A Tale of Spew Cities
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
A Tale of Spew Cities
Are we sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin!
Once upon a time in the magical island called Manhattan,
- Having seen all these was to see on 5th and 6th Avenues,
- And having been to the very tops of the World Trade Centre and the Empire State Building and having seen everything small;
- And having travelled beneath the ground in the mysterious subway, with its strange sub-human occupants;
I decided that now was the time to make a pilgrimage to a site that was both eclectic and a little off the beaten track. To the White Horse Tavern, where the poet Dylan Thomas drank himself to death.
Early one Sunday morning I set off in the relative quiet period between people coming home from Saturday night excesses and people going out again for Sunday Brunch.
Up through Greenwich I walked. Across Chelsea I walked. Steadfastly following the guidebook clasped firmly in my hand, I tried not to look too much like a tourist. Although the fact that I was walking for more than a block in Manhattan should have been a dead give-away.
A twist here, a turn here, down one road, across another. Finally I was on Hudson heading South. And just as I crossed a side street I saw it: the fabled White Horse.
Several things whirled through my mind at that precise instant as I strode across the road:
- There it is!
- Look right, look left!
- Where’s my camera?
- Is that car going to turn in here?
- I wonder if the pub is open?
- Whatever is that in front of me?
The latter question was the only one that truly matted at this point, had I but known that at the time.
Alas it was all too much. Down went the left leg into the whatever. 'What’s that?' I asked too late to do anything about it as the right leg came down, my weight shifted to it and it slid.
The world swam around me in slow motion for a second, then a strangely combined whump and splut was heard as I hit the ground. For a few seconds I thought of nothing. I looked up - the clouds moved gently across the blue sky as I gently sunk into the Whatever.
Then the questions returned:
- What’s the wet stuff
- What’s that smell.
At last the truth dawned.
I had fallen into the middle of the world’s largest deepest pool of spew. I had broken the crust and sunk beneath. Had the pool been any larger I’d swear that I’d have floated on it. Somehow I climbed out of the gutter and onto the relative safety of the kerb, and surveyed both the damage to my person and the life-threatening spew which had wrought such havoc.
I was drenched, totally saturated and beginning to smell particularly evil. Passers by were giving me a wide berth. Needless to say no one offered any assistance. This was New York after all.
The size of the spew pool defined the imagination. What sort of man, or worse woman, could had chundered with such ferocity. Medical science must be informed and the authorities alerted without delay. There were still waves lapping back and forth and one could imagine tidal effects coming into play. One could have sailed a yacht upon it.
It was obvious to me that I was lucky to be alive – but at what cost? I was drenched, and the acid spew was beginning to dissolve my clothes. At least I’d performed a public service - most of the spew was now on my back and legs, making the passage across the street somewhat safer for mortal man. There was nothing for it but to catch the uptown bus and change back at the hotel.
As I passed the scene of my misfortune two thoughts were in my mind. The first was that perhaps in some strange way that the spew had originated in the White Horse in some medically challenged patron and that therefore I now had some strange connection with that place that was somehow unique and special. After all. I doubted that anyone else would want to share my experience.
The second thought was more of an enduring image. As the bus passed Lake Spew, I could quite clearly see the outline of splayed arms and legs.
In fact, a perfectly formed spew angel in the heart of Manhattan for all to see.
It might still be there.
Are we sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin!
Once upon a time in the magical island called Manhattan,
- Having seen all these was to see on 5th and 6th Avenues,
- And having been to the very tops of the World Trade Centre and the Empire State Building and having seen everything small;
- And having travelled beneath the ground in the mysterious subway, with its strange sub-human occupants;
I decided that now was the time to make a pilgrimage to a site that was both eclectic and a little off the beaten track. To the White Horse Tavern, where the poet Dylan Thomas drank himself to death.
Early one Sunday morning I set off in the relative quiet period between people coming home from Saturday night excesses and people going out again for Sunday Brunch.
Up through Greenwich I walked. Across Chelsea I walked. Steadfastly following the guidebook clasped firmly in my hand, I tried not to look too much like a tourist. Although the fact that I was walking for more than a block in Manhattan should have been a dead give-away.
A twist here, a turn here, down one road, across another. Finally I was on Hudson heading South. And just as I crossed a side street I saw it: the fabled White Horse.
Several things whirled through my mind at that precise instant as I strode across the road:
- There it is!
- Look right, look left!
- Where’s my camera?
- Is that car going to turn in here?
- I wonder if the pub is open?
- Whatever is that in front of me?
The latter question was the only one that truly matted at this point, had I but known that at the time.
Alas it was all too much. Down went the left leg into the whatever. 'What’s that?' I asked too late to do anything about it as the right leg came down, my weight shifted to it and it slid.
The world swam around me in slow motion for a second, then a strangely combined whump and splut was heard as I hit the ground. For a few seconds I thought of nothing. I looked up - the clouds moved gently across the blue sky as I gently sunk into the Whatever.
Then the questions returned:
- What’s the wet stuff
- What’s that smell.
At last the truth dawned.
I had fallen into the middle of the world’s largest deepest pool of spew. I had broken the crust and sunk beneath. Had the pool been any larger I’d swear that I’d have floated on it. Somehow I climbed out of the gutter and onto the relative safety of the kerb, and surveyed both the damage to my person and the life-threatening spew which had wrought such havoc.
I was drenched, totally saturated and beginning to smell particularly evil. Passers by were giving me a wide berth. Needless to say no one offered any assistance. This was New York after all.
The size of the spew pool defined the imagination. What sort of man, or worse woman, could had chundered with such ferocity. Medical science must be informed and the authorities alerted without delay. There were still waves lapping back and forth and one could imagine tidal effects coming into play. One could have sailed a yacht upon it.
It was obvious to me that I was lucky to be alive – but at what cost? I was drenched, and the acid spew was beginning to dissolve my clothes. At least I’d performed a public service - most of the spew was now on my back and legs, making the passage across the street somewhat safer for mortal man. There was nothing for it but to catch the uptown bus and change back at the hotel.
As I passed the scene of my misfortune two thoughts were in my mind. The first was that perhaps in some strange way that the spew had originated in the White Horse in some medically challenged patron and that therefore I now had some strange connection with that place that was somehow unique and special. After all. I doubted that anyone else would want to share my experience.
The second thought was more of an enduring image. As the bus passed Lake Spew, I could quite clearly see the outline of splayed arms and legs.
In fact, a perfectly formed spew angel in the heart of Manhattan for all to see.
It might still be there.
