The Spam Man

By Lesley-Anne Atkinson, a.k.a, big_red_happy_bouncing_ball

Think with me if you will of the most wonderful thing on earth. Thing isn't a good wood to
describe this miraculous and breathtaking...thing, but the bloody beaurocrats of my home won't
push the penny's together to by me that lovely shiny thesaurus from the shop window of WH Smiths
so we'll just have to use thing.
Imagine with me a street, an average quite street. There isn't much traffic on the road
and the pavements are a nice shade of hot elephant grey. The houses are all brick and painted
with angry warthog white paint. The time is 4:25pm, Thursday evening.
Imagine stepping out of one of the houses and standing on the pavement. You're wondering,
and anticipating it. But will it come? You dare not think the name, you'd hate for it not to
happen.
Then far in the distance you hear a very faint, musical, chant. Could it be? It's getting
nearer and the words are getting clearer," Spam. Spam. Spam. Spam. Spam. Spam. Spam. Spam. Spam."
It must be...it has to be!
Then you see it, far up the road. It looks small but you can see the blue of the tin...the smile
of delight in the paintwork...and then...in that yellow magical font you see the word, "SPAM."
It is! It is! It's the Spam man! In his spam mobile! The music is louder and you can hear that
oh so familiar song, even those hearing it for the first time know the music from somewhere deep
inside.
All of the doors open, on each of the houses. Children, Adults, Mums, Dads, Brothers,
Orphans, BBC Telemarketing officials, Lazy Firemen, Cats, Hamsters and maybe, just maybe a
jealous tin of beans. All of them are staring in wonderment, eyes wide with excitement and
enchantment. How it is to be blessed by the Spam man.
There he is. Tall and smiling. Hands on the wheel and glowing with pride. He brakes
halfway down the street and from his jealous frog brown box he takes a shiny, brand new tin of
Spam. He smiles into the crowd and sees a boy of about 6 staring and hoping, will he? Teeth
sparkling from the light in his van he throws the tin to the boy, which hits he in the head.
Now his family are gushing with such pride and admiration they cry and pick the Spam off the
dead boys head.
The will of Spam is great and if that boy had lived he would have grown up to manage
Heinz Baked Beans. But now the Spam man must go, to touch more lives. And as you hear that music
drift along the road the sun sets at 4:27pm the music reaches it's crescendo and you can't help
singing that last word, "Spam..."