Cheese straws loaded with curare-tipped darts
Suggestively jellied eels
Spiv celery running the black market in Hastings and running a brutal razor war with nonetheless steadily encroaching gangs of rice
I'm on a ferry and I'm going to die.
As we were pulling out of Dover, the captain's voice came over the tannoy and mumbled that he was sorry for the delay but it was because of the appalling weather. The wind had apparently subsided "a bit" now though, and he'd decided to have a crack at making it across. It's difficult to convey the tone of his voice, but think this: "Gentlemen - it's been an honour serving with you."
His final words are "We expect the crossing to be... rough." It isn't the "rough" that especially worries me. It's the "..."
I can see the lights on the shore marking the horizon; they are a line alone in the darkness and rain. They are also swinging violently up and down - flying above the upper edge of the windows into space leaving just blackness for a hanging eternity before plunging back down out of view below the lower edge of the frame. I'm writing this three words at a time because I need to keep breaking off to grab my bottle of Coke as it poltergeists across from one edge of the table to another.
I am definitely going to die.
In the toilets, where I've just spent some quality time, the lavatory seats are banging up and down like a row of snapping jaws. Here in the Silverstone Bar... um, why name a bar on a ship after a racetrack, by the way? You start to think there's been a mix up of plans at some point, don't you? "Lads? Lads - you're not going to believe this - they didn't want a really, really big car... they wanted a boat. Barry, Vince - take those wheels off, sharpish. George? George, find young Billy and start filling in as many holes as you can. Tsk - always on a Friday afternoon, isn't it?" Anyway, here in the Silverstone Bar, I'm reminded of that famously poignant moment of the orchestra playing stoically as the Titanic goes down. Here, I've got Kylie Minogue on the jukebox singing In Your Eyes.
I'm going to die to the accompaniment of a really rubbish drum track.
If this note survives, I want you all to know that the look of horror locked on to my corpse's face is at least partly due to Kylie-bloody-Minogue's terrible production, okay?
I have a friend who's a massive Jim Steinman fan (yeah - like all your friends are really cool; give me a break you wankers, I'm going to die here). He wrote off his (dad's, natch) car; ploughed it into a traffic island. "It's really weird," he said to me, "you always wonder what your last thoughts - the final thing that goes through your head - will be when you know you're going to die. I always believed that it would be a line from Bat Out Of Hell. But as I span out of control towards that island I didn't think that at all."
"What did you think?"
"I thought, 'I'm going to die.'"
Given that I have a bit of time to work out my last words (my last thought, I can assure you, will be, "Well, this is bloody typical"), I'm tempted to go to town.
Enigmatic, perhaps? "Tell Angelina Jolie our secret died with me."
Or maybe confessional? I'm never going to see anyone again, so I can unburden myself knowing there'll be no consequences - "I've never really liked The Smiths."
Sensitive? "I only wish my family were here now, drowning with me."
Bravely defiant? "This is my flotation cushion and I'll knife the first one of you who tries to put a hand on it."
A final goodbye to my beloved Margret? "If only I were alive I'd be able to give a perfectly good explanation for all that pornography you're discovering in the attic right now."
All have their merits, but all things considered it's probably best I keep it straightforward and just put my affairs in order. Thus, "I hereby bequeath all my shares in The Weekly to Mr J Nash, or his killer."
|A CARD FOR EVERY OCCASION
Happy Bad Thing!
It's Okay - We Understand And Sympathise!
Black Ritual Of Asteroth Tidings!