FINE CUT FILMS - NONSENSE

 

AThe Tragic Tale of ronald Butt

A tale of hardly any mystery and no suspense whatever.
(And the only mystery is why anyone should bother to write such puerile nonsense.)

 


A light drizzle bored the paving stones rigid with tales of cumulo-nimbus and thunderheads. There were minor earthquakes in the South Pacific. Assassinations in Iran. Floods and pestilence in India. Rape and pillage in Norway. But in Tunbridge Wells, there was drizzle. And the price of brussels sprouts had gone through the roof. None of this was of interest to Ronald, though. He had more pressing matters on his mind.


PRESSING MATTERS

His friend Vincent had forgotten to get Ronald's best lavender suit from the cleaners. On this day of all days. So Ronald was pressing the trousers of his second best suit - the one in pale chartreuse with little fleur-de-lys in delicate silver.


SOMETHING IN THE SHADOWS


He had to look his best. Ronald took great care with his appearance. Even now as he looked in the mirror he wondered if he should slightly darken the eye shadow. Did he look mysterious enough? A touch of carmine at the corners of the eyes - would it make him appear sensuous or a bit of a dipsomaniac? Vincent would turn up in his rotten leather jacket as usual, he supposed. And for a wedding too. No, not just a wedding. The wedding. The wedding of the year, of the decade, of the century even.


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

His best friend from the boutique was about to tie the knot. Vincent said more like get knotted, but what did he know? Great hulk of a thing that can't even remember a little dry cleaning of a Friday night.

Wayne who did a lovely measure for a pair of flares was about to wed his sweetheart Cicely (née Bert) the plumber's mate. They were to be one that very day. Tunbridge Wells' first transsexual marriage. And Ronald was to give the bride away. Well, bride-ish actually - some of the hormones had yet to do their stuff properly. Still, if she (or he) kept its veil down, the five o'clock shadow wouldn't show too badly.

Ronald slipped into the lime green shirt with the two tone pink ruffles down the front. "Hmm - nice", he thought, consulting the mirror again and pouting. "Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairiest one of all." The mirror didn't venture an opinion, so he prompted it "Ronald Butt is, of course, silly".

But the ensemble lacked a little something. A little je ne sais quoi. Perhaps his locket, the one shaped like a Harley-Davidson. Yes. Not too flashy, understated even, he thought. Still a little bare, though. Then it struck him. Not the locket, I mean, an idea. A brainwave even.


GET IT OFF YOUR CHEST

What he needed to set off the locket just right was a wig. A chest wig. A Bronson Big-Butch chest wig. The very thing. But where do you get one at such short notice on a Saturday?

Ronald puzzled. Then he cogitated for a while. Then he wondered. After he'd wondered for nearly five minutes he decided to wrack his brains for a short while. Wrack, he thought. Well rack was more like it, but then thoughts don't really have correct spelling. Unless they're a dictionary compiler's thoughts. He'd get one off the rack.


PINK PAGES TO THE RESCUE

The telephone directories were on the genuine Queen Anne dresser that Vincent had made up from a kit from a male order catalogue. Careful not to disturb the neatly crocheted doilies, Ronald reached for the pink pages and let his fingers do the walking. Watches... waiters (second hand )... wellingtons for hire ... wigs. See hair pieces, the pink page advised. Ronald reached for the telephone in the shape of a glass slipper and glanced admiringly at himself in the mirror just once more.


PAUSE FOR THOUGHT

Question - why needn't a bald man bother making a will?
Answer - because there's no heir apparent.


MEANWHILE

Back at the plot Ronald was not a happy pixie. No wigs apparent was the general cry from the high street shops. And from the low street stalls. And indeed from the boutiques in the bendy road behind the bus station. "Just missed the last one by a hair" quipped some bitchy assistant in 'Hitch your Wigon - proprietor Jules LeStrange'. 'Ruggiero the Hairsuit' was no more help. And the advice from that mad Nazi Herr Restorer in 'The Krauterie' is far too complicated and specialised to relay here. Honestly it was enough to make you pout. Here he was, reduced to his second best and slightly shiny suit, and not even a tuft to call his own.

The doormat. The doormat and some superglue? Ronald tested the nap with his thumb (well his fingers were tired of walking). A bit too... itchy? And wouldn't it make a funny noise against the crepe-de-chine of his shirt? The cat? The cat edged nervously out into the kitchen and tried to look as clean-shaven as a pedigree Persian can.


DIGITAL TERPSICHORY

Ronald's fingers tried a little dance. The walk had made them quite perky. Tap tap tap they went. But that made him feel a bit of a drip (tap - drip? Oh never mind), so Ronald decided to snap them instead. There was no film in the camera, and one problem a day was enough, so it was back to the lack of rug.

Could he make it to town and back and still be in time to escort Cicely/Bert down the aisle? Indeed in time to make sure he/she didn't turn up in wellingtons under the frock. Nerve she had, to order a white dress!

Yes, he could just do it if the traffic was light. Well sparse, he thought, who cares how dark the cars have been painted. Then he thought of sparse and his chest and heaved a little sigh. Into the 2CV and off to Jermyn street where he knew a shop that was bound to have just the thing. And just to make sure, before he set off, Ronald rang the owner Jeremy Butcher. "Butcher than some, but camper than most" was his boast. And yes, there was a wig in stock, and Jeremy would keep it until Ronald arrived.

'Jeremy's Jewelled Joys' was a typical example of it's kind. Kaftans and leather caps and string vests rubbed shoulders (OK, I know vests don't have shoulders, but you can't rub hems very graphically) with chunky identity bracelets and the odd whip or two. And there, in the centre of the window was the most beautiful chest wig Ronald had ever seen. A maxi-bona he-man, with optional matching knee tufts. And it was just the right shade of golden brown to match his latest rinse.


BEWARE - THE PUNCHLINE IS AT HAND

Ronald rushed in and kissed Jeremy on several of his cheeks. "Cheeky", said Jeremy (Jer to his friends, Jerk to his enemies), "but I've kept it for you". He pouted. And pointed. "It wasn't easy, there was this great big Irish bricklayer in here just now - wanted it for his great dane that's got a touch of alopecia. I told him, though, Ronald, I told him. I said:

"'Ron Butt the Gay's reserved the Hair.'"

And to think they said comedy was dead! You can't help but agree, can you?