Baracus: The Journey from Slash to Medicine

THE JOURNEY FROM SLASH TO MEDICINE

BY Mathew Edwards and Mark Rowland

As I sit here on the hanging wicker chair - staring at the poster of
Dobbin from Rentaghost with the message 'Don't horse me about, GET THAT
SMEAR DONE!! - I try to ignore the excruciating pain in my side. I
thumb nervously through an old copy of 'Bella' and read with interest
an article on Princess Diana's impending divorce from Prince Charles.
It diverts my mind temporarily until I come across a picture of Prince
Harild. This disturbs me and serves to remind me of my own present
predicament and the pain strikes me like Hull through a greenhouse. I
nervously wait to be called in and can hardly bring myself to finish
the battered hake - just steering it around the newspaper - even though
I realise this is bound to displease the doctor. The lady before me
left a 'Pukka Pie' and large chips virtually untouched and I caught the
look he threw her when her name was called.
I take this opportunity to reflect on the events leading to this
current situation. I wonder in amazement how a single crushed ice
novelty beverage can be responsible for such a series of life changing
events.
Let me set the scene thus, and how?

Ever since my brother, Baracus, was knee high to a Spacehopper he has
routinely enjoyed twelve weeks holiday per year, absolutely insisting
upon this for any job he may have had. He, quite rightly, feels that if
he works hard during 'term' time he is entitled to two weeks off at
Christmas and Easter, six weeks for summer plus a couple of extra weeks
thrown in gratis. Therefore during Whitson holidays I had the
obligatory week off of school as did he from the dry cleaners. The
earlier part of the week had been rather strained as I had left some
Play-Doh in the head piece of his barber shop set and it had gone hard,
permanently blocking the gentleman's follicles.
In his state of distress Baracus had been finding solice with Penny.
Penny was his best friend, his rock, his soulmate. Penny was a caged
magpie. He had caught and imprisoned her in his old hamster's cage some
years previously and seemed oblivious to her constant panic-stricken
shreaks ("Listen to her singing."). However, Baracus's mood had lifted
by Thursday and he emerged from the shed.
As my new crop of vine tomatoes were well bedded and there seemed to be
sod-all on the telly I suggested a trip to the swimming baths. My
brother responded positively to this proposal, the Play-Doh debacle now
forgotten, and rushed off upstairs to get his kit. He came down looking
pleased with himself and informed me that he had put a pair of cut-down
jeans on beneath his cords and had wrapped his pants up in his towel
which he had placed securely in his complimentary Griffin Savers (bag
which was his swimming bag and had been since his giant Habitat bag was
snatched from him outside the public toilets by an over-zealous
homosexual some years previous). He suggested I did the same and I
agreed, forgoing the cut-downs for a pair of sensible fluorescent shin
length Bermuda shorts under my Joe Bloggs jeans with Flintstone thigh
motif. After Baracus had completely ransacked every single draw and
cupboard hunting for a pair of non-existent goggles, we finally left
the house. He continued his futile quest by looking under bushes and
searching front gardens in name of anti-chlorine eye protection.
"I know there here somewhere, you remember them!" he insisted, "They
had a wasp on the lens. I bought them on holiday at Maplins ......yes!!
I shared a chalet with Ted and Spike Those were great
days...............AH-HI-DE-HI-DE-HI, AH-HO-DE-HO-DE-HO, AH-HO-HO-HO TO
DE HAHLIDAY ROCK........YEEEEAAAAAHHHHH!!"
I informed my misty eyed brother that this was a figment of his
imagination and he thought for a moment then conceded that I was
probably right given the fact that he may not have even been born in
the fifties. In any case he had now forgot entirely about his goggles
and we continued on our journey to the baths..
Whilst we were waiting at the bus stop an old man scolded Baracus for
graffitti-ing the shelter, ignoring his sobbing pleas of innocence. I
told the gentleman that he was clearly mistaken and had wrongly accused
Baracus of the vandalism charges he had brought against him. The
pensioner then pointed at a freshly scrawled piece that read 'DIANA',
which I knew to be Baracus's street tag, and I had to concede that he
was probably right after all. I assured the gent that I was going to
frog-march the guilty man back home to fetch a bucket of hot soapy
water and his over-sized novelty foot shaped sponge, then onto the
police station where he was to confess all. The old man accepted this
bargain and thanked us before making off on his mountain bike. We
watched him ride a short distance before stopping and turning round to
shout "WANKERS!", displaying all the relevant hand gestures. He then
took off down the High Street like Henri-Paul after a few. Considering
this little outburst, I decided not to escort my brother to the police
station and to let the daubings remain. I, in effect, turned a blind
eye.
By now we had missed the 10:22 bus and decided to walk the quarter of a
mile, as the next one wasn't due until 11:55. On our way we passed Iron
Lion Brian's Caribbean take-away. Baracus halted dead in his
tracks.
"Hey, Beezer. Can we get some authentic West Indian lunch? Go on, can
we?" He eagerly enquired, urgently pointing to the sign.
"It's not really a good idea to eat before going swimming," I replied,
"At not least less than an hour before. Do you remember the rock cake
incident, last week?"
"Oh no, that was different, I had a bug. Lets get some of these reggae
eats."
He swiftly entered the shop before I could remind him of his inability
to withstand spicy food.
Inside the shop he paused for a moment and composed himself, visibly
adopted his infamous Jamaican swagger and slowly made his way up to the
counter.
"Wha'ppen Raas Bri-ahn?" he waxed, "I an' I is wantin some shrimp an'
goat. An' wid dat check me some dumplin, but me nah wan chicken foot.
T'blood!" he said to Brian Greenwood-Hone, the rastafarian owner of the
shop.
Brian looked up from his copy of Take a Break and replied "Oh, hi there
Baracus. Sorry, I was just reading about this years Supermum Awards.
Anyway, what are you doing in this neck of the woods?"
"Look 'ere, hush your mout, dread. G'wan get me grub and whatever the
grey man want." Baracus said motioning towards me.
"Nothing for me thanks, Brian. We're just about to go swimming." I told
him.
"Oh, really? You should bring yourselves along to my underwater
aerobics class. All the ladies say it's tremendously beneficial for
'bums 'n' tums' actually." Brian said with air punctuation. "Every
Thursday. Tell a friend."
Baracus wrapped his rings on the counter "Nuff o' dis boombaclart shit
'bout robics." He kissed his teeth. "Now bring mi mi goat an shrimp an
ting so mi an mi bredwin can 'ed back-ways, star."
Brian hurriedly fetched the order then turned his attention to the
portable television, which was showing The Bigger Breakfast, and he
seemed to become immediately engrossed in the Screech from Saved by the
Bell interview and began howling with laughter. We paid and Baracus
tried to perform a complicated handshake to the perplexed 'Disciple of
Jah' who, in a panicked state, quickly withdrew his hand and smiled
nervously.
We exited the shop and took a seat on a bench so Baracus could eat in
comfort. As he ate his face grimaced and he started to shudder. I asked
him if it was alright, his moist eyes widened and he grinned and nodded
for a second before the frown returned to his face for the next
mouthful.
After Baracus had forced down the remainder of his pre-swim elevensies,
we eventually completed the final leg of our uneventful journey and
arrived at the municipal public baths. As I queued at the admission
booth/float and goggle sales counter, my brother dashed ahead into the
changing area without the red time-allotted ankle band with locker key
attachment. I waited for my change and took a look through the big
window just to see how packed the pool was and was a bit chagrined to
see some rather boisterous looking men performing elaborate flips in
the deep-end and made a mental note to stay away. Upon entering the
changing room swing doors I was shocked to see my elder brother
restrained in a unpenetrable headlock which was being administered by a
flexible lifeguard whilst the small African cleaner was yanking at his
cut-downs.
I strode up to the struggling trio and demanded to know what the devil
was going on.
"Your brother is causing vast amounts of trouble with us," said the
heavily accented cleaner, "He refuses to relinquish the forbidden denim
in favour of this acceptable alternative." He waved a pair of peach and
black cycling shorts at me.
I managed to persuade the lifeguard to release my breathless,
beetroot-faced brother and talk him into donning the obviously lost
property shorts. He slung the cut-downs in my direction and dashed off
towards the pool. As I was secreting the locker key into the inner
pocket of my shorts I heard a blood-curdling screech. Fearing the worst
I sped pool-ways. Baracus had slipped whilst trying to leap the
footbath and was spanning it in an awkward bridge position with the
back of his head just breaking the surface of the disinfectant. His
breathing quickened as saw me approach.
"In the name of all that is Holy, I request, nee demand, that you
deliver me from this living hell in which I find myself,
presently."
I waded into the God-forsaken verucca spread prevention unit and
managed to pivot him back onto his feet and the temporary sanctuary of
the bank. Without a word of thanks, he excitedly sprinted towards the
pool.
He leapt into the air and bellowed "Watch your heads, pricks!! Here
comes the splash-down!" and scrunched his body up into a hedgehog-like
ball and plunged into the shallow end amidst a brownies swimming
lesson.
Before he had even surfaced, the shrill ear-splitting pheep emanated
from the lithe lifeguard's whistle and he began the descent from his
downmarket umpire's throne. He briskly marched to the edge of the pool
and squatted down next to my brother who had found a verucca sock,
which he was examining with a puzzled look on his face. Before the
lifeguard had the opportunity to administer a formal reprimand, Baracus
held it up demanding to know what it was and could he have it.
"Never mind that flaming rubber protective sock," the lifeguard
shouted. "You have just broken three of the most fundamental rules of
the pool, sonny. Now what are they?"
Baracus frowned and thoughtfully sighed, drummed his fingers on his
chin and replied "Well, let's see. No litter, no dogs except for guide
dogs and no denim but I saw to that earlier. You and you're little pal
gimme these gay-boy shorts. Now, can I keep this sock or what?"
"Wrong, incorrect and also wrong. Litter is not technically an offence
in my pool. You obviously have left your dog in the changing room and
those shorts were a present from my friend, Claude, and he would
scratch your eyes out if he saw you wearing them. You've seen the
cartoon safety posters of circa 1979, create anymore problems or break
any further laws and it's an early shower and a go on the weak
coin-operated hair dryer for you, dear."
The lifeguard turned and went to see to the flipping men. Sensing that
the drama was over, I embarked on my required 72-lap regime. On lap
eight, the whistle sounded again and I looked round to see Baracus
hauled up once more for the twin offence of the splashing and ducking
of Mr Manumission, the elderly alhtzeimers sufferer that our Mum visits
weekly.
On lap 22, I paused for breath in the shallow-end only to see my
brother leaning against the edge of the pool, smugly blowing
smoke-rings to an audience. This earned him a further blast from the
whistle of justice and the confiscation of his Superkings.
Halfway through my routine, I hauled myself up onto the side for a
short breather. Baracus doggy-paddled past me, my stomach churned as I
saw him ungracefully crawl his way towards the deep-end shouting "Look
at me, I'm that bald one!"
I was looking on with growing concern as Baracus flipped over onto his
back for backstrokes, when without warning something came crashing
through the sky onto his chest, sinking him. It seems that in his
confusion, Mr Manumission had somehow made his way up to the top diving
board and after staggering around, un-noticed for roughly a quarter of
an hour and ambled off the edge and smashed down onto my luxuriating
sibling. I ran over to assist but fortunately the flipping men had
dragged the lifeless pair out and were performing flips again without
breaking their stride. As I was helping my spluttering brother to his
feet, a loud continuous bleat from the whistle rang out spelling
trouble. On hearing the shrill blasts, Baracus shoved me to one side
and stormed towards Mr Manumission, who was sitting on a pile of floats
in tears.
"Hear that whistle did ya? That was for you. I'll see you banned nice,
from these baths for that. Oh, yes your going down my friend!" he spat
venomously with his face inches from that of the distressed old man.
"You almost killed me and you'll pay, believe." he warned in hushed
tones.
The lifeguard walked towards Mr Manumission and spoke to him softly
whilst gently smoothing back his grey hair. Baracus watched with his
arms folded, nodding knowingly to himself.
The lifeguard signaled for Baracus to come over to him and he turned to
me and sang "Whoa, whoa, here comes the Hammer!" and strolled
confidently over to give his version of events.
"That is it!" the lifeguard shouted at him, "You have defied the sacred
rules poster one too many times. Get out of my public municipal baths
and never darken these waters again."
The shock of this most damning of reprimands saw my brother sink to his
knees and only the simple question emerged from his quivering lips,
"Why?"
"Although you were almost killed by a plummeting mental, that poor sod
was well within his rights to obliviously hurl himself from the 60ft
professional high divers board safe in the knowledge that he won't land
on a lawless patron. Because that frankly laughable triple somersault
with pike technically constituted a dive, that once again put you in
breach of a rule. Number 7 - No swimming in diving area. Now, dry off
properly and get out, bypassing the frustratingly inadequate vending
machine."
With that, the lifeguard turned his back on my brother and busied
himself by inflating the novelty island for the kids.
Baracus stood for a moment letting it all sink in, took a deep breath
and screamed "How dare you speak to Baracus like that. Who do you think
you are? Mike Baldwin off of Baldwin's casuals? You strut around here
ordering people around like there is an order of Baldwin's jeans that
needs to be out by Thursday and it's dangerously behind schedule. Then,
to add to your problems, Ivy and Vera aren't pulling their weight, no,
they're gossiping about Nicky Tilsley who is demanding to know where
his dad, Brian Tilsley, is. The boy doesn't understand that his dad was
viciously murdered trying to break up a fight outside the graffiti
club. That poor women has just lost a son and all you can think about
is you're petty little rules and regulations and that order of sodding
jeans."
The lifeguard sensibly pretended not to hear this, intently examining
the palm-tree attachment for tears or cigar burns. Realising that the
lifeguard was not going to be drawn into his desired slanging match he
turned his attention to Mr Manumission who was chatting to the plastic
dummy from the life saving classes and calling it "Son".
"As for you, you rattley old poof, it's curtains for you. You're dead
after swimming. Come on then, you phasty bitch, I'll tump your head in
any day of the week. I'll be waiting for you by the wheel chair access
ramp. You'd better be there or else everyone will say you bottled
it."
Mr Manumission turned to the dummy and said "Excuse me a minute, son.
Go and play with the other kids."
He walked up to Baracus, put his arm around his shoulder and said in
quiet, menacing voice "Listen pal, I've had as much of you as I can
take in one day. You come near me and I'll carve you up, you little
ponce. So, if you don't want to be picking up your broken fingers
through a straw, then you'd better piss off and leave me and me boy to
enjoy the inflatable island in peace. Now, don't forget your oven
gloves."
Mr Manumission held up a child's arm band, which Baracus willingly
accepted and nervously affirmed "Oh, thanks. I wondered where they
were, I am actually doing some baking, later. You must come round for a
seedy bun, Sir."
He scurried off to the changing rooms, even wading through the dreaded
footbath. I smiled at Mr M as he made his way up the steps of the
diving boards with his 'boy' on his back telling him to "Hold
tight".
I followed Baracus into the changing, where he was secretly having a
little cry to himself. After a moment he ripped off the borrowed shorts
and flung them angrily into a toilet and forced them down with his
foot. He rushed to the showers to rinse the pieces of pink toilet paper
from around his ankle went to his locker, only to realise that the key
was pinned to the shorts. Baracus turned the air blue as he was forced
to return to the toilet cubicle to retrieve the key. I heard him retch
as put his hand down the u-bend to fish out the abandoned swimwear.
After unpinning the key, he re-flushed the shorts and went back to the
showers for a second paper removal. Baracus returned to his locker and
unraveled his towel and desperately began to shake them in search for
his Spitting Image Ronald Reagan boxer shorts. The realisation that
they were missing dawned on him and simply could take no more. My
brother let out a chilling howl as he broke down in tears and began
wailing helplessly. I patted his back as he began to heave and I'm
afraid to say he was rather sick over his towel. From out of nowhere
the small African cleaner appeared and liberally scattered handfuls of
sawdust onto the patch of vomit.
Baracus looked up through tear-stained eyes and whispered "By God, you
leave that."
The cleaner, realising who it was, hurried off.
I lent Baracus my towel and he dried himself off as best he could,
given the state he was in. After I got dressed, I checked my locker to
make sure it was empty and then inserted a ten pence piece into the
weak hairdryer. Over the mild hum, I heard a kerfuffle and turned to
see the cleaner restraining a seething lifeguard, who was clutching the
peach and black cycling shorts and threatening to make Baracus "Eat
these bastard shorts."
I had to laugh to myself, as this was, word for word, the catchphrase
of Bart Sampsons from the TV programme The Sampsons. Baracus swiftly
dressed and we dashed for the door, only stopping for Baracus to buy a
'Klix' hot chocolate from a vending appliance as a last act of defiance
to his aggressors.
We moseyed about outside the baths for a while as my brother plotted to
bring the establishment known as 'Croydon Municipal Baths and Leisure'
to it's knee ("I'll see them banged-up nice for this").
However, his plans for revenge were forgotten as a 'jam sandwich'
screeched to a halt and two burly WPCs jumped out and went tear-arsing
into the baths. We ran up the wheelchair ramp to the foyer to see what
the disturbance was all about. The WPCs burst through the male changing
room swing-doors pushing a dripping, handcuffed and clearly disgruntled
Mr Manumission towards the exit.
He was bellowing "She slapped my boy, so I slapped her back! If any of
you toe-rags touch my boy, there'll be murders!"
"Save it for the Magistrate or possibly the Judge, depending on the
severity of the charge." advised WPC Mattress.
As they put they put him into the car, I'm afraid to say, his trunks
had ridden down thus exposing roughly 40\% of the old man's bum-arse.
This, as you may agree, was a rather ill-advised opportunity for a
booty call. Baracus took this whole incident as revenge enough for all
concerned.
After a traumatic afternoons swimming, we decided to indulge in the
post-swim ritual of petty sweet theft, which had earned Baracus the
nickname 'Jimmy Five-Kittens' in his own mind. We crossed the busy road
and made our way into Shanks the Newsagents and Shanks pretended to be
busy arranging the Clippers. I know he saw us because he visibly sagged
as we entered his establishment. Baracus stood aggressively and for the
next five minutes stared his hate into the back of the nervous
newsagent's head. He only acknowledged our presence when Baracus
smashed his fist into the Whistle-Pops, tearing the jar.
Shanks turned round abruptly and said with a smile "Hi boys, I didn't
see you standing there. How's your Mum? What can I do you for?"
Baracus replied through gritted teeth "Watch your mouth, you bastard. I
swear, you're so near to getting a slapping. Now give us a Cabana and a
can of Quatro, sharpish!"
Shanks' smile faltered and he pleaded "Oh, Baracus. They have ceased
production of those items sometime in the early to mid-eighties."
Baracus seethed silently for a moment and seemed to try and calm
himself down. He took a deep breath and said "Alright, alright. Just
give us a couple of packets of Pacers and a Cadbury's Pyramint and you
don't limp out of here with your arm in a sling."
Shanks looked petrified and I sensed real trouble brewing.
"Oh God. I'm truly sorry but those evil confectioners discontinued
those lines as well." the shopkeeper woefully admitted.
He then tried to subdue Baracus with the offer of a Wagon wheel to
which he screamed "What the hell do you call this...a Cadboolies
button? They used to be the size of an fucking L.P!" and with that he
threw the torn Whistle-pops jar at the greeting cards and spent a
minute fruitlessly attempting to turn the chiller cabinet over, he even
paused to ask Shanks and myself to help. Baracus's eyes followed Shanks
as he came from behind the counter to lend a hand. Suddenly, Baracus's
strained blood-shot eyes were drawn to the attractive young dog
sporting a fine oversized yet comely bobble hat and his vandalism was
swiftly abandoned.
"What in Lady Diane's name is that? Its novelty huge cup is spinning.
I'm transfixed, Shanks"
The exhausted newsagent replied "Oh the Slash Puppie machine. Ain't
sold one them for months and when I did it came straight back 'cos it
was riddled with deceased ants and swarming with much alive wasps. I
wouldn't have one of them if I were you, have a Panda's Pop
instead."
Baracus remained completely unswayed by the alternative and claiming it
to be "Cheap piss for poor council children that stink of piss and
can't afford Slash." and then demanded, "Now give us a large one before
I get narky with you one time my friend." and again smashed his fist
into the Whistle-Pops, tearing the jar worse.
"Okay Baracus," sighed Shanks, "What flavour do you want. You decide
whilst I fire the old girl up."
Baracus a'pondered to himself for a moment. "What flavours has Shanks
got?"
"Well Baracus," said Shanks, fumbling with his tie, "We have cola
flavour, cola cube, cola pips, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Pepsi Max, cola nut
flavour, aniseed twist, liquorice, rum and raisin, cola space dust, ice
with a slice, strawberry, ox-tail, monks onions, cherry, virgin cola,
one that tastes of coke, gooseberry, horseferry, wine and Pez, sugar
mice - but that will cost you, musical, dusty, wasp 'n' ant, raspberry,
orange, lime, Bisto, mmmm, cheese, flighty, nut brown, pecan nut,
meringue, thermidore - lobster or otherwise, mildew, herb, flinty
bad-man, Virgin Lips, Virgin 'Pammy' cola, supermarket own brand cola,
Cresta cola, alcohol, Superkings and plain coke flavour."
"Alright you've talked me into it, I'll have blackcurrant flavour
please."
"Sorry son, the cat drank all the blackcurrant, how about a coke
flavoured one?"
"Okay, I'll have Cresta cola flavour Slash Puppie, thanks
Shanks."
Mr Shanks sighed, reached for a large paper cup bearing the winter
attired canine and placed it under the nozzle.
"I-I-I did warn you of the nature of this sugary crushed ice beverage
didn't I, Baracus. Remember that." he stammered whilst adding the
syrup.
"Less of the lip and more concentration on the slash recipe
preparation, Shanks my good man." advised Baracus menacingly.
Shanks handed the Puppie over to my impatient brother.
"What's the damage, Shanks?" Baracus enquired whilst rummaging for his
purse in his complimentary Griffin savers bag.
"Oh my, no Baracus, this one is on the house," said Shanks whilst
pulling the fag kiosk shutters down. 'There's nothing more for you
here, my child. Go Baracus, go and may God forgive me. Run like the
wind."
The door slammed shut and Shanks hurriedly locked it behind us. He then
appeared to dive for cover under the counter.
"He really is a sad old man," said Baracus, "Now, hurry. I need to get
home to work on my entry for Robot Wars."
Which between you and I, dear reader, was little more than an old
Megadrive strapped to a roller skate with a nail file and a penknife
stuck to it. It is called 'Our Majesty'.
Baracus held the cup of slash up to the light, looking at it, nodding
thoughtfully and murmuring to himself. He held it to his lips, tilted
back his head and took an almighty swig. He swallowed hard and turned
to face me smiling contentedly. Slowly the contented look dissolved and
his face turned to a mask of pain and terror. The cup slipped from his
grasp he sank to his knees and clutched his temples.
"Jesus Christ, Lady Diana. My pissing face/head it feels like it has
been secured in a vice like grip possibly that of a pro-wrestler or
something of a similar nature!" Baracus screamed out in clear
distress.
I hastily placed him in the recovery position and he hung on for dear
life to my aforementioned jeans with Flintstone thigh motif. A group of
pedestrians on foot gathered round to take in the spectacle. An
onlooker informed us that an ambulance was on its way and I reassured
Baracus that he should hang in there as I needed him to help me
complete the construction of 'Our Majesty' and how it was going to
out-wit the Robot Wars reigning champion 'The Young Friend' and "Tear
its fucking eyes off!"
My incapacitated sibling seemed to respond to this and there was a
noticeable small release of urine a-front his cords (no thigh
motif).
Suddenly the crowd parted as an ambulance driver emerged looking
resplendent in his dashing green tunic.
He re-affirmed the recovery position, being extra careful not to brush
the urine sodden corduroy and said in a broad Australian accent "Right
little fella, my names Mike. You just hang in there and we'll have you
right as rain quicker than you can say Bill Treacher. My names
Mike."
Mike turned to me and said, "What on earth happened to young Aracus,
here?"
At this I could faintly hear my brother groan "My name is NOT Aracus, I
am a man. Don't you ever forget it. You fucking Mike."
Thankfully he didn't hear that or sensibly chose to ignore it.
I explained to Mike how Shanks had forcefully persuaded Baracus into
purchasing an extra large Slash Puppie and how the man had foolishly
attempted to down it in one thus inducing a brain haemorrhage. Mike
turned to Baracus, who by now was playing penny up the wall with
Stephen Chip the proprietor of 'Barnacle Stephen's' fish 'n' chip
shop.
Mike pulled him to one side and said gently "Are you feeling alright
now? Brain back to normal, son?"
Baracus looked aghast, drew a sharp intake of breath and almost
whispered "Who in the already sullied name of Lady Diana do you think
you are, paramedic? You waltz in here, manhandle me whilst
incapacitated, racially abuse members of my family, tread on me slash
cup and interrupt a crucial game of Penny-up and then you have the
audacity to question a perfectly legitimate brain haemorrhage. Well, I
would like to inform you that this baby is for real and it is your good
fortune that it went away merely moments after it began. Now piss
off!"
Mike bowed his head and very slowly and thoughtfully walked back to his
ambulance. Baracus shouted after him "Lets face it, Mike. You're no
Martin Platt are you? You slag!"
Mike seemed too traumatised to notice vicious tirade hurled at him. He
got into his vehicle paused and slowly pulled away. I walked up to
Baracus to see if he was alright and inspected his head to see if the
complaint had really gone. It seemed okay. The on-lookers stood in
huddles whispering and gossiping. At this point I'm sure I saw Shanks
peeping over his counter and he seemed to be wearing the metal bowl
from his sweet scales atop his head.
All of a sudden there was a huge screech of brakes and the ambulance
drew up to a drastic halt beside us all. Mike's hate distorted face
lunged forward through the open window and screamed "You spiteful
little flid, Aracus. I hope you and your backwards family die of Aids
in a fire!"
With that he slung a miniature in-car fire extinguisher at the crowd.
Thankfully this narrowly missed Baracus and myself, but struck Stephen
Chip beautifully on the side of the head and he dropped like Tommy
Cooper at a Royal Variety performance. He lay quacking and spasming in
the Slash.
Realising the gravy of the situation I shouted out to the departing
Mike "Please help. Stephen Chip is having a brain haemorrhage."
A hand emerged from the window with the middle finger raised in
defiance and he was gone.
Sadly, Stephen died later that night in Baracus's bed. I personally
blame Baracus's over confidence in treating the stricken fish fryer and
his complete refusal to allow Chip to seek professional help. Baracus
insisted that his own brain haemorrhage earlier that day gave him the
experience and the entitlement to treat fellow sufferers.
At dawn the next morning Baracus called a family meeting, and when he
had everybody's full attention he stated "After my ill-treatment today
at the hands of the medical profession and my firm distrust of this
practice, I now forbid any contact with traditional medicine for myself
and my family ever again. I will now treat them personally as I did
today."
I took this to mean his method of firmly prodding the afflicted area
and brushing the adjacent hair.
Baracus conducted himself with dignity at the inquest and was acquitted
on grounds of diminished responsibility, whatever that means. Mike
Happydays got a three stretch in Wandsworth for mans-laughter. Mr
Manumission received an 18 month suspended sentence for punching a
brownie in the throat. Jimmy 'Five-Kittens' was lucky to escape with a
caution after hurling a breezeblock at Mr Manumission during his trial.
Barnacle Stephen's went up for sale. Baracus prepared a successful bid
for the premises, which he converted into Britain's first fish &;
chip/alternative medicine emporium.

Which brings me to my present situation sitting here in 'The Battered
Aspirin - Health 'n' Chips' awaiting treatment from Dr. Baracus for my
chronic appendicitis. I casually rubberneck at the ambulance carting
away one of Baracus's eczema patients who had a nasty reaction to the
treatment. The deaf and dumb receptionist gesticulates that I should
enter the surgery for my operation. With a beleaguered sigh, I take a
deep breath and walk into the room and close the door behind me. I ask
only this of you, the reader. If anything should happen to me please do
not think ill of my brother, he knows not what he does and - most
important of all - please don't forget to water my vine tomatoes, once
a day and twice in the summer.

THE END