Hazard of Parsnips: Chapter 15

Gentlemen

The hour is upon is. Not literally. I don’t know how an hour would actually get up on top of us. The mere notion of it is ridiculous and doesn’t warrant the attention from the fine fellows in our solemn brotherhood. Please forgive me frippery and frivolity. Or even my frivvery and fripolity. I’m never sure which is it. Sorry. I’ve done it again. The point that I am consistently failing to make is that not only are our plans finally coming to fruition, but that I have set my sights on marriage.

That’s right. You fellas had better believe it. You do not require nanny to clean out your privileged lug-holes with a bit of string and a tub of olbas oil. You heard me correctly the first time. Of course, as this is a letter, you did not hear me at all; unless you are counting the imaginence of the words formed by your mind’s ear. But, please allow me this moment of artistic licence in a moment such as this.

So, who could this feminine flesh-bag be that finally captures the attentions of Lord Dennis\me? The situation, as you may well imagine, is somewhat complicated. My dear bum-chums, you will remember my recent incarceration for the alleged kidnapping of the arse-clown Crapper. Oh, how we laughed on my release. If only the rozzers had any inkling of even a sprinking of the myriad of depravaties commited by our fellowship. They’d literally shit a brick. Well, I’m sure that you also remember that tsunami of abuse that washed over me from my supposedly betrothed Eileen Bilton. Our nuptials had been agreed by our secret society as nothing more than a plan to seize control of her father’s land. Those golden acres are essential to the progression of our dastardly schemes. (Note: I think we may have to stop calling our plans ‘dastardly’ ourselves. I think it may possibly make us look a little bit suspicious. It’s bad enough that we’re part of an evil secret brotherhood, innit #justsayin). Anyway, this little firebrand’s abuse roused me in a way that I had never been roused before. The tenacity that she showed in her prolonged attacks on my personage were like a dog with a bone. And this made me like a man with a bone (I’m trying to imply that it gave me a stiffy). Sure, this might sound a little kinky, but we’re all perverts here. Why else would we all be members of a sinister cult-like organisation? That especially goes for you, vicar. If only your congregation knew what was going on underneath your robes. You disgust even me.

It soon came to pass that Crapper’s kidnapping was perpetrated by none other than Der Naughty Kitty. Yes, him. I know that I assured you all that he wouldn’t be a problem, but even the Stefmeister can be wrong from time to time. I digress. Upon hearing the news, Miss Bilton did me the utmost honour of writing me a gracious letter of apology. The silly bitch. She’s just playing straight into my hands. And, boy, do I ever have sweaty palms. She thinks she is still in love with Crapper, but she will be mine. I have perused my extensive library and studied my treasured first edition of “A Treatise Upon The Rules of The Game of Love: A Dazzling Insight into The Art of The Neg” by Count Neil Von Strauss. I have sent away to the finest tailor’s in all of Swindon for a jazzy red suit made of the plushest velveteen known in the empire. How could any woman not succumb to my elaborate peacocking? Then I’ll probably go up to her and tell her that her dress is nice, it’s like the one that the skinny girl was wearing earlier. Or maybe I’ll tell her that I like her FAKE nails. Bwah-ha-ha! Oh, my chums. How can any fraulein not fall directly into my lap after being given a compliment that was actually a vague insult? She’ll be like putty in my hands. Just think of how I’m going to use her to fix a window in position…. scratch that. I don’t think the metaphor really stretches that far.

Once she’s fallen for me then I’m going to do everything I can to wind her up. Only then will I once again fully experience the barrage of abuse that first attracted me to her in the first place. Oh, can you imagine living your whole life with a woman that does naught but harangue you from dawn till dusk? The deliciousness of the situation leaves me sticky with my anticipatory sap.

So, thats my plan. What do you guys think? You know you’re all, like, really really important to me. I wouldn’t want to rush into anything without getting your seals of approval. I know we’re like a team of Maciavellian miscreants, but, in many ways, I see us like those outrageous girls from Sex in The City. Oh, the hours we’ve wiled away in our chambers, deciding which one of was Samantha, who was most like Carrie and who had the whiff of Beryl about her. I hope it doesn’t affect my standing as an evil genius, but I really love you guys. Golly gosh, I’m getting quite teary here. I’m going to get such a ribbing at the next meeting!! LOLZ

Anyway, where was I? Yeah, I plan to marry this crazy chick, after all. I mean Eileen Bilton, not Charlotte Church. I don’t want there to be any confusion. Then, after we are wed, I can put the finishing touches to our masterplan. Yes, all the components are coming together nicely and even the antics of Der Naughty Kitty cannot scupper them. I will choose not to reveal any details of the plan in this letter. I just feel that if someone were to come across this menacing missive and read the minutiae of our perfect plot, then it would somehow ruin the suspense for them. Perhaps that they’re enjoying this letter as some kind of story. How would they feel if the mystery was taken away before the end? Whenever “the end” is. Real life doesn’t have an ending, does it? Well, it does when you die, but you know what I’m trying to say. Do you? I’m not really sure myself? I’ve just implied that we’re all in a giant story, but now I’m back-tracking slightly. What can it all mean?

Bwah-hahahaha-ha!! Oh my friends. How the big author in the sky would be laughing at us now. The whole world is a big story being written by our celestial scribe. It’s one of the weird beliefs of our secret society. Which you all obviously know as you’re all also members. I don’t really know why I felt I had to point it out to you. Could it be the work of the mystic bard working through my errant fingers? Or is it just because I’ve drank too much rhubarb wine? I dunno, but I bloody love you lot. Anyway, I better be off, I think I’m going to be sick.

Laterz

Cool Lord D

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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.
Darkness.
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.
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.
He
Is
Clarence.
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
Teresa

Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 13

My Love

I have but scant moments to transcribe this latest missive, so forgive my scrawled handwriting. Using a crayon on a toilet roll doesn’t help, to be fair. I chose the pink crayon because it reminds me of you. Wink wink.

Anyway, all this talk of wax-based colouring implements is a ludicrous digression for one in such a perilous position as myself. It can only be beaten in the unnecessary information stakes by the previous statement explaining that it was a ridiculous waste of time. I think you can see where this paragraph is likely to lead if I’m not careful, so I will curb my enthusiasm for the minutiae of letter-writing digression etiquette.

I should probably get on with my tale.

This day began like any other in the treehouse. I awoke in my makeshift hammock (made from assorted supermarket-branded cereal packets), looking ragged and unkempt, yet still electrically sexy. It’s quite incredible how good I look given the circumstances. When I eventually come to, I usually just shake my head in the manner of a dog who’s just got out of a lake. This works wonders on my luscious locks and I look like I’ve just stepped out of a salon. Literally. Once my hair is pimped, I find myself psychologically ready for the perverted one’s pre-breakfast poem.

I have to listen to one of his odious odes every single morning and not one of them is any good. If I didn’t know better I’d almost think that he was making them rubbish on purpose. His grating Teutonic tones do not help matters much. The rhymes might seem a bit better if they were read out by Felicity Kendall or someone of that ilk. This morning the fiend appeared before me wearing naught but a child’s Darth Vader mask and a terry towelling bath robe. The mask was so small that it barely concealed his face. As always, however, he wore face paint under his plastic mask. Today’s design was that of a baby panda. It occurred to me that the design of a sick puppy would have been more appropriate. If the mask did a poor job of covering his face, then the bath robe was even less successful at concealing his modesty. Let’s just say that the fruits on the barbarian’s plum tree are dangerously overripe and would need thoroughly disinfecting before you even considered eating them.

I thought that I would get some respite when he started to read the verse, as he insists that I close my eyes while he performs them. He says that it will focus my mind on his words and help me to paint a picture in my mind. Sadly his wrinkly testes are burned into my retinas for all eternity and my imagination is not strong enough to overcome the noxious image. For this reason, I actually paid attention to the poem. In the words of Run DMC, it goes a little something like this:

Ooh la la

Da Kitty ist here

There’s a party tonight

Do you like beer?

 

You look so handsome

I want you to dance

I’d feel your muscles

Given half the chance

 

My friends they are coming

The treehouse floor will bend

Oh my sweet Clarence

Will you come to a sticky end?

 

Oh, how they’ll want you

With jealousy they’ll rage

But Kitty keep you safe

Locked up in your cage

 

Oh, sweet Eileen. The words of the rhyme rang shrilly in my beautiful barnet. The message contained within seemed clear. He was either going to kill me or bum me into next week. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, my sweet potato. You think that I’m reading too much into it because you always see the best in people. Come on, Eileen! Wake up. This kitty character is a molester of the highest order and I didn’t intend to stick around long enough for his plans to ‘come’ to fruition.

As usual, the rapscallion departed straight after the recital. It’s almost as if he goes off to do a day job away from his demented crimes. It’s quite laughable though, who would employ such a troll? His exit from the treehouse is the cue for sweet, demented Theresa to bring me my breakfast. The wench has been going to night school for the past few weeks to study ‘gordon blue’ cuisine. I had assumed that her primitive brain had simply misunderstood the phrase ‘cordon bleu’, however, after trying some of her meals, I assume she is just having lessons from some guy called Gordon Blue. He can only work in a greasy spoon at best, and it seems unlikely that he has any Michelin stars at all. Today’s concoction consisted of: a can of shandy bass, a plate sized Yorkshire pudding filled with minced beef crispy pancakes and croquette potatoes and half an Arctic roll (melted). To be fair, I wolfed it down like a wolf.

I had hoped that as she collected my plate that I would be able to probe her. For information! I wouldn’t touch her with yours, if you had one, which you obviously don’t. Luckily, I did not need to turn on the charm (although the tap of charisma only has to be tweaked to get Theresa gushing for Clarence), and she filled me in on the forthcoming evening’s events. Apparently tonight is Halloween. I had completely lost track of time in my isolation and was crushed to realise that I had missed the opportunity to flog loads of pumpkins. I hope that the shop is being run properly in my absence. I can only imagine that the proportion of customers that are horny housewives has radically declined since my incarceration. Anyway, that was another flamboyant digression and we all know how I feel about those.

Theresa continued. It seems that every All Hallow’s Eve, the notorious DNK hosts his annual ‘spooky disco’ for his whole network of local sex offenders. As if this wasn’t horrifying enough, Theresa informed me that I would be the star attraction at the shindig. Now, I can totally understand why that would be, I’m gorgeous, but I really don’t like to be treated like a piece of meat. Especially not by someone who wants to molest\murder me. The news galvanised my resolve to escape from the treehouse on this very day.

The rest of the morning was taken up with me scheming and getting exactly nowhere. The fortifications in the treehouse are staggeringly thorough. The main problem is all the barbed-wire, which is easy enough to clamber over, but it might result in some minor cuts and grazes to my ruggedly handsome face. There are some things that I am not prepared to sacrifice in order to secure my freedom.

In the afternoon, Theresa returned to the Kitty’s den in order to prepare me for the evening’s ‘entertainment’. She told me that I would be expected to dance for all their guests within a giant gilded cage. I’ve got great natural rhythm and so my mind instantly began to think of which of my favourite moves I could bust. I just couldn’t help myself. It’s a burden being so erotically charged. Theresa informed me that I would be expected to wear a special outfit in the cage. I hoped that it would be something like a pair of leopard-skin speedos. Something that I could really show my abs off in. Alas, my sexy attire was never destined to be something as clichéd as animal-print swimming trunks.

The wench, dressed a in cheap, PVC maid’s outfit that made me gag, started to prepare me. She stripped me naked, but never fear, my dear, it was the least sexual experience of my life. Theresa seemed to be enjoying it, though, and she was breathing all weird. You can’t really blame her, can you? I am a magnificent animal. She first washed me all over using anti-bacterial handwash. It was the cleanest that I’d felt for weeks, but it did mean I smelled of vodka. After the cleansing, I was anointed by a good quality, extra-virgin olive oil. At least that’s what she said it was. I suspect that it was probably chip fat.

After this, she began to dress me. I can barely describe the outfit that I was subjected to, but I’d better try or it won’t be much of a letter. To be fair, the outfit is quite easy to describe, I just don’t really want to. I was forced to wear an elephant thong underneath my ensemble. You know, those ones where you have to put your John Thomas in the trunk. This is the only part of the outfit that I would wear under other circumstances. Over this I was given a skin tight orange romper suit, with buttock peep holes. Where you would get such a garment from I cannot imagine. Theresa probably made it. Attached to the romper suit, in the region of my belly button, the was a sheriff’s badge from a child’s cowboy set. On my left foot was a pink wellington boot, on my right was a patent leather stiletto. My face was covered by an old pair of Theresa’s tights. I won’t comment on the stench. On the top of my head was the original woolly hat as worn by Benny out of Crossroads. I looked utterly ridiculous, and yet still somehow managed to pull the look off.

After Theresa had finished pampering me (I mean after she dressed me, I wasn’t wearing a nappy), she stood and looked at me with a certain look in her eyes. She’s quite gozzy so I’m not entirely sure, but I took it to be the look of love. My chance had arrived. I am ashamed to say it, my love, but I wooed like I had never wooed before. I don’t want you to worry your pretty little head too much though, it was purely a faux-woo. I took Theresa under my metaphorical wing and flapped for all I was worth. I complimented her wantonly on her many folds of flab, telling her that I was enamoured with the ‘curvy’ lady. I said the the smell of peanuts in her hair was driving me wild with desire. I told her that my heart belonged only to her. How I wish I hadn’t said those words, but, to be fair, they certainly paid dividends.

Before I knew it, Theresa was gushing hot, salty (and surprisingly rusty) tears down my romper suit. In her muddled English she let me know that she loved me and wished for me to make ‘scooby doo’ inside her. I didn’t enquire exactly what that meant. I dread to think. I leapt at my chance for freedom. I told the demented harridan that the only way that we could truly love one another was if I was set free and we could run away together. She seemed to believe it; what a sucker. I’m being a little harsh, I suppose. People tend to believe anything that they are told by devastatingly attractive people. I know that I believe everything that I tell myself. It sometimes gets me into trouble.

I had by this time formulated a plan to escape and I informed Theresa of the part that she would play in it. I couldn’t be sure that she would follow through, both out of loyalty to the Kitty and because she seems really, really thick. My fingers were crossed. But that was only because of the weird gloves that I had been forced to wear. I forgot to mention those earlier, sorry about that.

I sat anxiously in my cage and waited for the party to start. It was only when I heard the strains of Agadoo wafting up from the Kitty’s ghetto blaster did I know that things were on the move. It was still early, so DNK was fussing around with his tuxedo and straightening his Dooby Duck mask. Theresa was attending to the buffet. She’d obviously gone to a lot of effort but it looked like roadkill. Actually, it might just have been roadkill. Eventually, his guests started to arrive. I had expected the treehouse to be packed to the rafters, but only 3 guests arrived. I suppose that his social group is rather…niche. My cage was lowered so that I could be introduced to the visitors. They all looked as big a dick as the Kitty himself. They were:

That Creepy Mouse – he seemed to be an acolyte of DNK and clearly modelled himself on his idol. He wore a homemade mouse mask, that he’d drawn on the back of a washing powder box. His accent was trying to be German but sounded more Welsh.

Super Pervy Lemon – a true one off, dressed entirely in yellow and communicated entirely in morse code. He said that he’d like to be rubbed on my ‘pancake’.

Dave – he was wearing a simple black mask, with jeans and t-shirt. Apparently he hadn’t ‘graduated’ and so had not yet earned a sex-crime-name. He had a worryingly hopeful glint in his eye.

Let’s just say that I didn’t really warm to any of them. After I had been paraded, the curtain was shut around me and the cage was hoisted. Part of me longed to perform as I know how much they would love seeing my body in action. Alas, I had other things on my mind.

Theresa was sent up the ladder to my cage to give me my final preparations before performance. The four perverts stared avidly at the cage and barely noticed as she descended from the cage and left the treehouse. Perhaps they should have paid closer attention because it was not Theresa at all. Can you guess, my love? Can you guess who it really was that left the treehouse? Well, yes, it was obviously me.

In a ruse worthy of a really bad film, Theresa and I swapped clothes and I made my escape like a croissant into the night. I just hoped that Theresa could fool them long enough for me to get away. In some ways, I prayed that they would realise straight away because it’s completely humiliating to be confused with that sad, old bag. Obviously, the plan did work because I’m able to write you this letter.

I’m currently sat in a hedge, and that is all I know. I ran for two hours solid before I dared rest and this hedge looked mighty welcoming for a rest. There’s a friendly hedgehog in here with me, and I hope that if I smile nicely, he will make me a cup of tea. I’m on my way back to you, my darling. Never give up.

Yours hedgily,

Clarence

 

A Hazard of Parsnips-Chapter 10

Dearest Eileen

O, my love! Please heed my speedily penned missive of love and terror. Both in Equal measure. I have not much time, my love, so please forgive any mistakes I make. If I miss an apostrophe here, or even maybe, turn it the other way around, in sheer  terror, please turn your beautiful cheek, clench your beautiful buttocks and steel yourself from the knowledge that I lay before you.

O, I know how much pain it will cause you, my lovely horse, to learn that this slab of man has been man-napped and man-handled to a secret destination known only as ‘The celestial treehouse’.  Around me, I’m unsettlingly nestled amongst queasy curios and artefacts. To my sinewy left is a map of Africa, anatomically correct dolls, a poster of the Bristol Stool Scale, and an effigy of Keith Chegwin, crafted from electrical wire.  To my muscle-bound left is a poster of Dieter Brummer, Home and Away’s tragic hot potato/spunk.  His death was like a light going out as far afield as Yabbie Creek, nay, ‘The City’.  My nostrils are filled with the earthy stench of, Brillo pads, Cuprinol and I gag and splutter at the cloying smell of Billy Onion (I mean B.O. but I didn’t want to upset your delicate sensibilities. I hope I did not., but I must paint you an accurate picture, my crushed grape, to help you, and the authorities, find me, like a soiled nappy).

I do not know how long I have been festering here in the celestial treehouse. I am tied to a partially inflated lilo with the legend ‘I had a great time in Ashton Under Lyme’.  My gaoler did not reveal himself to me until yesterday. For 4 days my sustenance was delivered to me by a mute woman with a sharp eye and a polyester garment. Her arse was shiny and her glance was shrewd and mean, as she regarded my quivering, manly body. I hazard a guess that she was probably wondering if I work out, or I’m just naturally hunky.  It’s a bit of both to be honest. I do like to look after myself. Not overly though. I’m no Jeff Banks. Everyday, so far, the same. She brings me 3 square meals on a hamburgular plate sitting impertinent, high on a tray, with what I can only describe as a comfy underside to it, like the underside of a hovercraft, but filled with beans.  This allows the tray to be placed on the tray-recipients lap, like a hot weasel, nestling on  one of the London Boy’s hats.  If the situation wasn’t so imminently threatening, I daresay this ‘comfy tray’ would have me punching the air. My water is thrust at me in a plastic ‘Espania ‘82’ World Cup memorabilia cup by the sullen wench. She pushes it to my full, but not girly lips, and grunts and bids me “Drink. Drink”.  As she withdraws the cup, the orange’s happy face seems gut turningly out of place in this horrid mess of an abduction. I later came to know my gaolers’ puppet as ‘Teresa’. 

Teresa.

But who tweaks Teresa’s strings now, my love?

I’ll answer for you. Me. Maybe…

Back to the landlord and host of my misery.

It was only on day four that he revealed himself to me. Before he happened upon me, Teresa hurried up, wearing a black and red polyester basque.  “Oh Clarence.  He vill visit you today. He vill tell you all about vote ee is doing today. You must be gut Clarence. Do as he says, Clarence”.  I had managed to get the impossible wench to speak to me by being good looking and manly, the day before. I knew that this slattern was no different from other women, and would soon fall, so powerless within my grip. After, all, was it not these same good looks that loosened your bowel on that fateful day in the Skem Concourse? Yes, it was.

She then began spraying the air fiercely, with an atomiser, with a curious concoction contained within. She punctuated jerkily all over the treehouse, reaching into the very corners, pumping the spray and punching it into the stale air.  I sniffed the acrid perfume of vinegar that permeated the dead atmosphere of my cabin. “Teresa, what is that uncommonly awful odour? I beg you to bestow on me such knowledge!”

“oh Clarence, ee vants me to spray ze air viv vinegar.  Ee thinks bad theengs vil appen if I do not pervorm this ritual”

“what manner of nonsense is this, Teresa, I beg you? Does your master have you fulfilling this oddity of a duty into every room  that hosts his arrival?”

“oh yes Clarence. Before ee announces his import to a chamber, even our bedroom, ee as me spraying this air with vinegar.  Sometimes he makes me chant the words “I spray the air with my brave powder, I jump from the highest shelf in the cupboard. Nothing can hurt me when I’ve used my brave powder. Not even James Pritt-Stick”.

Well, my love, it was all I could do to stop myself guffawing in the wretches care-worn face. But before I could bellow my mirth, I was caught by a great sadness in her eyes. A Sadness like when the plastic safety tab on a bottle of asprin breaks, imprisioning the precious medication and sealing your headache doom.

“Teresa” I purred softly

“yes Clarence”

“If you were my woman, I’d spray the air with my vinegar gun to herald YOUR arrival”

It was as if I’d unleashed a raft of emotion, as the tears coursed down her face.  The face that graced the cover of ‘Carer’s Digest’ in 1989, I later came to learn.   She looked searchingly into my wide, but not feminine eyes, eyes wobbling from side to side like Tania in Footballer’s wives. Frank didn’t deserve her! The Perpetual Oaf! In any event, she looked into my eyes, and for an agony of ecstasy she softened and I thought she might just about do owt and I thought I could make good my escape with a few secrets (and maybe a few months where I couldn’t look in the mirror) but then He poured in.

“Teresa! Are you being a naughty kitty?”

My heart stopped.

What in the name of What Katie Did Next was this…this…beast?

O, my delicate constituitoned sickly peardrop, I do not know how much your delicate stomach will permit me to describe…let me advance you this well meaning advice, please fetch a sturdy bib for the contents of this letter, and possibly your stomach, will now unfold further…

How can I begin?  Probably his shoes.  They were Hi-Tec trainers… Hi-Tec?  I wouldn’t be seen dead in such fallacious footwear, and so I immediately espoused this fellow’s nefarious intentions.  Next, he was wearing the bluest of blue jeans.  A shade of blue that should never been seen in any modern denim, and could only instantly make me exclaim: ‘sex pest’.  This did not bode well for the integrity of my internal organs.  The denim work-slacks were also stained in a most distinctive manner.  There was a brown sauce stain in the shape of Argentina on his left leg, and a picture of Fred Flintstone on his right.  Perhaps they were trendy once upon a time, but today they merely smacked of jumble sale.  Needless to say, he was beltless.  It had probably been confiscated.  The waistband of the jeans was suspiciously high. To this day, I do not know if he had extremely short legs or it was merely an optical illusion caused by the high-waistedness.  Alas, I have lingered upon his nether-zones for far too many a minute, and mickelmas is rapidly approaching.

I should now move on to his torso.  Almighty Zeus, this man was quite, quite rank.  His torso was enrobed in what I can only describe ‘uncouth’.  On  it bore the legend ‘sex instructor: ask me for a demonstration’ with a suggestion of where a lady should place her hands.  Clue: it wasn’t gentlemanly.  This rogue was bringing a mix of emotions in me, the twin shit-zus of repulsion and disgust where chasing the wild hog of rage. I could barely contain my spirits when he turned his gaze to me.

“Oh look at you! Your eyes zey are all open and awake! Oh and what beautiful eyes, ja (he was right-after all) but beautiful in a manly way  (I couldn’t fault the observational prowess of this wretch) you look like a young Dale Winton, ja, doesn’t he Teresa?  TERESA?”

“Yes, my love”

“Ja.  Oh my god Teresa, you never pay me much attention. Maybe you were transfixed by Dale’s dancing eyes? I is knowing zat I was, I almost took a trip to Hunkytown.  Oh won’t you take me to, a Hunkytown! Oh I am making an eighties song based joke!”

Teresa blanched.  She was literally white.  Well, not literally, she was generally flesh-coloured, in a way. Anyway, my point is this: I’m so hungry.  Secondary, to this, is the fact that Teresa was humbled and scared – it was like thunder, lightning – the way he treated her was frightening.   I had to knock on wood. Baby.  Fortunately, the treehouse was made from wall-to-wall wood, and so I was spoilt for choice.  To be honest, there was almost too much wood to choose from, and it sort of robbed any pleasure I could get from the situation.  I hate it when there’s too much choice.  It’s exactly the same with chocolate bars these days.  What’s wrong with just a Mars and a Twix?  Honestly. 

While I was pondering this deep, almost existential dilemma, thus proving my depth and intellectual ability to you, my glossy pamphlet, the colour has returned to Teresa’s countenance. It was then my senses became aware of her master’s countenance. Where was it? You won’t know this, unless your eyes can see across distance, time and plastic masks.  Which of course they can’t. Your eyes are distinctly average. Very much in the seeing sense.

 It was concealed [his face] .

Behind an mask of the popular character Orville.

Oh I love that guy, but I hate that monkey.

Oh my god I’m so handsome!  I became increasingly aware how lucky I am not to wear a mask, although sometimes I think I should as it’s so unfair to other people. Very much in the face sense.

I apologise, my petit pois, my own rugged good looks have again made me digress from the task at hand – securing my very freedom from this den of iniquity.  Ergo, this very matter is forthwith in my conclusions.  You see? Good.  I’ll continue.

The Orville-masked freak continued to prowl around his actual parlour and I could see his beady eyes weighing up my man-package from behind his plastic concealment.  I felt like a prize marrow from within my own shop window.

My captor then reached into his Hi-Tec suit of the track jacket and pulled out a scruffy looking scroll, that, upon closer inspection, was a letter from the Benefits Agency.  He unravelled the scroll, took a deep breath and read in his best poetry voice:

“Hello Clarence

How are you today?

I hope you is feeling

Nice and Gay!

The Naughty Kitty wants to play

Then we will watch Home and Away!”

“Oh, Clarence, i love Dieter Brummer. He’s such a spunk, ja?”

I couldn’t deny it, my Billy Bookcase, DB is, indeed a spunk.  However, this sinister poetry made my mind jump and flip like a jive bunny record…what does he mean by ‘play’? Does he mean ‘gay’ in the ‘happy’ sense or does he mean it in the ‘touching men’s bottoms’ sense?  Oh god what can this all mean? I wouln’t mind watching Home and away though.  I’ve not watched TV for ages.

And now, my love, I must quickly away, I can hear Teresa playing ‘Yell-Instant Replay’ which usually means my captor is on his way. He says it clears the air of ‘nasties’.  Please know that I am alive, for now, but I know not for how much longer. Teresa agreed to carry this missive to the local postbox.  Forgive me my love, for I had to flirt and love-make to get her to take this. I do believe her quite taken with me. Of course. Standard. To be fair, who can blame her? Not me. I’m pretty hunk-some.   Please my love, god speede and get help. Contact the local constabulary and alert them to my current situation and give them what clues that they can glean from this beautifully terrorful epistle. I am sure they will think me most brave, and if you show them a recent likeness, also very handsome, like a young burt Reynolds.

I am content and safe in the knowledge you won’t be shagging around.

I love thee

Clarenc e