It had been a relatively quiet day at Chateau du Champion despite the dramas that Georgina had induced recently. In fact, the only down side to the day was the fact that the guy next door had spent hours trying to understand why the mailman had been making two trips to the house since last November.
“He was delivering an entirely different kind of package, wasn’t he, Tricia?” yelled a voice from next door’s living room.
I tried to just get on with the day and accept that sometimes grown ups do tend to fall out in this way. However, when a man can’t simply relax on his couch with a beer and watch repeat episodes of The Simpsons… life suddenly loses its fun.
“What the fuck do you mean he always delivered on time?”
As much as I’d have liked to have continued listening to the pair rant and rave at each other, I’d decided that it wasn’t appropriate considering my own problems with the opposite sex. Note though, I did say ‘opposite sex’ and not ‘fairer sex’ quite intentionally there. Most of the women that I’ve encountered are as fair as a protestant Pope. For those of you that aren’t up on your religious leaders… that means that I’ve yet to meet a woman that’s been entirely fair with me and given a relationship a good chance to succeed.
Still, I wasn’t about to reminisce over tears that had already been cried. At the same time, I didn’t want to listen to another scream regarding the sexual exploits of postmen in the Chicago area. Gracefully, I rose from my place of rest, dropped the newspaper and charged through my front door…
Time for a spot of gardening.
Usually, I’d leave it to Larry, (that’s my gardener for those of you that haven’t stopped by my house in the vain hope of trying to spot me naked) but I’d given him the week off to attend some war memorial festival in Poland. Despite whatever you may think of me, I’m not such a heartless bastard that I’d deny a man his chance of respecting those that died for us all those years ago.
However, Larry didn’t plan on respecting anyone. He knew there’d be free booze and he annoyed me half of the time anyway. I figured I may as well grant his request for time off. Lousy, drunken Scottish bastard.
Don’t get me started on the Scottish though. The sight of Mel Gibson shrieking ‘freedom’ alone is enough to turn me into a monster. I promised myself I’d not get myself worked up though.
Right, we shall continue.
So, as I merrily trotted along my lawn and embraced the day with a smile, I couldn’t help but wonder which area of the garden needed most of the work. The elements had pretty much done all the work for me. It’d rained last night and the plants didn’t really need watering. Now though, the sun shone brightly and nature was able to sit back and admire its handiwork from a distance.
“Ok. So, the garden is pretty much sorted,” I said, trying to find something else to do.
I often talk to myself. More often than not, it’s because I’m sick of the stupid answers that the rest of the world relays to me. You don’t get idiotic replies when you talk to yourself, most of the time. Well, definitely not in my case.
Struggling to find a purpose for the day, I slumped down into one of the several benches that are littered around my estate. Most of them are a little uneasy on the old backside, but this particular bench was a favourite of mine. On hot days such as this one, I usually grab a glass of lemonade, pull out a copy of Penthouse from underneath my bed and kick back on the little old bench and allow the weather to do its thing.
“I may as well relax for a while out here,” I proclaimed to the morning air as the breeze pushed past my face carefully.
The thick hedge that ran all the way along the side of the lawn provided enough protection to ensure that I'd not be disturbed in the slightest. That was precisely the reason I'd erected it in the first place. A nuclear bomb could go off and I'd know nothing about it.
No more postmen. No more arguments. No more Georgina.
I began to doze off into a world with no boundaries. Thoughts of porn stars, fast cars and all you can eat buffets ran through my mind as the real world faded around me. This was the sort of thing I woke up for in the morning. This was the sort of thing that I wrestled my ass off for every week. My escape from reality was almost complete…
Slowly, I drifted…and continued to drift…drift…
Ring-ring!
“Holy shit!” I cried out as once again the source of all evil disturbed my slumber.
Everybody must hate cell phones. I mean, if they’re not preventing you from dreaming of rampant office sex with your best friend’s wife then the chances are that you’ll be sat on a train next to some acne troubled sixteen year old trying to break up with his girlfriend. They’re nothing more than a medium of terror. Hell, they even looked like miniature versions of the daleks.
So, with my mind firmly focused on Dr Who episodes from my school hood, I fumbled the offending device from my pocket. I had one of those fancy phones whereby you can see the name of the guy that’s calling you before you answer it. It came in pretty handy when deciding whether or not I wanted to speak to someone.
On this particular occasion though, I was confronted by a name that I’d not seen in quite a few months. With a little wince, I pressed the green button to start the call…
Father Johnson began to speak.
“Chris? Is that you? I wasn’t sure whether or not you’d got a new number,” said the priest in a slightly concerned voice.
“Nope, this is most definitely me, father,” I replied. There was one of those pauses that you get in conversations when neither person knows whether or not the other is about to speak. Kicking and screaming, I continued the adjacency pair. “So, what’s on your mind?”
“We could really use your help! There’s been rioting outside of St John’s and you’re actually part of the problem! Well, perhaps not the problem… but most definitely the solution!”
Now, I’ve had some strange calls in my time but I’d never been asked to save the day by a priest. The only reason this guy had my number was because he’d collared me on Christmas day and asked for an autograph for his nephew. It wasn’t as if I went every week… just during the holidays. So, as you’d expect, I began to wonder just why this relative stranger was contacting me about riots outside of a Church... Which led me to the obvious question of...
“Why are you contacting me about riots outside of a Church?”
As the priest began to formulate his reply, several loud noises managed to squeeze their way through my phone. It started with a high pitched screech and ended with a drum beat. Finally, Father Johnson spat his last words out before the call ended…
“There’s no time to talk right now, Chris! Get down here right now! We need your help!”
I looked skyward. All I’d wanted to do was watching the fucking Simpsons and drink a few beers. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so.
“Time to play the hero once again,” I muttered wearily whilst ascending from my trusty bench.
In actual fact, I wasn’t too far away with my ‘hero’ prediction. Father Johnson wasn’t looking for a hero though. He asked for something more. He wanted a legend. An icon.
