The scandal of the scandalous scandal…

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…

 

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.

When the circus is over…

 

So I went to the circus.  The antics of the clowns were truly inspirational and I felt motivated to improve my own (somewhat mediocre) clown skills.  The complete lack of grace as they tossed custard pies at each other was moving and the cacophony of nose honks towards the end almost had me weeping for joy.  If it wasn’t for Matron poking the beejeebus out of my ribs to keep me from drowning in a pool of my own saliva, I think I may very well have brain melded with the deliciously pink fluffy bunnies of nirvana.  And as they prized my fingernails out of the freshly gouged grooves in the concrete as we left, I remember mumbling repeatedly that I’d one day take to the stage in a secret life and live out my days as one of the world’s foremost  entertainers of children.

Yup.

That was definitely the plan, anyway.  But like most things, those plans have a terrible propensity for disintegrating into little blobs of molten fish finger juice that get stuck in the types of crack that no dish cloth can purge. 

My juggling has improved leaps and bounds since my last knife juggling attempts  and I only lost two fingers this time.  I’ve found I’m a complete natural at tripping over my own vastly over-sized shoes and my trousers almost fall down as far as my knees if I gyrate my hips for about seven minutes – impressive indeed I think you’ll agree.

But when Matron spotted me squirting weak lemon drink over the children in the observation gallery above the correctional mental equipment room, I was duly harpooned and force fed sixteen black pills (the ones with the faint sound of Kylie Minogue if you insert them in your ears).  I remember nothing apart from thinking that I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky… lucky.

I awoke in my cell. 

I may be here a while.

Matron was most displeased.

Moving slowly…

Hmmm…

Well…

You see…

Things are moving altogether a lot more slowly since I suspended my highly calorific confectionery consumption.  You could even be so bold as to say that things have stopped entirely.  I don’t want to be caught out though – it’s best to remain at action stations just in case the torrent suddenly returns.  Wouldn’t want to be in the fish hook storage room when the bottom contractions begin.  Nosiree.  I’d surely catch a Mustad Model 91715D O’Shaughnessy Jig Hook in my elbow in the rush to the nearest toilet.  No.  It’s best that I remain sat here.

It’s been ten days though.  There’s not a peep of a poo and I’ve lost most of the weight I gained.  Matron won’t be happy.

I’m going to need to find some way to make it up to her.  I just don’t think I’m meant to make it as a feeder’s passion object.

*sigh*

 

Side effects…

The highly calorific confectionery consumption has to stop.  Today I’ve gained 5 stone and 7 pounds and I’m beginning to find it difficult to deal with the quantity of what I don’t digest.  Initially it was fine, I just sat on the toilet, and so long as I flushed every 54 seconds, the waste wasn’t a problem.  But it’s not easy.  I have to carefully juggle intake vs. disposal. 

So as the highy calorific confectionery stocks started to deplete, I found I needed to run further and further to the back of the warehouse… with obvious ramifications…

First it was 53 seconds…

Then it was 52 seconds a bit later…

Then there was that crazy jump where it went down to 37 seconds…

Now it’s at 13 seconds and frankly the whole system has collapsed.

Matron won’t be happy.

I hope she doesn’t do that thing… again.

*sobs*