Great news - world famous literary giant and avant-garde nose-saxophonist Mardin Antlers has signed up with the Swipe agency!! Wowarooni!!! That means your humble scribe will be representing the great man universally - in ALL territories, globally, planet wide. And Canada too. I can't tell you how much this means - not least financially. I mean, there are only so may things you can rustle up from a Farley's rusk.
So, the deal secured, last night, over a nice Chablis and one or two marmited kippers, I said to the great pensmith, "Hey, Mardee, why don't we give the loyal Swipe-ophiles of the world a sneak preview of die neue meisterwerk? How about it, you rummy old sleazebag?" As you can guess, no one, not even Mardee, can resist the old Swipe sweet talk schmoozola. So, for your delectation, I proudly present England's finest welder of words, the veri tale - or even veri table lion of the literary luminaries - the one and only Sir Mardin Antlers with the opening paragraphs of his block-bluster in waiting, City of Phlegm: A crime thing :
Stanley Scrape stared out over the grey cack of water that trickles down from Oxfordshire to blight the limestone basin of the lower lands of Angleterre. Clouds like weeping pustules blossomed against the snot green sunset, bilious as a hungover wino after a metholated slurping binge as stupid seagulls pestered the breeze, arguing over scraps and refuse like militant traffic cops rubbed up the wrong way by a 45 degree park. A strop of agile teenagers angled past him, their mutant, sexless bodies a heaving nest of mesh, bullets and psychedelic brain vom. One of them, her lemur eyes fixing Stanley in a cold, black-ringed, drug abandoned stare, gives what approximates a smile from her razed, lifeless lips. A noughties come hither look from a nipper not old enough to remember Boyzone, thinks Stanley, agitating his Coffee Republic hand cooler between his gnarled and frozen fingers. Nice looking tart mind, he calculates, fingering the criss cross handle of his stanley knife and feeling a slight twitch in the bubbling acid tub that is his guts - shame about the boat race, he ponders, rubbing his nuts and inexplicably picturing Malcolm Muggeridge and a bar of soap. Nothing that a year's free Pilates and a Max Factor focus group couldn't straighten out. A daft old bag with a highland terrier and fish and chip wrapper stuffed down her sagging breast front walks past muttering to herself about Sir Anthony Eden and how all would be well if she could only tell Marge Proops. Stanley scowls and gets back to his task. He is casing a joint and there will be nicking galore to come when the coast and his head have cleared. It's good to be back, he nods to himself like a pompous twat, Shit, it's good to be back.
A blousy bird all done up and dusted down for the working day clip clops down the path on her 14 inch elevator mocassins, legs as horny as a toad with a devil's tail. Looks like a drug house or broken house or a failed house, thinks Stanley eyeing the syringes and the rubber johnnys in the path way as the hooker in the tight fit clip clops down the path, refusing at the gate before eventually breaking out into the street like a borstal day trip. Or perhaps this is a house that never tried in the first place, he reconsiders, popping a soluble aspirin into his Irn-bru and swigging down a jawful of the jizzing potion. A house that didn't even have the balls to take a stab at having a go for fear of falling flat on its gables in abject, dismal, deadend defeat, thinks Stan, poncing up and down like a weeble on a spring in the cold November air. The blousy bird gone, Stan nipped round the back, rumbled the window and sprang into the slimy, damp interior of number 47. The caper was on.
...to be continued.....