Tuesday, 20 August 2013

Talking Tango...

You know, so we're told, when you've been Tangoed!


To my knowledge, I haven't - as yet.  Not the dance, all passion and power, but the drink, fizz, fun and flatulance.  No wobbly-bellied man, painted orange, has run up to me in the street - or the asylum - and slapped my cheek.  Neither have I ever gone a little too far with the fake tan, making me look as if I've been living on a diet of Satsumas for the past ten years or so.


Of course, with the slop we're served in here, it may well be Satsumas.  It's hard to say.  It could well be chicken or caviar.  Hey, it could actually just be tinned Slop!  Do Tesco sell that?  Is it next to the baked beans and spaghetti hoops?  Do Heinz do four packs of Slop, with a new, improved recipe?


No.  I don't believe they do.


Anywho.  I haven't, to be honest, any idea why I started waffling on about being Tangoed.  For an advert that hasn't been seen on television, probably, this century, it's still a well-known catchphrase.  A bit like "Do or die, spit in your eye" may well never be.  It's just, sometimes...


Do you ever feel as if you just need to talk?  Not about anything in particular, just to express words like a new mother expresses milk, the resultant flow easing pressure whilst providing sustenance?  Granted, I'm not a three month old baby, but sometimes simply chatting can be nourishing.  It can challenge the mind and entertain the senses.


In here, with a population largely consisting of misguided individuals (I hesitate to use the term 'delusional'), conversation can be somewhat lacking.  Four walls and a stream of MTV can only hold one's attention for a limited amount of time.  Well, in my case at least.  Many of my inmate friends are consistently captivated by the enclosed space and repetitive thumping base from the box on the wall.


A box within a box.  Like our mind within our body, except our minds are Tardises within the confines of our skin and bone, able to go anywhere and anywhen with seemingly infinite capacity.


So.  Conversation.  Occasionally, when Mickey is all Mucousy and Benny is Bending, I just need to talk.  Talk about normal.  Talk about mundane.


If I didn't, I think I'd go insane.  You'd assume I'd be in the right place for that.


Have you met Dr. Connors?


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