Sunday, March 22, 2009

Dear Sisters Of The Stigmata Refugee Detention Center

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to offer my deepest thanks for your hospitality over the last week. Your facility is both clean and welcoming. After a night of celebrating the local squad's promotion to "D" Division Men's Football, one can only hope to find oneself placed into to the hands of such a fine holding center when one is brought low by Drink and Jocularity. I have been lead to understand that yours is one of the most respected names in itinerant men's hostelry in the tri-shire area and the reformatory of choice for those frequently afflicted with public drunkenness. I am lead further to believe that you have been fire free since late 2007 and relatively absent of corpses for several months. I only hope that the process of my internment was not overly stressful on you fine staff. After the Red Banjo's handy defeat of West Milan lead me to over indulge during the post match festivities, there my have been some regretful property damage on my part and some unprovoked attacks on a Police Horse. I would also like to inquire after the whereabouts of one of your permanent lodgers with whom I shared a bunk with on my first few nights. He was an associate of mine has been availing himself of your amenities for some time, usually between stints at the local bailiff's pleasure. We had been enjoying an amicable dalliance for a time but this has recently come to a halt with my release and I don't want to risk losing touch with him again. I can't wait until the next time that special forces called out for acts of aggravated football hooliganism. He is a robust giant of a man with a shock of auburn hair and a proud mustache. He is often seen in the company of a retired bus conductor as they try to gain entrance to exclusive supper clubs in the guise of man and wife. I would appreciate your assistance in reaching him. If you would be so kind as to check his room for signs of death, flight, abduction or elopement. Perhaps a note of some kind. DO NOT APPROACH HIM. Thank you for your time.



Sunday, March 01, 2009

Excerpt from "A Gentleman's Correspondence" (part the 4th)

Dear James,

Once again my morning stoop has has produced succulent fruit in the form of your most recent letter. Among my bills, subpoenas, cheeses of the month, cease and desist orders, and Modern Bride, I find a correspondence from my dear friend. Your state ordered convalescence appears to be doing you the world of good. The Good Sisters of Mercy deliver a convalescence that is both bracing and informative and once you emerge form their loving embrace all transgressions will be long forgiven and forgotten. Let us hope that angry husbands, grieving pet owners, and bitten police constables will respect your need for a quiet and gentle reintegration into polite society.

Your latest missive has awoken within me a wistful reminiscence of days long gone. Your talk of tinned pony meat takes me back to my days at St. Finbar's Home For Wayward Boys. It was there, beneath the life sized portraits, displaying in graphic detail, The Martyrdom Of St. Giuseppe of The Nine Corsets that we dined on pony meat, candied turnips, and mare's milk pudding every Sunday. Ensconced within its heavily sound proofed walls we took our lessons from the defrocked clergymen sent from diocese far and wide to mend their ways and provide guidance to young arsonists and thugs. We read aloud from Joyce in the cloistered sweat lodge. We debated finer points of scripture until our arguments, degenerating into fevered leg wrestling, left us wheezing in the thickets, bespittled and spent. And we danced. Oh how we danced James. We danced, and sang, frolicked, as nude as God made us, among the tobacco plants, bellies groaning with pony meat and steamed whelks.

It was during one of our frequent outings to the local textile mill that I met Francis Wong. He was a cross dressing, amateur wrestler and devout Catholic with dreams of playing for his beloved Cardiff Red Banjos of the heavily contested South Wales "D" League (reserves). His untimely death within the clutches of a rag separator was, I feel, memorialized fittingly when his beloved "Reds" took the coveted West Swansea Five-a-Side tournament that year when none of the other teams turned up.

Yours in wistfulness