Bob: The Rastafarian Giant Poodle

I’ll take a rusty nail and scratch your initials in my arm. Or maybe carve WAFC on a tree.
Or “I love Erica” on the desk. Write SLADE on my knuckles or ACAB. Just for fun. Cos that’s what people do. Might go without food for a week to find out what will happen to this temple of a body. Run for miles without stopping. Or stop and sit down. Sit down in Highgate Woods. Watch the middle classes push their prams. No worry lines on their monied faces. No need for a can at 6.30am. Might have a can.
Sod it – I’ll have a can. Can of something cold yet warm. Bitter yet sweet. Alcoholic yet soft. And tender. Double up with a gin. No tonic. Grapefruit juice is my chosen tipple with that most depressing of drinks. Mother’s ruin. Father’s hideaway. Or maybe I’ll have a cuppa tea. “Have a cuppa tea, have a cuppa tea. Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Rosie Lea”. Well that’s what Raymond Douglas said.
He also said:
“Whatever the situation whatever the race or creed,
Tea knows no segregation, no class nor pedigree
It knows no motivations, no sect or organisation,
It knows no one religion,
Nor political belief.”
Nothing wrong with that but for now I’ll have a brew of another kind. Take it to the woods and gently sip it. Not too cold outside so cross the road in my Sunday best.
Watch the squirrels climb trees while little kids chase them and Bob Marley looks on in disdain – just enough to say: “They are my squirrels to chase. “Not yours you posh twats.”
I smile at Bob. He knows me well. And he doesn’t mess with my mates and me. Knows that the woods are ours as much as his. Stays his ground. Might give him a taste of the brew one day. Be good to see what it would do to that big daft fucking poodle with the dreads. King of the woods is Bob. King of the streets of N10. Owns the fucking streets. No dog messes with Bob. Daren’t. No lead. No owner. No Jeremy Beadle walking his beadles. Jeremy walks his dogs in Highgate Woods. See him most morning when I cut through on my way to the tube on my way to work. Always says hello and you can’t say more than that for somebody that is on primetime Saturday evening television. Not that I watch Saturday evening television. Not that Bob the Rasta poodle watches Saturday evening television. Refuses to let his owner watch it is my guess. Dog and master and roles are reversed in their relationship.
“Hiya Bob”, I say as I pass this regal dog.
“Jah Rastafari”, says Bob as we go our separate ways…

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