Mr Lamb the butcher

Mr Lamb the butcher skulks behind glass, in his kingdom of sawdust and blood.


Mr Lamb the butcher numbers among his favourite things curly hair, dew, Miss Marple, black pudding, Punch and Judy, daffodils and thrash metal.


“Pleased to meat you,” said Mr Lamb the butcher, eyeing up his new customers, imagining their hanging carcasses, their choice cuts.


Mr Lamb the butcher regards the service he provides his customers as a window onto the infinite. He is a hierophant, his mundane work a ritual of cutting, weighing, wrapping, giving.


Every Good Friday, Mr Lamb the butcher has himself strung up in the window of his shop, atop a mound of eyes.


Mr Lamb the butcher makes flamboyant window displays, in which bald chimeras made from bits of beef, chicken and pork mate, fight or deliver speeches with grandiloquent gestures.


Mr Lamb the butcher has a penchant for Debussy. He often becomes glassy-eyed as he hacks meat into retail-ready portions to the melodies of La mer.


Once, Mr Lamb the butcher defenestrated a customer who had made a puerile remark about the phallic appearance of a sausage he had just been sold.


Every evening, after work, Mr Lamb the butcher sits alone at his little kitchen table and wolfs down a thick stew of offcuts and offal.

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