Being an offshoot of the stalled Zoological Fieldnotes series.
Gawd bless our senior citizenry. What they lose in vitality they gain in ever more frequent ‘funny turns’ such as this one.
Morning, exterior shot, Halesowen. Front yard, of a 3-bed semi.
Foggy. Cigarette break. Worked through night. Shattered.
Opposite – tail end of conversation between neighbours. Elderly. Shrivelled. Hale and hearty. All that was heard…
Lady: …and I suppose it’s because of that gay lover of his, the great pooftah! Bless him!
This lady, I’ll add, is old enough to have been shagging GIs for her king and country during the war. The usual overheard conversations that I recall hearing from her vintage are generally bigoted, racist or breathtakingly intolerant. Or really, really boring. I’m making no sweeping generalisations here. Perhaps the bad things just stick more firmly in my mind. If so that’s my failing. I’m just reporting my current impression of matters.
Maybe I found it funny because of a confluence of particular thoughts going through my head at the time. Maybe that’s not funny at all. But there it is.
Now, what it did do is nearly made me orally ingest half a lit cigarette. I dont know about anybody else, but that was straight up the damn near most perfect possible start to any Sunday morning. Bless the pair of them! For being daft if nothing else. For gently prodding my moribund faith in humanity. For blowing a thin beam of light through my murk. That was soooo much funnier than Russell Brand. And I doubt she was even trying to be. Without being willfully debased. Without all the long haired, Dickensian, screeching, faux verbosity. Without the patently obvious supreme effort to remain edgy, cheekily offensive, to push the boundary between clever and being a tosser. Brand’s mistake was this. He wasn’t as clever as he thought he was, his judgement was totally compromised, he was getting-off on his own presumed brilliance, the prick. What an utter wankstain.
Keep on truckin.