Chapter 14: A Hazard of Parsnips

Dear brother Yurgi

I can hardly ally my feelings tonight. I am giddy with excitement, like a school girl at a Big fun concert with supporting act, Let Loose, but I am also sick to my very stomach for I have betrayed the very man to which I owe my freedom.

Would you ever eat fish and chips without salt and vinegar?

Just wondering…

I am aware of his idiosyncracies, the way he makes me spray the air with his own urine to stop ‘the nasties’, the way he has to purify the air with poetry, the copies of ‘Nugget’ in the bedside table drawer that he’s ‘keeping for his brother’, but he set me free.

It was in 1972 that he sprung me from the deplorable slavery that brought me to this country. Before I was enslaved I was a hearty, rosy cheeked photocopier fixer working in Kardashianistan. I had everything going for me. I was as pretty as a cabbage, I was clever like a sack and I was a total slag. I was like the prize truck in the Kardashianistan’s national machinery festival.

One fateful night, that all changed,

As I was going about my business (I don’t mean I was having a shit either) walking home from a particularly heavy session at the gym looking through Mrs Robinson’s things. I felt as pretty as linda Lusardi as I strutted down the streets swinging my swing and wiggling my worms. Then, on the pavement in front of me i noticed something glimmer in the pale moonlight. What in the name of riding the camel to the brothel is this? I thought in my head, where thoughts originate. It glimmered like a fish on the pavement and i bent down to closer inspect this pescian treatage.

Oh foolish fish fancying! As I squatted I heard a scuffle and before i knew it I had been trapped in a large woman catcher. I was a slave. A slave of love. A love slave.
Then, my brother, Yurgi, I awoke with the comforting sensation of my head being banged on the floor of a ford transit as we hurtled over speed bumps. My head throbbed like the motor of Kardasianistan’s most famous vegetable packing rig “Big Veg Packing Timor’. Timor. He could carry up to 20 veg packers. Why did I stray away from the farms? How I longed for the acrid stench of horse wee on straw now.
I started to become sensible of my surroundings. I tried to put my hand to my aching head, but I was bound by the hands and feet, like a prize hog. At least I could move my eyes. The transit van was transit van-like in it’s appearance and resembled very much a van that would be used to transit goods from one destination to another. Maybe some sexy washing machines or some pallets of mallets. It was almost as if it evolved with this purpose at the forefront of it’s mind. The sturdy shire horse of the van world. If I hadn’t have been so terrified I would have knocked one out there and then. But I was, and that kind of thing affects your libido as any good woman’s magazine will tell you.
My attention widened to the floor of this amazing all purpose work vehicle. Scattered all over its hard wearing, expansive floor was ice lolly wrappers, egg shell and ice cube trays, which lent the air a sickly sweet yet eggy accord.
I heard voices emanating from the spacious cab of the vehicle. They were talking in a tongue that I did not understand but I would later come to know as ‘English’. I could not understand their words, but I could tell by their tone of voice they were explaining what an economical vehicle this was. I couldn’t fault their logic.
The fluorescent motorway lights lit my captors in bursts of staccato orange. Two men and a woman were ensconsed in the front seats. Their features illuminated by the haunting sodium lamps put me in mind of an episode of Knightmare. You know the one with the kids who say “where am I?”. Yeah, the CGI thing with the big hat and all the riddles and shit…
The driver, well I say driver, but in such a vehicle i feel like the decription of ‘pilot’ or ‘captain’ would be more apt. He did appear to be in charge of the others. They spoke to him in hushed deferential tones and his replies were barked back in a voice like grit in a dyson hoover. His face was like a load of bollocks and his eyes were dark and menacing like blood in your piss.

His cockpit mate was of an undeterminable age. The top half of his head looked about 15, the bottom half about 58. His chin was that of a foetus. It was freaky, man. I thought that perhaps the fumes had made me hallucinate such an unconventional visage, but then I remembered that we were in the excellent Ford Transit. There’s no way that there would be any exhaust fumes seeping into this most prestigious of work vehicles. The mate had a nervous tick. It’s strange for punctuation to have emotions, so that I can only imagine that the brute had intimidated it into sentience. I don’t know why he carried his old school book with him, at any rate. Perhaps it carried a clue as to his motives. From time to time, he would take his attention away from the book or the pilot and turn his cumbersome head in my direction. It chilled me to my very marrow. It’s a good job that I had that marrow with me as they didn’t provide an in-drive meal.

The woman was a bit meh. Like most of her sex, she wasn’t as nice as me. I mean, for the love of Timor the rig, she didn’t even have a basque on!
When they realised I was conscious, they shouted and joked to one another. I could not understand their words but Iimagine that that they were congratulating each other on bagging such a beauty.
I wondered what was their intention? To ransom me? If that was their intention, I knew I was doomed, like a parsnip in a pig pen, coming from a long line of photocopier fixers is the oldest and most respected profession, but poorly paid. It is something you do due to the passion raging in your veins. The passion for functioning copiers! We occupy a place in the nation’s heart as exhalted as a priest, a judge or a drug dealer and that is our reward. It’s a spiritual calling.
The reality was something much more terrifying.
Maybe they would use me as their sexual plaything. I hoped so. We trundled each night, every night, like phantoms down ghostly roads, to where I know not.
Do you want to buy this dress? I’ve got too many posh frocks and I don’t need another one. Although it was gorgeous. It was just dead tight. I’ve bought some magic knickers . Where’s the olives?
Then one fateful night the trundling came to an end. The admirable transit came to a sickening halt. Silence fell over my captors and their was an air of dark menace as they exchanged knowing looks. The doors were flung open and I squinted like a squid in front of a firing squad. My ink streaming down my long luscious tentacles of woman. A wall of air hit me like a wall of air. Hot, smelly, like a restaurant kitchen abroad. I gasped and bawked and struggled for breath. My female captor grabbed me roughly by the arm and dragged my sweet ass out of my van cocoon.
She pushed me through a fire exit into a large, sprawling concrete monster. Reeling, like a fishing reel, fell crashing through fire door after fire door. Man, this venue was safety conscious. Then, I was frogmarched like a frog into a small dusty room, breeze-block lined and as cold as the cheap lino that met my feet. Little did I know that by comparison, this dungeon would soon look like Kardashinastan’s finest polyester festival when i met my next fate.
Female captor locked the door behind us. The room was so small I could smell her Charlie body spray and stench of stale sweat on her ‘body talk’ t shirt. Man, those t-shirts were so trendy. She was so close we could have kissed. I bet she wanted to.
She looked me straight in the eye, a cold hard gaze and sneered at me. I whimpered, as I sensed something bad was about to happen. She sneered harder, like shakin stevens, and threw a bikini in my face.
“put this on”
Bemused, I did what I was told. Maybe I was going to be a sexual plaything.
“Ace”, I thought.
Then, from a Head rucksack, she tentatively pulled a small box from it’s sportswear home. She handled it, as if it was a delicate rat in a sock. What treasure was housed in this case of mystery? She carefully opened the angled, pod like exterior to reveal the answer to the mystery. It was like Pandora opening her box. Of eggs.
What manner of witchery is this? My captor motioned them towards me. I shot her a look of sheer confusion. What was I to do with a box of eggs and a bikini? I had no idea as to the depths of depravity that I was scaling. Or plunging. Like a neckline. My favourite type of neckline.
Oh Yurgi, I cannot bring myself to make you sensible of the deplorable practices I was subjected to. For this was ‘the Hot Body Show’ and here began my fraught journey to ruin.
For years, my captors and I traversed the industrial waterways of Britian touring each Hot Body Show in turn. With each show, I lost a piece of that carefree, innocent slag from Kardashanistan, and my heart grew increasingly heavy, like a bag full of machinery gears, grinding into my heart. I cannot make you understand a moment of the hardships I suffered, and nor would I want to, sweet brother Yurgi, as you’d probably get a bit turned on, you massive perv. Suffice to say it was a bit shit.
One day, the hot body show tour was being hosted by the Bury Shovel Auditorium. By this time, I had learned to dissociate from the atrocities and used to view myself from above, as if a spectator to the proceedings. Man, the ceiling wasn’t that comfortable. They should probably think about padding the picture rails or something.
Me and my fellow ‘contestants’ were ‘warming up’ for the show by lighting fags off our belly buttons, all intent on ‘being number one’ or lest our captors would beat us with a copy of ‘Wide Sargasso Sea’ the most boring of Degree level module texts. Then I heard a loud bang.
At first I thought that someone had dropped the whole show’s supply of eggs for the first round, but no, I turned and saw a imposing figure silhouetted in the dusky half light of the auditorium door.

It was my liberator. It was him. It was the end of my degradation and the beginning of my freedom.
So, sweet brother Yurgi, I owe him my life. Which makes my actions of the last day so disgusting to my sensibilities that my stomach lurches with every breath and thought that my treacherous body and brain dare to conspire. Oh sweet brother, please do not think badly of your wretched, worthless wench of a sister. Er, I suppose, I’ve set you up a bit to think that. Anyway, think not badly of me, for a magic has possessed me, the likes of which i have never known. More potent than paul daniels and more alluring than Lynx Africa. That poison or potion, I own that I know not which, has but one name.
How could someone move me so much to betray the man to which I owe my life. I can only assume he possess some kind of sexual voodoo. Or he’s read ‘the Game’ or summat. Whatever witchery this beast contains, I am possessed. He intrudes into my every waking thought. He seeps into every dark nightmare and every sweet dream. I cannot be free from him and yet I cannot tear myself away. I do declare myself in love with his essence. His almond essence. Its’ quite delightful. He’s also a bit fit.
Yesterday I agreed to help my captee to escape our clutches, as once DNK did liberate me.
I am but a villainous whore, but the tantalising promise of Clarence’s love spurs me on to act.
Please send some money, some American tan tights and a jar of pickled sea cucumbers.


Your sister

8 thoughts on “Chapter 14: A Hazard of Parsnips

  1. Oh, so many amazing similes, metaphors, and strong adjectives. I am enraptured.
    How long will we have to wait until new eps? I don’t know if my girdle can handle the tension.

  2. Ah Doctor A. I’ve taken time out from writing this week’s batch of anonymous hate mail to clergy various in order to read this latest bowel clenching installment. My bowels are still clenched five minutes after reading it and then sitting back with a nice cup of coffee flavoured absinthe to deliberate, cogitate and ruminate and you know…the other ate. It lived up to expectations, and you should be very proud. If I’m still clenched in the morning, do you recommend ex-lax or immodium? I love your story but my bowls are dreadfully confused. See? They think they’re spelled wrong.


  3. Dear G

    You don’t want to get your bowels and your bowls confused, especially since you cook for others. No one wants to eat penne arribiata out of someone’s colon.

    Thank you for your support of HoP. Sherby and I enjoy it vastly and it’s lovely to hear that it’s not just us that it amuses.

    p.s. for cramps I’d recommend a brandy and coke and a hot water bottle.

  4. Cramps!?! It’s not my period! I’ll go with the brandy and coke though. I have spent hours toying with the vision of Anthony Hopkins eating a savoury pasta dish from someone’s steaming entrails. And now it’s all coming together. Dr A, I am indebted. And I fancy Clarence too!

  5. I don’t know what the hell as parsnip is, but I was pretty enamored by this–then I found out there was like 10 more entries regarding the parsnip, so the answer may well be somewhere in there, but I was too lazy to read them all. Or any of them besides this one, for that matter.

    At any rate, I can’t send you a pickled cucumber, but will an adjustable sawhorse that you can mount into a wall do? I know it sounds complicated, but I assure you that the trouble of installation is well worth the pleasure it brings.

    • Clarence, our hero, is a fruit and veg salesman. Parsnips is just one of the many excellent produce that he probably sells. I am heartily glad of your enamouration with probably “the greatest tale ever written on a scratty a5 coil bound pad in a pub”. Catch up with chapter 15 which was published today and contains images that make you go “hmmmmm”.

      • Oh, ok. I gotcha. To be frank, though, most everything you write makes me go “hmmmmm…”–but in a good way, of course!

        Probably the same way that my musings make people go “Does he really think that?!” I know that they mean in in the most flattering of ways, so I don’t take the slightest bit of offense to it.

        Basically, I guess I’m comparing you to me, which must mean you’re pretty awesome, because I have a pretty high opinion of myself (and for good reason, I might add!)

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