Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Three Bags' Full


With regard to the ever-ubiquitous topic of 'bags', I must state that I always carry at least three bags around with me on my daily peregrinations and perambulations. The first of these contains the entire files of my scribblings, which include my hitherto unpublished Magnum Opus and also a copy of my highly successful potboiler, namely, 'Ballinafad on Three Food Stamps a Day'. This was a tome, which sold lavishly, curiously enough, in the Yak Market of Ulan Batar, which my harassed publisher informs me rests neatly on the map of Outer Mongolia. It also retailed well in all major second-hand bookshops in Grimsby Town during an era in which a notorious altercation took place between a Mister A. Scargill and a metallic lady, whose name may not be seemly mentioned near large coal deposits and their associated conurbations. Be that as it may, these are the hallowed and exalted contents of the first bag, which I guard with a certain reverence, as, like a baby, they are of mine own creation. Therefore, they are as precious to me as the throne is to a monarch or the neck to a man condemned to the gallows. Indeed they are my crowning jewels, so to speak, my glory and my splendour.
The other two bags are those ever-present 'bags' that sail beneath my eyes, which I disport with a certain weary and somnolent manner, as I steer a course through the rough and smooth waters of the daily drudgery. The curious reader, of publications such as this one, will be interested to know that copious applications of used tea bags, of every brand and origin, in company with frozen cucumber and vast amounts of Oil of Ulay, have all summarily failed to shift this facial luggage. Indeed they sail merrily up and down beneath my eyes, without so much as a by your leave.
Years ago, however, due to the vim and vigour of youth and the exigencies of having to have a job and the necessity of pursuing a vocation in life - to keep the wolf packs from howling at my door ' I always toted at least four bags around with me. Apart from the two tugboats under my eyes, I was to be seen carrying two plastic supermarket bags about the city. In the first bag, I entrusted the contents of my mobile bedroom, which swung jauntily in my left hand, whilst the other acted as my larder and trusty frigidaire.
I was, in those far off and indigent days of Iron Ladies and unemployment queues, pursuing my life's vocation and chosen career. My intent was to rise to inherit the title of Permanent Bag Lady to the Queen of Urban Wanderers. Alas and alack, all these long moons later, I must confess sadly to you, dear reader, that for reasons, as variegated as a garden of weeds and as numerous as the stars, I am one who failed miserably at his chosen career. The night fell and the day never dawned upon my calling and Yours Ever So Humbly became a reject from the School of Bag Ladying. Thus the uncertainty, the perks of freedom and liberty, and the sheer glory of it all were lost to me forever. My Diploma in Bag-Toting sailed on past me, as like an inexperienced trout, I wandered bemused down a river in full flood and into the traps of the System. It must be a strange thing to relate, but my application fell short, due to an infernal chemical, known the world over as the hormone 'oestrogen'. (The interested reader may be aware that a lack of this chemical is the cause of a strange condition known as maleness or masculinity).
The 'medical examiner', a formidable, matronly battle maiden, peered out from behind her World War 1 spectacles and intoned a suspicious 'ahem' in a deep base tone of voice. No doubt that this was aimed at my slightly hirsute upper lip and she immediately and with some haste ordered some 'blood tests' as a matter of 'strict urgency'. From that grim moment onwards, I was at a distinct disadvantage, as the rest of the examining board seemed to take such a deep dislike to me, which the pen can only describe as 'manslaughter by gaze, bordering on the murderous'. I knew then that the hurried purchase of those 'bargain' hormones from the back street dealer had been, in the heel and toe of the hunt, a calamitous blunder. It is, dear reader, a universal law of vending and purchase that the best quality goods must needs be paid 'top cash' for, and the art of penny pinching ever causes one's wallet to slim in the longer run. Alas, however, I had garnered my lesson rather belatedly on that score.
Then, as if to add to my chagrin that same imitation of a Visigoth battle-axe, demanded to the universal approval of all present that I should remove my upper garments, in order, quoth she, to view the 'cut of the grass'. I was thus both cut to the quick and also the slow. In vain, a fast sinking Yours Apprehensively attempted to plead the Constitution on the right to bodily integrity. This ploy met with a chill and frosty reception. I then pleaded the fourth amendment, the statute of limitations and even the European rules on hygiene and exposure to deadly and nasty organisms. When I informed them that I was a being who was highly sensitive and allergic to cold and chills, they laughed in unison and disported themselves with a sublime indifference. One and all they rested smugly in their adamantine and rock-like complacency. But, the situation never arrived at this juncture as another creature (of the feminine persuasion also), saw fit to remark that my rather loping gait was probably of insufficient standard to merit the much sought after diploma. The end had travelled long beyond the land of Omega when my birth certificate was demanded as a prerequisite for continuing the interview. My application was despatched from that place with a sealed and definitive 'No'. In brief, I was officially disqualified on an age bar, but they knew and I knew that my maleness was the true reason for disqualification. For, dear reader, was there e'er a bag lady that was in truth, a man? However, that fact is neither here, there, nor anywhere else to my sorrowful soul, whose wan eyes look so longingly at park benches and supermarket take-outs these days. It makes the tears descend in copious rainstorms down the gullies and creeks of my ever-rutted countenance.
So, dear reader, mention not to this broken hearted failure concerning those plastic toting utensils that are wont to issue forth from supermarket counters in myriads and millions each day. Such a reference is apt to cause a great agitation to rise within my brain stem and flow like a roaring torrent into my medulla through the muddy creeks of memory as a cause of abundant grief. This surely provokes the non-sleeping dogs of my chronic insomnia into patrolling the lonely turrets of the night watch with interminable alertness. This accounts for those permanent symbols of failure and unsightliness, which sail merrily under my eyes as I grimace and twist my contorted visage at the injustice of this life. It seems that society's social bags have hideously branded me and the problem may never be solved until the coal scuttle is kicked or better still the old champagne bucket gets a size ten boot.
However, I am informed by those who ought to know, that there exists a distinct possibility of litigation for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, against the powers that be in the land. And it could be a landmark case in shattering commonly held definitions of the Norm and Reality. Indeed, it may upset many an apple cart of self-satisfied respectability completely.
If indeed, I do win, a thing of which I am ever confident, I intend with my substantial compensation to pursue my chosen career. I may wander incognito across the cities of the world, my slumbering room in one hand and frigidaire in the other, with the wild misty wind and the ragged corner folk as my bosom companions. For I know, that the world is yet unaware of this plain and obvious fact, that it can never be over 'till the bag lady sings. For sing she surely will. And her song will ever be, 'bag-ladies of the world unite, for ye have nothing to lose except the narrow world's derision'.

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