Thursday, 17 July 2008

SLOWER THAN I WAS BEFORE, slower, fatter, thicker...

There really are only two instances where the government permit me to use my bionic legs in public. The first is to catch criminals; I've a licence to run 'em down and run 'em in. The other time I can use them is for school sports days. That's allowed too.

So the other week at my daughter's school sports day when I lined up barefoot against other dads/grandads for the 100 metres, I naturally fancied my chances. One competing old timer in his seventies had a hip replaced a few years ago and uses a stick to get about. But sports day is no time for sentiment- you beat whoever they put in front of you.

As you know my legs can run up to speeds of mach 4 but unfortunately my upper half travels at speeds of up to mach 6 so by the time we were up to the 50 metre mark my legs were trying in vain to keep up with my stomach. I lost my footing and was flying through the air and thinking how best to land with some dignity in tact. Unfortunately my brain only works at .1 of a mach and I was on my arse and off the pace of the grandads in front. I grazed my knees, one was bleeding a bit and I remember thinking how I might need major reconstructive surgery.

Hang on, what's that? You reckon I had no chance of catching them? Is that what you think? Is that what you really think? The race is over for me?

I don't know the word 'defeat' (although I must do as I've just written it) but I don't know the meaning of the word 'defeat' (although I do) and as soon as the gasps from the crowd had died down I was back up and bombing along again, the wind burning my face as I cut through the G-Forces. I overtook one grandad and then another and another (whipping his stick away from him as I left him trailing in my wake) and then I lost my footing again and flew through the air again and landed on my arse again as the crowd gasped again and I came last again and I'm not ever taking part again. I had to roll over the finishing line, clutching at the grass, pulling my sorry self along.

Then, just when I thought my humiliation was complete I looked up to see a little boy looking down at me shaking his head. "You should have worn trainers, fat boy!" he said.

Monday, 7 July 2008


We've all done it, we've all gone to the circus and ended up accidentally getting shot out of a cannon. Erm...with a dog. And so it happens to the little girl in this story too, who luckily escapes the need for major reconstructive surgery by getting caught by the circus strongman.

Where's Toto? will be published by b small publications later in the year.