The Mad Old Man Problem

“Arse giblets. Bandit noises. Car-park attendants dressed as guppy-farmers. Here, I know the tune to that one.”

The old man paused his verbiage briefly to strum tunelessly and silently on the tattered carboard guitar he had with him at all times. After a few takes he tried again, with words. “Arse giblets,” he shouted, in a manner that could not in any conceivable way be considered tuneful, “Car-park attendants dressed as guppy farmers.” He looked up at that point and saw me for the first time.

“Showaddywaddy,” he explained, improbably. “The lead singer taught me that one.”

I said nothing, eyes burrowed into the ground.

Undeterred he held up a paper cup. “Money,” he said.

“You know I don’t have any money,” I said. “It’s not that kind of island. I do all my business by barter and favour.”

“Cats in lederhosen. Carbon-free ectoplasm, popsickle boys in bubble-wrap bowlderising baboon banter.”

I walked on.

“I am possessed by the soul of Sting.”

I turned round. I couldn’t let that one lie.

“Sting isn’t dead,” I said.

“No, but he is Sting, Jed. You can  hardly blame his soul for leaving his body and taking up residence in a better place.”

Occassionally, just occassionally, the old man would construct a coherent argument. It was, frankly, more disconcerting than the popsickle boys in bubble-wrap.

“I don’t like Sting anyway I said.”

I had, it has to be said, a strange relationship with the only other inhabitant of my island. How he survived I’ll never know, I certainly never gave him any money. 

Although I lived there, I cared nothing for the island and focussed entirely on getting out of there. Specifically, I was a writer, and wrote stories set in every glamorous location I could think of: New York, Paris, East Grinstead. But to no avail. Until one day, out of the blue, I got an interview with a big-name producer at the mainland broadcasting company.

“We really like your work,” the producer said, “But it’s lacking realism. It reads like you’ve never been to the places you set your stories. I mean, you do know there aren’t camels in Paris? Why don’t your write something more personal, somewhere you know.”

 “I can hardly write about my life, I live on an island with one other inhabitant. Nothing ever happens.”
“One other inhabitant?” asked the producer. “Your other half is it?”

 “Oh good god no, it’s just some mad old man who lives in a shack and shouts random Showaddywaddy lyrics throughout the day. I hardly speak to him.”

 “Two people living on an isolated island, both mad, what a great idea. You could get up different adventures every week, a serial.”

 “But we don’t get up to anything, nothing ever happens, it’s an isolated, lonely little island.”
“It’s up to you,” the producer said, “But if you want a series you both have to be involved. Why don’t you try starting every episode with the old man waking you up early in the morning with some mad problem.”

 “That’s the most stupid idea I’ve ever heard,” I said. “That could never work.”

 xxx

 “Kittens for President, Kansas archdeacon fodder, arse-biscuits, why am I never cast as Hamlet. Hang on, there’s a tune for that one.” The old man strummed his cardboard guitar. After three or four takes he was confident enough to shout along. “Arse-biscuits, why am I never cast as Hamlet. Arse-biscuits, why am I never cast as Hamlet. Arse-biscuits, why am I never cast as Hamlet.”

 Eventually, he looked up and saw me. “Showaddywaddy. Not one of their better ones. I don’t think they’re as good as they once were. Hang on.” He held up a paper cup. “I’m selling Sting’s soul, frankly it’s not much use to me. It’s yours for five mainland pounds.”

 “I don’t need Sting’s soul thanks,” I said, taking out my wallet. I handed him one of the shiny new five mainland pound notes. “You can have a donation anyway. I like to encourage live music.”

 
“What’s this? Who’s this old woman?”

 
“It’s the mainland Queen. She’s on all the mainland currency.”

 
“Don’t ‘spose you have any euros?”

 
“No, I don’t. But I do have a proposition.”

 
“Arse giblets. You want to marry me?”

 
“No, not that sort of proposition. We’ve been offered a series by the mainland broadcasting company.  It’s about two men living alone on an island. Each episode starts with you knocking on my door at an early hour of the morning with some incredible problem that takes us the entire episode to solve.”

 
“I’ve got Shergar hidden in my crispbread drawer.”

 
“Is that a yes or a no?”

xxx

The next morning I was woken early by a hammering on my back door. I quickly dressed and rushed downstairs, to find Alun in an agitated mood.

 “It’s Sting, Jed,” Alun said. “He’s bought his own private army and has surrounded the island with tanks, warships, submarines and killer eels. If I don’t give him his soul back he’s threatening to sing at me. What shall we do?”

 This will never work, I thought to myself, but, in the absence of a better offer, I decided to put on my coat and boots and go and see what sort of adventure this was going to be.