Beware the Full Moon

If there is anything Old Ken has learned in this here country, it is this: beware the full moon! While this warning has nothing to do with this albino "hairy lobster" discovered deep at the bottom of some submarine trench in the Pacific (at least as far as I can tell), it may serve as an apt physiological prompt for the spine-tingling tales I want to unfurl for your delectation.

Now, I suppose I could begin with my latest encounter with the moon's power and the spectacles of ghoulish debauchery it seems capable of drawing forth on this here green earth. But, I'd rather assume the assume the overalls, strange hat and weathered drawl of the raconteur so that I can tell you about some scenes I observed on the night of a full moon last summer.

The year was 2005: George Bush was crusading for "freedom"; the British government was getting ready to "make poverty history" (and how!); and yours truly was on a lovely weekend getaway in Scotland. If we want to get specific—and why not?—it was the night of the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, which also just so happened to coincide with a full moon. Well this little freakshow began when, upon landing at London Heathrow at around 9 PM, we boarded a little tarmac bus, which escorted us from the plane into the terminal. Although there were not many people on the plane, the genius-hats at the airport has supplied but one bus was used to ferry in all of the travelers. So, it was crowded.

Seated beside me was an older gent in a fetching beige suit; he was holding a very ancient looking leather brief case. Suit and attaché case appeared as though they had just been wrenched from a long slumber at the furthest, darkest reaches of a closet. Well, despite the fact that the bus was really packed and there were women and children standing in front of him, this suited character insisted on taking up two seats with his bag, case and other accessories. What really melted my heart and endeared this man to me forever, though, was his choice of mobile phone ring tone: “Auld Lang Syne.” As we will see, this is a tune that will recur in our tale.

Well, by the time we were on the Piccadilly line coming in from Heathrow, it was just about 11 PM. This is a precious moment to be on the train as it is pub closing time. So, if you like your drunks belligerent and vomit-y, this is the place to be. Soon enough, the token crazy guy gets into the car. Never one to disappoint, he is holding a can of lager in one hand and carrying on some incomprehensible conversation with an invisible interlocutor in a language that sounds like Romanian. While he disembarked fairly quickly, his warmed seat was taken a gent fully decked out in Scottish tartan outfit—a man who was not only about ten sheets to the wind but was cursing like a sailor at all and sundry.

As if we had not already had enough of things colorful and Scottish, a real treat awaited at Green Park station where we switched for the Jubilee line toward London Bridge. Like many of London's underground stations, Green Park has its share of "buskers" (street performers) who often play an instrument accompanied by recorded backing music, usually broadcast by some equivalent of the vaunted Gorilla brand amplifier. On this enchanted evening, the entertainment was provided by a man with a Ho-Chi-Minh-style moustache who was playing a searching version of “Auld Lang Syne” on the soprano saxophone while wearing sunglasses and a beret. Nicely done!



Question: if you have a fight between an alligator and a Burmese python, who wins? At least according to the photograph above, neither beast wins: the python swallows the alligator but then bursts! Perhaps we are the winners in such a case. But, I am afraid I definitely was not the winner on the full moon night in question. Here's why: once we had gotten to London Bridge, we caught an overland train. Like any train at that hour, this one was packed with people much worse for wear after long sessions in the pub. Now, it just so happened that our car was also shared with a strapping fellow in "tracky bottoms", white “trainers” and an England football jersey. While this sounds like a stereotype, what distinguished this man for the sake of our concerns here was the fact that he was eating a big baguette style sandwich. So doing, he sat down next to a pair of Asian women who were clearly deep into a conversation in their native tongue.

As the train began to roll, I looked over and saw this guy grabbing his crotch while eating the sandwich. An understandable and necessary move, I thought, as I imagine those track pants could bunch up uncomfortably, requiring some, er, readjustments. However, as I looked again, I realized that this was a readjustment of a far different kind. For the guy was doing three things simultaneously: craning his neck around to get a good look at the women; pulling on his member through his pants; and eating his sandwich. Readily, though, he decided to get his business firmly in order as he bi-passed the middle man and thrust his hand directly into his pants. While the nearby women seemed to take no notice, the effectiveness of his personal attentions had become clearly perceptible. And all the while he continued to bite ferociously into this big sandwich! Need we turn to Freud to decode this magic? Well, I don't know about you, but Old Ken blames it on the moon.