"Sausages," groaned a small voice from the corner (mine).
"For pity's sake, fetch him some sausages. Look at the state of him. Sweating all over the place. He can't go cold turkey like this. His system won't take it."
"The best I can do is a Ginster. Or a bacon sandwich."
"Okay, okay. Make it the Ginster. Rip the pastry off it - I'll eat that - and feed him the filling, and for goodness sake be quick about it. He's fading fast."
"Oh for f..."
"That's no earthly use. There's hardly anything there once you remove the pastry. He needs something a lot more powerful. He needs..."
"A Matteson's!"
Do -Do -DOOOOOH! (dramatic music)
Yes, I went on a diet and look at what happened. My whole body went into shock and they had to feed me neat Matteson's through a tube till I came round again. I was feverish, hallucinating - I imagined I was back in the belly of the whale, being serenaded by Spockfingers, the Highland cow with the voice of a hobgoblin...(see previous posts re. "anal emissions")
But why was I on a diet? It's completely out of character, as any reader will know. Well, we've got this fresh fish finger crisis on the go - Tuppence is out in the Bay as I speak, in a whaler with a harpoon, and we've GOT to stop him.
I know that baby Orca and I have had our differences, but I'm reaching for the higher moral ground here. I need to be in peak physical condition in order to maintain that - healthy body, healthy mind and all that.
"You don't really believe that rubbish, do you?" said Geoffrey incredulously.
"No. Well, it's not that I don't believe it, exactly- it's just really boring and I've no self-discipline. Fire that bacon under the grill, and put plenty butter on the rolls."
"It's Stork. We're out of butter."
"Whatever. I'll mix up a purple peril while you're at it. Might as well have a heart starter."
(recipe for purple peril - forty three parts methylated spirits, one part absinthe, twenty five parts B&Q "value" paint stripper. Pour through crushed ice with a splash of grenadine. Sprig of fresh mint to garnish. Stand clear) (N.B THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)
I nominate this blog for blog of the year, seriously. But I do feel a foreign body has crept into the sausages, an incomer, maybe a malignant Sassenach, possibly even a vile 'postmodernist', referring slyly to Moby Dick or Jonah or both, along with those fulmars I've always wondered about, with their suggestive names on the side of the screen...postmodernism can lead to food poisoning, I've heard. I'll leave this blog alone for a bit because I'm hallucinating I'm a female on mine and wondering about the cost of painful surgery and thinking will my stubble show on a dark night of the soul, which means I might have to leave over commenting like a diseased eejit on SB for a while, while the hormone therapy kicks in and I contemplate falling off the wagon again when I hear of such delightful concoctions of intoxication, the defeated one.
ReplyDeleteWell diseased eejit, I'm saying NOTHING. NOthing. And regarding the Fulmars - the names Apsley and Cherry derive from their parents fave book - The Wurst Journey in the Wurld.
ReplyDeleteGood luck with the hormone therapy. I've found that eating large amounts of processed meat has the same effect (picks nose adn jingles change). Saves inconvenience of going to the doctors as well.