Kowalksi’s Lament, part 2, a Hazard of Parsnips mini story

Goddamit. Damn it.

Kowlaksi had pinned all his hopes on Sherby57 and now he was wondering why he saw fit to do so.

Ever since Kowalski had become conscious of being drawn to DI Ian, he had been in a maelstrom of despair that only Amaranto clothing can abate. Yes. The only thing that Kowalski had found that regulates his emotions is Amaranto/Papaya Clothing, Matalan’s own brands. That and his Daewoo Matiz. Sure, the other police officers in New York and St. Helen’s found it a bit fruity and continental, but there was no telling what Kowalski might do in a fit of road rage. He played it safe and drove the soothing Matiz. Kowalski was certain that a strapping hunk like him could do some serious damage with a Kowalski tongue-lashing  and he wasn’t that much of a loose cannon that the authors previously suggested he was. Chief Inspector Acorah had repeatedly informed Kowalski that he wasn’t too big to be spanked across his knee. CI Acorah’s secretary and guiding light, Sam, would whisper inaudibly that it was no longer appropriate to say those sort of things and remember what happened to Inspector Saville.

Kowalski had ‘rocked’ up to Sherby 57’s late at night to seek his advice. Kowalski had heard that what Sherby57 didn’t know about love, Haddaway could only ask questions about. Sherby 57 had spent a large part of his young manhood under the tutelage of ‘Style’ and ‘Mystery’ the reknown pick up artists (PUA) and had cultivated a PUA character of his own (Casio’)who could pick up a girl before you could say ‘playboy bunny tattoo’.  Style and Mystery had heard that St. Helen’s and Widnes had the most rocking potatoes and hot bitches and had made a bee line for this chick-topia. There they had ‘hooked up’ (not had sex with) Sherby 57 and they had rewarded his knowledge of the area with dark arts in cat-string-theory.

Kowalski began hammering on Sherby57’s door. It had come off the hinges and was beginning to stick within the door frame. Sherby stood there benignly as this hulking Yank began fixing the frame and sanding the edge of the door.

During this spot of spontaneous DIY Kowalski’s story came tumbling out between sobs. Sheila, crude drawings, Der Naughty Kitty, Clarence and Ian. Sherby 57 knew all of this as he had partly written the story in the pub with World of Sheds but he kindly heard out the sobbing man until all that was left was a dried up husk. Sherby had left it there around breakfast time as he couldn’t stand shredded wheat and delighted that it might torment the post man as he was morbidly scared of Donald Trump. Kowalski was still standing next to it with his hammer and sandpaper in hand looking hopeful.

Sherby cocked his head and leg to one side as he listened intently.

“Listen Kowalski”

Kowalski drew near. So near that Sherby could smell Kowalski’s scent. It was ex-clam-ation! which was quite a feminine scent. Sherby liked it so he wasn’t going to judge, but he liked Angel by Thierry Mugler better.

“there’s only one way to turn you back on to women as you hope”

“yes” breathed Kowalski and closed his eyes ready to receive the learned information he craved.

Sherby57 took this to mean that Kowalski was trying to keep flatulence from escaping. So he lit at match and shooed his cats away from the door so Kowalski couldn’t blame them.

“Listen, Kowlaski, you’ve got to read fifty shades of grey. The whole friggin’ trilogy. It’s the most erotic thing ever written. That is your only hope. Either that or ‘Riders’ by Jilly Cooper. It’ll really have you fancying the birds if that’s what you want”.

“yes it is”

“It’s alright to fancy fellas Kowalski. I mean I don’t and wouldn’t, but it’s alright for you to”

Kowalksi glowered at Sherby and stormed off in the Matiz. He drove straight to the Matalan in Wigan and emerged only when the security guards roughly manhandled him out.

To be continued.

Kowalski: a Hazard of Parsnips spin off-mini adventure

Kowalski groggily opened one eye. Like a sleepy Cyclops  he contemplated getting up. He stared at the outfit he had laid out on the corby trouser press for the day ahead  Sure, it was a challenge to accessorise the trouser press he carried round with him ritually, but Kowalski makes his own fashion statements, even if they were really heavy and cumbersome. 

He had carefully chose his finest corduroy pants, tan bomber jacket, wide tie and striped shirt. He hadn’t worn shit this fancy to work since he used to meet Sheila on his lunch break. 

SHEEEILLLLA! Why did you have to be a crude drawing! A sketch. A rendition of a woman. Then STOP. What? 

Kowalski scanned his thoughts, guardedly. Like a guarded thought-scanner. He was thinking the usual thoughts about his beloved wife, Sheila, but yet…something was different. 

Kowalksi was usually old school. He subscribed to Aaron Beck’s postulations that it is not the events themselves that causes our distress, rather the way we think about it. Theoretically, if two men experience the same event…say their wife had been part of a hot body show, they could have totally different emotional reactions. Their emotional reactions would be modulated by their thoughts about that event.  One man might think “wow, my lady is a total hot slag. Fuckin ace” the other ” my wife is broken and ruined and I am less of a man” leading to feelings on the sad spectrum. Like those men, Kowalski had always been broken by his thoughts of Sheila. 

However, today was different. Today he was thinking the usual thoughts, but the emotion was different. Almost as if his conviction in his grief about Sheila had waned. He was so used to these thoughts, they were second nature, they were automatic. But now those automatic thoughts had been replaced by a disbelief, a challenging of his own thought process. 

Am I still sad? Kowlaski solemnly regarded his countenance in the mirror. This was no mean feat from being in bed and the mirror being located 6 foot up the wall. 

No. I am not. 

Fuck. 

So what has my sadness been replaced with?

The answer came as a tentative whisper in the form of a crumpled, listless, police officer. 

Ian. 

Detective Inspector Ian Detective Inspector.

That’s why he had become more careful over his appearance. That’s why he’d been in the gym pumping his muscles. That’s why he’d been shaving his legs every day. That’s why he’d been carrying the trouser press. That’s why he’d joined Linkedin. 

Kowalksi was rattled to his very foundations. What WAS he? He’d always thought of himself as straight down the (drawn) line. He was attracted to crude sketches of women, not real life, living, breathing, rippling, writhing, sweating men. 

There was nothing else for Kowalski to do. He trashed the entire road and all the villages in a ten mile radius and then spent three hours in Matalan. God he was confused. 

There was only one man who could help him. 

That man was Sherby57…

To be continued…

 

 

Hazard of Parsnips: Chapter 16

 

Dear Diary

O my head is in such a whirl! I can scarce contain my ebullience. I feel like a rabbit with a balloon! Oh, diary (can I call you Dave?) I hardly know where to start. So many conflicting feelings, so many thrilling, stomach churning thoughts occupy my consciousness, they tumble out like corks out of a tombola.

Dave, the incident room has been full of heavy tension for so long. Kowalski and I have been glowering at each other for many weeks like tigers circling each other, ready to rip out each other’s gizzards. Ever since Kowalski alighted on these shores, I’ve felt him to be watching me like a solemn hawk. Often, I would find myself on the phone, following a promising lead as to the whereabouts of the elusive Crapper, and I would look up from my notebook, to see his fierce amber eyes fixed on me from above the puzzling Panini sticker album (I wonder if he’d swap me a Peter Crouch or A Zooby Zaretta?). I’d look away quickly, feeling a sense of shame, and my stomach would lurch from the threat.

One day, events unfolded in their mundane usual way. Acorah stared at Sam’s arse and pretended to be American when Kowalski was around, Kowalksi spend his usual abnormal amount of time reading the paper with his mouth set in a firm, grim line and I telephoned the wife after some particularly bothersome thoughts that I experienced. She reassured me, as she usually does. What a girl. I might take her home something nice. Maybe a farm store pizza for tea tonight. Might need to grate a bit more cheese onto it. She sometimes complains they’re al bit threadbare, which I don’t necessarily agree with . Then the phone rang. DC Bottle answered, as I was still a bit unsteady. As I looked up from my notepad where I had been sketching Garfield, I noticed the colour had drained from DC Bottle’s normally green face.

“Chief” he quivered, voice breaking slightly as he held out the telephone.

Kowalski was eyeing me, giving me the ups and downs. I felt compelled to deal with this in the most authoritative manner I could muster. Wish I had some brave powder.

“Hello, Detective Inspector Ian Detective Inspector”

A bolshy, yet exultant voice met my name based statement.

“Ian! It’s Eileen! He’s gone! He’s  still alive and he’s escaped!”

I stood up for effect, but it was good news as well, to be fair.

Despite this, a thrill shot through my usually languid, crumpled body as Kowalski looked over at my form. That got your attention, you arrogant Yank. Standing up, I mean. Must try that again.

“OK, OK, slow down” I begged her and her words tumbled out insensibly peppered between delirious laughter and tears of relief. Get the fuck on with it, sister. I’ve got criminals to catch.

“Ian, oh Ian. Clarence has escaped from the Kitty. He’s wrote me a letter, Ian, there’s so many clues my brave, brave stud has left us, we are sure to find this fiend and stop him before he commits any more atrocities on the sturdy of limb and the ferociously virile”

By this point, I’d put the histrionic mare on speaker phone and at this last comment Kowalksi looked decidedly scared. I could tell he was fearing his own personal safety from DNK. Lord Above, did this yank’s arrogance know no bounds, I thought. No. Came the all too forthcoming answer. This also came from my brain as this was very much an internal dialogue. Oh, Dave, I don’t need to tell you. You understand.

“We’ll be straight round” I informed Miss Bilton. I could feel the sickening drop of adrenaline coursing through the rollercoaster of my blood stream. I realised I needed a massive dump. Damn adrenaline.

As I exited the shitter, Kowalski was loitering around the door, like a bad smell around a worse smell.

“I’m comin with you” he growled.

“fine” I snapped, “but we’re taking my car. I ‘aint gettin’ in no Daewoo Matiz”.

Kowalksi looked a bit put out, but nodded his assent. “I’ll drive” he conceded he leaned towards me.  I could feel his hot breath on my moustache, and he looked into my eyes for just too long. I became uncomfortable and wondered what he was doing. His gaze was unwavering and my heart started thudding like some unholy workmen around my wrecked heart. I was frozen, light a moth in the headlights or a rabbit to a flame and I stared back, not daring to move. My head was spinning, I didn’t know whether he was going to headbutt me or grab me by the throat. He must really love thatMatiz.

Then his hand shot into my trouser pocket. I felt sick. What the fuck???

His gaze was steady, he never tore his eyes from mine.

A small gasp escaped from my lips, I surprised myself. What was he going to do in my trouser pocket, and how long was he going to do it for?

“Long enough”, my brain answered back. I silently told it to shut up. Thoughts do tend to be silent Dave, as they are largely internal experiences.

A slow smile spread across Kowalksi’s face as he drew back from me. He threw something sparkling in the air and caught it in his hand. The keys to my Bedford Rascal.

“let’s go” he said

I gingerly followed him, the thud of blood still loud in my ears. I’d have a chance to recover from our alarming encounter on the way to Bilton’s.

The Rascal rocked like a rollercoaster car as Kowalski jumped in. I wrapped my seatbelt around me, and grabbed the bottom of the seat as if to brace myself. Kowalski fired up the Rascal and flew out of he car park. I had to call him back to get back in the van. Sadly, I couldn’t fly. This crazy yank.

When he got in the van, he threw the engine into first gear and screeched away. His command over the back roads of St Helen’s was so surprising for this new Yorker. Despite the many road works and traffic jams, he threw the car down back roads and across cuttings, like a local.

Kowalski thew the Bedford Rascal around the sexy curves of the st. Helen’s countryside. I found myself wondering what it would be like if Kowalski was following my curves as closely.  I bet it feels amazing, like when you got for a wee when you’ve been busting.  The cab of the rascal was close. Closer than Close. Too close for comfort and inevitably Kowalski’s masterful forearm brushed against my aching thigh whilst he ground the gears.  A jolt of wanton electricity shot through my frame and a shot I sly glance at Kowlski’s face. His rugged visage showed no emotion, as usual. I felt totally betrayed by my own emotions, and pictured myself as a gibbering, shaking, wreck. “Compose yourself, Ian. Compose yourself” I chastised myself. I desperately scrabbled for my faculties. Despite being nowhere near a university.

Soon, all to soon we were drawing close to Bilton’s estate.  I couldn’t help but feel both relieved and disappointed simultaneously, anxious that my outward appearance did not reflect the jumble and chaos crashing against my ribs but I yearned for this journey to go on forever,  at full throttle. To watch this man, to feel this… this, frisson.  It was surely an agony of ecstasy. An ecsony.

I couldn’t help but wonder how I would ever sit straight in the driver’s seat ever again feeling the imprint Kowalski’s impudent buttocks had made in the leatherette. The little lady would think it was her lucky day. The last time she had been even approaching ‘lucky’ in the ‘bumpy cuddles’ department was 5 years ago after the Rainford Turnip festival. The smell or cooked turnips is just so arousing, isn’t it Dave?

No sooner had we ground to a halt on Bilton’s gravel , she tumbled out of the door, breathless and gasping. She needed to work on her circus skills, that’s for sure. Stupid girl. She was gurning all over her stupid face and hugging Kowalski with her stupid arms.

 

 

 

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

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 12

 

Kowlaski took a swig of pitch black, bitter coffee and gasped, in a dramatic fashion. Boy did Gregg’s make good coffee. It was like he was back in New York. But with a load of limey fuckers who couldn’t do their job properly.   He grabbed a copy of the St.Helen’s champion, god these free papers were informative and full of important local issues. My god! World of Beds has a sale on! Goddammit some plucky broad has opened a nursery and organised a fundraiser. Whatta gal. She raised forty seven goddam pounds for those kids. Kowalski needs a broad like that.

His mind fluttered back , like the pages of the free paper, to ten years ago and his ex wife, Sheila.  God he loved that woman. They were solid as a rock for ten fucking years until one day he woke up from his sweet slumber to find that Sheila Kowalski was no more that a crude drawing on the back of a flyer for Marmaris Kebab house.  How could he have not seen the signs for so long. The fact she never asked him how his day was. She was a good listener and never bothered him with the trivialities of her day, she never got changed and she wouldn’t go out if it rained.  Kowalski silently wept internally. Ten years and all he had to show for it was paper cuts all over his body.  He looked like a goddam emo. Sheila!!!!!!!! How I miss your dry kisses!

He turned the page, roused from his self indulgent sorrow by the headline on page 15.

‘HOT BODY SHOW COMES TO OLDHAM’

Right, you feisty little headline. You have Kowalski’s full attention and I’m going to read you all over. I’m going to read you like you’ve never been read before. My eyes are gonna read every single one of your letters, oh yeah, I’m going to make you feel like a real story, like you’re the only motherfucking story in the whole goddam world, you bitch.

Kowalski liked to talk to newspaper stories like they were filthy little minxes that were playing with him. It was a habit that was a throwback to being married to a drawing of a woman for so long. It felt comfortable.

Kowalski read on, aroused. He’s eyes feverishly scanned the words, poring over them like when smash hits used to print the lyrics to songs. Kowalski soon became sensible of a archaic practise called a ‘Hot body Show’ which was some kinda goddam pageant for sexy bitches or something.  The people in Britain were going goddam crazy for these shows and to become number one, well, there was nothing that goddam matched it for these crazy limeys. Apparently there were qualifying shows in Bury, Burnley, Blackburn and Bolton and Oldham and the residents of Warrington and St. Helens were being whipped to fever pitch in excitement.  There was a picture of some tacky looking broads who were beaming like Veet was on offer at Bodycare or like Ethel Austin wasn’t going into administration, and doing an irritating ‘thumbs up’ gesture.  It was this that caught Kowalski’s attention.  Broads on paper. Sheilaaaaaa! I miss your inky hands.

Kowalski angrily scrunched up the paper, drained his coffee cup aggressively, and jumped in his Daewoo matiz and drove to work. It was very convenient having his car in the kitchen, but most people thought him quite odd. Fuck them. He could get to the A580 quicker than any of those losers.

He arrived at the cop shop buoyed up by the golden hour on Wish Fm. Visage: Fade to grey was throbbing through his veins like peawet.  God he felt alive! He had also a sense of satisfaction through avoiding a traffic hotspot. He had such a sense of mastery over the back roads of St. Helen’s, they were his badgers and he was their ring master. He had the top hat to prove it.

DCI Acorah’s PA gave him a flirty smile and looked him up and down appreciatively. He held her gaze in the palm of his hand and she looked away coyly.

“Where’s the chief, Sam, sweetcheeks”

Sam blushed and looked towards the DCI’s door.

Kowalski used his finely honed detecting skills and advanced body language reading-ship skills to deduce that that she meant that he was in his office.

“thanks gorgeous”

Kowalski knew she would be looking at his arse as soon as he turned around. It was obvious really. That she would look at his arse, not that his arse was obvious. Kowalski was used to people’s eyes burning a hole in his ass.

He barrelled into DCI Acorah’s office like a crazed madman cruising down the highway in a stolen mustang, with no regard for the hearts of all who stood close by.

Acorah’s face brightened instantly when he laid eyes on Kowalski’s rippling slacks.  This expression turned to one of concern when he saw the look on Kowalski’s face. This was one vexed cop.

“Morningn Kowalski. You look nice”

“shut it, you goddam sonofabitch”

Acorah flinched. He wasn’t used to being spoken to in this way unless he was paying for it.

Kowalski continued

“listen chief and listen good. This is one godawful cake and arse party of an investigation. You gotta smarten up this whole goddam scene or I’m quitting this investigation”

Kowalski rattled a chair for effect.

DCI Acorah stared at the chair in silence while he pondered the significance of such an action. This silence lasted for a good ten minutes before Kowalski broke it by letting out an audible trump. He hated silences. It reminded him of when Sheila wouldn’t talk to him because she was a crude drawing.

“Now listen Kowalski, er, you darn, er, punk. I’m going to take your badge and put it in the drawer if you don’t pipe down, son. I’ll touch your balls, if  you speak to me like that again”.

Sam sidled seamlessly in, like an apparition, and whispered in Acorah’s ear.

“sorry, I’ll crush your balls”

Sam nodded to indicate that this phrase was correct.

Kowalksi shot Acorah a puzzled glance.

“Chief, listen up. The other guy you got leading this laughable ‘investigation’ is leading it into a goddam cul de sac”

Kowalski reached into his leather jacket and pulled out the Panini sticker book that he’d been making notes in.

Acorah was baffled by Kowalski making notes in a football sticker book. He wondered whether he could swap him a bruce grobbellaar for a Kevin keegan.  He liked being called Chief. It made him feel like he was in NYPD Blue.

“ this joker, Chief…”

Acorah had stopped listening. He was just reflecting again on how much he enjoyed being called cheif. He wondered if he could pull of a new York accent.

“chief. This joker is putting Clarence Crapper in danger” He opened the sticker book. You couldn’t write much in these small boxes, thought Kowalski. How do these limeys do it. They must have really small handwriting, tiny typewriters’ or insects who take notes for them. Maybe scarab beetles. Boy would that be cool.

“you better have some goddam proof to substantiate that claim, Kowalski” snarled Acorah

“ooh this is such fun!” Acorah thought, internally. Where thoughts tend to be generated.

Kowalski raised a sexy eyebrow, shook his head and continued

“last week DI Ian Detective Inspector spent more time staring into space and glowering at me than he did looking at maps, drawing arrows on the maps and putting up pictures of suspects on the investigation room wall”

Kowalksi slammed his sticker album on Acorah’s desk to reveal a rather tidy pie chart to illustrate the proportion of time Ian had spent on various activities. He had even used a stencil to label each component of the pie. Acorah was quite surprised Ian spent so much time on ‘celebrity heights’ on the internet. Still, it was interesting to find out how tall famous people are.

“Crapper’s life is worth more than finding out how tall Billy Crystal is, Cheif” growled Kowlaski, as if reading Acorah’s thoughts. Acorah jolted. It was bad enough Sam appeared to know what he was thinking. He blushed remembering when Sam had confirmed that she did work out and she was wearing a black bra.

“He’s hindering the whole goddam investigation”

“Send him to my office” Acorah glibly instructed. Mouth set in a firm line.

“But if you’re wrong Kowalski, Your ass is mine”

Sam nudged him

“Sorry” Acorah cleared his throat and said loudly “Your ass is on the line!”

 

 

 

Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 11

Lord Dennis

It appears that I owe you some sort of apology. At this juncture, I am not entirely sure what sort it should be; by nature I am not inclined to give you any. I will have to consult with my father’s apologepedia as the soonest convenience, but we will proceed with this letter in a tone of general apologisement.

I should explain.

You may or may not be aware that my precious Clarence has been abducted. Well, it’s pretty obvious that you are aware of it since you were accused of doing it and incarcerated for a prolonged period. I cannot help but admit that I truly believed that you were responsible for this most heinous crime and I almost wet my bloomers with excitement when D.I. Detective-Inspector announced that you were under suspicion. Indeed, prior to this proclaimation of your arrest, it had seemed that the local plod were not going to take any action against thee and I had already begun the process of rounding up an angry mob from the local village. To be fair, it really doesn’t take a lot for them to get all riled up and they were all frantically polishing their pitchforks at the mere thought of becoming unruly. This is not a euphemism. Frankly, I thought that I was going to have to tell them that you’re a kiddy fiddler, but it seemed that they were more than happy to burn down your estate on the grounds of circumstantional evidence for a possible kidnapping of a vegetable salesman. The uneducated masses do come in handy occasionally.

I literally danced the fandago when the fuzz announced that you had been taken in for questioning. I played Temptation by Heaven 17 on my father’s stereogram and giggled merrily at the delicious irony. Then I remembered that dear Clarence was still missing and it was probably a tad inappropriate for me to be so happy. To make amends, I insisted that Mrs Jennings, our housekeeper, fed me a sour plum at once, in order to remove all traces of a smile from my oh-so-sexy countenance.

As we had no further reason to cause a riot, the villagers were at a loose end and had nowhere to channel their freshly pent-up aggression. As a compromise, I suggested that they go and throw a mixture of horse manure and salad cream through the bars of your cell. In hindsight, I’m semi-sorry that I asked them to do this.

But, oh! Lord Dennis, please try and understand the emotional turmoil that I was under at the time. Not only was uber-spunk Clarence missing, but the national press was intimating that Sir Robert Williams was about to leave the Take That Society. Yes, I will concede that he is an absolute cock, but I could not help but worry about the fate of Alderman Gareth Barlow and the rest of those fine fellows. Would this fine, upstanding band of brother be able to survive without Williams’ weak mock-rappery? It was almost too much for this delicate flower to bear.

I digress. Although my monolithic slab of manhood was in parts unknown, I felt confident that the bizzies would extract his location from your obstinate mug and that we’d soon be re-united in glorious romantitude. What I did not expect was the man Kowalski.

The first I knew of this ‘American’ was when he rapped on the door of my father’s manor to the beat of Tiger Feet by Mud. It was a most unusual knock and I instinctively knew that it forbode the arrival of a most extraordinary visitor. Our butler, Brandreth, announced the constable’s arrival and relayed to me that he was wishing to speak with myself most urgently. Now, I can assure you that I am not by nature inclined to bow down to the filth, but I could feel an almost tangible aura emanating from the parlour in which he resided, so I pulled on my leggings and decided to indulge my curiousity.

As soon as I entered the room, my senses were assaulted by a sheer weight of animal magnetism. It was like a giraffe had just stood on my foot. One cannot help but feel that it is most fortuitous that I am so enamoured of my Clarence or I could well have invited Monsieur Kowalski derriere le bins du Aldi, if one can derive my meaning. I took a few moments to compose myself and it was only then that I realised that Kowalski’s eyes had been tightly shut for as long as I had been in the room. Before I could pass comment, he spake:

‘Can you hear it? Can you hear it pumping on your stereo? Yes, it’s true. That, sweetcheeks, is the goddam bassline of justice and Kowalski is here to pluck it from your four pretty, little strings.’

His metaphor was stretched, to say the least, but his meaning was beyond question. From his very stance I could deduce that he was a man with more answers than questions – an unholy imbalance at the best of times – and for some unknown reason he had decided to rain his answers down upon me.

He was uncomfortably frank and within seconds he had mentally undressed me, redressed me in something more becoming and then mentally invited me out for dinner. If I had any blood vessels left in my cheeks (following my freak boating accident) I would have surely blushed so vividly that they could have used me as a lighthouse.

When he had completed this sexually charged visual interrogation, he informed me of the reason for his being there. He was 100% convinced that you were innocent and that some ghastly chap called Der Naughty Kitty (I’m not sure if this is his real name) was responsible. Apparently, this kitty character had even sent the pigs a letter proclaiming that he was indeed the culprit! As if to rub salt in my wounds, the man Kowalski even shew me the offending missive.

I must confess that I thought it was utter bollocks. A serial kidnapper\perv called Der Naughty Kitty? It sounded utterly preposterous. Clearly, it was you, Lord Dennis, that was responsible for the disappearance of my beloved and no jumped up, but undeniably saucy, yank was going to tell me any different.

I literally bit off the policeman’s head for wasting my time with his ridiculous theory and demanded that he leave my crib immediately. He sauntered out of the parlour like a rabbit who had just won a rollover on the Euromillions, whilst trying to conceal from his wife that he had won the lottery so he could try and sneak off and live the playboy lifestyle on the French Riviera. Frankly, I didn’t know what it all meant.

I was livid and could barely contain my rage. Indeed, I insisted that Mrs Jennings joined me in one of our Fight Society evenings in the basement of a local hostelry, and I took my frustrations out on her flabby face. I had a lot of explaining to do when father didn’t get his breakfast on time the next morning, I can tell you, but it was worth it. And dear Mrs J received four farthings from the tooth fairy, which paid for another bottle of gin. It was a win-win scenario. Regardless of the successful pugilism, I remained outraged. How dare this Kowalski try and use evidence to prove your innocence when I had decided on your guilt through tried and tested gut instinct. It was unconscionable.

Anyhoo, I was completely out of sorts for the entire next day. In an attempt to raise my spirits I sat around in my frilliest of lingerie, sometimes sucking a lollipop, at other times cuddling a giant novelty teddy bear. I felt that if I could engender some FHM-style knocker-based validation then my self-worth may have been boosted. Alas, there was only father around at this stage, and I must confess that it made me feel a tad uncomfortable to have him perving on my, admittedly magnificent, arse.

Things had become so dreadful that Brandreth actually beat me when we played along with Countdown. The man is virtually neanderthal, so I wasn’t impressed. In one round my longest word was ‘egg’. I’ll say no more.

Things did not get any better. I was just tucking into my egg and soldiers in front of the fire, whilst father watched Look North West, when the bulletin did nothing more than show your visage via the medium of photography. We listened intently to the reporter and you cannot imagine the shock we experienced when we learned that the man Kowalski had done nothing less than release you from prison. I was well miffed, put it that way. I was all for jumping in the Sierra and swinging by the cop shop – I was well ready to kick off on the jumped up little man and demand that he re-arrest you at once. There was no way that he should be letting you go when my precious Clarence was still incarcerated in parts unknown.

I rushed upstairs to my boudoir to re-apply my make up. Even if I was only going to have a barney with some bobbies, I still like to look my best. It was only then that I spotted a letter sat on my dressing table – and it was written in my Clarence’s uncultured but erotically erratic hand. Oh, how my heart did race. It was like I had been sniffing poppers. I immediately ripped open the crusty envelope and read with trepidation about the horrors that my Clarence had been made to endure. And that most shocking part? It appeared that this Naughty Kitty was real after all. It transpired that I had done you a shocking diservice, Lord Dennis. In a way, it’s your own fault for always acting like such a knob.

Immediately, I knew that I must share this note with the rozzers. I say immediately, but I had to stop off via the servant’s quarters to slap Brandreth around the chops for not giving me the letter sooner. To be honest, he’s far too old to still be of any real use. We only keep him on out of sentimentality – it’s hard to fire your first lover. I know that daddy feels the same way.

Needless to say that we soon headed off to the police station. I wanted to get my encounter with the hideous, yet compelling Kowalski out of the way as soon as possible. After reaching the SHPD HQ, I demanded to see the fiend immediately. He may have been right, and I may have been ever so slightly incorrect, but he was still a colonial and needed to be put in his rightful place. Disgracefully, they left me twiddling my thumbs in an interview room while they went to get him without so much as a cup of Earl Grey. The absolute heathens.

Thirty six minutes later and Kowalski languidly sauntered into the room wearing the tightest pair of Farah slacks that I’ve ever seen. They certainly didn’t leave a great deal to the imagination, so to speak. It was almost as if it was talking to me. It was frightful, and yet I couldn’t take my eyes from it.

My moment of shame came and went, thankfully Kowalski seemed too pre-occupied with the cut of Detective-Inspector’s jacket to gloat over my mistake. The one upside is that Clarence’s letter may just be the evience required for the old bill to finally bring him home to me. Oh how I’ve missed his ruggedness. He’s like a mystic outcrop somewhere in the North Sea. Metaphorically speaking. He’s actually nothing like that. He’s not surrounded by water or covered in bird crap.

So, the point that I’ve been trying to make is that I’m sorry for accusing you of this most terrible of crimes. Again, I will point out that if you weren’t such a bounder then I probably wouldn’t have leapt to such a conclusion. Just a bit of friendly advice.

A bientot.

Miss Eileen Bilton.

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

Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 9

Previously in A Hazard of Parsnips…

A love ignited

And also squashed

An insane rival

Vegetables washed

Strange goings on

Lord Dennis admonished

And worst of all

Clarence has vanished.

And now, A Hazard of Parsnips continues…

FROM THE DESK OF ASST. CHIEF CONSTABLE D. ACORAH

DI Detective-Inspector

My personal assistant, Sam, has just handed me your official letter of complaint (thanks, Sam).  I can understand your concerns with regards to our drafting in of external support, but the recent spate of kidnappings have literally spiralled out of control.  A bit like a crazy helter-skelter that doesn’t have one of those doormats to sit on.  We’re all getting our metaphorical bottoms burned here.

Anyway, it was not lightly that I took the decision to make a formal request to our brethren over in the Big Juicy Apple, and was delighted to hear that they were going to be sending us their best man.  I mean their best detective, not their ‘best man’ like at a wedding.  That wouldn’t be much use at all.  Unless he had to make a funny, yet touching speech, or maybe tie somebody to a lampost while naked, and possibly covered in shaving cream.  To be fair, those particular circumstances seem unlikely to arise during the course of a kidnapping investigation, but fingers crossed.

I feel confident that you will see past your complaint (Sam tells me that you’re a very forgiving person, and that your loved ones really miss you) and that you’ll give this Kowalski chap a good, old-fashioned Saint Helens Police Department welcome.  You’re probably best getting some party hats and streamers from B&M’s, something like that.  Anyway, I expect to see daily reports  on your progress and, of course, any gossip about this dashing Kowalski.

Yours

ACC Acorah.

P.S.

Sam tells me that you know somebody with a red car.  Does that mean anything to you? No? With the greatest respect, if you think hard enough about it, you’ll find that it does.

KOWALSKI’S LOG

MONDAY 28TH

An ill-wind blows through me.  Goddamn it, this boat stinks.

It’s the final day of my voyage to the old country.  I’m not sure which old country it is, I just know that it’s so old that the cobwebs have cobwebs.  It will be a relief to get off this christforsaken steam-ship.  The department would only cover me for a third-class ticket, so I’m stuck below decks with all the low-rents, two-bit Johnny Comeuppance merchants, Bobby Foreigners, Heebie Jeebies, the Spit-Spots and the, frankly, chair bonkers.  Christ, there’s no air to breathe.  Well, obviously there’s some air or I’d be dead.  I was being all metaphorical.  My god, it’s tough being Kowalski.

Those limey pricks have telefaxed me through their flea-bitten ‘evidence’.  These guys wouldn’t know a good, old-fashioned serial killer from someone who has murdered several people in a ritualistic way.  What am I gonna do with these jerks?  Am I going to have to put them over my knee, pull down their pants and underpants and give them a right, royal spanking?  They expect too much from me, I’m only one Kowalski, after all.  If the commissionar hadn’t tried to give me a hickey during the precinct’s Easter party then I’d still be beating up perps in Jockstrap Alley.  Saints above!  Why did nature make me this way?

Still, those guys have one good lead.  That letter from the kidnapper is one hell of a pervy read.  Any cop worth his salt would be suspicious of anyone who writes in a German accent.  Let’s just say that there’s more to this than meets the eye.  And when you meet Kowalski’s eye, you better be telling the truth or you’re gonna get a pistol-whip sandwich on rye.  Oh, hell yeah, I’m gonna catch you, you creepy sonofabitch, you mother-lickin’ creep.

You just need a name.

Kowalski’s the man to name you, you punk.

You say meow.  You’re a cat.

You’re trying to tease me.  You’re a kitty.

You’re a perp, but you’re playful. Oh so, naughty.

You’re suspiciously German….

Oh yeah. Der Naughty Kitty, that sums you up to a tee.

A golf tee that Kowalski is gonna drive his ball from. Straight into my hole of justice.  Kowalski is a hole-in-one kind of guy, now Kowalski just needs to find Kowalski’s caddy.

Maybe I’ll find one in merry old England.

Wish me luck.

DI DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR’S REPORT – TUESDAY 29TH

Sir

As requested, I provide my first daily report on the kidnapping investigation and the comings and\or goings of Kowalski.  I took my trusty police horse (Lucky) and side-car to the docks to meet the ship – a ship that could barely contain our Yankie colleague.  This is no slight on the quality of the shipbuilders’ workmanship.  Even the hold of the mighty Titanic would have strained at the seams and popped many a rivet, were it to attempt to house this raging juggernaut of a man.

Lucky became increasingly twitchy as we approached the port, it was most unlike her.  I could barely control her trot as we got within sight of the quayside.  Her nervousness was understandable, as I rounded the corner, I got my first glimpse of the man – his arrogance screamed at me like a painting by Munch.  There was something in the snarl of his lip and the angle of his hips that made me fear for my very soul.  He stood with his hand in his jacket pocket and a foot cocked up on top of his travelling chest.  It was a pose so jaunty that it made this proud Englishman throb the deepest crimson.  I awkwardly choked back my pride and approached.  Cautiously.  Like you might approach a hungry tapir.

I bade him my greetings and warily proffered my hand.  He merely growled and spat his tobacco stained sputum within an inch of my freshly polished brogues.  A chill ran through my body that I can barely describe, it was an unnatural mixture of ecstasy and terror that coursed through my veins.  My brogues were the finest that George from Asda had to offer and are my most cherished possession.  Not knowing what else to do, I gestured towards the horse and side-car and miraculously he lazily swaggered toward it.  I couldn’t help but notice, as he climbed into the vehicle, that his trousers, a particularly jazzy pair of Farah, were incredibly well fitting.  Perhaps he had a previous career as a fashion model.  I couldn’t help but imagine his toned physique gracing the catwalks of Paris, Milan or Salford.  Shamefully, he caught my gaze as I was picturing him strutting up and down in some trendy lederhosen and his stern glare gave me an instant rebuke.  My cheeks burned so hotly that you could have fried an egg on them.  In other circumstances this might have proved quite useful.

I digress.  We hurried back to the station, anxious to get on with some actual policework.  Kowalski did not speak a word to me, but continued to growl for the entire duration of the journey.  It made me feel like nothing less than a melon that had been squashed between two rather large, hairy buttocks.  My seeds scattered to the four winds and my succulent juices rapidly evaporating.

Thankfully, we soon reached SHPD HQ and, having had no indication of his intentions, I took Kowalski directly to the Quite Difficult Crimes Unit’s incident room.  Some of my best men were in atendance, including the shapely Bottle and the fragile egoed Glass, who have helped me solve many a conservatory based crime.  What would their reaction be to this uncultured, rough hewn slab of granite?

We would soon find out.  The growling subsided and we expected the awful, yet magnificent looking, man to speak.  What we did not expect for him to do was to begin furiously, yet with a chilling attention to detail, stripping the incident room of all its wallpaper.  He even got the kettle to generate some steam for the more stubborn areas.  I’ve never seen anything quite like it.  He was a frenzy of activity and the air was thick with flying shreds of paper.  It was rather like a rather extravagant ticker-tape parade given for the first chimp in space.

After an hour or two, the walls were completely bare.  Like a rabid wolf, he then began to bellow his own name at the top of his lungs: KOOOOWWWWWAAAALLLLLSSSSKKKKKIIIIIII!!!!!! for a full ten minutes.  When he’d finished, he simply took a sip of coffee and began some actual policework.  Luckily, I was able to take detailed notes:

KOWALSKI

Ok, you limey faggots.  Listen up and listen down.  Whatever you do, just goddam listen.  You been working this case for too freakin’ long and you ain’t even got the address of someone who may have a clue.  So, now you got Kowalski right up your asses.  Now, who’s in charge of this so called investigation?

IAN

Urm.  I believe that would be me.  I’m the…

KOWALSKI

Shut your goddam wiener-hole before I fill it with a piece of Kowalski.  I just got two questions for you:  where’s your goddam evidence room, and have you been working out?

IAN

Errm.  It’s just over there and I haven’t been working out, but I have been trying to watch what I eat.

I then promptly showed Detective Kowalski the evidence room and he pored over the 3 items that we have regarding Der Naughty Kitty (as Kowalski has decided to label the kidnapper).  After a few hours, he seemed to be purring like a kitten and we realised that he had fallen fast asleep.  We slowly left the room after gently laying a blanket over his prostrate, yet eerily masculine body.

Hopefully the investigation will begin in earnest tomorrow and prove that this is not all the massive waste of everybody’s time that it appears to be.

KOWALSKI’S LOG

TUESDAY 29TH – LATE

I just woke my ass up in this stinking, so-called evidence room.  These chumps wouldn’t know a decent piece of evidence if it walked up to them and introduced itself as Lord George Decent Piece of Evidence of DecentPieceOfEvidence-shire.  The pricks.

I’ve been dragged into a serial kidnapping case where the only clue they have is the letter from the kidnapper that I already know about.  The other two bits of ‘evidence’ are an old bus ticket, and a half eaten ‘hob-nob’ (whatever the hell that is).  None of these jokers know how they relate to the case.  Officer Glass thinks that they might have fallen out of his pocket.

The jerk-off in charge of this case, this Ian Detective-Whatshisface is one of the most surly, pompous jack-asses I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.  If I didn’t think he had the raw clay for me to mold a real detective from, then I would have kicked his butt from here to Coney Island.  And not just his butt.  The rest of his limey ass too.  I’ll keep him around for now, and just follow Kowalski’s Law: Keep your friends close, but keep pompous Limey dickweeds even closer.  Everybody knows Kowalski’s Law.  Especially Kowalski.

Geez, I need some more sleep.  I don’t understand this crazy country or how its police force works.  I found one of their police notebooks, called a ‘Panini Football 86 Sticker Book’.  Why it has that crazy name I have no idea.  And who is this Ian Rush? Why is his name next to a box.  Am I supposed to write in it?  Does it have to be about him?  Does Ian Rush even own a goddam box?Sheesh, it’s enough to turn a guy to Twinkies.

I’m gonna have to meet the DA tomorrow.  Hopefully he’ll be less of a tool.

Kowalksi Facts

This list of Kowalksi facts was compiled by sherby57 and I when we were out clubbing in P-Diddy’s flying nightclub in Widnes. There is enough gas in the air in widnes (chemical composition: 67% turnipium, 4% powergen and 99% liquid eyeliner) to keep this nightclub aloft, which is constructed from gravel, lead and the portable telephone from lethal weapon).

  • Kowalski assumes all english people can talk to spaniels.
  • At home, he crawls between rooms.
  • He had a crush on Helen Daniels, even though he’s never seen neighbours.
  • He is a post-modern cop and questions suspects from a point of curiosity and then ignores what they say.
  • He once had a wife, but one day he woke up and realised she was a crude sketch.
  • He loves Jilly Cooper novels as they are full of ‘romping’.
  • he has always wanted a open fire so when he lays on his bunk he makes log noises.
  • he once has a vacations where he met Ringo Starr who wouldn’t do the thomas the tank engine voice. He would accept a small replica in his top pocket.
  • His father used to make him act out episodes of Friends in order to impress local gangsters, and it’s from this that he developed his hatred of organised crime.
  • His apartment smells of sighs
  • he doesn’t have a notebook like a traditional detective. He writes in a panini sticker album from 1986.
  • he loves french cookery but refuses to use garlic as it’s ‘satanic’
  • he wears ‘white musk’ by the body shop as it reminds him of ‘sexy glands’
  • he doesn’t realise his sheer animal magnetism, especially to men.
  • he always dunks his donut twice, to be thourough.
  • he has an ear wax problem caused by incessant listening.