirvana? Surely not! Anyway, the neighbours….. They were an odd lot to say the least. Across the hallway/corridor/snicket from war-torn Beirut/urinal passageway lived Psycho Derek. He was actually called something else (probably) but I never could bring myself to ask him for some reason, & Derek seemed to suit him perfectly. He could quite often be found standing on his head in the corridor beside his door. At first I assumed he was some kind of mystical, wise yogic master. Then, in later years, he advanced to eating tissue paper with some home-made soup concoction, & was rather prone to bursting out into fits of laughter or tears, quite spontaneously & seemingly without reason.
Massive Bloke, down the hall, hated the sight of Derek. Massive Bloke (properly pronounced Mmmmmmmmmmassive, with emphasis on the “M” & in a screechingly high pitch tone) found Psycho Derek standing beside his door one afternoon, where an old poster had been slowly deteriorating away for a considerable number of years. Derek was literally two millimetres away from the wall, staring intently like he wasn’t even really there. His nose was gently touching the scabby old ex-poster, the slightest of contact on the microscopic hairs on the end of his nose. Obviously he could not have been reading a thing, even if the words on the poster were not completely ineligible (which they were), he was just acting mental as usual. However, upon Massive Blokes discovery of this psychotic corridor wanderer, merely inches from his front door, a mist of unmistakable fury filled the air. Massive Bloke was not amused, & later told me that if Psycho Derek took one step inside his doorway he’d kill him (explained to me in graphic detail, so I understood the point emphatically).
For my part, I didn’t mind Derek so much. He made the building more interesting for me. Once, in the middle of a rather inhospitable winter, I discovered the psychotic one sitting cross-legged outside on the little wall across the street. The snow was building up around him, & the wind was blowing hard into his frail little body, but he did not move. He sat there virtually motionless for an hour as watery dribbles of mucus dripped from his nose & blew away in a string-like stream in the air, & I was captivated into watching him from my luxury street-smog window view. I watched him sit there like a little meditating monk, almost believing he actually had reached a spiritual plain somewhere only Derek could see.
Then, as he tried to get up, his legs that had virtually frozen to the wall gave way. He fell about the street & road for a good three minutes going down several times & almost being hit by the traffic on numerous occasions, which was desperately trying to avoid the crazed fool wobbling about in front of them (as if driving in icy conditions is not bad enough). He was in all tense & purposes doing the best “Berbick” impression I had ever witnessed. A Berbick, by the way, receives its name from one Mr Trevor Berbick, who on one fateful evening of boxing was hit so hard by the infamous Mr Mike Tyson that he fell about the ring like a water buffalo that had received several fatal shots from some sniper hiding in the trees by the waterhole, but whose brain had not yet quite conceded defeat, even though the consistent attempts to stand were in all possible scenarios totally futile. Derek was falling about all over the place, his previous air of serenity in spite of the worst the elements could do had now escalated into a crazed panic. Don’t fuck with mother nature sonny, I remember Chris saying, as he watched the events unfold out the corner of his eye. Derek’s poor little bow-legged frozen bendy legs were wibbling about like they were made of elastic bands. I laughed so much my tummy hurt, & ever since that fateful day I kind of liked having Psycho Derek around the place, just for amusement sake if nothing else.
Next door but one to Derek lived The Dancing Stoichkov, named after some foreign footie player he looked the spitting image of. Stoichkov often danced by himself in the corridor, the same corridor where Derek stood on his head. Was this corridor possessed? Yet they never acknowledged each other, even in such a small place. Occasionally I would feel a hint of a sensation whereby I almost felt I had something resembling recognition of my existence from either of them. Some form of eye contact from both Derek & Stoichkov, but they never even so much as glanced in each others direction the whole time I knew them. It was as if they both considered me to be the “sane” one, the one that could almost be communicated with. Like they were the mad scientists from separate worlds & I was the intrigued wild chimpanzee, yet they were both clearly insane. So why did they conceive me as a sane member of their clearly incompatible worlds? Then I began to realise that for each door that opened onto that corridor, there was as many separate corridors, all equally real to the individuals who walked & gazed upon them. But, whereas Derek & Stoichkov seemed content to remain disparately separated in their own realities, I often observed them, trying to comprehend myself what their realities were actually like, & they knew about it. They sensed my observations & I had an unspoken feeling that they were strangely comforted by my attempts to think with their brains, see with their eyes, live their life-long experiences & circumstances…… For one sweet moment in the eternal realms of time & space to become them, & them alone!
Stoichkov always wore a pair of reflective sunglasses & usually had on bright orange baggy pants (even in mid-winter), I always assumed he took a lot of dance-inducing drugs. I also assumed Derek took no drugs, unless you count tissue paper. It is possible I suppose that there may be some kind of psychosomatic chemical present in blue tissue paper that causes a hypnotic state of euphoria, & only Derek knows about it. Unlikely perhaps, but until I join him for tissue & soupy-soup in the corridor I won’t know for sure)…
Stoichkov was by no means as amusing or unpredictable as Derek (unless you had handfuls of shopping, then he became a real corridor obstacle all by himself even without worrying about treading on Derek's head), but he was still quite clearly insane nevertheless. For some reason unknown to the sane world (represented in this particular crappy apartment complex by me and Chris) Stoichkov had decided to dye his s-pikey hair bright orange (to match his pants possibly?), but never bothered to dye his eyebrows, which just didn’t seem right to me. I felt like mentioning my fashion observation to him on many occasions, although, as with most of the people in my apartment block, I decided it was far less trouble to avoid attempting any such kind of coherent verbal interactions with the crazy little dancing man from Russia.
Downstairs lived the enigmatically mysterious Biker Babe. Word has it that she actually built her own bike, which resembled a huge ferocious spider (the Spider-bike, as we called back then). I thought she was a stunningly sexy woman, wearing her tied up leather pants & big metal shin-protectors. She wore a lot of make-up & my work colleagues often commented that it made her face look slightly orange, but I cared not an ounce, I thought she was fantastic! She never smiled (& I mean never) & always had the look of a person who could quite easily end your days if she ever so wished. Oddly enough, at the time I too had a bike, called “Hardley”, an RD125, a small hair-dryer type construction that sounded very much like a broken flymo, which had been totally illegal for about 4yrs. I used to love parking little Hardley, complete with fluffy tiger-head stuck to the front & sallotaped-up indicators, next to the monstrous Spider-bike of Biker Babe in the spaces behind the building (amongst the huge waste bins, that nobody seemed to be able to reach with their waste).
I often tried to coincide my return from work with Biker Babes own arrival back from wherever she mysteriously disappeared to each morning. I would usually meat up with her in the choc-a-bloc traffic about a mile from our street. She was not too keen about taking her huge home-made monster down the centre of the traffic jams (between the two lanes) during rush hour. But my little pile of crap (sorry Hardley) was ideal for such disregard for safety (even though it was actually quite safe, unless someone stuck their head out of a car window…. Then it got a bit tricky). However, in the faster moving traffic Biker Babe would growl past me with ease (seemingly without noticing my existence) as Hardley strained with all his might to reach 50mph. WOW! She really was the queen of the open roads.
I distinctly remember on one such memorable occasion I pulled up next to her in the parking spaces behind the decrepit Hardman House, & she was just removing her helmet, her long fiery red hair waving around in the air as she swished her head around to face me. Then the immortal words left her precious deep red lips:

“Hello”

Just at that time the cord around the ankle of my left trouser leg got stuck around the stand on Hardley & I had to resort into some kind of panic-induced convulsions to free myself from falling over with Hardley landing on top. I just managed to get free & keep upright but my hysterical shaking had not gone unseen by the beautiful babe of the highway, & was possibly not the most ideal up-close first impression to make. I think she thought I was having some kind of epileptic fit or something. Needless to say she never spoke to me again!
On another occasion, in mid-winter, I had been suffering from one of the dreaded Hardman House colds & was merrily sucking on a cough-sweet to soothe my ailment while riding home from work. I was thoughtlessly playing with the sweet between my teeth when suddenly it popped out of my mouth and stuck to the inside of the scarf I had wrapped around my lower face under the crash-helmet. I was frantically trying to retrieve it into my mouth the whole journey home, yet it managed to escape my lips & work its way along the side of my face, eventually resting in the dimple on my left cheek. By the time I arrived home I had the most awfully sticky face, & just as I had taken my helmet off to reveal the gooey red mess that was now the side of my face, who should arrive……? Yes, indeed, the lovely Biker Babe. I let out a high-pitched yelp & ran as fast as I could into the building, bouncing off the pull door several times while trying desperately to get in. Needless to say Biker Babe just gazed in bewilderment through her seriously sexy eyes at the foolish red-cheeked man before her.
Next door to the wonderful Biker Babe lived a little mouse called Timmy, & a rather nice hippy-type family. They actually lived on a narrow boat, but it was in the dry docks having some repairs done, so unfortunately the only place they could afford was in Hardman House. They had only moved in a month earlier, & I didn’t know the parents names, but they had three children the youngest of which was Crazy Ed. A wild full of life 6yr old who was always sliding down banisters & running up & down the winding corridors.

“Oh bloody-nora.”

I was late for work again! I picked Chris up & put him in my pocket.

“There you go you little bugger”

While I was riding Hardley to work I began to contemplate the ethicality of making a bacterium strain extinct. I tried to debate the subject a little with Chris, but he didn’t seem to have much of an opinion on the matter. We had developed some kind of telepathical connection that allowed us to chat without actually having to speak, this was very handy for when we were riding around on the motorbike, as my scarf tended to muffle my voice somewhat, & Chris’ pocket seemed to send him to sleep. Chris liked being driven around on the bike, I think it made him feel like royalty, being chauffeured around the city.
Shortly before we reached the food-packing factory I worked in, I had come to the conclusion that it was indeed unethical to make a bacteria extinct, even if it was at the expense of humanity. Then I changed my mind, a few times….. By the time I reached work, taken my crash-helmet off & asked Chris if he enjoyed his ride I had almost certainly reached my verdict….. er?...... Guilty! I’d actually completely forgotten what it was that I had been thinking about. I looked at Chris for any form of help, but he just smugly gave me one of those “I know what you were talking about, but I’m not going to tell you” looks. He could be a cheeky little bugger at times!
I walked into the factory & clocked in, 30 seconds before time (cool). Once, I got held up behind an ice-cream float & clocked in just 2 seconds before time & had a big grin all day. I had made a clocking-in card for Chris too but he never used it, the novelty wore off pretty quick, & we began to leave it at home. Needless to say he didn’t even bother to fill it in anymore, I’m not sure he ever did. I hated being cooped-up inside the factory in the artificially cold environment, while it was nice & sunny outside. But it was a job, it paid our rent & stopped us from starving, not that Chris ate that much anyway. I used to joke to Chris that if we didn’t work in the factory then we would have to live in a cardboard box out on the street & be forced to eat each other, like in the old pirate movies. He didn’t seem to find it funny though, I think it reminded him of his childhood too much, he had some tough times before we met up.
I didn’t really mind working in the factory too much, although it was a tad depressing when I considered the passed opportunities I had in my youth. I was school-renowned for being the “Mountain of Knowledge” when I was about 12, there wasn’t a question I could not answer with my mountainously knowledgeable wisdom & uncannily correct inspired guesswork. So here I was stuck with a crappy job in a crappy food-processing factory, yes I could’ve been a contender, but as a once crazed leader of little cannibalistic south Cambodian Indian folk once said: now I was just a bum! He also said that fear was the greatest power on Earth. Well, either that or plain apathy (I couldn’t decide).
The people I worked with must’ve had the same discontented feelings running through their minds as me…… Freaky-deaky! So there we all were, all feeling as though we had fucked up somehow in an unfixable way, destined to plod on towards some kind of oblivion & eternal rest. They were actually quite a good bunch as it goes, well ok, not so much good per se but they were interesting enough & generally meant well (most of them)…. With the exception of Dirty Fowler & his nasty little henchwoman Dirty Cath, they were just pure evil, always wrapped up in plotting some kind of evil doings usually with respect to trying to piss my crew off somehow. My crew worked on conveyor belt Line 2, dicing carrots, slopping slop (of various colours & consistencies), & tossing around cheesy burritos.
Working alongside me on Line 2 was Ten Fists Chris, Pete Lord of Joism, & Sue the pub brawler. Ten Fists was a half Indian half English chap who earned his name by way of his ENORMOUS bulbous knuckles on his hands, each one looking like a separate little fist of its own. Being punched by Ten Fists would quite literally be like being punched by ten fists, albeit five at a time (obviously). In fact Ten fists was probably the most normal person I had ever met, he was witty, moralistic, coherent in conversation, & had a jolly good sense of humour to boot (extremely rare in the TV dinner food production world). His only real downfall was that he ponced about his hair persistently like a famous Hollywood film star. It took him absolutely ages to get ready when we ever went out after work on occasion, simply because he had to preen, & puff-up, & brush his hair every ten seconds….. & this was after putting all sorts of cack in it to keep it in some kind of solidified limbo, every little strand had to be perfectly in position before Ten Fists could safely venture out into the REAL world.
Once out he couldn’t pass by any kind of window or reflective substance (car mirror, shop window, dirty puddle etc… without pausing to pat his cemented hair into its specified desired dimensions. I even had to develop a route to the nearest pub that purposely avoided all reflective substances. A parade came by one day with some scantily clad women throwing silver paper confetti all over us, took us five & a half hours to get Ten Fists a hundred or so yards into the pub…… In our Native American Society (consisting of me Ten Fists & Pete Lord of Joism) Ten Fists was referred to be the given name: “TOO LONG GET READY”. My name was “TITACHI AW ACHI TE ACHI WA” (or something like that), meaning: “HE WHO DREAMS WITHOUT SLEEPING” on account of my frequent bouts of daydreaming. Pete Lord of Joism was known as “UM PETE LORD OF JOISM” he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Pete was a sad case indeed, a REALLY sad case. He once had a girlfriend called Jo, or so the story goes (nobody had ever seen her, it was long before we all first met), in fact nobody had even ever met anybody who had met the infamous Jo, but everyone (& I mean everyone) had heard of her……… from Pete. He quite literally worshiped her & still did; at home he had a little room ceiled off from visitors that was filled with a shrine dedicated to her. He even started up his own religion called Joism, of which he was its sole devoted follower. Whenever he deemed that he had done something of which Jo wouldn’t approve he had to say three hail-Jos & tweak his nose! He could usually be heard talking to her as he slowly, methodically diced carrots into little Jo-shaped segments, tears dripping off the end of his pointy thin crooked hooked nose. He moved & spoke like there was no reason to live anymore, his energy had left him many years before & all life was drained from his sickly thin pale torso (corpse, would be a more apt description).
Pete’s long damaged stringy hair drooped down covering his face as he stooped, head bowed toward the ground, moping around, very occasionally breaking custom to enter into a surreal little dance where his head bobs up & down to imaginary music….. possibly the music of past love, possibly just sheer apathy-driven madness.
I got my overalls on & said my hellos to the guys, then stood by the line. Opposite me, on the cheese dip duty, was Sue the pub brawler. It was always a bit disconcerting working opposite Sue, she had one glass eye & looked reminiscent of the big bad rabbit from “Watership Down”. To make things worse, her glass eye would often fall out into the food vats & we would have to go rummaging around in potato & leek soup looking for the thing while trying not to become mesmerized by the gaping hole left in Sue’s face where one would expect to find an eye.
To be truthful, I was proud to be on Line 2 with my crew. We were the fastest, most efficient, yet also most wayward of all three production lines. We always knew what we had to do & got the job done…… our way! Our machine hardly ever broke down (unless we wanted it to), & at the end of our production line stood THE MONSTER. He was simply an awesome sight, with his monstrous ways & hyperactivity of a five year old. The Monster had seen himself spending the better part of his life to date inside prison, he’d been inside for a variety of violence-based crimes & we all knew that one day we’d come in to work & he wouldn’t be there anymore. But he was an exceptional packer, & a genuinely nice bloke (if a little too over-friendly & boisterous from time to time. The Monster tossed giant crates of baked-bean burritos around like they were little feathers. His real name was Curley due to his tight curly hair, but he seemed to enjoy being called The Monster (sometimes Curley Monster, for formalities) & it suited him perfectly. He was like Frankenstein’s Monster on speed, he never stopped “Nnnnnnuurring” all day, & we loved him, the big brute!
The other lines had no chance of keeping up with us as long as we had The Monster whirling around at the end like some kind of psychotically possessed 7ft Tasmanian devil. His sheer presence scarred the hell out of the packers from the other lines, who had to occupy the same warehouse space….. sometimes The Monster would be so wrapped up in his tornado-like system that he accidentally picked up one of the packers from the other lines & packed him. He was the master of his domain, the beast of the packing/loading bay arena, & dominated every square inch of space at the expense of his nerve-wrecked neighbours.
So there we stood, prepped & ready to go, the crème-de-la-crème, the ultimate in food production & packing technology, it was like being a member of the X-men, except we didn’t need fancy leotards, these guys were for real.

“LINE TWO READY.”

I yelled, as we assumed our positions, like true professionals.

“WHAM-BAM-SPLAT-POW...................................WOW!”

A perfectly formed cheesy bean burrito came shooting off the end of the production line into the pumped up arms of the maniacal Monster.

“NNNRRRRRGGGGGHHHH...................CHEESY BURRITOS!!”

Screamed The Monster as he effortlessly slid the pesky little burrito into its package and tossed it aside into an empty crate. The Lord of Joism stood poised at the beginning of the line placing the empty burritos on the conveyor belt, while simultaneously chopping up the carrots for the run of chicken casseroles later.

“Oh Jo, My little baby Jo, Jo, Jo ,Jo , Why did you leave me so,
my baby Jo? Jo, Jo, Jo, Jo, Jo, Joooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!”

Once we were fluently up and running I turned to look at line 1, where Chung was trying to clean the mixer for a run of sloppy shepherds pies.

“Ahhh......yes.........yes...................shepherds pie........ ahhhhhhh yes................ yes........... um.”

Chung said “yes” a lot and also tended to repeat your own words back to you in conversations, which led to many moments of mutual confusion and blank expressions for all concerned. He had a pleasantly humble disposition and friendly soul though, which made up for his verbal shenanigans. I remember once how he kindly shared his teatime seaweed chew-bar with me and Ten Fists. It was the most horrific taste experience I'd ever endured. It was not unlike the sensation of chewing on someone's three day old dried out scab, left over from when they fell badly in the toilets of the local nightclub, during a night out on the piss. The thought of eating someone else’s scar tissue rekindled a vulgar mid rift feeling that could only be eased one way.

. “BLEUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH......
................................................................................Sorry Ten Fists!”

Then I began to daydream. I’d been having a reoccurring daydream about being in far off lands, walking through bustling market places, along dusty streets under the blazing sun. It fascinated me to dream of its mix of exotic sights and scents. The thoughts were so vivid I could even smell the spices and tropical fruit, and the warm dust clogging up my lungs.

“KA-CHUNK.......KA-CHUNK.........KA-CHUNK....”

"Oh shit"

The machine that cellophaned the dirty burritos into their little trays had buggered itself up ....... again! We had a pile of cheesy burritos spludging themselves into a mini motorway pileup, getting themselves all tangled up in the foolish machinery.

“AAAAAaaaaaaaaRRRRRrrrrrrrrGGGgggHHHH!!”

The Monster was menacingly marching up the line with a look of utter contempt on his face (cheesy burritos were The Monsters nemesis, they had been archenemies from the very beginning, and things just tended to get worse). He glanced at the machinery as if he was about to rip it apart. Thankfully, just before The Monster began to brutally savage the production line machinery, I artfully snook in with my pre-emptive strike and whipped out the dodgy little burrito which had somehow got itself jammed in the first place, rudely interrupting my magically mystical daydream. We had a saying in the factory for times like these:

“When the machine breaks down, we break down”

Which we all said in unison whenever we managed to bugger up the line machinery. It was a crappy old saying, and wasn’t even original (Ten Fists stole it from an old American Vietnam war film). I had developed my own rendition of it which went something like “when the machine breaks down, I get to sit down...... Hoorar!!” shortly before a big lump of shepherds pie mysteriously turned up wedged in amongst the machine workings. But only when we needed a rest from it all. We generally did the company good, however, even if our ways were a bit erratic. And they knew it, which to be honest was the only reason they put up with us. There was no brown-tonging down on line two, and of that we were very proud. Not like all those ass kissers up on line three. Line three were our deadly rivals, the second most efficient of the production line units. Not surprising really considering the only other line consisted of a completely insane Scottish lad called Sherman McMad (who liked to eat all the food), the equally senseless (albeit not Scottish) queen of the ouigy-board Mystic Trix, and the enigmatically incoherent Chung, who was.......................... well, ................................. just Chung!
The gossip-mongering line three consisted of the malicious hoard of Dirty Fowler and his fox-hunting, fluffy rabbit enslaving, little hamster torturing, and general child murdering evil scum of an accomplice Dirty Cath. UUUUUUUrrrrghhh!! it really was enough to make a Billy-goat puke. In fact the mere thought of them made us mere mortal folks shudder with disgust. They were, indeed, the work of Beelzebub and the devilish spawn of Satan (and other such mean and nasty things.......... not at all nice). To make matters worse the evil henchwoman Dirty Cath happened to be the daughter of the company supervisor............ Evil Pat (The Omen nanny herself, complete with accompanying Old Spice music, and a deathly chill wherever she roamed).
Alongside the pungent pond scum worked Rude Bloke, who was very rude (less said about him the better). The age old phrase of somebody having “verbal diarrhoea” must have been invented with the likes of Dirty Fowler and his incontinent gob.
We eventually finished making the run of troublesome cheesy bean burritos and chicken casseroles (letting Pete cut the onions so he could have a good cry................... we knew he’d appreciate that like no other could), then we finished off with a short run of shepherds pies. Nipping between the lines like a man in mortal fear, with a hefty bag of mash potato, was Spuddy (Spud for short). Spuddy was the rightful king of potatoes and all things potatoey. He even looked like a potato, hence, he’d landed himself the title of Sir Spuddy even before he landed his inevitable role as the potato boy.
And so, with the last shepherds pie being ferociously cast into the nearest overflowing crate by the loaf-sized hands of the monstrous one, another eventless day passed us all by in the crappy old food production plant. We all said our goodbyes then headed off to our respective humdrum homes, like heroic firemen after quashing a giant blazing inferno. What a unit, what a team.............................................................. what a crock!!!!

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> To Be Continued <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<


bemusedgoddess 52M/47F  
71 posts
5/12/2006 9:37 am

Paint more for me, Monk....
It is unsettling and addictive.
~Bemused


Buddhist_Monk 42M
10 posts
5/13/2006 7:58 pm

As you wish, my Lady!


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