hugg-a-bugger

They got in the carriage, Clive making sure his knees were safely tucked in, so he wouldn’t be subject to the accusations of being a-kimbo like last time. Clive had been taken for a ride before, and he knew what it felt like. You got in one place, and then got out the other end. The train was old, with patches of mould that could be smelt before they were seen. Squirming around, Ken tried to find the part of the seat with the least protrusions. “No deal” was the seat’s tacit response.

The doctor had told Clive it would make things better. He tried kissing it better first of all, but soon tired of that. But supposedly this submarine treatment was going to be far superior, and not at all as sloppy. Clive had long been subject to the cruel one-upmanship of Ken, he was now looking forward to diving around the inkjet darkness of the ocean in a completely different kind of manship. They approached the pier, (or was it a jetty? What’s the difference? More two-pence machines on the former?) and Clive began to feel the first pangs of apprehension. At least, that’s what he thought they were, the sandwiches on the train had been of dubious origin, and seemed to have left their flavour on another carriage. And so many layers of protective packaging! Why does food need to be kept from us in this way? It’s almost like they don’t want us to eat it.

The Captain ushered him aboard, like it was a boarding house, or a rustic museum, and not some hulking great iron cupboard. Immediately, the Captain, who came with the name of Barnaby and smelt like he’d abused one of those blue packets of salt found in crisp packets, showed Clive his bunk. Barnaby also explained how, after a lengthy consultation process, the boat had resorted to “hot-bunking”. Not only was this offered as a system of space-management, but it also described the temperature of your bunk due to the recent departure of the previous occupant.

Sonics - Strychnine (from Nuggets: Original Artyfacts from the Psychedelic Era)