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Cock and Glock saga


Richard Hoad

Cock and Glock saga

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THE NATION stipulates that we columnists provide an email address. I get likes and lashes. Some go further. A fellow wrote recently: “I have a funny thing on my back that my girlfriend keeps worrying over. What should  do?” (Apparently Ask Dr Dickie is part of this job.)
I recommended he see a doctor. Which he did. But went on in glowing terms to describe this “extraordinarily beautiful”, friendly female dermatologist. Bajan manhood should hang its collective head in shame, he contended, that such a divine creature remains unmarried (“no rings!”).
Enter idiot Dr Dickie. I have a spot on my back that needs checking. On the word of an Internet joker I’ve never met, I phoned and made an appointment for next day.
He had got most things right. She’s very pretty. Easy to talk to. Until she said: “Mr Hoad, you should have an all-over body check. A fellow in Canada had a malignant mole under his testicles which fortunately was discovered in a routine medical. Take off all your clothes.”
Whoa, baby! Two problems. One, I couldn’t remember if I had on my good underwear. Two, Perkins gets very shy and withdrawn under medical scrutiny. When a doctor says to get undressed and goes off elsewhere, I take the opportunity to coax him up to speed.
But this lady wasn’t moving. Did I risk a few furtive shakes while looking her in the eye? Did she burst out laughing when she saw Perkins? This and more can’t be answered in a decent family column. Except for the final twist. Provided Veoma promises not to look until I get my pants back on …
Okay. Lately I saw where Kamau got this year’s Comissiong Prize for Poetry. Most likely David will want to give next year’s award to a white poet to balance things out. So here’s my ballad of the One-Eyed Cock and the Man with the Glock:
Sir Treadmore was the pick of Nefertari’s cocks, plumage flowing like Iley’s locks. He hit those hens with a one, two, three; how oft I sighed: “Why him, not me?” The air shook, resonated, with his mighty crow, until one day an unlucky blow, rendered him helpless in battle to vie: Sir Treadmore, poor fellow, had lost his left eye.
With bloodied head, forced to his knees, others took revenge he couldn’t appease. Then daughter Donna in pen did lock, Sir Treadmore now known as the One-Eyed Cock. Safe from his foes he grew sleek and fat; with rabbits for company and a big, tiefing rat. The rat ate his feed until one sad day when; he got into the pen but couldn’t get out again.
A rat in the pen, what should we do?
 “Grig ’im with a wire”, suggested one or two. “Pour boiling water and hear him squeal”; but Treadmore was in there, how would he feel? Shazam! Boom! as if from a wand, appeared there a man with a gun in his hand.
“I do good like the Abbot of Aberbrothok; my friends they just call the the Man with the Glock.
“Rats are my specialty, four legs or two; show me your rodent and see what I’ll do.” Bruggadung! in rat’s back, but he wasn’t quite dead; Braddax! The next one took off his whole head. Shazam! again and the gunman had left; I came out from hiding of calmness bereft. And not me alone for in thick bushes near, Bannister’s man was doing fence repair.
At the first shot he screamed, “Don’t shoot, Richard, is me! The bushes that shaking is not no monkey!” At the second, he took off but whether fled or flew; is a technicality that need not concern me or you. Both he and I stood in awe and in shock; of the clinical power of that Man with the Glock. While one-eyed Sir Treadmore with head under wing; crowed, “Officer, believe me, I din’t see a thing.”
Okay, clothes back on. Hoad chatting up the lovely “unmarried” doctor in her waiting room. Until she introduced a serious-looking guy watching us: “By the way, this is my husband Genghis.”
I hope next time around she checks that Internet joker’s prostate. While wearing her rings. If any get lost, I’ll pay for the replacements.
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator. Email [email protected]

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