Woke with a start to find Zebediah gorging himself on the "sharp matter" in my "bits and pieces". It would seem that one of them had hatched. Having run out of rubber knickers, Uncle Z (I can't be bothered to write all of his name out again because I HATE HIM) saw something wriggling and declared open season on the flora, and more specifically the fauna, of my nether regions. Came over all queasy for a moment.
Was forced to put an abrupt end to Uncle Zebediah's midnight lice feast with a cricket bat, a good deal of pinching, some scratching and one of my finest ever Chinese burns. Took it upon myself to chastise him thoroughly by reading aloud from the the book of Numbers in a high-pitched Hungarian accent with one half of my scrotum visible through a strategically torn gap in my leotard (baby blue, naturally).
Such an onslaught threw him into disarray and he spent the subsequent 7 hours sobbing disconsolately into a bucket and copiously soiling himself every 15 minutes. This left me free to undertake Today's Research Investigation.
(Aside: If you thought I got it wrong by saying I wasn't going to write Uncle Zebediah out again, and then typing it out again then you are a LOSER because I copied and pasted. Yeah. So fuck off.)
Today's Research: Anatomy/Aerodynamics
Last evening, whilst hunting for change in the gutter to purchase Razzle (which, in hindsight, I STRONGLY advise against. It is RUBBISH), I had the good fortune to happen upon a recently deceased octogenarian outside Halal Fried Chicken in Dalston. The body was slumped under a pathetic collection of ADSA bags, and no small amount of canine faecal matter.
I did briefly entertain the possibility that the lady may simply have been sleeping, but by the time she had finished screaming I'd burnt off most of the plastic bags and I'd used up practically all of my kerosene - rendering the matter largely academic. The young chap operating the chicken fryers seemed to take some exception to this, and fled shouting something incomprehensible in Arabic or some such. Poor fellow. Clearly unhinged. Shot him.
Contemplating the cadaver, later on, I was disappointed to discover that any area of the body that had not been savaged by the flames had been abraded right off by the cobbles as I dragged her back to my lab. A pity, indeed, but I had a lot of chicken to get through with my other hand.
Essentially, was left with nothing more than a pair of elderly and none-too-sightly buttocks with which to experiment.
Still, Necessity is the Mother of Invention, Great Uncle of Thursdays and former Room-mate of Anne Widdecombe (Oh, sexy little Anne... how I long to plumb the depths of your earwax-treacle mine...) Sorry. Point is I made frisbees out of her arse cheeks.
Stapling Zebediah firmly to the doorframe to make him sorrier, I hastened to the park to perform today's test.
Test: Which of the two buttocks reclaimed from an old lady's botty will achieve greater distance when flung?
Location: The Park around the Corner.
Time: Day-time. Don't know. Pawned watch for three ounces of chip-fat and Betamax video of "Dutty Goggins: Postman Pat goes Porno". For the record, Jess is a dirty dirty pussy cat.
Result 1 - The Left Buttock-Frisbee: A good chuck. 15 yards, 3 inches. Landed in a tree. Dislodged a football. Will flog it on E-Bay.
Result 2 - The Right Buttock-Frisbee: I'm afraid things all went rather sour at this point. An over-excited Yorkshire Terrier clamped its hateful little yapper about the arse-piece mid-flight and scampered off with it... to the playground. I'll have you know that an irate single mother packs a mighty punch. Bloody sovereign rings. Fortunately I was able to distract her with half a melon Bacardi Breezer and a Lambert and Butler. By this point her fearful sprog had attempted to eat the buttock and was vomiting freely into its Burberry pushchair. I made good my escape, but not before I'd nicked her Giro. Children, it transpires, do have some uses.
So, in summary, it is the RIGHT ARSE CHEEK that flies the furthest - dependent rather on the attendant ASBO wielders.
Evening spent passing short bursts of mains electricity through a sparrow in a glass bell jar and popping the Johnnies in Bootswith a pin.
Tomorrow I shall write to Mother and sniff glue. I close with a Christmassy poem:
Christmas is coming,
The geese are getting fat.
Which is good, it makes them easier to catch and infinitely more combustible.
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