Not for the first time I find myself in Steamy Surroundings.
It is my annual Birthday. In celebration of this auspiciously unpropitious occasion I have decided to take a bath. Also not for the first time, I am up to my neck in hot water, to which a massive overdose of Badedas (The Original Bath Gelee) has been mistakenly added, by way of me accidentally dropping the whole bottle into the bath while simultaneously trying to balance a delicately fluted wine glass on my head and concurrently finish the crossword in The Times newspaper.
I lie here almost totally submerged in this foamy green liquid with a glazed expression on my face, scrutinising my pathetically sparse collection of male-oriented bathroom products, which stand out like symbols of submission in a dominant forest of Shampoo, Conditioner, Styling Mousse, Hair Serum, Shower Gel, Shower Cream, Moisturising Cream, Skin Wisdom, Royal Jelly, Body Spray, Body Wash, Body Cocoon, Body Bags and things in packets of which I dare not speak.
The lighting is subdued. The curtains are drawn to prevent unwanted intrusions by the woman next door who, I happen to know, bought for herself a top of the range Zeiss Z1014 20x60 Night Vision Monocular as recently as last week. I know this because I saw her calibrating said instrument while admiring the local scenery myself through a pair of plastic binoculars I found in my Christmas Cracker as recently as last Christmas.
(She assures me that her voyeuristic tendencies are focused solely upon a male stripper who lives in the next village, but one can’t be too careful. Someone who spends upwards of £3,000 on surveillance equipment might well be motivated to survey as many people as possible in order to justify such a large financial outlay on optical instrumentation.)
A stereo sound system plays Handel’s Water Music on constant repeat. A glass of Pouilly Fuisse stands elegantly on the carpeted floor (on a coaster), together with a most attractively presented Cheese Sandwich garnished with salad, a salver full of Walkers Salt & Vinegar flavoured crisps and 2 medium sized Haywards Original pickled onions.
I am not alone in my bath. I have company in Rubber. While I splash about, idly wondering at the workings of marketing brains which can come up with names like Skin Wisdom and Body Cocoon, I cast fond glances at the Tap End of my bath and smile ruefully at my aquatic accomplice in these all too infrequent froth filled frolics.
As I mentally reminisce in a backwards direction, I can’t help but recall all too clearly that halcyon day when, fresh off the production line, I saw my companion displaying his considerable attributes, without apparent shame, on the Rubber Toy counter at the Birmingham branch of Boots The Chemist (est. 1863 during the Battle of Gettysburg).
Now, there are people connected with horse racing and breeding who only have to look at a yearling’s eyes, feel its fetlocks and count its teeth in order to know beyond any doubt that the animal will win at least two legs of a Triple Crown. They are experts in this field, and owners pay a lot of money for their advice.
They are still experts even if the animal concerned never wins a race in its life, gets itself gelded as a consequence and is seen running over hurdles at Plumpton for the rest of its career, a sequence of events which is by no means as unusual as perhaps it should be.
Nevertheless, I have cast myself in the same mould as these experts by vigorously applying myself to the learned study of Rubber Toy Products, a vocation which I have heard described by none other than myself as the last bastion of true arcaneness.
I saw on the Rubber Toy counter a hitherto unparalleled aquadynamic conformation, a determined jawline and, while attempting to stare him out, I noted ‘the look of eagles’ in his unblinkingly steady gaze. I felt like the trainer of War Admiral must have felt when he first clapped eyes on War Admiral.
Jet Black pupils with an orange beak, here indeed was the epitome of unconcealed power and aggression in bright yellow plastic. This was what I had been searching for in branches of Boots all over the country. I had found my aquatic Holy Grail. I was surely looking at the next winner of the Derby at Lower Pillock annual village fete.
Behold the Ultimate Racing (Rubber) Duck.
A magnificently plastic specimen of latent speed, stamina and buoyancy, he was for sale at the remarkably low price of £4.57, this sum to include 12 months telephone support and on site maintenance. (In one of life’s many paradoxes, most real Rubber Ducks are, in fact, plastic. I don’t know why this should be. I wish I did. Matters such as this exercise my mind possibly more than they should.)
Moving on, Lower Pillock lies on the banks of the River Windrush in a downstream position either side of it. Every year the ruling Military Junta holds an annual fete in order to raise much needed cash for village activities such as Shin Kicking, Chicken Rustling and Soft Pornography, these activities keeping the population busy between October and August when the Rubber Duck Racing Season has ended and all Rubber Ducks have been sent into winter quarters.
The highlight of the fete is the Rubber Duck Derby run over the esoterically obscure distance of 18.18 rods (18.18 poles, 18.18 perches) of swirling waters. The event is open to all plastic Rubber Ducks based within a 5 mile radius of Lower Pillock, subject to a satisfactory pre-race examination by the Race Stewards. All competitors must be weighed, checked for air pressure and have their Squeak Acoustics fully tested in order to ensure the stringent criteria applicable to this prestige event are not infringed too flagrantly.
The Glittering Prize for winning the Rubber Duck Derby is the much sought after Pillock Parchment, one of the oldest and most venerated pieces of parchment in Duck Racing history. I had entered ducks in the race before (about 27 times) but never with the frisson of excitement which can only be experienced via the shiver of anticipation which the owner of a real contender finds so unutterably thrilling. I got to work quickly on this one.
I decided to call my duck Damien, firstly because the name has a pleasant alliterative appeal and secondly because I refuse to give out Damien’s real name (Denholm) to complete strangers on the Internet.
As soon as I got Damien home I introduced him to life on the water without delay by accidentally dropping him in the lavatory bowl, an environment which he took to like a duck takes to water. I took this unexpected opportunity to test Damien’s buoyancy by flushing the lavatory (long flush), an examination which he obviously passed with flying colours, otherwise none of us would be here now.
Then, whenever we took a bath together, I tried to simulate the eddies, currents and maelstroms which he was likely to encounter in competitive conditions on the unforgiving waters of the Windrush river. This harsh (but fair) training regime quickly saw Damien achieve peak racing condition and before very long he was floating up and down the bath like a bat out of hell.
So far, so good.
A week before the Big Race at the crack of dawn, I took Damien to the river for a secret time trial (the duck equivalent of a racecourse gallop). The result of the trial was truly startling. I recorded the details in my Duckform Notebook with this owl-like piece of wisdom:
This duck is so swift he could catch pigeons. I don’t wish to crow, but surely I have found myself a duck who will prove to be a swan amongst geese. I need not grouse or snipe at Damien. A turkey he is not.
On the day of the race I gave Damien his final preparation by accidentally dropping him in the lavatory pan again, just to freshen him up a bit. Arriving at the river 5 minutes before the ‘off’, I left him in the care of the race officials before heading to the grandstand to watch the race.
A maximum field of 22 ducks (there’s a safety limit on that stretch of the river) were lined up at the starting gate milling around in the water. The constantly mounting tension had stopped mounting and reached fever pitch by the time the race began.
Damien, normally very quick out of the gate, had obviously decided to hold himself up for a late flourish instead of making the running as I had expected. At the threequarter pole he was in mid-division, but he was travelling sweetly so I relaxed just a little. At halfway, I could see him taking closer order with the leaders and at the quarter pole he pulled to the outside and launched a powerful and sustained challenge which would surely carry him to the victory I fully deserved.
With just a few yards to the line the race was between Damien and the No. 17 duck (Darren), and Damien was just beginning to pull clear when all of a sudden a shot rang out from somewhere in the crowd behind me. A pathetic squeak was heard from the river and I looked at the finishing line only to see Darren breasting the tape in splendid isolation.
And Damien? Whither my duck? What had happened to my plastic protege?
Damien was halfway up a Willow Tree on the far bank of the river. He looked to have picked up an injury because his head was hanging from the rest of his body at the most unnatural of angles. A lone gunman had taken aim and blasted him out of the water at the very moment of his greatest sporting triumph.
This was simply ‘not cricket’.
While Darren’s connections celebrated wildly in the winners enclosure, I meandered across to the Stewards Room to politely enquire whether shooting the leading duck in sight of the winning post was a recent addition to the rules which I might conceivably have overlooked when reading the race conditions. The Stewards listened carefully to my arguments before thanking me for bringing the matter to their attention. They then informed me that Damien had been disqualified for trying to cross the finish line in 2 pieces rather than in his entirety. Bad luck, they told me.
A crook struck my duck and it’s my bad luck.
Fuck.
I appealed the decision to no avail. All that remained was for me to pick up the pieces, so I collected Damien from the Willow Tree and stuck his head back on using a proprietary glue (fully guaranteed as waterproof except in particularly Tropical Conditions). I took him home to enjoy a long and distinguished retirement on a shelf next to the Skin Wisdom and Body Cocoon.
My birthday has almost passed into recent history as I write these words. The party is over. The bathwater has gone cold and the soothing musical compositions of Handel have been mysteriously replaced by the slightly more tragic strains of Swan Lake, a ballet almost Tchaikovskian in both concept and origin.
The time for nostalgic reflection is over for another year. All I can see before me is the poignant detritus of crisp crumbs, the sad remains of a once desirable Cheese Sandwich and an empty wine glass still on its coaster (to avoid marking the carpet with unsightly rings).
I have always felt more or less completely at home in situations where a noble defeat has just been snatched from the jaws of certain victory, but my duck’s demise on Derby Day really hit me hard. But perhaps not quite as hard as it hit Damien, I think it’s fair to say.
That said, the atmosphere of angst and melancholy which now enfolds us both in its cloying embrace will soon lift. To employ a tired cliche, memories more pleasant will in time arise to erase the ignominy of disqualification in the UK’s premier Rubber Duck race. This I do know.
Thank you for reading this but please, leave us now. Life has so many tragedies in its armoury, and this has been but one of those many tragic tragedies which must be confronted lest we weaken in the face of them.
It’s time to ‘move on’.
