Bringing News From Far and Near

Channeling the spirit of adventure I once wrote “All postmen are cunts” on the envelope of a letter I addressed to myself. It arrived safely, on time and fully intact, at my home the very next day. Which just goes to show that either: a) postmen are highly professional at all times and have thick skins and bear no grudges, b) postmen take notice of nothing on envelopes except for house numbers and street names, C) postmen agree, and/or are happy to accept, that they are, in fact, cunts or d) the postman on my round was, in fact, a woman, a postwoman, who agreed that postmen, the males, are indeed cunts or felt, because the insult was directed specifically at postmen, that it had nothing to do with her, what with her being a postwoman. Then again, what of the males who work in the sorting office? Are they also known as postmen even though their job, strictly speaking, has no posting element to it? Does the ‘post’ bit of their title have more to do with the fact that they work for the Post Office than it does with anything specifically relating to their job? But then, it’s not called the Post Office any more is it? It’s called Royal Mail. So maybe they should be called royalmen. And royalwomen, of course.

Or mailmen.

Which reminds me: I once took a job as a postman during vacation from university. Well, it was better than walking the streets. (And when I say vacation I really mean holiday. Obviously.)

On that theme: I once walked the streets as part of a mob that had gathered together for the specific purpose of hunting down paedophiles (or other, similar, bad guys). Because we were in the city we felt it was neither necessary nor appropriate to go as far as carrying flaming torches. And because we didn’t live in the countryside, few of us had access to pitch forks. Which is why we were content, out of necessity as much as anything else, to walk around armed only with flashlights, guns and knives. (And when I say flashlights I really mean torches. Obviously.) We were out tramping those city streets for what seemed like hours and hours but was, in reality, only two hours. Two hours and between us, with our mob of around fifty people, we had not so much as a sniff of a single paedophile. So we agreed to split up, to go our separate ways, in order to better increase our chances of digging them (the paedophiles) out. What we hadn’t thought through, obviously, was that by splitting up we had ceased to be a mob. Which meant that in the event of one of us finding a paedophile and stringing him up from a lamppost (or meting out other, similar, rough justice) it would not be attributed to the actions of a mob, thereby weakening any moral justification - e.g. the strength in numbers thing - we might have had for meting out such rough, and instant, justice. What to do? As it happened, none of us, together or apart, came across paedophiles or any other similarly-styled bad guys. Which meant that we avoided having to deal with the aforementioned mob/strength in numbers/justification dilemma thing. Phew.

Once, while I was employed as a postman, I was caught, by the owner of the (soon to be mentioned) milk, drinking the milk that had been left, not two minutes before, on his doorstep. I had been caught red-handed - or, rather, white-lipped - in the act of swallowing the milk with the bottle pressed tightly against my lips. When I quickly pulled the bottle away from my mouth, out of a mixture of embarrassment and fear, I, of course, had a big ring of white circling my lips (as previously mentioned). It didn’t look good. The owner of the milk calmly took the two-thirds empty bottle from my hand and told me to fuck off. When I returned to the depot (the sorting office) I discovered that the milk owner had telephoned my supervisor to tell him what had occurred. My supervisor - a long-standing actual out on the beat walking the street postman (and therefore a cunt) - sacked me on the spot. The cunt.

I was a postman. And they gave me the sack. The irony.

I was a postman. Which meant, of course, that I too was a cunt. Albeit for a brief period.

Mind you, it was a pretty good job, all in all. I enjoyed, most of all, delivering letters to the many female recipients on my round. But I enjoyed, even more than that, regularly emptying my sack into their flaps.

(Oddly, two of the stories above - the milk-drinking thing and the emptying-my-sack thing - come from two of my friends, both called Rob.)

Anyway. During my time as a milkman I also had cause to empty my sack into the flaps of quite a few women. And because I was a milkman rather than a postman, what I mean is that I had cause to have sexual intercourse with these women that resulted in me ejaculating inside them: that is, emptying my sack into their flaps. If I’d have had the time, inclination or wherewithal, I would have constructed some euphemistic phrase that pertained specifically to my status as a milkman. Pouring my milk into their urns? Creaming into their pots? Making a delivery of white liquid? Something along those lines. Anyway. During my time as a milkman I had cause to have sex with quite a few women. A wide variety of different women of all shapes, sizes and colours. It was great.

I always liked the punchline of that joke/riposte: because every time I fuck your wife she gives me a biscuit.

Because, obviously, quite a few of the women on my round - that I made love to, to coin a phrase - were married women. Which made it all the more sweet. I even made a point of going round to see the wife of the bloke who had told my supervisor, during my time as a postman, that I had been drinking his milk. Remember? As it turned out, his wife was quite the looker with a fabulously full figure, boasting large, creamy white breasts, grabbable hips and an arse you could really sink into. Unfortunately, however, she was immune to my charms. Actually, it was more to do with the fact that she was extremely happy with her husband and so, unlike most of the women I was attending to, she had no need - out of loneliness, frustration etc. - to turn to me. For those other women, it wasn’t so much that I had charms - it was more that I was willing and available. Good for me. And good for them.

One Night Through a Broken Window

Because we still live in old times, there is something of the modern about double decker buses and the chimes of the church clocks.

Neath Thurland Street bridge, with endless cigarettes and watch glances, Jack Tuttle also known as John. Ex Navy and boxing booth denizen, wilted red carnation stuffed in lapel, heavy pin stripes stroking the tops of black patent leather shoes. Trilby. Tommy Trinder minus the laughs.

The pealing of the city clocks. Six o’clock, twilight and time, for most, for home.

Jack Tuttle tips forward his hat, his face sinking deeper into the twilight of brim shadow. Illuminated for a few seconds by the flame from a match. Which is when she spies him, Nan Taylor, from the other side of the canal. A nip over the bridge to join him there.

The rattle of a trolley bus.

This Nan Taylor is the fancy of Jack Tuttle’s eager eye. He watches her from afar, at work, where she is the daughter of the foreman. With whom he has what they would later call an uneasy relationship. On account, really, of this foreman/father believing (erroneously, as it happens) Jack to be much the same type of character as he himself is: an eye for the ladies, something of a rogue, a bit of a dandy, a tendency to violence. Judge not forsoever lest thou be judged oneself or whatever.

They huddled together neath the arc of Thurland Bridge where he lighted two cigarettes at the same time. Like, of course, Paul Henreid in Now Voyager. But with a little cough and Nan’s cigarette not quite burning properly. But still.

And still, at last, the sound of the evening air. Rattles, footsteps and tired voices easing off towards the distance. Peripheral irritants, along with low bass rumbles, long a source of dismay to Jack’s sensitive ears. It is, an otologist once told him, the result of ear canals that rise up instead of down, that stretch far too long.

From the neath of Thurland Bridge and stepping on to the still cobbled street towards Rope Hill. A view of the city centre, lit by streetlamps and trolleybus trails. She did that thing he likes, feeding her arm through his as he kept his hands inside his pockets, fag hanging from mouth. Chatting all the way as the smoke stung his eyes and he struggled slightly, without letting on, to breathe and smoke at the same time.

The Blue Bell. Glazed brick work, green. And blue. The landlord greeting Jack by name. Fag still in mouth as those were the days.

There it is all warm and colourful, neath this blanket of smoke and knees pressed hard against small circular tables. Safe. You would happily spend four hours perched on a small circular stool, your back arching out like the arch of Thurland Bridge. Edges of velvet and bends of brass, picture frames stuffed with black and white photographs of canals and barges and barrel-chested men standing next to beer barrels. A big picture of a trolleybus, the number 40 to Wilford Road, right in front of Griffin and Spalding.

And it’s true what they say. Everything was better then.