Breakfast, Or Keith's Unfortunate Meal, Volume 1

Some Sexy Porridge
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 Keith stirred his porridge idly, his eyes gazing across his paper carelessly as he digested oats and news. In time, Keith finished his breakfast, neatly folding up the newspaper and carrying the bowl to the sink. A relatively tidy, if somewhat lazy man, Keith noticed he had left the package of porridge oats sitting half open besides the sink.

“Ooh”. Said the oats suggestively.

Keith paused. He scrunched up his eyebrows and flexed his eyes while he contemplated the package. Obviously, the oats hadn’t just sighed in pleasure. Keith hadn’t gotten much sleep last night and that, he decided, was the problem. Just his mind playing tricks on him. Looking around for the clip he used to keep the porridge packet closed, Keith brushed past the foodstuff.

“Yea! Yeaaaa”. The Porridge moaned.

Keith checked his watch. 10 minutes until he had to leave for work. Picking up the bag of oats, he headed towards his bedroom. Then, he turned off into the bathroom. After he’d strangled the oats, he cut off their head, hands and feet to prevent anyone identifying them, scribbling over the brand name and barcode on the packaging. Then, he dug a hole in his back yard, pouring the oats into the whole, and filling it with topsoil. Quickly, with the poise and speed of a seasoned expert, Keith cleaned up the kitchen, hiding any evidence the porridge had ever been there. That done, he fixed his face into a practised smile and headed to work.

A Drawer

I wrote this post over Christmas. I takes place in the past, but I'm sure you'll cope:

I'm tidying out a drawer in my room at my parent's house, full of things from when I was 10-15. Yea, that's right, I'm posting a list of things I found in a drawer. If you don't like that, why not just buy a bloody yacht? Anyway, here's some stuff:

• A recruiting leaflet for the British Army. Surely there're some ethical issues with giving these to children? It proclaims that the Highlands produce the best soldiers. Jingoism is always a good way to get kids into the army. I joined when I was 14, and I never looked back.
• A leaflet about things "below the belt", sent by my doctor's surgery for my 14th birthday. I now understand that I have a penis. On page 6, a remarkably sinister boy explains how he masturbates, and on the next page, a diagram explains its normal to fantasise about your naked body being nibbled all over by rabbits. I have never fantasied about lying naked in a field, having rabbits chew on my extremities, probably because I'm a sexual deviant. 
• A fluffy sticker of Gnasher, Dennis the Menace's dog. It has googly eyes, and probably fleas. 
• A Lizard. It's a toy, made of plastic. You rarely see lizards in Scotland, during the winter, in bedroom cabinets. I did see one on the garden fence once though. He had a long tail. If I kept a diary, I would have made a note of it under the title, 'Lizard!'
• A notepad, blank except for two pages with drawings on them. The first drawing shows a Giant, smiling and holding onto a bridge, fighting a dozen tiny people as they attack him with rockets, inexplicably wielded by hand. The giant has a cross pattern on his chest, which made me think it might be a political satire in which the giant represents Britain. Then I realise its just an explosion. The second sketch is stranger; a warhead of some sort extends its hand in peace, but no-one will receive it. Alternatively, its some guy in a cloak.
• 4 wax crayons. I'm keeping these, they taste delicious.
• A flier advertising a free toy that accompanied some Walker's Crisps - a coloured piece of diamond-shaped card. Apparently, the objective is to buy lots of crisps and get many different coloured bits of card. They seem to slot together to make a big piece of card, made of different colours. From now on, whenever people tell me toys were better when we were growing up, I will stab them in the appendix.

I now move onto the second drawer:

• Mostly Star Wars stuff. A Phantom Menace "Data file". Its half-diary, half Star Wars facts. The diary section is untouched. I may keep this and use it in my day-to-day life. It will prove useful if I ever see a lizard again.
• A Colin Mcrae rally print, with a printed signature, from 2005. Unsurprisingly, it pre-dates Mr. Mcrae's death.
• A World of Warcraft poster, again with printed signatures. I played WoW once. A rat beat me up and laughed at me. That was during the download process.
• A book called "Christmas Cats". It features a lot of cats doing Christmas things, like stabbing a stranger in a shopping centre because you both want the last hand-knitted sweater that your husband Ian has been just dying for. Actually, they're just standing under mistletoe and wearing hats, that kind of thing. I tried to put a hat on my cat once. In the ensuing struggle, I lost a nipple. I'm joking, but not much. I am scarred.
• Star wars again: this time, a "Official 20th Anniversary Commemorative Souvenir" magazine. It cost £4.95, which was a lot back then for a magazine. I think I bought it with a £5 book voucher I had for WHSmiths. It features a lot of information about where the cast are now. Most of it is probably wrong by now, especially the info about Sir Alec Guinness, who is in Heaven.
• An assortment of Star Wars paperbacks by Timothy Zahn, including the Thrawn trilogy. Also, some Star Wars cards. The front shows a photo of a character, and on the flipside, an illustration. The illustrated character is generally unrelated to the photographed, leading to wonder what the point of the whole thing is. Life is futile. Still, the shot of Carrie Fisher is nice. I would still do Princess Leia.
• Severed Star Wars character heads. I think they used to hold sweets. Two Chewbaccas, two Yodas, one C-3PO and one Darth Vader. Ideally, I would have 2 Darth Vaders, even if it meant sacrificing a C-3PO. I would also have rather R2 D2, but I suppose the way the sweet containers are designed would make that unfeasible. I would still do R2 D2

The third and final drawer.

• More Star Wars. This time, two small picture books, one for A New Hope, and another for The Empire Strikes Back. I prefer the Empire Strikes Back book, as it has a photo for the cover, and seems more professionally made.
• The script and accompanying photographs for a presentation I gave on Red Squirrels in second year. That is, second year at Academy (Aged about 13), rather than my second year of University, where I believe I gave a presentation on Hugh Trever-Roper,  Baron Dacre of Glanton's Scottish history. I didn't think it was entirely prejudiced-free. Trever-Roper was a noted expert on the last days of Nazi Germany, but discredited after he 'verified' the forged Hitler diaries. He knew little of red squirrels.
• Dust. There's a lot of dust. It's like someone cremated my memories and stored them at the bottom of a chest of drawers. But they didn't, that would be stupid, and this is just dust.

Sexy hijinx

I discarded my keys in the bowl beside the door, removed my hat and coat and let out a satisfied sigh. Another hard day at the... Well, I don't really do anything. I go out, smartly dressed, and eat sandwiches for 7 hours before walking home. But I digress.

 After a hard day at the, well, park bench I liked to sit on, it was nice to come home and relax. Of course, and you're probably ahead of me here, I was not to receive the pleasant evening in front of the television I'd hoped to enjoy. In my kitchen I wandered lonely like a cloud, hoping to make myself a refreshing cup of coffee to feed my horrible addiction. The addiction is to heroin rather than coffee, of course, but I buy strange, opium-based coffee beans that help me get through the day.

 But I digress again. In the kitchen, there were two men. They were large, handsome muscular men wearing only tight trousers and braces that crossed their oiled, well-toned chests. On their heads, they had little yellow builders hats. I assumed, therefore, they were some kind of sexy builders. Or someone had sent me man-strippers again. It happens remarkably frequently.

 "Evening," I addressed the men casually. I wasn't in the mood for their well-toned, homoerotic shenanigans.

 "Evening," One replied. The other smiled and nodded politely, "Your conservatory's coming along nicely, we should be finished by Friday."

 "Oh," I mumbled weakly, "That's good."

 Excusing myself, I slipped into the back yard. Nope, no half-build conservatory there. I checked the rest of the house - nothing on the side, on the garden shed, or on the roof. No-one was building me a conservatory. None of the neighbours were building me a conservatory. There was no conservatory.

 I returned to my house, angry and confused - like every other time I see an attractive, semi-dressed man I suppose - to confront my intruders.

"Alright gaffer?" The builder greeted me. "Happy with how things are coming along?"

 "Well lads, sort of. I was just wondering... There's, erm... There's no actual building work going out there. And I don't remember hiring you or anything."

 The men recoiled, their faces convulsing in terror. Shocked, pale and panic-stricken, they raced to the back yard.

 I watched from my kitchen window as they raced around my back garden. They were still very greasy and very half-dressed, and a few passers-bye had stopped to watch the hi-jinx. A passing cat hopped over my fence and stopped as well, watching the scene for a few moments before turning tail and fleeing. The builders, having fallen first into a furious row over who was to blame for the lack of conservatory, had now fallen onto each other in the middle of the lawn and engaged in a spirited wrestling match. Their greasy bodies sweating and bumping together, they disrupted several of my garden gnomes and flattened a rather promising ant-hill. The onlookers had started to cheer and take pictures as the fight continued to unfold, and a small bus filled with elderly nuns had stopped nearby. I shrugged, and having made myself a cup of coffee, folded out a lawnchair and sat down to watch.

 Time dragged on, and day turned laboriously to night. The mysterious guests wrestled long into the evening, and around midnight, I fell asleep. When I woke up, they were gone, and to this day I still know not who they were or why they came to my house. There was, however, a freshly-built conservatory attached to my house in the morning. It's really very nice, and no-one charged me for it.

Women, eh?

The sun was just setting when she came up to the bench and sat down beside me. Five-foot-three, with fiery black hair and shoes to match, she folded legs far longer than her height would allow and placed herself uncomfortably close to me. I mumbled a greeting nervously, as I've never been comfortable around women, or men, or carrots for that matter. The last rays of the day caressed our faces, and she turned to look at me.

 A moment or two passed. My ear, uncomfortable under her gaze, heated up and began to glow. I turned to meet her eyes, as one does, and smiled the small, polite smile of a serial killer. She met my gaze and held it, and I in turn could not look away because of terrible neck cramp. The sun continued to set, and was very bright in the corner of my eye.

Time passed, then at last she opened her mouth. Her voice was golden like gold or wood covered in gold-leaf paint, and she spoke thusly;

 "Do you like ants?"

 I pondered the question. It was, I decided, pretty cool how they worked together and carried really heavy things like leafs and baby elephants. Yes, I decided, they're ok. My mind made up, I dedicated my rhetorical skills to the subject.

 "Yes, they're ok." I replied.

 She smiled.

 "So do I." She said. "Look!"

 She took my gaze, and brought it to focus on her necklace. It was made entirely of ants, each tied by its front legs to the rear legs of the next. I looked in horror at the creatures, their broken legs twisted beyond repair, their eyes crying softly out to me, begging me to end their suffering. Shocked, I watched the necklace for perhaps an hour. Around us, it became dark.

 "Why... Why would you do that?" I asked.

 She just smiled. At length, she faded like mist, evaporating in the dying rays of the sun. I sat a while longer on the bench, pondering the things one ponders at times such as this, and then ate a sandwich. I never saw her again, and wonder to this day if she even existed.

It is Wednesday night.

Sure, Wednesday isn't exactly your big night for socialising. It hasn't the pretension of Saturday or the sheer end-of-week joy of Friday, but its a good night. So, taking into account that I'm young and handsome. Well young and relatively unscarred, with a selection of waistcoats, how am I going about painting the town red?  It's pretty obvious how. I'm in my pyjamas, drinking blueberry vodka and lemonade and doing a crossword. A crossword, alone and drunk. And I'm not doing well. The crossword is alone, papery and defenceless against my drunken advances. I have a small pencil flopping around in my hand, and the internet to help me pin the crossword in place and... Wait, I don't like the direction this metaphor is taking..
 Well, the point is I'm a smart guy and I'm cheating, and I can't finish the crossword. I'd say it's frustrating, but that opens the doors for another unpleasant metaphor.


I used to be someone. Not 'someone', in an important sense - I was never the mayor or a timelord or anything like that - but I used to be a person. Now I'm just a gelatinous blob, devoid of form or bones, a giant pink sticky ball that keeps sticking to things and smudging the print on my newspaper.I had such dreams, and now I just lie around worrying, knowing the next time I have a shower I could disintegrate and wash away, the next time I stand next to an industrial fan I could be sucked up and sprayed across a wide area like pink jelly thrown inaccurately at a cat. My hands, although much better at cleaning surfaces of dust and surface debris are formless and without worth. My opposable thumbs, so long the topic of idle boasting at the zoo, are slimy and ungripping, no longer worthy of the jealous stares of chimps and gazelle.


Hear my lessons and learn well from them children, for I was once like you - vain and arrogant, with firm bones and a solid if comfortably proddable body. I have been cursed for my hubris, regressed like the primordial slime from which we once emerged. No more shall I know what it feels like to gently caress a pakora or stand on a grating without oozing through it and entering the drains.

Go quick from this place children! I already feel my form hardening, my jelly-like mandibles freezing like cement. Let us depart, and may my draining life-force be used to fill in a pothole while I still have some worth.

Religion.

There was a small, balding man on my doorstep. For once, this isn't a doorbell story, because the man was just standing there when I opened the door. To be fair to him though, his arm was extended, his finger pointed and ready to caress the buzzer afixed to my wall. I had merely stumbled upon him, hoping as I was to slip out in the early morning dew and dispose of a body.

 Not, I should point out at this juncture, a human body. Just a Rhesus monkey. I strangle Rhesus monkeys sometimes, but I'm planning on giving up after Easter. Anyway, dressing gown barely covering my dignity, dead monkey wrapping in newspaper in hand, I met this strange little man on my doorstep. I recognised him; his name was Brian or Barry or something like that, and he worked in a corner shop a few streets away where I sometimes bought glue. He had a nervous looking face, and little round glasses.

 "Oh, hello" He mumbled, the initial shock of our meeting having passed.

 "Good morning!" I replied unnecessarily loudly. "Can I render unto you assistance?"

 "Well, I was just wondering if you might want to have a look at these fliers?"

 Nervously, he presented me with some fliers. On them, I noticed a large cross, and assuming them to be religious, smiled politely and took them. With any luck I could avoid a theological debate, I hoped feverishly.

 But I was wrong, and BarryBrian continued to stand, hoping from foot to foot with a look of expectant optimism on his face. I smiled politely again and looked at the fliers. The first thing I noticed was the crucifix. Secondly, I noted it was upsides-down. Underneath was the message, "Hello! My name is Barry, and I'm the Anti-Christ".

 "So Barry, you're the anti-Christ then?"

 "Oh yes!" Barry replied, "That's me!"

 I waited patiently, expecting him to capitalise on this opening and tell me more.

 "So. I'll bet that keeps you busy, doesn't it?" I asked, my face a mask of pained enthusiasm.

 "Oh, you'd think." Barry replied, "But actually, I've not got a lot to do really."

 "Right." I replied.

 A bird began to sing in the distance, and a chill breeze passed us by.

 "I'll just be off then." Barry said.

 "Great stuff." I yelled, my mouth contorted into a grin of unbearable enthusiasm. "Right so, have a good day."

 Barry smiled politely and turned to leave. I watched him as he walked down my path, crossed the road and approached the house of old Mrs. Aaronovich, who probably wouldn't put up with any Anti-Christ nonsense.

 I began to scan the leaflet unenthusiastically. Really, there was very little to it. ("Hello" I heard in the distance."I'm the Anti-Christ.") Largely, it contained poorly-Xeroxed exerts from negative reviews of the local Church's performance of Jesus Christ Superstar. (Across the road, the voice of Mrs. Aaronovich cried out in protest that she didn't believe in Jesus, let alone anything else.) Underneath the almost unreadable reviews there was a crudely-drawn picture of what I assumed to be Jesus, underneath which was the message, "You suck!". I retired into the house, dumping both the Rhesus monkey corpse and the leaflet in the corner.

 I very much doubt Barry, a 45 year old man with thick little glasses and a cardigan, was the Anti-Christ, but to be sure I'll sneak into his house later and shave him of what little hair he has left, just in case. Then we'll see who has numbers on their head.

Once upon a time in the Kitchen.

One of them Fridges what I've been talking about. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A gentle breeze wafted through the kitchen from the open window, a soft caress of air fondling itself across my chest. The sun was shining happily and I was did likewise, emitting a piercing heat that destroyed anything in a nearby radius. Well, that part was a lie. I was actually washing the dishes, my mind wandering and skipping through happy fields of thought as I scrubbed and scoured. My idyllic sluicing was disturbed, however, when a voice called out from behind me.

 "Hey, hey you!" It shouted in the manner of one recognising an old friend.

 I turned, happily, and gazed at my fridge.

 "Fridge!" I exclaimed, "You've taught yourself to talk!"

 "Yup." Fridge replied, "Sent off for some books and stuff, picked it up over the weekend."

 "That's great news." I said, "So, what's up anyway? Bet you've got lots of things to tell me."

 "Nope." Fridge replied. "Just been sitting here, waiting for you to open me up and stick your hand inside."

 I nodded. Now, as the situation dawned on me, I had absolutely no idea why I'd been so happy my fridge could talk. Even in the best-case scenario, there was some lettuce in the vegetable crisper that was probably a  little too crisp to say the least, and a lot of almost-empty jars of jam scattered around the innards of my now vocal refrigerator. But now, of course, the fridge had manifested itself as some sort of sexual deviant. I mean, this is probably more of a reflection on me, and I'm sure it wouldn't take much of a psychologist to read something in my homoerotic overtones. But anyway, let's return to the real problem here, talking fridges.

 "Oh, right. Well, that's... That's great fridge."I lied.

 "Yup." Replied Fridge, "You're running low on Tomato Ketchup by the way. Might want to stock up before your fancy dinner party."

 Damn, I thought, he was right. I was having a fancy dinner party this weekend, and I would need a lot of cheap, store-brand ketchups to feed my guests. I was pondering this thought, and wondering if I could just keep everything in the cupboard from now on (I'd cut out its tongue months ago), when another voice interrupted.

 "Oi! What's all this then?" The new, icy voice called out.

 "Well, well, well, look who turned up!" Shouted Fridge, "Finally got your act together, did you, you bastard!"

 I watched in horror as my Fridge-Freezer began to argue with itself, both components vying for superiority. Slowly, I began to edge across the room, hoping to reach the plug for my nightmarish white goods were happily plugged in. Suddenly, as I reached out my arm, they realised what was happening. Cries of indignation rang out, and a half-eaten tin of chopped tomatoes and a small pile of ice-cubes were launched in my direction. Shielding myself, I fled the room to jeers and taunts, which only ceased 5 minutes later when I cut the power to my house.

 Sadly, I unplugged the Fridge-Freezer and reconnected the electricity to the rest of my home. Dragging the verbal behemoth outside and into the boot of my car, I reflected sadly on how this seemed to happen every few months. Shaking my head sadly, I began to forge a suicide note in my best fridge handwriting. Tomorrow, I would put the Fridge-Freezer in the driving seat and push the car down off a cliff. I was beginning to wonder if the police would ever find out. Probably not, I'd tell them my car had been stolen along with my Fridge-Freezer. In a few days, they'd turn up and I'd show them the suicide note I 'discovered' recently, and they'd believe me, and that would be the end of that.

 Slowly, I returned to the house, checking no-one was watching. I'd ditch the car later, when it was dark, and then in a few days I'd file a new claim with the Insurance people. And no-one would ever be the wiser...