Without getting any further in pursuit of the serial killers plaguing Jimboomba, Arjy Barjy and Sean Bean have just left the police station. They are due at The Incontinental Luxury Retirement Home for lunch but in the meantime Arjy was hoping for a breakthrough. In a desperate attempt to get some clues she decides to try the least likely source of information. They head for the office of the Jimboomba Times. The door is locked and Arjy hammers on it until she wakes the staff who are taking their mid-morning doze. A despondent figure flips the lock and wanders sleepily back to her desk as Arjy and Sean step inside.
Arjy: Good morning, I’m Arjy Barjy and this is my associate Sean Bean. We represent Barjy-Bean Investigations and we would like a bit of information.
Sleepy Girl: G’morning (yawn). I am your guide to the world of news (sigh) and me name is Elsie Daubs. Did you want an ad placed or something?
Arjy: No, I don’t want an ad placed, I want some information.
Elsie Daubs: Well what information do you want exactly?
Arjy: If I knew exactly what information I wanted, I wouldn’t bloody well need to ask for it would I? It stands to reason, if I know something why would I be in here asking about it?
Elsie Daubs: Please yourself. Have you lost a dog or a cat?
Arjy: No!
Elsie Daubs: Won a jam making competition, have you?
Arjy: No!
Elsie Daubs: Then why come to the Jimboomba Times?
Arjy: I’m wondering the same myself. Look, is there anyone else I can talk to?
Elsie Daubs: They’re all busy.
Arjy: They’re asleep!
Elsie Daubs: They’re busy being asleep.
Arjy: Where’s the Editor?
Elsie Daubs: That’s his feet propped up on the big marble desk in the back. You won’t get much sense out of him this side of 3 o’clock.
(Arjy strides across the office and swipes at the huge pair of feet sending them crashing to the floor, shocking the body attached to them. Bistro Waiters leaps up and attempts to look wide-awake and Editorial.)
Bistro Waiters: Aaah! Um…yes, good morning. How are you all today? What can I do for you?
Arjy: That remains to be seen. I was looking for someone in this office who might be able to assist me in my enquiries.
Bistro Waiters: Yes, of course. But if you really need someone who can really help you …….
Arjy: Which I do!
Bistro Waiters: Then you should be talking to …….
Arjy: I should be talking to ….?
Bistro Waiters: My sidekick.
Arjy: Your sidekick?
Bistro Waiters: My sidekick.
Arjy: Who is?
(A change comes over the Jimboomba Times’ office. Bistro Waiters has developed the beginnings of a quite wicked smile. He begins to tap his foot on the floor. (Tap-tap-tappity-tap-tappa-tappa-tap-tap-tappity-tap.) The rest of the Times’ staff are suddenly and mysteriously wide awake and are smiling strangely at Arjy and Sean. They are drumming their fingers on the desktops counterpointing Bistro’s tap step. Arjy becomes aware of other sounds outside. The frantic noise of work in progress – hammers and saws, electric drills and urgent, shouted instructions. A muted brass section of a dance orchestra begins a low accompaniment to the foot tapping and finger drumming. (Pah-pah-pah-papapapa-pah-DAH-DAH-pa-pa.) The sounds grow – as does the structure in the car park.)
Arjy: What the fuck is going on here?
(She dashes outside and glares around at the madcap activity. Local builders, Tamborine Building Contractors and Allsorts Renovations are working together on massive timber structures in the car park. Griffith University Musical Society Dance Orchestra is setting up in Honora Street and on terraces dug into the bank below. Massed choirs from all the local schools are gathering and making their way to the rooftops between Video Ezy and Mitre10 where platforms are being built for them. The choirs pick up the syncopated rhythm (Doo-wah-doodidoo-wah-wah-doo-di-doodidoo.)
Arjy: What is going on? ……. Oh No! ….. YUTEMAN!!!! …… YUTEMAN! GET YOUR FAT ARSE DOWN HERE NOW!
Ron Yuteman: You called?
Arjy: What are you doing? Just. What. The. FUCK! Are you doing? You’re going off on one of your stupid tangents aren’t you? You’re going to derail this entire blog on the basis of one of your stupid, whimsical brain-farts aren’t you? Well, let me tell you – you superannuated old shit – this story is mine! I’m the lead here and I don’t expect to be treated like some sodding bit player in one of your kindergarten concerts. Just who the fuck do you think you are? Cecil B. De fucking Mille? Now get this blog back on track or I walk, and don’t test me on this – better men than you have tried!
Ron Yuteman: When you’ve quite finished. For starters, this blog is not about you – it’s about me. It only exists because Ron Yuteman is bored and likes writing stuff. Secondly, during the lifetime of this entire blog I have received only one request and I feel I owe it to my public to respond.
Arjy: Your PUBLIC? You dozy old sod, you’ve only got three readers!
Ron Yuteman: That is not the point. I have had a request and I feel it behoves me to do something about it. Doesn’t matter if you’ve got a thousand readers or one hundred, ten or only one – a blogger has a duty to …. to …….to do whatever it is bloggers feel dutiful about. And before you start on about “walking”, just remember this. The only reason you’re in the story is because I thought I would give you a chance to show what you could do. It was supposed to star Arnel Shizeknicker, that’s what she’s there for, but I took a risk and gave you a go. If you want to piss off then Arnel will step into your shoes with no trouble at all. So, if you want to continue with this, I suggest you shut your trap and start dancing to my tune – your choice.
(Arjy pouts and walks back toward the clock towers but the argument has served its purpose. The Woodies car park is a whole new world. Terraces of seating cover the Woodies Supermarket rooftop and they are rapidly being filled by locals all decked out in their Sunday best. The steps down from the upper shopping centre at the top of the car park have been rebuilt as a Hollywood stairway, wide, curved, painted ivory white and sparkling with gold glitter dust. Through the middle of the car park leading up to the new stairway a double line of twenty white Nissan X-TRAILs are parked with their backs facing each other and a five-metre gap between the two rows. Everything is set. Yuteman waves his hands over his keyboard and day turns to night. Impossibly bright stars flare in a black velvet sky and five thousand light bulbs strung about the buildings begin to flash to the beat of the orchestra, the choirs, the drumming fingers and the tapping of Bistro Waiters’ foot. Spotlights borrowed from the Beaudesert Centre begin to sway and cross each other. Jimboomba Shopping Centre has been transformed. It is like Christmas or Blackpool Illuminations or BROADWAY!
PAH…. PAAAH!
The brass section lets rip and the tempo increases. For a few bars the whole place ‘swings’ until – sudden silence … except for the tapping of a foot. Every spotlight converges on the entrance to the Jimboomba Times Office. Bistro Waiters stands in the light. He is dressed in perfectly cut evening dress complete with white tie, tails and an immaculate top hat. He holds a slim black cane across his body and even his gigantic feet look slim and elegant in the shiny black patent leather shoes he wears. One of the shoes continues the steady beat. (tap-tap-tappity-tap) Slowly at first, hesitating on the beat, Bistro begins to sing.
Bistro Waiters:
I’m ….putting …….on …..my …..top …..hat,
Tying up my white shirt,
Brushing off my tails.
He sways into the dance number. His feet are a blur as he tap dances down the walkway towards Mitre10. The cane sweeps to right and left slapping the ground every fourth beat. Bistro is a perfectly coordinated poem of dance motion. Elegance personified.
I’m duding up my shirtfront,
Putting in shirt studs,
Polishing my nails.
He swings around a pillar and changes direction. Now he is spinning and tapping out of the Mitre10 walkway and into the carp park. Throwing his cane from his right to his left hand and back again, he sweeps into the middle, the spotlights following his every move. The rhythm fluctuates and briefly syncopates during the second verse.
And I’m stepping out, my dear,
To breathe an atmosphere that simply
Reeks with class,
And I trust that you’ll excuse my dust
When I step on the gas.
The dancing becomes furiously complex as Bistro skips toward the X-TRAILs.
For I’ll be there putting down my top hat,
Mussing up my white tie,
Dancing in my tails.
The orchestra blasts the air with glorious ‘big band sound’ as Bistro Waiters throws himself at the first X-TRAIL. He runs UP the back of the vehicle and his dancing feet never hesitate as they beat a perfect cadence across the back window. Bistro twists in the air and dances off the X-TRAIL and then across the gap to the opposite vehicle. Like threading a shoelace, Bistro zigzags the X-TRAIL rows, dancing up, across and down each back window in turn. The crowd go wild and the applause is rapturous. At the last X-TRAIL, Bistro dances to the roof and performs a virtuoso tap number. The choirs take up the song as he dances and the orchestra is at full throttle.
He’s putting on his top hat,
Tying up his white shirt,
Brushing off his tails.
Bistro’s gigantic feet seem to act in isolation. The rapid and complicated series of movements they perform are inhuman but Bistro’s elegant body follows them with the silky flow of oil on water. His cane swinging, top hat juggling, hesitations, windmill turns and explosive responses thrill the crowd and they cheer as they, or any crowd before them, have never cheered before. Bistro ends the dance segment with a huge leap to the tarmac where he crouches for a moment then begins to climb the Hollywood stairway. Three steps up, one back then three steps up again, he progresses, his dancing feet fluttering. When he reaches the top, Bistro strikes a pose with one arm extended to the dark opening of the upper shopping centre. The orchestra and choir segue into a verse from an old Beatles song.
I don’t really like to stop the show,
But I thought you might like to know,
That the singer’s going to sing a song,
And he wants you all to sing along.
So let me introduce to you …………
And a booming voice rolls across the sky. It could be the voice of James Earl Jones but it is Yuteman talking through a bit of concrete sewer pipe.)
Yuteman: Yes, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Here is what we’ve all been waiting for. To meet the lovely sidekick of Mr. Bistro Waiters. I give you – the delectable – the outstanding – the incomparable – the totally unbelievable – and lots of other things besides ……………….. MS. ANGELINA NOTSOJOLLY!!!!!
(Angelina Notsojolly trips daintily into the spotlight and takes Bistro’s hand. She is dressed in black bombazine with huge gold cabbage roses sewn down one side. The gown is absolutely hideous. They begin to walk down the stairs. They are stately – dignified. The audience applause is deafening. When they reach the foot of the stairs they pause, gazing into each other’s eyes. Then, from all around, dozens of dancers burst from the doorways of all the shops. Jimboomba Times staff in black body stockings and gold boaters take position beside Video Ezy staff dressed in orange. The green and red of Woodies dancers take front position with hairdressers and travel agents behind them and Mitre10 dancers in blue begin to circle them all. Finally the Library dancers in white tutus and ballet slippers skip down the walk way and sweep to the back of the assembly. The orchestra begins the next number and Angelina Notsojolly sings.
Heaven, I’m in heaven,
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak,
And I seem to find the happiness I seek,
When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.
The number is a triumph. The dancers swirl and twist, one group with the other. Angelina and Bistro dance in each other’s arms as Angelina continues to sing. The couple sway and dip, spin and sweep. Their feet are matched to perfection (apart from the size) and they dance as one.
Just before the end of the song the orchestra breaks into an up-tempo swing version of the tune and the massed dancers begin to tap dance in unison. Their feet now crashing out the rhythm, it is a ‘Hollywood Musical’ classic demonstration of the hoofers art. It is perfect synchronisation through music and can only be described as a spectacle of sight and sound that literally moves the earth and brings the audience to their feet. Finally with a last resounding CRASH! the feet and music stop. Time and dancers freeze until …. gently at first … a familiar melody continues - grows. Bistro and Angelina sing together.
Heaven, I’m in heaven,
And the cares that hung around me through the week,
Seem to vanish like a gamblers lucky streak,
When we’re out together dancing ….
They glide around each other one last time and finish up…….
Cheek to cheek.
The audience erupts! They cheer, they stamp, and they clap until their hands are raw. The applause goes on and on and they are shouting for Angelina Notsojolly - until a furious voice bellows out of the end of the sewer pipe.)
Arjy: OY! –YUTEMAN!!
(Sudden silence falls like an avalanche.)
Arjy: YUTEMAN! YOU DON’T THINK YOUR “PUBLIC” MIGHT POSSIBLY THINK THAT WAS, JUST FRACTIONALLY, A TINY LITTLE BIT OVER THE FUCKING TOP – DO YOU?
(The spell is broken. The crowd splits up and wanders away. The dancers drift back to the shops. The Jimboomba Times dancers tug bits of body suit out of the cracks of their arses and Angelina Notsojolly tears off cabbage roses in disgust. Bistro Waiters looks around the now empty car park, sighs, drops his topper in a waste bin and ambles back into the office. Daylight returns.)
Sean: What now Arjy?
Arjy: Ahh – fuck to the lot of ‘em! Get the car, Sean. We’re going to lunch.
TO BE CONTINUED.
7/28/09
7/25/09
Dastardly Doings - Part 3
Arjy and Sean have decided to pursue the Serial Killer Case in order to put their detective agency on the map. They have found a clue behind Mitre10 and it has led them to a mouldering old timber building set back in the woods off Cusack Lane. Sean has turned their beat-up Jeep Cherokee into the drive leading to Incontinental Luxury Retirement Home. It is getting dark. They park the car and step up to the enormous hardwood front door. Arjy pulls a tarnished brass lever that causes a mournful toll of bells to sound deep within the house. Footsteps approach the door from inside and a squat woman dressed in a soiled black smock opens the door. Her hands are dripping red. She is Gladys De Weekent the concierge, which is a posh luxury establishment name for an occupational therapist, which is, in turn, the modern title for the kind of bingo caller peculiar to aged care hostels.
Gladys De Weekent: Are you the burglars?
Arjy: Certainly not.
Gladys De Weekent: Bother it! I phoned for the burglars hours ago. It’s getting harder and harder to find tradesmen you can rely on isn’t it? Then you must be the blackmailers for Frau Himmler in room 6. If you go down the Tom Titter corridor and turn right, you’ll find her at the very end of Muggers Wing but, I warn you, she’s down to her last hundred million dollars and quite frankly I don’t think anyone really cares any more who she copulated with seventy years ago.
Arjy: We’re not blackmailers either, I’m afraid.
Gladys De Weekent: You’re not? Well goodness me, I’m so sorry, I think I’ll start again. My name is Mrs Gladys De Weekent – now who are you dear?
Arjy: My name is Arjy Barjy and this is my associate Sean Bean. We are detectives and I would like to ask ……..
Gladys De Weekent: Detectives? Now look young lady, you can tell Senior Sergeant Slideback that we pay into the police protection fund on the first of the month. We have been doing that for twelve years and haven’t missed a beat. If he thinks he can start changing the rules then you tell him we may have a few tricks up our sleeve and things might not go quite as he plans.
Arjy: We’re private detectives, Mrs De Weekent and we would just like to ask you a few simple questions about your aged care facility. It might have a bearing on a case we’re working on.
Gladys De Weekent: Oh I see. Why don’t you come in? We can sit in the visitors lounge; we don’t get to use it much since poor old Mr Bundy went berserk. Oh, and please don’t mind the mess on my hands, we’ve been finger painting.
(They walk down a dingy corridor and then step into a bright airy room strewn with dozens of photographs and the kind of dust gathering knick-knacks favoured by old people with too many memories. The walls are marked by rust coloured splashes that look suspiciously like dried blood. They all sit down in comfortable, pee-stained armchairs.)
Arjy: Perhaps you would tell us a little bit about this establishment?
Gladys De Weekent: Oh gosh, where to begin? Let’s see. We started about fifteen years ago and advertised the facility as a superior retirement home for the better class of Jimboomba residents, but we couldn’t find any. The only professional people we got were banjo tuners and a vivisectionist; it was most depressing really. In the end we conducted some market research and discovered that the most prolific class of professionals in the Jimboomba area was the criminal class so we started there. We got the usual break-and-enter crowd and one or two extortionists, lots of arsonists of course and three flashers but it still wasn’t quite the tone we were aiming for. In the end we advertised internationally as an establishment for the rich and infamous who wanted to live quietly with no questions asked. When we added that we could offer a discrete money laundering service we were overwhelmed with applications and haven’t looked back since.
Arjy: Isn’t it a little indiscrete of you, telling me all this?
Gladys De Weekent: Oh my dear. You have no idea the sort of people we have here and the power they wield. We’ve taken care of the local police and the Australian Judiciary may as well be on our payroll too. Why, even John Howard could take up residence here and there wouldn’t be a thing anyone could do to prevent it. I suppose I’ve told you all this precisely so that I might tell you what I am about to tell you now – if you breathe a word about this establishment to anyone it will be the last breath you use. Do I make myself perfectly clear young lady?
Arjy: Yes. Um…of course. Very clear. Thank you very much.
Gladys De Weekent: I’m so glad. Now what exactly are you detecting dear? Perhaps I can help.
Arjy: Oh nothing important. It really doesn’t matter. We must be going anyway and …..
Sean: What about the serial killer?
Arjy: Shaddup!
Gladys De Weekent: You’re investigating all those dreadful killings! How exciting! Well they would certainly have nothing to do with Incontinental so feel free to ask our residents whatever you like. I suggest you interview Mrs Iris Pessary. She has her finger on the local pulse like nobody else. Unfortunately she is indisposed until tomorrow. Perhaps you will come back then – shall we say about one o’clock? You must both have a spot of lunch with us.
(Twenty minutes later Arjy and Sean are back in Arjy’s unit at the clock towers. They have discussed the day’s events and are making plans for tomorrow.)
Sean: We should forget all about this detective stuff. It’s fucking dangerous if you ask me.
Arjy: I’m not asking you. We’re going to get to the bottom of this serial killer thing and it’s got something to do with Incontinental, I’m certain of that.
Sean: I don’t like this.
Arjy: First thing tomorrow we’ll have a word with Slideback. Then we’ll ask around a bit more before we take up Gladys De Weekent’s offer of lunch.
Sean: That’s an awful lot to get done in one day.
Arjy: The day after is a Bogan Council working day; you can have a rest there.
THE NEXT DAY.
(Arjy and Sean enter Jimboomba police station. Constable Gruff, the public relations officer of the day greets them just inside the main door.)
Constable Gruff: That’ll be $20 – each.
Arjy: What will be $20?
Constable Gruff: Entrance tickets. Come on, cough up!
Arjy: Since when have people been charged entrance money at police stations? This is disgraceful!
Constable Gruff: Oh, I see. You’re one of those are you. You think you can just swan in and out of police stations, using up police resources while there are people out there being raped and pillaged all over the place because there aren’t enough coppers to protect ‘em. Listen lady, if you want the service you can bloody well pay for it! $20 – now!
Arjy: In that case we will leave. I shall phone the Senior Sergeant to discuss this with him at some length. As for you – I shall make it my business, as a Bogan Chitty Council officer, to look into your threatening behaviour. Have a nice day Constable!
Constable Gruff: That will be $40 exit tax – each!
Arjy: WHAT?
Constable Gruff: You heard. Normally we refund the entrance charge on the exit tax and you get out for $20 but seeing you haven’t paid to get in, it’ll be the full $40 each.
Arjy: I don’t believe this! It’s …it’s…. Look, here’s the bloody $20 entry money and another $20 for Sean – we’re going in!
Constable Gruff: Would you like some tea and biscuits while you wait?
Arjy: Too bloody right we would – and hurry up about it!
Constable Gruff: That’ll be another $10 – each.
Arjy: You have got to be joking! Forget the tea and sodding biscuits, just tell Slideback we’re here!
Constable Gruff: Well, that will be $5 for wasting police time – I’ve already written you down in the tea and biscuits book and now I’ve got to scratch it all out.
(After a noisy period of charge and counter-charge, Arjy and Sean are sitting in the office of Senior Sergeant Slideback. He is ignoring them as he reads laboriously through Constable Gruff’s charge sheet. At last he puts down the document and fixes the pair with his number six look – stern but understanding.)
Senior Sergeant Slideback: These are serious charges.
Arjy: And quite spurious. We arrived at this station in our capacity as representatives of a local elected authority and we have been subjected to treatment that is tantamount to demanding money with menaces. This does not reflect well on your choice of staff, Senior Sergeant Slideback.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Oh, Gruff isn’t part of my staff. He’s not even a police officer.
Arjy: What? You know about this and do nothing?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Come now, its not that bad. Gruff is harmless enough. He’s my sister’s boy and he likes to play policeman. As a matter of fact he is our major source of funding for the Red Lamp Disco we put on for the Jimboomba youngsters. If is wasn’t for Gruff keeping the Red Lamp project solvent the police Alcopop sales would probably drop by 50%. Don’t worry; I’ll get him to refund your money when you leave. Now what can I do for you?
Arjy: The Bogan Council is very concerned about the spate of killings in and around Jimboomba recently and we would like to know what you are doing about it.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Suspicious Deaths, councillor, not ‘killings’ let’s be accurate about this please. There are many interpretations that could be placed on these incidents and our investigations are still at an early stage.
Arjy: But I understand the most recent death involved a body that had its head sawn off.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Exactly my point, councillor. The head was sawn off which clearly points to suicide in that case.
Arjy: Suicide! What kind of suicide candidate saws his own head off?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: A pretty determined one I grant you, but never the less we can’t ignore the evidence. It was the victim’s saw and his fingerprints were all over it – apart from the fingerprints on the handle that is.
Arjy: Whose fingerprints were those?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Could have been anybodies.
Arjy: Including a murderer’s?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Or the person who sold him the saw.
Arjy: When did he buy it?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: In 1958.
Sean: What about the body you lost? Any luck with that?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Your information is inaccurate as usual. The body was not lost, merely misplaced and, yes, we did find it thank you very much. In fact it was just one of the lads having a bit of a laugh. He propped it up at a desk in the duty room and stuck a cap on its head. It was three days before we twigged. The bloody thing even won the station raffle. Still, it gave us all a much-needed chuckle.
Arjy: I must tell you I’m not all together happy with your answers to my questions Senior Sergeant and I shall be reporting that to Council tomorrow.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: You must do as you think best, councillor but if I might offer a little bit of advice?
Arjy: Which is?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: If you’re going to sit with your knees up around your ears like that you really should wear trousers.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Gladys De Weekent: Are you the burglars?
Arjy: Certainly not.
Gladys De Weekent: Bother it! I phoned for the burglars hours ago. It’s getting harder and harder to find tradesmen you can rely on isn’t it? Then you must be the blackmailers for Frau Himmler in room 6. If you go down the Tom Titter corridor and turn right, you’ll find her at the very end of Muggers Wing but, I warn you, she’s down to her last hundred million dollars and quite frankly I don’t think anyone really cares any more who she copulated with seventy years ago.
Arjy: We’re not blackmailers either, I’m afraid.
Gladys De Weekent: You’re not? Well goodness me, I’m so sorry, I think I’ll start again. My name is Mrs Gladys De Weekent – now who are you dear?
Arjy: My name is Arjy Barjy and this is my associate Sean Bean. We are detectives and I would like to ask ……..
Gladys De Weekent: Detectives? Now look young lady, you can tell Senior Sergeant Slideback that we pay into the police protection fund on the first of the month. We have been doing that for twelve years and haven’t missed a beat. If he thinks he can start changing the rules then you tell him we may have a few tricks up our sleeve and things might not go quite as he plans.
Arjy: We’re private detectives, Mrs De Weekent and we would just like to ask you a few simple questions about your aged care facility. It might have a bearing on a case we’re working on.
Gladys De Weekent: Oh I see. Why don’t you come in? We can sit in the visitors lounge; we don’t get to use it much since poor old Mr Bundy went berserk. Oh, and please don’t mind the mess on my hands, we’ve been finger painting.
(They walk down a dingy corridor and then step into a bright airy room strewn with dozens of photographs and the kind of dust gathering knick-knacks favoured by old people with too many memories. The walls are marked by rust coloured splashes that look suspiciously like dried blood. They all sit down in comfortable, pee-stained armchairs.)
Arjy: Perhaps you would tell us a little bit about this establishment?
Gladys De Weekent: Oh gosh, where to begin? Let’s see. We started about fifteen years ago and advertised the facility as a superior retirement home for the better class of Jimboomba residents, but we couldn’t find any. The only professional people we got were banjo tuners and a vivisectionist; it was most depressing really. In the end we conducted some market research and discovered that the most prolific class of professionals in the Jimboomba area was the criminal class so we started there. We got the usual break-and-enter crowd and one or two extortionists, lots of arsonists of course and three flashers but it still wasn’t quite the tone we were aiming for. In the end we advertised internationally as an establishment for the rich and infamous who wanted to live quietly with no questions asked. When we added that we could offer a discrete money laundering service we were overwhelmed with applications and haven’t looked back since.
Arjy: Isn’t it a little indiscrete of you, telling me all this?
Gladys De Weekent: Oh my dear. You have no idea the sort of people we have here and the power they wield. We’ve taken care of the local police and the Australian Judiciary may as well be on our payroll too. Why, even John Howard could take up residence here and there wouldn’t be a thing anyone could do to prevent it. I suppose I’ve told you all this precisely so that I might tell you what I am about to tell you now – if you breathe a word about this establishment to anyone it will be the last breath you use. Do I make myself perfectly clear young lady?
Arjy: Yes. Um…of course. Very clear. Thank you very much.
Gladys De Weekent: I’m so glad. Now what exactly are you detecting dear? Perhaps I can help.
Arjy: Oh nothing important. It really doesn’t matter. We must be going anyway and …..
Sean: What about the serial killer?
Arjy: Shaddup!
Gladys De Weekent: You’re investigating all those dreadful killings! How exciting! Well they would certainly have nothing to do with Incontinental so feel free to ask our residents whatever you like. I suggest you interview Mrs Iris Pessary. She has her finger on the local pulse like nobody else. Unfortunately she is indisposed until tomorrow. Perhaps you will come back then – shall we say about one o’clock? You must both have a spot of lunch with us.
(Twenty minutes later Arjy and Sean are back in Arjy’s unit at the clock towers. They have discussed the day’s events and are making plans for tomorrow.)
Sean: We should forget all about this detective stuff. It’s fucking dangerous if you ask me.
Arjy: I’m not asking you. We’re going to get to the bottom of this serial killer thing and it’s got something to do with Incontinental, I’m certain of that.
Sean: I don’t like this.
Arjy: First thing tomorrow we’ll have a word with Slideback. Then we’ll ask around a bit more before we take up Gladys De Weekent’s offer of lunch.
Sean: That’s an awful lot to get done in one day.
Arjy: The day after is a Bogan Council working day; you can have a rest there.
THE NEXT DAY.
(Arjy and Sean enter Jimboomba police station. Constable Gruff, the public relations officer of the day greets them just inside the main door.)
Constable Gruff: That’ll be $20 – each.
Arjy: What will be $20?
Constable Gruff: Entrance tickets. Come on, cough up!
Arjy: Since when have people been charged entrance money at police stations? This is disgraceful!
Constable Gruff: Oh, I see. You’re one of those are you. You think you can just swan in and out of police stations, using up police resources while there are people out there being raped and pillaged all over the place because there aren’t enough coppers to protect ‘em. Listen lady, if you want the service you can bloody well pay for it! $20 – now!
Arjy: In that case we will leave. I shall phone the Senior Sergeant to discuss this with him at some length. As for you – I shall make it my business, as a Bogan Chitty Council officer, to look into your threatening behaviour. Have a nice day Constable!
Constable Gruff: That will be $40 exit tax – each!
Arjy: WHAT?
Constable Gruff: You heard. Normally we refund the entrance charge on the exit tax and you get out for $20 but seeing you haven’t paid to get in, it’ll be the full $40 each.
Arjy: I don’t believe this! It’s …it’s…. Look, here’s the bloody $20 entry money and another $20 for Sean – we’re going in!
Constable Gruff: Would you like some tea and biscuits while you wait?
Arjy: Too bloody right we would – and hurry up about it!
Constable Gruff: That’ll be another $10 – each.
Arjy: You have got to be joking! Forget the tea and sodding biscuits, just tell Slideback we’re here!
Constable Gruff: Well, that will be $5 for wasting police time – I’ve already written you down in the tea and biscuits book and now I’ve got to scratch it all out.
(After a noisy period of charge and counter-charge, Arjy and Sean are sitting in the office of Senior Sergeant Slideback. He is ignoring them as he reads laboriously through Constable Gruff’s charge sheet. At last he puts down the document and fixes the pair with his number six look – stern but understanding.)
Senior Sergeant Slideback: These are serious charges.
Arjy: And quite spurious. We arrived at this station in our capacity as representatives of a local elected authority and we have been subjected to treatment that is tantamount to demanding money with menaces. This does not reflect well on your choice of staff, Senior Sergeant Slideback.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Oh, Gruff isn’t part of my staff. He’s not even a police officer.
Arjy: What? You know about this and do nothing?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Come now, its not that bad. Gruff is harmless enough. He’s my sister’s boy and he likes to play policeman. As a matter of fact he is our major source of funding for the Red Lamp Disco we put on for the Jimboomba youngsters. If is wasn’t for Gruff keeping the Red Lamp project solvent the police Alcopop sales would probably drop by 50%. Don’t worry; I’ll get him to refund your money when you leave. Now what can I do for you?
Arjy: The Bogan Council is very concerned about the spate of killings in and around Jimboomba recently and we would like to know what you are doing about it.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Suspicious Deaths, councillor, not ‘killings’ let’s be accurate about this please. There are many interpretations that could be placed on these incidents and our investigations are still at an early stage.
Arjy: But I understand the most recent death involved a body that had its head sawn off.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Exactly my point, councillor. The head was sawn off which clearly points to suicide in that case.
Arjy: Suicide! What kind of suicide candidate saws his own head off?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: A pretty determined one I grant you, but never the less we can’t ignore the evidence. It was the victim’s saw and his fingerprints were all over it – apart from the fingerprints on the handle that is.
Arjy: Whose fingerprints were those?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Could have been anybodies.
Arjy: Including a murderer’s?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Or the person who sold him the saw.
Arjy: When did he buy it?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: In 1958.
Sean: What about the body you lost? Any luck with that?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Your information is inaccurate as usual. The body was not lost, merely misplaced and, yes, we did find it thank you very much. In fact it was just one of the lads having a bit of a laugh. He propped it up at a desk in the duty room and stuck a cap on its head. It was three days before we twigged. The bloody thing even won the station raffle. Still, it gave us all a much-needed chuckle.
Arjy: I must tell you I’m not all together happy with your answers to my questions Senior Sergeant and I shall be reporting that to Council tomorrow.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: You must do as you think best, councillor but if I might offer a little bit of advice?
Arjy: Which is?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: If you’re going to sit with your knees up around your ears like that you really should wear trousers.
TO BE CONTINUED.
7/22/09
Dastardly Doings - Part 2
Sean has recovered a precious receipt that may prove collusion on pricing between Woodies and Cols supermarkets. He runs to the clock tower where he supposes Arjy Barjy is patiently waiting for him. She is doing no such thing. Arjy is enraged and is furiously reading the headlines on the latest Jimboomba Times front page. Sean scrambles up through the trap door and becomes entangled in Arjy’s left leg.
Arjy: Get your nose out of there! Have you read this?
Sean: Great news! I’ve got the receipt.
Arjy: Bugger the receipt, the price thing goes on the backburner. Have you read the Jimbo Times?
Sean: You know I don’t read that provincial crap. Why would I want to know who won the best marmalade prize for fucks sake?
Arjy: Things have changed around Jimboomba during the last few months; you should keep up with it. Read this!
(Arjy throws the Jimboomba Times through her legs and onto Sean’s lap. He quickly reads the front page, sliding his finger expertly along the words so as to not lose his place.)
*****************************************
Jimboomba Times – 22/07/09.
COMICAL KILLER CRACKS COPS UP.
The latest in an apparent army of serial killers who have hit Jimboomba recently has been having a remarkable effect on police and has been nicknamed ‘The Comical Killer’.
Senior Sergeant Slideback told Jimboomba Times that this killer has a very keen sense of humour and is causing much amusement down at the station. Details of the latest incident where the victim was decapitated are being kept secret. During an interview, Senior Sergeant Slideback said: “We are not releasing details partly because they will help us to eliminate false confessions but mainly because I can’t keep a straight face. Suffice it to say the victim must have laughed his head off.”
This killer is only one of a succession of killers who have managed to attract the attention of the police. Last week we reported on developments in ‘The Jimboomba Ripper’ investigation where the police appear to be baffled. Senior Sergeant Slideback has asked for more information from residents of the area and said: “The police are only as good as the information we receive.” When asked by the Jimboomba Times if the police were also as good as the information they detect, Senior Sergeant Slideback was suddenly called away to a road safety seminar on ‘the least dangerous places to site speed traps’.
The Ripper case has been further hampered by an unfortunate mix-up with the last victim’s body that seems to have been misplaced at the police station. Senior Sergeant Slideback remarked: “We will make sure this does not happen with the Comical Killer’s victim and it is a timely reminder to police constables to know where murder victims corpses are at all times.”
In further news: Doris Coppet of Flagstone has won ‘The Most Unusual Preserve’ award at Flagstone Seniors Fete on the weekend. She was later arrested and charged with poisoning 26 people. Doris is now known as ‘The Marmalade Murderer’.
Senior Sergeant Slideback stated: “We are at a bit of a standstill on this marmalade case and we appeal to anyone with information to come forward. We are particularly interested to hear from anyone who can tell us what the marmalade tastes like. Police forensic experts have been trying to determine this but we have now run out of police forensic experts.”
****************************************
Arjy: That’s what we should be looking for. A big case that’s already grabbed media attention. If our detective agency is going to succeed we must start solving big crimes. The Woodies-Cols thing isn’t going to do it. Everyone knows supermarkets are thieving bastards, there’s nothing new about that. We need to get involved in this serial killer thing. We need a nice juicy body!
Sean: Ah! Yes ….. it’s funny you should mention that.
Arjy: What?
(A few moments later the duo are racing through the shopping centre car park. When they reach the rear area the industrial bin has just been replaced by an empty one and the pick-up vehicle is nowhere in sight.)
Arjy: You are such a dickhead, Sean. Why didn’t you tell me about that straight off? How many sodding bodies do you find in an average day?
Sean: It’s not my fault. I was sidetracked by the police shoot-out at Mitre10 and then when I got into your unit you were waving your legs all over the place and …..
Arjy: WHAT FUCKING POLICE SHOOT-OUT?
Sean: I don’t know, somebody said the police had The Comical Killer bailed up in Mitre10 but I was trying to get back with the receipt. Arjy? Where are you going?
(The Woodies car park has ten police cars ranged in a semi-circle outside the entrance to Mitre10. Lights are flashing and Senior Sergeant Slideback is crouched behind his personal police car that has fluffy dice hanging in the rear window. An Emergency Services volunteer SWAT team are lying on the ground near the Mitre10 entrance and appear to be helpless with laughter. Senior Sergeant Slideback is shouting through a loudhailer and ordering the Swat team to pull back. Slowly, the team crawl back to the police barricade.)
Senior Sergeant Slideback: What the fuck is going on, Horace?
SWAT Commander: Oh dear, oh dear me, let me get my breath back. I’ve never laughed so much in all my life. Oh dear dear dear, I’m crying here. That bloke is the funniest sod, he really is. Oh my stomach hurts.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: That’s because he’s gutted you, you stupid prick! Half your insides are hanging out!
SWAT Commander: I know, I know - but that’s not the funny part. Oh dear me, oh my stars, just thinking about it cracks me right up. He said to me …. He said to me …. He said ….. Oh I can’t - I can’t say it - I don’t think I’ll ever stop laughing!
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Did you get to use the tasers?
SWAT Commander: Yes we did. They had absolutely no affect on him at all. We must have thrown half a dozen of them into Mitre10; I even saw one bounce off the killer’s chest. He didn’t even blink.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: You’re supposed to fire the bleeding things at him, not throw them! Jesus H. Christ!
SWAT Commander: How were we supposed to know that? You said to use ‘em if we got close enough, you didn’t say how.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: What about my police officers? Six of them went in before your lot arrived.
SWAT Commander: Oh yes, that was hilarious too. You remember Constable Penthrope God rest him? Well – the killer had a few bits of him on one of those Weber barbeque oven things. Only $68, it’s a special that Mitre10 have on at the moment. $68 – you can’t go past that can you? Anyway, there were these fillets……
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Get this prat away from me before I tickle the little shit to death with me boot.
Bistro Waiters: Senior Sergeant Slideback, I’m Bistro Waiters of the Jimboomba Times. I wonder if you can give our readers any thoughts on this latest serial killing? Do we have a description of the suspect yet?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: What? Oh yes. He is apparently of average size, age and complexion. He has a red nose, oversize floppy shoes and a buttonhole flower that keeps getting longer and longer and is capable of squirting concentrated sulphuric acid.
Bistro Waiters: Any – heh, heh, - timely reminders for our readers, Senior Sergeant?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: You want to spend the next six months getting done for doing 120 kph in a loading zone?
Bistro Waiters: No, not really.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Well fuck off and write something nice about me.
Bistro Waiters: Oh yes, of course Senior Sergeant, but in the meantime can you tell me what your reaction was when you heard the killer had ducked out the back way 20 minutes ago?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: He what?
(Arjy and Sean had been listening carefully to everything and keeping their eyes wide open. They had been too late to cover the back door when the killer made his break but they were soon scouring the ground at the rear of Mitre10 for any clues that might have been left. Arjy knew she only had a few minutes before the police arrived and trampled everything to dust. She desperately looked among the shrubbery. After only a minute her efforts were rewarded. Lying beside a crumpled Eagle Boys pizza box was a set of teeth. They were the sort of teeth you could wind up and send chattering across the table and under the bottom plate was a small label that read:
‘Property of Incontinental Luxury Retirement Home.’
The Incontinental was only a short distance away and was off Cusack Lane. Arjy did the right thing and left the evidence where she had found it. It was doubtful if it would ever be found again but at least she wasn’t interfering.)
Arjy: Sean, get the car.
Sean: Where are we going?
Arjy: Not far. I want to take a look at an old fella.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Arjy: Get your nose out of there! Have you read this?
Sean: Great news! I’ve got the receipt.
Arjy: Bugger the receipt, the price thing goes on the backburner. Have you read the Jimbo Times?
Sean: You know I don’t read that provincial crap. Why would I want to know who won the best marmalade prize for fucks sake?
Arjy: Things have changed around Jimboomba during the last few months; you should keep up with it. Read this!
(Arjy throws the Jimboomba Times through her legs and onto Sean’s lap. He quickly reads the front page, sliding his finger expertly along the words so as to not lose his place.)
*****************************************
Jimboomba Times – 22/07/09.
COMICAL KILLER CRACKS COPS UP.
The latest in an apparent army of serial killers who have hit Jimboomba recently has been having a remarkable effect on police and has been nicknamed ‘The Comical Killer’.
Senior Sergeant Slideback told Jimboomba Times that this killer has a very keen sense of humour and is causing much amusement down at the station. Details of the latest incident where the victim was decapitated are being kept secret. During an interview, Senior Sergeant Slideback said: “We are not releasing details partly because they will help us to eliminate false confessions but mainly because I can’t keep a straight face. Suffice it to say the victim must have laughed his head off.”
This killer is only one of a succession of killers who have managed to attract the attention of the police. Last week we reported on developments in ‘The Jimboomba Ripper’ investigation where the police appear to be baffled. Senior Sergeant Slideback has asked for more information from residents of the area and said: “The police are only as good as the information we receive.” When asked by the Jimboomba Times if the police were also as good as the information they detect, Senior Sergeant Slideback was suddenly called away to a road safety seminar on ‘the least dangerous places to site speed traps’.
The Ripper case has been further hampered by an unfortunate mix-up with the last victim’s body that seems to have been misplaced at the police station. Senior Sergeant Slideback remarked: “We will make sure this does not happen with the Comical Killer’s victim and it is a timely reminder to police constables to know where murder victims corpses are at all times.”
In further news: Doris Coppet of Flagstone has won ‘The Most Unusual Preserve’ award at Flagstone Seniors Fete on the weekend. She was later arrested and charged with poisoning 26 people. Doris is now known as ‘The Marmalade Murderer’.
Senior Sergeant Slideback stated: “We are at a bit of a standstill on this marmalade case and we appeal to anyone with information to come forward. We are particularly interested to hear from anyone who can tell us what the marmalade tastes like. Police forensic experts have been trying to determine this but we have now run out of police forensic experts.”
****************************************
Arjy: That’s what we should be looking for. A big case that’s already grabbed media attention. If our detective agency is going to succeed we must start solving big crimes. The Woodies-Cols thing isn’t going to do it. Everyone knows supermarkets are thieving bastards, there’s nothing new about that. We need to get involved in this serial killer thing. We need a nice juicy body!
Sean: Ah! Yes ….. it’s funny you should mention that.
Arjy: What?
(A few moments later the duo are racing through the shopping centre car park. When they reach the rear area the industrial bin has just been replaced by an empty one and the pick-up vehicle is nowhere in sight.)
Arjy: You are such a dickhead, Sean. Why didn’t you tell me about that straight off? How many sodding bodies do you find in an average day?
Sean: It’s not my fault. I was sidetracked by the police shoot-out at Mitre10 and then when I got into your unit you were waving your legs all over the place and …..
Arjy: WHAT FUCKING POLICE SHOOT-OUT?
Sean: I don’t know, somebody said the police had The Comical Killer bailed up in Mitre10 but I was trying to get back with the receipt. Arjy? Where are you going?
(The Woodies car park has ten police cars ranged in a semi-circle outside the entrance to Mitre10. Lights are flashing and Senior Sergeant Slideback is crouched behind his personal police car that has fluffy dice hanging in the rear window. An Emergency Services volunteer SWAT team are lying on the ground near the Mitre10 entrance and appear to be helpless with laughter. Senior Sergeant Slideback is shouting through a loudhailer and ordering the Swat team to pull back. Slowly, the team crawl back to the police barricade.)
Senior Sergeant Slideback: What the fuck is going on, Horace?
SWAT Commander: Oh dear, oh dear me, let me get my breath back. I’ve never laughed so much in all my life. Oh dear dear dear, I’m crying here. That bloke is the funniest sod, he really is. Oh my stomach hurts.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: That’s because he’s gutted you, you stupid prick! Half your insides are hanging out!
SWAT Commander: I know, I know - but that’s not the funny part. Oh dear me, oh my stars, just thinking about it cracks me right up. He said to me …. He said to me …. He said ….. Oh I can’t - I can’t say it - I don’t think I’ll ever stop laughing!
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Did you get to use the tasers?
SWAT Commander: Yes we did. They had absolutely no affect on him at all. We must have thrown half a dozen of them into Mitre10; I even saw one bounce off the killer’s chest. He didn’t even blink.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: You’re supposed to fire the bleeding things at him, not throw them! Jesus H. Christ!
SWAT Commander: How were we supposed to know that? You said to use ‘em if we got close enough, you didn’t say how.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: What about my police officers? Six of them went in before your lot arrived.
SWAT Commander: Oh yes, that was hilarious too. You remember Constable Penthrope God rest him? Well – the killer had a few bits of him on one of those Weber barbeque oven things. Only $68, it’s a special that Mitre10 have on at the moment. $68 – you can’t go past that can you? Anyway, there were these fillets……
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Get this prat away from me before I tickle the little shit to death with me boot.
Bistro Waiters: Senior Sergeant Slideback, I’m Bistro Waiters of the Jimboomba Times. I wonder if you can give our readers any thoughts on this latest serial killing? Do we have a description of the suspect yet?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: What? Oh yes. He is apparently of average size, age and complexion. He has a red nose, oversize floppy shoes and a buttonhole flower that keeps getting longer and longer and is capable of squirting concentrated sulphuric acid.
Bistro Waiters: Any – heh, heh, - timely reminders for our readers, Senior Sergeant?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: You want to spend the next six months getting done for doing 120 kph in a loading zone?
Bistro Waiters: No, not really.
Senior Sergeant Slideback: Well fuck off and write something nice about me.
Bistro Waiters: Oh yes, of course Senior Sergeant, but in the meantime can you tell me what your reaction was when you heard the killer had ducked out the back way 20 minutes ago?
Senior Sergeant Slideback: He what?
(Arjy and Sean had been listening carefully to everything and keeping their eyes wide open. They had been too late to cover the back door when the killer made his break but they were soon scouring the ground at the rear of Mitre10 for any clues that might have been left. Arjy knew she only had a few minutes before the police arrived and trampled everything to dust. She desperately looked among the shrubbery. After only a minute her efforts were rewarded. Lying beside a crumpled Eagle Boys pizza box was a set of teeth. They were the sort of teeth you could wind up and send chattering across the table and under the bottom plate was a small label that read:
‘Property of Incontinental Luxury Retirement Home.’
The Incontinental was only a short distance away and was off Cusack Lane. Arjy did the right thing and left the evidence where she had found it. It was doubtful if it would ever be found again but at least she wasn’t interfering.)
Arjy: Sean, get the car.
Sean: Where are we going?
Arjy: Not far. I want to take a look at an old fella.
TO BE CONTINUED.
7/19/09
Dastardly Doings - Part 1
SPECIAL NOTE.
It may be felt that recent tales on this blog have become a little bit far-fetched. I know that most of the things that have been described are commonplace in the greater world, but not in Bogan and certainly not in Jimboomba. So we are going to return to basics. No more Gods and Demons, no more time travelling and no more magic. We are going to concentrate on reality and the mundane day-to-day lives of country folk who have no business in the foggy world of metaphysical bollocks. It will be a simple country diary if you like, recording the doings of simple country people committing simple country murders and simple country mayhem which may then be solved by a simple country private detective agency like “Barjy-Bean Investigations” of Jimboomba.
DASTARDLY DOINGS –PART 1.
(For many years Sean Bean has been ignorant of the poisonous underbelly of Jimboomba but he becomes bored with his part time councillor job and begins to look around for a pastime more worthy of his talents. This leads Sean to Jimboomba - the tawdry unsolved-crime centre of Bogan – and a new part time career as a pugnacious private detective. However, Sean knows he cannot succeed on his own.
Sean Bean is not what may be described as cerebral; herbal perhaps, in that he is green and inclined to give some people the shits, but definitely not cerebral. He is dimly aware of this and, to improve his chances in life, Sean often tries to link up with a partner who can read without moving the lips.
In this latest escapade Sean has become friendly with Arjy Barjy a fellow Bogan councillor who is also bored and looking for ways to further her ambition to rule whatever it is needs ruling and can get the best media coverage. It is Arjy who has discovered Jimboomba’s infamous reputation as a place where strange things have a habit of happening.
Yet the local police seem disinclined to do anything about the lawless situation in Jimboomba. Their total contribution to law enforcement, apart from traffic warden duties, is to compel the Jimboomba Times’ editor to publish Senior Sergeant Slideback’s timely reminder to parents that they should be aware of where their children are at all times. In short, Jimboomba’s residents live in a constant state of fear.
They live in fear of unbridled littering, vandalised mailboxes, illegal tree felling, hoons and regular forays by the local serial killer – the Jimboomba Ripper. The whole community has gone to the dogs that also roam unchecked and savage a succession of pet lambs that are almost always named Florence. It is to this community of the poor and downtrodden that Sean Bean and Arjy Barjy have come in order to start their new careers as private detectives and Barjy-Bean Investigations gets off to a flying start. But we are getting ahead of ourselves.
When the pair moved into Jimboomba the first problem was finding somewhere to live. They had decided to save money by moving in together, not, it must be hastily added, that there was anything improper between them. Sean had enough difficulty with his shoe laces let alone the complications of carnal knowledge and when asked about her relationship with Bean, Arjy famously replied that she would rather romance a cane toad’s arse.
The accommodation problem was solved when an opportunity arose to rent the twin clock towers at Jimboomba shopping centre. Standing each side of the Woodies supermarket the clock towers were ideal. Arjy and Bean each had their own unit but a common rental agreement. Their living space was a little cramped and access via rope ladder was awkward but it was central and had stunning views through the lubrication holes in the clock faces. One of the reasons the rent was so cheap was that it was the tenants responsibility to keep the clocks synchronised. This proved to be difficult when it became obvious that there were periods when the clocks seemed to be not so much in different time zones but in completely different worlds. However this may have been because of certain recent traumatic incidents already described in previous postings and therefore we will waste no further time on it.
Arjy Barjy was the most inconvenienced by the tiny living space because of her prodigious height. She was six feet 10 inches tall in old money and most of that was legs. Sitting down with her knees drawn up beside her ears she resembled a grasshopper looking over its shoulder but heaven help anyone who said so. She had once been quite a normal size but on a budget holiday in Moscow she suffered an accident for which she was not insured. Unable to afford the cost of treatment Arjy was obliged to undergo experimental surgery in payment for saving her life. The Russian surgical team were desperate to perfect height-increasing techniques because of intense pressure from a particularly nasty and demanding client who was making their lives hell. They tried out each method on Arjy before settling on a procedure that increased the nasty client’s height by a paltry few centimetres but by then Arjy had legs that could receive radio signals from Pluto.
Despite the drawbacks, Arjy settled reasonably well into her new home and began work on looking for a crime to be solved and some extra income to supplement the miserable pay of a Bogan councillor. It didn’t take her long to come up with the goods. She had been seriously reappraising her relationship with Sean. Her best efforts to train him had not been altogether successful and he was still the most stupid man she had ever met. Indeed, by comparison, he even made Andy McDuck look like a genius. Last night she had told Sean he was about as sentient as a bar of soap and he had looked puzzled but quite pleased. This was just after he had returned with the weeks shopping for both of them and had bought exactly the same items that Arjy had purchased a few hours before. Somehow he had convinced himself that Arjy’s Woodies receipt he had found on the table was a shopping list and had promptly duplicated the purchases at Cols. Arjy almost gave up.
Later she was hunched over her tiny desk trying to reconcile their joint expenses when something about the Cols and Woodies receipts caught her eye. The prices were identical. She checked it again and then reached for the phone. Well, it wasn’t a phone exactly, it was a baked bean tin with a length of string threaded through the base and knotted. The rest of the string passed through a tiny hole in the clock tower wall and stretched across the open space to a similar arrangement in the second tower. Arjy pulled the string taught and twanged it.
As luck would have it Sean was about to call Arjy when she pulled the string. Sean was yanked forcefully toward the wall that stopped his head abruptly and he collapsed, stunned and bleeding, onto the floor among his scattered comics. It was a few minutes before Arjy could get any sense out of him.)
Arjy: Sean, you bloody prat, answer me!
Sean: Yes Arjy, wod gan I do for you?
Arjy: What’s wrong with you? You sound pissed!
Sean: By dose id bleedink.
Arjy: Well shape up and listen. It’s about the receipt you brought back from Cols.
Sean: I said I wad sorry aboud dat.
Arjy: Shut up, I said listen. The prices on the receipts from Cols and Woodies are identical – down to the last cent. There’s only two ways that can happen. Coincidence, which I don’t believe in, and collusion. It’s my belief that Cols and Woodies are price fixing and that’s illegal. If we can prove it we’ll have them over a barrel and we can bleed the bastards dry.
Sean: Why would dey do dat? Idn’t it bedder if dey compete for more cusdomers?
Arjy: Oh, to a point, yes. But the only way to make real money is to keep the prices high not cut them. So they settle on a market share and then synchronise prices. They’ll disguise it a bit with special offers but basically the pricing structure is the same. Then they start to carefully hike the prices. They coordinate shortage stories and all the thousands of reasons why a price should rise and then dollar-by-dollar they begin to steal. The less well off will be forced to the stage of malnutrition as they try to economise but at the end of the day we all have to buy food so as long as they stick together, Cols and Woodies can loot the entire community and nobody will stop them. Even the Australian government were forced to back down and drop their price watch website. This is the biggest blackmail operation in Australian history and we’re all victims. Cols and Woodies are telling us to pay up or starve to death.
Sean: How can we prove dat?
Arjy: The only way for Cols and Woodies to accurately work this is to link their computer pricing systems. I know a friend of a friend who’s a bit of a hacker. I’ve used him before to trash blogs that criticize me. I’m going to get him to access the Cols system tomorrow and change the price of Alaskan yams to 30 cents a kilo. No supermarket would knowingly agree to set a price that low and the only way it can happen at both supermarkets is if their systems are linked. So at 9-30 am tomorrow I want you to go into Woodies and buy some groceries including a couple of kilos of Alaskan yams. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself, just get in, buy the stuff and leave quietly. Got that?
Sean: God id! Bud wod if dey are hacking us? Wod if they’ve dapped dis phone?
Arjy: For fucks sake, Sean – how are they going to tap into a piece of string? That’s why we have this system between us. It’s probably the only secure communication line on the planet. Just make sure you’re at Woodies tomorrow at 9-30 am to get those yams.
BACK IN THE PRESENT.
(It is 9-30 am and Sean is on his way in to Woodies supermarket. He is held up at the door by an almost continuous stream of shoplifters running out but eventually he is inside. Arjy has told him to conduct his business quietly and get out without any fuss so he strolls around the shelves picking things up at random and slowly filling his basket. He carefully selects a bag of yams then makes his way to the checkout. A kid gets in his way for a moment but the little brute bounces off him and continues on its shrieking way. Sean plays it very cool and resists the urge to do what he usually does and trip the noisy little bastard. It is only when he reaches the checkout that he realises the fucking kid has lifted his wallet.
Sean is in a quandary. Arjy has told him not to cause a fuss. He must pay for the yams to get a receipt but without his wallet he has no means of doing that. Arjy further warned him that the purchase must be as soon after 9-30 as possible before the price change is noticed. It is now or never. In front of him an incredibly fat woman is getting served. She has a snot nosed three-year-old kid sitting in the trolley and the woman’s handbag is crammed in beside the grubby child. The woman is one of those beasts who have tattoos all over them. Her hipster trousers are probably struggling to conceal several pictures on the woman’s huge arse but Sean desperately tries not to think about that. His hand slithers into her handbag and unclasps her purse while the woman loads the checkout belt. He snatches at what feels like a bank note and is relieved to see a fifty-dollar note when he withdraws his hand. He is not relieved by the sight of the snotty kid glaring at him suspiciously.
Fortunately the woman pays with a credit card and doesn’t notice the missing 50-dollar note. Her daughter is trying to attract her attention but is told to shut her whinging little trap. Sean drops his basket on the checkout belt and smiles at the checkout chick who glares at him venomously and when Sean looks at the stuff he has casually dropped into his basket he can see why. Apart from the yams he has a huge pot of Vaseline and 4 packets of coloured condoms. He has also chosen a pack of tampons and a small tube of Anusol haemorrhoid ointment. The girl begins to sneer.)
Checkout Chick: Big night tonight Sailor?
Sean: Uh … this is for a friend of mine.
Checkout Chick: I’m sure it is. I bet he’s looking forward to seeing you.
Sean: No, you don’t understand. None of this is really for me. I just …..
Checkout Chick: Oh well, what’s your friend’s name, George Michael? That will be $52.70.
Sean: Oh no! Um … I’ll have to return something; I’ve only got a fifty note.
Checkout Chick: Aahh! What do you want taken off?
Sean: The …uh … tampons I think.
Checkout Chick: Good choice. You can always use a gerbil eh?
Sean: Look! Will you just bag it and shut the fuck up!
Checkout Chick: Oooh! A bit butch today are we? Haveaniceday.
(So much for not attracting attention. Sean steps away, his face bright crimson and his temper barely contained. As he walks toward the exit another mob of shoplifters make a break for the door and send him crashing into the display of pot plants and cut flowers. When he eventually gets outside he is soaked and draped with carnations. He walks slap bang into the illustrated woman who has at last listened to her daughter and this time she has her son with her for additional support.)
Illustrated Woman: ‘Ere you. My Kirsty Kristabelle Jane says you were rootin’ around in me ‘andbag. What did you take, you thievin’ bastard?
Sean: Don’t start on me lady and your bleeding kid is obviously a few bottles short of a good piss up. Now get out of my way! Hang on a minute; does this boy belong to you? He’s the shit who pinched my fucking wallet!
(Sean grabs the woman’s son and frisks him, ignoring his screaming mother. The boy has several wallets and purses stuffed into the lining of his jacket. Sean selects his own wallet and throws the other booty on the ground.)
Illustrated Woman: You leave that stuff alone! That belongs to my Mathew Thomo, that does! Don’t you dare open that wallet!
Sean: Oh yes, and I suppose this picture of me on the driving licence is a photo of you before you put on the extra 400 kilos is it?
(The woman lashes a huge fat arm at Sean who is dumped on his arse. His shopping scatters and the precious receipt is whipped away by a gusty breeze. During the ensuing struggle with the woman she steps on the tube of Anusol. Sean kicks the woman smartly in the guts and sets off after the receipt but he is soon speed skating across the supermarket forecourt on a huge glob of Anusol. After crashing through the window of the Travel Agency, Sean picks himself up, breathlessly apologises to the Travel Agency staff and sprints outside again to continue his pursuit of the receipt which dances before him like a butterfly.
Around the corner and past the hairdressers, Sean continues to chase and leap for the receipt. Suddenly another gust takes the scrap high and out of sight over the roof. Sean panics and streaks to the rear car park where he can see nothing of the receipt. But there in the shadows an industrial waste bin squats with its lid part open. As Sean looks at the bin a leaf comes dancing by and is almost blown into the opening. He dashes across and wrenches the lid fully open.
Inside, the wreck of a body lies distorted on a bed of garbage. It is obviously the corpse of a man and a murdered one at that. But it is so battered and mutilated it is hard to tell much more. As Sean takes in the sight his eyes widen. There, sticking to the exposed brain matter forced through the shattered skull is a scrap of white paper. Sean reaches in and plucks the paper up. It is a Woodies receipt and on it he can clearly see yams priced at 30 cents per kilo.
Sean lets the lid slam shut and he carefully tucks the receipt into his wallet. Clutching the wallet as if his life depends on it, Sean runs back around the building and heads for the safety of the clock tower he calls home. It is their first important clue in their first important case and he can’t wait to tell Arjy all about it.)
TO BE CONTINUED.
.
It may be felt that recent tales on this blog have become a little bit far-fetched. I know that most of the things that have been described are commonplace in the greater world, but not in Bogan and certainly not in Jimboomba. So we are going to return to basics. No more Gods and Demons, no more time travelling and no more magic. We are going to concentrate on reality and the mundane day-to-day lives of country folk who have no business in the foggy world of metaphysical bollocks. It will be a simple country diary if you like, recording the doings of simple country people committing simple country murders and simple country mayhem which may then be solved by a simple country private detective agency like “Barjy-Bean Investigations” of Jimboomba.
DASTARDLY DOINGS –PART 1.
(For many years Sean Bean has been ignorant of the poisonous underbelly of Jimboomba but he becomes bored with his part time councillor job and begins to look around for a pastime more worthy of his talents. This leads Sean to Jimboomba - the tawdry unsolved-crime centre of Bogan – and a new part time career as a pugnacious private detective. However, Sean knows he cannot succeed on his own.
Sean Bean is not what may be described as cerebral; herbal perhaps, in that he is green and inclined to give some people the shits, but definitely not cerebral. He is dimly aware of this and, to improve his chances in life, Sean often tries to link up with a partner who can read without moving the lips.
In this latest escapade Sean has become friendly with Arjy Barjy a fellow Bogan councillor who is also bored and looking for ways to further her ambition to rule whatever it is needs ruling and can get the best media coverage. It is Arjy who has discovered Jimboomba’s infamous reputation as a place where strange things have a habit of happening.
Yet the local police seem disinclined to do anything about the lawless situation in Jimboomba. Their total contribution to law enforcement, apart from traffic warden duties, is to compel the Jimboomba Times’ editor to publish Senior Sergeant Slideback’s timely reminder to parents that they should be aware of where their children are at all times. In short, Jimboomba’s residents live in a constant state of fear.
They live in fear of unbridled littering, vandalised mailboxes, illegal tree felling, hoons and regular forays by the local serial killer – the Jimboomba Ripper. The whole community has gone to the dogs that also roam unchecked and savage a succession of pet lambs that are almost always named Florence. It is to this community of the poor and downtrodden that Sean Bean and Arjy Barjy have come in order to start their new careers as private detectives and Barjy-Bean Investigations gets off to a flying start. But we are getting ahead of ourselves.
When the pair moved into Jimboomba the first problem was finding somewhere to live. They had decided to save money by moving in together, not, it must be hastily added, that there was anything improper between them. Sean had enough difficulty with his shoe laces let alone the complications of carnal knowledge and when asked about her relationship with Bean, Arjy famously replied that she would rather romance a cane toad’s arse.
The accommodation problem was solved when an opportunity arose to rent the twin clock towers at Jimboomba shopping centre. Standing each side of the Woodies supermarket the clock towers were ideal. Arjy and Bean each had their own unit but a common rental agreement. Their living space was a little cramped and access via rope ladder was awkward but it was central and had stunning views through the lubrication holes in the clock faces. One of the reasons the rent was so cheap was that it was the tenants responsibility to keep the clocks synchronised. This proved to be difficult when it became obvious that there were periods when the clocks seemed to be not so much in different time zones but in completely different worlds. However this may have been because of certain recent traumatic incidents already described in previous postings and therefore we will waste no further time on it.
Arjy Barjy was the most inconvenienced by the tiny living space because of her prodigious height. She was six feet 10 inches tall in old money and most of that was legs. Sitting down with her knees drawn up beside her ears she resembled a grasshopper looking over its shoulder but heaven help anyone who said so. She had once been quite a normal size but on a budget holiday in Moscow she suffered an accident for which she was not insured. Unable to afford the cost of treatment Arjy was obliged to undergo experimental surgery in payment for saving her life. The Russian surgical team were desperate to perfect height-increasing techniques because of intense pressure from a particularly nasty and demanding client who was making their lives hell. They tried out each method on Arjy before settling on a procedure that increased the nasty client’s height by a paltry few centimetres but by then Arjy had legs that could receive radio signals from Pluto.
Despite the drawbacks, Arjy settled reasonably well into her new home and began work on looking for a crime to be solved and some extra income to supplement the miserable pay of a Bogan councillor. It didn’t take her long to come up with the goods. She had been seriously reappraising her relationship with Sean. Her best efforts to train him had not been altogether successful and he was still the most stupid man she had ever met. Indeed, by comparison, he even made Andy McDuck look like a genius. Last night she had told Sean he was about as sentient as a bar of soap and he had looked puzzled but quite pleased. This was just after he had returned with the weeks shopping for both of them and had bought exactly the same items that Arjy had purchased a few hours before. Somehow he had convinced himself that Arjy’s Woodies receipt he had found on the table was a shopping list and had promptly duplicated the purchases at Cols. Arjy almost gave up.
Later she was hunched over her tiny desk trying to reconcile their joint expenses when something about the Cols and Woodies receipts caught her eye. The prices were identical. She checked it again and then reached for the phone. Well, it wasn’t a phone exactly, it was a baked bean tin with a length of string threaded through the base and knotted. The rest of the string passed through a tiny hole in the clock tower wall and stretched across the open space to a similar arrangement in the second tower. Arjy pulled the string taught and twanged it.
As luck would have it Sean was about to call Arjy when she pulled the string. Sean was yanked forcefully toward the wall that stopped his head abruptly and he collapsed, stunned and bleeding, onto the floor among his scattered comics. It was a few minutes before Arjy could get any sense out of him.)
Arjy: Sean, you bloody prat, answer me!
Sean: Yes Arjy, wod gan I do for you?
Arjy: What’s wrong with you? You sound pissed!
Sean: By dose id bleedink.
Arjy: Well shape up and listen. It’s about the receipt you brought back from Cols.
Sean: I said I wad sorry aboud dat.
Arjy: Shut up, I said listen. The prices on the receipts from Cols and Woodies are identical – down to the last cent. There’s only two ways that can happen. Coincidence, which I don’t believe in, and collusion. It’s my belief that Cols and Woodies are price fixing and that’s illegal. If we can prove it we’ll have them over a barrel and we can bleed the bastards dry.
Sean: Why would dey do dat? Idn’t it bedder if dey compete for more cusdomers?
Arjy: Oh, to a point, yes. But the only way to make real money is to keep the prices high not cut them. So they settle on a market share and then synchronise prices. They’ll disguise it a bit with special offers but basically the pricing structure is the same. Then they start to carefully hike the prices. They coordinate shortage stories and all the thousands of reasons why a price should rise and then dollar-by-dollar they begin to steal. The less well off will be forced to the stage of malnutrition as they try to economise but at the end of the day we all have to buy food so as long as they stick together, Cols and Woodies can loot the entire community and nobody will stop them. Even the Australian government were forced to back down and drop their price watch website. This is the biggest blackmail operation in Australian history and we’re all victims. Cols and Woodies are telling us to pay up or starve to death.
Sean: How can we prove dat?
Arjy: The only way for Cols and Woodies to accurately work this is to link their computer pricing systems. I know a friend of a friend who’s a bit of a hacker. I’ve used him before to trash blogs that criticize me. I’m going to get him to access the Cols system tomorrow and change the price of Alaskan yams to 30 cents a kilo. No supermarket would knowingly agree to set a price that low and the only way it can happen at both supermarkets is if their systems are linked. So at 9-30 am tomorrow I want you to go into Woodies and buy some groceries including a couple of kilos of Alaskan yams. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself, just get in, buy the stuff and leave quietly. Got that?
Sean: God id! Bud wod if dey are hacking us? Wod if they’ve dapped dis phone?
Arjy: For fucks sake, Sean – how are they going to tap into a piece of string? That’s why we have this system between us. It’s probably the only secure communication line on the planet. Just make sure you’re at Woodies tomorrow at 9-30 am to get those yams.
BACK IN THE PRESENT.
(It is 9-30 am and Sean is on his way in to Woodies supermarket. He is held up at the door by an almost continuous stream of shoplifters running out but eventually he is inside. Arjy has told him to conduct his business quietly and get out without any fuss so he strolls around the shelves picking things up at random and slowly filling his basket. He carefully selects a bag of yams then makes his way to the checkout. A kid gets in his way for a moment but the little brute bounces off him and continues on its shrieking way. Sean plays it very cool and resists the urge to do what he usually does and trip the noisy little bastard. It is only when he reaches the checkout that he realises the fucking kid has lifted his wallet.
Sean is in a quandary. Arjy has told him not to cause a fuss. He must pay for the yams to get a receipt but without his wallet he has no means of doing that. Arjy further warned him that the purchase must be as soon after 9-30 as possible before the price change is noticed. It is now or never. In front of him an incredibly fat woman is getting served. She has a snot nosed three-year-old kid sitting in the trolley and the woman’s handbag is crammed in beside the grubby child. The woman is one of those beasts who have tattoos all over them. Her hipster trousers are probably struggling to conceal several pictures on the woman’s huge arse but Sean desperately tries not to think about that. His hand slithers into her handbag and unclasps her purse while the woman loads the checkout belt. He snatches at what feels like a bank note and is relieved to see a fifty-dollar note when he withdraws his hand. He is not relieved by the sight of the snotty kid glaring at him suspiciously.
Fortunately the woman pays with a credit card and doesn’t notice the missing 50-dollar note. Her daughter is trying to attract her attention but is told to shut her whinging little trap. Sean drops his basket on the checkout belt and smiles at the checkout chick who glares at him venomously and when Sean looks at the stuff he has casually dropped into his basket he can see why. Apart from the yams he has a huge pot of Vaseline and 4 packets of coloured condoms. He has also chosen a pack of tampons and a small tube of Anusol haemorrhoid ointment. The girl begins to sneer.)
Checkout Chick: Big night tonight Sailor?
Sean: Uh … this is for a friend of mine.
Checkout Chick: I’m sure it is. I bet he’s looking forward to seeing you.
Sean: No, you don’t understand. None of this is really for me. I just …..
Checkout Chick: Oh well, what’s your friend’s name, George Michael? That will be $52.70.
Sean: Oh no! Um … I’ll have to return something; I’ve only got a fifty note.
Checkout Chick: Aahh! What do you want taken off?
Sean: The …uh … tampons I think.
Checkout Chick: Good choice. You can always use a gerbil eh?
Sean: Look! Will you just bag it and shut the fuck up!
Checkout Chick: Oooh! A bit butch today are we? Haveaniceday.
(So much for not attracting attention. Sean steps away, his face bright crimson and his temper barely contained. As he walks toward the exit another mob of shoplifters make a break for the door and send him crashing into the display of pot plants and cut flowers. When he eventually gets outside he is soaked and draped with carnations. He walks slap bang into the illustrated woman who has at last listened to her daughter and this time she has her son with her for additional support.)
Illustrated Woman: ‘Ere you. My Kirsty Kristabelle Jane says you were rootin’ around in me ‘andbag. What did you take, you thievin’ bastard?
Sean: Don’t start on me lady and your bleeding kid is obviously a few bottles short of a good piss up. Now get out of my way! Hang on a minute; does this boy belong to you? He’s the shit who pinched my fucking wallet!
(Sean grabs the woman’s son and frisks him, ignoring his screaming mother. The boy has several wallets and purses stuffed into the lining of his jacket. Sean selects his own wallet and throws the other booty on the ground.)
Illustrated Woman: You leave that stuff alone! That belongs to my Mathew Thomo, that does! Don’t you dare open that wallet!
Sean: Oh yes, and I suppose this picture of me on the driving licence is a photo of you before you put on the extra 400 kilos is it?
(The woman lashes a huge fat arm at Sean who is dumped on his arse. His shopping scatters and the precious receipt is whipped away by a gusty breeze. During the ensuing struggle with the woman she steps on the tube of Anusol. Sean kicks the woman smartly in the guts and sets off after the receipt but he is soon speed skating across the supermarket forecourt on a huge glob of Anusol. After crashing through the window of the Travel Agency, Sean picks himself up, breathlessly apologises to the Travel Agency staff and sprints outside again to continue his pursuit of the receipt which dances before him like a butterfly.
Around the corner and past the hairdressers, Sean continues to chase and leap for the receipt. Suddenly another gust takes the scrap high and out of sight over the roof. Sean panics and streaks to the rear car park where he can see nothing of the receipt. But there in the shadows an industrial waste bin squats with its lid part open. As Sean looks at the bin a leaf comes dancing by and is almost blown into the opening. He dashes across and wrenches the lid fully open.
Inside, the wreck of a body lies distorted on a bed of garbage. It is obviously the corpse of a man and a murdered one at that. But it is so battered and mutilated it is hard to tell much more. As Sean takes in the sight his eyes widen. There, sticking to the exposed brain matter forced through the shattered skull is a scrap of white paper. Sean reaches in and plucks the paper up. It is a Woodies receipt and on it he can clearly see yams priced at 30 cents per kilo.
Sean lets the lid slam shut and he carefully tucks the receipt into his wallet. Clutching the wallet as if his life depends on it, Sean runs back around the building and heads for the safety of the clock tower he calls home. It is their first important clue in their first important case and he can’t wait to tell Arjy all about it.)
TO BE CONTINUED.
.
7/16/09
Coven - Part 12
The final kilometre of The Greatest Obstacle Race in the World. No more obstacles and the contestants are squabbling and arguing there way steadily through the final stage. Korky is four minutes behind and should have no chance except for the extraordinary behaviour of those in the lead who are doing everything in their power to slow each other up and gain some advantage for themselves in the final furlong. For more details we hand you over to the Sky Sports commentators.
Drydoch: Welcome back to the Sky Sports coverage of this remarkable event. We have seen the dramatic turnaround at the last obstacle and Korky for the Nazis has been relegated to an apparently hopeless position in last place – or has she? The other contestants almost seem to be deliberately trying to allow the Nazis to catch them. They are attempting to block each other at every opportunity with the result that with still over half a kilometre to run, Korky is rapidly making up lost ground.
Connie Lingus: The Catholics may be changing tactics, Rupert. There is something going on with the Popemobile that has been driving along the slip road beside the track and pacing the runners. The Popemobile is extending a long boom out over the track and now a small figure is climbing out along it. This is unbelievable; I have no idea what the Catholics are up to. Any thoughts Rupert?
Drydoch: Not really, Connie. Can we zoom in on the figure climbing along the boom? The figure has reached the end of the boom and ….. IT’S AN ALTER BOY! The figure is an alter boy! AND HE’S REMOVING HIS TROUSERS! Ladies and gentlemen, an alter boy without trousers is suspended over the track and now he is jiggling about in a most fetching manner! THE CATHOLIC UNFROCKED PRIESTS ARE RESPONDING! The Catholic unfrocked priests are suddenly running at full tilt toward the alter boy and the Popemobile is gathering speed. The Catholics have streaked into first place. This is an amazing ploy on the part of the Catholics. Unprecedented in my experience, Connie.
Connie Lingus: I agree Rupert. I have no idea wether this is an illegal move but the Jewish team manager is claiming it is and is objecting. He has put in an official objection with the race authorities claiming the Catholics are making use of illegal stimulants and he is saying – quote ‘If a 14-year-old alter boy’s sphincter isn’t an illegal stimulant then I’m buggered if I know what is.’ unquote.
Drydoch: While the authorities are discussing that little problem it’s worth pointing out that the pace has picked up enormously and no matter what happens, even if the Catholics are disqualified, the race is beyond the reach of Korky the Cat who is 200 metres behind the leaders who have only 200 metres to run.
Connie Lingus: THE NAZI TANKS ARE FIRING! One of the Nazi tanks has just fired and others are following suit. This MUST disqualify them, don’t you think Rupert?
Drydoch: Only if they fire at the other contestants and they aren’t. They’re firing at the Popemobile. THEY’VE HIT IT! THEY’VE HIT THE POPEMOBILE! The Popemobile has disappeared in a massive explosion. The alter boy has been thrown clear and the unfrocked priests are following the alter boy and veering off the track. The unfrocked priests are cutting across all the other contestants and it is pandemonium down there. Bodies are stumbling and tumbling everywhere. Oh my goodness - a frenzied group of unfrocked priests have found a contingent of Muslim eunuchs and they’re all getting their frocks off! This is Bedlam! The Pope is screaming for buckets of water and the Ayatollah is laying about him with his ceremonial cane at any expanse of flesh that looks remotely sweaty! Some are scrambling up and trying to get on with the race! A scrum of unfrocked priests surrounding a veritable Gordian knot of penises is trying to move crabwise down the course. Precious time is being lost but, at last, some of the other teams have managed to sort themselves out and are racing again. BUT KORKY HAS CAUGHT UP AND IS TRYING TO PASS ON THE OUTSIDE! Extraordinary scenes in the last fifty metres of this race. The Baptists are running for the line closely followed by McDuck. The Jews are scrabbling for a place and fighting off the Nazi challenge. The rest are nowhere and still struggling in a reeling bunch fifty metres out.
Connie Lingus: The Baptists cross the line with McDuck close behind. The race for third is too close to call and ….. I THINK THE JEWS HAVE IT! Well they certainly think so but the officials have called for a photo. To recap – Baptists in first place, Andy McDuck second and a photo finish for third. Over to you Rupert.
Drydoch: We’re watching the finish on the big screen and there can be no dispute over first and second but as the recording steps through we see Rabbi Slivovitz’s nose creeping to the line but Korky the Cat is reaching out to point and the tip of her finger reaches the line. Well, I would call that a dead heat between Korky’s finger and the Rabbi’s nose …….. THEY’VE GIVEN IT TO THE NAZIS! Based on a dead heat but the Nazi tank cannon muzzle was a full metre over the line so this is determined to be the tiebreaker and they have given the decision to Korky the Cat and the Nazis.
Connie Lingus: The Jews are furious but the decision stands. The three contestants through to The Final Battle against The Beano this evening are – The Baptists, Andy McDuck and his Coven and, finally, The Nazis led by Korky the Cat.
(And so we reach The Final Battle. The arena has been cleared and no trace remains of the racecourse or the obstacles. Under floodlights the battleground is stark and the huge crowd is silent – even when the armies march onto the field. It is as if the crowd is aware that cheering is not part of this affair any longer. This is death and death.
The Nazi army stands rigidly and square. The Baptist sits upon the lead bull of the herd that mills and bellows behind. McDuck and his Coven stand in a line beside them and practice card tricks and the materialising of doves. At the other end of the arena The Beano stands alone. He is confident, proud and imperious and everything about him exudes the scent of victory. There is nothing here for him to fear – except a little gift left by the disgruntled Jews.
The gift sits between The Beano of Fate and the three small Armies of Chaos that oppose him. The gift is The Ark of the Covenant and in the silence it can be heard to hum. After a moments puzzled hesitation both The Beano and Korky advance and arrive at The Ark together. They look at The Ark and then at each other. They don’t speak but both reach out to raise the lid.)
Korky: Fuck me, it’s a fucking atom bomb …. And the bastards have activated it!
The Beano: Don’t know what you think Korky but that looks remarkably like a digital count down just there. It seems to indicate we have about seven minutes left before this thing goes up.
Korky: We’ll never get clear in time. We’ll have to disarm it somehow.
The Beano: Can you do that?
Korky: No.
The Beano: We need a miracle.
(At the mention of a miracle Korky and The Beano both look around for Bert Watkins who is still the official ‘locum Godus’ until the presentation. Bert is found at the hot dog stand and swiftly apprised of the situation. He joins the others at The Ark.)
Bert Watkins: I suppose you want me to do something about this do you?
Korky: Bert, we’ve got five minutes!
Bert Watkins: Okay, but I want this officially recorded and recorded properly. Too many times I’ve dragged people out of the shit and not got due recognition.
Korky: I’ll make the record and I’ll do it any way you want.
Bert Watkins: Fair enough. Give me a couple of minutes to get meself sorted.
Korky: A couple of minutes are all we’ve got, Bert!
Bert Watkins: You just start writing this down - I’ll take care of my end.
A GOSPEL ACCORDING TO KORKY THE NAZARENE.
Chapter One.
1: And it came to pass in the land of Bogan that the Israelites were sorely cheated by Korky the Nazarene. And the Israelites did become greatly angered and plotteth among themselves to smite the Nazarene and any that consorteth with her.
2: The Israelites devised a trap within The Ark of the Covenant and leaveth The Ark upon the ground to be found by Korky the Nazarene and Beano the Philistine. And when Korky the Nazarene openeth The Ark she crieth out to the multitude saying, ‘Know me, it is a knowing great evil and we must destroy it or we shall be totally knowed.’
3: There was much weeping and gnashing of teeth and the multitude were sore afraid and crieth out to God Watkins asking him to save them from the evil. But Korky the Nazarene knew not what God Watkins could do and was consumed by doubt and God Watkins was much tempted to leave her hanging out to dry.
4: But God Watkins took pity on his flock and worketh a miracle for them. He maketh a kiln to cover The Ark. He taketh one part of shittimwood and two parts of clay and mixeth them with three parts of polypropylene to form the substance of the kiln. He placeth the kiln over The Ark and from this he layeth pipes.
5: And God Watkins layeth pipe after pipe across the breadth of Bogan and when the evil explodeth it harmeth not the kiln and whippeth down the pipe. Where God Watkins had made a dodgy join some of the evil did burst forth but only the inn at Veresdale burneth down and God Watkins crieth out saying, ‘This mattereth not, for verily the beer there is foul and gassy and causeth painful wind.’
6: And thus God Watkins continueth to lay pipes as an Irish navvy doth and he just stayeth ahead of the power of evil as it zoometh down the pipe. But the final blowout must cometh out somewhere and God Watkins hath not worketh that one out yet.
(Now the danger has been averted the crowd settles to witness The Final Battle. There is a sudden blare of trumpets and it begins. To the raucous skirl of bagpipes and the rattle of drums The Dandy, in the form of Andy McDuck, leads his small army towards The Beano. Korky shouts an order and The Nazis swing wide to cover the right flank. The Baptist strikes with a bloodwood staff at the leading Brahma bulls and begins a stampede on the left flank The Baptist wants to hit The Beano first.
The Nazi tanks open fire on The Beano while the way is clear of allied troops. High explosive shells burst around the lone figure but it stands unscathed, almost contemptuous. The bulls are now only 200 metres from The Beano who turns toward them and raises his arms. Bright orange flares of doubt streak from his palms and smash into the leading bulls who falter and collapse. The Beano follows up with dull blue globes of fear and the rest of the bulls begin to turn. Korky orders the Nazi tanks to charge and to keep firing no matter what and for a moment The Beano is distracted and the bulls regroup.
The Dandy comes prancing in and he is wailing incantations that produce sprigs of holly, bouquets of flowers and flocks of cooing doves. The Beano sweeps them aside and strikes The Dandy with a flash of avarice and McDuck scrambles in the dirt sifting for gold and doesn’t see the gloomy cloak of remorse that chokes his life away. The Coven scream as one and fear globes burst inside them. The Beano digs savagely into the minds of The Coven and clearly paints their fate. They scatter, trying desperately to leave the visions of inevitable death behind – but fail. The committee of Kevin Rudds who were with The Coven now stand to one side and take no active part.
Korky sends her infantry around to attack the enemies rear but The Beano has left a sea of despair in their path and they drown in sorrow to the last man. All this has brought Korky to within a few metres of her adversary who lifts his eyes to hers and smiles in triumph. Korky snatches up the bloodwood staff left there by The Baptist. She swings it at The Beano and batters the smile away. The Beano staggers, gasps and scrabbles at his certainty. His anger boils and Sean Bean surfaces once more as a frightened man consumed by doubt and lashing at the world.
But The Beano shakes himself and swells his strength, he seems to grow and grow. He towers over Korky and smashes her with doubt. She whimpers and fights against the thoughts of certain failure but The Beano presses down again, assembling her inevitable fate to use against her. Then The Beano flinches and looks up. He has been distracted by something unexpected.
Out of the swirling dust The Baptist appears and she throws aside her cloak. Joy- The Last Mayor of All stands rigidly before The Beano and for the first time he knows real fear. She raises her arm, snaps her fingers like a pistol shot and the world twists about them. There is a screeching of tormented souls and the air is filled with devils. A thousand lorikeets swirl by. They spin, they swoop, they dive and climb and, all the time, pressing in on The Beano. He tries to target them but they move too fast and claw him as they pass. Cut by cut his blood seeps out and The Beano wavers. Korky climbs to her feet and, swinging the bloodwood staff, she smashes at his head. The lorikeets slash and Korky strikes - again and again and again.)
The Last Mayor of All: I think you can stop now, Korky. There’s not much of ‘im left.
Korky: Is it over?
The Last Mayor of All: It better be, it’s past me bed time.
Bert Watkins: But we can’t have two winners. You buggers will have to fight it out.
Korky: Fuck that for a game of soldiers.
The Last Mayor of All: Yeh, what she said.
Bert Watkins: So what do we do?
Korky: Let the crowd decide. It’s their God after all.
The Last Mayor of All: Sounds fair enough to me.
(And so Bert Watkins puts it to the crowd. He explains what has happened and that it is now their choice. But first a brief word from the candidates.)
Korky: Uh….Hello everyone. I don’t have any real experience of being a God, but then – who does? I would do my best but I can’t give any guarantees. Um … that’s all….thank you.
The Last Mayor of All: Well, I won’t say much. I’m not going to give youse a lot of big words ‘cos I don’t know any. But youse know me and I know youse. And I love youse all. Thank you.
(There is silence for a long, long time. This has not happened before and it seems wrong to have this sort of responsibility thrust upon the average Bogan. Then there are a few mutterings – a rumble of conversation is interspersed with shrieks of laughter or rage. Someone shouts, ‘Give the cat a go!’ and someone else asks, ‘Which one?’ But, gently at first, one word becomes clear in the jumbled sound of 500,000 voices. The word grows.
‘Joy-Joy-Joy-Joy-Joy-Joy-Joy-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY’.
Korky smiles. It is fitting. There is no better name for a God of Gods and Korky is relieved to be spared the responsibility. Korky embraces The Last Mayor of All and steps down from the podium. She begins the long walk down the stairway leaving God Joy resplendent before the cheering multitude.)
Bert Watkins: Well done, Joy …uh…God, I mean. There’s just a little thing I’d like to ask. Bit of a favour actually.
God Joy: Whatever you want Bert.
Bert Watkins: It’s me boy - young Jesus - this job is all he’s ever known. He’s bloody useless with the pipes so I wondered if you might have a bit of a spot for him, even if it was only temporary till I can get him trained up on something else?
God Joy: Of course, Bert. Send him round in the morning; I’ll fix it up.
Bert Watkins: Bless you! Well, I’ll be off and leave you to it then.
(God Joy breathes deeply and enjoys the moment. The multitude is starting to split up and stream toward the exits. The night is cool and incredibly peaceful. Then God Joy is aware of another presence beside her. It shimmers slightly and exudes a great calm.)
God Joy: I was wondering when the BIG boss would show up to check on the new help. Everything Okay?
Winnie Quark: Yes thank you Joy, everything is fine. We’re right for another thirty years.
God Joy: Korky was a bit of a risk wasn’t she? Could have gone either way.
Winnie Quark: I don’t think so. She never truly wanted to be anything more than she is…although…
God Joy: Although what?
Winnie Quark: I did rather promise her she would be the most powerful person in the world.
God Joy: And you want me to do something about it?
Winnie Quark: I don’t like to ask. You know I don’t want to interfere in the running of the small worlds.
God Joy: Don’t worry about it. I might have to change a couple of things though. Get a few personalities into her life early on. Give her a really secure grounding.
Winnie Quark: Whatever.
(As Korky walks across the vast space of the arena she feels a plucking at her sleeve but there is nothing there. She carries on but her arm is gripped and pulled roughly. Korky turns prepared to be angry at this intrusion but then she is torn from the ground and whirled through space like a leaf in the teeth of a gale. Air about her twists and buffets, claps of thunder explode within her mind and she is drawn screaming into a tube of violent noise. You would think by now that Korky would be used to the passage through time but this is different. This is not time displaced but the withdrawal of time. It is a collapse of history to a new beginning. She sees a room, a bed, a lamp, a window, a favourite book she has never read, she clutches a much loved doll she has never owned and she kneels on a carpet she has never seen.)
Primula Porker: MUMMY!
Voice: What is it now?
Primula Porker: Hajnal won’t give me back my Barbie!
Voice: Hajnal! Give your sister back her doll this minute!
Hajnal Porker: Primula, you’re a dobbing bitch!
Primula Porker: Rotten cow!
Hajnal Porker: Two faced poo!
Primula Porker: Short arse!
******************************
Winnie Quark: Joy!
God Joy: What?
Winnie Quark: I think you’ve fucked this up!
(God Joy sighs. This God lark isn’t as easy as it looks. At least Almighty Winnie doesn’t know about Bert Watkins yet; the sod had got fed up and stopped laying those bloody pipes just outside Bogan Council Offices. Still, according to his calculations and the number of time-steps jumped, God Joy shouldn’t have to worry about it for another 27 years, 16 days, 4 hours, 36 minutes and 12.7 seconds. Perhaps she can arrange for Porky to be rammed in the end of the pipe about then. That should make Porky the most powerful person in the world for a few milliseconds. Ah well, one balls-up at a time. Talking of balls-ups – wonder how the lad Jesus is getting on with creating the new batch of carnivorous lorikeets. The boy is turning out to be a water-walking disaster. Look at that Platypus thing he came up with and he was only asked for a nice little fluffy duck.
You just can’t get the staff anymore.)
THE END.
Drydoch: Welcome back to the Sky Sports coverage of this remarkable event. We have seen the dramatic turnaround at the last obstacle and Korky for the Nazis has been relegated to an apparently hopeless position in last place – or has she? The other contestants almost seem to be deliberately trying to allow the Nazis to catch them. They are attempting to block each other at every opportunity with the result that with still over half a kilometre to run, Korky is rapidly making up lost ground.
Connie Lingus: The Catholics may be changing tactics, Rupert. There is something going on with the Popemobile that has been driving along the slip road beside the track and pacing the runners. The Popemobile is extending a long boom out over the track and now a small figure is climbing out along it. This is unbelievable; I have no idea what the Catholics are up to. Any thoughts Rupert?
Drydoch: Not really, Connie. Can we zoom in on the figure climbing along the boom? The figure has reached the end of the boom and ….. IT’S AN ALTER BOY! The figure is an alter boy! AND HE’S REMOVING HIS TROUSERS! Ladies and gentlemen, an alter boy without trousers is suspended over the track and now he is jiggling about in a most fetching manner! THE CATHOLIC UNFROCKED PRIESTS ARE RESPONDING! The Catholic unfrocked priests are suddenly running at full tilt toward the alter boy and the Popemobile is gathering speed. The Catholics have streaked into first place. This is an amazing ploy on the part of the Catholics. Unprecedented in my experience, Connie.
Connie Lingus: I agree Rupert. I have no idea wether this is an illegal move but the Jewish team manager is claiming it is and is objecting. He has put in an official objection with the race authorities claiming the Catholics are making use of illegal stimulants and he is saying – quote ‘If a 14-year-old alter boy’s sphincter isn’t an illegal stimulant then I’m buggered if I know what is.’ unquote.
Drydoch: While the authorities are discussing that little problem it’s worth pointing out that the pace has picked up enormously and no matter what happens, even if the Catholics are disqualified, the race is beyond the reach of Korky the Cat who is 200 metres behind the leaders who have only 200 metres to run.
Connie Lingus: THE NAZI TANKS ARE FIRING! One of the Nazi tanks has just fired and others are following suit. This MUST disqualify them, don’t you think Rupert?
Drydoch: Only if they fire at the other contestants and they aren’t. They’re firing at the Popemobile. THEY’VE HIT IT! THEY’VE HIT THE POPEMOBILE! The Popemobile has disappeared in a massive explosion. The alter boy has been thrown clear and the unfrocked priests are following the alter boy and veering off the track. The unfrocked priests are cutting across all the other contestants and it is pandemonium down there. Bodies are stumbling and tumbling everywhere. Oh my goodness - a frenzied group of unfrocked priests have found a contingent of Muslim eunuchs and they’re all getting their frocks off! This is Bedlam! The Pope is screaming for buckets of water and the Ayatollah is laying about him with his ceremonial cane at any expanse of flesh that looks remotely sweaty! Some are scrambling up and trying to get on with the race! A scrum of unfrocked priests surrounding a veritable Gordian knot of penises is trying to move crabwise down the course. Precious time is being lost but, at last, some of the other teams have managed to sort themselves out and are racing again. BUT KORKY HAS CAUGHT UP AND IS TRYING TO PASS ON THE OUTSIDE! Extraordinary scenes in the last fifty metres of this race. The Baptists are running for the line closely followed by McDuck. The Jews are scrabbling for a place and fighting off the Nazi challenge. The rest are nowhere and still struggling in a reeling bunch fifty metres out.
Connie Lingus: The Baptists cross the line with McDuck close behind. The race for third is too close to call and ….. I THINK THE JEWS HAVE IT! Well they certainly think so but the officials have called for a photo. To recap – Baptists in first place, Andy McDuck second and a photo finish for third. Over to you Rupert.
Drydoch: We’re watching the finish on the big screen and there can be no dispute over first and second but as the recording steps through we see Rabbi Slivovitz’s nose creeping to the line but Korky the Cat is reaching out to point and the tip of her finger reaches the line. Well, I would call that a dead heat between Korky’s finger and the Rabbi’s nose …….. THEY’VE GIVEN IT TO THE NAZIS! Based on a dead heat but the Nazi tank cannon muzzle was a full metre over the line so this is determined to be the tiebreaker and they have given the decision to Korky the Cat and the Nazis.
Connie Lingus: The Jews are furious but the decision stands. The three contestants through to The Final Battle against The Beano this evening are – The Baptists, Andy McDuck and his Coven and, finally, The Nazis led by Korky the Cat.
(And so we reach The Final Battle. The arena has been cleared and no trace remains of the racecourse or the obstacles. Under floodlights the battleground is stark and the huge crowd is silent – even when the armies march onto the field. It is as if the crowd is aware that cheering is not part of this affair any longer. This is death and death.
The Nazi army stands rigidly and square. The Baptist sits upon the lead bull of the herd that mills and bellows behind. McDuck and his Coven stand in a line beside them and practice card tricks and the materialising of doves. At the other end of the arena The Beano stands alone. He is confident, proud and imperious and everything about him exudes the scent of victory. There is nothing here for him to fear – except a little gift left by the disgruntled Jews.
The gift sits between The Beano of Fate and the three small Armies of Chaos that oppose him. The gift is The Ark of the Covenant and in the silence it can be heard to hum. After a moments puzzled hesitation both The Beano and Korky advance and arrive at The Ark together. They look at The Ark and then at each other. They don’t speak but both reach out to raise the lid.)
Korky: Fuck me, it’s a fucking atom bomb …. And the bastards have activated it!
The Beano: Don’t know what you think Korky but that looks remarkably like a digital count down just there. It seems to indicate we have about seven minutes left before this thing goes up.
Korky: We’ll never get clear in time. We’ll have to disarm it somehow.
The Beano: Can you do that?
Korky: No.
The Beano: We need a miracle.
(At the mention of a miracle Korky and The Beano both look around for Bert Watkins who is still the official ‘locum Godus’ until the presentation. Bert is found at the hot dog stand and swiftly apprised of the situation. He joins the others at The Ark.)
Bert Watkins: I suppose you want me to do something about this do you?
Korky: Bert, we’ve got five minutes!
Bert Watkins: Okay, but I want this officially recorded and recorded properly. Too many times I’ve dragged people out of the shit and not got due recognition.
Korky: I’ll make the record and I’ll do it any way you want.
Bert Watkins: Fair enough. Give me a couple of minutes to get meself sorted.
Korky: A couple of minutes are all we’ve got, Bert!
Bert Watkins: You just start writing this down - I’ll take care of my end.
A GOSPEL ACCORDING TO KORKY THE NAZARENE.
Chapter One.
1: And it came to pass in the land of Bogan that the Israelites were sorely cheated by Korky the Nazarene. And the Israelites did become greatly angered and plotteth among themselves to smite the Nazarene and any that consorteth with her.
2: The Israelites devised a trap within The Ark of the Covenant and leaveth The Ark upon the ground to be found by Korky the Nazarene and Beano the Philistine. And when Korky the Nazarene openeth The Ark she crieth out to the multitude saying, ‘Know me, it is a knowing great evil and we must destroy it or we shall be totally knowed.’
3: There was much weeping and gnashing of teeth and the multitude were sore afraid and crieth out to God Watkins asking him to save them from the evil. But Korky the Nazarene knew not what God Watkins could do and was consumed by doubt and God Watkins was much tempted to leave her hanging out to dry.
4: But God Watkins took pity on his flock and worketh a miracle for them. He maketh a kiln to cover The Ark. He taketh one part of shittimwood and two parts of clay and mixeth them with three parts of polypropylene to form the substance of the kiln. He placeth the kiln over The Ark and from this he layeth pipes.
5: And God Watkins layeth pipe after pipe across the breadth of Bogan and when the evil explodeth it harmeth not the kiln and whippeth down the pipe. Where God Watkins had made a dodgy join some of the evil did burst forth but only the inn at Veresdale burneth down and God Watkins crieth out saying, ‘This mattereth not, for verily the beer there is foul and gassy and causeth painful wind.’
6: And thus God Watkins continueth to lay pipes as an Irish navvy doth and he just stayeth ahead of the power of evil as it zoometh down the pipe. But the final blowout must cometh out somewhere and God Watkins hath not worketh that one out yet.
(Now the danger has been averted the crowd settles to witness The Final Battle. There is a sudden blare of trumpets and it begins. To the raucous skirl of bagpipes and the rattle of drums The Dandy, in the form of Andy McDuck, leads his small army towards The Beano. Korky shouts an order and The Nazis swing wide to cover the right flank. The Baptist strikes with a bloodwood staff at the leading Brahma bulls and begins a stampede on the left flank The Baptist wants to hit The Beano first.
The Nazi tanks open fire on The Beano while the way is clear of allied troops. High explosive shells burst around the lone figure but it stands unscathed, almost contemptuous. The bulls are now only 200 metres from The Beano who turns toward them and raises his arms. Bright orange flares of doubt streak from his palms and smash into the leading bulls who falter and collapse. The Beano follows up with dull blue globes of fear and the rest of the bulls begin to turn. Korky orders the Nazi tanks to charge and to keep firing no matter what and for a moment The Beano is distracted and the bulls regroup.
The Dandy comes prancing in and he is wailing incantations that produce sprigs of holly, bouquets of flowers and flocks of cooing doves. The Beano sweeps them aside and strikes The Dandy with a flash of avarice and McDuck scrambles in the dirt sifting for gold and doesn’t see the gloomy cloak of remorse that chokes his life away. The Coven scream as one and fear globes burst inside them. The Beano digs savagely into the minds of The Coven and clearly paints their fate. They scatter, trying desperately to leave the visions of inevitable death behind – but fail. The committee of Kevin Rudds who were with The Coven now stand to one side and take no active part.
Korky sends her infantry around to attack the enemies rear but The Beano has left a sea of despair in their path and they drown in sorrow to the last man. All this has brought Korky to within a few metres of her adversary who lifts his eyes to hers and smiles in triumph. Korky snatches up the bloodwood staff left there by The Baptist. She swings it at The Beano and batters the smile away. The Beano staggers, gasps and scrabbles at his certainty. His anger boils and Sean Bean surfaces once more as a frightened man consumed by doubt and lashing at the world.
But The Beano shakes himself and swells his strength, he seems to grow and grow. He towers over Korky and smashes her with doubt. She whimpers and fights against the thoughts of certain failure but The Beano presses down again, assembling her inevitable fate to use against her. Then The Beano flinches and looks up. He has been distracted by something unexpected.
Out of the swirling dust The Baptist appears and she throws aside her cloak. Joy- The Last Mayor of All stands rigidly before The Beano and for the first time he knows real fear. She raises her arm, snaps her fingers like a pistol shot and the world twists about them. There is a screeching of tormented souls and the air is filled with devils. A thousand lorikeets swirl by. They spin, they swoop, they dive and climb and, all the time, pressing in on The Beano. He tries to target them but they move too fast and claw him as they pass. Cut by cut his blood seeps out and The Beano wavers. Korky climbs to her feet and, swinging the bloodwood staff, she smashes at his head. The lorikeets slash and Korky strikes - again and again and again.)
The Last Mayor of All: I think you can stop now, Korky. There’s not much of ‘im left.
Korky: Is it over?
The Last Mayor of All: It better be, it’s past me bed time.
Bert Watkins: But we can’t have two winners. You buggers will have to fight it out.
Korky: Fuck that for a game of soldiers.
The Last Mayor of All: Yeh, what she said.
Bert Watkins: So what do we do?
Korky: Let the crowd decide. It’s their God after all.
The Last Mayor of All: Sounds fair enough to me.
(And so Bert Watkins puts it to the crowd. He explains what has happened and that it is now their choice. But first a brief word from the candidates.)
Korky: Uh….Hello everyone. I don’t have any real experience of being a God, but then – who does? I would do my best but I can’t give any guarantees. Um … that’s all….thank you.
The Last Mayor of All: Well, I won’t say much. I’m not going to give youse a lot of big words ‘cos I don’t know any. But youse know me and I know youse. And I love youse all. Thank you.
(There is silence for a long, long time. This has not happened before and it seems wrong to have this sort of responsibility thrust upon the average Bogan. Then there are a few mutterings – a rumble of conversation is interspersed with shrieks of laughter or rage. Someone shouts, ‘Give the cat a go!’ and someone else asks, ‘Which one?’ But, gently at first, one word becomes clear in the jumbled sound of 500,000 voices. The word grows.
‘Joy-Joy-Joy-Joy-Joy-Joy-Joy-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY-JOY’.
Korky smiles. It is fitting. There is no better name for a God of Gods and Korky is relieved to be spared the responsibility. Korky embraces The Last Mayor of All and steps down from the podium. She begins the long walk down the stairway leaving God Joy resplendent before the cheering multitude.)
Bert Watkins: Well done, Joy …uh…God, I mean. There’s just a little thing I’d like to ask. Bit of a favour actually.
God Joy: Whatever you want Bert.
Bert Watkins: It’s me boy - young Jesus - this job is all he’s ever known. He’s bloody useless with the pipes so I wondered if you might have a bit of a spot for him, even if it was only temporary till I can get him trained up on something else?
God Joy: Of course, Bert. Send him round in the morning; I’ll fix it up.
Bert Watkins: Bless you! Well, I’ll be off and leave you to it then.
(God Joy breathes deeply and enjoys the moment. The multitude is starting to split up and stream toward the exits. The night is cool and incredibly peaceful. Then God Joy is aware of another presence beside her. It shimmers slightly and exudes a great calm.)
God Joy: I was wondering when the BIG boss would show up to check on the new help. Everything Okay?
Winnie Quark: Yes thank you Joy, everything is fine. We’re right for another thirty years.
God Joy: Korky was a bit of a risk wasn’t she? Could have gone either way.
Winnie Quark: I don’t think so. She never truly wanted to be anything more than she is…although…
God Joy: Although what?
Winnie Quark: I did rather promise her she would be the most powerful person in the world.
God Joy: And you want me to do something about it?
Winnie Quark: I don’t like to ask. You know I don’t want to interfere in the running of the small worlds.
God Joy: Don’t worry about it. I might have to change a couple of things though. Get a few personalities into her life early on. Give her a really secure grounding.
Winnie Quark: Whatever.
(As Korky walks across the vast space of the arena she feels a plucking at her sleeve but there is nothing there. She carries on but her arm is gripped and pulled roughly. Korky turns prepared to be angry at this intrusion but then she is torn from the ground and whirled through space like a leaf in the teeth of a gale. Air about her twists and buffets, claps of thunder explode within her mind and she is drawn screaming into a tube of violent noise. You would think by now that Korky would be used to the passage through time but this is different. This is not time displaced but the withdrawal of time. It is a collapse of history to a new beginning. She sees a room, a bed, a lamp, a window, a favourite book she has never read, she clutches a much loved doll she has never owned and she kneels on a carpet she has never seen.)
Primula Porker: MUMMY!
Voice: What is it now?
Primula Porker: Hajnal won’t give me back my Barbie!
Voice: Hajnal! Give your sister back her doll this minute!
Hajnal Porker: Primula, you’re a dobbing bitch!
Primula Porker: Rotten cow!
Hajnal Porker: Two faced poo!
Primula Porker: Short arse!
******************************
Winnie Quark: Joy!
God Joy: What?
Winnie Quark: I think you’ve fucked this up!
(God Joy sighs. This God lark isn’t as easy as it looks. At least Almighty Winnie doesn’t know about Bert Watkins yet; the sod had got fed up and stopped laying those bloody pipes just outside Bogan Council Offices. Still, according to his calculations and the number of time-steps jumped, God Joy shouldn’t have to worry about it for another 27 years, 16 days, 4 hours, 36 minutes and 12.7 seconds. Perhaps she can arrange for Porky to be rammed in the end of the pipe about then. That should make Porky the most powerful person in the world for a few milliseconds. Ah well, one balls-up at a time. Talking of balls-ups – wonder how the lad Jesus is getting on with creating the new batch of carnivorous lorikeets. The boy is turning out to be a water-walking disaster. Look at that Platypus thing he came up with and he was only asked for a nice little fluffy duck.
You just can’t get the staff anymore.)
THE END.
7/14/09
Coven - Part 11
We all face dilemmas at certain times in our lives. How we deal with them helps to make us who we are. But very few of us come up against life or death decisions that must be made regardless of consequences – or do we? We can never know all the repercussions of all our actions and perhaps it’s just as well. It’s bad enough for the butterfly in Tokyo that causes a hurricane in Cuba by flapping its wings once too often, but just imagine what happens when you cough or drive at 70 kph in a 60 zone or refuse to eat your greens. There might be some effects you could be quite proud of but at least a dozen times a day we must do things that contribute to outcomes it would be impossible to live with if we knew about our part in them. What if one of the distasteful effects of one of your casual actions was suddenly shoved right in your face – right now?
(Korky and the rest of the competitors in The Greatest Obstacle Race in the World have had the ‘Dilemma’ obstacle explained to them and they stand at the bottom of the ramp. With only a few moments hesitation most of the competitors climb the ramp and stand on the platform. They deliberately stand with their backs to the playing children. It will do no good here to record which competitor climbed the ramp first and which next and so on, it is enough to know that Korky did not move. She stays at the bottom of the ramp – alone and racked by indecision.)
Andy McDuck: Get up here, Korky. Let’s get this over with!
Ayatollah O’Shaunessy: It must be done. It is for the greater good.
The Pope: Pray for guidance but perhaps you will pray with me up here on the platform.
Korky: I can’t! How can any of you even think of such a thing? There are one hundred children for pities sake.
Rabbi Slivovitz: Supposing it was only one child would be better, is that it?
(A figure detaches from the Waffen SS ranks and walks slowly back down the ramp. The man stops in front of Korky and looks at her. Korky looks back. The hypnotic, piercing stare has dwindled from his eyes and the face is puffed, exhausted. The only remnant of the earlier man is the scrappy, Chaplin moustache.)
A Monstrous Evil: Why do you not take your place at the head of your army?
Korky: Why didn’t you?
A Monstrous Evil: Ah. But then I was not trying to save the Universe, Frau Korky, - only Germany.
Korky: And, of course, you believe it would be perfectly all right to sacrifice a few children. You would consider it to be an acceptable means to an end. I don’t know why I’m even talking to you.
A Monstrous Evil: You are talking to me, Frau Korky, because you have deliberately placed yourself on the horns of what you consider to be a most dreadful dilemma and now you wish to test your rationality. Who better to play the Devil’s Advocate than I?
Korky: There isn’t anything rational about this! No sane person could accept this situation!
A Monstrous Evil: What nonsense! Just because I am suffering an eternity of punishment doesn’t mean I don’t see the television occasionally or read the news. Indeed, that is sometimes part of my punishment. It is clear that sane people ignore the suffering, torture and death of other peoples children every day. They might vaguely notice it like reflections in water churned by the wake of their passing but, in the main, they quickly move on and forget what little they have seen. These people used to tut and weep a tear or two, drop a dollar in the slot, but now they often simply shrug and turn to other things. How much of that attitude is them and how much is instilled by conditioning their responses? Or is that just another excuse for their dreadful apathy?
Korky: I hope you’re not attempting to excuse your own actions?
A Monstrous Evil: Of course not, I am well beyond searching for redemption. I am merely pointing out that sometimes there are things that have to be done. The reasons for doing these things may not always be agreeable but they must still be done. When this happens it is sometimes best to turn away so you don’t have to watch.
Korky: That’s grotesque!
A Monstrous Evil: But true.
Winnie Quark: Korky!
Korky: Winnie? Is that you? Where are you?
Winnie Quark: Right beside you, Korky. I’ll always be right beside you.
Korky: I don’t understand. I can’t see you.
Winnie Quark: You don’t have to see me, Korky. Just listen. The Monstrous Evil is right, there are sometimes things that just have to be done.
Korky: But not this! I can’t do it! I won’t do it!
Winnie Quark: You must be the one to face The Beano in The Final Battle; no body else can defeat him.
Korky: So let him win! Nothing is worth this sacrifice – they’re just little kids!
Winnie Quark: Think about what you’re saying. Life preordained, pre-programmed, one thing leading inextricably to the next and all taking the path of least pain, no pain at all in fact. No sorrow, no grief, no agony, no hate, an endless belt of glorious sunsets and gentle rain and soft scented breezes drifting down from snow-capped purple mountains. Many will suffer in the period when some adapt faster than others and then the whole human race will die from total lack of need. There will be no bloody point to it all. Not just a hundred children dead but billions who will perish in the blank-gazed, contented, inevitable stupor induced by the lure of a perfect, changeless void.
Korky: Show me a way out of this.
Winnie Quark: There is no way out. The children must fall into the gully. It’s fate.
Korky: I thought you didn’t want anything to do with fate?
Winnie Quark: The Beano IS fate. When you deal with him there is no choice. Only by defeating him can you choose to save ALL the children.
Korky: But not these children?
Winnie Quark: No.
A Monstrous Evil: Frau Korky? We are waiting.
(For one more glorious minute Korky hesitates then begins to walk up the ramp.)
A Monstrous Evil: Welcome to the Monster Guild, Frau Korky.
Korky: Shuddup you loathsome Nazi cunt.
A Monstrous Evil: Ah yes! That is the spirit, my Fuhrer! Please be careful where you tread, this ramp can be a slippery slope.
(As Korky steps onto the platform it shudders and, with a rumble and a lurch, it begins to move. Korky squeezes her eyes tightly shut and clenches her fists. It is not long before the childrens high-pitched squeals of delight become troubled whimpers of concern – and then the first helpless shriek. Korky throws back her head and roars with rage and grief. She beats at herself with her fists and stamps on the platform as if to break it up. She screams a long and agonised wail that seems to last longer than her breath can possibly sustain it and in that time Korky desperately needs to die. From then on only rage keeps her living and a burning need to kill that grows with the expanding image of The Beano in her mind. Until, with sudden clarity, she hears the giggling and joyful cries of excited children. Korky opens her eyes. The platform is at the edge of the gully and its foam rubber nose pushes the last child over the edge and into the net a few centimetres below. The child gleefully bounces with the others who are rolling helplessly down the gently sloping net until they reach the latex boulders scattered far beneath. All of them are now bouncing on the boulders. Giggling, squirming, playing and as happy as any children could possibly hope to be. Korky is on her knees weeping uncontrollably. A hand rests on her shoulder gently kneading at the flesh.)
A Monstrous Evil: Sometimes, Frau Korky, …..sometimes.
(A little later Korky stands at the far side of the gully. The others are already galloping away from her and she has four minutes to wait in lieu of the time she spent dithering on the other side. She looks down into the gully and sees two adults talking earnestly to eight of the children.)
Winnie Quark: A few of the children have gained teachers.
Korky: Who are they?
Winnie Quark: One is the Monstrous Evil and the other is an old Mossad operative who, as a child, survived the camps even after seeing his parents slaughtered.
Korky: What do they want with those children? Should I go down there?
Winnie Quark: The children are in good hands. They are being taught a most valuable lesson.
Korky: What lesson is that?
Winnie Quark: They are teaching the children to hate.
Korky: Oh, come on! There’s nothing valuable about hate, I’m going to stop this!
Winnie Quark: Hate is the most powerful weapon in the survivor’s arsenal. When hope is gone only hate can keep you alive. Surely you discovered this only a few minutes ago?
Korky: I’m really beginning to doubt you, Winnie. You’re starting to piss me off!
Winnie Quark: It is almost time for you to continue your race. Will you go on or will you rescue these particular children from their only chance to live through the transition that will inevitably follow your decision to stay here and save them?
Korky: Fate again?
Winnie Quark: Until The Beano has been defeated – yes!
(For a few moments, Korky watches the scene in the gully. The two old men talk earnestly and, as they wave their arms gently in the air, they smile and nod at the children and each other. It is as though they are carefully explaining the rules of cricket to the little ones who look up, their bright faces trusting, their young minds open to the flow of new truth. Korky shudders and turns away. An official says it is time and Korky leaps onto a tank. She faces her army, shouts “BLITZKRIEG!” and points the way. The tanks roar and lurch. The SS infantry scramble onto the tanks and those that can’t, run hard behind as the army thunders down the course. Diesel engines bellow. Tank tracks rattle, clank and squeal and rip the ground to dust. The first shot is fired.)
TO BE CONTINUED.
(Korky and the rest of the competitors in The Greatest Obstacle Race in the World have had the ‘Dilemma’ obstacle explained to them and they stand at the bottom of the ramp. With only a few moments hesitation most of the competitors climb the ramp and stand on the platform. They deliberately stand with their backs to the playing children. It will do no good here to record which competitor climbed the ramp first and which next and so on, it is enough to know that Korky did not move. She stays at the bottom of the ramp – alone and racked by indecision.)
Andy McDuck: Get up here, Korky. Let’s get this over with!
Ayatollah O’Shaunessy: It must be done. It is for the greater good.
The Pope: Pray for guidance but perhaps you will pray with me up here on the platform.
Korky: I can’t! How can any of you even think of such a thing? There are one hundred children for pities sake.
Rabbi Slivovitz: Supposing it was only one child would be better, is that it?
(A figure detaches from the Waffen SS ranks and walks slowly back down the ramp. The man stops in front of Korky and looks at her. Korky looks back. The hypnotic, piercing stare has dwindled from his eyes and the face is puffed, exhausted. The only remnant of the earlier man is the scrappy, Chaplin moustache.)
A Monstrous Evil: Why do you not take your place at the head of your army?
Korky: Why didn’t you?
A Monstrous Evil: Ah. But then I was not trying to save the Universe, Frau Korky, - only Germany.
Korky: And, of course, you believe it would be perfectly all right to sacrifice a few children. You would consider it to be an acceptable means to an end. I don’t know why I’m even talking to you.
A Monstrous Evil: You are talking to me, Frau Korky, because you have deliberately placed yourself on the horns of what you consider to be a most dreadful dilemma and now you wish to test your rationality. Who better to play the Devil’s Advocate than I?
Korky: There isn’t anything rational about this! No sane person could accept this situation!
A Monstrous Evil: What nonsense! Just because I am suffering an eternity of punishment doesn’t mean I don’t see the television occasionally or read the news. Indeed, that is sometimes part of my punishment. It is clear that sane people ignore the suffering, torture and death of other peoples children every day. They might vaguely notice it like reflections in water churned by the wake of their passing but, in the main, they quickly move on and forget what little they have seen. These people used to tut and weep a tear or two, drop a dollar in the slot, but now they often simply shrug and turn to other things. How much of that attitude is them and how much is instilled by conditioning their responses? Or is that just another excuse for their dreadful apathy?
Korky: I hope you’re not attempting to excuse your own actions?
A Monstrous Evil: Of course not, I am well beyond searching for redemption. I am merely pointing out that sometimes there are things that have to be done. The reasons for doing these things may not always be agreeable but they must still be done. When this happens it is sometimes best to turn away so you don’t have to watch.
Korky: That’s grotesque!
A Monstrous Evil: But true.
Winnie Quark: Korky!
Korky: Winnie? Is that you? Where are you?
Winnie Quark: Right beside you, Korky. I’ll always be right beside you.
Korky: I don’t understand. I can’t see you.
Winnie Quark: You don’t have to see me, Korky. Just listen. The Monstrous Evil is right, there are sometimes things that just have to be done.
Korky: But not this! I can’t do it! I won’t do it!
Winnie Quark: You must be the one to face The Beano in The Final Battle; no body else can defeat him.
Korky: So let him win! Nothing is worth this sacrifice – they’re just little kids!
Winnie Quark: Think about what you’re saying. Life preordained, pre-programmed, one thing leading inextricably to the next and all taking the path of least pain, no pain at all in fact. No sorrow, no grief, no agony, no hate, an endless belt of glorious sunsets and gentle rain and soft scented breezes drifting down from snow-capped purple mountains. Many will suffer in the period when some adapt faster than others and then the whole human race will die from total lack of need. There will be no bloody point to it all. Not just a hundred children dead but billions who will perish in the blank-gazed, contented, inevitable stupor induced by the lure of a perfect, changeless void.
Korky: Show me a way out of this.
Winnie Quark: There is no way out. The children must fall into the gully. It’s fate.
Korky: I thought you didn’t want anything to do with fate?
Winnie Quark: The Beano IS fate. When you deal with him there is no choice. Only by defeating him can you choose to save ALL the children.
Korky: But not these children?
Winnie Quark: No.
A Monstrous Evil: Frau Korky? We are waiting.
(For one more glorious minute Korky hesitates then begins to walk up the ramp.)
A Monstrous Evil: Welcome to the Monster Guild, Frau Korky.
Korky: Shuddup you loathsome Nazi cunt.
A Monstrous Evil: Ah yes! That is the spirit, my Fuhrer! Please be careful where you tread, this ramp can be a slippery slope.
(As Korky steps onto the platform it shudders and, with a rumble and a lurch, it begins to move. Korky squeezes her eyes tightly shut and clenches her fists. It is not long before the childrens high-pitched squeals of delight become troubled whimpers of concern – and then the first helpless shriek. Korky throws back her head and roars with rage and grief. She beats at herself with her fists and stamps on the platform as if to break it up. She screams a long and agonised wail that seems to last longer than her breath can possibly sustain it and in that time Korky desperately needs to die. From then on only rage keeps her living and a burning need to kill that grows with the expanding image of The Beano in her mind. Until, with sudden clarity, she hears the giggling and joyful cries of excited children. Korky opens her eyes. The platform is at the edge of the gully and its foam rubber nose pushes the last child over the edge and into the net a few centimetres below. The child gleefully bounces with the others who are rolling helplessly down the gently sloping net until they reach the latex boulders scattered far beneath. All of them are now bouncing on the boulders. Giggling, squirming, playing and as happy as any children could possibly hope to be. Korky is on her knees weeping uncontrollably. A hand rests on her shoulder gently kneading at the flesh.)
A Monstrous Evil: Sometimes, Frau Korky, …..sometimes.
(A little later Korky stands at the far side of the gully. The others are already galloping away from her and she has four minutes to wait in lieu of the time she spent dithering on the other side. She looks down into the gully and sees two adults talking earnestly to eight of the children.)
Winnie Quark: A few of the children have gained teachers.
Korky: Who are they?
Winnie Quark: One is the Monstrous Evil and the other is an old Mossad operative who, as a child, survived the camps even after seeing his parents slaughtered.
Korky: What do they want with those children? Should I go down there?
Winnie Quark: The children are in good hands. They are being taught a most valuable lesson.
Korky: What lesson is that?
Winnie Quark: They are teaching the children to hate.
Korky: Oh, come on! There’s nothing valuable about hate, I’m going to stop this!
Winnie Quark: Hate is the most powerful weapon in the survivor’s arsenal. When hope is gone only hate can keep you alive. Surely you discovered this only a few minutes ago?
Korky: I’m really beginning to doubt you, Winnie. You’re starting to piss me off!
Winnie Quark: It is almost time for you to continue your race. Will you go on or will you rescue these particular children from their only chance to live through the transition that will inevitably follow your decision to stay here and save them?
Korky: Fate again?
Winnie Quark: Until The Beano has been defeated – yes!
(For a few moments, Korky watches the scene in the gully. The two old men talk earnestly and, as they wave their arms gently in the air, they smile and nod at the children and each other. It is as though they are carefully explaining the rules of cricket to the little ones who look up, their bright faces trusting, their young minds open to the flow of new truth. Korky shudders and turns away. An official says it is time and Korky leaps onto a tank. She faces her army, shouts “BLITZKRIEG!” and points the way. The tanks roar and lurch. The SS infantry scramble onto the tanks and those that can’t, run hard behind as the army thunders down the course. Diesel engines bellow. Tank tracks rattle, clank and squeal and rip the ground to dust. The first shot is fired.)
TO BE CONTINUED.
7/11/09
Coven - Part 10
We’ve come a long way, you and I. From Bogan Council Offices to a battlefield on the other side of time and the journey has been confusing to say the least. There are many anomalies but isn’t that just like life? We can’t know all the answers to all the questions although it might be argued that is the point of fiction – to invent a truth and shield it from the vagaries of fact. Keep it simple, keep it neat and keep it entertaining – then break all the rules. One out of four isn’t all bad.
THE GREATEST OBSTACLE RACE IN THE WORLD.
Connie Lingus: The contestants are set and Bert Watkins – the prick - is preparing to fire the starting pistol. AND THEY’RE OFF!
The Ayatollah streaks out of the gate first with Korky close behindaaah.
The Pope and Rabbi Slivovitz are neck and neck in third place with McDuck challenging on the railsaaah.
Bringing up the rear are the Brahma bulls of Beaudesert Baptists as they reach the first bendaaah.
Rounding the first bend the Ayatollah falters and Korky pulls aheadaaah
The Pope tries to follow but the Muslims block him outaaah.
McDuck is forcing through the field as they race out of the turnaaah.
Into the bottom reach it’s Korky, the Ayatollah and McDuck. The Pope and the Rabbi are neck and neck in fourth place with the Baptist close behindaaah.
They’re coming up on the first obstacle and they get there in a bunchaaah.
Drydoch: Yes, the first obstacle is a tricky one. The contestants have to unscrew the lid of a Woolies Homebrand jar of breakfast marmalade. The jars of Homebrand marmalade are produced in Poland and the lids have been screwed on by huge Polish peasant women who have arms like tree trunks and hands like mechanical shovels. Straight away, the Pope is in trouble. His arthritic fingers cannot get a grip and one of the bishops offers the Pope a wet towel. The Ayatollah is also struggling. He’s taken up a crouching stance and is straining at the lid. He’s got good technique and he is shaking with effort and ….. Oh No! I think the Ayatollah has shit himself! I think the Ayatollah has shit himself!
Connie Lingus: Yes, I think you’re right, Rupert. His helpers are supporting him and he is obviously in great distress. Yes, I think that’s definitely shit I see. Can we zoom in on his right leg? There, just there – definitely faecal matter running down his right leg, Rupert.
Drydoch: Yes, it’s clear the Ayatollah has shit himself. Well, this is a first and you saw it here on Sky Sports. We can confirm that Ayatollah O’Shaunessy has shit himself at the first obstacle. I don’t believe this is a disqualifying incident but perhaps you can shed some light on that, Connie.
Connie Lingus: I’ve been checking with the officials, Rupert and it seems that this does not disqualify the Ayatollah but it will certainly make the rest of the race uncomfortable for him and, I don’t know about you Rupert, but I certainly wouldn’t want to be anywhere close behind the Ayatollah for quite a while.
Drydoch: I agree, Connie. But let’s not forget the rest of the field. Korky the Cat is trying a risky manoeuvre. She is tapping the edge of the lid on a large rock, turning the jar slightly and tapping again. This may well work but it can cause small fractures in the glass lip of the jar and any glass slivers in the marmalade will lead to disqualification. In lane five McDuck is in deep conversation with his committee of Kevin Rudds and in lane three the Jews are closely observing the cowled figure who appears to be in charge of the Beaudesert Baptists. The Baptists seem to be making their move! Yes, the Baptists are making their move! The leader has rammed his jar of marmalade up the arse of a Brahma bull and now he is twisting hard. Any ideas, Connie?
Connie Lingus: Definitely, Rupert. The constricting power of a Brahma bull’s sphincter must be enormous, much greater than the human hand and this will vastly improve the chances of getting the lid off but I can’t say I would want the marmalade afterwards. IT’S OFF! THE LID IS OFF! The Baptists are scrabbling to continue the race and get away first!
Drydoch: But there’s a hold up. The Jews are screaming at the Baptist leader. They are offering him something, trying to force something on him. The Baptist nods and the Jews lead a Brahma bull away. THE JEWS HAVE BOUGHT A BRAHMA BULL FROM THE BAPTISTS! They have bought a bull! At last the Baptists are on their way. Korky the Cat has also got her lid off cleanly and streaks after the Baptists followed by the Jews. The Muslims have found a Turkish wrestler among their horde and he has got their lid off.
Connie Lingus: Rupert! News just in that the committee of Kevin Rudds have declared Polish marmalade to be an illegal import and, therefore, the removal of the lid will be a federal offence. This makes the obstacle void so McDuck is on his way and close behind are the Catholics who are also taking advantage of this new ruling. The race is on!
The Baptists are holding the inside line as they round the second turnaaah.
Next comes Korky the Cat flying the Nazi flagaaah
The Jews are making up ground and taking bets on the sideaaah.
The Ayatollah is charging up the field with a big gap behindaaah.
McDuck is sweeping wide and making up ground but the Pope is slowing downaaah.
Heading up the back straight and it’s still anybodies raceaaah.
The places stay the same as they approach the second obstacleaaah.
Drydoch: The next obstacle is a doozy, Connie. Each contestant has to sit in a booth. They have just one phone each and they must attempt to persuade Telstra to allow them to withdraw from a Bigpond wireless broadband agreement within the allowed 10-day period. Each contestant has a Bigpond Home Network Gateway devise connected that clearly shows ‘no signal’. This should render the agreement void but the trick is to convince Telstra of that. I’ll now hand you over to Connie who is down among the booths.
Connie Lingus: Well, Rupert, the Baptist was first in and misdialled at the first attempt but he ordered a pizza anyway. He’s trying again but Korky is through to Accounts who are insisting she must first contact Tech Support and they have given her the wrong number to dial. The Ayatollah has reached an overseas help line and can’t understand the accent of the help desk operator who can’t understand the Ayatollah either. Uh-oh! The Ayatollah has said ‘fuck’. He’s said it again and lost the connection. Andy McDuck is also starting to get a little huffy but the Rabbi seems to be deep in conversation with Telstra Accounts.
Drydoch: Korky the Cat is through to Tech Support and is trying to follow the instructions of the robot voice. She’s getting nowhere. If she gets too close to the facts of the situation then the robot voice throws up three totally irrelevant options. KORKY HAS SAID ‘FUCK’! Korky is now saying ‘fuck’ a lot! They’ve kicked her off the line!
Connie Lingus: Sorry to interrupt you Rupert but the Pope has just taken his place in the booth and is dialling but he doesn’t appear to be dialling any of the numbers printed on the official contact list.
Drydoch: Thanks for that, Connie. Keep us posted on the Pope. In the meantime the Baptists have got through to Tech Support and have been told they need an external aerial which can be bought from sales for $65 so they are now waiting on the line for a sales consultant to finish afternoon tea and attend to his back-log of calls waiting. Korky the Cat had some success and she talked to the Tech Support operator who tried the aerial trick but Korky explained that the Home Network Gateway was outside anyway and there was still no signal. Korky was then given the number for ‘Cancellations’ but it turned out to be ‘Accounts’ who tried to get her to phone ‘Tech Support’. Korky has just said ‘fuck’ again and I’m afraid she’s completely lost her advantage.
Connie Lingus: Astonishing news on the Pope, Rupert. It seems he has been talking to the CEO of Telstra and has offered total absolution of all Telstra’s sins. This is an amazing offer, Rupert. The Catholic Church commonly issues ‘Get Out of Hell Free Cards’ but this is one of the few times it has been issued en masse. It’s well known that if you become an employee of Telstra you automatically go to hell so this would be very tempting and …. TELSTRA HAS ACCEPTED THE POPE’S OFFER! TELSTRA HAS ACCEPTED AN OFFER OF ABSOLUTION FROM THE POPE! Wow! That guy must have been really worried about his soul – and who can blame him?
The breaking sports news here on Sky Sport is that the Pope has given absolution to Telstra for all their past sins in exchange for a clean withdrawal from a wireless broadband agreement within the 10-day cooling off period. This means that…..
Drydoch: Sorry to interrupt Connie but THE POPE MAY BE TOO LATE. It has just been announced that Mossad have offered to buy out Telstra for an undisclosed figure. This has involved some tricky negotiations with the Kevin Rudd Committee that has asked for a ‘gentlemans agreement’ with Mossad that Telstra will not be used in any way that might be detrimental to Australian national security. I understand Mossad have given a -‘See this wet, see this dry. Cut my throat and hope to die.’- promise to Kevin Rudd on this. Letters of intent have been signed and, given the emergency powers granted to the Prime Minister, the deal will go through without opposition from shareholders who don’t really matter anyway. It was also determined that the Jews and Andy McDuck will be allowed to back out of their wireless broadband agreements without further delay.
Connie Lingus: We have an update on the deal with the Pope. Apparently it was agreed moments before the Mossad offer and so the deal stands. Now we have three contestants clear and back in the race.
Drydoch: Thanks Connie but there’s even more breaking news here on Sky Sports. Telstra consultants are so relieved to be missing out on the trip to hell they are agreeing to money back cancellations for everyone who has ever tried, and failed, to get consistent wireless broadband from Bigpond. Telstra shares have dropped 20%. The Telstra board and Kevin Rudd are quoted as saying; “ It’s a Mossad problem now so we don’t give a rat’s arse.”
Connie Lingus: That puts everyone back in the race – and they are galloping!
First away is the Popeaaah.
In joint second we have the Rabbi and Andy McDuckaaah.
Korky the Cat is steady in thirdaaah.
Followed by Ayatollah O’Shaunessy keeping to the railsaaah.
But coming up on the outside riding the lead bull is the Baptist and he is making a chargeaaah.
The Pope is starting to falter and the Rabbi is pressing hardaaah.
McDuck is fighting off a challenge from Korky the Cataaah.
They reach the third turn and The Baptist is still gaining groundaaah.
The Ayatollah drops to last place and the Rabbi goes past the Popeaaah.
Heading down the gully straight the leaders begin to bunchaaah.
It’s the Rabbi, the Pope, Korky and McDuckaaah.
The Baptist is pressing hard and the Ayatollah’s nowhereaaah.
The pace is picking up as they approach the final obstacleaaah.
Drydoch: This final obstacle is possibly the most controversial of any obstacle in the history of the race. They are calling it ‘Dilemma’ and that’s exactly what it is. You can see that the contestants have to climb a ramp and stand on a platform positioned twenty metres from the edge of a thirty metre deep, rock strewn gully that crosses the course. When the last competitor reaches the platform it will slowly begin to slide towards the gully. Eventually it will cross the gully and link up with a ramp on the other side and the contestants can then continue the race. The more an individual competitor delays climbing onto the ramp the longer that competitor will be held at the other side before being allowed to continue. The dilemma becomes apparent when the competitors see the twenty-metre strip of ground between the front of the platform and the near edge of the gully. It is a children’s playground complete with one hundred infants happily playing there. When the ramp moves to close the gap the children will be literally scraped into the gully. None will survive the fall. If anyone steps off of the ramp it will stop then return to the start and wait to begin its trip again. To complete the event the ramp MUST bridge the gully with all the competitors aboard.
Connie Lingus: Wow! This is classic TV. Tension, human interest, children and violence. Stay tuned and remember where you saw this first. A world exclusive on Sky Sports, what will the contestants do? Oh those poor little children! Sky Sports will, of course, launch an appeal to raise money for something or other. Wow! This is too much.
Drydoch: Connie.
Connie Lingus: What?
Drydoch: Shut your fucking hole.
TO BE CONTINUED.
THE GREATEST OBSTACLE RACE IN THE WORLD.
Connie Lingus: The contestants are set and Bert Watkins – the prick - is preparing to fire the starting pistol. AND THEY’RE OFF!
The Ayatollah streaks out of the gate first with Korky close behindaaah.
The Pope and Rabbi Slivovitz are neck and neck in third place with McDuck challenging on the railsaaah.
Bringing up the rear are the Brahma bulls of Beaudesert Baptists as they reach the first bendaaah.
Rounding the first bend the Ayatollah falters and Korky pulls aheadaaah
The Pope tries to follow but the Muslims block him outaaah.
McDuck is forcing through the field as they race out of the turnaaah.
Into the bottom reach it’s Korky, the Ayatollah and McDuck. The Pope and the Rabbi are neck and neck in fourth place with the Baptist close behindaaah.
They’re coming up on the first obstacle and they get there in a bunchaaah.
Drydoch: Yes, the first obstacle is a tricky one. The contestants have to unscrew the lid of a Woolies Homebrand jar of breakfast marmalade. The jars of Homebrand marmalade are produced in Poland and the lids have been screwed on by huge Polish peasant women who have arms like tree trunks and hands like mechanical shovels. Straight away, the Pope is in trouble. His arthritic fingers cannot get a grip and one of the bishops offers the Pope a wet towel. The Ayatollah is also struggling. He’s taken up a crouching stance and is straining at the lid. He’s got good technique and he is shaking with effort and ….. Oh No! I think the Ayatollah has shit himself! I think the Ayatollah has shit himself!
Connie Lingus: Yes, I think you’re right, Rupert. His helpers are supporting him and he is obviously in great distress. Yes, I think that’s definitely shit I see. Can we zoom in on his right leg? There, just there – definitely faecal matter running down his right leg, Rupert.
Drydoch: Yes, it’s clear the Ayatollah has shit himself. Well, this is a first and you saw it here on Sky Sports. We can confirm that Ayatollah O’Shaunessy has shit himself at the first obstacle. I don’t believe this is a disqualifying incident but perhaps you can shed some light on that, Connie.
Connie Lingus: I’ve been checking with the officials, Rupert and it seems that this does not disqualify the Ayatollah but it will certainly make the rest of the race uncomfortable for him and, I don’t know about you Rupert, but I certainly wouldn’t want to be anywhere close behind the Ayatollah for quite a while.
Drydoch: I agree, Connie. But let’s not forget the rest of the field. Korky the Cat is trying a risky manoeuvre. She is tapping the edge of the lid on a large rock, turning the jar slightly and tapping again. This may well work but it can cause small fractures in the glass lip of the jar and any glass slivers in the marmalade will lead to disqualification. In lane five McDuck is in deep conversation with his committee of Kevin Rudds and in lane three the Jews are closely observing the cowled figure who appears to be in charge of the Beaudesert Baptists. The Baptists seem to be making their move! Yes, the Baptists are making their move! The leader has rammed his jar of marmalade up the arse of a Brahma bull and now he is twisting hard. Any ideas, Connie?
Connie Lingus: Definitely, Rupert. The constricting power of a Brahma bull’s sphincter must be enormous, much greater than the human hand and this will vastly improve the chances of getting the lid off but I can’t say I would want the marmalade afterwards. IT’S OFF! THE LID IS OFF! The Baptists are scrabbling to continue the race and get away first!
Drydoch: But there’s a hold up. The Jews are screaming at the Baptist leader. They are offering him something, trying to force something on him. The Baptist nods and the Jews lead a Brahma bull away. THE JEWS HAVE BOUGHT A BRAHMA BULL FROM THE BAPTISTS! They have bought a bull! At last the Baptists are on their way. Korky the Cat has also got her lid off cleanly and streaks after the Baptists followed by the Jews. The Muslims have found a Turkish wrestler among their horde and he has got their lid off.
Connie Lingus: Rupert! News just in that the committee of Kevin Rudds have declared Polish marmalade to be an illegal import and, therefore, the removal of the lid will be a federal offence. This makes the obstacle void so McDuck is on his way and close behind are the Catholics who are also taking advantage of this new ruling. The race is on!
The Baptists are holding the inside line as they round the second turnaaah.
Next comes Korky the Cat flying the Nazi flagaaah
The Jews are making up ground and taking bets on the sideaaah.
The Ayatollah is charging up the field with a big gap behindaaah.
McDuck is sweeping wide and making up ground but the Pope is slowing downaaah.
Heading up the back straight and it’s still anybodies raceaaah.
The places stay the same as they approach the second obstacleaaah.
Drydoch: The next obstacle is a doozy, Connie. Each contestant has to sit in a booth. They have just one phone each and they must attempt to persuade Telstra to allow them to withdraw from a Bigpond wireless broadband agreement within the allowed 10-day period. Each contestant has a Bigpond Home Network Gateway devise connected that clearly shows ‘no signal’. This should render the agreement void but the trick is to convince Telstra of that. I’ll now hand you over to Connie who is down among the booths.
Connie Lingus: Well, Rupert, the Baptist was first in and misdialled at the first attempt but he ordered a pizza anyway. He’s trying again but Korky is through to Accounts who are insisting she must first contact Tech Support and they have given her the wrong number to dial. The Ayatollah has reached an overseas help line and can’t understand the accent of the help desk operator who can’t understand the Ayatollah either. Uh-oh! The Ayatollah has said ‘fuck’. He’s said it again and lost the connection. Andy McDuck is also starting to get a little huffy but the Rabbi seems to be deep in conversation with Telstra Accounts.
Drydoch: Korky the Cat is through to Tech Support and is trying to follow the instructions of the robot voice. She’s getting nowhere. If she gets too close to the facts of the situation then the robot voice throws up three totally irrelevant options. KORKY HAS SAID ‘FUCK’! Korky is now saying ‘fuck’ a lot! They’ve kicked her off the line!
Connie Lingus: Sorry to interrupt you Rupert but the Pope has just taken his place in the booth and is dialling but he doesn’t appear to be dialling any of the numbers printed on the official contact list.
Drydoch: Thanks for that, Connie. Keep us posted on the Pope. In the meantime the Baptists have got through to Tech Support and have been told they need an external aerial which can be bought from sales for $65 so they are now waiting on the line for a sales consultant to finish afternoon tea and attend to his back-log of calls waiting. Korky the Cat had some success and she talked to the Tech Support operator who tried the aerial trick but Korky explained that the Home Network Gateway was outside anyway and there was still no signal. Korky was then given the number for ‘Cancellations’ but it turned out to be ‘Accounts’ who tried to get her to phone ‘Tech Support’. Korky has just said ‘fuck’ again and I’m afraid she’s completely lost her advantage.
Connie Lingus: Astonishing news on the Pope, Rupert. It seems he has been talking to the CEO of Telstra and has offered total absolution of all Telstra’s sins. This is an amazing offer, Rupert. The Catholic Church commonly issues ‘Get Out of Hell Free Cards’ but this is one of the few times it has been issued en masse. It’s well known that if you become an employee of Telstra you automatically go to hell so this would be very tempting and …. TELSTRA HAS ACCEPTED THE POPE’S OFFER! TELSTRA HAS ACCEPTED AN OFFER OF ABSOLUTION FROM THE POPE! Wow! That guy must have been really worried about his soul – and who can blame him?
The breaking sports news here on Sky Sport is that the Pope has given absolution to Telstra for all their past sins in exchange for a clean withdrawal from a wireless broadband agreement within the 10-day cooling off period. This means that…..
Drydoch: Sorry to interrupt Connie but THE POPE MAY BE TOO LATE. It has just been announced that Mossad have offered to buy out Telstra for an undisclosed figure. This has involved some tricky negotiations with the Kevin Rudd Committee that has asked for a ‘gentlemans agreement’ with Mossad that Telstra will not be used in any way that might be detrimental to Australian national security. I understand Mossad have given a -‘See this wet, see this dry. Cut my throat and hope to die.’- promise to Kevin Rudd on this. Letters of intent have been signed and, given the emergency powers granted to the Prime Minister, the deal will go through without opposition from shareholders who don’t really matter anyway. It was also determined that the Jews and Andy McDuck will be allowed to back out of their wireless broadband agreements without further delay.
Connie Lingus: We have an update on the deal with the Pope. Apparently it was agreed moments before the Mossad offer and so the deal stands. Now we have three contestants clear and back in the race.
Drydoch: Thanks Connie but there’s even more breaking news here on Sky Sports. Telstra consultants are so relieved to be missing out on the trip to hell they are agreeing to money back cancellations for everyone who has ever tried, and failed, to get consistent wireless broadband from Bigpond. Telstra shares have dropped 20%. The Telstra board and Kevin Rudd are quoted as saying; “ It’s a Mossad problem now so we don’t give a rat’s arse.”
Connie Lingus: That puts everyone back in the race – and they are galloping!
First away is the Popeaaah.
In joint second we have the Rabbi and Andy McDuckaaah.
Korky the Cat is steady in thirdaaah.
Followed by Ayatollah O’Shaunessy keeping to the railsaaah.
But coming up on the outside riding the lead bull is the Baptist and he is making a chargeaaah.
The Pope is starting to falter and the Rabbi is pressing hardaaah.
McDuck is fighting off a challenge from Korky the Cataaah.
They reach the third turn and The Baptist is still gaining groundaaah.
The Ayatollah drops to last place and the Rabbi goes past the Popeaaah.
Heading down the gully straight the leaders begin to bunchaaah.
It’s the Rabbi, the Pope, Korky and McDuckaaah.
The Baptist is pressing hard and the Ayatollah’s nowhereaaah.
The pace is picking up as they approach the final obstacleaaah.
Drydoch: This final obstacle is possibly the most controversial of any obstacle in the history of the race. They are calling it ‘Dilemma’ and that’s exactly what it is. You can see that the contestants have to climb a ramp and stand on a platform positioned twenty metres from the edge of a thirty metre deep, rock strewn gully that crosses the course. When the last competitor reaches the platform it will slowly begin to slide towards the gully. Eventually it will cross the gully and link up with a ramp on the other side and the contestants can then continue the race. The more an individual competitor delays climbing onto the ramp the longer that competitor will be held at the other side before being allowed to continue. The dilemma becomes apparent when the competitors see the twenty-metre strip of ground between the front of the platform and the near edge of the gully. It is a children’s playground complete with one hundred infants happily playing there. When the ramp moves to close the gap the children will be literally scraped into the gully. None will survive the fall. If anyone steps off of the ramp it will stop then return to the start and wait to begin its trip again. To complete the event the ramp MUST bridge the gully with all the competitors aboard.
Connie Lingus: Wow! This is classic TV. Tension, human interest, children and violence. Stay tuned and remember where you saw this first. A world exclusive on Sky Sports, what will the contestants do? Oh those poor little children! Sky Sports will, of course, launch an appeal to raise money for something or other. Wow! This is too much.
Drydoch: Connie.
Connie Lingus: What?
Drydoch: Shut your fucking hole.
TO BE CONTINUED.
7/9/09
Coven - Part 9
Korky is about to march in The Grand Parade that begins The War of Devotions. She is going to march with the Nazis, which is a bit of a bummer, but she seems to have little choice. For those still desperately looking for logic in this tale I would remind you of the subtle clue given in part 8. It seems the whole Bogan and Beaudesert region is a VPU (Virtual Private Universe). This makes everything crystal clear and completely rational. Thank goodness - because I was going nuts trying to think of a way out of the mess. So having left that bridge merrily blazing away we blunder onward – onward to war.
(The huge opening that is the team tunnel leading from the dressing rooms to the arena, is in chaos. Teams form, argue and reform. Banners furl and flap and bitter disagreements rage about precedence. Eventually The Catholics and The Muslims agree to march side by side as they lead the parade into the arena. Wailing belly dancing music clashes horribly with Ave Maria but fortunately the roar of the crowd drowns out the strident racket. The Pope and his bishops wave and bless like billyo as they stroll beside The Ayatollah and his bearded mufters who are threatening to chop off the right hand of any bishop who imposes on the gap between the teams. The mufters are taunted by several of the bishops who blatantly stick out their pinkie fingers into the no-go zone as they mince along beside the Muslim clerics.
Team by team the parade lengthens to a jostling ribbon of colour and noise. Protestants hurl bottles at the leading Catholic mob and Jehovah’s Witnesses refuse to breathe the same air as the rest and steadfastly expire to then be crushed by marching feet. Buddhists pass in silence their beatific and peaceful demeanour contrasting wildly with their internal raging at the Hindu hordes, cursing them as arsehole probes. Meanwhile the Jews run busily among the other teams selling commemorative Yahweh dolls to any that will buy, including the Nazis with whom Korky goose steps churlishly. Faith by faith, religion’s Mafiosi brandish beliefs like the weapons of war they are and the multitudes around them slaver in anticipation of martyrs’ blood by the bucket load.
For an hour the parade wriggles back and forth before disappearing once more into the tunnel. Within moments, participants in the egg and spoon race run eagerly into the arena. They bounce and caper professionally in a series of warm up exercises before making there way to the start line where they are given a spoon of official size. A marshal then walks down the line placing an egg on each spoon and the contestants crouch, waiting for the signal. In this case the signal is a sign from Almighty God and each contestant must be alert and receptive to divine intervention. There are several false starts as quite natural events trigger the various perceptions of Almighty God’s intentions but eventually a wildebeest charges into the arena and gores the Catholic contestant to death. This is deemed to be definitely ‘it’ and the race is on.
A Muslim mufter shuffles into the lead with a Nazi close behind. A Buddhist monk tries to ‘mindfuck’ the leaders and is disqualified. As the staggering group rounds the first turn the Cargo Cult contestant attempts a bunny jump into the lead whilst holding down the egg with his chin but he is disembowelled by the flashing spoon of a Whirling Dervish who claims obstruction and gains two places. Runners stumble, lurch and sometimes fall and a trail of scrambled egg is left behind the panting athletes. A Hindu, his egg stuck firmly to the spoon with sacred cow shit, gains on the Nazi but the passing move is foiled by a spirited rear-guard action from the ghost of Martin Bormann. On the back straight, unseen by the judges, a Mormon is strangled and mugged by a Thuggee devotee who had lost his egg and spoon. Out of the last turn and into the final straight, the Muslim mufter, the Nazi and a Jewish financial consultant dominate the race. They strain and gasp, balancing their eggs with pop-eyed concentration until the last few yards when, despite the apparent advantages of pausing to consider the negative gearing offer put together on the run by the Jew, the Nazi pulls ahead. With a strangled cry of desperation the Jew throws himself at the ankles of the Hun. The Nazi crashes against the mufter and the three go down together with the Jew on top pounding with his fists at anything that moves and, in all the confusion, the Whirling Dervish spins across the line and takes the honours outright for the Muslim Minority team.
And so Track and Field continues throughout the morning. The Catholics win a controversial victory in the three-legged race when their entrant, who had lost a leg in a sporting accident, was hastily ordained by The Pope minutes before the race and subsequently romped home. It is claimed by objectors that there is no precedent for bestowing a Catholic priesthood on a two-year-old racehorse. Nevertheless “Black Mass” is deemed a bona fide competitor and the win stands, if a little unsteadily.
In their “elected event” The Catholics again score in the alter boy relay race. At first, a Buddhist gleefully competes against the Catholics. The Buddhist runs from alter boy to alter boy tapping each on the shoulder as he passes but when it is explained to him that tapping on the shoulder is not the action required, the monk backs out. More accurately, he backs away – his eyes glancing fearfully to right and left at the Catholic bishops rampant who are trying to sneak behind him.
The crowd continues to have plenty to cheer and every religious group is eventually represented on the winners’ rostrum including the Beaudesert Baptists who score a shock victory in the pillow fight. By the end of the morning six groups qualify for The Elimination Bouts. The Muslims, the Catholics, the Jews, the Crackpot Churches, the Beaudesert Baptists and, mainly due to Nazi effort, the Boutique Churches. The eliminations will bring the number of groups down to three and these will meet in The Final Battle.
The first elimination is the holy relics competition and it comes down to the offering from Beaudesert and the Catholic entry. Beaudesert Baptists are disqualified when it is discovered that their organically farmed potato, miraculously grown like the head of John the Baptist, has had the nose drawn on with magic marker. Not so, the Catholic relic proudly displayed by Bishop O’Leary of Park Ridge. It is a picture-perfect representation of St. Peter’s Basilica, formed by the delicate tracery of wrinkles underneath the bishop’s scrotum.
Other eliminations follow. Korky wins the conker contest for the Nazis and McDuck triumphs for the Crackpots in the twelve-syllable stutter. Eventually we reach the most popular event – the 2-kilometre obstacle race. This race has always drawn the most media attention and Sky Sports has won the bidding war to cover it. Therefore we must now hand the next part of the blog over to Sky Sports and your obstacle race presenter, Rupert Drydoch.
SKY SPORT - SKY SPORT - SKY SPORT – SKY SPORT.
This event proudly brought to you by:
The Vatican (keep your spirits up!)
This event also brought to you by:
Kop-u-lite Reinforced Kondoms (keep your pecker up!)
And also brought to you by the old prune himself……
RUPEEEEEEERT DRYDOCH.
Drydoch: Good afternoon sports fans and it’s almost time for The Greatest Obstacle Race in the World, exclusively on Sky Sports. It’s a beautiful day here at the War of Devotions Arena and my co-presenter, the lovely Connie Lingus, is down in the arena talking to the outgoing God of Gods, Bert Watkins. Connie?
Connie Lingus: Thanks Rupert. Well, Bert … you know - it is so hard to just call you Bert. I’ve spent my entire life praying to you for help, for guidance, for support.
Bert Watkins: Yes, I remember how nervous you were when you were going in to get your tits done.
Connie Lingus: Yes … well … um … REALLY! …. Did anyone ever notice what a fucking useless God you were?
Bert Watkins: Did anyone ever notice your nipples are in your armpits?
Drydoch: Yes! Well …. Uh ..we seem to have lost the signal there. If we get it back we’ll continue the interview. In the meantime we’ll take a short break. Be right back with more on The Greatest Obstacle Race in the World, exclusive to Sky Sports.
(Fade out. Music from Rigoletto begins to play. Fade in to a view of a tumbling stream in the foothills of the Italian Alps. Beside the stream a young family are enjoying a picnic. They are dressed simply but elegantly. The children are happy, laughing, eating wholesome food. The parents also laugh, wide mouthed, very white teeth. They all eat apples and hold the fruit to the side of their mouths so we can clearly see the brilliant whiteness of their teeth. They continue to feast and we pan away to follow the stream. It leaps, flashing and splashing through mile after mile of a rustic world so beautiful it hurts. Eventually the stream reaches Rome and we see a few seconds of fountains dancing with Roman sunlight and then fountains illuminated at night behind the family we saw before, but now they dine at an outdoor restaurant – they still laugh. Dissolve to a shot of the Pope feeding the host to a kneeling bishop and then dissolve to a view of a settling tank in a sewage treatment plant.)
Voice Over: And it all ends up here. Unless it meets trouble on the way!
(Bert Watkins walks into the scene and speaks to camera.)
Bert Watkins: That’s when I get called in. If ever you get trouble with your pipes – storm water, mains or sewer – just call on me for fast efficient service.
(Text overlays the screen with Bert’s name, phone number and professional plumbing details.)
Voice Over: No jobbie too big for Bert to handle and all enquiries treated in the strictest confidence because, don’t forget, even the Pope has to poop.
(Fade out.)
Drydoch: Welcome back to Sky Sport’s exclusive coverage of The Greatest Obstacle Race in the World. The contestants are just coming up to the starting line so I’ll hand you straight over to our race caller, Connie Lingus. Are you there, Connie?
Connie Lingus: Yes, I’m here Rupert and fully recovered from that little prick, Watkins, thank you very much. I can’t believe he had the gall to mention my tits.
Drydoch: Um … are you sure you’re okay Connie?
Connie Lingus: Of course I’m fucking sure! But I don’t expect a dried up, walnut faced old prat like you to understand. All you care about is appearing to be important when really you’re on the verge of losing everything to a medium you can’t control. It won’t be long before the average blogger has more influence than you, you desiccated old arsehole. Now where the fuck was I?
Oh yes.
Well, Rupert, the contestants look eager and ready to go, so for the benefit of our viewers we’ll quickly run through the line-up.
Lane One: Korky the Cat representing the Nazi contingent of Boutique Churches. Behind Korky are fifty Tiger tanks and a whole division of Waffen SS.
Lane Two: The Pope followed by three thousand bishops and six thousand unfrocked priests.
Lane Three: Rabbi Slivovitz with his Mossad bodyguard and The Ark of the Covenant containing a nuclear device.
Lane Four: Ayatollah O’Shaunessy and his Muslim Hordes.
Lane Five: Representing The Crackpots is Andy McDuck, his Coven and the combined teams of the Church of England Rugby League. There is also a small committee of Kevin Rudds.
Finally, Lane Six: The Beaudesert Baptists backed up by two hundred bad tempered Brahma bulls and a flock of lorikeets.
Drydoch: Thanks for that Connie. We’re going to take another short break now but when we get back it will be time for the start of the main event. Don’t go away.
TO BE CONTINUED.
(The huge opening that is the team tunnel leading from the dressing rooms to the arena, is in chaos. Teams form, argue and reform. Banners furl and flap and bitter disagreements rage about precedence. Eventually The Catholics and The Muslims agree to march side by side as they lead the parade into the arena. Wailing belly dancing music clashes horribly with Ave Maria but fortunately the roar of the crowd drowns out the strident racket. The Pope and his bishops wave and bless like billyo as they stroll beside The Ayatollah and his bearded mufters who are threatening to chop off the right hand of any bishop who imposes on the gap between the teams. The mufters are taunted by several of the bishops who blatantly stick out their pinkie fingers into the no-go zone as they mince along beside the Muslim clerics.
Team by team the parade lengthens to a jostling ribbon of colour and noise. Protestants hurl bottles at the leading Catholic mob and Jehovah’s Witnesses refuse to breathe the same air as the rest and steadfastly expire to then be crushed by marching feet. Buddhists pass in silence their beatific and peaceful demeanour contrasting wildly with their internal raging at the Hindu hordes, cursing them as arsehole probes. Meanwhile the Jews run busily among the other teams selling commemorative Yahweh dolls to any that will buy, including the Nazis with whom Korky goose steps churlishly. Faith by faith, religion’s Mafiosi brandish beliefs like the weapons of war they are and the multitudes around them slaver in anticipation of martyrs’ blood by the bucket load.
For an hour the parade wriggles back and forth before disappearing once more into the tunnel. Within moments, participants in the egg and spoon race run eagerly into the arena. They bounce and caper professionally in a series of warm up exercises before making there way to the start line where they are given a spoon of official size. A marshal then walks down the line placing an egg on each spoon and the contestants crouch, waiting for the signal. In this case the signal is a sign from Almighty God and each contestant must be alert and receptive to divine intervention. There are several false starts as quite natural events trigger the various perceptions of Almighty God’s intentions but eventually a wildebeest charges into the arena and gores the Catholic contestant to death. This is deemed to be definitely ‘it’ and the race is on.
A Muslim mufter shuffles into the lead with a Nazi close behind. A Buddhist monk tries to ‘mindfuck’ the leaders and is disqualified. As the staggering group rounds the first turn the Cargo Cult contestant attempts a bunny jump into the lead whilst holding down the egg with his chin but he is disembowelled by the flashing spoon of a Whirling Dervish who claims obstruction and gains two places. Runners stumble, lurch and sometimes fall and a trail of scrambled egg is left behind the panting athletes. A Hindu, his egg stuck firmly to the spoon with sacred cow shit, gains on the Nazi but the passing move is foiled by a spirited rear-guard action from the ghost of Martin Bormann. On the back straight, unseen by the judges, a Mormon is strangled and mugged by a Thuggee devotee who had lost his egg and spoon. Out of the last turn and into the final straight, the Muslim mufter, the Nazi and a Jewish financial consultant dominate the race. They strain and gasp, balancing their eggs with pop-eyed concentration until the last few yards when, despite the apparent advantages of pausing to consider the negative gearing offer put together on the run by the Jew, the Nazi pulls ahead. With a strangled cry of desperation the Jew throws himself at the ankles of the Hun. The Nazi crashes against the mufter and the three go down together with the Jew on top pounding with his fists at anything that moves and, in all the confusion, the Whirling Dervish spins across the line and takes the honours outright for the Muslim Minority team.
And so Track and Field continues throughout the morning. The Catholics win a controversial victory in the three-legged race when their entrant, who had lost a leg in a sporting accident, was hastily ordained by The Pope minutes before the race and subsequently romped home. It is claimed by objectors that there is no precedent for bestowing a Catholic priesthood on a two-year-old racehorse. Nevertheless “Black Mass” is deemed a bona fide competitor and the win stands, if a little unsteadily.
In their “elected event” The Catholics again score in the alter boy relay race. At first, a Buddhist gleefully competes against the Catholics. The Buddhist runs from alter boy to alter boy tapping each on the shoulder as he passes but when it is explained to him that tapping on the shoulder is not the action required, the monk backs out. More accurately, he backs away – his eyes glancing fearfully to right and left at the Catholic bishops rampant who are trying to sneak behind him.
The crowd continues to have plenty to cheer and every religious group is eventually represented on the winners’ rostrum including the Beaudesert Baptists who score a shock victory in the pillow fight. By the end of the morning six groups qualify for The Elimination Bouts. The Muslims, the Catholics, the Jews, the Crackpot Churches, the Beaudesert Baptists and, mainly due to Nazi effort, the Boutique Churches. The eliminations will bring the number of groups down to three and these will meet in The Final Battle.
The first elimination is the holy relics competition and it comes down to the offering from Beaudesert and the Catholic entry. Beaudesert Baptists are disqualified when it is discovered that their organically farmed potato, miraculously grown like the head of John the Baptist, has had the nose drawn on with magic marker. Not so, the Catholic relic proudly displayed by Bishop O’Leary of Park Ridge. It is a picture-perfect representation of St. Peter’s Basilica, formed by the delicate tracery of wrinkles underneath the bishop’s scrotum.
Other eliminations follow. Korky wins the conker contest for the Nazis and McDuck triumphs for the Crackpots in the twelve-syllable stutter. Eventually we reach the most popular event – the 2-kilometre obstacle race. This race has always drawn the most media attention and Sky Sports has won the bidding war to cover it. Therefore we must now hand the next part of the blog over to Sky Sports and your obstacle race presenter, Rupert Drydoch.
SKY SPORT - SKY SPORT - SKY SPORT – SKY SPORT.
This event proudly brought to you by:
The Vatican (keep your spirits up!)
This event also brought to you by:
Kop-u-lite Reinforced Kondoms (keep your pecker up!)
And also brought to you by the old prune himself……
RUPEEEEEEERT DRYDOCH.
Drydoch: Good afternoon sports fans and it’s almost time for The Greatest Obstacle Race in the World, exclusively on Sky Sports. It’s a beautiful day here at the War of Devotions Arena and my co-presenter, the lovely Connie Lingus, is down in the arena talking to the outgoing God of Gods, Bert Watkins. Connie?
Connie Lingus: Thanks Rupert. Well, Bert … you know - it is so hard to just call you Bert. I’ve spent my entire life praying to you for help, for guidance, for support.
Bert Watkins: Yes, I remember how nervous you were when you were going in to get your tits done.
Connie Lingus: Yes … well … um … REALLY! …. Did anyone ever notice what a fucking useless God you were?
Bert Watkins: Did anyone ever notice your nipples are in your armpits?
Drydoch: Yes! Well …. Uh ..we seem to have lost the signal there. If we get it back we’ll continue the interview. In the meantime we’ll take a short break. Be right back with more on The Greatest Obstacle Race in the World, exclusive to Sky Sports.
(Fade out. Music from Rigoletto begins to play. Fade in to a view of a tumbling stream in the foothills of the Italian Alps. Beside the stream a young family are enjoying a picnic. They are dressed simply but elegantly. The children are happy, laughing, eating wholesome food. The parents also laugh, wide mouthed, very white teeth. They all eat apples and hold the fruit to the side of their mouths so we can clearly see the brilliant whiteness of their teeth. They continue to feast and we pan away to follow the stream. It leaps, flashing and splashing through mile after mile of a rustic world so beautiful it hurts. Eventually the stream reaches Rome and we see a few seconds of fountains dancing with Roman sunlight and then fountains illuminated at night behind the family we saw before, but now they dine at an outdoor restaurant – they still laugh. Dissolve to a shot of the Pope feeding the host to a kneeling bishop and then dissolve to a view of a settling tank in a sewage treatment plant.)
Voice Over: And it all ends up here. Unless it meets trouble on the way!
(Bert Watkins walks into the scene and speaks to camera.)
Bert Watkins: That’s when I get called in. If ever you get trouble with your pipes – storm water, mains or sewer – just call on me for fast efficient service.
(Text overlays the screen with Bert’s name, phone number and professional plumbing details.)
Voice Over: No jobbie too big for Bert to handle and all enquiries treated in the strictest confidence because, don’t forget, even the Pope has to poop.
(Fade out.)
Drydoch: Welcome back to Sky Sport’s exclusive coverage of The Greatest Obstacle Race in the World. The contestants are just coming up to the starting line so I’ll hand you straight over to our race caller, Connie Lingus. Are you there, Connie?
Connie Lingus: Yes, I’m here Rupert and fully recovered from that little prick, Watkins, thank you very much. I can’t believe he had the gall to mention my tits.
Drydoch: Um … are you sure you’re okay Connie?
Connie Lingus: Of course I’m fucking sure! But I don’t expect a dried up, walnut faced old prat like you to understand. All you care about is appearing to be important when really you’re on the verge of losing everything to a medium you can’t control. It won’t be long before the average blogger has more influence than you, you desiccated old arsehole. Now where the fuck was I?
Oh yes.
Well, Rupert, the contestants look eager and ready to go, so for the benefit of our viewers we’ll quickly run through the line-up.
Lane One: Korky the Cat representing the Nazi contingent of Boutique Churches. Behind Korky are fifty Tiger tanks and a whole division of Waffen SS.
Lane Two: The Pope followed by three thousand bishops and six thousand unfrocked priests.
Lane Three: Rabbi Slivovitz with his Mossad bodyguard and The Ark of the Covenant containing a nuclear device.
Lane Four: Ayatollah O’Shaunessy and his Muslim Hordes.
Lane Five: Representing The Crackpots is Andy McDuck, his Coven and the combined teams of the Church of England Rugby League. There is also a small committee of Kevin Rudds.
Finally, Lane Six: The Beaudesert Baptists backed up by two hundred bad tempered Brahma bulls and a flock of lorikeets.
Drydoch: Thanks for that Connie. We’re going to take another short break now but when we get back it will be time for the start of the main event. Don’t go away.
TO BE CONTINUED.
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