By Jemima Slimfast
Suff’ring from a Quinsy I was advised to travel to a warmer climate, and thus set forth to the Spanish Main, via the uneven and unforgiving land of Scareforth.
Presently I noted that the cart was slowing down with alacrity, and meandering towards the ditch. “Hi!” I cried. “Hi, Mr Horsetrap!” (For Horsetrap was the driver’s name). But answer came there none. I leaned out of the window and addressed his hunched, motionless and somewhat Dickensian figure. “Mr Horsetrap, I say!” The reins hung slack in his hands like exhausted tapeworms. I noted with alacrity that although my breath steamed forth from my chill lips like steam from a dragon’s nostrils, the air about Mr Horsetrap’s proletarian jowls was unbesmudgeoned. “Are you quite well?” I hallooed, as he tumbled into the ditch.
Some three or four miles further up the Daphne Du Maurier-esque trail, my feet sore with traipsing, I saw dim lights peering through the branches ahead. I decided to head for the lights with alacrity. It was a bit like being in an M. R. James novel.** In four and twenty minutes I had reached the grounds of a stately home. Affixed to the iron ribs of the entrance gates was a plaque engraved with the words, “BAD MANOR”. Through the gloom I perceived the façade of the edifice. And it resembled a scary face.*** My nether regions helplessly betrayed an odorous secret.
*I’m not scared of clouds, as such – it would, I allow, have been scarier had the cloud been a shark, say, and the moon a clown with holes for eyes.
**I tell a lie. The atmosphere did not evoke his works by any stretch of the imagination.
***Two of the windows were the eyes, the portal was the mouth – I suppose there wasn’t really a nose - but you get the picture.
To Be Continued…
On Tuesday I got the tin tack. "I AM A ROBOT. YOU CANNOT HURT ME," I warned. But clearly had something to learn about human nature. Why are they so obsessed with "the end of the day"? Why do their eyes leak when they look in the mirror? I went to see Silas but he couldn't explain it to me, although I did learn English off the telly while I was there.
Then my pal Benji called me and we went to the pub (left)
Did you see what I did with the title? "I dub thee..." All my references are to dodgy imports. Speaking of "dub" and other popular pumping noises, I went to the Liquid Rooms on Wednesday and got chatted up by a member of the Ferreira family, a bus driver's son and a newsagent. It was horrific. I lost my temper with the most persistent and brain-dead one.
I tried the Tom Green approach for a while, the one that reduced Glasgow hardman Disco to tears - asking him repeatedly what his likes and dislikes were, trying to make him feel as though he'd got stuck in the nippiest text adventure ever. It didn't seem to work so I gave him some friendly advice in not coming across as a date rapist, heartily squeezing his man-boob by way of a "what not to do, to anyone, least of all me unless you want your bhajis to wash up on the beach" as the panic set in to his eyes.
I was being so witty and hilarious but I was only entertaining myself - my companions couldn't hear me 'cause it was so noisy in there. He turned up on the dance floor later on, persistently humping my leg, and it seemed that "they" really do only understand the language of brute force (Men, I mean! I'm sexist, not racist! LOL not really). It was just like the Egg, but at least the boys there dress nicely.
Here's a picture of me as a flid.
And here's what I learned about human nature.
