From the reviews.
“This is like an immortal dog. It is unputdownable.” (London Review of Books)
“You’ll See Us outjoyces Joyce, checkmates Chekov, Guy Fawkesy du Maupassant and shakes the Speare.” (Times Literary supplement)
“To read this you can’t be in your right mind. For wrong-minded readers only.” (Glaswegian Gallus Gazette)
Occasionally, they let me out. Having been a good boy and jested less than usual the asylum gave me a free day pass, yet told me I could only stay out for one. Doesn’t add up.
I headed to the park because as the song goes “The lunatic is on the grass”. The lovely shrill of the Meadowlark was quarrelling with the sound of a bouncing ball. My ESPN powers kicked in. I knew it, man. There was a playing area with a caged off basketball pitch where four lads were practising their shots. Missed, missed, missed and missed again. I rubbed my eyes disbelievingly. Basket cases. And they say I’m mad. I let fly at them with a volley.
“What have I told you wannabee Wilt Chamberlain’s about playing basketball. A football is for kicking. Don’t waste your time with silly hoopla.”
Another goon threw at the basket. Missed. That’s it, I dropped the Myshkin from my name and just went into full Let’s Get Crazy Mode. I won the rebound and dribbled away from the pack. I was stoating the ball with a good slapping motion and headed downtown. I stopped, turned and eyed my target uptown. It was only thirty yards away. This was my Rollerball “Jon-a-thon, Jon-a-thon” moment. Here Goes. I hurled the football into the air. The orb arc’d t’ward its intended destination.
My final rejoinder was “But I tried, didn’t I? Goddamnit, at least I did that.”
Delving deeper into the dark woods I could hear a thousand voices all speaking in tongues. Through a gap in the trees I could see a great stage of fools. These bampots were flying off into separate squabbles before jabbering back to the same theme.
A bespectacled Albion brainbox was preaching to the heavens about the glory of HD. In a chorus of one he sing-psalmed “Glory, Glory, HDEEEEEEEE”.
An Embran Battleship Admiral and a Portuguese wolf from Mersey were having a stand-off over which was the better fortress- a castle or a cave. I’ll A4 and F5 your cave, said the paper-game grid-playing Midlothianer. I’ll huff and I’ll puff said the big bad OZ.
To me, to you, to me, to you, to me, to you. A two-faced ex-Dane and a Rhodesian rugby fan were having a tug of war over Andrew Motion’s book about the House of Windsor. They were yelling at one another “My enemy’s enemy…”
A Welsh firebrand was exploding like Krakatoa with a headache. A new wildflower had been discovered in the…wild, and the botany experts had deemed to call it- Ragheadus Osborneus!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Even though these were all tangents and cosines and cosecants, the cast always came back to the same script. The argument was over who was the 4th youngest Charioteer.
Cutty Young! Why do you hang about with the Last of the Summer Wine, Christopher?
I must have said that out loud because the players all looked at me. And they were angry. It was anger all right, not just wee anger but anger with triple AAA batteries AAAnger. They positively charged at me. They move pretty fast for elders. I ran for my life but they were gaining on me. Who are those guys?
Suddenly, in my path there was a lone skateboard sitting handily. (Deus ex machina, it’s my story remember.) I hop footed onto the board and shuttled away from the baying long in the tooves. Sayonara, be seeing ya, senoritas and seniors.
Just when I thought I was out of it, the sky blackened. Coming over the crest of a hill was a warrior-like lady in a chariot. I think I’m done for. She’s going to take my writing privileges away. Noooooo.