|ETCH A SKETCH TO SUE ALL OTHER RECTANGULAR PRODUCTS|
Why would anyone want to move to this village? It's a death trap, your life expectancy was weeks. It was like a rural dignitas. It would be like looking for happiness in Albert Square.
Having said that, this village had plenty of pretty women and middled aged hunks for us middle aged people to stare at with middle aged eyes while figuring out either our phones, iPish or the plot.
Anyway, one of the characters, a forensic patholigist who had clearly researched where to live, was speaking to another of his number, a much older, wiser and far more sarcastic fella. The first man looked like the type who would wear a safety helmet on an exercise bike. The second looked like if he saw him he would superglue his arse to the seat. My kind of chap.
They spoke in complicated tones about this dead lad's entrails. Then one of them turned to the other and said: "There is strange fluid in his oesophagus. His throat. There is something in his throat."
"Yes, hmm his throat," said the other one, calmly.
Now I know there has to be explanation points throughout the plot for those who struggle to comprehend anything above the level of the Jeremy Kyle show, but this was going too far.
|OH THE IGNOMINY - BATTERED BY A BAT|
In real life, this hairy hunk of contemptuous career loathing would use every hated day of his 40 years experience to turn on the young apprentice.
He would stare him deep in the eyes and say: "Listen dickhead, I know what an oesophagus is. I was cutting up bodies when your dad was still looking at your mum as though she was human and your mum looked at your dad as something more than a walking/sitting/eating/breathing red hot poker in the eye.
"If you do that again I will be forced to beat you to death with this curiously placed bat before ragging you around the mortuary by your septum. That's the partition separating your nostrils you bag of gibbering shite."
I have no idea why writers insist on considering their viewing public as dumb, really dense loons who don't have enough general knowledge to switch the telly on without a helpline gobshite talking them in. They write for the man in the adverts who can't figure out which shoe goes on which foot or why his food comes out of the oven hot.
I was awoken from my inner fury by the Sultana who decided it was time to chat. The battery on the iTwat had presumably ran out.
The conversation was about the iTwat and it's ability to do stuff that I would never need unless my brain became as disengaged as my children around housework.
This one sided chat was interrupted by my iPhone ringing for the first time this week. Congratulations caller, you made it through the darkness and reached me, I whispered hoping the phone wouldn't hear me and impose even more sanctions.
It was a wrong number, a woman asked for some Connor fella.
"Hello," she said all cocky and familiar as if I was used to phone conversations, "is that Connor Fella?"
"Yes but he is unable to come to the phone," I responded equally familiar. "He is laying in a pool of plastic bat induced blood and choking on the septum that is stuck in his oesophagus, that's his throat by the way."
Right am bored, someone scratch my arm, I said to the room by way of ending the evening.