Snuff Fiction by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online

bodies always know what they need and childhood bodies need sweeties. It is a ‘bodily instinct’, quite removed from the brain. If our childhood bodies need extra sugar, they send a message to our childhood brains. ‘Give me sweets,’ is this message. It is a message that must be heeded. Upon reaching puberty, needs change. Extra starches and proteins are required. ‘Give me beer,’ calls the body to the brain. But, you will observe, it rarely calls this message to a six-year—old.
    Our bodies know what they want and what they need. And woe unto those who deny this.
    Sweeties kept us healthy. We are living proof of this.
    Although we didn’t actually know that we
needed
sweeties, we knew that we
wanted
them and curiously much common lore existed regarding the curative properties of certain brands of confectionery. [3]
    A popular nursery rhyme of the day may serve to illustrate this.
    Billy’s got a blister.
    Sally’s got a sore.
    Wally’s got a willy wound
    That weeps upon the floor.
    Molly’s got the minge rot.
    Ginny’s got the gout.
    Take ‘em down the sweet shop.
    That’ll sort ‘em out.
    And how true those words are, even today.
    As children, we instinctively knew that the sweetie shop held more in the way of medicine than any branch of Boots. And any qualified chemist who knows anything about the history of his (or her) trade will tell you that most sweeties began life as cures for one complaint or another.
    Liquorice was originally a laxative. Peppermint was good for the sinuses. Aniseed helped dispel internal gas. Hum (one of the pnncipal ingredients in humbugs) staved off dropsy, and chocolate, lightly heated and then smeared over the naked body of a consenting adult, perks up a dull Sunday afternoon no end.
    And how true
those
words are, even today.
    Our local sweetie shop was run by old Mr Hartnell. His son Norman (not to be confused with the other Norman Hartneil) was in our class and a popular boy was he. Norman was a born confectioner. At the age of five his father had given him a little brown shopkeeper’s coat of his own and, when not in school uniform, Norman was rarely to be seen wearing anything other than this.
    Norman lived and breathed (and ate) sweeties. He was to sweeties what the Doveston would later be to tobacco, although he would never achieve the same fame. He would, in later life, receive acclaim for his scientific endeavours, which have been written of in several books and indeed will be written of here.
    The Doveston and I befriended Norman. Not that he lacked for friends, you understand. He attracted friendship in the way that poo does flies. But, in the Doveston’s opinion, these were just friends of the fair-weather persuasion. Good-time Charlies and Johnny-comelatelys, buddying up with the shopkeeper’s son for naught but the hope of free sweeties.
    ‘What that Norman really needs’, declared the Doveston, one July morning, during P.E., ‘is the guiding hand of a mentor.’
    ‘But where might such a hand be found?’ I asked.
    The Doveston showed me one of his own. ‘On the end of my arm,’ said he.
    I examined the item in question. It was grubby as usual and black at the nails, with traces ofjam on the thumb. If this was indeed the hand of a mentor, then I possessed two of my own.
    ‘What exactly
is
a mentor?’ was my next enquiry.
    ‘A wise and trusted adviser or guide.’
    ‘And you think Norman needs one?’
    ‘Just look at him’, the Doveston said, ‘and tell me what
you
think.’ I glanced along at Norman. We were all lined up in the big hall, mentally, if not physically, preparing ourselves for the horrors of the vaulting horse. Norman had, as ever, been thrust to the head of the line by his ‘friends’.
    He was a stocky, well-set lad, all big knees and podgy palms. And being the son of a confectioner, there was much of the sweetie about him. His skin was as pink as Turkish delight and his cheeks as red as cherry drops. He had lollipop lips and a