 |
FINE CUT FILMS - NONSENSE |
||||
        |
|||||
|
A Tale of Mystery and Suspense (And naff spelling) From our Venezuelan correspondent on location with the Tour de France
JOURNEY INTO SPACE Long long ago in the distant mists of time, even before the talking pictures came to Broadstairs, there was a land called Furr. It was called Furr because it was a heck of a long way from anywhere, and the motor car hadn't been invented yet, never mind the MRT, the TGV or the BBC. The people of this country were gentle and kind, and except for a manic hatred of wire coat hangers, lived in peace and harmony with nature and all things. They were extremely kind to the ozone layer, and they didn't use aerosol deodorants. They smelled a bit, but they were highly Eco-conscious. The Furries, in short, were dead green.
Actually they were green in more ways than one. Their skin was green, their eyes were green, and their Benetton T-shirts (of which they were inordinately fond) were a very tasteful shade - the colour of fresh limes.
Their only enemies (if a people you tactfully ignore can be called enemies) were ... well, that's another story. All this living in peace and being at one with Mother Earth went on for an amazing length of time, and nobody thought it at all odd. Well if anyone did, he was just thought of as jealous, and therefore greener than green.
But then there came a day. It came along in the manner of most days, starting with the sun peering over the horizon to see what was up, and cockerels experimenting with contrapuntal progressions in minor thirds. But even before the lead cockerel had reached the middle eight, a bitter wind began to blow. It blew the morning paper in through the letter box, and the lead story was a shocker - 'Brain pain blame' the headlines roared. Then they chuntered for a while, then stuttered, cleared their throats and spoke thus; Cellular phones radiate microwaves and give you cancer Cancer! Furr Telecom shares plummeted. Steel helmets became the height of chic fashion. And a few odd Furries lost their cool and became downright mean towards the innocent cockerels, taunting them with bowls of chestnut stuffing and full colour pictures of wire coat hangers. The sun and the wind were largely unaffected by all this, and continued to shine around and puff.
One Furry, more enterprising than most, had a brain wave. Dym, eldest son of Englebert the oven-ready, (his parents were of diminished responsibility), cogitated thus; if microwaves boil your grey cells (actually the greeny-grey cells in a Furry brain), then what better to counteract the invisible menace than a lot of cool. Well actually most Furries were pretty cool to begin with, or thought they were. They wore shirts split open to the navel, gold medallions round their necks, and mirror sunglasses.
But Dym went one better. He constructed a miniature refrigerator that fitted into a rather dashing topper. It cooled his brain a treat. There was one minor problem - he bought the topper from a retired conjuror, and every now and then a slightly puzzled white rabbit would pop out and scamper off in search of carrots or pocket watches or whatever turns white rabbits on. Still it was a small price to pay for the peace of mind that comes with knowing you can phone any time, any where with impunity. (And a finger to dial with, of course).
An enterprising sort of chap, Dym decided to patent and market his onco-hummer as he called it. At first he had trouble finding a good source of recently retired conjurors. So he changed the design slightly. The mark two oklehummer (twenty thousand leaflets got printed wrongly and it seemed easier just to go along with it) was built inside a rather fetching straw boater and was an overnight success story. Dym sold the marketing rights and retired. He changed his name to Dymoke Reddy, became a minor celebrity and began appearing on chat shows. He wore the lowest splittest shirts, the biggest medallions and the shiniest shades.
The
only
trouble
was
his
voice.
It
just
didn't
go
with
the
cool
finger-snapping
'hey
baby,
what's
cooking'
image.
It
was
a
voice
rather
like
a
cold
wind
at
night
trying
to
find
a
way
into
a
nice
warm
sitting
room.
It
was
a
voice
like
a
starter
motor
in
a
car
that
really
would
rather
stay
at
home
this
morning.
It
was
a
voice
like
a
camel
with
laryngitis.
Dymoke
whined.
He
winged
and
whined.
Audiences
who
came
to
laud
and
applaud,
giggled
and
nudged
their
green
neighbours.
Groupies
the
shade
of
a
granny
smith
(but
with
pink
punk
hairdos)
ran
laughing
from
the
stage
door
when
he
appeared.
Elocution lessons didn't help. Standing on his head for hours on end didn't help. Cod liver oil and gargling with lead shot were no good either. He tried drinking the blood of vampire toads (with a shot of crème de mènthe and a Perrier chaser). He even consulted a certain Kym Campbell, of whom it has been said. But all in vain. Do what he would, he whined. His cadences were unalterable.
Dymoke retired from public life. He led a quiet life, tinkering with his tasteful titfers and cooling his left and right hemispheres alternately. He grew old and wrinkled and greener than ever. Then one day he bucked up. He decided he was in the mood for a trip to town or 'Dine Tine' as its known in the home counties. He put on his trizers and set off for the west end. The waitresses at Bertorelli's remembered him. And a policeman told him the right time when he asked. This was obviously going to be a night to remember, he thought. And he was not wrong. He decided to go and round off the evening with a musical. And that was when he found out. He was a celebrity again. A different kind of celebrity. He had been immortalised. He was up there with Cav and Pag - Mephistopheles and Poo Bah. Rodgers and Hammerstein had made him a star in his absence. His story was the musical of the year. 'OKLEHOMER - a mega-hit' proclaimed the banners outside the theatre in ten foot high letters. And the opening number. He couldn't get it out of his head. He hummed it and sang it as he splashed about in his bath: All together now.... 'Its
the
Whiney
little
Furry
with
the
Fridge
on
the
Top'. Well don't blame me - I only wrote it. You read it all. And they said you couldn't fool all of the people all of the time . . . .!
|
|||||
