The Diary of Captain Canary, Part 3

Posted by on September 20, 2011 in diary | 2 comments

Dear Diary,

I keep having these dreams. I’m walking through a fog towards a great tower of gold. The sunlight reflected is blinding, and I’m stumbling around until I realise I’m on a tightrope. My legs have gone, replaced by Leon Barnetts. I’m staggering, graceless, like a baby giraffe across this tightrope, desperate not to fall. But I do, every time. Every time I fall, and as I approach the ground I see her face.

I tried to talk to someone at the club about it the other day but Culverhouse just told me to fuck off. To be fair to him he says that to everyone, including the gaffer. I tried to give Mad Marc a hug but he fell to the floor clutching his face.

It all came to a head yesterday morning. The lads had been on a bender after the Bolton result and I was trying to enjoy the peace and quiet, trying to medidate, but I had no luck. A huge wave of anxiety crashed upon my yellow body. I felt sick.

I went to gaffers office.

I was sat on my own for hours, my wings still bare, plucked at the party. I was no closer to finding out who’d done it, but every morning a yellow feather was turning up on my desk. They’re taunting me.

I don’t know how long I was in there for. Hours perhaps. When it was dark, the door opened. It was the gaffer.

He poured us both a drink. Whiskey numbs the pain. He then sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette, and looked me directly in the eye. It was unnerving, penetrating, almost embarrassing. This was a man who could see into your soul.

He remained quiet. The silence was thickening, almost tangible. Smoke filled the air from his roll-ups. The sour taste of nicotine and tar hit the back of my throat. I was nervous, scared, but this was a man who I could trust. The club had trusted him since day one, and I was part of the club. I had to believe in him. I had to think he could reassure me, get me on my feet. Anxiety was taking over my life. Every morning I woke up thinking of Camilla, my gut a toxic mix of apprehension and self loathing.

Despite his steely gate, Paul was a kind man, a gentle lover. It was affirmation I needed from him.

After an eternity, he put his cigarette out and looked at me through the haze.

“Get her back.”

C.C xx


  1. Dude these are getting pretty dark…

    Also, in my head, it’s being spoken in a 50s Film Noir style with a soulful saxophone playing in the distance.

  2. Epic! Who has the film rights? If unsold… how much?

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