Short Story: Taking The Grimsby Out Of…

Short Story: Taking The Grimsby Out Of The Girl

I haven’t posted a story for what seems like a long time.

This has coincided with my transformation.

My transformation of becoming what is either a normal or an abnormal person. This remains open for interpretation.

I think when you start writing poetry about exploding glass tables, it’s safe to say, you’re not fucking normal. Nor is it normal for a dining table to just blast into a pile of glass shards whilst you’re casually eating your breakfast one morning. I’ve since received numerous explanations. Apparently you shouldn’t put a laptop with a hazardous battery and a broken fan on a fragile surface. A mini earthquake? Construction work next door? Or Panjita’s explanation, a message from God, telling me to change my ways.

Message from God it may be, but this didn’t help me with the ‘what the fuck do I tell my landlord’ problem. Fascinated with the piece of glass that was supposedly ‘shaped like Taiwan’, Panjita was sure this was some sort of sign. An indication of new times. If I leave her alone with that piece of glass long enough she’s going to be convincing people they’re the new golden spectacles of the millennium. Meanwhile, I’ll be gradually turning insane, pouring my heart out with sensitive words of wisdom about how the fractures in my furniture represent the fractures in my life.

Since arriving in Taiwan, not only I have I discovered I am a sentimental poet, I have also started accompany Panjita to the stationary aisle at Carrefour and am living a sexless life. These are all indications of a person who is not normal. Okay, so I did see two testicles in the smoking area of a bar the other night, but the two didn’t belong to the same man, rather a pair of old creeps who had nicknamed their individual balls ‘The Brains’. Well, you can kind of see where they got it from, they were all bald and vainy, and as my mother said, a man’s brain does belong in his trousers. However, you know, I’d been hoping that I had reached a certain point in my life where I could put the mouldy old testicles behind me. By this I mean in the past.

However, I’m still writing the usual notes to myself, to keep a track of my sanity. Here is a copy of my most recent:

You just have eaten the worst thing you have eaten.

A pork floss sandwich.

Complimented by a black greasy hair.

Plus, you arrived early at work today.

2 hours too early.

P.S. You smoked your last cigarette half-way through the hour walk here.

So no sneaking outside to kill the time.

Have a nice day.

I’m considering adding it into my poetry anthology and titling it ‘Little Black Greasy Hair’.

Well, this all may be part of the culture shock thingy-ma-jig they warned us about at work. I was all blasé about it. Like one day I was going to wake up and think, oh shit, I’m in Asia, now that’s a surprise. If only I had the time to describe some of the places I have woken up. It’s more of a case of, oh shit, I’ve just woken up and household items are exploding. Furthermore, they didn’t warn me that I’d turn into a born again virgin. If I’d have known I would have gracefully stood up, said excuse me and told them they could stick their job right up their ass. A career like that warrants some sort of compensatory pay.

Nevertheless, I guess what is abnormal to one is completely normal to another. Maybe this is what they actually mean by leading an honest and quiet life. The other week I met a guy and instead of my first thought being, wow I’d like to take off your trousers, I thought wow, you look like a guy with a really warm heart. This was shortly followed by, wow, you do look awfully like a monkey, but an awfully cute one who I’d really like to cuddle. And what was really sad was I couldn’t think of one of my usual crude and dirty lines to seduce him with. Instead I asked him a question he’d already answered and told him the story of the hairy pork sandwich. I thought if you went through a spiritual transformation, your life was supposed to get less embarrassing?

I used to be a strong believer in ‘you can take the girl out of Grimsby, but you can’t take the Grimsby out of the girl.’ Well guess what, it’s out baby! No longer do I wake up to the scent ‘Eau de Grimsby’ - breadcrumbs and rotting fish. And the closest I’ve been to a sick bowl in months was the day I accidentally drank a glass of tap water. Not one bottle of Frosty Jacks in sight.

Therefore, please excuse me if I’m not blogging very much over the next few weeks. I may be working on my next novel, potentially titled ‘There is a better way’ or ‘Follow that light’.

No, I must apologise. I’m being one hundred percent sarcastic. I’d screw that monkey-looking dude at the very first opportunity and am currently preparing a phrase book of 100 dirty lines to get me there.