Saturday, 9 April 2016

Marty, by Anthony Bloor

Marty
(In memory of Rik Mayall)

 The circumstances were most odd. It was just like the day when Marty had a fit. Someone had given him a retro kettle a year ago and, instead of whistling as intended, the thing had started belching. The back door was swollen with the rains and needed a yank to shut properly. We were in the lounge discussing the news, Marty was standing by the door smoking a cigarette, and the kettle was on the boil. Marty finished his cigarette just as the kettle started to spit. He danced inside with a flurry, heaving the door with almighty yanks, but it still wouldn’t shut and the kettle was belching and farting like a volcano. “Oh God!” he said. “Nothing… bloody… works!” And he fell to the floor, beat the carpet with both fists, and died. Just like that. We all laughed at the time. He was such a drama queen.

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