Black Mark’s…

 “As I was going to St. Ives,
I met  a man with seven wives.
And every wife had seven sacks,
And every sack had seven cats,
And every cat had seven kits.
Kits, cats, sacks, wives.
How many were going to St. Ives?”

“You fucking what?  He had how many wives?  Was he a fuckin’ Mormon or somthin’?  Does this kind of thing ‘appen a lot in the   St. Ives area?  Jesus, there must be a lot of lonely blokes round the place.  I s’pose the obvious answer is that there’s only one actually goin’ to St. Ives.  ‘Cos if you look at it logical, like, this geezer has met this lot on his way to the place, so they must be goin’ away from it.

     “But I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re all actually goin’ in the same direction, an’ this bloke has walked past a lay-by on the main St. Ives-Everywhere else route, an’ found this other irate bloke arguin’ with his numerous spouses over his bizarre decision that what St. Ives actually needs, like, is a sudden influx of angry cats into the area.  An’ let’s face it.  These cats are gonna be pretty pissed off.  I mean, imagine tryin’ to get hold of a cat, like, an’ then tryin’ to stuff it into a sack.  You can imagine how the cat is gonna react.  ‘Get to fuck,’ it’s gonna say, ‘I’m not goin’ in any fuckin’ sack.’  An’ it’s gonna start scratchin’ an’ hissin’ an’ tryin’ to get out of the sack.  An’ I don’t blame it, frankly.  I don’t fancy goin’ in a sack much either.  Even if it does mean a holiday in Cornwall.

     “But instead of leavin’ it there, you’re now gonna try an’ get another six in there under the same circumstances, with the cats already in there tryin’ to use your distracted state to make their own bid for freedom from this increasingly crowded an’ uncomfortable sack.  It’s gonna be chaos, an’ no mistake.  An’ then, havin’ already stuffed each sack with more cats than can comfortably be carried in a very small area, you’re gonna try an’ get another 49 smaller cats in there too.  I mean, why?  Surely there must be an’ easier way of transportin’ cats about.  Why not make a couple of journeys, with the cats in the first one an’ the kittens in the second?  I mean, the cat journey’s gonna be a bit of a bind, but you could probably load the kittens up two at a time without even touchin’ the sides.  Instead, you’re gonna be tryin’ to carry a sack containin’ 56 cats of varyin’ sizes, all of whom are gonna be pretty vocal in their opinions vis-à-vis their surroundin’s.  An’ these birds are carryin’ seven of the buggers each?  Well no bloody wonder they’ve stopped to chew this bloke’s ear off a bit.  I mean, I bloody would.  I mean….. hang on.  <Terry.  TEL.  Yeah.  Can I borrow your calculator?  Nah, I wanna find out ‘ow many cats these birds are carryin’.  Cheers.>

     “Right.  How many in each sack?  56.  Times 7.  Equals….. 392.  So each one of these birds is carryin’ 392 assorted felines, all in a bad mood.  Did he marry the Bulgarian shot-put team or somethin’?  Fuck.  I mean, how much does a cat weigh?  <Fuck off Terry.  A cat does not weigh eight stone.  How much do you weigh?  Right.  Sixteen stone.  And you think that a cat weighs eight?  You really are a thick cunt sometimes, Tel.  You know that?>  Anyway, I’m not really surprised that this bloke is stuck in some lay-by arguin’ with ‘is birds.  Not surprised at all.  My bird would get all arsey if I asked ‘er to carry a bag full of cats to some poxy village in Cornwall.  An’ if I asked ‘er to carry seven of the fuckers, she’d go through the roof.  Straight up, like.  I mean, she’d do it.  Eventually.  But I wouldn’t ask ‘er to do a job like that on ‘er own anyway.  Carryin’ cats is man’s work, innit.  I reckon these Bulgarian birds ‘ave stopped this bloke an’ said ‘Oi!  Why are we carryin’ these bloody sacks for you?  We ‘ad to load the bloody things with cats, an’ now you want us to carry ‘em as well?  Up yours!’  ‘Cept they’re sayin’ it in Bulgarian, like.  So this bloke can’t understand a word of it.  I mean, your average Cornish travellin’ tinker, or whatever this bloke is, ain’t gonna know much Bulgarian, is ‘e?  I reckon that’s what all the row in the lay-by was.  They’re all gabbin’ at ‘im twenty to the dozen, an’ he’s goin’ ‘I dunno what you’re sayin’!  I dunno what you’re sayin’!’  An’ you’ve got all the cats makin’ a din in the background an’ all.  That’s gonna put a strain on any marriage, cats or no cats.

     “But getting’ all these big, foreign birds to carry yer cats for you, well, that’s like slave labour, innit.  I mean, you’d expect the bloke to carry a couple of bags hisself, wouldn’t yer?  But no.  An’ that’s why he’s stuck in a Cornwall lay-by arguin’ in a language ‘e don’t understand with seven East-European shot-putters over a consignment of pissed-off cats.  He’s obviously not thinkin’.  Either that, or he’s got a bad back.  Whatever it is, though, he’s made a right fist-up of this cat thing, like.  <’Ere you go, Tel.  Yer calculator.  Yeah, two pints.  Cheers.  Oh fuck off, Tel.  You were never married to Olga Corbett…..>”

                                Black Mark.