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I wandered around to the back of the petrochemical plant where they’d found Mr
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Gwatkin’s jacket in 1974. Sleeves turned inside out
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With a tin of sweetcorn in each pocket. The rumours surrounding his disappearance
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Are many and varied. Though we should for the time being at least accept the version of
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Events given to us by the lamentable chap himself on his eventual return.
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In doing this however, we must also keep in our thoughts
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The findings of better minds who conclude that Gwatkin as-is no longer
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Represents Gwatkin as-was.
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Piecing together an occasional vague sentence and some garbled chanting heard during the
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Small hours, it appears that our victim was making his way home from the Pessimist
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Festival in Mollington when he was set upon by a gang of miscreants, the
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Chief malefactor of whom was a particularly vicious character going by the name of
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Bridgedale. So called on account of a thermal sock with which he
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Gloved his fist whenever he became tetchy and needed to punch somethink.
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Unable to comply with the rabble’s hot tempered demands for unreasonable
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Things such as cathedral juice and vicar shit, the heavily pummelled
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Innocent was dragged into the churchyard of St. Lawrence and there left to his own
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Devices next to the grave of young Nelson Burt – whose own tragic
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Tale is of particular interest to the local historian.
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It is believed that within twenty minutes of this episode, a further attack was witnessed by
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One Slow Dempsey of Woodside Farm, who alleged that he saw the
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Aforementioned Bridgedale scuttle a full four hundred feet along the Wervin Turnpike
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To deliver a perfect Haymaker onto a stray colt. This afternoon I
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Visited Daniel Gwatkin in the confined place which he will probably never leave.
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I was offered redbush tea and a fig roll. The pleasantry gave
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Hope for lengthy discourse but cheer was swiftly dismissed as the pitiful subject
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Proceeded to gaze out of a large window for what seemed like an age, before
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Turning around to fix me with pitch black sockets which simply said
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“Help me”. Then came the song:
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Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
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Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
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I write to people, they don’t get back to me. I write a second time, they don’t reply.
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To ease the loneliness and pass the time I pace the room, inventing bands;
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Experimental trio from Borehamwood – ‘Hall, Stairs and Landing’: they’re really good.
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Scott Verplank did not get back to me. Newcombe and Roche, still no response.
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Congolesi Unsworth, Glaswegian Runes, the singer’s granddad writes all the tunes.
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Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd. Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd.
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Uh-oh Chongo! It’s Danger Island!
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Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
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Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd.
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Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
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Cresta!
