In the shadow of Chosen Hill

David Brain was an upholsterer by trade, operating out of a small commercial premises on Gloucester’s Hucclecote Road, in the shadow of Chosen Hill.

Limping, gaunt and stabby, head jarred permanently left, a result of untreated torticollis from being crushed in the womb as a twin (earning him the childhood nickname, ‘Quazi’), Brain was always preoccupied, 30% of the time with ‘the shop’, where he hid away from the dreary hand life had dealt him, 70% with something terrible, probably rape.

Google tells us Brain succumbed to cancer in 2017, giving up the ghost roughly a year after the death of his wife, Maureen, a miserable fat fuck that he hadn’t stuck his cock into since the late eighties.

What Google does not tell us is that, in 1964, this agitated, squinting recluse won the Cheese Roll, beating off the 5-time winner and odds-on favourite from Cinderford, a fairground brawler known only as Spence. Shaking Spence’s hand afterwards, a legendary paw that had banjaxed hundreds of snouts, Brain had never felt so proud. And in truth, that win ‘up the Cheese’ was probably his life’s most notable achievement, unless the police one day tell us otherwise.

On weekends and during rare holidays, Brain would spend time relaxing alone on the small narrowboat he’d inherited from an aunt (more trouble than it was worth), or with Maureen in the caravan ‘down Wainlode’ playing Knock-out Whist, daring a third cheese and pineapple stick, and sipping warm white wine out of plastic beakers with the blank gaze of cattle.

In the Dylan of night, Maureen oozing around him like a Gulf War oil spill, all hair, puss and belly, Brain would dream of his immaculate dark brown Volvo towing his pride and joy through July fields, fucking Irene from two down, while her mechanic husband Keith looked on, cock glistening with Castrol GTX, and lucrative calls from his quarter page ad in the Yellow Pages, a waste of fucking money if ever there was.

Brain’s caravan, make no mistake, was his life, top of the range, all kitted out, a fibreglass and plywood heaven, two foot off the floor. To Maureen’s horror, he even tarmacked over half of his stamp-sized front garden so it could sit directly outside his lounge, a giant beige tumour on bald, flat tyres. On reflection, maybe it was the caravan…

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