Sometimes when I look at Stanley sprawled on the sofa magnificently as relaxed as any dog could reasonably be arrestingly manifesting his destiny doggedly, whole-heartedly well – I’m filled with jealousy
he’s not worried about global warming governments being reliably appalling the cost of living soaring nuclear countries warring viruses swarming
how many likes you’re scoring
or the struggle you have ignoring the insta-perfections of the people you’re following on your phone at breakfast, first thing in the morning
Stanley never loses his grip but keeps a steady paw on the wheel of his dog-basket ship and only looks up if he hears you flip the door to where the dog food’s kept or he hears you zip your dog walking jacket and fill its pockets from the packet of snacks to feed his tripe stick habit
in other words, his life seems pretty damned easy free of the stress that can make you existentially queasy anyway – that’s how the situation seems to me
but then – hold on there! whoa! maybe dogs hide a good deal more than they show (although listening to him snoring pianissimo I don’t know)
A dog is a variety of Tetrapod (We call this one Stanley just ‘cos it’s handy)
Tetrapod means four feet which as getting about goes is pretty neat even if the early human learned to walk on only two of ‘em
Another interesting fact about Stanley he’s a perfect example of pentadactyly the same hand bones you’d find in the flipper of something like a primitive mud-skipper our earliest common ancestor in what is probably now Manchester no doubt it was nervous when it first broke surface but found it wasn’t so difficult after all to waggle its flippers and learn to crawl (honestly I’ve no idea why finger bones should number five – something to do with the structure of the wrist? you’re better off asking an ichthyologist)
anyway – if it works, why fixit? who the hell needs a surplus digit?
and as Jeff Goldblum once famously said before half the Park was screaming or dead Life finds a way oh-kay thanks Jeff – that’s great but it’s raining, it’s late and I think the power just went off at the gate
At the risk of sounding anthropomorphical Stanley is actually pretty philosophical like Sophocles or Socrates or maybe Plato for example, if I’m peeling a potato to make chips and one of them slips onto the floor he’ll stand there staring a minute or more interrogating the dialectical question: are raw potatoes good for your digestion? but then shake his head sadly and slowly quit the kitchen and the mess I’ve made of it to hop back on to the dog-ruined sofa and fuss awhile with his hairy white toga and look as sad as any seer would that witnessed such tragedies and understood
I don’t think there’s anything particularly sinister that Eton has produced so many prime ministers it’s not a factory with a neon sign workers don’t file in respectfully at nine to stand at a great big assembly line picking from boxes of eyebrows and toeses bags of hats, containers of noses the finished product rolling off in a skip ready to box-up, pallet wrap and ship
and as far as I’m currently aware they don’t have a design department there artists hunched over gleaming desks sketching out the next grotesques tall or short, in either sex with managers arguing in the oaky boardroom about excess stock in the old school storeroom and having lots of heated quarrels about wasting money on giving them morals
No. I think it’s simpler than that and down to one depressing fact the pupils are bred to be nonchalant about taking whatever the hell they want from public money to a butter croissant Eton’s just the perfect environment for growing kids with a sense of entitlement who see the world as a peach for the taking and ignoring all the mess they’re making
never mind how the country suffers from this endless succession of Eton duffers stomping and stinking up the place wagging their fancy white fingers in your face retiring to the Lords while we pay for their mistakes the old school motto? May Eton flourish! (which is why the country’s so malnourished) Britain! A country of venerable institutions (but very few Eton prosecutions)
Jacob Rees-Mogg is now Minister for Haughty Guffawing, Braying and Hooraying Nadine Dorries is Secretary for Suspicious Swaying Priti Patel has gone to Hell with special responsibility for the Styx as well Rishi Sunak is Minister for Tricks Hancock – Minister for Pricks Michael Gove has moved to Mordor Liz Truss is Minister for Striding Down a Corridor Dominic Raab is Lord Chancer and Secretary in a State Sajid Javid is Minister for Stand in a Line Keep Quiet and Wait Kwasi Kwarteng crossed himself and knelt down to be Minister for Business, Energy & Industrial Meltdown Nadhim Zahawi is Minister for Lunches with at Least Four Courses half the budget for the heating of horses but still at the head of this dreadful government Clown in Chief of Sleaze & Befuddlement The Right Dishonourable Boris Johnson (and if he’s a Prime Minister I’m Gloria Swanson)
Boris has called for a Number Ten reset like it’s the Churchill patterned tea set that’s stinking up the cabinet sorry but I’m not having it it wasn’t the conference table or the parquet floor that wheeled suitcases of wine through the big black door cynically dismissing and ignoring all the lockdown rules they’d been imploring the rest of the country to follow and if that wasn’t hard enough to swallow stood up and lied about it to parliament and it certainly wasn’t the cute glass ornament that prorogued the joint and lied to the Queen and it wasn’t that laser operated TV screen that zoomed in to protect its old friend Owen by cancelling the rules he’d so patently broken and not one of the roses in the rose garden stood up and gave a televised pardon to Cummings when he drove to Barnard Castle and I’m pretty certain it wasn’t the gravel and it wasn’t the elegant grandfather clock that got all handsy with Hancock or the antique front door bell that ignored all the bullying and kept Patel it wasn’t the armchair or the walnut settee that slipped millions to friends for PPE or the portraits on the wall going up the stairs who lobbied for companies in which they had shares it wasn’t the salt and pepper shaker that blew £840 on some gold wallpaper or the fine white coving on the ceiling that missed half a dozen COBRA meetings it’s not the building or furnishings that’ve been constantly squirming and skirmishing or that presentation silver-tiled box of Scrabble that slandered Starmer with a word about Saville
this isn’t Disney’s Beauty and the Beast (although Gove’s a spit for Gaston at least) no – it’s a public building – that’s it you can’t blame the furniture one little bit the only reset THAT place wants is a much more direct and urgent response a crew that are all hygienically equipped to bag up ’em all up and toss ’em in a skip
I suppose you could say Stanley is more or less manly (if by manly you mean a white fur coat & tiara-wearing drama queen)
for example
he sprawls most of the day in his basket snoring like a tractor that’s blown a gasket on half a dozen pillows and throws he’s made into a nest with his paws and his nose and lies as still as a mammoth that froze and was lost in the furniture-scattered permafrost sometime around the palaeolithic (sorry I can’t be more specific) till he jumps up howling, horribly distressed so loud you go into cardiac arrest and wonder what the hell coulda happened to make him suddenly so impassioned
and d’you know what made him leap off the floor? he scratched his ear too hard with his paw
Donald hadn’t sounded enthusiastic on the phone. ‘I’m not well’ he said ‘Come tomorrow’ ‘It’s because you’re not well I should see you right away. That’s what the GP has said. I promise I won’t keep you long, Donald.’ A pause, long and weighty as a freight train at a stop light. ‘Come if you’re coming,’ he said at last. ‘There’s a keysafe. Use it.’
*
As soon as I put a hand to the little black box on the side of the house, a big dog starts barking. The notes had mentioned that Donald had a small, active dog, so either it’s a small dog with a big personality or the person who wrote the warning was a giant. Either way I decide to just go for it. I’m good with dogs. Which’ll make an ironic quote for the gravestone.
The dog goes eerily quiet, but I can tell it’s just on the other side of the door as I put the key in the lock. I imagine it holding its ear to one of the panels, frowning. ‘Good boy,’ I say. ‘Who’s a good boy. Or girl…’ I open the door a crack. Immediately a snuffling nose jams itself out as far as possible. ‘There you are!’ I say, uncertainly.
I remembered reading something about how you must never loom over an aggressive dog. Bring yourself down to their level – a little at a slant, mindful of your throat – and say soothing, non-threatening things. Don’t glare at them and make them worse. And if you must hold your hand out, keep your fingers curled.
I push the door open and assume the position.
A dalmatian. An elderly one. Portly and a bit rickety, like a bad taxidermist knocked it off about twenty years ago, and forgot the wheels. ‘Who’s a good boy? Hey? Who’s a good boy?’
The dog gives me a comprehensive sniffing, followed by a contemptuous kind of sneeze, then turns and hobbles back inside. ‘Up here,’ shouts Donald. ‘And shut the door when you come.’
Donald must be a career smoker because the house is as black and drawn as an old kipper shack. If it were only a little lighter I would probably see clouds of smoke and ash rising up around my feet as I climb the stairs, following the corrupted sound of Donald’s coughing to the little back bedroom where he mostly lives. ‘Hello!’ I say. ‘Nice to see you!’ He glares at me from the depths of his flap-eared hat. ‘It wasn’t my bloody idea,’ he gasps.
The Dalmatian wanders in, collapses in its basket, then looks up at me with the saddest eyes, like it wasn’t so long ago it would’ve torn me to shreds, and isn’t ageing a terrible thing? ‘Good girl, Ange,’ says Donald. They stare at me with the same expression.
At first Donald won’t allow me to do anything. I can see he’s struggling, but either through fear or cussedness, he bats away any attempt to win him round. I decide to get to him via the dog. ‘I love Dalmatians, ‘ I say. ‘Have you got one?’ ‘No, but…’ ‘So there you are.’
I try again.
‘What’s that thing about Dalmatians?’ ‘What thing?’ ‘Don’t they suffer with their eyes? Colour blind…?’ ‘Deaf,’ he shouts. ‘They tend to go deaf. It’s genetical.’ ‘That’s it! Deafness!’ I bend down and stroke Ange’s head, which she allows with a very gracious bow. ‘They’re beautiful dogs. Didn’t they used to run alongside mail coaches as well? Something like that?’ Donald leans toward me out of his chair. ‘It carried over to America,’ he says. ‘Back in the eighteen hundreds every yankee firehouse had a Dalmatian or two. Yeah. They used to run alongside the horse and distract any street dogs what might come out and bother ‘em.’ ‘Wow!’ ‘Yeah. And they used to keep the place clean of rats, too.’ ‘That’s a handy dog to have around.’ He settles back in the chair. ‘That’s why you’ll often see Dalmatians in American firehouses. It’s a tradition.’ ‘I never knew that,’ ‘Yeah? Well you do now.’ I stand up again. Ange gives a grumpy sigh and curls up. ‘So – Donald. How about I run a few tests, then?’ He pushes his cap up a little, and sucks his teeth. ‘Go on, then,’ he says, bunching up his sleeve and stretching out his arm. ‘But for God’s sake be quick!’ ‘Why? Where are you off to?’ ‘Sleep, with any luck,’ he says. ‘Jesus H…’
Johnson, Johnson lies and then some he lies about this he lies about that he lies about the dancing in his fancy flat
the coppers on the door say ‘scuse our asking mind that floor don’t break with dancing
thanks says Johnson that will do here’s an invitation just for you so they dance all Easter dance all Christmas tell the papers mind your business
isn’t that a party Johnson says no wasn’t there drinking I don’t know answer me truly I cannot Gray says coolly this is what you got
you got
gin and tonic wine and beer vodka, prosecco pizza from Dominos rubbish says Johnson that’s all fake I only had a slice of birthday cake
I told the country that will do dancing and drinking’s not for you do as I say not as I do
so have a little vodka shoot a little coke knuckle down lockdown don’t be woke it won’t be long before we’ve all gone broke the people spoke can’t you take a joke give the Dick a knighthood Starmer a poke
so bless our country prank the queen count how many scandals there have been
one two three four five six seven eight….
the light is falling the hour’s late someone’s calling with an update
I hope you like my skipping song I won’t stop skipping till Johnson’s gone
