Geoffrey goes insane

"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."



"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"



"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."



"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."



"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)

"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"

"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.

"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."

"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."

"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"

"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."

Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."

"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."

"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."

"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"