The Smell of Fear

Room allocation was a perfunctory affair once I had handed in my teeth and glasses and had my head shaved, but as I gathered my few belongings and followed my room mate, my fate was sealed as surely as if I was standing in the dock when ‘Hanging ‘ Judge Jeffries got out his black cap.

Not many people have shared a room with Mr ‘Some like it Hot’ Walker for 1 night. His better half who loves him dearly must have done it twice. I was sentenced to three nights on the trot (pun intended).

On the first night I scuttled into my bed long before he was due back from Titsagogo, in the vain hope that unconsciousness might render me some immunity. I did not hear him having his fight with the lift, attempting to unlock the apartment deadlock with his car key, or tiptoeing into the bedroom, missing the door by three feet and demolishing a listed supporting wall. Three minutes after his head hit the pillow I was awake. I don’t know whether it was the sounds or the smells, probably both. It was as if someone was systematically ripping his sheet, first one thickness, then two, then three…..but this sheet had no end, the ripping just went on and on and on. How can you smell of goat’s cheese when you haven’t eaten any goat? How can you turn one hot dog into pure hydrogen sulphide? As I lay on my back, watching the ceiling slowly turn from white to green I waited for the inevitable oblivion. I hope I don’t lose my sight.

God is with me. I have made it to the second night, senses intact. This time I am prepared. Windows are open, nose and mouth are blocked with pillow. I can’t breathe, but who would want to? I know he’s visiting Fampant Ranny and Bumphluph2 tonight so he’ll be coming soon. Then he will return to the flat. Here he is. Crashes on bed, snoring in 1 minute 32 seconds, first fart in 1 minute 35 seconds. What a finely tuned machine he is! I listen intently to the rhythmic noise. Wait a minute!…………. Its not a noise!…………….. It’s a tune!………..I know it! It’s ‘Messages’ by Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark. How appropriate. I slip happily into oblivion amazed at the buttock-clenching control the man must have in his sleep.

I am almost looking forward to the third night. Probably a record. My plan is to stop up and watch the Calzaghe fight, thereby missing the worst. I stagger in at 5am. Is he there? His bed laths are broken, paint is peeling from the wall by his bed and the varnish is blistering on the bedframe. The room is swathed in a choking fog. He’s there. I bravely tiptoe closer, listening for the music. But, no, this time the Zips, Plits, Plops and Skrates are less rhythmic. Its not music! Its speech! He’s talking through his arse, and from the sound of it, making a lot more sense than when he’s awake. I’m tuning in. It’s the Gettysburgh Address. The man’s a genius! Can I record it? I try to wake Glen and Ade but cannot break them from their tight embrace. Oh well, such a shame that the world cannot witness true class. I need my bed.

The following morning, blissfully aware that I broke the record and am still alive to tell, I relax in the Jacuzzi with Richard, only to realise when he gets out that it wasn’t a Jacuzzi after all. Was it an hallucination, a dream? Could I take him on tour and make a fortune? Can he perform to order?

I wonder if anyone will ever believe me…