Hell’s teeth, my contact man lady at the festival has asked for a Facebook, Twitter profile and I got nothing, nothing to give since my abdication back in 2012. There is simply no alternative but to invite her to the blog arena, introspective dustbin temple, WordPress on my face.
Also, I must find something festival appropriate for her to read. Yet my prose – the bulk, it all rests, locked, keyed, resides, my unpublished opus the ‘Wormranger,’ lies over on the hotmail files, ehmm…Now I must up my game, how about:
Life Under the Brighton Festival [pt1, draft 134…I’ll find some erotica in a minute because I have been asked to read erotica, back in a minute. UPDATE: NOT DOING IT, tch. ]
‘God dammit, my novel is lost.’ said the great author in his chair. ‘I shall have to rewrite “Hove, hovel on the Steppe.” Damn this blasted IT department.
You,’ he said, to her, his IT technician and loyal wife, who was sat on the bed, ’bring me my cup of tea, fix this computer, and darling, a surprise for your endeavours: see, here in my hand: I have purchased two tickets to the circus. It is the Moscow State Circus, my precious. They are the greatest performers in the world. We must go, travel in our carriage. I shall wear my top hat, the timepiece and waistcoat, perfect.’
She stepped, rested on his knee, and
she stroked gently at a burnside whisker.
‘Baby, I ain’t going to no circus, love, ‘ she said. ‘Circus is for cants,’ she said, quite coarse and not appreciative of the circus arts.
‘Oh, my darling,’ he said, ‘but look, look out of the fenestre, more of them see, the “Brighton Open House Weekend” people are on our streets, with brochures.’
‘Fack off Rupert,’ she said out of that window, very humorous, uncouth yes, but he liked that, in a woman especially.
‘Please baby, close the blind,’ he said, ‘it is culture, they go, look at paintings and ceramics in people’s sitting rooms, I am so sorry, I mean their drawing rooms,’ he said.
‘Look like fucking idiots. What a prick in that anorak, eh eh eh’ she said.
‘Why, could we not do it ourselves, walk around and look into people’s houses?’
‘Dickerless,’ she said.
‘So be it,’ he said. ‘I shall venture forth alone upon my bicycle, this day, alone snapshot the hour of Saturday midday in Brighton, England, May 2014,’ said the great author.
‘Good afternoon, my ticket for the circus, thank you. I also have a single ticket for refund?’
‘No refund,’ said the usher. ‘Now, sit at the back old man, and no chewing on your toffees, it upset the clown.’
The old man located his far seat, aside hay bales and an entrance curtain. He drew the magic, the nostalgia deep into his lungs. The sights of his memory, they were all still here. Around the ring, children swung their little legs in their little sandals, and their short arms pointed with an uncontrollable glee towards the high trapeze bar. Children licked candy floss, and a bold Bengal tiger patrolled the gangway, quested child molesters. The old man reached and he patted the tiger’s back.
‘Mind your feet,’ said a Soviet-era elephant tamer, and the old man raised a shoe from the ground, crossed a leg, made way for the troupe of chained Ukrainian elephants. Their sad faces marched past his knees, their fate, paraded in the arena like…mmm. Across the tent, forty sparkling, and glamorous Russian gymnast women, hopped and skipped gaily before the crowd. They waved to the boys and girls.
The man chewed his toffee more intensely at the sight of the lycra. His denture sealed on the sweet, and it slipped to the top of his gullet.
‘Ach ach ach,’ he choked, braced, staggered down the aisle. He tumbled into the arena. The boys and girls erupted into laughter, with great pleasure they pointed those chubby digits. The clowns stood about, over his body and they laughed as well. Writhing in the dirt the man saw the horses gallop past his eyes, and the top clown tumbled with his big red nose.
Emerging into the heavenly mists, he saw the face of God, his big red nose, the big feet, and those silly trousers.
‘Unbelievable,’ said the man.
‘Jump into my car,’ said God.
The old man sat as a passenger, aside God steering the wheel.
‘Where are we going, my God?’ he said.
‘Around, and around in circles,’ said God, he beeped the horn.