Fear and Loathing with Dr Gonzo in Toy Town
“It’s that ancient love. That you won’t outgrow”
It was just after 8am as I recall when the acoustic strains of “Dust on the Ground” by the magnificent Bombay Bicycle Club roused me from my slumbers and for once, it appeared the weather people had got it right. Today’s rays from the Great Fire God of the Sky were rumoured to be at their brightest and hottest between early and late morning and by 10am I was feeding some rather hungry ducks and four (yes, four!) swans, in some glorious late August sunshine. Regular readers will attest to the plainly bizarre fact that I name swans and Ironbridge has long had two, Fred and Mary. Then a third swan arrived (and “disappeared” in “mysterious circumstances”) if you believe the rumours I’m circulating, and then today, we had four of the long necked buggers! Very calm they were too, even with the invasion of their territory by a couple of playful dogs. This, without fail, ensures they hiss and snarl at their invaders but today, calm as Hindu cows. Perhaps they’re stoned I mused. Been listening to Bob Marley again.
I laughed rather too loudly at my own joke.
As predicted, the sunshine gave way to a moody set of dark clouds as noon approached but who really cared? Not me Jack. I had the Good Doctor Gonzo for company as well as some always delicious mint toffees and by the time I’d finished the Rhubarb and Custard sweets too I fed the ducks and swans a second time, popped into the antique shop on the riverside and tried to act like a sane human being around other, human, beings, before having the very great pleasure of watching three dogs, one a shaggy old sheep dog and general ball of world weary fluff, make short work of their individual ice creams (watching dogs eat ice cream is a rather beautiful pleasure, give it a try sometime, preferably with your own dog as it would be strange otherwise, but give it a go! You’ll never feel more alive) and the toy town of Ironbridge slowly erupted into a hive of human activity all around me as I sat in the shadow of the “Grand Old Lady” and dreamed the dreams of a daydreamer who bestows human names on swans. I may or I may not have had a box of chips from the local chip shop and I might or might not have started a conversation with a stranger in the antique shop with “I had those pool balls when I was a kid”, but I very definitely read yet more pages of quixotic prose from the master as I sat in the shadow of the oldest iron bridge in the known world and soon to be backdrop for a bride and groom on their treasured day of marriage. They stayed a minute, two tops for a round of photos of their big day and I’d wager the images they receive from the friendly professional photographer will be something very special indeed. Decades from now I picture a happy husband and wife looking back on these photos, a wedding day celebrated in front of the grandest lady of all and now smiling at a lifetime of love and happiness, hopefully children, and the prosperity of a kind human family all around them. Then hopefully they’ll smile at the memory of the dozen or so astonished tourists who couldn’t believe what their eyes were transmitting to their brain
and the strange looking man sat on a bench reading a book and enjoying a piping hot box of delicious chips (possibly).
Anyway, enough of this gibberish. Onto the good stuff. Treat yourself to some majestic Bombay Bicycle Club too if you wish.
Peace.
“See you at seven”, he says, moving away.
The knock comes at 7.02 — but instead of Squane it’s a beautiful silver-haired young girl who JD sent to pick you up. “He’s having a business meal with the Senator and he’ll join us later at The Crab House”.
“Wonderful! Wonderful! — Shall we have a drink?”
She nods. “Sure, but not here. We’ll drive over to North Miami and pick up my girlfriend…but let’s smoke this before we go”.
“Jesus! That looks like a cigar!”.
“It is!” she laughs. “And it’ll make us both crazy”
(page 249 of “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ‘72” by Hunter S Thompson)
Sunday is not a good day for travelling in the south. Most public places are closed — especially the bars and taverns — in order that the denizens of this steamy, atavistic region will not be distracted from church. Sunday is the Lords day, and in the south he still has clout — or enough, at least, so that most folks won’t cross him in public. And those few who can’t make it to church will likely stay home by the fan, with iced tea, and worship him in their own way.
This explains why the cocktail lounge in the Atlanta airport is not open on Sunday night. The Lord wouldn’t dig it.
(page 252 of “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ‘72” by Hunter S Thompson)
He raged incoherently at the Tube for eight minutes without drawing a breath, then suddenly his face turned beet red and his head swelled up to twice its normal size. Seconds later — while his henchmen looked on in mute horror — Meany swallowed his tongue, rolled out of his chair like a log, and crawled through a plate glass window
(page 264 of “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ‘72” by Hunter S Thompson)
Thanks for reading. For more rambling nonsense and musings from the jumbled contents of a jangled mind, here’s one I prepared in late March of this year:
"Tales I Tell Myself" - link to Amazon
Thanks for reading. I hope this message in a bottle in The Matrix finds you well, prospering, and the right way up in an upside down world.