Here Comes Johnson (1)

The scene, as so often before, is Morris’s living room. He is sat nursing a can of lager and looking up at the clock above the mantel. “Only 5 minutes to go. Marvellous!” Johnson nods enthusiastically, then motions to the small table beside Morris’s armchair, “Mwaerk?” “Good point Johnson, don’t want any interruptions, now what do i fancy? Tell you what Johnson, you know those crisps, well not crisps so much as snacks, the ones you used to see at parties, that nobody ever ate, because other than perhaps a slight suggestion of dust and stale vegetable oil, they were essentially tasteless? Bit nobbly, shaped like a cart wheel? I’ll have a bag of them. And you’d best get me a couple more tuborgs while you’re at it. ‘Landa! Are you coming? It’ll be on in a minute!” Yolanda’s voice, sounding irritated, comes from the kitchen, “What’ll be on? Anyway, no, I’m making cupcakes for the orphan’s home coffee morning.” “Indeed, well you can’t say i didn’t warn you, you will be sorry you missed it.” “Miss what? Morris, i’m busy.” “Why, Here Comes Johnson of course.” “I can see that Morris, and tell him to keep his flippers out of the mixing bowl or he won’t get to lick the whisk.” “What the dickens are you blithering on about Yolanda? Licking your whiskers? When it’s time for Here Comes Johnson?”

Before she can continue, Morris raises a finger to his lips, “Never mind that now my gaily striped awning, it begins!” From the television comes a burst of tinny ragtime piano. Morris leans forward in rapt anticipation, the piano music begins again, somewhat slower this time. The scene is clearly the front steps of a Northern Town Hall, it could be at any time between the Fifties and mid Seventies. A group of Aldermen are clustered round a pompous looking man wearing robes and a gold chain over a sober black suit. From the way they consult their watches and keep peering down the road it is apparent that they are awaiting a visitor, presumably a personage of some importance.

From stage left appears a short tubby Johnson clad in overalls and cloth cap, with a pencil tucked behind one ear. He is struggling with a huge pair of step ladders, only part of which are visible, and appear to be caught on something offscreen. He gives them a hefty tug and they suddenly come free, and poke the Mayor in the behind, sending him staggering, a parping trombone accompanying this business. He whirls and upbraids Johnson in furious pantomime then points at the portico of the Hall. Johnson touches the brim of his cap and turns to obey, the ladders of course swing round as he does so, and catch the Mayor another blow in the seat of the pants.

Morris howls with laughter. “Ho ho, did you see that Yolanda? Those civic dignitaries had best look out…” he pauses, seemingly out of breath, but in actuality struggling to hold back the laughs, “Here Comes Johnson!” at which he collapses into guffaws once again. Yolanda rolls her eyes and attempts to sneak into the kitchen, but finds herself walking back into the living room again thanks to one of Morris’ patent “think you are leaving, but actually are reentering the place you were trying to leave” doors. On screen further comic business transpires, windows are smashed, hats knocked off, functionaries are accidentally locked in cupboards and a venerable burgher has his wig accidentally swallowed by a clumsily wielded vacuum cleaner. Morris is weeping helplessly, occasionally emitting strangled syllables, “Ho ho, look! The bucket!” eventually Johnson attempts to unroll the red carpet, which knocks the mayor off his feet, somehow envelopes him in its crimson folds and barrels him away down the steps. In the confusion, Johnson clumsily pulls down the banner reading “WELCOME YOUR EXCELLENCY” and becomes wrapped up in it, upon which the remaining Aldermen take him for the foreign VIP and present him with the keys to the city. The theme music starts up again and with a shaking hand Morris turns off the tv.He dabs at his eyes with his robe, “Oh dear, oh dear, that was the best one yet. The bit with the bunting alone was worth the price of admission.”  He glances across at Yolanda, “Not got your glad rags on yet ‘Landa? Best get a wriggle on, the queue is bound to be enormous.”

“What queue?”

“The queue for a photo and a handshake with Johnson of course, he’s doing a promotional appearance at Freshways this very forenoon, I am intending to get him to autograph my Season One box set.”

“Morris! I’ve got loads to do round the house, there’s no way I’m getting dressed up to traipse down to Freshways just to stand in a queue to see Johnson.”

“Au contraire my little ossified bureaucracy, that is exactly what you are going to do, well you have done haven’t you? Look!”

Sure enough, to her chagrin, Yolanda finds herself standing next to Morris in Freshways car park, in a long queue of people clutching various items of Johnson merchandise. To make it worse, she is dressed in a shoddy facsimile of Johnson’s overalls and a cheap cloth cap is scrunched down on her head.”Morris!”

He pays her no heed, in fact he is hopping excitedly from one foot to the other, “There he is! I hope he writes something nice on my dvd’s Yolanda, something funny. Do you think he will?”

“This queue is massive, can’t you magic us to the front, or burn everyone to death or something? I need to get that casserole into the oven.”

“I am shocked and saddened that you would even contemplate such an atrocity Yolanda, these people are my kindred souls, devoted Johnsohnians, gathered together to pay respectful homage to the maestro. I shall wait as patiently as I am able, although I am, as you may have noticed, in a state of eager excitement, touched with some trepidation. Do you think he will like my collage?” He holds up a piece of card with fuzzy felts stuck to it in a pattern somwhat vaguely reminscent of a figure in a cap. “It took me ages. Coco kept eating all the copydex.”

Yolanda does not trust herself to speak, but she is saved the bother as a large shiny 4×4 pulls up at the door of the supermarket, where the staff have set up a trestle table. A familiar overall clad figure emerges to enthusiastic cheers. Morris clutches Yolanda’s shoulder tightly. “There he is! Marvellous!”

Such is the pitch of Morris’ excitement that it is quite fortunate that the PR people with Johnson are very efficient. In less than half an hour Morris is beaming happily and chuckling over the inscription on his dvd set. “”Mwaaaerk!” Ho ho I don’t know how he comes up with them Yolanda! And what a gent. So approachable! I can’t wait to develop the photos! Are you completely sure that you got the one where we had our arms round each other’s shoulders? I think that I’ll put that one up in the hall so people will see it straight away when they come round.”Yolanda nods vacantly, her attention on a poster advertising Barley Wine. “That’s nice dear.”

“And he really did like my collage, he wasn’t just pretending, I could tell.”

“Yes dear. I just need to pop into the shop for a minute to grab some gold labe… Golden syrup. Back in a minute.”


Moments later Yoland reappears with several clanking bags “this should keep us going for a bit” she intones cheerfully “Quite my sweet panoply de montiesquieu, now let us retire to our abode, I feel excited about the afternoon’s activities. Yolanda knods as she too feels excited about the afternoons activities. ‘Sod the fucking casserole’ she thinks ‘bollocks to the bastarding casserole’  she muses, ‘I’m going to neck that barley wine and the prosecco, take two tramadol and lie in front of breaking bad for the rest of the day’ and then becomes worried that she will accidentally tune into ‘breaking bad Johnson’ which, whilst similar in principle to its namesake was quite a different show in practice. Finally they arrive home, Morris is still full of beans. “Right ‘Landa, let’s get started!’ Yolanda is just trying to slope off upstairs with the clanking bag and the i-pad “Landa! Where are you going?” “I was just going upstairs Morris, to have a bit of lie down, I feel quite tired.” “Tired is it? Well my little pumpkin driven wheelchair, taking several gallons of golden syrup whilst you lie down is what is generally known as a bad combination. Anyway you will not be needing the lie down as I have just the thing to perk you up!” Holding defensively onto the bags she glares at him with exasperation “What is it Morris, I do need to lie down, and I wasn’t going to eat the golden syrup upstairs, I was just going to err store it up there as we’ve run out of golden syryp storage space in the kitchen.” “Ho ho this is marvellous ‘Landa! I am struck with inspiration! Originally I was going use our little crew to re-enact some of the classic sketch moments from ‘Here Come’s Johnson’ but you have just supplied something even better, the material for a brand new sketch in which Johnson attempts to install new storage space in the kitchen to accommodate his sister in laws yearning for copious amounts of golden syrup, such as are clanking in your bag right now.” “I really don’t think this is a good idea, Morris the golden syrup will be fine upstairs for now I’m sure.” She shuffles uncomfortably, holding the bags closely “I will not hear of it my sweet, ho ho geddit, not only on the grounds in which I sincerely wish to create this new fine golden syrup installation and not only on the grounds that I wish to make my new and entertaining homage to ‘here comes Johnson’ and not only on the grounds –already intimated loosely- on which a golden syrup bedroom combination is bad one, a) because it is wholly unacceptable to begin to store pudding like ingredients in the sleeping areas unless one seeks to transform oneself into a kind of half dessert type entity or worse still beckon dessert like entities to come and sleep with you, something not to be ho ho trifled with!” Yolanda groans “and b) because golden syrup is an extremely sticky substance that will be wont to ruin any bedding or soft furnishings that it comes into contact with hence it is commonly not stored with said items. Logic and the world is against you my elongated barometer, now place the bag down where it may serve as a handy comedy prop, Dr VS Johnson will work the camera. LD Johnson can be…” Johnson looks hopeful “the brother” only to be crestfallen at not landing the leading role “I will be Johnson. Right does everyone know what they are doing. Johnson is coming round to fit the new golden syrup cupboard, that will be me, so I will  wait outside, you and Johnson improvise suitable dialogue to herald my arrival then I shall appear and the hilarity will begin. Morris exits, Yolanda stands at the bottom of the stairs still desperate to do something with the bag of booze. LD Johnson looks on at her, trying to get into character. Yolanda decides she had better act quickly so makes a sort of dash for the kitchen area, hoping to stash the booze and grab the remain tin of golden syrup and shove it in the bag. Perceiving this is part of the action Johnson follows her ‘mwaeerking’ loudly as she clanks across the floor, opens the fridge and tries to shove the booze in as fast as she can. Dr VS Johnson with the camcorder tries to follow the action and just catches her pushing the prosseco bottle in and shouting ‘fuck off’ at him. Opening another cupboard she grabs the golden syrup and shoves it in the freshways bag. In the sheer relief of having stashed it she grins sheepishly and holds up the bag with the single container of syrup in ands says to LD Johnson “I don’t know where the fuck we’re going store all this bastarding golden syrup haha!” LD Johnson looks disapproving but mwaaerks his agreement, suddenly there is a knock at the door. “Mwaaerk!” says LD and goes to answer it. Through the open door comes Morris in a flat cap and overalls brandishing his flamethrower, he turns to Yolanda “My sweet try to refrain from swearing, this is a family show!” “Morris, err Johnson, put that things down, there is no flame thrower in ‘Here Come’s Johnson’” “Ho ho except there is isn’t there look!” and he gives a little blast of flame that sends the other three to the corners of the kitchen “Fucking hell Morris, put it down, what about the golden syrup sketch?!” “What are you on about? This is no time for an art class! Now about that golden syrup sketch. So missus where do you want the new storage area?” Seeing the futility and just wanting damage limitation she complies “err how about over there?” she points to the bin “very well missus, I mean mwaaerk!” and the lets loose with the flamethrower. The kitchen bin bursts into flames, melting, burning plastic emits a foul black smoke as does the burning contents itself. The Johnsons scatter for cover and Yolanda opens the door and starts to fill a vase with water to throw on the burning bin “Fucking hell Morris!” “That’s Johnson to you, we’ll cut that bit out, this is his humorous gone wrong attempt at storage installation!” “You’ve, he’s ruined the fucking kitchen, again!” “Mwaaerk!” intones Morris before producing a bucket and brandishing it with a helpful look his face. Wheeling round he faces two curious taps that seem to have appeared from nowhere. Each one has a loose hanging sign on it, one of which reads ‘water’ and the other ‘petrol’. Johnson/Morris taps his nose and looks at the camera. He then turns round and bumps into LD Johnson who has been milling around nearby. This encounter crashes them into the taps knocking the loose fitting signs to the floor. Morris upbraids LD Johnson in a silent comic style.  LD Johnson makes good with excessive humble apology leaving Johnson to pick the two floored signs up. Morris and Johnson look at each other, the taps and then the signs, clearly unable to remember which one goes on which tap. Morris seems to remember which way round the signs go and places them accordingly. All the while the black smoke billows out of bin and the fire climbs up the kitchen walls, Yolanda has long exited and VS Johnson is filming from the doorway to the garden. Both parties seem to agree that the taps have the right signs and hence proceed to fill a bucket full of ‘water’ to help dowse the fire. The scene cuts to outside the house. The kitchen windows blow out violently as a massive fireball erupts out of the windows. A comedically blackened Morris and LD Johnson are ejected from the building as a terrible conflagration rages throughout the whole room and will clearly start to engulf the house soon. Yolanda is thrown to the floor by the blast and  whilst pissed off by the destruction of the house (again) feels more annoyed that all the barley wine and processco have gone up. Morris gets up, brushes himself down and looks around for something else he can do to help put the fire out.

“Morris! I mean Jorris! Monson! For fuck’s sake, the fucking house is ablaze!”

“Cor lumme missus, so it is. Well stone the crows, what a pickle. What on earth do you plan to do about that then?”

“What the fuck do you mean me? You’ve set the bastarding place afire, put it out, put it out!”

Morris whistles softly through his teeth. “Put out a fire missus? I just popped in to install a golden syrup storage unit, I mean do I look like a fireman?”

Yolanda jumps up and down with rage. “Put the bastard fire out you daft fucker!”

Morris winks at the camera, “What fire missus? I don’t see any…”

“MORRIS!” *Thwack* Yolanda clouts him round the back of the head with the golden syrup tin in the bag. “Ouch. That was not in the script Yolanda, however as it was fairly successful as a piece of knockabout slapstick I will leave it in.”

There is another *woooomph* as the fire spreads to the living room, and the french windows shatter in the heat. Yolanda raises the bag again, and Morris thinks better of it. “‘Arf a mo missus, no need to get nasty, my trusty elephant will make short work of extinguishing this conflagration.”

Hastily Disguised As An Elephant Johnson slopes self consciously around the side of the shed, painfully aware that he isn’t fooling anyone. Fortunately, there is a trumpeting sound, and an actual elephant lumbers into the garden, somewhat to the detriment of the surrounding privet hedge.

“Ah, there you are Jumbo, just in the nick of time. Suck up that fishpond will you? And douse those flames,there’s a good pachyderm.”

“My fishpond….” Yolanda starts, but trails off. Jumbo dutifully drains the fishpond and begins to aim his trunk at the blazing house. Halfway there, one of Yolanda’s prize goldfish tickles the inside of his trunk, bringing on a sneeze of elephantine proportions. The stream of water hits Yolanda squarely in the midriff, doubling her over before sending her flying through the open door of the garden shed. Landing with a crash amongst the gardening and diy implements she upsets a rickety shelf, causing an old bucket to land upside down on her head, and coincidentally tipping a large tin of whitewash all over Hastily Disguised As An Elephant Johnson, who had sneaked in there for a crafty roll up. “Ho ho, keep ’em rolling Johnson,this is comedy gold. You all right there missus? You’re looking a bit “pail-faced”!”

“MORRRRISSSS!” comes the muffled, but clearly enraged voice from beneath the bucket, as she charges out of the shed. Winking at Dr VSJ, Morris grabs a red tablecloth from the clothes line and does a passable impression of a bullfighter, leaping aside and waving the cloth with a flourish as the maddened Yolanda charges at him.”Ho ho ho-lay! Geddit Johnson?”

Yolanda plunges past him and cannons into a flowerbed, jamming the bucket ever more firmly onto her head. “Grrrrrr! Ghed dis bugged ob by heg you fuggid bathtud Borris!”

“Ho ho, what was that my little abandoned florentine palazzo? I was unable to apprehend your meaning, as your voice was distorted, due, I can only presume, to you having a bucket wedged over your head.”

“I seg, gheb be oud ob dis buggid! Dow!”


Published in: on August 15, 2018 at 11:16 am  Leave a Comment  

Balloon sketch pieces

Herein are the last remnants of the major narrative. It doesn’t make a lot of sense but there may be some entertainment to be had here and there. It has not been edited and will be riddled with errors.

Back at the Furnisson’s all isn’t going particularly well. Dr Furnisson would sincerely have loved to have a wonderful homecoming, to be greeted by wide open arms from his loving family who missed him sore after his dark sojourn in the otherworld. He sorely rued having attacked that Turkey bastard in the greenhouse or wherever it had been, the pesky fowl had been far too quick and far too handy with some kind of suddenly appearing syringe. Still with Morris’ help he had scared the crap out of him so that made him feel a little better about things. His homecoming of course had no such romantic sheen to it for unbeknown to poor Dave Furnisson the turkey had immediately transformed himself into Dr Furnisson and then fed his body –glamoured to look like a Turkey- to his family (whilst eating a generous portion himself). So when it seemed to Dr Furnisson that he finally rolled home, weary and not a little grubby, Mrs Furnisson was no more than a bit surprised and considerably irked as he had been so rude to that other turkey guest and then disappeared in his pyjamas, putatively to buy bacon and eggs. From this mission he did not reappear until the following morning when, as mentioned he rolled up back at this house. “Where have you been Dave?” Meow meow” “Sorry Sandra, I’ve been away meow my love” “I know you’ve sodding been away meow, you left me with that Turkey last night who babbled on for meow meow another half hour, cleaned us out of scones and cream then up and left, on the pretence of going to freshways, where the fuck have you been?!” “Last night?” Of course Dr Furnisson had met the other turkey, when they set up the shenanigans but all of this was new to him. He quickly pondered his options, he could explain how he was dead a few days ago and had spent several eternity like non moments in a strange half existent blissful unconsciousness before being re-formed as an actual spirit by Morris and then given the chance of vengeance by pursuing the Turkey with the dagger of Balthazar (this ethereal attachment though hadn’t really given him awareness of the goings on at the physical level and hence he had some catching up to do) or as it seems he or someone has been here all along he could try to fit back in. Seeing it wasn’t the time for strange tales, he went for the latter. “Last night, I… decided not to go to freshways, I went, meow meow fishing instead.” “Fishing? What meow, for breakfast?” “Err yes… nothing like a fresh fish for breakfast.” “Where are the fish then?” “What?” “The fish, you said you went fishing?” “The fish they’re, umm in the car meow meow” “Where’s the car Dave?” “The car, oh the car meow, I must have left it somewhere.” Suddenly there is the sound of screeching tyres and the Furnisson’s Mercedes zooms into the cul de sac and perfectly hand brake turns to within a foot of just behind the Dr. Johnson gets out, gives a wink to the turning astonished Dr and wanders off back to Morris’. “Ah there’s the car dear, Johnson had it.” “Why did Johnson have our car meow?” “I lent it to him to go… to go for a potato as he was fishing with me and, yes that’s it, he was hungry so he borrowed the car to get the potato with my fish in the car, which probably fell out as I left the boot open, I think yes.” She goes out and peers into the car suspiciously before looking excitedly back. “Wow meow! You did go fishing! The back of the car is almost full of them!” Dr Furnisson looks confused but tries to look knowing “Yes, I did, I caught those fishes with my…” and feels he is about to say ‘tool’ but something makes him stop “fishing rod, yes meow, let’s bring them in and talk no more about it.” So they both go over to the car and start to bring the copious amounts of fish into the house. Mrs Furnisson chats as they do so “I must say, this is bit of a surprise too, you seemed to have gone right off fish.” “Really?” “Oh don’t start with that funny new phrase of yours again.” But looking round his kitchen and fridge Dr Furnisson can see that things indeed have changed, there is not a fish in the fridge –except the new ones- only game type dishes, braised partridge, jugged hare and so forth. A glance at the drinks cabinet reveals bottles of port and sherry where once there was only martini and whisky. The fish finally stored his wife purrs excitedly. “Meow meow, you are so clever, and since the children are at school, what meow say you and I go upstairs for a while.” Dr Furnisson is tired frankly but thinks he must show willing “Meow meow good idea my dear” he intones with as much enthusiasm as he can, but then is perplexed and not a little worried by his wife’s following statement as she ushers him up “You go to the bedroom dear, I’ll bring the rubber sheet and the oil!”

Wearily, Bikle clambers up the stairs to what used to be his flat. As he approaches the door, he can hear the sound of drum and bass, and the laughter of young people coming from inside. His arms hurt from carrying heavy shopping bags full of beans and cola. As he tries to open the door, he catches the handle in one of his carrier bags, tearing the plastic. As the door swings open, the tear lengthens and the bag rips wide open, allowing the bean tins to spill out and clatter onto the floor. Everyone stops and turns to look at him. A lone can of beans rolls back down the stairs with a “thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk thunketty thunk.” “By beads!” Buckland looks up from his desk with a despairing expression. “Oh. It’s you is it? Back agaid eh? Like de proverbial bad peddy eh?” Bikle looks at the scattered tins all over the floor. “Dese bags are a rip off you dow, five pedce dey cost be, ad just look atdat! By beads are freverywhere!” “Oh bother your beads, I deed a word wid you id by office.” “What office? You dod’t have ad office.” “Ho stop dat, you sound like Sibod. Ad I do have ad office dow. Seeig as how busidess has picked up lately I extended de cafe idto what used to be de bedroob, ad while I was at it I had ad office put I’d for byself.” Bikle looks confused. “But where are we goig to sleep dow?” “Well I bight as well break it to you, I’b bovig idto ode of dose dice bachelor flats dowd dear de barida, I bead sure, we had sobe fud tibes here, but it was crabpig by style you dow? I bead it’s dot like I could ask a youg lady back for coffee or sobethig is it? Wid you here, bost likely high as a kite od a frombidatiod of brass polish ad oidtbedt for cows wid sore udders or sobethig, do do, de situatiod was udtedable, so I’ve boved out.” “But, but, where ab I goig to sleep?” “Oh dod’t worry Bikle, I won’t have you sleepig od de streets, you cad have de executive suite here, I’ve boved your clothes ad thigs I’d already. See? Isd’t dat cosy?” “But dat’s just de cupboard where we keep de bops, ad de broob!” Buckland looks stern, “You live dere dow, beggars cad’t be choosers dow Bichael.” “It’s Bikle actually.” “Do Bichael, do it isd’t. You bade dat up to soud bysterious. It’s dot what bother dabed you, ad I’b dot panderig to your frabsurd pretedsiods ady bore.” Firmly, he takes Bikle by the arm and leads him through into the new office. Seating himself in a comfortable office chair behind a large desk, he gestures towards an uncomfortable looking stool. “Sit dowd please Bichael. Dow, as you cad see, de cafe is dot doig too badly. But it could do better frobviously. Dere’s ode thig holdig it back. Ode thig, dat how do I put dis? You Bichael, you are de fly I’d de oidtbedt, de stubblig block, you are dot helpig. Your presedce od de staff here is havig a degative fribpact od by profits, so I’b afraid dat I’b goig to have to let you go.” Bikle’s face shows his shock, “Lettig be go? Lettig be go? What do you bead Lettig be go?” Buckland shrugs, “You’re fired Bichael. Effective ibbediately.” “But, but, de whole thig was by idea, ad de cobputellies, bide. I bead I’ve worked here since de place opened, you cad’t fire be!” “I cad Bichael, ad I have. Dow look at dis frob by perspective, I’ve idvested a lot of hard work idto dis place, dot to bedtiod bodey, ad it’s lookig good. But ded dere’s you. You dress like a freak, you don’t sbell dice, od your first shift you got sbashed od labp oil ad vetidary fremichals ad orchestrated some oleaginous orgiastic atrocity all over de chill out space wid datOily Johdsod, but I gave you de benefit of de doubt, only for you to sbend de whole of your secod shift tryig to dowdload sobe cobputer gabe frob de frearly dideties and idfectig all de cobputellies wid de virus. Do, by band’s bade up Bichael, you’ve got to go. I bead what have you got to offer de busidess? Dabe recogditiod? Oh certaidly, but ebployig a well down, day dotorious, sex offender is hardly adding value to by brand dow is it? I bead sure lots of people were cobig here to see you, gawkers, social workers, vidgiladtes, ad so forth, but dey were’dt using de cobputers were dey? Dot baking bodey frob dat ab I?” “But, but, what ab I goig to do dow?” “Well dow, dat’s dot really by probleb is it Bichael?” “But I’b your brother!” “Dat’s irrelevadt, as a certaid pidt sized jurist of our accqaidtadce bight say.” “But I looked after you for years! Whed you were bedtally challedged!” “Yes, yes ad dod’t thigk dat I’b dot grateful, hedce letting you live I’d be bop cupboard, I bead executive suite. But dat was ded, ad dis is dow, you cad’t keep livig I’d de past you dow.” Buckland shuffles some papers on his desk and glances at his expensive new watch. “Well adyway, glad dat we had dis little chat, cleared thigs up ad so forth, dod’t let be take up ady bore of your valuable tibe.” “But, but de dole office wod’t give be ady bodey dow, because I’ve beed sacked, ad I spedt all by wages of beads ad do frills cola, I dod’t have any bodey!” “Well dat is awkward isd’t it? Ad dod’t forget dat you owe Violedt Load Shark Johdsod £2000. Adyway, if you’ll excuse be, got a lot of today, idterviewig frapplicadts for your old job ad so forth, dice workig wid you, all de best, dod’t lose touch, let’s do ludch ad so forth.” Buckland turns his attention to the papers on his desk, the conversation is clearly over. Bikle slowly gets up from the stool and walks towards the door. Just as he is about to pass through, there comes a shout from Buckland. “Bikle! Wait! I’ve chadged by bind! I dearly bade a terrible mistake!” Bikle whirls round elatedly, “Ho I dew it!” “What od earth was I thigkig?” Bikle nods smugly, “Go od Buckle,” “I’ve just realised, looking at dese figures, if I put a fruit bachide I’d de bop cupboard dat’s a clear £200 a week extra clear profit! Have your crap out of dere by de bordig dere’s a good chap.” With no further ado, he returns to his paperwork, and Bikle, crushed slinks out of the office. Looking into the mop cupboard, he finds an old sack and shoves his paltry few possessions inside, not forgetting his small pile of dented beans. Picking up his other carrier bag, he takes a last look around. He is tempted to go back and plead with Buckle, but some shred of pride forbids grovelling to his formerly idiot brother, and he resolves to make a dignified exit. Without a backward glance, he strides purposefully down the stairs to meet his destiny. A moment later there comes a scrabbling noise, a cry of “Boooh!” And then a tremendous thud, as he treads on the can of beans which had rolled half way down the stairs, propelling him painfully down the other half. Picking himself up from the floor of the vestibule he shakes a fist in the direction of his former abode. “You’ll pay for dis Buckle! Dobody treats be like dis, especially dot by owd brother! I’b goig to seek by fortune! Ad ded we’ll see who sleeps I’d de bop cupboard!” He sets off down the street at a fine pace, and soon espies a familiar face. “Oh hello dere Bister Sparky, fadcy seeig you here, sorry about your traid by de way, how’s thigs?” “Blplplp! Not shabby! New venture! Taking on small building jobs! Specialising in attics and chimneys!” “Ho good for you Bister Sparky. Do you have ady jobs goig? I dod’t dow buch about buildig dough.” “Blbplplblp! As it happens. Have vacancy! Need advertising person!” Bikle’s ears prick up. “Fradvertisig! Ho I’b ad expert od dat! Er it’s dot adythig to do wid leaflets is it?” “Not likely! Wear sandwich board! Merely walk around! Build awareness of brand!” “Ho I could do dat! Is dat de board?” Mr Sparky produces a sandwich board upon which is written: “Mr Sparky’s perfect loft conversions! The time to increase the value of your home is now! Don’t wait! Come to see our showroom, you won’t believe your eyes! Our range of granny flats is huge! We also repair roofs and chimney breasts.” Bikle pauses for a moment. “Dis sign, de letters of it, are dey paidted, or just stuck od?” “Blplplp! Stuck on! Why?” Just then an articulated lorry speeds past and goes straight through a large puddle, sending up a spray of water which drenches both Bikle and Mr Sparky as well as the sandwich board. Immediately most of the letters peel off, leaving it reading: “park Per ver T i can’t wait to see your granny s huge…” Fortunately the last word is obscured by mud. “Berrrr, baybe dot quite de life of work I was lookig for if I’b to be hodest, thagks adyway!” “Blplplp! No problem! All best! Toodle oo!” He hasn’t gone much further when he espies the same familiar face, “Ho, hello agaid Bister Sparky!” “Blbplplblp! What’s this? Not bloody Sparky, it’s me! Clancy! Sick of idiot psychic twin!” Bikle, who wasn’t aware that Mr Sparky was not one and the same all along is momentarily puzzled, but soon decides that it is not important. “Ho, by bistake, beg pardog I’b sure. Dod’t suppose you have ady jobs goig do you? Buckle gave be de sack you dow.” “Blplplp! That sack there? I’d give it back if I was you! Hole in bottom! Things fallen out! Lost forever!” “H’what? By thigs! Oh if dat doesd’t just put de tid lid od it! Bah! Today has dot beed very good to be so far! “Blplplp! Maybe about to improve! Listen Bikle, never liked you. Not ever. But talking recently to mutual acquaintance. Seems we share certain ah, proclivities? Blbplplblp. If you know what I mean?” Clancy winks ponderously. Bikle hasn’t the faintest idea what he is on about but nods conspiratorially, “Ho yes, proclivities, dat’s right! I do like a proclivity be!” “Blplplp! Excellent! Now this shall we say, community of interest has led me to view you in a somewhat more positive light. Blbplplblp as it happens, I am about to embark on great adventure. Most perilous! Need reliable sidekick. Blbplplblp! Interested?”

Bikle ponders the Turkey’s offer. “Perilous fradventure? I’b dot sure about dat, I think I bight just pop round to see if I cad crash at pete ad pauls and hope dat Buckland turds back into Buckle so I cad bove back.” “BLblblp, suit self, opportunity of lifetime, mysteries to unveil, artefacts to retrieve.” The Turkey is now bustling around with the ties of an enormous hot air balloon which Bikle somehow didn’t notice was there all along. With that curious agility of his, the Turkey vaults into the basket, dons an adventuring top hat and prepares for the off “blblbp last chance, all aboard!” “Do your frall right, I’b off de log way round so I don’t have to walk past Bickle’s dewsagent, frave a good trip.” “Blblblblbp, be gone for a while, see you all in a bit blblblblp!” and with that the balloon begins to ascend into the sky. What Bikle also didn’t notice was that in fact there is a large crowd of people assembled to wave the Turkey off. With considerable panache, he plays to this crowd, waving the top hat, dropping sweets and so forth. Bikle looks on enviously at the affection bestowed even upon him, a trouser stealing turkey with an oil fetish. Though the thoughts of an oil fetish, rumble uncomfortably in his mind as he flashes curious slippery images of a giant oily leaflet with a beaky head wearing a makeshift crown. Shuddering physically he finds he suddenly has fallen over; fearing the power of the unconscious caused such physical disturbance he is almost relieved to find he is being dragged along the floor. This relief at the unpsychosomatic nature of the incident is short lived and gives way rapidly to distress and fear. “What de fuck? Help!” The situation worsens as he now finds he is being dragged inexorably into the air feet forwards, his scrawny body flailing helplessly now just above the crowd. “BLblblbp! What’s going on? Ruining fine send off!” “Freeellllp be!” yells the confused horrified Bikle who has of course gotten his leg tangled in one of the balloons restraining ropes. The crowd are less pleased to see the well-known miscreant dangling and begin to hurl anything they can lay their hands on at him. “Frouch, stop dat, dis is bad Frouch! Edough as it is.” “Blblblp really! Occasion ruined, trifle on your head!” and a trifle now appears atop our protagonists head, rapidly sliding off it and into the crowd below. The ire of the trifle assault can find no mark though as the Turkey is now some 50 meters up with the trifle blinded Bikle swaying on the rope by one leg. “BLblblblp, let go, disturbing trajectory, need scissors!” “I cad’t by legs frentangled! Don’t drop be, it’s a log way down!” “Blblblbp very well, changed your mind I see, will winch you up.” And so with a handy winching device the scrawny wretch is dragged up and manages to clamber into the basket. The basket in fact is curiously large and well equipped looking and even seems to have a hatch that goes down. Slumped against the side of the basket, he feels a resignation to the Turkey’s adventure “But where are we goig?” he asks in confusion “Blblblblp plateau of Leng, need things from there, powerful magic blblblblbp.” This means nothing to Bikle and he slowly drags himself to his feet, peering over the edge he is quite amazed by the sight of the tiny town “Look at dat, de towd looks tidy!” he states. The Turkey looks disdainful “Banal witterings, blblblp, pointless, don’t want to hear it, blblbp here as servant, go and make soup now, crusty rolls too, ready for 5 blblblblp, off you go!” and with that he pushes Bikle down the stairs of the hatch “Frouch, frooch, boof!” he cries as he falls down into a dimly lit but perfectly equipped kitchen area.

Yolanda awoke to an awful dream of choking to death in an house filled with a poisonous gas “the toxins!” she was screaming “the gas is full of toxins!” and then woke to find herself shouting that exact phrase. After a moment of realising she was now awake she noticed that in fact the air was filled with a truly awful smell. Sitting up and moving towards the bedroom door the smell seemed to get stronger. Upon opening, it was nearly overpowering. Out onto the landing she went, down the stairs, the smell growing stronger all the time; now she fancied she could almost see a smoky vapour in the air. Fighting her way through this dire odour she gained the kitchen only to be greeted by Morris, LD Johnson, a toadman (Robinson), Bernard Brown and Herbert Jackson variously engaged with the cooker and small blow torch like devices. Rings on the hob were turned up to full and something bubbled spat and clearly burnt on there whilst the torches were used at the kitchen table and on the sideboards to burn straight into pans. “Morris! What the fuck is going on?” “Ah hello there my little marinated oyster would you care to join us for the yogurt burning workshop?” “Yogurt burning? What the very fuck?” “My latest venture my little amphibolous theoretical construct, I placed a poster in the local library two weeks ago advertising my services in this regard and look, the first workshop has yielded this result of attendees at £10 a head” “It smells Morris, it smells really awful!” “Of course it smells my dear, we burning yogurt, the odour is most offensive” “But why Morris, why the fuck would you organise a yogurt burning workshop?” “No Yolanda the question is badly posed, you should rather enquire why wouldn’t I organise a yogurt burning workshop. We must all earn our crust through honest means in this life you know. “Morris as you are *cough* fond of telling me, you have almost endless power and a multi-billion pound corporation employing an infinite amount birdmen/things, why the fuck would you try to raise £60 with a foul smelling yogurt burning workshop?” “One answer would be to tell you that in the infinite nature of time you too will organise and yogurt burning workshop, indeed you have haven’t you, look! In fact you have organised this yogurt burning workshop and now the workshopees stand attendant waiting for the next instruction, should you fail to deliver they will surely turn upon you with deadly tooth and claw, shredding your flesh from your bones, howling a blood curdling cry before eating the remains with any of the yogurt that has not been scorched beyond all comestible ability.” “Morris, fuck off, I’m not taking the fucking yogurt class!” “Very well my sweet if you choose the flesh ripping end so be it, though I must admit the contestants don’t look up to it much at the moment. The second answer then would be that owing to my philanthropic nature I in fact have not charged any of these good people to attend the yogurt burning workshop, indeed the whole notion of cost was a ruse, in fact most of the attendees are here against their will. It just so happens that after I disposed of the luminous paint I uncovered an industrial sized vacuum packed pot of yogurt that Dennis had foisted upon me as an easter gift. Being not a big fan of yogurt and certainly not military grade vacuum packed yogurt I decided to vent a flammable revenge upon this substance in the form of a hand community workshop in which participants learn a skill they will take to the grave and who knows even beyond it. For lo the other world is filled with vacancies for skilled yogurt burners and filled boggart yearners. Look and here comes the yogurt boggart and he is not best pleased with you as you have organised some kind of yogurt burning festival with an desperate looking crew of beings. “Mwaaerk!” says the Yogurt Boggart and hurls a cup of yogurt over her “Fuck-ing! Hell! Morris! You’ve gone too bastarding far! Tell this thing to stop!” “Do you mean the yogurt boggart my sweet or one of the others, I am loath to interrupt Herbert Jackson as he is doing such a sterling job with the blow torch.”
“Morris! You’re really trying my patience!” “Ho ho, don’t mind if I do, (Morris is suddenly arrayed in full judicial robes) Johnson! Bring in the first defendant!” A bewigged Johnson pushes in an elderly man wearing a hospital gown in a wheelchair. “Prisoner at the bar how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?” The old man peers at him confusedly. “Is this the day room nurse?” Yolanda pushes past him, “Morris! Stop it! Now I want this old man safely back in the hospital, I want the voracious flesh eating eels out of the bathtub, and I want your yogurt monster and your band of idiots to fuck off out of my kitchen. It’s the cat charity cake stall tomorrow and I need to get baking!” “Get bacon my love? Hmmm now I fancy a few crisp rashers myself, perhaps accompanied by sausages, hash browns, mushrooms, fried bread, tomatoes…” Yolanda sees where this is going and desperately tries to change the subject. “Are you doing anything for the cat charity gala this year Morris? It’s all in a good cause after all.” He looks disdainful, “I do not particularly like cats Yolanda. I find them irritating. Perhaps I should burn them to death, this would remove the need for any kind of charitable endeavour on their behalf.” He pulls down a large map of the world on a roller. There are innumerable miniscule green flecks of light scattered across the surface of the map. “As you can see here my little primitive autogyro, I have been keeping track of the furry little fuckers, just in case, now, with a simple effort of will, I can carbonise the lot of them, just say the word, and bingo! It’s liberation day for the world’s mice and small unsuspecting birds.” “God no Morris, don’t you dare! The poor kitties.” “How typical of you Yolanda, such concern for pampered, ungrateful felines, but scant regard for our tiny squeaking brethren, slaughtered in their millions, nay billions by your precious effete cat bastards, and yet there was a fine how do you do when I happened to sautee a few of your own particular members of the family Mus, which reminds me I am rather peckish, I wonder where I can get an all day breakfast?” Yolanda winces, and waits for the ranting to begin, but no! Here is Just In The Nick Of Time Johnson with a heaped plate of breakfast items. “Ah, marvellous! Just what the doctor ordered. Nice work Johnsons.” J.I.T.N.O.T Johnson and Dr V.S. Johnson nod appreciatively and withdraw. Through a mouthful of hash browns and mushrooms Morris gestures to Yolanda, “You off to the plateau of Leng then Yolanda? I could do with a few things while you’re there, I have prepared a short list, which you will find inscribed upon that scroll in your dungarees pocket.” “Morris! I’ve got my baking to do! I’m not wearing dungarees, and I’m not going to the plateau of bloody Leng.” “I beg to differ my little deck of novelty playing cards, well you are aren’t you? Look! There you are, ascending rapidly in your hot air balloon, and here I am waving fondly to you as you disappear into the wild blue yonder…” “MORRIIIIiiiiiiissssss!” Yolanda’s voice trails off as she shoots skywards at a tremendous velocity. Johnson taps Morris on the arm and points at the front door. “Mwaeerk?” “What’s that Johnson? Somebody at the door for Yolanda? Is it important? She’s just nipped out on her light blue Honda, probably gone to get some cat food or some firelighters or something. Shame really, she’s going to miss her breakfast.” In the swaying basket of the balloon, Yolanda curses furiously for a while, and considers attempting to hit Morris with a well aimed sandbag, but after a while the frantic hurtle upwards abates, and as the balloon sails noiselessly through the clouds, she actually begins to find it quite restful. Fumbling in her dungarees pocket for a cigarette, she finds the roll of parchment Morris had mentioned. With a weary sigh she unrolled it and quickly scanned the contents, hearing Morris’s voice intoning along with her as she reads: “Congratulations on the purchase of the Strato Rover 500, an ideal balloon for both the weekend enthusiast or the harassed consort dragooned magically into a tiresome and ultimately pointless adventure. Hand crafted from the finest modern materials, the Strato Rover 500 is a snip at only 2,000 guineas, which has been automatically deducted from your bank account and used to buyDozens of adorable chinchillas, which were then burned to death.” Shaking her head, she continues, “Upon this adventure, you will be assisted by Eccentric Victorian Aeronaut Johnson and his hand picked crew. Upon arrival at your destination, the dread plateau of Leng, you must brave numerous perils, well, I say perils, mor eannoyances, in fact not so much annoyances as some heavy rain and the possibility of it being half day closing, but whatever anyway, I solemnly charge you to fetch me back the following items…” There follows a number of lines of writing which have been crossed out, but are still legible in places. Peering closer she can just make out “Chicken Samosas”, “8 Cans of Export” and “Something nice with jam in. Not Strawberry. It is far too sickly.” Beneath this is inscribed”The Orb of Hroth” and “The Jade Wand of Lui Tse”. Underneath this is “Green Lawnmower Paint”, but this too has been scribbled out. As she finishes reading this strange document, a figure emerges from a hatch, a tall, thin Johnson with snowy white hair, wearing a frock coat and a battered top hat, which he raises with a kindly “Mwaeerk!” Following him are a pasty faced runt in a red, yellow and green harlequin outfit, clutching a sack full of some roundish objects, and another Johnson, this one obese, with an untidy ponytail, and dressed in a bewildering mix of goggles, waistcoats, leather pouches, ornate gadgets and a shockingly badly made leather hat. Yolanda seems to recognise him, she looks closer. “Is that you Fat Shit Goth Johnson?” He nods sheepishly and gestures at his paraphernalia with evident pride. “Mweeark!” “Oh, you’re Not Shit, No Sir, Steam Punk Johnson now? I see. Getting a bit old for the leather trousers were we?” “Mwaeerk!”

Back on the Turkey’s balloon Bikle is struggling to make soup with crusty rolls. “Ho god where to start?” he looks round at the curious balloon kitchen. “Bake de soup and den de rolls whilst it sibbers baybe?” “Blblblp dinner for 7 sharp, don’t be late, blblblp penalised for tardiness blblblp!” comes the Turkey’s voice from above. “7 o clock, berr dat gives be 2 hours” he says looking up at a handy kitchen clock. Of course Bikle has no real idea how to make a soup. He tries to think what a soup he’s eaten looks like, but all the flashes before him are images of bowls of beans. Acting on this, he looks around for beans. He feverishly opens every cupboard and draw. No beans. “Ho god” he wails “do beads for de bead soup! What ab I goig to do!? I’ll be penalised for dis.” Suddenly another idea springs in his mind “Cheese” this then is followed by the horrible reflection that he thinks there is bound to be cheese. He is suddenly petrified -after his previous Simon transformation- that he’s turning into the old Buckle and stalls to reassure himself “Dothing to worry about Bikle, de thought dat dere will be cheese in de Turkey’s well stocked kidched isn’t a Bucklesqe frirrationality, dats just reasodable frexpectation.” Still following a series of shuddering twitches he puts the dairy produce out of his mind. A new things emerges suddenly: Turnips. Somewhere in his mind he feels he can remember something about turnips; turnips and what was it? Beans and… salt! Yes that was it. But there are no beans, but surely he’s fortuitously happened upon a classic recipe here, one with a small adjustment will save him from whatever then penalty is. ‘So…’ he thinks ‘Turnips and salt soup’. And sure enough in the vegetable rack there are indeed several nice looking turnips and on the side is an extremely posh looking salt grinder. “Ho ho dis is albost too easy, de turkey will be pleased” he says with glee. So without further ado he gets a large pan, puts 5 or 6 turnips in it, fills it half full of water and starts trying to grind salt in. Sadly for Bikle the salt grinder is a bit too tricky for him to manage so he ends up faffing around with it and resultantly unscrewing it. The various parts that hold it together roll away across the slightly swaying kitchen floor but he is however left with the open topped main body of the grinder. “Barvellous, at least I cad get at de salt dow, id you go you crystallide little fridges!” and in saying so he tips about half the grinders worth of salt into increasingly warming turnip bobbing liquid. “Dere dat’s de soup set cookig, dow for de rolls.”

Feeling he is getting into the culinary swing of things Bikle, jauntily looks round the kitchen for something to make ‘crusty rolls’ out of. “Dow, let be see crusty rolls, wid de soup dode dis can’t be too hard cad it O.O.O.” He has the notion, quite correctly that flour is involved, and that you have to make a kind of dough, after this though he lacks all inspiration but such is his mood that he feels intuition will suffice. “Fraha! Dere you are bister flour.” He says with a flourish as he uncovers his powdery quarry in one of the cupboards. “ad a bowl, barvellous, dow tip de flour id bowl ad… hmmb it’s dot very dough like, what we deed here is sobethig to boisten it up O.O.O” he has a sudden spasmodic twitch as a jarring sensation of his time on ‘ready, steady, mwaaerk” floods through him. Once this has abated though he continues his scan for something to dough up the flour with. “Baybe sobe bilk? And dis bayodaise? Yes dey look good” and so he pours milk into the bowl and scoops in a large dollop of mayo. This achieved he beats the mixture until it does indeed resemble a kind of sticky dough “Hmmb it is rader sticky, if I get by hands id dis dey’ll be id a right bess O.O.O! Baybe a bit bore flour” so he tips more flour in in increments until the mixture is suitable for hand manipulation. This achieved he flops it on to the side and starts to knead it. Having to real idea what he is doing he just sort of pushes it around a bit before accidentally rolling it into a long phallic like shape “O.O.O dot as large as by tool!” he says in the mode of his heyday before looking at the extensive size of the rolled up dough. With some actually annoyance he notes actually it’s much larger. With some of the characteristic madness of late behaviour he becomes more and more irate with the giant tool roll which now seems to be mocking him. “Bock be would you! I’ll bake you idto two sballer tools den we’ll see who’s largest at de party!” and he grapples the phallic flour based creation rending it in twain. These two halves he rolls out again into two smaller phalli, sadly these too are still substantial member replicants and he is unsure if he is the boss yet “Ho ho you think you’ve beated be you tooly bastards, but I’b de ode id charge here you’ll see!” he shouts as he launches himself again upon the insulting sausage dough entities. Upstairs the Turkey keeps being disturbed by Bikle’s shouting and whilst annoyed (as it is interrupting his watching of ‘The Good life’ slightly has his interest piqued. “Blblblp everything alright down there? Supper coming along well? Hungry soon!” “Berr yes bister Turkey, I’b just about to put de rolls id de oved as dey say O.O.O!” The Turkey shrugs and goes back to his i-pad with a small “Really” By now the penis bread is very small and Bikle is feeling very smug, to show his dominance by comparison though he does make some attempt to actually craft each dough sausage (there are 16 of them by now) into actually resembling a small phallus. This effort largely is solely the poking of a hole at one end of each one. This activity starts out with intent and care and rapidly deteriorates into slovenly poking them. Remembering something about the fact one is supposed to glaze bread he gets the milk back out and pours its sloppily onto the tool bread tray and then looks back fondly and the tiny members slopping around in the milky “Barvellous!” he says, thoroughly pleased with a job well done. He then places them in the oven which he then notes wasn’t turned on. With the cold milky rolls inside he turns the temperature up, shuts the door and goes to check on the ‘soup’. To his eye the soup is going well. The turnips bob around in the briney solution happily but are not in the least cooked. The job done he fancies he’s earned a break. He’s just about to take a seat when he notices something on the side. The turkey has cut out and left a two for the price of one Mr Kipling’s Bakewell tarts coupon just behind the condiments area and now the relaxing Bikle eyes the papery seductress from across the room. “Ho ho! Who have we here!” he exclaims sidling over. Looking closer he can see it is in fact a whole collection of different meticulously cut out coupons and vouchers for a whole array of grocery, clothing and cosmetic products. “Well hello dere ladies, ab I pleased to beat you!” he says with his eyes near popping out of his head “What’s dat? De cookig? Oh dat’s dothing, just tossing a few thigs together for de Turkey O.O.O. I bead dot like dat, we’d dot together, I do sobe work for hib dow and den, I gederraly work id fradvertisig. Oh you saw de rolls? Well bissy dere dothig, ho ho you binxes who want’s to cobe hobe with buncle Bikle and have a proper roll O.O.O!” He shuffles through the coupon pile before deciding that the Turkey might have ordered everything so meticulously that he would notice if the two for one bakewell tarts was missing hence he plumps for ‘30% off ecover washing powder’. “Cobe od ded I don’t live far frob, here, what’s dat you cadn’t wait dat log? Id de kitched? Oh by god dats so rude, but I like it cobe with be ded you binx!” and with that he takes the voucher to the corner to of the kitchen where he is least visible should the turkey come down the hatch. Once relieved, the ecover token is something of a mess, so rather than replace it he scrunches it up and shoves it behind the fridge with something of the guilt of a murderer. Feeling a little drowsy from all this activity he decides to sit on a kitchen chair and flop his head on the table for five minutes. No sooner has he done this it seems than he is awake again.

Feeling a sudden panic rising he gets up, twitches and shudders, then looks around. No Turkey, good. Check on Buckle. No no there is no Buckle, it comes flooding back, he’s on a balloon. Of course he is where else would he be? Check on? Check on what? Check on the rolls! He rushes over to the oven and opens it, reaches in to pull the tray out, horribly burns his hand, screams, mercifully doesn’t knock the ‘rolls’ out of the oven. Runs over to the tap and runs his hand under it. Once the pain has vaguely abated he returns with an oven cloth and retrieves his creations. The milk glaze that filled the tray has all evaporated and turned a dark brown and flakey consistency. The rolls themselves of course haven’t risen in the least and sit in the cooked milk as 16 dark brown and light brown (where the glaze didn’t reach them) small phallic shaped nuggets. “Hmmb dot quite what I had hoped for, but dot bad deverdeless!” The rolls are completely stuck to the tray so he takes a metal fishslice and whacks them hard until they mostly come away. These he then places on a hand plate. “dow for de soup!”. Opening the saucepan the situation isn’t too different from before except the water has boiled lower and the turnips are at least partially cooked and have disintegrated in places giving the water a slightly cloudy edge. “Dat looks good to be!” he says excitedly. So finding a couple of bowls he ladles out two bowls of the ‘soup’. Once extracted from its home it looks somewhat less appetizing (not that it looked that good in the saucepan). Each bowl essentially contains a thin cloudy liquid with two slightly heat degraded turnips sat in it. None of this however deters our hero. He gets a couple of spoons, two small plates (for the rolls), two knives and some butter which he talks to briefly with the words “See do problebs here, I don’t care if you’re cheese or dot!” He looks to the clock, 6:58, timed to perfection. “Soup and rolls bister Turkey! Get dem whilst dere hot!” and he gives a sly little wink to the coupons.


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Now as we all know this Bikle fellow isn’t really the nicest character in the world. For oh so many years he’s been sighing and huffing his way through life, complaining about that poor disabled brother of his, leering after anything female, bemoaning his failure yet at the same time doing nothing really to improve himself. This is the way with such fellows. The situation is now though that Bikle through, no real effort has got himself the plum job as head cleaner of a bunch of dishevelled parrotmen on board a giant magical hot air balloon heading itself towards the fabled plateau of leng (maybe). This he has achieved by being a such a strange sexual deviant that he is willing to have sexual congress with a giant perverse turkey. Of course he doesn’t want to engage in this pursuit indeed it seems repellent to him. The awfulness of it all is that this turkey, now on hard times himself, is willing to hide himself in a lifesized voucher/coupon costume in order to seduce the deviant Bikle into this exchange. Bikle seems, for now, to be successfully repressing the feathery contents of the coupon outfits and enjoying the whole affair enormously. In his shiny sailor suit with supervisors armband he becomes quite the little hitler. He does little mopping and cleaning himself but is sure to make sure the Thompsons pull their weight. A degree of natural bullying organisation seems to come to him quite easily and soon he has the Thompsons keeping a tight ship, especially when the Turkey acquieces to lend him his cattle prod. This blue clad cleaning Nazi can be seen prowling the decks, zapping the odd Thompson here and there making sure all is spotlessly clean. This life of Riley though after a couple of weeks begins to fill Bikle with a kind of ennui. Yes the cardboard costumes are still impeccably made but there definitely is a degree of repression needed to block out the Turkey like noises and replace them with an internal soundtrack emanating from a Voucheralla like mental entity. As he wanders down the interminable corridors of the balloon his mind wanders. He’s still happy enough to goo to the captains cabin but he also feels he needs something more. Then a thought strikes him, the shiny impeccably cut out coupon collection in the kitchen. Are they still there? Will they still like him after his dalliances with, and he gulps in guilt, fake vouchers. It strikes him like a sledge hammer. A giant cardboard coupon isn’t really a coupon at all, down there in the kitchen is the real deal. Almost sweating with excitement he hurries towards the culinary area. Bursting in he sees a Thompson at work with some food related task. “Thombsod! Out of here, dere’s poo on de floor id sector 2, dey deed your help right dow!” Thompson looks non-plussed, in the middle of making crème brulee such as he is and not having a clue where sector 2 is. “Poo sector 2 right dow Thombsod! Hopski for at least half ad hour or it will be de cattle prod for you !” With a look of fear and malice, Thompson leaves the crème brulee production and traipses off to god knows where. With the eyes of a Steerpike, Bikle shuts the door firmly behind him and locks it. “Dow by beauties, will you forgive be?” he beseeches salaciously, rummaging down the side of the toaster for where they were. And sure enough, they emerge in his trembling hand. ‘2 for 1 hats in primark’ ‘30% off 4 tins of Heinz beans’ (this one bikle considers pocketing ‘ 2p off a litre when you spend over £50 on Diesel’ ‘kids eat free at pizza express’ and so on. These tokens seems like an erotic wonderland to him and in an awful frenzy he rips off his sailor suit, grabs the olive oil and we leave this deviant to his practice.

And so the situation extended itself. Little Sailor Hitler Bikle continued to wander the airships corridors, dispensing cattle prod zaps and bullying kicks to the Thompsons, continued to be summoned to the captain’s cabin, where, in order to keep his position and partially out of some erotic enjoyment of the large coupon copies he dutifully performed. But between these activities, he sloped off for saucy times with the Turkey’s prize coupon collection, until as day after day turned into week after week he finally was forced to submit that the last coupon (which was the beans one in fact) was finally well and truly crippled and had to be despatched down the side of the dishwasher or fridge or whatever suitable place he could come up with with the rest of them. Each time this happened he has –as he once had before- this slight sensation of being a murderer who must hide the body. But of course they are just coupons he tells himself after his lust is slaked. Now it so happened that just as the last coupon was despatched and the sailor suit put back on, that shrill communication device rang loud. Slightly horrified that he might have to perform again so soon he edged slowly towards it, though knew it futile to ignore –or theThompsons would answer it and hand him the receiver. Sure enough down the line comes the familiar voice “Blblbp come to the captains cabin immediately” ‘Ho god! ‘ Thinks he and sets off his trudging way. Upon entering the cabin though there is no cardboard suit, no bowl of worming tablets or whatever they were and no drink. Just the Turkey in a fine tweed suit and panama. “Blblblbp time to land, need supplies, Sandwich islands beneath us , Stromness fine shopping centre, blblbp down we go, buy you a treat, a Sandwich! Blblblbp fine joke, on we go” Bikle looks very pleased in relief “Ho dats barvellous, yes de kitched is gettig a bit low id supplies, oil and sudch thigs *cough*” “Blblblblp no problem, list here, just need to pop to kitchen retrieve prize collection of discount tokens, look after pennies, pounds look after themselves eh Bikle?!” At this turns ashen “De *splutter* coupod collection?!?” “Yes, painstaking cut out, rigorously organised, good savings to be made blblblblblp!” “Yes but, do we deed to take deb with us!” The Turkey looks suddenly cognizant and sympathetic, “Blblblp of course, poor Bikle, coupon fetish, uncontrollable, not nice for you, wait here blblblbp Clancy will retrieve them, blblblp, you can wait outside shops.” “Berr but do we, do you deed de tokeds? A rich Turkey like yourself, scrimbig around wid a few discount tokens, its dot becobig of you!” “Blbllblblp, au contraire, always careful, like nice things but careful with pennies, mother always taught me that. Out of way now, balloon landing soon, keen for shopping bllblblblp!” “I really don’t thigk dis is fresessacry, frinfact let be pay, I’ve got sobe bodey frallegedly” “Won’t hear of it, out of way now, wasting time blblblbp” and off he bustles, past Bikle and down the winding corridors he goes, Bikle at his heels offering more and more reasons not to retrieve the tokens “BLblblp, don’t what’s got into you Bikle, blblblp churlish behaviour, please desist”. Eventually he reaches the kitchen door, the now visibly sweating Bikle looks on in horror as he enters the room and heads for the toaster. His feathery appendages reaches in, finds nothing, it rummages again, still nothing. Unperturbed he moves closer and applies his eye to the situation, now he sees that his quarry is in fact not there at all. “BLblblbp no coupons, most curious, Thompson have you seen them?” Thompson shakes his head and glances very slightly askance towards the ashen sweating Bikle. The Turkey peers slightly across at him “blblbp, know something about this Bikle?” Bikle, looks incredibly flustered but unashamedly blurts out “Do dothig to do wid, be do I did see dat bister Frost hagig around here ferlier” “Blblbp Frosty, on the balloon? Impossible, gainfully employed in kebab shop back home” “Berr den it was, Thompson, yes dats right, I’ve seed hib, I bet he burdered de bitches and hid de bodies” “Blblblblblp did he indeed, blblbp and where do you suppose he hid the bodies Bikle?” “Ho…” says Bikle, believing victorious exoneration is within grasp “dat’s easy, dere’s ode behind there, ode under de fridge, two behind de radiator, five stuck togeder at back of de washing bachine…” and so he goes on until he has clearly enumerated the position of every seed sodden defaced coupon in the kitchen. He emerges from this list to see the Turkey glaring balefully at him and realises he has done nothing but incriminate himself “BLblblbp prize coupons ruined, infidelity, mutiny, seize him Thompson!” despite considerably loathing the tweed clad Turkey it has not taken much to make Bikle a far more hated being, and as such they have no compunction about reaching towards him menacingly. Backed into this corner, Bikle is unexpectedly less cowardly than usual. No doubt buoyed by the cattle prod, he whips this weapon out and wields it at his would be captors. “Keep back, or you get dose of dis!” “Blblblp dose of what Bikle?” says the Turkey. Bikle looks again and finds he is holding nothing more than a large cucumber “Really! Blblblp maybe you’d like a dose of this Bikle, let him have it Thompson” and now Thompson who is actually wielding the cattle prod gives Bikle a zap, others crowd in with various weapons and Bikle is lost beneath the mob of squawking birdmen. “Blblblp take him below!”

Back at Morris’.

“Dear old Mr Filkin’s who runs the corner shop?” “The very same my sweet septic origami hamster, except no longer can he sell the penny chews and candy cigarettes, no longer can he peddle the cola cubes and pineapples cubes and apricot cubes and wheat rhombi, and durian flavoured pan dimensional flying saucers and Simon le Bon bons, did you get the durian joke reference there my entropic wombat?” “What the fuck? No, yes, Filkins? What did he ever…” “The joke my little ineptitude of comedic processing turns on the similarity of the word durian to the word duran and hence from there to duran duran and thus to Simon Le bon bon the well known vocalist of said outfit, Durian durian” “I don’t care about your stupid durian joke, I wanted to know why you burnt poor Mr Filkins to death?” “A fascinating question my sweet and one that in fact has answer beyond the scope mere whim. Are you aware of a race of spirit beings known as the Ag-Rabth?” “No Morris why the fuck should I be?” “A full answer requires your knowledge at least vaguely of these beings. The Ag-Rabth are a wretched unholy foul bunch by and large though they do have a rather fine line in access to various levels of existence no oft travelled by many, even my good self. However it has so happened that certain rites that fell into my possession have facilitated my ability to access a dialogue with said Ag-Rabth and means of compelling them to give me access to these strange passages beneath passages. One of these rites, to be performed sometime in the near future requires, and I quote ‘the onlooking soul of a shopkeeper of confectionary who met his end in dreadful and fiery manner’.  And as you will be aware, if you would care to watch this video Johnson made of Filkin’s end, that it was both fiery and dreadful, he fits the bill, no pun intended Johnson, perfectly. Johnson, the footage.” “No Morris, I don’t think that’s necessary…” But Johnson has already hooked up his phone to the tv via Bluetooth and is playing the footage. Filkins emerges from his corner shop, lights a cigarette and erupts into a column of flame, screaming he runs down the street a couple of meters before collapsing.”Wind it on a bit Johnson, this bit goes on for ages.” So Johnson zooms the footage forwards to a stage in which there is just a smouldering pile of ash and bone, a Johnson in workman like clothes comes on screen with a large dustpan and brush and sweeps up the remains expertly.” “see that my sweet, metal dustpan and brush, plastic would melt at the temperatures involved, now you might be wondering, how is morris going to get the soul from that pile of smouldering ash and bones, ho ho watch on!” Yolanda stares on horrified, Morris appears on screen and speaks “now Johnson take these remains on a mystical slog up yonder mountain so I may extract the soul!” Johnson looks askance at the mysteriously appeared snowy mountain in the distance, back to Morris’s steely gaze and back to the mountain, with a resigned ‘mwaaerk’ trudges off towards the mountain. When Johnson is suitably out of sight. Morris hails Les Dawson Johnson over “Ho ho look Johnson, I already have the soul here.” And the laughing Morris can be seen gesturing towards a small phial, in which can just be made out a tiny glowing blue figure “Poor old Johnson is going on a false herring as they say.” “Mwaaerk” “Red Derek? What are you talking about Johnson. I do not believe am mistaken, and indeed I am not and here comes Red Derek and his false herring to prove it!” a strange red faced man enters from camera left clutching a plastic fish, the words “of course its not a real herring, that’s the point…” can be heard before the picture cuts out. “So you see my little banana spider I require Filkins soul to perform this dread rite, which if my calculations are correct can take place on the 29th of november” “That’s all very well Morris, but it’s the 30th today.” “the 30th what?” “Fucks sake the 30th of November.” “Oh dear that is rather unfortunate and renders Filkin’s untimely demise a little pointless, I was sure the time had not yet past, it must have been all those wagon wheels.” “Still all’s well that ends well eh Johnson?” “What do you mean Morris, are you going to resurrect him?” “No my sweet, I made a humorous reference to the fact Johnson here can now tip Filkins ethereal essence into the well of souls in the back garden, a line that has become something of a catchphrase between us ‘all’s well that ends well’ geddit?” “But what about the sweet shop?” “Fear not my little oak bureau, dodgy single cigarette selling Johnson here will take on the brief and red Derek will help out at evenings and weekends.”

Back on the balloon the power is going further to Bikle’s head. “Ho ho dow look here Thobsod’s who’s de daddy dow!? Fidally I’b a bajor villad like character wid by owd race of servitor beigs. I’ve got by owd ballood, by bagic cucumber ad a few discarded life sized coupod bodels, thigs are lookig up Bikle, or should I say captaid Bikle” The Turkey groans limply on the floor attracting Bikle’s attention. With a cruel eye Bikle gives him a pixie booted kick. “blblblblp ouch!” the turkey manages to groan “Take dis feathery frabomidation to a bunpleasant roob sobewhere and keep ad eye od hib, chaid him up!” This triumphant call to action however is greeted with confusion as of course the Thompson’s themselves are feathery, old enmities emerge as each Thompson tries to determine which one is the feathery abomination. A series of loud ‘wakarks’ break out as various factions try to overpower others. Bikle tries to shout above them in vain “Do you ditwits, de Turkey get de Turkey!!” only one Thompson seems to hear him, a small bald Thompson that looks somehow familiar to him. Looking quizzically on the Thompson remarks “Wakark!” which to Bikle’s resonates with “What Turkey, I don’t see any Turkey!” It’s all too much for our dubiously empowered protagonist and he lets loose with the magic cucumber rendering the Thompson as naught but dust in seconds. The other Thompsons come round from their squabble “De Turkey, take de fuckig Turkey to a roob and lock de fucker up!” The Thompson’s forget their squabbles suddenly and understand what is required. They then unceremoniously drag the poisoned foul from the room. Only a faint and fading ‘”realllyy….” Can be heard as he is taken away. “Dow ded, he says, tibe for de shoppig, let’s take dis baby dowd to de Sandwich island, de sandwiches are od be!” This comment too is lost on the stupid Thompson’s who inspect him closely for sandwiches. “Oh get off be you two!” he cries as he bustles his way towards the controls. Mercifully for Bikle, that balloon controls have been attached to a kind of games controller and so with relative ease (and mild weather conditions) he is able to land the balloon in a field within walking distance of the edge of what appears to be a quite large settlement. “Thombsod, secure de ballood, Thombsod, get de wonga!” It is at this point that Bikle learns again there is more to controlling a race of single named entities than meets the eye. The Thompsons have no idea whether to secure the balloon or ‘get the wonga’ and secondly they have no idea what ‘wonga’ is, hence they look at him with a confused “wakark!” “ho god I deed a system for dese creatures, look you ged be de Turkey’s bodey!” “wakark!” shouts Thompson and trundles off “You two secure dis ballood!” And so after some time the balloon is secured and Bikle is brought a wallet jammed full of US dollars. “Ho ho dere we are! Right Thompod you cobe wid be!” at which point all the Thompsons begin to pour out of the balloon to follow Bikle “Do do you fridiots, dot all of you! Stop stop!” The Thompson’s stop “You you ad you follow be! De rest of you guard de ballood ad keep ad eye od de Turkey!” This instruction is clearly too complex too but Bikle has had enough, at least his entourage of two have understood. So leaving the imbroglio surrounding the balloon, Bikle and the Thompons head off towards Stromness. Many people would like to envisage Stromness as a tiny ex-whaling station with little population, when in fact Stromness is a bustling metropolis of over 200,000 people. Bikle and the Thompon’soon find a road that takes them towards the fine place. The weather is clement but the Thompon’s soon begin to complain about tiredness. Bikle deals with this insurrection with threat of cucumber and they rally. After several hours of walking roadside and then through the increasing urbanisation they come across a freshways hypermarket. The Thompson’s point and gesture excitedly “Ah yes dat’s right Thompsod, dat’s where I was takig you!” says Bikle with an air of faux knowledge. The Thompsons look a little sideways at him but otherwise ignore. Inside the spacious freshways they acquire a trolley and Bikle tries to head for the baked beans aisle. At first he pays little heed as a trundles past the baguette aisle, indeed he doesn’t manage much more attention for the subsequent sandwich alley, by the time the third aisle filled with deli wraps is traversed Bikle becomes suspicious. “Dere’s sobethig disconcertig about dis place, its albost as if…” his tone trembles “it’s albost as if dere’ cheese everywhere!” “Wakark!” say the Thompsons who don’t know the significance and wouldn’t care either, being much more concerned to find the cracker aisle “It’s as if de ghost of Buckle is here to haunt be wid his cheese related tobfoolery! Well you hear be Buckle, I’b de baster dow and I didn’t think dere’d be cheese whether dere fris fror dot! Onward to the bead aisle Thombsod!” yet of course the next aisle is another bread with filling related aisle as is the next and the next and the next. Bikle becomes weary “what is dis sandwich related hell?! Where are de beads? Where is de booze! Ho what’s dat?!” the thing that has picqued Bikle’s interest is nothing but a full sized adult santa suit, replete with false beard. “Ho dow look at dat Thompsod! What a sdazzy suit, and I deed a dew outfit for by dew role as baster villad! Pop it id de trolley!!” but the Thompsons are not listening as one aisle turns out to stacked entirely with cracker sandwiches of differing kinds. This sends the Thompsons into a kind of frenzy of piling the trolley as fully of these as they possibly can in almost no time at all “Thombsod! I said get de suit! Ho God what have you dode?!” he looks horrified at the piles of cracker sandwiches that fill the trolley but in a second thought cannot stand the idea of dealing with getting the Thompsons to unload them or getting a new trolley. So with an air of resignation he gets the suit down himself, lies it on top of the cracker-sandwich mountain in the trolley and heads for the checkout. This process takes an age as of course there are hundreds of packets of individually wrapped cracker sandwiches to process but eventually it and the santa suit are put through and the US dollars transaction occurs with no hiccup. Bikle and the Thompson’s are just about to leave the store when he is tapped on the shoulder. “H’what?!” “H’o h’excuse be sir, h’I’b sorry to h’ask but have you h’paid for that cucumber?” the small bald attendant looks at him with an unpleasant smile. “Do do dis is by cucumber, I didn’t get it id de shop” “Ho I’b sorry sir, we’ve got footage of you h’picking it up in the h’salad bar!” “What don’t talk dodsense, dis place is full of cheese!” “Oh I’b sorry sir, if you’ll just hand the cucumber over or h’pay for it, you can get on with your h’day!” “Do do dis is by cucumber, and its bagic! Don’t trifle wid be!” “There’s no h’trifle sir! Now if you’d be so h’kind to hand over the cucumber!” “Right well ded, you’ve frasked for dis?!” and with a flick of the cucumber and a ‘h’aaaigh!’ the security assistant is reduced to dust. “Do tibe to hag around dow boys, rud for it!” and he and the Thompsons make off as fast as they can across the freshways car park, on there heels they can hear the voices of more security guards “Uhuhuhuh come back here with that cucumber, with our tools!” “Ho dot likely!” and he flashes a burst of magic at them which disintegrates a nearby bollard “uhuhuh that was close with our tools!” So then in a highly improbable way Bikle and the Thompsons push a large shopping trolley piled high with prefilled individually wrapped cracker sandwiches and a santa suit down the roads of Stromness, back up the major highway from Leith, into the field and back to the Balloon “By god dat was frexhaustig! Quick boys put de crackers into de ballood! I’ll get de suit!” And so the ill gotten gains are piled into the balloon. Bikle can just see the two clowns crossing the stile at the fields edge as the last packet is loaded onboard. A strong wind blows up in the nick of time and the moorings are released. Bikle dons the santa suit and sits at the helm of the balloon with the games controller, a packet of crackers, a bottle of sherry that he found in the Turkey’s quarters and the dread cucumber. The balloon soars upwards “Odwards by beauties! Od to Leg where de treasures of de elder odes await us frattatatatata!”

Several thousand miles away a dry voice intones “Oh my oh my Johnson, what does he look like now?”

Some section is missing.

“Close enough Johnson, although I suspect that Metallurgical Johnson behind the sofa there may have whispered the answer to you, but all good teamwork when all’s said and done. Which reminds me, I quite fancy another shandy.” Jolly Jack Tar Johnson appears and launches with gusto into a rousing version of “Blow The Man Down.” Morris eyes him not uncritically. “Not wholly bad, Johnson, a spirited rendition certainly, all though not without some technical imperfections, but on the whole, acceptable. I should consider trading in your nautical attire for some other garb, at least for the duration of this episode, sailor suits having currently become somewhat synonymous with degrading interspecies balloon based sexual shenanigans.”Yolanda re enters the living room holding a newspaper. “Morris, have you seen this? SB’s on the front pages!” She hands him the tabloid, which has a blurry picture of a gangly man in a cheap Santa suit, running across a car park pushing a trolley full of items, under the headline “Santa Bandit Strikes Again! Xmas Offender on a provender bender!” A second paper has a similar picture clearly harvested from a supermarket CCTV camera, and has run with the line “Santa Bandit On Naughty List! Balloonatic Christmas Criminal In New Cracker, Sherry, Oil Raid.””Ho ho, marvellous, it would appear that string bean has become quite the media sensation Yolanda! I cannot wait to see what he gets up to next, not that I have to of course, as I can merely fast forward reality once again, to a point where something amusing transpires, missing out all that boring stuff with that Turkey bastard trying to escape from his erstwhile love slave, plummeting accidentally to a painful doom, and being resurrected as a giant robot version of himself, bent on a terrible vengeance. In fact I have already done so, Look!””Morris! No! I am supposed to be at aquaaerobics this afternoon! And then going with Kelly to buy Christmas presents!” “Ho ho, leaving it a bit late aren’t you ‘Landa?” “Late? It’s not even halfway through November!” “Au contraire my little plesiosaur, it is in fact, Christmas Eve!” With a sweep of his arm, he draws back the curtain from the French windows, to reveal a snow covered garden, in which Disguised As A Robin Johnson is gamely attempting to perch on a gatepost with a twig of Holly in his beak. “Oh for fuck’s sake Morris, you absolute and total cock end. Christmas sodding eve! And no shopping done! And we’ve got the Johnsons coming round for drinks later.”*Ding dong* “Ah that’ll be the Johnsons now, you’d best hop back onto your light blue Honda and scoot down the shops eh ‘Lands?” “Morris you really are insufferable! And I don’t have a sodding Honda, or any kind of transport, and the shops will all be shut by now, as it’s apparently Christmas bastard eve all of a sudden, except for the one that Simon runs, not the other Simon, but original crap Simon, and I’m not going all the way there just to end up punching him in the ear, because of his “Oh what lager, I don’t see any lager” bollocks, and so the Johnsons will just have to drink Dennis’s horrible homebrew wine, and then they’ll get really hammered and end up throwing up everywhere, and you Morris can fucking clean it up, because I have had enough.”i “You’re the bloody wizard, you sort it out with magic why don’t you?” “Ho ho, my excitable little Palm Court Orchestra, I already have, the magic that is, of online shopping! Johnson, the front door if you please…” Johnson obliges, and in troop various delivery Johnsons, carrying cases of beer and other drinks, buckets of ice, huge platters full of delicious looking party snacks and so on. Promising Acoustic Artist Johnson ambles in with his guitar, Helpful Johnson sets up a cloakroom in the cupboard under the stairs, DJ Riddim Johnson wheels in his big bass speakers and on it goes, until all the ingredients for a swell party are in place. “Now if you will excuse me a moment my little deeply corrupt forestry official, where was I? Oh yes, giant robot replica, this should be good….”

Published in: on May 12, 2018 at 7:43 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 8 (Finale)

Bikle sits on the sofa in a distinctly dejected state. Looking around him at the clean, well decorated, tastefully laid out internet cafe, he is forced to admit to himself that he couldn’t have got the old place looking half as good as this in a month of Sundays. This leads him to accept that throughout all his travails and traumas, he has always had the final reassurance of being at least superior to Buckle, of never quite being the absolutely lowest of the low, but now even that comfort is denied to him with Bickle’s newfound intelligence and savoir faire. A tear falls from his eye, and a soft sob of self pity comes from his throat. Perhaps Percivella could cheer him up? Then in a further instant of self awareness, he sees himself as others must see him, a creature so utterly beyond contempt as to be barely real, with so little self esteem that he has been forced to create his own unique fetish, where he can visualise a whole actual, if dysfunctional, relationship with a takeaway pizza menu or an Aldi discount voucher. Worse, he remembers the times when his papery paramours have actually spurned his advances. His mind reels as it dawns upon him that deep down, he actually finds himself so repugnant that he has subconsciously rejected himself, albeit through the medium of a shoddily printed booklet extolling the virtues of a particular brand of medical wigs. “Ho by God. I’b a bodster. De lowest of de low. Lower dan dat.” He remembers that the only actual living creature to have made any overtures of an intimate nature in many years was Chonsoix de Bon Onsoir, who would cheerfully penetrate a roasting pony. He remembers Bockle’s transcendent mirth at the very idea that his, Bikle’s existence was in any way at all a thing to be endured, let alone valued. “Ho god, I deed a drink!” Remembering Buckle’schange, he goes into his pockets, “Three quid! I cad get two bottles of Special Red for dat!” But there is no money there, frantically he checks all his pockets. No money. Nothing. Dashed, he is for a moment at a complete loss, then has an idea. “De cupboard! Perhaps dere’s sobe of dat white spirit left! Dat always gets de job dode!” Rushing over to the kitchenette, he pulls open the cupboard door, and sure enough there is a whole bottle of Uncle Morris’s Extra Flammable seeming to wink cheekily at him. Mixing a liberal dose with the remains of Buckle’s cola he raises the glass, “Dowd de hatch eh boys!”  and tosses of the oily accelerant. “Hbbbb, dot bad, perhaps a little ibpertidedt, but dothig dat bore of de sabe wod’t cure!” After another couple of neat shots, he begins to wonder if there is anything else in the cupboard which will help get the party started, and begins to rummage about amongst thebin stained oddments. Various sachets of condiments gleaned from the pavements outside late night takeaways are scornfully dismissed, as is a half empty packet of baking soda and some macaroni. Emptying another bean can half full of white spirit he notices a shiny box that he doesn’t remember having seen before, “Ho what’s dis den? Dog worbig tablets? Cad’t hurt cad it? You dod’t see bany biserable doggies do you? Cobe to Bikle you binxes!”Tearing open the box he begins to tip handfuls of the bright pink tablets down his scrawny gullet, washing them down with copious swallows of Extra Flammable. Just as he has finished the lot there is a knock at the newly replaced door.

The scene switches to Morris’s living room, where the man himself is engaged with tinkering with an ancient grandfather clock made of some strange wood, darker than ebony, and chased with designs of blasphemous and unsettling nature. “Morris! What are you doing to the clock? Are you going to make a mess? I’ve got book club tonight remember?” Morris stands back and fashions a roll up. “Book club you say? Well you do don’t you? Look!” And sure enough, there is Yolanda’s book group, Executioner Johnson, Keeper Of The Unreadable Scrolls Of Atlantis Johnson, Mrs Furnisson,  who looks somewhat distracted, Carl the Dentist, who keeps looking around nervously, and Herbert Jackson, who she only let in as a favour to Morris, and keeps wanting them to read Voltaire. She sees that outside the French windows, where a moment ago there shone the bright cheerful sun of a summer’s afternoon, there is now only the dim crepuscular twilight of dusk. “Oh for fuck’s sake Morris, what have you done now?” “A mere slight adjustment to the fabric of time my little Jeep Cherokee Sport, in order to facilitate a certain narrative I have catapulted the entire omniverse forward about six hours.” “Oh for fuck’s sake you massive dickhead, I had a hairdresser’s appointment at half past three.” “Never mind my little parasitic Hagfish, although your hair looks fine to me, Tonsorial Johnson here would be more than happy to give you a swift makeover? Now if you will excuse me I have amusing business to attend to elsewhere.”

The scene shifts once again to a narrow country lane, where hedges long untrimmed, seem to hem one in, and the branches of the trees which grow along the way, interlace and twine amongst each other overhead, shutting out the last fading glow of the setting sun. In the deep shadows is an expensive Mercedes saloon, from the open window of which comes a familiar voice, tinged with an unusual nervous quality. “Wretched vehicle! Out of fuel! Blplplp! No wallet in pyjamas! Blbplplblp, Shanks’s pony! Long way from home!” Slamming the car door behind him, the Turkey begins, with many a look over his shoulder, to plod along the darkened lane. “Blbplplblp! Not fan of this place! Reminiscent of childhood trauma! Poor Pepe! Poor Clancy!” As he walks, his feelings of unease grow more acute, until they almost constitute a solid foreboding of some ill event which is to befall him. Drawing his thin pyjama jacket closer around him in a vain attempt to ward off the gathering chill, he trudges along his fearful way, jumping at every rustle in the hedgerow. From some distance comes a strange high pitched noise, “toooot toooot!” Clancy stops and listens, there it is again, and appreciably closer this time. Despite his best efforts to stay cheerful,  a chill sweat is forming on the back of his neck. “Blplplp! Doubtless an owl!” But in his heart he knows that it is not the cry of any owl that was ever hatched upon this earth, and when the sound comes a third time, louder still, from back down the lane where he left Dr Furnisson’s car, he begins to trot, then jog in the hopes of avoiding that which is inexorably approaching. “Blbplplblp! Huff! Puff! Not liking this much!” Over his own panting, he can now make out a louder, harsher puffing noise, which is growing louder with every moment, and a rattling, clanking, metallic racket, which increases until he can no longer hear his wheezes and snorts, as he runs in terror from this approaching cacophony, not daring to look back, lest he stumble. An eerie light begins to suffuse the hedgerows, throwing a distorted shadow of the Turkey in front of him as if to mock him with it’s ungainly, floundering motions, then, from just behindhim, comes a shrill, ear-splitting “TOOOOT TOOOOT!” Clancy shrieks and throws himself to the ground in terror, and the puffing, clanking THING stops at his very heels”Blplplp! Oh please! Mercy!” He screams, but his blood turns to ice as a voice he recognises only too well replies in a tone dripping with gleeful malice, “Blbplplblp! Not likely! No mercy for you from Mr Sparky! Turn round! Face fate!” Scrabbling in the dust, the prostrate fowl turns, and reels back in horror. There in front of him is the twisted wreckage of Mr Sparky’s Super Overland Train Express, steam billowing from its twisted funnel, and glowing with a horrible eerie luminosity. Peering vengefully from the cab is Mr Sparky himself, he too seems to give off the same unearthly green glow. Shambling forward, his blood smeared, shattered head dangling limply from a broken neck, is Porter Thompson, beckoning with his one unmutilated wing. “Come on now! Blplplp! All aboard! Travel for all eternity in hideous torment!” Clancy abases himself further, pleading, “Blplplplbbb! Rather not! Beg mercy! ForMother’s sake!” Mr Sparky sneers, “Not my mother! You told me that! Too late now for appeals! All aboard the dead man’s train!” “Dead?” whimpers Clancy, “But how?” “Blbplplblp! Plenty of time for explanations later. All the time in the world in fact! Blplplp, but perhaps it will help make things clear if you were to meet your conductor for this journey? Blbplplblp!” From the train carriage steps a tall, graceful figure in a black conductor’s uniform, looking down at Clancy’s dust covered, sweaty pyjama clad form, he slowly grins a wide, sharp toothed grin. “Meow meow, Ticketsss pleasssse!” “Blplplp Blplplp! No ticket! Can’t ride train! Another day perhaps! Toodle oo!” He tries to run but realises that his feet are not touching the ground. He looks round and stares straight into the empty dead eyes of Porter Thompson, whose unbroken wing has him in a grip of steel. “Oh I’m sssure that that won’t be a problem sssir.”smiles the suave figure in black, “In fact I believe that I have your ticket for this journey right here, now let me jussst sssee.” So saying, he draws from his tunic a long, slender dagger, which gleams menacingly in the hateful green light and advances upon his foe. With the strength of desperation, Clancy manages to tear free from Porter Thompson, leaving his torn pyjama jacket in his grasp. Stricken with utter fear he flings himself in supplication at Mr Sparky. “Please Mr Sparky! Please!” he sobs as he takes hold of the other’s wings pleadingly, “I beg you! Blplplp! Don’t want to die! Want to live! Atone for sins! Don’t let the cat man murder me! Oh mercy! Is this the end for little Clancy?” He draws his wings back and wrings them together prayer fashion. As he does so, he sees, that they too have become faintly luminous. “Blplplp! What’s this?” For a moment he is afraid that it is some eldritch contamination, a sign that he is already becoming one with the netherworld of the Damned, then another, somehow more awful fear begins to dawn upon him. Snatching up a piece of his torn jacket, he throws himself upon his glowing double and vigorously rubs at his face. The strange luminescence transfers itself to the rag, leaving Mr Sparky’s grinning face looking perfectly normal. “Blplplp! Took you long enough! Blbplplblplblp! Ashamed to be psychic twin of such juggins!” Clancy’s heart sinks as he hears the familiar laugh from further down the train, and sure enough, there, inevitably, is Morris, wiping a tear from his eye with the sleeve of his denim jacket as he climbs out of the carriage. “Ho ho, oh dear, I think this is one of my favourites so far. Oh dearie me. You fell for that one hook line and monkey didn’t you you turkey bastard? Ho ho, “please please don’t kill me Mr Sparky!” My stars it was a marvellous performance, almost put me off my Hofmeister, Perhaps you should get a cloak and  move in with SB, I hear he’s short a comedy sidekick these days.” “Blbplplblp! Not funny! You bastard Morris! Get you for this!” “Blplplp not likely! Not with that mouse in your ear! And no trousers!” *Whisk!* “Blplplp! Really! But why?”

Morris light a roll up, and takes on something of the air of a detective at the end of a TV show explaining whodunit. “Well my underlying motive was of course my deep dislike of you, you turkey bastard, and concomitant upon that, the huge enjoyment that I derive from seeing you fall apart piteously whenever you land neck deep in the old Brown Windsor as it were, but the main motivation was the two thirty gallon drums of luminous paint that Dennis foisted upon me last Walpurgisnacht. Every time I went into the shed to repair a lawnmower there they were, cluttering up the old place, so I says to meself, “Morris me old cock, there’s a fine escapade here if only you had the wit to see it, then Dave Furnisson here moved in over the strasse, and the rest pretty much wrote itself.” Necromantic Johnson ambles out from the guards van with a Freshways carrier full of cans, and hands them out to Morris Mr Sparky, who takes a long swig and leers at Clancy. “Blplplp! Bumped into Morris outside Furnissons, explained situation, made me off couldn’t refuse! And here we are! Blbplplblp! Most enjoyable evening!” Clancy stamps his foot. “Own psychic twin! Blplplp! Treachery!” He gestures over his shoulder, “Suppose this just Disguised As Cat Man Johnson! Whole charade transparent! Merely going along with it!” Morris shakes his head, Oh no, that’s Dave Furnisson all right, the real deal. As is, I might as well mention, the dagger of Balthazar which he is about to plunge into your feathery spine unless I am very much mistaken, which of course I am not, as I never am…” The rest of this sentence is lost upon Clancy however, as with a leap, he has taken to his heels and departed with a series of pitiful shrieks. Dr Furnisson accepts a can of Hofmeister from Necromantic Johnson, and lights a cheroot. “Meow! Just like old times eh Mr Cutler?” “Indeed Dave, now I’d best be getting along, those dog tablets should just about be kicking in and doing interesting things to whatever is left of poor SB’s gray cells, can we drop you back at your motor?” “That’d be handy aye, best get back and see Ssssandra and the kiddies.” “Hop in then, full steam ahead Mr Sparky!” “Blplplp! Aye aye Skipper! Blbplplblp!”

Back at chez Bikle things don’t look good. The unctuous intoxicant is beginning to work its way into the brain. The door knock creates a kind of double motion. He’s excited at the thought of someone arriving, almost like it is a party, but then simultaneously wracked with a guilt for being caught with his tool in the cookie jar so to speak. Hastily shoving the empty dog worming tablet box and white spirit back in the cupboard he slightly staggers his way over to the door before nervously opening it. He is greeted by a Johnson who suggests he should open the door a bit more with a forceful “Mwaaerk!” Partially addled, Bikle opens the door and in strides the Johnson. This Johnson is wearing a slightly bizarre orange lycra one piece dungaree style outfit and carries a string bag with some bottles in it. Half remembering what he is supposed to be doing Bikle glances between the Johnson and the café before speaking in a kind of mix of Simon and himself “Ho welcobe to Bikle’s frinderdet café, what cad I get you? interdet perhaps?” and then he starts giggling. “Mwaaerk!” says Johnson pointing to one of the computellies “Ho of course sir, adythig for a chub!” The Johnson appears to a certain wry smile to his beak, he eyes Bikle for a second before giving him a flipper to the behind then marches over to the computer and logs on. Bikle feels a little curious at this assault upon his person but in another sense half doesn’t really register it, frankly he’s more sozzled by the second and has no idea what if anything he should be doing or saying to his customer in terms of cost or regulation and tries to sidle surreptitiously back towards the cupboard to retrieve himself another drink.

This is a strange site to behold. Johnson keeps looking up from his computer to glance at Bikle who moves sheepishly between glances. Each time Johnson glances up, Bikle stops, looks back and smiles drunkenly in an attempt to intimate ‘nothing doing here’. But the gross repetition of this phenomena each few seconds looks like the pair are making strange eyes at each other. Eventually he reaches the cupboard and slightly opens it with care. This isn’t going too badly until he misjudges reaching for the bottle and knocks a number of other items over in large crashing sound. The dog worming box, the macaroni, an old hoover part, a large cardboard box and a dusty plastic jug all come tumbling down with the desired beverage. “Bollocks ad fuck!” he shouts, quite forgetting the customer. He is rummaging around on the floor trying to pick the various items up and variously shove them back in when he can feel a shadow over him. “Mwaaerk.” The sound is slightly breathy as the Johnson leans right over his bent form to helpfully pick up the plastic bottle. Johnson lingers in this position maybe a little longer than Bikle is comfortable with, he can feel the orange lycra pressed slighty against his back and rear. Then the Johnson is vertical again and Bikle too rights himself. “Mwaaerk?” says Johnson looking enquiringly at the liquid. “Berr its dothig, just sobe bediced, yes dats right, I’ve got worbs ad dis is de bediced.” “Mwaaerrk!” says Johnson and taps his beak knowingly. Bikle smiles in a paranoid looking manner and watches as Johnson gets an empty coffee and seems to gesture to Bikle that he should pour him a shot. Bikle drunkenly feigns that he wasn’t drinking it recreationally “Oh do do, dat’s dot what I beant, bediced you dow, for de worbs!” but Johnson will not be stayed and grabs the clear bottle and its iniquitous contents off him, expertly opening it and pouring a generous measure “Mwaaerk?” he offers the bottle back to Bikle, who seeing the game is up, pours himself another drink in the bean can. The two strange drinking partners down the shots of white spirit before Johnson, holding the bottle once more flippers to the chillax area of the café suggesting they sit down for the next one. “Ho god, go od ded, it’s dice to have sobe compady you dow really.” “Mwaaerk!” intones Johnson knowingly and the two sit on the sofa together and have another drink. Bikle’s head is nearly swimming by now, he fancies the dog worming tablets are beginning to kick in a bit, all those happy dogs he thinks, dogs are so happy, soon I’ll be a happy dog he thinks only to find he is saying “Fri’ll be a happy dog sood…” in a half dazed manner. At this comment Johnson looks on at him and seems to have that wry beaky smile again, the white spirit bottle emerges once more and a certain darkness takes over proceedings.

Dawn breaks once more over the crap flat. Buckle with something of a spring in his step, makes his way back towards his residence –clearly having been out all night. It’s about 7:30 in the morning, as he climbs the stairs he passes a Johnson hurrying his way out in a curious one piece orange lycra. He thinks nothing of it and reaches the landing where the door is. The door, his new door that he put on is actually open, slightly at least. This is the first thing to catch his attention. “Bikle!” he calls as he puts his head in “Bikle, de doors oped, frar you balright?” Buckle takes one step into the flat, slips and falls straight on his backside “Bohhhhh! What de fuck?!” after picking himself up he tries to understand what’s happened, it doesn’t take him long. “Oil? Od de floor, but where has dat cobe frob?” He picks himself up carefully to avoid slipping again and looks into the café area. And what a sight it is.

Some of the chairs are knocked over and one of the computellies is lying on the floor with a cracked screen. The cupboard in the corner is wide open with various things from it lying on the floor nearby (macaroni, plastic jug, dog worming tablets box etc). He begins to be incensed at his brothers lack of respect for his work, this sense ire reaches new heights as glances to ‘chillax’ area. The bijou sofa and surround seems to be covered in what he presumes is oil whilst an empty plastic bottle and two paper coffee cups lie nearby. Looking down he can see a sleek trail runs from this oily seating area across the floor to where he stands and past him into the bedroom, to which the door is closed. Anger runs through him, his lovely internet café: ruined! “Bikle!” he shouts angily “By god you bastard, what de fuck have you dode?” There is only silence so he makes his way over to the bedroom taking care not to slip. “Bikle you frudbelievable shit head, what have you beed doing?” he shouts as he enters the room. There is still no stirring from his brother, who frankly makes a disturbing site. Naked and half uncovered by the sheets, blatantly smothered (as is the bed) in the same greasy liquid, he lies sleeping soundly. Lying with him, indeed grasped by him is what seems to be a large piece of cardboard. Buckle in horror has a double take at this phenomenon. Also covered in oil it seems to be what was a cardboard box, now squashed flat. On this flattened card in large badly scrawled letters the word ‘leaflet’ can be just about made out. What is worst there seems to be a kind of hole in the cardboard just below the halfway line which Buckle fancies, owing to the darkness of the area is especially covered in lubricant. The whole scene fills him with a thorough disgust but not seeing any merit in chastising his sibling now and aware that the café needs to be up and running soon he closes the door and goes to clean up.

And what happened next gentle reader, will be for another day.




Published in: on July 28, 2017 at 9:50 am  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 7

Buckle of course, oblivious to this unfortunate heading waves cheerily and the horrified onlookers. The cheery wave though lasts only a moment as finally the train inevitably comes to an undignified halt by crashing into the bins outside the front of Bikle’s flat. The back end flies up in the air and guardsman Thompson is sent hurtling over the front of the crashed train into the rubbish pile only to be followed by the four Somalian computers. The first strikes him a terrible blow to the middle of his back, another lands hard against his left walking appendage, the next crashes hard into a wing and as a coup de grace the last deals a sickening sounding blow to his head. Sadly for Bikle, his brother is largely unscathed and leaps with enthusiasm from the wreckage “Ho dat was barvellous Br sparky, cad we have adother go!?” Dragging his scrawny being from the wreckage whilst keeping an eye on the circling, gathering people Bikle slowly gets up. “Ho by god, dot likely! Dow where are dose computellies?” “Dere under de dead Thombsod dere Br Sparky but I don’t thig you should have dem, dere Bikle’s you see, he’s goig to oped de tiny podey café wid dem!” Seeing the futility of arguing Bikle makes a smart decision “Yes dat’s right, Br Sparky just wants to help Bikle, ad sidce de Thobsod is dead and Bikle has god, we better get de tidy podies, I bean computellies up to de flat?” “Ho good fridea Br Sbarky let’s get deb up dere!” “I thigk we’d better Buckle or it looks a bit like burderous bob will turd up!” Buckle goes pale “Burderous Bob! Ho by god, I don’t like hib Br Sbarky!” “Do deither do I but he can’t hurt you whilst your carryig a computelly, so best to pick ode up quick!” Buckle obeys this instruction with some alacrity and follows ‘Mr Sparky’ up the stairs to the squalid flat with the each gangly individual managing improbably two Somalian machines. Back  outside the flat, some of the onlookers have clearly now called the police and the mood is souring variously amongst them. Once inside Bikle feels little at ease as he notes with some horror that of course the door is splintered off its hinges since the last time ‘Burderous Bob’ came to visit, still huffing and puffing Buckle and he finally manage to get the machines inside. Once piled in the middle of the floor Bikle looks down fondly at tatty looking technology “Look at dat Buckle, de future looks pretty bright frob where I’b standig!” “Ho what is dat Br Sparky? Fractually Br Sbarky, did you dow you sound a lot like by brother Bikle?” “Ho god!” Bikle shouts with the usual exasperation, “Frag od a bidute!” and with that he disappears into the bed room. In here he hoped to find some better clothes but in fact can only see Simon’s old outfit from before, thinking this is better than the frilly ensemble he once more dons the newsagents garb before returning to Buckle. Buckle of course now is completely confused “Sibod? But Bikle said you were rud over by a Tiger?” “It’s dot Sibod it’s be Bikle!” “Ho you are silly Sibod, but I cad play dat too! Look at be I’b Bikle de tidey podey!” and he begins to neigh and cavort around the room, Bikle looks down in despair and then hear official sounding booted feet coming up the stairs. He looks at Buckle, who is still dressed relatively smartly, despite behaving completely mentally. “Quick Buckle, have a gabe of Bikle the de pervert podey wid dese clothes as toys!” and in saying so tosses the frilly underwear at Buckle who gleefully snatches up the items and immediately puts one on his head whilst generally playing with the other items whilst shouting “I’b Bikle de perverg podey neigh neigh!” at this perfectly tibed moment the police burst into the flat. Bikle feigns aghast fear, “Oh frofficer, thag goodness you’ve cobe, dere’s de bad pervert, he’s totally bental as you cad see, take hib to de rubber roob quick!” The officers look at Bikle and the still capering idiot and decide for once that he’s  might be right “Ok sir you’re coming with us!” they say calmly but forcefully as they quickly bind Buckles arms behind his back and lead him away “Ho! Are you gendtlbed goig to play pervergs too?” is the last thing Bikle hears as Buckle is lead away. Bikle stops for a second. Silence. He pushes the broken door as closed as it will go. Still silence. “Ho by god!” he says with excitement “By flat just to byself! Do fridiots! Do Borris! I just deed to rig ode of dese computellies up ad gabes and filbs cad happed!” He stops again, feeling sure some gittage will arrive, but time passes and nothing does. His confidence grows and soon he is tinkering with untangling the computellies and trying them out. This however goes on for some time with poor progress. Indeed after a while Bikle becomes quite disheartened with the matter “Bah Br Cutler probised dat at least two of deb would work but so far dot a sausage o o o! I’ve had edough of dis…” but then his despondency is lifted as he spies a ‘Percival’s Pizzas, 2 for 1’ flyer lying around the flat “Hoho, cobe to be by beauty, you cad be, hmm do dot Percy dats dot sexy, Pridcess Percilla. Cobe with be Percilla, I’ll give you two for ode!” and with that he disappears into his bedroom.

In another part of town, late in the evening a feathery figure is bustling up a cul de sac, looking at the houses one in turn he finally stops and makes his way up the neatly manicured drive, and knocks at the door. “Blblblbp , answer damn you, need  way out of this!” No answer, no movement inside. He tries again, this time spying the doorbell and giving it a long press. Finally movement inside, steps and the door opens. There greeting our feathery friend is the familiar face of Dr Furnisson. Upon seeing this Clancy is shocked! “Bblblbllblp! What’s going on!? Aren’t you following me aetherically? Came to apologize for feeding you to family, terribly sorry, take dagger of Balthazar away, will give prize orchids, fish, whatever you want!” But instead of malevolently lording it over him Dr Furnisson looks equally aghast and exclaims “Blblblp! What are you doing here!? Go away quickly, take Furnisson spirit too, face your doom, off you go blblblblp!” “Who is it dear meow meow?” comes the voice from back in the house, “are you coming back to bed soon?” she purrs. Dr Furnisson answer is perfect voice “No one important dear, I’ll be with you soon!” and the hushedly “Blblbp, leave alone, can’t come in, barred from this space!” “Bllplplpl! What’s going on? Who are you? Let me in, need to make amends! All good friends, free train rides, tea and crumpets, bury bones properly!” “Blblblblp no idiot, your not real Clancy, psychic double,  trick Morris, drag Furnisson spirit away, off you go toodle oo!” “Blblblp not likely, by the way no trousers!” and in a second Dr Furnissons pyjama legs are gone!” “Well really! Trifle on your head!” and a trifle appears on the external Clancy’s bonce. Mrs Furnisson having heard all the kerfuffle has come down to find her husband with no trousers on talking to ‘another’ one of those Turkey’s with a trifle on his head “Dear, is everything ok? Why does he have your trousers?” Whirling round he addresses his wife “Blblbp bad prankster, stole trousers, I mean this Turkey stole my trouser so I threw a trifle at him meow meow?” “Where did  you get that trifle from? What’s going on here?” “Meow meow, I err had the trifle as a surprise for the children.” “Meow but you threw it at this Turkey?” “Blblbp he certainly did, please let in, need to clean up!” “But why is he here meow meow?” she looks bewildered. Dr Furnisson-Clancy looked sympathetically at his wife “He’s come looking for his friend, the one that went missing” He half whispers, and his wife whispers back “maybe we should invite him in too” “Blblblblp what are you saying? All friends here, in I come.” And without a further word in bustles the Clancy-double. Dr Furnisson-Clancy looks in something of a sweat as this Clancy installs himself in the house, dripping trifle on the carpet and tossing the pyjama bottoms back at him as he goes. But of course all is not well for psychic double Clancy either, for now he cannot apologize and try to make amends for murdering Dr Furnisson whilst Dr Furnisson is stood right there. The real Clancy equally  knows he must free himself from the locale of the psychic double and soon before the real Furnisson spirit realises it has been tricked and attaches to himself. “I’ll put the Kettle on shall I?” says Mrs Furnisson “Blblblbp won’t suit you!” quips the Clancy double “Blblblp most amusing!” says Dr Furnisson “I mean meow meow, haha”. Mrs Furnisson eyes the pair of them suspiciously, before heading towards the kitchen, at which point their dialogue resumes “Bllblblp, must leave, quick now, Mrs Furnisson will try to eat you!” “Really!” “Blblp less innuendo, more haste, if Furnisson spirit gets me, both doomed, better you blblblblp!” “Blblbllbp how I do know I’m double, blblblp might be you!” “BLblblp ridiculous, why am I here then, when you’ve been driving spurious Mr Sparky train ride around blblblbp? When Sparky start? Long term business hmm?” “BLblbp it was, blblblp it was, last Tuesday?” “BLblblp, no idea, see not real Clancy!” “Blblblp not real, really!” he says despondently “Blblblp  no not really! Not real, blblblp no more reallys, inappropriate!” At this point Mrs Furnisson reappears with the tea “There we go tea and scones” “Sadly Mr Turkey was just leaving meow meow!” “Blblbp certainly wasn’t, tea and scones, can’t refuse, mother said manners important!” “Meow meow, I really think you should go now!” “Meow meow, nonsense dear if err, what was your name?” “Blblbp Clancy, most kind, extra cream, jam too please!” “How funny we had a Turkey called Clancy visit us just recently, he joined us for dinner didn’t he dear?” and she winks at Dr Furnisson who squirms uncomfortably “Err meow, blblbp yes he did, finished your scones yet Clancy?” “Blblbp not likely fine scone, earl grey.” “Meow, meow, I don’t think you appreciate how much you should meow meow be going Clancy!” “Oh I don’t think Clancy needs to go anywhere, look its late why don’t you stay here tonight?” “Blblblblp most kind, sofa looks comfey, Sky Tv, small nightcap?” and he quickly manages to find a tartan throw and settle himself under it. Dr Furnisson looks a state, glancing hither and thither. “Meow meow, um well if Clancy’s staying here I’d better go and meow, buy some things for breakfast yes, blblbp that’s it.” “Meow meow, dear at this time of night?” “Blbblbp 24 hour freshways! Eggs and bacon. Off I go!” And with that Dr Furnisson is away with the car keys. “Err dear!” “Blblblp meow, what is it, need to go!” “I don’t know what’s got into you, with that silly turkey voice but you might meow meow want to take your trousers with you!” “Meow, good point, dignity to preserve blblp!” and off into the night he goes with no intention of coming back to the wretched cat peoples house. What now? Leave the double? What if she tries to eat him? Maybe he’ll get rid of the rest of the cats before Dr Furnisson’s spirit drains his energy? Another disguise maybe? For now just drive. And so the Furnissons Mercedes disappears into the night.

Light creeps slowly down the poverty stricken college road. The new day is here. This same light eventually fights its way through the grimy curtains of Bikle’s flat. After a few hours of light slumber he slowly wakes. “Ho by god! Still just be! Dis is barvellous, hello world and good bordig Percivilla! Ha you’re lookig a bit worse for wear, do I’b sure you loved it!” he holds the creased and stained pizza flyer up for a moment before popping it back on the pillow. “you cad wait dere for de day, I’ll fix you sobe beads od toast before bedtibe!” he puts a special emphasis on this word and looks lasciviously at the leaflet. “Baybe I’ll find a co-op leaflet and we cad have a three sobe! Frole!” and with that he skips out of bed and heads for the kitchen. Of course there is no food in the kitchen and he has blown all his money on broken Somalian technology. This crashing reality deflates him somewhat as he is genuinely hungry. “Ho god, baybe Pete and Paul cad led be a couple of quid, wid dere tools I suppose.” And he laughs to himself. At that exact moment there is a knock on the door. “Ho god, I dew it was to good to be true, here dey are dow!” He goes to open the broken door only to be greeted by two hospital looking types who immediately make their way in “Mr Hensban?” “Yes dat’s be!” “Ah right, it’s about your brother!” “De bentalist!? Is he locked up?” “Well you know, we’ve got some really exciting news for you, for one the police have dropped all the charges and can see the sexual misdemeanour accusation is really just a bad misunderstanding, secondly regarding the somewhat low functioning of your brother, well you know treatments have come on in leaps and bounds since the olden days so frankly we hooked him up to the old computer, stuck a chip in his head and he’s good to go. Buckland, do you want to come up?” Bikle’s face pales “You’ve brought hib back?” “Yes we have and I think you’ll agree he’s a lot better than before! Buckland you brothers waiting!” “Barvellous, thankyou gentlenben!” comes  a familiar voice, that now sounds much less childishly manic. In moments there indeed is Buckle, his hair is long but washed and tied back, he’s wearing a smart sweater with shirt collars showing, some nicely fitting jeans and normal shoes. “Hello Bikle, it’s good to be back!” and he shakes his brothers hand warmly. “Buh buh Buckle?” Bikle stammers “Dat’s be broder bide! Dow I prefer Buckland if you don’t bind. Dow let’s get idside, dese gentlbed don’t want to be standing around here frallday!” “Just sign here sir!” says the official to Bikle. Bikle zombie like scrawls on the paper and the hospital officials are gone and Buckland saunters past him into the flat. “By oh by it’s a bit of a bess id here isn’t it Bikle!” “berr it’s dot too bad!” which is blatantly not true as the flat is a dirty mess strewn with various splinters of wood, tipped over chairs, screwed up fliers and somalian computellies “Hmmb dow den, let’s get dis bess sorted!” says Buckland in an efficient sounding manner “actually Bikle, I’b pretty hugry, pop dowd to de dewsagent ad pick us up a sandwich, cheese” and at this word, he twitches visibly but seems not to notice “or sobething, baybe tuda? Here’s a tedder, get yourself sobethig if you like!” Buckland opens his wallet and hands Bikle the crisp tenner, Bikle stairs in disbelief at it all “Cobe od Bicks! Hop to it! Lots to do here!” “Berr yes Buckle, Buckland, I’ll get de sandwiches and cads of coke?” “Yes Bikle good fridea, I’ll bake a start here!” and so Bikle goes off to one of the newsagents, he thinks he’ll try Simon-Bickles this time rather than classic Simon. Upon entering the newsagent he can hear a female giggle and a ‘O O O’ sound then “bah hag od a bidute!” Bikle takes two sandwiches and cans of coke and stands at the counter, Bickle-Simon appears from below the counter with his shirt half undone, “Ho how cad I help you sir?” then looks down faux sternly says “Just a bidute, leave it just  bidute I’ve got to serve dis saddo!” then looking back at Bikle he says  “Berr dat’ll be £6.88 please.” Bikle hands over the £10 and Bickle runs it through the till. In this time Bikle can’t help but peer over the counter as best as he is able, and can just make out a bare leg. An audible giggle emits from the below as well “sobeode dowd dere O O O ?” Bikle ventures in an all Bikles together type tone, but Bickle is having none of it “dod of your busidess perverd, dow froff you go!” and he chucks the change at him. Bikle manages to get the 3 pound coins but is forced to abandon the rest. Dejectedly he leaves the shop to a “dow where were we you binx!” echoing in the back ground. “bah dat used to be be!” and he trudges back. Bikle walks up the dark stairs to find that the door on the flat seems to fixed, more than fixed it’s a new door! He pushes it open. Inside the whole flat has been transformed. “Ah dere you are Bikle, you took your tibe! By sandwich thags, oh I thought it would be…” and he twitches “tuda and bayo, barvellous!” Looking around Bikle is amazed. The whole flat seems to be spotless and what is more, Buckland has somehow acquired various bits of new furniture and rigged the computellies up. These African imports have frankly never looked better. They are all internet wired in with log in screens waiting to be logged in. A tea and coffee machine is installed at the side and there is  a sofa area in the corner. “I was thinking you see Bikle, you said about de frinterdet café, and I thought lets bake it happed. I’ve put a partition id de bedroob so we’ve got a sbace each, ad we cad rud de café together id de day tibe, what do you thigk to Buckland’s Frinterdet café?” “Ho by god Buckland it’s frantastic! But de dabe is supposed to be Bikle’s frinterdet café!” “Hmmb well dat’s ode idea, but frankly I think your dame isn’t good for busidess and besides who just wired and rejigged does shitty computellies of yours?” Deflated Bikle is forced to accept that Buckle 2.0 is a much more capable creature than himself and gives up the claim of the title. Buckland then shows Bikle how the computers work and how people log on, how much it costs for time etc and how to change the tea and coffee, scarcely any of which goes in as he wasn’t managing to listen and didn’t understand the technical parts. This is all the more unfortunate as Buckland then announces that he’s going out. “H’what?! H’where are you goig? Cad I cobe?” Buckland shakes his head “Well I wouldn’t bind if you did but Bickle said dot to brig you, he’s fridvited be to dat dew bar to have a drigk wid a couple of dose housewives he likes to hag around wid, and I bust say sobe of dem are quite dice, frif you dow what I bean! So fradyway, if you cad rud de café and den close up. Don’t wait up for be O O O! eh Bikle?” and he gives him a friendly wink before shutting the door leaving Bikle in charge of ‘Buckland’s frinterdet café!”





Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:43 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 6

 “Yes ad abiga preferably, dere de best kind of computer you dow, dot like dose pc thigs, dey’ll dever catch od!” “Is that right? Is that so? Can’t say I know much about it meself, don’t deal much in the tech line really, too many nonces if you ask me, not that you did but I’m telling you and you fit the bill given what I’ve said wouldn’t you say given all the hoo ha and what not? Now let me think though, let the old Cutler brain have rummage, computer and a telly, computer and a telly. I know sonny just the thing the computelly deluxe, the latest thing in computer and telly combinations it can do over half of what half the both can do together!” “Computelly Br Cutler? Fr’I’ve dever heard of such a thig, is it ad Abiga computelly?” “Is it? Is it eckers! It’s not so much an abeega as an awooga, if you’ll pardon me Craig Charlesism there. Back in Mogadishu these were all the rage, before the war and during it they were flying off the shelves, literally as the bombs reigned down, I had to pick them up, tape them back together to flog them to the locals, still made a bob or two and then got out of there I can tell you. Came by a couple in a charity shop the other day, fixed them up with pens and tape and they’re good to go. What do you say, 100% Somalian made apart from the tape which is from China?” “Berr I don’t dow bister Cutler, it doesn’t look very good, can you turd it od so I cad see it workig?” “See it working? See it working? What do you think this is, an all you can eat buffet? Tell you what if I don’t turn it on you can have the computelly for £100, can’t say fairer than that, make it a £150 and I throw in a bowl of poo, cheers Jackson I owe you a bonio! Then you’ll still have a few bob, left over for Tuesday, get yourself a bowl of beans too, what do you reckon?” Bikle for once feels he can see through Cutler’s schemes and that the ex-Somalian computelly is probably not what he’s after and he resolves to put his foot down. “Do do Br Cutler, I’b dot havig de computelly, it looks like shit, I don’t eved dow if it works.” “I see, I see, I’ve read you wrong these times I have yes Dennis we have. There was me thinking you a half wit with scarce the right to consider your brother, commonly known as an idiot lower than a retard, your inferior, rightly or wrongly I thought you two perverts in a pod, or peas in a pod though I’m sure which you’d prefer. But I see the Cutler mind, once sharp as lace has let me down. But I’m not ashamed to say it, no Dennis I’m not. You’ve seen through me salesman’s ruse and I stand before you an honest engine.”  Bikle looks smug and pleased with his victory. Cutler continues. “Funny thing the world, wouldn’t you say, maybe you wouldn’t given the time you have, wretched you might call it, I couldn’t disagree, I’d of strung meself up long ago if I were you, you could do that now if you like save us all the bother, I’ll set the rope and leave the room and flog dopey on ebay for spare parts? Don’t fancy it? Maybe another day? No funny is as funny does and it’s a truth of things that if you have two options one is bound to be right wouldn’t you say?” “Berr…?” “Take this coin now, if I flip it will it be heads or tails?” “dere’s do way to tell Br Cutler!” “Oh but there is sonny, look you choose tails, as I’m sure you would and I’ll choose heads and watch.” He flips the coin with a spivs adeptness and reveals it to be heads “Look, one of us was right, it proves what I say, if you’ve got two things one of them will be right, you can try it again if you like!” Bikle looks suspicious but submits to another coin flip, sure enough again one of the two of them has the right answer. “dis is bost abazig Br Cutler!” “It’s not amazing sonny at least not in the way you’d like, now the relevance of this being the deal I can offer you with the computelly here. Look I’m a fair man and I do like the fair, the amount of shit I can sell there amazes even meself,  but what I’m saying, what I’m suggesting is that given your concerns and given the law of nature I’ve just shown you if I were to given you two computellys then one of them would definitely be right!” “By god Br Cutler, de logic is flawless, dat’s kind of you, but how buch for de two of dem!?” “We could say £200 and £50 for the poo, that would be a bargain the Somalians would have killed you for.” Bikle is about to concede when he suddenly stops, Buckle tugs at his elbow “Don’t forget de cheese Bikle!” “Hush broder bide, we’re about to get a bargaid out of Cutler here, two computellies ode of which will defidetly work!” “But Bikle, why buy two if odly ode of dem works?” “Hmm baybe you’re right. Cutler! What if I want two workig computellies!” “Hmm well, that’s a tricky one isn’t it, but hang on maybe we can work it out, let me see, given the coin rule that would work if you bought 4 computellies, then you’d be sure of two working ones!” “4 Combutellies?” “That’s right me old china, and I’ll tell you what I’ll throw in the magic poo, some dairy lee triangles and this block of cheddar to keep the retard happy “Oh Bikle, I thought there’d be cheese, cad we get it!” “So how buch for all of dat Br Cutler?” “Hmm 4 computellies, magic poo, cheese, two kinds that’ll be, well blow me down £500, that’s what you’ve got isn’t it, it’s like one of those spooky coincidences, must be set to be as auntie Jess used to say as she poured out the jelly.” “ho dat is fuddy, yes ballright ded, 4 computellies, cheese ad a bowl of bagic poo! Barvellous, dis has gode well hasn’t it Buckle!” Buckle clearly agrees and is bouncing up and down with glee at the purchase. So Bikle hands over the cash and Jackson bring out three more computellies, which as can be imagined are really dodgy looking old monitor computer combinations. “Tip them onto the street Jackson, the gentlemen will take them home from there, you can carry this one ee?? And you goofy take the cheese and the poo, don’t get them muddled mind!”

 “Ho Jacksod, careful with dose frexpenive sobaliad computellies!” Bikle shouts as he notes Jackson has just loaded them into a wheel barrow and is loping his way towards the exit. Needless to say Jackon pays little attention and uses the wheel barrow to push the door open, this takes several attempts during which time the computellies are badly bashed around in the barrow. At last he gains the pavement and the door swings shut behind him. The pursuing Bikle can just hear a kind of crash as Jackson upends the barrow onto the pavement. “By computellies!” cries Bikle rushing after him. He is just about to escape the shop carrying the last computelly when he crashes into the returning Jackson and wheel barrow. “Bohhhh!” he goes as he is sent flying forwards over the Jackson and barrow and crashes into the other computellies, which lie in a dejected pile in on the pavement. Just seconds later Buckle appears, “Bikle Bikle! Where are you?” “Dowd here!” comes the cry from pile of useless computer “Dowd where?” says Buckle looking towards his feet “Dot dowd dere, dowd here!” “Ho dis is gettig spooky! Where are you Bikle?” Finally untangling himself from the flimsy keyboards and such Bikle rights himself. “Ho there you are Bikle, I heard a fuddy voice a bidute ago sayig ‘dowd here’ and I got quite frighted. I think it bight have beed a pookah!” “A pookah, I don’t dow where you get such dodsedse frob, it was just be od de floor!” “How why were you beig a pookah ded?” “I wasn’t beig a pookah, I was od de floor!” “Ho what were you doig dowd dere? Did you see  de pookah? I’b sure dat’s where he was!” “What is all dis pookah frubbish? What are you talkig about, we deed to get dese barvellous computellies hobe, how I cad set up a sball detwork wid dese beauties!” “A detwork of pookahs?” “Do do computellies! Dot pookahs! Forget de sodding Pookahs!” “Bikle…” says Buckle thoughtfully after a couple of moments  whilst Bikle tries to organise the computellies into some kind of manner that they can be carried home. “Yes Buckle,” “Do you thigk pookahs and bagick poo are coddected? I was thinkig dat because dey both start wid poo.” “How de fuck would I dow?” “Ho well your de ode always playig wid poo, eved though I’ve told you dot to!” Bikle can scarcely control himself “fucks sake, do you thigk I want poo od by face! Fradbittedly dere was dat tibe back id de dewsagent, but I felt a bit fuddy den.” “Ho I see, so why have we bought bore bagic poo den?” “We bought bore bagick poo because…” Bikle’s face struggles as he realises he doesn’t really know why he allowed Cutler to rack up the price for bowl of dogshit. “…because, you wanted it Buckle, and I like to buy you dice thigs!”  is all he can come up with “Ho dats very kind of you Bikle, but I’ve dot two kinds of cheese here, so you cad have de poo!” Bikle wants to say he doesn’t want the poo, but struggles with this, he has after all just paid nearly £100 for it (if you deduct the cheese costs). His face snarled in a grimace at the ungratitude “Fine, I’ll have de bagic poo den we’ll see who’s de pookah round here!” “Dere’s a pookah round here!?” “Do do, it was just ad expressiod based od de previous cobbentary dat I should have dowd better dan to try, but dever bind, look help be by carryig od of dese computellies.”

“What’s a cobputelly Bikle? Is it like a sort of tiny horsey?” “What? Dat does’dt bake ady sedse, ever for you.” “Oh I wish dat I was a tidy horsey Bikle, I could gallop along de street ad all de people would give be toffee ad pat be od de head.” “Ho for god’s sake. De bedtal hobe it is den. Just as sood as we get dese little miracles back to de flat it’s de rubber roob for you dis tibe.” “But how are we goig to bove deb Bikle? Dey look awfully heavy, ad by hads are full wid dis stuff. I wonder what it is? Oh! Oh! Bikle! Look! Looook! Cheese! Ho, dat is abazig! Because you see, earlier today, I thought to byself, Buckle, I said, because I dow by dabe, it’s writted I’d by gloves, do you wadt to see? Adyway, Buckle I said, do you dow, I have a certaid suspiciod, dat dere will be cheese, ad look Bikle! Look! Dere is cheese! How bysterious! Ho how cad dat of happened? I cad’t wait to tell Pete ad Paul ad de Toad bad whed dey cobe round for de bodopoly gabe!” Bikle can do little but stare in horror. “Ho god, ho by God, I had forgotted how dauseatig dis is. What de debil have I dode? Baybe it’s be dat’s bedtal.” He shakes his head, “Do, do, codcedtrate dere Bikle, dod’t let hib get to you, here you are wid a codsigdbedt of top quality Sobaliad berchadise, od de verge of de big break dat I have beed waitig for all by life, bust dot lose by focus. Edough of your dodsedse Buckle! We deed to get dese cobputellies back to de flat prodto! I’ve had a barvellous fridea! I’b goig to oped ad fridterdet cafe! Bickle’s Fridterdet Cafe I will call it, ad de geeks ad de derds will cobe flockig! I’b ad absolute gedius! Dow all dat rebaids is to get dis little lot safely back to de flat, wire deb up ad wait for de bodey to roll id!” A thought strikes him. “Ho, ad I cad do sobe advertisig! I cad bake posters ad, ad, ad sobe leaflets! Berrr, do, perhaps dot leaflets, but defiditely sobe frexcelledt fradvertisig!” “Ho, what’s fradvertisig Bickle? Is it a nice of jelly? I love jelly. Ad ice creab. Cad I have ad ice creab Bikle?” “Baybe later Buckle, baybe dey’ll give you sobe I’d de bedtal ward. Dow what I deed is sobe kide of sball trolley or sobethig, where cad I fide ode of dose?” Buckle has his hand in the air, “Ho, ho, Bikle, Bikle, I dow! I dow!” “I just dow dat I’b goig to regret dis, but go od ded, where’s dat?” “You do dat old Scottish Gedtlebad dat lives I’d de block dext door to us? Dat always walks very slowly? He told be dat he had a little trolley.” “Do do Buckle, he’s got a weak heart. Frodestly, I should dow better dad to pay ady frattedtiod to your fridiculous frambligs, ad I’b do dearer to gettig by beauties back to de cafe.” “Ho why dod’t we take deb od de choo choo Bikle?” “De choo choo? What fresh badness is dis? De choo choo indeed, what are you babblig about? For a start, we dod’t have ady bodey left, ad de train statiod is bloody biles away, ad de train is dot goig to stop at our flat dow is it? Bodestly, I despair of you sobetibes.” “But de tidy choo choo does stop at de flat Bickle, look!” Bikle is about to retort angrily, but instead nearly jumps out of his skin as an ear piercing “toot toot!” sounds from behind him. He whirls, and is confronted by a garishly painted miniature steam engine and open carriages, which running on rubber tyres, has crept up quietly behind him. “Ho Jesus fuckig christ, you scared de shit out of be!” The train, which is emblazoned with the words “Mr Sparky’s Super Overland Train Express! A really thrilling show for your kids! My fare is only a few pennies!” A familiar face, crowned by ahumourous Casey Jones style engine driver’s hat peers from the cab. “Blplplp! Hop aboard! Mr Sparky here! Blbplplblp miniature locomotive! Jolly fun! Waive fare for old friends! Porter Thompson! Help with Luggage! Blplplp!” “Ho look Bikle, isd’t dat codvediedt! Cad we ride od de choo choo? I love de choo choo!” “Blplplp! Certainly can! Hop aboard! Here Buckle, toffee for you, extra sticky!” Bikle pauses for a moment, this seems too good to be true, but then, how else will he get his computellies back to the flat, er cafe? “Berr, do you go adywhere dear by place by ady chadce Bister Sparky?” “Certainly do! Check destination board!” Sure enough there is a noticeboard displays a timetable and route details right next to him. “Fuddy, I didn’t dotice dat dotice! Just by little joke dere, what does it say? Departig frob de village green every hour, stoppig at Br Cutler’s shop od dat street, you dow, de ode wid  de two dewsagedts saved Sibod, ad terbidatig outside dat Bikle’s squalid flat. Ho better dot look a gift horse id de bouth I suppose, every bobedt dat dese techdological barvels lie here is costig be bodey! All aboard de choo choo Buckle!” “Ho I lub ge croo croo Biggle!” “Blplplp! Sounds like you love the “chew chew” too Buckle! Blplplp! Fine joke! All amused! Ding ding! Off we go!”  Thompson having stowed the battered and cracked electronic rubbish in a miniature Guard’s van, Mr Sparky gives a couple of toots on the whistle and the train lumbers off along the streets. Bikle is a bit nervous at first, but after a while begins to quote enjoy trundling though the streets, with people smiling and waving. Buckle of course is having a whale of a time, chewing extra sticky toffee and waving frantically back at people, occasionally emitting a noise which Bikle can only assume is supposed to resemble a train whistle. The train passes the two newsagents and turns at the Baker’s Arms, heading towards the town centre. Thoroughly relaxed by now Bikle chuckles when he sees Buckle waving his bag of toffee to some invisible friend. “Ho, who are you sharig your sweeties wid Buckle? Has Bister Giraffe cobe to say hello?” “Beyow beyow! Do Biggle, it’s de cag bag agaig, woulg you lige a toffee Bister Puggy Cag?” “Blplplp! What’s that? Cat man nonsense again? Not on my train! Hush now! Such talk against rules! No cat man here!” “Bub dere ig Bister Spargy! De big cag bag behind you dere, wig de big sharb dife!” Clancy looks terrified, “Sharp Knife! Cat Man! Blplplp! Dagger of Balthazar! Stealing Life force!” Grabbing the hat from his head, he crams it onto Bikle’s, before putting a leg over the side of the cab. “Blbplplblp! This is my stop! Cheerio! You Mr Sparky now! Blplplp! Escaping!” So saying, before Bikle can protest, he vaults over the side, hits the ground with a frightened grunt and a roll, before leaping to his feet and waddling off down the street as fast as he can go. Bikle is horrified, but Buckle doesn’t turn a hair. “Bye bye Bister Spargy! Bye bye puggy gad!” He shouts at the retreating figure. Bikle looks wildly about, the controls of the train look very complicated. Without the skilled guiding wing of the Turkey at the controls, the train starts to lurch and veer alarmingly. Bikle grabs the steering wheel and tries to at least keep the thing in a semblance of a straight line, occupied as he is he forgets to look ahead, and when he finally does he is greeted by the appalling sight of a sturdy brick wall which seems to be rushing towards him at quite a speed. With a frantic wrench of the wheel he manages to turn with scant inches to spare and the miniature locomotive heads off rattling along a new tangent. He barely has time to emit a heartfelt “Phew!” of relief before a new danger presents itself in the shape of a wooden fence. Unable to check the forward movement of the train, he ducks down as it crashes through the fence, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere. Beyond the fence is a row of gardens, which the runaway conveyance proceeds to plough through, before emerging once again into the streets. Despite his evasive measures the splinters of wood have ripped and torn most of Bikle’s clothes from his body, but all is not lost, for as the train smashed through the row of gardens, it must have cut a washing line full of lady’s laundry, as in true comedic fashion Bikle now finds himself clad in a lacy brassiere and a pair of frilly pink bloomers, the train driver’s hat still incongruously perched on top. “Ho dat’s a fuggy outfig Bister Spargy! You loog lige a lagy!” “I’b dot Bister Sparky you blitherig fridiot! It’s be, Bikle!” “Dog’t be silly Bister Spargy, you cad’t be Biggle, you are wearig Bister Spargy’s hat, ad you are drivig de traig. Biggle does’dt dow how to drive a traig!” “Give be stredth! I dow I dod’t! Dat’s de bloody probleb!” Indeed it is a problem, as the out of control locomotive continues its headlong career through the streets, sending pedestriansscattering before it, Bikle sweating and swearing as he grapples with the steering wheel. Narrowly avoiding a markets stall laden with live lobsters he instead sends the locomotive racing towards an automated carwash. “Ho god do! Dot de carwaggle blaggle blaggle!” Comes the cry as he is deluged with soapy water, then a shriek as he receives a generous spray of scalding hot wax. Buckle, who stooped to retrieve a dropped toffee at the opportune moment looks at him quizzically, then joins in yelling, “Wheeeeee! It’s like beig od a roller goaster isd’t it Bister Spargy?” Ignoring him, Bickle is snatching at levers and handles in an orgy of panic, desperately trying to halt the wildly careering machine, or at least slow it down. His efforts however have rather the opposite effect, as the note of the engine goes up a pitch and the little train gathers speed, hurtling down the high street, causing cars and vans to swerve, and sending people flying to avoid it. Passersby stop and stare open mouthed at the rushing monster, seemingly piloted by some gangly maniac transvestite, as it races past them in a cloud of steam and smoke. To add to the spectacle, the dousing in the car wash appears to have had an adverse effect on the adhesive qualities of the lettering along the side of the train, causing a number of them to come unstuck and fall off so that instead of reading “Mr Sparky’s Super Overland Train Express! A really thrilling show for your kids! My fare is only a few pennies!” it now reads,  somewhat disjointedly, but perfectly legibly, and in gaudy, foot high letters, “park pervert express! ill show your kids my penis!”




Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:41 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 5


Reeling from the blow, Bikle is still petrified that the mob have been let in “Ho god Buckle, de bob are cobig! Shut de door quickly!” “De bob Biggle? Is dat lige burderous bob?” “Yes yes dat’s de ode, close de fuckig door!” “I’b too scared Bikle!” says Buckle looking genuinely petrified at the thought of murderous bob’s return. “Fuck’s sake!”  shouts our protagonist and launches himself towards the door, slamming it shut just before a banging crash of bodies thumps into it. Murderous bob can now clearly be heard, hammering at the door. “Ho god we’re doobed!” cries Bikle, he begins to wonder if he could pass Buckle off as himself. He quickly tears the badly glued on hair off his head for a start, takes cloak off. “Berr Buckle, put dis bagic cloak od quickly, it will help protect you frob burderous Bob!” brightening up suddenly Buckle takes the black cloak with glee. “Ho a bagig cloag! Barvellous! Dow  burderous Bob can’t touch be and I’b like Bikle!” he flaps and capers around the flap oblivious to the awful noise cobig from the door. Bikle thinks this is going well “Dat’s right, you’re Bikle, I like it whed you play dat gabe, baybe you could bix it wid de pervert gabe frob earlier!” “Ho barvellous fridea Biggle, loog at be I’b a disgustig perverg called Bikle!” he gets socks on his ears and his hands and flaps around the room in the strangest manner “Perverg! Perverg! I’b Bikle de perverg!” There is suddenly an awful splintering sound from the door and Bikle is gripped by and sickening fear. He looks at the cloak flapping, sock covered idiot and finds it hard to believe they will actually be fooled, if that’s supposed to be Bikle, then who is he? Buckle? Simon? Or maybe just hide. Hiding seems the best plan, as the door splinters again. “Hide and seek tibe Buckle! You’re de perverd ad I’b de hider! Count as high as you cad!” and with that Bikle launches himself behind the sofa and pulls a fortuitously left dirty towel over himself in the hope he looks like a pile of dirty laundry. In the room Buckle can be heard “Ode, two, three, four, Bikle! Bikle! Whad cobes after four?!” Bikle studiously ignores the request as the sound of the door crashing open fills him with an awful dread. “Ho who are all dese people?! Are dey here to play hide ad seek too Bikle! Booohhh!” the clamouring awful noise that is anger on mass fills the room and Buckle’s voice disappears after that last utterance. Cold sweating with terror Bikle scrunches himself up tight as the crashes and bangs reverberate around the small flat, it can be only moments now. The icey fear of a brutal lynching, beating or whatever is so great that our the poor character hidden behind the sofa urinates all over himself and starts crying. “Don’t hurd be! Don’t hurd!” he whimpers as the sofa is pulled away by brutal arms. “don’t hurd be! don’t hurd be!” he continues from his foetal position. This plaintive cry continues for several more seconds before his frozen terrified mind realises that no angry arms have grabbed him, no punches have been landed. “Please don’t hurd be.” He says again with a slightly less pathetic intonation, before opening half an eye. The sofa has been pulled aside so he now can see the contents of the room. This viewing reveals, Buckle sat in Bikle’s chair in his cloak, eating a bag of candy floss. Johnson, and Morris (smoking a roll-up), who are both  laughing “Ho ho there you are shit bean, ho that was marvellous, I see you’ve soiled yourself ‘again’. Getting to be a habit that isn’t it. Have you met does-a-fantastic-impression-of-an-angry-mob-Johnson!” “Mwaaerk!” laughs Johnson loudly and they both point and jeer. “H’what! You bastard Borris!” “Can it bean boy, you’ve got what you wanted haven’t you? Dopey, the flat, the soiled trousers…” he pauses to continue the list “That’s about it mind, but can’t have everything can you now, except I could if I wanted to, though I don’t owing to certain logical contradictions that are entailed by the notion of having everything and the definition of everything, axioms must be set up before such an eventuality can occur, to wit are we  to define a thing purely by its extensional qualities or do more abstract notions also count and if the former am I not also a thing or should I not be reduced to my physicality?” Bikle looks confused “Berr dat’s all very well Borris, but dow I’ve god literally dothig but several bags of sticky toffee and one small cad of beads, cad I borrow a fiver til giro day baybe?” “Borrow a fiver? You hear that Johnson, he wants to borrow money off us.” “Very well shit can, and may I ask why once again you have shit all over you? Violent extortionate loan shark Johnson will lend you a fiver, well he has lent you a fiver, indeed in the excitement of seeing money on offer you have borrowed £500 from him, I would fill in all the ensuing awful consequences of this action but somehow I feel that will not be necessary and time will disclose the correct unfolding.” Sure enough, a sharp dressed, mean looking Johnson is now holding a signed contract, Bikle is holding a similar document and has £500 of notes in his hands. “Oh by god Buckle! Look at dis, we’ve got bodey! Led’s go ad ged sobe dew thigs!” Morris and the Johnsons vanish leaving Bikle and Buckle clutching the foolishly gotten gains. “£500 sbacker, Buckle cobe ode, lets buy you sobe cheese!” “Ho barvellous! I thought dere’d be cheese, did I bendtiod dat biggle! Id fact whilst we were playing de bodopoly I thoughd dat dere would be a cheese counder like de hat.” Buckle continues to ramble on, Bikle cannot be arsed or is not even listening enough to point out that Buckle didn’t even play any of the game. “Cobe od get your togs od Buckle, we’re goig!” “Ho where are we going!” “To de dewsagent frof course!” So the gangly misfits march down the stairs of from their squalid abode and out into the evening air. Walking down the road to where the newsagent should be they can see that there is not just one newsagent but in fact two. “Dis is bost freculiar Buckle, just yesterday dere was by old dewsagent and dow dere’s adother ode, let’s take a closer look!” “A closer loog at what Bikle?” “De dewsagent you dibwit!” “But dere’s two dewsagets Bikle which ode do you bead?” “De ode dat’s dot our old dewsagent, de ode with de other Bickle id it!” “Other Bickle?” Buckle looks profoundly confused “De ode with burderous bob id it ded!” “Ho I don’t want to go id dat ode, we’ll be eated up like cousid lawredce!” “Dat’s what I’b sayig broder bide, lets check de oder ode out!” and so they enter the other newsagent, which as they go through the door chimes a ‘ding’ in a peculiarly irritating manner. This noise is quickly followed up by the sound of a familiar voice “Ho hello h’there h’sir, h’what can I do for you, a dewspaper perhaps!” “Sibod!” Bikle shouts in genuine surprise “What the fuck are you doig alive?” “Ho h’I don’t h’know what you h’talking h’about, though I do have a h‘question for you.” “Ho god what is it?” “Ho well, I was just h’wondering, and I thought h’maybe that tall man h’might know, so I thought I’d h’ask seeing as you’re here…” “ho get to de point will you” “H’I was just wondering why it is that tools fall in love! Frole!” A chill of some awful déjà vu runs through Bikle and he freezes momentarily in his tracks.

“Dis is just, well just stradge. I thought you had beed eated by a tiger?” Simon shakes his head, “H’oh don’t be h’ridiculous Bikle, I was merely, merely…” he stoops behind the counter and picks up a piece of card. Putting on a pair of glasses, he peers at it before continuing, “I was beaten by a Tigra.” Both he and Bikle look at each other confusedly. A second, larger piece of card seems to fall from the ceiling, picking it up Simon goes on. “A Vauxhall Tigra. In a road race. On the way to the zoo. It’s a type of car you pair of cocklords.” There is a pause. Simon smiles vacantly. Bikle shrugs, “Ho, a road race you say? In cars? Od de way to de zoo? Well dat explaids everythig den. Dow what was it we cabe id here for agaid?” Buckle is jumping up and down. “Ho, ho ho, Bikle! I dow what it was! I dow!” “Ho god, frof course. Very well den, Sibod, bay we please have sobe cheese please?” Simon looksnonplussed. “H’cheese h’sir? I’m afraid that this is a h’newsagents, there’s no cheese for sale here. I’m awfully sorry.” “De sigd says Dewsagent ad Codvediedce Store. Dewspapers, bagazides, sweets, cold drigks, tobacco ad groceries. Dat’s id de window. Cheese is a grocery iteb is it dot? Derefore, brig be a large piece of your dicest ad bost frexpedsive cheese ibbediately.” “Ho dat’s h’flawed h’logic Bikle, I mean, to say, h’larks tongues in h’aspic are h’technichally a h’grocery h’item, but you don’t surely h’expect a small convenience store to sell those, heeeey?” “Baybe dot, but whed said Codvediedce Store has a sigd dext to de coudter readig “H’say h’cheese! Dow stockig ad excitig range of dobestic ad idterdatiodal cheeses, check out our dedicated cheese chiller id de cheese aisle, for all your cheese deeds”, ded I thigk dat I ab well widid by rights id requestig sobe bloody cheese. Dow edough ofyou dodsedse ad brig be by cheese!” “Ho, and what cheese would dat be? I dod’t see h’any h’cheese h’sir.” “Do do do do ad do! I’b dot havig dis. I cad see ad extedsive array of cheese just over dere, id de dab cheese aisle, which is de largest, O,O,O,O, frexcuse be, de largest aisle id de whole shop, it’s sibply bribbig wid cheese, a bad cad barely bove id here for cheese for god’s sake, it’s piled high! You are wearig a probotiodal t shirt ebblazoded wid a picture of sobe Swiss cheese od it ad de slogan “Cheeses H Christ! Dat’s sobe quality cheese dey sell dowd at Sibod’s!” ad as if dat wasd’t eduff you have, perched od your head at a jaudty adgle, a dovelty hat id de shape of a wedge of cheese, sportig de phrase “I’b crackers about cheese!” Dot to bedtiod your badge which reads “Here to help, ask be about our cheese festival!” Dow cobe across wid de cheese prodto, ad do bore bessig about!” Simon Sentsmiles sweetly. “Ho, I see Bikle, you are having a joke. Very h’amusing I’m h’sure. Now what can I h’get you h’today?” Bikle knows all to well what is happening, but can’t help himself, “Cheese! Cheese! Ad a third tibe, cheese you blitherig buffood  of a babblig bastard! Give be sobe bloody cheese! De whole place is swibbig id it! It’s lyig idpiles ad heaps ad accubulatiods, de shelves groad beneath de weight of it, de windows are crabbed to bursting wid de stuff! It is festooned about de very walls of de shop, I’ve dever seed so buch cheese id ode place id all by life! Dere’s soddig cheese as far as de eye cad see you fuckig git! Hand it over, just a sliver, ad idfiditisbal fraction of dis bental aboudt of cheese, just a bit dab you, I dod’t wadt a whole edab, or a wheel of cheddar or a bastard truckle of wedsleydale, just a borsel of cheese for de love of God bad, ad dod’t give be dat “Ho you bustbead de h’allegeged h’cheese dodsedse, just dod’t, I couldn’t stand it, I used to do dis to people you dow, whed I was you, I dow how it works, it holds do bysteries for be, dow Sibod, give be de botherfuckig cheese you git.” Simon shrugs regretfully. “Ho I ha’m h’sorry h’sir, but I am unable to meet your requirements for said h’dairy h’produce, we simply don’t have a crumb of it in the shop. There’s no demand for it round here. Dow if you’ll h’excuse me a moment, I’ll just serve these other gentlemen…” “Ho do you dod’t! Dis is where all de rest of de gits cobe id ad are like, ‘uh huh huh cad we have sobe cheese please Sibod, wid our tools, ad you are all ho yes h’sir, here is de cheese, adythig for a chub’, well I’b dot havig it you hear be! Give be de bloody cheese or by gub, I’ll cripple you, you see if I dod’t!” Sure enough, a queue has formed, there is, as Bikle predicted, Pete and Paul, clutching shopping baskets full of cheese, an old, scruffy man with brown trousers and a t shirt with the logo “Cheese Please Louise!” across the front, Fond Of The Old Fromage Johnson, “Red” Lester, the ginger haired man from the corner sandwich shop, the Duc d’Camembert, Old Cheddar George,  and so on. “Bi was here first, ad I’b dot leavig udtil I get sobe cheese!” “Ho is dat so h’sir?” “Dab right it is sudshide! I’b dot puttig up wid dis so called cobedy frubiliatiod ady bore! Where’s by bloody cheese? I have bodey, I deband dat you give be cheese!” Simon shakes his head resignedly, “Ho very h’well h’sir, I’ll h’attempt to h’locate some of the h’commodity that you have h’requested. Perhaps there is some wrapped up here, in TOMORROW’S NEWSPAPER!” With a flourish he whips out the dreaded journal, “Ho, h’what this h’sir? “Park Pervert Arrested After Fracas In Newsagency? Suspect Badly Injured By Mob After CheeseRow?” Now what was it you h’wanted h’again h’sir?” Bikle pales, “Berrr, dothig, dothig, best be od by way, cad see dat you are busy, dice to have you back dere, adother tibe perhaps, bust be goig, cheerio ad all dat, Cobe od Buckle!” So saying, he bustles his brother out of the shop and away down the street.   As he does so, he hears with painful clarity, “Uh huh huh huh, and some larks tongues in aspic to go with our cheese please, with our tools.” And the inevitable answering cry, “H’certainly h’sir! H’anything for a chum!” Cursing under his breath he hurries Buckle along, catching sight of Bockle/Simon chatting to a couple of attractive housewives over the counter of his shop, and for a moment wonders how people will react to there suddenly being two newsagents called Simon where earlier there was only one, but then realises that as far as they are concerned, there will always have been two newsagents called Simon on the street, “Oh you know, turn off just before the Baker’s Arms and go straight down that road, you know the one, the one with the two newsagents called Simon…” they would say, and the other would nod, “Oh yes, the two newsagents called Simon, everyone knows where that is…” He was roused from this train of thought, by Buckle muttering to himself. “Dow what is it Buckle?” Buckle looks glum, “Ho, you dow Bikle, it’s just dat earlier today, well It’s just dat you see, I thought dat dere would be cheese.” White hot rage floods him for a moment, and he feels a dreadful urge to strangle his idiot sibling and silence his yammering once and for all, but the feeling subsides and is replaced by resignation. “Yes yes Buckle, be too, dever bind, I’b sure we’ll find sobe cheese at sobe poidt during de day. Dow he’s a few shop, I wonder what dey sell id dere? Shall we go id ad have a look?” myThey open the door to the shop, which is badly lit and gloomy. Racks and racks and shelf upon shelf disappear into the murky interior, the shop is clearly much bigger on the inside than it appeared from the street. Off in one corner Bikle can just make out a counter, complete with an old fashioned cash register. He pushes the door open a bit wider, causing a bell to clang mournfully, and the two walk in. The shelves are stocked with brown paper packages differentiated only by size and by a number printed in red ink. Bikle wanders around a bit and picks up a parcel at random and shakes it. This dislodges a small cloud of dust which makes him sneeze. He goes to blow his nose on his cloak, but remembers that Buckle is wearing it, so he has to sniff loudly. Still there is no sign of any member of staff or shopkeeper to be seen. By the till is a small and very dusty bell with an adjacent sign reading “please

ring for service.” Accordingly Bikle gives the bell a sharp tap, in response to which it emits a dull clack. “Ooh ee, like ringing bells you do don’t you sonny?” Comes a voice from behind him, “That’s two now, and you can’t of been here more than thirty seconds, man in a hurry are we? Places to go, people to repel? What brings you here then? And I don’t mean some kind of specially adapted minibus, we’ll take that as a given shall we? No I mean why are you here? Early closing at the Hopeless Loser Café

Is it? Anyway, what’s it to be, business or pleasure? Although it’s apparent to the most uninterested observer, in which class I unashamedly place myself, that the pair of you are singularly Ill fitted for either pursuit, still what can we do for you? Out of magic poo are we? Say no more, Jackson! Do us a favour, nip round the back and fill this bowl will you?” “Do, do do! Do bagic poo today Bister Cutler.” “Oh is that so? Fair enough, fair enough,  in fact, upon closer inspection it appears that you are still sporting a not insignificant amount of faecal matter on your old dial there, an inferior brand by the look of it, you can tell by the uneven formation of the crusting. Cheap shit is as cheap shit does mind you, but if you’re happy with dung smeared all over your physog, then we’ll it’s be churlish of me to cavil about it, as it is I don’t suppose you have much to be happy about, so far be it from meto snatch these small joys from you, now if it’s not a poop top up that you’re after, what’s it to be? How about a nice disguise for you and your retard? We’ve had some jolly times kitting you out with disguised in the past haven’t we? Got a pantomime horse costume here, factory second, slight defect in that its got no head, but two arse ends, perfect for you and your brother, no need to labour the symbolism Dennis, sure the gentleman is fully cognisant of the fact that you consider him and that collection of failed cells he hangs around with to be a couple of pointless arseholes who don’t know whether they’re coming or going, but then again, can’t hurt to mention it eeh? There’s no secrets between man an merchant, as my sainted Uncle Izzy used to say before the cough finished him. No? What about this then? We’ll kit you out as the gent as everybody’s talking about, what you reckon to this then?” Cutlerholds up a pair of black jeans, pair of pixie boots, frilly shirt and cloak. “But dey’re by clothes! Again!” “I should coco bug eyes, sourced from a reputable supplier these, got a standing order for items like these, scouring the landfill night and day is old Frosty, searching for just such gems as these, came up lucky today, whole bin full he came back with, he’ll eat well tonight, well I say well, more something, anyway, what you reckon? All the rage these, flying off the shelves, “fancy dress party? At a loss as to what to wear? Why not go as the region’s most hated sexual offender?” That’s what I says to them, well I say them, of course I mean you. So then you massive freak, is it a deal? Give me twenty quid and I won’t call the rozzers. Well I’ll give you time to get away at least, not enough time of course, but time enough to hand over the money and get out of my shop so as not to sullythe Cutler name by associating it in the public mind with a degenerate like you. Tell you what, make it thirty and I won’t hit you with this chair leg.” *THWACK* “Youch! By shoulder!” “Again. I meant I wouldn’t hit you again. Unless I really feel like it.” *THWACK* “Which I do. Call it forty for cash. Plus a tenner for my time.” *THWACK* “Sixty altogether, and I’ll throw in some toffee for the gibbon.”  “Frouch! Stop it Bister Cutler, Stop it! I deed a few cobputer ad a telly! I’ve got £500 of real boney!” “Ooh eeh? Well now that does make a difference doesn’t it?” *THWACK* “Not that much of a difference mind, but still. Now a computer and a telly you say?”



Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:39 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 4


With much trepidation and trying to ignore the sound of the clamouring mob Clancy throws the dice. They roll and clatter across the board and land as a clearly marked double six, this auspicious number would see Clancy land on Go. “Bllblbp lucky me, extra go and £400!” “Ho h’I think you’ll find that that h’double rule h’is h’apocryphal h’sir!” “Blblblblp, certainly not always played it! Hand over cash!” “Nein Herr Turkey es ist nicht wahr, du kannst nur die £200 haben!” “Blblblp, nicht fair! What mother taught me!” “Mwaaerk!” says Johnson indicating Clancy should quit carping. “Bllblbp really, terrible game, rules not understood!” “Ho quit ‘whinig Clance and h’move your cat!” “Bllblblbp some mistake, not cat counter, was boat!” But now clear as anything the board now features a small pewter cat. With visible cold sweats Clancy moves the feline figure the spaces and takes the £200. “Und now my turn, ach 7, und I moof ein, zwei, drei…” Ziggy lands square onto Johnson’s hotel in Mayfair “Mwaaaerk!” says Johnson “But Ich habe nur die water works und £128!” “Ho then h’appear to be h’out sir, off to the h’corner with you!” and Sigmund shuffles out of the play area over to the corner with the other muttering contingent. Time has passed though now and frankly all this paper money is getting a bit much for Simon. He tries to say as convincingly as he can that he needs the toilet. Clancy eyes him suspiciously “BLblblp at least take turn first, then me and Johnson can carry on!” “H’very well sir!” and he throws the dice “5 h’o do! Cobbudity chest agaid!” Hand trembling he reaches for the card and reads in a curious flat tone “The aetheric form of the angry mob will be waiting for you in bathroom should you carry on with these unclean desires, indeed the feeble solidity you perceive around you is entirely under my command I suggest you finish the game.” “H’o I don’t know what it could h’mean!” he tries to bluster “But h’strangely h’I don’t feel the need for the toilet any h’more” he swallows hard, your go Johnson. Another expert throw from Johnson sees one of the last pieces of property purchased, Leicester square to be precise, this completes his control of that set and renders over 90% of the board hostile to the other players. Clancy and Simon exchange glances of futility. “Blblblblbp pointless game! You win! Didn’t play by proper rules though, so will claim moral victory!” “Ho dere’s do point’ playig h’any longer, it’s true, you wid h’Johnsod!” At this point of victory suddenly Buckle wakes up “Ho what happed? I had a dreab about a pogo stick Bickle and dere was Johnsod and a ghost and den de bagic poo cabe flyig through de air and scooped us up ad we…?” he looks around “Who are all dese people Bickle, why are dey id de flat? Are you goig to bake dat phode call dow, we’re playing bodopoly later rebember!” Bickle gets up out of the corner “Ho god dot likely, de bodopoly gabe fidished, it’s derely tibe for bed, I’ve had edough of today!” The various characters begin to mill out of the flat, except for Simon who shuffles around uneasily “Cobe od Sibod tibe to go!” “Ho well h’I would but de h’angry mob h’is still out dere and dey h’might h’lynch me over dat receipt h’misdemeanour. Cad I stay here?” “Ho of course!” pipes up Buckle “Hady thig for a chub, you cad have Bickle’s bed!” “H’what! Do he can’t!” but too later and Simon has already mysteriously managed to get into Bickles room and shut the door. “What de fuck is goig od!?” shouts Bickle “Ho what do you bead? Cobe od Bickle, leds play bodopoly! Look de board is all set up! I’ve still got by hat and astro Bikle cad play too can’t you astro-Bikle!” and he mouths to animate the nearby astro-Bikle figure “Yes I’b de best at bodopoly, I’ll blast you wid by zapper!” “ho look here’s Bikle probably he’ll play too!” Now emerging from the room comes what was a moment ago ‘Simon’ but now that he’s wrapped a black cloak around himself it seems this enough to confuse Buckle. “Ho barvellous Bikle, we’re playing bodopoly, do you want to be de toad bad!” “Ho dat sound’s h’nice Buckle, cobe od Bickle pull up a pew, your broder’s beed lookig forward to dis gabe and wid dat bob out dere I’b dot goig h’adywhere.” “Dat’s what you think!” says Bickle and makes a dive for the broom. But Simon-Bikle has a quick thought “Buckle, oh doh de evil witch is tryig to get de bagic broob stop hib!” and in a flash Buckle has leaped onto Bickle and entangled him in a gangle of cloaks and limbs. “Fr’I’ll be havig h’dat!” says Simon-B picking up the broom. “Dow Buckle, he’s de h’baddy so we’ve got to h’tie hib up!” “Ho barvellous!” says the enthused Buckle “Get dis dibwit off be!” shouts Bickle, but to short avail as Simon-B brings a saucepan down on his head rendering him unconscious. “Help be put hib id de h’computer chair!” and so the two conspirators prop unconscious Bickle up in a cheap office chair before binding him to said chair with an old sheet. “Whed are we playig de bodopoly Bikle?” “Ho, h’in a bobent Buckle, keep your hair on, we’ve got this h’baddy to deal with h’rebember!” “Ho by god your right Bikle, it’s dat witch dat was trying to steal de bagic broob, what shall we do with her?” “Ho that was no witch Buckle, it was in fact Johnson!” and somehow now Simon-B has added an elastic band to the back of the toadmans hat and made it into a kind of beak, this he then straps to the front of the unconscious Bickle’s head. “Ho by god Bikle! It is Johnsod, will he play too?” “What’s dat h’johdsod you want to play h’bodopoly?” animating the floppy headed character he speaks the word “H’mwaaerk!” “Ho h’look Buckle, he wants to play, so with h’astro-Bikle too we’ve heasily got enough for another h’game!” “Barvellous, you’ll help be wid bodey won’t you Bikle?!” “Ho yes Buckle, h’adythig for a chub!”  

Morris peers interestedly at the crystal ball. The mystical effect is somewhat spoiled by the surround sound speakers which serve to relay every nuance of conversation in the squalid flat. “Hmmm, this is interesting Johnson. Seems old Shit Boy has more to him than we gave him credit for. Also, however he is more of an idiot than I imagined, so in cosmic terms, it all balances out, and once again my judgement is entirely vindicated, as I am sure you will agree, well you do agree don’t you Nodding Vehemently In Agreement Whilst Wearing An Eminently Flammable Jumpsuit Johnson? Marvellous. This wholly unsolicited testimonial to my unearthly sagacity is much appreciated, here please accept this voucher for a pampering day at an agreeable country house spa and conference centre.” He settles himself comfortably in his armchair, “But before you go, fetch me another four pack of Hofmeister and some chicken springrolls. Hearken unto my words winged servitor, and do not forget the sweet chilli dipping sauce or it will be all the worse for you. Now let’s see what Shitty, Dopey, and Unconscious are getting up to.” Back in the flat, S/B is pondering his next move. “Hbbb, dow what is by dext bove?” “Ho, we have’dt started playig yet Biggle.” “Do do, dot dat kide of bove you ditwit, I bead by dext bove I’d frescapig frob de burderous bob.” Buckle looks frightened. “Burderous Bob? Is dat de witch’s dabe? Is he goig to murder us ad ded eat us up like Cousid Lauredce? I wish dat Bikle was here to save be!” S/B pats him on the shoulder. “Here I ab brother, dow let’s get rid of er, Burderous Bob de bodster, ad ded we cad have sobe dice beads ad get to bed.” “Ho Bikle! An I glad to see you! I was so scared of de bodster. I thigk it ate Sibod, cause ode bidute he was here ded he disappeared! I thigk he got gobbled up by datlarge banticore!” “Er, yeeees, dat’s right Buckle, I foud de poor devil’s shoes id de bedroob. Burderous Bob here bust have bunched hib up boxes ad all. Very sad bobedt.” Buckle pulls a sad face. But Bikle, why are you wearig Sibod’s shoes?” “Be? Oh, er, as a tribute to his bebory, yes, a bovig hobage to a dearly missed chub. Dow enuff of dat dodsedse, help be get dese dice pixie boots off de bodster.” Buckle joins in tugging at Bickle’s boots, “But why are we takig de bodster’s boots Bikle?” “Oh for heaveds sake, I forgotted how addoyig dis is, still better dis dan beig bassacred by a belligeredt bob of brutal, bloodthirsty burghers. De boots? Oh because dey are bagic boots Buckle, will dat do?” Buckle looks impressed. “Bagic boots! How frexcitig! Cad I have a go wid deb?” “Certaidly dot! Dey’re bide dow! Dere, dat’s got deb off! Hag od a bidute, by dose itches, I’ll just scratch it a bobedt, bohhh!  What’s dat frappallig aroba? It sbells like shit!” “It’s de bagic Bikle! De bagic poo frob de bagic boots! Just like by dreab! Ad it’s all over your face ad hads! You lucky thig!” “H’what? Oh for fuck’s sake. Dever bide, do tibe to worry about dat dow, I ab reclaibig by destidy! Ad dis tibe I’b dot goig to bake de sabe bistakes! I’b goig to bake a real go of it, goig to be a big shot! Look out world! Bikle’s back!” Buckle has taken a handful of extra sticky toffee and stuffed it into his mouth. “Oh hello Biggle! You’re bag are you? Gid you hag a dice tige? Hag you bet Gousid Lauregce? He’s a bogster you dow.” “Christ. First thig de dew Bikle is goig to do is have you put I’d a bedtal hobe, but first I deed your help to get dis monster dowd de stairs.” “Hang on a minute Shitlord, haven’t you overlooked something?” Bickle’s mouth moves in sync with the words, but the voice, whilst familiar, is clearly not his. Bikle doesn’t seem to be paying attention though, as he rifles through Bickle’s pockets. “What do you bead Buckle, ad dod’t call be dat.” “The hair Jizzmop, the hair. He’s got the long badly dyed do, and you are as bald as a rhino’s ballsack, capeesh?” “Ho dat’s right! Good thigkig Buckle! Baybe you’ll avoid de bedtal ward yet! Where are by scissors ad de glue frob your judior craft set? Ah dere we go, give be a bidute, barvellous! Dow dobody will be able to guess dat I’b dot be! De fidal touch to by basterplad!” So saying he places his shoes onto Bickle’s unconscious feet, and stands up, brushing back strands of haphazardly glued on hair from his faecal matter smeared visage. “I’b a gedius! Cobe od Buckle, help me get dis bodster to de stairs!” Between them, the spindly duo manage to trundle the chair and it’s recumbent occupant to the dimly lit landing. The motion and noise involved in this operation wakes Bickle from his stupor. “Bohhh. Where ab I? What’s happedig?” “Ho, dothig to worry about Bickle, or should I say, Sibod?” Bikle chortles spitefully, “Dat’s right! I’b takig back by life! Ad you cad have by old life!” He pauses, trying to work something out. “I bead dot by old old life, dat’s de ode dat I ab takig back, I bead by dew old life, de ode dat was actually Sibod’s. Real Sibod I bead. Dot fake Sibod. By which I bead be, dot you, because you are fake Sibod dow. Or fake fake Sibod perhaps. Adyway, adylast words before I propel you precipitously pell bell dowd de stairs into de hads of de vedgeful vigiladtes?” Bickle shakes his head. “By God do you bead it? You’d actually steal back your previous existedce? The flat, Buckle, everything?” Bikle sneers triumphantly. “Ho you bet dat I will! You just watch be!” To his surprise, and rather to his disappointment, as he was enjoying playing the role of villain for once, Bickle convulses in spasms of hopeless laughter. Eventually, after several minutes, the giggles and guffaws gradually stop, and pinioned as he is, he tries to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Ho  ho, sorry, ho dear. You poor poor sad bastard Bikle. Dat’s de sidgle bost tragic thig dat I have ever heard. Oh by gooddess, you sad old bad. Ibadgide dat. Ho it’s too fuddy for words. But also so fuckig pathetic dat it almost bakes be wadt to cry.” He giggles again. “I’d fact I would cry if I wasd’tlaughing so buch.” Bikle bridles, his moment of triumph crumbling around him. He attempts to rally. “Ho is dat so? Well at least I’b dot goig to by lydched by a furious crowd who think dat I ab a sex offender!” Bickle smiles serenely. “Ho let be assure you, dat holds do horrors for be. A violedt ad shabeful death is still idfiditely better dan codtiduig od livig your life. I stole a trade sized box of de extra strog dog worbig bedicide frob de back of de vet’s car de other day, I was pladdig od dowdig de lot todight ad endig it adyway, so you are savig be de bother you poor sad bastard.” Bikle doesn’t quite know what to say to this. Bickle’s sincerity is so obvious, and his just the prospect of release so unmistakable, that he struggles to come up with a rejoinder. Bickle smiles at him. “Go on Shit Bikle, give us a push eh? There’s a good boy.” Reluctantly, Bikle does so and Bickle disappears down thestairs with a tremendous clattering and trundling which almost drown out his happy cry of “Wheeeee!” Bikle hears him smash through the front door and a roar go up from the crowd. Thoroughly deflated, he glumly returns to his flat and slumps down against a wall. He looks around him, taking stock of his kingdom. Cooker, fridge, both encrusted with filth, floor ditto. Few bean cans, broken TV, pile of random and soiled household items that look as though they have been scavenged from a dustbin, old computer and monitor. Not much really. And everything beige or grey or shit brown. The crowd are still roaring and cheering outside, and he brightens momentarily, they must be really going to town on poor “Simon”… He hears a brass band strike up “For he’s a jolly good fellow” and the crowd enthusiastically join in. “Dat’s dot very appropriate music to accompady a savage act of collective frobicide!” Curious, heis about to venture across to the window and risk a peep, when a noise from the front door makes him jump nervously. “Ho Bikle, de dewspaper is here!” “Hi dod’t care, H’ive had edough of dewspapers to last be a lifetibe! Hi dod’t wadt to set eyes of adother soddig h’dewspaper, I bead dewspaper, ever agaid!” “Ho you should look at dis ode Bikle, it’s got a picture of you od it!” Heart sinking, Bikle grabs the newspaper from his brother’s hand. Sure enough, there on the front is a huge photograph of himself, clearly taken moments before, in this very room. “Ho by God, wake up, I bust be dreabig!” For there in bold headlines are the words “REAL PARK PERVERT found.” Followed by “Local Police have released this photo of the notorious Park Pervert, also known as the Arboretum Onanist. Identified by local sources as “Bummer Hensman” this twisted individual became internationally notorious last year following therelease of a sick internet video…” His insides twisted into a knot, he reads the rest of the story, which brutally lays bate pretty much every awful thing he has ever done or has had done to him, all in breathless, sensational journalese. He reads of his “sickening romp in a bath of custard with Chonsoix de Bonne Onsoir,” his disastrous appearance on “Ready Steady Mwaeerk!” and a whole litany of failures and indignities, all given the worst possible interpretation. Reeling, his eye wanders to the story below. There, to his horror, is a picture of Bickle / Simon being carried aloft by a cheering crowd of locals, beneath a headline reading: “Innocent Newsagent becomes local hero” the story goes on to say that after being wrongfully accused Simon has been totally vindicated after the real Park Pervert was identified, he has been ceremonially stricken from the Sex Offenders Register, given the FreedomOf The City, and that a Just Giving page to replace his burned out newsagency has already reached £250,000. Bikle curses long and loud. Naive idiot that he is, by now even he can recognise the signs of one of Bikle’s regular massive humiliations. “Does dis bead dat we have to stay idside wid de curtaids closed ad watch you play if de computer agaid Bikle?” Before Bikle can reply, the front door opens and Morris saunters in carrying a hockey stick. “Evenin’ Shitlord. Here you are Dopey, have some toffee, glad you mentioned the computer, slipped my mind innit? Thought I’d take care of this one meself, personal touch see? Can’t abide loose ends.” So saying he sets about the aged Amiga with the hockey stick, reducing it to sparking wreckage, which he then throws through the remaining window pane. Sticking his head out, he yells “He’s in here boys!” Turns nods amiably to Buckle, pats him on the head, takes apool ball from his pocket, throws it accurately and painfully at Bikle’s head and walks off whistling cheerfully.




Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:37 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 3

Simon however, has downloaded a Monopoly app onto his phone. “Ho I’ll h’show deb. Who deeds deb adyway?” So as Bickle shouts after him, he responds smugly, “Ho, h’dot  h’likely! I buch prefer playig wid byself out here od de h’stairs!” Much hilarity and disgust from the others, “Ho dat souds about right, eh boys?” “Mein Gott, zer sheer flagrancy of zer mann! Haff he keine shame?” “Blbplplblp! Told you! Disgusting pervert! Ought to be birched!” Simon overhears all this and responds, “Do, do, dot playig wid byself! I bead I’b h’playing h’modopobly! Od by bobile! Ad if we’re talkig h’about perverts, den I, ad I hate to h’breach de codfidedtiality of de dewsagents code, but h’your dew issue of “Greasy Geezers” h’arrived h’yesterday Bister Butterball, ad as for you Ziggy, H’I rebebber dat h’extedsive collectiod h’of frutterly disgustig h’ibages dat you keep in h’your h’office!” “Ach der lieiber Gott youdummkopf, dat is zer inkblot tests!” “Ho well it looked like h’pordography to be!” Freud rolls whatever is left of his eyes. “Teufel! Vot a case study made you vould haf!” Bickle ushers Simon back into the flat, “Cobe along dow, all chubs here, frimportadt job for you, dicely dicely, ad so forth.” As they enter the room they are greeted by the sight of Buckle, socks on his hands and a damp, slimy paper tricorn hat perched on his head, gambolling around merrily. “Ho look Biggle! Look Sigog! I’b a gisgustig perverg!” “Stop dat Buckle! Stop dat at odce! Dat’s dot a dice gabe!” But Buckle is caught up in his new frolic, “Perverg! Perverg!” He yodels, dancing on the spot and waving his  besocked hands in Bikle’s face, “If you’re gisgustig ad you do it clab your hads! Clab clab!” “Ho god, stop it Buckle, dat’s bodstrous!” Ignoring him, Buckle carries on with his dance, which now consists of an awkward hopping motion, coupled with a leg movement somewhere between a can can and a goose step. He circles the group flapping his hands about like a demented chorus girl, “Clab clab!” until Johnson, tired of waiting for his go lands him one round the back of the head with Bickle’s frying pan. There is a resounding “Clannngg!” and Buckle subsides wordlessly onto the stained great carpet. “Barvellous! Dice work Johdsod!” “Dow ded, let’s get down to dis gabe. I’ll go first, freleved! Ode, two, three, four, five, six, seved, eight, dide, ted, freleved! Cobbudity chest! Dow let’s see, “You are a gagly fuckid freakboy. You have beed burned to death. Your fradvedture ends here. Do dot pass go.” What? Dat’s dot fair!” “Blplplp! Cards don’t lie! You’re out! Sit in corner!” “But, but dat’s rubbish! It’s by flat ad by gabe ad it’s do fud just sittig I’d de corder!” “Blplplp! Hard cheese Bickle! Luck of the game! Into corner with you!” “Ja ja! Der corner for you! Zer rules ist rules!” “Uh huh huh huh, get in the corner Bickle, with your tool!” “Ribbit!” “Mwaeerk!” Simon, seeing his enemy discomfited chimes in, “Ho Dat’s h’right h’Bickle! I am de h’badker rebebber? Ad by decisiod is fidal! Id to de corder wid you!” “Dot likely! I wadt adother go!” “Blbplplblp! Bad loser! Poor show! No sportsman! Eh boys?” Simon snatches up the broom, “Ho h’off you h’go h’Bickle, heeeey? Broob! Broob!” Bickle protests but is powerless to resist the broom and is forced to sit in the corner whilst the others play. He makes the occasional hesitant sortie, but is driven back by a few vigorous strokes of his bristly nemesis. “Cad I at least have sobe cord sdacks ded?” “Blplplp! Certainly not! Corn snacks for monopoly players only! Category for which you do not qualify!” Clancy grabs a handful of cheese curls and stuffs them messily into his beak. “Yum yum! Corn snacks! Most delicious! Your go Toady!” The game continues, Johnson clearly outclasses the others in terms of skill, and some of them, notably Clancy and Simon, are growing irritated by his success. Paul rolls a five and lands on Chance. He picks up a card. “Uh huh huh huh you have had a nasty accident involving a lawnmower, uh huh huh with your tool.” “Uh huh huh huh, bad luck Paul.” “Uh huh huhhuh, there is more writing, “You have haemorrhaged to death on your own lawn. Uh huh huh huh, get into the corner with Gonky there, and take that chortling git of a brother with you.” “Uh huh huh huh, that’s not fair.” “Blplplp! Fair or not, those are rules! Broom!” The pace of the game hots up, Toadman is the next to receive a chance card, he peers at it then throws it down. With an angry ribbit he claps a newspaper fedora onto his head and hops into the corner, leaving only Clancy, Simon and Johnson still in play. The board fairly bristles with Johnson’s Hotels, whereas Simon has nothing much to show and Clancy has a measly house on Old Kent Road. Clancy lands on the Community Chest, and with considerable trepidation picks up a card and reads the message inscribed thereupon. “Blplplp! What’s this? 2nd place in beauty contest! Win £10! Marvellous! Pay up Mr Banker! Hang on, Blplplp! More writing.” Clancy puts on his pince nez and scrutinises the card. “Also, be warned. The cat creature is slowly draining you of your life essence. There is nothing you can do with your puny magics to prevent this. Eventually a point will be reached where he will once again assumeCorporeal form and wreak an awful vengeance upon your enervated person. In the meantime, the thing about the beauty contest was a misprint. There is a dreadful gas explosion on the Old Kent Road and your shit house is destroyed.” There is a loud bang and all that remains of Clancy’s property empire is a scorch mark and a pool of melted green plastic. “Blbplplblp! Do not like this game. Remembered important business appointment. Must fly. Been lovely seeing you. Toodle oo.” So saying Clancy jumps to his feet and rushes to the door. Pulling it open he darts through it, only to find himself walking into the room he has just left. “Blplplp! What’s this? Leaving now!” Turning, he walks back through the door, only to emerge back into Bickle’s living room. “Blbplplblp! Alarmed now! Eldritch sorcery at work!” “Ho h’unlucky h’sir! Looks like you dod’t get out of dis dat h’easily! Your go Johdsod!” Clancy reluctantly sits back down at the monopoly board, with many an uneasy glance over his shoulder. Johnson rolls nine and extends his portfolio by the acquisition of Marylebone Station, meaning he now has the full set. Simon rolls a two and lands on a space which he doesn’t remember having seen before. “Ho h’what is dis dodsedse? Take a hubiliatiod card? Dere’s do such card!” Johnson gestures at a pile of cards which Simon could swear were not there a moment ago. “Hi dod’t like de h’look of h’dis.”  “Your likes undt dislikes haff keine importance dummkopf! Take zer card!” Dubiously Simon takes a humiliation card. “Ho god, h’whats dis? “You have beed caught by de police pleasurig yourself I’d de bushes dear a h’pribary school wid a h’pabphlet about de local bidiature steab railway dat you foud id de park. Go directly to Jail, do dot pass go, do dot h’collect £200. I’d additiod you bust sigd de h’sex h’offenders h’register for de next twenty years. Furious locals will burn down your h’dewsagedt ad follow you aroud id ad agry bob.” H’what? I’b glad dat dis is only a gabe!” From outside they hear the sound of fire engines hurtling past. A newspaper is posted through the letterbox. It falls to the floor with the front-page uppermost. Clearly legible is the headline “Local Newsagent is Disgusting Pervert.” atop a picture of Simon in his shop. A brick smashes through the window and breaks Bickle’s television screen. Through the shattered glass can be heard a hubbub of threatening voices, amongst which the words “Nonce” “Sick” “Beast” and Fucking hang him” can be discerned repeatedly. “Blplplp! Looks as though you’re not leaving either! Blbplplblp my turn!”



Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:31 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 2


Bickle glares at him resentfully. “Dod’t you fuckig start “Sibod”, I’b fed up of beed lubbered wid de god h’awful frexistedse dat you so deatly  frescaped! Dis bad is ad idiot!” Simon smiles serenely. “Ho, h’I dod’t dow h’what h’you’re h’talkig h’about h’Bickle. Dod’t be a h’grump, h’I brought sobe out of date cord sdacks for de boys, ad a big bag of dis h’extra sticky h’toffee for your broder Buckle!” His smile widens as he puts a noticeable emphasis on the “your” of “your broder”. Bickle looks round and Buckle is already chewing away, “Egstra stiggy! By fabouride!” He turns back and glowers at Simon. “You sbug cudt, I’ll cripple you for dis, you see if I dod’t!” Before Simon can respond, Pete and Paul interrupt. “Uh huh huh, we’ve set up the monopoly board, uh huh huh. With our tools.” “Cad I be ge gog bleeg Biggle?” Enquires Buckle eagerly. “How bady bloody tibes! Do, do do do do do do do! Do you bay dot be de dog! You can be de soddig irod. I’b havig de top hat because it’s by gabe, dow who is goig to be de boot?” “Blplplp Blplplp! Certainly not! I’ll be the yacht!” *Whisk*. “Undt I vill be ze automobile zat goes ze grosser schnell.” Bickle surveys the box, although there are a number of players still sitting expectantly awaiting to be assigned a counter, there are none left in the box. Bickle rummages about in the pile of belongings which he had retrieved from the bin. “Dow let’s see, what have we got here den? Ah dis will do for you Toady, it’s ad ebpty bidiature bottle of ouzo dat I found I’d de bus stop. Pete, you cad be dis clothes peg, Paul, dis bagic tree is you, hbbb, dere does’dt seen to be adythig else dere, let be have a rubbage I’d by pockets, ho, dis’ll do dicely for you Johdsod, a dudgeods ad dragods figuride of a bodster wid de tedtacles, dere I thigk dat’s everybody, we cad get od widde gabe.” Simon raises his hand, “Ho h’excuse be h’sir, hi thigk dat you have forgotten be!” “Ho chadce’d be a fide thig!” He scrats about in his pockets some more, finally drawing out a crumpled piece of card. A cruel smile spreads across his face, “Ho barvellous! This is a piece of jolly good luck, dis will be de perfect coudter for you Sibod! Here you go, h’adythig for a chub hey?” So saying he hands over the scrap of card to the lanky newsagent. “Ho, h’whats dis? Ho. Ho dearie be.” “Dat’s right! A dice coupod for a free wax polish at de Tesco car wash. A very dice coupod, a little bit tattered adbittedly…” he leers at Simon, “A bit grubby perhaps, a bit of de sball side I gradt you, ode bight albost say dat it was a dirty little coupod…” A number of emotions struggle for mastery on Simon’s face, anger, shame and lust foremost amongst them. Bickle sniggers as he watches the other try and controlhimself. “A… dirty… little… ho god.” His willpower is clearly no match for his unclean cravings, as he jumps to his feet. “Ho, frexcuse be a bobedt, hi deed to… berr, just powder by dose for a bidute…” So saying, he bolts into the bathroom and slams the door. Bickle looks round the room smugly. “Uh huh huh, but that means the boot is still left, uh huh huh, with it’s tool.” “Ho, I thought dat de cat bad was de boot.” “De cad bag Biggle? Whad cad bag?” Bickle looks confused. “Why, de cat bad. I bead, I’b sure dat he was dere a bobedt ago. How stradge.” Clancy looks disturbed. “Blbplplblp! What’s this nonsense? What cat man?” “Dis is bost udusal, I could have sword dat dere was a cat man type cobidatiod here just dow.” “Blplplp! No such thing! Imagining things! Hurry up! On with game!”

 “ho den where did de cad bad go Biggle?” “Blblblp desist in this no Cat man, talking nonsense “Who’s talgig dodsedse? Baybe de cad bad would lige sobe bilg?” and excitedly he rushes off to the fridge to fetch some. This adventure has a familiar end “Biggle Biggle, cobe ad see! Dere’s jeese id de frijj, I thougd dere be jeese! Do cads lige jeese?” “I dodn’t dow what de fuck your sagig ady bore Buckle, dat toffee has jabbed your bouth up!” and then aside to himself “fractually baybe I should by hib eved bore stickier toffee!” “By said I though dere’d be jeese!” he hollers, brandishing a block of value cheddar with triumphant return. Such a return though has only one possible outcome. Buckle trips badly on the outstretched leg of Sigmund Freud’s living remains and crashes violently into the mix of characters, knocking the newly set up board and all asunder. “Bohhhhhhh!” *crash* goes the general scene. “Buckle! You fridiot! You docked everything over!” “Uhuhuh not to worry, we’ll soon sort this mess out, with our tools!” “Ja wir can all pitch in nichtwar!” And somehow under Ziggy’s and Clancy’s supervisory guidance the board gets put back together and soon they are ready to play. Just before the game can commence the bathroom door unlocks and a slightly sweaty looking Simon emerges. “Ho h’if you just hag od a bidute, H’I’ll joid you!” “Ho, where’s your counter Sibod?” Simon goes bright red “Ho I bust h’ov left it id the h’lavatory. Dever mind h’is there something else I can play with with ehhh?”  But before Bickle can do more Sigmund –who has taken control largely of the situation- pipes up “Ja you can the boot sein, und sit here und behave, no more of zese unclean cravinks!” So Simon perches next to Freud with Toady to his left. “Blblblblblp taking too long, roll for who goes first!” So the characters take turns at rolling and eventually Johnson wins with a double six. Bickle raises his eye at this, but Johnson just acts nonchalantly. “Uhuhuh that means Johnson goes first with his tool!” “Ho why is dad?” “Ribbet?” and another round of infuriating inanities occurs before Bickle can stand it no more “Just get od wid de fuckig gabe will you all! By god! By life! Wake be up I bust be dreabig!” at which Simon pipes up “Ho h’I used to say that! Eh boys!” “Uhuhuh yes it was like a catchphrase uhuhuh with your tool!” “Ho bost abusig boys ehhh!?” “Und vat is zis about abusig boys?” “Ho do, h’dot abusig boys! Abusig boys!” “Blblblblblp distasteful participant, pervert, expel him!” “Ho dow wait od a h’minute, H’I think you’ll find…” but the plaintive cry is not heeded and Bickle brings out a giant broom with which he begins to expertly herd Simon towards the exit “Ho get off be you broob!” he yells, but the mood has turned against him and soon he’s out on the landing where he raps and scratches pitifully at the door. “Blblblp atmosphere much improved, eager to begin, hotel on Mayfair, tea at the Ritz, out of jail free!” “Yes dat’s right puss a saucer of creab for you fri I expect o o o!” “Blblblbp at it again, no cat-person here, all fed to their own family blblblblp! I mean lots of families are fed up, no good game to play, on with the game!” Frall right Cladce I was odly jokig I dodn’t dow what Buckle is frittering od about!” “Ho the cat person again, here kitty kitty!” Shouts Buckle waving the cheese around. “Put dat dowd, dow who’s dext!” Johnson is with Pete and Paul to his right so it is Pete’s turn. Suddenly Ziggy shouts “Mein gott, zere is no banker! Ohne der Banker konnen wir nicht spielen!” “Ho I think we put de ‘banker’ out de door!” quips Bickle” but no one really knows what he means and look at him quizzically “You mean ve should let ze pervert back in to be ze banker!” “Blblblp curious suggestion, might steal the money!” But then Bickle looks at the very small and leaflet like, almost coupon like nature of the monopoly money and thinks this may in fact be a very good idea. “Sibod!” he hollers, racing out the flat and down the stairs, “Sibod you can cobe back!”


Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:29 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt1


“Bordig Bikle! Are we baking a cake?” Bickle, pale and exasperated sticks his head out an old style telephone box and answers “Ho god, for de frumpteenth tibe, do! Ode, it’s dot bordig, its three o clock id de afterdood, and two why de fuck would you think we were bakig a cake? I’ve beed stuck od hold about by bedefits for de last 20 bidutes which has dearly used up all by coco cola and beads bodey whilst you’ve been doig fuck dows what. I don’t dow why you didn’t stay id de flat.” “Don’t dow why who didn’t stay id de flat?” “You Buckle! I don’t dow why you didn’t stay id de flat, its cold and biserable out here.” “Ho I don’t dow, Bickle, it’s dot dat bad, besides I’ve got by warb coat od and look I’ve beed baking a cake!” “H’what?” “Yes cobe ad see, it’s a bagic cake!” Half holding onto the receiver, Bickle steps out as far as he can and looks around, only to feel his pixie boot has stepped into a pile of something. An unpleasant smell hits his nostrils and he can see he’s stood in a kind of old pizza box stuffed with various rubbish with a dog turd placed in the middle. “By cake! You’ve ruid it! Dow de bagic has got od your boot!” “Fucks sake Buckle, how bady tibes have I told you dot to play wid dog shit!” “Ho I don’t dow, is it a quiz?” “Do it’s figure of speech!” “A figure of speech? What do you bead?” Suddenly Bickle can hear a voice in the phone “Hag od Buckle! Yes yes, by dabe? Bickle, yes dats right, do I’b dot workig, I’ve got problebs to work. Oh hag od let be see if…” BEEP BEEP BEEP… Bickle fumbles to find coin in time and the line goes dead. “Fuck bastards!” he shouts “Did de bagic work Bickle?” enquires Buckle, opening the door slightly. “Do it didn’t!” “Ho it sbells id de box!” “Do dats the de dogshit all over by boot!” “Ho you really bust be bore careful Bickle, I’ve told you to keep away frob dog poo before!” Nearly shaking with tension, he manages to reply “Do do, that was be, I’ve told YOU about playing with dog shit!” “Ho, dat bust be how you got it od your boot!” “Do you bade a cake rebember?!” “Do do I already asked you about dat Bickle, and you said it’s three id de bordig why would we be bakig a cake.” “Dot three id de bordig, oh what’s de use, cobe od Buckle, let’s go back to de flat, Pete and Paul ad Sibod are playig bodopoly wid us later rebember!” “Ho barvellous, cad I be de dog!”

Bikle remembers the last time that they played monopoly and he, in an unthinking moment gave Buckle permission to “be the dog.” The fact that he was now reduced to eating his beans from the can, and indeed drinking his cola from an empty bean tin, such was the devastation which he had, socks streaming proudly from his ears, wrought upon Bikle’s already meagre store of crockery and glassware. “Do you bay dot! Neither cad you be de racig car. You cad be de irod or de boot.” “Oh dod’t be so bead, cad I be de boat?” Visions of floods appear in his mind. Certaidly dot, besides we have lost de boat, ad dat toad bad ate all de hotels.” “Ho I liked de toad bad! He bade be a hat! Is he cobig too?” “Ho god hi hope dot! Do do, just Pete ad Paul ad Sibod” “Will dey bake be a hat?” “Yes yes quite frossibly, dow cobe along, I deed to tidy de house ad get de board set up.” Buckle beams, “Ho you dod’t deed to worry about dat, Hi tidied de flat dis bordig, after I had by breakfast. ” Bikle stops midway through trying to scrape dog waste from his shoe. “You did fuckig what?” Buckle beams, “I tidied up de flat for a surprise! I did a frexcelledt job Bikle, Bi cad’t wait for you to see it!” “Ho by God, dod’t do dis to be! You’re fuckig jokig right? Ho god! By thigs!” He sets off at a run, cutting, as always when moving rapidly, an even more comedic figure than ordinarily, bony knees pumping up and down, cloak billowing out behind him. Buckle slaps his hands together in glee, jumping up and down on the spot. “Ho dere, he cad’t wait to see it freither! Ho, I THOUGHT he’d be pleased!” Panting and sweaty, Bickle pounds up to the stairs to the flat, and frantically fumbles in his pockets for the keys. Jamming them into the lock, he pushes open the door and runs into the flat.

Looking wildly around him, he staggers back in dismay. The living room / kitchenette area is completely empty, save for a monopoly box sat square in the middle of the floor. Panicking, he flings open the doors to the bedroom and bathroom. They too are empty and bare. Hoping against hope he pulls open cupboard doors, checks the wardrobe. Nothing. He clasps his hands to his head, “BUCKLE!” “Ho, there you are Bikle, how do you like dat ded? Tidy isd’t it?” “Buckle you bludderig bloody babood of a a bastard! Where’s all by thigs? By clothes? By combuter? By bagdificedt televisiod?” “But you’re always sayig dat dey are rubbish Bikle, I didn’t thigk dat you liked deb. So I tidied deb all up.” He beams. “Ho, I thought you’d be pleased!” Bikle clutches at his forehead and reels back against the wall where the cooker used to stand. “You got rid of all our thigs? I’ll bloody burder you for dis!” “But you really did’t like dem buch at all Bikle, you always called deb daughty dabes!” “Dat’s because dey were old ad a bit crap, but dey were all I had! Ad at least I could watch videos of de televisiod, ad play gabes od de cobputer, ad boil water od de cooker, ad wear de clothes, ad, ad, ad well bloody everythig! Dow what an I goig to do?”

Buckle shook his head sadly. “Poor confused Bikle. Do you wadt a toffee Bikle? I’b goig to have ode. Dere extra sticky!” “I’ll give you a bloody toffee id a bidute you ditwit!” “Dad’s veddy kide on you Biggle, bud I’b god a tobbee ballreagy. Do you wag to see?” “Ho for fuck’s sake!” He grabs Buckle by the lapels of his anorak and shakes him. “All by sduff! By thigs! Gaaah! What about I goig to do?” Buckle smiles pityingly. “Silly Bikle! Buy sobe dew thigs ob course.” “Give be bloody stregth! How about I goig to do dat wid do bodey you bindboggligly bassive bubhead?” “But Biggle, you’b god lods ob bodey, dere I’d de box!” So saying, he gently frees himself from the other’s grasp and, opening the monopoly box proffers Bikle a handful of brightly coloured scraps of paper. “Dere you go Bikle. Dow you cag buy lods of dice gew thigs!” “Dat’s dot real bodey Buckle! Jesus bloody wept you frimbecile! Dat’s dot real!” “Ho dow it bust be, rebebber de oder day whed you dragk de juice from de labp ad west all wobbly? You were asking ladies to show you dere dickers, ad frofferig deb dis bodey.” “Dat was’dt be, dat was de oder Bickle, Frorigidal Bikle! Ho fuck by life! I biss all de oder dibedsiods!” Buckle chews his toffee thoughtfully. “So you did lige your thigs Bikle? Dat’s fuddy den.” “Fuddy? Fuddy? Oh by saidted audt!  How dat other Bickle dever burdered you I’ll dever dow!” “Why dod’t you get deb bag ded? Frob dowdstairs?” “H’what? Dowdstairs? What do you bead?” “I put deb I’d de big storage boxes dowdstairs, you dow, de idea wid do lids ag de liggle wheels od deb.” “De wheels bids! Ho god! Ad it’s Thursday! De bid bed Cobe od Thursday!” So saying he bolts from the room and clatters down the stairs, followed by Buckle, who has not followed the last part of the exchange, but is ever ready to join in a new game with his accustomed gusto. “Wheeee! I’b ruddig od de stairs!” Bursting out of the front door, Bikle is just in time to see the dustbin lorry trundling away down the road. “By thigs! Cobe back!” So saying, he sets off in hot pursuit, shaking his fists and yelling obscenities. A couple ofwell to do ladies, waiting at the zebra crossing observe him with disgust, a tweed clad figure standing nearby shakes his head and eyes the desperate figure with studied disdain. “Blplplp! Madman trying to steal rubbish from bin lorry! Really! How low some people will sink eh? Blplplp! Probably a tramp of some kind!”

Hot on his heels shouting and clapping comes Buckle pelting as fast as he can. “Ho I’b goig to wid de race!” he cries triumphantly as he passes Bickle. As it happens the bin lorry does stop, as there are traffic lights ahead. With a vague sense of hope Bickle hurtles himself towards the bin lorry with every last ounce of strength. The lorry is still there when he reaches the side. Red and gasping he staggers to the window and reaches up to bang on the glass. The burley bin man looks quizzically down at him. Bickle bangs urgently again, this time the man winds the window down. “By thigs, dere id de bid!” “You what mate?” “Dere’s beed a bistake, sobeode put by thigs id de bid and dow dere id de back of de truck, by Abiga, by tv, by clothes” The bin man looks suddenly cognizant “Computer? Tv? That was you?” “Yes dat was be!” “Right mate I can’t stop now but your things are back there, we can’t take stuff like that, there’s a fine notice on the top of the bin, needs paying in 28 days.” “But what about by oder thigs!” “Have to ask at the deppo mate, don’t fancy your chances.” The lights change to orange and the lorry pulls away. Buckle is currently nowhere to be seen which is a relief to Bickle so, red and sweaty from the exertion, he slopes back towards the flat to see what remains of the his stuff and where the bin men have left it. He does not have to look far. Clearly in his panic he didn’t spot the fact the bin men have just dumped it outside the flat block. There’s the TV, smells a bit but hopefully ok. The computer? Ah half concealed by a bag of some plastic packets that previously contained food, but otherwise looks all right. A bag of kitchen things looks promising. A bag of old dvds and videos looks more hopeful still. No clothes by the looks of it but maybe Buckle didn’t throw those out? He looks too at ominous fine notice on the top of his bind. That will have to wait. He’s knackered and feels awful but he has to get this stuff back upstairs. So starting with the TV he begins to move the things. Clambering to the top of the stairs he fumbles around opening the door. He manages to stagger two steps in when he hears a loud “Boo!” which startles him so much he drops the television and screams “H’what de fuck!” There laughing and grinning is of course Buckle “Ho you dropped de telly Bickle!” “Frouch! And od by toes as well! Fucks sake Buckle dow de telly is ruid!” “Baybe you shouldn’t have beed carryig it aroud, if you’d left it alode dis wouldn’t have happed!” Slowly learning the futility of answering this gibberish. Bickle picks up the TV, noting that there is only slightly peripheral damage and speculating that it might be ok and takes it through to the living room “Dow Buckle, I’b goig to check de TV later, leave it alode, don’t try ad fix it or fradythig, just leave it alode, I’b off to get bore of by stuff.” So back he traipses down the stairs, fetches a bag or a box until, after a few trips, all that was not actually taken by the bin men is back in the flat, all be it in a slightly smellier state. Buckle comes back into the main room. “Cobe od dow Bickle you  deed to bove all dis rubbish, Pete and Paul and Sibod will be here sood and you’ve left your bess everywhere. I’ve tidied dis lot once today already!” Sure enough the middle of the floor is just a pile of various stuff, taking up much of the space.  “Ho you leave it alode Buckle, I’ll deal with dat id a bidute, led be just have sit dowd” “But dere’s dowhere to play de bodopoly.” “Fucks sake, give be just a bidute!” “Ho it’s really do trouble Bickle, I cad help tidy dis up!” “Do Buckle! Leave it a fuckig lode! Just led be sit a bidute!” But then there is a knock at the door. Bickle turns even paler. “Ho dat will be deb!” says Buckle excitedly, launching himself towards the door before tripping over the pile of stuff in the middle of the floor “Bohhhhh!” and then crashing into the seated Bickle “Ow fuck! Ged off be you fridiot!” “Get off who?” he still manages from the entanglement. “Be! Get off be you fucking bunbelievable dincompoop!” and he forcefully pushes him off before getting up and stomping over towards the door.

Elsewhere Morris and Johnson are watching the scene, Morris looks amused but thoughtful. “I am not sure that this one is going to last as long, he looks about done in already and its only been five minutes. We’ll see how the monopoly game goes but if he doesn’t rally we may have to rethink. Speaking of which do you fancy going? One of you should go, well one of you is going, ah and here is loves a good boardgame Johnson right on cue.” “Mwaaaerk!” intones lagbg Johnson enthusiastically. “Get round to shitbeans flat, win the monopoly game and come back!” So off Johnson goes out of Morris’ door only to appear on the screen in Bickle’s flat. “H’what is dis? I thought it was just Pete and Paul and Sibod!” Sure enough there are a few more players than were anticipated. Clancy is there rifling through the counters. Pete and Paul are there, with there tools, gangly Simon too, a toad man skulks around folding an old newspaper into a hat, Sigmund Freud is leafing through the instructions. After Johnson’s entrance Simon pipes up “Ho h’cobe od Bickle, we’re all waitig to start! Don’t be a piker about it!”


Published in: Uncategorized on June 14, 2017 at 11:31 am  Leave a Comment