TV's Paul Ross's Favourite Pearoast
I was in the pub the other day and a minor TV celebrity walked in, clutching his Big Black Book of Horror.

"Look!" I said to my uncomprehending chums, "It's TV's Paul Ross! The man with the magic voice! When he holds hands with himself marvellous happenings occur!".

They looked at me and gave a half shake of the head before looking at the floor and resuming their previous activity of ignoring me. Ignoredom, I like to call it, when boredom causes one to ignore a companion and stare at the floor. Beer was sipped and a trip outside to the smoking area was discussed.

They departed to partake in the simultaneous noxious and fragrant activity of smoke inhalation. Tubes of dried leaves had never been so appealing.

I approached the tubby yet radiant familiar stranger at the bar. The Big Black Book of Horror was hanging at his side, clutched in a sweaty forepaw as if it was yesterday's newspaper rather than the key to abject terror. My soul quivered at the sight.

"Excuse me sir" my voice was shaky and I could feel patches of salty sweat begin to seep out from my armpits. "You're TV's Paul Ross, aren't you?". My stomach was doing the hurdles as I spoke to the great man.
Surely he would ignore me, or, hopefully, give me a curt backhanded slap across the face?

"Yes, yes I am" he replied. "Do you like my Big Black Book of Horror?" I lied and told him I did.

The thing strikes abject fear into my soul, as if stiletto darts of obsidian quartz were fired from a nailgun into my immortal self.

We shook hands and sipped our pints. Our eyes met and, for a fleeting moment, I detected an animal warmth in the Ross man's heart.

I was chilled to the bone.

He indulged in an impromptu round of either/ or- "Guinness or Beamish Red?" was what he asked me.

I didn't know what to do. I took a stab in the dark and told him Beamish. I don't know why- Guinness is my pint of choice.

A chill descended in the room as he told me it was the wrong answer. He handed me the Big Black Book of Horror and told me the role was now mine.

I stepped outside and knew what I had to do. I looked down the road and hailed a taxi. I left.

I never saw my friends again.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Sat 10 Oct 2009, 13:47, Reply)