Doom waiting…

But first…
Dulltown, Europe: Today’s C17th English expletive is ‘Cud’s bobs!’ – an interesting corruption of the old favourite, ‘God’s body’.
Why not bring it back into use today dear reader?
‘How dare you chuck your dirty fish and chips wrapper into my front garden, you ruffian!… Cud’s bobs!…’
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I was just cutting across the supermarket car park on my way back from B&Q with some bolts and a length of half-inch flat aluminium bar when there was a sudden shout of, ‘Hoy!…’ I turned, to see a familiar figure sitting hunched on one of the car park’s low steel barriers; it was Simon Doom, poet from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist League.
I gave him a quick wave and attempted to walk on, but he was having none of it and he lurched across and gave me a hard slap on the back and an unpleasant bear hug as if I was his long-lost brother.
‘They do ready good cheap cider here, but the bastards won’t let you drink it near the shop.’ he said opening his coat to reveal a half empty plastic litre bottle.
‘Fancy a sneaky swig Dave?’ he said. I politely declined his offer, but he dragged me over to his perch on the barrier, and we sat down.
He took a surreptitious head-down gulp from his concealed bottle and announced, ‘I’m waiting for the surrealist van to arrive…’
‘Oh?…’ I said, and added, ‘I thought that the ‘surrealist van’ was an imaginary and metaphysical van Simon… not a real one.’
‘Oh Dave, you remembered!… Yes, it is!… But I’m still waiting for it though!’ He laughed uproariously for a full half-minute and then suddenly stopped and looked me in the eye, ‘Sure you don’t want a swig Dave? It’s got bite!… Bites like a bastard!…’
‘No thank you Simon…’ I said, ‘and by the way I think that…’
‘The van isn’t fully loaded yet Dave… but would you like to hear the contents of it so far?…’
I sighed and said, ‘Oh, go on then… and pass me the bottle… perhaps just a little taste…’

A jar of captured spume from the North Sea.
A large square brown carton of desolation.
Dustin Hoffman’s cat’s flea collar.
20 inflated balloons each containing a set mousetrap.
Both of Venus de Milo’s arms.
A bucket of hadrons with a damp cloth over it.
A pencil that once touched the lips of Angelina Jolie.
2 rubber anvils.
All the sorrows of the world in a matchbox.
A fossil pterodactyl wearing a watch.
3 double-handled cricket bats.
An oak wardrobe with a perfect vacuum inside.
A glint of chrome saved on a memory stick.
Fleeting smiles from 12 clever people.
And a leather elbow patch from Jean-Paul Sartre’s cardigan.

 

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in art, brain, conversation, dreaming, existentialism, expletives, Hull.UK., humour, information, serendipity, style, surrealism, words and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Doom waiting…

  1. claradoodles says:

    When I was little, I had a habit of exclaiming “Cor Blimey” at everything. (No idea where it came from, probably TV!) Anyway, I was constantly told off for it and informed that it was a mash up of the words “God blind me”, Hrmph. Oh, and you have erm…interesting friends :p

    • Dave Whatt says:

      Cor blimey! indeed! – My little book of swearwords and expletives confirms your definition claradoodles… The most interesting friends I have are the ones I have made up…

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