tartan bunker

Unlike WC Fields who said he liked children but couldn’t eat a whole one, I don’t but I reckon I could. Not because they’re tasty ( I wouldna’ have a clue about that) but because it appears it might be the only way to get rid of them when they’re being a bloody nuisance. Like bawling non-stop for two hours in a restaurant. And the parents do nothing. Ok, ok, to be fair, make the parents the main course. And I thought once that piped Sassenach music in a restaurant was the ultimate turn-off.

Shirts. How, and why, did they evolve? More to the point, how best to iron the blighters, given that the material from which they’re often made behaves like a contortionist with arthritis. I was taught to iron first that long thin bit above the shoulders, below the collar – there’s always wee bits which pucker and crinkle like the flowers flown thousand o’miles to your local garage which wither and die the moment they scent a vase. Sleeves have the same mentality, and why are they bicycle-pumped into gross shapelessness. Mebbe it’s a case of a good ironing board, to stretch out the thing on a rack from the Spanish Inquisition, so mebbe I’ll have a rummage in the Professor’s old R&D cupboard at Dekaydence. You never know what you might find there.  

I’ve made some big mistakes in my life but I reckon the biggest one was being born into this cruel world. Overdue, longer than most library books, I clung on in there. Eventually, they had to come in and get me. And on the way out, my mother told me, I bit the doctor and poked a wee finger into his eye. He got just that bit too close. No one gets too close to me. Only ma animals. Like wee MacMog. Now he has got some crazy left hook paw. Takes the top of a milk bottle in a flash or a layer of skin off the milkman if he’s a tad late. But I feel guilty sometimes: We take lone animals and herd animals and cosify up to them. Turn them into loners, such as me. At least I have my Tartan Guards and Dekaydence. What do the animals have?

We’re in London during the week, in ma wee flat above the shop at Dekaydence hq. Catflaps back and front so MacMog comes and goes as he pleases: I ask no questions; MacMog tells me no lies. But this past few weeks, he’s been tearing back in as though all four horsemen of the Apocalypse and Lassie are after him. The reason? Squawking robins at the back, assuming he’s after their young; and likewise, at the front, dive-bombing blackbirds. How come they don’t they realise that MacMog is well passed fighting for a mcmorsel of fledgeling and prefers chilling out in the sunshine? I see a lot of unnecessary creature stress and wonder who’s implementing God’s plan? Now, if Dekaydence got control . . .