THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY ONE

This morning I was over in the hospital having the cancers removed from my legs.  They well itched.  Now I was at home flicking through Brenda’s History Of Civilization crashed out on the bed, a proper ten o clock scholar.  Scratching.  I was reading about Freud and the discovery of the self and all that lark.  It well amazed me that everybody used to be just one person.  Nowadays everybody is eleven people.  I am Brian Nine. 

I am not working today.  I only work one day out of eleven; who can do more?  I read in my Brenda’s that some people used to have to work two jobs.  Jesus; two Jobs is well poxy!  No time to yourself.  That would well cane me.

The hospital is always well busy.  People in for allsorts.  Cancers and lesions and tumas and anomalies are all rife nowadays but trivial.  Easily treated.  Everyone visits the hospital all the time; nowadays it’s well easy to fit in around work.  Sometimes every two or three days people have these anomalies cut out by the lasers leaving well fierce itching.  Yesterday I was in the hospital having poxy cancer removed from my legs.  I have to go back tomorrow, to get it done again. 

There is always The Tortelli’s on the screen in the hospital.  Everyone likes watching The Tortelli’s while the lasers do their work.  Nowadays this soap-u-drama is well popular all well weird variety and extremes.

I like reading The History Of Civilization, flicking through the glossy pages crashed out lazy as Ludlam’s dog in the flat.  It amazes me how small families used to be.  Well tiny in well ickle houses.  As small as the families on The Tortelli’s.  Just two parents.  Sometimes one!  Nowadays if we go out with our parents there will be thirty-three of us.  If the Wendy’s come too there will be forty-four of us.  If the Wendy’s parents come to there are sixty-six of us.  Consequently everything is built well bigger nowadays. 

The pictures in Brenda’s of the old cities are well hilarious.  The restaurants and cinema’s and buses so tiny; virtually antisocial.  Our flat is larger than these restaurants in the glossy pages in Brenda’s, tiny outlets in red and yellow; the colour of old style infected sores.  Well twisted.  Our kitchen is way bigger than the entire house the Totelli’s scuffle around in all poxy.

Brian One put his head round the door, scratching the small of his back twice the time.  ‘Brian, dinner is ready.’

‘OK, Brian.’  I said.

‘Reading Brenda’s, Brian?’

‘Yes, Brian.’

‘Wicked.’

‘Yes, wicked.’

‘Dinner is ready, Brian.’

‘Ok, Brian.’

I closed the book and got up and moseyed into the kitchen where Brian’s Five and Six were cooking eleven dinners at the massive stove with little pinnys on.  Although cloned we are not all identical; just well similar.  I sat at the massive dining table with all my well similar brothers, all ten of them, all busy scratching somewhere or other, waiting for The Tortelli’s theme music.