Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Sunday, 23 September 2012
I was sitting in the pub the other night, when my companion just happened to mention that another mutual friend would make a very good Cyclops. When I looked over to the man in question, I immediately saw what he meant, and we both laughed about it for quite a few minutes because the notion was just so... well... apt.
So I formulated a little plan to make the above (rather poor) image on my computer, but in order to do this, I had to take a full-frontal picture of the subject so I could doctor it whilst at home.
This may sound quite simple, but it was not without danger. The subject is six feet five inches tall, weighs 245 pounds (mainly muscle) and is renowned for his somewhat short temper. Luckily - as it turned out - the couple of beers I had drunk immediately before the deed gave me the courage, and he happily posed for me, even though he knew what I was going to do with the photo. I thought the best policy was to come clean, because if he found out that I had lied about my motives, the consequences would have been unthinkable. He has not yet - I think and hope - seen the finished image, but I am sure he will make his feelings known about it when the time comes. I just hope it never makes it to FaceBook.
In the winter, this guy dresses in a short jacket, traditional trousers and flat-cap. If you gave him an Staffordshire Bull-Terrier, he would make the best Bill Sykes you had ever seen, on or off the screen. When I broached the subject of Cyclops, he wondered why I couldn't use the other man as a base subject, but - although he would have been a good one - he would have been nowhere near as good is him. It just shows how unaware some people are of the effect they have on others.
In other news (I love using that media phrase), I have to say that I am particularly in love with one particular bar-maid at the moment, but since I am 40 years older than her, I have to force myself to understand that the attention she gives me in return may amount to no more than respect or compassion. I often find myself leaving the 'com' off in wistful fantasy, but that is just the curse of becoming old. Greedy and old. It doesn't help that she looks exactly like one of the young Tahitian subjects of Gaugin's later paintings. Same skin, same hair, same eyes...
Last night, we went into the pub garden for a chat and a cigarette as usual, and as we were sitting beneath a very large awning, a soft, pure white feather floated down and landed on the table directly between us. We both looked up, wondering where on earth (or heaven) it could have come from, as there was not a patch of sky to be seen.
I said that it had probably come from the wing of an angel, and she picked it up and carefully stowed it in her pocket.
I haven't lost the old touch - miserable, sad and slimy bastard that I am.