Pulling all the feathers from the largest kleptomaniac hen in all of Argentina

Today, whilst playing netball with a gang of heroin-addicted vandals from Cheam, I was knocked on the head by a passing heron.

 

It had apparently become violent due to ingesting too much Tartrazine after attempting to break the world record of drinking the most supermarket substitute cherryade in 24 hours.  Needless to say it failed after going on a chemical-fuelled rampage that lasted longer than the world record attempt.  Directly after the blow to my parietal cortex, I was thrust into a coal-back tunnel, drifting for what seemed like hours, hunched over in an L-shape.  Eventually I arrived in Cheapside during the great plague of 1348.

 

A sight more loathsome and repellent I’ve yet to see.  Shambling wrecks of people lurched about in filthy rags, some carrying the bodies of their family, in the crowded streets.  The contents of all the privies had been emptied onto the verges and the place was brim full of the stench of effluent, trickling noisomely towards the houses from which it had come.

 

Some people were dragging the bodies of the relatives out into the streets and others were trying to rub off the white X’s on their doors as the number of plague victims continued to rise.  The sight was so piteous and yet at the same time filled me with the utmost revulsion.

 

There were drooping figures, dragging their feet as they walked, their bodies covered in the most pustulent plague-sores, infected and inflamed, the sores covering the features of their faces so much that they barely looked human.

I hardly dared approach them, so much did they fill me with horror.  After finding the courage however, I crept towards one man, whose only leg was a stump and who dragged himself on broken and rotting crutches along the dirty street.

 

‘Could you tell me where this terrible place is, fellow?’ I asked him, pressing a silver ducat into his withered and scarred hand.

 

‘Tis Cheapside, stranger.  What business have you here?’ he replied in a throaty drawl.

 

‘I’m trying to find Tesco’s,’ I replied, ‘I’ve completely run out of asparagus.’

 

‘Well don’t ask me, I haven’t a bleedin’ clue,’ he snapped, and lumbered off, throwing my silver ducat onto a nearby corpse.

 

People are so rude nowadays.

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