The first light bars of early Spring sunshine fell upon the English Rose complexion of Octavia, gently prodding her toward wakefulness. She stirred from sleep, passing a languorous hand over her eyes to see the morning light clearly, before tossing the pure linen bedsheets in a jumble to floor and making her way to her steel finished, Aga furnished kitchen.

Making a delectable Italian coffee that a besotted previous amour mailed weekly from Piza, she glanced through her morning’s post; billet-doux, bills and invitation to the TMO Flower Show. She rubbed this last gently between her fingers, luxuriating in the soft weft of the card. “Real gilt edges”, she murmured, impressed. “Oh, we shall have to do something good for this”.

She wandered out into her garden, the sweet early morning dew soaking lightly into the trailing hem of her nightgown, coffee in one hand and invitation in the other. She was searching for her loyal, patient and actually, rather damn attractive Head Gardener. He was man who knew precisely how dirty forearms should be; enough to indicate a hard days graft but not so much that a shared bath with aromatic candles became unromantically tainted. Octavia’s Head Gardener was man who knew exactly which thigh muscles looked best when you leant on a spade, and there were things he could do whilst propagating roses that still made her gusset whump after the 3 long and rather sensual years of his employment.

Octavia found him eventually, his hands thrust in a fragrant mulch, in one of the more dilapidated greenhouses. She paused for a moment to admire the breadth of his shoulders, muscles writhing like cats in a sack under the thin material of a faded check shirt. Then she gathered a rather hitching breath, and broached the subject she’d come to discuss. “TMO Flower Show”, she announced, haughtily, as she often did when she felt slightly intimidated by the strength of her own desires. “We have to put on a good show. Ye Gods, can you imagine what all those peasants in the village will be doing. It’ll be daffodils and dead Camelias and hideous, deformed hybrids. I can’t even bear to think what that Thorn will turn in; he’s got less idea about greenhouses than he has about video recorders and you remember the mess he left mine in when he came to fix it”.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by Louche:
[ muscles writhing like cats in a sack

---

Keep going!
 

Thorn sniggered appreciatively. If only Ringo knew what he had planned, he'd never have agreed to lend him his precious baby for the day. He nodded vaguely as Ringo pointed out the other modifications he'd added to the gleaming yellow monster. A 10 m reach should just about be enough for what he had in mind. Those lazy bints with their muscle-bound gardeners would see just where their airy-fairy ways had led them. If they couldn't be bothered to dig their own gardens, he'd show them what digging really was. Subconsciously he flexed his own bicep. Some people were just naturally skinny, that was all.

Ringo turned off the engine, and the silence was deafening. He slid down the shiny slope of the JCB's shoulder, and tossed the keys to Thorn. "Why won't you tell me what you want her for? I can be discreet!"

Thorn winced as he remembered the last time he'd told Ringo something sensitive. The gossip about the kittens had spread all round the village by lunchtime. He grinned as he shut the gate behind the boy racer. Now for some fun.
 

Her sinuous form was wrapped in the red silk pyjamas she had donned last night after throwing yet another bumbling village boy out of her boudoir for incompetence but she looked annoyed rather than reposed. She rose and walked with purpose to the elegant French windows, pushed aside the dusty, over heavy velvet drapes and stared rather forlornly into her garden. The long, elegant dog, sensing that there may soon be a significant change in Her Ladyship’s mood, crawled quietly under a lacquered chaise longue and settled down to wait it out.

Lady Astro contemplated her view. It was desolate. In the shadow of the Gothic monstrosity nothing would grow. Her eccentric father, an Egg Curry baron, refused to move to a light new 5 bed exec detached in the village. He imposed Draconian rules on his daughter, who prowled the length of the oppressive house daily. Usually she could find nothing to inspire her. Today, however, a movement in the adjacent meadow caught her eye. She raised the trusty binoculars which taught her all she needed to know about life outside her claustrophobic prison, and took in the most amazing sight.

In the meadow two of the village boys, stripped to the waist, hair plastered to their foreheads with exertion, were running through fencing manoueveres. Lady Astro was enchanted. And perhaps something else as well. She pondered, perhaps, inveigling these rather wiry and attractive young men into helping her do something with the garden, enabling her to compete with her rival, the woman she thought of in her mind as “the Euro slut”. Breaking one of Daddy’s Rules of Stone, Lady Astro opened the door, and made her way down to the meadow.
 

quote:

---

Lady Astro was enchanted. And perhaps something else as well.

---

Louche = brilliant.

[ 17 September 2003: Message edited by: Astromariner ]
 

quote:

---

…and you remember the mess he left mine in when he came to fix it”.

---

‘That I do, ma’am,’ said Barry Blackmask. He slipped a broad shoulder from his flannel shirt and unslung the two sacks of kittens. ‘For the compost.’ Octavia loved this bit. She felt herself bite sharply into lower lip, a quick breath. A blush of colour ran to her breasts, heaving now, a moan waiting in her mouth. ‘Get thee here.’

Barry’s hands – broad, flecked with dirt, ridged and caramel – were on her hips. He turned her and in a moment she was naked in the greenhouse’s earthy warm. Softly his hands cupped, the light play of hard skin on soft breasts making her push against him. He craned to her neck, her shoulders, building layer after layer of soft kiss, of playful nibble. His breath on her neck, his voice in her ears: ‘Now, mi’lady.’

‘Yes.’ A sybillant of pure lust.

Barry pulled away and turned Octavia again. Crack. He stomped heavy on the first sack.

‘O god.’ Tavia new this was going to be the best yet. Crack. Crack. Crickedy-crick. Meeeowwww. Mow. Skkrunch. Crick. Mowwwowww. Cricksh. Shquicsh.

Barry was doing the Hornpipe – her favourite. The forbidden lust dance of the Scottish fell walker.

After, when she could come no more, her body a spent, taut force, a cat’s cradle of knotted muscle, Barry carried her back to the house. ‘Cock cucumbers,’ he said. ‘I’ll grow us the biggest cock cucumber you ever did see.’ And despite her fatigue, Tavia came again, quietly.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by 69 Comeback Elvis:
‘I’ll grow us the biggest cock cucumber you ever did see.’

---

lolol. Elvis =
 

“M-Miss Vogon? Is everything alright?”

“Well, Michael, let me put it this way. I have just taken a call from Mr Vikram – I don’t care what he says about challenging our perception of form and aesthetics. I will NEVER have a stall for Vegetables Shaped Like Amusing Body Parts at my flower show. Never! And I really do not care for exhibiting his marrow resembling a particularly bulbous penis.”

She put a hand to her neck and her bottom lip trembled. Michael admired her, as always. They’d been organising the flower show together for 5 years now and every year it was the same. He would follow her movements from beneath lowered eyelids – the way she caressed the coil of the telephone wire while she ordered the marquee, the firmness of her behind as she bent to the filing cabinet and the way she tapped her pencil against her mouth as they worked on the floor plan. He longed to sweep the papers from her desk whilst lowering her onto it, breathing hotly against her neck.

“They might find that sort of thing entertaining in Dudley or bloody Ashby de la Zouch but the TMO Flower Show is an altogether more refined event.”

He loved her when she was like this. When the redness flushed over her neck and her eyebrows arched. Luckily, it happened at least three times a day. He reached inside his drawer and pulled out a packet of photographs.

“Never mind old Vikram, Miss Vogon. He does this every year. Remember his last suggestion? The Organic Cider Tent? It was lucky that we found out about his shed full of....how should I put it?....open air gentlemen when we did.”

She smiled wanly and relaxed slightly into her chair.

“Miss Vogon? Can I show you how my orchid is coming along? I’ve got some photos here...”

He held the packet out and moved towards her desk. The beautiful Aeranthes Grandiflora. Its velvet curved petals shining graciously in print. Her eyes widened in admiration and her lips parted slightly. A dart of her tongue moistened them. He heard her sigh.

“Oh, Michael. It’s beautiful. Such a deep pink. So luscious. The fragrance must be amazing.”

“It is, Miss Vogon, it is. I like to cup it gently and breathe the fragrance in until I can almost taste it.”

“It has a splendid shape too, Michael – look how the petals form a soft tunnel. So sensuous. Almost like a...like a...”

“Like a flange, Miss Vogon.”

Suddenly, her arms were around his neck and her breath in his ear.

“Tell me, Michael. How are you shaped?”

“Like a marrow, Miss Vogon.”
 

And shame too, because my only contribution to this thread has been sycophantic lolling. I'm crap at creativ writin, otherwise I'd join in.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by Sidney:
“Like a flange, Miss Vogon.”

“Tell me, Michael. How are you shaped?”

“Like a marrow, Miss Vogon.”

---

This has to be the best piece of comedy dialogue I've read in ages.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by Louche:
This has to be the best piece of comedy dialogue I've read in ages.

---

Strangley accurate too. H...how did you know Sidney, without Omikins binoculars?
 

I'm learning a lot about you regulars.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by Louche:
Octavia: Ye Gods

---

She was stuck on Chapter 4: Uses for Essential Oils in Cooking. If only Mart was home, he would be able to give her some advice on if it was ok to substitute ginger essential oil for fresh ginger on occasions. But he was away again on one of his frequent trips to the continent, and its not like she ever really spoke to him anyway. Trick rented a small cottage on the grounds of his rambling estate and her sister rented the one next door. Paying the monthly rent was about as intimate as it got between her and her handsome landlord.

Glancing at the clock on the wall she noted that the moussaka she had made would reach its sizzling perfection in about half an hour, an hour and a half after her sister was due for dinner, which made it perfect timing. They cooked dinner for each other more nights than not when they were both at the cottages at the same time.

Standing up and making her dog Sam stir in his dreams of chasing squirrels she went to the fridge and poured herself another glass of wine. Lighting a Marlboro Menthol she went outside into garden. On the patio there were some strawberries plumping up in a clump on the edge, a rash of tomato plants, a pot of spring onions and various herbs including basil, parsley, chives and rosemary. She must pick some tomatoes and basil for the salad to go with the dinner, she thought.

It was a gorgeous summer evening, the butterflies were flitting around the heavy lilac blooms and the fairy lights were intertwined amongst the jasmine flowers over the pergola creating an ethereal feel. She walked past the rose bushes breathing in their heady fragrance and felt light headed at the beauty of it all. Her mind wandered to the invitation she had received to the TMO Flower Show that morning. She had been surprised, its not as if she was a true village member, both her and her sister kept flats in London and just escaped to the country to write, but she had been touched. I don’t think I have anything here up to their standards she mused. Their shared garden was hedonistically beautiful but only in its rampant wildness. If removed to the stark whiteness of Miss Vogon’s marquee it would loose all its thrown together appeal.

Wandering down to the back she breathed in the musky scent of the foxgloves growing under the large oak tree. Leaning against the gate that led onto Mart’s fields she looked at his large rambling house and sighed again. Her tabby cat mewed and jumped out of the shadows on to the top of the gate, rubbing his head against her shoulder. Stroking his lustrous coat she picked a grass seed out of it, “Been romping in Mart’s fields again, Tab?” and wistfully imagined that it was her running hand in hand with Mart amongst the thigh high grasses.

How many evenings she had stood here looking at his house wishing that he would come to her back gate and take her forcefully in his arms. Taking a last drag on her cigarette, Trick scooped up Tab and made her way back inside.

[ 18 September 2003: Message edited by: Uber Trick ]
 

Something caught his eye, broke his concentration. He stopped. Before him lay a humble oil painting. In its frame was painted a stunning yet modest work of art. It was a young girl clutching a tabby cat in her arms. A smirk, slowly creeping up the side of her face. The skin was very dark with thick reddened lips. Highlighting the eyes were brilliant vibrant green brush strokes. It was like no oil paint Martin had ever seen.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the elaborate golden frame, almost bending it, with his powerful biceps.

Oh god he cried. What am I doing here?
 

Richard S. Norton was the village stationmaster, and master of his station. The enigmatic “S” in his name he had added himself - to his mother he was plain old Dickie, one of the dozen children she had sired from as many clients. Richard had hated his infancy and teenage years, the memories of growing up in Pykesbury, surrounded by siblings that ran the gamut of skin tones, from his eldest brother, the gay albino with the bleached backside, to his second sister, as black as coal, equally as coarse and now a 'rapper' of international renown. Richard had fled his background as soon as he was able, taking a job with British Rail, growing a small, compact moustache and adding the “S” to his name to lend it, as he put it, a touch of gravitas.

To the locals, he was just the pompous, over-officious stationmaster who liked to march up and down the platform in time to Wagner and tend to his modest and woefully unsuccessful vegetable patch behind the guardhouse.

All he could grow was potatoes. Nothing else flourished in that little patch of earth he inspected and reviewed, tended and pruned, watered and fertilised with an almost religious devotion. Not that he was religious, of course; Richard S. Norton frowned on all religions, just as he frowned on the nickname cruelly given him by the village youths: they said the “S” in his name was for ‘spud’. They called him Spuddy Dick.

Sadly the name had stuck, like the piece of chewing gum he suddenly observed on the otherwise pristine platform, and as he bent down to remove it with his penknife he heard the whistle of the approaching 18.24, now a full three minutes late.

He scowled at the driver as he pulled in, but couldn’t help bringing himself to attention with a resonant click of his heels, as the commuters on their way back from Pykesbury alighted from the train and made their way to the exit. Dick Norton scowled as he noticed the two sisters up from town flounce off the train together, giggling loudly and tottering on their heels like a pair of harlots, he thought to himself, which made him scowl further. Trick and Amp, he’d heard they were called, which made him scowl further still, his little moustache bristling, as if he had come too near to the static on the television screen again, something that happened whenever he made his video recorder pause on that cherished moment when the nine o’clock news had shown Margaret Thatcher taking tea with good old General Augusto.

Last off the train was Ben Farmer, and Norton’s scowl reached new heights of disdain. Ben Farmer was the gruff but ruggedly handsome manager of the de Mariner estate, and Spuddy Dick’s nemesis in the village. Norton hated Ben Farmer, for the strangest of reasons: he liked him. The fact was that Ben Farmer was the only villager ever to talk to the stationmaster when he stopped in at the local for a quick pint, and Richard S. Norton was so profoundly grateful for this attention from such a notable member of local society that it enraged him when Ben Farmer made a point of disagreeing with everything he had to say, mainly, as Spuddy Dick had realised, for the entertainment of the other cronies in the lounge bar: Professor Kovacs, who had taught at Oxford (the Poly, no doubt, thought the stationmaster); Dr Ben Wei, the oriental acupuncturist (a drunken quack, in Norton’s opinion); and of course the landlady herself, Gail, the evil witch who always laughed loudest whenever Ben Farmer drew Norton into the conversation, with an air of condescension and familiarity which Richard S. Norton had only ever experienced elsewhere with young Hélène N’aïtaoulle, the French au pair employed to look after the various children of Homeless Dang, the former tramp and now the richest man in the village, who had made his fortune by writing a sequel to Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London, becoming the darling of Bloomsbury society and marrying the actress Louche Lankishyre, who lived with Homeless Dang on his houseboat on the river. They had taken on Hélène N’aïtaoulle as an au pair to control their unruly, bohemian children, and the shy, pretty French girl had struck up a friendship with stationmaster Norton as a result of the trips she took the children on to Pykesbury, “so zey can go to see ze museums and learn important zings”, as she had put it. Richard S. Norton had approved of that, learning important things, and he was always deferential to Hélène whenever they met. She was the only person who was nice to him.

Apart from Ben Farmer. At least, at the beginning, for about, oh, a minute, whenever Norton stopped off at the local. Ben Farmer would ask the stationmaster’s opinion on the subject of the day, and Spuddy Dick would unwittingly enter into the game, only to have his views mercilessly torn apart by the gruff Ben Farmer, who had a way of phrasing his cruel epithets that would delight the cronies, followed by some crass comment (“You’re such a flid, Spuddy”) that would make Norton cringe in embarrassment for Farmer himself and force him to drink up his pint as quickly as he could and scurry back to his room adjoining the guardhouse, where he would punish his folly by pleasuring himself furiously as the image of Mrs Thatcher on the screen merged with the vision in his mind of young Hélène N’aïtaoulle, his “nightowl”, as he liked to pronounce her surname, as she always seemed to fly into his dreams at night, an Aryan angel from a better, more ordered world, where he could march by her side and together forge a larger, better empire than his depressing railway station, where one day his Reich would include the whole village and far, far beyond, where order meant peace and peace meant order.

Of course, these heavenly images were almost always ruined in his dreams by the apparition of Ben Farmer’s mocking face, floating in front of him, taunting him as he whispered “Spuddy Dick, Spuddy Dick, show us yer ‘taters, Spuddy Dick”, which never failed to wake Norton up with a scowl as dark and bristling as his Charlie Chaplin moustache.

It was such a scowl the stationmaster sported when he saw Ben Farmer get off the train after the Amp/Trick sisters, and the scowl only deepened when Farmer approached Norton with that laconic grin of his and struck up conversation.

“Ey oop, Spuddy,” said Ben Farmer. “I see t'flower show’s come round again.”

“What?” snapped Dick Norton. He was in no mood for one of Farmer’s pointless jokes.

“TMO Flower Show. You know.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Norton replied, irritated. “What of it?”

“’Appen there’s a chance for yersen, this year.”

“Look, Farmer,” Norton sighed wearily. “You know I don’t grow flowers, all I have is potatoes. I fail to see how I could win anything.”

Ben Farmer grinned. “’Ave yer not seen this year’s invite, then? Not get sent one, eh?”

“No, I haven’t seen the invitation, mon ami, and have no interest in the whole affair”.

Farmer grinned even more, and pulled a gilt-edged card out from his jacket pocket. “’Ere, ‘ave a look, then. See that? ‘Vegetables Shaped Like Amusing Body Parts’, it says!”

The stationmaster looked at the card and snorted. “That’s absurd. What sort of a prize is that?”

“Search me, Spuddy, yer know I’ve no business wi’ that flower show, I’ve got t’ole de Mariner estate to worry about mesen... I just reckoned mebbe yers could enter one o’ yer spuds as a body part, a wart or a bunion or summat. Anyroad, yer can keep t’invite if yer like, no use to me.”

Ben Farmer strode off, leaving Norton with the invitation card in his hand, and seething with rage as the passengers finally made their way out of his station which, he noted, had once again been dirtied by another piece of chewing gum, no doubt crudely spat out by one of those two sisters.

He knelt down once again to remove the offending item, and suddenly found himself trembling with anger, at Ben Farmer, at the two girls, at the whole village and its idiotic flower show which he could never hope of entering, let alone winning, not with his potatoes.

And with the flower show invitation still clutched in his hand, his whole body quaking with rage, he stormed over to his vegetable patch and began furiously uprooting his potatoes, grabbing them by the stalk and jerking them out of the ground, the small round tubers loosening themselves from the earth and shaking free as he snatched them up violently and tossed them onto the railway lines. Every single one was lifted from the soil and discarded with disgust at the world, the tracks soon littered with green stalks and dirt-covered potatoes, as Spuddy Dick unleashed his pent-up frustration in a massacre of root vegetables.

When there were no more potatoes to uproot, Norton stood up and, regaining his senses somewhat, glanced round to make sure no one had seen him. He looked down at the railway line and saw the mess he had created. He began to cry, softly, without tears, as he surveyed the damage he had wrought. A whole season’s harvest, lying in a cruel lump on the tracks. He looked at the potatoes; the one thing he was good at. He saw their round shape, their healthy skin, and immediately regretted what he had done.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. That one potato, grotesquely deformed, lying slightly to one side of the tangled mess of vegetation he had created. It was much, much thicker than all the others, and elongated to the extent that it resembled not so much a potato as, as, as...

The stationmaster could hardly bring himself to think the word. Yet it was unavoidable; it was staring him in the face. The potato looked all the world like an enormous erect male member.

Like a huge, giant cock.

He gazed down at the TMO Flower Show invite in his hand, at the ridiculous announcement of a novelty prize for oddly-shaped vegetables. And a thought came to his exhausted mind. A thought even he had to laugh out loud at, as it formed itself with remarkable clarity.

“Spuddy Dick, they call me,” he thought. “Spuddy Dick with his taters and his train station, marching up and down with his Wagner and his moustache.”

He laughed again at the thought; he couldn't help it. He would enter the flower show. He would show them. He would win the contest with his enormous, cock-shaped potato. Finally, finally, the sad little stationmaster had produced something he could be proud of. His spud would really be something, something great: it would be The Great Dick Tater.

[ 19 September 2003: Message edited by: mart ]
 

Hysterically.

Brilliant.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by mart:
young Hélène N’aïtaoulle, the French au pair

---

lololololol
 

[ 18 September 2003: Message edited by: Samuelnorton ]
 

Encore, Encore!!!
 

Gemini noisily slurped the last of her tea (second mug of the morning, and it was only 8:30am) and pointedly used the invitation as a coaster. She shuffled out of the conservatory, picked up her laptop and shuffled straight back again. Working from home was the greatest blag ever. She settled down and waited for the laptop to start up, and as she leaned back into the sofa, she thought about that white, heavily embossed, beautiful invitation.

Last year, she was new to town, and Miss Vogon thought it only right to invite her along. Miss Vogon knew what a lovely garden she had there, as Miss Fifichan used to live there and she entered with relish every year. Strangely, since Gem moved in, it seemed a little, well, lazy, to Miss Vogon's eyes. There was no attention to detail, and she had never seen Gem out gardening! Still, it would be rude not to appear welcoming.

Gem was touched by the invitation, and off she went, despite only having a few peace lilies to show off. She bought them from M&S, and hoped no-one would notice, being as they didn't have big shops like that round here. Dolled up in a black frock, hair freshly reddened by Clairol, peace lillies and a couple of bottles of wine, she trotted off down to the flower show.

Unfortunately for Gem, four hours and a couple of bottles of wine later, she was found underneath her stall, giggling about silly lillies, and singing 'Daisy, Daisy, how does your garden grow' over and over again. Even more unfortunately for her, she was found by Lady de Mariner, who looked simultaneously shocked and envious - how could this woman be so relaxed, and ignore social convention like this! Lady de Mariner ensured that her story was quickly spread around the entire village. Miss Vogon's eyes grew wide, and she wrote a very haughty letter that evening, demanding an apology for Gem's reckless behaviour at such an event.

Gem snapped out of her day-mare as her laptop sprang to life and started flashing messages at her. She cringed outwardly at the memory and strengthened her resolve once more, determined not to go and make a fool of herself again. 8:35am and no tea! She raced back to the kitchen, knocking the invitation to the floor in her haste. Whilst in the kitchen she noticed the half eaten packet of jammy dodgers, and couldn't resist. Armed with tea and biscuits, she marched back to the conservatory, slipping on the invitation as she went and spilling tea down her front.

"Fuckity! This was clean on, too!" She yelled. Unable to decide what to wear, she simply put the hairdryer on the t-shirt until it was dry and got back to work. After all, it was Mart's t-shirt and he'd never ask for it back.

The invitation had again crept closer to her since she slipped on it, so she picked it up, brushed the biscuit crumbs away and swore once more. It was embellished with daisies! Miss Vogon had done that on purpose, she was convinced of it, so she decided that she would get her revenge.

Picking up her mobile, she called Thorn. "I need your help with a plan for this bloody flower show..."
 

"I suppose some might call it a bit modern"

Got that right. Modern wasn't the word. What he'd created would surely offend the very souls of the simple country folk he'd be presenting to the next day.

Thorn followed Ringo around what he described as a garden.

"Here check this one out, I love this"

Rising from the perfect tarmac was what looked like a traffic sign, proudly showing the speed limit of 580 miles per hour.

"I got that legally certified, you know. Anyone going faster than that on here could get pulled.

Thorn could see the basic premise behind it. To be fair, if he'd have called it art, he'd be a millionaire, but sadly Ringo seemed to lack whatever part of the brain came with common sense. This wasn't a car park, nor was it a work of art, it was a garden. Rather than grass, there was ashphalt, and lots of it. Instead of lining the edges with trees and shrubs, there were streetlamps and old tyres. He'd even gone to the trouble of creating a small 'rockery' from old engine glocks, with timing belts cascading gracefully down the side. It was almost pretty from a distance. There was a fountain near the back, and a small pond, filled and gushing with synthetic motor oil. Neon lights were strategically placed around the sides, under the tyres, to create a strange glow that seemed to ripple and pulse with colour.

Taking pride of place in the centre of the garden sat an almost unrecogniseable Japanese imported Toyota Supra. It's paint reflected in five different colours, depending on how much light hit it. It sat dangerously close to the ground, allowing just the thinnest shaft of electric blue neon to escape across the tyre marked tarmac.

"What I'm struggling to figure out, Ringo, is exactly what this is meant to represent"

"Well it's a car, innit"

"Yeah, I realise it's a car but everything else here is meant to represent something from a typical garden. What's this car meant to be?"

"It's a car, man, you never seen a rusting old car in someone's garden before?"
 

Mart that rocks!
 

‘I have a plan to sass up the flower show. To add a bit of much needed MTV-style glamour.’ Gemini winked as she beckoned Thorn towards the house. A parachute harness hung mysteriously in the front room.

***********

‘Ow you fucking little bitch!’ Stefanos cradled his arm tenderly. ‘It’s only play fencing.’

Physic smiled. No-one was as nice to him as Stefanos. Not since the accident. ‘Am I a clumsy baby?’

Stefanos stopped examining his reddening arm and looked hard at Physic. He knew that tone and it always sounded trouble. Physic was rubbing himself through his sackcloth trousers. ‘I’m all clumsy again,’ he said ‘big and clumsy.’

Stefanos stabbed him swiftly and deftly in the testicles with the rapier. ‘Stop it Physic. Stop it now! There’s somebody coming.’

Lady Astro strode purposefully into the glade, more than a little ‘enchanted’ about seeing the fencers up close. Glimpses of muscle and oil, of garage mechanic calendars and skaterboys in the park flashed across her mind’s eye. Men pulling things from the top shelf on the train. Little flashes of taut belly. She was quite surprised to see a man in a leather miniskirt staring intently at a giant’s balls.

‘Hello little lady,’ smiled Physic. ‘Stefanos is making sure my snowpeas are all right.’

‘Who… wha? Um. This is private land.’ Lady de Mariner’s flush had long passed. The roar of the woolly mammoth in her knickers was being muffled by ice floes thicker than Norway. ‘Please leave. Now.’

‘Ooo ark at Lady Muck,’ shrilled Stefanos. ‘We’re here for the de Mariner display, in’t we. Add a bit of class. Though God knows just one of my pumps is classier than this place.’

‘What display?’

‘For the flower show. We got a call from…’

‘From me, mi’lady.’ Ben Farmer erupted from the thicket a mass of pelts and bracken. ‘Appen I thought thed bring some big town flash to’t show.’

‘O Ben. Gosh. If you think so,’ Lady de Mariner’s pant ecosystem hit global warming again. Her clitoris had discovered fire and was busy marshalling nerve endings to build an orgasm. ‘But I thought you didn’t like the flower show.’

‘Aye mi’lady. Not of a normal. But this year’s diff’rent. This year Spuddy Dick’s in.’

Lady Astro smiled peaceably. She never really understood what Ben said, but he had a lovely way with her box.

***********

Michael drew Vogon close in his sleep. He couldn’t believe how good she smelt. ‘Mike…’ she sighed.

Mike murmured and Vogon kissed the back of his hand. Spoons, she thought, what a stupid name for this, most deliriously comforting and close of positions. ‘Mike…’ He snuffled at her neck and she giggled. ‘Mike I need a wee.’

Michael Television lifted his arm and smiled snoozily. ‘That was fantastic, Vogon. I-I…’

‘Shhhh. It’s not over yet. I just need the loo.’

Vogon tried to stand but couldn’t. ‘Ouch.’ She said.

‘Ouch.’ He said.

She tried again. ‘Ouch’ they said in unison. Vogon reached for the light and her spectacles. ‘What…? Oh. My. Gosh.’

They were stuck. Sealed. Joined at hip and bum by vaginal batter and spunk. ‘I knew it had been a while for the two of us…’ stuttered Mikee. ‘But I never thought this would happen.’

‘I seep,’ said Vogon. ‘Always have. O I should have thought.’

‘What to do?’

‘Hot water. Come on.’ And Vogon hoiked Michael onto her back for the long walk upstairs to the bathroom.

***********

Thorn was putting the last touches to Gemini when he heard the shouts from outside. ‘Who’s that?’ asked a muffled Gem.

‘Somebody calling your name, I think. From outside. Want me to go and see who it is?’

‘Well I bloody can’t can I?’

‘True.’ Thorn wandered out through the hall and peered into the bright sunshine. Somebody was carrying a sack of something over by the JCB. He squinted his eyes and raised his hand to shield against the sun. ‘Hello.’

The carrier shouted ‘shit’ and fell over. ‘Shit!’

‘Vogon?’

‘Shit, Thorn, what are you doing here?’ Vogon had a man stuck to her back and was holding up her trousers.

‘Seepage?’

Michael was, in all honesty, confused but enormously grateful for the hand up. Vogon explained to the chap she called Thorn that her boiler was gone. She seemed very comfortable with him. ‘You can use Gem’s shower I’m sure. We’ll go and ask.’

Thorn threw open the doors to the front room with a flourish and a loud bang. ‘Gem,’ he shouted ‘can Vogon use your…’

The noise shocked Gemini and she lost her handhold on the ceiling. ‘Thorn!’ She screamed. ‘You useless fuuuuuucking giiiit.’ She swang naked and upside down in the harness across the room. An upended pink pendulum.

‘Beyonce?’ Said Vogon.

‘Exactly,’ said Gemini, smiling sheepishly.

‘Did Beyonce have a Gerbera in her twat?’ Asked Mike.
 

Seeing as noone knows me yet, thought i'd do me own little one. You don't have to comment. scared.

Surveying the carnage in front of her, Diva let out a huge sigh. On a morning such as this the usual response to walking into the glorious baking sunshine would include a wide grin and some singing. Maybe that tune from Oklahoma, or a bit of James Brown. But not today.

This morning should have been a little haven of solitude and happy lethargy; she had the morning to herself. No irritating visitors or, even worse, family members taking up her time. Unfortunately it was not to be. She should have known it was too good to be true.

As she cleared away the broken plant pots and discarded shrubs she pondered the reason that those two bloody cats had decided to user her garden as a sort of mini feline fight club. They’d wrecked the place, growling and screaming their way to total utter destruction of the beautiful, if tiny, kitchen garden Diva had been tending too since she moved in.

Being a newcomer she was surprised in the early hours to find a fancy invitation on the doormat of her pathetically small house right on the edge of the village. The TMO flower show eh? She hadn’t been around last year but rumours of drunken debauchery had filtered past her ears in the small pub on the green. And that stationmaster (the one who glanced so menacingly at her when she stepped off the train last month) apparently had a good collection of, erm, potatoes.

Well that was all shot to the end of next week then. There was no way she could resurrect the beauty of her garden in time for the show.
Must put some effort in at least. She wondered if getting her mother to bring down some Azaleas she could pass them off as her own? The thought of her mother forced Diva back inside and towards the fridge for a large piece of that chocolate cake and a cup of hazelnut coffee.

As she munched she wondered.... What would they all make of her anyway?
 

[ 19 September 2003: Message edited by: Octavia ]
 

I am really quite tempted to contribute to this thread, as curious ideas are starting to pop up inside my head. Ideas involving pig farms, chickens and misshapen potatoes. Later, maybe.
 

It was time for the show, it was almost that time,
When the saps were all rising to the smell of the thyme.
All the boys had their tent poles, stretching all the boys' slacks.
Underneath, like a catfight, trembled all the boys' sacks.
And the girls were no different, they trembled as well,
As their lady bits jingled and started to swell.
Then they'd bite their pink tongues and they'd let out an "oh!"
And that "oh!" would then echo...around TMO.

For the TMO flower-show had all of them hot
Some pretended to hide it, some others...did not.
Every corner of Moonville, the Mooners were waiting,
Their marrows all swollen, their pulses pulsating.
From the hall to the hill to the shop to the station,
There was love, there was lust, there was sexual frustration.
From the ground there were springing the tallest of shoots,
All the Mooners were singing about their firm roots
For the time was approaching for their flower show.
Every Mooner in Moonville was raring to go.
Not a Mooner was missing - no, there were no h8ers.
Even Spud at the station was waving his taters.
The scene was all set and the seeds had been sown.
There was no one to spoil it, nobody to moan.
Every Mooner for miles would be there in the square
There was nothing to spoil it, not at all...or was there?

On the hill behind Moonville in an old dirty squat,
Lived a Mooner who liked flower shows...not a lot.
"How I hate flower shows!" shrieked this miserable creature.
Subtly, as you see, never was his best feature.
"With their bulbs and their stalks and their trowels and their spades,
"All those hideous Mooners just want to get laid.
"Waving marrows and taters and carrots and leaks,
"Rubbing rhubarb and drooling like dirty old Greeks.
"I would not, if you paid, go to their flower show.
"I would not, no I wouldn't, go along, no no no.
"How I loathe flower shows and those Mooners I hate.
"With their regular sex and their meaningless chate.
"And their regular incomes and bothersome threads
"About doors walls and windows - roofs over their heads.
"How I hate, how I hate flower shows how I hate
"Moonville too, how I hate it, just hate it...but wait.

"What if I, on my hill, was to think of a plan?
"One to ruin their show. Can I? Oh yes I can.
"Yes, yes, yes, I can trample on all of their dreams,
"I can prance on their marrows and dance to the screams.
"I can puncture their pumpkins and string their green beans
"Way up high up on my hill...do you know what this means?
"I have thought of plan to disrupt TMO.
"It's dirty and dastardly, evil but, oh!
"It's so lovely and sneaky and riddled with bad."
"I am going to be happy, they're going to be sad."
"At midnight I'll sneak, yes I'm going to go
"Down to Moonville. I'm going to steal their show."

'Twas the night before flower show and all through Moonville
Not a carrot was twitching. Everybody was still.
In his bed, by his head, sat old Spuddy Dick's tater
In a jot, it was not. Spuddy Dick, see you later.
In the cradle of Elvis there lay such a veg
But a face full of hate soon appeared on the ledge.
And the window creaked open but nobody saw
How a shadowy figure crept over the floor.
With a hiss and a giggle he took up that root.
And he whisked it away, oh what fun, what a hoot.

Next stop on this fiend's list was the chamber of Bandy.
His legs reached to the floor - like a tree, which was handy.
Up he went to the top where he found Bandy's sprouts.
In the blink of an eye, they were gone, he was out.
But he stopped by the boulders beneath Bandy's belt
And he climbed in the tree-house in which Scrawny dwelt.
Placed his hands on her swedes and he gave them a squeeze
Dropped them straight in his sack - not a 'thank you' or 'please'.

Very soon, 'neath the moon every root, fruit or flower
Was safe, snug in his sack - it took less than an hour.
And he laughed to himself, hee hee hee, ho, ho, ho.
"Guranteed, thanks to me, they'll be no flower show."

[ 19 September 2003: Message edited by: jonesy999 ]
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by 69 Comeback Elvis:
‘Hello little lady,’ smiled Physic. ‘Stefanos is making sure my snowpeas are all right.’

---

lol @ Elvii

0065
Morning shir. Shorry I’m a bit late. I had a ‘blow out’ on the motorway.

M
Really, 0065, you’re getting worse than 007.

0065
I know many ladiesh who would dishagree, shir.

M
Yes, yes, very well. Sit down, and for god’s sake knock off that appalling Sean Connery accent, will you. This is the modern age.

0065
Sorry, sir. Old habits and all that.

M
Now. What do you know of the de Mariner family?

0065
De Mariner... de Mariner... let’s see... ah yes. The first Lord de Mariner was originally a peasant from Normandy, worked as a cook for the French army. He was granted his English title in 1415, right after Agincourt. Seems he was persuaded to feed the French troops a stew that gave them chronic diarrhoea right before the battle. Henry V had it easy.

M
I’m impressed, 0065. But that’s all classified information, you know.

0065
Of course sir. Since then, well, there’s not much to tell. They have a large estate somewhere near Pykesbury, I believe. That’s all I know.

M
We’ve been getting reports about de Mariner, 0065.

0065
Reports, sir?

M
Yes. Have a look at this dossier.

0065
Let’s see... yes, that’s right, village near Pykesbury. Population 157, mainly farming and horticultural businesses... something about an annual flower show.

M
Yes, look at the photographs in that file.

0065
Very impressive, I must say. Very large marrows. And that’s a beautiful orchid.

M
Yes. Now look at these photographs.

0065
Good god! I’ve never seen anything like it. Those tomatoes are like beach balls. And the bananas look like, well, they look like huge inflatable bananas.

M
Yes, but they’re not. That’s bona fide produce. Those are satellite photographs of Lord de Mariner’s private greenhouses. We know very little about the current Lord de Mariner, except that he read Biology at Oxford and then Chemistry at Cambridge; he keeps himself locked up in his mansion with his daughter, Lady Astro. They never go out.

0065
What about the flower show, sir?

M
I’m coming to that. For the last few years the village has organised an annual flower show. It’s very impressive, and has quite a reputation. Each year the entries are bigger, better, more stunning. Not on the scale of what de Mariner is growing, obviously, but there’s definitely a connection.

0065
I think I understand now. You suspect that Lord de Mariner has invented some wonder-product, a kind of magic fertiliser of some kind, which he uses to grow his huge fruit and vegetables.

M
Go on.

0065
Well, it’s a small village. The estate is on the top of the hill, isn’t it? Some of this stuff must be trickling down into the surrounding land. That explains why the village has such successful gardeners.

M
I’m impressed, 0065, most impressed. Now we’re not sure of de Mariner’s motives in all this, who he’s working for.

0065
Arabs?

M
To be honest, 0065, we just don’t know. But there’s more. Does the name Vogon Poetess mean anything to you?

0065
Of course. Renegade Polish spy, also known as The Siren. Very beautiful, very dangerous. Usually works with her sidekick, Michael Television. Small runt with long hair. Not very clever, but loyal as a bloodhound. What have they got to do with all this?

M
Would it surprise you to learn that The Siren and Michael Television have been living in de Mariner’s village for the last five years?

0065
It would indeed.

M
You’re to go to this village, 0065. We need to find out exactly what’s going on. This is going to be a long-term operation, so I want you to prepare yourself well. I want you to move among the locals and find out everything you can. We’ve prepared a complete disguise for you.

0065
Very good sir. What’s it to be? A baron from an obscure principality over to visit Lord de Mariner? A businessman from Holland looking to sell tulips?

M
You’re going to arrive there as a tramp, 0065.

0065
A tramp? But... sir!

M
You’re going to be homeless. Homeless Dang, they’ll call you. Without a fixed abode, you can move freely round the village, getting to know the locals, doing odd jobs, picking up on gossip. Now don’t pull that face, 0065, it will only be for a while. Things will pick up later - once you’re in and settled, and we get a regular flow of information coming in, we’re going to rise your profile quite spectacularly. But that can wait. For now, you’ll hand your reports in to the landlady in the pub. Name of Gail.

0065
Can she be trusted?

M
Trusted? She’s been with us since the Diana fiasco in Paris. Absolute rock.

0065
I understand, sir.

M
Very well, 0065. Good luck. And behave yourself. There are some very attractive young ladies in that village, I don’t want you blowing your cover.

0065
I guess I’ll just have to blow theirs instead then sir.

M
I mean it this time, 0065. No more philandering. I was going to send you in as a queer, if you must know - your excellent work on Dr Kelly's suicide was the only thing that let you off the hook.

0065
Thank you sir.

M
Yes, well, that’s all. Moneypenny will fill you in on the rest.

[ 20 September 2003: Message edited by: mart ]
 

I could have fucking shat when M told me I was going to be a tramp. What a fucking cock. Here’s me, all dead suave and super cool secret agent, jetting off round the world and nobbing birds all over the shop, and they go and send me to this shitey village. Like, thanks a fucking fuck, you fucks. Still, it’s quite nice here, and there are some right tasty birds. I like the look of those two sisters who live over in the cottages. And that Gail’s a feisty one, bloody hell. Cracking knockers. I made contact for the first time last night, in more ways than one. I’d spent two nights sleeping rough and felt like a fucking tramp, so she let me slip up the back way into her rooms over the pub. Gave me a shower and a bite to eat, told me how to deliver my reports. Then I nobbed her. Twice.

--------------------------------------------------------

Been sleeping in the barn by the dairy for the last few days - it’s a fucking dump, when you think I’ve got a flat in Chelsea that any bird would whump her gusset at, Aston Martin in the garage and suits from Saville Row in the wardrobe, but at least there’s straw and stuff for bedding. Speaking of birds, I was over by them cottages yesterday and one of the sisters came out, asked who I was. I said I was just a traveller, passing through, looking for odd jobs and that, and she believed me, at least I think I did. Said her name was Lamp or Ramp or something, fuck knows, they’ve all got fucking mad names round here. Anyway she asked me if I knew anything about plumbing. Not’arf I don’t, I say, so she asks me in to look at her pipes. Well, I did more than that. I nobbed her. Once in the kitchen when she bent down, twice in bed after that and then again in the shower. Cracking knockers. I might be a hobo bum, but I can still pull the birds. 007? He’s a fucking homo.

--------------------------------------------------------

Got talking to this guy called Barry Blackmask yesterday. Said he works for some bird called Octavia. I say oh aye, he says oh aye. Know what I mean. He says do I know gardening. I say fuck all mate. He says no chance with Octavia. So I ask him about the other birds in the village, thinking I should get on with the spying job and all that. He says they’re all gardening mad. I say yeah, they all grow some right top stuff round here don’t they. He says yeah, says I should learn some gardening if I want some work. Says he’ll have a word with some bird called Midge or Modge or something, she’s a dancer and well fit, he says, has an overgrown garden near the church, could do with some clearance work. Sounded good to me, I’m skint and hungry and could use some cash. And if she’s well fit and that. Might nob her.

--------------------------------------------------------

Saw Modge. Got the job. Well fit. Was gonna try and nob her, as she was looking at me all saucy like, but she said her husband, some ancient professor or something, was in the front room, passed out pissed. So I went over to the cottages to see Lamp or Damp or whatever it is, thinking I’d nob her again, but she wasn’t there, only her sister, Flick or Trick or Wick, so I nobbed her instead. Then I went to see Gail in the pub, slipped her my report, then slipped her something else.

I’ll tell you something. It’s a fucking shit assignment this, considering I’m normally all over the world, chasing criminals in Barbados and Hong Kong and shit, but I’ve nobbed more birds here in a week than 007 ever could in a month.

Wonder what that high-profile stuff that M mentioned was all about. Hope it comes soon, I'm well fucked off with kipping in the barn. Have seen an abandoned houseboat down on the river, though, that could be well cush. Great for nobbing birds as well.
 

Started work today on the de Mariner estate. Ben Farmer asked me what I was good at. I looked around and saw there was a lot of flower beds near the house, so reckoning me chances were best up close, I said I’d prefer to do delicate gardening stuff, pruning and that. Farmer didn’t seem to mind, so he sent me off on my own up to the front lawn where I get a good look of the house. Funny place, all shut up, it looks. Anyway I’m there pruning roses and stuff, and I look up at the house again and I see this amazing vision, like something out of heaven. Like an angel or something. And I don’t mean like clouds and puffy music and shit, I mean like really seriously, this really fucking fit bird standing in one of the windows looking out over the grounds. I think fuck me that must be the geezer’s daughter, Lady Astro, I’d nob her in a second, I think, so I stand up and wave to her. She looks well posh, like the sort of bird I nob normally when I’m on more flash jobs, and me plums are aching for some posh gash, so I’m like standing there and waving like a bell-end. Eventually she sees me and draws away suddenly from the window, then comes back and stands there, looking at me. Fuck me I think, she’s a bit of alright, all hoighty toighty features and that, looking like she’s gagging for it. I’m smiling, trying to give off some of my old secret agent style, and she makes a signal for me to go round the side of the house. So I drop my rake and head off round to the side of the mansion, wondering if I can get a glimpse at those greenhouses with the big fuck-off fruit. Anyway I go to the side of the house, and just as I turn the corner who do I bump into? Bloody Vogon Poetess, that’s who. The Polish Siren. Last time I saw her was in Warsaw, we coincided in a casino and I gave her the chat, before I knew it we were up in her room nobbing like rabbits... “Ooooooh pony’s in the stable” she kept crying out. “Pony?” I say. “That ain’t no pony, that’s my wild stallion”, then I nobbed her twice more. Luckily I was in disguise that night so she didn’t recognise me this time. She stops me and says who are you, I say I’m Homeless Dang, who are you, she says none of your business and walks off. So I’m thinking M was right about Vogon, she must be in on this lark. I’ll have to investigate that further. Besides she looked well lush. Anyway I walk round and there’s Lady Astro standing at the side entrance, she signals me to follow her and we go up this well posh flight of stairs, took me back to that time in the Prague embassy when I nobbed that Finnish double agent over the banister. This Lady Astro bird leads me up to her bedroom, and I’m thinking hello, this looks alright, when she says “You must help me. My father keeps me here a prisoner. I want to taste life!” Well, I think, I wasn’t expecting that, but I know a thing or two about life, so I nobbed her a couple of time on her four-poster, then got down to some talking. Why’d your dad keep you indoors, where is your dad anyway, what’s all this about a flower show, what was that Vogon bird doing round here. But instead of talking, she’s all over me again, all she wants to do is shag shag shag. So I nob her a few times more, then ask her again. She says her dad and Vogon are in cahoots, they’re up to something. I say does it have something to do with the flower show, she says no. So I chance it and say but what about all them amazing vegetables and flowers and stuff. She says that just happens. I say what about her dad, the lord. She says what do you mean. I say does he enter the flower show. She says no. I say but he has greenhouses and shit. She says how the hell do I know that. Oh fuck I think, I’ve blown it, so I nob her a couple of times more. By this time it’s well late and she says I have to leave or her dad will catch me, so I shinny down a drainpipe, fuck off back to the houseboat, write up a report and head up to the pub to give it to Gail. Twice.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by jonesy999:
I haven't got time to finish this tonight. So it will have to be in two installments.

---

Jonesy you sexy monkeyfucker, there had better be another installment. Twisted Grinch tales rock boxes.

I farted then. When In was writing that. All excited I was.
 

"Goodnight sir," uttered a voice from behind the ticket desk.

"Oh, goodnight Flora".

"Is Mr O'Mikin here yet?"

"How should I know? Am I that man's keeper? If he is going to be late, that's his problem. I'm needing to be home now, I've urgent things to do."

Flora Herbs looked meekly at the glass, running a hand through her stiffly lacquered hair. She knew it was pointless arguing with the intransigent stationmaster. It had been like that for years, and nothing was going to change now.

Norton straightened his collar, and marched purposefully up the road. He momentarily considered popping in for a pint at the local, but remembered that he had things to do, which did not include crossing his old foe Ben Farmer at the bar. The six o'clock news. The Weather. Dinner. And then preparing the display for the Great Dick Tater. The usual twenty minute walk home felt like half that; the usually staid stationmaster knew something was afoot: here was a chance for him to meet some of the important citizens of Pykesbury as Richard, as opposed to "the Stationmaster".

The lock opened with a clunk. Meticulously placing his case on the floor near the newspaper rack, Norton checked his mail. Nothing. Again. After removing a speck of dust from the lampshade table and running his eye over the nasty, peeling wallpaper, the stationmaster entered the equally unimpressive living room. The place was bereft of furniture, save for an antique-looking sofa and a large oak bookshelf holding a number of thick tomes with titles enscribed in Fraktur script. A small television sat sad and alone, save for a small metal eagle, on a tatty-looking wooden table. The TV clicked into life with a gentle hiss.

Street crime has gone up twenty percent in Pykesbury, say police chiefs. Experts cite poor housing, poverty, and the lack of education funding. Spokesman for the Pykesbury equality association...

Norton snorted indignantly, his toothbrush moustache quivering. He shouted at the spokesman on the television screen, knowing full well that the obviously homosexual ninny couldn't hear him. The news was always entertaining, though in a macabre sort of way - three times now he had had to take the old television set in for repairs after going crazy with a shoe. After noting that tomorrow was going to be grey and cloudy, as was usually the case in these parts, the voices were silenced with a click. Reaching in the small rack beside the sofa, Norton pulled out an old vinyl record - Karajan: Lohengrin. The record was carefully removed from its jacket, and placed on an old but impeccable victriola.

As the soothing strains of the Vorspiel rang around the room, Norton loosened his tight collar, and replaced his shiny GNER-issue shoes with a pair of dark red corduroy slippers. This old house was not the king's palace, but the acoustics were fantastic. If one allowed oneself to drift, it was just like the Festspielhaus.

Hört! Grafen, Edle, Freie von Brabant!
Heinrich, der Deutschen König, kam zur Statt,
mit euch zu dingen nach des Reiches Recht.
Gebt ihr nun Fried und Folge dem Gebot?

Norton ambled over to the bookcase. A couple of old cookbooks, including the one given to him by the angel of his dreams, the Aryan goddess Hélène N’Aïtaoulle. He touched the spine of the book tenderly. He thought of Hélène, her wonderful fragrance, her shining blonde hair. And of steak in cream sauce, a veritable treat for a man whose daily bread was just that. With the occasional bowl of lukewarm gruel. The stationmaster yearned for his "nightowl", and a momentary look of sadness washed over his normally humourless visage. He worked his way across the shelf. Nietzsche. Schopenhauer. Chamberlain. H. S., not N. Mein Kampf. Leben eines Huhnlandwirts by H. Himmler. Dekorative Kartoffeln by Johann Schäler. Aha. Norton reached for the Schäler, but his eyes flashed across the copy of Leben eines Huhnlandwirts.

The book was certainly old, but in good condition. Scrawled across the first page was a name, a date, and a signature. Für S. F. Knörten, 30.01.33. H. Himmler. Running his fingers across the signature, Norton slumped back in the sofa, and sighed.

xxxxxxxxxx

York, 1956

Young Richard Norton stood still in his ill-fitting black suit, as the coffin was gently lowered.

The priest raised his right hand. "I consign you, Simon Frederick Norton, to this consecrated ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

That was the last young Richard saw of his father, who had died in a freak railway accident involving a stray pig. It was to be a defining moment in young Richard's life, the moment when he realised that he would become a stationmaster, and try his darndest to prevent a similar accident from ever happening again. He would continue to raise chickens and grow potatoes on a part-time basis. He stared at his stepmother, Fifi. And then at his stepbrothers and stepsisters, as well as those about whom he was not so sure. A right racial hodgepodge. His elder stepbrothet, his face as white as snow with eyes as red as the devil's own lanterns, stood emotionless, while his youngest stepsister, the result of his stepmother's springtime fling with a banana rustler from Jamaica, stood picking her nose and rubbing the result on her ill-fitting Sunday best. With his father finally laid to rest, they would all be vacating the old cottage in York and moving onto pastures new.

And thus on a bright summer's day in 1957, Richard Norton arrived with his stepmother and stepsiblings in the small town of Pykesbury, the seat of an aristocratic family, the de Mariners. The de Mariners were feted upon by all the elders in the village, for no other reason that one of their forebears had made a lot of money selling fish in Grimsby. The moment they arrived, young Richard fell in love with the station.

"This will be mine," he thought to himself. "This will be my station, my Reich."

xxxxxxxxxx

Stationmaster Norton thought of those heady days of 1957. Pykesbury Grammar. A younger but no less vocal Ben Farmer, a less obtuse Barry Blackmask, and the class clown, Harold Steelgate, who was nicknamed "Harlequin" on account of his patchwork clothes purchased from the local charity shop owned by the mysterious Miss Vogon, whose strange accent reminded him of people his father used to refer to when in a rage...

xxxxxxxxxx

York, 1955

"Damned Polaks! Don't they know how to cook a potato! They live on the things and have not the faintest clue how to cook one properly!"

"Ah, Siggi, hush now. You're embarrassing us. And all that carping will give you a heart attack."

It was not very often that Norton's stepmother called his father by his real name. Siggi, short for Siegfried. A man who had fled from Germany after the war, escaping the clutches of both the Nazis and the Communists to a free life as a corn-miller in York.

But young Richard, who had come on that boat from Hamburg bound for Harwich, knew better than that. His father was indeed called Siegfried. Siegfried F. Knörten, the feared head of the Geflügelaufsichtsamt in the twin town of Villingen-Schwenningen. Knörten did his job so well, that the Reich's master Geflügelexperte, Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler himself, took it upon himself to put aside people movements for one day in order to pay a visit.

And oh how wonderful the celebrations were! Flags flying, mothers making garlands in all sorts of chicken shapes, and a veritable feast of deep-fried chicken drumsticks and grilled parson's noses, a Villingen-Schwenningen speciality. Himmler was ecstatic, and before leaving signed a copy of a book, handing it to the beaming Knörten, who stood resplendent in the uniform of a party Gauleiter. Before long, the young and ambitious country boy was placed in charge of a large Geflügelverarbeitungsfabrik in the otherwise obscure town of Dessau. Every day, Himmler would be on the telephone, asking how his charges were doing.

"Very well, Herr Reichsführer! wir haben viele Eier heute!"

"Keine Eier!" came a shout from the office. It was Unteroffizier Paul "Pumpernickel" Bamba, the office prankster. "Mein Gott, Siggi! Donnerwetter! Teufel!"

The girl in the SS uniform who spent her day making the Ersatz-Kaffee winced, and then smiled acidly.

xxxxxxxxxx

Richard Norton gently placed the book down on the arm of the sofa, and thought of Ben Farmer. If only that buffoon were not such a meddler. I would be able to do more in this town than stand punching tickets and slinking away to this hobbit-hole every evening.

It was because of Ben Farmer that life was like this. Because he, the "meddling librarian", knew about Richard S. Norton's deep, dark family secret. Not Richard (Samuel) Norton, born York, 1946, but Richard Siegfried Knörten, born Villingen-Schwennigen, 1943. Mother lost in American air raid, Schweinfurt, 1944, father lost in railway accident, Leeds, 1956. The son of Himmler's chicken-farmer-in-chief. On that dark night back in November 1964, Tannhäuser had been interrupted by a loud knocking on the door, and a flustered Ben Farmer screaming like a madman.

xxxxxxxxxx

Pykesbury, 1964

"Norton! Norton! Or should I say Keh-Nuuurten! I know yuur in thuur!"

Norton peered outside and saw his schoolyard nemesis Ben Farmer, his face like thunder, librarian's badge neatly pinned to lapel. The bastard who had coined the nickname "Spuddy Dick", a name that was quickly adopted by the local brats. The man who loved using words like "flid" in the pub either to look "cool", or as part of some hare-brained attempt to attract the sole attention of the feisty barmaid, Gail. He opened the door.

"What the hell do you want, Farmer? It's 3am, I should call the police!"

"Call the police? Rufen Sie die Polizei? Yes, maybe ur should, yer Nazee chicken-farming fuck!"

"What are you babbling on about man?"

"This!"

In Farmer's right hand was a sheaf of papers. On one, Norton could see a familiar symbol. Norton's moustache quivered in the way it quivered whenever he was nervous. His tone dropped dramatically.

"You had better come in then, hadn't you?"

Ben Farmer came in without wiping his feet. He marched into the living room, and threw the papers on the table.

"I know who you are, Knörten! And I am going to make sure you'll never raise chickens in this village ever again!"

Norton understood the gravity of the situation. He was in a hole, and all it would have taken was a word from Farmer to set the whole village against him. He knew while he was not a war criminal, this simply wouldn't wash with some of the locals, particulary the de Mariners, a branch of whose family had fled their banking empire in Frankfurt in the mid 1930s.

"I've a deal fuur you, Norton," Farmer spat. "You give up derr chicken farming, and let me have 'arf yer taters."

Norton knew he had no choice in the matter, but just couldn't back down that easily. All of that bluster in the pub was not easily forgotten.

"I can't give up the chicken farming, Ben. It's my retirement nest egg. And what do you need the potatoes for anyway?"

Ben knew he was winning. Gone was Norton's - or Keh-Nuuurten's - smug coldness. Conspicuous by its absence was his use of the name "Bennyboy". "Retirement nest egg eh? Pshaw. This batch of chicken's yer last, Spuddy. The taters? I wan' dem for mah pigs. Free taters, no need teh pay Astronomical sums to the de Mariners."

Norton knew there was no way out. "After that you'll leave this Nazi matter alone? I want your signature on that."

Ben there and then drafted a short note, promising not to reveal Norton's background in exchange for the Stationmaster getting rid of his chickens and handing over half of his potato yield. Norton knew he had got off lightly, but also knew that had Farmer threatened him with more he knew he would have just upped sticks and left. And then there would have been no more free taters. What's more, without the recently-installed Stationmaster Norton, the trains would never be on time again. Somehow, from this Ben guessed there was something vaguely Teutonic about the little man with the side-swept hair and toothbrush moustache. Maybe this is what encouraged him to start sniffing around wartime files.

"I'll see meself out."

xxxxxxxxxx

Norton for four miserable years had to put up with Ben's smugness. The locals at the pub noticed this; Norton was no longer the confident self he had been, but a silent, ghost of a man who swept into the local for a swift half before shuffling back to the small house at the end of the terrace. Maybe it was this new-found introspection that attracted Hélène N’Aïtaoulle, who usually dropped into the pub for half a cider after a long day tending to Lord Dang's incorrigible brats. In any case, Norton shied away from discussions, preferring instead to stare at his pint and mumble incessantly. Of course, whenever Mme N’Aïtaoulle walked in, his eyes offered a spark, a glint of happiness. The opposite was the case whenever Ben Farmer came into the pub, for no daggers were sharp enough to describe the silent stare of the subdued stationmaster. But this didn't last for long...

xxxxxxxxxx

Pykesbury, 1968

Richard S. Norton stumbled out of the pub. It had been a particularly bad day, as the wrong leaves on the line had meant that the 11.45 from Wetherby had been late. Although he had submitted the correct papers to regional headquarters, those at the top of the tree were out looking for someone to blame. Norton's excuse that he was "only following orders" failed to wash. Having left the station after a roasting from his boss, the burly one-time miner Fred Fysic, Norton drowned himself in absinthe of the worst kind. After three hours of consuming the green fairy and muttering bizarre incantations, he decided to set off home, taking the path across Ben Farmer's land. By now he was too drunk to care about being shot with salt pellets or being bundled over by one of Farmer's prize boars.

As he approached the farmhouse, he could hear screams from the shed. The buildings were a haze, but the sound was clear as a prostitute's negligee. It was a screeching, blood-curdling cry. Norton moved towards the building, drawn by the sound. As he neared the building, the screams grew louder. Sensing something was not quite right, he banged on the door.

"Farmer! Farmer! You in there?" No answer. Forgetting his visceral hatred of the gruff Yorkshireman, Norton's next shouts gave away a genuine concern. "Farmer! Are you alright in there! What's going on?". He banged on the door three more times. In a trice the screaming abated, and instead Norton heard a far more familiar throaty, porcine sound. He banged on the door again. "Farmer!"

The door opened, and Ben Farmer appeared at the door. He was bathed in sweat. Behind him Norton could see a woman, with a shock of long black hair, moving in the straw, and naked as the day she was born.

"What the hell?"

"What are you doing here Richard?" All of a sudden Farmer sounded magnanimous. He never called old Spuddy Dick by his real name. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"Tell anyone what? That your partner sounded like a pig?" Norton smirked. "It's..."

"No. Don't tell anyone. I'll forget about the taters. And the chickens... And you can use this short cut any time you want without let or hindrance..."

"Sounds like a good deal to me. Let's call it quits". Norton felt a shiver run down his spine. Never, even at school when discussing the colour of the contents of a flask of copper sulphate in chemistry class, had Ben Farmer agreed with him about anything. He wanted to squeeze Farmer further, but thought it enough. He reached into his case, and took out a piece of paper. On it he scrawled a short declaration that he had seen everything, but had seen nothing. Ben took the pen with a hand glistening with sweat. And signed.

"You won't say anything?"

"In the same way you won't say anything about you-know-what, Bennyboy."

"You promise?"

"Mein Ehre heisst Treue."

At that, Norton carefully placed the paper in his case, closed it slowly and deliberately, and strolled off into the night. The next week at the pub was as if a four-year cloud had suddenly been lifted. No more was the moustachioed stationmaster left staring into his empty pint glass. He would again debate with Ben Farmer, but both men now had that look in their eyes. "If only the rest of the village knew about him".

xxxxxxxxxx

Norton put the book down and smiled. I hope you're proud of me, Vati, he thought to himself as he imagined that moment, all those years ago, when Himmler proudly shook his father's hand, conferring on him the title of the best chicken-breeder in the richly-decorated Gau of Villingen-Schwenningen. I will show them. I will show them that I too can impress the bigwigs. He glanced at the shiny invitation to the TMO Flower Show, sat down, and opened the copy of Schäler's Dekorative Kartoffeln.

[ 20 September 2003: Message edited by: Samuelnorton ]
 

Trick came downstairs in her tshirt and pants looking like shit. “Good night was it bebs?” asked Amp.

“Yeah, facking good.”

“Who was he?”

[Ab Fab voice] “Just some window cleaner I picked up at the traffic lights. Buns so tight they were bouncing off the walls.” [/Ab Fab voice]

“Heh. Really?”

“Nah, some odd job bloke came round yesterday afternoon…”

“W-was his name Homeless Dang by any chance?”

“Yeah, I think so, can’t really remember.”

“Brown hair. Hung like a donkey?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“O.”

“O. Fack…”

“Yeah.”

“D-dude, he did both sisters! No-ones done that since that night with…”

“Shit.”

“Oh well.”

“Yeah, fack it.”

“Wine?”

“Yeah.”

“Fag?”

“Thanks darlin’ ”

*lights*

“I thought you were still all hung up over Mart and shiznit?”

“Yeah, well, you know. Gotta PiVA when you can get it.”

“Yeah.”

“I might give up on Mart. I quite like the look of that Mr Michael Television, or whatever his name is. Shaped like a marrow apparently. Bet he's a right filthy facker under all the ****ry charm.”
 

Sighing, Modge started to again flick through the hefty book the Professor had left for her. He wanted to place an entry in the TMO flower show, a collection of flowers named after the women of the village. Modge had liked the idea, and had happily shown him the photo of the "Imogen Rose" but he had barely glanced at it as he read off the list of names from his PDA:

"Bailey, Amy, Trick, Amp, Gemini, Vogon, Sky, Scrawny... Octavia, Victoria," here he paused, his eyes softened and he smiled to himself before collecting his thoughts and continuing "that should probably be the centre.. there must be a lovely Victoria flower out there."

Of course, he would get the credit; Modge knew this even as she continued making lists of flowers to obtain... a lovely twinned Orchid to represent Gemini, a rare Philadelphian fresia for Amy... he would receive all the credit for her work. A lot of the women in the village thought she was his research assistant anyway; the Professor was happy to keep their relationship quiet most of the time. Funny how he had seemed to value this privacy when Vogon came to give the Professor a ticking off for his bad write up of the TMO Harry Potter Fete but not when Ringo had come round to take Modge for one of her driving lessons. The Professor had been very affectionate towards her then, kissing her goodbye on the doorstep before raising a nod towards Ringo who had been waiting in the car.

Still, Modge knew she could get some satisfaction out of creating the display, she knew the women far better than the Professor did anyway; he always seemed to get a bit shy when he actually had to talk to them. It had made tutoring Miss Victoria very difficult, all that blushing and stammering. Satisfied with her list, Modge made her way outside to talk to Homeless Dang about it. She wasn't sure how much of a gardening expert he really was - she had already seen him weeding carefully around the weeds - but she thought it would give her a chance to flirt anyway.

Skirting through the overgrown garden, Modge found Dang amongst some tall grass, muttering something about magic fertiliser. Impressed by his gardening knowledge, Modge smiled sweetly and cleared her throat. She was about to show Dang the list of flowers she had so carefully made when The Professor appeared at her side. After giving her a long kiss, he nodded curtly at Dang before making his way back up to the house. Modge sighed. She looked again at her list, a new plan forming in her mind.

[ 20 September 2003: Message edited by: Modge ]
 

Felix was sitting on her wall, his bright green eyes staring at her inquisitively as she hesitantly checked the road up and down for any passers by. All clear. She looked quickly at her enormous rose bush. The buds were beginning to wilt again, the hideous sickly green leaves were just visible with the light from her window. Mog chuckled to herself again. One day, very soon, she would outdo that awful professor.She waltzed through the gate and it swung closed behind her with a clatter.

Night had already closed in as she walked up the street. The pub sent a warm orange glow into the air, and the muffled sound of talking and laughing eminated from the wide doors. Stationmaster Norton strode suddenly outside, and Mog dived over the nearest wall quickly. She peered spyesque over the old stonework and watched him walking away. Waiting a moment just to be sure, she then heard that there was a noise from the house who's garden she was in. A distinct splintering of glass, followed by a fuzzy 'oh, shit'. Mog turned to face the window behind her. Sneaking a peak as some booty bass jumped to life from inside, she caught sight of Trick bending down to reach a smashed bottle, when suddenly Oh God! there's a huge... and then he... and Mog sat back down quickly. She scrambled quickly over the wall and into the street before any chance of the antics coming closer to the window, and slunk off into the night.

A few minutes later she was clear of the last houses in the TMO village, and she slowed down a touch. The De Mariners large home stood proudly at the top of the hill she was now climbing. It glowed proudly in the deepness of the night sky. Mog put her hand in her pocket, and the keys jingled. 'Fuleish richtons' she thought as she walked. The bag was beginning to get heavy, and it sloshed more noticeably now. Not long now.

The large iron gates were shut when she arrived a while later, but this proved no obsticle for a gymnaster. Mog launched herself onto the railings gracefully and clambered up as easily as a Dang up a Skirt. Swinging herself over the top she landed noiselessly onto the grass and tiptoed over the vast lawn towards the outer doors of the basement. She could just about make out Jonesy's figure standing in the shadows and she stepped up the pace a little.

"You got the solution?" Asked Jonesy as Mog approached.

"Of course..." Mog swung the bag at him and he caught it effortlessly.

"Lets do this shit." Jonesy said, and Mog drew the keys from her pocket with a menacing smile. The basement door unlocked with a clunk and a creak, and then they were in. Mog held back yet another laugh, as they tumbled inside quickly. There was the water tank in all its glory, Jonesy slid the lid off easily and grabbed the solution from Mog's bag. They smiled at one another in the darkness, and poured the liquid into the tank. There was no stopping them now. Finally. This was really happening. Genious, she thought, utter genious... and they giggled to themselves as they replaced the lid and scuttled outside...

[ 21 September 2003: Message edited by: moggycookie ]
 

"Ringo?!?!?" Mog spat through gritted teeth, grabbing Jonesy by the scruff and giving him a look that could silence the universe. Jonesy, staring blankly, shrugged and grinned. Mog let go, chucking the keys at Jonesy's feet, and turned marching away over the lawns towards the back of the house. She pulled from her bag a small shovel and a plastic tupperware box. Hastily Mog ran between the flowerbeds, digging up large clumps of dirt, and before long the box was full.

Jonesy had a big woven sack in his pocket, and he witdrew it, unfolding it carefully. The coarse weave of its hair, its strength and durability; it was a great sack indeed. He squeezed it and smiled, and then ran to the greenhouse to collect all of the large fruits and crops that were there. Great big tomatoes, giant bananas and immense marrows. He even plucked the nicest of orchids too, and then left with a small chuckle.

Mog waved the box in the air, and Jonesy nodded. He ran to the sprinkler unit on the wall of the house, and grabbed the key from his pocket. He unlocked the sprinkler system, there was an almost inaudible click as the switch flipped. A light fizzing began to sound from the sprinklers, filling the spacious gardens.

"Lets get out of here then" Jonesy gestured her to follow, and they both ran to the gates to make their escape.

Vaulting over the fence, the car door swung wide. Mog landed on the floor and tumbled James Bond style into the open door of the little red Pug. Jonesy followed, with a bit of difficulty due to the swelling bag dragging behind him. He managed to chuck it somehow over the gate. What strength, thought Mog, and what a genious mind to have hatched such a plan.... a butterfly or two danced in her belly. Jonesy leaped over the gates too, and quickly crammed the great big bag into the tiny boot. Jumping into the car he pulled the door shut, wheels howling on the tarmac as Ringo made his quickest 0-60 ever.

"That was brilliant!!! I love my car.." Ringo said caressing the steering wheel as they careered down the winding country road.

"Peddle to the medal Ringers, gotta get home via the back alleys, don't want anyone to spot us..." Mog said staring out of the window at the zooming countryside. The back of the TMO homes were visible now too, they must be going some speed to have circled the village already. It took a few moments more and they had reached the very edge of the village, right next to Diva's little house.

"Thanks fer the ride Ringers," Mog said.

"No problem," He replied.

"Nice one Jones," Mog said with a cheeky grin. Jonesy grinned back.

"So what do we do with the evidence??" She asked.

"Leave it with Ringo until tomorrow, any more galavanting around town and we'll be seen for sure," Jonesy replied, "I'll get out here, you get around the back of Farmer Ben's, until tomorrow then..." And he left, shutting the door lightly and walking up the road.

"Farmer Ben's it is then..." Mog sighed.

[I]"Right you are..." Said Ringo, and off they went.
 

Mog... goooood.

quote:

---

as easily as a Dang up a Skirt

---

PART TWO.

It was early next day, very early indeed
The first Mooners appeared - more arrived with some speed.
Each Mooner was naked as when they were born,
Preparing for flower show fun on the lawn.
And as they all mingled around in the square,
Stiff love-clubs protruding from soft pubic hair,
The women aflame, their pink lips all aglow,
Not a Mooner could wait for the start of the show.
Then, as dawn beamed her first golden rays on the square,
A terrified voice said, "our veg, it's not there!"
"Nor our flowers," Mart added, replying to Thorn,
"Just a hundred nude bodies, right there, on the lawn."
"Woe is me, blubbered Elvis, that's me - my names Woe,
Some villain has stolen this year's flower show".

So the girls eyed the boys and the boys eyed the girls
And those once proud man-weapons all shrivelled and curled.
Nearly one hundred nuddy men stood in a row,
Getting smaller and flatter, no nothing would grow.
The women dried up like a sandpit in summer
Not one trace of moisture - bone dry, what a bummer.
Lovely long cocks which were once proud bananas,
All shrivelled up now, more like old, dried sultanas.

"Oh what are we to do?" anguished Ben, with a sigh.
"Only one soul can help us," came an excited cry.
"She lives up in Sindale along with her boys
She drills them like soldiers and makes them her toys.
A sensuous sinner, the heavyweight champ
Of teasing and thrilling, we must call Miss Amp!"

The crowd were won over by Mart's bright suggestion,
Disputing such logic was out of the question.
Both males and females soon were bewitched
By his plotting, so much so that sultanas twitched.
So, naked and frightened, the Mooners united,
The flames of their passions almost reignited
They clung to each other and up went the cry,
"We must beam the Amp signal into the sky."

So they sent up her signal, all crimson and yellow
And way off in Sindale, inside her bordello,
Miss Amp cocked an eyebrow and laughed and said "So,
It's happened. Steelgate's stolen their flower show"

Then she put down her skater boy, told him to sit,
"Go trantric, Amp has to go out for a bit."

She took down the Amp suit and slipped off her clothes.
Then turned to her underwear, untied the bows
And sighed as they fell to the floor with a swish
And sighed at her skater, who thrashed like a fish.
"You'll never break free; you will just have to wait.
Try not to get into too much of a state."
With that she leaned forward and with one red nail
She worked down his body, creating a trail
Of energy - more than this poor lad could stand.
He soon boiled over - all over his hand.
"You must learn control if you're going to stay.
The best dishes simmer, and sometimes all day.
Now practice," She told him, "for I have to go.
I'm going to rescue Moonville's flower show."

[ 22 September 2003: Message edited by: jonesy999 ]
 

“Looks like it’ll be another soggy one,” remarked Araminta Herbert, staring disconsolately out of the gift shop window.

“Oh, I don’t know, some of them like it a bit damp,” replied her business partner Cherry Jezbeth, running her becrimsoned nails over a rack of Puprple Tipped Gladioli seeds. “Isn’t this is what we left the City rat race for; fresh air, green fields, local brawn?”

“I suppose so. Who’s on rooting duty today? And who’s going to start ploughing behind the far shed?” asked Herbs.

“Oh, I’ll get the new guy, Benway, to do the rooting. He says he’s good with his hands. The Work Experience kid, Bingo, or is it Ringo? He can do the ploughing; it’s a dirty thankless job. I’ll get Mikey to supervise them; he’s handy with a pole, or any kind of rod, really.”

“Cherry, did you order any more compost? I don’t think our bushes are moist enough at the moment. And with the Flower Show coming up, we’ll need plenty.” Herbs tidied up a stack of novelty wellies and weather vanes, making sure the purple vanes didn’t stick out too much.

“Yeah, I thought we’d try this new company of Farmer Ben’s ,” said Cherry. “They offer to haul twelve sacks of shit per minute, or your money back.”

“What was wrong with Cack Carter?” asked Herbs, “They always humped their loads satisfactorily.”

“Look, here they are!” cried Cherry excitedly.

Sure enough, a large lorry drew up the drive. Emblazoned on the side was a picture of a wild boar, held at bay by a mightily muscled arm. Another arm scooped up the ensuing organic waste from the boar. Farmer Ben leapt out athletically, and then shuffled over to the waiting ladies.

“Here’s tha shite, from t’op field,” he mumbled, staring earnestly at the tweed cap he was kneading in his hands.

“What did he say?” whispered Cherry to Herbs.

“I don’t know,” answered Herbs, watching the chunky fingers pound the cloth. Gosh, look at those wrist muscles!

As Farmer Ben started unloading the lorry, another van drew up in front of the Garden Centre. The Cack Carter , in gold filigree was the name of the company, with the slogan “The Poshest Poo in Pykesbury” under the picture of a turd on a silver platter. A tall, immaculately dressed gentleman got out and immediately pressed a monogrammed handkerchief to his nose.

“By jove, what’s this? Is this fellow bothering you ladies?” boomed Earl Carter strolling over, “be off with you, oaf!” He waved his shooting stick at Farmer Ben, who glowered at him darkly.

“Oh, we were worried that we might need some extra fertiliser, what with the Flower Show!” cried Herbs, gazing up at Carter.

“Yes, we know your product is better quality, but most of the villagers can’t tell the difference,” simpered Cherry, sidling closer to the benevolent giant.

“My compost is finely prepared in accordance with the specifications of my cousin Lord De Mariner, for the benefit of the whole village,” roared the earl, prodding Ben with his stick, “it can’t be contaminated with this sort of filth! Go on, back up to the moors with you!”

“Grrn, be offen t’pit tha lawkes,” growled the farmer, his comely jollity flushed with sudden sullen fury. He dropped the sack of shit, and clenched his fists, “this’m be’m ma shite fer t’ladies.”

“What is this insolence?” bellowed Carter, “I won’t be spoken to like this! Apologise immediately!”

For answer, the burly farmer lowered his head, and with a hoggish roar hurled himself at the earl’s waistcoated stomach. Carter was knocked over onto the pile of compost bags, which burst under the weight. His olive Barbour now glistening with the organic offerings of Ben’s prime Herefords, the earl’s face snarled into an unaristocratic rictus of rage as he hurled himself onto the farmer. The pair rolled about in the muddy driveway, grappling and grunting with primeval intensity while Herbs and Cherry squeaked encouragement to the earl.

From behind the lawn mower shed, someone leapt into the fray and managed to separate the grimy wrestlers.

“Oh, don’t stop them!” gasped Herbs, sweaty with excitement.

The tramp who had broken up the fight seemed suddenly unsure of himself. He got to his feet and glanced over at Carter’s van, then back at the flushed faces of Herbs and Cherry. He pushed a matted clump of hair behind one mucky ear and surreptitiously fumbled with his crotch.

“I was just trying to protect you ladies. Apologies for the appearance; I’ve spent the night in a ditch hiding some fox cubs from the local hunt. Don’t suppose you could let me rinse this off under your hose, could you?”

“Fox cubs, you say?” cried Herbs, her voice softening.

“That’s right, m’am, cute and fluffy as you could wish for. And perfectly safe now.”

“Well, of course we can clean you up! Come right in.”
 

Jonesy Rules OK!

Vogon Rules OK!

How much more textual sucking up do I have to do in order to appear in a story? Loads, probably.
 

Meanwhile on the other side of the village, Ringers and Mog drove slowly round the bendy lanes towards Farmer Ben’s long dusty drive way. The fields surrounding them were vast and deep, and the small orange glow from the village was just visible in the distance.

“Ooo err… it looks a big dangerous, and a bit far to walk on yer tod…” Mog whispered with wide eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you!” Ringo exclaimed, brandishing a muscular arm. Mog smiled at him, and the car bumped and jolted onto the beginning of the dirt track. They parked up a little way from the farm, behind a large red combine harvester so as to go unnoticed. Mog stepped out of the car and stared up at it. It was like a great big monster, snarling in the night, bearing a mouthful of sharp metal teeth. She shuddered. They walked round the back of a large farm and onto a concreted area, the acrid smell of cow dung was filling their nostrils as they scurried quickly along in the darkness. Just as they were about to reach the field that would lead them to the village, a noise stopped them in their tracks.

“What the fuck was that?!?!?” Ringo whispered, grabbing Mog’s arm.

“I don’t f’ing know!!!” Mog grabbed Ringo’s arm, and they stood for a moment shivering.

“I think its gone…” Mog said quietly.

“Shh…” Ringo replied, as they began to tiptoe towards the wooden fence behind them.

“Hold it right there you two!” A voice shrilled in the night and echoed all around. Mog and Ringers ducked and froze. “You are under arrest!” A tall man wearing a long dark trench coat emerged from the shadows of the barn, dragging a handcuffed Jonesy behind him and flailing what looked to be a police badge in the air.

“What the…?!?! Jones!!!…” Said Moggy, shocked. She glanced at Ringo who was shuffling awkwardly. ”What the flip’s going on here??”

”It appears we’ve been set up Mog,” Jonesy said, he shrugged.

”Tha’s right you ‘ave, a little gettin’ around goes a long way raand ‘ere, let me tell you!” The detective looked smugly at her. ”My name is 0065, I work for MI5 and I’ve been investigating the size and shape of various veg’s in the village. I s’pose you wanna know how I caught you don’tcha?” He brushed his nails on his collar and then admired them lovingly.

“Well, it began with that job I got at the De Mariner’s house, gardening and that. I got myself a key y’see and I wanted to do a little investigating into the largeness of certain vegetables in their plot. So there I was sneaking into their property in the night, collecting soil samples for the guvnor, when all of a sudden I hears this bass line whooping its way towards the house. So I gets my soil box and I runs to the gates, and who do I see… Ringo in his little red noise box, with its glowing red lights and its gawdy gay pride stripes gleaming in the moonlight. So I says to ‘im ‘Watcha doin’ Ringers?’ and he says ‘Nothing’ and I says ‘are you sure?’ and he says ‘yep’ so then I asks him if he wants to come back to my place for a coffee and he says ‘oh yes please!’ Here’s the good bit right… so then I says, if you don’t want the whole neighbourhood to think you’re a raving homersekshewal then you’d better start talking mister, and then I pulled me gun out and whacked ‘im raand the face wiv it a few times, y’know, special mission and all that. So eventually he tells me the whole bleedin thing!!! For some reason he had thought the plan was going daan at ten o’clock, when in fact Moggy and Jonesy weren’t gonna be there until at least midnight!!!”

”…” Ringo looked at Mog, and then at Jones, “I’m not, like, gay or anything…”

”Well anyway, ‘ere we all are, now if you’d be so kind as to put yourselves into handcuffs for me and we’ll get going to the station…” 0065’s sentence trailed off as a great light swirled in the sky. The Miss Amp signal flashed through the brightly, and then disappeared.

”Oh no! Not Miss Amp!” Mog cried, ”We’re doomed Jones, DOOOOMED!!!!”

There was a whirring sound all across the farm lands distracting everyone for a few brief moments, Mog took her chance to escape. She leapt cat like onto the fence behind her and turned to face 0065 one last time. ”You haven’t seen the last of me TMO!!!” Suddenly 0065 whipped a pistol from his knickers and pointed it directly at Mog.
”I don’t think you wanted to do that…” 0065 held the gun steady, it glinted in the silver light of the moon.
”I’d rather die than go inside!! Farewell Ringo my one true love!!! Goodbye Jones, my beautiful muscular genious!!!! Goodbye forever TMO!!!!” Mog jumped, spinning in the air as she flew from the fence.

*BANG* 0065 pulled the trigger.

”NoooooooOOOOOOOOOO!” Ringo cried flinging himself like a sodden monkey towards the path of the bullet. The scene slowed down, like a bouncing bunny running out of battery power. Ringo sailed through the air with arms outstretched. The bullet sliced towards Mog, spinning wrecklessly as she dove towards the floor. Jonesy cried out for them both as the future was held in that moment for what seemed like forever. Suddenly reality resumed, Mog’s small body disappeared behind the fence, Ringo took the bullet and came crashing to the floor, 0065 ran goofily towards the wounded hero while Jonesy fell to his knees. Mog, landing on the other side of the fence, turned to see her saviour fall and skid and bounce over and over into a large puddle at the edge of the concrete area. She got up and immediately ran back for him, her eyes filling with great hot tears.

”Ringo! No! My poor Ringo!!!” She vaulted the fence and fell down in front of him with 0065, clasping his still warm body in her arms. Saliva oozed from the side of his gaping mouth, and she smiled. Good old Ringers…

There was a sudden flash, and a moment later the almightly Miss Amp stood before her. Her leather clad figure shone like satin, her eye mask made her bright eyes glimmer like precious jewels. She was truly a beautiful sight as she stood hands on hips, chewing a piece of gum.

”Do not fear! Miss Amp is here! Now what seems to be the problem luv?” Miss Amp stood proudly, looking slightly confused.

”Well… he’s dead Miss Amp… please…. Can you save him?...” Mog spluttered.

”No probs… Pro-Ko!!!! Get your ass over here now, bring the boom box!!!” Miss Amp’s voice screeched, and along came a tall gangling side kick, know by the TMO villagers as Kovacs. He was heaving a huge bass box and CD deck on his back, and wobbling crazily as he ran. As he reached Miss Amp’s side he faultered and the box went crashing to the floor. He stood up and smiled sheepishly, and then proceeded to connect several different wires to several different sockets. Miss Amp then whipped from between her mighty bossom a sparkling CD entitled, Big Booty Bass. Pro-Ko took it, put it into the CD player, and hit the play button.

”Everyone!!! Lets… get… down!!!!” Miss Amp yelled at the top of her lungs, and the vibration of the bass line kicked in shaking the entire farm around them. Asses wiggling and chests bouncing, the five TMOers got jiggy, all the while watching Ringo’s lifeless face. Suddenly there was a twitch. His eyebrow twitched, and everyone grinned at each other. The lyrics spat rhythmically from the speakers, ’Ass… titties… ass… titties… ass, ass, titties, titties… ass & titties…’. Ringo’s arms jerked, then his head, his body rolled over and he was face down in the puddle. Then, the miraculous moment, Ringers lifted himself from the floor and began shaking his booty more than ever before. His phone, shattered and irrepairable with a bullet hole right through the screen fell to the floor. Everyone laughed and clapped their hands, except Jonesy who couldn’t, and all was merry and (gay) bright!!!

*BANG-CRACK* A huge shot gun blasted, echoeing around and the TMOers stopped their grooving to see what was going on.

”Get orf moy laaaaaaaand!!!!!” Screamed Ben the Farmer….
 

"I've taken their tulips and snatched their sweet peas
My dastardly deed has brought them to their knees.
Just look at them, gormless and sexless and gay
They're lost without nature to roll in her hay."

The creature was happy, and happy to show it
But trouble was brewing, though he didn't know it.
He danced and he jigged and he waggled his sack,
Brim full with the flowers Moonville wanted back.
"Perhaps I will cook them - bake them in a pie
Or fire their vegetables into the sky,
Or fish for those fuckers with roses on sticks
I'll reel one up here, caught by his limp prick,
Or one of those ladies, so desperate for juice.
I'll dangle a melon attached to a noose
Then haul her high up here - a sack full of spuds,
Rough chaffing her fun box and rasping her duds.
Yes that would be lovely...but lovelier still...
Would be if I kept her - to live on my hill.
No lady has ever set foot on my land,
All barren and empty, just rocks and some sand.
Perhaps if I caught one and made it my own,
She'd tickle my tackle and polish my throne.
Bah! Who wants a women I'd only be happy
And deep down inside I prefer to feel crappy.
Who knows how I'd be if I wasn't aloof
The next thing I'd likely want walls and a roof!
No, jobs are for Jomos, I'll stay in my squat.
I haven't got much and I don't want a lot.
And once in a while when I'm feeling low.
I'll piss in the pansies of some flower show."

"Stay in your squat Steelgate, for that is your choice."
As you may have gathered, that wasn't his voice.
Its sound was melodic - part wah-wah, part whisper,
And part Coltrane's horn, only deeper and crisper.
Its power took hold of his villainous mind
To all but that melody Steelgate was blind.
"You'll do as I tell you, do just as I say
You'll follow my orders and without delay."
So Steelgate fell under the spell of the of this vamp
His mind was enrapt by the voice of Miss Amp.

"Do as I say, though you may find it shocking."
She said, and then slowly she slid down a stocking.
"Climb down this silk garment and into the square,
You'll know it because of the naked men there.
Replace what you've stolen and renounce your hate
But quick, I've a boy on the boil - he won't wait."

So Steelgate peered over the edge of the hill
The terrible drop made him feel quite ill
"It's too far to climb - the suspender is rocking."
"You'll find, just this once, a ladder in my stocking."

So down the fiend climbed and he dropped in the square.
He was sure he was there - all the men there were bare.
Steelgate smiled at them all with authentic goodwill,
As he emptied his sack over them and Moonville.

[ 23 September 2003: Message edited by: jonesy999 ]
 

quote:

---

M.C
Ringo cried flinging himself like a sodden monkey

---

This is the greatest line ever.
 

quote:

---

With that she leaned forward and with one red nail
She worked down his body, creating a trail
Of energy - more than this poor lad could stand.
He soon boiled over - all over his hand.

---

quote:

---

Originally posted by discodamage:
why am i never in any of these story threads either.

---

Yes, it's not like you don't have a cracking pair of knockers.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by 69 Comeback Elvis:
Boy Racer said she'd smack me up.

---

pshaw, boy race is a lover not a fighter. put me in a story now or ill cry.

[ 22 September 2003: Message edited by: discodamage ]
 

*sniff*
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by discodamage:
why am i never in any of these story threads either.

---

I thought this one was borderline stalking, so I've left you out of them since.
 

VP - lol!!
 

I'm in one!!!
 

I will watch its development closely though and see if there is a window of opportunity. Don't worry lady, you'll get to say 'Pissflaps!' if I get my way!
 

Richard S. Norton brought his hand down on the clock radio with a thwack. Having lamely attempted to wipe the tiredness from his eyes, he staggered out of his warm bed, looking for his corduroy slippers and forward to yet another day of marching up and down the platform at Pykesbury Central. He dragged himself to the bathroom and stared at the dishevelled reflection in the mirror. Nothing that a dose of Lifebuoy and Brylcreem won't solve he thought. Breakfast. Bowl. Cornflakes. Milk. Sugar. No sooner had he raised the spoon to his mouth, the telephone rang. RING RING... RING RING... RING RING...

"OK, OK..."

Norton lifted the receiver. It was not very often he received telephone calls, let alone at half past seven in the morning.

"Ish dat der Schtashiomeister?"

"Yes, this is he. Who's speaking?"

"Donch you remember? De zeit at Madame Mpenza, in Brusshelsh?"

"Johann?"

"Yesch, of coursch, yesch. I'm here for die tee-em-ooh fluvver show, I have shum wonderful tulipsch. I schould be dere around mittag."

"OK, fantastic. Did you bring those papers? The ones on..."

"Yesch, of coursch. Also shum Weischwirrscht, and shum fantastisch Spanisch Red. Must be off mein alte, my trainsch kommink. Bis bald."

"Yes. Midday."

"Toodlesch."

Norton gently replaced the receiver. Today promised to be interesting. He finished off his cornflakes, wiping the gobbet of milk from his just-trimmed toothbrush moustache. Trousers pressed. Shoes shiny. Cap peak buffed. Alles in ordnung. Before walking out the door, he peered into the living room and took another look at the freshly-made display for his Kartoffel-Kreation. He smiled to himself, and stepped out into the cold morning air.

As Norton arrived at the station, he noted that the queues were longer than usual. Another day, the same old faces. The mysterious Miss Vogon. The two floozies Amp and Trick, simply hanging around doing nothing as usual. And that larrikin youth Ringo, the kitchen hand from the de Mariner household, who looked slightly worse for wear. Youth today, he thought. Waiting at the back of the queue was the burly figure of Ben Farmer.

"Ey oop Spuddy," Farmer blurted "yers still on fer't flower show?"

"Why of course Bennyboy. Why should I not be? For once I agree with you, my entering one of my spuds is a marvellous idea."

Norton started to move towards the door next to the ticket counter, but stepped back again towards Farmer.

"I heard there was a bit of a commotion last night around your place again."

"Twas nothing."

"That wasn't what I heard. I bet it was those young people again. So long as there was nowt going on in one of your pig sheds, eh Ben?"

"Yeah, yeah. Young folk, that's who they were. Had to fire off a couple of shots to scare the buggers off. If I catch 'em, I'll..."

Ringo, who was obviously listening in, looked at the burly farmer furtively. Miss Amp adjusted her bra strap and offered a muffled giggle. This wasn't lost on Ben Farmer, who swung his gaze towards the noisily-dressed schoolgirl. Norton took out a large bunch of keys, and opened the door to the ticket desk. As he entered, he saw Flora Herbs hastily scribbling the details on tickets.

"What's with the queue Flora? The Leeds fast leaves in three minutes, and you'll never get this lot through..."

Miss Herbs glared at the stationmaster over her small steel-rimmed spectacles, although you'd have wondered how she was able to see anything at all on account of their being covered in a film of steam.

"I'm t-trying as hard as I can," Flora stammered. "I'm just a bit..."

Norton looked at the young ticket processor. Not the most reliable he'd had, but certainly not a tardy worker. Her skirt was shorter than usual, and as she moved towards the cashbox he noticed a flash of fine black nylon. Her hair had obviously been hastily redone. That bloody Irishman, he thought. No wonder Miss Herbs has been 'different' these last few weeks. Marching out onto the platform, Norton saw O'Mikin, flag in hand, ready to signal in the Leeds fast.

"Hey."

"Top a' de mornin' to yous", O'Mikin said breezily. You just couldn't get angry with Seamus O'Mikin. He was infuriating to work with, but his Irish happiness seemed to spread itself around the entire station. Or rather, his Irish happiness seemed to find its way inside the knickers of most of the local female population. Norton could never understand how the Irishman was so popular; he had a certain wit and charm, yes; but then there was his rather curious-looking curly toupée.

"Listen here, Seamus. Your job is to flag in the trains and punch passengers' tickets. That's all. No messing around with the desk staff. Got it?"

The nice but dim Irishman looked at the stationmaster quizzically. "Erm? Oh, oh... Oh yes mister Norton, sir. Oi got it. Punchin' tickets, that's me game."

Norton did his customary morning march up the platform, and watched the 07.41 to Leeds gently steam in. The passengers ambled on, and O'Mikin raised his red flag and sent it on its way. Knowing that he had at least half an hour until the next arrival, Norton headed up to his office.

Reaching once again for his bunch of keys, Norton opened the large heavy wooden door to his office. He looked at his desk, and noticed that something was not quite right. There was, for one, a rather peculiar smell. A curious funk. The papers that he had left the previous evening had been moved, and the small, wooden statue of the Masai warrior had been moved from its customary place on the bookshelf. It was now standing on the window sill, its head giving off a rather odd sheen. He didn't dare touch it, for fear of where it might have been. And how often it might have been there. He stormed out of the office towards the platform to confront the Irishman.

As Norton reached the platform, the 08.15 from Wetherby was gently rolling in. As the lumbering engine halted with a hiss and a clunk, the doors flew open. From one of the doors emerged Hélène N’Aïtaoulle, followed by three noisy children, the first of whom was covered in chocolate. A dark-haired woman he hadn't seen before, accompanied by a small dog, was desperately trying to open the door to the next carriage. Momentarily forgetting about his impending confrontation with O'Mikin about the sticky Masai, Norton ambled over and helped Mlle N’Aïtaoulle off the train.

"Why bonjour mademoiselle, how are you this morning."

"Very well, though ze kids are proving a bit of a problem."

Norton looked at Dang's kids. Bloody nouveau riche pikies, he thought. There should be a ban on poor people buying lottery tickets. He turned to the French girl. "Are you going to be at the flower show, Mademoiselle?"

"Why of course! I wouldn't miss it for ze world! I won many prizes back home, I'll have you know monsieur. I would like to talk more, but I have to take ze children back home. Maybe we meet for a drink at ze pub later, non?"

"Unfortunately I have lots of paperwork to deal with tonight, and if that were not bad enough I have a friend coming over from the continent later today. C'est dommage."

A voice came from the crowd. "Did someone ask for me?" It was the dark-haired woman, who had by now managed to force the door open and clamber out onto the platform. Norton looked at the woman curiously.

"Er..."

Hélène quickly interjected, laughing gently. She turned towards the stationmaster. "Zis ere is Miss Dommage, Miss Didi Dommage. She iz chef from Paris, and iz 'ere to work for the de Mariners, to make ze souffle for ze dessert apres le flower show."

"Bonjour Meester Stationmasterr," Mme Dommage was an imposing woman, who looked as though she could handle a kitchen, even one staffed by such larrikins as Ringo, Thorn and "Raz", the bizarre pot-cleaner from Budapest. "Mon name est Didi, but all ze peepel call me Disco, on account of mes abilities on ze danse fleur."

"Welcome to Pykesbury, Mademoiselle."

Meanwhile, another woman was trying to climb off the train, carrying a large wooden crate. Norton shouted to O'Mikin.

"Seamus, go help that woman."

Seamus O'Mikin trotted over to the door, and held out a hand. He saw Mrs Sidney, the de Mariner's maid.

"Watch out Seamus, be careful, there's very precious soil in this crate. It contains valuable compost, and has been ordered by the de Mariners for the show."

O'Mikin tried his best, but the bumbling Irishman tugged at the crate too hard. He staggered backwards, taking the crate and Mrs Sidney with him. Unable to combat the force of gravity, O'Mikin fell to the floor, followed by the crate and the maid. The kids lounging on the platform giggled as the robust Irishman struggled to get back up again.

"Oh my!" Mrs Sidney exclaimed as she found her feet. "My precious soil! What am I going to say to Lady Astro?"

Seamus O' Mikin moved the crate from his chest, and stood up all red faced. As he bent down to look at the soiled platform, his toupée fell off into the soil. Mrs Sidney was livid.

"Oh, you gormless gommeril!" she screamed. "Now look what you've done. You've not only spilt a third of it on the platform, you've damn well contaminated the rest with your horrible little wig!"

The kids, led by the mischievous Amp and Trick - who were still hanging around doing nothing - started to chuckle wildly at the sight. The exasperated Mrs Sidney, who was usually so calm. Mr Norton fuming at the the state of his precious germanically-clean (but no more) platform. Mr O'Mikin's pubic toupée sitting in a crate of precious compost.

Amp piped up first. "Oi, Micko's contaminated Mrs Sidney's dirtbox!" Trick released a flurry of giggles. Mrs Sidney went all red, and waved her finger maniacally at the loudmouthed teens. O'Mikin's face was by this time as red as a beetroot. He was also as bald as a coot. The poor Irishman tapped comically at his bare pate, and started to froth at the mouth.

"Noi, noi, I never contaminated Mrs Sidney's dirtbox, that's disgossting," O'Mikin spluttered. "It was only Miss Herbs, and even den oi used de african ting. And de ruptured clusters of de pustules of de Miss Scrawny were not moi fault, dat were me mate mister Steelgate".

The platform went quiet. Mrs Sidney's redness vanished as she turned as white as a sheet. Mmes N’Aïtaoulle and Dommage looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders in typically gallic fashion. Even the teenagers went silent. In fact, the only sound one could hear was the gentle quivering of the stationmaster's moustache.

No-one noticed the arrival of the York train on the other platform, and a tall, blond character jumping off carrying a small attaché case. The man strolled across the bridge and onto the main platform, where those who had witnessed the spilling of the soil were just about starting to regain their senses. The blond man walked to Mr Norton. The stationmaster looked at the man, and extended a hand. The blond man spoke in a calm, clear yet slightly raised voice.

"Hello Richard. I have all of the papersch you wanted. And some extrasch too I managed to interschept from some schpecial agent called oh-oh-schixtyfive."

"What information do you have?"

"Oh, golly. I have some seriousch schit on them, son."
 

The Pykesbury Chronicle is taking you to the heart of Flower Show action, with exclusive reports all this week from Chronicle Work Experience Journaliste, Dee Dammidge.

“Best day out in the Three Valleys!”, “Better than the Gussage All Saints Spring Fete!” and “lots of nice flowers!” are just some of the accolades for the annual TMO Flower Show, which has now been running for fourteen years, in commemoration of Pykesbury’s twinning with ZeathRou (Israel). Voluptuous, velvet clad show organiser, Mrs Sidney explained from her hilltop office that this year’s show is for a very special cause, Pykesbury Village Idiot, Damo Sixey.

“Little Damo is essentially harmless,” smiled Mrs Sidney, gazing fondly at him through the bars, “this year he’s been pretending to be a scientist, bless him. But we are trying to raise money to send him to America for an operation. He’s very special.” Mrs S showed me some fundraising posters with the slogan, “Give A Quid For Damo The Flid!” I asked about last year’s special cause, “From Pykesbury to Starsville: Let’s Send Fifi To Journo College!”, but Mrs S’ dazzling beam faded. “We don’t talk about that,” she said smoothly, “you’re not that kind of journalist, are you dear?”

Mrs S then showed me the show site, already prowled by neon-bright boy racers. “Hooters!” yelled one of them at the sight of Mrs S. This year, the show features several new exhibitions, including the special “Naughty Veg” competition and a re-enactment of the Sack of Rome performed by plants over the course of several years. I asked whether there would be any celebrities turning up. Who would open the show? Would it be like last year? Mrs S went silent at the mention of what happened last year. Finally she replied, “I expect Professor Kovacs will be here, if the media’s involved. And the Reverend Martin’s back from converting the Spanish, he’s quite the local celebrity, you know. We like to think of him as Pykesbury’s very own Vicar of Dibley.”

Don’t miss tomorrow’s exclusive interviews with the hot favourites for this year’s flower arranging contest, as we continue our countdown to the Great Day.

All this week, Chronicle readers have the chance to win a fantastic prize: swimming with a Down’s dolphin, or sending a Down’s friend to swim with a normal dolphin. Note: for legal reasons, Down’s children cannot swim with Down’s dolphins.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by Vogon Poetess:
[b]Note: for legal reasons, Down’s children cannot swim with Down’s dolphins.

---

although i do very much like the fact that samuel has made me classy, scary and french.

[ 23 September 2003: Message edited by: discodamage ]
 

I couldn't really parody Sidney much, as she's clearly too nice. So DiVa, you can describe her as you see fit.
 

Flower Show Manager Sidney was up with the sun, which crawled it’s languorous way across the horizon at 6am, like a sleep-stained Meg preparing for corporate hoydenism.
With her recently distracted assistant Vogon still presumably sleeping the sleep of the satisfied somewhere in the murky depths of a Spiderman duvet (unwashed since 1997), Sidney was free to potter through her plans for the great day.

She checked through the programme again. She had stacks of luscious, creamy card, each printed, in gold, with the line-up for the day. Assisted in producing them by a broad shouldered, peripatetic American with a penchant for cigars which was indiscriminate of orifice, Sidney was more than proud of her precious programmes. She was perhaps slightly less proud of the means she had had to utilise to pay for them, but, as she reasoned to herself, it’s not every day one gets the chance to rotate one’s lady bits on a bushel of slim panatelas.

So far she could see no fault with the order of the day. Beginning with a display of organic orchids from Octavia and Barry Blackmask, at least there would be some elegance to, this, her tenth TMO Flower Show. Less keen was she on Gemini’s offering of Lupins, champagne and jammy dodgers. It was New Art she’d been told, but to her sensible Midlands roots it smacked of hoity-toity, flighty city girls unwilling to get their hands dirty.

What caused Sidney real concern was the event scheduled for 3pm. Just two evenings ago, the stunning Lady Astro had appeared at her gate, dressed in an elegant but concealing black cloak, with a gleam in her eye that could speak of nothing more than an encounter with the Dick of Dang. Sidney had been flummoxed, momentarily, and half expected this beautiful apparition to flog her a pension. Which Lady Astro didn’t, being as she was so obscenely wealthy as to not have to know what a pension was for. Though she possessed some interesting insights on inheritance tax and the uses of arsenic for Repressive Egg Curry baron Parents.

On that fateful night, when the sound of gunshots had rung out clear across the valley, and when Gail from the pub swore on her rats that she’d heard Dancing Modge cry out “do me again, Dang, do”, Lady Astro had whispered urgently in her ear, and reserved an entire marquee, with red carpet, and a selection of oriental cushions specially purchased from a one eyed Persian in Aberystwith. She thrust a pile of crisp notes into Sidney’s surprised hands and had requested an ocean of absinthe and a sea of Singapore Slings. And when Sidney had finally brought herself to ask the title of Lady Astro’s piece, those curved, sensuous aristocratic lips had hissed “nipples” before they and the cloak in which they were covered disappeared into the night.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by Vogon Poetess:
...commemoration of Pykesbury’s twinning with ZeathRou (Israel).

---

Do you realise that this is going to cause certain "problems" for Stationmaster Norton when he finds himself having to arrange the welcoming committee at Pykesbury Central?
 

A steam train departs Pykesbury station, enrobing the platform in a thick fog. This is blown away to reveal a deep blue sky. The Bath stone of the station shines warmly. Our entire cast is gathered, in little pockets of chat, along the platform. As each member bumps into another, so they put down their fruits, their vegetables and their flowers – dressing the set in front of us – to say hello and shake hands. There is a rhythm to their movement. The station clock underpins the scene with its tic-toc beat. Voices are picked out. The rhythm builds…

*tic*

[Ben] Appen

*toc*

[Rick] Krystalnacht

*tic*

[Ben] Appen

*toc*

[Damo] Scientific fact

Herbs pirouettes from platform left to platform right. Mart and Gail, holding hands and smiling, somersault right to left. There is cheering. Teflon starts to mime centre platform. A crowd gathers. The noise builds. Then Stationmaster Norton appears and the commotion dies down, the crowd melts away. Teflon looks at his feet and coughs.

Barry Blackmask breaks from the crowd and pulls Norton’s cap over his face. He runs off platform left. Norton removes the hat and gesticulates wildly. The crowd point platform right. Norton exits.

Blackmask returns to much backslapping and cheering. Yet he looks sad…

BLACKMASK
Israel! ZeathRou!
You lovely village
Forum of cleversome mates
Always the talk there was exciting
Always the doors open inviting

SIDNEY
Israel! ZeathRou!
You ugly village
Forum for slowburning hate
Always the people there fighting
Always the little fish biting
At the in-crowd writing
And the anger growing
And the admin blowing
I like the village Tee-Em-Oh
I cannot wait for flower show

ALL [EXCEPT NORTON]
I like to be in Tee-Em-Oh!
Okay by me in Tee-Em-Oh!
Small smell of wee in Tee-Em-Oh!
Pants of Scrawny in Tee-Em-Oh!

SCRAWNY
Sometimes I’ve peed when I’ve read, yes

BANDY
Better than bleeding from head, yes

VOGON
Better than seeping when snoozing!

STEFANOS
Mmmm yellow hankies and cruising

ALL [EXCEPT NORTON]
Boredom kills so I Tee-Em-Oh!
Sex talk thrills so I Tee-Em-Oh!
Bored of bills so I Tee-Em-Oh!
Must talk pills so I Tee-Em-Oh!

PINK
Everyone here seen my cocaine?

CARTER
You know that stuff will rot your brain

PINK
Everyone here seen my cocaine?

KOVACS
Fack orf. I dahn’t sing this sort of fing. I can do the Smiffs if you would like. Or Lloyd Cole. I’ve the wrists and everything…

ALL [EXCEPT NORTON]
Orlando Bloom’s bum at Tee-Em-Oh!
Ben’s rubby tum at Tee-Em-Oh!
IAN’s big thumb at Tee-Em-Oh!
Bamba’s jappy hum at Tee-Em-Oh!

LONDON
The net full of pervs? No sirree

THORN
Help. It’s term time and I’m lonely

HERBS
And me

OCTAVIA
And me

NORTON [BASSO PROFUNDO] RETURNING PLATFORM LEFT
And meeeeeee
 

Attaboy Elveeees.
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by scrawny:
The TMO Musical. Fantastic. I'm all over it.

---

*koff*
 

Hurrah!

HURRAH!

lolololol

quote:

---

Originally posted by Vogon Poetess:
Has Orlando Bloom's bum ever been on Tee Em Oh? Did I miss it?

---

quote:

---

Originally posted by Samuelnorton:
Do you realise that this is going to cause certain "problems" for Stationmaster Norton when he finds himself having to arrange the welcoming committee at Pykesbury Central?

---

As long as they're being welcomed in broad daylight and on a clear day, noone will be the wiser. Apart from Farmer. Who knows.
 

The first proper warning I got was when I saw a glint of metal at the gate, probably reflecting my headlights or something. I didn't waste any time. I grabbed my sword from under the seat, and loosed the blade. Slipping the car into first, I gunned it right at the iron gate, and slipped the clutch. For a split second I was worried that the g-forces would stop me from making my escape but I was lucky. As i wrenched the door open and leapt out, I allowed the blade to slice the top off the twin NOS bottles behind the seat, filling the vehicle with explosive laughing gas.

I hit the ground hard and rolled, but I managed to catch a glimpse of the car as it destroyed the gate and erupted into a mushroom of blue and green flame. Now i could see them running, little globs of burning liquid stuck to their ceremonial attire. This was just the beginning and moments later the ninjas stormed in.

I was on my feet in a flash, whirling my kitana around my body, creating a deadly bladespace between me and the fighters. kives and arrows ricocheted off my sword as they tried in vein to take me out the easy way.

The first ninja approached, doing backflips for extra style. I didn't care, though, I wasn't impressed, I just rushed the fucker and whacked my sword throagh his head. He didn't even seem to realise for a second and I was worried it was just a flesh wound but then he fell down and his head fully split on the floor. I would have to watch out there. This ultra-slick tarmac would become treacherously slippery with the blood I was about to spill.

A second ninja tried to charge me but again I was too quick. His guts spilled out of the slice I made in his stomach, and he tripped over his own intestines. He landed on the other dead guy and I stopped and laughed for a minute because it looked a bit like they were bumming, especially as the second bloke convulsed in his death throes.

My laughter was cut cruelly short, though, as two more tried to double team me. I wasn't taking that crap though and used my double flail style to whack them both up before they could say "Banzai!". I hit one of them so hard on the jaw, all his teeth smashed and fell out while he dropped to the ground!

As I was gloating over their untimely deaths, I was hit behind by a sneaky little ninja who'd been slyly creaping up on me. I dropped my chucks and decided to fist fight him to death instead. I jumped, knees first, at his chest, slamming his to the ground and pinning him by his shoulders. I went to punch the fucker in the face, and he was all flinching and shit, but then I unexpectedly reached around and punched him in the balls instead, thus displaying my own sneaky ninja style. He was like "Whooooaaarraaaaoooorraaagh!!!" so I slapped him really hard and he stopped. Then I punched him in the face till his head actually burst on the floor.

Another Ninja tried to rush me and I'd dropped my weapons. I had no choice but to use the nearest available thing, so I ripped the dead guys arm off and swung the wet end at the approaching assailant. I didn't hit him but he was temporaraly blinded by some blood. I took this chance to make a fist out of the hand on the severed arm, thus effectively extending my punching reach by over a metre. An effective weapon indeed.

Five ninjas surrounded me but it was ok, as they didn't expect me to swing the arm around, hitting them all in the nuts simultanuously. Then I kicked them in the face for a bit until they died too.

By this time, there was a big pool of blood on the floor, making standing hard. Once again, my resourcefulness came through in the form of an idea. I hooked my feet into the belts of two dead ninjas, making ninja corpse shoes which I could use to deliver a crushing blow to any would-be killer. I also grabbed another severed arm and put a sword in each of the cold dead hands, creating a swordspan of nearly ten metres in total.

More and more ninjas poured in, each meeting their deaths in the most gruesome fashion, until the floor was covered in dead ninjas. As i whirled and killed, I grew increasingly aware of a short man in a golden robe standing nearby, observing the fighting.

It was clear that he was the big ninja boss and I would need more than carefully constructed arm extensions to kill him. The waves of ninjas were now exhausted and me and the man stood alone, atop a sea of black linen and blood.

He let out an almighty cry and flew into the air, preparing to drop a fatal blow from above. I played along for a second, fooling him into thinking I didn't know what he was up to, so I lit a cigarette and looked caually at my watch. I could hear the whistle of air as his iron fist rapidly flew down to hy head, and at the last second, I whipped round, avoiding the fist, and jabbed the burning cigarette into his eye with a fizz. Now he was really pissed, not just about his eye, but also because, as an ex smoker, the nicotine going directly into his brain rekindled the old cravings. I spotted my opportunity for the kill and offered the man a cigarette. An offer I knew he couldn't refuse. The last laugh was on him, though, as he lit the cigarette his guard dropped and I was able to deliver a final blow. Reaching round to my back, I yanked the high calibre semi-automatic gun from my belt and squeezed round after round into his chest. He jerked wildly as the bullets entered his body, and after quite a lot, maybe a hundred or so, he actually fell into little pieces.

My foes vanquished, I sat cross legged on the pile of bodies, and contemplated the slughter that had just gone on. It had been a shame to ruin the car, but probably worth it.
 

And it has absolutely nothin to do with the flower show.....

But hideously over imaginated violence is always good!
 

quote:

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Originally posted by Ringo:
I stopped and laughed for a minute because it looked a bit like they were bumming

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She cast her eyes over her freshly grown fruit. All around the outside of the crop grew lovely kiwis. Hairy and soft, skins sagging making them look like the finest cutest ballbags she had ever seen. The bananas were thick and curling, only slighty. She thought wicked thoughts as she ran her bright red painted fingertips over the bananas, each one with a perfect swell that looked like a German world war two battle helmet. Hundreds of cherrys like engorged clitorii, littered the rounded display. In the centre a mishapen melon that symbolised the very meaning of 'Jut-cock' cast a shadow across 80% of the fruit that had been meticulously laid out.

"oh" she sighed in a rich american accent. "Why are there no flower shows in Philly?"