Bogri's First Aid Lesson
You gotta to be hard for some of them injuries
It was the usual Friday night crowd down at the local and enough beer flowed to keep our spirits up. We played darts until we lost the last one, then just hung about the barmaid admiring her double top.
Grease was his usual ravenous self, chomping crisps and peanuts. Don't know whether it's the effect of parallel twin vibrations on his metabolism or maybe he's got worms. He never gets any fatter, just more greasy.
Malcolm was there of course, getting too drunk to ride his NSU Quickly ("Taken the Triton off the road for a rebuild"). This was on account of somebody lacing his shandy with beer. When Malcolm drinks he gets morbid, and that drives him to further drink.
"I reckon all bikers are bound to end up splattered over the windscreen of some car or lorry." Grease didn't want to know, he looked pale into his Newcastle Brown.
"Don't you ever get an 'orrible prenimo - prenomitt - foresight of disaster, Grease?" Malcolm pursued.
"Yeah, I sometimes think you're gonna bore me t'death!"
"Don't you ever worry about drowning in a vat of beer or being eaten alive by man-eating women?" I asked lightly. Malcolm didn't want to be side-tracked and neither apparently did Grease who replied pensively "No. I only worry about the bike cracking up at the ton and leaving me to run to a standstill on me own feet."
"Yeah! That's the kind of thing! Blow out in the middle of a motorway pack!" Malcolm was really lapping it up but Grease was obviously more deeply cut and broke off at half ten to leave.
"You're a fine one Malcolm." I berated him. "Trying to spoil his appetite or something?"
"No, Bogri. I've been reading a book on first aid. You gotta to be hard for some of them injuries."
"Getting them or giving them?" I asked.
"Treating them." Said Malcolm warming to the subject. "Compound fractures, concussion, smashed rib cages, guts all torn out . . ." he paused while his imagination flipped over the illustrations, nice and clinical with roman numerals on the pieces.
"You get sick if you see a run over hedgehog!" I laughed.
"I just love animals."
"That is illegal, Malcolm. I suppose you shave the spines from their bum first?"
"You're disgusting, Bogri."
The night continued with such pleasantries until chucking-out time. Malcolm was too piddled to turn his petrol on, so sooner than do it for him. I offered him a lift home on the Vin.
We set off at a fair lick and not far down unlit Pigs Lane my light caught the back end of a motorbike poking out of a ditch just out of the curve. It was Grease's Bonny.
We stopped pretty quick and looked round for Grease. Malcolm found him the other side of the hedge, just inside the field, out cold. I was busy pulling the Bonny out of the ditch and checking it over, pulling clods of grass from under the mudguards and turning things off - make it look good in case the law arrived.
Malcolm, appropriately, crawled through the hedge backwards and made his way to Grease. I could see in the half moon light he was shaking but determined to do his stuff. He started to loosen Greases collar and leather jacket. He put his hand inside the jacket then straightened up as if he had been bitten. He keeled over at the side of Grease. I leaped over the ditch and the hedge, grabbed him by the lapels of his denim jacket and shook.
"What's up with you Malcolm?"
His eyes opened, glazed beyond mere inebriation. "It was horrible!" he sobbed "I put me hand right inside him... It was horrible. Hot and wet and sticky and horrible!"
He was nearly hysterical, no good to Grease. It sounded bad. I wiped my hands down my trousers and very carefully opened Grease's jacket. Grease was beginning to come round. As I put my hand into the horrible hot slimy mess on his chest he yelled out.
"Bogri. Get your bleeding hands outa my fish and chips!"