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.





When the circus is over…

31 03 2009

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.





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.

😦





Moving slowly…

14 05 2008

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…

4 05 2008

Lust

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*





Being vacuumed up yet again…

9 04 2008

Being vacuumed up yet again...

If there’s one thing that Matron likes, it’s a good clean mental facility.  Apparently section 14 is a spotless triumph, clean enough to manufacture the circuitry in my head.  Although I’ve never been in there, I guess I’m living proof that the quality of the chip manufacture is top notch and error free.

Sadly, that can’t be said for any of the other sections.  Section 27b for example (the place where they clone washed up B list celebrities from the 1980s) is pretty atrocious.  My heart sank today when Matron told me it was my task to give it a good scrub, so to keep my spirits high, I made sure I had a deluxe pack of 47 broccoli pills at hand.

Initially things were going well.

I managed to sneak past at least 14 Bob carolgees’s before they started wiggling their moustaches and the throng of Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee’s were mesmerised by my giant interlocking metal hoops.  I only had a couple of metres to go before I reached the cleaning cupboard when a stray Debbie managed to dazzle me with her sequin leotard.  Momentarily blinded, I was forced off target and ended up feeling altogether woozy as I stumbled into the human cloning machinery.

It was ace.  Best thing that’s ever happened to me.  Especially now that my head feels altogether more spacious after the machine crashed when cloning my brain.  Good job that Matron was savvy enough to program it to share things equally between the two er… “results” if things go wrong.  Splendid.

With two me’s, the B list celebrities didn’t stand a chance.  I swallowed half the broccoli pills each and was able to start the vacuuming whilst simultaneously the other I could distract the celebs with the promise of a new Saturday night prime-time TV show.

That’s when I made a schoolboy vacuuming error.   In an effort to speed things along, I turned up the power for a bit of industrial strength carpet sucking…

*sigh*

Third time this week I’ve vacuumed myself up.

 





The new prototypes have arrived…

8 04 2008

This one tastes of wishes

 Matron’s just let me try one of the new prototypes.

*simper*

The specification is truly splendid. They’re meant to keep my knees from shrinking, keep my ear wax production in check and (this is the bit I’m most excited about) prolong that feeling you get after taking one of the pink and yellow pills. I can hardly wait.

*dribble*

*looks at dosage advice on the side of the crate*

“Adults should take 37, every hour. To be taken with weak lemon drink. Failure to drink weak lemon drink may result in elbow itching. Do not eat. May contain nuts.”

Nothing out of the ordinary then.

Splendid.