Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 18.

Read more about Hazard of Parsnips (HoP) here


and catch up on the preceding 17 chapters.

Clarence’s Diary

Dear Diary

Upon waking from a fitful slumber, a smile played upon my full lips. I think it was playing charades and it had to make the word ‘SEX’. I’m saying here I’ve got a sexy smile.

When I became sensible of my surroundings I realised my slumber had been fitful largely due to the fact I had been spooning a hedgehog for most of the night. My sleeping companion, Hedgie, had generously offered my lodgings in his, er, hedge and had offered me a cup of tea, as I had hoped. Well, diary, as sure as night follows day, Hedgie got me drunk on hedgerow wine and before I knew it we were singing the Ulyssess 31 theme tune and soon slipped into a companionable unconsciousness.

As morning broke and I noticed the spine marks in my chiselled pecs, Hedgie grinned sheepishly at me. I can’t stay mad at that guy, even though he got me drunk. He did offer me refuge from a notorious pervert, so I owe him my life. Well, I owe him a pint at least.

After I bid adieu to my spiny pal, I wondered what to do next. Should I

a) report to the nearest police station to tell them I was OK
b) Go and see my beloved delicate flower,Eileen, and some hot and dirty reunion sex. She may let me do her up the bum.
c) go home and check my mail

I decided to go with the latter. It might seem, dear diary, like a nonsensical thing to do and quite out of keeping with the character I have painted myself as, but I was really missing my vegetables, my lemon chapstick and I really needed a shit. There’s nothing like taking a shit in your own bog and I yearned for my porcelain bum embrace. Besides, I knew it would also help the writers of Hazard of Parsnips out, as they needed to move the story on and I was about to receive an important letter.

My step was light and my heart joyous to be free! I had escaped my man-napping unscathed(albeit probably broken that poor battle-scarred wench’s heart, but hey, she was collateral damage and this hunk had a body that he owed the world to preserve). My mind briefly flicked back to Teresa. I shook my head, almost as if to dislodge that thought from my mental furniture. I can’t feel sorry for her now. Yes, I lied to her, but it was my only chance of survival. Think Clarence, Think of something nice, i chastised my own brain. I was telling myself off and I didn’t like it. So I sulked at myself for a bit. I can’t stay mad at myself, largely down to my sexiness and tight, high baby bird bum, so I felt better for a bit. I even hummed a little ditty to cheer myself up. It was ‘Wild Boys’ and I imagined myself making sweet, sweet love to Eileen to that very music.

However, the windscreen wipers of my psyche kept flicking back to images of Teresa, dammit, and dampening my ardour. I really had betrayed her trust. It is such a burden being this handsome. I don’t know how most attractive people bear it. I hate the fact people give me preferential treatment because of my looks,think highly of me, and throw themselves at me. It’s such a fucking ball ache. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach when I thought of what that pervert might do to her when he learnt of how she facilitated my escape.

One thought occasionally leads to another, and this was one of those occasions. My mental furniture had shifted, like the Ikea warehouse, and I found myself pondering on other victims of my good looks. My god. I devastated them. What was this I was feeling? Was I feeling…could it be…is this guilt?

It wasn’t, I just needed a massive shit, I told myself.

As I got back to my house, I smiled as my allotment unfolded before me. It was quite handy having a fold able allotment. You could store it away and take it with you when you went on holiday. I let myself in the house, as the glass in the front door had been smashed…how strange. Luckily I had kept a jagged piece of cardboard that I knew would come in handy one day. I set about patching it up. I then realised that I should maybe stick the cardboard to the broken glass and secure it with gaffer tape, instead of trying to fix it with a needle and thread and oddments of material.

It was then I noticed it. A letter. It lay there on the mat daring me to open it. To be fair it wasn’t a massive dare to open an envelope, so I didn’t think much further about it. I tore it open to find it was a letter from Sandra Growbag. Oh Growbag! Another victim of the Clarence love-bug. I could hardly blame her, but she became such a pest. Following me home, watching me through the window, vigorously masturbating countless times in front of me. What was it she wanted now.

My eyes darted across her scrawlings:

Dear, Darling Clarence

Clarence, I cannot bear it any longer. I’ve tried playing it cool, following the rules, but it gets me nowhere. While I stay away, that darned Bilton gets closer to you. To be honest Clarence, I really don’t know what you see in her. Why would a man of taste, like you, be attracted to a woman with huge breasts, am enviable figure, a rich father, a beautiful face and a sweet disposition? Why can’t you see that she’s bAD for you, and yes, it might seem like these are positive things, but I need you to see the merits of a woman who is largely cuboid in physique, is pathological in her passion for you, gets crazy, paranoid thoughts when things don’t go her way, and can’t problem solve in any adaptive way. Oh, I see the way you look at her, like a hungry dog looks at the finish line. It makes me feel sick. She possesses some hold over you that I desire to replicate, but no not how. Until now.

It all makes sense to me. I need to be number one. The only way to become number one is at a Hot Body Show and that is where I am destined to right now. I am single minded in my determination to possess your affections and I believe by triumphing in this pageant, this will secure my place in your heart.

Do not try to stop me. Well do. If you like. You can also try and kiss me and put your hand up my top while you’re there.

Yours, unerringly

Sandra Growbag


My mental furniture had experienced an earthquake. All my psychological objects had been rattled and I took 5 hours to work out what this meant. Sandra had fallen so foul of my charms, she was entering a Hot Body Show to win me away from Eileen. Hot Body Show. That sounds fun. But wait! Alarm bells were ringing. It was the phone, it had been pushed off the hook and was making that dreadful sound. Hot Body Show. That sounded familiar. Who had mentioned that before and why was I getting a bad feeling about this.

Oh god. It was Teresa who had mentioned it. She had been enslaved as part of one and now Sandra was going, like a lamb to the toolbox. All because I’m so damned handsome. God, when were people going to stop getting hurt because I’m such a spunk?

By god, I really needed a shit now.

Hazard of Parsnips Chapter 7

and so the greatest love story/epistolary novel/writing experiment continues.  Catch up with previous HoP Chapters here:






https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/12/01/letters-to-dr-angel/ Chapter 6a

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/12/02/dr-angel-replies/ Chapter 6b

Dearest Clarence

I am writing this in the past. It’s obviously the present as I’m writing this, but as you’re reading this it’s from the past. Keep up.

Today the sun roused me, like an egyptian pharmacist or maybe a psychiatrist prescribing ritalin off-licence. With that sun and that pharmacist came a sense of heightened awareness, the likes that I have not been aware of for many a year. For it is today, o beauteous day, that I am TRULY conscious for the first time in my whole miserable life.  Today, I love you.

I know it is only 24 hours since we met. O, sweet knave, so much can happen in 24 hours. Thou couldest watch Hollyoaks and Hollyoaks ‘in the city’ as well as a full ‘Come Dine with me’ when it was 5 episodes, each of one hours duration.  It was yesterday that I alighted the ‘cumfybus’ and took the sweet, sweet trip into Wigan to the Emporium of Cash Converting where I was to selleth my Sega Drive of  Megas.  O, handsome knave, it had been a lean month.  Lord Karl of Kennedy had been out of the country on tour with Sir Ricky of Martin and had not sent his usual brace of rabbits to my father.  As you may know, my father is Lord Kennedy’s gigolo. Lord Kennedy prefers the term ‘Man-thang’. My father said that the job descrption said ‘gigolo’ and he didn’t spend 3 years doing a doctorate in Gigology to be called a ‘Man-thang’. My father is a proud, proud gentleman, Clarence. I said your name incase you drifted off. Did it work?

It was in the Emporium of Converting Cash that our chance encounter occured. You were looking in the glass cases at an amp for your flying V guitar, but I watched you settle on a gold ganja leaf chain. O, how fine you looked as you tried it on.I knew it was poor manners, but I couldn’t tear my hot eyes away. O happy ganja leaf! O happy chain! O, what I would not have given to be lying around your neck, nestling into your chest.

It was then you became aware of my forbidden glances. You manoevered your bulk into position so you could take a full look upon my person and my countenance. O, unhappy moment.  My yearning fell upon your cold soul. My longing fell like seeds onto a pavement. You held my gaze and gruffly ejaculated “why are you looking at me weird?”.

I stare into your very soul. a long intense gaze. Desperately my eyes search yours. I try and move your frozen heart with my thoughts. Every fibre of my being wills your affections towards my unworthy brow. Your eyes slowly close, in abject ecstasy, I reckon, your breath quickens and you softly sigh “what’s that on your top lip?”.

I put my hand up to my face and realise there was an unwelcome invader to our beautiful tryste.  My sausage roll from Greggs the Bakers had left soft pastry interlopers upon my lip and had become affixed to my Collection 2000 lipgloss.

Your face changed. Not literally. You didn’t get someone elses face.You know this, so I’m not sure why I’m telling you. what I mean is that your countenance did change to form a picture of abject disgust.  Your jaw jutted and your eyebrows did plow great furrows into your forehead. Your chin did wrinkle and pucker and you looked like Sir Gordon Ramsay.

“This wench has herpes” you bellowed. To no one in particular. I fled from the shop, hand to my lip, desperately wiping every last crumb of sausage roll. I ran and ran. In my anger and shame I kicked a can of Red Bull at Greggs in an act of wanton futility and my cheeks burned like the fire that Take That and Lulu were keen to ignite.

As my cheeks burned hot, it was then I understood:

I love you. Yet, you were repulsed by my very form.

What could I do? I needed a strategy to excite and delight your very eye. A way to woo you. Some form of sexual voodoo, white witchery. Anything. You had to be mine. I alighted the cumfybus to return to Hesketh Bank and my Father’s lodge on the estate of Lord Kennedy’s. On the bus, I was suprised to see my girlhood companion, Lady Spinderella, on the backseat. I sat next to her, and we made our usual greetings. She noticed my flushed countenance and I noticed several blueblack bites of love poorly concealed under the collar of her Naff co 54 coat.

“I see you have sweet marks of love on your neck, Spinderella. What knave makes these black holes of love and how did you entice him? I’m not being funny or anything, good lady, but you smell like a butcher’s shop”.

“Ah!” began the good lady “I am courting Sir P of Diddington. These black holes of love that you see before you, poorly concealed were hard won, lady. For Sir P did not care for my glances when we met at Prince’s Nightclub. No, he only had eyes for Lady Jennifer of Lopez. However, I entered a hot body show in Burnley, and won. News of my victory spread far and wide and Sir P heard of the felicitatious knowledge. Consequently, he felt a yearning so strong that no remedy could abate, not even calpol. He could contain himself no longer and he had to have me, like a black and decker workbench or Stream of Soda”.

It was then I knew. My course of action was charted for me, like a great sea adventure. My voyage began. I picked up my quill and began to write to the only person I knew could help me…

To be continued…

Lady Sandra Growbag