Kevin Is a Jobby and a Pimp (pthbbt-pthbbt)

By popular demand (that is to say, one person asking), here it is: the “jobby and a pimp” song—

I dropped my Canadian accent, there. I wouldn’t have had that, back then. (“Back then,” as in “when I was four.” Maybe five. No older than six. I wasn’t, like, in uni, thinking that was cool.)

Kevin, by the way, was a real person: a wee boy, about a year older than me. He lived across the street. I didn’t like him, and neither did any of my friends. We used to ride our bikes in a circle in front of his house, singing “Oh, Kevin, we love you! We want to marry you! Oh, Kevin, we love you! We don’t know what to do.” We’d sing till he came out—then, we’d chase him into the road, screaming “Snee! Snee!” We were…we were bloody Hyacinth Bucket, lying in wait so we could sing at him. Proper rotters.

One time, Grandma caught us and reported us to Mother. I assume some sort of punishment ensued, but it couldn’t have been too severe: we were back at it the next day, and for the rest of the year. That summer, Kevin moved away.

Apropos of nothing, there are cherry petals on the breeze, today. I just, y’know—I lost my train of thought, and I turned to the window, and there they were. Drifting, sort of thing. I can’t even see a cherry tree. There must be one round the corner.

It hardly seems fair, does it?—I get chirping birds and cherry blossoms, mountain vistas, sighing trees. I’ll have bubble tea later, if I don’t feel sick; tomorrow, if I do. I should make more of an effort to deserve my good fortune.

Ah…where was I? Oh, Kevin. Well, he moved away. We started bothering some other kid. Gavin, his name was. Only, he was less fun, ’cause he bothered us back. He drew a spider on my shoe. I drew one on his face. He put treacle in my bag, and it never came out. Man, he sucked. (I really liked him.)

I thought of moving back to Prestwick—to a house by the shore, with a conservatory and a fireplace, and a garden full of birds. But Mother reminded me I don’t garden, and there are birds in Vancouver. Prestwick’s not the same, anyway, she said—it’s turned brown, or some shite. Ashen winds from Glasgow. I can’t imagine that’s true—is it true?—but I suppose nothing’s ever quite as we remember.

…but Kevin’s still a jobby and a pimp (pthbbt-pthbbt).

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