COUNTRYSIDE CATS

AND WE ARE BACK, PEOPLE! And we are hitting the road running. Or at least fighting.

Alright, as I said a few weeks back, I haven't run out of material from my last job, so expect more of Brian and the time I drove right through the middle of a street riot at the very least, but we will kick off the return to FAG TO GO with a taste of my new job.

My new job is delivering pizzas, by the way, only it is not in a city like it was last time, now it is back in my childhood home of THE COUNTRYSIDE. The job is quite different (it pays MUCH better, for a start) in that the large majority of the drops are very very close (5-10 minutes round trip) with the occassional drop that calls for you to drive to a nearby village, and when I say nearby I mean like 40-50 minutes round trip.

The amount of petrol money we get is scaled depending on distance, if you care (you don't, but I forgive you, for that is just one of the ways in which I am eerily similar to Our Lord and Saviour).

Another difference, which I discovered last night, is that animals are a lot less scared of humans. Especially at night. In the city, birds and foxes and cats make sure to stay the fuck away from the roads, and try to avoid contact with anything human or vehicle shaped in general. In the countryside, on the little back roads, when the sun's gone down and badgers are more frequent road travellers than cars, things are different.

A LOT different.


OH MY FUCKING CHRIST JUST LOOK AT IT


So, anyway, I've just delivered a bunch of pizzas to a charming young lady whose house smells so strongly of "Mary Jane" (weed, yo) that I'm pretty sure I'm high as I make my way back to my car. Incidentally, I went to the wrong house first, because - and this is another classic feature of the countryside - the road signs were sufficiently ambiguous as to make it look like a couple of the houses around the junction were existing on three different roads at the same time.

It's motherfucking Schrodinger's address, people.

The lady who lived at the wrong house was neither charming nor young. I was informed that this was "the third fucking time" I'd come to her house by mistake, and when I politely tried to inform her that this was only my second night in the job and the first time I'd come to this road, she rather cunningly responded by opening the door to her utility room and threatening to sic her Labrador on me.

Another thing that's different about the countryside: at eleven o clock in the evening, no one can hear you scream.

After amicably parting ways with the twisted old hag who DIDN'T, as it turns out, live on the Delkin, and after delivering a monumental stack of pizzas to the most articulate stoner I've ever met, I head on back to my car and fire up the engine. It starts on the second attempt, which these days is a damn good turn of events, and I'm on my way.

Only I'm not on my way, because no sooner am I round the corner than I'm slamming on the brakes, hastily deccelerating (is that a word) to stop a few feet in front of this humungous fluff-ball of a feline.


OHHHHH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT

It just looks at me, it's eyes all weird and shiny as cat's eyes are wont to be in the evening. It's sitting down, evidently quite comfortable where it has decided to rest for the night. If it was me, I would not choose to sit in the middle of a road when there is a pavement but two feet away, no matter how untravelled said road is in the later hours, but whatever. I'm not a cat. So what the fuck do I know.

I pull my foot slowly up off the clutch and start to creep forward. It doesn't take long to ascertain that the cat hasn't been afflicted with the "deer/cat in the headlights" syndrome: his eyes remain locked pretty firmly on mine as I slowly but surely get closer and closer to committing greivous animal cruelty. It doesn't take much longer than that to realise yon moggy is quite definitely not intimidated by me or my car. It's a '97 Corsa, so I'll admit it isn't the most awe-inspiring of vehicles, but come on, dude. It can still run you over.

But no. I get so close I swear there's gotta be cat hair all over my license plate, but no dice. The little fuzzy shit ain't moving. He's quite comfy, thanks, and fuck everyone else. Even people who've got jobs to be getting on with.


WHAT A WANKER

Bear in mind it's not like I can go the long way round or anything. Multiple entry and exit ways? In the country? Are you having a fucking giraffe, mate?

Next logical step, then, is to start flashing the little cunt with my brights. ON, off, ON, off, ON, off, for about twenty seconds, just flashing anyway. The kind of shit that would kill epilectics and inspire epilepsy in until-then totally healthy individuals.

Does he care?

Does he fuck.

Right. That's it. I'm done being nice. I'm done giving a shit about this cat, the people that live on this cat's street (I mean, one of them probably owns the furry twat, so a double fuck you to whoever that may be), and basically the whole of the countryside, ever. I lean on my horn, and I lean on it HARD. It's not the noisiest horn in the world, but it's plenty noisy enough. After about ten seconds I see a few lights switch on here and there up and down the street, and I suddenly remember the bitter old bitch with the energetic young Labrador and waking up the locals at this end of town ceases to seem like such a good idea.

For the record, the cat is still sitting in the middle of the road, and he's still watching me.


YON BUGGER WILL SURELY BE THE DEATH OF ME

Right. Well then. Bollocks to it. I'm getting out of the fucking Delkin and I'm getting out of it now. I get out of my car and walk round to the cat. He looks up at me, and I read the look in his eyes more clearly than I have read anything in my life (and I have read a book that was written for half-blind children).

The look says: "I win,"

I say: "No you don't."

I stick my foot out. I swear to God, Allah, Zeus, and all the other heavenly dudes that it was 100% my intention to apply gentle pressure until the little fuzzy shit had no choice but to move or be moved. Gentle, but undeniably, nudges. You know the business.

Unfortunately for both me and the feline, he decides that the presence of my shoe represents a greivous breach of the rules of our little mind game, and with a lairy hiss he swipes at my jeans, claws extended. Taken by surprise, and a little bit shot up with adrenaline as a result of the sound of angry movement coming from a couple of nearby houses, I kick out... and I don't kick out with gentle pressure.

I just fucking KICK OUT.

I think I kicked the fucking thing under a car, but I'm not sure. I know for a fact (okay, not a fact) that I didn't kill the damn bastard, because I could just about make out its outraged hissing over the sound of my own maniacal laughter as I ran back to the car, fired up the engine, and was gone before anyone knew exactly which cunt it was who was blaring his horn at 11pm on a work night.

Am I a bad person?



No. I am not.