Suggested Audio Candy:
Crystal Waters “Gypsy Woman”
Most of us will have been street algae at least once in our lives. Whether we’ve locked ourselves out of our houses after a drunken night of debauchery, had a “to do” with our spouses, awoken in a crate labelled for Peru, or simply fancied seeing how the other half live for a change, we’ve all been there at least once in our lives I’m sure. How long we choose to remain street algae is sometimes our choice to make and, others, out of our hands. I could’ve scurried back to HQ at any time and there would’ve been a bowl of porridge oats and warm bed waiting but stupid male pride ensured I stubbornly suffered in silence. To be fair, it wasn’t so much pride as an inability to go back, tail between my legs and admit I was wrong when I believe stoutly that I wasn’t. What do you mean that qualifies as male pride? Sometimes you have to peek over the edge of your abyss before you can clamber to safety. So, in my infinite wisdom, I algaed it up with the night crawlers.
There are many names for these creatures of darkness: the Debooks, the Monty-Modlins, the Ninnals – all fitting mantras for beasts so foul they often scare themselves half to death. Insects mostly, they skulk around in the darkest, dankest recesses hunting for shame. I have stumbled across many on my weekend travels, indeed one courageous arachnid abseiled down onto my keyboard like Ethan Hunt while I performed the African Anteater Ritual by Charles Kibangi and Sandy Ubuki. Damn right I was perturbed. This was no domestic money spider; dropping in for a mug of Horlicks and back massage. It was an eight legged freak of nature which had likely just ravaged an ewok and, therefore, had no place on my qwerty.
Keeper has a golden rule when it comes to Peter Parker’s pals, I am not too fussed if their body mass comprises mostly of gangly legs but the moment their carcasses are larger than a walnut they simply have to go. I’ve been in beast mode for the past couple of weeks, existing on the lower levels with the pond scum and Shia LaBeouf. Parts of this process have been rather delightful, solitude being the standout, whereas others have compromised my mammal status severely. It has not all been flasks of Elderflower and buttered croissants; I have been as close to solidifying as Childs and MacReady, sitting there shivering as they attempt to work out where the bloody hell Nauls got to. I feel a dittie coming on but shall finish my point first. I’ve been cold, more chilly than Dave Chapelle’s reception at a KKK march. Right…point made.
Where Nauls Got To
Been looking for Nauls and I can’t seem to find him
Some found him pedantic, but I didn’t mind him
One minute he was there, the next he was not
He’s missing the brandy, but I’ll save him a tot
Last time I recall, he was skating around
I heard his wheels trundle on that cold slushy ground
He went for a wander let nobody know
We had not an inkling that he wasn’t in tow
It’s been seven hours now we’re starting to fret
wondering what sort of vile fate he has met
If you tell us his whereabouts, we’ll leave you in peace
Just one teensy message and our worries shall cease
Don’t leave me with Childs as I fear he’s the host
Just one false move baldy and your ass will be toast
We’re all missing Windows and he’s not coming back
But there’s hope for you Nauls, come on back to the pack
Had I mentioned it was raining too? Cats, dogs and I swear I even saw a terrapin at one point. I know this as I was caught out by one such sudden tyrannical downpour. I had my laptop safely stored inside my trilogy of jackets, clutched away from peril. but still succumbed to a little unavoidable flood damage. By the time I had located a spot in which to recess, I was like a soiled tampon, out of resistance and sopping through to my very thread. At one point I yearned so badly for a whizz that my admittedly spacious bladder partially capitulated before I could so much as unsheathe the chief. It is worth noting that this was after four cans of Mango Rubicon and Cal Hockley sneaking off in the last available lifeboat. Such joyous frustration was felt as, with hand shakier than Stevens, I attempted to navigate layer upon layer of sodden fabric and locate my malnourished monster. It snarled at me, all teeth and lipstick, not best pleased for being woken from its damp slumber and, at that moment, I laughed heartily and things grew decidedly brighter. Fuck you cold… suck my fat kebab rain… I ain’t goin’ out like that… I AIN’T GOIN’ OUT.
It has been these rare moments of humor at my own expense that have kept me afloat; being down on your luck has its exclusive merits and if one can’t laugh at oneself, then one is a sorry soul indeed and never likely to become two. In the most shadowy of locales you can find the most scrumptious offers of humor. I would recommend grasping these with open hands if you choose to become temporary algae as you may need them on the road ahead Grueheads. You see, bodies heal within reason and my mind is mouldable dynamite in my hands right now so I can see the woods beyond the trees. I may have ignored my shell’s very existence for the past few days but, in my head, there has been vintage port, cherry bakewells and an abundance of finger fondants.
Never once has Keeper allowed the Crimson Quill to run dry. 56 of the last 72 hours have been spent scribing and any remaining were claimed by the sandman. If I have felt the chill then it has warmed my cockles. Wet? A dry sanctuary has been provided. Most importantly, when shrouded in unfathomable darkness, it has provided the necessary illumination to proceed. Should another plucky arachnid decide to dangle in for an impossible mission, then the Crimson Quill doubles up as a delightful fatal crimson blow-dart. It is my very own survival kit and the first thing I shall pack on any subsequent expeditions. I like the great outdoors; passing folk stop to chat, venison run free, and you are afforded the opportunity of becoming closer with nature. As long as you’re forearmed with plenty of dock leaves then your pilgrimage is ready to be undertaken. Stay off the moors, never dilly dally near an irate beehive and, under no circumstances, ever nibble on those benign-looking berries in the thicket, and you should be just fine.