Friday, 26 December 2008

The Drunken Prole

1. Background


Stockport is really rich in folklore. Most are now familiar with the ghostly haunting of Turner's Vaults (now called The Queen's Head). However, who is this Drunken Prole you may ask? I am about to tell you about this unbelievably hostile character. In short, when he was alive, he would talk presumptuously about matters he knew not. On top of that, he would be hostile to anyone who attempted to reason with him. The net result was often shouting, followed by a surfeit of bloodshed.

The Drunken Prole felt great animosity to those who he perceived could think. I must confess that I have met with characters that abound academia that cannot reason in any consistent manner. Moreover, they are willing to find a subtext in what you have said or try to put words in your mouth before rambling endlessly.

The reason I talk about the Drunken Prole is not to be classist – It happens to be the title appropriated to him by certain Northeasterners and it is their folklore that is our concern here.

Now the Drunken Prole was a great fan of "General Knowledge". It is that form of trivia that serves little use other than to provide like-minded dullards to compile books full of useless facts, with associated questions that another half-wit reads to others on a Wednesday night.

I suppose it is the only way a subset of morons choose to profess to know anything about iotaous things. It is not my task to shatter their self-delusion here. It is strange how such mindless monads make either appeals to authority nonextant or their buddies who value such trivial exploits.

It is only amusing to a limited extent to attempt conversation about their putative understanding of such things let alone to enquire about how these things relate to one another. For example, one needs to possess a deeper understanding of wider issues and, frankly, more than a modicum of though is necessary; albeit often insufficient.

2. The Proletarian Disease


If pity were not such a disgusting emotion then I would hold it for such an insecure bunch. In short, remembering isolated facts about bits and pieces is an insufficient surrogate for any respected learning. Tacitly the Drunken Prole realised this. His resentment was so strong that it goaded him to return to the material world. It is to this result that I shall now turn.

Now the Drunken Prole suffered from a disease known as "class envy". There are many symptoms of such an affliction. Like many infections of the psyche, not all the symptoms are manifest at all stages. One symptom of this disorder is pretension. Here the subject appears to attempt to adopt the characteristics of those who possess more than modest resources or cultural capital; but they don’t know what to imitate.

If it were not so widespread, as so many people have this problem, then it would be more easily recognised. In short, the values they hold do not work for them and lead to their ridicule – often by their putative friends. This kind of affliction has been observed, for example, in routine white-collar workers who identify themselves with the middle class. Enough said on this particular issue.

Another symptom is resentment of those who they wrongly categorise as not being in a higher echelon than they are. They love to look down on those with putatively less than what they have. It is a strange state of affairs. Nonetheless, their self-delusion is a defence mechanism against their otherwise abject feeling of powerlessness. However, their ignorance, arrogance, and unreflecting is boundless.

One more symptom involves a hatred of what does not appear to be "normal", that is, fashionable according to their grossly limited viewpoint. In a word, whatever does not fit directly into their meaningless and deathless lives, they also hate and endeavour to stamp out usually through a form of violence. They are simple animals indeed except their neocortices make for complex reactions.

Seriously, in their worldview, everything has one place in one context and nothing more. Given this state of affairs there is little scope for understanding.

3. Night After the Bob Bins Quiz


The Drunken Prole was sitting there with his cheap pint. He always buys the cheapest pint in the bar. On this occasion, he sat there deliberating on his trivia quizzes and other nonsense. He had just come runner-up in the Bob Bins quiz at the Cheekies on Portwood (aka Porter's Railway). His goal was to tell everyone about this meaningless exploit. The sad thing is that there was not anyone in the Lounge except for another. She was the barmaid, who surprising works behind the bar.

It was the job of this unfortunate barmaid to serve drinks for the whole establishment. It was the same kind of arrangement even when all three rooms are full. It is amazing how cruel publicans can be. They do little work themselves but expect someone else, on the minimum wage, to work unconditionally. Such a person always complains about her working conditions, especially to customers. However, it would be unwise to mention it to the Drunken Prole. He would not know what it is like to work behind a bar but he will tell the barmaid all about it.

He was about to approach the bar and tell her all about his exploits but he remembered that he needed some new tongs for his hedgehog repair kit. Yes, he has a hedgehog repair kit. Let me explain the process.

Hedgehog repair begins when Proleman sends his stinking children out to search roadsides for squashed hedgehogs. On delivery, he uses his tongs and other implements to decompress these miserable animals. He even has an old fire starter fan – he is a truly sad man. After he re-inflates the things, he stuffs them with nettle preserve … Many bars sport the rubbish donates. Of course, he knows everything about this cad art. This is hardly surprising because he is an initiate of filthy pastimes. I shall tell you more on these later.

As Proleman stood up, he knocked his drink over a fresh tablecloth. Well it would have been fresh if he had not used it as a napkin. This is not to mention the magnificent amount of cheap beer that he managed to spill upon his rotting trousers. I suppose it helped to disguise his smell of rancid urine.

None of these events perturbed his intentions to walk to the bar and tell the barmaid about coming runner up in some crap or other. Anyway, he succeeded in telling her. Of course, she already knew because he had told her a hundred times before now. Moreover, being repetitive was another art at which he was also a pioneer.

Just then the Bright Lads entered the room. They were singing football songs, punctuated by expletives. At that point the Drunken Prole shouted to them, “What was the score?” They replied with more expletives, pointing to his trousers and laughing uncannily. We know he had not urinated himself (at least not on that day) but it was an easy mistake to make for an idiot.

Proleman removed his trousers and began to lash randomly at the Bright Lads. Soon there was blood, sweat, and urine. Nevertheless, that was just the barmaid – another specimen of filth. She had eaten too many economy burgers. This earned her the title of Burger Queen. I think this to be enough about her for now.

4. Just Off Down the Road


Proleman ran out of the door. The Bright Lads pursued him. He managed to secure some distance, however, between himself and the crazies. He was inches from the woods before he dropped his trouser and showed his arse to his pursuers. It was at this point a large lorry whacked into him, sending him some thirty feet. The driver, of course, did not stop.

No one ever saw Proleman in the pub after that. Even the author is unsure about the outcome of the events that day. Nonetheless there have been sightings of a misty figure recently near the woods. Occurrences became so numerous that a priest was said to have exorcised the ghost in an open-air ceremony. Many disagree that the man of the cloth was successful.

Only weeks ago, a group of young men who were said to have been carrying smuggled goods inland from the coast, stopped to meet others who were to purchase the goods from them.

As they sat in the mist smoking their cheap cigarettes, a figure emerged from the darkness. Thinking that this was their contact, the men spoke to the strange figure that continued to walk past them without a word. This did not surprise the smugglers, who assumed that the man was simply being quiet in order to avoid detection.

In single file they unconcernedly followed the man into a group of bushes close by. In the light of their lanterns they were amazed to see the man remove his trousers and reveal his arse. At this the figure vanished completely, and despite a prolonged search, no trace was found of him. When their real contacts did eventually arrive, they were said the tale deeply amused them, and within a short while the events of the night were the talking point in the local pubs throughout the area.

Within the last few days a number of sightings were made in daylight over a large area of the woodland. Travellers using Woodside Road reported seeing a figure of scruffy appearance bear his naked nether quarters at them.

On each occasion the ghost vanished immediately without trace, and the haunting was over within two or three minutes of the man first being sighted.

Council officials have made firm statement that the situation is now out of hand. Yesterday they sent the priest in again. Throughout the whole of the ceremony the Ghost of Proleman showed his bottom unabashed and laughed loudly at the pathetic attempts to rid Woodhouse Park of him.

2 comments:

Artist formerly known as Wurst said...

That was a fucking great read that I thoroughly enjoyed. I will more than likely have nightmares now over the "proleman."

Quality!

Damian said...

I'm pleased you enjoyed it. I cannot be certain of the prole's whereabouts. I only suspect he is supping Carlsberg special brew or something cheap and nasty in the park. That is, if ghosts drink anything other than spirits :)