May 31st 2006

“What do you know about what happened to our fucking dog?”

I had opened the front door to be greeted by an angry-looking Wayne Pollitt. Not a welcome sight first thing in the morning I can assure you. I am an accomplished liar when the occasion demands and when faced with an irate man built like a brick shithouse who could eat me for breakfast I am an even more accomplished coward, so I feigned complete innocence. “Has something happened to your dog?” I said, a picture of concern.

“It’s been asleep for two days. The vet says it’s in a bleedin’ coma.”

“I see.” I thought for a moment, as if addressing myself to the problem of bringing You Twat out of its coma. “You could try singing to it.”


“What’s its favourite piece of music? ‘How Much is that Doggy in the Window’ perhaps?” I searched my brain for other dog songs. “Or ‘Old Shep’ maybe?”

His bloodshot eyes bore into me. “Are you fucking mental?”

“Not at all. It’s a proven fact that if you play their favourite pieces of music to people in a coma it quite often brings them out of their coma. There was a case in the papers only the other week. A couple constantly played Cliff Richard songs to their mother and she came out of the coma after three days. Mind you it put the couple and one of the nurses intoa coma but……Anyway, if it works for people there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work for dogs too, so….

Pollitt eyed me balefully. “The bloke next door said you were a bit of a twat.”

Our mutual next door neighbour is Mr Jones so I took it he must have meant his next door neighbour on the other side, Mr Pomfret. “So Mr Pomfret thinks I’m a bit of a twat, does he?” I said.

“What? No, the other side, Jones.” I made a note to tell The Trouble to cross Jones of our Christmas card list and not to lend him my hedge trimmers ever again. And probably piss on his bedding plants when he was out too. “So what do you know about it then, Mr Clever Fucker?” Pollitt persisted.

“What makes you think I should know anything about it?”

“Because you’re the twat what complained about it if I know anything.”

“I regularly complain to the window cleaner that he’s missing the corners but I’ve never yet felt the need to put him in a coma for it.”

He made a fist and threatened me with it. “If I find out it was you had anything to do with it I’ll fucking chin you.”

“Very well. But you won’t. Have a nice day.”