The World of Sherby57

Because I’m worth it

Dec 15

A Hazard of Parsnips – Chapter 15

by sherby57

Gentlemen

The hour is upon is. Not literally. I don’t know how an hour would actually get up on top of us. The mere notion of it is ridiculous and doesn’t warrant the attention from the fine fellows in our solemn brotherhood. Please forgive me frippery and frivolity. Or even my frivvery and fripolity. I’m never sure which is it. Sorry. I’ve done it again. The point that I am consistently failing to make is that not only are our plans finally coming to fruition, but that I have set my sights on marriage.

That’s right. You fellas had better believe it. You do not require nanny to clean out your privileged lug-holes with a bit of string and a tub of olbas oil. You heard me correctly the first time. Of course, as this is a letter, you did not hear me at all; unless you are counting the imaginence of the words formed by your mind’s ear. But, please allow me this moment of artistic licence in a moment such as this.

So, who could this feminine flesh-bag be that finally captures the attentions of Lord Dennis\me? The situation, as you may well imagine, is somewhat complicated. My dear bum-chums, you will remember my recent incarceration for the alleged kidnapping of the arse-clown Crapper. Oh, how we laughed on my release. If only the rozzers had any inkling of even a sprinking of the myriad of depravaties commited by our fellowship. They’d literally shit a brick. Well, I’m sure that you also remember that tsunami of abuse that washed over me from my supposedly betrothed Eileen Bilton. Our nuptials had been agreed by our secret society as nothing more than a plan to seize control of her father’s land. Those golden acres are essential to the progression of our dastardly schemes. (Note: I think we may have to stop calling our plans ‘dastardly’ ourselves. I think it may possibly make us look a little bit suspicious. It’s bad enough that we’re part of an evil secret brotherhood, innit #justsayin). Anyway, this little firebrand’s abuse roused me in a way that I had never been roused before. The tenacity that she showed in her prolonged attacks on my personage were like a dog with a bone. And this made me like a man with a bone (I’m trying to imply that it gave me a stiffy). Sure, this might sound a little kinky, but we’re all perverts here. Why else would we all be members of a sinister cult-like organisation? That especially goes for you, vicar. If only your congregation knew what was going on underneath your robes. You disgust even me.

It soon came to pass that Crapper’s kidnapping was perpetrated by none other than Der Naughty Kitty. Yes, him. I know that I assured you all that he wouldn’t be a problem, but even the Stefmeister can be wrong from time to time. I digress. Upon hearing the news, Miss Bilton did me the utmost honour of writing me a gracious letter of apology. The silly bitch. She’s just playing straight into my hands. And, boy, do I ever have sweaty palms. She thinks she is still in love with Crapper, but she will be mine. I have perused my extensive library and studied my treasured first edition of “A Treatise Upon The Rules of The Game of Love: A Dazzling Insight into The Art of The Neg” by Count Neil Von Strauss. I have sent away to the finest tailor’s in all of Swindon for a jazzy red suit made of the plushest velveteen known in the empire. How could any woman not succumb to my elaborate peacocking? Then I’ll probably go up to her and tell her that her dress is nice, it’s like the one that the skinny girl was wearing earlier. Or maybe I’ll tell her that I like her FAKE nails. Bwah-ha-ha! Oh, my chums. How can any fraulein not fall directly into my lap after being given a compliment that was actually a vague insult? She’ll be like putty in my hands. Just think of how I’m going to use her to fix a window in position…. scratch that. I don’t think the metaphor really stretches that far.

Once she’s fallen for me then I’m going to do everything I can to wind her up. Only then will I once again fully experience the barrage of abuse that first attracted me to her in the first place. Oh, can you imagine living your whole life with a woman that does naught but harangue you from dawn till dusk? The deliciousness of the situation leaves me sticky with my anticipatory sap.

So, thats my plan. What do you guys think? You know you’re all, like, really really important to me. I wouldn’t want to rush into anything without getting your seals of approval. I know we’re like a team of Maciavellian miscreants, but, in many ways, I see us like those outrageous girls from Sex in The City. Oh, the hours we’ve wiled away in our chambers, deciding which one of was Samantha, who was most like Carrie and who had the whiff of Beryl about her. I hope it doesn’t affect my standing as an evil genius, but I really love you guys. Golly gosh, I’m getting quite teary here. I’m going to get such a ribbing at the next meeting!! LOLZ

Anyway, where was I? Yeah, I plan to marry this crazy chick, after all. I mean Eileen Bilton, not Charlotte Church. I don’t want there to be any confusion. Then, after we are wed, I can put the finishing touches to our masterplan. Yes, all the components are coming together nicely and even the antics of Der Naughty Kitty cannot scupper them. I will choose not to reveal any details of the plan in this letter. I just feel that if someone were to come across this menacing missive and read the minutiae of our perfect plot, then it would somehow ruin the suspense for them. Perhaps that they’re enjoying this letter as some kind of story. How would they feel if the mystery was taken away before the end? Whenever “the end” is. Real life doesn’t have an ending, does it? Well, it does when you die, but you know what I’m trying to say. Do you? I’m not really sure myself? I’ve just implied that we’re all in a giant story, but now I’m back-tracking slightly. What can it all mean?

Bwah-hahahaha-ha!! Oh my friends. How the big author in the sky would be laughing at us now. The whole world is a big story being written by our celestial scribe. It’s one of the weird beliefs of our secret society. Which you all obviously know as you’re all also members. I don’t really know why I felt I had to point it out to you. Could it be the work of the mystic bard working through my errant fingers? Or is it just because I’ve drank too much rhubarb wine? I dunno, but I bloody love you lot. Anyway, I better be off, I think I’m going to be sick.

Laterz

Cool Lord D

A Hazard of Parsnips

1 Comment »
Nov 17

A Hazard of Parsnips – Chapter 11

by sherby57

Lord Dennis

 

It appears that I owe you some sort of apology.  At this juncture, I am not entirely sure what sort it should be; by nature I am not inclined to give you any.  I will have to consult with my father’s apologepedia as the soonest convenience, but we will proceed with this letter in a tone of general apologisement.

I should explain.

You may or may not be aware that my precious Clarence has been abducted.  Well, it’s pretty obvious that you are aware of it since you were accused of doing it and incarcerated for a prolonged period.  I cannot help but admit that I truly believed that you were responsible for this most heinous crime and I almost wet my bloomers with excitement when D.I. Detective-Inspector announced that you were under suspicion.  Indeed, prior to this proclaimation of your arrest, it had seemed that the local plod were not going to take any action against thee and I had already begun the process of rounding up an angry mob from the local village.  To be fair, it really doesn’t take a lot for them to get all riled up and they were all frantically polishing their pitchforks at the mere thought of becoming unruly.  This is not a euphemism.  Frankly, I thought that I was going to have to tell them that you’re a kiddy fiddler, but it seemed that they were more than happy to burn down your estate on the grounds of circumstantional evidence for a possible kidnapping of a vegetable salesman.  The uneducated masses do come in handy occasionally.

I literally danced the fandago when the fuzz announced that you had been taken in for questioning.  I played Temptation by Heaven 17 on my father’s stereogram and giggled merrily at the delicious irony.  Then I remembered that dear Clarence was still missing and it was probably a tad inappropriate for me to be so happy.  To make amends, I insisted that Mrs Jennings, our housekeeper, fed me a sour plum at once, in order to remove all traces of a smile from my oh-so-sexy countenance.

As we had no further reason to cause a riot, the villagers were at a loose end and had nowhere to channel their freshly pent-up aggression.  As a compromise, I suggested that they go and throw a mixture of horse manure and salad cream through the bars of your cell.  In hindsight, I’m semi-sorry that I asked them to do this.

But, oh! Lord Dennis, please try and understand the emotional turmoil that I was under at the time.  Not only was uber-spunk Clarence missing, but the national press was intimating that Sir Robert Williams was about to leave the Take That Society.  Yes, I will concede that he is an absolute cock, but I could not help but worry about the fate of Alderman Gareth Barlow and the rest of those fine fellows.  Would this fine, upstanding band of brother be able to survive without Williams’ weak mock-rappery?  It was almost too much for this delicate flower to bear.

I digress.  Although my monolithic slab of manhood was in parts unknown, I felt confident that the bizzies would extract his location from your obstinate mug and that we’d soon be re-united in glorious romantitude.  What I did not expect was the man Kowalski.

The first I knew of this ‘American’ was when he rapped on the door of my father’s manor to the beat of Tiger Feet by Mud.  It was a most unusual knock and I instinctively knew that it forbode the arrival of a most extraordinary visitor.  Our butler, Brandreth, announced the constable’s arrival and relayed to me that he was wishing to speak with myself most urgently.  Now, I can assure you that I am not by nature inclined to bow down to the filth, but I could feel an almost tangible aura emanating from the parlour in which he resided, so I pulled on my leggings and decided to indulge my curiousity.

As soon as I entered the room, my senses were assaulted by a sheer weight of animal magnetism.  It was like a giraffe had just stood on my foot.  One cannot help but feel that it is most fortuitous that I am so enamoured of my Clarence or I could well have invited Monsieur Kowalski derriere le bins du Aldi, if one can derive my meaning.  I took a few moments to compose myself and it was only then that I realised that Kowalski’s eyes had been tightly shut for as long as I had been in the room.  Before I could pass comment, he spake:

‘Can you hear it?  Can you hear it pumping on your stereo? Yes, it’s true.  That, sweetcheeks, is the goddam bassline of justice and Kowalski is here to pluck it from your four pretty, little strings.’

His metaphor was stretched, to say the least, but his meaning was beyond question.  From his very stance I could deduce that he was a man with more answers than questions – an unholy imbalance at the best of times – and for some unknown reason he had decided to rain his answers down upon me.

He was uncomfortably frank and within seconds he had mentally undressed me, redressed me in something more becoming and then mentally invited me out for dinner.  If I had any blood vessels left in my cheeks (following my freak boating accident) I would have surely blushed so vividly that they could have used me as a lighthouse.

When he had completed this sexually charged visual interrogation, he informed me of the reason for his being there.  He was 100% convinced that you were innocent and that some ghastly chap called Der Naughty Kitty (I’m not sure if this is his real name) was responsible.  Apparently, this kitty character had even sent the pigs a letter proclaiming that he was indeed the culprit!  As if to rub salt in my wounds, the man Kowalski even shew me the offending missive.

I must confess that I thought it was utter bollocks.  A serial kidnapper\perv called Der Naughty Kitty?  It sounded utterly preposterous.  Clearly, it was you, Lord Dennis, that was responsible for the disappearance of my beloved and no jumped up, but undeniably saucy, yank was going to tell me any different.

I literally bit off the policeman’s head for wasting my time with his ridiculous theory and demanded that he leave my crib immediately.  He sauntered out of the parlour like a rabbit who had just won a rollover on the Euromillions, whilst trying to conceal from his wife that he had won the lottery so he could try and sneak off and live the playboy lifestyle on the French Riviera.  Frankly, I didn’t know what it all meant.

I was livid and could barely contain my rage.  Indeed, I insisted that Mrs Jennings joined me in one of our Fight Society evenings in the basement of a local hostelry, and I took my frustrations out on her flabby face.  I had a lot of explaining to do when father didn’t get his breakfast on time the next morning, I can tell you, but it was worth it.  And dear Mrs J received four farthings from the tooth fairy, which paid for another bottle of gin.  It was a win-win scenario.  Regardless of the successful pugilism, I remained outraged.  How dare this Kowalski try and use evidence to prove your innocence when I had decided on your guilt through tried and tested gut instinct.  It was unconscionable.

Anyhoo, I was completely out of sorts for the entire next day.  In an attempt to raise my spirits I sat around in my frilliest of lingerie, sometimes sucking a lollipop, at other times cuddling a giant novelty teddy bear.  I felt that if I could engender some FHM-style knocker-based validation then my self-worth may have been boosted.  Alas, there was only father around at this stage, and I must confess that it made me feel a tad uncomfortable to have him perving on my, admittedly magnificent, arse.

Things had become so dreadful that Brandreth actually beat me when we played along with Countdown.  The man is virtually neanderthal, so I wasn’t impressed.  In one round my longest word was ‘egg’.  I’ll say no more.

Things did not get any better.  I was just tucking into my egg and soldiers in front of the fire, whilst father watched Look North West, when the bulletin did nothing more than show your visage via the medium of photography.  We listened intently to the reporter and you cannot imagine the shock we experienced when we learned that the man Kowalski had done nothing less than release you from prison.  I was well miffed, put it that way.  I was all for jumping in the Sierra and swinging by the cop shop – I was well ready to kick off on the jumped up little man and demand that he re-arrest you at once.  There was no way that he should be letting you go when my precious Clarence was still incarcerated in parts unknown.

I rushed upstairs to my boudoir to re-apply my make up.  Even if I was only going to have a barney with some bobbies, I still like to look my best.  It was only then that I spotted a letter sat on my dressing table – and it was written in my Clarence’s uncultured but erotically erratic hand.  Oh, how my heart did race.  It was like I had been sniffing poppers.  I immediately ripped open the crusty envelope and read with trepidation about the horrors that my Clarence had been made to endure.  And that most shocking part?  It appeared that this Naughty Kitty was real after all.  It transpired that I had done you a shocking diservice, Lord Dennis.  In a way, it’s your own fault for always acting like such a knob.

Immediately, I knew that I must share this note with the rozzers.  I say immediately, but I had to stop off via the servant’s quarters to slap Brandreth around the chops for not giving me the letter sooner.  To be honest, he’s far too old to still be of any real use.  We only keep him on out of sentimentality – it’s hard to fire your first lover.  I know that daddy feels the same way.

Needless to say that we soon headed off to the police station.  I wanted to get my encounter with the hideous, yet compelling Kowalski out of the way as soon as possible.  After reaching the SHPD HQ, I demanded to see the fiend immediately.  He may have been right, and I may have been ever so slightly incorrect, but he was still a colonial and needed to be put in his rightful place.  Disgracefully, they left me twiddling my thumbs in an interview room while they went to get him without so much as a cup of Earl Grey.  The absolute heathens.

Thirty six minutes later and Kowalski languidly sauntered into the room wearing the tightest pair of Farah slacks that I’ve ever seen.  They certainly didn’t leave a great deal to the imagination, so to speak.  It was almost as if it was talking to me.  It was frightful, and yet I couldn’t take my eyes from it.

My moment of shame came and went, thankfully Kowalski seemed too pre-occupied with the cut of Detective-Inspector’s jacket to gloat over my mistake.  The one upside is that Clarence’s letter may just be the evience required for the old bill to finally bring him home to me.  Oh how I’ve missed his ruggedness.  He’s like a mystic outcrop somewhere in the North Sea.  Metaphorically speaking.  He’s actually nothing like that.  He’s not surrounded by water or covered in bird crap.

So, the point that I’ve been trying to make is that I’m sorry for accusing you of this most terrible of crimes.  Again, I will point out that if you weren’t such a bounder then I probably wouldn’t have leapt to such a conclusion.  Just a bit of friendly advice.

 

A bientot.

 

Miss Eileen Bilton.

 

A Hazard of Parsnips

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Nov 16

A Hazard of Parsnips – Chapter 10

by sherby57

Dearest Eileen

O, my love! Please heed my speedily penned missive of love and terror. Both in Equal measure. I have not much time, my love, so please forgive any mistakes I make. If I miss an apostrophe here, or even maybe, turn it the other way around, in sheer  terror, please turn your beautiful cheek, clench your beautiful buttocks and steel yourself from the knowledge that I lay before you.

O, I know how much pain it will cause you, my lovely horse, to learn that this slab of man has been man-napped and man-handled to a secret destination known only as ‘The celestial treehouse’.  Around me, I’m unsettlingly nestled amongst queasy curios and artefacts. To my sinewy left is a map of Africa, anatomically correct dolls, a poster of the Bristol Stool Scale, and an effigy of Keith Chegwin, crafted from electrical wire.  To my muscle-bound left is a poster of Dieter Brummer, Home and Away’s tragic hot potato/spunk.  His death was like a light going out as far afield as Yabbie Creek, nay, ‘The City’.  My nostrils are filled with the earthy stench of, Brillo pads, Cuprinol and I gag and splutter at the cloying smell of Billy Onion (I mean B.O. but I didn’t want to upset your delicate sensibilities. I hope I did not., but I must paint you an accurate picture, my crushed grape, to help you, and the authorities, find me, like a soiled nappy).

I do not know how long I have been festering here in the celestial treehouse. I am tied to a partially inflated lilo with the legend ‘I had a great time in Ashton Under Lyme’.  My gaoler did not reveal himself to me until yesterday. For 4 days my sustenance was delivered to me by a mute woman with a sharp eye and a polyester garment. Her arse was shiny and her glance was shrewd and mean, as she regarded my quivering, manly body. I hazard a guess that she was probably wondering if I work out, or I’m just naturally hunky.  It’s a bit of both to be honest. I do like to look after myself. Not overly though. I’m no Jeff Banks. Everyday, so far, the same. She brings me 3 square meals on a hamburgular plate sitting impertinent, high on a tray, with what I can only describe as a comfy underside to it, like the underside of a hovercraft, but filled with beans.  This allows the tray to be placed on the tray-recipients lap, like a hot weasel, nestling on  one of the London Boy’s hats.  If the situation wasn’t so imminently threatening, I daresay this ‘comfy tray’ would have me punching the air. My water is thrust at me in a plastic ‘Espania ‘82’ World Cup memorabilia cup by the sullen wench. She pushes it to my full, but not girly lips, and grunts and bids me “Drink. Drink”.  As she withdraws the cup, the orange’s happy face seems gut turningly out of place in this horrid mess of an abduction. I later came to know my gaolers’ puppet as ‘Teresa’.

Teresa.

But who tweaks Teresa’s strings now, my love?

I’ll answer for you. Me. Maybe…

 

Back to the landlord and host of my misery.

 

It was only on day four that he revealed himself to me. Before he happened upon me, Teresa hurried up, wearing a black and red polyester basque.  “Oh Clarence.  He vill visit you today. He vill tell you all about vote ee is doing today. You must be gut Clarence. Do as he says, Clarence”.  I had managed to get the impossible wench to speak to me by being good looking and manly, the day before. I knew that this slattern was no different from other women, and would soon fall, so powerless within my grip. After, all, was it not these same good looks that loosened your bowel on that fateful day in the Skem Concourse?  Yes, it was.

She then began spraying the air fiercely, with an atomiser, with a curious concoction contained within. She punctuated jerkily all over the treehouse, reaching into the very corners, pumping the spray and punching it into the stale air.  I sniffed the acrid perfume of vinegar that permeated the dead atmosphere of my cabin. “Teresa, what is that uncommonly awful odour? I beg you to bestow on me such knowledge!”

“Oh, Clarence, ee vants me to spray ze air viv vinegar.  Ee thinks bad theengs vil appen if I do not pervorm this ritual.”

“What manner of nonsense is this, Teresa, I beg you? Does your master have you fulfilling this oddity of a duty into every room  that hosts his arrival?”

“Oh yes, Clarence. Before ee announces his import to a chamber, even our bedroom, ee as me spraying this air with vinegar.  Sometimes he makes me chant the words “I spray the air with my brave powder, I jump from the highest shelf in the cupboard. Nothing can hurt me when I’ve used my brave powder. Not even James Pritt-Stick”.

Well, my love, it was all I could do to stop myself guffawing in the wretches care-worn face. But before I could bellow my mirth, I was caught by a great sadness in her eyes. A Sadness like when the plastic safety tab on a bottle of asprin breaks, imprisioning the precious medication and sealing your headache doom.

“Teresa,” I purred softly.

“Yes, Clarence.”

“If you were my woman, I’d spray the air with my vinegar gun to herald YOUR arrival.”

It was as if I’d unleashed a raft of emotion, as the tears coursed down her face.  The face that graced the cover of ‘Carer’s Digest’ in 1989, I later came to learn.   She looked searchingly into my wide, but not feminine eyes, eyes wobbling from side to side like Tania in Footballer’s wives. Frank didn’t deserve her! The Perpetual Oaf! In any event, she looked into my eyes, and for an agony of ecstasy she softened and I thought she might just about do owt and I thought I could make good my escape with a few secrets (and maybe a few months where I couldn’t look in the mirror) but then He poured in.

“Teresa! Are you being a naughty kitty?”

My heart stopped.

What in the name of What Katie Did Next was this…this…beast?

O, my delicate constituitoned sickly peardrop, I do not know how much your delicate stomach will permit me to describe…let me advance you this well meaning advice, please fetch a sturdy bib for the contents of this letter, and possibly your stomach, will now unfold further…

How can I begin?  Probably his shoes.  They were Hi-Tec trainers… Hi-Tec?  I wouldn’t be seen dead in such fallacious footwear, and so I immediately espoused this fellow’s nefarious intentions.  Next, he was wearing the bluest of blue jeans.  A shade of blue that should never been seen in any modern denim, and could only instantly make me exclaim: ‘sex pest’.  This did not bode well for the integrity of my internal organs.  The denim work-slacks were also stained in a most distinctive manner.  There was a brown sauce stain in the shape of Argentina on his left leg, and a picture of Fred Flintstone on his right.  Perhaps they were trendy once upon a time, but today they merely smacked of jumble sale.  Needless to say, he was beltless.  It had probably been confiscated.  The waistband of the jeans was suspiciously high. To this day, I do not know if he had extremely short legs or it was merely an optical illusion caused by the high-waistedness.  Alas, I have lingered upon his nether-zones for far too many a minute, and mickelmas is rapidly approaching.

I should now move on to his torso.  Almighty Zeus, this man was quite, quite rank.  His torso was enrobed in what I can only describe ‘uncouth’.  On  it bore the legend ‘sex instructor: ask me for a demonstration’ with a suggestion of where a lady should place her hands.  Clue: it wasn’t gentlemanly.  This rogue was bringing a mix of emotions in me, the twin shit-zus of repulsion and disgust where chasing the wild hog of rage. I could barely contain my spirits when he turned his gaze to me.

“Oh look at you! Your eyes zey are all open and awake! Oh and what beautiful eyes, ja (he was right-after all) but beautiful in a manly way  (I couldn’t fault the observational prowess of this wretch) you look like a young Dale Winton, ja, doesn’t he Teresa?  TERESA?”

“Yes, my love”

“Ja.  Oh my god Teresa, you never pay me much attention. Maybe you were transfixed by Dale’s dancing eyes? I is knowing zat I was, I almost took a trip to Hunkytown.  Oh won’t you take me to, a Hunkytown! Oh I am making an eighties song based joke!”

Teresa blanched.  She was literally white.  Well, not literally, she was generally flesh-coloured, in a way. Anyway, my point is this: I’m so hungry.  Secondary, to this, is the fact that Teresa was humbled and scared – it was like thunder, lightning – the way he treated her was frightening.   I had to knock on wood. Baby.  Fortunately, the treehouse was made from wall-to-wall wood, and so I was spoilt for choice.  To be honest, there was almost too much wood to choose from, and it sort of robbed any pleasure I could get from the situation.  I hate it when there’s too much choice.  It’s exactly the same with chocolate bars these days.  What’s wrong with just a Mars and a Twix?  Honestly.

While I was pondering this deep, almost existential dilemma, thus proving my depth and intellectual ability to you, my glossy pamphlet, the colour has returned to Teresa’s countenance. It was then my senses became aware of her master’s countenance. Where was it? You won’t know this, unless your eyes can see across distance, time and plastic masks.  Which of course they can’t. Your eyes are distinctly average. Very much in the seeing sense.

It was concealed [his face] .

Behind an mask of the popular character Orville.

Oh I love that guy, but I hate that monkey.

Oh my god I’m so handsome!  I became increasingly aware how lucky I am not to wear a mask, although sometimes I think I should as it’s so unfair to other people. Very much in the face sense.

I apologise, my petit pois, my own rugged good looks have again made me digress from the task at hand – securing my very freedom from this den of iniquity.  Ergo, this very matter is forthwith in my conclusions.  You see? Good.  I’ll continue.

The Orville-masked freak continued to prowl around his actual parlour and I could see his beady eyes weighing up my man-package from behind his plastic concealment.  I felt like a prize marrow from within my own shop window.

My captor then reached into his Hi-Tec suit of the track jacket and pulled out a scruffy looking scroll, that, upon closer inspection, was a letter from the Benefits Agency.  He unravelled the scroll, took a deep breath and read in his best poetry voice:

“Hello Clarence

How are you today?

I hope you is feeling

Nice and Gay!

The Naughty Kitty wants to play

Then we will watch Home and Away!”

“Oh, Clarence, i love Dieter Brummer. He’s such a spunk, ja?”

I couldn’t deny it, my Billy Bookcase, DB is, indeed a spunk.  However, this sinister poetry made my mind jump and flip like a jive bunny record…what does he mean by ‘play’? Does he mean ‘gay’ in the ‘happy’ sense or does he mean it in the ‘touching men’s bottoms’ sense?  Oh god what can this all mean? I wouln’t mind watching Home and away though.  I’ve not watched TV for ages.

And now, my love, I must quickly away, I can hear Teresa playing ‘Yell-Instant Replay’ which usually means my captor is on his way. He says it clears the air of ‘nasties’.  Please know that I am alive, for now, but I know not for how much longer. Teresa agreed to carry this missive to the local postbox.  Forgive me my love, for I had to flirt and love-make to get her to take this. I do believe her quite taken with me. Of course. Standard. To be fair, who can blame her? Not me. I’m pretty hunk-some.   Please my love, god speede and get help. Contact the local constabulary and alert them to my current situation and give them what clues that they can glean from this beautifully terrorful epistle. I am sure they will think me most brave, and if you show them a recent likeness, also very handsome, like a young Burt Reynolds.

I am content and safe in the knowledge you won’t be shagging around.

I love thee

Clarence

 

 

A Hazard of Parsnips

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Nov 1

Taking the Biscuit – A Story

by sherby57

Donna worked at the biscuit factory and loved it.  No.  She didn’t just love it; she bloody loved it.  There was nothing she enjoyed more than helping to make biscuits.  If she was at a party with some boring women, she was more than happy to talk biscuits with them all night long.  Which was their favourite biscuit.  Which biscuits they were forced to eat as a child.  Which biscuits they should be feeding to their tedious children.  Donna soaked it all up.  That’s how much she loved making biscuits.

One day, it was announced that Gerald (the foreman on the bourbon production line) was leaving for pastures new and that the company (an unnamed giant of the biscuit-world) would be looking internally for his replacement.  Donna was thrilled.  She had always wanted to progress her career and felt that she could refine the bourbon recipe to produce the company’s tastiest treat.  It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

Several weeks passed, and the author of the story completely forgot the point that he was trying to make.  It was a complete nightmare for Donna.  Taking pity on his fictional creation, the author decided for Donna to win the lottery.  She was understandably ecstatic, but somewhere deep inside, she felt that an important lesson had been lost.  Some people are never happy.

The author sat back and read through his work.  He wasn’t remotely satisfied.  He knew, from the far reaches of his memory, that the original intent was to imbue Donna with the knowledge that she was a model professional and a wonderful human being.  If only he hadn’t taken so long to finish the story.  In a weaker moment, he considered directly confronting Donna within the story.  This would have been a bit of a rip-off of when Grant Morrison talked to Buddy Baker in Animal Man #26, so he decided against it.  Also, he couldn’t be arsed.

Ultimately, the author left Donna to enjoy her new-found millionaire lifestyle, but he still watches over her to this day.  Which is today.

Fiction

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Sep 27

The One Second Flip Flop

by sherby57

Exactly 2 seconds later, Harold noticed that his flip flops were missing.  He wondered how things had come to this.

Excatly 3 seconds earlier, Harold was in full possession of his flips flops.  The rubberised toe stem giving a reassuring friction to his foot skin.  There was no doubt that he was wearing them.

He came to the conclusion that there was second of his life that was completely unaccounted for, in which is prize-winning beach shoes had completely vanished.  Despite the almost unbearable sand temperature, Harold had no choice but to hop, skip and jump his way home.

Later that night, Harold tossed and turned in his hammock, unable to sleep.  It wasn’t easy to toss and turn in a hammock.  It made him feel like a stupid cod trapped by an incompetent fisherman.  At this point, sleep seemed like a distant dream.  The mere association with dreams made his predicament all the more painful.

One question occupied Harold’s mind: Where are my flips flops?

There was no answer.  Well, there was an answer, but Harold didn’t know what it was.  If he did know what the answer was then he wouldn’t have needed to ask the question.  It’s obvious, really.

That’s it.  There’s no happy ending.  The flip flops went missing and were never found.  That’s life.

Fiction

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