Wednesday, 23 January 2013

The fat Comedian

This was recently sent in by various artist, who thought we might like it!

The fat comedian stared at himself in the dressing room mirror. Placing the first finger of each hand below an opposing eye, he pulled slowly down and peered into the yolky rheumyness. He was having his collar felt by the fifteen minutes to show time river of sweat and the small of his back was next. There was a murmur of voices from the corridor followed by a light tap on the door and a cheery female voice rang out, ‘Ten minutes Mr Funny, Funny Man’. The fat comedian grunted and lowered his eyes until they rested upon the plate of half eaten food on the table in front of him. What scraps might he throw them tonight? Revenge, served cold as a default setting for the audience, the braying herd of sheep that followed him around the country, night after night after endless fucking night, one night stands from here to eternity, from fear to maternity. In Milford Haven there had been one woman with a shriek that could shatter glass. It was reason enough to never have to play there again. He swore that should he ever hear it again he would wade beyond the footlights into the stinking morass of slime masquerading as humanity, drag her from her seat, rip her head off her shoulders and shit in the hole. 

He wasn’t even half way through the tour. Where was he? Some shitty little club outside Newport called Chez Lounge. Somewhere he could keep his head down. His critics said he’d got a way with too much but in truth the only thing he’d got away with was words. Nothing for it but to talk about the war again, his war, and how the only way it could end was when all the soldiers, marines, vets, reservist corps and everyone else who could be called up had been called up and sent packing in matching Louis Vuitton body bags until all that was left was the obese 74% of his countrymen complaining whenever CNN interrupted their cartoons with inconvenient and thoughtless newsflashes. Lured away from their plasma crutches and onto to air bases on the promise of extra Mcdonald’s rations, where, too wide to squeeze in transporter holds and too fat to fit into tanks, they would be airlifted, by helicopter, one at a time and, without wasting parachute silk would be dropped upon enemy positions. Unable to run away they would be gunned down, traffic calmers on Adobe lined sleepy country roads, sleeping soldiers upon whom the generals were pinning not medals, but the hope of the enemy running out of gas trying to drive around them. The country, now trailer trash free would be ready to turn on, tune in, reload and have another go at ‘trying to get it right’, only this time starting at Level 2. 

The fat comedian removed his fingers and the bags rearranged themselves either side of his nose. He imagined the woman with the shriek being zipped into a body bag and allowed himself the faintest of smiles. There was another knock on his door. Show time. 

No comments:

Post a Comment