The secret to a successful double act: two living members. The secret to dying: knowing when to leave… Off-beat perfect. Pitched precisely at the verge of professionally inept. Theatre of the Absurd for the amateur left-back from Rotherham United reserves that lost his rhinoceros in the library. To me, to you, to me. Some love is so deep it must remain silent...
Melon has removed his check shirt to mark the demise of Chuckle. The soul brother of the act. The dumb dynamo. The dimmer of the dim. Tonto y más tonto. How silly can silly go? No pratfall too prattish. No haircut too daft. No moustache too far.
Dangerously near the point of no return, the deadly serious prospect of a hot-housed planet choking on its own gases, the wildness of silly has created a global scorched earth policy of zombie capitalism. It’s official. Gulp!
Mired in the brown, up to collective necks in deep doo doo, and all the paddle does is stir the shit, there’s really nothing left to do… but laugh. We’ve given birth to our own deaths. That’s one scary mother-nature-fucking-roller-coaster, man. Melon's pants are a brimful of caca. If yours aren’t, perhaps you ain’t been paying close attention, or maybe you're already at the Apocalypse After-Party.
Now more than ever, we need to clown, to laugh, to cry. Post-partum emotions: technology will save us; technology will condemn us.
Without Barry to chuckle at Trolley and Melon are vulnerable to attack from the serious. The local fascist youth are confused. Among formidable wisdoms, the wall next to the underpass is daubed by their seedy misspelt truth, loudly and badly. FREE TOMMY
If they had a brain, they’d be dangerous, Troll,” observes Melon.
Ordinarily, he’d whip out his permanent marker to add to the mess. Today, he is sad. So, they walk under the subway that connects with the brand known as Cambridge; the words WITH EVERY BOX OF CORNFLAKES hang in the heat haze. It’s far too hot for Bauhaus 93.
In their contusions of grief, the duo has tired of aimlessness. Their wanderlust is in need of respite. Lacking the locomotion of motivation, they have for the time being fixed their abode in the imagination of another local writer - whose style is less mural.
Even as they remain fictive, they are no longer technically homeless. Trolley and Melon’s raison d’être is to provide wallpaper against which the desirable centre is set in relief, literally. Upstage and entitled to a paying public paying full attention, cheeks of passers-by blow out in recognition that their own fates could be “a lot worse.”
As they cast glances back to screens instantly, they do not see what is in front of them on the park bench: a pair of steel joists that buttress and reinforce the construct construed as normalcy. Across the surface, there exists a matrix of mind control that only a crack smoker can detect. An illusion so full of its own sense of being that it is very nearly real.
Melon has spent the morning trying to remember names: his own, and the other Chuckle, the less good-looking brother, without the serious talent. Trolley’s head Spanish laughs. He hehe hehe hehe. Mangwani Z-trollee. Instinctively, he recalls his own name in Shona. In Zimbabwe, he is a minor celebrity.
Melon’s birth certificate name is something saintly: Peter, Paul, Patrick, Theresa. But, he has always been known as Melon. Serena Williams once lost a tennis match. In her post-partum delirium, after severe traumatic shock and morphia, Melon’s mother lost her mind.
A teenage Caesarean in the 60’s, when they’d open women up like Teddy Bears and weren’t too bothered about leaving the zip dangling and the stuffing coming out everywhere, “Pass my little melon over here then,” is the only utterance his biological mother completed before meltdown. After Melon was scooped out like an over-ripe avocado covered in electric yellow cack, the afterbirth got left inside. The industrial medical practitioners had to go in and retrieve it manually. They dislodged more than afterbirth. As the fruit of her loins was sucked out, Eileen Mary Melia succumbed to reality. A sad arrival.
A sad departure. It is a day of two tales. It is important to appreciate the middle: life.
The local writer has minutes left before society is shut down for the duration of the class war. As he pops out for a filter and a blast of air-con, the pair forges an unfeasible escape down the spiral spine of his abandoned notebook.
As the full-blown raspberry is articulated, THBBPTHBPT!!!... Trolley and Melon burst like a lemon. It would have made Barry chuckle. When the Dead Princess Memorial Park was planned, a crack bench was considered not to be an integral feature.
Pissy jeans around his ankles, a skinny topless man in his late twenties, who could easily pass for 37, sits and smokes free-based amphetamine as he chats to the pigeons. His twitchy fingers twist and turn at a biro. Life is a freshly botched C-section: she has set out her stall.
He reaches for his treasured, wire-bound A4 feint ruled hardback notebook and writes. To me, to you, to me.
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