THE LIFE AND TIMES OF RUDYARD YOUHOARE

                              THE LIFE AND TIMES OF RUDYARD YOUHOARE

Rudyard Youhoare was washed up by the time he was twenty.  

A life of excesses and a flamboyant relationship with alcohol, chips, fags and women had taken their toll. 

Although originally athletic and a keen sportsman, since he practically absconded from school at the age of fourteen, his attitude to his body had meant a steep decline in his athleticism.

The weight had started to build from an early age, and a combination of cider, sandwiches, biscuits and chips had enabled his waistline to expand at an alarming rate.

A string of broken relationships and pregnancy scares behind him, he led a reckless life inhabiting the seedy side and establishments of Neasden, Kings Cross, Achill Island and Soho.

A couple of brushes with the law made no difference to his boisterous roustabout behaviour, and although he has over the years made many friends, he has also unknowingly also made more than a few dangerous enemies. After a brief and unsuccessful attempt at being a self styled ladies man of Kingsbury Circle, he migrated to the fleshpots of Kings Cross and Soho, together with his partner in crime, Dr Theopolis Roylster. 

So as to establish a means to supplement his meagre income as a failed carpenter apprentice, he would arrange a nefarious method of obtaining cash via a number of criminal activities including petty theft, grand larceny and the sale of falsified documents to members of the construction fraternity.

After a short period working as a rent boy, he managed to establish himself with a local construction company where he acted as a runner for a local criminal who frequented a perilous public house called the Old Spotted Knob. 

To be continued......

LIFE IN THE SLOW LANE

                                                        LIFE IN THE SLOWLANE

When things were normal, before the effects of the virus interrupted normal life, Norman Krettin lived a somewhat strange but steady life.

 He would wake in the early hours to release his bladder and prepare his standard breakfast of holy ghost and beef dripping, supplemented by lashings of milky tea.  After his swift ablutions, he would dress in his working clothes, consisting of old black slacks, a string cotton vest, long sports socks and topped and tailed by a woolen jumper and brothel creepers. 

This would be supplemented by a plastic fake leatherette jacket in the winter months or if it was raining. At precisely 5.30am he would depart his humble abode and seek public transport to commute him to his place of work. 

The precise location of his employment would depend on which building site he was engaged in supervising, and would often change at awkward times for Noman Krettin, due to complications in scheduling of the various stages of construction and cashflow at the projects being completed. It was of the utmost importance too Norman that he was the first person in the makeshift office, as it gave him time to hide the previous days mishaps and ensure that any changes to the construction schedule could be accounted for in a variety of nefarious and underhand means.  

After and exhausting day of shuffling papers and pretending to use his computer, Norman would make his excuses and leave the others to there own devices , so that he could make his way home via bus and train.  Upon reaching his abode, he would stretch out on his specially enforced and strengthened armchair, and watch satellite TV until he felt the urge to urinate or pass solids. 

However, since the emergence of the virulent virus COVID, Norman Krettin has been reduced to exactly the same excruciatingly mind numbing routine as nothing has changed in his humdrum life !

He is not affected by curfews at the local pubs and restaurants as he does not use them, and trips to the shops have been out of bounds since his arrest for shoplifting in Liddle's after consuming too many cans of cider on the latrine after an early lunch on is last birthday.  

As for socialising, his social life has been non existent since telephoning all his previous "friends" at four a.m. in the morning after a few too many cans of extra strong Perry, and sending parcels of his putrid poo in the Royal Mail as a sad follow through.

All that remained for Norman Krettin then and as now, was to consume 18 can of cider on a Saturday night, on his own, accompanied by satellite tv, a box of tissues and an aging mobile telephone.

And alas, this continues to be  the life in the slow lane for Norman Krettin , or is it ?

To be continued.........