A Dedicated Follower Of Death: a tale of mindless stupidity

I write this entry as a witless nincompoop, unworthy of sympathy or misguided admiration. This is a confessional story and all those who lampoon me for the events I shall presently narrate are right to do so.

Last week I boarded a train at Farringdon station in central London. As I fumbled in my inside breast pocket for my entangled headphones, I put so much strain on my overcoat that the top button came free of the lapel. I looked on aghast as my dislodged button first tumbled onto the platform and then dropped onto the tracks.

I fear that the more astute among you will be able to predict what I did next. Crouching down on my belly, I proceeded to flay my arms impotently towards the errant button that had settled between two sleepers and was now far beyond the reach of my T-Rex-like arms. Thankfully, before I could make anymore woefully futile rescue attempts, a tube roared into the station and forced me to admit defeat.

At this juncture, most rational human beings would have gone home, shouted at their lovers, and momentarily wept at their own carelessness. The rest would have scheduled a visit to their local haberdashery. But not Matthew Phillips. I returned home only to formulate a strategy that would rectify this gross personal injustice. Crafting an implement out of a wooden pole and a tea-spoon, I could barely contain my own sense of petty pride as I caressed my new invention.

I know what you all must be thinking. What kind of petulant chump goes to so much trouble for a button? Escapees of Colditz Castle would have viewed my creation as an ingenious shovel that could be easily dismantled into innocent crockery the moment a guard approached. But no, I’m ashamed to say that I clearly had no such cause to justify the existence of my home-made gadget.

Anyway, let me get back to my tedious anecdote. When I returned to Farringdon the next day, all that stood between me and my button was a piece of metal and 660 volts of electricity. Being the idiot that I have already demonstrated, you will not be surprised to learn that I refused to acknowledge this fact. Once I had waited for a sufficient interval between two approaching trains, I extracted my button with a skill and dexterity that would baffle anyone who knows me. Although surgeons and detectives alike would have delighted in my untapped talent, their offers of employment would have quickly rescinded when they discovered what triviality had sparked my sudden gift.

If I thought, for one naive nano-second, that my act of indiscretion had gone unnoticed, I was wrong. As I hastily made to exit the terminus, I was soundly tapped on the shoulder by an unimpressed tube attendant who’d seen the whole sordid thing on CCTV. I looked up at her like a guilty schoolboy and gulped nervously when she exclaimed:

"You risked life and limb for a button?"

At that very moment, I suddenly grasped the absurdity of my situation. There I was, clutching a button in one hand and a child’s incarnation of Gandalf’s staff in the other. I looked ridiculous and I have the photo evidence to prove it. All I could do was mumble an apology and slump home with a posture reminiscent of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I felt no enormous sense of well-being after my little triumph. I felt unspeakably foolish. 

Don’t try this at home kids.

PS: Did I mention that the button was plastic?

Taxi! I’m not hailing you; I’m simply asking that you preserve my life for a higher purpose.

I was nearly mown down by an errant taxi this weekend! Before you all rush off to purchase black armbands let me assure you that I am no longer in a critical condition.

Normally, I would hold myself accountable for trespassing recklessly onto a congested street. I cannot begin to count the number of friends to whom I owe my life. These superheroes usually clench me fiercely by the neck just as I am about to launch myself in front of the nearest motorised juggernaut.

However, as I stood on Brick Lane last Saturday, I made no attempt to play Kamikaze. Any reveller ‘worth their salt’ will tell you that Brick Lane itself is ostensibly pedestrianised. The only wheeled vehicles that venture down its cobbled walkways are either taxis or stolen bicycles. Not surprisingly, those cars that do attempt to venture through the milieu of partygoers will be moving no more quickly than the street’s indigenous population of prostrate inebriates. This detail proved to be particularly fortuitous when I felt a tyre make hostile contact with my right leg.

As I stared through the windscreen at the idiot cabbie with a mixture of bafflement, incredulity and an overwhelming sense of my own mortality, I wondered what might have happened if he had been travelling at a normal velocity. The fact that he can’t have been clocking more than 10 miles per-hour when he hit me only added to my hatred of that segment of society bereft of brain-cells. I know I should try to suffer fools more gladly but, for the love of Shreddies, did I really need to be wearing a high visibility jacket and some flashing Christmas lights to ensure my own safety!

After petulantly noting the offending number-plate, I limped along to my party and proceeded to regale attendees with tales of my brush with death.

The shrewd amongst you will realise that, had my injury been remotely terminal, I would have been in A & E, rather than by the spirits cabinet in my friend’s conservatory. My only defence can be that I was the hapless victim of an injustice and that I had been drinking. And, as we all know, drinkers are prone to exaggerate, particularly if they happen to be theatrical ponces.

This time I escaped with a battered calf muscle but next time I may not be so lucky.

Ps: It galls me that I wasn’t even offered a free lift. I mean, the mini-cab driver knew that he had put me in a state of diminished mobility. I ask you, is there no compassion left in this world!? Perhaps he was aiming for me and, if that really was the case, who can blame him.

A Rather Unpleasant Business

Anyone casting a summary glance at my desk will immediately assume that I must be some sort of hypochondriac.  The surface is littered with more placebos than you would expect to find in Howard Hughes' weekly prescription packet.

I survive, partially sedated, on a vitamin diet of Berocca tablets, Echinacea, antioxidant tea and cod liver oil.  If there is a recommended daily dosage displayed on these medicines, I will typically double it. Thankfully, I'm not hunting for a job as an adviser in my local pharmacist, although such an occupation might significantly cut my monthly expenditure on these pointless products.

As I shove the fourth paracetamol of the day crudely down my oesophagus - I no longer need water - it occurs to me that I harbour a latent terror of potentially becoming ill.  You see, I never usually get ill at all.  I have never taken a day off work - a smug fact which I never fail to impress on my long suffering colleagues.

I simply refuse to accept the notion that, as a biological specimen, it is part of life's course to feel peculiar every now and again; the idea is anathema to me.  I can't bear to think that I may one day be too incapacitated to perform a Kites show and yet, on Monday, this is nearly exactly what happened.

I spent the Friday prior to our gig at the Social feasting on a platter of oysters, mussels and escargot.  I had just been paid and decided to treat myself to a rare spread of shelled delicacies from the ocean. Those people who might want to punch me in the ear for such culinary pomposity will be pleased to learn that I suffered violent food poisoning as a result.  And, believe me, there is nothing worse than being sick on putrefied seafood.

I eventually arrived on-stage at the Social with Listerine breath and a decidedly green complexion; a pretty sight to behold.  To my amazement, I found reserves of energy that I never knew existed.  I can only thank the wonderful audience and my beautiful bandmates for this unlikely stamina.

On this ocassion, illness had been defeated.  The show must go on!