Finally, after years of believing that we all have hidden super powers deep within us I have discovered mine. It happened on my weekly shopping trip to the local super-duper-we want every last penny you’ve got-market. Honestly, I’m old enough to remember being dragged to the shops with my mum when I was a nipper when all I wanted to be doing was putting playing cards in the back wheel of my chopper or building a panny swing so ludicrously dangerous the cast of Jackass would be calling health and safety. A walk to the shops back then actually meant shops plural. There would be the butchers for that nights tea, which always seemed to involve mince or even worse, liver, eeugh. The paper from the newsagent, some veg from the greengrocers and a fresh loaf of bread from the baker, you might even get a cake if you had been good in every shop and agreed to carry a bag all the way home. Now though you can buy all that and beer, a new duvet, a picture frame a new telly or why not some insurance, house, car,pet, travel they do it all. So if your dog ever comes back from holiday and drives the Mondeo through the front door you are well covered. Anyway it was while I forced myself begrudgingly up and down the aisles, which by the way is easier said than done with the veritable assault course of staff and their bloody pallets of stock, old people who appear to be walking in invisibe treacle and the just plain thick, who always seem to be in the same aisle as me trying to read the ingredients of a six pack of andrex, that I discovered my hidden power. I have the ability to find, without even trying and with the minimum of fuss, which of the checkouts will move the slowest and eventually culminate in one of the following, someone with no money, this is actually the best of a bad bunch as at least the inconvenience is offset by their complete and utter embarrassment, someone who has forgotten their shampoo or ryvita or whatever and doesn’t consider holding you up to be unbelievable fucking rude, someone with no brain or worst of all somebody who has picked up the only item in a pile of six billion with no bloody price on it. You then have the double jeopardy of the wait for an assistant and then a wait for said assistant to go and find said item with a price on it. This can take anywhere from five minutes to what can feel like several lifetimes, by which time your potato waffles have melted into something more akin to an actual potato than they have any right to. Of course during the assistant’s hunt for the holy grail of some priced beans or whatever you may get a small glance of apology from the customer in front or even a verbal one. This is usually enough to prevent me from attempting to cave their head in with a french stick. Actually perhaps the fact I’ve never committed murder at he checkout is my true power, whatever it is, be sure that if you see me queueing it’ll be quicker in the one right next to me.
In a trial that has been gaining nationwide attention, Curiosity stands accused of the brutal murder of Kitty Longstockings, a single mother of 12. Curiosity’s defence claim that it was in fact Determination and Paranoia that carried out the deadly attack at Kitty’s home last March. They claim having gone to Kitty’s home, Determination and Paranoia got into an argument with the victim over a ball of wool, it got out of hand with Determination striking Curiosity repeatedly about the head. Then as the unconscious Kitty lay bloody and helpless on the floor the defence claim that Paranoia, so worried about his involvement and convinced that he was already under surveillance by the police, convinced Determination that they should put Kitty in a sack, weighed down with bricks, and push her into the canal. Directing the jury , the judge said it was up to them to decide if Curiosity had gone to the address with murderous intent or purely, as stated under oath, to find out what all the noise was. Sentencing is expected to be carried out next week , if found guilty the minimum sentence is nine life sentences. A neighbour said of the deceased ” She was a bit of a loner and you’d often hear her having very noisy sex at the bottom of the garden in the early hours of the morning, but she didn’t deserve this”
Eight of Kitty’s children are being cared for by a slightly bonkers local lady. The police have voiced concerns for the safety of one of them as he was last seen with a man known only as “Dick”. They are believed to be heading to London. The remaining three were put down to raise awareness for a celebrity fronted cat cruelty charity.
Not just poems, not just poems, this is the mantra that repeats in my head as I paw over my laptop and commence chasing that annoying little flashing line away by fingering ,not so random, keys in the hope that something not dull or vomit inducing will end up in it’s place. It’s constant and unflinching behaviour makes me feel sorry for people who find themselves in one of those boats where you have the misfortune to have some bloke, who is presumably either not good enough to row or stinks of piss, shouting “stroke” with a mixture of Brian Blessed volume and metronomic persistance. Blink blink blink, It may as well be shouting type type type, that tiny almost insignificant cursor, insatiable minitaure bastard more like. So why do I sit here subjecting myself to it’s pulsing whim, catering for it’s demands with sentence after sentence of sacrificial offerings, safe in the knowledge that it will never be appeased? I will tell you. I have so much crap floating around inside my skull that I really need to empty it all out now and again, otherwise I fear my ears would leak random words in a kind of gloopy mix of blood, brain matter and earwax, resembling a sort of mental alphabetti spaghetti (no artificial colourings). I don’t imagine Vanish would get that stain out from the shoulders of my tee shirt. So my choices seem to be; a) stand on street corners shouting random nonsense at passers by, b) writing random nonsense in as amusing and articulate a manner as a man of my limited education can manage,or c) go on dragons den and try to get money for a contraption that attaches to the shoulders and catches brain gloop thus preventing stains. Not much of choice is it? So I shall continue to suffer the curse of the cursor. It can not be erased, backspaced or deleted and you won’t see it’s end ’til your work is completed. Damn it, not just poems, not just poems, not just poems…
