I was strolling down to my favourite pub tonight, as you do, minding my own business, with the headphones on, listening to the latest Arab Strap album. Wondering if these guys realise what an Arab strap actually does, and all that kind of stuff. Wondering if maybe Belle and Sebastian have a better deal here. Wondering who gives a bollocks. Thinking back to the great days of the Harvest Ministers.
When all of a sudden I look up, towards the architectural turd that replaced the wonderful Lyric Cinema. A plastic excrescence masquerading as a building. A piece of shite with windows, out of which is hanging a skobe, as if he intends to top himself by falling with a splat on the concrete below him.
Far be it from me to stop a skobe ending his life. Good luck, Boss, and off you go. I think back to Derek and Clive Live. Jump, you fucker, jump! And then I think forward. My pint! If this bastard jumps, that’s the end of my pint. I’m bolloxed. There will be guards taking statements. There will be State Pathologists. There will be investigations. There will be fucking trouble for me, and I won’t get a pint. Not good.
My reflexes are legendary, as is my ability to sum up a situation. Don’t jump! I shouted.
The skobe recoiled into his miserable lair, giving me enough time to draw my weapon.
Blam!! The .44 Magnum spoke. Blam!! Blam!! Blam!!! Chunks of plaster spun off the wall and the skobe danced his final spasm as my bullets tore through him. Blam!! I blasted him one last time before re-holstering my revolver.
This was one pint I didn’t intend to miss.