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The ultimate lock-in
Two days ago I decided to assert myself.
Striding into my local, the Un-licensed-small Arms – which banned me last year after finding out I had a job, paid tax and had been engaged to a police cadet for two weeks in 1981 – I slammed my wallet on the counter, drew myself up to my full height, clicked my fingers and roared, ‘A stoup of your finest ale, sirrah, and easy on the brown sauce, begob!’
Nothing happened, apart from an old-looking moth fluttering out of my wallet and expiring next to the pork scratchings.
Then I delivered my masterstroke.
Reaching into the hand-painted Mexican-fringed psychedelic shoulder-bag for owning which I was refused admission to an orgy in Oakland in 1968, I produced a flashing blue light, strapped it to my head and commenced a loud rhythmic wailing, pausing at times to say wearily, ‘We can do this the easy way, sir, or we can do it the hard way, it’s up to you.’
After that my memories are a trifle confused.
This morning I was found unconscious in a builder’s skip with my head shaved, my wrists and ankles chained together and a fresh tattoo across my shoulders reading ‘Shall I compair thee to a sumer’s day? Thou art more lovley and more temparate’.
There could hardly be a more shocking indictment of English teaching in our schools today. Yet the Special Boat Service does nothing.
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