Larry and Mick Have a Mid-Life Crisis

Larry and Mick were in their early thirties.
One day, Larry turned to Mick and said:
'Shall we have a mid-life crisis?'
'Why the Shrek not?' said Mick.
And so they did.
Technically speaking, they were a little too young to be having a mid-life crisis. According, that is, to a survey conducted by Ned, Mick's long-lost cousin from the hills. Mick had never met Ned, but he was aware of his work. Ned was a goat farmer by trade, but in his spare time he conducted secret statistical surveys for the government. The authenticity of these surveys, as well as their reliability concerning their relation to human behaviour, was questionable, as they were all conducted on his flock of twelve goats. They did, however, keep him 'off the streets' and 'out of trouble' and, in some vague and generalised sense of the word, 'happy,' so... you know... whatever... and stuff. Mick had come across one of these secret statistical surveys on the Internet. The one about the average age of occurrence of mid-life crises amongst goats. He then forgot about it and three weeks later Larry had said:
'Shall we have a mid-life crisis?'
To which Mick had replied:
'Why the Shrek not?'
Funny how things turn out!

* * *

'According to this survey,' said Mick, 'we're a little too young to be having a mid-life crisis.'
'Best to get it out of the way, though,' said Larry, 'while we can still enjoy it.'
'Good point,' said Mick.
'And wasn't that survey conducted on goats?' said Larry.
'Another good point,' said Mick.
Having acknowledged the veracity of Larry's comments, Mick then tapped away on the keyboard before which he was perched on a purple leather pouffe.
'What's that you're writing there, Mick?'
'A list.'
'Of what?'
'What we'll need.'
'For what?'
'A mid-life crisis.'
'A list of what we'll need for a mid-life crisis?'
'That is correct.'
Larry leaned over Mick's shoulder, to better observe the list that was being constructed on an Excel spreadsheet.
'P.S, Larry.'
'P.S-what, Mick?'
'Personal Space, Larry.'
'Sorry, Mick.'
'That's okay, Larry.'
Larry leaned back a little, although not so much that Mick couldn't still feel his breath on the back of his neck, and started to read out the items on Mick's 'List of Things Needed for a Mid-Life Crisis':
'Selection of male grooming products,' said Larry.
'Nasal hair clippers, hair replacement cream, that kind of thing,' said Mick.
Larry continued...
'Replicas of automatic weaponry.'
'For reclaiming our masculinity.'
'X-box.'
'Reclaiming of youth (and coz I've heard good things about Halo 2).'
'Spirit level.'
'Every middle-aged man needs a spirit level.'
'And infeasibly expensive and impractical trainers.'
'See "X-box.'
'Let's go shopping!'

* * *

Numerous items were added to the list, as they traipsed around B&Q, Gamestation and the like. It was not a good time to be traipsing around such places, being three days before Christmas. Come to think of it, it was not a good time to be having a mid-life crisis. But who can predict when such things will occur? Actually, in this case, it was simply bad planning, as Larry and Mick had, as explained, chosen to have a mid-life crisis at this time. And once they had got going, there was no stopping them! So traipse around Gamestation and B&Q and other fine retail establishments, on December the twenty-second, they did.
'Larry?' said Mick.
'Yes, friend Mick?' said Larry.
'Is it me or do all the retail assistants look about twelve these days?'
'You're so right!'
'I know!'
'Look out, here comes a Big Issue seller...'
Larry and Mick dodged the Big Issue seller, skilfully swerved to avoid an old woman with a clipboard, then tripped over the buggy of a sixteen-year-old mother of three and narrowly avoided squashing the dog of a didgeridoo-player who was plying his trade in the doorway of Marks and Spencers (that is to say, the didgeridoo-player was plying his trade, not the dog, who was about as useless (indeed as smelly) as a wet fart).
'Phew!' said Larry.
'That was close!' said Mick.
'Upon which, the teenage mum let loose with a torrent of abuse, which incited Larry and Mick to retreat into the nearest teashop for a pot of Darjeeling for two and a Russian Slice.
'My ears feel assaulted,' said Larry.
'What would her mother think?' said Mick.
'Young folk today,' said Larry.
'No respect,' said Mick.
They then supped tea and set about discussing the weather, the price of buses and the state of pavements.

* * *

Larry and Mick went shopping, then had another pot of Darjeeling, with crumpets'n'jam.

* * *

Laden with purchases, they stumbled into Larry's abode, emptied their bags onto Larry's living room floor and checked off the items against a print-out of Mick's list:
'X-box,' said Larry.
'Check,' said Mick.
'Three spare controllers and a multi-tap.'
'Check.'
'Halo 2, Project Gotham Racing, GTA:San Andreas, Prince of Persia:Warrior Within, Call of Duty and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.'
'Check.'
'Thirty-three inch, wide-screen, High Definition TV, with Dolby 5.1 surround sound home cinema system.'
'Check.'
'Enormous tub of popcorn and various other nibbles.'
'Check.'
'Numerous bottles of pop.'
'Check.'
'Kitten.'
'Check.'
'Trebuchet.'
'Check.'
And on it went.
Until finally...
'Larry?'
'Yes, Mick?'
'What's a trebuchet?'
'One of those.'
'Yes, but what is it?'
They both stood, crossed their arms and cast their eyes upon the large, medieval, stone-throwing device in the corner of the room.
'I believe,' said Larry, 'it is a large, medieval, stone-throwing device.'
'But why do we have one?' said Mick.
'For the kitten.'
'For the kitten?'
Larry pointed - the kitten, being an uncommonly fluffy ball of whiskers and fur, was sitting in the bowl-like section of the device which would, in less peaceful times, contain a stone. It seemed unconcerned with the prospect of being tossed - at medieval ramparts or anything else. It just sat there, all kitteny like, its big soppy eyes staring, with unconditional love, at these daft-looking, thirty-something men who had brought it into their home; and, one might extrapolate, into their lives.
'Larry?' said Mick.
'Yes, Mick?' said Larry.
'I think I am in love with the kitten,' said Mick.
'Me too,' said Larry.
'But,' said Mick, 'I must ask,' he continued, 'why do we have one?'
'For the trebuchet,' said Larry.
'I fear,' said Mick, 'there is an element of circularity in your reasoning.'
'Expand,' said Larry.
'The trebuchet,' said Mick, 'is for the kitten. And the kitten,' he continued, 'is for the trebuchet.'
'That is correct,' said Larry.
'But why,' said Mick, 'the trebuchet-slash-kitten combo?'
'Now you're asking,' said Larry.
'Yes I am!' said Mick.
'Well it's like this...' said Larry.
And Larry explained.

* * *

Larry's explanation was thus... Imagine (said he) we are engaged in a marathon X-box sesh. An X-box-athon, if you will. Or we have got stuck into a meaty discussion about the price of sausages (if you'll pardon the pun), cyclists and their lack of respect for sensible road users, or the increasing occurrence of dog poo on common land. Needless to say, we're so immersed in our particular activity, that we lose all track of time and before you know it, Sainsburys is closed and there's nothing in the fridge.
(except the popcorn, suggested Mick) We've already eaten that.
(and various other nibbles?) Also consumed.
(continue...) It's late. Our minds (and perhaps our thumbs) are buzzing with activity. Sleep is out of the question, due to the huge quantities of caffeine-enhanced beverages we have imbibed.
(my bladder aches just thinking about it!) Exactly! And imagine how we'll feel if there's no food to quell our heightened senses?
(the prospect doesn't bear thinking about) And before you ask, no, we're not going to eat the kitten, we're going to attach our order to its fur and send it on its way to Chung Pong Pow...

* * *

'Chung Pong Pow?'
'The Chinese up the road.'
'And by "send it on its way, I assume you mean fling it, by means of the trebuchet?'
Larry proffered a toothy grin and touched his nose with one hand, whilst pointing at Mick with the other, like they do (or rather, did) on 'Give Us a Clue.'
'May I make a suggestion?' said Mick.
'You may indeed, my good friend Mickalonius!' said Larry - all huffy and puffy with pride at his ingenious plan.
'How about we just ring the Chinese with our order?'
Larry looked at Mick.
The kitten miaowed.
They both looked at the trebuchet and the furry feline fellow thereupon.
'Oh bugger,' said Larry.
And that was that.

* * *

EPILOGUE:

'Sports car for Mister Lampshade?' said the man at the door.
'Brilliant!' said Larry, as he and Mick skipped manfully onto the pavement and prepared for a riotous road-trip of rock'n'roll and... erm... rubber.
Or would have done, if they hadn't been faced with a pedal-car that was only suitable for personages of three foot and under.
'Truffles and troubidors,' said Mick.
'I resonate with concurrence at your sentiment,' said Larry.
And that was the end of Larry and Mick's mid-life crisis.

[ FIN ]