Captain Berk stood on the bridge of his starship, hands on hips, staring at an image of a Blobulon Mega-Battlecruiser on the view screen. The alien ship was massive, coming at them very fast and equipped with more fire-power than a Solihull resident had jewellery.
This was not good.
It was not good at all.
Berk threw himself down into his Captain's chair and called out to his First Officer.
"Spank! Your assessment please."
First Officer Spank had not heard the Captain. Spank was too busy doing something with his iTricordapad.
"Spank!" the Captain called again.
Spank looked around, momentarily disorientated.
"Sorry Captain. I was just uploading photos of that nebula we passed last week to my Facebonk page."
Berk was not impressed. "Never mind that," said the Captain, pointing at the screen. "We've got trouble."
Spank turned to look at the screen. "Ah...yes."
The First Officer was about to say something else when his iTricordapad bleeped. He fiddled with it for a moment. "Cool...I just got a text from Lieutenant Hubba-hubba!"
Berk rolled his eyes and started to go red in the face. "For freck's sake - she's only five feet away from you!"
"Indeed." Spank turned to look at the hot babe sat in the corner. She winked at him. Spank winked back and wiggled his pointy ears.
Captain Berk thumped the arm of his chair. "Turn your iTricordapad off and concentrate!" he bellowed. "This is serious! That goes for everybody!"
There were some hastily mumbled apologies, followed by a lot of shuffling about as the crew put their tablet-cum-phonecorders on silent and shoved them in their handbags, man-bags and shmemly-vulcoid-bags. Then finally everybody faced the view screen at the front of the bridge and paid attention.
A bulb on the computer console in front of Second Officer Solo began to flash.
"The aliens are powering up their weapons, Captain," Solo reported.
Captain Berk knew what to do next. "Red alert," he commanded. "Raise shields, charge weapons and prepare to fire."
Solo got to his feet, stretched his tired muscles, yawned and began to head for the door.
Berk's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Where the jumping freck do you think you're going?"
Solo pointed at the clock. "My shift has ended," he replied. "I've got to pick up my daughter from her swimming lesson on B Deck, and the missus wants me back promptly tonight because she's going out with some of the girls."
Despite increasingly blue protests from Captain Berk, Solo left the bridge.
His first stop was at the ship's lavatory on P Deck.
"Looks like I found the Captain's log again," he sighed, looking down the pan. He flushed it away, then dropped his pants and set about making himself comfortable on the throne.
A few moments later the ship started to shudder violently. Hostilities had started.
Solo hung on extra tightly as the ship withstood a barrage of alien gunfire.
Before long the electricity failed, the lights went out and Solo was left to do his business in the dark.
"Well, at least I don't have to worry about the door swishing open every time somebody walks past," he observed, to nobody in particular.
Up on the bridge, things were in disarray. There was no power and the crew were trying to pilot the ship in total darkness.
"My computer isn't working," shouted one officer, "and I can't get hold of the IT department!"
"Have you tried switching it off and on again at the wall?" shouted another.
This went on for a couple of minutes.
When the lights finally came back up, the full extent of the damage became evident. The Captain's glass of orange juice had spilled all over the floor and he could not find his teddy bear or his Fab Lolly anywhere. Peanuts and popcorn were scattered all over the place. Lieutenant Hubba-hubba's vanity mirror had shattered. First Officer Spank was hastily zipping up his trousers, while the Lieutenant was hurriedly returning to her station, adjusting her skirt and tidying up her hair.
But all eyes were on the view screen.
The Blobulon Mega-Battlecruiser was by now so close that the crew could see one of the aliens sticking his head out of a porthole and making rude hand signals at them. He even appeared to be blowing raspberries.
"How much more of this can we stand?" asked Captain Berk.
"Not much," growled Spank, rolling up his sleeves and flexing his muscles. "I want to beam over there and twat the smug git."
"Talking of beaming up..." Berk flipped on his communicator. "Shipman Twott? This is Captain Berk speaking. Please beam up all officers who are down on the planet, without delay."
In the Starship's teleport suite, Shipman Twott put down his cheeseburger and set about beaming the crew back aboard the ship. He adjusted a few controls, but then just as he hit the big green 'Go!' button, the ship lurched again, and instead of beaming some of the crew up, he found a very red faced and butt-naked Second Officer Solo trying to rag one out in the transporter.
"Oops, sorry!" cried Shipman Twott.
He quickly hit the 'Go!' button again. Second Officer Solo promptly disappeared, to be replaced by all the crew members who had been down on the planet's surface. One was balancing a pint of Grimulan Ale on his nose, while a second was wearing a gimp suit, another was dressed as a smurf and several others were making the-beast-with-five-backs (from Metebelis 3).
"Hey!" shouted the smurf. He looked annoyed. "I thought you were meant to warn us first!"
Meanwhile on the bridge, Captain Berk was on his feet, punching the air in victory.
They had blown the aliens to oblivion. On the view screen there was nothing left of the Blobulon Mega-Battlecruiser, just debris: twisted metal, red goo, the odd cushion and a tin of pineapple chunks.
"We did it!" Berk cried, jubilant.
But First Officer Spank was not listening again. He was pulling a face and looking around with suspicion. "By freck - what's that smell?" he wondered.
Berk heard a wet, farty noise behind him, and turned to find Second Officer Solo taking a dump in the Captain's chair.
Second Officer Solo smiled sheepishly.
"I think I've just gone where no one has gone before..." he said.
Friday 13 July 2012
Monday 23 April 2012
ONE NIGHT ON THE PLANET OF THE BARKING SPIDERS
"While you're here, would you mind farting into this microphone for me?"
It was a spring evening. 1991. Peter's friend Numpty had just turned up with his girlfriend.
Now, Peter was a keen audio enthusiast who spent a lot of time making home recordings. In the past Numpty had been asked to talk, read poetry and even ad-lib lyrics into a microphone. He had never, however, been asked to fart. Still, Numpty was nothing if not obliging, and so he stood before the microphone as requested, and began to clench...
Over the next few hours, the two twenty-something males recorded their farts and burps. Amazingly, Numpty's girlfriend remained with them - except when she needed to leave the room for air, of course - and Peter's impressionable youngest sister even contributed.
Over the next couple of years, the recordings which they had made that fateful night grew in notoriety. They weren't particularly good recordings - badly mixed on a twin tape deck, very rough and ready - but it was the content that mattered. Certainly, Peter and Numpty's peers were largely very impressed and, while one or two of the girls pretended to be disgusted, most of them clearly weren't.
Time moved on.
By 1994 Peter had a new microphone. He wanted to see how it compared to the old one and it didn't take much cajoling before he was persuaded to stage a second long night of the ill wind. By this time Peter was engaged to be married and the woman to whom he was betrothed also joined in... although she probably then decided it had been a bad decision, as their engagement was called off shortly afterwards. Funny that.
Time marched on again.
Peter bought a minidisc recorder. You can guess what he did with that.
In time he got married to another, more tolerant woman, who Peter discovered talked in her sleep. Peter tried keeping a dictaphone next to the bed in order to record his wife's nocturnal ramblings, but for some reason she stopped doing it, so he ended up recording the first winds of the morning instead.
One night in 2001 - ten years on from that first long night of the ill wind - Peter invited some friends round for a party. By now Peter and his wife lived in a different part of the country, and his new friends were unaware of his audio legacy. Peter ended up playing his recordings. His new friends were terribly impressed - and slightly drunk. One of them grabbed the dictaphone, farted into it and, before long, they were all at it. They had to open a window. A few weeks later Peter played these recordings to two young lads, who were barely into their teens. The way their eyes gleamed showed Peter that those young boys were having an epiphany. The looks on their faces as they gazed up in awe will remain with Peter for ever. My work is done, he thought. Today I have passed on the baton to a younger generation.
And time continued to pass.
Despite how it sounds, over the years Peter had in fact achieved more than just record farts. Somehow he ended up doing a bit of audio work with a proper chart-topping 80s band and was even interviewed for a job in a recording studio by the sea. While he didn't get the job, it did spur him on to take his skills more seriously and develop them. The days of recording bottom burps were behind him.
As time passed, technology improved - by now it was possible to make quality digital recordings at home, to mix and manipulate them, all with a computer. Peter had been married for over a decade, and even had a couple of kids, but still dabbled with sounds when time allowed.
And then, one seemingly ordinary day in 2011, somebody pointed out that 20 years had passed since that first notorious recording. That got Peter thinking... about advances in technology... and of the possibilities which those advances offered...
It was late one Wednesday evening, early 2012. Peter's wife was watching drivel on the telly and Peter felt rather uncomfortable following a surfeit of beans at teatime. Suddenly he took a snap decision, grabbed his iPod and nipped up to the bathroom which, acoustically, was the best room in the house. Five minutes later and he had made four short, sharp recordings on his iPod. "Is this death?" he croaked, gasping for air and getting a Doctor Who quote in, even as he threw open the window to get some oxygen.
By 10.30 that evening those four recordings had been transferred to Peter's computer. Peter's wife had since gone to bed, but Peter worked into the night, his face lit only by the glare of the computer screen. He manipulated his new sounds, slowed them down, sped them up, bent them out of shape and mixed them in surround sound...
It was 2.30 in the morning before Peter went to bed. When he awoke the following morning he listened back to what he had recorded the night before. It's good, he thought, interesting enough, but there is more to be done. What if I trim the beginning off some of those sounds so that it is less obvious to the casual listener what those sounds are?
By Thursday evening the work was complete. Peter listened closely and was pleased with his work. This is audio art! he decided. It is art with a capital F! One day, thought Peter, I will sell this work to Charles Saatchi for hundreds of thousands of pounds, and Saatchi will broadcast these sounds in a darkened room in his London Gallery. One day, thought Peter, Damien Hurst will visit that gallery, listen to these sounds and weep at my feet as he realises how his work pales in comparison to this sonic masterpiece.
Peter's wife came in to the room. She heard what Peter was listening to and said, "Have you been recording your farts again?" She tutted and shook her head. "Grow up. The washing up needs doing and I need help putting the girls to bed!"
Or, thought Peter, I could just upload it to my Soundcloud page.
And so he did.
He suggests that you click on the following link and play it loud.
http://soundcloud.com/user4198011/04-one-night-on-the-planet-of
It was a spring evening. 1991. Peter's friend Numpty had just turned up with his girlfriend.
Now, Peter was a keen audio enthusiast who spent a lot of time making home recordings. In the past Numpty had been asked to talk, read poetry and even ad-lib lyrics into a microphone. He had never, however, been asked to fart. Still, Numpty was nothing if not obliging, and so he stood before the microphone as requested, and began to clench...
Over the next few hours, the two twenty-something males recorded their farts and burps. Amazingly, Numpty's girlfriend remained with them - except when she needed to leave the room for air, of course - and Peter's impressionable youngest sister even contributed.
Over the next couple of years, the recordings which they had made that fateful night grew in notoriety. They weren't particularly good recordings - badly mixed on a twin tape deck, very rough and ready - but it was the content that mattered. Certainly, Peter and Numpty's peers were largely very impressed and, while one or two of the girls pretended to be disgusted, most of them clearly weren't.
Time moved on.
By 1994 Peter had a new microphone. He wanted to see how it compared to the old one and it didn't take much cajoling before he was persuaded to stage a second long night of the ill wind. By this time Peter was engaged to be married and the woman to whom he was betrothed also joined in... although she probably then decided it had been a bad decision, as their engagement was called off shortly afterwards. Funny that.
Time marched on again.
Peter bought a minidisc recorder. You can guess what he did with that.
In time he got married to another, more tolerant woman, who Peter discovered talked in her sleep. Peter tried keeping a dictaphone next to the bed in order to record his wife's nocturnal ramblings, but for some reason she stopped doing it, so he ended up recording the first winds of the morning instead.
One night in 2001 - ten years on from that first long night of the ill wind - Peter invited some friends round for a party. By now Peter and his wife lived in a different part of the country, and his new friends were unaware of his audio legacy. Peter ended up playing his recordings. His new friends were terribly impressed - and slightly drunk. One of them grabbed the dictaphone, farted into it and, before long, they were all at it. They had to open a window. A few weeks later Peter played these recordings to two young lads, who were barely into their teens. The way their eyes gleamed showed Peter that those young boys were having an epiphany. The looks on their faces as they gazed up in awe will remain with Peter for ever. My work is done, he thought. Today I have passed on the baton to a younger generation.
And time continued to pass.
Despite how it sounds, over the years Peter had in fact achieved more than just record farts. Somehow he ended up doing a bit of audio work with a proper chart-topping 80s band and was even interviewed for a job in a recording studio by the sea. While he didn't get the job, it did spur him on to take his skills more seriously and develop them. The days of recording bottom burps were behind him.
As time passed, technology improved - by now it was possible to make quality digital recordings at home, to mix and manipulate them, all with a computer. Peter had been married for over a decade, and even had a couple of kids, but still dabbled with sounds when time allowed.
And then, one seemingly ordinary day in 2011, somebody pointed out that 20 years had passed since that first notorious recording. That got Peter thinking... about advances in technology... and of the possibilities which those advances offered...
It was late one Wednesday evening, early 2012. Peter's wife was watching drivel on the telly and Peter felt rather uncomfortable following a surfeit of beans at teatime. Suddenly he took a snap decision, grabbed his iPod and nipped up to the bathroom which, acoustically, was the best room in the house. Five minutes later and he had made four short, sharp recordings on his iPod. "Is this death?" he croaked, gasping for air and getting a Doctor Who quote in, even as he threw open the window to get some oxygen.
By 10.30 that evening those four recordings had been transferred to Peter's computer. Peter's wife had since gone to bed, but Peter worked into the night, his face lit only by the glare of the computer screen. He manipulated his new sounds, slowed them down, sped them up, bent them out of shape and mixed them in surround sound...
It was 2.30 in the morning before Peter went to bed. When he awoke the following morning he listened back to what he had recorded the night before. It's good, he thought, interesting enough, but there is more to be done. What if I trim the beginning off some of those sounds so that it is less obvious to the casual listener what those sounds are?
By Thursday evening the work was complete. Peter listened closely and was pleased with his work. This is audio art! he decided. It is art with a capital F! One day, thought Peter, I will sell this work to Charles Saatchi for hundreds of thousands of pounds, and Saatchi will broadcast these sounds in a darkened room in his London Gallery. One day, thought Peter, Damien Hurst will visit that gallery, listen to these sounds and weep at my feet as he realises how his work pales in comparison to this sonic masterpiece.
Peter's wife came in to the room. She heard what Peter was listening to and said, "Have you been recording your farts again?" She tutted and shook her head. "Grow up. The washing up needs doing and I need help putting the girls to bed!"
Or, thought Peter, I could just upload it to my Soundcloud page.
And so he did.
He suggests that you click on the following link and play it loud.
http://soundcloud.com/user4198011/04-one-night-on-the-planet-of
Thursday 8 March 2012
HOPPING MAD
The conclusion to the story begun in 'LIVING A BOY'S ADVENTURE TALE'!
"Tell me, friend - are you John Barrowman?"
The bandaged man suddenly shouted "look!" and pointed at the telly.
Boris and the boring pillock turned to see what he was pointing at. Nothing particularly exciting seemed to be happening, so they returned their attention to the bandaged man - only to find that he was no longer there.
"He's getting away!" cried the boring pillock, leaping out of bed towards the door. He grasped the handle and heaved with all his might, but the door had been locked from the outside. The boring pillock - who suddenly did not seem so boring anymore - hammered on the door in frustration and cursed loudly in Norsk.
Boris looked on in both amazement and confusion.
What is going on? he wondered.
The not-so boring pillock was now back at his bed, fumbling about in his bag and wincing a bit too. Clearly he was still not well enough to be jumping about. A moment later he pulled out a mobile phone and made a call.
"This is Agent P," said the pillock, speaking fluently in the native tongue. "Barrowman is loose. Repeat: Barrowman is loose." Then he slammed the phone down on the bed and half-leaped, half-hobbled back to the door, which he continued to pound on.
"Somebody open this door!" Agent P shouted in frustration. Then he rested his forehead on the door, closed his eyes and muttered, "Barrowman will be halfway to the Hopping Championships by now."
Boris finally found his voice. "What's going on?" he asked.
Agent P turned and looked Boris in the eyes. Then he came to a decision.
"I'm an agent employed by the Norwegian Secret Services," Agent P explained. "I've been following John Barrowman for some time now. We have reason to believe that he wants Norway's greatest secret for himself." And with that he turned to look at the television, on which one of a-ha was grinning away.
Boris frowned. "Norway's greatest secret?" he repeated, confused. "You don't mean... a-ha?"
The agent shook his head. "Look again," he said, pointing at the pop star on the screen. "Look more closely. A-ha first got together in the 1980s..."
"...and yet they've hardly aged a day," Boris realised.
"Exactly," the agent agreed.
A lightbulb appeared above Boris's head. "Norway has the secret of eternal youth!" he declared excitedly.
"No, Norway doesn't...but a-ha do," the agent corrected. "And Barrowman wants it for himself."
"We've got to stop him!" Boris cried, forgetting his aches and pains, leaping from the bed on his one leg and grasping the door handle. "If Barrowman gets the secret of eternal youth, there'll be no stopping him. Ever!"
The agent agreed. "He'll be like Sir Cliff Richard, only much more dangerous."
Just then there was a noise out in the corridor. The door opened and a bemused looking nurse appeared. The agent rose to his feet and made to push past her, but Boris held him back.
"No. Let me," Boris said, looking down at his one leg. "I'll be much faster."
On the podium at the Norwegian Hopping Championships, Lars Larsen of Trollstigen was about to receive his winner's trophy from one of a-ha.
"So, which one of a-ha are you?" Lars whispered conspiratorially, as they shook hands and he took possession of the trophy.
Suddenly there was a commotion in the distance and everybody turned to see what was going on. Something was mincing towards them exceptionally fast. It looked like roadrunner, only a bit gay.
And behind it was something else, also closing fast.
Was that...a one legged man?
The crowd began to part as the two human bullets bore down on them.
The ex-member of a-ha up on the stage suddenly looked very nervous. He had every right to be.
"I'm not really a member of a-ha you know!" he blurted out. Nobody was listening. "I'm just a stand in! Look!" He pulled off a mask to reveal the man underneath - Sir Bruce Forsyth! "The real a-ha are being experimented on in a secret underground bunker..."
But it was too late. Barrowman had leapt up on to the podium and floored him.
And yet, Barrowman had little time to do anything else. Behind him, in the centre of the gathered crowd, in slow motion and with a loud cry of "nooooo....!", Boris Tattersall boinged high into the air on his one leg, landed in front of Lars Larrsen, grabbed the Norwegian Hopping Championships winner's trophy and clobbered Barrowman over the back of the head with it.
Lars Larsen fell back and Sir Bruce gasped as Barrowman's face suddenly took on a fake, rubberlike hue and fell away like the mask that it was. The man who had been disguised as John Barrowman climbed to his feet and turned to face the audience. There was a huge collective gasp as they saw that he was, in fact, Sir Cliff Richard!
Norwegian authorities leapt up on to the stage, grabbed Sir Cliff and began to drag him away. "Give us a twirl," said Brucey, dusting himself down.
"I would have gotten away with it," Sir Cliff shouted defiantly, "if it hadn't been for you pesky, meddling, one-legged nobodies!"
"Oh, wasn't that a shame..." Sir Bruce waved with more than a hint of sarcasm as Sir Cliff was bundled into a waiting car. "Nice to see you, to see you..."
Elsewhere on the stage, Boris offered the winner's trophy back to Lars Larsen.
"No, friend," said Lars, refusing to take the trophy. "You keep it. You deserve it." He pointed at the trophy. "Besides which, it's bent."
Boris shrugged, turned to face the crowd and lifted the bent trophy. Everybody cheered.
Sir Bruce put his arm around Boris's shoulder and hollered, "Didn't he do well?"
The Norwegians had no idea what he was on about but cheered again anyway.
A few minutes later, Boris hopped off the podium to find Agent P standing beside a taxi and holding the door open for him. Boris climbed in and Agent P joined him on the back seat.
"Well done," said Agent P, with genuine gratitude. "You've averted a terrible disaster."
Boris shrugged. "You realise the real John Barrowman is still out there somewhere?"
Agent P nodded. "Yes, he is. But so is Sir Bruce Forsyth. And he has a vested interest in protecting the secret which Barrowman so desperately wants."
"A vested interest...?" Boris waited for Agent P to elaborate, but he did not.
Agent P smiled, then changed the subject. "So. After all this excitement, I bet you're quite hungry. Shall we get a bite to eat?"
Boris grinned. "Oh - now you're talking! As a cockney might say, I'm Hank Marvin!" he said, laughing.
Agent P laughed too.
In the front of the taxi, the driver pulled his cap a bit lower.
"Driver, take us to an expensive restaurant!" Agent P declared.
The driver was in the shadows.
"As you wish sir," he said.
He really was Hank Marvin.
"Tell me, friend - are you John Barrowman?"
The bandaged man suddenly shouted "look!" and pointed at the telly.
Boris and the boring pillock turned to see what he was pointing at. Nothing particularly exciting seemed to be happening, so they returned their attention to the bandaged man - only to find that he was no longer there.
"He's getting away!" cried the boring pillock, leaping out of bed towards the door. He grasped the handle and heaved with all his might, but the door had been locked from the outside. The boring pillock - who suddenly did not seem so boring anymore - hammered on the door in frustration and cursed loudly in Norsk.
Boris looked on in both amazement and confusion.
What is going on? he wondered.
The not-so boring pillock was now back at his bed, fumbling about in his bag and wincing a bit too. Clearly he was still not well enough to be jumping about. A moment later he pulled out a mobile phone and made a call.
"This is Agent P," said the pillock, speaking fluently in the native tongue. "Barrowman is loose. Repeat: Barrowman is loose." Then he slammed the phone down on the bed and half-leaped, half-hobbled back to the door, which he continued to pound on.
"Somebody open this door!" Agent P shouted in frustration. Then he rested his forehead on the door, closed his eyes and muttered, "Barrowman will be halfway to the Hopping Championships by now."
Boris finally found his voice. "What's going on?" he asked.
Agent P turned and looked Boris in the eyes. Then he came to a decision.
"I'm an agent employed by the Norwegian Secret Services," Agent P explained. "I've been following John Barrowman for some time now. We have reason to believe that he wants Norway's greatest secret for himself." And with that he turned to look at the television, on which one of a-ha was grinning away.
Boris frowned. "Norway's greatest secret?" he repeated, confused. "You don't mean... a-ha?"
The agent shook his head. "Look again," he said, pointing at the pop star on the screen. "Look more closely. A-ha first got together in the 1980s..."
"...and yet they've hardly aged a day," Boris realised.
"Exactly," the agent agreed.
A lightbulb appeared above Boris's head. "Norway has the secret of eternal youth!" he declared excitedly.
"No, Norway doesn't...but a-ha do," the agent corrected. "And Barrowman wants it for himself."
"We've got to stop him!" Boris cried, forgetting his aches and pains, leaping from the bed on his one leg and grasping the door handle. "If Barrowman gets the secret of eternal youth, there'll be no stopping him. Ever!"
The agent agreed. "He'll be like Sir Cliff Richard, only much more dangerous."
Just then there was a noise out in the corridor. The door opened and a bemused looking nurse appeared. The agent rose to his feet and made to push past her, but Boris held him back.
"No. Let me," Boris said, looking down at his one leg. "I'll be much faster."
On the podium at the Norwegian Hopping Championships, Lars Larsen of Trollstigen was about to receive his winner's trophy from one of a-ha.
"So, which one of a-ha are you?" Lars whispered conspiratorially, as they shook hands and he took possession of the trophy.
Suddenly there was a commotion in the distance and everybody turned to see what was going on. Something was mincing towards them exceptionally fast. It looked like roadrunner, only a bit gay.
And behind it was something else, also closing fast.
Was that...a one legged man?
The crowd began to part as the two human bullets bore down on them.
The ex-member of a-ha up on the stage suddenly looked very nervous. He had every right to be.
"I'm not really a member of a-ha you know!" he blurted out. Nobody was listening. "I'm just a stand in! Look!" He pulled off a mask to reveal the man underneath - Sir Bruce Forsyth! "The real a-ha are being experimented on in a secret underground bunker..."
But it was too late. Barrowman had leapt up on to the podium and floored him.
And yet, Barrowman had little time to do anything else. Behind him, in the centre of the gathered crowd, in slow motion and with a loud cry of "nooooo....!", Boris Tattersall boinged high into the air on his one leg, landed in front of Lars Larrsen, grabbed the Norwegian Hopping Championships winner's trophy and clobbered Barrowman over the back of the head with it.
Lars Larsen fell back and Sir Bruce gasped as Barrowman's face suddenly took on a fake, rubberlike hue and fell away like the mask that it was. The man who had been disguised as John Barrowman climbed to his feet and turned to face the audience. There was a huge collective gasp as they saw that he was, in fact, Sir Cliff Richard!
Norwegian authorities leapt up on to the stage, grabbed Sir Cliff and began to drag him away. "Give us a twirl," said Brucey, dusting himself down.
"I would have gotten away with it," Sir Cliff shouted defiantly, "if it hadn't been for you pesky, meddling, one-legged nobodies!"
"Oh, wasn't that a shame..." Sir Bruce waved with more than a hint of sarcasm as Sir Cliff was bundled into a waiting car. "Nice to see you, to see you..."
Elsewhere on the stage, Boris offered the winner's trophy back to Lars Larsen.
"No, friend," said Lars, refusing to take the trophy. "You keep it. You deserve it." He pointed at the trophy. "Besides which, it's bent."
Boris shrugged, turned to face the crowd and lifted the bent trophy. Everybody cheered.
Sir Bruce put his arm around Boris's shoulder and hollered, "Didn't he do well?"
The Norwegians had no idea what he was on about but cheered again anyway.
A few minutes later, Boris hopped off the podium to find Agent P standing beside a taxi and holding the door open for him. Boris climbed in and Agent P joined him on the back seat.
"Well done," said Agent P, with genuine gratitude. "You've averted a terrible disaster."
Boris shrugged. "You realise the real John Barrowman is still out there somewhere?"
Agent P nodded. "Yes, he is. But so is Sir Bruce Forsyth. And he has a vested interest in protecting the secret which Barrowman so desperately wants."
"A vested interest...?" Boris waited for Agent P to elaborate, but he did not.
Agent P smiled, then changed the subject. "So. After all this excitement, I bet you're quite hungry. Shall we get a bite to eat?"
Boris grinned. "Oh - now you're talking! As a cockney might say, I'm Hank Marvin!" he said, laughing.
Agent P laughed too.
In the front of the taxi, the driver pulled his cap a bit lower.
"Driver, take us to an expensive restaurant!" Agent P declared.
The driver was in the shadows.
"As you wish sir," he said.
He really was Hank Marvin.
Monday 5 March 2012
LIVING A BOY'S ADVENTURE TALE
Even as a child, Boris Tattersall had always dreamed of competing in the Norwegian Hopping Championships. But Boris had been born in the UK, which meant that his involvement should not have been possible.
Most people would have been deterred, but not Boris. He spent years working out a way to get involved and even more putting his plan into action.
The first thing Boris did was enrol in language classes. It took five years, but Boris stuck with the classes until he could speak Norsk fluently. Next, he bought the Rough Guide to Norway, a book about Fjords, a traditional Norwegian costume and all the albums by Norwegian pop group a-ha - including solo work by Morten and Magne, the various releases by Pal's "other band" Savoy, and the seminal a-ha live 'Homecoming' DVD. Then he renewed his passport, moved to Norway, finally got a job, lived there for a decade and successfully applied for citizenship after marrying a local girl called Linnea who he had courted for five years. Finally, there was only one thing left to do: so Boris chopped one of his legs off.
Two days before the championships, a very happy Boris Tattersall hopped on board a plane bound for Norway, having spent a few days back in Blighty visiting his mum. Not even the fact that he had to sit next to a boring overweight poetry-writing pillock from the Cotswolds could dampen his spirits.
"Would you like to hear some of my poetry?" asked the pillock, out of the blue.
Boris shrugged. "Why not?" he said.
The fat pillock cleared his throat theatrically, then recited his ode, a poem entitled 'The Blackbird'.
"What was it thinking about
Staring down the chimney pot
The blackbird
Framed by sloping roofs
Wires and aerials
A breeze getting up
Pink and pastel evening sky
The noise of the locals
At their barbecue below
And the blackbird
Nothing more than a silhouette to me."
"Very good," said Boris politely, when the recital was over. Even that strange outburst had not dampened his spirits.
There was an awkward silence.
"So, why are you going to Norway?" the boring fat pillock asked eventually, in his spectacularly monotone voice.
"I live there," Boris stated, with a grin. "But more importantly," he added excitedly, shifting in his seat and indicating his one remaining leg, "I'm going back to take part in the Norwegian Hopping Championships!"
The boring pillock pulled a face. "Oh." He did not appear to be very impressed, but to be fair, he had the sort of demeanour that suggested that nothing would ever impress him.
"I'm going to stalk Morten Harket," the pillock said after a while. "As you probably know, a-ha decided to call it a day back in 2010. But I'm going to read Morten my poetry in order to inspire them to get back together."
Boris was impressed - this bloke really was boring. "Well, good luck with that," Boris said politely, before donning a pair of headphones and taking a look at the in-flight entertainment provided by the airline. A music video was playing. It was 'Take On Me' by a-ha.
Up in the plane's cockpit, the Norwegian co-pilot was at a loose end and reading a glossy magazine.
The English pilot was at the controls. He had been flying the plane solo, but was satisfied that everything was as it should be, so he glanced over to his co-pilot and tried to engage him in conversation.
"What are you reading?" the English pilot asked of the Norwegian.
The co-pilot looked up. "An interview with Morten Harket."
The English pilot squinted over at the magazine, and saw a full page photo of a man standing next to a swimming pool.
"Really?" The English pilot was surprised. "That looks like John Barrowman."
The Norwegian co-pilot, a burly fellow, wasted no time getting to his feet and rolling up his shirt sleeves. "Are you calling Morten a puff?" he asked aggressively, and punched the pilot square in the face.
Two minutes later, the aeroplane crashed into the sea.
Boris Tattersall did not make it to the Norwegian Hopping Championships. In fact, he was languishing in one of Norway's fine hospitals when the championships took place. On the plus side, the whole thing was broadcast on the telly.
Three days into his hospital stay and Boris stared enviously at the TV as Lars Larsen, a one-legged native of Trollstigen, was handed the winner's trophy by somebody who used to be a member of a-ha.
Boris was confused. He could not work out which ex-member of a-ha it was who was on the telly. Boris thought about asking the patient in the bed opposite, but realised that the patient had been paying the television no heed and had, in fact, been busy scribbling in a notebook for quite a while.
"Would you like to hear my latest poem?" asked the fat boring patient eventually, looking up from his notebook for the first time in an hour.
Boris sighed. He was wondering how to turn the poet down politely when the ward's third patient, a man whose face was entirely wrapped in bandages, urged the boring fat patient to read his ode.
The bandaged patient had not spoken much over the past few days, but each time he had, something about his voice had seemed awfully familiar to Boris. It had a distinctly American lilt to it.
"Hang on a moment," said Boris. He turned to look at the mystery man, convinced that he had finally worked out who lay there behind those bandages. Boris lifted a finger, pointed it at the man and asked, "Tell me, friend - are you John Barrowman?"
Most people would have been deterred, but not Boris. He spent years working out a way to get involved and even more putting his plan into action.
The first thing Boris did was enrol in language classes. It took five years, but Boris stuck with the classes until he could speak Norsk fluently. Next, he bought the Rough Guide to Norway, a book about Fjords, a traditional Norwegian costume and all the albums by Norwegian pop group a-ha - including solo work by Morten and Magne, the various releases by Pal's "other band" Savoy, and the seminal a-ha live 'Homecoming' DVD. Then he renewed his passport, moved to Norway, finally got a job, lived there for a decade and successfully applied for citizenship after marrying a local girl called Linnea who he had courted for five years. Finally, there was only one thing left to do: so Boris chopped one of his legs off.
Two days before the championships, a very happy Boris Tattersall hopped on board a plane bound for Norway, having spent a few days back in Blighty visiting his mum. Not even the fact that he had to sit next to a boring overweight poetry-writing pillock from the Cotswolds could dampen his spirits.
"Would you like to hear some of my poetry?" asked the pillock, out of the blue.
Boris shrugged. "Why not?" he said.
The fat pillock cleared his throat theatrically, then recited his ode, a poem entitled 'The Blackbird'.
"What was it thinking about
Staring down the chimney pot
The blackbird
Framed by sloping roofs
Wires and aerials
A breeze getting up
Pink and pastel evening sky
The noise of the locals
At their barbecue below
And the blackbird
Nothing more than a silhouette to me."
"Very good," said Boris politely, when the recital was over. Even that strange outburst had not dampened his spirits.
There was an awkward silence.
"So, why are you going to Norway?" the boring fat pillock asked eventually, in his spectacularly monotone voice.
"I live there," Boris stated, with a grin. "But more importantly," he added excitedly, shifting in his seat and indicating his one remaining leg, "I'm going back to take part in the Norwegian Hopping Championships!"
The boring pillock pulled a face. "Oh." He did not appear to be very impressed, but to be fair, he had the sort of demeanour that suggested that nothing would ever impress him.
"I'm going to stalk Morten Harket," the pillock said after a while. "As you probably know, a-ha decided to call it a day back in 2010. But I'm going to read Morten my poetry in order to inspire them to get back together."
Boris was impressed - this bloke really was boring. "Well, good luck with that," Boris said politely, before donning a pair of headphones and taking a look at the in-flight entertainment provided by the airline. A music video was playing. It was 'Take On Me' by a-ha.
Up in the plane's cockpit, the Norwegian co-pilot was at a loose end and reading a glossy magazine.
The English pilot was at the controls. He had been flying the plane solo, but was satisfied that everything was as it should be, so he glanced over to his co-pilot and tried to engage him in conversation.
"What are you reading?" the English pilot asked of the Norwegian.
The co-pilot looked up. "An interview with Morten Harket."
The English pilot squinted over at the magazine, and saw a full page photo of a man standing next to a swimming pool.
"Really?" The English pilot was surprised. "That looks like John Barrowman."
The Norwegian co-pilot, a burly fellow, wasted no time getting to his feet and rolling up his shirt sleeves. "Are you calling Morten a puff?" he asked aggressively, and punched the pilot square in the face.
Two minutes later, the aeroplane crashed into the sea.
Boris Tattersall did not make it to the Norwegian Hopping Championships. In fact, he was languishing in one of Norway's fine hospitals when the championships took place. On the plus side, the whole thing was broadcast on the telly.
Three days into his hospital stay and Boris stared enviously at the TV as Lars Larsen, a one-legged native of Trollstigen, was handed the winner's trophy by somebody who used to be a member of a-ha.
Boris was confused. He could not work out which ex-member of a-ha it was who was on the telly. Boris thought about asking the patient in the bed opposite, but realised that the patient had been paying the television no heed and had, in fact, been busy scribbling in a notebook for quite a while.
"Would you like to hear my latest poem?" asked the fat boring patient eventually, looking up from his notebook for the first time in an hour.
Boris sighed. He was wondering how to turn the poet down politely when the ward's third patient, a man whose face was entirely wrapped in bandages, urged the boring fat patient to read his ode.
The bandaged patient had not spoken much over the past few days, but each time he had, something about his voice had seemed awfully familiar to Boris. It had a distinctly American lilt to it.
"Hang on a moment," said Boris. He turned to look at the mystery man, convinced that he had finally worked out who lay there behind those bandages. Boris lifted a finger, pointed it at the man and asked, "Tell me, friend - are you John Barrowman?"
Saturday 25 February 2012
BEHIND THE MASK
Traditionally, it was a Plague Doctor's role to assess and treat victims of the plague. It was a thankless task - and a dangerous one - but at least each Plague Doctor was provided with an outfit which afforded some protection.
The costume would usually consist of a thick overcoat - sometimes waxed - or perhaps a cowl, like something a monk would wear, only made of a thicker fabric. A Plague Doctor would also wear a mask, which inevitably made him look rather fearsome, but the mask was shaped like a beak with good reason: the nose cone was stuffed full of scented materials - rose petals, cloves, camphor, amber and more - which would ward off infection. At least, that was the idea.
On this particular Saturday, this particular Plague Doctor had been summoned and so, without ado, he prepared to go out.
First he donned his cowl, which was long and black and covered his entire body. Next he picked up his mask - the most striking part of his costume - and pulled it down over his face until all that could be seen of him was his eyes, staring through those two round sockets.
With the mask securely in place, the Plague Doctor lifted the cowl's hood so that it covered those parts of his head not already protected by the mask. He glanced at himself in the mirror - it was like looking at some perverse human approximation of a giant crow! He shuddered, then made for the door, picking up a pair of gloves and his leather satchel on the way out.
Twenty minutes later and the Plague Doctor reached the town square. He crossed it without hesitation and then made to enter the shopping precinct, only to find his way barred by a burly security guard.
"Sorry pal, you can't come in here dressed like that," the guard informed him.
"What?" the Plague Doctor responded.
"You'll have to take that hood off if you want to come in here," the guard explained and indicated a sign which was displayed on the wall next to the entrance. The Plague Doctor squinted through the mask's eye sockets until he could read what the sign said:
NO HOODED TOPS TO BE WORN IN THE PRECINCT.
"That is so unfair!" the Plague Doctor declared rather grumpily, before stomping off back across the square.
Finding a wall to sit on, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a mobile phone. He dialed a number, waited, then began to speak when his friend answered.
"Benny?" said the Plague Doctor. "Yeah, alright mate, it's Stewie. I'm not allowed into the precinct. What? No. Some fascist on the door says no hoodies. Meet you in McDonalds instead? Yeah. Cheers mate. See you in ten."
Moral of the story? Don't wear your cowl if you're going shopping.
Saturday 18 February 2012
LONG LIVE THE KING!
The government was in crisis. With a very solemn look on his face, the Prime Minister glanced around at his cabinet.
"Good morning everybody," he began, unusually quietly. "Welcome to this emergency cabinet meeting."
The Prime Minister lowered his head respectfully before continuing.
"As you will no doubt be aware, the Royal Family have all been wiped out." He paused, lifting his head to meet the gaze of each person gathered around the table. "We are assembled now to decide how we appoint a successor to the throne. Does anybody have any ideas?"
The leader of the Liberal Democrats began to open his mouth, but Cyril Burgess MP twatted him over the head with a briefcase, knocking him out.
"Thank you Cyril," said the Prime Minister. Then to the room in general, "Ideas, anybody?"
The cabinet debated for several hours. They made no progress whatsoever - at least, not until the Right Honourable Sir Charles Frottom-Twaddlebush MP made a suggestion.
"There's an old English legend," Frottom-Twaddlebush told the cabinet. "It concerns the village of Long Compton, in South Warwickshire. Some centuries ago, Long Compton was held to be the very centre of England. The legend states that whoever climbs the hill above the village - where the Rollright Stones stand - and gazes down upon the village, that person shall become the King of England."
The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. "Sounds simple enough," he said, drumming his fingers on the table. Then he leaned forward again, having come to a decision. "That is our solution, then."
The Prime Minister turned to stare directly at the Minister For Buggering Up Public Services And Turning The UK Into A Third World Country. "Derek. Mate. Pal. You don't seem to have much to do at the moment. Pop up to this Compton place, wait for somebody to climb the hill and appoint a new monarch, without delay. Off you pop."
Some three hours later, Derek Branston-Chutney MP sat on a camping chair next to the Rollright Stones, waiting for somebody to turn up. He was just polishing off his fourth herring sandwich when a walker appeared and came straight towards him.
"I claim the throne!" the walker announced loudly, as he approached the MP.
Clearly word has got out! Derek Branston-Chutney MP thought to himself, as he hurriedly and rather awkwardly got to his feet, knocking over his flask. He gulped down the last of his sandwich and asked, "Your name, sir?"
"Neville Higginbottom," replied the walker, Neville Higginbottom.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP sucked in three of his chins, straightened himself up and then, in his poshest voice, declared, "Neville Higginbottom, it is my pleasure to pronounce you...King of England!"
The new King of England grinned. He was about to say something of great import, when one Gordon Flatwick of East Hagbourne emerged from behind a tree, brained the King with a brick and killed him.
"I am King of England!" declared Gordon.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP shrugged. He was used to seeing people being bumped off - what with being in charge of public services - and he did not bat an eyelid. "I suppose you are," he agreed. He smiled. "And your name is...?"
"Gordon Flatwick," declared Gordon Flatwick.
"Your highness, henceforth you shall be known as...King Gordon of England!" the MP pronounced, before noticing a group of very determined walkers coming up the hill. He could see that at least one of them carried a shotgun, and it was only a matter of moments before that man blew King Gordon's head off with his gun and claimed the throne for himself.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP bowed to the third person to have become King of England within two minutes. "Your highness!" he said. Then he noticed the camera around the King's neck, the golfing trousers which adorned the royal legs and similar attire modelled by the King's companions. "Ah, your highness," said the MP, "if I may be so bold - are you an American?"
The King grinned like a loon. "Yes sur-ee!" he replied, gleefully.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP pulled out a pistol and shot them all. "We're having none of that," he muttered to himself.
He turned and spotted at least two dozen more walkers coming up the hill. Most of them looked fairly normal, if a tad zealous in the way they climbed the hill, although one carried an axe, another was ginger and at least one other was clearly German.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP checked his pistol and weighed it in his hand as he thought about his options.
In no time at all, the first of the walkers had reached the top of the hill.
"Alright?" shouted the walker, thumbs aloft, in a broad Brummie accent.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP sighed. "It's going to be a long day," he observed quietly, as he reloaded his pistol.
AN EXCERPT FROM THE ROYAL LINEAGE, SHOWING THE NAMES OF THOSE WHO SAT ON THE THRONE FOR THE FIRST HOUR, FOLLOWING 'THE GREAT BRAINWAVE'
Higginbottom, Neville (Neville the First)
Flatwick, Gordon
Bradley-Spazpecker, John J. (Yankie the First, and Last)
Harris, Phillip (Brummie the Only)
Cartwright, Jenny Samantha
Partington, Neville (Neville the Second)
Hucknall, Michael
Koch, Klaus
Postlethwaite, Ernest P.
Booker, Cedric
Elms, Mary Elizabeth
Lloyd, Boyd
Griffiths, Geraint Meredith
Higgins, Kirstie
Edwards, Edwin (Edwin the Short)
Niss, Peter
Samson, John
Chuffington-Crump, Neville (Neville the Third)
Owen, Timothy (Timmy the Great)
Spot
Wright-Corker, Angela
Jones, Terrance 'Teabag' (Teabag the First)
Jones Jnr, Terrance 'Teabag' (Teabag the Second)
Lincoln, Steven
Thelwell, Mark 'Tomptus' (King Tomptus)
Beecham, Leonard
Badger
Dong, Arthur
Smart, Marcus
Mann, Huan
Hemmings, Doris
Santana, Ronald
Wiener, MC "Big Boy"
Dave (King Dave the Illiterate)
Millward, Emma Jane
"Good morning everybody," he began, unusually quietly. "Welcome to this emergency cabinet meeting."
The Prime Minister lowered his head respectfully before continuing.
"As you will no doubt be aware, the Royal Family have all been wiped out." He paused, lifting his head to meet the gaze of each person gathered around the table. "We are assembled now to decide how we appoint a successor to the throne. Does anybody have any ideas?"
The leader of the Liberal Democrats began to open his mouth, but Cyril Burgess MP twatted him over the head with a briefcase, knocking him out.
"Thank you Cyril," said the Prime Minister. Then to the room in general, "Ideas, anybody?"
The cabinet debated for several hours. They made no progress whatsoever - at least, not until the Right Honourable Sir Charles Frottom-Twaddlebush MP made a suggestion.
"There's an old English legend," Frottom-Twaddlebush told the cabinet. "It concerns the village of Long Compton, in South Warwickshire. Some centuries ago, Long Compton was held to be the very centre of England. The legend states that whoever climbs the hill above the village - where the Rollright Stones stand - and gazes down upon the village, that person shall become the King of England."
The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. "Sounds simple enough," he said, drumming his fingers on the table. Then he leaned forward again, having come to a decision. "That is our solution, then."
The Prime Minister turned to stare directly at the Minister For Buggering Up Public Services And Turning The UK Into A Third World Country. "Derek. Mate. Pal. You don't seem to have much to do at the moment. Pop up to this Compton place, wait for somebody to climb the hill and appoint a new monarch, without delay. Off you pop."
Some three hours later, Derek Branston-Chutney MP sat on a camping chair next to the Rollright Stones, waiting for somebody to turn up. He was just polishing off his fourth herring sandwich when a walker appeared and came straight towards him.
"I claim the throne!" the walker announced loudly, as he approached the MP.
Clearly word has got out! Derek Branston-Chutney MP thought to himself, as he hurriedly and rather awkwardly got to his feet, knocking over his flask. He gulped down the last of his sandwich and asked, "Your name, sir?"
"Neville Higginbottom," replied the walker, Neville Higginbottom.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP sucked in three of his chins, straightened himself up and then, in his poshest voice, declared, "Neville Higginbottom, it is my pleasure to pronounce you...King of England!"
The new King of England grinned. He was about to say something of great import, when one Gordon Flatwick of East Hagbourne emerged from behind a tree, brained the King with a brick and killed him.
"I am King of England!" declared Gordon.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP shrugged. He was used to seeing people being bumped off - what with being in charge of public services - and he did not bat an eyelid. "I suppose you are," he agreed. He smiled. "And your name is...?"
"Gordon Flatwick," declared Gordon Flatwick.
"Your highness, henceforth you shall be known as...King Gordon of England!" the MP pronounced, before noticing a group of very determined walkers coming up the hill. He could see that at least one of them carried a shotgun, and it was only a matter of moments before that man blew King Gordon's head off with his gun and claimed the throne for himself.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP bowed to the third person to have become King of England within two minutes. "Your highness!" he said. Then he noticed the camera around the King's neck, the golfing trousers which adorned the royal legs and similar attire modelled by the King's companions. "Ah, your highness," said the MP, "if I may be so bold - are you an American?"
The King grinned like a loon. "Yes sur-ee!" he replied, gleefully.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP pulled out a pistol and shot them all. "We're having none of that," he muttered to himself.
He turned and spotted at least two dozen more walkers coming up the hill. Most of them looked fairly normal, if a tad zealous in the way they climbed the hill, although one carried an axe, another was ginger and at least one other was clearly German.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP checked his pistol and weighed it in his hand as he thought about his options.
In no time at all, the first of the walkers had reached the top of the hill.
"Alright?" shouted the walker, thumbs aloft, in a broad Brummie accent.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP sighed. "It's going to be a long day," he observed quietly, as he reloaded his pistol.
AN EXCERPT FROM THE ROYAL LINEAGE, SHOWING THE NAMES OF THOSE WHO SAT ON THE THRONE FOR THE FIRST HOUR, FOLLOWING 'THE GREAT BRAINWAVE'
Higginbottom, Neville (Neville the First)
Flatwick, Gordon
Bradley-Spazpecker, John J. (Yankie the First, and Last)
Harris, Phillip (Brummie the Only)
Cartwright, Jenny Samantha
Partington, Neville (Neville the Second)
Hucknall, Michael
Koch, Klaus
Postlethwaite, Ernest P.
Booker, Cedric
Elms, Mary Elizabeth
Lloyd, Boyd
Griffiths, Geraint Meredith
Higgins, Kirstie
Edwards, Edwin (Edwin the Short)
Niss, Peter
Samson, John
Chuffington-Crump, Neville (Neville the Third)
Owen, Timothy (Timmy the Great)
Spot
Wright-Corker, Angela
Jones, Terrance 'Teabag' (Teabag the First)
Jones Jnr, Terrance 'Teabag' (Teabag the Second)
Lincoln, Steven
Thelwell, Mark 'Tomptus' (King Tomptus)
Beecham, Leonard
Badger
Dong, Arthur
Smart, Marcus
Mann, Huan
Hemmings, Doris
Santana, Ronald
Wiener, MC "Big Boy"
Dave (King Dave the Illiterate)
Millward, Emma Jane
Tuesday 14 February 2012
YOU. ARE. IT.
As I emerged from the house that morning, it became clear that something was seriously wrong with the world.
I should have guessed when I awoke to static on the radio. Or when I opened the curtains and didn't see, or hear, any traffic. Perhaps the lack of a TV signal should have given me cause to worry.
But no, I'm always a bit slow to wake up properly in the mornings. It takes me ages to notice anything.
Yet, as I emerged from the house, I could hide from the signs no longer. There were at least three dozen people in the street, with torn clothes and palid faces, staggering around like zombies.
I have to admit: it was pretty scary.
What could have happened? Has Mrs Dixon farted? I wondered. Is Steve Lincoln's new album out?
I noticed that one of the shuffling, fetid people in the street had spotted me and begun to stagger in my direction. Was that a zombie? Or perhaps Dave Evans...? I could not work out which - Dave had always looked like that, so it was impossible to tell.
He - or it - mumbled something to me, but I could not make out the words. But I did not like his tone, so I started to back away nervously.
Just then the creature stopped, at least five metres away from me. He began to gesticulate, in a rather agitated fashion. He was clearly pointing up the street, trying to draw my attention to something which I could not see from where I stood on the doorstep.
I had to make a decision: barricade myself in the house, or take a look at what the creature was pointing at. It was so hard to choose, but finally I decided to take the plunge because, for the moment at least, the beast did not appear to be a threat.
I took one step outside, trying to see what the creature was pointing at. No, I still could not see anything. I tried standing on tiptoe. Still, no good. But the creature continued to gesticulate, more urgently now, so cursing myself under my breath, I let curiosity got the better of me and took a few further steps away from the house and into the street.
That was my undoing.
Suddenly, without warning, the creature came alive. It moved like lightning, far too quickly for me to react. The monster lunged towards me and slapped my arm.
"TAG!" cried Dave, for that is who the creature was - I could see that now. "YOU'RE IT!" he hollered in my face, grinning from ear to ear. Then he legged it, before my mind could even register what had happened, and all the other so-called zombies ran off too, laughing and squealing.
I sighed and shook my head, disappointed with myself. I should have realised.
They take the game of 'tag' ever so seriously in our town.
I should have guessed when I awoke to static on the radio. Or when I opened the curtains and didn't see, or hear, any traffic. Perhaps the lack of a TV signal should have given me cause to worry.
But no, I'm always a bit slow to wake up properly in the mornings. It takes me ages to notice anything.
Yet, as I emerged from the house, I could hide from the signs no longer. There were at least three dozen people in the street, with torn clothes and palid faces, staggering around like zombies.
I have to admit: it was pretty scary.
What could have happened? Has Mrs Dixon farted? I wondered. Is Steve Lincoln's new album out?
I noticed that one of the shuffling, fetid people in the street had spotted me and begun to stagger in my direction. Was that a zombie? Or perhaps Dave Evans...? I could not work out which - Dave had always looked like that, so it was impossible to tell.
He - or it - mumbled something to me, but I could not make out the words. But I did not like his tone, so I started to back away nervously.
Just then the creature stopped, at least five metres away from me. He began to gesticulate, in a rather agitated fashion. He was clearly pointing up the street, trying to draw my attention to something which I could not see from where I stood on the doorstep.
I had to make a decision: barricade myself in the house, or take a look at what the creature was pointing at. It was so hard to choose, but finally I decided to take the plunge because, for the moment at least, the beast did not appear to be a threat.
I took one step outside, trying to see what the creature was pointing at. No, I still could not see anything. I tried standing on tiptoe. Still, no good. But the creature continued to gesticulate, more urgently now, so cursing myself under my breath, I let curiosity got the better of me and took a few further steps away from the house and into the street.
That was my undoing.
Suddenly, without warning, the creature came alive. It moved like lightning, far too quickly for me to react. The monster lunged towards me and slapped my arm.
"TAG!" cried Dave, for that is who the creature was - I could see that now. "YOU'RE IT!" he hollered in my face, grinning from ear to ear. Then he legged it, before my mind could even register what had happened, and all the other so-called zombies ran off too, laughing and squealing.
I sighed and shook my head, disappointed with myself. I should have realised.
They take the game of 'tag' ever so seriously in our town.
Sunday 5 February 2012
THE LAST TRAIN
Somewhere between Purgatory and Hell, there lies a town called Redditch. People tend not to talk about the town very much, because - let's face it - if you leave Purgatory and find yourself in Redditch, then you know that the next stop is not going to be a good one.
Fortunately for the little Chinese lady sat half way along the second carriage, the train on which she travelled was heading in the other direction.
As the train pulled out of Purgatory, the Chinese lady, who was known as Bob (long story), breathed a sigh of relief. The ordeal was over - no more having to look through Peter Seago's extensive collection of photographs for her.
Bob glanced around the carriage.
Odd, she thought, as she spied a morris dancer in full costume, sat at the back. Surely he should be heading the other way...?
"Tickets please!" declared the conductor, interrupting Bob's train of thought. (Train! Geddit?) He had just entered the carriage from a doorway at the front.
"Ta love, that's great," said the conductor, after he had punched Bob's ticket. Then he continued down the aisle towards the morris man.
"A day return to Ripley Bottom please," said Morris. Yes, that really was his name.
The ticketmeister just stared at him for a moment.
"You want a return ticket to Purgatory?" he asked, with more than a hint of disbelief.
Morris nodded.
"Pull the other one mate, it's got bells on," said the conductor.
So that is precisely what Morris did, complete with a little dance and much waving of handkerchiefs.
Suddenly the train lurched, slowed, then stopped.
Oh, good grief! thought Bob. They're going to take us back to Purgatory - the photographs! Or on to Redditch and beyond!
Suddenly there was a knock at the train's window. A very persistent knock. Bob tried to ignore it, but it would not go away. Bob began to panic. Her eyes opened wide, and she sat bolt upright.
She was in bed. It had all been a dream.
There was a persistent knock on the bedroom door.
"Come in," she said.
A tall, demented looking man came in carrying a mug of hot tea and a bacon sandwich.
"Breakfast time!" declared Peter Seago, as he set down Bob's breakfast on top of the drawers next to her bed. "Get that down you. Then we can crack on with some more of my photos. I bet I haven't shown you the ones of me on my latest trip to a bothy in Wales..."
Bob picked up the bacon sandwich and stared at it dejectedly.
More photos!
Bob thought for a moment about making a break for it and climbing out of the window. But where could she go? The road outside led only to Redditch. It was either that, or keep looking through Seago's photographs. How many more could there possibly be?
It was going to be a tough choice...
Fortunately for the little Chinese lady sat half way along the second carriage, the train on which she travelled was heading in the other direction.
As the train pulled out of Purgatory, the Chinese lady, who was known as Bob (long story), breathed a sigh of relief. The ordeal was over - no more having to look through Peter Seago's extensive collection of photographs for her.
Bob glanced around the carriage.
Odd, she thought, as she spied a morris dancer in full costume, sat at the back. Surely he should be heading the other way...?
"Tickets please!" declared the conductor, interrupting Bob's train of thought. (Train! Geddit?) He had just entered the carriage from a doorway at the front.
"Ta love, that's great," said the conductor, after he had punched Bob's ticket. Then he continued down the aisle towards the morris man.
"A day return to Ripley Bottom please," said Morris. Yes, that really was his name.
The ticketmeister just stared at him for a moment.
"You want a return ticket to Purgatory?" he asked, with more than a hint of disbelief.
Morris nodded.
"Pull the other one mate, it's got bells on," said the conductor.
So that is precisely what Morris did, complete with a little dance and much waving of handkerchiefs.
Suddenly the train lurched, slowed, then stopped.
Oh, good grief! thought Bob. They're going to take us back to Purgatory - the photographs! Or on to Redditch and beyond!
Suddenly there was a knock at the train's window. A very persistent knock. Bob tried to ignore it, but it would not go away. Bob began to panic. Her eyes opened wide, and she sat bolt upright.
She was in bed. It had all been a dream.
There was a persistent knock on the bedroom door.
"Come in," she said.
A tall, demented looking man came in carrying a mug of hot tea and a bacon sandwich.
"Breakfast time!" declared Peter Seago, as he set down Bob's breakfast on top of the drawers next to her bed. "Get that down you. Then we can crack on with some more of my photos. I bet I haven't shown you the ones of me on my latest trip to a bothy in Wales..."
Bob picked up the bacon sandwich and stared at it dejectedly.
More photos!
Bob thought for a moment about making a break for it and climbing out of the window. But where could she go? The road outside led only to Redditch. It was either that, or keep looking through Seago's photographs. How many more could there possibly be?
It was going to be a tough choice...
Monday 30 January 2012
PERFECT DAY
The old farmhouse at Whatlode basked in the glow of the afternoon sunshine. Despite it being late January, the rooms on the south side of the house benefited from the sunlight and were particularly warm and inviting.
John Fullerton could think of nowhere that he would rather be that afternoon. After a bracing walk across the moor, he had returned to the farmhouse at noon to find Mrs Crossett serving up one of her home-made stews. John had devoured a plateful, followed by second helpings and then a generous portion of treacle sponge and custard. Young Lucy had paid him a visit shortly afterwards, as she often did on weekdays. They had shared a pot of tea and, after seeing her off, John had reclined contentedly on the sofa, which was perfectly placed to catch the warm sunlight.
John dozed for an hour or so. He finally awoke when Mrs Crossett crept into the room carrying a tray laden with coffee and a plate of biscuits which had come straight from the oven. John stretched. He sighed with pleasure, then treated his housekeeper to the most sincere and heartfelt of smiles.
"Why, thank you very much, Mrs Crossett," he said, as he lay there. With a twinkle in her eye, Mrs Crossett nodded, and left the room forthwith.
John remained inert on the sofa. He was having such a wonderfully relaxing, indulgent sort of day that he was determined to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.
But what John Fullerton did not realise was that Mrs Crossett had not shut the door properly when she left the room. Barty the Irish Setter, who had been lounging around in the hallway, spotted an opportunity and wasted no time slipping through the open door.
The dog sat down on the carpet and carefully looked around the room. There lay his master, stationary on the sofa, horizontal and completely unguarded. Over to the right were his master's slippers. To the left, biscuits. Elsewhere, there was a leather satchel, a vase with flowers in it, a rickety old lamp on an equally rickety side table, and various other articles of interest spread around the room, all ready for the taking.
Barty did a quick calculation in his head. He worked out that, should he be so inclined, he could jump up on to his master's stomach and proceed to lick his face without mercy: from there he could leap across to the old suede armchair, knock over the coffee pot and biscuits en route, jump down, snaffle the biscuits, then sink his teeth into his master's favourite leather satchel before dragging it around the room and emptying its contents: at the same time he could reverse without prejudice into the table with the lamp on it, take out a couple of vases and damage so many other precariously placed knick-knacks that the only thing left to do would be to hump one of his master's slippers.
Fortunately for John Fullerton, Barty was not that sort of dog.
Barty just sat there and panted a bit.
Then he licked his paws.
And then, after about five minutes, Barty grinned in that way that Irish Setters do.
Here it comes, thought the dog, with bated breath.
Then Barty let out a silent but so compellingly noxious fart that, in years to come, commentators would claim that it was even worse than that infamous incident from 1957, the great ill wind of the Old White Poodle of Rotterdam.
A perfect day indeed, thought Barty, as his master arose from the sofa, clutching at his throat and gasping for air with a look of abject horror on his face.
Barty was impressed. He had expected to get a reaction, but not one that good.
He barked. Again, Barty grinned in that way way that only Irish Setters do. Then, for an encore, Barty decided he would hump one of the slippers after all.
John Fullerton could think of nowhere that he would rather be that afternoon. After a bracing walk across the moor, he had returned to the farmhouse at noon to find Mrs Crossett serving up one of her home-made stews. John had devoured a plateful, followed by second helpings and then a generous portion of treacle sponge and custard. Young Lucy had paid him a visit shortly afterwards, as she often did on weekdays. They had shared a pot of tea and, after seeing her off, John had reclined contentedly on the sofa, which was perfectly placed to catch the warm sunlight.
John dozed for an hour or so. He finally awoke when Mrs Crossett crept into the room carrying a tray laden with coffee and a plate of biscuits which had come straight from the oven. John stretched. He sighed with pleasure, then treated his housekeeper to the most sincere and heartfelt of smiles.
"Why, thank you very much, Mrs Crossett," he said, as he lay there. With a twinkle in her eye, Mrs Crossett nodded, and left the room forthwith.
John remained inert on the sofa. He was having such a wonderfully relaxing, indulgent sort of day that he was determined to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.
But what John Fullerton did not realise was that Mrs Crossett had not shut the door properly when she left the room. Barty the Irish Setter, who had been lounging around in the hallway, spotted an opportunity and wasted no time slipping through the open door.
The dog sat down on the carpet and carefully looked around the room. There lay his master, stationary on the sofa, horizontal and completely unguarded. Over to the right were his master's slippers. To the left, biscuits. Elsewhere, there was a leather satchel, a vase with flowers in it, a rickety old lamp on an equally rickety side table, and various other articles of interest spread around the room, all ready for the taking.
Barty did a quick calculation in his head. He worked out that, should he be so inclined, he could jump up on to his master's stomach and proceed to lick his face without mercy: from there he could leap across to the old suede armchair, knock over the coffee pot and biscuits en route, jump down, snaffle the biscuits, then sink his teeth into his master's favourite leather satchel before dragging it around the room and emptying its contents: at the same time he could reverse without prejudice into the table with the lamp on it, take out a couple of vases and damage so many other precariously placed knick-knacks that the only thing left to do would be to hump one of his master's slippers.
Fortunately for John Fullerton, Barty was not that sort of dog.
Barty just sat there and panted a bit.
Then he licked his paws.
And then, after about five minutes, Barty grinned in that way that Irish Setters do.
Here it comes, thought the dog, with bated breath.
Then Barty let out a silent but so compellingly noxious fart that, in years to come, commentators would claim that it was even worse than that infamous incident from 1957, the great ill wind of the Old White Poodle of Rotterdam.
A perfect day indeed, thought Barty, as his master arose from the sofa, clutching at his throat and gasping for air with a look of abject horror on his face.
Barty was impressed. He had expected to get a reaction, but not one that good.
He barked. Again, Barty grinned in that way way that only Irish Setters do. Then, for an encore, Barty decided he would hump one of the slippers after all.
Thursday 26 January 2012
LITTLE MISS TRUMPY
by Roddy Hotgruffs.
Little Miss Trumpy lived in Windy Land. She lived in a little brown house called Windy Cottage, which stood next to a wood. Little Miss Trumpy’s home was very tidy, but nobody ever saw how tidy it was because the cottage was not particularly well ventilated, and of course ventilation is essential when the occupant is somebody like Little Miss Trumpy.
Each morning, Little Miss Trumpy would make herself a cooked breakfast – eggs, bacon, beans, toast – which set her up for the day.
It also set her off for the day, too...
One morning, Little Miss Trumpy ate a little bit too much breakfast, and it was not long before she began to live up to her name. Unfortunately the ventilation problem in Windy Cottage had become so acute that, when Little Miss Trumpy boffed, her poor home could take it no more. There was a loud crash, a lot of smoke and when the smoke finally cleared, Little Miss Trumpy found herself surrounded by rubble.
"Oh, deary dear!" she exclaimed to herself. "Whatever shall I do now? Where am I going to live?"
Little Miss Trumpy decided to ponder her predicament while taking a walk in the woods. So she set off into the trees, and she walked...and walked...and walked...until eventually she emerged from the woods and found herself to be somewhere she had never been before.
Little Miss Trumpy had walked right out of Windy Land!
Can you guess where she was? That's right! She had walked all the way to a land where people like you and I live - she had walked to Blighty!
"Excuse me - where am I?" she asked a portly fellow sat on a bench.
At first the man was very chuffed that Little Miss Trumpy had come over to talk to him, but he soon caught a whiff of her distinctive odour, which was too much for him to bear. He cried the name of the village over his shoulder as he ran away to the pub. Honeysomething.
Little Miss Trumpy was very taken with Honeysomething, so in no time at all she got herself on the housing list and before long she was allocated a new home.
Little Miss Trumpy never returned to Windy Land. These days she resides on one of the main roads into Honeysomething, at number 8.
As for her wind problem, well, the food we eat here in Blighty agrees with her a lot more than the grub she noshed back in Windy Land. That said, if you ever find yourself in the village of Honeysomething, you might want to think twice before knocking on the door of number 8.
Little Miss Trumpy lived in Windy Land. She lived in a little brown house called Windy Cottage, which stood next to a wood. Little Miss Trumpy’s home was very tidy, but nobody ever saw how tidy it was because the cottage was not particularly well ventilated, and of course ventilation is essential when the occupant is somebody like Little Miss Trumpy.
Each morning, Little Miss Trumpy would make herself a cooked breakfast – eggs, bacon, beans, toast – which set her up for the day.
It also set her off for the day, too...
One morning, Little Miss Trumpy ate a little bit too much breakfast, and it was not long before she began to live up to her name. Unfortunately the ventilation problem in Windy Cottage had become so acute that, when Little Miss Trumpy boffed, her poor home could take it no more. There was a loud crash, a lot of smoke and when the smoke finally cleared, Little Miss Trumpy found herself surrounded by rubble.
"Oh, deary dear!" she exclaimed to herself. "Whatever shall I do now? Where am I going to live?"
Little Miss Trumpy decided to ponder her predicament while taking a walk in the woods. So she set off into the trees, and she walked...and walked...and walked...until eventually she emerged from the woods and found herself to be somewhere she had never been before.
Little Miss Trumpy had walked right out of Windy Land!
Can you guess where she was? That's right! She had walked all the way to a land where people like you and I live - she had walked to Blighty!
"Excuse me - where am I?" she asked a portly fellow sat on a bench.
At first the man was very chuffed that Little Miss Trumpy had come over to talk to him, but he soon caught a whiff of her distinctive odour, which was too much for him to bear. He cried the name of the village over his shoulder as he ran away to the pub. Honeysomething.
Little Miss Trumpy was very taken with Honeysomething, so in no time at all she got herself on the housing list and before long she was allocated a new home.
Little Miss Trumpy never returned to Windy Land. These days she resides on one of the main roads into Honeysomething, at number 8.
As for her wind problem, well, the food we eat here in Blighty agrees with her a lot more than the grub she noshed back in Windy Land. That said, if you ever find yourself in the village of Honeysomething, you might want to think twice before knocking on the door of number 8.
Wednesday 25 January 2012
TRUTH
The potato head was out of sorts.
"Why is it, when I'm supposed to be composing music, or reading Nick's novels so I'm ready to edit his new book, that instead I find myself staying up too late and writing this sort of tripe?" he asked.
Neville stopped flossing the penguin for a moment and looked at his friend. "Because you're a nob end?"
Potato head thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I think that must be it."
"Why is it, when I'm supposed to be composing music, or reading Nick's novels so I'm ready to edit his new book, that instead I find myself staying up too late and writing this sort of tripe?" he asked.
Neville stopped flossing the penguin for a moment and looked at his friend. "Because you're a nob end?"
Potato head thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I think that must be it."
Tuesday 24 January 2012
THE GIMLET TRIUMPHS AGAIN
The ageing nibbler was always amazed by the reasons his gimlet came up with for not brushing her spanglers.
Most days he was lucky to manage three passes before she came out with one of her excuses, like "look - a potato bus!" or "flush me, The Acts of Man sounds just like Camel!"
She was amazingly fluent for a gimlet only twice round the glowers. But even Old Grumby was unprepared for what she would put forth this day.
"I need to spenge my wickets, so I don't get jockwort in the thrubbards!" she declared.
Old Grumby was so aghast that he dropped his spangle twanger, and before he had time to recover, the gimlet rolled her puddings and started merrily bouncing on the third mattress.
"Flaming telepaths!" gasped Old Grumby. "Where in the name of Peter Seago's powdered spotlings did you pick up a phrase like that?"
The gimlet grinned like Benjamin Francis Leftwich on a picnic in a pet shop and pointed beyond the racks of the balanced flange-partridge at the twisted whistles.
Suddenly all became clear. Like a queefmeister on the eve of Burns Night - when all but the least flatulent of men take up their matches and light their own fogals - she had been bothering those stumps of quenge.
"Ah." The aging nibbler rolled his Steves up and reached for the superglue.
Even in the shadow of the hills of Mardley, there was no fooling Old Grumby.
And yet, once again, the gimlet had escaped a brushing. For the lights had passed over the final bending, with little but a cold gusting and slippy paths on which to greet the rustling.
Grumby sighed, glued the gimlet to the chimney and bid her good night.
There was always tomorrow.
Most days he was lucky to manage three passes before she came out with one of her excuses, like "look - a potato bus!" or "flush me, The Acts of Man sounds just like Camel!"
She was amazingly fluent for a gimlet only twice round the glowers. But even Old Grumby was unprepared for what she would put forth this day.
"I need to spenge my wickets, so I don't get jockwort in the thrubbards!" she declared.
Old Grumby was so aghast that he dropped his spangle twanger, and before he had time to recover, the gimlet rolled her puddings and started merrily bouncing on the third mattress.
"Flaming telepaths!" gasped Old Grumby. "Where in the name of Peter Seago's powdered spotlings did you pick up a phrase like that?"
The gimlet grinned like Benjamin Francis Leftwich on a picnic in a pet shop and pointed beyond the racks of the balanced flange-partridge at the twisted whistles.
Suddenly all became clear. Like a queefmeister on the eve of Burns Night - when all but the least flatulent of men take up their matches and light their own fogals - she had been bothering those stumps of quenge.
"Ah." The aging nibbler rolled his Steves up and reached for the superglue.
Even in the shadow of the hills of Mardley, there was no fooling Old Grumby.
And yet, once again, the gimlet had escaped a brushing. For the lights had passed over the final bending, with little but a cold gusting and slippy paths on which to greet the rustling.
Grumby sighed, glued the gimlet to the chimney and bid her good night.
There was always tomorrow.
Sunday 22 January 2012
THE SCATMAN
There was a grubby, smelly brick building in WC12 and it was there that Walter witnessed a miracle.
It was the day that Walter met Gerald.
Walter was searching for the right words to say. Eventually he found them.
"Why do you live in this toilet?" he asked, almost coyly.
Gerald sighed. "Because I'm a poo," he pointed out, patiently.
Walter thought about this for a moment, then conceded that it was a fair point. Gerald was, indeed, a poo.
Now, this might sound a little bit far fetched. But bear in mind that, what most of us might think of as ridiculous, Walter took in his stride. For Walter was a lavatory attendant by trade, and lavatory attendants witness things almost every day of the week which most of us simply would not believe unless we saw them with our own eyes.
Be that as it may, what happened next surprised even Walter.
For moments later, before Walter's very eyes, Gerald the poo metamorphosised into a handsome prince.
"Er...what just happened?" asked Walter, his mind reeling. He really did pinch himself to make sure this was not a dream.
"Got you there, didn't I!" The prince looked exceptionally pleased with himself as he clambered out of the toilet in trap three. He straightened his clothes, smiled at Walter, then leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially, "It's a little known fact outside poo circles, but to the seventh stool born in every seventh generation do the elements bequeath special powers. The seventh dung of a seventh dung can use those powers to take whatever form he chooses." Gerald winked at Walter as he pushed past him. "And I am that seventh stool."
Walter checked that the window was open, and that he had not just been using too much cleaning fluid in a badly ventilated room again. Amazingly, he had not.
He turned to look at the prince, who was busy washing his hands.
Talking to a poo is one thing, but a poo that can turn into a handsome prince? That really is utterly preposterous. Isn't it? Walter could not deny the evidence before his eyes...
"So...you're a bit like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly?" Walter asked conversationally, leaning on his mop.
"Only much rarer!" Gerald responded, admiring himself in a mirror.
"Fantastic," declared Walter, to himself more than to the prince. He took a step closer to Gerald, wanting to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him. Then he caught a whiff of something nasty and pulled a face. "Ew! If only you could do something about that stench, you could pass for a real prince!"
"What do you mean, 'could'?" said Gerald, turning to face Walter. "I tell you now, I am a real prince and tonight I shall dine with the queen of the rabbits!"
Walter's eyes widened in amazement. "There's a queen of the rabbits?" He was struggling to take this all in.
"Well, of course there is," replied the prince. "Where have you been hiding, Walter?"
Walter shrugged. "I clean toilets," he mumbled and took a step towards cubicle three, the one from which Gerald had emerged.
"Indeed. Well, much as I'd like to stay and chat a bit longer, there are things I must do," said Gerald airily. "Time waits for no man," he added, as he began to head towards the door. But as he did so, he glanced back, only to see Walter disappear into trap three...
Gerald realised in an instant what Walter was about to do - flush the toilet in which he had been birthed!
"NO!" yelled Gerald, throwing himself with all his might in Walter's direction.
But it was too late.
Walter flushed the toilet.
And as Walter flushed the toilet, Gerald's life was flushed away.
One moment Gerald was there, throwing himself across the room, the next moment the only evidence that he had ever existed was a suspicious looking pool of liquid on the floor.
"What have I done?" Walter tried to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes as he stood there on the threshold of trap three, staring at all that was left of the handsome prince. He stood there, unmoving, for a long, long time.
Only minutes before, Walter had witnessed a miracle. But already he had undone it. Foolishly, without thinking, in the blink of an eye.
Walter felt a great sense of confusion and of loss. The world seemed distant that morning. The public convenience in WC12 remained unusually silent, except of course for when David Robinson came in and spent ten noisy minutes relieving himself in trap one, in that way that David Robinson does.
It seemed like a long time before Walter began to connect once more with the world around him. In truth, it was but moments after Robinson exited the building and the after effects had pummelled the lavatory attendant's senses until he could remain still no longer. Walter blinked, picked up his bucket and mop and slowly, laboriously, began to clean. Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to clean up that puddle in the middle of the floor - that would seem wrong, somehow.
So, if you ever find yourself caught short when you're out and about, and you visit a public convenience where there's a dejected looking attendant who says "mind the puddle, mate", you might just want to do what he says.
And if you venture into a cubicle where there's a special looking floater, it might be prudent not to flush. Just back out slowly and use trap 2 instead.*
*if you choose to use trap 1, then be it on your own head - I'm not going to condone the use of any toilet where Robinson has left his mark.
It was the day that Walter met Gerald.
Walter was searching for the right words to say. Eventually he found them.
"Why do you live in this toilet?" he asked, almost coyly.
Gerald sighed. "Because I'm a poo," he pointed out, patiently.
Walter thought about this for a moment, then conceded that it was a fair point. Gerald was, indeed, a poo.
Now, this might sound a little bit far fetched. But bear in mind that, what most of us might think of as ridiculous, Walter took in his stride. For Walter was a lavatory attendant by trade, and lavatory attendants witness things almost every day of the week which most of us simply would not believe unless we saw them with our own eyes.
Be that as it may, what happened next surprised even Walter.
For moments later, before Walter's very eyes, Gerald the poo metamorphosised into a handsome prince.
"Er...what just happened?" asked Walter, his mind reeling. He really did pinch himself to make sure this was not a dream.
"Got you there, didn't I!" The prince looked exceptionally pleased with himself as he clambered out of the toilet in trap three. He straightened his clothes, smiled at Walter, then leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially, "It's a little known fact outside poo circles, but to the seventh stool born in every seventh generation do the elements bequeath special powers. The seventh dung of a seventh dung can use those powers to take whatever form he chooses." Gerald winked at Walter as he pushed past him. "And I am that seventh stool."
Walter checked that the window was open, and that he had not just been using too much cleaning fluid in a badly ventilated room again. Amazingly, he had not.
He turned to look at the prince, who was busy washing his hands.
Talking to a poo is one thing, but a poo that can turn into a handsome prince? That really is utterly preposterous. Isn't it? Walter could not deny the evidence before his eyes...
"So...you're a bit like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly?" Walter asked conversationally, leaning on his mop.
"Only much rarer!" Gerald responded, admiring himself in a mirror.
"Fantastic," declared Walter, to himself more than to the prince. He took a step closer to Gerald, wanting to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him. Then he caught a whiff of something nasty and pulled a face. "Ew! If only you could do something about that stench, you could pass for a real prince!"
"What do you mean, 'could'?" said Gerald, turning to face Walter. "I tell you now, I am a real prince and tonight I shall dine with the queen of the rabbits!"
Walter's eyes widened in amazement. "There's a queen of the rabbits?" He was struggling to take this all in.
"Well, of course there is," replied the prince. "Where have you been hiding, Walter?"
Walter shrugged. "I clean toilets," he mumbled and took a step towards cubicle three, the one from which Gerald had emerged.
"Indeed. Well, much as I'd like to stay and chat a bit longer, there are things I must do," said Gerald airily. "Time waits for no man," he added, as he began to head towards the door. But as he did so, he glanced back, only to see Walter disappear into trap three...
Gerald realised in an instant what Walter was about to do - flush the toilet in which he had been birthed!
"NO!" yelled Gerald, throwing himself with all his might in Walter's direction.
But it was too late.
Walter flushed the toilet.
And as Walter flushed the toilet, Gerald's life was flushed away.
One moment Gerald was there, throwing himself across the room, the next moment the only evidence that he had ever existed was a suspicious looking pool of liquid on the floor.
"What have I done?" Walter tried to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes as he stood there on the threshold of trap three, staring at all that was left of the handsome prince. He stood there, unmoving, for a long, long time.
Only minutes before, Walter had witnessed a miracle. But already he had undone it. Foolishly, without thinking, in the blink of an eye.
Walter felt a great sense of confusion and of loss. The world seemed distant that morning. The public convenience in WC12 remained unusually silent, except of course for when David Robinson came in and spent ten noisy minutes relieving himself in trap one, in that way that David Robinson does.
It seemed like a long time before Walter began to connect once more with the world around him. In truth, it was but moments after Robinson exited the building and the after effects had pummelled the lavatory attendant's senses until he could remain still no longer. Walter blinked, picked up his bucket and mop and slowly, laboriously, began to clean. Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to clean up that puddle in the middle of the floor - that would seem wrong, somehow.
So, if you ever find yourself caught short when you're out and about, and you visit a public convenience where there's a dejected looking attendant who says "mind the puddle, mate", you might just want to do what he says.
And if you venture into a cubicle where there's a special looking floater, it might be prudent not to flush. Just back out slowly and use trap 2 instead.*
*if you choose to use trap 1, then be it on your own head - I'm not going to condone the use of any toilet where Robinson has left his mark.
Saturday 21 January 2012
WIND UP YOUR WILLOWS
Two thousand hairy gorillas
Lined up in rows, holding their pillows
Sucking their thumbs
Picking their bums
- it's enough to put wind up your willows
Lined up in rows, holding their pillows
Sucking their thumbs
Picking their bums
- it's enough to put wind up your willows
Friday 20 January 2012
MEGA OFFLOAD
This webpage is currently offline due to there having been a crackdown by Marjorie Ramsbottom on story sharing websites which footle around with such inflammatory words as froplet, mungethwackers and crussets.
The page author has been temporarily suspended from cracking his nefflers and has been sentenced to at least 20 minutes washing up.
If you wish to vent your anger, you may wish to join the Synonymous campaign and throw your best underpants at John Samsung's facebag page, Steve's Eagleswangs blog or the thrusting trussets of The Big Mint's incomprehensible bothy fixation. Or you could just pop down to the chippy and stroke Alan's whippet.
Normal service will be subsumed as soon as Grimsby
The page author has been temporarily suspended from cracking his nefflers and has been sentenced to at least 20 minutes washing up.
If you wish to vent your anger, you may wish to join the Synonymous campaign and throw your best underpants at John Samsung's facebag page, Steve's Eagleswangs blog or the thrusting trussets of The Big Mint's incomprehensible bothy fixation. Or you could just pop down to the chippy and stroke Alan's whippet.
Normal service will be subsumed as soon as Grimsby
Thursday 19 January 2012
RETURN OF THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY
"I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" thundered the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley, who had just appeared in the dental surgery.
"Really? Would you like to come through?" asked the dental nurse, as she ushered the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley into the consulting room.
Inside, the prophet was greeted by the dentist, who was smiling broadly and proffering his hand. "Hello!" said the dentist. "And you are?"
"I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" roared the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"Welcome, er, prophet." The dentist indicated a large chair in the centre of the room. "Please, do take a seat."
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley looked a little confused, but sat down anyway.
The dentist glanced at the paperwork in his hand, which said nothing more than 'new NHS patient'.
"Pott Shrigley - isn't that somewhere near Wigan?" the dentist asked, making conversation as he handed over the papers to the nurse and grabbed his stool.
"CHESHIRE!" bellowed the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"Oh." The dentist noticed that his assistant, the nurse, looked like she wanted to visit her cousin in Malta rather urgently. Now perched on his stool, he began rolling towards the prophet. "So tell me...why do they call you that?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley looked beside himself. "BECAUSE I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" he squawked.
"I meant the bit about the egg," the dentist muttered, but let it go. More loudly he added, "Now, lie back, relax and let's have a look in your mouth."
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley did not move. He looked shocked and deeply uncomfortable.
The dentist tried again. "Your teeth, sir. Can I take a look?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley jumped up out of the seat and declared, "I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!"
The dentist glanced at his assistant, who now had her back pressed to the door and was trying, as unobtrusively as possible, to locate something in the bottom of her bag.
"So you don't want me to look at your teeth?" The dentist had returned his gaze to the prophet, who was glaring back at him like he was something repugnant dragged up from the pit of hell.
"NO!"
"Then why are you here?" The dentist was confused.
"I AM HERE," the Great Egg Prophet spelt out slowly, as if to an idiot, "BECAUSE I WISH TO COMMENCE RELATIONS WITH YOUR DENTAL NURSE."
Silence fell. The dentist blinked, several times. "Right." He pulled a face, shifted uncomfortably on his stool, then met the prophet's gaze. "Tell me, sir. Presumably you - being a prophet and all - can predict the future?"
"YES!" replied the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley. He was making progress at last.
"And does your gift tell you what my assistant's response is going to be?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley thought for a moment.
"YES!" he suddenly declared, waggling a finger triumphantly in the air. "SHE WILL ATTACK ME FORTHWITH WITH HER PEPPER SPRAY!" he announced, turning as he did so to face the dental nurse, who was bearing down on him with a small aerosol can in her hand.
And once again, The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley had predicted something which turned out to be completely and utterly accurate.
"Really? Would you like to come through?" asked the dental nurse, as she ushered the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley into the consulting room.
Inside, the prophet was greeted by the dentist, who was smiling broadly and proffering his hand. "Hello!" said the dentist. "And you are?"
"I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" roared the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"Welcome, er, prophet." The dentist indicated a large chair in the centre of the room. "Please, do take a seat."
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley looked a little confused, but sat down anyway.
The dentist glanced at the paperwork in his hand, which said nothing more than 'new NHS patient'.
"Pott Shrigley - isn't that somewhere near Wigan?" the dentist asked, making conversation as he handed over the papers to the nurse and grabbed his stool.
"CHESHIRE!" bellowed the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley.
"Oh." The dentist noticed that his assistant, the nurse, looked like she wanted to visit her cousin in Malta rather urgently. Now perched on his stool, he began rolling towards the prophet. "So tell me...why do they call you that?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley looked beside himself. "BECAUSE I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!" he squawked.
"I meant the bit about the egg," the dentist muttered, but let it go. More loudly he added, "Now, lie back, relax and let's have a look in your mouth."
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley did not move. He looked shocked and deeply uncomfortable.
The dentist tried again. "Your teeth, sir. Can I take a look?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley jumped up out of the seat and declared, "I AM THE GREAT EGG PROPHET OF POTT SHRIGLEY!"
The dentist glanced at his assistant, who now had her back pressed to the door and was trying, as unobtrusively as possible, to locate something in the bottom of her bag.
"So you don't want me to look at your teeth?" The dentist had returned his gaze to the prophet, who was glaring back at him like he was something repugnant dragged up from the pit of hell.
"NO!"
"Then why are you here?" The dentist was confused.
"I AM HERE," the Great Egg Prophet spelt out slowly, as if to an idiot, "BECAUSE I WISH TO COMMENCE RELATIONS WITH YOUR DENTAL NURSE."
Silence fell. The dentist blinked, several times. "Right." He pulled a face, shifted uncomfortably on his stool, then met the prophet's gaze. "Tell me, sir. Presumably you - being a prophet and all - can predict the future?"
"YES!" replied the Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley. He was making progress at last.
"And does your gift tell you what my assistant's response is going to be?"
The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley thought for a moment.
"YES!" he suddenly declared, waggling a finger triumphantly in the air. "SHE WILL ATTACK ME FORTHWITH WITH HER PEPPER SPRAY!" he announced, turning as he did so to face the dental nurse, who was bearing down on him with a small aerosol can in her hand.
And once again, The Great Egg Prophet of Pott Shrigley had predicted something which turned out to be completely and utterly accurate.
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