Early Birds and Earworms

Vic picked up a copy of the News of the World from the rack and dropped it onto the counter, staring blearily through bloodshot eyes at the headline, 'The Bishop's at it Again.'

'Good grief, Vic, bit early for you, isn't it? You look dreadful. What was it this time, Meatloaf or Smokey?'

'AC bloody DC, Raj, at full volume into the early hours. How the hell is anyone supposed to sleep with Hells Bells blasting through the wall? Over and over again they played it, with that tolling bell at the beginning and that repeated two-bar riff. I can hear it now, Raj. It's playing round and round inside my head. I can't stop it.'

'It's an earworm, mate,' grinned Raj.

'A what?'

'It's called an earworm. When something you've heard won't leave you alone.'

'Bloody torture is what I call it, mate.'

'Call the cops, Vic, get the buggers locked up, that's what I'd do.'

'Waste of time, Raj, they're either too busy or they tell me to ring the Council, I've tried it. I ask you, what are they going to do - put their Council Tax up?'

Vic dropped coins into Raj's outstretched hand and was about to continue his tirade when he was suddenly aware of someone standing beside him.

'Give us a packet of Rizla, will you, mate? I'm in a hurry,' said a gangly youth with long greasy hair, ripped jeans and a soiled tee shirt sporting the logo 'Jesus H. Christ on a Bicycle'.

Raj flashed a knowing look at Vic as he quickly served the youth.

'Was that one of them?' mocked Raj, as the gangly vision disappeared into the street.

'Could be, mate, they all look the same to me. He looked a bit like Jesus, and his bike could be outside, but I can't believe Jesus ever listened to AC/DC at two o'clock in the morning.'

The two friends chuckled as Raj dropped coins into his till and handed back change.

'It never ceases to surprise me, Vic, how you Christians can blaspheme so easily. In the Muslim faith such words would be inconceivable.'

'It's called enlightenment, mate, the freedom to think and say what you want, although I'm not sure we're quite there yet.'

'It's always intrigued me how more and more blasphemous words have crept into daily use, getting more and more offensive over time. When I was a boy and we moved to this country in the fifties I heard people use expressions like 'My goodness', 'Good heavens' or Bless my soul', but now much harsher blasphemy is commonplace.'

'I blame the Yanks, mate. 'Holy crap' and 'Holy shit' filled my comics when I was younger, and now TV and films are riddled with the most appalling stuff. All down to the Yanks, like most of the decline in our standards.'

'Can you remember our lovely Miss Murphy at school, Vic? She had that soothing, lilting voice and she often used expressions like 'my heavens', 'mercy me' and 'dear Lord'. She was a kindly, gentle soul, and the worst language I ever heard from her was the day you smashed the classroom window with your catapult. Do you remember, Vic? She was so startled she shouted out 'Sweet Mary, mother of Christ' and then clamped her hand across her mouth with embarrassment?'

'Happy days, Raj, eh! How could I forget that? She sent me to the headmaster and that vicious old bugger said, 'My word, Victor, you've excelled yourself this time.' Then he just kept repeating, 'Oh dear, oh dear,' as he caned me across both hands.

'Is there any chance of getting served in here, boys?' quipped Sandra Davies from number 27.'I'd like to pay my paper bill, please, Raj.'

'Sorry, Sandra. Of course you can,' replied Raj politely. 'Vic and I were just talking about declining standards.'

'I know you were, boys, and I agree with everything you said, but I don't want to be late for church and I know what you two are like once you get going. By the way, Vic, you look terrible. I've never seen you out this early on a Sunday. Can't you sleep?'

The two men looked at each other and laughed.

Vic left Raj's shop and headed for home, buoyed by his chat with his old mate. The sun was breaking through an overcast sky and the horrors of the previous evening were beginning to fade into the promise of a brand-new day. Even the earworm seemed to be fading.

He stopped at the crossing by St John's Church and was waiting for the lights to change, when a throbbing, battered old Ford Fiesta pulled up, doing its inadequate best to muffle the cacophony coming from within. A gangly youth with long greasy hair and soiled T-shirt, sitting in the front passenger seat, wound down his window and flicked the remains of a roll-up into the gutter. This was quickly followed by a cloud of escaping smoke and the all-too-familiar sound of Angus Young's Gibson SG, belting out the final riff from Hells Bells. Vic, amused by the bizarre coincidence, burst into laughter as he crossed the road in front of them and gave them a thumbs up. Jesus H Christ on a Bicycle was busy stoking his next Rizla.

Vic turned into the small recessed garden area by the traffic lights and sat on a bench with his Sunday paper in the warm morning sunshine, eager to read what the Bishop had been up to. Across the road, in the belfry of St John's, the deeply sonorous tenor bell began to swing slowly from its upright position, its measured tolls sounding a familiar lead-in as the ringers prepared to summon the faithful.

'Hells bells,' muttered Vic, smiling to himself. 'Not again, surely.'

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