Open up the inbox and what’s there in front of me? An announcement that I myself am following my own blog. WTF? I haven’t been near a funny cigarette in ages, so what possible explanation could there be? Following my own blog? The implications are mindbogglingly Kafkaesque (or perhaps nowadays they say PhilipKDickian) to say the least.
Is it going to be one of those things where I come home from work and find an unexpected doppelgänger sitting there in my flat drinking my tea, smoking my roll-ups and munching on my peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich while strumming on my pretty Telecaster?
(Not to mention getting tea, tobacco, peanut butter and mushy banana bits all over the poor guitar.)
“Hi Boo,” he’ll say. “You mean you didn’t get the memo? Apparently there’ve been a few changes down at Identity Central and they’ve sent me in to take your place.”
“You must be joking, you feckin’ gobsheen,” I’ll say to him. “Get your no-good self out of here now before I call the cops.”
“Call the cops? On who? And whose no-good self are you talking about anyway?” he’ll smirk, showing that smarmy puss I know all too well. (Didn’t I shave it just this morning?)
“On… wait a second. Okay. Fuck it. Just get out. Or I’ll kick your pale spotty arse for you…”
“Oh, that should be interesting. Been doing some yoga lately, have we?”
“Just… just… ah to hell with it – get OUT! or I’ll — ”
Suddenly a stratagem will spring to my mind. “Get out or I’ll tell them all about that Aussie chick you were getting those steamy and highly indiscreet international Skype calls from. You know — that married Aussie chick?”
He’ll stop in his tracks, spluttering, taken aback. “You mean… you wouldn’t… you couldn’t possibly…”
“Don’t worry matey,” I’ll tell him. “I’m wide to your game. I know all about you, remember? Now get out to blazes before I tell them all about that and worse.”
That’ll have him. The only possible course of action open to my trickstery twin will be to finish the tay, leave back the tobacco and the sangwidge, leave down my precious Tele and hit the road, Jack — before I really go to town on him and tell everyone what he used to get up to in that bus shelter, years ago, with young Renvyla McFoosternaum. (Sigh.) Dear old Rennie. Married now, I’ve heard, with three kids in college and a reputation to protect.
Trust me, I know how to deal with his sort. I’ve had plenty of practice after all.
And trust him to get in the last word, the bollocks. Making his way for the stair, and turning just before he steps out the door, making his spake with a knowing sneer:
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around then, Boo. And by the way… nice blog.”
It’s a cruel world we live in, and many’s the twist and turn before we’re ground down to the very ashes whence we came into it, wirrasthrue, wirrasthrue.