CHAPTER THREE – The First Men in the Moon
My first job was, aged 13, being sent up a chimney to clear away dead birds. I say birds, but they were actually three bald eagles that were, unfortunately, on fire and the pluralisation is misleading as I only had to perform the task once. I was paid thruppence and shinty for my troubles by a kindly old fruit with a bulbous round face like an overinflated cherry named, rather aptly, Mr Bastard. He smashed the coins into my outstretched shaking palm the way that an IT girl might gently smash her handbag dog to death on the pavement on a prescription medication binge; our sweat mixing and mingling with a fizz. I bid him farewell and took the charcoaled eagle corpses home to mother so she could bake a fine pie for tea.
The birds had become “on fire” due to a phenomena of nature known as “ball-lightning.” I must confess my only knowledge of this is based mainly upon hearsay and local whimsy, but lightning forms as an orb, floating above the ground. As it moves slowly from once place to another, it incinerates anything in its path. Scientists say that this is an unusual weather effect, but I, dear reader, now know differently. “Ball-lightning” is, in fact, the illegitimate son of TV Presenter, Noel Edmonds.
The result of a fling between Edmonds, his co-presenter, a Mr Blobby and the TV presenting wife-of-Fatboy-Slim, Miss Zoe Ball, backstage in the House Party green room, “Ball-lightning” (or “Ball-Edmonds” as it is now more commonly known,) was conceived and later born outside a butchers in Croydon. Sadly, the energy child killed a Miss Violet Edwina Hesselthwaite, 27, to death in a horrific scorching incident at the birth. Edmonds refused to acknowledge the child as his own at the scene, turning his back on the burning ball of electricity and waxing his imaginary moustache as it ran amok.
The “Ball-Edmonds” ran away that day, up, up far away, through the clouds and back through time as it travelled, until, at last, he landed with a soft bump on the lunar surface, a thousand years before he had set out. Reported only by a mad monk as portent of war, a message from an angry God, the “Ball-Edmonds” sat quietly in a crater, plotting his revenge.
The pie my mother baked was the most sumptuous exotic feast, the crispy bald eagle char adding a stark contrast to the buttery puff-pastry casement with oregano crust. I slept well that night; I remember that I dreamt of soaring high above the clouds, and higher still, my charcoal wings flapping with a biting crunch through the crisp night air. I felt as though I were floating, and then falling alternately all night long. It was a terrible night’s rest, when I awoke I felt that I had managed to snatch about an hour and forty-two minutes sleep in all, and also, felt rather surprised that I had woken up on the surface of the moon.
As I cast about my limbs in a desperate struggle to find oxygen, thrashing about in the lunar dust, I felt a sudden calm come over me and lay completely still. I felt as though I could almost hear something, so I stilled my struggling lungs and there it was, a lonely voice, whispering in the silent void of space. I couldn’t quite make out the words so I cupped my hands in time-honoured fashion and applied them to my rapidly-chilling lobes. The voice, amplified by the crude ear trumpet arrangement of my palms and fingers, appeared to proffer the following advice;
“Moon Pie Magic Pig Pizza’s are proud to offer you the chance to enjoy any two pizzas of any size for the price of one every second Tuesday of the millennia. Please eat responsibly. Free oxygen refills for any beast of any size upon the purchase of a regular Moon Pie Air-shake until the 27th of the First, 3011.”
I shook my head, and as I did, it felt as though my eyes were trying to float free from my fast-shrinking skull. Any idiot knew that, with the correct voucher, one could obtain five pizzas for the price of three on the equinox from any participating restaurant in the Universe. I fingered the aforementioned voucher in my jacket pocket and realised I had, in my frustration at the inaccurate advertisement, however, forgotten all about my imminent death from the lack of good clean air. So I stood up, brushed my crushed velvet trousers free of moon rock leavings and sauntered casually into the unknown landscape of the moon.
As I surveyed the yellow rocks, stark against the black void of space, I was surprised that I could see. A bright light shone upon the horizon, slightly duller than the Sun. It was a little chilly, so I drew my collar up about my neck and set out to discover what lay atop the lit mountain. I passed the detritus of clumsy American moon landing parties, the scattered flags and unsightly footprints that they simply couldn’t be bothered to clean up prior to re-entry, and forged onwards, past the wreckage of strange alien machines that looked like drills made of jelly, past a pile of boulders arranged to spell the word “cheese” that appeared to be made of ham and a giant tooth, shining white against the cosmos, until eventually, I came upon the foothills of the beacon.
I was astounded at what lay before me. It appeared to be a giant golden cat, asleep and purring yet, pulsating. I could at once see through the being to the lunar surface behind, and yet I could see its slobbering feline-esque mouth and twitching eyes. I suddenly felt very uncomfortable and held on to the pizza voucher tightly. As I backed away, I clumsily knocked against a stack of lunar hams which went down as you may expect by now. The hams clattered against the dusty rocks and the electrical tiger shook its great head, free from the grip of slumber, and stared right in to my soul.
“WHO THE DEVIL ARE YOU LITTLE MAN?” it roared, rather rudely. I dusted my sleeping tweeds down and adjusted my tweed sleeping cap before addressing him directly.
“Who am I you ask? Who are you, you lunar ruffian! I have a good mind to give you a good dressing down old chap. If you must know, my name is Dresden Hypotenuse and I am more than just a man. I am of a regular stature and I, sir, am a gentleman.
The gigantic lightning tabby made a sort of snorting sound at that, his fangs bared sparking venom.
“Come on then. Out with it, I’m not scared of you. My aunt Repuzela had fourteen trained tigers your size when I was growing up in Delhi, and they were made of pure fire!”
He grumbled and reared his head, and answered.
“I AM THE WORLD FAMOUS BALL-EDMONDS!” He jumped on to his hind legs and leapt up into the air.
“I haven’t heard of you old chap. Edmonds you say? You’re not related to Noel Edmonds by chance are you?” I was getting cocky at this point, jiggling from left to right in a rather provocative manner.
“DO YOU SEE ME WEARING A FUCKING GOATEE LIKE A WASHED UP MAGICIAN? I AM NOT A SEX OFFENDER!”
“No need to get fruity old chap, just wondering, inquisitive nature and all that.” I tried to placate the Ball-Edmonds. I could see the inner turmoil dampening his sad eyes, but his huge teeth were gnashing rather close to my face. I could feel the heat of a trillion volts circulating a house cat, mere inches from my right cheek.
Ball-Edmonds glared at me like that for a moment, and then turned his back suddenly before sitting down, his back to a stack of lunar Milano salami and sighing.
“EDMONDS, YES, NOEL EDMONDS. HE IS MY FATHER. I BURNT A LOT OF PEOPLE UNTIL THEY DIED SO I CAME HERE TO HIDE UNTIL IT ALL GOT BETTER.”
I admired Ball-Edmonds ability to open up to a stranger, a rare quality and an indication of a generous nature. I walked up slowly behind, and mimed putting my hand on his shoulder, from a safe distance of course. “No need to worry so old boy, I overheard a friend of a friend saying that your father was heard sobbing your name in his sleep a few weeks ago. He hates your mother, that harridan, but he loves you Ball Edmonds. He was even planning a television show for you to present. Go to him, go now! Find your family. You are forgiven.”
(Please allow me to clarify, I have never met that vile chap Edmonds, nor do I ever wish to. His horrible misuse of Schrodinger’s Cat enraged me so that I have not opened a single numbered box since the beginning of his evil broadcasts.)
“THANK YOU DRESDEN HYPOTENUSE. YOU ARE A GOOD FRIEND!”
With that, he swept away, over the hills of the moon and away, past the horizon and out, into the void of deep space. I was suddenly enveloped in total darkness, and the cold had begun to get to me. The old collar-up just was not enough for lunar conditions. I lay down to think, my belly rumbling.
When I opened my eyes, I was well-rested and back in my own bed, a steaming bacon sandwich with extra tartare dressing at my bedside table. I ate my breakfast and moved on. It is not healthy to dwell too long upon the events in ones past, and, besides, my wife had some rather pressing business that I had to urgently attend.
Thursday 14 April 2011
Sunday 30 January 2011
“I only write about what I know” by Dresden Hypotenuse
CHAPTER TWO – Big Brother
There are some moments in my life that I would rather forget. Some afternoons spent arguing with telephone call centres, mornings lost to the snooze alarm and especially those evenings I spent burning witches during the Spanish Inquisition. At times I’ve wished them all into nothingness, but it seems increasingly as if those moments are now the only things that I truly remember.
The afternoon of August 23rd, 1940 is one such blind spot that, regretfully, I do not yet have, although I am drinking regularly to remedy this. As my Sopwith Camel putt-putted gracefully from the clouds high above the English countryside, screaming fuel from a gashed fuselage, I knew that I shouldn’t light the Cuban cigar dangling temptingly from my lips. Johnson, my co-pilot’s head bounced heavily from the body of the plane like a gruesome metronome to counterpoint the rhythmic grinding of the stalled engine, and I am ashamed to say that I got quite caught up in the moment. I threw back my head and blew; a triumphant mouth trumpet solo to the raw backbone of my tortured rhythm section. As I reached my crescendo, I lit the cigar and inhaled deeply in order to blow a roaring smoke elephant star-ward, but the finale came much quicker than I had anticipated. The leaking fuel reached ignition from my sparking smoke sausage and the entire Camel became engulfed with white flame. I could hear Johnson’s screaming and took heart that he was still alive as we plunged, burning and witless, in to a lake.
As I sat there, trapped and drowning, I remembered the time when my brother, Timothy, had fallen overboard into the Thames from our makeshift outrigger. We had begged, borrowed and stolen the necessary wood and ropes and thrown the thing together, and this was to be our maiden voyage, before we set out to discover what lay beyond the Peak District. We packed our hampers full of cucumber sandwiches and ginger ale, and carved cannons from the shins of diseased cattle before we set out, along the great river Thames, and I remember fondly that it seemed a particularly warm shade of brown that day.
Timothy swung from the ropes, hoisting main-braces here and tying things down there, but I remember that I couldn’t be bothered. I sat down on the deck and cracked open an ice-cold ginger ale that was both refreshing and illuminating. As he worked tirelessly around me, I found myself wishing that he wouldn’t. Though I didn’t want to work and he did, and without him we would be floating in circles in some rotten estuary or other, I couldn’t help but feel my resentment towards him grow. His momentum made a mockery of my stationary status and that would not do.
He moved, faster and faster, giggling and tying, until it seemed that he had reached terminal velocity, reversing time which now flowed slowly, backwards.
As his ginger curls and ruddy face flashed past mine, closer and closer like some horrific haunted mirror, some stupid Fucky the Drunk Clown version of me from a parallel universe, I felt black anger and burning hot hatred at his sheer affront. How dare he mock me by allowing us to traverse water in such an effective manner while I simply lay about like some kind of dead beached whale? Did he hate whales?
I decided at that moment that I would rather die than live another day like this.
I stood from my seated position in the luxurious deck chair, making fists of my toes and kicking out hard, hoping he would die and know my glory, but I flopped ineffectively at his feet. He was moving backwards however, and came caterwauling and wide-eyed with surprise over my raised knees and tumbled over me and up and over the side of the ragged schooner. He seemed to float in mid-air for a second, just long enough to open his mouth to scream before he plunged, gob-first into the filth-riddled water of the Thames.
I looked around for something long enough to use as a boom, but the only other thing onboard besides me, the hampers and my very expensive Persian deckchair was a pot of cocktail umbrellas. Perfect, I thought, as I quickly bound four hundred or so of them together with locks of my own hair and fished his gurning, heaving body away from certain death. Unfortunately, as my crude tests later proved, he was already certainly dead.
When I held my pocket mirror against his mouth he did nothing but squeal and fit, so I held his nostrils shut to calm his rigor mortis, before he flopped limply and finally dead beyond doubt in my soothing hands. I am glad that I was there to see him through his final moments, to hold him fondly as I wept, but it has left me somewhat scarred. As my brother died, it seems that his teeth had slipped from the mirror to sink through my thumb, an injury I did not notice until that evening as I sat waiting for my starter to arrive in a hungry animal-based gastro pub.
Of course, the Police had questions for me, the dolts, on such trivialities like my name and why exactly I had felt the need to dropkick my younger brother from the deck of the boat that fateful day, or who had asphyxiated him as he lay unconscious after the incident, but I simply told them my side of the story and despite a frosty reception, I was soon on first name terms with an Officer Jonty Buttreiser, sharing laughs and doughnuts as we remembered some of the dumb broads we had made. We signed the release forms and he told me that if I ever needed some ass in this town to remember to give him a call. I agreed, shook his hand and tipped my hat to him as I left, to Jonty Buttreiser, the last real cop in town.
But of course, the real mystery is this: if Timothy did die that fateful die as I squeezed the air from his fitting body, who was the man that made me a steak dinner last Thursday? Why exactly was it that my dead and burnt up baby brother (we’d had him cremated) had simply come home from work a year to the day after I had strangled him? And why exactly would I ask you a series of questions that you can clearly never answer?
(Answers on a postcard to the usual address, please enclose a cheque to cover our £1.50 a minute premium rate reading fee. Your usual network rates do apply.)
There are some moments in my life that I would rather forget. Some afternoons spent arguing with telephone call centres, mornings lost to the snooze alarm and especially those evenings I spent burning witches during the Spanish Inquisition. At times I’ve wished them all into nothingness, but it seems increasingly as if those moments are now the only things that I truly remember.
The afternoon of August 23rd, 1940 is one such blind spot that, regretfully, I do not yet have, although I am drinking regularly to remedy this. As my Sopwith Camel putt-putted gracefully from the clouds high above the English countryside, screaming fuel from a gashed fuselage, I knew that I shouldn’t light the Cuban cigar dangling temptingly from my lips. Johnson, my co-pilot’s head bounced heavily from the body of the plane like a gruesome metronome to counterpoint the rhythmic grinding of the stalled engine, and I am ashamed to say that I got quite caught up in the moment. I threw back my head and blew; a triumphant mouth trumpet solo to the raw backbone of my tortured rhythm section. As I reached my crescendo, I lit the cigar and inhaled deeply in order to blow a roaring smoke elephant star-ward, but the finale came much quicker than I had anticipated. The leaking fuel reached ignition from my sparking smoke sausage and the entire Camel became engulfed with white flame. I could hear Johnson’s screaming and took heart that he was still alive as we plunged, burning and witless, in to a lake.
As I sat there, trapped and drowning, I remembered the time when my brother, Timothy, had fallen overboard into the Thames from our makeshift outrigger. We had begged, borrowed and stolen the necessary wood and ropes and thrown the thing together, and this was to be our maiden voyage, before we set out to discover what lay beyond the Peak District. We packed our hampers full of cucumber sandwiches and ginger ale, and carved cannons from the shins of diseased cattle before we set out, along the great river Thames, and I remember fondly that it seemed a particularly warm shade of brown that day.
Timothy swung from the ropes, hoisting main-braces here and tying things down there, but I remember that I couldn’t be bothered. I sat down on the deck and cracked open an ice-cold ginger ale that was both refreshing and illuminating. As he worked tirelessly around me, I found myself wishing that he wouldn’t. Though I didn’t want to work and he did, and without him we would be floating in circles in some rotten estuary or other, I couldn’t help but feel my resentment towards him grow. His momentum made a mockery of my stationary status and that would not do.
He moved, faster and faster, giggling and tying, until it seemed that he had reached terminal velocity, reversing time which now flowed slowly, backwards.
As his ginger curls and ruddy face flashed past mine, closer and closer like some horrific haunted mirror, some stupid Fucky the Drunk Clown version of me from a parallel universe, I felt black anger and burning hot hatred at his sheer affront. How dare he mock me by allowing us to traverse water in such an effective manner while I simply lay about like some kind of dead beached whale? Did he hate whales?
I decided at that moment that I would rather die than live another day like this.
I stood from my seated position in the luxurious deck chair, making fists of my toes and kicking out hard, hoping he would die and know my glory, but I flopped ineffectively at his feet. He was moving backwards however, and came caterwauling and wide-eyed with surprise over my raised knees and tumbled over me and up and over the side of the ragged schooner. He seemed to float in mid-air for a second, just long enough to open his mouth to scream before he plunged, gob-first into the filth-riddled water of the Thames.
I looked around for something long enough to use as a boom, but the only other thing onboard besides me, the hampers and my very expensive Persian deckchair was a pot of cocktail umbrellas. Perfect, I thought, as I quickly bound four hundred or so of them together with locks of my own hair and fished his gurning, heaving body away from certain death. Unfortunately, as my crude tests later proved, he was already certainly dead.
When I held my pocket mirror against his mouth he did nothing but squeal and fit, so I held his nostrils shut to calm his rigor mortis, before he flopped limply and finally dead beyond doubt in my soothing hands. I am glad that I was there to see him through his final moments, to hold him fondly as I wept, but it has left me somewhat scarred. As my brother died, it seems that his teeth had slipped from the mirror to sink through my thumb, an injury I did not notice until that evening as I sat waiting for my starter to arrive in a hungry animal-based gastro pub.
Of course, the Police had questions for me, the dolts, on such trivialities like my name and why exactly I had felt the need to dropkick my younger brother from the deck of the boat that fateful day, or who had asphyxiated him as he lay unconscious after the incident, but I simply told them my side of the story and despite a frosty reception, I was soon on first name terms with an Officer Jonty Buttreiser, sharing laughs and doughnuts as we remembered some of the dumb broads we had made. We signed the release forms and he told me that if I ever needed some ass in this town to remember to give him a call. I agreed, shook his hand and tipped my hat to him as I left, to Jonty Buttreiser, the last real cop in town.
But of course, the real mystery is this: if Timothy did die that fateful die as I squeezed the air from his fitting body, who was the man that made me a steak dinner last Thursday? Why exactly was it that my dead and burnt up baby brother (we’d had him cremated) had simply come home from work a year to the day after I had strangled him? And why exactly would I ask you a series of questions that you can clearly never answer?
(Answers on a postcard to the usual address, please enclose a cheque to cover our £1.50 a minute premium rate reading fee. Your usual network rates do apply.)
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