A small story

Posted in Old blogger, de-punz by Twenty Major on June 27th, 2005

Some three or four years ago I purchased a whole rake of scientific equipment that Jimmy and Pete had lifted from a consignment headed for a children’s hospital.

There were test-tubes, beakers, computers, particle crunchers, atom smashers, bunsen burners and lots of chemicals and stuff like magnesium, beryllium, copper and that stuff like plastecine that explodes when you when drop water on it.

The most important thing of all was the blackboard on which I scribbled theories, equations and doodles of men with their eyes really close together and strange chins.

I totally gutted the garden shed and made this my lab and it took me about two months to get the first blueprint together. Biting my nails I used a guinea pig for the first attempt but things did not go quite according to plan. Instead of ending up with a tiny, shrunken guinea pig I ended up with a hideous melted corpse with its organs on the outside. Shocked by the cruelty to animals I decided to never again to use a cute, cuddly creature and instead used refugees and orphans.

So I continued with my tests and soon I had created a great big pile melted corpses. Also soon I had perfected the process and saved the country hundreds of thousands of euros in social security payments. So I got my stuff together and arranged for Jimmy to come by and collect my post, look after my trusty hound Bastard Face, pick up the weekly settlements from my clients and administer the required beatings should they fail to provide the money on time. I had a farewell pint with Ron and the lads and the night of June 27th I entered my lab and set things in motion.

I made some last minute adjustments to the computer program, twiddled the zeeble just a touch to the left and walked into the chamber. I took a deep breath and using the control panel I’d made from a Kensington joystick I set things in motion. Things zapped, crackled, and quite literally popped. Success! It had worked. I was now miniscule like in that film about that bloke who shrunk himself and lived in the inner space of Dennis Quaid and in that inner space he had to make some adjustments to the workings of the inner space before getting out of the inner space at the very last minute. I think it was called ‘The really small man in a tiny spaceship.’

Amazingly enough I had also constructed a small spaceship but it wasn’t spaceship because I wasn’t going into space. I clambered aboard and soon I was speeding my teeny-tiny way across Dublin. I headed out towards Sandymount and then hugged the coastline, passing over the gorgeous sandy beaches, pausing occasionally to ogle the bevy of beauties sunbathing topless in Ireland’s glorious tropical climate.

Not long afterwards I came to Dalkey, an area in the very south of Dublin which is home to the most expensive houses, with beautiful views of the radiation poisoned Irish sea and a galaxy of stars like Lisa Stansfield and some bloke who used to read the news on the BBC.

It’s also home to a couple of members of the most famous Irish rock band in the world. I don’t think I need to tell you the name. I circled over the house of the singer but that wasn’t my target. It was the guitarist I was after. I swooped down, went in through an open window and went round the house until I found him. He was sitting at a desk reading a book and singing ‘What if God was one of us’ in a vibrant falsetto voice. I cruised in, did a couple of laps of his head and landed on the back of his neck.

Within my “space” craft I had brought supplies to last for at least a month. There was dried and canned food, water and toiletries and, of course, cigarettes. The first day or two I got accustomed to my strange and microscopic life. It’s amazing how quickly you get used to things, no matter how unusual they are. When he had a shower I took shelter internally, mostly entering through a nostril or perhaps the mouth. Once I had to fly down his Jap’s eye which is something I would not recommend to anyone. I went where he went, I saw what he saw, I avoided his calloused fingers when he went to scratch the parts of his body where I was roaming.

So for a little under 4 weeks this was my home. I ate, I smoked, I slept, I kept notes in my iddy-biddy notebook, I weed and pooed all over him and I watched him at work, at play, as he wrote songs, as he made phone calls to Bono and Larry. He never once called Adam but did send him a couple of emails and a text message calling him a ‘cunt’. He didn’t use an exclamation mark or any kind of smiley.

Anyway, as my supplies ran low it was time to head for home. I did one last poo on his shoulder and set off on my merry way. My ship was a bit spluttery on the way back so I didn’t go the scenic route. I just went straight back to the lab and into the chamber where my remote control embiggened me once again. It felt good to be my normal size again and I was absolutely dying for a pint. I went inside, had a shower and headed down to the pub for a reunion with the lads.

I marched down the road, pushed open the door and I said “Howya, lads?! Give us a pint there, Ron. I’m fucking gasping.”

So Ron poured me a Guinness, I waited for it to settle. It seemed to take a long time but soon I had a good long gulp and it tasted really, really good. Naturally the lads were full of questions.

“Where have you been Twenty?” asked Stinking Pete.

“Wait till I tell you” I said, and I explained where I’d been and what I’d been doing.

“That’s mental!” they all said, and they gasped and ooohed and aaaahed when I told them about the stuff that I’d seen, at the remarkable and unprecedented insight into the world of a rock musician’s life.

“But Twenty”, said Dirty Dave, “What on earth made you do it in the first place?”

“I’m not really sure”, I replied. “I think I just felt like living life on The Edge for a while.”