It's always when you least expect something to happen, that it usually does, happen. Basically, you get yourself out of the ghetto for an afternoon, take yourself off to Islington, go on a relaxing, mind your own business stroll, and then suddenly, the heavens open up, and down floats Gabriel. I was actually thinking, prior to his unexpected appearance about heaven, well, not actually in the form of ... you know - angels, golden harps, Jesus sandals, Angels of Enoch goblets and cheeky chubby cherubs, whimsical fairies (hang on a minute, what have the fairies got to do with it? I don't know they like to turn up from time to time) and Divine angels with intuitive noses, heavenly hippy groupies, Ice fairies sitting on Unicorns (hang on a minute, what have the unicorns got to do with it?) no, you see, what I was considering was my leannan. I was thinking about my leannan, and thinking this is definitely DRAÍOCHT, something which is probably beyond even Sealbhtha.
Plucking me out of my heavenly pursuits and removing me from a pleasurable ride on the back of a unicorn, with a cute little ice-fairy, came this rough (we're talking 80 fags a day) Scouser's voice, really working class kind of accent. Not might kind, I prefer the toffs myself, especially the newly established doctor Finlay.
Angel Gabriel: Oi, you!! Kenzie!!! Look, I don't have all frigging day mate. Coz, like, I've got another three hundred and forty million other losers to visit. It's about your Kanga - Mooh, love. I've got a potential victim. I mean owner darling. He's an old bloke that plays the banjo, off Upper Street, down one of those pretentious little cobbled stoned side streets, you know with all those over prized fucking antique shops. Crooks the lot of them, might wear Armani, but they're a bunch of toffee nosed tossers. You really can't differentiate between them and the cheesy used car salesmen. They're ALL the fucking same in my book, all from the book of fucking crooks, except, when they smile, it's all porcelain implants. Good job Jesus isn't alive coz he would be having a fucking fit right now. He doesn't like greedy tossers like that. Goes back to his days in the temple, it's scarred him, poor lad. And, he's got too many fucking scars, let me tell you.
Me: What temple?
Angel Gabriel: As I said you stupid tart, I don't have all day. After this I've got to go up to Enfield for a guinea pig's funeral. Some sentimental gay, Tory bloke, from Tottenham, has just buried his guinea pig. Wants some holy water to help alleviate the pain. Anyway, go forth and don't multiply, you're already too fat ... and sweet Jesus be with you.
Me: Do you think he'll look after my Kanga - Mooh properly?
Angel Gabriel: Fuck knows! He says he would. He said a little prayer earlier. He looked honest enough, and he plays his instrument well.
Me: You mean his banjo?
Angel Gabriel: Fuck off, you know exactly what I meant, when I said his 'instrument'. Tart! The big fella likes it. He says his music is heavenly. So, fuck it! Give him your Kanga, lass.