The Alphabet According to Socar Myles

A is for Annoying Things: seagull choirs at the crack of dawn, people who telephone in the middle of The Sopranos, and giant rats that screech like express trains in the middle of the night for no good cause. Other annoying things include tomatoes on white carpets, the television switching itself on at unexpected intervals, and bad music on the radio.

B is for Brothel, squatting smugly across the street like a sodden old tramp on the piss. Much like the tramp, it always appears to be on its last legs, but it keeps on going all the same (quite possibly fueled by spite).

C is for Conspiracies hatched by seagulls on windowledges. "Upon whose head shall we shite this morning?", they chorus. "Upon whose head? Upon whose head?" And then, a certain big seagull conceives the brilliant notion of bespattering my window instead. Thus it is squawked, and thus it invariably shall be.

D is for Doss Cunts, hoboes and bums and panhandlers and moochers, lined up outside the pizza joints with their hats in their hands. They add a grating ostinato to the seagull symphony: "Spare change? Spare change? Spare change?"

E is for Eggs, which Stella loves in all their various forms. Spanish omelettes, quail's-egg turnovers with cheese, boiled eggs, scrambled eggs, egg salad, egg sarnies, poached eggs, eggs Benedict--well, all right, not eggs Benedict. I don't even know what an egg Benedict is. But if I made one, Stella would probably eat it.

F is for Figaro (the barber, not the newspaper), whom I like to impersonate in the shower: Largo al factotum della città--largo!

G is for Gorblimey, the state of my trousers, which are not only threadbare but too long as well, and trail messily over the backs of my shoes. Their waistbands sag sorrily over my hips, a pointed reminder that I'm never going to fill out a size 4.

H is for Hoser, my favourite word, which I've yet to hear a genuine Canadian utter (not without extensive prompting from me, at any rate).

I is for Impropriety, of which I am frequently accused, especially with regards to my comments on Brothels.

J is for Jacky, my middle name, which doesn't help the confused when they try to determine my gender.

K is for Kinky, like the image you get in your head when you're playing Baldur's Gate and packs of big beefy men run up shouting "I serve the Flaming Fist!" (Yikes!)

L is for Long Live the Queen...of Rats, that is, not Queen Elizabeth.

M is for Mine!, exclamation point mandatory. This is my eBay battle cry, reserved for those rare occasions when a Meiji bronze rat comes up for auction at a reasonable price.

N is for Norbert Dentressangle, whose ugly red lorries got me through hundreds of interminable car rides as a kid. If it was just me in the back seat, I'd count Nobbies all the way home. If it was me and some other kid, we'd play Nobbies and Stobbies (one person'd count Norbert Dentressangle trucks, while the other'd count Eddie Stobarts, and whoever'd seen more by the time we reached our destination was the winner of whatever dubious prize had been decided upon in advance).

O is for Oops!, the most frequently-used word in my vocabulary. Variants include "Oh, no!", "Oh, shit!", and "Oh, my GAWD!". The particular expression used is determined by the severity of the cock-up. (Picking up the phone and getting a telemarketer is an "Oops!", for instance, whereas picking up the phone and knocking a plate of spaghetti onto the carpet with the cord is more of an "Oh, my GAWD!" situation.)

P is for Packbawky, the dirtiest of birds. One might commonly find packbawkies beliming the benches in Stanley Park, or stealing bread from picnickers on the beach. It's rare to catch a packbawky alone: they are cowardly creatures, who prefer to wreak their mischief with plenty of packbackup.

Q is for Quill, plucked from a crow (a perfect example of the infamous packbawky), and turned to good use as a drawing instrument.

R is for Ridiculous, the most common adjective associated with my name. Usage: "What in the name of all that's holy is that ridiculous Socar Myles up to now?"

S is for Stella, my giant Gambian pouched rat, thus named for the star-shaped marking on her forehead. Stella, although quite unfriendly, is a fascinating character nonetheless, and apparently possessed of her own unofficial Internet fan club. (Hey, when do I get my fan club, eh? I'm much more stalkable than some greasy ol' rat!)

T is for Tortoise, which has no bearing upon my life and times whatsoever, but which is a word I enjoy saying. Tortoise. Tortoise. Tortoise. Galapagos tortoise. Great, giant Galapagos tortoise. Great, groaning, gargantuan Galapagos tortoise! Gigantiferous! Gigatonacious! Bloody yowge! (Well, you get the idea.)

U is for Unbelievable, my favourite exclamation of shock and outrage. I shouted "Unbelievable!", for example, when Tony Soprano asked Carmela what Aida was, and she said it was a musical by Elton John. So much for celebrating one's cultural history, and Viva Verdi! and so forth. (I could just kill Elton John. Why ruin a perfectly good opera? Poor Verdi must be writhing in his grave.)

V is for Vomit, which I find so repulsive that I've been known to make suicidal backwards leaps off chairs and put bras over my face in order to avoid the smell.

W is for Wanker, my favourite derogatory term. Ring me during The Sopranos, will you? Wanker! Eat the last of my crisps? Bloody wanker! Snatch money out of my purse while I'm rooting after loose change? Complete, utter, and indescribable wanker! Oh, what I'd do to you if I could only run fast enough to catch you!

X is for Xylophone, because X is always for xylophone. Besides, I like xylophones. If I had one, I'd play it all the time.

Y is for Yiros--in particular, the incomparable (and incomparably messy) yiros one could buy at The Gardenia in Cambridge. I salivate at the memory.

Z is for Zed, not bloody zee. Who the hell says zee? Not me, not me.

And there you have it: the alphabet according to Socar Myles.