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Notes of Experiments on Mice and Other Mammals - Margot Stedman          

The mouse on the treadmill is going round and round and round. His name’s Graham. His whiskers shiver and his little pink nose is soft as a new mushroom. The wheel chatters on, ricketa-ricketaricketa, rhythmic as a beat box, so you wouldn’t know just from the sound that he’s missing a leg. Scuttling like a devil, he is.

          His eyes are red like raspberries but I don’t think that makes him look evil; more angry, and I wonder if he sees the world through a red mist of rage about his missing leg. But he’s only a mouse. How angry can he get? I mean really? And what difference does it make to the world if he does?

          Graham lives in his cage in my bedroom. He lost his leg on account of I bit it off when Dad and Mum went out and I hit the creme de menthe. Wicked stuff. Really messes with your head. Used to be banned completely. (Or maybe that was the other one, absinthe?) Anyway, it’s what they’re least likely to miss. So, after a bottle of cr?me de menthe and a couple of tabs of some shit I scored at school, I got to wondering what it would be like to be Hannibal Lecter. I decided to do an experiment. On my little brother, Jakey.


You’re Listening to Paul Power - Graham Hodge

You’re listening to Paul Power on Cream FM. Good morning Vietnam. It’s 8:02. If you’ve just joined us – try getting up earlier: you might make something of your lives. Just kidding of course listeners – but if you have just joined us, today’s a very special show. Here’s why . . .

          It’s almost certainly my last show ever. Last show on Cream FM; last show on any FM. FM? Jesus, I wouldn’t even get a gig on medium wave after this. Yes folks, the theme of today’s show is “career suicide¸. I’m not playing any songs – the “Cream of the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties¸ can fuck off. I’m just going to keep talking and talking and talking like this till they drag me talking and talking out of the studio – which could happen at any moment. As soon as anyone with any clout gets wind of the sordid goings-on in this ghost town at the end of the dial, I’m out of here.

          Let’s see what tune I should be playing for you now . . . Ha! My trusty playlist here says I am currently not playing More Than A Woman by the Bee Gees. How appropriate: if it weren’t for that song, I might not be here now, burying Paul Power.


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