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FINE CUT FILMS - NONSENSE |
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The Mysterious Case of Doctor Jeckyl and Mister Hyde Being a true account (my life already) of the mysterious happenings in Crimplene Street
The wind in Warsaw is cold. Damned cold. It starts high in the mountains, then comes howling along the streets and whistling round the shutters. It numbs the teeth even more than words like Ytsvachnovyvitch. You can be chilled to the bone in seconds, even with six gallons of eighty proof vodka inside you and your Granny's best thermal vest on your head. All this is fascinating stuff, but of marginal interest to our hero, Tchiv. Despite his odd-sounding name, he's never left Redditch in his life.
His mother's name was Anna, and when she was pregnant with Tchiv, or 'that gert big lump' as his father called him, a man with a beard called and asked if the good lady had any icons she wanted to get rid of. "Acorns", the good lady cried, "we ain't even gorra garden, never mind a oak tree" "Pardon me" quoth the hirsute stranger, "but I enquired at the post office and was told that Anastasia".
"I see now it was all a mistake and I bid you dosvedanya," he added, as the joke had fallen completely flat. "I don't care if you bid three no trumps and a Jew" replied the lump carrier. But Anna, who did indeed stay there, was deeply superstitious and took it as an omen. She haunted the public library and read all about mad monks and little princes, and things. Names like Brian, Delroy and even Tobermory were rejected in favour of Czif or Tchiv as it said on his birth certificate. Be warned. This is even less relevant to the story than the wind in Poland.
In spite of his exotic appellation, Tchiv was an unadventurous sort of chap. He thought that wearing a short sleeved shirt was the height of daring fashion. He was such a stick-in-the-mud his friends called him Anchor. Well anything was better than Tchiv. And when I say friends I'm stretching the truth. Friend would be more accurate. His good friend and drinking companion (he always had two halves of mild on Saturday night) also had a splendid name. To be landed with a label like Eisenphart Adolphus McSchickelgruber is a curse, a mouthful and a source of vast complication on official forms, but it means that people always remember you.
And they expect you to be exotic. Someone with a name like that must be something out of the ordinary, they thought. And Eisenphart was. He was as weird as Tchiv was boring. One day he'd dress up as a bishop and parade in the town centre blessing people and causing havoc with his crop, the next he'd go round in a boiler suit and disconnect all the gas stoves in a street.
One historic Saturday, Tchiv had not two, but three glasses of mild ale (well after one and a half he was so muddled that Eisenphart easily convinced him he'd only had one). This was the day his life changed for ever. He resolved to break free of the boring mould and Become Someone. He began by wearing green socks on his right foot and red on the left, but it was generally agreed that this was tame stuff, so he swapped over - green on the left and red to starboard. Daring, he thought, but Eisenphart declined to comment, so Tchiv went the whole hog. Or rather hen; he decided to dress like a chicken. A full-feathered clerk. His boss at the town hall hinted that a social security clerk should maintain some sort of decorum in his dealings with the public. Prompted by Eisenphart, Tchiv retorted that he was merely cheering up the people he dealt with. But in vain - in a matter of weeks he was on the other side of the counter, collecting his out of work allowance.
In for a penny, in for a pound, thought young Tchiv. He gave up the chicken costume in favour of a ten gallon hat, leather chaps and spurs. In spite of being an Arsenal supporter. But
that
wasn't
different
enough,
said
Eisenphart.
Why
not
go
along
with
the
spirit
of
what
was
on
his
birth
certificate?
Become
a
full
blooded
apache!
REDS UNDER THE BED (IN REDDITCH) So the next night Tchiv surprised a few passing pigeons and made himself a headdress. Reasonably authentic, he thought as he looked in the mirror. The leather sandals were easy, but there was one big problem. He just looked too much like a paleface. The body colour was all wrong.
He remembered his mother wearing rouge - could that be the answer? He bought boxes and boxes of the stuff and spent a very uncomfortable morning smearing it all over himself, but it didn't look at all convincing. And it was cold! The weather in Redditch isn't the same as Arizona, and the red dye (reddish in Redditch) wasn't a success. He wandered round the flat, spear and tomahawk (well, an old boy scout knife really) in hand. Red tile paint? No, too thin and too shiny. Old Santa Claus costume - too baggy. Then it hit him. Literally. He opened a cupboard and his wet suit fell out on top of him. The perfect solution. A quick coat of brown boot polish, and he was set. It made a bit of a mess on the sofa cushions, but it looked great.
But then there was the vexed question of a horse. Eisenphart insisted that a real brave doesn't mosey on down to the old corral in a Ford Cortina. But horses are expensive, and where can you keep one in a two bedroomed flat in Crimplene street?
Then one morning, just as Tchiv was downing the last of his pork belly and beans, (actually it was weetabix, but he liked to think of it as pork and beans) Eisenphart burst in the door with a look of absolute triumph on his face. But that look was nothing compared to the one on Tchiv's face when he saw what was outside.
A hippopotamus! A HIPPOPOTAMUS! A HIPPOBLOODYPOTAMUS! What sort of Indian brave goes into battle on a hippo? "But it's a bargain" said his friend "and it'll cost almost nothing to feed" Tchiv was far from convinced. "How do you reckon that? A hippo must eat tons every day. Plenty wampum." "Ah, but that's the beauty of it" claimed Eisenphart, not seeing the humour in the use of the adjective in the present circumstances. "It can live in Crimplene park and no park keeper is going to argue with a hippo." So
Tchiv
became
the
proud
owner
of
Redditch's
only
second
hand,
one
careful
owner,
low
mileage
hippo. AND THEN... And
it
didn't
turn
out
too
bad
either.
Far
from
the
park
keepers
wanting
Harold
(as
he
came
to
be
called)
out
of
the
park,
they
were
delighted.
Not
a
tramp,
not
a
skinhead,
not
a
yob
ventured
anywhere
near
the
place.
And
the
fringe
benefits
worked
wonders
for
the
roses.
SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER And Tchiv became a hit at the local discos, arriving on Harold (who had to be given vast quantities of Margaritas and Pina Coladas whilst he waited). He acquired a girl friend. Sorry, squaw. Not Harold - Tchiv. And life went on pretty well for our hero. Life with his squaw Princess Edwina von Laughing Cloud was pretty good. Actually her name was Maureen, but Tchiv would have none of that. He was becoming quite a brave sort of brave. The Apache image really caught on in Redditch. Well lets face it, there's not a lot else around there.
Tchiv became a bit of a celebrity and quite a few local braves followed his sartorial style. Well they were tired of black leather and Dr Marten's boots, all the trappings of hippiedom, not to mention all those safety pins through the nose and all the other paraphernalia of being odd. Tchiv even considered standing as a local councillor. He quite liked the idea of becoming mayor and sacking his former boss.
Then came the day of the Women's Institute grand fete. Tchiv was certain to win in the husbands' best kept car competition. A walkover, you might call it. Yes, he knew Harold wasn't strictly a car, but he was transport, and if he didn't win he'd walk straight over the car that beat him.
But in the fancy cakes and pastries section there was friction. Laughing Cloud had baked a dozen lovely buns or scones as she called them. She'd won for the last twelve years running, and was sitting pretty for first place yet again.
But it as the hubbub rose above the noise of Harold munching on the winner of the marrow section, it became clear that there was some controversy over whose buns were bunniest. Worst still, she had two close rivals. Worst of all, they were wives of Tchiv's friends - other squaws.
The committee members were equally split. Was Minnie Major's apple turnover better than Doris Blair's jam roly-poly? And how did Laughing Cloud's scrumptious scones compare? There were four votes for each. Big steps were called for, decided the judges. Not Harold's steps, not a giant stepladder, but the chairman of the WI - the Iron Lady Herself.
So Big Mag the Grocer's Daughter was called on. She was to pronounce judgement on the tasty morsels. She went into secret session in the giant striped marquee. The flour covered amateur bakers sat down to wait. Laughing Cloud made herself comfortable on Harold, who had wandered over in hope of acquiring a few also-ran entries.
Minnie and Doris had no such status symbols, so they had to make do with old animal hides they'd borrowed from the local amateur dramatics club for the day. Minnie had a slightly moth-eaten zebra hide, and Doris could only manage a donkey's outer layer. (Not a donkey jacket I hasten to add). The crowd outside the marquee fell silent while from inside murmurs of approval were followed by loud burps and the scratching of pencil on paper. Marks were obviously being awarded. To
make
things
completely
fair,
this
was
a
blind
test.
No
names,
no
pack
drill,
as
the
good
lady
was
fond
of
saying.
The
munchy
entries
were
just
called
A
B
and
C*.
Meanwhile, back at the plot, Honest Ern, Redditch's biggest bookie (sixteen stone of him), had set up shop and taken nearly five hundred pounds in side bets.
After much munching and burping, there was a shuffling near the entrance to the marquee. A chair was brought forth, and the Iron Lady stepped up. She took a deep breath, then in her best voice pronounced the fate of the tribal bakers. "I have no hesitation at all in arriving at a decision" she announced. "This bun I hold in my hand is the winner". Everyone looked, but the bun was cloaked in a napkin. "This bun is the nadir of the bun maker's art" went on the Great Person. "I call it a triumph of turnovers, a crown of cakes, a veritable Thagorus of pies."
"Its quite clear to me," quoth the Judge "whose buns are the bunniest. This one is so good it beats the other two combined."
She looked around - ever one to milk a crowd for effect. "Let me put it in another way" she said, and looked over to where Laughing Cloud sat on Harold, flanked by Minnie on her striped seat and Doris on her donkey hide. "I said a Thagorus Pie, and I mean a Thagorus Pie: "The
squaw
on
the
hippopotamus
is
equal
to
the
buns
of
the
squaws
on
the
other
two
hides." Well
-
serves
you
right
for
reading
all
the
way
to
the
end!
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