Tags
bankers, comedic, comedy, funny, humor, humour, performance, poem, poetry, satire, satirical, silly, tim key, topical, write, writer, writing
At the moment outside looks like this: 
and I have the chest and throat plague. Just think of all those prank calls I could be making and can’t. I don’t really make prank calls. Or do I? No, I really don’t. I am, however, coughing up phlegm.
For some reason this weather reminded me of a story I’d forgotten about. It was kind of a joke written during the height of the (understandable) Bush hating era, and I had decided to make it as daft as possible.
In a way it reminds me of the topical silliness of Tim Key‘s comedy performance poetry, but obviously he’s a consummate performer and mine is a ridiculous story about ice cream.
The Ice Cream Van (by me)
It was the best of the underground ice-cream vans since the ban. It kept frozen meat round the back in case of checks by government officials; when they appeared, the ice-cream was hidden and voila! A travelling butchers.
I first heard about it from Emma. She brought the stuff to a party and my god, she sold out fast. It was that good, thick and creamy. You could say what you liked at those parties; you could call Bush a wanker without midnight disappearances, and no regulation food.
So there I was as early dawn cracked red across the sky, standing outside the big white van, about to choose a tub of raspberry ripple. I could already taste it. But something happened.
I heard the black car pull up, oblique windows hiding the watchers. Coldness crept into my heart as the ice-cream lady tried to hide the tubs, eyes bugged and hands scrambling. The cupboard was locked as the government official stepped up leisurely next to me.
“Hail to Bush, our leader,” he boomed as he saluted. The ice-cream lady followed suit, as was expected. I felt my hand twitch in response, but I was awash with a strange new sensation.
“Bush is a wanker” I stated simply.
The eyes of the official widened in horror. My resolve melted but I knew it was too late to back out.
“What did you say?!”
“I said…he’s…a wanker.”
A strong hand grabbed me by the back of the neck, half choking me. I nearly cried out in shock but caught myself. That wouldn’t have looked very rebellious.
I was shoved roughly into the back of the black car before I could see what was happening, my mouth still watering for raspberry ripple.
Here is an example of Tim Key’s comedic poetry ( my story arrived before I knew of him):
