From our correspondent in Salcombe, David Cohen.
28 Silly me....
The evening train from London Victoria is crammed with gin sodden city types, aarrffing their idiotic way home.
Regular stops are made at various sodding (sic) suburbs. Pinstripes are disgorged on to platforms....
"Yah, George, heh, heh, never did find the head...." ".....tomorrow" "dahling, mwah..." etc.
A red light prompts a jolting unscheduled stop, just 100 yds short of 'Crapping on the Common'. This being (or almost being as it turns out) the usual disembarkation point for Dimbleby-Ffawkes.
He wakes with a start, farts, wipes the perspiration from his eyes, grabs his briefcase and rolled umbrella, tucks 'The Times' under his arm... twists the door handle, farts again .... and ..... steps out into space.
No-one moves; a tableau of slack jawed commuters. Eyes focused on the open door and the likely mess beyond.
Dimbleby-Ffawkes, however, didn't get where he is today, and probably never will.
First the umbrella, then the briefcase, and then the man himself, enacting a bizarre Flynnesque parody, hauls his bulky frame back into the train, his newspaper clenched between his teeth.
He gathers his bits and pieces, brushes himself down, crosses the carriage, reaches for the handle, hesitates ..... turns, and, with a self-deprecating grin, our hero slurs to an audience held in suspended belief "Silly me" and with that he confidently opens the door and strolls off onto another platform that isn't there.
'Silly me' indeed!
It's always been a tradition amongst the English idiocracy to name their villages after their perverse little habits. So 'Crapping on the Common' could just as easily have been called 'Buggering the Poor'.
The countryside is littered with hamlets whose appellations are little more than thinly disguised innuendo.
Sodding in the Marsh
and so on.........
© Ian Gillan 1997
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