Wandering around the park during the school holidays this summer, Audrey and I have been admiring lots of the new and surprisingly specific graffiti.
On the bandstand, buried amongst the rough sketches of female pudenda, football slogans and the omnipresent ejaculating penises, a couple we particularly enjoyed reading – although both of us admit to being rather confused as to their precise meanings – were: ABBO AND JAY BUM FAT PIGS; and RAMS FANS ARE SHEEPSHAGGERS.
Another specifically anatomical and revealingly detailed favourite of mine is: GOBSY IS OBESE AND HAS A SPOTTY ARSE CRACK.
In my day, such public declarations were more concise. BOB IS A C*NT, and ANDY IS A DICKHEAD were of a style that was much more the norm.
Perhaps my age is to blame, but I cannot avoid the fact that I am becoming more and more bewildered by the fanciful content of some of the messages scrawled about the village these days. RIKKI KEARNS IS MORE THAN GAY had me scratching my head for months.
‘But you’re all right, aren’t you, father?’
‘Yes, of course I am, Audrey,’ I told my concerned little dog. ‘I’m just ever so slightly a bit exhausted. The doctor says I have been running myself into the ground and need to have a few days off just doing nothing.’
‘Oh,’ she barked, somewhat relieved, and went on scanning the road ahead for cats.
We passed a new piece of graffiti on the rec’ which read ‘Simo is a homosexal gay’ which made me chuckle to myself – not that Simo is gay; I was aware of that already, but the fact that he is a homosexal gay, which is a damning qualification and singular piece of public information that I’m sure will surprise quite a lot of the local inhabitants.
‘Laughter is the best medicine,’ my doctor had just told me.
‘I know; but what about drugs? Can I have some drugs? Drugs are good medicine.’
‘I can’t prescribe you any drugs, Mr Lawrence – you just need a rest.’
Thus it is I have decided to take myself off to the Kellogg’s Sanatorium in the hills and spend a few days in equable convalescence.
‘But you are incapable of relaxing, father. The experience will cause you to become even more anxious than you are already.’
‘Be quiet, Audrey!’ I told her. ‘Let’s go home and get some work done.’
A young woman in a short skirt was delivering leaflets when we turned into Lansbury Avenue. She was beautiful. I tugged Audrey’s lead and quickened our pace, feeling a sudden and urgent need to return home and prepare for my inevitable eleven o’clock tumescence.