Friday, 11 March 2011

Rogues Gallery part II

Next week, to a talk with BOF, and another conflict with another rogue. Though the intricate vendettas of people in the countryside have more of a chance to fester and accumulate, in the city they are less incestuous, but no less intense. 

My cone-combatant has been absent for a few days (perhaps this policeman is protesting against wage-cuts? Or perhaps he's less diligent at work these days in response to the criminal renegotiation of his perks? Either way, I find I'm missing his love of pedestrian crossing legislation.) As a result my frustrations are being directed elsewhere. 

The Star
Now perhaps it's unfair to expect the audience at any political talk to be particularly socially in tune. But this bunch seemed fine, except for one. A little mole-like man, the like of which you'll recognise from any polite gathering in England. His role - as he sees it  - is not to attend the talk but rather to star in it. 

Mole Man arrives late. No scuttling in with frantic apologies like the rest, instead he stands framed in the doorway assessing the members of his audience. Satisfied, he strides forward to find a seat. Ignoring those easily accessible near the door, he marches to the front of the audience.  Standing directly in front of the speakers, he makes a charade of finding the perfect spot. They, in turn performing their indifference, look through him, not pausing at all. A full minute later MM makes for a spot on the windowsill.

This, note, is not a conventional choice of seat. He stares boldly about, before adopting the seat he knows no one else had the wit to take. And now must his mac be rearranged to give him greatest seated comfort. Macs are irritatingly crinkly aren't they? The noise they make is almost as enjoyable as the careful unwrapping of forty boiled sweets. He cares not.

Moments later - a crisis. The windowseat, if you'll believe it, is not as comfy as first thought. He displays his dismay with a gasp before theatrically seeking out an alternative. Diving across the room, he knocks an old gent's stick to the floor, scrabbles to pick it up, apologises (loudly) - 'sorry! SORRY SIR! Awfully sorry! I'm SO embarrassed' - and scrabbles to his new throne.

As I sit and plot the room's revenge, he jumps to his feet  once more and flees the talk. Everyone relaxes. 

But Moley's mac is left behind. And then I understand: he is, in fact, the political equivalent of a streaker. Enough said.


  1. Brilliant. I especially enjoyed the "he cares not".

  2. i applaud the name 'mr mole'. how obnoxious.

    do you know the name of the fit girl next door yet?