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| The Life and Tales of Montague Smith | |
| By alastair79 | ||||||||||||||||
| 27 April 2006 | ||||||||||||||||
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I'm not overly sure if this is a story or comedy or rant or if, indeed it's any of these things. It is, however, the first "thing" I have written and I must admit I think it's quite amusing. Please let me know what you think, and don't worry I'm not giving up the day job  .Montague Smith’s 15 Minutes A short incite in to the man himself, where to start, well I suppose with his very unlikely rise to fame, in his village anyway. It’s the mid-naughties and the height of the reality television revolution where the talentless masses pluck fame and moderate fortune out of taking their clothes off and screeching intolerably. Thankfully most of these inept celebrities manage to realise that their fame even though huge at the time of their particular show is extremely short lived and they return to the rock they crawled out from under, leaving the few remaining to continually plug fitness videos and the latest hair cut and colour. Montague Smith’s loathing for this wannabe generation ran bubbling through his veins causing itchy fingers in clenched fists and the occasional soft furnishing tirade on his unfortunate television while muttering poisonous hexes at their inexcusably chubby faces leering and gurning back at him. “Bring back Wogan!!” he would yell at the top of his voice while pointing threatening at his television as if he had power over the images on screen in his bitten and ragged nail, he would hold this position just long enough that he became statuesque, his breathing the only give away that life still stirred within. After a few moments he would leap like a Jack-in-the-Box to his feet and swing his good pointing finger round to the dog curled contentedly by the three bar fire. “What do you say Dog!” Montague never named his dogs preferred to see them as a continuation of the same animal he first owned. “You agree with me don’t you, come on I value your opinion”. The dog lazily opened one eye for several seconds, sighed, stretched and curled back up, noticeably unmoved by this regular outburst. This was usually sufficient to douse the fire for at least a while and Montague would flump back into the sofa mumbling under his breath something about Brutus, then spend the next hour scowling at every face that flashed up except for Helen Fospero of Look North fame. He visibly calmed and would allowed himself a few minutes with the lovely lady, but she was all too quickly gone and his mind would return to its slow magma rich rise to eruption once again. Not for the first time or indeed the last he moved himself over to the computer desk in hopes of composing a letter of such Shakespearian magnificence that he would be able to topple the television corporations with one reading to the worlds press that would be camped on his door step. He still could not figure out how he could get the worlds press to camp on his door step let alone stand there and let him read his letter into millions of peoples homes, but he was sure it was possible and anyway these were just details that could be ironed out latter. “Dear Sir forward slash Madam”, he bellowed as his figures clumsily worked across the keyboard trying to keep time with his thoughts. “It has become apparent that your television corporation has become nothing more than purveyors of vapid teen clap-trap and has lost any sense of realistic programming for the viewer with more than a 13 IQ”, He smiles, pleased with himself, muttering it back under his breath and smiling again. “What right have you to inflict Davina McCall’s happier-than-thow attitude on an unsuspecting nation of weather beaten, multi brain celled and fully functional members of the human race, its criminal. Also, there should be a cull of Simon Cowel and his shows Pop Idiot and X Function, I would have hoped people would have woken up and seen the evil machinations of this underworld shadowy gimp figure………………hmm.” He breaths and realises he might have just gone several yards too far so lets his head flop back and hang while he spins the office chair round in circles trying to think of something cleaver and witty to write. Nothings coming. The dog stirs, looks at him and stiffly gets to its feet. It wonders over and rests its head on Montague’s rumpled and creased jeans looking up at him with a look that meant he was ready to go for a walk. Montague smiles down at Dog, “It time to go out then?” the dog’s tail ricochets off the carpet in its unhurried wag. “OK, lets take a wonder, see what we can see”. He heads for the door, Dogs already there looking back at him as if impatient for fresh air and rabbit casing, Montague grabs his jacket and joins Dog, looking forward to a quiet walk away from the horrors of modern life. They walk down the quiet street in his small and picturesque village, the sun slanting its rays through the clouds as if only for them, a little warm patch in an otherwise overcast day. Typical country sounds waft here and there, the chirping of finches and quick scuffling of rabbits and the secluded rumblings of a tractor. They take a left off the main road onto a tire-ridged dirt road, mercifully dry today, that curls along between two scrub fields and up a shallow hillock to Fine Pear Farm. Montague had been there a few times, when in one of his more sociable moods, as a guest of Lord Percy Percy 5th Duke of some southern tracked of land. Possible Essex he thought, nice bloke as well, a bit lardy-dar like. He had not been invited recently though, the reason was quite understandable on account of his last dinner party visit several months previous. The wine and whiskey had been flowing like water all night and Montague could feel himself slipping back into the arms of comfortable numbness. He knew he was drunk but he had the sudden urge to go and thank his affable host for a great evening. Trying to compose something to say while the room swam and lunged before him was more difficult then he would have imagined, but he managed to get to his feet and make a sea legs swagger over to where the Lord was talking to his butler. Lord Percy didn’t see him before it was too late and Montague’s arm wrapped itself scarf like around his neck just as his legs buckled slightly. Lord Percy stood stiff upright with Montague like some seventies male symbol medallion hanging from his neck. Everyone appeared to freeze except for Montague who breathed heavy alcohol fumes and tried unsuccessfully to clear his throat before his face broke into a massive beaming grin. His free hand came up and gently (not according to later testimonies) slapped the lords cheek again and again before putting a finger on Percy’s chest and pushing himself upright. “You Sir”, he said, eyes boring into Percy. “You Sir are little …………… Lord …………………Fauntleroy”. The words were slurred, slow and punctuated by little finger jabs to the chest and heard by everyone at the table, a small snigger went up from a few of the dinners. Montague, thinking he has made a great joke proceeded to do a little dance of mirth consisting of shuffling his feet and pointing like he has pistols in his fingers, then with an explosion of life energy gallops off around the table like a drunken derby winner. On his second circuit he begins to holler. “It’s me, Lord Lucan. Look, look, I’m not lost I’m here. Lucan’s the name and vanishing the game”. This was followed by some strangled horse noises and general whooping before his foot caught in a hand bag, set down by one of the ladies chairs, sending him careering towards the sideboard. He smashed full force into the rosewood cabinet. A second went passed before slid down to his knees, his arms rested on the top of the sideboard and his head lolled in small circles before slumping forward into a crystal bowl full of rich decadent chocolate mousse with a very satisfying plop. Small air bubbles rose as if from a tar pit and burst sending little droplets of mousse to the counter top. For about a week after, Montague had had drinks bought, newspapers delivered and a free haircut. His fame in the village was assured. He smiled at the memory, good night he thought.
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