Poor, dead Andy

Poor, dead Andy

I have recently learned of the death - quite some time ago, as it turns out - of one of my partners in crime at the Ministry of Cow Counting. Poor, dead Andy.

Andy was the quiet, placard-carrying vegan who worked in our office, placed in the job by a dole office clerk with a sense of humour after being made redundant by a health food shop. Before that, poor, gentle Andy worked in an abattoir, where he had his own metal-trimmed apron and chainsaw. He was, of course, placed there by a dole office clerk with a sense of humour.

The senseless slaughter of nut roast went on for several weeks before he ended up in our office, reduced to refereeing our running battles with increasingly deadly elastic-powered missiles, as we re-enacted the Siege of Stalingrad in the comfort of a tenth floor office in Reading.

He stunk the place out with his foul-smelling herbal teas, which "Special" Yvette would drown in milk, despite poor, dead Andy's protestation that it had been "stolen" from a cow.

"But… but… you've got to have milk in tea. Me mum says so."

"But you're exploiting those poor cows" he told her, repeatedly, getting even redder in the face, whilst simultaneously ticking off an official report on frozen beef carcases with a pen made out of the hollowed-out thigh bone of an ocelot.

No wonder he had a heart attack, then.

Poor, not-quite-dead Andy was carted off to Addenbrooke's where they gave him a heart transplant.

Unfortunately for him, there was no vegetarian alternative, and he carked it.

Poor, dead Andy.