Tick, tick, tick, tick (pause), tick, tick, splat (pause), tick, tick..
There is a small bird at my window refuses to believe glass is solid. Each and every day it flys continuously towards the kitchen at breakneck speeds only to end up banging its tiny beak against the pane. I know I cant open the window because then the poor little tosser would then enter my flat and annoy my wife while she drinks her coffee. Ive asked the sheep if it knows how to remedy the situation but right now, it appears to be more interested in learning how to use the TV remote with its two front hooves. The clack clack sound the sheep is making combines with the tick ticking sound of the little bird and is becoming mildly annoying.
Luckily, I can escape this growing hell upon earth. There is a secret door at the back of the fridge (near the vegetables but far enough away from the butter so as not to melt it) which leads to an ornate spiral staircase ending in another more secure door with a combination keypad (only I know the correct code). Beyond the portal is a long, well lit corridor with a moving walkway similar to those you might see at an international airport terminal. The other end of the walkway leads to a pink marble ante chamber with three expertly crafted mahogany doors set deep into the opposite wall and to choose the wrong door means a slow and painful death. Sometime even choosing the right door means a slow and painful death but today I am lucky. Finally I am confronted by an old man with a glove puppet who appears to serve no purpose other than to give me something to look at while I unlock the final door to my fortress of solitude which I call The Loft.
Here in the loft, I can indulge myself in almost anything that takes my fancy. One side of the room is almost entirely taken up with my collection of horse drawn horses while much of the other side is filled with my other abiding passion; Mexicans.
I have been collecting Mexicans for almost as long as I can remember. My first was a tequila swilling, leather faced, bear of a woman who I encountered in my early teens at a roundabout in Southampton. Since that great day, much of my time has been taken up with the acquisition of these fine Central American folk. They come in all shapes and sizes, some obviously more collectable than others, but every one has its own fascinating story to tell.
Tucked away in a small corner next to the toenail clippings of Salvador Novo, nestles my modest recording studio where I create music that is mostly beyond the range of human hearing. Over the years I have accrued a small sonic portfolio, which I play to audiences all over Balham in South London. I began my song writing life in a band called Men Are Dead but sadly most of the musicians were killed while attempting to play Slayers Reign In Blood in a dub reggae style. I blame myself.
Following MADs untimely demise, I formed my body into a solo artist and began to play lots of my old music while all the time telling people that I preferred to play my new music. I released several albums which sounded too good to be true before joining another band to record an album that took the length of three pregnancies to complete. I then decided to revive my solo body and recruit three other musicians to help me play:
ROBERT RAMSAY: Formerly existing as the internet but now in human form, Rob has been over the years, a fine musician, a talented lyricist and a rather fetching hat for evening wear. I believe that half of the music which I have made would not exist if it were not for Roberts faith, loyalty and bank account. Robert has two additional eyes that are situated in the head of his wife and distrusts anyone who can hover.
TIM EYLES: Fast of finger and hirsute of chest, the mono-browed Mr E walks faster than a gazelle on roller skates and plays guitar better than a gazelle on roller skates. Much of his skill comes from his time spent in a Tibetan monastery studying under the masters Stevie Ray Ling Chow and Dave Jet Li Gilmore. It is said that verbs mean nothing to him and that scissors melt in his hand.
NICK ROBERTS: Eeeeeeooooowwwwwwwwww woooorraaaaaggGHHHHH, tuuunnggg, aaaaaooooOOOOoooooooooOOOOoooooEEEEEEeeeeeeeeee, chug, chug, chug. chug, WWWrrrrrrrwwwaaaaaaAAAaaaaaannnnnnnNNNnng. IiiiiieieeeieieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee, widdlywiddlywiddlywiddlydiddlydiddly, Oeeeeeeeeooooowwwwww shu-daaaaaaang!!!!!
Downstairs, I can hear my wife calling me by my pet name bastard and suggesting that I deal with the sheep as she wants to watch CSI but the remote is caught up in its fleece. I quickly water my mermaid before taking the emergency chocolate cable car back to the kitchen to resolve the dispute. The sheep looks disgruntled but accepts my firm but fair handling of the situation and stalks outside to play with an injured crow that is hiding in our dustbin. Exhausted, I return to the kitchen and make myself a cup of well earned tea.
Tick, tick, tick, tick (pause), tick, tick, splat (pause), tick, tick