stalk

Eagle-eyed readers of this blog will surely have noticed that it has been some time since I posted anything, and my bulging email inbox pays sure and unwavering testament to the fact that literally millions of lost souls across the globe have been pining for the mental nourishment that they derive from my words of wisdom.

Leaving aside the moral obligation that I have towards these poor saps, my life has changed in many ways (oh so many ways) in the nine months since I last regaled the known universe with my tedious ramblings. So many ways, in fact, that to even attempt to list them here would be (at the very least) an act of stultifying futility and, besides, I have to go to work in the morning. So, I have taken my sharpest literary knife and pared away all that I consider to be superfluous, in order that I may concentrate on the most significant aspect of my life at the time of writing.

To wit - I have a stalker.

Yes, yes, yes, I know what you're thinking. It would be quite natural for you to assume that my levels of paranoia and self-delusion, already quite considerable, have now been inflated to such ridiculous proportions that I have, quite simply, lost my grip on reality and plunged head-first into the abyss of mentalism. May I assure you, dear reader, nothing could be further from the truth. This shit is real.

And now you are no doubt asking yourself certain questions regarding the veracity of my pronouncements thus far. This is because you are in possession of a keen intellect and an enquiring mind - attributes that I'm sure make your parents very proud (and if they don't, then they should). I must assure you once again that I am not in the business of telling lies, not unless the money's right or it helps me avoid a beating.

 Your first question must surely be "who is the stalker?". Your second question would then be "why is he stalking this no-mark?". The second question I cannot answer with any certainty (although I have an inkling*), but the first is a doddle. I am being stalked by Freebie Boy.

Freebie Boy was mentioned in a previous post which concerned itself with the regular travellers on the X9 bus (AKA The Ship of The Fens), but for those of you who would like a brief re-cap, here it is:

My favourite passenger is Freebie Boy, a loose conglomeration of features seemingly thrown together at random by a deranged scientist during a particularly torrid acid trip (he reminds me of one of the pinheads from Todd Browning’s film Freaks, if I’m brutally honest). His haircut is a fabulous homespun delight and looks for all the world like it was administered during a fistfight with an angry relative. Mind you, this haircut is obviously not some random act of cruelty, as it does serve the very useful purpose of distracting ones attention from his enormous, throbbing adams apple, which I suspect has its own nervous system. He works for the bus company, although in what capacity I dare not guess, and riding on the bus for nowt is obviously one of his perks. The strange thing about Freebie Boy, however, is not his appearance or even the strange smell that he carries about his person. It is his ability to appear at random stops on the bus route, flagging down the driver for his free ride. It’s almost as if he lives everywhere and yet nowhere, a fen-spawned will-o-the-wisp, alighting on omnibuses at will and at random. One day I fear he may kill me and make pillowcases from my skin.

While all of my posts have clearly been inspired by the deep and abiding love that I have for my fellow man, even I am not too blind to see that there remains a remote possibility of my scribblings causing offence to those people to whom I have referred. I had thought that I remained safe from harm with regard to Freebie Boy, my assumption being that his ability to read had been negated by the amount of chlorine in his gene pool. How wrong I was.

It is quite clear that FB has gained access to this blog, which he is somehow able not only to read, but also to understand. His understanding has led to resentment and an obvious desire to exact some form of bizarre retribution upon my person, possibly involving the use of both a knife and a dildo.

"Come come, Nicholas", I imagine you thinking to yourself, "where is your evidence?"

My friends, the evidence is everywhere.

While browsing the second hand surgical stockings in my local Cancer Research shop, whose face do I spy gazing at me from behind the revolving rack of dog-eared Patricia Cornwell novels? 

On the train in the morning, there he is. Nonchalantly standing with a copy of the Metro, pretending to read it as his eyes burn into my very soul.

Windsurfing in the Seychelles, badger-baiting in Chatteris, playing a(nother) gig at the sodding Portland, ordering a takeaway after a night out - whatever I do, he is there. 

Watching. Waiting. His cold dead eyes and frankly astonishing haircut striking fear into the core of my being. His enormous adams apple throbbing and his aroma killing all flying insects within a ten foot radius.

OK, maybe I have been hitting the caffeine a little hard of late. Maybe I haven't been getting as much sleep as I should. My home and work lives have been pretty stressful, it's true.

But you believe me. I know you believe me. Don't you?

*a baby ink.