The loquacious dissembling and immoral lies of a stunted, bigoted, dark, ugly, pugnacious little troll for free
They won't make you green around the Gills either, I promise.
One of my favourite Welshmen, Chris Bell, who pops up in various editorial capacities at Fairfax regularly, is a hugely good and famous writer of fiction as well.
Chris has been published a number of times, but recently decided to give away much of his work on his new website. Why? Go to the site and read; Chris will tell you better than I could, but it's about the readers really.
He's put a few girly poems in there too, like The Smell of Granny's Toast and Tenancy Agreement, but that's OK. They won't steal your piece of beef or marrow bone or make you throw a poker at his head.
This is something
I’ve been meaning to write down
ever since I gave up smoking:
I once worked in Capper Street
off London’s Tottenham Court Road
as a wholesaler’s warehouseman
One day
I was loading boxes into a parcel service van
when an old down-and-out limped past the entrance
in a raincoat the colour of an OHMS envelope.
I think he was wearing a trilby hat
”You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?„
he asked from the side of his mouth
without turning to face me
I reached into my jacket
and offered the man my last Rothmans
”No thanks,„ he said,
”I only smoke Du Maurier.„
I really like that one.
