All Bets Are Off

Sarah J Peach sent me a message this morning, telling me that a horse called Stan was racing in today’s Grand National. As it happens, I’m not one of life’s gamblers. I’ve never bet on a horse in my life. But then there’s never been a horse called Stan in the Grand National before – as far as I've been aware. And surely, Sarah J Peach wouldn't suggest just any old donkey. To hell with it. This is what life is all about! I decided there and then to stake fifty English pounds on Stan to win!

Then I did some stuff, including some scanning – gurd your loins for Stan’s Scans, coming very soon – and I went to the gym just in time for the race, got on a cross trainer in front of a big telly and plugged in my headphones.

Stan fell at the twelfth.



Thankfully, I’d completely forgotten about the whole thing, from the moment I decided to bet £50 to the moment I got on the cross trainer. I was so pleased.

Thanks for the hot tip, Sarah! And thank heavens for my paltry attention span. Now I’m going out to spend £50 on booze.

Have a smashing weekend, each and every one of you. I love you. Adieu!

Shame Week #4 :: What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever killed?

We were playing table tennis, at which – incidentally – I excel. It wasn’t proper table tennis however. It was kitchen table tennis, with the flaps up, crappy bats, ugly nylon netting and heavy, practically flightless balls. There was Keith, me and Keith’s girlfriend at the time, Emily, an overly earnest girl with a slight lisp. I’m not entirely sure why but Emily always reminded me of a slightly itchy cardigan.

This was years ago.

We were in the living room of our old place in Dartford. It was winner stays on and frankly, I’d been on for some considerable time, when suddenly, a plump grey mouse darted out from beneath the sofa on which Emily sat patiently rolling a jazz cigarette.

I don’t know where the mouse came from and I don’t know where it imagined it was going. I only know it didn’t get there.

It was remarkable. Remarking on it later, Keith said that he’d never seen me move so fast. I was a mouse-seeking missile, across the threadbare living room carpet in less than a second, my arm swinging into action as if I were swatting a fly, the cheap bat cracking the mouse’s skull like a spoon breaking the crown of a hard-boiled egg. Covered in fur. There was no blood. Just instant death.



A moment of silence followed, quickly replaced by Keith’s and then my own uproarious laughter.

Emily however, was less amused. ‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ she said.

‘I’m not sure I can believe it either,’ I said. ‘I was like a man possessed, wasn’t I?’ I was smiling, clearly pleased with myself.

Emily wasn't smiling.

‘Yeah, but it was vermin,’ said Keith. ‘It was liable to eat us out of house and home if you hadn’t stopped it in its tracks.’

Emily was shaking her head. ‘It had just as much right to life as you or I,’ she pointed out.

‘I guess,’ said Keith. ‘Still. It’s dead now. Your serve, Stan.’

…

Looking back on the kill as I lay in bed later that night, I decided that that was pretty much how I would like to go out. Like a popped light bulb. Like a slapped mosquito. Like an unwary mouse under a ping pong bat. No blood. No pain. No lingering illness. No slow decay.

Since then however, I’ve changed my mind. I’d now like to take life in any form at all for as long as I possibly can. (Cerebral liquefaction permitting.) One day I’m pretty sure I shall tell you what changed my mind.

In the meantime, RIP, my little mouse.

…

And you? What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever killed? Confess in the comments, please...

Your secret is safe with me.