Dog Town

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

Eugene Pussycat rapped hard on the battered front door of number 13 Desperation street, a peeling, dark blue door with the word 'pooftah' sprayed across it in bright yellow paint. “Good morning, madam,” he said to the morbidly obese, heavily made up Neanderthal in the tight leopard print dress and fluffy carpet slippers who answered the door. “May I interest you in my fine collection of reasonably priced British, Continental and Russian trombones?”

“A?” the occupant replied in a forced high-pitched voice, batting his/her dead tarantula false eyelashes and rubbing a fresh looking tattoo of a reclining ocelot smoking a cigar on his/her meaty forearm. “What yer want?”

“I don't know, sir, madam? I've clean forgotten,” Pussycat said. “My mum dropped me on my head when I was a kitten, you see, and I suffer from debilitating memory lapses. Hang on, let me check my trusty notebook. Aah yes, I'm a door to door trombone salesman. Would you care for my business card? It bears my telephone number and email address, plus a convenient link to my brand new website where you can order a free full colour brochure and choose from a wide range of quality trombones and other fine musical instruments in the comfort of your own home.”

“You wot?” the gender confused individual grunted, vigorously scratching an equally fresh tattoo of a Tamworth sow wearing a pink sou'wester and an orange and yellow polka dot tutu on his/her hairy chest. “I mean 'You wot?'” he repeated in a much squeakier voice. “Do you know where you are, mate? This is Dog town, it's a piss-poor council estate, nearly everybody round 'ere's on benefits of one kind or another, so you've picked the wrong place to flog poncey trombones and other musical flotsam and jetsam, or shit, as I prefer to call it.”

“I see,” Pussycat lied, for he had never been to Dog town before and he didn't see. “I don't suppose you'd be interested in buying a biodiesel engine from a beautiful pea green boat instead.”

“Nope, a lady of my breedin' 'as no use for a beautiful pea green boat biodiesel engine,” the man said, lighting a Marlboro from a crumpled pack that he unselfconsciously produced from the waistband of his frilly purple knickers, revealing a tattoo on his upper thigh of a crazed wallaby wearing a kiss me quick hat and wielding a machine gun. “John Cooper Clarke wrote a poem-cum-song about Dog town, it's peppered with profanities to convey a sense of futility and exasperation. 'e called it Evidently Chicken Town so that nobody would know 'e was on about this shit-hole – bloody Salford, I think he claimed it was about. You must 'ave 'eard it. The fuckin' view is fuckin' vile for fuckin' miles an' fuckin' miles the fuckin' babies fuckin' cry the fuckin' flowers fuckin' die the fuckin' food is fu-”

“I'd better be on my way,” Pussycat interrupted.

“Right. As I said, mate, this is the wrong sort of place to sell trombones and biodiesel engines for beautiful pea green boats. Shit, I can barely afford make-up and nice frocks, me, I'm on Incapacity benefit 'cos o' me glands. I dunno, what's a girl to do apart from sell 'er lithe young bod to a selection of largely unwashed gentlemen in a feeble attempt to make ends meet? As well as tryin' to flog expensive musical instruments and diesel engines for beautiful pea green boats in Dog town everybody can see that you're a friggin' pussycat - despite your posh 'aircut and your fancy pinstripe suit it's obvious what you are, mate. Surely somebody must 'ave told you that folk don't like your sort round 'ere.....”

“Sorry madam, sir, I'm going now,” Pussycat said, slowly backing away. “I'll, erm, nip on the number 79 bus to Sopping Campbell and try plying my trade there instead. The folk in Sopping Campbell are cultured, bloody civilised, they are, and I'm sure they know how to treat a trombone salesman, pussycat or no pussycat.”

“Fuck off to Sopping Campbell then, and don't bloody well come back – you clearly don't know 'ow to treat a female impersonator!” the man yelled, slamming the door as Pussycat walked swiftly away.

*************************

“I say, young man,” a voice called out from across the street a few moments later, and Pussycat was so flustered that he didn't realise that someone was calling him until she repeated herself. “Young man!”

“Yes?” he replied, half turning.

“I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Philip Rottweiler, or Phyllis as he insists on being called. Am I correct in thinking that you're a musical instrument salesman?”

“Yes, I am, or at least I think I am. My name's Eugene something or other, Eugene Pussycat, that's it - I'm afraid I suffer from occasional bursts of forgetfulness, possibly because my mother dropped me on my head when I was a kitten, so please forgive me if I have to refer to my little notebook every now and then. I specialise in thingummies, erm, trombones, it might be, but times are hard so I've been trying to branch out into other instruments, particularly brass instruments, but anything goes, really. A couple of weeks back I picked up a biodiesel engine that I salvaged from a beautiful pea green boat on its way to the scrap yard, but I'm having a hell of a job shifting it..... Would you like my card?”

“Come on in, I may be interested in buying a biodiesel engine for a beautiful pea green boat, but the main thing on my mind right now is purchasing a drum kit.” The woman was slightly built and rather elderly, and she smelled of a curious blend of Whippet and Irish Water Sapaniel, but that didn't worry Pussycat in the slightest. He was after all in Dog town, and at least she smelled more appealing than Phil/Phyllis Rottweiler.

Pussycat was led into a cluttered but very tidy room. There was a banjo and a clarinet lying on the sofa, a huge double base leaning in the corner beside a monstrous Aspidistra, a piano tucked at one side of the chimney breast and an archaic looking electric organ at the other beneath an oil painting of a posh looking Irish Water Spaniel holding an accordion and smoking an ornately carved meerschaum pipe. “I see you're very musical Mrs. erm.....”

“It's Miss actually, Miss Flannelette Dingbat, pleased to meet you, Mr. Pussycat. Would you like some tea?”

“Ooh, that would be lovely.”

*************************

“I love bangy things, Flannelette,” Pussycat said, delicately sipping his tea. “My wife and I have several sets at home from various corners of the world, and I'm particularly fond of our African antelope skin bangy things and our highly polished Caribbean bangy things made out of old oil drums. You don't mind me calling you Flannelette, do you?”

“Yes, I do, it's Miss Dingbat to you. What do you mean, bangy things?”

“I've forgotten what they're called. Hang on, let me just check my notebook. Bangy things – drums, I love drums, Miss Dingbat.”

“So do I, but I haven't got any and I'd like to purchase some as soon as possible. I've got a session lined up with Motorhead in a couple of weeks, and Lemmy said if I can't get hold of a decent drum kit by then he'll have to hire someone else.”

“Splendid! It'll be my first sale of the week. In fact it'll be my first ever sale, I'm new to this door to door sales lark, you see. I used to work in a custard factory, but they closed it down and I was made redundant. I would have fallen back on my part time job, which was fishing for Giant Golden Prawns with Owl, my lovely wife, in a beautiful pea green boat, but the beautiful pea green boat company have fallen victim to the recession too and practically all of the beautiful pea green boats in the world have been sold for scrap or converted to houseboats for Nepalese Flamingo immigrants, so I can't even do that. I just hope my new musical instrument enterprise takes off.....”

“Oh, I'm sure it will, you're a wonderful musical instrument salesman, Mr. Pussycat. Help yourself to chocolate biccies, by the way. I love music, but all the instrument stockists in the region have closed down due to the recession so I'm having tremendous difficulty finding a suitable drum kit. I don't have a computer, so I can't buy one on line. As if that isn't bad enough I don't have a car, and the magic bus company has stopped all services to Dog town for the foreseeable future.”

“You need look no further, Flannelette. Miss Dingbat, sorry..... I can provide you with the finest bangy things that money can buy from the large, environmentally friendly wotsitcalled, er, warehouse I've erected in my back garden out of lengths of home grown bamboo and tiles made from spent lentil stalks bound with recycled carrier bags and waterproofed with used chip fat.”

“Oh, you're so ecologically aware, Mr. Pussycat. Bravo! Let's drink to maintaining a healthy ecosystem.”

“I was planning on catching the number 79 bus to Sopping Campbell later to try knocking on a few doors there,” Pussycat said, pouring the dregs of the tea down his throat, “and then the 55 to Hog's Bottom, which drops me off right outside my house in the middle of a stretch of idyllic countryside, but if the magic bus company has stopped those services I guess I'll have to walk, unless Owl is prepared to pick me up in her clapped out hovercraft.”

“There'll be no need for that, Mr. Pussycat, I'm more than willing to give you a lift. I have a beautiful pea green boat in my back garden, maybe the last beautiful pea green boat in the whole wide world. I bought it from a rag and bone man a while back, and though it's lacking a biodiesel engine it does have a small fairy warp drive fitted, so it's capable of low-level flight. I only have a little fairy dust to power it, I'm afraid, but there should be more than enough to take you on your errands, transport you home and then bring me back here with my new drum kit and biodiesel engine.”

“Wahaay!” Pussycat cried, landing a large wet kiss on Miss Dingbat's cheek

“Wahaay indeed,” the old lady replied.