Yes, it was Gisele – yet again. “Kommen sie Malky darlink get in der shauer. I vont you shaved, washed und shining like ein pfennig coin und be vasteing no time about it. Und zen hereinkommen der livvink room und see vas I haff for you!” Using the swagger-stick, she pushed and prodded Malcolm into the shower…
The pavements, driveways, gutters and road of Willowy Lane were awash with debris. Thanks to an email sent by Willy Eckerslike at the beginning of the month, well he never actually sent the email – he felt computer work was beneath him, so he simply wrote a directive and sent it downstairs to be typed up by one of the secretaries – there had been no rubbish collection for nearly four weeks. The recycling lorry had not collected any paper or plastic materials and empty bottles and boxes of rubbish, old newspapers, stale food, trays of eggs way past their sell-by date that had gone bad, broken crockery and stuff like that – were strewn across the ground.
Dustbins that had been filled to bursting were emptied all over the road, had then been re-filled again and had, yet again, been tipped all over the road. The residents of Willowy Lane were quite happy to contribute to such a worthwhile cause and were only too pleased to simply sling, fling or bung the contents of their ashtrays, waste-paper baskets and kitchen bins anywhere but an outside dustbin or rubbish receptacle.
The Willowy Lane Residents’ Association went as far to organise special night-time “burn-ups” in which anything disposable and flammable was burned and the ashes were just dumped in the road, to be kicked around and spread all over by can-kicking, yobbo teenagers and passers-by – obviously non-residents of Willowy Lane. A fashionable touch was added by chairwoman of the association, Spanish-born Seville orange tycoon and multi-millionairess Mrs. Ava DeCosta, when cheese and wine was served at these events. This meant that the Residents’ Association was able to charge a fee to cover the cost of the wine and cheese, thus keeping away free-loading riff-raff and the events went down like “a house on fire”, excuse the pun.
“Come and Party in the Poop”, “Disco in the Dung”, advertised fliers put out by a small but successful local printing firm; this contest was proving to be a “good little earner” and many small-time businesses were becoming a little bigger time because of it. “Come and Have a Great Time in North East London’s Garden of Grot” invited a roadside café. “Welcome to bring your own sandwiches if you do not trust us”. They raised the price of its beverages by £1.00 a cup irrespective of what the drink was. In fact, the only person not making “mega-bucks” out of the day was Malcolm. He just stood to get his old job back.
And to do that he had first to win the contest.
Dogs, attracted by general unkempt seediness of the area, did their business on road and pavement, on lawns, on driveways, even on a couple occasions on someone’s front porch, but did people complain? No they did not. Rather than being repulsed by the revolting mess and smells, residents became quite proud of their ability to generate grime, grot and disease. Word soon got around to other posh areas in other towns and Willowy Lane became quite the area to be seen in, the height of fashion and if you caught an air-borne virus, you carried it around like a badge of honour.
News continued to spread. Many television and radio celebrities, some who didn’t like to be seen in public unless they were wearing earphones, or they were behind a screen, began to visit Suburbiaville to visit “friends” because it was fashionable and a good career move to be seen there.
Each over-spilling dustbin, each discarded, half-eaten take-away, each canine misadventure attracted its own miasma of flies and the little hardware outlet next to Suburbiaville Central – remember that place which sold cool-boxes? – also made a tidy profit selling army surplus gas masks and chemical warfare suits.
Willowy Lane had the look and smell, if you dared to remove the gas mask you had just bought, of a cross between a medieval fare and an alternative perfumery, a retail outlet that sold only the most offensive, disgusting fragrances permitted in a built-up area – we can be sure that if ever such a shop became popular or trendy, then a chain of them ranging across the country would soon exist – originating from Suburbiaville High Street.
Newspapers soon got hold of the story. A tabloid journalist from the Daily Reflector, a local reporter from the Suburbiaville Siren and a gossip-monger from that epitome of the gutter press, Views Of The Globe, were all there flashing their notebooks around, trying to get an angle on this scoop – and the more interest they could generate the better. So they spent their time weaving in and out of the crowds getting as many facts and figures as possible, then using a large dollop of “poetic licence”, they would twist them round to suit what they thought their readers would like to hear.
The Artisan’s Arms had set up a beer tent with a pig-roast, or the option of a nut-roast for vegetarians, on grass areas at either end of Willowy Lane. The aroma from both was irresistible and attracted people like a magnet, so Mrs. DeCosta felt it made good business sense to charge £5.00 a head for a single slice of pork, or nut roast. Proceeds to go to charity of course, however she did neglect to mention that the charity nominated was the Willowy Lane Residents’ Association. No wonder she was voted business woman of the year. No wonder Missus DeCosta had a residence on Willowy Lane.
The car-park of Suburbiaville British Rail station filled with purveyors of fast-food – don’t laugh, some of it was quite edible and had only a few E-numbers. Mobile caterers arrived in vans, caravans, hot-dog vans and burger vans and a French bloke came on his bike and sold onions. All hell broke loose when a Chicken, Noodles and Satay van collided with Bert’s Fish and Chips wagon while they competed for a pitch within the limited confines of the station car-park. Further confusion resulted when an air-borne division of the Women’s Institute (WI) parachuted down from a hovering helicopter and set up a cake stand. Buns and rock cakes were thrown, insults were hurled, pages were torn from Women’s Realm, the WI bible. Finally police were called in when knitting needles were brandished. The situation became very heated indeed when a wax effigy of Margaret Thatcher was set on fire and Suburbiaville’s idyllic reputation suffered a severe pummeling when the whole thing developed into a brawl. Blood was shed when secretary of the group, Mrs. Elsie Crabtree, pricked her thumb on her own hat-pin. A peace keeping force form A-company, Suburbiaville Army Cadet Corps were eventually called in from its display tent to calm the situation. This was considered a useful training exercise by the commanding officer of the unit.
The Fire Brigade provided an engine with a turntable and extending ladder. No sooner had it arrived when it was descended upon by hordes of screaming and yelling kids; the air was thick with gruff firemen’s voices, barking commands like, “OI – DON’T UNRAVEL THAT HOSE!” “GET DOWN OFF THAT LADDER!” or, “OKAY, SONNY – I THINK WE’VE HEARD ENOUGH O’ THAT SIREN DON’T YOU?”
Children swarmed round the ambulance pretending they had broken their arm – just so they could wear a sling – or leg – because they might be given a walking stick. At one point the ambulance ran out of bandages. So that this did not happen again, the paramedic in charge, as there was such a demand, said: “Right – one cure suits all!” and lined the kids up outside his ambulance and treated them with a miracle cure which was, in fact, an aspirin stuck to the child’s forehead with a sticking plaster. Some children went away feeling a little cheated, they felt they had been let down by the health service.
Bunting and streamers were draped, like gaily coloured spaghetti, from lamppost to lamppost. Large brightly coloured light bulbs flashed on and off between the telegraph poles. If you ignored the filth and that tangy sort of smell that reminded anyone foolish enough to breathe in deeply of open drains, Willowy Lane appeared very festive. This was not going to last forever and residents actively went out in their cars or in lorries to search for the filthiest, most obnoxious smelling refuse they could find and fetched it back to be spread liberally across the street.
Then the finishing touches were added: one was a raised pl
atform from which future Mayor, the Honorable Mister Willy Eckerslike could doff his Mayoral hat, which he felt sure he would be presented with directly after the contest had been won, to the citizens of Suburbiaville. And the all-important start line. There was a finish too, at the end of Willowy Lane, but because nobody on the council really thought Malcolm stood any chance of finishing, not much attention was paid to that. No bright lights flashed there, no bunting was strung across the street, just one strip of ticker-tape was stretched between the big iron gateposts on the way in to the town park at the far-end of Willowy Lane.
Dressed in olive-drab overalls that added a slight military flavour to his appearance – they fit perfectly too, whilst allowing a full degree of movement, giving him the freedom to bend and stretch; we hinted at Gisele’s skill with a sewing-machine before – Malcolm pushed “Belinda”, his unwieldy barrow, before him, arriving at the start-line on Willowy Lane. Gisele brought up the rear on her bicycle, the basket on the handle-bars filled with bottles of muscle relaxing embrocation and arnica gel in case of sprains or tired muscles. Although she was confident of Malcolm’s ability, if her past experience as chief trainer with the East Berliner Ladies’ Amateur Shot-put Team had taught her anything, it had taught her to be prepared for every eventuality, so she was. Towels, bandages, aerosols, spare clothing and a flask of sauerkraut-und-banana milkshake, mixed with a little prune juice – in case of blockage – made her bicycle look just as unwieldy as Malcolm’s barrow. They must have looked a pretty weird couple arriving at the start-line.
Nobody could ever accuse Gisele of being a boastful girl but she could not help feeling just that little bit proud of the job she had done on Malcolm’s overalls; the elbows and knees had been reinforced with day-glow yellow pads cut from his “Hi-Way Vest” and across the back of the garment, in fluorescent thread of the same colour read, simply CLEAN, GREEN – SUBURBIAVILLE’S FINEST.
“An’ ’ere he is,” Willy Eckerslike’s blunt, northern accent greeted their arrival. “All t’way from a somewhat less desirable part o’ Suburbiaville. It’s that paragon of ’ighway maintenance, Malcolm Tilsley. The chap who – HA! HA! – is gonna – HA! HA! HA! – singely ’andedly beat my ‘All-in-One-Der’ – AHA! AHA! AHA! HA! HAA! AHEM!” He went on as he often did. “An’ in t’spirit o’ goodwill the driver o’ t’ ‘All-in-One-Der’, Geordie ’ere, out of the goodness of ’is ’eart will give our Malcolm ’ere an’ ’eadstart o’ five ’ouses. Malcolm ’ere can even choose the side o’t street ’e wants to clean. An’ our Geordie ’ere will not even start t’engine until our Malcolm ’ere has finished cleaning in front of t’fifth ’ouse – worra lovely bloke. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our very own, Geordie the driver - thankyou!” A ripple of applause sounded and Geordie raised his hands and nodded, then got into his cab, folded his arms across chest and pretended to yawn – giving an air of couldn’t care less.
But as Malcolm drew up alongside that monster, Geordie somehow managed enough interest to say to Malcolm in an usually hushed Tyneside trill, “Alreet, Malky auld son – we both noo ye dinna stond a chance – so ah’ve gi’yer an ’eadstart o’ five hooses. Then ah’m commin’ tee’ get yer…”
“You used to be my mate,” Malcolm was about to say when a fanfare sounded over the tannoy system. DA-DA-DA-DA. DA-DA-DAAAH! “ALREET LADIES, GENTLEMEN AN’ CHILDREN OF SUBURBIAVILLE. WI’OUT FURTHER ADO, AN’ EVEN LESS ’ANGING ABOUT, LET’S GET THIS SHOW ON T’ROAD – ON YER MARKS, GET SET – WAIT FER IT! I SAID. WAIT FER IT..! GOOOOH!”
And Malcolm was off. Like a greyhound out of the traps. Choosing the even numbered side of the lane, he positively attacked the accumulated garbage on Willowy Lane, sweeping road, gutter and pavement with care and precision. Folding cardboard and paper and leaving it to one side to be picked up later by the recycling van. Doing the same with jars and bottles that were still in one piece. Pushing that wall of waste back with the hard-brush, farther and farther towards the slip-road onto the M25 motorway. Every so often, to add a touch of style to his performance, he paused briefly to run his trusty comb through his hair – very briefly, mind you. The thought of that big roller in front of the “All-in-One-Der” going round and round, faster and faster was enough to make Malcolm want to put as much distance as possible between himself and that junk scoffing juggernaut.
The hot August sun beat down, the miasmas of flies buzzed even louder, growing more and more irritated as Malcolm destroyed one pile of poo after another and rendered them homeless. He pirouetted; folding gracefully at the waist like an exotic dancer, he bent to treat stains left on the ground with a SPLUDGE from a disinfectant bottle. Gradually, but not slowly, he was making an impression on the mass of mess, and as he finished clearing the repulsive disease-ridden refuse from the front of the fourth house, he found he was actually enjoying the sport. Muscles in his legs, stomach and shoulders worked like pistons as he bent, stretched, then stood still, to empty a dustbin into his own galvanised bins, then darted forward to the next driveway. Before he knew it he had drawn level with the fifth house, so he dived into the driveway and attacked that.
“Kommen sie, Malky be der vinner, Who ist der mann? You ist der mann! Hip-ray, hip-ray – go Malky go! ZWEI, VIER, SECHS, ACHT WHO DO VE LUFF – KOMMEN SIE MALKY DO YOUR STUFF!” Out of nowhere – that basket on her handlebars was bottomless – Gisele produced a set of pom-poms and just like a cheerleader at the Superbowl she had been cheering him along every step of the way.
All the while Malcolm was reaping full benefit from Gisele’s support. Rather than finding her singing a little strained and out of key – which, let’s face it, it was; she could hardly have been accused of having a melodic voice – he found her harsh, Germanic tones a great source of comfort. The sound of support of the crowd, as well-meaning and positive as that was, might prove a bit distracting. Listening to Gisele’s chanting, though, enabled him to blot out all other sounds and concentrate on the job in hand.
Back at the start line from inside the driver’s cab, Geordie watched Malcolm progressing up Willowy Lane and found that he could not help being quite impressed at Malcolm’s performance. Gradually, Malcolm was pushing that sea of sludge back and away. “But aw f’cryin’ oot loud mon – ye‘ve only just completed two hooses.” And the silly beggar had stopped at the second house, because there was a brass number plate at the end of drive, to polish and buff it up. The hot August sun beat down. Ah’ve got ages yet mon, thought Geordie, pressing the button on the door – ZZZZZEERWUP the electric window opened. But, “PPHWOOAAR CRIKEY MON!” When the stench from the build up of rubbish in the lane filtered in through the window of the cab, Geordie found it quite unbearable so, PUWEERZZZZ he wound it back up again until it was tight-shut and turned on the air-conditioning.
All this button pushing was proving a little too strenuous for Geordie, who was as it happens a big bloke – pretty fat too, probably because after a hard day’s work, sitting in the driver’s cab, he stayed too long in the Artisan’s Arms – so he fished about in the “All-in-One-Der” glove compartment until he found what he was looking for, a can of fizzy orange. Opened it, SSCHWPT and took a long swallow. Pushed the driver’s seat back to its fully reclined position, put the can of fizzy orange down on the all-important control box, his feet on the steering-wheel and cupping his hands behind his head, stretched out and had a nap.
Perhaps it was the aroma from the can that attracted that wasp; let’s be honest, the scent of oranges must seem quite attractive to a wasp flying around on a hot day. But the fact remains, somehow a wasp got into that cab – probably when Geordie wound down the window fully – and hovered around quietly for a few seconds. Then, when Geordie put the can down on the control box, it flew down, got its proboscis out and had a good old sniff and slurp around the top of the can. By that time Geordie had closed the window, so when the wasp had drank its fill and tried to fly out again it found itself trapped. It began to buzz around looking for other avenues of escape, there were none, so the poo
r, frustrated wasp began to buzz louder and louder – buzz-buzz-BUZZING around Geordie’s head.
“AW YE LITTLE BEGGAR GERROUT MON!” exclaimed Geordie, and swatted at the creature with a copy of the Driver’s Manual. He missed. This must have really wound-up old waspy because, buzzing angrily, it flew down and ZZAP! stung him on the ear, then ZAP! on the nose – that is how we know it was a wasp rather than a bee – then, for good measure, on the same ear again – ZAP! And you’re out.
“AW NAW MON – AARRGH!” This caused Geordie great pain and he sat bolt upright, kicking his can of fizzy orange all over that all important control-box. In a flash Geordie wiped most of the fizzy orange from the control box with a bit of rag, in spite of being in great pain. After a further ten minutes’ work had dried it off completely, he felt quite satisfied that no serious damage had been done and was glad to notice that the upholstery had not been stained.
But little drops of the bubbly liquid had managed to seep into the control-box which was full of intricate wiring, fuses, anodes and cathodes and all the rest of it. And oxidation stained all the shiny metal surfaces a lovely shade of reddish-brown. Cathodes collapsed, resistors did not resist and diodes began to die but not all at once, although enough of the fruity liquid had seeped in to collect in a chain of little wet blobs along the lead to the AI chip, confusing the instructions received from the control box which, in turn, turned the clear, pre-programmed instructions stored in the box’s command chip into garbled nonsense. Geordie the driver, was completely unaware of this – he thought he had cleaned it all up.
Some way up the street, Malcolm had just finished clearing in front of the fifth house and an invigilator, who had been stationed there, raised his arm to signal to Willy Eckerslike to start up the “All-in-One-Der”.
What a Load of Rubbish Page 9
