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 But now those automatic thoughts had been replaced by a disbelief, a challenging of his own thought process.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. 


So what has my sadness been replaced with?

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


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 17

My lord, can it be true! For the love of Lassiters Lake , that devlish wag and heating system behemoth, Sherby57 has written chapter 17 . He wrote it with his brain and possibly his fingers! Dare you read it?



Catch up with the whole of Hazard of Parnsips here: https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/a-hazard-of-parsnips/

If you’re good, we might record it as a podcast so you can listen to it in the car/baffle chamber/bra generator.

Hazard of Parsnips: Chapter 15


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.


Cool Lord D

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.