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| The Terrible tale of a man too bruised by love | |
| By alandavidpritchard | ||||||
| 28 March 2006 | ||||||
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There is this man who builds his house on the edge of a cliff so he can watch disasters occur below him. The cliff fringes a wasteland (no helicopter-Hollywood shots of an idyllic retreat – no) and it takes him weeks to walk to the nearest shop. “Damn inconvenient,” we tell him so, “139 miles to the nearest advertisement. No electricity for the house. Nothing. Just wasteland and sea – the one’s just wetter than the other,” we tell him, adding, “the butt-end of nowhere.” But, he doesn’t listen. He builds his house on the edge of a cliff, where he lights candles to warn passing ships not to get too close, and they always do, and the rocks eat them up. I’LL NEVER ALLOW ANYONE NEAR ME AGAIN! he howls into the sound-scoffing wind, and then goes back to lighting useless candles which the wind blows out because he has no windows just holes in the wall. Hut’s a good word. Can’t really call it a house. Bollockshrinkingly cold, which is why we used to bring him blankets (we’d drop them outside the bullet-proof electrified enclosure surrounding three sides of his shack surrounded by hidden landmines) and we’d find them – the blankets – later, washed up on the shore. The wind’s fierce up there, ‘especially this time of year. Comes a time, he stops his bi-annual trip for supplies (lots of toilet paper) and we hear nothing for months – ‘cept when one of the old-timers electrocuted himself putting canned food too close to the fence. We all want to help him, you see. Listen to me talking about him as if he’s still alive, no – he’s long gone now. Just a pile of rocks – we still can’t get too close – looks that way, like a makeshift grave without a headstone, without a cross. Pity. He had a nice arse.
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