The scandal of the scandalous scandal…

21 09 2009

My naughty chair

The 45th attempt yielded a pineapple that could recite at least thirteen words from the 1985 Austin Maestro Vanden Plas service schedule pamphlet.  If it hadn’t made such a terrifying guttural sound whilst attempting “asymmetrically split rear seat” I may have witnessed a new record for pineapple-kind.  But it did.  And I had to run away… screaming.  But when I pluck up the courage to abseil back into the pineapple caverns in ward 15b of the asylum, sohelpmegod, I’ll commence attempt 46.  And I shall wear my magnetic socks for the utmost chance of luck.

Nobody believed me when I told them of my experiments with this most flavoursome of all fruits.  They all laughed during my detailed lectures on pineapple magno-linguistics.  “Impossible”, they decried.  “Splendid”, said others whilst openly mocking a bowl containing pineapple number 42 that I’d generously distributed as evidence of my scientific greatness. 

Maybe if they’d have seen pineapple number 37.  Now that was a pineapple with real promise.  The timbre of its voice, the thrill of the way it pronounced “rear axle grease”.  I loved that pineapple – almost more than life itself.  But when it suggested through a series of intricate mime gestures that it didn’t like reading from my collection of Austin Maestro literature, my anger just swelled.  Such betrayal.  Betrayal that no other pineapple had ever made me feel before.  Betrayal that could only be countered with a swift drop-kick into the kitchens of the Mumbai Express curry house next door. 

Ha!

So whilst the, admittedly completely insane, inhabitants of the asylum ridiculed my fruitful scientific prowess, the world must surely need to learn of my discoveries.  After a quick motivational recital from the Maestro City X cassette radio instruction manual, I was ready to make my debut onto the scientific world’s stage.  Not that I knew where this stage was.  Or what it looked like, in fact.  I didn’t even know if the stage was one of those creaky old wooden ones, or one of those metal-tubed labyrinths that harbour a void for midgets to inhabit during Andrew Lloyd-Webber musicals.  My complete lack of knowledge on the matter took me from a fluorescent wave of joy to a flea-ridden flea pit of despair.  I needed a new plan.

That’s when I overheard Matron talking about a mysterious scandal in 1963 – and how it grabbed the headlines of every newspaper in the universe for decades.  I knew I couldn’t pass up this opportunity.  I listened intently for hours.  For so long in fact that I forgot to take my yellow pills and had to de-scale my eyelids.  If I could recreate even a fraction of this scandal’s intrigue, the world would surely come knocking at my door to hear of what wonderful wonders my experiments have given birth to.  If they think my talking pineapples are spectacular, just imagine their delight when they hear of what I’ve achieved with the parsnips.

And so, this is how I came to be astride my naughty chair, wearing nothing but my lucky magnetic socks.  Socks that are just a bit to magnetic for my liking, actually, since I can’t seem to stop the damn thing following me around.

So world…. I’m ready. 

Bring on the scandal.  Let me tell you of my pineapples.  Marvel at their Austin Maestro knowledge.

Marvel indeed.

 

Yup.





The bestest medicine…

13 08 2009

The bestest medicine...

 

It was only by accident that I discovered the medicinal nature of gravel.   If I remember correctly, it was a particularly crunchy jacket potato that introduced me to the wonders of gravel ingestion.  I lost a few teeth that day, but it was worth every shattered molar to experience the rattling in my belly and the faint aroma of tarmac each time my dinner repeated on me.

Those were but minnows to the full whalesque stature of the real gravel experience though.  The way it made my eyelids curl, my legs foam and my teeth grow back twice as resistant to moss as before, kept me grinning for weeks.  And let’s be honest, who wouldn’t if they were sporting teeth as moss-free as mine now were? 

Such was the wonder of it all I got carried away.  I put myself onto a strict diet of nothing but gravel.  I rolled across every road I encountered hoping to accidentally have a delicious gravel chip stray into my mouth.  I experimented with gravel gravy.  And I befriended lots of men who wore bright yellow jackets and sat drinking tea behind miles of cone restricted A roads.  Days were happy and bright.  I occasionally had to pinch myself just to check my fingers still worked.

But like most things in my life, this wasn’t to last.  On my  daily roll across the A14 I was struck by the thought that nobody else seemed to be participating in this activity.  Were they all mad?  Surely.  For if they knew what I knew, nobody would leave their vehicle’s tyres to experience the pleasure alone.

I set about getting myself a big hairy audacious goal of evangelising the role of rolling in gravel. 

Step one was to get people out of their cars. 

Easy.   

As I rolled across the A14, I replaced each gravel chip I scooped into my mouth with the only things I could lay my hands on in quantity – some nails I found in Matron’s underwear drawyer.  After 17 deliriously resplendent rolls, I was well on my way to having enough nails scattered about to tempt people out of their cars on the promise of a free nail.  Then I could have a meaningful conversations with them about the virtues of gravel.  Genius. 

But that’s when rush hour started.  And coincidentally the loud crashing noises.  And then shortly after that the wailing siren noises and people screaming as if in pain noises.  Now how was I going to talk to people about gravel with all this noise and commotion?  I didn’t know.  I panicked.  I couldn’t breathe.  I put my hands over my ears.  I felt the need to sing Kylie songs very loud.  I had to leave.  I needed to think.

That was made altogether easier when some nice young gentlemen in uniforms escorted me away from that terrible scene into a lovely car with comfy seats and heavy restraints.  And they didn’t even notice that I had secretly kept some gravel in my mouth and that as they drove, my teeth were getting less and less covered in moss with each kilometer passed.

When Matron heard of my eventful day, she tutted loudly.  She thanked the nice men who had brought me back and gave me a special treat.  Some lovely new pills, just for me. 

 

They make me very happy.

Very splendid indeed.





Fear of cameras…

27 01 2009

Fear of cameras

 

Matron said I could be the official photographer for the annual egg and frog race.  Opportunities like this don’t come my way very often, and usually fall to that ninkumpoop over in cell 94B.  So what if he’s managed to charm Matron with his perfect physique, Swiss bank accounts full of weak lemon drink and his uncanny impersonations of George Clooney.  It won’t last for long.  Once Matron knows about what he does in the corner of his cell every Thursday, I’ll regain her attentions and once again become her favourite inmate. 

So anyway, something must have twitched in the institution’s space time continuum since I found myself responsible for this most prestigious event.  Matron said I could keep any of the eggs or frogs that failed to make it to the finish line, just so long as I picked them up carefully and returned them to their rightful owners as quickly as possible.  You can’t say fairer than that.

On the big day, I prepared thoroughly.  I discharged my camera’s battery to ensure I couldn’t get electrocuted, used a kitchen scourer to clean the lens of anything that could ruin a perfect shot and dunked the whole thing in disinfectant for 30 minutes to make sure I didn’t contaminate anyone I photographed.  Nobody was going to accuse me of not having health and safety as my top-most priority.

I was at the starting line.  The llamas were prancing around confidently with their eggs carefully balanced atop their frogs;  the Felicity Kendalls were stretching every conceivable limb in preparation for the grueling course that lay ahead; George Bush was giving a truly splendifulous funeral speech to mark the occasion; I was doing finger press-ups to make sure my finger would be in tip-top condition for when the time came to take a photo.  I took a swig of some weak lemon drink to calm my nerves.

And then, with but the shortest of notice, the little girl from section 9 was detonated into a fine red mist and the race was underway.  Ok… so I missed taking a photo of the start… I was waiting for the right moment, but it just didn’t come.  And now all I could see was a crowd of blood coated shapes disappearing off into the distance accompanied by the occasional croak from an encumbered frog and a squeal of delight from Bob Carolgees, I think.

Matron wouldn’t be happy.

So I ran.

I chased and chased, but couldn’t keep up… this race was fiercely competitive, and such was the training that the competitors had put in, not a single egg or frog was dropped.  As I crossed the finishing line panting furiously, I was met with a swift but perfectly effective blow to the head with a defrosted chicken.  I was out knocked out cold for 15 minutes plus 20 minutes per lb.

I awoke to see a very angry looking Matron.  The guy from cell 94b was behind her looking all smug and insidious.  I briefly remember, before the waves of noxious broccoli vapour made my head hurt, the sound of a key being thrown into a very deep well.

And this is how I came to have my fear of cameras.

😦





Not quite the goatie I thought I’d grow

8 10 2008

Not quite the goatie I thought would grow...

So I did a spot of personal grooming.  I wanted a new look.  Something suave and dashing.

Facial hair always works.  Makes you look all cool and that.

 

I thought.

 

Matron knows better though.  “All facial hair must be approved and signed for in triplicate” (Actually it’s more than triplicate in reality but whoever says “sign it in septupulet?”).  Is that even a word?  Who knows.

So anyway, that’s too much effort.

I improvised (and bypassed) the rigorous safety precautions and approvals.

 

2 days later…

Suffice to say. it’s not quite the goatie I thought  I’d grow.

 

*sobs*





It was then that I realised the curtains could take the world…

1 10 2008

It was then that I realised the curtains could take the world...

I was in room 25.73

A strange place of blossom, cheese and chintz.

You know when you get that peculiar feeling that your knees are made of steel and your fingers are made of electro-magnets… well that’s how the room made me feel.  Then, almost to the rising crescendo of bohemian rhapsody, my hair stood on end and the curtains did assume their most potent power pose.

I was left dumbstruck, unable to move.

I quivered.

(Not very much obviously since I was unable to move)

…It was then that I realised that the curtains could take the world…





Disposed of…

24 09 2008

Apparently I'm not worth recycling...

So it wasn’t long before I had to devise a cunning plan to avoid a perpetitude of eating chocolate.  It was clear that this wasn’t going to be easy, for Matron is indeed a matron of almost godly powers and revered above most matrons that I know of.  And I know two matrons.  There’s Matron and then there’s Matron.  I think there’s a bit of rivalry between the two, since Matron dresses exactly the same as Matron – not wishing to be outdone, I would imagine.  And then there’s the way they style their hair the same and the way their noses are the same too.  Matron even sounds exactly like Matron.  It must be hard to have someone spend so much effort and intent on trying to attain the standards that Matron sets.  But somehow Matron always seems to be able to raise the bar and show Matron how much of a pale imitation she really is.

So if I was to stand a chance of escaping my predicament, I’d have to maybe catch the imitation matron out whilst Matron is doing something else.  This could prove tricky as they always seem to be around at roughly the same time.

My plan was as simple as it was devious.  I would pretend to eat seven chocolate bars of various types and sizes, and then, behind my back, I’d construct them into a life-size model of Michael Jackson.  With a little ventriloquist magic, and knowing that Matron truly adores every pore of Michael, I’d lure Matron into the promise of a lusty night with my chocolaty effigy.  Whilst distracted I would whisk myself away from this chocolaty hell and begin a new a life of freedom in cell 29f.

This was surely the bestest plan I’d ever concocted, so when I found myself minutes later unceremoniously stuffed into a waste paper bin, I have to admit to being a little surprised that things could unravel quite so quickly. 

It was all a bit of a blur really.  The chocolate effigy making went well I thought.  OK so, maybe it was a little smaller than I was hoping, and yes, I think trying to pose mid-moonwalk was a little optimistic, but my rendition of “It doesn’t matter if you’re black or white” was faultless.  But… somehow Matron clearly saw through it.

And then it hit me.

Dark chocolate.  Why did I use dark chocolate?

*sobs*





Recharging…

21 09 2008

Recharging...

You know when you have one of those near death experiences and you see a big floating parsnip strangling a poodle?  …well, last month I went one better and actually died.

I was playing around with my lawnmower, trying to turn it into a powered toothbrush when one of the brushes I’d attached to the blades fell off heading directly towards my foot at the speed of gravity.  In fear of lightly bruising my foot I recoiled in abject terror and hit my head hard on a piece of Imperial Leather soap.  Death was inevitable and mercifully quick.  Maybe not the best way to go, but at least it wasn’t one of those namby pamby “scented with the organic blossom of baby elderberries” bars.

So anyway.

My soapy injuries were naturally horrific and not helped by Matron not discovering me for five and three quarter weeks.  Apparently it was only after she’d got through 17 cans of Febreeze that she thought it might be prudent to investigate the source of the rancid odour. 

I digress.

Not wishing to lose her license to Matron the institution, she set about reconstructing my failed body with some domestic strength wood glue.  Apparently it took her quite a while, and she tells me she only had a few bits left over. 

I think she did a pretty good job, although I’ve yet to try out all bodily functions.

Anyway.  After a quick jump-start I was left with the arduous task of recharging my brain back up to 30 percent.  Any more than that and things can go horribly wrong.  You wouldn’t like to see me when I’m 31 percent, let alone 32.

Splendid.