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Hoses of the Holy in the Parallel Universe

January 20, 2006


I was Billy-no-mates today at lunchtime because everyone was working-from-home, on leave, or otherwise engaged. I made the mistake of ordering slow food (an omelette that takes 30 minutes to burn on their hotplate) from the cafe.

While I was waiting a car pulled up outside. A young man and two spotty girls inside. It had a drum machine looping in the car... tum-pit tarrr tippy tum-pit tarrr... ad infinitum. And very loud.

But what really made me stare was that as they got out they were dancing. A sort of smug shuffle or wiggle. They also had sunglasses on, and moved their pointed fingers about in time to the noise from their drum machine.

The two girls sashayed off to the newsagent and came back with crisps and fizzy pop. The boy went into the cafe. They left the beatbox playing loudly in the car, with two windows opened by about 3 inches so they could keep in time; so that the rest of us, in our dark little lives, could appreciate the fineness of their noise, and thus, by association how fine they were, like beautiful and unearthly ephemera.

7 minutes later they all came back to the car. Still dancing with their fingers and speckled foreheads. I heard them mention something about assignments. And bacon. Tum pit tarrr tippy tum-pit tarrr. Then they closed the doors and drove away, heads still rocking like synchronised retards in time to the beat.

If I could, I'd've stoved their heads in with a paving-hammer. As it happens I had to console myself with the fact that the top-loading washing machine my old mum had in the mid-sixties made better, more thrilling, music than theirs.


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