Summing Up A Man

He was the sort of man who’d steal a balloon from a child and then laugh the next day.
He was the sort of man who’d wipe cream cheese from his beard with his hands, and then smear it over his trousers.
He was the sort of man who’d ask if you wanted a hand with that buggy, and then drop it.
He was the sort of man who’d blow his nose into a public swimming pool.
He was the sort of man who’d ask if you want a drink just to see your expression when he returned from the bar with only one for himself.
He was the sort of man you’d never introduce to anyone.
He was the sort of man that you warn your children not to be like when they grow up.
He was the sort of man who’d drop litter.
He was the sort of man who’d tell you that your story was shit, and then try and sell it as his own.
He was the sort of man who never washed his hands after toileting.
He was the sort of man who never bought a gift.
He was the sort of man who’d call out his own name during sex.
He was the sort of man who’d spoil the milk for everyone else.
He was the sort of man that would kick your cat when you weren’t looking.
He was the sort of man that you’d feel justified in talking about behind his back.
He was the sort of man who’d adapt your favourite character for the screen, and leave out all the best bits.
He was the sort of man whose name should have become rhyming slang for something very rude.
He was the sort of man even your mother didn’t like.
He was the sort of man who’d eat the last biscuit.
He was the sort of man who would ruin the end of the film for you. ‘The Sheriff’s the bad guy.’
He was the sort of man who, now he’s dead, no one will miss.

In fact, I’m sure we’re all here just to make sure he’s definitely gone.

Amen.

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David Baillie is a freelance writer and artist. Born almost thirty years ago in Scotland, he now lives and works in the East End of London.

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