Saturday, February 23, 2013

THE MEN IN ANORAKS CAME FOR ME ON MY BIRTHDAY

They came for me.
In the end.
My birthday too.
50.
Me
Not them.
They were...
... well they were men.
Lots of men.
The Men, I was told.
The Men.
In the North Face anoraks.

Big.
Bold.
Bald.
Bellicose.
Baritone.
Geezers.
You know the type.
Thin hair, blue line.
All that stands.
Between.
Between someone and something
And between me and them?

Section 50
The anoraks shout.
With glee.
At me.
Section 50
Alpha North Face hovers.
Intimidating.
Poking me with his nose.
All puffed up on steroids.
Pumping iron.
Swollen duck down
And  big brute great outdoors Michelin torsos.
Pecs, no necks
And vast jars of creatine.
All Kilimanjaro smug.
Way up there.
Top of the food chain.
Gorging on prime bush meat.
And hurling down bone.
Gristle.
Spit.
And threat.
Yeah
Always.
Threat.

Threat of until now unheard of deaths.
Wild internal bleeding African ones.
Remote howl of Nepalese blood bowel ones.
Scary alone whipped by Everest gale ones.
Endless tales of terror.
And loving it too.
They are.
Loving it.
Cos that's how.
That's how the Men in North Face anoraks roll.
Especially.
Out on a Section 50.

OK
"Mr Aphorism For Every Occasion' try this for wit:
'You are.
Officially Sectioned 50ed"

"What do you think boys, reckon he'll look good in a North Face
Mister Smart Arse here?"
Then.
Wrapped quickly, in three sharp jabs to the forehead,
he sermonises summarises
as only a man in a North Face anorak can do:

"Up there for thinking.
Down there for dancing.
Now.
Fuck Off.
Paddy"

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