Post by nobbin on Sept 10, 2005 10:09:37 GMT
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF………..
The camera pans across the run-down street and alights on a small abode in a row of run-down houses. Their roofs leak, the moss has taken over the dilapidated brick wall at the front of the houses, and the gates have rusted off their hinges and are lop-sided.
We enter the house (for want of a better word) and find a man sitting in a chair, surrounded by empty beer cans and an assortment of old newspapers dating back to the early 30’s. A woman, looking harried and with a permanent frown on her face, enters the room and speaks to the man in the chair.
“Well, choppy?” She asks, “has tha got thee toothbrush and clean nappy for when we ‘ave t’ stop off at t’ services on t’ motorway?”
The man grunts an acknowledgement and kicks the empty cans from under his feet.
“Dammit woman!” He cries, “I only just got over ‘avin bath in last weeks watter! Gis chance t’ get me act together!”
He farts and a strong odour pervades the room, the curtains –made from last weeks daily bugle – stir, as the smell wafts its way towards them.
Slowly, the sheets of newspaper begin to curl up and burn, turning a light brown colour. The chair upon which the man sits, has already turned a darker shade of brown, and the cloth is beginning to disintegrate with the continual onslaught of offensive eruptions.
The woman huffs and turns away, her eyes smarting. Holding her hand to her nose, she flees the room and starts coughing violently. The man sniggers to himself and flops back down, searching for a can with any drop of alcohol left undisturbed in its base.
“ee by ‘eck,” he mumbles to himself, “ah must get me sen some more o’ them beers afore we leave.” He picks his nose and flicks the results onto the ceiling where, it is no surprise to learn, there are a multitude of dried up nasal productions. The ceiling is now beginning to resemble the coating in the bowl of the toilet.
He the reaches down the pocket of his trousers and produces a half eaten apple. Munching on this, he probes further and, as his fingers protrude through the holes, locates the car keys. “Ah well, must be on ower way ah suppose.” He raises his voice and shouts “aye up mother! Best we get off now ah reckon! Need t’ get t’ outdoor to grab some supplies for trip down t’ wales!”
The camera pans across the run-down street and alights on a small abode in a row of run-down houses. Their roofs leak, the moss has taken over the dilapidated brick wall at the front of the houses, and the gates have rusted off their hinges and are lop-sided.
We enter the house (for want of a better word) and find a man sitting in a chair, surrounded by empty beer cans and an assortment of old newspapers dating back to the early 30’s. A woman, looking harried and with a permanent frown on her face, enters the room and speaks to the man in the chair.
“Well, choppy?” She asks, “has tha got thee toothbrush and clean nappy for when we ‘ave t’ stop off at t’ services on t’ motorway?”
The man grunts an acknowledgement and kicks the empty cans from under his feet.
“Dammit woman!” He cries, “I only just got over ‘avin bath in last weeks watter! Gis chance t’ get me act together!”
He farts and a strong odour pervades the room, the curtains –made from last weeks daily bugle – stir, as the smell wafts its way towards them.
Slowly, the sheets of newspaper begin to curl up and burn, turning a light brown colour. The chair upon which the man sits, has already turned a darker shade of brown, and the cloth is beginning to disintegrate with the continual onslaught of offensive eruptions.
The woman huffs and turns away, her eyes smarting. Holding her hand to her nose, she flees the room and starts coughing violently. The man sniggers to himself and flops back down, searching for a can with any drop of alcohol left undisturbed in its base.
“ee by ‘eck,” he mumbles to himself, “ah must get me sen some more o’ them beers afore we leave.” He picks his nose and flicks the results onto the ceiling where, it is no surprise to learn, there are a multitude of dried up nasal productions. The ceiling is now beginning to resemble the coating in the bowl of the toilet.
He the reaches down the pocket of his trousers and produces a half eaten apple. Munching on this, he probes further and, as his fingers protrude through the holes, locates the car keys. “Ah well, must be on ower way ah suppose.” He raises his voice and shouts “aye up mother! Best we get off now ah reckon! Need t’ get t’ outdoor to grab some supplies for trip down t’ wales!”