Boxing With Kojak

Boxing With Kojak
 

The man who sold me the phone didn't look like your average car-boot
vendor. He wore an oversized coat with the hood up and a scarf covered
most of his face. "How much is the phone?", I asked, trying not to look
interested, as you do. I was interested, very. it was a trimphone, you
know, one of those slim phones that made a high-pitched, shrill sort of
noise. Very popular in the early seventies, but almost impossible to
find nowadays, thanks to the big seventies revival that has seen the
return of platform shoes and long leather coats. Thank god feather cuts
haven't returned! "A pound ," came the reply. I couldn't pick it up
fast enough. I gave him the pound and he said nothing. As I turned, I
heard him say, "enjoy," but didn't bother
to reply. There was nothing else there that day apart from a rather
nice, grotesque, hard-plastic woody woodpecker that a bloke wanted
twelve quid for because someone had told him it was 'a collectors
item'. " There's even a magazine for his type of stuff, " he tried to
impress
"What ?" I presse, "Badly Moulded, Poorly Painted, Unlicensed Sixtis
Promotional Item Weekly?" "Yes, he replied. I left and headed for my
car and knewi n a couple of weeks he'd sell me it for a quid. I threw
the stuff on the passenger seat and set off. The lights were not kind.
it was at the sixth set I nearly jumped out of my seat. the phone rang.
was it the radio? I turned
it off. It rang again. I pulled in to the bus stop and stared. I picked
up the receiver. "Hello," I said, then felt stupid. here I was sat in a
car, answering a phone I 'thought' was ringing. A voice growled, "Hello
Tom". I dropped the receiver, then picked it back up. "Who is this?" I
demanded, annoyed that someone was actually there. I heard a laugh, no,
a cackle. "Who is
this?" I demanded again. The cackle stopped. "Put it this way Tom, it's
not God." I knew it wasn't God, I mean, you never hear of God
contacting someone by trimphone do you? More often than not he appears
to a peasant girl in a field or imposes his image on a glass window on
an office block in a central American country. This was the other
fella, the devil. what did he
want? "What do you want?". "I'll let you know. I'm just checking in for
now, letting you know I'm here. call me back tonight, and we'll chat"
.The line cleared and it all went silent. Chat! Chat! I found it
difficult enough to talk on the phone as it is, never mind ringing 'Old
Nick' up for a pointed chinwag. I'm not sure how I got back to the flat
in one piece. I saw the devil's face in every traffic light and an ad
for Extra Strong Mints claiming they were 'devilishly hot' made me
circle a roundabout five times. Sychronicity kicked in. The radio
played 'That Old Devil Called Love', and at a set of pedestrian lights,
a kid crossed the road in a Manchester United kit. I sat on the bed.
for some unexplainable reason I'd put the trimphone in the oven and
closed the door tight. "Ring me back tonight and we'll chat". the voice
of Lucifer poured through my head like a jug of warm syrup. What did he
want? Had he got the wrong number? Was it all related to the phone? Was
it out of his house? Oh my God! I mean, oh no, I've gone and bought the
devil's trimphone. I took a pen and a wedge of A4 paper. I'd better
list all the bad things I've ever done as it seems to be reckoning
time. I stared at the paper and, being racked with catholic guilt, knew
what was to be the first thing. I remember Father Duggan calling me
into his study in the third year and asking me did I play with myself.
"No", I replied. "I play with me mates, Father". I lied of course. On
the way home in the summer, I would sit on the top of the schoolbus
like a horny toad. The sight of a milky-white inner thigh or heavy
chest would have me scampering to my room like a drunken monkey. Heaven
knows, I was a sweaty- palmed beast. mum must have thought I had a
constant cold. It all came to light when the pipe that ran in the
floorboards under my bed burst. I came home to find a grinning plumber,
a mortified mother and where once there was a well-thumbed collection
of peroxide chicks and high-heeled shoes, lay a bible and a picture of
mydeceased nan with the words, 'Nana's watching' stuck to it with a
yellow post-it note. This indeed put me off for a week or so until the
woman next door took to washing her car in a light, summer, dress which
inadvertently got soaked very quickly. I scribbled it down: 'Number
one; Boxing with Kojak'. It's not how the devil would put it, but a
cute euphemism seemed to soften the offence. Right,
number two; killing'The Yorkie'. I hadn't meant to kill it, it was an
accident - but I wasn't sorry. It happened in the first few weeks of my
drinking career, you know, when you're like a kid with a new toy. It
was Aunt Dolly's dog, she was staying with us. I came in from the pub
about half nine, you know how you did when you first started
drinking, and I stood on it. It sort of yelped and that was it. Lucky
for me at the time that everyone was out. I could probably excuse the
accidental killing of the feisty beast, but it was the positioning of
it in his basket like Noel Coward with a cravat on and a Benson and
Hedges in its mouth was unforgivable. funny, but unforgivable. She'd
accidently killed 'Suki' her other dog by slamming the door of her mini
on its
head, fracturing its tiny skull. When she spotted Sidney Belvedere
Moschop sat stiff in the basket a la cigarette, she screamed like a
boiling lobster. I licked the pencil tip and scribbled, 'Number two;
killing the dog' . A bead of sweat dropped onto the page and
my hand shook like I needed the Off Licence. I placed the pencil and
pad down, went to the oven and opened the door. The trimphone sat next
to an oven cod that had been a good idea at half past eleven six nights
ago. I slammed the oven door and walked over to the window. A brightly
coloured bird, probably an escaped parrot flew past the window followed
by a mob of sparrows. Ah, the parrot - number three. Nobody ever
told me you shouldn't give a parrot Opal Fruits. I mean 'made to make
your mouth water... and your best friend's parrot die'. I can't recall
that particular jingle, although I must confess, the whole episode
provided me with a 'think of a funny thing moment'.
you know what I mean, when things are all going horribly wrong and you
need a mental image to cheer yourself up. Well the thought of Eddie's
dad, stooped
in his bitty nylon trousers, giving a gargling parrot the kiss of life,
has seen me through many a dark moment. I took the pencil and jotted it
down: 'Number three; Killing the Parrot.' I was going to put 'choking
the parrot' but as you know, I covered that with number one. A bead of
sweat snaked down my forehead and dripped onto the paper. I'd have to
get used to this, I thought, it's going to be even hotter down there. I
wondered, was it really hot or was that just a big fib? I mean, you
could be a mass murdering Eskimo and have a really bad time in the
fires of the abyss, or you could be a heathen aborigine and wander
round in a loincloth like you were on your afternoon stroll. And him,
Beelzebub, Old Nick, was he
really a cloven-hoofed, red-faced, pointy-chinned, two-horned,
goaty-bearded demon or did he just look like a slightly balding Terry
Scott? Ah, Terry Scott,
there's number four, Terry Scott. no not the Terry Scott of 'Terry and
June' fame, but Terry Scott, the fella who my sister went out with from
the age of sixteen to twenty four, that Terry Scott. He was a golf nut
and had even turned his back lawn into a mini putting green, complete
with flag and hole. Well, I shouldn't have done it but I thought he was
hurting Zoe my sister. I was around at his house for a New
Year's eve party and he sneaked upstairs with her. I listened to them
through the wall. she was moaning in sexual ecstasy. "Oh! Oh! Oh! No!
No! God! Stop! Stop! Oh No!..." and here's me thinking Terry was giving
her a massive Chinese burn. I toyed with the idea of punching him on
the nose, but decided to crap in the hole on his back garden putting
green instead. His face was a picture when, at a quarter past two, he
drunkenly putted a ball much to the delight of onlooking revellers. I
nudged Zoe and said "You alright sis?" as he reached in and retrieved
it. Nuff said: 'Number Four; Crapping In Terry Scott's Golf Hole' . My
mind wandered a tad. "Ring me back later he said". Ah, I thought, I
haven't got his number. a rush of relief flushed up from my plaid
slippers. Then my black heart sank like a fifth - form souffle. I knew
his number, everybody knows it. 666 the telephone number of the beast.
I mused that if I rang 667, would I get the neighbour of the beast? I
allowed myself a smile then number five hit me. I hated the car, it was
an Austin Allegro in that fantastic hearing aid beige colour. The
engine had another week in it and I still
owed the bank three grand. So, armed with a panda pop bottle of petrol
and a lighter, I set about conning the Norwich Union out of four
thousand, three hundred and twenty two pounds,ruining the only decent
bit of grass on the estate and giving me a set of singed eyebrows that
left me looking very surprised indeed. It was wrong and not a day goes
by when I don't regret
it. it was fraud on a massive scale. Well massive for me anyway. the
closest I'd ever come to anything like it was putting a reduced price
sticker on a wedge of coloured cheddar atSainsburys. It didn't taste
right either. It tasted stolen and I ended up chucking it out,
concealing the evidence by wrapping it up in a bread bag and secreting
it inside a milk carton. I know it
was hardly likely that Hercule Poirot would turn up as the dustman, but
I was racked with guilt, paranoia and indigestion.When the police came
round to say they'd found my car burnt out I
had to comb my hair down into my eyes to disguise my lack of eyebrows.
It's a good job 'I'm a believer' by the Monkees was on the radio or
they'd have got suspicious. As it was, all went well and the cheque
arrived three weeks later. I waited in the bank for ages before putting
it into my loan account, convinced that the builder in front of me was
really an undercover insurance fraud investigator, who would wrestle me
to the ground in a cloud brick dust and flaked emulsion as soon as I
banked the money. He didn't, of course. just strolled out of the branch
in
his too big jeans and checked shirt. I took the pencil: 'Number Five;
Insurance Fraud'. The place went cold and I knew it was time to ring
back. I grabbed the phone, threw the cod into the bin and dialled. Six,
six, six. Nothing. I tried again. six, six, six. nothing. Was I too
late? was I already damned? The first of what seemed like a million
thoughts raced through my
head. this is what a nervous breakdown feels like is it? Then I heard a
knock. I stood rooted to the Wilton. Whoever it was could wait. The
trimphone rang. I picked it up. Three words oozed. "Answer the door".
He was at the door. OK, I'd had enough. I stomped to it and swung it
open. I experienced a mixture of surprise mingled with fear, as the
bloke who sold me the phone stood at the door. Once more he had his
hood up, a scarf covered his face and he was wearing dark glasses.
Thora Hird looked more like the Devil. Stuck for words, I blurted out
... 'Well?". The man took his hood down, removed his scarf and glasses
and took his left hand from behind his back. He looked familiar. He
beamed a smile. "Hello," he said, "it's Noel." Then around the corner
came my best mate John. It had all been an elaborate hoax... and I was
the victim. John had written in to the show and suggested the wind up.
So that's how I ... that's how I ... that's how I ended up killing Noel
Edmonds.

The End.