I like bees. I think it's a tragic shame they are vanishing from our world. I also think it's amusing how people point and say "See how they fly? That's aerodynamically impossible that is," then sit back with a smug grin, safe in the knowledge that no matter how incredibly wrong they are, there isn't much chance of someone pointing out "Actually, it's perfectly possible, here's the equation, and by the way that's exactly the kind of comment I expect to come from a half-wit cunt like yourself."
Which is a shame, because if more people displayed such open honesty the world would be a much better place. There would probably be less polite talking in the UN meetings, more translators whispering into their leaders ears "You won't believe what the wanker's saying this time!" and more war, but at least we would be open about it.
But bees are still dangerous. My friend Andrew was allergic to bee stings. He's dead now. Bees killed him. In a fashion.
I remember when he was stung on the lip and his face swelled up like a down's syndrome kid sucking on a helium pump. We kept asking the school doctor if it would be alright to stick a pin in him, maybe he would deflate in an amusing, whizzing-around-the-room manner; and I still remember how Mr Vassel, our history teacher, was the first person to try to suck the sting out. It didn't work, but Mr Vassel really did give it his best shot.
I was so happy when I discovered, years later, that Mr Vassel was married with two young boys. I was slightly less happy when I discovered that there had been a printing error and Mr Vassel was in fact married to two young boys.
Anyway, that wasn't what killed Andrew. He recovered from all that and lived to see fifteen.
So strange to think about now. See, it started with a van driver. There he was, driving down the road and smoking a cigarette, when he realised there was a bee in his cab. Being a kind-to-animals kind of man, he realised there was a good chance he could set light to the bee with his glowing fag-end, and so opted to do the right thing. He flung his cigarette out of his window. Unfortunately, his cigarette uncannily went from his window and through the window of the cab of a passing lorry. Landing in the driver's crotch as it did and causing much terrified cursing and writhing, the lorry went from his control and began to jack-knife across the road.
Myself, Andrew and the only other boy who could stand our presence, a big dumb lad called Ross, were walking along that same road, discussing how we were going to look for toads and experiment with how many things we could insert into their anuses before they exploded. Ross saw that lorry first and pushed Andrew to safety into a convenient ditch before tackling me to the ground.
It was quickly obvious that the lorry-trailer would have missed us anyway, but I still remember how in slow motion I saw it slide round, the logo "Mayson's Honey" a brief glimpse, before the back-end slammed against a pillar, blowing the thing in half, and spilling gallons upon gallons of sickly sweet stuff into the same convenient ditch that Andrew lay in, groaning.
Before we'd even picked ourselves off the ground, Andrew was struggling to keep his head above honey-level. We ran forward, our minds full of the useful advice we'd seen from adventure films when a character was submerged in quicksand. "Don't struggle! Swim through it as if it's water!"
Honey, however, is not like quicksand, and Andrew began to sink fast, mainly because his attempts to swim and lack of struggling were dragging him deeper and deeper. Also, we were enthusiastically poking him with twigs and branches, shouting "Grab hold, grab hold!" which was only serving to push him further down.
Suffice to say, by the time the ambulance arrived and he was hurried to hospital, he was half-dead. Apparently, one of our more enthusiastic feints with a branch had cut open his femoral artery. And this is where the story gets more tragic.
We heard at the following inquest how the doctor on duty was extremely tired, not fully concentrating. The excuse given was that he had had an argument the evening before with his wife - about how he would never be allowed to keep bee-hives in the backyard - and wound up spending the night watching films on the sofa whilst crying into a glass of whisky. Apparently, one of those films that had kept him awake was the Michael Caine classic, The Swarm, a film which would have been so much better if it had included the line "You're only supposed to blow the bloody wings off."
Anyway, tired as he was, when it came to giving Andrew his much-needed blood transfusion, the doctor completely mis-read his charts and that was where the mistake lay.
Andrew was blood type O. The doctor gave him AB.
