Well readers, I heard a nasty story from Dan at work today. He was cycling in Richmond Park on the weekend, apparently, when a car overtook him and collided head-on with a deer that ran into the road with no warning. Not that deer are known to give warnings ordinarily, of course. If it had shouted “coming, ready or not” the driver probably wouldn’t have heard it over the roar of his car engine anyway. And he would never have realised that he’d just killed the world’s only talking deer.
Who knows, that may be what actually happened… In which case that’s a loss for the worlds of both science and entertainment, not unlike the sad passing of Johnny Ball. Johnny wasn’t run over by a thoughtless road hog in a drop top Merc while crossing a road without looking, though. Thank (your) God. What a legend that man was. RIP JB.
Anyway, this reminded me of a friend of mine who I’ll name only as “The Clinician” because he probably wouldn’t want me to tell you his real name, where he works, which famous tennis player he resembles from certain angles or any other details that might reveal to unsuspecting friends and family that he enjoys nothing so much as to casually despatch innocent members of the animal kingdom.
Speaking of tennis players, I was once assured by somebody who claimed to be very close to the situation that former tennis player Tim Henman shagged Tangerine Dream Sue Barker in the dressing rooms at Wimbledon. I’m not saying it happened, I’m just saying what I was told, so the lawyers can go spin. Ugggh. Rather him than me, though. Barker by name, Barker by nature. Lol!!
If Henman in fact didn’t shag Sue Barker, then he has that in common with Sir Cliff Richard. That and the fact that he’s on the very long list of British Embarrassments.
Assuming Henman didn’t shag Sue Barker, it was probably because he choked at the crucial moment in the seduction, perhaps while his Dad looked on, stony-faced, from his seat off to the side. I always got the impression that Timmy was in a lot of trouble with his dad when he didn’t win, and that he got locked in the cupboard under the stairs because: “There’s no room in this family for losers Timothy!!”
Or maybe it would be because every time he made a tiny bit of progress towards having sex with her he’d stop and do fisty-pumps and she’d just get bored. Like it’s a big deal to get to first base with Sue Barker!
Andy Murray, now he’s a different story altogether. If he had the chance to shag Sue Barker, he’d see it through, although he probably wouldn’t be too happy about it and he might insist on listening to his iPod and having a towel covering his head the whole time. If it was me, I’d stick a towel on Barker’s head too, just in case mine fell off. Lol!!
Rafael Nadal, well he’d probably end up breaking a few of her bones, such is his raw power, while Roger Federer wouldn’t shag Sue, he’d make love to Sue, with grace, and beauty. With the poise of a ballerina and the cold precision of an assassin. He probably wouldn’t even break a sweat. It would be interesting, wouldn’t it, if Sue Barker had had sex with all the leading tennis players from the men’s tour over the years so we could see if their tennis game reflected their moves in the boudoir. What a kiss and tell that would be. The News of the Screws would probably shit itself in glee just at the thought of it.
Once upon a time Sue Barker was very tasty. Indeed, as a young boy I once lay down on the floor under the television screen, to see if I could see up her skirt. I couldn’t though. So I had to imagine it.
Anyway, back to the deer, which is what I wanted to tell you about in the first place. The Clinician once hit a deer with his car and when he went to see if it was dead, he found that it was alive. So he went back to his car, got a jack handle and finished the poor thing off himself, blow after blow after blow, with flecks of blood and brain matter speckling his face. He’s nothing if not thorough.
Fine, he probably did the right thing with the only tools he had to hand. Then another time, I was in the car with him for this one, we stumbled across a young lady who had knocked over a lamb. The poor thing was still alive, but it wasn’t going to get any better.
I’m afraid I would probably have gotten back in my car and put it down to the stony-cold heart of that old sow Ma Nature, but The Clinician grabbed the lamb’s head, put his foot against it’s shoulder and broke its neck. It was for the best, but that didn’t help cheer up the young lady that had knocked it over.
I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me that he’d take so easily to this kind of behaviour, because he’s a vivisectionist by trade and the happiest chap in his job I have ever met. He absolutely loves it. If anything needs to be tested on animals, he’s your man. At work, or at home; he doesn’t mind. If we ever see a beagle when we’re out in the street, he gets this distant, serene look in his eye. It really is lovely to see somebody so contented by his daily toil. I don’t invite him round to mine, though, because I don’t like the way he looks at Matthew and Steven (my cats, for newer readers).
The Clinician is a vegetarian, oddly enough. That’s vegetarians, though, completely fucking illogical.
Anyway, I’m offski.