Sinister: Squaaaaaaawk!

[Lucy Alder]

The sun yawned, propped himself up on his elbows and blinked.  Then, he
sat up and stretched his candy striped pyjama sleeves across the sky.  The
birds twitched, flexed their beaks and started to sing.  The daisies flung
back their petals and turned around to look at the sun.  And then God came
by and took a nice, long, relaxing pish all over Glasgow.  Again.

The patter of rain against the window of my not-so-lonely tenement didn’t
wake me up.  It’s nine months since I moved to Scotland and I’m far too
used it these days.  What did wake me up, though, was the sound of
breaking glass.  I near jumped out of my skin!  My first reaction was to
curl up into a little ball and hide under the duvet because, obviously,
that’s how to make nasty things go away and leave you alone.  But go away
it did not.  It – whatever it was – came and sat on me.  I could feel
something sharp digging through the covers and into my hip.  Could it be a
phantom?  An alien?  Frank the bunny?  No, there was something a bit odd
about it all.  The Thing was too light to be all that scary.  I peeked out
from under the duvet.

The room looked like a bomb had hit it.  Actually, it always looks like a
bomb has hit it – I’m not the world’s tidiest young lady.  However, I
don’t tend to leave shards of broken glass lying around.  I presumed this
was the result of something smashing through the window.  Could it be a
brick tossed by one of the local neds?  No, surely not – they are far too
preoccupied with experiments involving emptying the gunpowder out of a
load of fireworks into a heap under a car and seeing what happens when you
drop a lighted match onto it.  I could still feel The Thing sitting on my
hip.  I squinted through my bleary eyes in its direction and saw


A parrot.

“About fucking time you were awake.  What the fuck do you think you’re
doing yer wee radge cunt, hiding under the covers when I’m so obviously in
need of medical attention?”

The parrot was looking a trifle distressed, and also bloody.  His feathers
were sticking out in all directions and a greenish goo was running down
one of his legs and onto my not-exactly-cheap John Lewis bed linen.  I
sighed.  This little chap’s reputation preceded him.  In fact, I was
wondering when he might pay me a visit.

“I believe I am in the presence of the Poetry Parrot.”

“Damn right, you are.  Run me a bath, beeyotch!”

“I’ll do no such thing if you’re going to speak to me like that.  Say
please.”  The creature sniffed, which I thought was odd, as parrots don’t
have noses like what we’ve got.

“Pleeeeease.”

“That’s better.”  I went into the bathroom, turned on the taps and swiped
some of my flatmate’s Radox.  While I was sponging the plumage of our
little friend, I asked him where on earth he’d been, and how on earth he’d
got into such a state.
“I got lost,” he replied, “in Missprint Towers.  A long, long time ago,
somebody sent me somewhere, but that person didn’t realise I’d been sent
to them, so I tapped and tapped and tapped at their window and they never
let me in.  I was starving hungry, so I went to the local park in search
of a granny with a bag of bread – I can have a duck in a Square Go any day
so I thought I’d be in with a chance of a feed – but as soon as I found a
perch in a nice silver birch, a gang of bastard squirrels decided to
kidnap me!  Can you believe it?  They took me back to their secret dray,
sat me on a pile of stained headscarves and locked the door while they
decided what to do with me.  It didn’t half stink in there.  Well, I
thought, I’m not going to let these grey bastards keep me here.  There’s
only one thing I can do – fight!  Luckily I had some star shaped martial
arts weapony things tucked under my wing, so the next time a squirrel came
in to check on me, I flung one at him and chopped off his tail!”

“Well done!” I said.

“Thank you, my dear,” he replied, “very kind of you to say so”.  Don’t
forget the downy feathers under my wing, will you?”  I turned him upside
down and gave him a good scrubbing.

“So, what happened next?”

“Well,” said the colourful one, “I’d heard that the way to get a squirrel
is to get his tail
 and it’s true!  He rolled around on the floor,
squealing in agony.  His little squirrelly pals came to find out what was
going on, caught site of the hunk of fluff on the floor and scarpered. 
Before you could say fuckmeinthearse I was out and airborne, but I didn’t
know where to go.  I thought and thought and
 I thought of you”

“Aw, you’re making me blush”

“Don’t flatter yourself darling, it’s just that, out of all Sinister, you
live closest to Alexandra Park, which is where I was, and I needed help,
quick.”

“Well,” I said, “you’re all clean now and I don’t think you’ve got any
broken bones, so I’ll just get you some food.  I haven’t got much in –
will pasta and pesto do?”

“S’pose.”

“OK then, while I’m cooking, you can tell me a poem”

“Righto, this is a good'un so here goes


A Beautiful Young Nymph Going to Bed. 
By Swift, Jonathan .

Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane,
For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain;
Never did Covent Garden boast
So bright a batter'd, strolling Toast;
No drunken Rake to pick her up,
No Cellar where on Tick to sup;
Returning at the Midnight Hour;
Four Stories climbing to her Bow'r;
Then, seated on a three-legg'd Chair,
Takes off her artificial Hair:
Now, picking out a Crystal Eye,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by.
Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse's Hide,
Stuck on with Art on either Side,
Pulls off with Care, and first displays 'em,
Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays 'em.
Now dextrously her Plumbers draws,
That serve to fill her hollow Jaws.
Untwists a Wire; and from her Gums
A Set of Teeth completely comes.
Pulls out the Rags contriv'd to prop
Her flabby Dugs and down they drop.
Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess
Unlaces next her Steel-Rib'd Bodice;
Which by the Operator's Skill,
Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill,
Up hoes her Hand, and off she slips
The Bolsters that supply her Hips.
With gentlest Touch, she next explores
Her Shankers, Issues, running Sores,
Effects of many a sad Disaster;
And then to each applies a Plaster.
But must, before she goes to Bed, 
Rub off the Daubs of White and Red;
And smooth the Furrows in her Front,
With greasy Paper stuck upon't.
She takes a Bolus e'er she sleeps;
And then between two Blankets creeps.
With pains of love tormented lies;
Or if she chance to close her Eyes,
Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,
And feels the Lash, and faintly screams;
Or, by a faithless Bully drawn,
At some Hedge-Tavern lies in Pawn;
Or to Jamaica seems transported,
Alone, and by no Planter courted;
Or, near Fleet-Ditch's oozy Brinks,
Surrounded with a Hundred Stinks, 
Belated, seems on watch to lie,
And snap some Cull passing by;
Or, struck with Fear, her Fancy runs
On Watchmen, Constables and Duns,
>From whom she meets with frequent Rubs;
But, never from Religious Clubs;
Whose Favour she is sure to find,
Because she pays them all in Kind.
CORINNA wakes. A dreadful Sight!
Behold the Ruins of the Night!
A wicked Rat her Plaster stole,
Half eat, and dragged it to his Hole.
The Crystal Eye, alas, was miss'd;
And Puss had on her Plumpers piss'd.
A Pigeon pick'd her Issue-Peas;
And Shock her Tresses fill'd with Fleas.
The Nymph, tho' in this mangled Plight,
Must ev'ry Morn her Limbs unite.
But how shall I describe her Arts
To recollect the scatter'd Parts?
Or show the Anguish, Toil, and Pain,
Of gath'ring up herself again?
The bashful Muse will never bear
In such a Scene to interfere.
Corinna in the Morning dizen'd,
Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd.


The Parrot scoffed down his pasta and then broke off a huge chunk of my
Parmesan and ate that too – blooming cheek!  And then I sent him on his
way, with instructions to visit


*Mr Robin Stout*


because I’m reasonably sure that he’ll look after the Parrot and keep him
alive – WON’T YOU?

Cheerio

Juicy Lucy


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