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The Many Adventures of

David and Brian
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*BEEP… BEEP… BEEP*

In a tidy, well-off suburb of Pontefract, a crusty old digital alarm
clock screams like a robot baby.
*BEEP… BEEP… BEEP*
Woozy, through half-closed eyes, you try to make out the time; red
LED on brown-black.
*BEEP… BEEP… BEEP*
Burning red… seven segment display. 7:90? No, that can’t be right.
7:30? Your thoughts recede back into the dream-coil… seven
segments… insect morphology…
*BEEP… BEEP… BEEP*
A hairy arm reaches over from the other side of the double bed,
clobbers the coffee-stained white plastic into silence.
A firm but gentle voice emerges from the bunched-up duvet:
“Wake up David, you old cunt!”

If you give Brian May the traditional ‘thumbs up’ to let him know
you’re awake, turn to page 43.

If you carry on sleeping, turn to page 21.

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Your instinct proves wrong; Brian has never played Street Fighter II,
and has no idea of the tactical advantages of repeated sweeping kicks.
His hair, it turns out, prophesises his future combat manoeuvres like a
keratinous Nostrodamus.
You leap into the air, your arms glued to your sides, like an audience
member at a punk rock concert circa 1979.
As you land, Brian’s veiny fist hurtles into your orbit, following the
vector laid out so clearly by his quivering coiffure, and he socks you
right in the chomper.
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Despite Brian May’s pleas, you continue to sleep.

By the time you awake, it’s late. The clock says 17:00… you’ve slept
all day.
You hear pots and pans clanging around downstairs. It must be Brian
making his weekly batch of stew.
After a bout of hot yoga, you walk down the stairs.
As suspected, Brian is in the kitchen, stirring an enormous pot of
disintegrating meat. It smells like sulphur and sweat.
He’s wearing a pink apron with cartoon boobs and pubes on it; you
smile and think to yourself, what a great Christmas present, he wears
it practically every day.
“Morning Brian!” you call, cheerily.
“Evening, David!” he responds pointedly.
“I swear, one of these days you’re going to fall asleep and never wake
up” he continues.
“Probably” you reply, gravely.
Silence reigns, for four and a half seconds.
“Anyway” continues Brian, “We need to get going. Put your camo
onesie on and make sure you wear your comfy shoes. It’s going to be
a long night.”

You’d better do as he says; turn to page 111.

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“Two fingers of sugar. One finger of milk.

Half a finger of coffee. Hot water up to the brim;
that’s how Brian takes his coffee”
- John Deacon (My Famous Life, published December 2011 –
available now on the Kindle store).

You get up and fetch Brian his morning coffee. His mood softens, he
gives you an approving nod. His billowing hair accentuates the
movement, gives it a flamboyant accent.
You sit together in wistful domestic silence.
“So, David… are you ready for tonight’s outing?”
“I am, Brian. This is the most exciting thing I’ve done since I checked
on the field voles at the Download Festival”.
Brian spreads out crumpled paperwork onto the bed. Maps of forests,
fields, streams. Routes marked in red. Colour-coded markers. You
both examine it, make amendments. Battle-plans.
You watch Trisha. Rinder. Flog It.
The day drips away. It’s evening.
You watch Pointless whilst Brian makes a big batch of stew.
“Ok David – it’s time. Let’s go, friend.”

You both head out into the evening; turn to page 111.
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The atmosphere gets hot and close, like the sun from Venus.
You call Brian a saggy faced mop without a bucket.
He repeats his cruel and inaccurate comment about your so-called
‘silly hat’, this time amplifying it with the word ‘very’. You call him a
‘big-nosed cholera bat’.
He calls you a ‘scruffy tart’. He ups the ante, calling you ‘a grotesque
cuntfart’ with an ‘immensely silly hat’.
Sooner or later, you’re engaged in a physical fracas, right outside the
entrance to Cropley’s Corn Maze.
You strike first; fist enters face.
Globules of translucent punch-juice splatter the kerb in slow motion.
Brian nurses his jaw, gets into position to return fire.
Before he’s even started to swing his strummer, his hair trembles, like
the fleshy red comb of a fighting cock.
Could it be that his steely mane is telegraphing the direction of his
planned strike?

You heed the hair, dodging to your left; turn to page 140

You ignore the hair, and jump up, assuming that Brian is going to do
one of those sweeping floor kicks that always works on Street Fighter
II; turn to page 12
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You stroll casually into the balmy Yorkshire evening.

Past the Garden Centre where you bought the new birdbath.
Past Pontefract Crematorium. The Farm Shop.
The sun is low in the sky, it dazzles like Brian’s guitar solos.
You can’t remember why you and Brian decided to move here, but
you’re glad you did.
“Did you remember to bring everything, David?” asks Brian, his
voice emerging from the evening like an owl’s soft hoot.
You stop at a low wall and take a peek into your suitcase.
“Nearly everything, Brian” you reply.

Choose from three of the following objects and write them down on
a piece of paper: Video Camera, Tape Recorder, Ham Sandwich,
Torch, Unsalted Butter

“I see you’re wearing that silly hat again, by the way…”

Brian’s barb smarts like a splintered twig.
There’s nothing silly about your hat. It’s comfortable, and has a
decent brim with which to block the sun.

If you ignore Brian’s cruel barb, turn to page 4

If you strike back with a comment about his hair/face, turn to page 65
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