Friday, May 28th
After
the fourth day of solitary confinement I began to miss Shania, Ricky, Britney,
Lou and Madge. I whittled away the hours wondering what they might be doing.
Probably driving around Beverley Hills in chrome fronted Jeeps or flying over
Europe en route to Japan for a sell out tour. Do they ever spare a thought for
people like me, Timmy and Gar feeding the British economy as they lay out in
their private jets and sip champagne? Yeah, probably. I’m sure they spend
endless phone calls spelling out their admiration of people like us. Maybe
right then as I fed the machine with hunks of dead bird Britney was telling a
lad’s mag reporter that she’d love to date a turkey slicer or cop a feel behind the chicken Kiev breading machine.
Maybe,
possibly, Shania was right that minute donning a hairnet and tabard in the
women’s changing room upstairs before she went on a meet and greet walkabout of
the factory floor. She’d beam with pride as, during the tour, her track would
be heard at least six times and as she entered the cutting room she’d laugh
with joy as Timmy would regale her with a story of how he bottled some ‘twat’
outside the Manhattans nightclub and urinated on his prone body. Then, as she
tossed her head back, she’d catch my eye and float over. I’d hit her with a
plum opening line about how I found a chicken head amongst the turkey breasts
and her lips would gently part showing her pearl white teeth. She’d ask to be
‘shown the turkey slicing ropes’ and stand in front of me as I cozied up behind
her and fed the breasts through her hands: a very similar scene to one in Ghost.
She’d
ask me what I was doing tonight and I’d take her out into town for a pound a
pint in Marilyn’s and we’d dance to Lou Bega on the sugar sticky carpets. She’d
take exception to a sixteen stone she-wolf in Ugg boots and smack her with her
Smirinoff Ice. There’d be blue language and fists and nails and when it would
all calm down she’d whisper to me that she thought I was ‘lush’, wedge me between two fruit machines and make my eyes spin. Then, after another
brawl in the girls bogs, we’d skip out into the warm evening and I’d buy her a
pickled egg from Mr. Chips. She’d swallow it in one, lead me into the
shadows of the graveyard behind Jewson’s and let me take her from behind over a
gravestone. Hereford-in-a-night.
Probably
not, but I can dream. It was twenty seven minutes passed nine.
Tuesday June 1st
Delilah
It
took longer than expected. Although looking back there were no imminent clues
as to my full name. I was ‘Tom’ for everyone to see, but the ‘Jones’ had had no
reason to surface. Only Luke had felt compelled to ask, ‘What’s new Pussycat?’
EVERY time he saw me and it said as much for Ben and Arnan’s foresight that
they guessed, as I bore the same name as an internationally famous Welsh singer,
that I’d probably had plenty of stick for it throughout my life. So they left
it alone. Timmy, however, was a different kind of beast.
It had taken Timmy a week to garner
the information from someone; perhaps Butch Sue had tipped him off. She was,
after all, keen to break me. It was clearly the finest moment of his career.
The
afternoon shift started as usual. Regret, remorse, sickness, fear and self
loathing: all those vital emotions one should feel at the start of a brand new
day. I had kitted myself out for war, sidled along the factory floor, clocked in
and set off for the cutting room. I saw Gar up ahead stood on centenary duty
quickly dash inside and shut the door. Nothing seemed amiss. I paused to thank
God for life’s opportunities and entered the cell. I was alone. Gar was nowhere
to be seen, Timmy either, or the other man who I had recently learnt was called
Sid. Full name Sidney: nickname Syst. That’s strange.
I selected a glove, squeezed in
behind the machine and started another eight hours of hate. At the completion
of the first crate I had the sensation that I wasn’t alone. Over on the far
wall was a big square machine on legs and visible beneath were six boots. What
now? What practical joke hell is this? The machines growled on. The clock
ticked forth. The breasts became steaks, but still boots did not move. I had
gone through two crates of breast before, amid much fanfare, Timmy, Gar and Syst
appeared with what looked like underpants whittled out of polystyrene.
“MY,
MY, MY, DELILAH, WHY, WHY, WHY, DELILAH!” Timmy mimed a trumpet, “.... I JUST
COULDN’T TAKE ANYMORE!” On the cue of the crescendo the door opened and more
men poured through, most of which I’d never seen........ “MY, MY, MY,
DELILAH......” On and on the chorus went. They, ten of them in all, sung the
whole fucking song and then when they finished they threw the imitation
knickers at me. Great.
Hysterical laughter, merriment, finger
pointing and then...... ‘The Green, Green grass of home.’ Not a word missed
out.
“I
can’t believe it!” Timmy proclaimed, “that you’re called Tom Jones! Classic! An
absolute classic! Your face!” He genuinely believed, bless his eyebrows, that
he was the first person to ever make the link.
“You
what?” I said with utter mock confusion, “what do you mean?”
“Tom
Jones?! The Welsh singer!”
“OH
MY GOD!” I yelled, “why has NO ONE ever said that to me before?”
Timmy
was as stunned as a floating turd. “You what? No fucker’s ever realised that?!”
“NO!”
“Boys!
D’you ‘ear that?” Cue ‘Delilah’. Again. Every word.
It took twenty minutes for the choir
to calm down and exit.
(I
waited a few minutes for Timmy to finish ending himself with fake laughter. I
beckoned him over and stabbed him with a knife. Not to kill him; not yet. I
stuffed him into the slicing machine. As his skull splintered and blood oozed
along the conveyor belt, his smelly boots thrashed and kicked. His arms
wouldn’t fit in so I just slammed the lid down onto them until they hacked off.
His arse jammed against the wire string slicers so I used his right arm to
force it through. I then rammed his left arm down Gar’s throat as he stood
stock still unable to flinch through sheer bewilderment. I then calmly walked
down to Butch Sue’s office and choked her with her own knickers....)
Nah, but the thought crossed my mind every
minute for the next two hours. It is the thought that counts after all.
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