Monday, September 05, 2005

A Genuine Gas-Bag

There are many people who, it might be said, are gas-bags. Lots of people are hard to shut up, gossipers, chatterboxes, extremely talkative etc, but it seems to me that only an elite few verbal diarrheaticians should really qualify for that term - gas-bag. Genuine gas-bags, - bone fide non-stop talking machines - are actually pretty few and far between. To be considered a real gas-bag, it's not just that you have to speak quickly and often, that you have to bore for England (or wherever) on a frequent basis - you have to be able to spew a rapid torrent of words without stopping, and without letting anyone else get a word in edgeways, for a very long length of time. You have to be able to speak very, very quickly, very, very loudly and almost interminably, without pausing for air between sentences - you have, also, preferably, to ensure that your speech contains absolutely nothing of any consequence at all.

I came across such a creature on the bus this morning. She got on talking about nothing loudly, quickly and without pause, she sat on the bus for at least 20 minutes talking about nothing loudly, quickly and without pause and she almost certainly left the bus talking about nothing loudly, quickly and without pause. I had to get off the fucking bus before my stop in order to escape, so I don't know how for long it continued. As she got on the bus with her 'friends' (listening objects, programmed to utter 'oh', 'yeah' and 'really' every now and again) it was immediately obvious that she was, possibly, one of these elite gas-bags. After having been subjected to the sound of her witless rabbiting (she was sitting several rows behind me) for about a few minutes it was clear that she certainly was. After 5 minutes I was already grinding my teeth and my legs were starting to squirm. After 10 minutes I was beating my head against the seat in front of me and starting to dribble. After 15 minutes I was clawing at the windows and trying to escape. It was like some form of extreme torture.

During the course of the wind-machine's near senseless jabbering it became clear that she was only 15 yrs old. Somewhere amongst the flow she had remarked on her age. Now that makes it special. This was no seasoned jabberer - no talk-box in its prime. This one had only just started. Amazing. In 10 years, this talker could, perhaps, be one of the best gas-bags ever to have lived.

I have been in the presence of greatness.

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