Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Friday, 25 June 2010
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
When dining in the home of others, I find it essential to abide by three rules. Always arrive on time, always compliment the cook and never anally prolapse all over the hall.
Well, on my visit to Uncle Clint and Auntie Sally's peaceful home, two out of three wasn't bad.
We arrived bang on time and were greeted by the smell of freshly baked bread. It was lovely, but turned out to be a yeast infection Uncle Clint picked up in a Vietnam brothel in 1968 and hasn't been able to shake. Still, a lovelier couple you couldn't hope to meet, and we were soon being served something sort of brown and chewy, a meat of some kind, which they said they'd made in their bathroom. Jerky, possibly? Turkey? Turkey jerky? Dunno.
At the dinner table, Aunt Sally revealed a veritable Macy's Parade of home-cooked Americana - meaning most of it was beige and fried and looked like it contained more fat than a rolled loin of Elvis.
A model of polite gentrification, I gratefully sampled everything on offer, from the fried meat to the fried other stuff, and only got grease on my tie /face / back two or three or twelve times.
But delicious as this all was, I had noticed a distinct lack of booze. The pint of scotch 'n' bourbon I'd had while driving over was wearing off, so I asked for a beer.
'We don't take alcohol in this house', replied Uncle Clint, curtly.
I'm a man of manners, so I nipped to the loo to gather my thoughts and let the panic attack die down. It was there that I saw a bottle marked 'Moonshine'. 'Ha!' I thought. 'You're rumbled, Uncle Clint!' And I necked the lot. It had a distinctly corrosive edge, but was no worse than my home-made absinthe. I think I only blacked out for 10 minutes. Or possibly 100 minutes. Only a zero, innit?
Anyway, I emerged in time for dessert, or for dessert being cleared away, and decided to involve Clint and Sally in a little British culture. I called him a stupid old cunt and offered to punch her tits in. I think I may also have done a little Morris dance on her kitchen worktop. I certainly fell off her kitchen worktop more than once and I can't think of another reason why I'd be up there.
(Dessert, by the way, was something beige and fried, with ice cream.)
Well, the evening seemed to be wrapping itself up at that point, so I rolled along the wall to the door, and that's when it happened. I noticed a shade of brown on the stair carpet that I knew only too well.
(I suffer from a complaint which causes me to explosively and immediately empty my bowels when I see a certain shade of upper-middle class rustic brown, commonly used in ads found in Horse & Hound.)
Well, the effect was predictably instant, shocking and unstoppable. The involuntary roar came first, which clearly shocked Clint and Sally, but it was when I fell and expelled a volley of angry brown feculence from each trouser leg that Clint suffered his first heart attack. (The other two were just tremors, really.) As always, it was quite something to behold - like Jackson Pollock having a particularly expressive outburst in an oxtail soup factory.
(The irony was that the 'Moonshine' I'd consumed was in fact a brand of multi-purpose surface cleaner, and Aunt Sally had nothing with which to clean up my little mess! Life, eh?!)
As usual, everyone ignored the real victim: me. Uncle Clint can have a shower, then heart surgery, then a few years of rehabilitation, and he'll be fine. I have to live with this affliction forever.
Anyway, goodbye Florida. Thanks for the memories. And the herpes. I will be back.
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT OF SEVERAL EXCELLENT HOOKERS THERE!