In which after a long absence Your Life Is An Impossibility revisits the sacred (and let`s be frank, not terribly good) art of cordel, with a little piece entitled “Guinness The Dog and Saint Pedro Have An Argument At The Gates Of Heaven”.
It is another long, long day in heaven. Saint Pedro stands at the pearly gates smoking a fag. His face is worn and hangdog. All that beseeching puts years on you, even for a saint. His robes are faded and his cuffs are frayed. The economic crisis has long fingers.
A small black dog with white paws approaches. The dog gives Saint Pedro an easy look.
What`s happening dog?, says Saint Pedro, stubbing out his fag. You know you can`t come in here. Bono`s rules.
Come on, Saint Pedro. Bono`s not the boss of you. I`m the best dog that ever lived.
No can do, says Saint Pedro. Don`t you remember the old Da Lench Mob song? A-to the-K-to the-4-to the-7, little doggies don`t go to heaven. Saint Pedro attempts a white-man-dances-hip-hop shuffle, but gives up after a few seconds.
The small black dog takes a few steps closer to Saint Pedro and bares her teeth.
Now you listen to me, Saint Pedro. I was born on the mean streets of Olinda, and my mother abandoned me before I could even walk. I was adopted by some people who loved me very much, first A Gata Do Bairro, then YLIAI, with a little help from The Argument.
Saint Pedro, not appearing very interested, lights another fag. Derby, of course. That economic crisis again.
And I`ll tell you something else, says the small black dog. Just try and find another dog like me. I'm more polite than half the people in there, and a whole lot more than half of the people down there. Here the small black dog makes a pointing motion with her front paw roughly in the direction of Recife. Didn`t you see me standing on my hind legs for hours on end, just like a real person? Messing about with those skanky kids in Amaro Branco? What about the time my tail got run over by that bollox of a taxi? When I stayed at the vet and didn`t complain once? All those times I played with the little fat girl and her little brother in the flat next door in Boa Vista?
I`ve heard it all before, doggy, sighs Saint Pedro. The whole I did this, I didn`t do this, routine. I helped a granny across the road, I didn`t download music without paying for it. It doesn`t make any difference. Everybody`s got a rap sheet. Except you, of course. And do you know why you haven`t got a rap sheet? Because you`re a bloody dog, that`s why!
The small black dog gives Saint Pedro a pitying look.
And who`s in there?, she says, snorting with derision. I know Bono practically runs things, but who else? John Candy? Steve bloody Jobs? Father Ted? What have they got that I haven`t got? Did they ever chase balls on the beach like I did? Of course not!
Sorry, dog, says Saint Pedro. He gives a hacking, wheezing cough.
On the other side of the pearly gates, the small black dog sees a few doleful looking figures wandering slowly back and forth. Something mawkish by Simply Red (or just something by Simply Red) oozes from the speakers. There is a line of chairs with small white “reserved” signs stuck to them, and underneath each one, a name.
Daniel O`Donnell. Eamon Holmes. Elton John. Faustäo. Galväo Bueno.
The small black dog looks at Saint Pedro. Saint Pedro looks at the small black dog.
He shrugs his shoulders, imperceptibly. It is a look that says, I know, I know. But what can I do?
The small black dog understands. She looks at Saint Pedro gratefully.
I`ll take my chances elsewhere, says the small black dog.
I would if I were you, says Saint Pedro, lighting another fag.
In memoriam, GTD, 2008-2011