Blame Bill

Bill Tatchel was dull, probably the most outwardly dullest but inwardly frustrated 32 year old in the world, to describe how dull he was you have to go right back to the beginning, ‘Bill’, a name that sounds like the noise an unremarkable stool would make dropping into a plain white toilet in an average terraced house in Peterborough.
The only slightly redeeming feature of his name was the surname, ‘Tatchel’ which sounded like it could mean a small trendy shoulder bag that hadn’t been invented yet used for carrying documents, and a blackberry thing, and could ‘synch’ with an ipod and charge it with its solar ding dong, its £179 price tag would bring a brief moment of joy to the fashion/tech obsessed gap shopping trendy bespectacled cunt who was adorning it. It could also mean a large horses cock, or a small hamlet in Somerset, where apples grew and women carried children on the hip, while rosy cheeked men with hands like shovels drank 13% Perry straight from the trough and fought clubbing pitch battles with bare fists over silly things, with no police involvement, proper men, hairy muscular Mungo Jerry men, sparing only enough energy to go home and give the missus a swift cupping slap round the chops and send her on her way. Knowing Bill though, it probably didn’t mean anything, or even went into the negative, its meaning cancelling out a meaning for another word. Not exciting, like a similar standard of Indian name, like ‘Prabat’, or ‘Pratar’, which, although essentially were based around the word ‘pratt’, could still conjure up a more exciting image than ‘Bill’ did, Bill was like erectile dysfunction, Bill was a cold rainy day in Worthing, Bill was a lynx box set for Christmas when your Gran knows full well it gives you asthma.
It was a Tuesday, the worst day, and drizzling, poor mans monsoon, wannabe raindrops, gay rain, just enough to make you wet but an altogether irritating experience, like really average sex.
Bill’s Matalan leather coated loafer style one size too big £18 all-they- had-in-his-size shoes pounded the pavement with the slow and unenthusiastic beat of a recently widowed pensioners heart, they were probably made from BSC cattle, if they were cattle at all, probably squirrel hide, or missing Kurds, or just plain old leatherette.
Despite the unremarkable nature of Bill, and the almost suicidal greyness of this particular Tuesday, Bill, (and a small bird) were about to set off a remarkable chain of events and change the world forever, and possibly knacker it, not just EC1, where he was walking to a job interview after 10 years number crunching in the same shitty soul destroying job, but the actual whole world, even those little islands where the French did all that nuclear testing, and Magaloof, and Wales, Greenland etc, everything would change, the whole of mankind would united in their collective feeling of global fuckedupudtyness, and little would they know, it would all be the fault of gormless Bill Tatchell, who still lived with his Mum in Penge (Oh, and the small bird, that didn’t still live with its mum and flew the nest right on cue, at about 12 weeks old).

Bill tripped up the last step in Liverpool Street, nobody looked, it was a tepid trip, not worth straining neck sinew for, not like when an old person falls over, laden with Somerfield bags and shatters pelvic bones into a calcium talc, gets bruising on their whole body and dying alone in a nursing home, and eventually putting a whole family out by having to spend a perfectly good Thursday watching the old sod put into a hole in the ground while distant relatives pretend to be upset, hoping to get their grubby and ghoulish hands on that carriage clock/co-op savings, taking the clock on the antiques road-show and getting absolutely soul destroyed finding out it was worth a minus amount of money.
He moved to the crossing, just missing the sprightly looking green man, dithering before a motorcycle courier secured the next 4 minutes of Bills life standing with the drizzle dribbling all over him like a bad kiss, his life briefly being governed by a silhouetted man with a scarlet bulb behind him, big red Nazi luminous posturing cunt.
Finally, Bill crossed, tutting timidly when barged by a man whose eyes where so close together he would not look out of place in Jason and the Argonaughts, slowly making his way across the road and staring at a legal secretary whose wore a cut of clothes well about her salary, probably got a rich bloke in tow, a meal ticket, ‘slag’ he uttered, (in his mind). You would also have to be Steve Wonder in a darkened room (just in case of a miracle) and a blindfold on, to not see the sparkler on her finger too, it was like everything Elizabeth Duke at Argos had in all its range on just the one ring. Bill, who didn’t know a thing about jewelery mumbled under his breath, ‘fuck me, even bugs bunny doesn’t have that many carats, the woman, of course, never even gave poor old Bill a glance, her eyes even more distracted by a small topic wrapper that was caught in a gust and rolling across the pavement in a comedic manner, (the kind of comedy only really gifted people see, like your Uncle, the one with all them pills?), not at all like the herds of Saturday night TV cunts who find Cilla ‘lorra lorra’ Black funny and find Davina ‘shit bag’ ‘shit bag’ McCall refreshing and vibrant. Bill, as dull as he was, found Davina as refreshing as a pint of warm homeless persons piss with a foamy head and some fag butts floating in, with a used syringe for a straw that was downed in one on a hot summers day. Despite his hatred of her, he had spent many a night watching her Toucanesaque profile rocking back and forth eagerly, screeching sound bites into the mic to crowds of soulless needy gossip addicted 3G enabled phone voting reality TV obsessed viewtards, praying that a lighting rig would fall on her and not quite kill her, just enough to confine her to a wheelchair, and possibly some kind of drip and a machine that dealt with flushing her urine out in a hit and miss manner, turning her yellow occasionally, gradually poisoned by her own piss for the rest of her life, and hopefully a long life at that, Bill didn’t want her dead, he knew she had kids, why should they be without a Mum as such just because theirs was an irritating screechy she-cunt? No, he would allow them to have something they could call ‘mum’ even though she had more machinery around her than Metal Mickey giving Robocop a piggy back in PC World, and could only reply with a beep, a blink, or a special intake of breath that, in time, the children would learn to interpret as an acknowledgment, she would also be able to hear their tears reverberating in her uber-spazzed brain but would not be able to offer a hug or any comfort as she had less motor functions than a Battenberg cake, fair deal, Bill thought for parrot nosed and surely hell-bound ex coke shovelling Countess of Cunt.