'Now is the Time for all Good Salmonidae to Come to the Aid of the Wotsit...'

Trout races north, yet again heeding the claxon-call of the blubbery Arctic denizen.

Though not for the first time.

This snivelling peripatetic pisciform had already once, foolishly and most likely inebriatedly, leapt in to pick up a hot Velvet Gauntlet, with pursuant sour consequence. Subsequently, on command again from regions most frozen and polar, he had irreversibly sullied an almost untarnished reputation in repertory at the much-esteemed Revue on the Pier, with the ill-fated Fitzroy performance. Fitzroy. Rockall. Humbug. And then, most lately, Trout had inter alia been implored to crackle, an exhortation that, momentarily, was taken all too literally...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

... It's getting hot out here


So I'll take off all my clothes


Ooh


So hot


I'm gonna take my clothes off



... except that there are certain expanses of my epidermal anatomy that are whiter than Nanette Newman's knickers, if such optical purity can exist, and solar exposure could result in a visit to the burns-unit as well as eliciting from others writs in the tort of negligence for permanent retinal damage or temporary (quasi) snow-blindness.



Oh yeah. It's 42°C, 85% humidity. Officially.



But I won't shed. Not today,



Anyway, I'd probably wind up in jug, such explicit exposure being not really de rigeur in these parts.



Not, I am aroused to note, that the cabin crew on Air India, whose not unattractive bellies are quite unequivocally on display, are showing any restraint. I elect to idle a while, taking time to observe these women, who, at once both in and out of uniform, provide me with a tantalising snatch of the spice of the sub-continent, busy with hustles and bustles just four hours away to the east...



And where the monsoon rains are falling...



Then, equipped with the newspaper for which I came, I exeunt Terminal Building Left...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

... I step outside.


I try to 'Crackle'.


In fact I might just succeed.


It's 45 f*****g degrees out there and the humidity smacks me in the face like the hot towel they give out on aeroplanes and in Indian restaurants.



My a**e. Is on fire.


Fahrenheit 451.


Spontaneous combustion IS feeling like a possibility.



I look. To see.


But all I can see are the f*****g protein chains drifting across my eye-balls.


There's energy here all right.


The white-light white-heat has rendered me temporarily blind.



I squint. Eventually, to see.



But the only cracks in this carapace are leaking.


The 'schmaahl' is whipping up the fines and hurling them at me.


A hot sand-laden wind threatening defoliation.


Of myself. And my eyeballs.


Like lychees.



The only impossible creature in this landscape... is myself.


But I ain't 'stampeding'.


I ain't 'humming through' the air.


I'm sweating conkers.


Standing still.


Struggling for air.


Getting sand-blasted and thinking I should get back inside.



Sense? Or senseless? I'll be chewing on f*****g quartz for the rest of the day.



Nevertheless, I look.


Desideratum.


But I ain't seeing.



I ain't seeing colour. Or life.



Yes, I can look down; I see the sand.


Grey. Like porridge.


And useless.


I look up; I see sky.


Quasi-blue. Like faded duck-eggs.


And cloudless.


And of course, ever-reliable...



The sun. Oh f*****g fantastic.


It ain't suffusing THIS world.


It's bleaching it. And everything else in its sight.


Desiccating me. Like I'm f*****g coconut.



The rain? Oh f*****g fantastic.


Like I am a f*****g coconut.



But what to do?


This is the life.



You say 'The Fire of Life is consuming you'


I say it surely f*****g feels like it.


You say '... Crackle...'


I say I think I just might...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You will need:


Four decent sized trout fillets.

Lemon Onion Baste:

• a big splash of lemon juice, like a half a cupful
• a shake of sea-salt
• a hardy splash of olive oil
• a tad of sugar
• a shimmy of green onions
• a big old grind of black-pepper
• a liberal glug of brandy

Assorted Herbs:

• Scarborough Fair
• Fennel
• Dill

Instructions

1. Mix up the stuff for the baste.
2. Gently grill the fishy bits for about 8 minutes each side basting liberally.
3. Put the cooked fish on a hot plate and happily sprinkle with the assorted herbs.
4. Pour the liquor over the top and ignite. (Perhaps experiment first in a safe environment, ie, out-of-doors).

Serve with boiled spuds, green runners and lashings of fresh salted butter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh yes. The oil-fields of Arabia are no place for the scalene. But there's plenty of room for the obtuse. And the acute. And the right. It was close. But there was no Cuban tobacco product. And the adipous diva had yet to descant.

So [yet again] humbled, Trout had resumed life in the gently babbling brook that trickled through the desert of his imagination...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Sir,

We applaud emphatically GDN's decision to embrace stream of consciousness as an acceptable method of medial communication such as the Ulyssesian (Joyce, not Tennyson) treatise on the twin towers of sustainable development and eco-tourism which bang a proverbial nail into the dutch elm diseased coffin of the much-maligned hammerhead shark in all the usual allusory, allegorically and metaphorically malapropismical senses. Likewise, the brothers Dylan, whilst collaborating under milk wood recognised that evenin's empire has returned to sand; vanished from my hand; left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping. Thus, in conclusion, GDN is to be warmly congratulated if such future hyperbolical deliberations confusing subjective description without logical sequence or syntax are not only to be confined to Private Eye's 'Pseud's Corner'. This breakthrough will no doubt be some warm relief to the erstwhile marginalised quasi-literati, as well as the Letters Editor whose function will thence be less burdensome. Keep up the good work and roll over Jack Kerouac. I think of your mother... and the tears she cried. But most of all, literacy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But most of all, Small Pond, Big Fish! In fact.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'And he swam and he swam right over the dam'

So, Trout. Where're you off to, in such a hurry?

I'm racing north, heeding the claxon-call of the blubbery Arctic denizen.

Claxon call? I didn't hear anything.

Erm... this...

Hmmm. He doesn't mention you, does he?

No... but er... well, no fair enough, I mean, not yet. But he will. He drives a bandwagon. And I'm getting a seat on it...

Troutisms Archive

06.11.03 Front Page

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