Tramway to Hell

This is a silly anecdote about a horrible tram journey I took today. Apologies in advance for the toilet language, but sometimes only a good swear will do.

Tram 11 made glacial progress up the long hill, packed tight with human cargo and hotter than the face of the sun. A quirk of the schedule meant that this particular service had coincided with two separate tourist boats arriving into Saltholmen harbour, and as a result the ageing streetcar resembled a warm tin of shop-soiled corned beef. 

My initial joy at grappling my way into a window seat had dissipated the moment that I became surrounded by human flesh on all sides, sticky and unpleasant from the unusually hot spell that shrouded the city. A young mother thrust a pushchair at my legs with the force of an aggrieved bear, making me bite hard on my tongue to avoid shouting “FUCKING TWAT!” directly into a toddler’s face. It wasn’t entirely the toddler’s fault, but he did have a shifty look about him as though he’d orchestrated the incident. As if to prove a point, the toddler looked me in the eye and began to scream. Continuously. For the duration of 14 faltering stops. The twat.

Looking away from the demon child gave no solace, as I found myself gazing directly into the groin of a rotund American man, all sweat and jowls and the scent of spam. It was a fairly unremarkable groin, certainly not one of the all-time greats, although presently it occupied a space altogether too close to my nose and mouth. After all, a groin is a terrible thing to taste (as the famous quote goes). To avoid the ominously jiggling nethers I braced myself in an approximation of the foetal position and stared directly at my feet. To compound matters, and to provide a counterpoint to the ongoing screams from the aforementioned toddler, the American man produced a prolonged coughing fit of such epic proportions that the world seemed to shake and shudder, flecks of spittle and fragments of windpipe raining down on all within the blast radius, myself included. It was a display of snorting and hacking worthy of the Norse gods themselves; he certainly failed to keep things low-key (Pun 1 – check). 

I closed my eyes and tried to block out the screams of beelzebub and the walrus-like ejaculations of the man with the Thor throat (Pun 2 – check), a tightly curled ball of stress and anger. Eons passed before the noises subsided, passengers gradually departing. The air became thinner and cooler, until I could breathe again. I uncurled myself and marvelled at the space around me, unencumbered by toddlers or tourists. I felt something approaching relaxed happiness, until I looked up and realised I had missed my stop by a spectacular margin. 

FUCK IT. FUCK IT ALL. FUCK IT RIGHT IN THE EAR.

Stinky Alan

Some jobs make you hard to love,
They suck the romance out of life.
By day I scrape fatbergs out of the sewer,
By night I want to find a wife.

I just can’t seem to shake the smell,
It seeps into my every pore.
I’ve tried to bath, and I’ve tried to shower,
But I smell worse than a wild boar.

They call me stinky Alan,
Which doesn’t help my case.
Every time I talk to ladies,
They scream and slap my face.

They call me stinky Alan,
And it really isn’t fair.
I’m actually very handsome,
With a lovely head of hair.

My only hope is to find a girl,
Who doesn’t seem to mind the stench.
A busty lovely with a wooden nose,
But classy, like Dame Judi Dench.

I’m thinking about online dating,
You can’t smell bad on the internet.
I’ll search for someone accustomed to odour,
A zookeeper, or a saucy vet.

They call me stinky Alan,
I want to make love all night.
All I want is to find a girl,
Who can stand the smell of shite.

They call me stinky Alan,
And I’ve had a great idea.
I’ll carry a skunk wherever I go,
And say that he’s got diarrhoea.

They used to call me stinky Al,
Until I learned a cunning trick.
“What’s that smell?” I hear you ask,
“It’s my skunk, he’s very sick”.

I Was Only Stroking It, Guv’nor!

They’ve written about me in the paper again.
They say I love wildlife a little too much.
I’m the innocent victim of a media campaign.
I admit I like to look but I try not to touch.

They won’t let me into the zoo any more.
My annual pass has been revoked.
They say I made a pass at a labrador.
They say I was present when a panda was poked.

I assure you all that my intentions are pure.
I vehemently deny all allegations.
They claim I’m excited by the scent of manure.
Allow me to explain, forgive the alliteration.

I HAVE NOT:
Spooned with a seal, southwest of Swansea.
Kissed a kestrel in a kimono called Keith.
Ogled an octopus wearing a onesie.
Held hands with a hedgehog on Hampstead Heath.

I STRENUOUSLY DENY:
Cuddling a caribou in a canoe.
Fondling a ferret in a frumpy frock.
Buggering a badger in a bright blue bra.
Wanking a walrus into a sock*.

*It was actually a tea towel. Not to be confused with a teat owl.

My passion for nature has killed my reputation.
I promise guv’nor, I was only stroking the dalmation.

Credo for Hugh Manatee

Try to be kind to unkind people.
Read more books and make more art.
Learn the names of the things around you.
Always take time to laugh at a fart.

Don’t fret about work, it doesn’t define you.
Select yourself a favourite tree.
Read a poem, then try to write one.
Be you, not what they want you to be.

Believe in the things that you want to believe in.
Accept that others hold different views.
Never be violent, don’t be oppressive.
Be selective about where you get your news.

Say something funny to break the tension.
Watch the sun rise whenever you can.
Surround yourself with interesting people.
Wear handsome trousers. Eat more jam.

Find enjoyment in the ridiculous.
Imagine a badger in a jaunty hat.
Don’t be afraid to be an outsider.
Most important of all, don’t be a twat.