You’re A Good Boy, Albert Brown

Up to this point in time, Albert Brown’s life could best be described as one car crash after another, although last Tuesday teatime was the first real accident he’d ever had. Here was a man, untouched by the hands of passion, long accustomed to keeping a lid on desires unbridled or otherwise, secure in the knowledge that no member of the fairer sex had ever so much as laid a lustful glance in his direction.

Mother was something of a law unto herself in terms of her dietary requirements, from the temperature of her Earl Grey to the texture of her toast down to the consistency of her poached eggs. And didn’t Albert know it. Thirty-seven years of servitude and for what? The old battle axe’s imminent demise had been put on hold more times than an account cancellation in a call centre, and Albert had worn a pathway in the already threadbare linoleum on his seemingly never ending journey from the kitchen to her bedroom.

Although mind-numbingly tedious, Albert’s position as Junior Clark at the Borough Council’s Parking Fines Collection Department was the only respite from the drudgery of his everyday existence; a veritable oasis of calm in an otherwise raging sea of domestic dreariness. From eight twenty seven until five o’clock, Monday through Friday, Albert was able to escape mother’s clutches and experience what little joy and dignity his menial employment offered. Unfortunately, that still left every evening and weekend to contend with the unremitting avalanche of absurdities.

After one particularly stressful Sunday Albert, bathed in the heavenly incandescent glow of Songs Of Praise, finally snapped. He could take it no more. She had to go! The only question was how… although like many things in life, the solution was a lot closer than it first seemed. The answer went by the unlikely name of Tyrone.

Monday mornings were always something of a challenge, and this one was proving no different. Albert was ensconced in trap two of the gents latrine, engaged in what was shaping up to be a rather difficult bowel movement, when he overheard the aforementioned Tyrone and this bloke from Accounts discussing a deal of some description.

“ You need something to lift you up mate?” enquired Tyrone in his best Cockney Geezer voice. The other bloke from Accounts mumbled something about getting sorted out. Tyrone seemed more than happy to oblige.

“ This stuff’ll blow your brains out, guaranteed. It’s got a kick like a mule and the best thing is, it’s out of your system within twenty-four hours. Totally untraceable. Perfect for when the law come knocking. They don’t call it acid for nothing”.

Salvation, thought Albert from behind the cubicle door. Within minutes his trousers had gone up and the deal had gone down, although twenty-five pounds seemed a little excessive for a sugar cube. Tyrone, in an uncharacteristic display of customer care, assured him that this square of sweetness, slipped into the recipient’s brew, would despatch them on a trip from which they may never return. That was all our boy needed to hear.

That Tuesday morning, as was his want, Albert deposited mother’s morning cuppa on the bedside table before departing for work, safe in the knowledge that she would be stiff as a board upon his return. After all, wasn’t acid the preferred tool of serial killers over the centuries? He hoped mother’s demise would be swift and painless – what he was doing may have been horrid but he most certainly wasn’t heartless.

The day flew by in a rush of expectation. He’d rehearsed it in his head a thousand times; the painful discovery, the call to emergency services, the visit to the undertakers, the tears at the graveside. This is what would happen…only it didn’t. Instead, upon his return, Albert was greeted with what appeared to be a scene from the Rave tent at Glastonbury. The music was pumping, the strobes were flashing and dry ice was everywhere. The living room was full of octogenarians – residents from the local care home – all higher than a cannabis farmer’s electricity bill. In the middle of all this melee stood mother, stark naked except for a strategically placed bearskin rug. She appeared to be in the process of extoling the virtues of free love to the vicar.

As is somewhat inevitable in these situations, the officers of the law were summoned and dutifully attended. Arrests were made, statements were taken, and evidence collected. Albert, loyal son to the last, was obliged to meet mother’s bail requirements, and collect her from the local station. On the journey back, Albert, riddled with guilt, confessed all regarding the acid.

“ I’m sorry Mother. I should never have tried to poison you. It was so terribly thoughtless of me”.

Mother, now kitted out in more formal attire, gave her son the kind of incredulous look that could sink a fleet of battleships.

“Thoughtless?” she said, throwing back her toothless head in fits of laughter. “ I haven’t had so much fun since Woodstock”.

Albert knew of only one Woodstock, and that was just outside of Oxford. Mother, on the other hand, appeared to be talking about somewhere entirely different.

“ That stuff you laced my tea with – I haven’t been this high since Hendrix played the Isle of Wight and I hung out with Hawkwind. What a trip! I feel as if I’ve just been on a magic carpet ride. You’re a good boy, Albert Brown!”

Silently, and with an overpowering air of resignation, Albert once again kissed freedom goodbye. Mother, like Captain Scarlet before her, appeared to be well and truly indestructible.

Not even The Mysterons could destroy her.