Monday, 7 November 2011


As the weather was still bad and the pressure low, on the barometer as well, I issued a challenge to the No 1 to play us at Trivial Pursuit. They were as foolish as the king that was ship-wrecked and after a week was at his wit’s end. All those that drank tea with a saucer could never lose at an intellectual competition, could they? 
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Most of the selected team promised to turn up but went on the missing list due to a lack of confidence. So, with a team of 4 we went to their more comfortable surroundings, drank some coffee and won. We had brains as well as brawn.
It called for the second edition of the Gordon Gazette to be placed, hot off the pen, onto the notice board. It managed to upset a few which was pleasing.
“Hey, Bob Mercer!”
“Yes Chucky, how may I be of assistance?”
“There’s a cat in the hostel.”
“Well it didn’t check in on my shift.” I said as I perused the guest list. “No, it hasn’t checked in at all.”
“Hey, this is serious.”
“I know. 17 shekels is a lot of money. There may be a bitch in here, though, with a funny accent.” 
“Just find it and get rid of it.”
“Does it have a name?” I certainly was not going to look for it while I was not working, and even less likely when I was. “When I’m on duty next I’ll check all the rooms and if I see the afore-mentioned feline I’ll ask it for its passport and if it doesn’t have one its out.”
“That’s very good of you.” No need to be sarky I thought.
The threesome had now split into a twosome and a onesome, although the alcohol consumption remained perilously high. Any pretence at a happy marriage was over.
“Tell me hushband I’m out with Shteve.” Her breath put me off vodka for life but, still seeking attention, “D’ya like me dressh?”
“Matches your eyes.” chipped in Dave.
“Yeah, it’s baggy.” and, without pausing for breath, “Is it waisted? It is on you.”
“F*** off!”
“Haven’t I seen you in Viz?” Dave said cattily. I purred with delight.
The feline ate better than anyone else in the hostel. The finest cuisine in the Middle East was placed in its bowl. It did not have any work to do as the mice had deserted because of the smell. There was now a power struggle between the cockroaches and the flies, even though bacteria had firmly established itself. It was the only culture in the place.
“We’d better give the animal a name.” I mused.
“Nicole, I think she’s called.” said Dave. 
Various suggestions were put forward until Dave shouted, “Anonymouse.”
“That’s an oxymoron if ever I’ve heard one.” Diane disagreed.
“I thought that was a prop forward.” I pondered.
“Shut up, you lot. Anonymouse it is.” insisted Dave as further lexical discussion would have been futile. Anonymouse it was.
Even as a child I detested Rounders; a stupid game with a small ball and tiny bat. At least at Cricket there is an above average chance of hitting the ball and if you are lucky you can bowl a maiden over, if she has a fine leg. This was to be the final game in the trilogy. Nobody realised it was not a good thing. Fortunately, I chose to sit this one out. 
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So, off to the park everybody trudged. It started with arguments and did not make much progress.
“It’s bloody awful!” it was unlike Diane to swear. “They’re behaving like kids!”
“A friend of mine once stuck his penis in the desert. I asked him what he was doing. He said, ‘I’m f***ing dis custard.’” a fitting story Dave related.
“Hey you guys, let’s f***ing win.” did not help much.
The more they ranted and raved meant there was more material for the Gordon Gazette 3 which also featured Anonymouse. I will never know whether my press baron releases aided in any way towards the demise of the inter-hostel challenges but I like to think so.
After 10 days of sex, drugs and not much rock ‘n’ roll Nicole left for England with her husband. The ins and outs of the goings-on I knew little about and cared even less. She came to say goodbye to me with a look that suggested ‘next time’.
“It’s our first anniversary today.”
“With your husband?”
“Yes. He gave me these.” As she pulled a pair of Alan Whickers (knickers) from her pocket and placed them on the counter.
“I’ve given up wearing them.” No need I thought, only wastes time.
“Congratulations and hope you have a return.”
She winked as she left but her perfume lingered long after. It was Eau de Smirnov with more than a hint of sperm.
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