Tag Archives: glue sniffing

Mr Newell Post . . . (episode 68)

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June 25 1999

301B Concrete Shacks
Wortlewell
CARPOOL C68 4VZ

Hello Auntie

Just to let you know that I am still steaming towards a place on the Carpool University Hospital student nurse course – starting this September! I received a letter this morning inviting me for interview, and will be meeting a Mr Newell Post (plus associate) shortly. I do hope he is not that very drippy-looking individual with a receding chin, whom I almost fell over while exiting the hospital toilet. I felt that there was almost something vacant about the blue of his eyes and I also seem to recall that he had a badge entitled ‘nurse tutor’ clipped to his shirt. . . In fact, during the course of musing over my potential new direction in life, I am also musing over what will, undoubtedly, turn out to be an encounter with bastions of the Establishment – a group which, as you know Auntie, I have been determined to avoid/oppose for the whole of my adulthood thus far. The whole prospect is almost enough to have me open a can of Glu-stik and snuff up a molecule or two. But I have promised my therapist that I will resist this temptation – and can’t give in so soon!

On a more immediate note, I have just returned from a trip to Carpool Central Park in the company of my dog-walking chum, Reggie. As luck would unfortunately have it, we encountered a loose, long-haired, dachshund departing the park (off the lead, with no sign of an accompanying human being) just as we were entering. Well, we gazed across the park – and across a stretch of long grass reaching apparently to infinity – and there was no-one at all to be seen.

I did say to Reggie, at this point, “You would think the city council would cut the grass every so often, wouldn’t you? If this dog’s owner is short, then s/he may well be concealed somewhere in the meadow!”

Reggie sniggered at this remark, but suggested that he let off the dog he was walking (paid) and put that dog’s lead on to the dachshund. And then he set off into the grasses to look for the animal’s – short – owner and left me standing with the dogs.

It was just after Reggie disappeared into the grass, that I spotted a middle-aged lady pushing a push chair (and holding a toddler across her hip) heading my way.

“Hell – o – o – o” I called. “Is this your dog by any chance?”

The lady stared. “No,” she said, looking at me without any vestige of a smile. “Can’t you take it to the police?”

“I don’t need to,” I said. “Its address is on its collar.” And it was Auntie. I had just looked.

“Is that other dog yours?” said the lady. “No,” I said. My friend is a dog walker and he is with that one.”

“Where?” said the lady.

Well, of course, Reggie was still completely out of sight Auntie.

“Is the little dog wearing its own lead?” said the lady, who was getting rather nosy I thought.

“No,” I said. “The lead belongs to the other dog.”

“Oh,” said the lady.

Most cheeringly, Reggie then re-emerged from the grasses and came back towards me.

“This is my friend Reggie,” I said to the lady. “He is the Wortlewell dog walker.”

Unfortunately Auntie, Reggie is not a very swish dresser at the best of times, and he had his dark green T-shirt on inside out. It also did not look all that clean and that’s without mentioning the subject of holes, rips, and tears.

“Where does the dog live?” said the lady, barely deigning to look at Reggie.

“Five Belvedere Court,” I said. “We are going straight there now, once we have dropped the other one off.”

“Never heard of it,” said the lady. “Where is that?”

So I told her Auntie, with Reggie looking on in a state of merry oblivion.

It wasn’t until we finally escaped that I hissed at him, “For God’s sake Reggie. That lady seems to think we are a pair of dog rustlers! She probably thinks we have a 4×4 parked just round the corner! Put your shirt on the right way next time you take a dog out for a walk.”

Thankfully, we met the dachshund’s owner just round the corner – coming back towards us – and so were able to get shot of it forthwith!

Toodle pip!

Ralph

One flew over . . . (episode 33)

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401B Concrete Shacks
Walthamstow
LONDON E17 4VZ

June 15 1997

Auntie

I am writing this in haste as I am about to be collected by a government-sponsored glue-sniffing rehabilitation van. Earlier this week, I received a four-page-long, black-and-white printed, communication from the Department of Social Security – which stated that my Unemployment Benefit would be summarily suspended unless I agreed to be taken away to an establishment which deals with addictions. In my case, the specified addictions are to the Benzodiazepine ‘Valium’ and to the adhesive whose brand name is’Glu-Stik.’

I naturally took to my bed on receipt of these tidings – anaesthetized by a Valium intake of some 50mg – which is a dosage, I am told, sufficient to stun an elephant. ‘Glu-Stik’ is on the table by my side, together with one or two flagons of cider. I am not feeling too well, a condition exacerbated upon receipt of yesterday’s telephone call from a person who called herself ‘Miss Fothergill.’ Miss Fothergill informed me that the rehabilitation squad would be turning up promptly at 9am tomorrow – to take me away – and that resistance would be useless. They are bringing their own battering ram. The person Miss Fothergill most reminded me of is the head nurse who featured in that film called, ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.’ Nurse Ratched? I am scared, auntie, that I may come back lobotomized (or not at all) because I am just the sort of man who likes to air his own, unique, and possibly undesirable, opinions on courses of this nature. I am anti-authority and authority is often anti-me.

You are my next of kin! Please come to see me at your earliest convenience. Bring duct tape. Bring gum-wiring equipment. Bring anything you have to keep my lips completely sealed during Group Work and Role Play!

Your deserving nephew

Ralph

Concrete shacks . . . (episode 13)

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401B Concrete Shacks
Walthamstow
LONDON E17 4VZ

April 14 1997

What ho! Auntie

I am just back from a long day on the street corners of Vauxhall, plying my trade with the Socialist Worker. It was very wet and my cloth cap was no match for the continuous downpour falling from the (cloudy) sky. Rain water ran down my neck and soaked into my shirt and braces. No sign of revolutionary activity yet, but the proposed government’s zeal in privatizing state industries should put paid to that! I won’t set out my Marxist ideology to you, because I know you don’t have much patience with my – as you put it – abstruse and arcane vocabulary . . .

I returned, anyhow, to Concrete Shacks, somewhat in need of a brew, only to find that my new lodger had filled the sink with knickers put to soak! It is really hard to fit the kettle under the tap with the sink brimming with soapy water in this way. I suppose you will say that such events are due to my susceptibility to any female form attired in a short skirt and pastel-pink lip gloss. I fear you may be right in this instance auntie; I had to retire to my garden shelter to snuff up one or two molecules of Glu-stick in order to feel better!

Regarding your request to return your correspondence of last year, I am afraid I seem to have binned most of it. But don’t worry. I was mostly too stoned to remember much of what you said and, in any event, am none too keen to feature in the ‘Moon’ myself. I will batch up any of your epistles I can find – and wing them back to you!

Must dash now. I’ve got to wring out my cap and count up the change from our takings.

Toodle pip!

Your nephew

Ralph