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.

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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.





They know…

26 10 2008

When the postman delivers what you were already beginning to suspect

 So…

 Apparently they do.

 I’m not quite sure how.  I was most careful.

I even selotaped shut my post box for three weeks.  Which of course meant my normal delivery of aquamarine pills (to repress my murderous tendencies) failed to arrive.  Not that I’m more murderous or anything…

 

So I killed the gardener.  He chopped a rose petal off.  He deserved it.

But he wasn’t my main quarry.  He wasn’t in the know.  How could he know?  Nobody knows…

I thought.

That’s when I met Felicity Kendall.  She explained the master plan.  We were to eat nothing but cauliflower cheese for 7 weeks solid.

 

I told her no.

 

Just no.

 

But she insisted.  And I ate it.  And now I can think of nothing but killing tigers.

And so with my main quarry identified, I set about killing as many tigers as I could find. 

Splendid. 

Nobody tells you that tigers are hard to find.  Once I’d killed all the ones in zoos, tracking them down in the wild proved more elusive.

Months I wandered.  I traversed the snows of the poles, I spent weeks searching them out in the streets of London, I swam to the depths of the Atlantic.  No tigers.  Boo.

Stupid tigers.  I guess they live to live another day.

 

But someone still knows…





Playing with radiation…

3 10 2008

White lies

So I was expecting a delivery of radioactive pills.  My vast array of medicinal pills just don’t cut it anymore.  I need to crank up the gigawatts somewhat. 

So I was most wonderfully pleased when I saw Geoffrey the postman crawl up the path towards the institution clutching a small pulsating package under his arm.  Strange, I thought when I was signing for the delivery, Geoffrey was looking decidedly perturbed – he was weak, breathing heavily and appeared to have a few less limbs than he normally does.  Glancing behind him I could see at least three fingers, a buttock and a few clumps of hair on the path.  Still… I had my pills and that’s all that matters.

I slammed the door in his face.

I retired to room 87 for a bit of peace and quiet so I could enjoy my new pills in complete isolation.  Well… almost.  You can learn to block out the wails of Elvis if you’re prepared to stick one of his un-eaten hamburgers in your ears.  Poor chap.  He’s been in here ages.  He’s delusional of course, he claims to have been some big rock and roll star.

Idiot.

I hate him.

The reinforced cardboard packaging was like tissue paper in my hands, and within hours, I had before me the glory and splendour of a most splendid pill indeed.  It pulsated softly at first, then violently as I prodded it repeatedly with a toothpick, then it almost exploded when I played it a bit of YMCA from my hi-fi.  But that’s normal – YMCA is potent stuff.

I spent ages playing with the pill.  I rolled it all over my face.  At least three times I had it up my left nostril, just for fun.  But I couldn’t continue for ever, the expectation mounted and I had to taste its magnificence…

 

At first, nothing.  It was mildly slimy and tasted a bit like Bovril.  I was close to picking out the invoice and phoning up Pills Rn’t Us. 

…But that’s when everything went white and my eyebrows started reciting Shakespeare.  Then I had brief out of body experience where Joan Collins was eating a large pink blancmange in the shape of a Fiat Panda.  I vaguely remember returning to my body whilst she gorged on the passenger airbag.

My mind was glowing.

 

Then Elvis shot me clean through the head with his gun.  He was sat on the toilet and had “apparently” missed himself- the bullet ricocheting off Joan’s blancmange and hitting me squarely between the eyes.

 

Bummer.

 

Dead again.





Reassembly issues…

14 04 2008

What have I become....

Matron finally got around to reassembling me after my head relocation issues earlier this week.  Now, I’m normally a huge fan of Matron’s surgery skills, but it wasn’t long before I had my suspicions that things hadn’t gone quite according to plan.

My pink and yellow pills didn’t cause my ears to shrink anymore. 

*Feeling of dread building up in pit of stomach*

So after 37 minutes my ears had reached the size of a small Labrador.  Those extra pinner dimensions were significantly amplifying sounds – like the rattle of my pills in their tubs.  That made pill selection nigh on impossible, so it was unsurprising when I couldn’t pick out my green knobbly nodules.  So of course, then my elbows started foaming.  I’d need to sort that out sharpish because the last time that happened I almost drowned. 

Panicking now, I had to think quickly. 

…or… I could forgo the thinking and just trust to my inner Flibble voice.  After all, thinking takes time and effort, neither of which I had.

It took a further 3 hours and twenty-seven minutes for my inner Flibble voice to say anything.  Apparently, as my voice later explained, it had been taking part in a sponsored mime.  *sigh*  The advice? 3 shots of weak lemon drink and some of the vintage maroon lead paint from 1972.

Worked like a charm.

All systems back online and purring like a rabid Siamese.

Splendid.