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Wet wet wet wet wet

19 October 2000
George is feeling a little under the weather.

The first point being that the cat hasn't been seen since yesterday afternoon. Not that this would normally be a cause for concern; under the usual circumstances the only thing to worry about would be whether little Prometheus was urinating on the i-Book or dissecting dead mice on the living room rug. But this time I'm really worried; I'm not going to get upset about the blood on the Axminster when the rain's still pouring down and the cat isn't back yet.

See, none of us seven were worried when the showers started. It's the autumn and it's the south coast of England. As James said, there would've been more press coverage if we'd had a nice Indian summer and could have continued sunbathing until the beginning of October. Rain? Pshaw. Even when the roof of Matt's car started to drip and dripped on him on the way to work, that provided more comedy value about his new suit being ruined than any dark rumblings of fear. The second point being that we weren't prepared; didn't have the time to make sandbags or stockpile instant noodles (just add water) before any of us knew what was going on.

Thirdly? Well, the damn local media didn't know either. No mention of what was to come from John Brightly and Carol at six-thirty in the roundup of stories from your area, and certainly not from jovial Douggie Dougan with his comedy slot of local mishaps in the last five minutes. For Christ's sake - did no-one notice that for five nights running every jape and upset was water-related? Even we seven reprobates picked up on the link between the flooded allotments ("Prize marrow floated"!), the graffiti by the bus shelter being washed off, the fish deposited in the retirement home garden after the river split its banks ("Fish on Friday? It's fish every day in Rosedean!").

Dan got washed away ten days after the rain started, and that was when the fear kicked in. Like the cat really - he trundled off to the office on the Wednesday and didn't come back. I feel like such a shit for saying this, but really, we didn't notice for a few days. The absence of Buffy, Angel and Dawson should have been a sign, but I personally was so busy rifling through his comic collection undisturbed (and the bastard didn't tell me about the early edition Thundercats he'd got, did he?) that I didn't care. Divine retribution really - the evening after we'd learnt that he wasn't coming home, the ceiling to his attic room collapsed and the water destroyed half of what was in there. Douggie D cheerfully informed the soggy viewing public that several bodies has been washed up on the next to the pier, one of whom was his grandmother and one of whom was Dan. I certainly thought that we were all coping as well as could be expected with the awful news when the camera panned up against those auburn locks and lifeless cheekbones and that was when Jamie got hysterical and had to be slapped by James.

Living in a large house together for ten years, you'd think that we all get on and are able to pull together in a time of crisis. Fourthly, no. Jamie, as mentioned, was in no fit state discuss survival tactics and needed pacification with fondant fancies. Neil ran around making tea for all but offering no constructive criticism. Victor's grand fucking master plan was to buy sturdy twine and rope ourselves to "solid household instruments", so that when the torrents flooded through, we remaining six would be firmly attached to the washing machine and the Edwardian bathtub. Almost unbelievably Matt thought that this would be a fantastic idea, and the pair of them headed out to a hardware store. Which was of course under ten feet of water by that stage. They didn't return.

Since then? The clowns became very productive. All of Dan and Victor's floor-length leather coats were sewn into waterproof covers - I demonstrated needlework skills that I didn't know I possessed - and SOS flares made of last year's fireworks. All the time, the rain kept coming down and the street outside turned into a canal. Initial thoughts were to try to construct a dingy to sail away on but we had to abandon that when more pressing events occurred; the top floor broke from the weight of water and we had to decamp into the lounge. Game after game of canasta and Black Maria was played; Poker, betting our eyelashes.

Fifthly, we killed Jamie. Sixthly, we ate Neil.

Jamie had become such a mess by this stage. Maybe we were putting him out of his misery, but to be honest we were putting ourselves out of our misery. The constant grizzling. Eating the food supplies when he thought that no-one was looking, and hiding food behind the bookcase for midnight snacks. Grinding his teeth. Making snide comments about how he'd liked Dan best and wouldn't it have been better if James or I had been found under the pier instead. After three days of this I cracked and beat him senseless with the (now defunct) i-Book. It was only when his crumb-strewn corpse had been hauled out of the window that the next problem was discovered; the food supplies were nearly gone. And Neil, selfless Neil, lovely Neil, reasoning that it was a far better thing for him to do, offered himself up as shish kebab.

Which brings me on to point seven. Or indeed back to point one. James and I are nearly done with Neil; only some rump steak and a bit of leg is left, and we started on him over four days ago. See, when Neil runs out I'm not sure what happens next; I'm smaller and weaker than James and don't fancy my chances much when he gets hungry. If Prometheus comes back though, then I can probably stave him off for a day or two which is enough time to escape and swim downstream, maybe to another house or into a slipstream towards a Red Cross camp somewhere. But the cat isn't back yet. And I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon.


Previously on upsideclown


Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
10 November 2003. George writes: Dead beat
20 October 2003. George writes: Shortening
29 September 2003. George writes: Manhattanites are Cleavage-Starved
11 September 2003. George writes: How to Bring Us in Line With the Future
18 August 2003. George writes: Slashtastic
28 July 2003. George writes: Underground Independent Small Press Comic Fight Club
7 July 2003. George writes: Careering
16 June 2003. George writes: Choose your own adventure
26 May 2003. George writes: Revelations
8 May 2003. George writes: Picture Perfect
14 April 2003. George writes: MetaPirate
24 March 2003. George writes: Preparation X
3 March 2003. George writes: F of x
13 February 2003. George writes: Three is the magic number
23 January 2003. George writes: Recorded Delivery
30 December 2002. George writes: Meat Bingo or Death
12 December 2002. George writes: Royal Inquisitor
21 November 2002. George writes: This Clown is Cancelled
28 October 2002. George writes: Shopping with God
3 October 2002. George writes: SaferSpoony
16 September 2002. George writes: Supercalanthropomorphicexpealidocious
26 August 2002. George writes: The deformed animal menagerie
5 August 2002. George writes: Plaice that Funky Music, Whitebait
15 July 2002. George writes: Safe as Houses
24 June 2002. George writes: Two Lions (DB/DS)
30 May 2002. George writes: Series 8
9 May 2002. George writes: Market Stall
11 April 2002. George writes: I, the Enlargened, Crunchy Product
18 March 2002. George writes: Cakexterminator
21 February 2002. George writes: Fiction Suit
28 January 2002. George writes: Spunk Gunk
31 December 2001. George writes: Fairytale of New Pork
10 December 2001. George writes: Circular
15 November 2001. George writes: A Man With No Ass Is No Man At All
22 October 2001. George writes: One Night in Heaven
27 September 2001. George writes: Uncut
3 September 2001. George writes: Porn Pants
9 August 2001. George writes: Names of the Roses
19 July 2001. George writes: No Fun Here
21 June 2001. George writes: All Your Elections are Belong to Us
28 May 2001. George writes: Pierced as Fuck
3 May 2001. George writes: My Lovely Horse
9 April 2001. George writes: Eight Hundred and Forty-Three
12 March 2001. George writes: Kill 'Em All
19 February 2001. George writes: Formal
25 January 2001. George writes: Sticks and stones
11 January 2001. George writes: A Thought on Morality
11 December 2000. George writes: You can't put that into a soufflé
13 November 2000. George writes: Lyrical Genius
19 October 2000. George writes: Wet wet wet wet wet
25 September 2000. George writes: Built on an Indian burial ground
31 August 2000. George writes: This Way
31 July 2000. George writes: Runt of the Litter

Let meeeeee entertain you


We are all Upsideclown: Dan, George, James, Jamie, Matt, Neil, Victor.

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