The shamble leg man had a thought: we could chase the rain away with fiddles and sticks. I could play the fiddle and you could play the sticks, and together we could shoo the rain into the next county. The legless man had a thought: I could make a punting-cart out of blue paper and paste and pole it round town like a warm summer sky. The alms man had a thought: I could make a purse from a sow’s ear and beg for cottage ham and coppers. The harridan’s sister had a thought: thoughts make the bottom fall out of my stomach. A blazes Boylan sun biting down on the bone of the brown earthy earth, a kettle of moorhen’s poking across the hard spitting ground (...the Kista Brothers stowed men’s raincoats in the boot of their car, Mackintoshes, Bioko slickers…).
The man in the hat’s granddad began to rot; skin unraveling, knob-ends tightening, old man’s flesh and bone. Larval white cataracts puling in the seams of his eyes, pustules forming round the cups of his cheeks, russet chilblain. Legs bowing, knees buckled, ankles stropping the bells of his trousers. A sad sight indeed. Every Tuesday afternoon his granddad patronized the Chap Sisters bordello housed in a walkup on Aleman avenue, lolling away the afternoon soused on sweet gin and powdered flesh. The madam, an abundant woman with pearl white skin and soft features, welcomed his granddad with a perfumed kiss and a vicar’s wink (tall tales are best left for rainy days and sometimes).
Whores’ crumpets and jammy jam, sluices down the borehole like a house on fire. Best supper I ever had, sweet treacle sweets lolled on the knob-end of the tongue, like a calf on a saltlick. I’m just chipping, no need to worry and fret. Granddad said the whores’ crumpets were divine, not a sweeter sweet to be found. …shoes piled neatly at the feet of the bed, just incase the bogmen come crashing, cunt so-and-sos! The maidenly madam made the most delicious crumpets, slaved in butter and jelly jam. Served them with salted cod, left a tangy pong on the nip of your tongue. …granddad hadn’t a foot to standup on, had to use his punter’s peg to get a leg up, poor crippled bastard.
The man in the hat’s granddad began to rot; skin unraveling, knob-ends tightening, old man’s flesh and bone. Larval white cataracts puling in the seams of his eyes, pustules forming round the cups of his cheeks, russet chilblain. Legs bowing, knees buckled, ankles stropping the bells of his trousers. A sad sight indeed. Every Tuesday afternoon his granddad patronized the Chap Sisters bordello housed in a walkup on Aleman avenue, lolling away the afternoon soused on sweet gin and powdered flesh. The madam, an abundant woman with pearl white skin and soft features, welcomed his granddad with a perfumed kiss and a vicar’s wink (tall tales are best left for rainy days and sometimes).
Whores’ crumpets and jammy jam, sluices down the borehole like a house on fire. Best supper I ever had, sweet treacle sweets lolled on the knob-end of the tongue, like a calf on a saltlick. I’m just chipping, no need to worry and fret. Granddad said the whores’ crumpets were divine, not a sweeter sweet to be found. …shoes piled neatly at the feet of the bed, just incase the bogmen come crashing, cunt so-and-sos! The maidenly madam made the most delicious crumpets, slaved in butter and jelly jam. Served them with salted cod, left a tangy pong on the nip of your tongue. …granddad hadn’t a foot to standup on, had to use his punter’s peg to get a leg up, poor crippled bastard.
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