Nothing Ever Really Happens
When I begin the first few bars of my Darwin anecdote Big Debs the landlady of the Flying Beagle calls time and I take the hint and head for the door at 0.23 mph. I'm usually the last one out into the Soho night but I'm a good customer and she never complains. I'm not a big one for the 'Titty Bars' these days, don't get me wrong, I enjoy a lap dance as much as the next Giant Tortoise, but it's important I try to make it back home before the kebab houses release the shutters – my deliciousness is legend and my legs bear more than a passing resemblance to a Donner Log. Besides, drunks will do what it takes when the chips are down.
But for the greed of Australian baggage handlers I'd be back where I belong – soaking up the glorious heat, gorging on the simple goodness of sweet cacti; thanking the Christian god I helped debunk for not making me a turtle – flash fuckers. I have a few goodbyes to say, loose ends to tie and I've never been to the Natural History Museum. I must also make my peace with the pigeons of Trafalgar Square – let's just say that sort of shit won't dissipate even across oceans and they've got wings.
From the big guano smeared rock in the centre of my beach to the edge of the sea at high tide - is still a long way for a creature who measures movement in millimetres – but it's nice to be home.
Last year my brother Austin bought a house from a fat developer who had purchased land at cost on the Severn Floodplain. He can't get insurance for love nor money now and his wife is having sexual relations with the man who sells frozen fish and who looks a little like the late Dustin Gee. She blames Tony Blair for the break-up of the marriage, but I always thought a Kensington socialite and a Tortoise stood little chance of making a life together in the suburbs. Not long ago I rode the Severn Boar, half in hope I might catch a glimpse of their doomed 'Des Res', but they all looked the same from a distance and the surfers were getting on my tits with all the 'Ninja Turtle' and 'Dude' shit.
Imagine my surprise when Bear Grylls dropped in with his film crew the other week and tried to eat me for his television show – I was straight on to the WWF and before he could say 'Stone Cold Steve Austin' the Undertaker was tag-teaming his skinny little Eton ass. We made up after; I told him my Baden Powell anecdote and he promised to get me the queen's autograph – by chance The Undertaker had brought his George Foreman Family Sized Grill and the party went with a swing. Things are always better left that way. That cunt Ray Mears better not try anything though.
Is it wrong I spend my evenings gazing forlonly at the lush lines of the Iphone 4S 32 gb in wrinkled magazines? The flightless cormorants may mock me with their gulping gluttony and Galaxy S2's, but let's see who's the paranoid android come judgement day. (Nov 21st Delivery Est – Phones4U)
Yesterday I stared down a French Nuclear Submarine – don't fuck with me I mouthed as it slid seemlessly into the deep, but we're a long way from anywhere here and nothing ever really happens.