Clovenhoof's Diary: January, page 1
Table of Contents
2nd January
3rd January
4th January
6th January
7th January
9th January
11th January
13th January
14th January
15th January
16th January
18th January
19th January
20th January
22nd January
23rd January
25th January
26th January
27th January
29th January
30th January
31st January
Clovenhoof's Diary: January
Heide Goody & Iain Grant
Pigeon Park Press
‘Clovenhoof's Diary: January’ Copyright © Heide Goody and Iain Grant 2019
The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except for personal use, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Published by Pigeon Park Press
Cover art by Mike Watts
www.pigeonparkpress.com
info@pigeonparkpress.com
2nd January
PC Pearson and the woman from MI5 visited Clovenhoof in his cell while he was tucking into a breakfast of beans on toast.
“You’re free to go,” said PC Pearson.
“Hmm?” said Clovenhoof with a mouthful of food.
“Released without charge.”
Clovenhoof sped up his eating and made sure he mopped up all the bean juice with the toast.
“Why?” he asked conversationally.
“We no longer consider you a suspect.”
“But I confessed. I told you I was at the airport with my drone and that it was me.”
“We suspect you were lying,” said the woman spy. She didn’t look much like a spy but Clovenhoof supposed that was part of the idea. She looked like she worked in sales in a carpet shop or an electrical retailers or somewhere else where the job sucked the life out of you.
“There’s no CCTV of you on the train or at Gatwick,” said PC Pearson.
“Maybe you did it to get a bit of attention?” suggested the woman sardonically.
“For two days of free bed and board, it was worth it,” said Clovenhoof. He patted the plastic-covered mattress. “I like these. You could wet your bed every night and it just runs clean off.”
“You and your drone are free to go,” said PC Pearson. “We won’t be wanting to question you again. The investigation’s closed.”
“You’ve arrested someone else?”
The MI5 woman looked suddenly uncomfortable.
PC Pearson answered slowly, “It might be the case that… there was never any drone in the area.”
“But it was on the news,” said Clovenhoof.
“The first sighting might have been a hoax or it might have been a mistake.”
“But then people reported seeing other drones.”
The woman looked really uncomfortable now.
“Yes,” said PC Pearson, “but the police and military put all their resources into locating the mystery drone and that might have caused some confusion.”
“How?”
“We sent up our drones to look for the first one,” said the woman, “and then people reported seeing those ones.”
Clovenhoof looked from the spy to the copper and back again.
“That is proper hilarious,” he said.
On the steps of the Sutton Coldfield police station stood a woman in biker leathers and a thick red scarf with cheeks pink from the cold and a placard in her hand. The placard read: ‘FREE THE SUTTON COLDFIELD ONE’.
“I like your sign,” said Clovenhoof.
“Thank you,” said Miranda. “It worked,” she added, indicating Clovenhoof and his general freeness.
“Definitely did,” he said.
“Pub?” she asked.
“Something to warm you up,” he agreed.
She put the placard over her shoulder as they walked back into town.
“Did you do it?” she asked.
“You have to tell me if you’re wearing a wire,” he said.
She nudged him playfully in the ribs. “I think striking a blow against the carbon-spewing environment-destroying airport industry is very sexy.”
“Then I definitely did do it,” he said.
Clovenhoof and Miranda spent the morning in the Boldmere Oak. Clovenhoof had much to celebrate, including but not limited to being a free man, having five days until he was back at work and the victorious beating of the Angel Brigade thugs who had frightened his friend, Margaux (a victorious beating that had yet to take place but which he was sure was going to go off without a hitch). Sitting with the short-tempered but entertaining and sexually vigorous Miranda, Clovenhoof tucked away a breakfast Lambrini, a pre-brunch Lambrini, a brunch Lambrini and a cheeky mid-morning Lambrini.
“Bucket list,” he said suddenly.
“You said you didn’t have one,” she replied.
“Yours. I said I’d help you tick some of yours off your list.”
Miranda pulled out a dog-eared envelope which was filled with dense text and crossings-out. Clovenhoof peered over her shoulder and tried to read some of the items.
“Demolish an ugly building. Ram a royal off the road. Do a sponsored ‘sneak over the Mexico-US border’. Does that one say ‘dog poo catapult’?” he asked.
“It certainly does,” said Miranda. “For people who don’t scoop their dog’s poop.”
“A very doable and public-spirited choice,” nodded Clovenhoof.
“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to buy a catapult?” said Miranda. “I’ve never seen one on sale.”
“Then let us go to the place where all questions can be answered, especially those in a pub quiz,” said Clovenhoof. “The internet.”
They both spent a few minutes searching on their phones and sipping their drinks companionably.
“Well, who knew?” said Clovenhoof. “It seems as though there are two sorts of catapult in the modern world.”
“Yeah,” said Miranda. “Things have clearly moved on since all of those childhood comic strips where every kid seemed to have a catapult.”
“Sometimes, I’m almost sorry I didn’t have a childhood,” said Clovenhoof. “Anyway it seems as though catapults are sold to two markets, fishermen and psychopaths.”
Psychopaths?” said Miranda. “I thought they were for hunters?”
“What sort of hunter would choose a catapult over a rifle or a crossbow?” said Clovenhoof. “People who’ve had their rifles and crossbows confiscated, that’s who. Psychopaths. Or they could be for people who can’t decide whether fishing is a blood sport.”
“I reckon the fishermen’s version would probably be best for dog poo,” said Miranda, studying the images. “I think the ‘launch and scatter’ approach is ideal.”
“In which case, Animal Ed is our friend,” said Clovenhoof.
They entered Animal Ed’s shop, Miranda wrinkling her nose at the pungent animal smell. Clovenhoof inhaled deeply.
“Ed, my man, I know you keep maggots and other fishermen’s treats. Do you by any chance have a catapult?”
Ed reached behind the counter and pulled out a box. After rummaging for a moment, he produced a catapult with a little vinyl sling, styled into a perforated pouch. “Like this, you mean?”
“That’s perfect,” breathed Miranda.
Clovenhoof grinned. “Put it on the tab, Ed.”
“You haven’t got a tab,” said Ed, holding out his hand. “It’s a tenner.”
Clovenhoof handed over the money and took the catapult. “Hey, this has a sticker saying it’s eight ninety nine!”
“Old stock. It’s gone up in line with inflation.”
3rd January
Clovenhoof still had four days of blessed freedom before returning to his teaching assistant job at St Michael’s Secondary School. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the job – it gave structure to his week, some Lambrini money in his pocket and offered the challenge of corrupting the modern youth without getting fired – but it did throw his free time into sharp contrast.
Clovenhoof spent much of Thursday standing naked in a hospital ward in order to make an old woman happy.
Maude was still in hospital. Her burned bum and lightly scorched ladygarden had fully healed but, given that she had inflicted those injuries whilst trying to put on a pair of scalding hot knickers made of spaghetti, certain officials were concerned that the old girl was losing her marbles and was not in a fit state to go home alone.
“I’ve had talk after talk with the mental health nurse and a busybody from social services,” she told him. “I think I’ve almost got them convinced. I will be home by the weekend without a doubt. Now, kit off.”
Clovenhoof drew the privacy curtains around her bed and, without any further need for encouragement, whipped off his kit and adopted a manly pose. Maude had her sketching pad out and was already adding fine details to the image she’d been working on for much of the last month.
“I think I can see this as a big canvas executed in oils,” she commented, not for the first time.
“I can oil up for you, if you like,” he replied, not for the first time. “I always think I look better shining and dripping.”
“I like drawing you, you know,” she said.
“Everyone loves a handsome devil.”
She made a thoughtful noise. “I think I would call you ‘interesting’ rather than ‘handsome’, my dear.”
“Wow,” he said. “Nice insult.”
“It wasn’t an insult.”
“Sure. And I think you look interesting too,” he winked.
She threw a grape at his head playfully.
“Ms Sugar?” said a voice outside the curtain and, before either of them could respond, the curtain was drawn back.
Two women stood there. They stared at Clovenhoof’s nakedness. He was a committed life model and didn’t drop his pose one inch.
“Ah,” said Maude. “Jeremy, this is Ward Sister Peters and Yasmin Mansoor, the social worker. This is Jeremy, my friend.”
“Hi,” he said.
“Jeremy, you’re naked,” said Ward Sister Peters.
“You can tell she’s medically trained,” Clovenhoof said to Maude. “Doesn’t miss a thing.”
4th January
Clovenhoof had arranged to catch up with Miranda, when she told him she’d be ready with some ammunition and a victim for her dog-poo catapult endeavour.
They strolled along an affluent road near to Sutton Park, gazing up at the large houses.
“This one here,” said Miranda. “I followed her home after I saw her leave dog mess on the footpath a while back. She is a repeat offender.”
“This has to be one of the neatest houses in the area,” said Clovenhoof. “Are you sure you got the right person?”
Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be taken in by appearances, Jeremy,” she said. “Just because she’s a neat freak at home doesn’t mean to say she’s squeaky clean when she’s out and about. I’m willing to bet she doesn’t like to get her hands dirty.”
“Bingo!” said Clovenhoof. “Hands dirty. You just selected your first target. Door handles at dawn.”
Miranda raised an eyebrow and gave him a brief thumbs up as she reached into her handbag for the catapult. She also pulled out a plastic container and a pair of disposable gloves.
“Is this her dog mess?” asked Clovenhoof.
“Yes it is,” said Miranda.
“I’m surprised you’ve had time to follow her and collect sufficient ammunition since I saw you last,” said Clovenhoof.
“I didn’t need to do that,” said Miranda. “I’ve been collecting ammunition for some time.”
Clovenhoof looked at the plastic container and saw that it had the address and a series of dates on it. The penny dropped and he looked up at her. “Seriously? Have you been keeping this in your freezer?”
She nodded. “It’s all in the preparation Jeremy. You’ll thank me later when you get to have a go too.”
She had a point. Miranda loaded up and sighted her shot, pulling back the sling and lining it up with the front door. Jeremy admired her stance. She looked as if she was at the Olympics, going for gold in the turd catapulting final.
She released the sling and scored a perfect bull’s-eye. The defrosted turd exploded messily across the door, with the point of impact right on the handle.
“Excellent shot!” said Clovenhoof. “Can I have a go?”
Clovenhoof tried to replicate the correct stance, but felt he was probably disadvantaged by his hooves. He shuffled slightly but his shot went wide of the mark. His second effort was much more gratifying, as the door was opened at the moment that he released the shot and he scored a direct hit on a middle-aged woman who had a small dog yapping at her ankles.
Miranda paused briefly before they ran away. “Pick up your dog mess in the future, otherwise it’s coming in through the window when summer’s here!” she called.
6th January
“Now,” said Clovenhoof after a long day of lecturing Margaux on important British customs in preparation for her ‘Life in the UK’ test, “we have covered all the major rules of queuing and what happens if people don’t follow those rules.”
“It’s mostly tutting and muttering, you said,” said Margaux.
“And also threatening to write letters to the newspaper or your MP but never actually doing it,” Clovenhoof added, “but there is one place where the rules of queuing do not apply.”
“Hence the pub,” she said, gesturing to the bar of the Boldmere Oak.
The bump on her head was now just an angry red patch. Margaux didn’t approve of his plans to take violent revenge on the bigoted idiots who had caused her injury so he didn’t feel obliged to tell her he’d not yet found the time or opportunity to seek them out for some much deserved vengeance.
“Now, observe,” said Clovenhoof and approached the bar, money in hand.
“I have bought a drink at a bar before you know,” said the Frenchwoman but Clovenhoof was enjoying himself and ignored her.
“There is a remnant of the British queuing system at the pub bar,” lectured Clovenhoof as he took his place at the bar. “As one arrives, one must immediately note and remember which other people are at the bar. They are in front of you in the queue.”
“And you wait for them to be served,” said Margaux.
“Au contraire, my friend. It is perfectly fine and morally acceptable to be served before any of them but you must make sure anyone who later appears at the bar is not served before you. You are allowed to cut in but cannot let anyone else do so.”
“And how do you intend to cut in?” said Margaux.
“We must rely on the barmaid’s poor memory.”
“My memory is fine,” said Florence the barmaid, who had been listening all along. “It’s him, him, him, him, him, then you.”
“Of course,” said Clovenhoof to his foreign protégé, “cutting in is easier if the bar is crowded, particularly if the queue is several people deep. That’s where we’d do some strategic shuffling and use of elbows to get to the bar quicker. But that’s level two stuff.”
“You know, I have lived in this country for several years,” Margaux tried to point out.
“Indeed, if it weren’t for Florence’s unfairly vigilant attitude, I could try the ‘I believe this gentleman was before me’ tactic.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a blinder. It’s a way of seeming generous to another queuing drinker but which guarantees you will be served after them. Again, we need only wait for the staff’s attention to waver.”
Lennox, who had been changing a barrel out back, came through to the bar.
“Right, who’s next?”
Clovenhoof gestured to the random bloke next to him and began to say in his best ‘I’m not lying, honest, guv’ voice, “I believe this gentleman was –” but Lennox turned to Margaux.
“Yes, miss?”
Margaux ordered drinks for the pair of them and Lennox went to pour them.
“How did you do that?” said Clovenhoof, impressed and not a little put out.
“I made eye contact and I smiled,” she said.
“I make eye contact with people all the time and I smile a lot too but…”
“Ah, but I also have…” She tutted. “What’s the word?”
“Charm? Elan? A good credit history?”
She clicked her fingers as though remembering. “Breasts,” she said and did a little jiggle in case he’d failed to notice them.
“That’s just cheating,” Clovenhoof sulked.
7th January
Clovenhoof put on a scarf to walk to work.
The proper wintry weather, long long overdue, seemed to be finally arriving although with the weather as it was these days it was very hard to be certain. A number of very confused spring flowers were poking out their heads on the grass verges on Clovenhoof’s journey to work. A number of very confused school students had been thrust out into the world and told to go back to school after two weeks of self-indulgence and slobbing. In amongst the chocolate and presents there had been some soppy religious story about a young Jewish couple, seeking shelter far from home and relying on the help of the locals to care for their newborn baby and ultimately escape persecution by the government. But people tended to ignore that because it was less interesting than chocolate and presents and didn’t have an upbeat ending like a proper story should.
