Corridors Of Power

Instalment One.

In a leafy suburb outside of the cosmopolitan and exciting city of London there is a mental health hospital. St Peter’s Royal Hospital is the official name, but the inhabitants of the quiet suburb know it merely as “Pete’s”.

St Peter’s is full of a number of colourful characters, but on this particularlyy bright Saturday afternoon, three new inhabitants were brought in, and these three were quite the remarkable triumvirate.

Let’s begin, firstly, with the self-appointed ringleader. His name is Dafydd Cameroon, and every now and then would speak with an outrageously bad welsh accent. He was adamant that his Mother was Welsh and his Father was Cameroonian, and as such, that elucidated the origins of his rather unique name. Yet, it was quite clear from his Union Jack socks, and inbred English aristocratic features that his nationality was English and he was merely a very confused and deluded man. Dafydd was slimey, tottering and had a face that gleamed like rubber, lacking any discernible or strong features. He was without any jawline, cheekbones or chin of note. On the surface, he was amicable enough, yet underneath the pleasant and polite façade resided a dark, volcanic anger that threatened to boil over at the slightest thing. His biggest source of irritation was when people accidentally got his name wrong.

“Hello David, come right this way, your bed is wait….”

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE CALL ME DAVID AGAIN YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH” he exploded on his first day at St Peter’s. The nurse was visibly taken aback, but wrote a note on his chart: ‘don’t call David; gets angry by this – wonder why (child abuse??)’

However, after this rather surprising outburst, Dafydd resorted back to type, telling the nurse over and over again that he knew a black man. The nurse was black herself, and found his insistence that he knew “a delightful black man, you’d really like him, he looks quite like you” at best annoying, and at worst rather insulting.

The second in the triumvirate was an odd man. A very odd man indeed. He walked stooped like a cat would if it stood on its hind legs and appeared to have at least a very crooked vertebrate. Some days, his ungainly and stooping gait gave the impression that he had no backbone at all. His name was Nick Cloggs, and he had watery blue eyes nestled away amongst folds of skin. His face seemed to have collapsed into itself, and his mouth glistened with spittle, yet was slow to smile. When he did smile, it looked very forced and merely created the impression that Nick was battling with sever constipation. His skin was sallow and his hair was floppy, pompous and stuck up like a toilet brush. His eyes were perpetually disappointed. Nick professed to have an intense love of Cloggs, and would often be found to be saying “Look, I’m sorry guys, but I just fucking love Cloggs, ok? They’re just so fucking durable, I promise that if you give me money I’ll buy you the best Cloggs your heart can desire”

However, recently he had taken to wearing Clark’s, the very same shoes that Dafydd wore, but still insisted Cloggs were “just the fucking best”. He could be seen to look down at the Clark’s on his feet in a resigned manner, and if one listened carefully he could be heard to say “I’m sorry” over and over again.

The third member of this puzzling gang walked slightly behind Nick and Dafydd and attempted, but failed quite miserably, to exude an air of aloof, nonplussed, superiority. He walked behind the two in the same way a young teenager would walk behind his uncool, embarrassing parents, trying to pretend he wasn’t with them, but always staying close enough so as not to feel lost. Every now and then, Nick or Dafydd would spin round hurling delightful combinations of words in the man’s direction such as “fucking hell Ed, what’s that wooden thing you’re carrying” and “hurry the fuck up Ed”.

His name is Ed Broadband. Ed spent large chunks of his day rabbiting on about different Broadband services, and had extensive knowledge on all the competing providers. BT was “too expensive” whilst TalkTalk was “too slow”, Sky was “too capitalist” whilst Plusnet was “not capitalist enough”. Dafydd often said to Nick behind Ed’s back his favourite provider was definitely Virgin Media as “he’s definitely a fucking Virgin Nick, look at his shite hair”. Nick would sigh, chuckle and then look at the floor. As of yet, Ed had yet to confirm his favourite provider, but had instead compiled large and extensive lists of all the flaws of each main provider.

Ed was tall, gawky and had a face that inspired indifference. His hair was the type one would casually ruffle in a condescending way, and had the charisma of a box of crackers. Under his arm, he would have with him at all times a wooden pallet, and would often hop onto it to deliver awe-inspiring speeches. Most recently, he clambered onto the pallet to argue his point that “although Tubes are faster, I believe we should get the bus to the British Museum as it’s too hot on the tube and I get sweat patches. I’m just a regular guy, like the rest of you, and like the rest of Britain, I get sweat patches because I’m a regular bloke, like other blokes in Britain who likes getting the bus sometimes”. However, Dafydd kicked the pallet from underneath him and muttered “no one gives a shit Ed”.

The three of them were quite the remarkable triumvirate indeed.

Thought(s) For The Evening

Do racists see the irony in the fact that they all love curry? Every single racist person I’ve ever met have loved a beer and a curry. Do they see it? Do they?

Do I see the irony in the fact that in my attempt to deride racists, I made a sweeping generalisation, in the same way that they do? Do I see it? Do I?Image

I bet all of these fuckers love a curry.