Pilot

Big Ralph was as ravenous as the pigeons that were devouring the scraps of discarded food that littered the doorway to the fast food joint. He crooked his head to the side in an almost look of love at the hungry birds. First things first, he thought, better pay the meter. The café was located on the main road. He rustled in his pockets for some change, fed the meter and received his ticket. He stuck the ticket to his windscreen.

Ordering his usual -three burgers, fries and a large coke- Ralph pondered on the fact that nothing in life is free. Won’t be long before someone taxes the air they breathe. After all, at one time there used to be a window tax. Daylight robbery, the masses called it. The more windows you had, the more you paid. Good job that one got thrown out with the bath water. This place was all windows. From floor to roof it was a glass palace of eating.

Chewing on the gristle on the first bite of the first burger while reading the complimentary newspaper of the outlet, a paper that had had its fill of grubby, greasy fingers, Ralph saw movement beside his car. He looked out the window and saw a traffic warden tucking a ticket under his window wipers. Stupefied, his chair scraped the floor backwards as he went out to confront the errant warden.

“I’ve got a legitimate ticket on my car,” roared Ralph.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s not visible,” said the uniformed inspector.

Ralph was not in a pantomime mood to engage in a war of words so he checked his windscreen for himself. His ticket was not visible. On the outside anyway. A kit of pigeons had bombarded his windscreen with droppings, hiding his ticket.

“It’s their fault. Look,” Ralph opened his car door and pulled his ticket from the window. “There’s my ticket. Valid today.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the warden’s tone was neutral. “The penalty has been issued and documentation registered on the computer.”

“Couldn’t you have used your sleeve to wipe the window before booking me? You guys really are the pits.” Ralph looked to the heavens to see a solitary pigeon sitting on a lamp post. It had its head slanted but there was no love lost between the doer and the receiver. Ralph went back into the fast food place to continue his meal. His table had been cleared. Burgers, fries and coke straight down the chute of the bin.

“Thought you’d cleared off,” said the waitress.

One step closer to the serial killer

The obtuse angle of dusk cut through the horizon. The whippoorwills began their nightly forage and Albert reflected on the Jedward trees that loomed in the distance from his house. Why are they all of a standard height? Why are their shapes so similar? Aren’t trees meant to be individualist and unique? Every night he looked at the trees with wonder.

A trail ran parallel to Albert’s log cabin that was never used by anyone but Albert. He liked to have these woods to himself; he was at one with nature. Just across from the side of his cabin a sign on the trail said: Montana 57 miles. He loved the complete randomness of the number fifty-seven. Not fifty-six or fifty-eight, it said fifty-seven.

Going indoors Albert listened to the radio. The Montana chainsaw killer had struck again, the news presenter said. Victim number ten was found hacked to death in the woods beside the highway in Rexford. Albert thought to himself that the murderer would probably stick at ten; it was a nice even number.

The next night as dusk hit the air in all its post-twilight shade the whippoorwills were nowhere to be heard. Albert yawned inside the log cabin before scratching his chest under his dungarees. He had overslept a bit. Albert opened the cabin door to be confronted with the Jedward trees right in his face. They were looking down on him with malevolence.

“The trees have moved.” Albert fell to his knees in a religious fashion. From out of the corner of his eye he spotted the trail, his trail. There was no sign on it. He rose up ignoring the Jedwards and walked round the side of the log cabin. In the distance the sign stood as erect as it ever had. As dusk fell it was clear to Albert that it was the cabin that had moved. It pained him to think that he was now, possibly, an even fifty-six miles from Montana.

There goes your eardrums

Of the Premiership’s big four only Megadeth are still delivering the goods. Slayer, Anthrax and Metallica are letting the genre down. Step up to the plate one of the big bands from the 90’s: Machine Head. The band’s new album, their seventh, is thrash metal at its best; snarling vocals, big solos, dark lyrics. Unto the Locust is a mind-blowing CD even if it has been released by the infernal Road Runner Records.

The difference between metal bands and pop bands isn’t just in the music. A lot of pop albums by distinguished “artists” have a lot of filler in them. Cover songs, songs that will never see the light of night at a concert, self-indulgent ditties “penned” by the non-song writing star singer him/her self. Not so with the Metal Gods. Every song right down to the last track is carefully crafted with intricate guitar solos or elaborate key changes that show they care about their audience. They play it loud; the louder, the better. On Monday December 5th at the SECC I will be party to deafness or disappointment.

The locust is an insect that breeds like fridge magnets. Their swarming behaviour is legendary. My first recollection of Locusts was in an Incredible Hulk comic book way back in my pre-historic days. The story was called “Day of the Locust”. Old jade-jaws managed to overcome the swarm that threatened him by defeating the villain that was controlling the teeming towers of noisy pests.

As I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here hit’s the TV screens for its fifty-seventh or so series I look forward to some nourishing bush tucker trials. If I were on the show I would gladly eat up my share of Locusts that were piled in a dish. Eating bugs and being in a cage with creepy-crawlies wouldn’t bother me in the slightest. Bring it on; if you think I’m scared of you, you’ve got another thing coming.

Snakes and their cousins are a different kettle of fish. Anything without legs gives me the slithers. Worms, snails, snakes, they would make me run for the highest chair. I’d hitch my trouser leg up and scream for help.

Down they come
The swarm of locusts
Skies above Converge to choke us
Feast of souls
Consume the harvest
Young and old
Suffer unto the locust