Tonight, I knew that the deadline for this month’s bloggage was rapidly approaching… but I had nothing. Seriously… Inspiration had fled me like something small and incredibly timid that was startled… and then fled. (And trust me… There is nothing that happened when I was thirteen that I’d care to anecdote about or that you’d want to read)
So I went down the pub.
It is no small secret that I do most of my typing whilst drunk. So I thought that maybe I should get drunk. Also, a fair few of my amusing anecdotes stem from tales that occurred, or at least began in the pub. So heading to the pub was a solid plan… right?
My plan failed. Inspiration did not strike. Amusing hijinks did not gambol, caper or cartwheel across my path.
So I went out for a fag. I had forgotten to pick up my fancy new E-cigarettes, so I was totally and unhealthily old school tonight. While I was standing there outside the pub, shortening my life, I did what I usually do. I people watched.
I clocked (sorry, Britspeak… spotted) a bunch of pissed arseholes outside the pub a few doors up. ‘Heh’, I thought. ‘Pissed arseholes’. This was not an instant and unwarranted judgement on my part. They were acting and talking like pissed arseholes. They were (mostly) big, burly and obviously completely justified in their magnificence. And as such, were being loud and magnificent so all around them could also revel in their greatness. Like all groups of ‘big, burly, blokes’, that had the required short bloke with them.
The big skinhead obviously happened to clock me as I clocked them. As he said to his shorter and even more pissed mate… ‘See that bloke down there by the window? Go knock him out.’
There were many people in the high street. But I was the only one standing there leaning up against the wall next to a large window. I was a little touched and honoured. It is many years since anyone thought me worthy enough to start on me in the street for no reason. Hell, it hasn’t happened since I moved to Canterbury. And that is more years ago than I am willing to admit (cos it would make me sound almost as old as I am).
I braced myself, but didn’t look in their direction. And I must confess… I did smile a little, with anticipation. I’m guessing that the short fella took his mate at his word and started my way, cos moments later the skinhead said with an almost shocked laugh ‘no, don’t’.
I chuckled to myself, finished my fag, went back into the pub and mentioned to a couple of my friends what had occurred, with a wry grin.
It is truly heart warming moment when a pregnant friend steps up and says ‘who was it? I’ll knock them out!’… and means it.
And I totally believed that she would.
On the way home, it rained quite heavily. But there was bright sunshine off to one side. So between the bus stop and my home I spent no small amount of time just standing looking at the rainbow. I smiled at the beauty that just kinda happens around us, as it faded away. Have you ever watched a rainbow fade?
Sometimes they just get paler until they can no longer be seen. Other times they do what this one did. My favourite kind. They disappear from one end to the other. So just before they vanish completely there is a faint part of the colourful arc.
^^ That is the actual rainbow of which I speak… um… type.
Sometimes this world we live in is a place full of marvel. Other times it is both shitty and despicable.
After I got home I watched a documentary on BBC1. I have mentioned in bloggage, in the past (maybe not here, I’m a blog whore), that I volunteer at my local dog rehoming centre. I’ve been doing it for over two years now. I love my pups. It is a Dogs Trust centre. The DT have been running a campaign for quite a while to rescue mistreated pups from Ireland.
I’m not suggesting that all pups in Ireland are mistreated, but there is a school of thought over there (again, not followed by all) that pups are a commodity. When they are no longer of use or worth, they are discarded.
The documentary ‘The Dog Factory’ simply highlighted much that I already knew about. But it both angered and sickened me.
It may be an indicator of my personality, that a drunken arse being sent to attack me just made me chuckle… But people on a separate island treating innocent dogs badly made me want to hurt people with a visceral fervency.
If you are ever considering buying a puppy, please only do it if you can get to meet the mother. And you get to see her with the pups. If you can’t, don’t buy it.
This may sound a little callous. After all, you could be saving that pup from misery. And you almost certainly would be. But you would also (possibly) be perpetuating a barbaric trade. And there are many hundreds of other pups that also need saving from misery.
If you cannot meet the mother, visit your nearest rehoming centre. It may cost you a little more (in money, time and effort), but there are a number of reassurances. The pup will have been cared for while it was there, they will have had medical checks, the will almost certainly have been spayed and chipped… And the centre will offer you continued support and advice. Also, the little more that you spent will go towards helping other homeless pups be cared for until they too find homes.
Ooh, did I just get all preachy. Meh. I will happily stand on my soapbox for things I feel strongly about.
So as bloggages go, this was a mixed bag. But Like I said, I was short on inspiration. Sometimes it goes that way.