- Can I eat my own toe?
- Where is the salad?
- Who is the shortest dowager in the village?
- Can’t you turn that damned racket off for one minute?
- Can we change climate’s diapers?
- Why aren’t Volvos more popular?
- What’s wrong with turning students into pasties?
- Isn’t that a pedalo?
- Should I counterbalance a kind act with a nasty one?
- Why Sheffield?
I have taken an offer from Jim ‘Psychoface’ McCullen from the Morningside Mafia to become a part-time contract killer. The first target is Alan Smithy, a stonemason from Riccarton, whose incompetent chipping skills led to an unfortunate misprint on a gravestone. Where it should have read LOVING MOTHER it read FOUL OLD SLAPPER. This isn’t the first mistake Alan has made. He once shot his son through the head with a revolver when he was supposed to kiss him affectionately on the cheek. It seems Alan has cognitive fluff-ups. He sent me a message today reading: “Looking forward to being garrotted in the pub toilets. See you later, honeybee. Al xxx.” Clearly, a man worth whacking. Later on this year I will be chopping off Ian Rankin’s hands, at the request of his publishers, fans, and mistresses.
Yesterday, and this is true, though I’m not in the business of sincerity or candour, unless goosed, and I love a good goosing, I moved a mattress through and slept in the main room. The reason for this supine selection is snow-related. Both bedrooms in my flat are butt-freezing cold and I want to wake up next to a nice roaring radiator. This happens to be in the main room. A case of spinal mismanagement was investigated today when the mattress bust a spring four inches beneath the testicular sanctum where the future Nicholls generation swims in always readiness. Said mattress is now back in the spare room, where a walrus once slept for the night. I wonder what became of him.