The Dead Cat - A Steve Rant

For any newcomers to the blog, Steve is a recurring character who likes to rant to his long-suffering friend Johnny about the little things in life. Here is an example. 
For audio click here 

“It’s the end of humanity,” Steve said, and sat back in his seat.

“Trump?” Johnny said.

“Nope!”

“ISIS?” Johnny tried.

Steve shook his head. “This!” He handed Johnny his phone.

“Passengers raise £3,000 to erect memorial for bus stop cat” Johnny read the headline.

“That’s the Guardian, that is.” Steve said. “But forget the fact that what should be a serious newspaper is turning into tabloid click bait.” Steve paused while a barman collected glasses from the table. He took a mouthful of beer and then continued.

“£3,000 for a cat memorial. I mean I don’t need to sayanything else do I?”

No, but you’re going to, thought Johnny and he wasn’t wrong.

“What the hell is wrong with people? I mean seriously? A cat memorial? Have no celebrities died this week, so people have to mourn a cat? This is the most ridiculous thing I have read all week. People have lost a sense of perspective.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Johnny said, watching his friend getting apoplectic over a cat memorial.

“How bloody self-indulgent,” Steve continued, “I mean I like cats, I think they are cute but if I had one I wouldn’t ask other people to pay for its memorial”

Johnny nodded, it was best not to argue with Steve in this mood.

“Imagine if there was a crowd-funding campaign every time a cat died. We wouldn’t be able to move for cat memorials. There’d be little statues and plaques everywhere.”

Johnny smiled.

“And do you not think that maybe, just maybe there are better causes to donate money too. On my walk here I passed about six people sleeping rough; people are dying every day of cancer, of peanut allergies , of motor neurons. But no, people would rather give money to a cat memorial.” Steve paused and took a swig of beer.

“Ah but it says here that they only wanted five hundred pounds and will give any excess money to charity.” Johnny said.

“Oh well beatify them as saints.” Steve replied. “The point is that whoever donated, chose a cat memorial over say, a homeless or a cancer charity. They need to have a long hard look at themselves and ask themselves some very serious questions.”

Of all the rants Johnny had sat through, he couldn’t remember seeing Steve as worked up as he was now. He’d been pretty riled by the tinsel tears a while back, but this had really got his gander up.

“I’ve got a serious question for you.” Johnny said.

“What?”

“When are you going to shut the fuck up and get me a beer?”

Reluctantly Steve rose from his chair and headed towards the bar.

The Dead Cat

For audio click here 

“Do you wanna see a dead body?” I said to Stan.
“What a real one?” Stan’s eyes lit up.
“Well a dead cat,” I replied.
“I suppose that’s good enough,” I could see the disappointment in those eyes.
I took the spade out of the shed and led Stan down the garden.
“We buried Whiskers here last week,” I said, and started digging.
"How did she die?" Stan asked.

“Hit by a car.”
“So there’ll be blood?” He seemed morosely interested in the macabre.
I was getting tired of digging and getting worried Stan would think the dead body of a cat with no blood would be an anti-climax.
“You take over,” I said. He didn’t look best pleased, but he took the shovel anyway.
We dug and dug, taking it in turns under the hot afternoon sun.
“How deep is it?" Stan said.
“I dunno, I thought we’d have got there by now, and my mum and Cath will be home soon.”
We took one more turn each but still didn't get to the cat.
“You're a bloody liar you are,” Stan said, and stormed off. This was a disaster; it would be all over the school come Monday.
I couldn't understand it. This was definitely where we buried her, but she was gone. Had another animal dug her up? Had she done a Jesus?
Now what did I do? Did I tell my mum? That would me mean having to admit trying to dig the cat corpse up. But if I didn't, then Cath my sister would go on thinking there was a cat under that homemade cross. Would that be fair?
“Mum,” I said when Cath was in the bath, “how quickly do bodies you know, um disappear after you bury them? You know turn to skeletons?”
“You mean decompose?”
“Yes, decompose how long does it take?”
“Oh, I think it takes a long time love, why?”
“Nothing mum.” I tried to return to watching Tomorrow's World.
I could feel her looking at me and my cheeks redden.  She knew when I was hiding something. "Tony, Robert Jones,” she said. "What have you been up to?"
“It was Stan mum, not me. He wanted to see a dead body… so… so… we er… dug up Whiskers, but... but Whiskers wasn't there!”
“Oh,” she said, and tried to return to watching Tomorrow's World.

That wasn’t the reaction I’d expected; no surprise, no worry and most of all no bollocking.

I wondered if she could feel me looking at her as her cheeks reddened.

“Mum, What have you been up to?” I said.
“It was your dad not me, we dug Whiskers up and er put her out with the um bins.”
"You did what?" Cath screamed. Neither of us had noticed my sister was standing in the door, tears running down her face. 

  

The Bra Part 1

An interactive story, details at the end. 
For audio click here 

When I left my house this morning, there was a bra on my garden gate. A red bra, not a run-of-the-mill everyday-wear bra, but not an overtly sexy one either. Maybe a first date if you think there might be a possibility of sex bra. What do you do when there is a bra on your front gate? Do you put it in your pocket for safekeeping? Put it in the wheelie bin? Or leave it where it is in case its owner retraces her (or his) steps and comes looking for the bra? I decided to do the latter, thinking that a bra was quite a valuable commodity and the owner would surely come looking for it.  

But despite leaving it where it was, it travelled with me all day; it may not of been in my pocket but it was in my mind. I wondered why it was hanging on my gate, who could possibly have left it there. A lost glove is explainable; the reasons behind a lost jumper or coat don’t take too much thought; a lost shoe is a bit harder, especially where there’s only one. But a lost bra was proving a tough nut to crack.

Had the wearer suddenly had a moment of feminist enlightenment and removed the bra forever, my gate symbolising the freedom she now felt? But that didn’t seem likely in this day and age.

Had it blown off a neighbour’s line in the wind and my gate was the random resting place? Possible but it hadn’t been that windy last night.

Had the wearer been walking home with a lover, so eager were they to consummate the relationship that they were undressing as they went? But wouldn’t that mean there’d be other clothes in the vicinity.

Or more boringly or more depressingly, maybe it had been digging into the wearer during a dull date. As soon as she was free from the tit she was dating she gave freedom to her tits. But I lived in a cul-de-sac, you didn’t get many people passing-by on the way home from dates.

Or maybe it was a message, maybe the person had left the bra for me to find; some kind of cryptic clue to a secret admirer. I loved this idea, but who was likely to secretly admire me?

As the day grew on I began to wonder if it was a message but a more sinister one. What if some gang or Mafioso had left it as a warning; maybe they were going to milk me for money or truss me up.

I was beginning to be suspicious of everyone and everything. Were my mates playing a trick on me? I felt like people were laughing at me, like I was the victim of a practical joke that everyone else is in on. 

When I got home the bra was still there; hanging on the gate; greeting me like a beloved puppy. I decided to take it in to the house. Of course, I had difficulty undoing it, but eventually I got it off and took it inside.

So why was the bra there? Who has put it there and why? Leave your ideas in the comments below and the best one(s) will feature in part two of this story.

Bread and Funerals

For any newcomers to the blog, Steve is a recurring character who likes to rant to his long-suffering friend Johnny about the little things in life. Here is an example. 

For audio click here

“Bread and Circuses,” Steve settled into his chair. “Bread and Circuses that’s what it is.”

What on earth did that mean Johnny thought, but he had the feeling he was about to find out.

“Go on,” Johnny said.

“Well you know all these deaths; famous people, Bowie, Rickman, Wogan?” Steve said.

“Yeah, sad innit?” Johnny took a moment to pull his best mourning face.

“Well no, not really, old men die, that’s life.” Steve said “but I won’t got there today.”

The today sounded ominous to Johnny. He obviously had that to look forward to.

“But I’ve got a theory.” Steve took a long sip.

“I thought you might.” Johnny sighed.

“What if all these deaths are just the government’s way of averting our attention from their shitty policies. There’s all this bad news around, but it’s being papered over by the death of a rock star or a TV personality.”

“Seriously,” Johnny played with a beer mat. Steve moved into his real ranting position.

“Just think about it; normally they would have a royal wedding or birth, but Kate’s just had a sprog , and Harry isn’t likely to want to give up the single life, so they’re in a pickle. It’s not like England are going to win a World Cup. So they need a new way to distract our attention while they sell of the NHS and let multi-nationals off their tax bills.”

“Steve, take a moment mate, what are you saying? Do you think these people are all dead already but the government is saving up dead people and only announcing their deaths when they have bad news to bury?”

“No I hadn’t thought of that, but I wouldn’t put it past them.” Steve looked thoughtful for a moment. “That’s even better than my thought.  I thought the government were actually killing off celebs so we won’t notice that the Bedroom Tax was ruled illegal.

“Nonsense Steve. Not even this bunch of immoral bastards would do that.”

“Believe what you want to,” Steve said. “But you have to admit that there’s been so much grieving going on this year, that the government have been able to get away with murder.”

“Yeah metaphorical, not literal, that’s the difference.”

“Still they must have been rubbing their hands with glee.”

“I am sure you’re right that they take advantage to hid bad news but causing the bad news? Really? That’s too paranoid even for you Steve” Johnny stood up collected the two empty glasses and headed for the bar.

Meanwhile in the bowels of Westminster.

“Blast and botheration.” The PM thumped his hands on the desk. His Principal Private Secretary took a step back; he hated the PM in this mood. Where was the Chief of Staff when you needed him? The PPS had just handed the PM the latest polling figures that showed his approval ratings were down for the third month running.  “Those fucking do-gooding lefties,” The PM thumped the desk again. “If we are not careful, they are going to get elected.” The PM stared at the ceiling for a moment while the PPS shifted from foot to foot listening to the Prime Minister’s heavy breathing. “Get me the palace,” he barked to the PPS.

“Yes Ma’am, I understand perfectly but if Harry doesn’t get married we are faced with the real possibility that the Labour party could be voted back in… I know he’s not the marrying type Ma’am but ... Okay, well how about another Grandchild? …” The PPS could tell by the look on the PM’s face that the Queen was having none of it. “Yes Ma’am I know Kate swore she was never going to go through that again but it’s for the good of the country?” The PM held the phone away from his face as he listened to the reply. He rolled his eyes in defeat.

“And you are sure it’s a no on both counts?... Thank you Ma’am. Thank you.” The PM slammed the phone down and let the desk feel the force of his fist again. The PPS was a little taken aback at the violence of it all.

“Bitch,” he shouted. “What’s the fucking point of the fucking royal family if they won’t procreate to keep the masses happy. That’s what they are fucking there for. Everyone knows that when the government is in trouble the royals have babies; it’s the way of the world.”

“Sir, if I may.” The PPS winced as he said the words. He hated interrupting a prime ministerial rant but he had an idea.

“Sir, there’s something else that might just work.”

The PPS leaned in and told his idea to the PM.

“Sir, what do the masses like just as much as a big wedding? A big funeral. It doesn’t have to be a royal, just someone famous. Remember when Bowie died? All people did for weeks was listen to his records; the papers, the news bulletins were full of it. We released loads of bad news that week and it didn’t get a snifter in the media.”  For the first time in weeks a smile spread over that increasingly podgy face.

“My good man, you might have hit on something there.” he said and slapped the PPS on the back.

“I’ve got a friend of a friend sir; Mikey Highnote they call him. He can get dodgy cocaine to just about anyone in the business; it’ll kill them in minutes. You say the word sir, and we’ll have them grieving in the aisles.” 

“Good work old chap. But who shall it be?”

“McCartney sir, or Jagger? Dame Helen Mirren? Dame Judy Dench?”

“By George no. It’s not that serious. If your man Mikey can get to anyone let’s leave those names until we’re really buggered.  Let me think. How about the lead singer from that god-awful band, um Coldplay.”

“Really sir? Martin? Well if you wish sir.”

“You’re listening to the Today Programme on BBC Radio 4 and if you are just joining us, it has been announced that Coldplay lead singer Chris Martin has been found dead in a flat in London.”