The Sunday Soapbox – 2

Editor’s note : As you know by now, head honcho and loony extraordinarie Quinto was stuck in Bristol. This is a serialised story of his return to Sheffield – M.

Part 1 : A disgraceful comeback

So I was in a coach back from Bristol, still clutching on a red sweater, when a stinky arse Indieholic  sat by my side. You know the type: crap bear, floppy hair, a light beer gut (ironically used, of course), clothes from some random shop with a 70s style logo, brimmed glasses, a J.D. Salinger book. The whole damn scenester/hipster/wankster package.

He chuckled from time to time while reading ‘Catcher on the rye’ while doing notes on a notebook with Snorkel stickers, making VERY sure that everyone in the coach knew he was a writer. What a flippo, I used to do that, but, you know, matured. Haven’t done it in 2 months and am proud of it.

Wait, he’s laughing with ‘Catcher on the rye’? Is he looking to shoot Ringo Starr? And why does the book say ‘on’ when it should say ‘in’? Man, I will never sniff Tesco Quality Glue nor munch on expired Yorkie Bars (never mind “not fit for women”, they should be labelled “not fit for human consumption!”)

He noticed me staring and he went to babble and drone like a Godspeed! You Black Emperor song, name dropping obscure New Wave French Directors with ambiguous sexual preferences and mentioned a lot of exotic places he’s never been but memorised from Wikipedia.

God, time flies when you’re being bored to death by a twat. Maybe that’s why Top Gear is breezy for me now? I had to listen to this pompous buffoon, waiting for him to get off the coach at Birmingham or Wolverhampton, but no, he kept babbling ’til the cows came home, got milked and then turned into Big Macs.

I was ready to busticate his face. And so I did. I got kicked out in a Little Chef somewhere ’round Sutton Scarsdale. I thought about just breaking into somebody’s house, but, alas, I’m only half Liverpudlian, so I don’t have the proper sneaksie skills. So it goes.

Oh, well, back to squatting. I found one place with no windows, no doors and no locks. Either I’m on Canada or it’s me lucky break, kidda. I folded that Random Woman red sweater I got from the No Kids gig at The Harley, made myself a fat doobie kadoobie blunt and lit the night away.

I was tripping the light fantastic, humming to myself the greatest hits of Hawkwind and UFO, when I noticed a lanky coyote looking at me from outside the windowless window.

The animal bobbed its head to the side. So I did. It jumped inside the shambolic derelict, dragging in its maw a newspaper. It used it’s snout (I failed zoology, ok?) to push the newspaper towards me.

I took the newspaper, slightly trembling, as the last feral animal that handed me a newspaper was my ex-wife. I read it with dread. Fuckin’ hell. It was ‘Page 3′. I should go on a tirade about feminism and the degrading of women, but, you know… wow…what a chick. I wonder if the thing my auntie Hilda told me about finding out if they were realies or falsies could apply to a pic.

The fox (or coyote, I dunno what it was) poked me with one of its paws, then proceeded to show me another part of the newspaper. Wait for it. Ready? The date was from 3 days in the future. I wondered for a moment if the coyote/fox/cgi was trained by a raggedy looking guy in a tweed jacket, bowtie and fez (fez’s are cool!).

So…I read the news today, oh, no. No, wait, that’s not it. Damn, this is some fine gear! Ok, back to the plot. Turns out there’s this massive accident involving shopping trolleys and an ice cream van adapted as a monster truck. There’s a lot of fatalities. It’s a stunt gone haywire at the Botanical Gardens.

What does it all mean?

I looked at the picture. I knew some of the people there. I need to save their lives. But first, I need to find out who was driving the damn ice cream van. Just when I was getting to that bit (I’m a slow reader), some hot ash from my blunt fell and burnt the newspaper to a cinder. The cgi/coyote/fox pawpalmed itself, tutted and went away.

I thought I could use some takeaway. Oh, well, I’ll save the people later, need to get some resties.

My dreams were not peaceful. I saw the people from the photograph. One was a very friendly waiter from a restaurant. The other was the guy who deals me gear near the bus station in ____. Yet another one, ah, who cares, you’re just waiting for the twist and here it is: one of the victims is that girl that looks like Wednesday Adams, the one whose the owner of this red sweater. I know that ’cause her initials are embroidered on the sweater and it matches her name.

Gotta rescue her. My family keep pressuring me into getting married again and I can’t wait to get myself another divorce. So it goes.

I started to hatch a plan, and it would’ve been the best plan ever (it even included making a carbon-neutral walkway in Glossop Road), but I passed away from the weed. Woke up because of the munchies ’round 10 am and found out that the fluffy sensation in my head was not the sweater, but a rabbit I somehow managed to adapt to my Moai-shaped head. Poor lil’ bugger. May you rest in pieces.

Ok dokes, time to save girls and get jelly babies. I went looking for a bus station while leaving the rabbit carcass hanging on the ‘Historic Site’ board (that oughta scare a few lil’ buggers). Nicked a few apples on my way to the city centre and asked an elderly lady into a way to get to Sheffield.

‘Oh, luv, you can catch a bus at Duckmanton’

‘Holy Jebus in a Satan engineered hot rod chauffered by The Stig! A place called  Duckman?’

‘No, luv, I said Duckmanton. Maybe if you remove the rabbit fur in your ears you might hear better’

Man, I smoked some quality gear.

I went for the bus station but noticed in that bulge in my backpocket that I was light on the quid department. Actually, I was broke and my NatWest card was as bent as Ricky Martin (yeah, I said it). I went to the nearest phonebooth after cajoling a trio of pepperpot ladies singing ‘The girl from Ipanema’ into giving me some change and started dialling to one of my writers in Sheffield.

Brill! The fat idjit answered but he couldn’t hear. It was then that I realised that the bit on the phone where you speak had been nicked, so Sam hung up without listening my pleads for help. I smashed the receiver and stood outside, watching the rain clouds gathering (hey, it’s the English summer, see the rain clouds?). I mentally saw myself: decrepit, fat, ugly, with a girls’ red sweater in my shoulder and standing outside a broken phone booth with money in my hand.

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