The Big Pink Read online

Bean-eating Fallah soon moved out. Some say –

  Offended by the overuse of 'gay,'

  Which term indeed was somewhat commonplace

  Within the Pink; – he left; and left a space.

  This space was quickly taken by Chris Bole

  Who seemed quite nice and certainly could roll.

  But of him I will currently not write

  Coz first I wish to set the record right.

  Above I said the dwellers used a stick

  That many here might find impolitic.

  Tis true, the Pink ones often chose to curse

  By shouting 'You are gay.' This was perverse.

  Perverse, because they did not really think

  It wrong for men their bodies to enlink.

  So was it simply irony? In part

  The words were not entirely from the heart

  But neither was it merely idle talk

  We often own what we in others mock.

  So anyway. Computer-hacking Chris

  Moved in. Though 'hacking' as a word's amiss

  A better term is 'studied.' Like the rest

  He pursued academic things with zest.

  And though tis true that some of us dropped out

  About our scholar's zeal can be no doubt.

  But Chris completed his degree, no fear;

  Then went to Dublin for a placement year.

  Before that in the Pink house did he dwell

  Escaping trouble. What, he would not tell.

  The Village maybe did not welcome him

  But in the Pink house outcasts fit right in.

  The time was right. He lent his TV tray

  For rolling joints. That made them feel OK.

  At this time too did Emmett place a note

  Upon a message board. On it he wrote:

  "Guitarist wanted. Just to have a jam."

  The note was seen by a Malaysian

  And thus did Azaharri join the crew

  He played guitar like it was overdue;

  Which means he played it well. The man could make

  His axe chop trees that e'en machines couldn't break

  And Erwan also sometimes played along

  His music sounding much like a Northern Song

  Where the chords go slightly wrong. No matter

  He aimed just to make the music fatter

  And did succeed. They aimed for one same mood

  That showed that each the other understood.

  The music was a conversation with

  Each one replying. There were some good riffs.

  Now music was in general highly held

  By all those who within the Pink House dwelled.

  Bespeccalled Barry, for an instance, liked

  To hear Metallica attack and strike

  While gentlemanly Neil preferred a piece

  Like Paganini's twenty-forth caprice

  James Hendry studied music (when required)

  By him both Brahms and Beatles were admired.

  Asked what should be on the CD player

  Long-haired Levin always answered 'Slayer'.

  And Lev MacHill had decks that caused earthquakes

  And hurricanes and storms and emptied lakes

  While Hamish like to chill out with the blues

  A Muddy Waters album, free with booze.

  That brings us to another point. In all

  The Pink ones drank their share of alcohol.

  On his first day young Lev took fifty shots

  With Barry. It was cider. They saw spots.

  Tinned Harp was usually Barry's choice but soon

  The legendary Michlobb called the tune

  For with it came the free CD of which

  I spoke above. Ah, delicious Mich,

  It's murky yellow innards weren't unknown

  To topple once strong Kings from off their throne

  And also get them drunk. The bitches' brew

  Was often joinéd by a Bush or two.

  And were the Pink folk looking for a night

  They'd usually take themselves to the limelight

  A club of sorts. There metal would be wrought

  And moshing done. At least a gigawatt

  Of power was released. The national grid

  Blinked on and off and bucketloads of squid

  Rained from the sky. The seas turned dry

  The normal rules no longer did apply

  And then at closing time they all went home

  To their unstately Pink displeasure dome

  With eyes dry from the smoke. When rising late

  (Like Descartes when he 'gan to cogitate)

  They 'tempted not to boke their rings up. 'Stay

  This overzealous pain!' They'd say. The grey

  And lifeless morning pale and grim would swim

  Against their eyes which red with blood would dim

  At thoughts of having soon to rise. 'Unwise,'

  They'd say, 'That I should drink so much!' The cries

  Of woe would later fade so up they'd get

  To sit around the house and pay the debt

  Of too much alcohol. So down to sprawl

  Upon the sofa, staring at the wall

  Which blankly stared them back, they put on Floyd

  Or switched the TV on and thus avoid

  A hanging dog's remorse. And then of course

  There was the game of Worms. And endless source

  Of pleasure and distraction. Worms with guns

  Took turns in shooting at each other. Suns

  Exploded as hand grenades were thrown. Own,

  What joy was had to hear a rival moan

  When Holy Hand Grenades emerged from crates

  Or terror when an armed invertebrate

  Would slink towards your worm to blow its head

  Across the pixilated scape. Like lead

  A seabound worm would sink beneath the brine

  When blasted from the side. Revenge was fine

  When in the next turn their worm drank the soup.

  But sometimes coward worms would play the dupe

  And bury themselves deep within a mound

  And this was bound to make the others pound

  Their seats in fury. So these flagrant cheats

  Would while away the game in solid pleats

  Of stone-bound safety. Mean-time others fought

  And squashed each other; things got fraught; they shot

  But only he within the ground could win

  As long as he stayed tight, like in a tin.

  The others knew this; so they'd dredge him up

  By digging holes themselves. They'd lop his top

  Clean off him. So disposed, the buried worm

  Met with their righteous blows. And then the term

  Of all their lives grew short; for at the start

  Each chap has four worms with one hundred parts

  But by this point the parts were ten in sum

  And four good worms diminished into one.

  So each fought for the final victory hard

  They gnashed their teeth, bloodstained and battle-scarred

  Until the ending came, and vain the boasts

  Of he the champion sounded! He could roast

  In Hell for all the others cared; they wished

  For only one thing: that delicious dish

  Revenge, served now, with boiling hot endives

  And so they'd start another game. Believe

  Me dearest reader all the world's a stage

  And all the worms upon it are engaged

  In warring one another. When one's done

  A new war will be speedily begun.

  And so our heroes whiled the day away

  By turning worms into a crude pâté.

  The first great party of the house was when

  The ghosts and ghouls come out – that's Hallowe'en.

  The second was the Pseudochristmas bash

  When Barry hammed and Hamish made the mash.r />
  On both occasions 'bauchery ensued

  From drink; but only on the second food

  Was specially made. A feast of turkey, ham,

  And spuds with liberal gravy. But the jam

  Of cranberry was stupidly forgot

  Despite it having been especially bought

  The night before. No matter. Yorkshire puds

  Made up for it. It was exceeding good

  And everybody wore their festive crowns

  Of coloured paper. This cost £30

  And 50p. Tis cheap to live like Kings

  This being one of Eglantine's main themes

  That is, that most of us can live in style

  That Kings of old would find was worth the while.

  Despite not having much of any gold

  Besides the student loan, they did not hold

  Themselves from fine things; such as fries each morn

  And cannabis each night. The hardships bourn

  Were chiefly self-inflicted: the distress

  Of too much drink; or living in a mess

  That mortals seldom know. But of the tip

  The Pink House soon became I will not quip

  Until the proper place. For now we'll speak

  But of those parties. In mid-winter bleak

  The second party did unfold. The first

  Took place two months before. At that their thirst

  They quenched with special jute fruice, freshly made

  From grapes and turpentine and one brigade

  Of drunken seagulls. Emmett poured a stream

  Of evil whisky in the stew. A gleam

  Satanic in intensity did light

  His eye. The fruice was rude; like dynamite

  Left under someone's chair. Twas Hamish caught

  The blast, by drinking half right on the spot

  And staggering off. He ended up in bed

  Some twenty minutes later, good as dead.

  The party 'tinued on but of the rest

  Folks memories are somewhat blurred at best.

  But blurring's what's desired; to stir and blend

  The diverse parts into a soup. Depend

  Upon it; drink, when taken free, will make

  A rubbery burger seem like softest steak.

  Sometime between these two dates these chaps bought

  A blackboard from a DIY; to jot

  Ideas upon it was it's function. There

  Were some ideas a-jotted just as rare

  And strange as madmen's ravings. Instance one:

  The "Co-Hop" 'quation, to decide which won:

  The nearby Co-op or the Tesco far

  For stuff. In truth the route to Zanzibar

  Was just as like to win, for neither shop

  Was close enough to make them, stoned, get up.

  The one exception was the kebab place

  Called Esperantos. Here they would make haste

  To satisfy their cravings. So the board

  Did make itself of use: a surface scored

  With weird ideas that went no further on.

  Hashish is known both far and wide to spawn

  Such thoughts; so Neil and Erwan oft did find

  Bizarre suggestive thoughts run through their minds

  When tea had been consumed. But on one night

  They both determined, their strange thoughts to write

  Upon the blackboard. Schrodinger once said:

  Tis hard to know a cat's alive or dead

  The quantum world is small and hard to ken

  Indeed uncertainty will hold you when

  You try to measure two things too precise

  Like speed and the position – then the price

  Is that the more you know of one the less

  The other can be known. We can express

  The certain limits of our knowledge by

  A constant named for Plank. This German guy

  Discovered that the energy of heat

  Emitted from a body is discrete

  And not continuous. To this thought our pair

  Attached the twin thought: in the lightless lair

  Of nature's deepest pit there lurks a point

  Of infinite density. At this strange joint

  Between the world of sense and ignorance

  Our heroes places a marker of immense

  Analogy. At both ends of the world

  There squat two walls against which we can hurl

  Whatever weight we wish. But none shall pass

  The wall cannot be breached. You're on your ass

  If even you attempt it. Both our friends

  Believed that they had now obtained the end

  Of thirty centuries diff'cult physical thought

  They'd seen it in a flash: the truth was what

  It ought to be; each proposition of

  Necessity a true one. Hand in glove

  We often think our ideas fit the truth

  Or e'en determine it. Those long in tooth

  Know better; most of our beliefs are false

  Especially those we like the best. This waltz

  Between the colonnades of centuries lore

  Will carry on as long as there's a floor

  To dance about on. Now though you and me

  Will shuffle with our drinks to Canto Three.

  Canto Three