Who has had it away with all the Conkers?

 

An almighty dump greets dawn at the Cut,
accompanied by a very careful and cautious bearer, who has nurtured it over
days, suffering all discomfort and self sacrifice: a Shite is Born! In repose,
drained and reflective, softly sad and relieved by its passing, the bearer
considers a yarn about the fat controllers epistles to Mountjoy Prison, where a
friend and neighbour awaits extradition, accused of drug running tons of
cannabis in the limbs and hydraulics of JCB’s. In the background the fate of
the badger is considered in the light of literature, online gaming, and cider
where it carries vital cultural significance. It is Saturday morning with all
its memories of early symptoms of my condition any moons ago: failed rushes to
the toilet, inability to get off the sofa to pee. Memories of the fall, the
collapse into Old Sparky; this and the rest are a living history, so is my
brother, Murdo Flower, who contacted me via his veteran pigeon, Quentin, to
inform me that, after a large ponder he has entered the National Village Idiot’s
competition (sponsored this year by Rockall Resident’s Collective). I dispatched
a good luck message on a left-handed Rizla, fed Quentin on dead toff pate, and
threw him out the window, before returning to the Smoking Room to find Flora in
hushed chat with a set of wheezy badgers. There is something afoot!