An excerpt from the novel I couldn’t be arsed to finish
With NaNoWriMo over, I guess I might as well publish some of what little I wrote. You might like to know that the story revolves around a whistler named Charles who somehow winds up trying to get laid in Africa. I don’t know if he’ll be successful or not quite simply because I haven’t written that part yet. This excerpt is taken from quite near the beginning where Charles is about to perform a gig with a rock band.
“The Dachshund is a pub five walking minutes away from where Charles lived. It was originally founded in 1936 as The Greyhound and occupied a whole terrace house along with a vast yard which was quickly turned into a massive outhouse. Wherever there was a tree, you could count on there being a man facing it, usually accompanied by the sound of running water. This was put to an end in 1939 by a massive fire started by someone who had the ill-conceived notion that a vodka fight would be fun. Naturally, The Greyhound was burnt to a crisp within three hours.
However, just two months later, it was reopened as The Weimaraner, the name of a German breed of hunting dog that also gave the pub the added distinction of sounding like a sailor with a heavy bladder. Ironically, this was ended in 1941 when a German bomb landed squarely on its roof which was, perhaps also ironically, painted with the Union Jack.
It then returned as The Border Collie which was killed by a lightning strike, The Pit Bull which was flattened when an oak tree collapsed on it, The English Foxhound which was bombed by the IRA and then finally The Dachshund, which the current owner hoped sounded too cute and, being a sausage shaped dog, too ludicrous for anything calamitous to befall it.
The band was just warming up when Charles stepped in. In their younger days, they had idolised Kiss and with the help of a thesaurus and an impressive lack of imagination had decided to call themselves The Smooches. It was the front man of The Smooches who now attempted to chest bump Charles, who promptly fell over.
And there. It’s crap, I know, but I had hell of a lot of fun writing it. Until the couldn’t be arsed part, that is.
“The Dachshund is a pub five walking minutes away from where Charles lived. It was originally founded in 1936 as The Greyhound and occupied a whole terrace house along with a vast yard which was quickly turned into a massive outhouse. Wherever there was a tree, you could count on there being a man facing it, usually accompanied by the sound of running water. This was put to an end in 1939 by a massive fire started by someone who had the ill-conceived notion that a vodka fight would be fun. Naturally, The Greyhound was burnt to a crisp within three hours.
However, just two months later, it was reopened as The Weimaraner, the name of a German breed of hunting dog that also gave the pub the added distinction of sounding like a sailor with a heavy bladder. Ironically, this was ended in 1941 when a German bomb landed squarely on its roof which was, perhaps also ironically, painted with the Union Jack.
It then returned as The Border Collie which was killed by a lightning strike, The Pit Bull which was flattened when an oak tree collapsed on it, The English Foxhound which was bombed by the IRA and then finally The Dachshund, which the current owner hoped sounded too cute and, being a sausage shaped dog, too ludicrous for anything calamitous to befall it.
The band was just warming up when Charles stepped in. In their younger days, they had idolised Kiss and with the help of a thesaurus and an impressive lack of imagination had decided to call themselves The Smooches. It was the front man of The Smooches who now attempted to chest bump Charles, who promptly fell over.
And there. It’s crap, I know, but I had hell of a lot of fun writing it. Until the couldn’t be arsed part, that is.
3 Comments:
An Artist's Impression of Charles
That is one unlucky pub. Or dog. Hehe.
Poor Charles. He deserves a pat at least. For trying.
Hope he has better luck next year. :P
One wonders what sort of pat you are referring to. Anyway, I'll take it in the best possible sense.
One wonders what sort of pat you were thinking about.
A pat on the back, I hope.
*Points to image link above*
He'll be lucky if he doesn't get poked.
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