So

I was walking though the Hindustani Section of Westport, looking for bargains as I'm want to do on Wednesdays, and who should I see sitting there in the central tile mosaic square? You know, the Square with the Seven Fountains and three story water clock?

I SAW the Angry Piper. He was playing chess against one of the natives, and he wore his dour face of distracted hatred.

"Dearest friend!" I shouted, sweeping away all the pieces on the board and slipping the native a crisp dime. "You look glum, little guy. What's wrong?"

"First," he said, extending his middle finger, "that's for ruining one of the finest chess games I've ever played. Second," here he cleverly held up his second middle finger, "My sheep got into a radish patch and now all of my newly woven kilts smell like cocktail sauce."

"Delicious," I said, "But I see your points. Do they burn?"

"Aye," he said, "Twas a good crop of strong black angus radishes. They burn indeed. But it's not all bad," he said, donning what would never pass for a smile, even in the Crimea. "My hut was robbed by robbers who plundered my goods, ate my food, and soiled my best woman. They left the wine and ale."

"That's good," I said.

"Napes," he shook his head, "They pissed in 'em. And they shat in the bread. Not on top of it. No. No. They tuck it way inside, third bite you get cold turd in the back of your throat and the doctor says he wants to wire your jaw shut in case of thrush."

"Look," I said, sitting on his lap, "I'm not an optimist, but I'm not quite a fatalist. So when life gets bad I keep one thing in mind."

"What's that then?" he asked, brightening up.

"You always have it worse than me," I responded.

"Cheers you up?" he asked.

"It does," I said.

"Alright," he stood and placed me on my feet, "I'll buy you an iced cream to eat and you can watch me get Scottish Carnival Style Drunk."

"I've got a few hours to kill," I admitted, "Can I rap you about the head with my cane?"

"Honest you can," he smiled.

And so, my shopping curtailed for the moment, we set out. It was two hours before I told him the population, being largely Muslim, did not serve alcohol. There were many a happy misunderstanding in between.

"I shoulda learnt my lesson," he said. "First," he said, "Never go on a bender with a sober man in tow. And second," second middle finger, "...go fuck yourself."

I waved as he sulked his way off into the sunset, growing smaller as my story ends, and I thought to myself, Murk old bean, you are the world's greatest asshole.

It made me smile.