Jockeys in the Rain
by Brian Morrison
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Another tale from the Burrell Collection. Stevie Fitlike is the hero once again as he stops the museum from burning to the ground.
_____________________________________________________________________
An alarm bell rang somewhere in the dark regions of Stevie Fitlike’s small brain. He didn’t have an earthly clue why it rang. At first he thought that it was a build up of ear wax, but it wouldn’t go away. He pumped at each ear in turn with the heel of his hand, but the annoying noise remained. I’ll think of something else, he thought to himself. I will walk over and have a word with that guy in the sheepskin jacket. That might take my mind off it.
‘So this is it?’ Bill Cairns said softly. ‘Are you sure that this is definitely the painting that your man wants us to steal?’
‘Absolutely pal,’ said Mumford. ‘“Jockeys in the Rain” by some bloke called Degas. What do you think?’
‘Well I think that the triangular composition is inspirational. The large and seemingly empty space at the front left acts as a perfect foil for the riders and jockeys in the middle distance.’
‘No you twat! I didn’t ask for your thoughts on the painting’s aesthetic qualities. I need to know whether you think we can knock the bloody thing!’
‘Oh I see,’ said Cairns, ‘it’s just that the painting gives me a nice calm feeling inside. I actually have a copy of it at home.’
‘Have you really?’ said Mumford, registering an intense disinterest in his friend’s story.
‘Aye, it’s on the front of my biscuit tin.’
‘Oh well that says it all,’ said Mumford. ‘Please excuse my ignorance in all things artistic. I bow to your superior knowledge.’ He fished around in the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small thin piece of paper. He then carefully attached the paper to his moist bottom lip. It was just around then that a large waddling lump came into the peripheral zone of his vision.
Stevie Fitlike tensed his well toned muscles and glanced down with admiration at his perfect body. He knew that all the museum’s male visitors looked on with envy. He was a perfect specimen. His bullet proof vest accentuated his well formed pectoral muscles. His utility belt clung to his slim hips, giving him the appearance of a western gunslinger. Angling his head to one side, he removed the small device that was plugged into his ear. A coiled wire attached to this device looped down under his vest. All of the special agents that appeared on his favourite television shows had these gadgets. The coiled wire hanging from Fitlike’s device terminated in an ipod shuffle which nestled neatly in his breast pocket. Not very FBI-ish, but who was to know? He still had the alarm bell ringing far off in his brain’s deepest recesses. The ipod, he had decided, may have been the culprit. Probably a bit of feedback, he thought.
The guy with the sheepskin jacket had just pulled something from his pocket. It was a small piece of paper. Not big enough to write on. He had also produced a small box from another pocket about his person; possibly made of metal. It was three and a half inches by two and a half inches. Fitlike reckoned that it was also around one inch deep; possibly less. He saws the guy in the sheepskin jacket remove the lid to this box. He was only a matter of a few yards from him now. He then witnessed the guy place his thumb and forefinger inside the box and saw him teasing out a few strands of a grassy substance.
The cheeky bugger’s going to light up, thought Fitlike. He was almost within touching distance now.
‘Brilliant,’ said Bill Cairns, in a morose way.
‘Shit,’ said Mumford.
Fitlike said, ‘Hey you in the sheepskin jacket. What kind of game are you playing at? Don’t tell me that you are thinking of rolling a fag.’
‘What? Is it no’ allowed, like?’ said Mumford, his Rizla paper dancing around merrily; still attached to his lower lip.
‘Of course it’s not,’ said Fitlike, snatching the offending slip of paper from Mumford’s mouth. Mumford mistook this action for an attempted left hook. His arms rose up in a defensive motion. He tensed his neck muscles, ready to thrust forward with a head butt to the bridge of Fitlike’s nose. He didn’t carry it out though. It very quickly dawned on him what had just happened. His arms relaxed and his shoulders slumped back to their original position.
‘Sorry mate. I didn’t realise. No worries, I will put the gear away.’
Fitlike slid his wrap-around designer sunglasses to the slope of his freckled scalp and parked them there. ‘Just so as you know,’ he said, ‘there are signs all over the place in here that say, “smoking strictly prohibited”. We can’t allow that kind of thing in here. Not in the Burrell Collection. Not when there are priceless items on display.’
‘Sorry about that, pal. Me and my good friend here have just stopped in today before we set off on a cycling tour around the beauty spots in the area. We are not very arty at all. In fact we are both as thick as shi-’
‘Wir muss schtuppen dich mitzen klap odor flubberdub,’ said Bill Cairns.
‘Eh?’ said Fitlike.
The moment stretched, then Mumford realised what Bill was attempting to do. He played along with the pretence. ‘My mate here comes from Sweden, don’t you, Olaf?’
‘Aye – em. Ja moont mince,’ said Cairns, quickly augmenting the statement with a healthy dose of Muppet-chef talk. ‘Foorby doorby!’
Fitlike fell for it. ‘Oh I see. Welcome to Scotland, Olaf,’ he said to Cairns.
‘Yabadoo,’ replied Bill. They shook hands firmly, then Fitlike spoke quietly to Mumford.
‘So are we clear then? No smoking in here.’
‘Oh crystal clear, mate.’
‘And that goes for your friend Olaf too.’
‘Of course. I will tell him so in his own language in a wee minute or two.’
When Fitlike waddled off in the direction of the door, the two Saltcoats men breathed a sigh of relief.
Mumford laughed. ‘That was brilliant, by the way. He fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Where did you learn how to speak Swedish?’
‘That’s easy. It was from one of the “Watch with Mother” programmes on the TV in the nineteen sixties.’
Mumford laughed again. ‘You know, I thought I recognised one or two of those phrases.’
‘Flubberdub,’ said Cairns.
‘Bubbub,’ said Mumford.
Mumford slipped the tin of tobacco into a deep pocket in the sheepskin jacket and rubbed at his stubbled chin. ‘I could do with something stronger to smoke right now.’
‘Weeeeed?’ said Bill Cairns in his best Flowerpot man voice.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Another tale from the Burrell Collection. Stevie Fitlike is the hero once again as he stops the museum from burning to the ground.
_____________________________________________________________________
An alarm bell rang somewhere in the dark regions of Stevie Fitlike’s small brain. He didn’t have an earthly clue why it rang. At first he thought that it was a build up of ear wax, but it wouldn’t go away. He pumped at each ear in turn with the heel of his hand, but the annoying noise remained. I’ll think of something else, he thought to himself. I will walk over and have a word with that guy in the sheepskin jacket. That might take my mind off it.
‘So this is it?’ Bill Cairns said softly. ‘Are you sure that this is definitely the painting that your man wants us to steal?’
‘Absolutely pal,’ said Mumford. ‘“Jockeys in the Rain” by some bloke called Degas. What do you think?’
‘Well I think that the triangular composition is inspirational. The large and seemingly empty space at the front left acts as a perfect foil for the riders and jockeys in the middle distance.’
‘No you twat! I didn’t ask for your thoughts on the painting’s aesthetic qualities. I need to know whether you think we can knock the bloody thing!’
‘Oh I see,’ said Cairns, ‘it’s just that the painting gives me a nice calm feeling inside. I actually have a copy of it at home.’
‘Have you really?’ said Mumford, registering an intense disinterest in his friend’s story.
‘Aye, it’s on the front of my biscuit tin.’
‘Oh well that says it all,’ said Mumford. ‘Please excuse my ignorance in all things artistic. I bow to your superior knowledge.’ He fished around in the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small thin piece of paper. He then carefully attached the paper to his moist bottom lip. It was just around then that a large waddling lump came into the peripheral zone of his vision.
Stevie Fitlike tensed his well toned muscles and glanced down with admiration at his perfect body. He knew that all the museum’s male visitors looked on with envy. He was a perfect specimen. His bullet proof vest accentuated his well formed pectoral muscles. His utility belt clung to his slim hips, giving him the appearance of a western gunslinger. Angling his head to one side, he removed the small device that was plugged into his ear. A coiled wire attached to this device looped down under his vest. All of the special agents that appeared on his favourite television shows had these gadgets. The coiled wire hanging from Fitlike’s device terminated in an ipod shuffle which nestled neatly in his breast pocket. Not very FBI-ish, but who was to know? He still had the alarm bell ringing far off in his brain’s deepest recesses. The ipod, he had decided, may have been the culprit. Probably a bit of feedback, he thought.
The guy with the sheepskin jacket had just pulled something from his pocket. It was a small piece of paper. Not big enough to write on. He had also produced a small box from another pocket about his person; possibly made of metal. It was three and a half inches by two and a half inches. Fitlike reckoned that it was also around one inch deep; possibly less. He saws the guy in the sheepskin jacket remove the lid to this box. He was only a matter of a few yards from him now. He then witnessed the guy place his thumb and forefinger inside the box and saw him teasing out a few strands of a grassy substance.
The cheeky bugger’s going to light up, thought Fitlike. He was almost within touching distance now.
‘Brilliant,’ said Bill Cairns, in a morose way.
‘Shit,’ said Mumford.
Fitlike said, ‘Hey you in the sheepskin jacket. What kind of game are you playing at? Don’t tell me that you are thinking of rolling a fag.’
‘What? Is it no’ allowed, like?’ said Mumford, his Rizla paper dancing around merrily; still attached to his lower lip.
‘Of course it’s not,’ said Fitlike, snatching the offending slip of paper from Mumford’s mouth. Mumford mistook this action for an attempted left hook. His arms rose up in a defensive motion. He tensed his neck muscles, ready to thrust forward with a head butt to the bridge of Fitlike’s nose. He didn’t carry it out though. It very quickly dawned on him what had just happened. His arms relaxed and his shoulders slumped back to their original position.
‘Sorry mate. I didn’t realise. No worries, I will put the gear away.’
Fitlike slid his wrap-around designer sunglasses to the slope of his freckled scalp and parked them there. ‘Just so as you know,’ he said, ‘there are signs all over the place in here that say, “smoking strictly prohibited”. We can’t allow that kind of thing in here. Not in the Burrell Collection. Not when there are priceless items on display.’
‘Sorry about that, pal. Me and my good friend here have just stopped in today before we set off on a cycling tour around the beauty spots in the area. We are not very arty at all. In fact we are both as thick as shi-’
‘Wir muss schtuppen dich mitzen klap odor flubberdub,’ said Bill Cairns.
‘Eh?’ said Fitlike.
The moment stretched, then Mumford realised what Bill was attempting to do. He played along with the pretence. ‘My mate here comes from Sweden, don’t you, Olaf?’
‘Aye – em. Ja moont mince,’ said Cairns, quickly augmenting the statement with a healthy dose of Muppet-chef talk. ‘Foorby doorby!’
Fitlike fell for it. ‘Oh I see. Welcome to Scotland, Olaf,’ he said to Cairns.
‘Yabadoo,’ replied Bill. They shook hands firmly, then Fitlike spoke quietly to Mumford.
‘So are we clear then? No smoking in here.’
‘Oh crystal clear, mate.’
‘And that goes for your friend Olaf too.’
‘Of course. I will tell him so in his own language in a wee minute or two.’
When Fitlike waddled off in the direction of the door, the two Saltcoats men breathed a sigh of relief.
Mumford laughed. ‘That was brilliant, by the way. He fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Where did you learn how to speak Swedish?’
‘That’s easy. It was from one of the “Watch with Mother” programmes on the TV in the nineteen sixties.’
Mumford laughed again. ‘You know, I thought I recognised one or two of those phrases.’
‘Flubberdub,’ said Cairns.
‘Bubbub,’ said Mumford.
Mumford slipped the tin of tobacco into a deep pocket in the sheepskin jacket and rubbed at his stubbled chin. ‘I could do with something stronger to smoke right now.’
‘Weeeeed?’ said Bill Cairns in his best Flowerpot man voice.
About the Author
Born in Saltcoats, Brian Morrison has a day job at the Hunterston Power Station. But in his other life he is well known as a caricaturist and comedy sketch writer. More recently, he has become a novelist and a writer of children's stories. His dark comedy, Blister, is available on Amazon.