Cobblestones fill with freakish personas

The cobblestones fill with freakish personas





Romford sits on the eastern out skirts of London, roughly two hundred and fifty miles away from Newquay, Cornwall. There is a reason for this. There are things in between.





Colgate Extra Whitening toothpaste: √

Chocolate Lynx deodorant: √

Crabtree and Evelyn eau de toilette: √

At least 1 pair of matching socks: √

Pink fluffy handcuffs x3: √



Everything was in place. The black and white holdall was filled to the brim. The main two zips that unite with one another in the middle for maximum closure could not unite. The scraggly black hair from the wigged Saw mask poked through the gap, groping at its remaining oxygen before it is flung into the boot of a black BMW. The brown boots sat and stared on the crimson mat, tongues wagging, waiting eagerly for a toe to surpass its tough leather and suck at the gritted tar once more. The resting place of the keys and the wallet were fostering a new essential object for a last minute pickup. The white paper which adopted black words, stating ‘Confirmation’ sat with folded arms and was silent. The key was accompanied by an imprisoned metal foot, used to chew the heads off of bottle necks. They made a good pairing.

A white hand hugged at the keys, wallet and paper and slipped them into their seasonal home of pocket, a cosy place where no one could hear them scream or laugh or be completely still and quiet because of the inanimate objects they were.

Lateness was a destitute in manners according to Tel. It was an unnecessary occurrence in almost every situation. A good excuse for lateness does not include traffic, last minute phone calls, dogs that had been shaven by neighbours or dead relatives.  For all the years Tel had known Brad he had never experienced an on time honk of the horn, let alone an on time rat a tat tat at the door. This particular time was no exception. Tel grabbed a boot and yanked it with both hands, hard and fast, sole kissed sole, the big brown boots liked it rough, apparently, so Tel tells himself, sometimes. The second boot was halfway on or halfway off (you decide) when Tel reached for the door handle, still bent over, he grasped the gold phallic shaped knob and pulled down on it. The door swung open.

Still in a half crescent position he raised his head toward the oncoming glare of sunlight, squinting and refocusing his eyes to counter balance the rays. Two silhouetted figures stood before him, looking very similar to Adam and Brad, only slightly larger in width, longer in hair, more feminine in gender and Jehovah’s witnesses.

Tel hadn’t seen the guys since the previous night. ‘What a difference eight hours makes’ he thought.

Whilst the disciples spoke the word of God, Tel’s eyes slowly travelled down to the Marilyn Manson book in hand. The irony was exhilarating. During their preach of the miracles of their saviour Mr Christ, a contrasting preach could be heard in the form of Slipknots ‘The Heretic Anthem’ screaming from the speakers of a fast approaching vehicle. Tel’s saviour had truly arrived. Two atheist angels appeared, wings replaced with sarcasm and finger gestures, releasing him from his hell of a heavenly sermon.  Brad came to a screeching halt, parking his BMW using the special female technique. This of course means nowhere near the kerb and as straight as Dale Winton playing Supermarket Sweep with Graham Norton sitting in the trolley sucking on the toe of George Michael who in turn is singing ‘It’s Raining Men’ to an audience of Boy George, Matt Lucas, Will Young, Elton John and Stephen Fry who happen to be gagged and chained together with ‘pink fluffy handcuffs x3’ at one of Michael Barrymore’s ‘kinda’ queer pool parties.

Shortly after the women’s preach had begun it had finished. Well the preach hadn’t necessarily finished but the fact that Tel was in the car half way up the road with Slipknot blaring out suggested he had gathered sufficient evidence suggesting God was not in his immediate plans; plans which largely consisted of alcohol, one night stands and the occasional penis. The woman was more than likely relieved to see the back of him anyway after his, ‘I’ll look her up, wink wink’ response to her ‘my sister lives in Newquay’ statement.

Out of Hillfoot Avenue, out of Collier Row, out of wretchedness. They sped along the A127 leaving the chav infested hole of shit known as Romford in their rear view mirror, which they immediately scrubbed so not to leave a stain. The Percy Pigs were equipped. The road trip was underway. Roughly two hundred and fifty one miles to go. They went the wrong way.